Permanent vacation

We have a bunch of students living next door. To be fair to them, they are generally reasonably considerate. We've asked them once on a Sunday (or Monday, actually) to keep it down a bit at 3am, as we need our beauty sleep in order to get up for work. However, Rich, the builder installing the bathroom relayed the following story.

Whilst Sarah and I were diving in Egypt, Rich started work around the 8-8:30am mark. A knock on the door, Thursday morning around 9am. Pyjama-clad student on the door, clearly marked from the night before.

"Hey, man - you think you can keep it down a bit?"

"Not really, no. This is the time when people generally are at work"

"Yeah, but Thursdays are the only mornings I get a layin, and generally go out the Wednesday"

Rich is somewhat unsympathetic to the man's plight. The student carries on:

"Can you do something about it?"

"I can lend you a pair or ear defenders."

"But the couple here asked us to be quiet one night..."

"Well, perhaps now you understand what it feels like?"

Sheesh. Stoodents, eh.

The return of the one-armed man

I went back to the wall yesterday for the first time in about 6 months of forced absence due to tennis elbow. Today I feel like I've been through a full spin cycle - everything hurts. Everything but the elbow, that is. For me, that's exceedingly good news, which I'm doing my best to focus on, instead of the fact that I'm weak as a new-born child, somewhat inevitably.

Now, it's of course hard to be excited about indoor climbing, but I have to admit to having missed the testosterone-fuelled posturing (and that's just the girls..), the misfits, the acres of naked flesh, the almost unbreathable, chalk-filled, sweaty atmosphere, the clubby soundtrack, the who's doing who rumor mongering. And of course the latest set of boulder problems. The irritating thing is that when I injured myself, I was probably at the strongest I've ever been. I did go upstairs to give the campus board the evil eye.

Wedding Final

We had a wonderful time at Nick & Jo's wedding on Saturday, complete with a barn storming barn dance, and RWC final on in a cupboard next door. Nick and Jo's first dance was truly spectacular, and I just wished I'd have the sense to pick up my jaw and find the camera to video it. Straight out of Strictly Come Dancing.

Usually, I like to moan about how the English love to love the plucky loser (hi Tim), but the RWC silver medal really is an outstanding achievement by a team that was 80-1 at the beginning of the tournament. Was it a try? Who cares - Ashton said it well - speculation is pointless. If the ref says so, then so it is.

England remembered how to fight, and although the Boks took the silver ware, England did their dirty work for them by sending home the Wallabies and Les Bleues.

Dive the Red Sea

We've just come back from a week's diving from the Red Sea 'resort' of Marsa Alam. The word resort is perhaps a bit misplaced, in that it's a hotel plonked where the desert meets the sea, and if you're not there for the diving, you're not there. Given the landscape, we might as well have been on the moon. Still, the hotel is very nice. This trip represented a lot of firsts for me - first time in Africa, first time in a Muslim country, first time in Egypt, first time in the Red Sea.
We had wavered between the thought of a live-aboard and day tripping out of a hotel, but to get the most out of a Red Sea live-aboard you need to have at least 50 logged dives in order to access certain of the more remote marine parks. Before this trip, neither me nor Sarah had reached that level. Besides, it's actually quite nice to be able to return to a proper room with a proper bed in the evenings.

