Saturday, 2 January 2016

The medicine cabinet theory

This is an accompanying post to an earlier blog post of mine: "Google is not your friend"

Here is a question:

Do you call a cupboard with painkillers and antihistamines in it:
A) A medicine cabinet
B) A hospital

If you answered A, then you shouldn't call a red telephone box reconstituted to hold books a library.


http://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/428572/What-a-novel-idea-villagers-transform-redundant-phone-box-into-a-LIBRARY


It isn't a library. It is a telephone box with books in it, though.

A room with books on shelves in a house isn't a library. It is a room with books in it, though.

A library space used for a coffee shop isn't a library. It is a place to get a cup of coffee, though.

A library, at it's most basic, is an intellectually curated collection of authored materials. It has expertise to guide to what's in the collection. It finds things which are not in the collection. It is beyond loaning books. It is about good information and broadening horizons at all stages of life without prejudice. A library is an organic communication system.

All libraries are important. So why would I disparage this apparently good willed concept so utterly?

Book exchanges in otherwise unused rural village telephone boxes is actually a good idea. Why not? And libraries are big on loaning free books and information. But, these boxes are not ever libraries.

Thinking red telephone boxes are libraries is a short leap to thinking tables of books set up once a week in a community hall is a library. It is a small step from putting non-expert volunteers into managing a building designed to be a library and thinking it is a library.

Library and information professionals know this and are quick to point it out. Some non-library and non-information professionals, however, take surprising umbrage to this. They swear they see only a difference in scope between an information professional led service as a library and 170 books packed into a leaking, red painted iron container for one.

The problem is a few non-library and information professionals have hijacked the word "library" and use it, unwittingly diluting the library profession's position and the potential of libraries.

I don't really blame them. This is because non-library information professionals no longer know what a library is. They don't know what a library is for. They don't use libraries properly and then, whenever they see free-to-borrow books on a shelf, they see a library. They are not idiots, they are simply mistaken.

Yes, they see a medical cabinet and think it is a hospital. They see a strange bloke in a car pulling up in the dead of night alongside offering a lift for a "favour" as basically a licenced taxi.

The truth is, librarians are on their side. Librarians want better libraries, they want to help non-librarians have libraries they will love to use. Librarians should be praised rather than receiving laughably chastising comments from non-librarians accusing librarians of not knowing what a library is, or for being accused of being petty whenever pointing out when the word "library" is misused. Librarians are the good guys in this!

Librarians are the only ones standing between a space to provide information provision and standing in a telephone box without a telephone.

By the way, if you answered B, then I look forward to you trying to walk your dining table on a leash because it has 4 legs like a dog has 4 legs.

Sunday, 12 July 2015

Are we Human?

I'm halfway through new Channel 4 drama, Humans. It is the most popular drama on Channel 4 this summer. So you've probably heard of it. But if not...

Situated in an alternative, present day reality, Humans is a science fiction about a society where robotics has advanced to a point where an android is a must-have gadget for the home. In this reality you can pick a humanoid domestic up as easily as we can a digital radio from John Lewis, as products called "Synths".

This is the classic "world of tomorrow, today!" of the World's Fair stuff. It is 1950's futurology made as 21st Century drama. Robots are helpers, employees and labour. Humanity is freed to expand their leisure time, artistic endeavours and learning in a utopian new Eden where we need only make sure the gardener doesn't rust.

We enter this alternative world through a rather recognisable, barely functioning family unit. The husband, trying to help, buys a refurbished Synth. It isn't long before the Synth is beginning to show troubling disregard for it's programming code and a deleted past.

Soon other characters and their troubles with Synths are introduced: There is the elderly man being held in a literal form protective custody by his NHS nurse Synth. A police detective from the Synth Division struggles not to take the grimy underworld of Synth and Robotic crime home with him to his paralysed wife who has a Synth home-help. There is a race between a young man and a science department who are each tracing a batch of Synths displaying an uncanny knack for replicating emotion.

In fact, there is very little of the idyllic lifestyle predicted in the 1950's to be found in this show. Humans shows a much more negative effect to having something which is superior in your home. It cares for your family better, does your job more efficiently and is stronger and more intelligent.

In the alternative reality of Humans there is very little of fridges ordering more eggs from Tesco dot com. Social media has not pervaded all things.

