A Fistful Of Classic Clues

As I contemplated this blog entry earlier, I fell asleep.

I recall that I had an interesting dream, but I remember nothing about it. That said, it's possible that it included a re-enactment of a bizarre scene that happened to me this morning.

I woke up early feeling dreadful after another bad night's sleep; a bad cough has dogged me over Christmas. So I made an appointment to see a doctor at the local surgery. I was slightly embarrassed about doing this this, it being a simple cold, but after five days it didn't seem to be improving any. Also, I was wary of having to rely on out-of-hours doctors until Monday, tomorrow being a public holiday.

Unhappily, it turned out to be a chest infection. The young lady doctor was rather sympathetic about it, and gave me ten days of antibiotics to clear it up. In fact, it looked like she wanted to give me a hug. This seems unlikely, so I was probably feverish and delusional.

But all this, while interesting, was only slightly unusual; I quite often have women fussing over me, though they tend to be older ladies wanting to mother me. This includes my mother.

The very unusual thing that happened was in the chemist after.

I handed in my prescription, and while I made polite chitchat with the woman behind the counter, she logged onto her electronic till. She scanned a box of ibuprofen first, and then scanned the barcode for the prescription. The till beeped happily.

It then beeped and added a second prescription. And then beeped and added a third.

The woman stood back, swore in some Eastern European language, and apologised as the till continued to add more prescriptions to my transaction.

It's my broken login code again! she wailed, as the number rolled up. In thirty seconds, we reached a hundred. She hammered keys fruitlessly, and then called her supervisor from the back. He did the same, and then swore in one of the Indian languages as we sailed past a hundred and fifty prescriptions on my bill.

They both stood back, stumped and slightly panicked. I'd swear the woman wanted to give me a hug, but like I said, I was feverish and delusional.

The till abruptly stopped its shenanigans at 208.

I smiled amiably at the pair. What do I owe you? I ask with a grin.

She looked at the total on the till, and giggled.

One thousand, nine hundred and fifty three pounds and seventeen pence!

Wow. I've never been asked for that in any store before, not even Amazon when I bought an HDTV, a hi-def gaming platform, good cabling, and plenty of games and movies. So this was a new and slightly less rewarding experience.

Well, I can put it on VISA, I grinned mischievously, or shall we try the other till first?

She giggled again and we did just that. I escaped for under ten pounds.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure that the dream I had earlier did not include this odd retail experience.

But when I said I remembered nothing about it, I was lying.

I do recall that it was Colonel Mustard in the Lavatory with the Chainsaw.


Good lord, it's just gone midnight.

Happy New Year!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

As the New Year rolled in, I received an automated rejection note from the folks over at humorbloggers.com. I applied yesterday, hoping to get a bit more exposure for this humble blog.

Sadly, they want nothing to do with me. I have no clear idea why, it might be something to do with me not writing funny stuff all the time.

C'est la guerre. I salute them and wish them luck in 2010.

The rest of my year will hopefully be upwardly mobile.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Deep And Crisp And Even

Twas the night before Christmas
In his home full of cheer
Roth was adding last touches
And toasting the year

He checked his list carefully
His work was all done
And he sighed with relief, it
Was time for some fun!

The cards they were posted and
The presents all wrapped
There was food in the fridge and
His visits were mapped

In his front room, resplendent
His tree with a star
Which recalled the old tale of
Three wise men afar

As he sat reminiscing
Of true tales he'd told
He remembered all those who
Were out in the cold

So he called on the badgers
And toasted their sett
Then he played them at dice and
He lost ev'ry bet

Roth returned to his house and
He closed his back door
And his ears they were filled with
A welcoming roar

So he popped in on Kingy
The lion upstairs
And they buried the hatchet
Then drew up some chairs

They shared cold cuts of zebra
With cheese, port and bread
And then, both of them weary
They farewelled to bed

As he put on pyjamas
Brushed teeth to both ends
Roth counted his blessings;
Health, family and friends

And so long before midnight
With a hot milk in bed
Roth watched Monty Python
Then slept like the dead

And when Santa came calling
He left them cool things
Three new BluRays for Roth and
Three new ties for King

Then old Santa's eye twinkled
He'd a long way to go
But he'd just time to leave them
A blanket of snow

Twas the night before Christmas
And all round the Earth
Folk were adding last touches
And toasting new birth


MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Four Wooden Legs In The Air

I'm cold. The water is waist deep. The toolbox is heavy.