The diving outfit, Emperor Divers, displayed the effortless air of multicultural professionalism we've come to expect from dive centres around the world. The diving community is a nomadic tribe, and we ended up diving primarily under the guidance of Mo and Chris, Egyptian and English respectively, and a motley crew of primarily UK divers. The Coral Beach Diving Hotel has no beach, but it does butt up to the harbour, meaning that we had a 30-second walk from the breakfast table to the boat in the morning, which was great. Each day of diving
followed mostly the same pattern - an hour or so on the boat to access a particular reef, and then two dives there, followed by lunch on the boat. The boat would then take us to a different reef, and we'd do a third dive, and then a mad rush to get back before the sun was two
fingers from the horizon; some local regulation. We'd signed up for a few extras - in fact, we signed up for all extras it seemed, seeing the bill - Enriched Air qualification ('NITROX') and trips to the Dolphin House and Elphinstone off-shore reefs, both of which included
ridiculously early starts. The Dolphin House reef somewhat unsurprisingly houses a resident school of dolphins. Access to this reef is commendably regulated to give the dolphins some space, meaning that the number of boats is limited, as is the diving area and the
time for the last dive set to 2pm. The dolphins had obviously cottoned on to this, and typically made their first appearance at 2:05pm. Still, we had some fantastic diving none the less. The Elphinstone is a demanding dive site, with potentially strong currents to contend
with, and with a significant proportion of it around the 30m limit, not a place for first timers. This is a good place to encounter hammer head sharks, but we were slightly too early in their season, so we were unlucky in that regard. Diving on Nitrox 33% I also found myself
focusing mainly on my computer at that depth, paranoid to stay above the 32m O2 partial pressure deck. Second dive at Elphinstone was out of this world though. A perfect drift dive along the seemingly endless wall reef with Nature's full range of Darwinian evolution on glorious display from Barracudas to Nudibranches.

Diving on nitrox appeals to the geek in me - hacking one's own gas mixture. It seems to be where recreational diving is heading, allowing as it does the no decompression limits to be extended such that they no longer run out before your gas does. Table calculations are
slightly more involved, but with a dive computer to handle that for you, most divers don't seem to bother anyway. With more oxygen in your mix, you also seem to settle down quicker into a calm breathing rate, and I found myself lasting longer on every nitrox tank.

The whole of the Red Sea is fringed with reefs, and to the Red Sea rim states, it represents a staggering income opportunity. There are signs that things are being managed in a responsible manner from the dive operators - fixed moorings to limit anchor damage for example, and the 'no gloves, no touch' rule. However, the level of on-going pollution is worrying. The locals appear to treat low tide as the bin man - simply leave all your rubbish on the beach, and the next morning it's gone. It may be gone from the beach, but it's evident on the reef. All boats have the 'short length of pipe' approach to toilet flush, and the general rule is don't flush if there's divers underneath, and bog roll goes in the bin, not the toilet.

But saying that, in the best moments, it's just magic - unsurpassed, perhaps only rivaled by Belize of the places I've dived.

RWC

This is rapidly turning the script on its head. England was supposed to be without hope, and the games before the All Blacks finally lifting the trophy a mere formality. Northern Hemisphere Rugby was comatose, out of contention.

Funny how things turn out on the field. England sends the Wallabies packing. France, having lost their opener to Argentina, dispatches the All Blacks after some genius turns from Freddie Michalak (and admittedly a forward pass, but still). The All Blacks have now been dismissed twice by France in the RWC. The 'most enigmatic side in world Rugby' indeed - the French really can step it up for the big games, where the All Blacks seem to choke. Much as I enjoy the All Blacks normal display of peerless Rugby superiority, I vocally backed the French. They wanted it more, and for the All Blacks, another agonising, soul-searching four years until the next chance.

The real revelation though are the Pumas. Argentina have long been the punch bag that everybody always beats, but quietly they've put together a quality side, with some truly world-class players that would feature in a tournament XV. Gus Pichot, the former Bristol scrum half, confidently claimed that Hernandez would pip Dan Carter to the All Blacks number 10 jersey if he'd been a New Zealander. Their pack is brutal.

And then there's England. Jonny's back, and although not quite back to his former glory, he just seems to tie up the loose ends and make the team work. Andy Gommersal has been the real eye opener though. Fast, precise service has made the backs start believing again. And then there's Paul Sackey - how come he hasn't had any air time before?

So, France-England. Argentina-South Africa. I wouldn't like to call either of the games in advance.

!

The 'weakest champions in rugby history' just kicked the Aussies into the high grass. Absolutely remarkable, defying all the odds. Bring on the All Blacks.