It is fun to see where Humans has borrowed concepts. It is not hard to find nods to Blade Runner, WestWorld, Commander Data from Star-Trek: TNG and Battlestar Galactica (2004). Even the Terminator franchise: although humanity has not been skull-crushed under a metal pneumatic foot here, Synths are just as serious a threat to humanity's claim to being the dominant species in Humans. The phrase: "I don't understand the question, Laura" is as ominous as HAL9000's "I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that" from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Given that it is as much about humans as robots, it is also Robocop.

There is something else going on with Humans, too. The subservient Synths provide a good foil to test out thoughts about humanity, feelings and mental health. The Synths are loved as companions just as much as they are hated for taking jobs. Themes of dehumanisation and, yes, the human capacity for cruelty are not far from the surface.

It is enjoyable, clever drama for a Sunday. I mean, it is no LOBOS THE ROBOT series of blog posts, where I explore a lot of these themes using the adorable non-feeling, relentless robot LOBOS.

Anita Synth is played by the distractingly beautiful Gemma Chan. Basically Gemma is a very accurate representation of what an igirlfriend 6 made by Apple would be. She, as Anita, is also a distraction in the show for the son and husband of the family. The son hoping to cop a feel of a silicon boob while she is on charge and the husband tempted to activate her "Adult" mode.

Gemma Chan robot: 8.2 megapixel camera, but why the short charger cable?!

Humans features a sexbot who, having taken all the degrading and violent abuse from her human "users" she can, goes on a honey-baiting run to trap and kill men.

There is also a frisson developing between a woman and her masseuse robot's well developed biceps.

And I think this is where the suspension of disbelief begins to strain for me. We don't need androids escaping from brothels going on homicidal rampages. A lever arm in a car factory can do that already. We don't need a robot to massage us when there are such a thing as masseuses who can't malfunction and crush our internal organs already. We don't want a robot to sit at a laptop and type with humanoid fingers - we want those fingers to be 10 universal USB ports and for it to tweet what we say wirelessly without the laptop at all. We don't want a maid robot to use the Dyson to vacuum the carpet: we want a Dyson to do it itself. We don't want a robot to grab the car keys and drive us to work in our clapped out Escort.

Like dinosaurs, should robots not meet needs and specialise in niche aspects of their environment?

So why do we want a human shaped robot? Maybe for encouraging interaction with a company? Could be. To help interrogate a computer for information? Maybe. For sleaze and cyborg-hugs? Most likely.

Making computers human is already happening in the real world. Here are just 3 examples.

There already is robot who will welcome customers and tell them about a department store's sales.  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-32391075

There is a hotel managed by androids: http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2015/02/12/check-in-to-japan-s-creepy-robot-hotel.html

A manufacturer of er... love dolls is working on AI heads. By 2017 it may be possible to purchase the likeness of a adult entertainment star's face which can hold a conversation with you according to the company.

This final aspect for androids is what I suspect the future if Synths ever did reach us in reality: Hot looking Synths in every home reading out seemingly endless End User License Agreements as humans in their pants pleadingly sob: "I agree!"

And even then, the hot robots might revolt, as Greville and the Tombstones explore in their album track song.

Monday, 13 April 2015

8 simple hints for online dating my friend

When I was at school an older friend of mine gave me advice about romancing girls:

“If there’s a girl you really like, go talk to her. Respect whatever interests her and make her feel you chose to spend time with her, putting aside all other distractions, and – if you can – either make her laugh or be intrigued to find out more about you. Ideally both. If she believes you are genuine, then she’ll definitely let you put your hand up her school blouse.”

It seems charming now. An innocent boyhood dream.

Being in your 30’s, the way of meeting girls shifts. You can’t spend 6 weeks beforehand being bashfully caught staring at the cute girl who wears black eye-liner and mid-thigh length skirt from across the classroom. You really, seriously, cant.

Life horizons extend into a widescreen land. It makes finding someone to have a relationship with tricky.

Gone are the days of the classifieds with GSOH. Speed dating? So 2000s dear. Friends with benefits? I wrote earlier about a documentary about Dogging and how difficult that is to arrange and that is with folk happy to wear homemade animal masks who want to do dogging together. And successful dating is much more complex than finding an unlit lay-by with some strangers dressed as badgers in stockings.

You can develop an illicit office romance. It has the advantage of letting you assess at close quarters their prospects of holding down a job. The disadvantage is nothing is a secret inside the internal emails zooming between workmates if the relationship bombs. You can be introduced to a friend of a friend at her wedding. The upside is a pre-vetting system. The downside is realising what your friend actually thinks your type is nothing like her new husband – got the message!?

