Getting to Christmas

Below is a composite image of notes I made on Saturday evening on how I’m going to be getting to my grandparents for Christmas. Every year for the past nineteen—except last year and also in 2001 or 2002, though I can’t remember which one of those—me and my family have descended upon Bournemouth for the Christmas holiday. This year will be the first in which I’ll have to pass port to get there and, boy: it’s going to be difficult.

As you probably can’t read owing to the deliberately low resolution of the scans, I’m planning on transversing the continent by plane and train. The easiest and most direct route would be to hop on the train to Schiphol, catch a Flybe flight to Southampton and get on a fast service to Bournemouth via Southampton Central. But, whilst shopping at Albert Heijn on Saturday afternoon, I pondered “surely I can fly cheaper with easyJet”—that was a thought I’d rather not have had; it turned my evening to a nightmare of investigation, calculating and reinvestigation. I calculated the costs of flying with easyJet into three of London’s airports, but it wasn’t until I was very near the end of my tether that I discovered which one had the upper hand.

One of the main problems is the method of payment. I’m not in possession of a credit card in the Netherlands and my Dutch Maestro card is… well, it’s not a real Maestro card—there’s no bloody card number. I know there is a card number—various receipts have allowed me to determine its last seven digits—but, alas, it’s not …public (if you like) and I’m unable to use it to purchase things from our good friend the Internet. Except in the Netherlands where we use a bank authentication system but that’s nothing to do with the card provider. As such, I’m having to transfer money back to my British account in order to pay for my flight; which is a bit of a pain-in-the-arse.

Pages 15 and 16 include a 'cost vs simplicity' table. The circled number ones represent the least costly (column III) and least faffy (column IV) journeys. It's not the prettiest of Moleskine pages but please understand: I was very, very tired and it was close to 01:00... and the table addition on page 16 was drawn/written on Sunday morning, hence its relative neatness.

My findings are that the cheaper options are less direct that the more expensive, as you would expect. I could compromise on saving money and fly into Luton: a train into London and then another train out of London makes that part of the journey relatively painless but it costs a little more, both in the rail fare and time. The Gatwick option is the cheapest—£70 cheaper than flying direct to Southampton—but it would be a job to get onto the correct line out of London for Bournemouth. But, surprisingly, it takes only an hour longer to fly into Gatwick and sachet my way over to the South Western Main Line than it does to fly Flybe to Southampton and then walk the reported “sixty seconds” between the terminal and Southampton Airport Parkway. Gatwick might not be a bad choice after all.

And just so you know, it’s a Stabilo Bionic Worker I use.

Lighthouses and f-signs

British embassies being advised how best to deal with expats without cash. British banks preparing for a eurozone collapse. You’d think the UK was part of the eurozone, the amount of scare stories it’s been pumping out this past week. A eurozone collapse and subsequent break-up isn’t around the corner — the phrase “Meanwhile in…” is particularly relevant here; the Netherlands isn’t massively worried about the whole thing and it seems that the only government shitting themselves in fear is the British. But — and I’m stressing the word ‘but’ like a Boeing wing undergoing testing — let’s assume that one morning, the Netherlands wakes up and the euro’s ceased to exist overnight. The most plausible plan of action would be to reinstate the currency we had before 2002: the Dutch guilder; a currency with some of the most colourful banknotes I’ve ever seen.

A ƒ250 banknote from the 1980s. © De Nederlandsche Bank; scan © http://www.banknotes.com; fair use CDPA 1988 §30.

→ Blackfriars new design

David Hembrow writes:

The LCC’s proposal looks not entirely different to how some Dutch provision might have looked 30 years ago. There was a lot to like about 30 year old Dutch cycling infrastructure, so this isn’t entirely a bad thing. However, in the second decade of the 21st century, I really think that London should be copying 21st century solutions and not looking quite so far backward.

I haven’t been keeping up with the Blackfriars Bridge news as of late. It seems to have all quietened down in my Google Reader. But I’ve just had a late look at the London Cycling Campaign’s proposals and by god: they almost look European. →

On the more irritating side of the argument of the existence of God

There are two problems I have with people of a religious nature. The most offensive is that these people are intent on forcing their particular beliefs and delusions upon you, but that’s not the problem I’m going to talk about today. The second and slightly more irritating problem is that religious people just don’t give up; they are, without a doubt, the absolute worst people to begin an argument with. No matter how illogical their views are, they just will not admit defeat. Logic is the science of reasoning and is fundamental in helping us understand what is true and false; what seems correct. A magic wizard of no origin who has limitless benevolence (but who is also responsible for tsunamis, tornadoes, earthquakes and the such) and who also knows everything and anything (even what’s going to happen in the future, despite self-determination) doesn’t seem plausible.