One

Great tune. Great band. Great guest vocalist.

Argentina!

Argentina just kicked Ireland out of the World Cup, winning their group against all odds. Hernandez is arguably one of the best all round players in the tournament.

My RWC sweep stakes ticket suddenly looks like a hot prospect. And with a date with Scotland in the quarters, it certainly looks like they're not done yet. England showed some back wheels and put up a spirited performance against Tonga. England's looking like the quality side they should be. Almost. Next game the Aussies - a somewhat different proposition, sure, but all bets are off in the knock-out stages.

RWC: England 44-22 Samoa

Finally England's looking like they can actually play some proper Rugby again. Argably the best game so far in the RWC, and England showed that they're not quite out yet.

Sarah's arrived in Font, and for the first time during my forced time off from climbing I actually feel a bit sorry for myself. Saying that, I'm actually symptom free, and I'm itching to get back in. But I'm forcing myself to wait, as tearing up the injury due to a premature return would be impossible to bear. Still, I've contracted some infection, so couldn't have gone, anyway.

At least I have a few days where I can store my clothes on the floor without risking repercussions.

This is Rock & Roll

Mourinho

Jose' Mourinho has left Chelsea by 'mutual consent'. A real shame. For someone who's relatively uninterested in football, Mourinho was to me a refreshing change from the usual dull fayre of inarticulate former players dressed in tracky bottoms. Superbly arrogant, unsmiling, but with the goods to back it up.

"I can honestly say I'm not one from the bottle. I am European Champion. I think I am special"

Awesome.

The Failing Continent

My brother gave me a copy of Aidan Hartley's book The Zanzibar Chest a couple of weeks back on a lightning visit back to Sweden. Mathias works at the Africa desk at SIDA, the Swedish government's development agency. I readily confess to knowing preciously little about Africa, its history, its wars. This book was a fascinating eye-opener. Hartley's book is part memoir, part history lesson, depicting his life as a front line journalist for Reuters, but also recounting the footsteps of Hartley's father, a pioneer from the dying days of the British Empire.

Primarily, the book details a couple of Africa's 'dirty little wars'; Somalia, Rwanda, Burundi - the unparalleled cruelty by which they were fought, and the West's ineptitude, or rather disinterest, to do anything about it. On the flip side, it is also a raucous, blokey story of the hypnotic draw of life in the dirt as a journalist, the camaraderie, the excesses, the hedonism - but also the staggering emotional cost of witnessing massacres and cruelty first-hand, as it happens.

Aidan's love for Africa shines through, as does his sadness and anger. It's not always clear if one should laugh or cry at the bungled ways that the West has meddled, and made things a million times worse. Especially telling is the Somalia wars, how they were run - pretty much for sport - by a bunch of qat-fuelled gangsters, and how the West played into their hands by pouring in aid, immediately, and routinely robbed and sold for profit to buy more arms by the war lords. The battle of Mogadishu, detailed in the also excellent Black Hawk Down is largely left out, as it's so well covered elsewhere. One is left with a feeling that Somalia is a failed state in the truest meaning of the word - it's never really had a state during its existence, and war is what they do, conquerors beware.

Hartley's own descent into the Heart of Darkness concludes in Rwanda, with a genocide of industrial proportions, that barely registered in the western media. Hundreds of thousands of Tutsis were slaughtered by crude means, dull machetes primarily it seems - a no mean feat, practically.

Gremolata

Some flavor combinations, no matter how outlandish, just seem to work. Lemon rind, flat leaf parsley, olive oil and garlic? What sort of kitchen chemist discovered that?

Grate the rind of 5 unwaxed lemons.
Finley chop a generous bunch of flat leaf parsley.
Crush a clove of garlic.
Mix it all up with a good tot of olive oil, and a few turns of the pepper and salt mills.

Drizzle over meat stews.

