I'll pencil you in, even if its to scribble you out

I think I've only been into St Stephen's Tavern once. It's the pub with the big light on the left of this picture.

I'd arranged to meet someone and we picked 'the pub opposite Parliament' because we both knew where it was. It subsequently became another setting in the Triangle, near the beginning when Jake meets Clare and Bigsy before they find out the news about Brian. The graphite sky might have been over Sloane Square, but its near enough.

Using a situation in this way can be a little like advanced people watching. Whilst waiting for someone to show up, instead of just reading a paper there's a whole world to be plotted.

I'm pretty sure its only around this time of year that I think this way, but I'm also convinced that the lip glossy person across from me, scribbling with a pencil into a small notebook, is up to something similar.

car for sale...well auction

One of the fun things about writing "The Triangle" is knowing that most of the places described in it exist and that I've had some reason to be at the locations. Not necessarily for an assignation with an American ex-militia spook, but maybe for a cocktail or cup of coffee.

But my interest was raised today, when I saw that one of the 'exotic cars' I described in an early chapter has its real life counterpart and is indeed up for auction this very day at Battersea Evolution, just over Chelsea Bridge.

Darren Collins appears in the early chapters of The Triangle and mysteriously has enough money to buy something like this, which is a sort of racing car that has been made street legal.

I'll be wondering how much the real one fetches, although I'll be sitting on my hands. Bid here

Update: Thanks to an email correction, someone has pointed out that Darren's car would have been an orange McLaren. Click the picture from rashbre central parking garage to see the real one.

the clocks wait so patiently on your song

"C'mon", I was instructed this morning. "We're going to make the most of the sunshine". After a slightly confused start because some of the clocks had reset themselves and others hadn't, we headed for some late, no make that early, lunch.

Blue skies, yellow dapple across layered tree colours and a certain crunchiness underfoot. A lovely day, sunny corner table, mellow wine and some time for plans.

A marked contrast with yesterday when I'd been traversing a crazily overfilled store simultaneously selling Halloween, Guy Fawkes, Christmas and even Easter products (hot cross buns). I couldn't work out how the sheer volume of shoppers and totally full car park aligned with the credit crunch.

Today's location restored tranquillity, although by this evening I've also been quietly packing bags for travelling again.

Cairo practice

James sheltered on the edge of a dune. The vestigial grass had a razor sharp edge, scratching his arm as he slithered into a comfortable position. The Subaru was parked about 200 metres further away, concealed behind another dune. A long way ahead, he could see the tiny outline of the truck, heading towards him in a kind of shimmer from the heat. It seemed to be running above the ground because of the heat haze and he could understand how people thought they could see water in the desert.

The truck's progress was also almost silent initially, and then he started to hear a whine from an American military grade diesel engine. He'd heard the sound before, in Germany where there were many of these trucks, used around the bases, but here it seemed displaced.

Through the sound he started to notice a further noise, a slow throb getting quickly louder. He looked around and could see a small speck in the sky, not a bird, it was bigger and tracking the path of the truck. A helicopter, it looked like an Apache as it moved closer. An attack helicopter, carrying a fair array of armaments. By now the truck was less than 800 metres away, still proceeding at a steady speed. The Apache was still high in the air, but then suddenly, but rather languorously, the helicopter let go of a missile of some kind. It didn't fly straight, but took a lazy path, like the casual throw of a soft toy from an adult to a small child.

But whatever it was, it was going to hit the truck. A second or so later, there was a flash and it was as if time had moved from casual to accelerated in a split second. As the missile hit the truck, a white flash exploded in a vertical line from the ground to two or three hundred metres in the air. The power of the explosion seemed completely out of proportion to the previous few seconds of activity and James instinctively sheltered his face with his arm, the same one that had been cut a few moments earlier by the grass blade.

The helicopter was not expected and had made its intentions clear. In a slightly muffled way, he could hear a shrill electronic sound and he realised that the helicopter was locking on to his Subaru and was planning to vaporise it in the same way as the truck. He decided to bury himself in the sand rather than attempt to run. That way, if the chopper was mainly looking for vehicles, it may not spot a lone person on foot. In the far distance he saw a momentary flash from the ground and then noted a black line in the sky. Someone a long way away had launched a surface to air missile. The black trail weaved through the air towards the helicopter. He saw the Apache bank first left and then right as well as ejecting what looked like hot metal strips. But it was too late. The SAM made contact with the helicopter and in a much yellower fireball than the truck's explosion, he could see the helicopter drop to the desert floor like a stone. He decided to lay low for longer in case there were any more surprises, but no, a few minutes later he was preparing his escape in the Subaru, alert to the thought that whoever fired the surface to air may be heading his way.

you didn't see that I cleared the path and left the walkway free

I've been planning my next two weeks, because my upcoming spare time is increasingly limited. Its moving from apparent tranquility on Saturday morning to days on a fast conveyor belt.

Cadence is trying to become the new orange.

There's a strange backbeat though, with people around me powering down for a few days of school half term and general gaps in calendars. These people have time to look around, listen and read the signs.

By comparison, my agenda requires bundles of trivial logistics to be planned. I'm not convinced that tonight's extra hour will really fix it.

the eyes have it

I know this is a lazy post, but I've been busy this week and am now sitting in front of the television which is dispensing an episode of Coronation Street. Not usually part of my viewing, but entertaining to deconstruct.

Corrie has a bittersweet sense of humour and a fun sport is to 'count the looks' whilst it plays.

