Ian's blog has moved

I'm not here any more, I've gone over here. There will be no more posts on "ianbee.blogspot.com" okay? See you over there ...

Sunday changes

Yesterday was a big day for me, marking a significant break in my sunday routine. For the last few years I have had a steady stream of Sunday Times vouchers from my Mum - my parents subscribe to The Times newspaper by getting a sheet of daily vouchers. They found that come the weekend they still had a pile of papers left over from the week to read, so they would always send me the sunday vouchers.

Most sundays I have undertaken a little ritual which involved wondering around (picking up buns and milk on the way) looking for a newsagent that would accept the voucher. Many don't, because it's too much hassle I guess, some stare at it for so long I consider putting the paper back because the news will have become out of date. Often I'm asked why the voucher is made out to Mrs C Braithwaite, and I mumble something about my sick bedridden mother/neighbour. When the newsagent man says "alright" it's like a little spark of triumph in my chest. If he says "I'm sorry we don't accept these" I feel a kick of defeat.

Anyway, my parents are giving up on the subscription and are going to buy the paper as and when they feel like it. I guess now they don't have a dog there's less need for newspaper to stand muddy boots on. So my sunday voucher supply has dried up, yesterday was the last one, and next week I will have to hand over cash and will loose the pre-breakfast thrill of the mental tussle.

The story of an uncommonly gentle man

Tim Burton's 'Edward Scissorhands' (starring Johnny Depp) is not an obvious choice of film to be reimagined as a ballet. I can't believe it's beaten 'Alien', 'The Godfather' and 'Free Willy 2: The Adventure Home' in the race to be transferred to the stage.

I'd set my heart on seeing this show (mainly due to the 'mild-peril' potential of having a load of scissors whirling around in an uncontrolled manner) but I was dogged by the inability of any of my friends to be free on a thursday night. I guess it's not helpful when the show you're trying to sell to them is a contemporary reworking in dance of a 90s cult gothic classic about an artificial man with scissors for hands. I thought I'd finally found someone lovely and amusing to accompany me, but in the afternoon she texted saying how disappointed she was but she'd "have to take a rain check" because she really should go to her alpha course. I was turned down for an alpha course - gutted. And I still don't really know what a 'rain check' is. In the end my geographically-close friend Mark saved the day, although he was not impressed to find out that he was 'back-up-buddy'.

As usual with my outings there is a lot to say before the main event begins. I was minding my own business in the foyer when a message came over the PA - "Would Mr Ian Braithwaite please come to the box office." I confirmed with Mark that they had indeed called my name, and headed off wondering what services they were going to expect me to perform.* At the box office a couple were pointed out and I was told they were looking for me. I introduced myself to the pair who looked a bit taken aback and after some cross-purpose chat they explained that it was a different Ian Braithwaite they were looking for. Bemused, I hung around the foyer keeping the couple in the corner of my eye. No-one else went up to them. I was called again over the PA, or at least my impersonator was. No-one appeared. Mark got bored and wondered off, I decided to try again so I walked up to them and asked if they were absolutely sure it wasn't me they wanted. They looked at me strangely and I'm sure the bloke was thinking "what has this man done with the real Ian Braithwaite?", and the woman was thinking "has he murdered him and now he's trying to steal his identity?" So I backed away and left them waiting. It's not like Braithwaite is a particularly common name (outside of the Lake District and a housing estate near Keithley in Yorkshire) so I'm a bit freaked out.

Anyway, about the show. The dancing hedges were a highlight, and I loved the onstage topiary. And there was a great bit when a bean-bag fell from the ceiling. Ummm ... to be honest I found it very difficult to focus on the plot, despite my best intentions. I've discovered that, when watching someone dance who has scissors for hands, there is a constant little commentary at the back of my mind: "careful, ooh that was close ... don't wave them there ... you'll have someone's eye out!" Still, the dancing was amazing - there was some great characterisation and wonderful set-pieces (such as the ice-sculpture scene). The representation of small-town America was genius, with very clever forced-perspective staging which you'll have to ask me to describe another time. I did enjoy it, I just discovered I get nervous when people run with scissors.