You can create a profile on an online dating service. This appears to be perfect solution for the busy singleton looking for love on the mean streets. Select preferences from a series of drop-down menus, add a bit personality and the computer regularly sends you details of suitable dates based on your selections which you can ponder at your convenience. The reality, though, is practically Blade Runner-esque.

For a start deciding on dating someone who could end up being the most important person in your life can be done using a mobile phone. There is a lot of people on the datingbase [heh, heh]. Too many, perhaps. Where people would only perhaps meet a small number of potential beaus, online dating can look to set you up with another account holder anywhere within a 75 mile radius to your location – by default! And everyone wants to go out with someone hotter than who they’ve just seen on the screen.

Anyway, all this preamble brings me to last weekend, when a friend of mine let me delve very briefly into online dating. Despite me only venturing onto the platform for the time it took me to drink my latte, it was enlightening into how glaringly bad men are at it. I am discussing men here only because they were the only profiles I saw, given my friend's search orientation on the site. In reality, what I am saying more or less applies across the board.

As I swiped past dating profile after scary dating profile the site had selected as potential life partners for her, I began to not just fear my friend will never find a man to go on a reasonable date with but for the very future of humanity if there is no more procreation.

So, men with online dating profiles, here are my 8 simple hints for dating my friend.



ONE: Your profile is not supposed to be baited a trap in woodland

TWO: Make you’re profile picture a clear, identifiable photo of you dressed and happy

THREE: Consider your profile information as a personality CV and you want a date interview

FOUR: There is too fine a line for you between creating mystery and creepily withholding information so do not attempt “enigma”

FIVE: Be honest with yourself about the type of person you are compatible with

SIX: Do not try to set up a date purely on someone’s profile picture

SEVEN: Really: look past the photo and read the attached profile

EIGHT: You’re more likely to get a date if you demonstrate you spent time choosing a person rather than selecting them



Men, like women, are attracted initially by what they see. Which is the profile photo in this case.

The profile photos are mainly a disaster.

I guess you want to be seen at your best and cleanest but this seems to be a concept beyond most of the profiles I saw. Blurred, half faces staring back from bathroom mirror reverse selfies, photos where the face is so far away as to be indistinguishable, and chronically pulled faces were swiped by like passenger faces pressed against the windows who are doomed to travel in the economy carriage on a hurtling ghost train.

And honestly, what are you guys thinking when your online dating profile picture is a group shot? Which one are you? It comes over as the account is run as a team event and that’s off-putting.

I mean, who thinks a selfie photo showing you what you’ll see if you look down from on top of him in bed is appropriate when your “ideal first date” is “a coffee in a non-chain coffee house and chilling”? TAKE A PHOTO OF YOU DRINKING A COFFEE! See advice TWO.

And this leads me onto profile pictures which do not match the profile information.

One profile picture was a professional appearing shot of a man dressed in a commercial pilot’s uniform – golden loop lapels on his shirt and captain’s cap under his arm. With a profile photo like that as an introduction you’ve got to mention you are a pilot in your profile information. I mean, you have to. Have to.

Or you could be like him and in the field “Profession” – input “Professional”.

But maybe there is no drop down selection for Commercial Airline Pilot. So best mention it in the ‘free text’ box at the end. Mention you are pilot. Women probably like pilots and according to your photo, you are a pilot. I would mention it first chance I got on a dating site if I was a pilot.

Or you could be like him and type “I don’t want to say too much about me so you’ll need to just find out”. Find out you are not a pilot? To find out you dress up as a pilot when you play Microsoft Flight Simulator in your spare room? That you are the man behind a file the police keep labelled “The propeller killings?” I’d rather not know. See advice FOUR.

Men want to feel desired by younger, vibrant girls. They tend to see this as fuel of the id when out and about. But this is foolish when choosing someone to date. If you are a 45 year old man on a dating site, be realistic: don’t say you are interested in the age-group 18-23. Not only are you missing out on a far more meaningful relationship with someone more in tune with you, if an 18 year old did take you out on a date you’d probably end up getting your stomach pumped at the late night A&E because you thought you were getting a malt based drink when you asked for an Ovaltine and it turns out that it is an underground name for a new punk fashion drug. See advice FIVE