Ten routes that rocked my world

I have climbed thousands of routes over the years, but looking back, some stand out more than others. It's hard to define what makes a route memorable. It can be its situation, the partnership, the line, the achievement; many factors play in. Even more interesting, perhaps, is the variety that a decade of memorable routes will throw up. How do you compare a full-on multi-pitch route in the mountains with a 3-move boulder problem? You can't, of course, except perhaps by the elation felt on completing them. My most memorable climbing experiences seem to coincide with junctures in the climbing journey. Perhaps this is not so strange; the first lead at a new grade is likely to stick in the mind for the added degree of commitment or mental reserve required.

Right Angle Variation, Gurnard's Head, Cornwall, UK (VS 4b, 4c, 4b)

Still one of the best routes of its grade in the UK, and a fantastic example of real 'adventure' climbing. The situation is truly spectacular - a narrow zawn gashing into the coast line, and a long traverse in over frequently crashing waves into the apex, and then, from a hanging belay, straight up a corner on jugs. From the opposite side of the zawn one can get an amazing view of the whole route, and it looks gut-wrenchingly intimidating, at least five grades harder than it really is. The rock - Killas Slate - is of exceptional quality, and the gear is great apart from a 5 metre section of the traverse leading into the hanging stance. I climbed this route during my first season of climbing, and leading the last pitch was my first proper lead. I remember belaying Pete on the second pitch watching two seals playing in the waves beneath us. A gem of a route, utterly inescapable, totally memorable. I went back with Sarah many many years later, and even as a much more experienced climber, it's still a top route.

Valkyrie, The Roaches, Peak District, UK (VS 5a, 4c)

A benchmark VS, and a rite of passage for any aspiring Gritstone climber. This is probably the most gibbered-on route on grit. Climb the crack up to the obvious stance. Now, up, and then down the massive flake. Step out, and then - yes, then what? 'That' move. You look down between your legs and see nothing but air. You try to find anything to hold on to, and there's nothing. Your belayer first tries encouragement, and then ridicule. You're stuck, no matter how much beta you've had, say, tales of hidden foot holds. It's only one move, and it's all a matter of balance. Suddenly you decide to commit, and it's easy. You look back and wonder why that took you so long. Out on the nose, and some glorious break-to-breaking later you're taking it all in from the top, with an exceptional vantage point to mock your second. If you took care with the ropes, your second will essentially be on a top rope.

The Hunk, The Buttermilks, Bishop, California (V2)

Bouldering, US style. This boulder is a real high ball, higher than most parts of the grit stone edges in the Peak District. A huge lump of granite with a sequence of Barclaycards stuck onto it. The crux moves are close to the ground, but as you move higher and higher, and the holds only marginally improving, it's a real test of character. A real achievement for Sarah aswell, overcoming her natural aversion to soloing by slapping a 'bouldering' label onto it.

Ordinary Route, Old Man of Stoer, Northern Scotland (VS 5a, 4c, 4c, -)

James and I were doing a lightning road trip around Scotland, and on our last day ended up climbing the beautiful sea stack Old Man of Stoer. Everything was perfect that day - even the weather. We'd been midged to hell for a few days, so walking in along the coast with a gentle breeze was a great relief. There was one party ahead of us, but they were almost finished. First man has to swim across, unless you have a boat. We weren't particularly well prepared for this. I stripped to my boxers, and sum across with a rope. The water was rather refreshing, shall we say. Not a long swim by any means. We set up a tyrolean to pull our gear over before James swam over. We pulled the roped through a belay device to get the water out, and set off. The stack itself is a kind of hard sand stone, very much like grit, in fact, of exceptional quality. The route itself is never very taxing, but on a stack we soon found that route finding was surprisingly hard without a topo, and only a vague guide book description. Pulling over the top we found that a crowd had gathered on land, giving us a healthy round of applause in the sunshine. Getting off was a real trouser-filler. We abbed off some old bleached tat at the top, landing on a ledge at the top of the second pitch. From here, you have to solo out along a break to a cluster of dodgy pegs, attach yourself to some more bleached tat and ab off. Firstly, soft-iron pegs in a sea cliff is a bad idea in general. Secondly, once these pegs are 40 years old and wobbly to the touch, you get a niggly feeling in the stomach. Still, there were lots of them, and it's body-weight only. No problem.