* I have this recurring daydream/fantasy that I will be at a gig or a show and someone will come on stage and say that they deeply regret canceling the evening but the bass player has been taken ill and they can't possibly continue without a bass player - unless maybe there is someone present who could step in and take over? And I would go forward and everyone would cheer.

Mr fix it (2)

Well. This was the week I broke my toilet roll holder (don't ask how), so I popped into IKEA to buy a new one. The old one was a funny wire thing with a smiley face, which had sentimental value as it was a flat warming present. So I chose a new wooden toilet roll holder and I drilled a hole into it and fixed in the smiley face which I had salvaged from the old one. Voila.


(I spent ages trying to get this photo just right, but gave up because life is too short to spend it taking photos of your toilet roll holder.)

One of my other purchases was some new dinner plates, which I paid for but left at the till in a fit of customer generosity. A nice girl called Angela saved them for me, and I get to pick them up on friday.

I got the new bowls back safe though. The thing about new bowls, which I'd forgotten, is that there is a period of adjustment as you get used to the new capacity and dimensions. I've been feeling short changed on my cereal the last few days and have been slowly working out that these bowls taper at the base more, so the bran flakes need to come further up the side for the same full-tum experience.

Mr fix it

My neighbour has been complaining of a noisy extractor fan in her bathroom, so I went round today to try and sort it out. I turned all the power off, unscrewed it from the ceiling, cleaned it of fluff, took it apart and oiled it, then put it all back together again. Now it sounds much, much worse.

Kitchen thermometer idea

I've had a great idea for a kitchen thermometer. I've got a bottle of olive oil that says on the label it turns cloudy at temperatures below 10 degrees (does not affect taste, will revert to normal when warmed up, etc etc). I've also got a bottle of ground-nut oil which, according to the bottle, goes cloudy at 7 degrees. So if both bottles are cloudy it's below 7 degrees, if just the ground-nut oil is cloudy it's between 7 and 10 degrees and if neither is cloudy it's over 10 degrees! Brilliant! Needless to say, in my chilly Scottish kitchen, both are permanently cloudy at the moment. I'm going to Asda later in the week to research the cloudy characteristics of other oils, hopefully I can broaden the temperature spread a bit.

No food in the house

Hello. Just back from holiday in La Plagne, France. Now starting the mother of all laundry days.

I won't bore you with the details, but I will say that we had sun and snow in the right quantities and the only injuries I received were a bruised leg (from running over a small child) and two bruised elbows (a consequence of sleeping in an eighteen-inch wide bunk bed). It was the safest ever snowboarding trip I've been on because I shared a chalet with eight doctors and an optician (who mended my glasses when I sat on them). I've stuck some photos up behind the link on the right.

On the last day we managed to get the absolute final last cable car up the mountain - we had to commando roll under the barrier and they slammed the doors shut when we go off at the top. The result of this determination to savour every last second of the last day was that we were chased down the mountain by very excited search-and-rescue dogs, who sweep the mountain at the end of every day for bodies. There is nothing like a large Alsatian snapping at your heels to improve your snowboarding skills. In fact, my subsequent idea for fast-track snowboard lessons is to give novices a snowboard, place them on top of a black-run and unleash dogs on them.

PS the socks were great, although I had to use bits of trimmed down mouse-mat to stop the boots rubbing.

That was a close one

Phew! Almost got stuck. I keep hearing people tell the true story about the mountaineer who was climbing in a canyon and a rock fell on his arm. After a long wait for help he decided no one was coming and chopped his own arm off. Well, the switch to turn off my hot water (needed because I'm going away) is in the boiler cupboard. Only the kitchen door also happens to be in the boiler cupboard (it was removed to allow me unfettered access to the fridge). To reach the switch you have to slide your hand in towards the top of the door and bring it down until you can feel the switch. Anyway, there was a bit of a panicky moment when the door moved and I thought I was going to get my hand trapped and I was going to have to cut it off after a long and ultimately fruitless wait for help. But it was okay.

