How do I sign up to that random phrase thing anyway?

I'd pay extra.

Some years ago, I worked for a branch of a big global corporation. We had this office automation system taking up a tiny portion of a huge mainframe (mini really) whose primary purpose was accounting and inventory management.

Anyway, we had internal email, and we must have been one of the first corporations to hook up to the fledgling internet in order to be able to extend our email capabilities to our HO in London. The implementation was smooth, mostly because the software actually worked. We were gobsmacked. And chuffed.

The point of this, is that we knew we'd also opened email channels to everyone else on the internet. In those days that really only meant your mates who were doing Information Science degrees at Varsity. Yeah. Right. Hackers.

So, to protect ourselves from industrial espionage being carried out from up the hill, we beefed up our password regime with an off the shelf random password generator, which forced a change every 30 days. You could of course, choose your own. This was about the extent of the defenses available to us at the time.

And ohmigod, this package also worked as it said it would. truly, computers were coming of age. Best of all, the "users" loved it, because it spurned gobbldygook impossible to remember things like )F6G7b3d^7(, and presented two words of between 6 and 8 letters long, with a space between them.

FERRARI SCONES

One drawback, was that while these two words were allegedly drawn completely at random from an extensive dictionary, some extremely amusing combinations occured with alarming frequency, and the word SAUSAGE was anecdotally appearing far more often than mere chance would surely allow.

Our users were sharing their passwords, posting the funnier ones in the in house magazine.

Our fearsome and dour IT Manager did put a stop to that promptly. Our password generator remained many years, until operating systems caught up. People enjoyed using it. I should have made a note of who what the programme was called, maybe they're still making useful stuff.

Meanderings

I'm kind of warming to Twitter and Facebook (I'm still not enchanted with Linkedin, it's not enough fun), mostly because I've figured out how to text Twitter, which then posts to Facebook and Linkedin. If I could figure how to get those tweets onto Blogger, I'd be sorted.

At first I thought the 140 character limit was a curse, then I came to embrace the unfinished sentence (much as I really liked that Telecom bug, which apparently appended random sentences onto peoples' texts. That's so funny.

Twitter itself seems to me to be river of trivia, a Tweet flows from the top to the bottom of the screen and you're either there to see it or you're not. Or maybe I just don't know how to drive it properly :)

I loathed Facebook at first, I've always mistrusted it enough so that there is very little actual information on there about me, and I assume that anything I post can be seen by the entire world. Sure, my name, but heh, I'm not even in the phone book. And how do you know that's my real name, and all those "relatives" on there are just my other accounts? Hah. Other than that would be a really stupid and pointless waste of time.

Anyway, I tried to delete my account once, and found I couldn't. Then a few years later, I found that by signing back in, all was reactivated, friends, snowball fights and all.

Incidentally, what happened to all that snowball/vampire/which-kitchen-utensil-are-you shit anyway? Did I somehow turn it off? Or did everyone get bored with it. And don't get me started on "poking" people.

But I can see that it's a great way for friends and family to keep up, and it's as good a way as any to share all your holiday photos. So now I can post and reply with ease, I'm back in. I've had some odd comments from Linkedin contacts, I must say.


Oh say Harve, the copy of Mr Pip that I just read has your, er... mark of ownership in it. So we must catch up for a grand returning ceremony.

What is that anyway? Did you get a stamp made up? 'Cos I'm impressed. Actually maybe I should keep it, in case you become famous, and one day I'll appear on Antiques Roadshow with a Molloy Family stamped copy of Mr Pip. But we should catch up anyway.

I fancy reading some Daphne de Maurier now. I've never read Rebecca, but I do like a good tale of sinister housekeepers.


And I must say that it's a real pleasure to have the broadband to bring up my iGoogle page (The Current Moon Phase is Waning Gibbous, 88% of Full), and the 837 unread blog posts in my RSS feed, are like Twitter, gone. Although they flushed, rather than flowed to be truthful. All while listening to Jimi Hendrix on YouTube. Sweet.

What Now?

The house in town will probably sell this week. Funny, despite it not feeling like home for the last 6 months, its imminent loss makes me extremely sad. I’m not sure why.

Another new page beckons. I am about to be homeless again. It remains to be seen what comes from it, but at the very least I hope to be debt free.

In a few weeks I’ll begin a house-sitting gig for 2 or 3 months. It’s even further in the ‘Burbs than I am now. Still, freeloaders can’t be choosers.

I have a huge amount of furniture and stuff, and nowhere to put it. I suppose some can be sold, the rest stored. Or maybe all sold, except the Rocket coffee machine. It’s only stuff.

I guess these things will work out in time. But today is a sad day, the saddest in months. I don’t quite know why, maybe it’s just time for a blowout.

Tomorrow I’ll be fine. I’m out and about with people all day.


And the Ripliad? In some ways I liked Ripley’s Game best of all, in this one, Ripley plays a game with a neighbour & gets him in over his head in a plot to turn two mafia families against each other. The book really takes off when a contrite Tom appears on a train & whacks a couple of Mafiosi for the neighbour. It gets worse when the mob figure out who Ripley is, and where he lives.

The next book, The Boy Who Followed Ripley, was a little disappointing, mostly because the boy in question is a bland character.

The last, Ripley Underwater, is reminiscent of Ripley Underground: an American couple move into the neighbourhood & begin to harass Ripley about suspected past crimes. As you can imagine, this is not a good lifestyle move.

And Heloise Ripley is in all three. Not quite as complicit in Tom’s escapades as in Ripley Underground, but supportive nonetheless.

Lessee... since then I’ve read what... biographies of Zsa Zsa Gabor and Greta Garbo, and Mr Pip. I need something new to read.


And a new life to live. Anyone know how to go about getting a job in the islands?

Freeview vs Everything Else

I need some advice. I'm thinking of ditching Sky, getting Freeview & augmenting my viewing from the web and with DVDs and box sets.

The only issue I have is how will I watch live rugby matches? Particularly tests and Super 14. Any ideas?

Ripley Underground

I scoured the nearest library for the rest of the Ripley books. They only had the one I’d read, but they could get the rest in a few days if I wanted. I wanted now. I took a long detour home to swing by a second hand book store I recalled. They had only one Highsmith title on the shelf, Ripley Underground ($5). RESULT!!

The man asked was there anything specific I was looking for? I said, “Yes, this, specifically.” He said he’d look out for the others, but he wasn’t familiar with them (which I found odd, for a second hand bookseller), I’ll check the Central Library tomorrow.

So, Ripley Underground, Tom’s certainly more confident now, a few years after Dickie Greanleaf’s disappearance (Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet is in the London cinemas). There are brazen public impersonations of dead artists, fake beards, false passports, and alibis set up left, right and centre. He’s got a possibly equally amoral, hot, French wife now, who basically aids and abets when she’s not off cruising the Mediterranean with friends. Any movie version would have lots of bronzed Euro-hotties-in-swimsuit-scenes in warm, exotic locations. I’m surprised that as far as I know, it hasn’t been filmed. The action spans London, Paris and surrounds, Athens, sundry Greek Isles and Salzburg.

But for all his confidence and scheming, Ripley’s still prone to the highly dramatic predicament. He’s still pants at corpse disposal too, typically just before the police are to visit to investigate the disappearance of the deceased. His attempt to adequately cremate another is a gruesome FAIL. He wonders if he’s doomed to a life digging shallow graves in the woods. He detests murder, unless it’s absolutely necessary, in Ripley’s mind he gives the disgruntled, hapless Murchison all the opportunity in the world to recant his theory (the truth),

“Derwatt is dead. They got someone to impersonate him.” Tom blurted it out, feeling he had nothing any longer to lose, and maybe something to gain. Murchison had his life to gain, but Tom could not quite put that into words, not plain words, as yet.

Perhaps surprisingly, Ripley’s got a sweet and loving relationship with his young wife, she’s an heiress, and absent for half of the book. Her parents disapprove of Tom. But Tom trusts her enough to tell her almost everything, holding back only details he thinks might upset her. And Heloise seems to trust Tom enough not to ask too many questions, even about murder.

While they clearly spend a lot of time apart, and have separate rooms at home, their maid is accustomed to finding both of them sprawled across each other in either bedroom in the mornings, or even afternoons. They have an enthusiastic sex life. Heloise enjoys travelling with Tom under assumed names, joining him with delight if they happen to be in the same city:

“Good evening, Mme Stevens,” Tom said in French. “You are Mme Stevens this evening.” Tom thought of steering her to the desk to register, then decided not to bother, and led Heloise to the lift.

 Three pairs of eyes followed them. Was she really his wife?

Heloise may or may not see right through him – Tom thinks she suspects at least that he arranged Dickie’s disappearance, she knows where Tom’s money came from - but there’s obviously something in him she very much loves. They enjoy each other’s company; they both have independent incomes, so it’s not a money dependent relationship, the only friction between them occurs because of an uninvited and intruding guest, when Heloise wants Tom to herself, and they are both eager to be reconciled. No worries about the forgery, fraud and murder then. She and Tom are like the Anti-Nick and Nora.

Ripley has interesting feelings for the unhinged Bernard. He frets that Bernard isn’t getting the artistic credit he deserves, he’s almost admiring, and certainly not resentful, when Bernard unexpectedly turns the tables and nearly kills him (a gruelling and surreal episode that explains the title). Tom sincerely regrets Bernard’s probable fate. He genuinely cares about his welfare and state of mind even as he hunts him across Europe in order to, one way or another, eliminate the threat he poses. Ever the optimist that there will be a happy conclusion, he seeks to relieve Bernard’s conscience of the burden of his murder, “I’m not a ghost. There wasn’t much earth on top of me and I dug my way out. Funny, isn’t it?” He wants to assure him. Ripley’s not one to harbour a grudge.

There’s a sense of the good sport about Ripley, on several occasions through both books, there are moments he feels exposure is imminent, yet it will be a fair cop, and worth it. And you have to wonder at someone so blasé at being hit over the head with a shovel, buried in a woodland grave meant for someone else, and left for dead. He conceals his own grave, has a refreshing bath, makes a ham sandwich and ponders the merits and practicalities of playing dead for a while. Ripley doesn’t sweat getting even; he’s got his eye on the big picture.

Onwards now, to Ripley’s Game, in which, if memory serves, our anti-hero attempts to turn an innocent to the Dark Side, The Boy Who Followed Ripley and Ripley Under Water, of which I know nothing. I want there to be more. I hope Heloise returns.

How far would you go?

I’ve finally read Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr Ripley. It is magnificent and appalling at the same time. Highsmith is remarkably faithful to the Matt Damon film from a few years ago, she left out the minor subplot involving the pregnant Italian who kills herself over Dickie, a lot of Philip Seymour Hoffman, pretty much the entire Cate Blanchett character and all that stuff at the opera, but those bits add nothing to the story & are so cleverly excised, it’s as if they were never there.

Tom Ripley is by turns, charming manipulator, and pathological David Brent. He strives for control, but has an impulsive opportunism that can easily see him burdened with an inconvenient corpse. How Tom copes with the roller-coaster vicissitudes of his life makes for very high drama. The ease and speed at which murder seems a viable solution to his problems is disconcerting, the moment comes when you realise this guy's not just a recklessly brazen and self absorbed con man, he's an A Grade Homicidal Lunatic, and it’s a bit of a shock, even to Ripley at times. Still, toward the end, on a voyage to Greece, mid promenade with an elderly matron, Ripley idly fantasises about tossing the old lady overboard. Just for the fun of it, presumably. The thought is just thrown in, between the idle chatter about the minutiae of the day. Tom Ripley is an awesome piece of work.

I've seen Ripley's Game, with John Malkovitch essaying an older, more confident, controlling and reptilian Ripley than Damon, I expect that Tom Ripley's development from a seat-of-his-pants kind of opportunist, to Machiavellian psychopath, will be explained as the books progress. For now I will read them all. And I have to admit, I see Damon in my mind’s eye. He did a pretty good job.

I’ve read that the very best filmed version is a French movie starring Alain Delon, the name of which escapes me. I will seek it out.

I borrowed the book from a friend that I was cat-sitting for. He had two cats until recently, a cheeky mongrel with abyssinian in him, and a refined Russian Blue. The abyssinian is sadly no more, and so I consented to look after their place on a weekend they were away & keep the apparently grieving Taser company. They have a lovely view of the Miramar peninsular from their house, a Wega espresso machine, a stocked wine cellar, broadband and all the satellite TV channels you could wish for. It was hard work.

Taser wound happily around me while my friends remained, they were sure she'd be comforted by my presence. After they left, I scarcely saw the beast until the moment they came back. I was tolerated at best.

My friend tells me that Russian Blues were bred so as not to shed blood, they do not make good hunters. So I caused some excitement when I txted to say that vomit & small white feathers adorned the lounge in the morning. In hindsight, I think she probably gorged on biscuits, gagged a furball & scragged a down pillow.

At some stage, and a little oddly I thought, the vet who officiated at the euthenasia of the abyssinian dropped by with some home grown tomatoes for my friends. She was pretty hot, and her tomatoes were delicious, I hoped she might pop back later with even more produce. I suppose I could have fabricated some ailment with the cat, but that would have entailed finding and catching it, and honestly, that thought only just occurred to me.

When I left the cat to her own devices & her prodigal owners, I made a heroic & much further than expected walk into town, for a blood test of all things. The nurse made small talk, and asked me what I did in the weekend, and so I told her... the upshot is she's going to call me when she & her husband go overseas in a short while & I will look after her aging dog.

Heh. I hope they have broadband & satellite TV. Standards have been set.

Beer and Trainspotters

Family from the Old Country came to stay a little while back, a 2nd or 3rd degree cousin and her husband. I think her brother might have been in my class at some stage.

They visited some 17 years ago, when they seemed to be on a world tour of natural breweries. They had The Parrot and Jigger on their list, but my mum persuaded them they visit lots of natural breweries and that a hike along the Eastbourne coast would be more memorable. Heh. This never fails to amuse me.

This time, they were far more ambivalent about beer, and after only 10 or so minutes of being appraised of the world trip so far... it dawned on me that my cousin's husband is a Trainspotter. For real. As an aside, anoraks are out of favour these days, they have been substituted with natty smocks, or hooded ponchos, which cover your backpack as well. Fecking ingenious.

They're both Whovians, and hail from South Wales, close to the Cardiff Rift. Raoul told me that for one week or so, from his office in a town called Newport, the Tardis was parked across the street, while battle for the fate of the Universe took place nearby. How cool is that.

After they left, I came across this. Beer and trains, and more. Raoul might have liked that.

The new Doctor gets the thumbs up. But among my friends, the jury it still out on the new Companion.