Serenity Crack/Sons of Yesterday link-up, Yosemite Valley, California (5.10d)

This was (and still would be) right at the limit of my ability. Fortunately, I was climbing this with a very capable partner, Bruno Marks. Essentially, 9 full rope lengths of crackwork, thin fingers to flared fist and off-hand. Technical crux (supposedly) the end of the final pitch of Serenity, but for us Euroweenies, the first pitch of Sons was the meat of the day. Flared off hands, as the expression goes. The crack is too wide to get any jams to stick, and too flared to be able to lay off. Every move a struggle to hang on. At the time, the sun was starting to get hot, and the chalk was never quite enough to keep your hands dry. Higher up things eased, and some of the best crack climbing I've ever come across anywhere was found. Once we abbed off, both Bruno and I were totally spent. A long day.


Crescent Arete, Stanage Plantation, Peak District, UK (HVS 5b or V0)

Small, but perfectly formed, the Crescent Arete boulder lies next to the path up to the main edge itself. The Plantation boulder field is packed with classics of all grades, and Crescent Arete marked the culmination of a very personal journey. This problem has everything. Impeccable line, with a very balanced difficulty. A landing that's awkward enough to demand commitment. You need a good grasp of arete technique to get up this one. I'd stood beneath it so many times, always in my mind walking up to the edge, wandering if this is the day. Feeling the starting holds. Trying the first few easy moves, but always putting it off. A bit too warm, or too damp, I kept telling myself. I've seen good climbers flounder on it. Then, one solo-marathon weekend I'd stared off doing Pebble Arete, another highball nearby, taking a fall from the last move landing on my arse on the mat, and then topping out on the next attempt. I soloed another 50 routes that weekend, and packing it in for the day wandering up to the Plantation boulders to meet up with Sarah. She and a bunch of others were trying Crescent Arete. After watching for a bit I decided to have a go, with a bit of encouragement and beta from Airlie Anderson I suddenly found myself first grabbing the 'thank God' notch and soon after pulling over.

The Arrow, St Govan's Head, Pembroke, Wales (E1 5a)

For some reason, it took me a long while to get to grips with limestone. This is a bit ironic (in the Alanis Morrissette sense), seeing that there's hardly anything but limestone around Bristol where I live. I learnt to climb on Gritstone, and it's a very different beast. For a gritstoner, limestone feels sustained, and cams won't stick very well. On the other hand, the grade scale feels much more linear on limestone. Harder grades mean harder routes, not necessarily more dangerous. Pembroke is arguably one of the few noteworthy cragging venues in the UK, on a world scale. Ok, it's certainly not Ceuse, Yosemite or Akh Su Valley, but it's got a certain something for the discerning adventure climber. The Arrow is sometimes touted as a soft touch for the Extreme, and perhaps this is true. It sees its fair share of epics for this very reason. It's got a poorly protected start over an iffy landing, but once the gear starts appearing, it's a fantastic romp. Never desperate, but interest is sustained to the end. For the non-limestone afficionado, it's a race against the pump in your fore arms.

Cenotaph Corner, Dinas Cromlech, Llanberis Pass, North Wales (E1 5c)

This route represented a first for me. Many firsts, in fact. First E1. First 5c. First lob on trad gear. First, second, and third lobs, actually. Me, James, Pete and Mel were camping and climbing in the Pass one of my first seasons, and I defy anyone to walk up to the Cromlech and not want to climb this route. It's the most striking line in the UK. A perfect open-book corner, one big mother of a pitch. It just begs to be climbed. Of course, I wasn't good enough to climb it clean, and looking back, it should have been obvious, but I don't regret for a second giving it a good go. It's deceptively easy the first third, and the temptation is to absolutely stitch it up, which I did. Two thirds of the way up, as the climbing starts getting harder, and the arms a bit weary I found myself out of gear, and had to downclimb to retrieve some of the more unnecessary pieces I'd placed. This could only go one way, and after running it out a bit, the lob came. After a few more attempts, I was spent, and lowered off. James set off on my gear, and managed to complete it, and I seconded it cleanly. It's an amazing place though, so many ultra-classics compressed into a small area.

