There’s something that bugs me about TV programs, sci-fi ones in particular. It came to my attention again recently when I was watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I think it was Data’s Day.
When Data takes the bridge, presumably he is relieving the previous officer of his position at the end of his shift, and Data tells his crew to “begin night watch”. And then what happens? The lights dim, of course.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation usually follows the night shift, and there too the interior shots of their labs are always very dark.
So much question is: why is this? Surely good lighting conditions helps productive work, and there’s no reason to dim the lights just because it is dark outside (in the case of TNG, it’s always dark outside). It seems wrong to me.
I enjoy cooking, though I enjoy eating even more. Although I could probably cook quite a few things, there are a couple of dishes which I make over and over again: chili con carne and curry.
I learnt how to make chili after eating it at a restaurant and knowing that I had to make it myself. I found a suitable recipe on the BBC’s website, and when the chili is not too spicy, the meat not too fatty, and it has no magic diarrhoea-inducing tendencies, it is delicious. My Uncle taught me how to make a curry. After finishing my Standard Grades – my first real exams – I stayed with him for a week, and amongst gardening and walking the dogs and selling some ducks, I asked him to teach me his curry-making secrets. He made a chicken curry with freshly roasted spices and served with coriander and a peshwari naan. When I got home, I abandoned my ready-made jars and tried my first real curry. Progress was slow, but after months of trying, I had a tasty curry – though nowhere as tasty as my Uncle’s ((I now use a different recipe taken from Rick Stein’s Food Heroes – the ingredients are similar but everything is liquidised at various points, producing a curry much more like those available at a takeaway. I think it tastes better than like too – it’s easier to get a consistent flavour.)).
About 2 years ago at this time of year, it was an already dark Saturday evening and I was making a curry, as I always do. This time I was including fresh chilis, fresh peppers and creamed coconut, as well as the usual onions, tomatoes, garlic, ginger, spices, and chicken. My mum was in the room, and we were chatting whilst I was preparing the ingredients. Onions are always difficult to cut – the knife I used wasn’t very sharp ((We have an awesomely good Santoku knife now.)) and the layers always have a tendency to slide around on each other, and I always worry that the knife will slip and cut my fingers. Well, that day, the knife didn’t slip, and it still hasn’t. I sauted the onions, then added the spices, and mixed them before adding the chicken thighs from which I had removed the skin. Then I prepared the rest of the ingredients; delicately chopping up the chilis and garlic particularly carefully. When the chicken was sealed, the tomatoes, chilis and peppers and the garlic and ginger went in, and I stirred the near-full pot with care. All that was left was the coconut.
Creamed cocunut adds a creaminess to curries that I find delicious, and whenever I remember, I crumble a packet into the curryat the end, and let it melt and thicken the sauce. It smells wonderful. What’s strange is that I used to hate coconut ((Strange fact about Wilf: I always type coconut as cocunut.)), and indeed I still find dessicated coconut horrible ((Why would anyone want to eat it? And Bounties? Ew.)). I removed a packet of creamed cocunut from the box and placed it on the chopping board – it comes in small (stupid) plastic wrappers, the sort that you need scissors to open. But I didn’t have scissors to hand, so I picked up the knife, and in one quick, forceful motion I pushed the knife down and brought it towards me and sliced… Right. Through. My. Fingernail.
YAAAARGH!
I screamed like I’d never screamed before. I looked down at my right index finger and saw a red line across the middle of the nail, with the top half at a funny angle. I had clearly sliced all the way through my nail – and then carried on through some of the nailbed beneath. The blood started to flow. Even 2 years on, writing this post forces makes me re-live that pain, that huge shock, that I felt at that moment. That fingernail now grows differently, and the finger no longer feels the same. There is no pain, but it feels wrong, and every time I see it I remember.
I rushed over to the sink and placed my finger under the stream of water. My mum had gone out of the kitchen, but she had heard my scream and she rushed in to check that I was OK. I told her that I was and what had happened, and showed her my cut. Looking back, it probably didn’t seem that bad, but I was shocked at the sight – I imagine it’s the same feeling you would get if you saw bone sticking out of your body: I never want to see my bones. Fingers should not look like that, I should never see a finger that looks like that.