Well, this didn't end well, I say sourly. Beside me, iDifficult hefts his largest hammer from one hand to the other.

End? he says, raising his eyebrows. We're not out of the woods yet, mate. He looks around his flooded lounge and corrects himself. Bayou, he mutters darkly.

Behind us, the torrent of water continues to rush down the carpeted stairs. She's going to kill us, he states cheerily.

Your wife?

His sofa floats past us. Yep.

I consider this. What, worse than that time with the artillery firework?

His TV floats past us. Yep.

Shame you don't have a basement, I observe, then all this water could be downstairs.

He looks sideways at me.

I do have a basement. He sighs, and adds absently, I hope my experiments don't get out.

I'm too nervous to ask what he's working on down there, but I think one of them just moved past my leg. I drop the toolbox and move backwards, looking vainly for something to stand on. What was that?

Relax, it was just the guinea pig, he says, pointing. I follow his finger and watch as a mighty rodent, almost a foot long, swims for the window ledge. It curses vehemently in what sounds like Swedish.

He can swim? I ask, though it sounds quite reasonable; I'm probably trying to take my mind off things. He's a big lad.

He can surf when there's a tide. He looks about the flooded ruin of his house and adds quietly, He can play the banjo too. He pauses. Remind me how this happened?

We tried to fix your dripping shower head. It can only have been a few minutes ago.

Right. And we cut through that big copper pipe, because?... he leaves the question hanging.

Well, we had to! It was full of water!

He sighs and nods. On reflection, I think it was the rising main.

Wow, that sounds technical. And I take it that's a bad thing? My lack of plumbing experience probably should have disqualified me from helping my friend. His own lack should have disqualified him from asking me. That's the trouble with evil geniuses; boundless ambition.

He looks round suddenly, and swings wildly with the hammer; it splashes through empty water. With a hint of alarm in his voice he growls, OK, something just moved past me.

Was it not the guinea pig again?

From the window ledge, I can hear the sound of a banjo being tuned. It starts to pick out Oh My Darling Clementine. Never mind.

Decisively, iDifficult points to the nearby table; it's ten feet long, six feet wide, heavily set, and has yet to be moved by the water. Blueprints and post-it notes teem on its dry surface. Turn that over and we'll sail out of here on it. I nod and move to the table, grunting as I tip it onto its side, scattering papers. I start to flip it onto its back, and suddenly buoyancy does the rest.

The inverted table looks solid and stable, floating there with its four wooden legs in the air; this could work. As I climb up onto its underside, there is a scream behind me. Quicker than I would credit, and in flurry of splashes, my friend is squatting in our makeshift raft beside me, a look of panic on his face.

I play it cool.

So, what experiments did you have downstairs? I ask amiably. As he considers the question, a terrifying leviathan violently breaches the surface of the water at the other end of the lounge.

There is a terrified exclamation in Swedish, a sickening wooden crunch and the music stops.

Seconds later, the water is calm again. Not a ripple.

We look at each other.

Roth, he says flatly, I think we're gonna need a bigger boat.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

I am delighted to report that the in-house editorial team over at Blogged have performed a new review of my blog. Their original 7.0 (very good) rating was very fair, but I felt that the blog had come a long way in the six months since this initial review. I dropped them a quick polite note, and they instantly agreed, and followed through on their promise overnight. Impressive.

I am now the proud owner of an 8.6 (great) rating!

Thanks to the superb customer service team and editorial staff over at Blogged! And also to you kind folk for reading my entries and encouraging me for the past seven months.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Ironing In All The Right Places

Indigo On The East Coast - Part 4

I believe that when things go wrong, if you can keep your head, things tend to work out ok in the end.

But as I head up in the lift at two in the afternoon, I'm just not feeling it. Things have gone wrong, and I'm really annoyed.

Six months earlier, when I was invited to a friend's wedding in Princeton, I decided to make a break of it, and stay overnight in New York before heading back to London. So I booked a room at the Millennium U.N. Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. It's an impressive skyscraper hotel on the East River, with equally impressive views of the city and the river in all directions.

It was the view that drew me to the hotel, in fact; I am a big fan of the Chrysler Building, a beautiful art-deco skyscraper at 42nd Street and Lexington Avenue. There's taller buildings, but none with as much style.

