Linguist with wanderlust,
From the hills of New Guinea to the halls of the Sorbonne,
From the beaches of Bassam to the fields of Friesland,
From the catacombs of Rome to the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.
From the heather of the Veluwe to the dust of Dakar ...
Currently resident in the Land of Sea with a small tribe of kids and Mr B.
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The end of serendipity? Google knowledge graph seeks to second guess your searches: http://t.co/yRSCvu15 Is this a good thing? 4 days ago
Currently translating a manual on how to make a handpump. Background research takes ages but gives great feeling of learning something new. 2 weeks ago
@RiaBacon helloooo! i've been suffering from exactly the same problem. 2 weeks ago
@lucypepper Good to hear from you. Real life is getting in the way of my virtual self. Maybe I should outsource the overworked part. 2 weeks ago
Fat tax now! RT @AP In 20 years, some 42 percent of the U.S. population will be obese, new government report says: http://t.co/ImZK2ETt -EF 2 weeks ago
The northern province of Friesland is considered to be on the outer fringes of the Netherlands, with its own language, cows, and … weirdness. Proof of just how weird was the following news story from last night:
In the village of Minnertsga, the body of a man who died four years ago has been found lying on his bed at home. His remains were discovered by his family. His brothers (61 and 67) and two sisters (44 and 71) live in the same house.
They last spoke to their 50-year-old brother at the beginning of 2006, when he told them that he was going to his room and did not want to be disturbed. According to local people, the family is known to be very religious and never joined any social events in the village. “No one managed to make contact with them,” said a local official. “They refused to go to the doctor because they believed that the Lord would heal them.”
This week the local housing authority contacted the family about some maintenance work that was needed in the terraced house. One of the residents then entered the bedroom where the dead body was found. A doctor was called, who in turn alerted the police. The man is presumed to have died of natural causes.
Reactions among the Dutch were surprise (What about the smell?!), amusement (Only in Friesland!) and cynicism (They were just happy to keep getting his dole money).
Last night’s news was dominated by coverage of the Dutch royal family’s visit to our proud little city on Queen’s Day (Koninginnedag). Security was ratcheted up to DEFCON 1 as a result of the car attack on the family during last year’s celebrations in Apeldoorn.
Mr B went into town with our oldest two, and had a hard time getting near the market place. Hundreds of police had been bussed in to block every winding lane in the city centre. And those who had gotten through were corralled into pens that prevented them from following the royalty after they walked passed. The TV news showed a couple of vox pops where
locals claimed they agreed with the high security measures, but Mr B heard plenty of disgruntled voices behind the barricades.
By the time I got there — children #3 and #4 have overlapping naps which take up a large part of the day — the royals had left, as had most of the visitors, which just left lots of police officers standing around.
No loitering!: Police ambush squad spring into nonchalance as suspect approaches, the only person not wearing orange on Queen's Day in the Netherlands.
Going back to the news last night, the final item caught my attention: it appeared to be a very realistic first-person shooter game, à la Modern Warfare 2, with commandos rappelling from a helicopter onto a ship, and stalking round corners and obstacles looking for targets. In fact it was a video that had just been released by the Dutch Ministry of Defence and showed Dutch marines storming a cargo ship that had been hijacked by Somali pirates. The images were captured from a helmet camera, with a viewpoint that put the viewer in the thick of the action. It was a striking example of how game technology has permeated our perception of events, a contemporary case of anti-mimesis, as described by Oscar Wilde: “Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.”
See for yourself.
By the time I saw the news round midnight, the video had already been blogged and a rough translation provided for the team leader’s commentary:
The marine boarding team received orders to liberate the fifteen crewmen of the merchant Taipan, which was hijacked by ten pirates. The captain and crew of the German-flagged Taipan had locked themselves in their safe room, from where they called for assistance.
The sensor-operator deploys the fast ropeline while the team leader provides covering fire with the MAG GPMG.
Note the ‘landing zone’ of the marines; enough cover to prevent hostile fire, yet not too much to obstruct cover fire. In that respect they were lucky that it was a container ship, and not some bulk-cargo carrier.
Approaching the bridge, they detained six pirates hiding at the lower deck. The marines ordered the pirates to climb through the shot window. Two more pirates were found hiding at the aft deck, and subsequently arrested. A ninth was found on the deck above, and summoned to come down.
A three-man team secured the bridge, and from there they went through the rest of the ship. The marine team-leader further comments on the ravage the pirates caused in their search for valuables, which included shooting up doors and cabinets which were locked.
The weapons the pirates used ranged from handguns, AK-47s, and RPG-7s.
Once the ship was secured the crew of the Taipan came out of the safe room.
(Translation source: Marcase)
The team leader adds that the crew gave them a round of applause, “They were really happy to see us.”
In between the creche and the day job is Balans, a cobbled street that splits at a hilltop, curves behind the Abbey walls and rejoins in front of St Joris, built in 1582. And within Balans is a small fountain with four jets shooting straight up. Best appreciated by students who love throwing in a pack of washing powder and watching the foam, the Mayor’s office has decided to include the fountain in the city’s royal festivities next week by colouring the water orange, the symbol of the Netherlands, still nominally ruled by the House of Orange.
In between the creche and the day job, I pulled the car over and dusted off my camera for a couple of shots:
With the royal visit drawing near, the fountain by the Abbey walls has taken on a patriotic colour.
Imagine it was Fanta!
The previous night being Students’ Night (Thursday), the fountain was foaming with suds whiter than white, but with the water turned orange for the Queen’s visit, my son licked his lips and grinned: “Imagine it was Fanta!”
With the return of the good weather, notwithstanding volcanic ash clouds from Iceland, we are once again confronted with the annoyance of having to share our transport network with slow-moving boats. Our island is bisected by a canal, which itself is broken into a series of locks and low bridges.
The result is that every so often — every 30 minutes in high season — road traffic comes to a halt when the bridges lift up or swing open to allow yachts and other pleasure craft to pass through. It’s intensely frustrating as the whole process takes around 20 minutes, and drivers in a hurry to get to class, pick up kids or any other pressing business (that’s me, me & me) have to switch off the motor and watch some elderly twats chugging Liebfraumilch on motor cruisers.
It’s not as if the canal goes anywhere or gives access to essential facilities, and in terms of time, with all the locks and bridges, they’d be much faster sailing round the island than going through it. But I guess the value is the journey travelled rather than the destination … twats.
While I was waiting early one morning, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in frustration and anxiously checking if I would have enough time to buy three tubes of Rolos before class, as part of my Ph.D research into student motivation (Tip: Rolos work), I was drawn to the slogan on the van in front of me:
Your partner in meat
My collaborator, of course, supplier of saucisse … and yet the longer I stared …
Your partner in meat …
It sounded like a ransom note threatening extreme consequences for non-cooperation.
Your partner … encased in mince
or transformed into meatloaf
Either way it’s gross.
As far as bad slogans go, it’s on a par with one from my school years in the north of England, that of a removal company:
Moving a thing? Give us a ring!
I loved its vague assertiveness, its catch-all service — Well, I’m moving this glass to the dishwasher, so maybe I should call …
On the occasion of her eleventh birthday, my daughter announced that I was 50,000 days old. It had taken her a little quiet time to come up with this figure, and despite my immediate rebuttal, she insisted her calculation was correct.
So … turns out I’m about to celebrate my 137th birthday.
Say what?!