The main event was still to come.
The bleeding didn’t stop, but it wasn’t even bleeding that much. I suppose nailbeds aren’t the bloodiest of places. I wondered why it was still hurting so much, and I put it down to the very sensitive nailbed. Later, I realised what caused what happened next: the knife that I cut myself with, to which I exposed my blood, was the unwashed knife that I had used earlier to chop my ingredients: ginger, peppers, onions, garlic, chilis. Chilis. There was chili in my wound. Even chili on the fingers can feel uncomfortable after cooking a chili, chili under the fingernails can burn. So chili in my nailbed? Agony. Now I even wonder: did chili get into my bloodstream? I think it did.
Standing at the sink with my finger under the tap, I started to feel strange.
“I – I need to sit down,” I gasped to my Mum. I felt overwhelmingly weak, and I repeated the sentence.
I walked the few steps back to a seat and slumped down in a chair. My weakness increased and I felt like I didn’t have the energy to do anything. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I noticed the edges of my vision start to fade, just like that caused sometime when you stand up – the only difference was that, after a few seconds, the fading had not gone away. It was increasing, right towards the centre of my vision. I loud ringing noise started in my ears and I could hear my curry bubbling away on the hob, louder and in more detail than I’d ever heard anything before.
My Mum saw me. She shouted for my brother. There was fear in her voice; I’d never heard the tone that she used, and I’ve never heard it since – I hope I don’t have to. My vision had gone completely and all I could see was colourful shapes floating around beneath my eyelids, and… it felt good. I felt good.
It was hard for me to admit that, and I don’t think I’ve told anyone this before, but sitting down in that chair and feeling my consciousness slowly slip away was a brand new experience to me, and I enjoyed it. There was no pain from my finger, no pain from anywhere – I probably couldn’t even feel my body. I may have been paralyzed. But for some reason it makes me feel guilty to have felt that way. Maybe I see it as indulging myself at a time of crisis – but I believe it has given me a new perspective that I am glad to have. If that feeling is like taking heroin… I can understand why people are addicts. Perhaps I’m scared that one day I’ll try and recreate that experience. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble resisting, but the future is not certain.
The next thing I remember, my brother was helping me to the back door to try and cool down in the night air – carrying or just walking I don’t remember. I recall saying something, or at least trying to, but I don’t remember what and I wish I did. Knowing me, I would have probably said “I’m alright, I’m alright”, but probably breathing was all that I would manage. I lay down on the doorstep, forced myself to stay conscious this time — but I couldn’t, and I passed out again.
I remember very little (if nothing) about what happened whilst I was unconscious, though I’m quite sure that I dreamed. I was only out for a few seconds, maybe 10, each time, but it sure felt like I had done something during that time. Out of body experience? I don’t think so – I think I probably just dreamed. But it was a dream like no other, packed into just a fewand I wish I could remember it, like so many others.
What struck me about the whole experience was how similar it was to the passing out and waking up that is portrayed in the movies. The loud noises, ringing, the distorted and fading vision. I experienced it all ((No white light or tunnel though.)) and it was amazing. I’d had a new experience of consciousness: losing it, but being aware of that fact at the time.
There’s not much to say about the waking up, however: whilst you don’t remember falling asleep, you usually remember waking up. The only difference is what you wake up to. Waking up in your own bed is easy, whereas waking up in an unusual bed you can have a serious ‘where-the-fuck-am-I’ moment. But waking up on the floor at your back door is just scary. What’s going on? How did I get here? Wh–
OW. My fucking finger.
Recovery
After a drink and some painkillers, I went and watched television ((It was House, I think.)), and then ate my curry after directing its completion. For the next week or two, I wore a bandage over my finger, but if I applied pressure I could hear a noise made by the severed piece of nail as it rocked, still attached to the nail bed. It was horrible. Eventually, the nail grew back, and it’s almost as good as new.