And so I was thrilled - a rare thing for me - when I managed to book a room with a view across Manhattan, including a clear and close encounter with my favourite bit of 1930s architecture.

I didn't do this lightly; I called first to inquire about the room, checked the details thoroughly, and gave specific instructions. These were all recorded and confirmed.

No problem, sir.

I then looked forward to it for six months. I even rang to confirm a week before departure.

No problem, sir.

I was excited, giddy almost.

First thing this morning, with a fresh head of memories from the fabulous wedding and reception with good friends, I caught the train to New York from Princeton.

Ten minutes ago, I arrived at the hotel, having walked across town from Penn Station, a tidy step; I was hot and bothered. As I checked in, the friendly and helpful lady on the reception apologised profusely, and said they didn't have the room I requested.

Nothing with that view today at all.

I showed her all the booking details, the confirmations, and explained my love of the Chrysler. She apologised again, and confirmed that she could let me have the room I wanted tomorrow. I explained that as I was staying for a single night, that wouldn't help.

I was polite, if a bit tetchy, and to her credit she sensed my frustration and promised me a lovely alternative with a great view. And I realised that getting angry with her wasn't going to conjure the room I wanted from thin air. She apologised again, and seemed to mean it. She would do her best. Disarmed, I conceded with good grace, and thanked her wearily for her help.

No problem, sir.

But back in the now, heading up in the lift, I'm still annoyed. Annoyed with the hotel for screwing up, and with myself for not asserting myself in a way that got the result I wanted. But had I made a scene, I'd probably be heading to a broom cupboard right now. And who knows, maybe I am?

It's just so damned disappointing.

As the lift hisses open, I stride out purposefully with my single, small suitcase and stomp off angrily to find my room. It's at the end of a corridor, and for once the key works first time. I let myself in.

Actually, the room looks pretty good, much larger than similar hotel rooms in England. There's a nice big bed, a spacious bathroom, a large wardrobe and what looks like a closet. Ooh, and a big plasma TV with cable, which is something.

A broad window occupies the full width of one wall. I walk across the room and check out the view. It's uptown, straight up First Avenue. Not a tourist mecca, not very rock'n'roll, but interesting and Big City I suppose. Just not what I had my heart set upon.

Peering round the corner, I can just see the river. Ah well, it could be worse.

I flop into bed, tired from the train journey and the walk across town, and try to grab a siesta. I'm at the theatre tonight, seeing Spamalot on Broadway, also booked six months earlier. Sleep doesn't come immediately; I worry about the theatre booking going wrong, and there's some general tossing and turning and residual annoyance.

I wake up an hour later. As I lay there, cool and comfortable, I decide that it really is a nice room. I feel calmer and more reflective; perhaps the sleep has helped? I fumble for the remote and click the TV on, quickly finding my way to BBC America; a taste of home. Yeah, this is pretty sweet. I watch a rerun of Doctor Who and after it finishes, I take a shower.

Fresh and awake, and in a better mood, I unpack my clothes, find some underwear, and realise that I have to iron a shirt before I can go out. I remember the closet and wander over to start my search for what will hopefully be a steam iron.

It's not a closet. In fact, Toto, I'm not in Kansas anymore.

It's the other room in my suite. Damn.

I stand dumbfounded. There's comfy sofas, another plasma TV, nice furniture, and windows occupying two walls. It's a corner suite. Good grief, I'm glad I'm only paying for a standard room; this suite would break the bank. I check the view from the corner of the room.

Ah yes, an impressive view of the East River and Roosevelt Island. And what's that building slightly further down the river?

Ah yes, it's The United Nations Building. This is the Millenium U.N. Plaza, I suppose.

This is too much. I call down to reception, and speak to the lady who gave me the room. I thank her profusely, and apologise for being snitty with her earlier.

No problem, sir.

Mistakes happen every day, but it's how people react to correct their mistakes that defines your memory of the experience. And the hotel have reacted well, even if I was too dim to realise it immediately.

They've done me proud in fact; I've landed on my feet.

So, half an hour later, as I stand in my underpants, ironing a shirt ready for a Broadway show, gazing out at the U.N. Building, and watching Top Gear on BBC America on a 50-inch plasma TV, I reflect that it's been an interesting day.

And that, as usual, things worked out ok in the end.