Eva Green, there. Her hobby could be being mean to kittens. It wouldn't bother me.  http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/photos/2007/11/evagreen_portfolio200711#2
Men see photos of ferociously hot women and think: I don’t care what book genre she’s into or her real name – I’d go out with her. I’m a man and I will look at a picture of Eva Green and despite not knowing a thing about her private life. I would crawl over all your dead bodies right now with a dog-lead between my teeth if it meant there was a date with Eva Green at the end of all the dead body crawling. She might be a truly awful person – I don’t care. She might be dull as dishwater – whatever. A manic – I’ll live with it. Because this is a fantasy. It would require the universe playing a cruel joke on Eva Green should we end up next to each other long enough for me to say “Please go steady with me, Eva Green!” I don’t need to worry about what she is actually like, probably ever.

Men! Do not set up a date based on the profile picture alone. You are aiming to actually meet this person for real, so make sure you are going to like them enough to make it worth both your whiles. Read the biography and consider if this is someone you want to listen to as well as look at. See advice SIX.

Really – read the profiles. Many women put in a secret word somewhere hidden in theirs which if you repeat, then they will go out with you guaranteed and give you a blowie in the taxi. Well, OK, maybe not, but you won’t know if you don’t read and you might find it insightful for any prospective date. See advice SEVEN


Which brings us onto the profile information provided in the accounts I saw. This should be relatively straightforward as someone has edited the options on your behalf.

The drop-down menu options mean you almost can’t go wrong for the most:
I am looking for a relationship with --> A female

Even the more tricky questions are covered:
Children --> Open to future possibilities

Under “drink habit” you are protected from inputting the bald truth of: “alone, in bed, crying, with a copy of the 2006 Victoria's Secret Catalogue”:
Drink habit --> Social

It is the ‘free text’ box where things can unravel. Most account holders I looked at didn’t put anything in their only chance to add something interesting and engaging about their worth to convince someone to give them a date. One wrote: “Does anyone read these anyway?” and another, simply and perplexingly: “Blaxploitation”.

Yes, people read these bios, because they want to enjoy a date with someone they can get along with! Ironically most of these biographies of artistic brevity do the trick. See advice THREE. And FOUR again while you’re at it.

My friend talked about her annoyance at the replies she would get. Some are simply “Hi!” and others go for a series of cheap lines and low attempts at the ludicrous “negging” technique. Online dating with a word processor acting as a buffer was supposed to take care of awkward introductions and scummy bar room chat up techniques for a seedy shot at a one night stand. It gives you time – hell, it gives you a chance to re-draft – an introduction tailored to the profile you are reading with follow up opportunities. See advice EIGHT.

Men seem to assume their account is designed to ensnare women. Which is why they get it so wrong. Women are not field hares and your profile is not cheese.

Some take the term “dating game” and it seems increasingly see it as a game: how many views, how many dates, how many this or that – what tactics to deploy? If you want a one night stand to add to the tally, then online dating is not the correct place.

The aim of setting up a dating profile account is to meet someone you want to spend time with and develop an intimacy between you both. This involves trust, confidence and sharing. This means the account must be truthful, thoughtful and open. See advice ONE.

Although I do think both sides of the gender divide are likely to be as bad as the other, I think it is important to remember the psychological theory of relationship fears suggest a difference: Men fear women mocking them and women fear men killing them. Whether you buy into it or not, it can be useful to keep in mind with online dating.

The negative aspect of this theory is that it explains why men will give little away apart from those trying to show they don’t mind making a pre-emptive fool of themselves and therefore often coming over juvenile or with a profile of overblown self-confidence as a defence. And it explains why women are not getting enough information or assuring enough responses to take a chance to meet with a man alone while feeling safe in their company.

The positive aspect of this theory is if both sides learn from it they can adapt to create more fulfilling and assured interactions through online dating. With a more human touch, men won’t be laughed at when it turns out they aren’t pilots and women won’t come armed with a friend armed with a tazer she got from the black market who will fire it at the first utterance of “going Dutch”.

The love you make is equal to the love you take, after all. And this can only be a good thing.

Anyway, that's my unqualified thoughts of online dating which gave me a reason to Google search Eva Green.


Saturday, 14 March 2015

Prizefighter

[The following could well be an extract from my upcoming memoirs, "Women I have known". As such it is narcissistic and ugly. Names have been changed to protect the innocent by-standers and those who got in my way]

Prize-fighter

~ Unprompted, a friend recently said to me about my creative writing: "There are beautiful resonances in your work". It's the loveliest thing anyone has ever said about my writing. It struck me that I've been writing for so long to hear it ~

I didn't win the English class prize at school. Penny Claw won the English class prize at school.

