just the beer light to guide us

Watching the sun rise this morning, over the Amstel River, in Amsterdam.

Last night I'd been driven to a fancy restaurant, in a colleague's new car which is like something from Star Trek. It booted up with a barrage of flashing lights including a head up display onto the windscreen. A few minutes drive and we'd locked radar on to the car in front. The system used the car ahead's speed to guide us. If we switched lanes the auto pilot would speed us up until another car in front was acquired in the speed management system.

Then for parking. The maps on the satnav disappeared and a closed circuit television picture of the kerbside appeared. Touch the screen to show where to park and the car reverse parked into the spot. No hands.

Eventually back to my hotel, with its flat screen telly in the bath. I didn't have time to watch it though, because of the early start this morning to head back to London for another busy day.

Compared with last night, my taxi back to the airport was decidedly less space age, having some difficulty with modest gradients, showing its quarter of a million kilometres on the dial.

Then, much later, after a day of meetings and watching the same sun set, I'm finally back at rashbre central. I've decided I will leave it until another sunrise before I check for the spiders from mars in my own television free bathroom.

bathroom chronicles

I only noticed a couple to start with.

In the bathroom.

They stood out against the white paintwork on the windowsill. Hardy visible, it was a small movement that I caught from the corner of my eye.

I’d just put down a cup and I think the vibration disturbed one.

or maybe a splash of coffee.

Spiders.

Tiny ones.

I looked more closely and there were several more. I soon counted to a dozen. But I was in a hurry and just closed the door on them as I headed for the car.

I’ve been away a few days and not been back into that room. I did today.

They have spread out. Dozens. They are on most walls. In the bath. Still tiny. Mainly not moving. I can’t easily see their webs, except if I get close.

Right now, I’m on the road again, but wondering what will greet me when I return and open that door again.

calling long distance on a public saxophone

I don't always post about my travels, but most weeks I'm away somewhere on business for at least a short time. This week I'm about to get my third flight and then another one Friday will round it all off nicely.

I'm having to play a sort of futures game with my calendar though, because I have quite a few plates spinning. I'm needing to work out which plates can have just a gentle extra turn, versus the ones that need fuller attention.

This situation also means that some of my occasional "spare blog posts" drift onto the system, when I don't have even a spare 10 minutes to write something.

What happens is that occasionally I have an extra thought or two and madly scribble them into rashbre central whilst also thinking that even if I posted them no-one would read a whole series from a single day, so I save them for another time. It doesn't work with anything really newsworthy, but for general musings its still appropriate.

The strange thing is that often the posts don't ever re-surface, because when I re-read them, I'll still think how things have moved on or the moment has passed.

"Gotta keep on movin', gotta keep on groovin'" as someone once said.

Dan Brown's Lost Symbol's hidden chapters

Whilst in Heathrow last week, I had to climb over the heaps of new Dan Brown Novels piled high.

Of course, most people still don't know about the hidden secret sequel contained within the main novel. I've managed to extract the opening scene after following the instructions coded into the book's spine.

Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through a Dan Brown opening sentence.

Nearby, a voice spoke, chillingly close. "Do not move." On his hands and knees, the curator froze, turning his head slowly. Only fifteen feet away, outside the sealed gate, the mountainous silhouette of his attacker stared through the iron bars. He was broad and tall, with ghost-pale skin. His irises were pink with dark red pupils.

The attacker carried himself like an angry ox, with his wide shoulders thrown back and his chin tucked hard into his chest. His dark hair was slicked back with oil, accentuating an arrow-like widow's peak that divided his jutting brow and preceded him like the prow of a battleship. As he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the earth before him, radiating a fiery clarity that forecast his reputation for unblinking severity in all matters.

Only those with a keen eye would notice his 14-karat gold bishop's ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds, and hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliqué on this attacker’s hand.

Death, in this forsaken place, could come in countless forms. Erstwhile geologist, now curator, Saunière had endured the savage splendor of many rugged terrain for years, and yet nothing could prepare him for a fate as barbarous and unnatural as the one about to befall him.

"The Knights Templar were warriors," the curator reminded, the sound of his aluminum crutches echoing in this reverberant space. Then he smelled burning flesh, and he knew it was his own.

“My French stinks”, Langdon thought, “but my zodiac iconography is pretty good”, as, two hours later, he made his way towards the scene of the gruesome crime.

Earlier he had been sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate jet as it bounced its way through turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly.

Then he’d been whisked to this vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery.

Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the forty-year-old Langdon had what his female colleagues referred to as an ‘erudite’ appeal — wisp of gray in his thick brown hair, probing blue eyes, an arrestingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of a collegiate athlete.

He’d learned the ropes in the trenches, ever since, as a boy, he had fallen down an abandoned well shaft and almost died treading water in the narrow space for hours before being rescued. Since then, he'd suffered a haunting phobia of enclosed spaces - elevators, subways, squash courts.

Pulling back the sleeve of his jacket, he checked his watch - a vintage, collector's-edition Mickey Mouse wristwatch that had been a gift from his parents on his tenth birthday.

He sighed audibly as he remembered.

Right now, he could taste the familiar tang of museum air - an arid, deionized essence that carried a faint hint of carbon - the product of industrial, coal-filter dehumidifiers that ran around the clock to counteract the corrosive carbon dioxide exhaled by visitors.

He nodded as he remembered that five months ago, the kaleidoscope of power had been shaken, and Aringarosa was still reeling from the blow.

more from the Skyride

Travelling today, up at 4:45 a.m. to catch a plane, so above is a further somewhat promotional video from Sunday's fun in London and below is a one minute timelapse from start to end of the day.

Skyride London 2009: So good I did it twice

I cycled to the start of the London Skyride along the north bank of the Embankment, from around the Chelsea Bridge area. It's a handy route because there’s cycle lanes most of the way and also some pavement sections with markings.

By the time I got to Parliament Square, there was already good evidence of bikes and then I noticed extra road closures (such a Whitehall) to make the access easier.

I was on my little folding bike as I figured it gave me the most options in case anything untoward happened.

In practice, it was an excellent event with great weather. Some chaotic parts around a few of the road crossings, but a gently improving sunny day and just about everyone involved was there for some good natured fun. A few superbikes and super-riders, for sure, but a broad spectrum from kids on bikes with stabilisers, tandems, racers, hybrids, staggeringly expensive looking off-road mountain bikes which I assume would be harder to ride on pure tarmac, fixies, folders, trikes, recumbants, novelty bikes and even Piano-man.

In fact, I called out to Piano-man Oliver Cumming when I spotted him heading the opposite way along the Mall - I'd recognised him from the recent burning piano (catstress photo) incident back at Union Chapel a week ago.

Having reached what I deemed to be the start, I headed around the circuit, which was around 15km from Buck House, through Trafalgar Square, along the Embankment, past St Pauls and out to Tower Hill and then back along a similar route. It was an easy spin and surprisingly quick without traffic to deal with.

In fact, as I got back to the starting area, thought “that was fun, I’ll do it again”. Let it be said that the second circuit was considerably slower. Not because of fatigue, simply sheer volume of traffic. London had become like Copenhagen, but without some of the cycling protocols. From my several months in the Temporary Apartment in CPH early in 2009, I think they have already nailed the Copenhagen Cycle Chic.


By luck, I arrived at the starting area for the second lap at around the time Boris Johnson was doing his photocall. I stopped and managed to get some pictures of the 100 metres that he, Kelly Brook and Gethin Jones cycled with Sir Chris Hoy and which was well recorded by scores of photographers.
Like the opening of the plinth, another 'scene stealer' managed to get past the carefully staged start of the short section and will no doubt appear in some of the press- his tee shirt read "Rules are for Fools". Boris called out something to him as he shot past, and Boris's little contingent seemed suitably amused.

As a reflection, once sitting in the park with other cyclist, it was quite interesting to look at what would happen in London if cycling really did take off in the way of some other foreign cities. There’s still more work on road markings and some aspects of traffic protocol if London is to deal with a considerable increase in volume.

I must admit that I’m all for it. This is a scheme where Boris has hit a good cause and should look for ways to extend it. London Cycle Chic, as they say.

ahoy - batten down t' hatches

By the Powers, aye, me was wonderin' whether t' be a scallywag 'nd post somethin' in the pirate speak for talk like a pirate day.

Avast ye, methinks tis easier t' use a pirate speech translator. Belay that, tis wi a wannion for lily-livered lubbers.

Swashbucklin' gentlemen 'o fortune knows how t' talk proper.

Ahoy, me hearties.

Yo ho ho.

skyride in london

Nearly forgot to mention tomorrow's cycling day in London.

Plenty of interesting roads are closed to traffic (except bicycles) so it gives a chance for some enjoyable sightseeing.

I may have to dig out the bike-cam again. Here's a snip from last year...

the thames they are a changin'

I was about to open my norfansarf on this topic and then it all changed. The new tube maps for London have been streamlined for content and readability. Overall, this is a good thing and has decluttered the map considerably.

The two strangest omissions though, were the River Thames and the Zones.

I gather that Mayor Boris (Chairman of TfL) has belatedly twittered to ask for the return of the wiggly blue stripe to help delineate norf and sarf of the river. I muse that the potential continued omission of the Zones will be either a way to generate revenue from fines or a Good Excuse usable by tourists who stray out of Zone 1.

My forecast is that both the River and the Zones will return.

Next question, how much spent on the revision? I bet I know where to find out.

Meantime, londonist have an even simpler version for tourists.

I'll be the roundabout

A two alarm start today, to be sure to be airside early. Coffee, a BA croissant in the lounge, rendezvous with the others and onward to a plane.

Not so much later, we were in hills, sunshine and the smell of freshly cut grass.

All in a day's work.

Driving, offices, meetings, handshakes, airside again for a couple of beers and then watching scenery flickering past the wing until landing ten minutes before a phone conference.

Admiring an evening sky as the sun melted thin clouds across a pink and purple horizon.

You change the day your way
Call it morning driving thru the sound and
In and out the valley
I'll be the roundabout
The words will make you out n out

Yes.

perhaps thats the point of it all

Very occasionally I look at my search engine stats and it usually prompts a smile and a thought that I could help that person further (if only...).

Today's "cucumber London" is a case in point. I think I know what they were getting at. So here's an hour of search terms hitting rashbre central, in sequence with a few linking words to make more of a story.

A cold latte before a deep dive.
make this perfect dream.

Not only the nice girls know
how to short the market.
It's no future science since
neil armstrong on the moon

vivienne westwood punk,
doctor who 11 with a few
cardboard boxes or joanna kelly, curling producer
and power tools in a
convent garden create a
countryside scene.

Outside, the book shop signals
as an autumn faery
crosses the cucumber london, figarude.

they've got excitement and life by the fistful but you've got the meaning

It's Tuesday when I'm writing this Monday post whilst I wait for my PC to re-install some automatic software. Monday was another compressed day where I eventually stopped for a refuel at around nine in the evening. I'm getting some of my 'task boxes' ticked though but then inevitably another appears demanding some kind of unexpected attention.

As I mapped out the week in my head looking for one of those 'and rest' moments it seems to be at least a couple of weeks into the future, with most days pre-programmed. When I idly looked at my inbox for travel arrangements, I noticed another 5 flights have slid in and during Monday a sixth one looks probable for next week.

So I shall be doing my best to find the ten or so minutes to pen some kind of ongoing blog post. Like others, there's always incomplete adventures, partial projects and storylines that never quite make it.

I'm not sure that I mind. It's representative.