Hope you've enjoyed the trip. Thanks for reading, Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Trespassing Into The Endzone

Indigo On The East Coast - Part 3

When I reach Powers Field, the Princeton University football stadium, I am disappointed to find it closed. I'm already annoyed that I won't be in town for the Tigers game on Monday, but I'm doubly annoyed that I can't take a look round.

Vet Nov Testamentum? Old and New Testament? I'm more of an Apocrypha man myself, my blog being mostly of dubious origin. As if to prove a point, my attention is drawn to a pair of metal tigers guarding the front gate. One is hissing at me.

Hey, pal! You lookin' fer a way in?

The Brooklyn accent is unmistakable. We're a long way from New York, albeit still in the right bit of the country. I wonder idly if they have a zoo there?

Um, yeah, that's right.

Without looking round he whispers conspiratorially, Round the side. The groundskeeper always leaves one open for staff.

I wink at him. Thanks, man. I correct myself just in time, Beast! These lads looks ready to pounce.

A quick circuit of the perimeter locates a small white mesh gate. It's open. There's nobody about. So I walk in.

I find myself in the wide, vaulted access area under the stands, which is mercifully cool, if a bit heavy on the concrete chic. The place is deserted, though I expect to be challenged at any moment. It's the hottest part of the day, perhaps it's lunchtime?

A short walk and and a flight of steps provides access to the topside of the stadium. It's very impressive. I've never been inside an American Football stadium before. I stand for minutes just taking it in. It feels huge, though I know from watching games on TV that this is tiny compared to its NFL cousins.

Suddenly, I know I have to go down to the pitch. I walk down through the rows of seats to the bottom of the stand, and discover that there's no easy way to do this. But there's an access gate nearby with a six feet drop to the ground, and with a quick hop - one small step for a Roth - I'm on the field.

It's an odd experience. In my time playing Left Guard and Right Tackle at University in England - yes, both ways, there were only eighteen or so of us - we were lucky if we played on a properly marked pitch. We didn't expect an audience and didn't get one. And here I am in a purpose-built facility; I wonder how many of us would have joined the team if there'd been twenty thousand people screaming for their team every Sunday?

I notice that I'm wandering down the pitch. Thirty yard line. Forty. Then I'm into opposing territory. Roth, number 57, offensive lineman. First and ten from their forty, making a bold push towards the endzone in a sustained drive. The perspective from ground level is totally different from TV. My heart is pounding; I'm quite swept up by it. As I reach the endzone, the roar of the fans is deafening. I'm walking on air.

Actually, what am I walking on? The playing surface is peculiar. From the stands it looks like grass, but from down here I'm uncertain. I've played on AstroTurf, a relatively hard all-weather surface that's unkind during high-speed tumbles. This looks like realistic-but-fake grass growing from a dark, soft, oily material. It has a rubbery, yielding quality, which makes sense; it's probably easier on the bones when being stomped on by a three-hundred-pound lineman.

Unnecessary roughness?! Oh, I hardly touched the man!

My eyes are drawn up to the tiered seating. Somewhere up there, positioned exactly on the halfway line, is an area with three seats surrounded by a low railed fence. My curiosity is piqued. The roar of the crowd dies away as I walk across the field to a conveniently placed set of portable stairs. This is a piece of luck; other than walking the dark tunnel in one corner, I don't think I could have made it off the pitch.

I climb the stairs up through the stands in the hundred degree heat, and eventually make my way to the enclosed area. It's marked as The President's Box. What, The President? This is too good an opportunity to miss. I step through a small gate and try the seat out. The view is magnificent, as it should be.

As I sit down, the air beside me shimmers. Ghostly forms emerge from the aether. As I sit sweating in the midday sun, I am joined by the spirits of former Princeton Alumni; President John F. Kennedy sits to my left, and President Woodrow Wilson to my right. JFK is tucking into a Berliner hotdog enthusiastically, ketchup and mustard dripping. President Wilson nibbles sullenly on the contents of a box of popcorn.

I'm not surprised; it's been that kind of day.

Hey Roth, you're looking good! says JFK, wiping his chin. Are we ready for Dallas?

Thank you Mr. President, I smile, fairly sure that he's mistaken me for Uncle Jericho. Dallas? I play along. Yessir, were good. I've made all the arrangements. Beside me, Wilson grunts disapproval of something he's found in his popcorn.

I shift uncomfortably in the seat. It's like a brick, and too upright.

You OK, Roth? asks JFK between chugs of Doctor Pepper.