Tonight's episode is a classic, with plenty of cutaways to different peoples' eyes, in church, in the pub and along the Street. Even the baby gets a chance to do a look. And then a grim reaper appears in a big car and wearing a black hoodie. I don't know the plot, but the similarities with something from Lord of the Rings are worth a mention.

There's also a heavily sweating man with shifty eyes (well lit) who I assume runs the unisex underwear factory, which got a few closeups and got me thinking. I predict this character is on a heart-attack trajectory for some time next week. He could be rushed to hospital, wired up and then fess-up to something fairly evil. It would make a good storyline like the above sketch (complete with a 'look').

Sorry, "fess-up" is probably more Eastenders than Corrie.

right menace faces questioning

Two sets of spin are on hand this week.

There's the exhaust from the Newsnight special format programme on Thursday, which was more or less devoted to a single issue. The decision tree from the occasion becomes quite complex. To do the show or not? To standardise the format or not? To provide robust response or not? To keep a conventional 'west London' audience or not?

For journalism and politicians, there's ways to spin most of the combinations and we are seeing the rather dangerous and slippery central character attempt to manipulate the outcome and to maximise further coverage.

I suppose the party of revisionism could take some lessons from the masters of spin who are about to launch the second series of 'The Thick of It'. This is a series of originally around half a dozen episodes dealing with life in Westminster. Fast paced and rude, it sheds a suspiciously realistic-looking light on the corridors of power. A 'Yes, Minister' for the 21st Century. I shall enjoy.

straight lines

Backwards and forwards across the City today, intermingled with some 'desk time' which I need for a specific project. Really I'll need to keep my head down for the rest of the week to get things done, although various little meetings keep tiptoe-ing into the schedule.

And there's almost no time for any non-work activity this week, so I'm rather impressed to see that work is already in progress for at least one NaNoWriMo.

If yesterday I was stuck in a Faraday cage whilst my car's misbehaviour sparked Tesla-like around me, then today I'm in a vacuum chamber, blissfully unaware of things not in my direct list of 'To-Dos'.

rebooting a car, with modest sparks

I had to take the car for its annual inspection today.

After the one hour series of tests, the car passed. The dealer gave me a discount on the normal price of the test too, which was a pleasant surprise. I waited in a plush area with complementary coffee, wifi and iMac internet access. I took a conference call meeting and it really didn't interfere with my day.

So far so good.

Then I drove home uneventfully, until I switched off the engine and noticed that the radio/satnav stayed on. Usually it switches off. I pressed the button and sure enough, it switched off. I idly pressed it again. Nothing. The system refused to restart. I had lost the satnav, CD player, the phone and it was stuck on a single radio station.

I pressed the off button, twiddled the car ignition, pressed all the adjacent buttons but to no avail. Stuck in startup, a little like a frozen computer. The dealer is closed by this time and its getting dark.

I try the internet to find out how to reset the console. There's various earnest experts describing the system and the general opinion seems to be to take it to a dealer who can use a special diagnostic device to reset everything. Apparently the car has a fibre optic ring main with these components on it.

I discover the car has two cunningly concealed fuse boxes, one in the front and another in the rear, I trace the circuits which don't really describe the main console, but have baffling names like "Audio Gateway". The spot designated for a radio fuse is ominously empty.

I decide to remove the two or three fuses (from about 50) that I think are associated with the sound, phone and satnav. I leave them disconnected for a few minutes to give everything a chance to reset. I noticed a slight sparking sound when I removed the 45amp one in the back of the car.

The I put it all back together and press the on button for the radio. A flash on the console screen. The warning message about driving carefully. Hooray. Its working again.

I feel both pleased and relieved that I've managed to re-boot my car's operating system.

the purple haze was all around

We didn't just make one track of "music" on Sunday. We made three, in between much general messing around. It seems to be my job to unload them from the recording device.

Of course, it all started innocently enough.

A casual comment along the lines of "I wonder if they make a 4 track recorder for the iPhone?"

Five pounds ninety nine later we were in business, with a hastily assembled band using an acoustic guitar, an old roland effects unit, a banjo, a yamaha piano and an electric guitar, plus a few percussive substances. We even figured out the optimum placement for the the improvised microphone.

And don't get me started about the 49 key roll-up keyboard piano with drum machine we bought at the Texaco. Jimi's place of honour on the wall was under no threat.

bed feet
half a side of vinyl progressive rock 8:11

remember that other time when I would only read the backs of cereal boxes

Even Squeaker was tired by Sunday evening.

We'd started today with a hastily improvised progressive rock jam session that only the very hardy could listen to in playback, using one microphone, with the players moving nearer or further away in an analogue semblance of mixing the sound.



Then an extended French breakfast with milky coffee, croissant and fromage.

I think it may have already been early afternoon.

Later we travelled onward to an impromptu wine tasting and then eventually to The Duchess for some pub food, where we chatted in the assembling shadows from the adjacent Battersea Power Station.

no trade marks hurt in the process

I'll admit to goofing off from blogging for a few days this week. A combination of extra events meant I was invariably back late most evenings, with the record probably being Friday evening after the pub lock-in.

That's not to say there hasn't been quite a lot happening. I was with Ed the Synth on Tuesday evening, then by almost complete chance with two friends from different parts of America, who both coincidentally happened to be in London Wednesday evening. Thursday featured a very late Japanese dinner which brings me back to Friday locked in pub.

I also recollect that Thursday featured the draft construction at 1 a.m. of a test logo for an upcoming Devoted and Disgruntled event. We created the logo and then tried it out on some New York scenes in preparation for the marketing of the event.