Nutcracker, Manure Pile Buttress, Yosemite Valley, California (5.9)

Oh, the irony (again) of the name - Manure Pile Buttress. This 'pile of shit' would have been the star attraction had it been situated anywhere else but at the foot of El Capitan, the most famous rock face in the world. Nutcracker is perhaps the most classic of the easy Valley classics. Five or six pitches of glorious granite, and an amazing day out for me and Sarah. The route surprised with a crux mantle that felt exposed. Pitch after pitch of perfect hands and run-out slabs makes for pretty much the ultimate punter's route.

Flying Buttress Direct, Stanage Popular End, Peak District, UK (HVS 5b. Or is it?)

The iconic grit stone route, soloed by players in trainers, fallen off by punters and on everyone's grit tick list. The grade is a joke, really - an anachronism from the days when men were men, but it's stuck. A gentle-angled, but unprotectable slab leads up to the huge roof. A good nut can be placed, and a moment's respite whilst contemplating what's coming next. The span required to reach the lip of the roof feels enormous, but there is a nak to it. What follows next is the wildest sequence on grit. At full stretch, you get the left hand's fingers in the break to about second joint; good hold really. As you match, you're committed - come off now, and it's the slab below. Now cut loose and latch a heel up out right at the same level as your hands. If you're tall, you may have been able to place a crucial cam from underneath the roof, but for us sub-6-footers, it's easier placing the cam from the outrageous, but reasonably secure position hooking at the lip. A wonderful sequence of further hooking and stretching between the breaks enables you to reach a standing position, and onwards to glory. Peerless.

Finale Groove, Boulder Ruckle, Swanage, UK (HVS 5b)

The Ruckle is one of the most intimidating places to climb in the UK. The long free-hanging abseil access. The tides. The unstable nature of the rock, especially the exits. One single, massive pitch, Dorset's response to Cenotaph Corner, and although not as iconic, it certainly packs a punch. On the day Sarah and I climbed it, the sea mists rolled in soon after I set off, and put a dense lid between us, making it impossible to communicate. The loneliness of the lead was very apparent. The route's sustained, but never desperate, and puts to shame the ferocious reputation of the crag. The open book corner starts out wide, and gradually narrows to the top. An uncharacteristically strong line for limestone. Sarah had a terrible time following, as she struggled with extracting some of my pieces, and me being unable to see or hear her, was unable to offer any assistance.

So there you have it. Ten routes that rocked my world. Or eleven, actually. I could as easily pick a different ten.

The Great British Toilet

I've been living in the UK for many years now, but certain things you never quite get used to. The design of bathrooms is one of them. For the love of Christ, who's idea was it to have bog doors swing inwards? Just picture it - you're desperate to go, having just come off your plane, so you rush to the toilet cubicle - all 1 square metre of it. You have your bag in one hand. You push the door open, and it crashes into the seat. You have to squeeze in through a gap that's about 9 inches wide, and then do the tip-toe dance around, desperately trying to get the door shut again. After mission completed, it's back to more of the same. Now, the puzzling bit is - why? The problem must be obvious to anyone who's ever been to the toilet, and the solution bleedingly obvious - so why do toilet doors still swing inwards? Anyway - you managed to get out. Now wash your hands. You have two taps - ice cold, and scalding hot. The rest of the world cottoned on to mixer taps a generation ago, but here they are only just creeping into the consciousness. In the home, the height of fashion is to have a luscious wall to wall carpet fitted in the bathroom. Let me repeat that: Carpet. In. The bathroom. In households that contains men. Moving on to the toilet itself - one would think it's a solved problem by now. In the rest of the western world, it is. In Sweden they usually come with two flush buttons, one for big jobs, and one for little jobs. They use very little water, and just work, quietly and efficiently. Here it is so different. The most common model has a sort of lever that you need to push down hard in a pivoting kind of action. This mechanism just about never works. You push down hard, and get rewarded by a slight gurgling noise, but no water. You wait for the lever to slowly return to its starting position, and try again. The same result. After pumping the lever half a dozen times, if you're lucky, the contraption will sort of flush - a long-lasting trickle consuming lots of water, yet strangely inefficient in terms of the job it was designed to do.