Strange fact about Wilf: I always type Glasgow as Glasglow. And before you start – it’s not a choice man, it’s the way I was made. I’ve always been this way.
Alright
I’ve made some decisions since you last saw me.
- I don’t like Glasgow.
- I don’t like McDonald’s.
When McDonald’s meets Glasglow, the result is not pleasant. Let me explain.
Although I have been to Glasgow several times (thrice with school, once with my brother, and back in February with z3rb ((We went out for a lovely Valentine’s meal at Pizza Hut, along with Murray.)) for some fun), most of my time there has been spent indoors or walking around with a purpose, so I’ve never been able to get a feel for the place. Finally, over 5 years since my first visit, I think I can hold an opinion on Glasgow.
My brother is off school at the moment for the autumn holidays, and my mother suggested that we go to Glasgow together. We thought that was a good idea; maybe we’d visit the Glasgow Science Centre – especially the planetarium, I’ve never been to one before – then maybe we could do a bit of shopping. We got the train ((It was almost the same price as the Megabus and it’s more convenient and comfortable.)) and went to Glasgow.
Glasgow Science Centre
The trip was largely uneventful. We visited the science centre – the exhibits almost identical to my last visit, although still enjoyable – which was swamped by young, noisy kids. I was a kid once, and I remember how cool science was to me at that age, so I didn’t complain.
It was annoying that when we’d bought the tickets ((Mine was £8.25.)), we entered the science centre with them completely unchecked. Anyone could have walked in off the street and freely experienced what we’d just paid a lot of money for ((We weren’t the only ones with unchecked tickets, judging by the mass of discarded ones by the exit.)).
But what pissed me off the most was that the planetarium was sold out. We arrived at about midday and planned to attend the 1 o’clock show, but we’d’ve had to wait until 4 for the next show. We couldn’t wait that long, so we didn’t go. I suppose it’s good that people are interested in science, and it’s not the centre’s fault that it’s sells out, but it would have been nice to know that booking ahead might be a good idea, and I was quite disappointed ((What’s more, the next time I visit, as well as the £2.50 supplement, I will have to pay for another £8.25 ticket for the science centre (which as I’ve seen has hardly changed in 5 years), even if I just want to see the 30 minute planetarium show.)).
But all of that’s beside the point – the Science Centre could have been in Timbuktu, and the experience would have been the same. This post’s about Glasglow.
Glasgow
Yesterday, my first impression of Glasgow was Queen Street station. I was impressed by the design of the roof – it reminded me of London St. Pancras a little (a beautiful station) – but it was a shithole. It had the potential to be a grand station, but it was just dark and dingy. There were ticket barriers separating the platforms from the concourse, and it gave the station a very subdued feeling. It was my first time at the station ((After previously taking the Megabus.)) and I wasn’t impressed.
After leaving the station, we made our way down to the Clyde before heading west to the science centre. I saw the House of Fraser, the Vodaphone shop, the Apple Store, and I was struck by how I could be in any large city. London, Birmingham, Manchester. I tried to think of what made Glasgow unique, and all I could think of was the Clyde with its motorway and road and train bridges and its fully concreted banks adorned with anonymous modern business buildings, and a city centre filled with people, cars, and uninspiring architecture. Of course, there’s that accent too, as well as a multitude of pound shops and sad old men selling newspapers on the street.
Sure, Glasgow may be a good place to shop, and I hear it may even be a particularly good place in which to go out at night, but I hate shopping and I’m not the world’s most enthusiastic party-goer. There was nothing which endeared Glasgow to me – no beautiful buildings, no relaxing open spaces or grand central meeting areas; — no heart of the city. To me, it just feels like a large crowd of buildings. Like a collection of atoms exactly matching that of a body, there’s something missing that is needed for it to be a living person. It needs that spark ((I know it sounds like I’m calling Glasgow dead, but I don’t think that. It’s a busy city. I just couldn’t think of a better image – I just think that there is a difference between a large collection of buildings and a great city.)).
Perhaps I missed the good bits. Perhaps it was the time of year. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was just was me – maybe I’ve been spoiled by Paris. I’ll give it a second chance sometime, but for now, Glasgow is not a city for me.