To be honest sir, I say, embarrassed, I'm surprised that they couldn't find something more comfortable for the President and his party to sit upon.

The Democrat laughs, We choose to sit on these things, not because they're easy, but because they're hard! I can't help but laugh along.

Schmucks! sighs Wilson.


Indigo

Concluded in Part 4 - Ironing In All The Right Places

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Beaten To Death By Karma

Indigo On The East Coast - Part 2

A while back, I flew from London to The States to attend a friend's wedding at Princeton University. I can often be found dropping this tidbit into conversation, as it makes me sound glitzy and jetset.

It was a memorable trip. I could fill a dozen blog entries with a run-through of this lightning four-day Transatlantic event, and perhaps I will at some point. None of it was dull. The wedding was beautiful, the reception amazing, and my one day in New York itself contains much that was implausible.

But as is usual with me, the strongest memories lay in the unexpected.

---

I've been wandering the Princeton Campus for a couple of hours. My body clock is messed up, and I've been up since five a.m. The wedding is at 2pm, so there's plenty of time for an explore.

I'd wandered out of my hotel looking for somewhere to have breakfast around six; the hotel didn't start serving til seven, it being the weekend.

I've already wandered the length of Nassau Street, and found a few places open, but none of the menus tickled my fancy. I have my heart set on an unhealthy, all-you-can-eat fried breakfast, the kind I will look back on and say, That breakfast in Princeton, now that was a breakfast!

So, I took the initiative, and came onto campus. Partly out of curiosity, but mostly to find somehwere to have sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee. Oh, and a stack of pancakes with maple syrup.

I'm not sure if I'm technically allowed to be wandering here, but as I may have mentioned before, while I am a great fan of Order, I am not big on Rules. Order is what you have when everyone thinks about their actions, and accepts responsiblity for them. Rules are what you need when they don't.

I am passing through, a quiet non-presence. I don't believe the Rules here were created with me in mind. Arrogant, yes, but I can live with it. I do not intend to disturb the Order of the place, I'll respect personal space and privacy as I go, and I will apologise and leave quietly if asked.

And man, this place is something.

I walk along tree-lined avenues, and pass through many impressive arches into immaculate shady courtyards. Enticing staircases lead the eye and imagination upwards; I keep to the path, remembering I'm an uninvited guest.

And it's not only beautiful; it's enormous. Five hundred acres of it. Twenty years ago I went to a tiny university in an industrial wasteland in the midlands of England. I loved it then and do now, but this is so different.

Princeton is Xanadu to my Lilliput.

I check my watch and realise it's mid-morning. I'm still no closer to breakfast. The temperature is rising sharply, I could do with a cold drink, and I'm hungry, dammit.

Just as I'm thinking of heading back to the hotel, I stumble across a long, glass-sided building. It kind of looks like a library, but on closer inspection it turns out to be a student cafeteria.

My spirits rise, but I pause. Again, I consider that I'm not a student. If there are Rules anywhere on campus, it wil probably be here. The public won't be invited in to enjoy what is probably a subsidised eating experience. If I need a student ID? I'm busted. If I need to use a pre-paid cafeteria card? Game Over. If my presence disturbs the Order of the place, and I'm challenged, I'll most likely be escorted from campus, let alone the building, which will be a shame.

Especially if I don't get breakfast first.

I inwardly shrug, decide to wing it, and head inside.

The building is cool and pleasantly lit. I was expecting it to be a hive of activity, but there's not a single student there.

I walk confidently through the seating area - nothing suppresses questions like confidence - and I'm bemused by the lack of activity. Yes, it's Saturday, but it's ten in the morning; surely there must be at least one student who needs something to eat after a night on the tiles? Well, clearly not. Oh, wait; as I approach the serving area itself, a studious-looking young man marches out with a tray and settles efficiently to eat. It all looks healthy. Granola type cereal, yoghurt, juice. What? Healthy? To hell with that.

The main serving area is modern and rather impressive. Plenty of chrome. Bright, colourful displays. Pleasant looking members of staff. There's different areas for drinks, cereals, fruit, sandwiches, salads, cold plates. Hmmm, all cold. But further along somewhere is serving freshly cooked pizza, and next to it there's a section serving hot Italian and Mexican. My hunt is getting warmer, but it's still not what I have in mind.

I retrace my steps, and eventually notice a dimly lit area behind an unobtrusive counter. A middle aged man, clearly a chef, stands alone in the shadows, near a hastily scribbled menu; bacon, sausages, several kinds of eggs, hash browns, beans, mushrooms, toast, pancakes. Bingo!