Hoover Bag

Guys, I've just changed the bag in the vacuum. You should try it, it's outstanding - just like getting a new hoover!

Unfortunately I had to get the hoover out because my mouse has nibbled through the special holiday supply of chocolate I had put in the packing pile in the middle of the floor. I hadn't seen him in a few months, but I caught a glimpse of him on sunday evening heading out from behind the fridge into the living room. "Ha," I thought, "no food in there for you." Ooops.

Here's a dramatic reconstruction. Notice the mouse is sitting underneath the ultrasonic mouse repelling gadget. He likes to do that, to taunt me.

Packing

I love packing for holidays. It symbolises the launch of the trip for me; confirmation that I am actually going. I begin think about the many ways I will be enjoying myself and the stuff I will need to help me reach that state of not-working bliss. The packing always starts with a subtle 'I don't want to forget this' moment. I will be in the flat and will stumble on something that I should take away with me - say my passport - and thinking that I might not find it again so easily I will put it in a 'handy place', which is usually the middle of the living room floor. Over the next few days the pile gradually grows ... if I use my camera I'll worry that putting it back in the cupboard will sentence me to a camera-free trip as I'll forget to take it out again, so on the floor it goes. As clothes are washed, they don't go in the drawers, but in a pile on the floor so I know not to get them dirty again before I go away. As I write my snowboard boots are already sitting proud next to the supersocks, which lie alongside a water bottle and the UNO cards.

I leave for France in a week and already there is a pile a foot high and spreading; I have just added spare batteries and deep-heat muscle rub to it. When I went to Africa last year I packed so far in advance that a thin layer of dust settled over the firstaid kit.

No doubt anthropologists will say that I got this behaviour from the family dog who regularly used to gather her most precious possessions (bone, slipper, chewy thing) into a protective pile under the dining room table.

The perfect sock

Went hunting for the perfect snowboard sock today. I have been using these grey Salomon socks for a while, which were great, trouble is they're not really long enough. When I used my new boots in Canada in November they dug in around the top edge because the sock finished before the boot did. When I pulled them off after a day on the mountain I had a horizontal scar around each leg that made it look like I'd had leg lengthening surgery. Another reason I need more socks is that one pair of socks is not really enough for a week. No. (Mum - I know you gave me socks for Christmas, but they weren't long enough either. Sorry. They are still nice though.)

Because my new boots had been fitted to my Salomon socks I took one of them with me into town. I was wearing my scruffy duffel coat, I hadn't shaved (day off) and had a big spot on my nose - I think I looked ruff. It didn't help my image that whenever I left a shop and reached into my pocket to pull out my hat, I found myself waving a sock.

I don't think you're really allowed to try socks on, so I had to secretly undo sock packaging and hold the new socks alongside my fave sock to compare size and thickness. I apologize to other sock-hunters in edinburgh who'll have to cope with badly repackaged socks. I particular I'm sorry to the staff at Blacks; I had to stuff a snowboard sock behind the ladies rambling sock section becuase I couldn't see where I'd got it from.

I eventually settled on two pairs of Bridgedale Merino Wool SnowSport Ski and Boarding Socks with Terry-loop comfort, soft double cuff, stretch panel, forward stretch zone, Isofil contouring and Lycra grip. The super-socks are also performance enhanced with 'WoolFusion'. Fantastic - WoolFusion! I have brought nuclear powered socks. Here is a picture. (They say 'Bridgedale' across the toes in case you loose the recipt and can't remember where you brought them.)
I put them on with my boots when I got home to see how they integrated with my thermals, fleecy under-trousers (nice) and big black mountain over-trousers. Unfortunately no-one came to the door, because I looked huge!

The perfect sock (postscript)

Further to my supersock rant, whilst disposing of the packaging I noticed that the socks are intended for "beginner or intermediate" use.

Beginners!?!

They have a sock with 'WoolFusion' and they say it's for beginners?!?

Wow, I wonder what their 'socks for advanced use' look like. (Artists impression follows)

Slam Dunk

The wheelchair basketball slam dunk pic is from the onion. Highly recommended.

I played (non-wheelchair) basketball myself yesterday for the first time in years. I stunned myself by getting my first two practice shots in, but the actual game (with all the rules and stuff) wasn't that easy. For instance ...

* What do you do if you are standing in open space and instead of passing to you your team-mate with the ball runs straight at you?
* What are the applicable sporting ethics if you find yourself defending against someone who is a foot shorter than you? Can you push them over?
* What are the applicable sporting ethics if you find yourself defending against someone who is a foot taller than you? Can you stand on their toes?
* How do you continue to look cool when you've just accidentally passed to someone on the opposite team? How can you make it look intentional?
* If play suddenly switches ends, just how much effort are you expected to make to get back and defend? Can you run as far as the centre spot and stand with your hands on your hips shouting encouragement?
* If your team-mate could have passed to you but didn't, then instead makes a risky shot and scores against the odds, do you still have to clap politely? Can you just shake your head instead?

In conversation with Bono

I'm reading a book about Bono, given to me by my brother for Christmas. It's very good; there are explanations and anecdotes regarding his work with debt relief and his meetings with various politicians; but there is also insight into the internal workings of the most professional rock band in the world. I was expecting a very secular transcription but, despite the interviewer's skepticism, Bono's faith is a flavour woven lightly through his answers. I particularly appreciate having the inspiration behind certain song lyrics illuminated for me - I've rarely managed to focus on the words in a song, but this book has inspired me to have a fresh listen to the U2 canon.

The trouble with the book is that it is not just a series of interviews, but rather "conversations" with the author, a French journalist called Michka Assayas. I get the impression that he is a music journalist who is slightly out of his depth attempting to ask insightful questions about trade, debt, politics and religion. Mr Michka also has a frustrating talent for making completely unrelated and irrelevant points in reply to Bono's elegant answers. It becomes annoying when, after Bono has told a hilarious anecdote, Michka will say "that reminds me of a funny story" and will recant said story after which I'm left thinking "That wasn't as funny as Bono's story. Shut up."

Come on, own up

One in 18 people has a third nipple. Wonder who I know does? Why do they keep quiet about it?

Things to do

I've written my new year's resolutions. They are basically the same as last year, with a different DIY focus:

* Climb more mountains (not a metaphor)
* Climb more mountains (metaphor)
* Play more bass (not a metaphor)
* Do up my bathroom (including installing a heated towel rail)
* Learn to cook some different meals (and invite people round to eat these meals)

Then there's a couple of work related ones and one about finishing a picture I should have actually started almost two years ago.

Happy New Yeah

Hello, hope you all had a great time at the bells. I was trapped in an isolation cubicle at work with a sick baby. Thankfully his parents were hilarious and great company. We could see the Edinburgh fireworks from the window - bonus!

My friends Kenny and Anna Robertson were up visiting from Cornwall the week before, and we went for a walk in some hills just outside Edinburgh called the Pentlands. The weather was bizarre; the streets were cold, wet and misty, but when you gained height you came out of the fog quickly and were able to look down on a blanket of cloud, with the other hills and even the tall buildings and bridges poking through bathed in sunlight. As is usual with these sort of expeditions, we got lost climbing down and ended up walking through someone's garden.

I promised Anna I'd pass her this link to a Guardian article by Charlie, the actor/cosmonaut from Space Cadets [I should really stop going on about it]. It's actually quite touching ...

"For me, Billy Jackson was the emotional heart of Space Cadets. The tallest, handsomest of the cadets, he began the show brash, bullish and insensitive. He ended it charming, kind, and thoughtful. A gentleman. A thinker. A poet ... Jackson has had his world turned upside down: not because he's been told a pack of lies, but because he has been shown truths."