McDonald’s
I have indentified one major problem with McDonald’s. The food’s good but not great ok but not good ((Though I do like the Sweet Chili Chicken, particularly when it is Deli of the Day at £1.99.)) and the ‘restaurant’ is typically filled with noisy and dirty people, with a young unpleasant staff mopping the floor and failing to clean tables. That’s to be expected from an such an establishment, however.
What I dislike most about McDonald’s is their queueing system. Basically, there is none. You enter the store and just join a mass of people waiting to be served. This mass tends to the form of one long queue, as would make sense – first come first served, much like it is at Primark or Borders where the person at the front of the queue is called forward to the next available server. McDonald’s is slightly more complicated in that you hang around for a minute or two after placing your order whilst waiting for it to be fulfilled, during which time another person can be served.
What McDonald’s needs to do is to create a clear place to queue, and a clear system whereby the person at the front can be called on.
Instead, what happens is that some McEmployee with a modicum of responsability shouts at the queue that self forms, telling people to make individual queues for each of the servers. What does this do? Firstly, it changes the line into a bunch, secondly, it makes you feel like you’re back at school, and finally, first-come-first-served no longer applies. It’s annoying – whoever picks the best queue wins, and it pisses you off.
And what happens when McDonald’s meets Glasgow? Well, it’s pretty much the same except the accents are Glaswegian. Not that shocking to be honest.
BTW…
On a tangentially related note, I bought this poster at Forbidden Planet whilst I was in Glasgow. Was it worth the £3.99? Materially, no; but it sure looks good on my bedroom wall.
Engage.
There is a song by The Clash called “Should I Stay Or Should I Go?” It’s quite a shit song, and you’re probably playing it in your head right now. Try not to let it stay there for the rest of the day.
The title of the song is a question, and presumably the song is an exploration of the right action to take. Ostensibly the singer can not decide, yet the right course of action is is clearly shown. Read these lyrics:
If I go there will be trouble
An’ if I stay it will be double
See? Obviously the singer should go – that would only entail half as much trouble as if he were to stay. Simple.
Should I Stay Or Should I Go? You should GO.
Have you ever been in trouble?
I was once sent to the headteacher’s office, but the story surrounding it is quite ridiculous. It was back in primary school, and I must have been 5 or 6 at the time. It now dawns on me that the whole school was quite ridiculous.
For instance, at the end of playtime, the teachers or dinner ladies would blow a whistle to mark the time to go inside – but you weren’t just allowed to walk to your class. No, you had to stand perfectly still wherever you were. The person in charge would then look around the whole playground to make sure that no one had moved an inch. Then, another whistle would sound and you would line up with the rest of your class, and you would be led inside by your teacher when everyone was finally standing straight enough. Not everyone did stand still however, and fairly often a fellow pupil would be caught moving, and they would be sent to the headteacher’s office for a quick telling off. Yes, it was that ridiculous.
You have probably guessed why I was sent to the headteacher’s office when you read the title of this post. I should really learn to choose better titles in order to create a bit of suspense.
One fine summer’s lunch time, I was up on the grass running around and enjoying myself. There were some trees dotted around, and a few friends and I were jumping up to try and grab leaves off the trees so that we could play with them. If I remember, we weren’t even successful, but we were happy. The dinner ladies, on the other hand, were not. We were spotted, rounded up and then marched to the headteacher’s office where we were quite strongly told off.
But you know what? I didn’t think I had done anything wrong. I still don’t think I did anything wrong that lunchtime. And even if what we did was wrong, how were we supposed to know? I’m not bitter about it, but there was no school rule which said “Thou shalt not swing on trees”, even though that’s not what we were doing. How can they expect us to abide by rules which we don’t even know of? It truly was ridiculous. Crazy.
The final bit of ridiculousness – I had to take a letter home with a huge sad face on it, with my conviction written across it: CAUGHT SWINGING ON TREES. I want to get that letter framed.
And what did I learn from that? Some people are just dicks.