Can I get you something? he asks amiably.

Oh, yes please. I continue to eye the menu quietly.

So, what would you like?

I'm uncertain how much to order. Well, I like the look of everything.

Uh huh. Is this your first time here?

This snaps me back to reality. Am I about to be busted? Damn, that was quick. Steady, Indigo. Don't panic. This guy's doing his job. Be honest.

Yes, first time.

I didn't think I recognised you. Are you a new student? he asks doubtfully.

I don't hesitate. Confidence. I laugh.

No, I'm not a student. At my age? No, I'm over here from Cambridge.

He considers this for a moment. Then, putting two and two together with my accent and smart clothes, immediately makes five. Perhaps even six or seven. His face brightens.

Cambridge, England? That's great! he enthuses, Welcome to Princeton. I hope you'll enjoy working here!

This is curling up at the edges a bit. I'm not going to lie to the guy; I don't like lying. I laugh again and prepare to 'fess up.

Well, I'm not actually on the staff...

He cuts me off gently, waving dismissively. It's okay, I know how these temporary assignments and sabbaticals work. So, what can I get you, sir?

Wow, I'm a sir. Part of me wants to straighten the tale out, but everyone is happy, and I'm tired and hungry; breakfast beckons.

Ok, two sausage, three bacon, beans, a pile of hash browns, beans, mushrooms, toast.

He seems surprised. Well, that's more or less everything. Want any eggs with that? he asks with a hint of something that might be sarcasm.

Oh yes please, two over-easy. I've not eaten properly since lunchtime yesterday.

Again, all true. Hey, I tried.

Yes sir, no wonder you're hungry. He seems to consider something and asks quietly, I've just made up a batch of banana pancake mixture. Can I tempt you?

With maple syrup?

He looks at me strangely. If he was under forty and not talking to a member of staff, I'm sure that Well, DUH! would have tripped happily to his lips. He indicates the bar opposite and grins at me.

You go help yourself to coffee and juice, and I'll have this ready in a few minutes.

I head over and help myself to a very serviceable cup of joe. There's even grapefruit juice, which gets my taste buds zinging. It occurs to me I'm thirstier than I realised; it's going to be a monster hot day outside come lunchtime.

I pick up my huge plate of fried goodies to a cheery Enjoy! and a promise to deliver pancakes in five minutes.

The woman on the checkout chats happily to me; she has also assumed that I'm on the staff. I let it go. I pay and grab some cutlery, but have trouble choosing a seat. The place is vast, and now empty again; the solitary student has gone. I decide to hide in plain sight, and choose one of the first tables.

The food does not disappoint. It's well cooked, hot, fresh and tasty; I've not eaten so well in weeks. I devour it with little by way of table manners. As I'm wiping up bean juice with my toast, the pancakes arrive.

Ten of the things. Thick and fluffy, moist with banana.

With a jug of maple syrup.

Hope this takes the edge off your appetite, winks the chef.

I smile a thank you to him as he strides back to his station, but my stomach wails; the new plateful looks crippling. But I'll not leave a bite; this is some small Karmic payback for breaking Rules, and I decide to take it on the chin.

I can live with it.

Besides, I've got my wish. If I am ever asked about breakfast, I will be able to look back and say, That breakfast in Princeton, now that was a breakfast!


Indigo

Part 1 is hidden in the future - A Ratchetting Of Vertebrae
Continued in Part 3 - Trespassing Into The Endzone

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Neither Catharsis Nor Apology

Hi, my name is Indigo and I play Dungeons & Dragons.

There may be some uncomfortable silence while I let that information soak in, so here's a picture of me. Well, my playing piece, an inch-and-a-half of metal from head to toe, hand-painted by yours truly. My Avatar, you might say, but only so the search engines will direct a few unsuspecting souls looking for the movie towards my blog at random.

I can't imagine this fantasy role play confessional* will win me any readers, and may well surprise, dismay or offend many others, but there it is.

Let's move on.

[* I realise that this is now #2 in an ongoing confessional, started in Concealing A Multitude of Sins.]

Your picture of D&D will probably be of spotty, geeky adolescents gathering in a darkened room to play a game. There are maps and little figures and lots of dice. These lads, who have never had girlfriends, pretend to be fighters, thieves, priests and wizards from any number of strange races, and assume grandiose and ridiculous gaming identities like Narfblat the Ork Slayer. They have a fascination and devotion to thick rule books with small print, can quote Monty Python, Star Trek and Star Wars without pausing for breath, and can argue passionately about things that aren't real.

They're a bit odd, frankly.

And actually, though it's a bit of a broad brush, you'd be pretty much on the money.

But then, unexpectedly, we grew up.

Some things changed.

We went to work, where our fascination for detail and rules made us an excellent fit for employment in computing and related disciplines. We discovered - gasp - other hobbies; music, movies, cookery, writing, art, travel, literature. Some took to cycling and walking, previously unthinkable fresh air pursuits, while others discovered yoga to combat the stresses of our chosen profession.

And yes, there were girls. Not our teenage pin-ups and crushes, but real girlfriends! And, good grief, eventually there was marriage. What would our younger selves have said?

But some things didn't change.

Years later, we still love the things we've always loved; yes, we're still fundamentally geeks, just more rounded ones. We still enjoy the kind of in-joking that any tight group of friends inevitably develops. But most importantly, we still play D&D. Some of us have drifted in and out of the group over the years as our lives dictated, but the group has endured. Many of the folks I'm lucky enough to game with have been together for twenty five years, man and boy.

There is even a woman in the group these days, and she's just as daft as us.

The road goes ever on.

I still play because I get a kick out of the social interaction; I enjoy the game, but mostly I just love hanging out with my friends and sharing a healthy dollop of escapism with them every week.

I consider myself lucky.

My name is Indigo and I play Dungeons & Dragons.

This is neither catharsis nor apology.

It just is.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

The Lights Dim Momentarily

As we go down the ladder, I wonder what my good friend iDifficult has lurking under his garden. I’d expected his shed to be full of garden tools, bicycles and cobwebs. Instead, it proved to be spotless and empty, with just a trapdoor in the centre.

And down we went.

You’re going to love this! he enthuses.

We step down into the middle of a seemingly endless corridor. I notice a slight curvature to the left. Nearby, a technician minion is finishing off some welding on a pipe that extends in both directions along the middle of the passage. I recognise the general design.

Good grief. Is this like the thing at CERN in Switzerland?

The Large Hadron Collider? He chuckles darkly, and a duelling scar on his cheek twitches involuntarily. It bears a resemblance.

And you’re in charge of it? I’m slightly worried. I’m not sure a self-confessed part-time evil genius should own a particle accelerator.

Oh, don't worry, this is much smaller. He points to an open can of sweetcorn on a nearby table near the lackey. It’s just a Large Sweetcorn Collider.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not.

Why have you built a Large Sweetcorn Collider? And what are you going to do with it?

He takes the can of sweetcorn from the table and dismisses his lackey. We walk ten yards down the corridor to a input funnel on top of the pipe. Without answering, he tips the contents of the can into the open funnel. He then makes some adjustments on an adjacent control panel, and presses a large and significant looking red button.

The lights flicker for a moment.

You ever heard of Erwin Schrödinger?

Schrödinger? It rings a bell.

Didn’t he have a famous cat?

He was an Austrian Theoretical Physicist.

Yes, I suppose he was, now I think of it.

But he had a cat, right? Schrödinger’s Cat?

Indeed. But long before he had a cat, he had a wife.

I stare blankly at him. This is bound to be heading somewhere.

Okaaaay.

And every day his wife would make him a lunchbox. And every day, it contained sweetcorn.

Sweetcorn? I wrinkle my nose. In a lunchbox?

Sweetcorn. And Schrödinger hated sweetcorn.

I’m not fond of it myself. Didn’t he tell her?

Well, in the end he did, yes. But his wife, in charge of the purse strings for the house, explained that she had to use her supply up before it spoiled; she’d bought two thousand tins in a sale.

Even though he didn’t like it?

It was A Bargain.

Ah yes, that old chestnut.

He asked his wife if she’d mind popping it for him before putting it in his lunchbox. He loved popcorn, and thought it might be nicer than sweetcorn. But she quite soberly pointed out that this was not possible.

Why not?

He rolls his eyes.

Because, my dear Roth, sweetcorn and popcorn come from different corn plants.

They do? I didn't realise.

We live and learn. He considers this for a moment. Mostly. Anyway, it seemed he was out of luck.

So what happened?

Well, his wife continued to put sweetcorn in his lunchbox, though only about half as often as before. And there was the rub. Every day, he was unsure what would be in his lunchbox. Maybe it was sweetcorn, maybe it wasn’t. A coin toss.

Couldn’t he just have asked her?

He did at first, but she refused to tell him.

Why? That seems a bit mean. Controlling, even.

Well, she didn’t want him knowing. After she’d gone to the trouble of making him a lunchbox, she didn’t want him swanning off to the canteen mid-morning, when all the really yummy sandwiches are still there, to buy something else.

Oooh, ham and chicken with peppered mayo. On granary.

Pepperoni and roasted Mediterranean vegetables. Exactly.

We stand for a moment in hungry contemplation. My rumbling tummy snaps us back to reality.

Why did he not just take a peek in the box?

She warned him against it, quite sternly.

And that stopped him?

Yep. She was a formidable woman, this Austrian Frau, and he was a devoted husband.

I’d have peeked.

This is why you’re single.

Oh. Fair enough. So, what did he do?

Well, every day he would stare at his lunchbox, and wonder what was in it. And, being a Theoretical Physicist, he started having odd ideas.

Like?

Well, he realised that while the box was still shut, its contents were unknown. So, as far as he was concerned, the box could contain either sweetcorn or something else.

I shrug. That sounds sane enough.

Ah. But he also theorised that until he opened the lunchbox, both possibilities were true. That in some way, it contained either. It was only when he opened his lunchbox at midday that these two possibilities collapsed into one, that he would discover what was in the box.

Which is both illogical and impossible. And self-indulgent nonsense, may I say.

Yes, but remember he was a Theoretical Physicist. If he was grounded in the real world he would have been an Applied Physicist, right?

Um... There’s a certain warped difficult logic there.

This idea of two things being contradictory and yet both true is fundamental to Quantum Physics. The impossible becoming possible, mandatory even. All the time. He waves a hand, You just have to kind of go with it.

But how...

He cuts me short.

You just have to kind of go with it.

Ok. Carry on.

Right, so he would agonise all morning, wondering if he was going to enjoy his lunch.

Sounds like a miserable waste of time.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

I don’t believe in the no-win scenario.

Now, don’t go getting all Kirk on me. He eyes me levelly, which is tricky when wearing an eyepatch. You want me to tell you this story or not?

He shifts the eyepatch to his other eye, so he can see me better.

I pout a little. Fine. Sorry.

It did make him miserable, but it set his mind thinking in strange new directions, and he went on to do the best work of his life, including the thought experiment about the cat.

So, the point of this little morality tale is that, in the grand scheme of things, him being miserable was a useful experience?

He shrugs. I suppose. His mistress thought so.

A niggling doubt creeps into my thinking.

So, how does this explain you building a Large Sweetcorn Collider?

I’m glad you asked. Come with me.

We wander a little further along the corridor, and my companion picks up an empty metal bucket from behind one of the many supports for the endless pipe.

Well, what I learned from this story is that, while I like to be inspired, I don’t like being miserable.

I blink a few times. You’ve lost me. Not for the first time today.

The lights flicker again briefly.

He turns to me and smiles madly.

So, despite his unconventional ideas and grand theories, do you know what Schrödinger never found in his lunchbox?

Oh, do tell.

He opens an inspection panel in the top of the tube, and scoops inside with the bucket. As he retrieves it and hands it to me, its contents are hot and crisp and fluffy. The smell is impossibly delicious, which seems appropriate.

Popcorn.

I’m lost for words. This is impossible. Unless...

You’re a genius.

He waves my compliment aside and corrects me.

My business card says Part-Time Evil Genius.

If there’s space on the card, you should add Illogical Physicist.

He considers this.

You know, he says as we head back to the ladder, I think I might.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Ignore Any Quiet Knocking

This morning was a bit of a chore.

I was waiting for the gasman to arrive so he could do a safety inspection of my meter. I had a morning slot booked, sometime between 8am and midday; a long and boring morning, unless you'd find it inconvenient for them to arrive early.

I've no wisdom on the subject of the gasman, but here's some advice for anyone who's due to do this anytime soon; ignore any quiet knocking on your back door, even if it becomes insistent.

And if you do investigate, never agree to play poker with badgers.

The gasman arrived at 11:59.

Half an hour earlier and I wouldn't be in the hole for three watermelons and a crate of worms.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009