Now, in my opinion, if neither party of an argument can present any evidence to support their claims, the claim that seems the most logical wins; but of course the religious movement believes that such reasoning can be overruled by shouting for longer than the other party. The most frustrating argument I have with these prickwits – “is there a God?” – will usually come down to the irritating statement “prove there isn’t a God then”, something I can’t actually do but I can prove something else.

You tell me that you have little men inside your head to whom you have long and winding conversations, sometimes with the little men telling you to hate or kill certain people – just generally be a massive bellend. I can’t prove you don’t have little men inside your head; I can’t read your thoughts to say which ones were sourced from reality and which you’ve imagined, and I can’t tell what your imagination is saying to you. All I can say with certainty is that you’re mentally deranged. But because I can’t prove the men don’t exist, you’ll most probably have a flash of argumentum ad ignorantiam and say that if I can’t prove they don’t, they must – which is the wrong angle to take with arguments like this.

I’ve remembered…

Being around Brits for the first time in months has reminded me of one of the reasons I don’t miss the United Kingdom as much as I should. Now I know it’s not the entire population but there’s a section of British society – called the ‘blokes’ – who are inherently rude and lazy. One ‘quality’ of blokes stands out far beyond any other to me: the general “any one who doesn’t speak my language or live my way of life needs patronising” attitude which is offensive (even when I’m just in the vicinity of something happening) and disappointing. Man has proven that he can accomplish so much, yet we’ve still got bigots and religion on the table; why?

Since I’m both angry and disgusted at these people, I like to play a little game involving the Dutch language – it’s not violent but it helps me get over my outrage. I know these people can’t speak more than the fraction of one language they speak and, even if they do happen to speak Dutch, well… found a new person to practice Dutch with. Now, the game is never planned but as soon as I hear blokey-sounding words coming out of a blokey mouth, it’s second nature to play. I accidentally sat in someone else’s seat on the ferry over to Harwich today: almost immediately after I’d sat down, a blokey bloke from behind called out “someone’s sitting there, mate”. Mate?; seriously how dare you? – I’m not your mate, buddy, guy, pal or anything remotely contactuous. “Wat zegt u?”, I replied. “Someone … is sitting there … he has gone … to get … a drink”, the bloke replied with the most offensive gestures imaginable; no&oumlne; needs speech that slow and gestures that big to be understood but, then again, maybe that’s the way he normally communicates.

Moved

I haven’t written anything for a while. I’ve used the “I’ve been too busy at work” excuse before so I’m not going to bother to repeat myself. Apart from the downpours and the possibly strained muscles in my torso and left arm, moving was a success on Sunday and I’m proud to be one of the newest residents of Amsterdam-Noord. The idea of sharing a flat with roommates has never bothered my mind and I’m pleased I didn’t go down the “forever alone [when it comes to accommodation]” thinking route. I was in and out of the house on Sunday with getting things done, so I didn’t get to properly introduce myself to Shaun and Robyn until Monday evening. I won’t turn this into some kind of diary entry with comments such as “OMG me and Robyn have the same camera model” but they’re good eggs; that’s what matters. The matter of what I do for a living came up, as it does, and there’s always that moment of actually explaining what it is the company I work for actually does. While I’m by no means ashamed of where I work, there are unfortunately some people on this planet who are disgusted, even offended, by certain practices – even if they have nothing to do with it personally. I work as a designer for a fetish wholesale business operating from Duivendrecht, Amsterdam; a magical and colourful job it is, with output that can be summed up in the words of Matt of Kink Engineering fame:

Not safe for work, unless your work is awesome.

Explaining where I work is always best explained with the catalogue we produce. It’s interesting to judge people’s reactions: more people are curious and intrigued by the content than disgusted but, then again, this is the Netherlands.

Back to LA-born graphic designer Robyn and I’ve noticed I don’t use paragraphs very effectively, if at all. The company she’s currently interning for has – for the last few years – designed a series of “design and architecture […] yearbooks”. I must say: I knew Germany was at the forefront of such industries but there are a lot of submissions from German students. Germany and the United Kingdom. One entry I’m taking interest in is that of the “pictorial communication language” Picol – I wonder just how complex the art of designing universally- or near-universally-recognisable pictograms is; I assume it takes a hell of a lot of research. Robyn’s off on holiday for the next few weeks to Italy before returning briefly to Amsterdam and then flying back to the United States, which is disappointing to say the least.

My other roommate at the moment is Dundee-born Scottish sweatheart Shaun, who’s finishing an internship with an architectural firm this week. I haven’t really talked to him much; I feel more comfortable conversing with women than men—het homoheid, natuurlijk. On the day both Shaun and Robyn move out, a young Spaniard will be arriving; people moving in and people moving out gradually all this week but I work 09:00–17:30 so I’m not exactly in the house much during the day.

Localisation

I’m really quite busy with work at work; I haven’t had much free time these days. Here goes with a small rant about Google Chrome. This is a strings rant: it’s hardly worth mentioning it’s such an insignificance. I turned this Chrome feature off a while ago because I was at a stage where I felt I could read whatever the Internet threw at me, but I needed to turn it back on again today—automatic page translation. It’s not call ‘automatic page translation’ in the preferences; the description of the checkbox reads:

“offer to translate pages that aren’t in a language that I read”

The way this sentence is worded implies that I only speak English or, more generally, I only speak the primary language my system is set to.† I don’t; I speak English and Dutch—the former significantly more confidently than the latter, but I’m getting there … slowly. I’d suggest the line be changed to something like:

“offer to translate pages in languages other than English”

There; works perfectly well and it doesn’t hurt my gigantic ego. Small things like this get on my tits, but I don’t think they would if I didn’t think they mattered.

†: If my primary system language wasn’t English, I wouldn’t be reading a checkbox description in English, would I? Disregard the striked text.

Insert title using the term ‘town’ incorrectly here

I haven’t blogged much since I started my new job; you’re probably happy with my silence. I suppose I can tell you about my evening though.

I’d like to extend my uttermost gratitude to Bradley Thompson – go follow him on Twitter – for making me understand the importance of a social life. While I don’t claim to be developing one, it’s at least a start in my opinion – even if it does cost me €7,25 for a gin and tonic. Even though I’m not the most social person on the planet meeting-people-and-being-comfortable-at-the-same-time-wise, that’s never going to change if I don’t get out there and meet people. And I live in Amsterdam, so it’s not as if language or a lack of population are hinderences. (Well…) I’ve found myself a little jazz bar in the centre-west of the city and, having gone there on Saturday to listen to the amazing Funk Allstars, I thought I’d go again yesterday evening. I got on the Metro from the station no more than eight-hundred metres from my student flat but the carriages that provide the line 53 service look like New York Subway ‘cars’ to me – with their bare metal panels and the floors soaked and stained from various fluids, and I just wasn’t having any of that. I changed trains at Van der Madeweg but tiredness and general stupidity led me astray. I got on what I thought was a 51 – the sneltram from Amstelveen – but it turns out it was a 50 and over the line to Amsterdam Centraal the flyover carried us. “Oh bother”, I thought; “but I’ll just cross over at Overamstel and get a 51 towards Centraal”. I only realised when the doors wouldn’t open for me at Overamstel station that the 51 doesn’t call at Van der Madeweg at all and that I should have changed at Spaklerweg like I did on Saturday. Anyway, …I muttered “arseholes” when the next set of doors turned its buttons off when I was half-a-metre away and stood there embarrassed as the Metro moved on to Amsterdam RAI. “I know I can get a tram north from h–”, my thought interrupted by the sight of the 4 to Centraal Station moving away from the tram stop beneath the station platforms. I carried onwards to Station Zuid, knowing that I could change to another tram that would take me towards the city centre. Luckily, the 5 goes to the same tram stop I alighted at on Saturday; the stop only a few hundred metres south of the Bourbon Street jazz and blues club – open 22:00–04:00 weekdays and until 05:00 on weekends. Decent, really cosy; not up-its-own-arse like some establishments I’m too tired to mention. The B-Funk Jam were playing on the 2 × 4-metre stage yesterday – I’m not the greatest blues follower but it was certainly a good night out with good music.

I was determined to talk to someone for at least a minute on a subject other than what drink I’d like to purchase – free entry before eleven means they have to make their money someway; hence the insane (though you’ll have to account for the exchange rate) price of a G&T.

When me and Heather Phillips plucked-up the courage to ask other students – students outside of our own class; you have to understand how serious this is(!) – for contributions to I Thought About Writing A Title last year, our first victim was deaf. Out of the few dozen in the room to strike up a conversation with, the Spanish man and his translator didn’t have much to say of interest: John Coltrane, for instance, who was mentioned an awful lot, I don’t find that much of an icon. I can understand why the conversation didn’t get very deep: in my slow learning of Dutch, I found that adjectives are far more of a pain-in-the-arse to learn than (for example) verbs; either this language business is going to be more of a problem here than I thought or these two weren’t into their blues enough to comment on the live music. (I’m sounding mighty Anglophilic today.) The Americans I was planning on “enjoying Amsterdam?”-ing during the interval left during the second song – a strong blues number – and, noöne felt remotely approachable … until I discovered that the fifty-something couple that had been standing next to me for most of the evening were (or at least spoke) English – thank fuck for that Dutch woman and her lust for that bar stool. When the interval came about and after I’d plucked up the courage to smile (but not in a Gordon Brown kind of way) and say “so, enjoy the first set?”, it transpired that they were in fact from Australia and were touring Europe for a month. After a while and with the time approaching midnight, I thanked them for their company and ran for the tram in the distance. I must say that the tram drivers of Amsterdam are a fuck ton more tolerant than the bus drivers in either Cambridge or London when one’s just missed the doors closing.

And that was my night last night. The diagonal lines under my eyes are getting more obvious with every look in the mirror and my jet black hair only accentuates them. I’m sleeping better – much better – than I was during all but one night of my forty-two-night camping ‘experience’ but several years of all-nighters, a poor diet and a lack of self-routine has left my eyes bag-laden and my face scarred. If only I didn’t know how much of a farce those caffeine eye roll-on dingetjes are, I could at least make a comfort purchase.

Fingers

This was meant to go out yesterday evening (2011-06-22) but what with the stress of moving and having to deal with an aggressive former landlord…

I was bored on the stoptrein earlier this evening so I decided “what the fuck: I’ll go through my mobile contacts and give my British friends the +44 prefix they deserve”.

In its current form, Android’s – or maybe it’s an HTC concoction – dialer application has been designed around one main purpose: calling people. There is a People application on my Desire – again, I don’t know if it’s an HTC application or an Android application – which acts as the phone’s contact manager but I’m only interested in adding +44 to contacts that currently begin with something like 07 or 01. I know these are British numbers because for numbers I put into my phone nowadays, I make sure I add the appropriate dialing code to the beginning. Because I only want to edit certain entries, it makes sense to use the dialer over the contact manager – since the dialer displays an entry’s main phone number in small type under the contact’s name; the People application does not. The dialer does have an ‘edit’ button – or rather a ‘go to contact’ button – but it’s a little small. On occasion, I’ve accidentally started calling someone when all I wanted to do was to go to their contact card. I have to really concentrate to make sure I tap right in the centre of the ‘go to contact’ button without tapping the rest of the entry’s rectangle, which would result in me dialling them (and on a pay-as-you-go phone, an international call is something I want to avoid as much as possible).

I’ve ‘solved’ this problem by enabling Aeroplane Mode: as I said, I’m have a pay-as-you-go account in the Netherlands and mobile internet is costly in such a case – back in the UK where I had unlimited internet with O2, turning on Aeroplane Mode was a different story.

But I’m not writing this to tell you about what I did on the train. I’m wondering …why can’t I have a slightly bigger phone?; why does my phone need to be this small and its screen so narrow I can’t easily push UI elements? And, I know this isn’t going to happen but, in generations-to-come, will we have evolved to have small fingers (or perhaps pointier fingers) to cope with the size of technology?

Fifteen minutes

Commuting by train in the Netherlands is usually no problem. Yesterday, however, Nederlandse Spoorwegen—the state-owned rail operator of the Netherlands—had to delay some of its services. Back in the UK, I wouldn’t even consider writing about delays on the railways: it would be a waste of my time. Everyone^[who?] knows the UK suffers from the worst rail delays in Europe^{[citation needed]} and, in my experience at least, encountering delays on the British railway network is anything but unusual. Dutch railways on the other hand: that’s a different story. I wrote the draft of this post on a reasonably-packed (ten people standing in the aisle of a seventy-five-ish-seat-carriage; 113% crowded) intercity naar Enschede; the stoptrein I usually get home from the office was delayed by… well: the announcements said five minutes, but 18:04–17:55 is nine minutes. Anyway, I’m used to a much quieter train—I don’t care for men talking loudly about “the datas [sic] in the clouds”and how “[in] the future, the normal PC will disappear”; people coughing and sneezing on the blue and striped carriage moquette; at least there aren’t any chavs on-board and I haven’t heard a screaming baby sinc– (Out at Hilversum and there’s a shitcake screaming and whaling in a pram on spoor 2.)

Yesterday morning, the stoptrein to Leiden did arrive, fifteen minutes later than scheduled. I arrived at Duivendrecht with perhaps ten minutes to go before work so instead of risking arriving late by walking, I hopped on the Metro—what a foul and disgusting one-stop journey that was. I’ll have to research, but I swear those carriages were from the 70s, complete with an 8-bit ‘hammers’ voice announcer. Then, after running off the train and elbowing everyone London-style, …I fell down a fifteen-step staircase on the way out of the station: where was this sign when I needed it?

I wrote this post over the course of about an hour-and-a-half yesterday evening and, while waiting for a stoptrein south via oo-treɣt oa-fer-veɣht, in front of me was something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to—a DB service to Hannover Hbf, with announcements for its service in no less than three languages. It’s an odd thought seeïng a train to Germany. I think you need to book a seat reservation in advance, but there’s no glass security fencing like at St Pancras International; no customs or passport control to stress over. It’s an alien idea, this ‘free movement between countries’ thing and that is what I don’t think I’ll get used to.