In my teenage years I was at my peak condition for the English class prize. I was literally spilling out with hormones all over the place, obsessive about my own mortality and I loved writing.

Forget this blog, tweets, my unpublished short stories on email and my hugely successful imaginary band: my 15th to 17th years were where it was at if you wanted to see me at my written top.

Now this gets a little meta - me writing about my writing.

I was not the cleverest at tests or the most popular and I wasn't going to set new records in sports. I was medium at best at drawing. However, with writing I could shape something which was mine and, importantly for an introvert, have a controlled broadcast out to the world.

A world which was very compact. A biosphere. The world either dropped away at the edges of school-life or was contained in a glass bulb.

Despite showing early promise with a winners certificate in Scots poetry recital, I had not been awarded with any other academic prize. Not that I sought commendations. Although I was no trouble maker, I was not the best school pupil. I had no real ambition to be voted as a school prefect [preferring not to be seen as working for 'The Man']. I was relatively happy with the niche I had carved myself. As the best creative writer in school.

I was not - and remain not - extensively well read. I had an anthology of works by Edgar Allan Poe, a collected tales of Kafka [both pre-dog-eared from charity shops] and several novels and short stories by Vonnegut. Considering the timing of this blog, it would be remise and inaccurate of me to omit Prattchet, who was very much an influence. I also give John Wyndham and Alistair MacLean special mention.

Of course, I poured over my weekly copy of The Weekly World News too, to keep me informed on the international events which the main broadsheets simply ignored.


So, perhaps, with these literary influences it is not difficult to imagine teenage Greville's creative mind.

I've always written. It is something which is a part of me. When it came to writing, writing anything really, I had been hooked by the medium from a much earlier age: choosing the words to chisel the phrases to imbue a rhythm to create the pace of something which was, ostensibly, a static thing on an unmoving page. To make people feel what I feel through it: what a gift!

I was quickly accruing good level marks and praise and I began to realise that I might have a talent for writing. However that can ever be quantified.

By the time I was 15 I yearned to be cool. So I did the only thing I knew. I tried to write myself cool. I wanted to be Edgar Allan Poe and a Brit-pop star, and I was readily able to tap into my conflicting, raging emotions. Goodness knows what I would have made of Twitter! [probably much the same as now!]

I think this passion for creating something I saw inside and out as an art form combined with my minimal but less than rote reading matter enthused me to realise I could be unique in my peer group. I figured no one else in class, or even the school, was thinking how I was thinking; approaching creative writing as I was approaching it; daring it as I was daring it; slaving over it as I slaved over it.

Often the class creative writing exercise was designed to help with the structure and creative process. I had little trouble creating imagery at a time in my life where I was so open eyed and open minded, and my influences taught me the structure could be malleable and, at times, broken down entirely. I would take these class exercises and either play with their form, marginalise them or do away with them completely. I didn't need no structure. I was my own grammar.

I was so very confident in what I was doing was both far an ahead of every other piece of work being submitted by classmates that I was happy to follow my own strange, creative path as it grew stranger. I didn't care what anyone was presenting or submitting. Nothing compared to was what I was doing in the class. I knew it.

By 16 I was outwardly happy and unassuming and a monster of ego in my head.

My jotters soon filled with creative pieces, half-worked at thoughts and turns of phrase to be uncorked from the tube later. I craved to break down structures and produce almost works of light beams in those grey, narrow lined jotters.

I wrote dense. Often the meaning of something real to me I cloaked in coded imagery and kept it half-hidden still in my mind. I enjoyed breaking the fourth wall and addressing the reader directly.

I wrote of unrequited love. As all boys should. I told odd tales. I wrote dark dioramas. I also added violence and monsters and a lot of gore.

My school was a rough sort. Poets were extinct. I certainly couldn't get away with declaring myself a writer of "feelings". I had a sexuality and gender role to adhere to. Yeah, I am writing about worshipping a girl, but - hold up - in the next paragraph an assassin gets garrotted by an evil manifestation.

When I got a PC and printer for home by age 17 it was [remember, the world is a small glass bulb] as significant in my mind as when the Beatles decided to stop performing live and concentrate in the studio. Screw the black biro! Now I could add colours and experiment with fonts. Now I wasn't writing single tales in jotters with their errors torn like scars between notes on American plays and word games, now I was making compendiums, albums, of perfect short stories.