Fast goose

A Barnacle Goose has smashed the North Sea crossing record, previously held by Godzilla at 8 hours. The goose Barbow completed the Scotland to Norway in a mere 5 hours; an impressive feat indeed.

The green dilemma

So, we need to be green. CO-2 levels are hockey-sticking, global temperatures are rising, polar ice caps are melting as a consequence, and the Maldives are sinking. To combat this situation, we're installing Argon-filled double glazing units, which may cut heating bills with up to 15%. Every little bit helps, eh.

In terms of energy generation, the choices appear to be pretty simple, really. All the greens agree that we need to stop burning coal, oil and gas. So, let's build some wind farms! Eh, no. The same greens complain that they represent an eye sore in the environments where you can conceivably expect some windy conditions. Well, let's make etanol from rapeseed or sugar beet, and burn that - it's carbon neutral. Sorry. Taking over farmland to grow energy crop will impact global food prices and make starving people more hungry. Fair enough. Let's expand the civilian nuclear program and get super-clean, efficient, safe, zero-carbon energy capable of supporting the planet's energy needs for generations to come.

No. The same greens are opposed to nuclear power for reasons that are a bit muddy at best, and at worst based on outdated dogma with no basis in either science or fact. Even the godfather of green, Mr Gaia himself, James Lovelock advocates the use of nuclear power for the good of the planet, but the hippy green movement resists on dogmatic grounds.

Cuddle a polar bear. Embrace nuclear power. Save the planet. Stop the west's oil dependency. Install Argon windows.

Choose life.

Vision thing

It takes a lot to impress me on the web nowadays, but this one left me slack-jawed:

http://flickrvision.com

Exchange

So, the house saga is actually nearing its completion - exchange today, and Well Done Sarah for doing all the heavy lifting. We're looking at moving a week today. This process was started in October..really looking forward to move now.

Meanwhile, there's been a push at work to join the various social networks that abound, both to be seen to be active around the web, but also to - eh, find inspiration for our own projects. Facebook is actually very good at what it does - streets ahead of Myspace and a bit more jolly than LinkedIn.

Chris's Swedish stag do was survived by the stag, and a good time was had. The water was cold, but we all managed to swim to Ayres Rock and back. The stag himself swam to the other side - it was touch and go if he'd manage to return by his own steam, and he looked remarkably blue when he came out.

Me and Sarah are spending the weekend back down at the Hatch ranch for some more gardening duties in preparation for the Hatch-Ayres wedding real soon now. I'm still suffering with tennis elbow, this time on my left, and a dodgy right shoulder that harks back from a fall skiing in Sweden.

Stef's whatever's in the cupboard pasta

Start boiling the pasta.

Slosh a generous amount of olive oil in a high-sided fry pan and pun on medium heat.

Chop a shallot super-finely and chuck in. Crush a clove of garlic and pop that in, too.

Two heaped tea spoons of capers and a handful of greek-style black, pitted olives (not the horrible waxy type).

Grind some black pepper and salt, and add a heaped teaspoon of Sambal Oelek.

Stir and simmer for a few minutes until the oil takes on a uniform reddish tint from the Sambal.

Drain the pasta, and pour the sauce over and mix. