Love don't live here anymore

I think I must be a little sensitive today but I can’t pretend I’m not hurt. Do you remember when we first met? It was a long time ago, I remember it was a Sunday and I didn’t want to go out, I didn’t want to appear needy either but my other efforts hadn’t worked so I gave you a call. The lady who answered was lovely and though she couldn’t help me with my needs she had a friend who could; he was lovely too; so patient and understanding he must have spent an age ensuring satisfaction and believe me, I was. Do you remember this was back in the days before the internet, well, before broadband anyway; back then we had to wire things up to make a connection and it didn’t always work. Online shopping was for dreamers such as you and me, but we didn’t let that stop us. Later that day I put in my first order.

The years passed, I moved house and though we kept in touch somehow we’d lost the magic of those early days. As fate would have it the local supermarket was one of yours; now we could have more than just an online relationship. I walk there several times a week to see your stripes of red and blue, though I must confess I haven’t always been true; this won’t be easy to read but you deserve the truth; there have been times I’ve used Aldi. They’re a little closer, a little easier on the pocket but that’s no excuse, and I’m sorry; I hope one day you’ll have it in your heart to forgive me. I suppose I ought to apologise to Aldi too - or it might be Lidl, I never could tell those two apart.

Was this the reason, I wondered today, or am I conceited to think it’s all about me? You see recently you’ve felt a little distant. I know I’m getting older, my hair is greyer and the walk does feel longer and no doubt you’ll tell me it’s my imagination, but I’m beginning to think you don’t care. Those yellow price labels you used to reserve for special occasions, now I see them everywhere; and you’re not always using them to denote something worthwhile, those price reductions you made available to all but were really intended for me (I know this; you don’t have to say anything, on that matter at least). Recently it’s become random, yellow and white plastered with abandon and then today what felt like a deliberate insult: “Cadburys Chocolate Mini-Rolls 6pk - £1.40… Special Purchase”

Special Purchase? What’s so special about that, I’ve never seen them more expensive - and you of all people know how I like a chocolate roll. Is there something wrong? Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? Have Asda been mean, are they telling fibs? It’s all lies. Well… I suppose there was that one time but please believe me, it meant nothing. No doubt you’re beginning to think I’m a bit of a tart, maybe that’s why you fling such yellow label provocation in my face. Have you really had enough? Should I turn around and go? Please tell me, am I not welcome anymore? You needn’t worry about me; somehow, I don't know how, but somehow I will survive.

Refactoring marriage

This Tuesday the House of Commons will be voting for the past or the future, and whilst I hope for the latter I wondered on the possibilities with our current imperfect arrangements. I confess to some trouble in deciding which derived from the other, in a software rather than historical sense. All this argument over labels drives one to distraction; an object is defined by its attributes, not by a name; and therein lay one possible solution.

Happy deadline day

In an act of supreme (really?) irony, though I’m never sure what that is nowadays and after all my complaining - which I so enjoyed - at Apple’s culpability in something or other, I received an iPod Touch for Christmas. It’s not quite the latest model so I estimate three years from now I’ll find I’m repeating myself; as Apple themselves might say, three years seems like an awfully long time....

I have been busy in general but particularly this week. My now ex-development partner left for pastures new, which in addition to being a surprise was a real shame since he was great to work with. The job itself continues to inspire, overload and a whole set of other adjectives that add up to scary fun. I am at that place where several things have begun to properly click, yet in addition to ‘getting it’ I’m aware of just how much there is still to get; I like the challenge. So with unexpected news I found myself staying overnight at the north-end of the country, running through a few of those things I still didn’t get, fitting in a meeting or two before travelling home and having to stop - for I was knackered - on both the M6 and M5 for extra-shot coffee.

The following morning I was tired with a full day and faced with deadlines that had nothing to do with work. Football, blog - so that I’d have something to show for January (I needn’t say how that went) and to fill in my tax return. Aforementioned work meant leaving this to the very last day, something it seems I did last year though I can’t recall last year’s excuse. This time however I’ll fill in that form or dial that number and try to opt out of the nightmare that is wondering where you’ve put your P60. And this time, this time I mean it (© 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 etc.)

Second sight

I decide to prove the model of iPod Touch bought all those years ago (3 ‘normal’ years = 21 ‘Apple’ years) rather than settle on indirect signs. Wikipedia’s information that a particular generation can’t be updated beyond a certain version of iOS is a strong clue, as is the rather annoying discovery that whilst this version is good enough for some apps, if the model isn’t as required you’re still going to be stuffed buying your apps whilst the device is attached rather than through the device itself; you’re allowed to purchase even though the app won’t play. Over to the Apple website where I find proof comes in the form of a model number on the back, yet I can only see the memory capacity, under which I can make out some etching indecipherable to the naked eye.

Great - another evisceration of Apple, what could be better? There’s a USB microscope on the PC next door, I can write a blog on this and I’m going to be so witty, just like the last time, only my daughter spoils it all by walking into her room and asking for an explanation, upon which she picks up the iPod Touch unbidden, looks on the back and reads out:

Model number A1288. There... now can I have my laptop back?

Santa Claus has come to town

Children are great for this time of year; before they come along the message has likely given way to parties and some much needed time off work. Once they arrive, sweeping you up in the purest joy they amplify the true meaning of Christmas, which is something to do with presents and Santa. The latter made an appearance on the weekend courtesy of our local Round Table, his arrival heralded much excitement as I swept up my daughter and headed to the front door, opening it just in time to catch the man in the bright red suit as he was strolling past. Turning, he came forward and offered her a sherbet lolly from the tin he was carrying. “Thank you, Santa”, we said, for I may have joined in, and on closing the door my daughter turns to me and says

Daddy, you are SO embarrassing.

The anti-upgrade, from Apple

A month elapses between posts, five days pass between tweets. Once again I find myself with nothing left to say - which doesn’t sound likely - or no time in which to say it, or perhaps I’ve once again forgotten how. I passed on the gift-wrapped opportunity to give the BBC a well-deserved kicking over the Newsnight debacle and have given my brain cells a well-deserved kicking instead; and all because the developer loves his WPF. Well maybe it’s too early to call it love, but there’s enough of a sense of how much there is to learn and how worthwhile it will be. My car, I wrote about my car, several paragraphs about my car and I have no interest in cars. My car has gone to the great big scrapheap in the sky for which I was paid a sum just short of a cheap tablet computer, or a fraction less than the cost of my daughter’s Christmas present.

Then just as I’m about to give up the ghost, Apple push me over the edge when I rather optimistically decide that, yes, I will update iTunes and I’ll update the firmware on an iPod Touch. What was I thinking? Logic suggested this way I might be able to run some of the newer apps. I was tired. It’s not something I’d normally attempt, especially on a device that’s three years old, which in technological terms is still three years old but to Apple is an opportunity for a good shunning.

I have two complaints; I’ll start with the minor first. If I have my device connected, you’d think when purchasing an app the store would be able to first detect whether the device is capable of running it; you’d be wrong. The tipping point however was finding that previously purchased apps won’t re-install on an iPod Touch with the updated OS because they now require an even newer version of the OS, one not available to your ancient device. Can you imagine the shit storm Microsoft would endure if an OS upgrade resulted in a third of people’s purchases no longer functioning? Apple doesn’t really care.

And that’s because of you since, thirdly - OK, three complaints - whilst this might be Apple’s fault, really it’s yours; maybe it’s not you, but statistically speaking there’s every chance it’s the person sat next to you. S/he’s the person who nodded approvingly when Tim Cook CEO issued his non-apology for the farce over Apple Maps; since it sounded vaguely like an apology that was all it took for some of their captive audience to express sympathy - yet it was something entirely avoidable and it happened for two reasons. Let’s not kid ourselves that Apple was in any way surprised over the inadequacy of their product. They upgraded their customers to Apple Maps because there’s a lot of money in controlling the map, and also because they don’t care, or at least they gambled correctly that they could get away with it.

They don’t care because they don’t have to. You see, you - or the person sat next to you - are equivalent to Ferris Bueller’s best friend Cameron, and Apple is like his hypothesised girlfriend. And Ferris was right to be concerned:

She won't respect him, 'cause you can't respect somebody who kisses your ass. It just doesn't work.

For you

This gentle kiss, the slightest trace,
those tactile moments that lead to more.
I recollect desire, bound in memory,
ofttimes wistful though ne’er forlorn.

Wishing well emotion extant,
my verse unbundles, undone while
I think of passion once laid dormant
and it gives me cause to smile.