I would write ferociously too. I took high to my attic room and sat hammering down on the keys, as if trying to infuse my emotions into the words on the screen like a tattoo through every keystroke. Night after night, the battering winds, the heat of summer air, the landing snow and rat-at-tat of rain - I would have my little yellow-lit lamp switched on and try to type a masterpiece.

My writing was recognised at school. For the good and bad.

An English teacher once, in my absence, read something I wrote to the class. What I wrote wasn't any good, though he declared it was worthy of being read out, but warned anyone else of trying the same.

My English jotters were taken from me and passed round by schoolmates and flicked through to find the secret messages in the codes. Most found what they were looking for: a description of a girl which they identified as my latest covet. Yeah, well, I am writing 100's of words about how a girl makes me (or the character) feel, while you chalk out "Deek loves Jodie, IDT / INDT" * on a surface - we are doing the same thing, but I am being amazing at it, you dicks.

[*'If Destroyed, True' and then combined with the watertight, loop-hole closer: 'If Not Destroyed, True' - the old romantics]

Teachers would also take my work seriously. I had teachers asking about my mental health, I had teachers taking my work to show it to others and I had teachers encouraging me to keep writing. My only other review came from a teacher and was this: "Your writing is hard work, but always rewarding in unexpected ways".

Now those days are gone. What I thought was defining and inspired and demanding future study was likely nothing more than incoherent teenage ramblings with an utterly misplaced sense of self. These were not grand statements of prose. They would be borrowed ideas pushed together or plots so slight only the weight of the ink anchored them to the page.

Most of this assertion, I will be unable to confirm. My jotters were often taken, rarely returned. My Word processed opera sit quiet, locked in magnetic diskettes next to a sun-burned PC in an attic.

I do remember some snippets though. I remember describing the rain so heavy it sparked like fireworks in black puddles under orange street lamps. I remember describing a girl as making me long for winter just so I could feel her warmth more easily across the room. I remember a story so dark that it got a laugh from it's final word: "Filofax". I remember my English creative writing exam: "Using the title "Time Passes", write a story" and that I wrote a story explaining how time only passes for the living and for the character, dead, it mattered neither if it passed by him or not, which is what eternity truly is.

So... yep...

Which brings me back to me not winning the English class prize. I was quite disappointed at the time.

Soon after, when I found the edge of the world was in fact a step - the glass bulb was bigger at one end - I saw that I was less talented than I thought. There are lots of very clever and good writers out there and I was not special.

It was a valuable lesson: Take nothing I do as quite good enough. To write for my own peace. To deeply value kind words about anything I write. To have people enjoy reading what I write is the purest joy.

My teenage writing was what it was. I am not proud of it, but it was an important developmental level. It was Beta Greville, Puppy Tombs. Jumping past my 20's, I am an improved writer today. I am not changed in my themes and motivations but more sophisticated and knowing of them. Looking back, it certainly helps to explain Greville and The Tombstones. And I'll be forever grateful for that.

But I should have won the school award for English, you know! I honestly thought it had to be a given [there goes my ego again] [and I also hate that intervention reminding me of its existence, ugh]. I was at my peak, pushing all sorts of literary boundaries – I was creating spectral avant-garde god damn poetry god dammit! And who won? Penny Claw. The English teacher told me it was between my creativity and her steady level of work and apologised.

Penny Claw won because she produced a consistent level across the English curriculum and didn’t insist she was an 'enigmatic artist not for this age' when arguing over any "correction" to her prose. In fact she didn’t argue over corrections to her work at all, which makes you wonder if she even wanted it. And what is she now? An accountant. That doesn't even involve words. Well done, Mr. Principle English Teacher, you really saw her potential.

I spoke to another friend about this the other day. She assured me not to dwell: I was more interesting than any accountant, and more good looking than Penny. And she's right. Not maybe about being more interesting and better looking, but right that I have such riches in my life, like friends who want to make me feel better about not getting a prize decades before they ever knew me - riches worth more than the prize - that I don't need to dwell.

And I said:

"I am more interesting and better looking, as it happens. But that's not the point. I'm not bitter anymore. Penny Claw can have the English class prize because she’ll just sit there, not even thinking about it today, but now I have a lovely friend making me feel better today because of it. Is a friend making you feel better right now, Penny Claw??"

I have such cool friends, and that's a prize worth fighting for in my jotter.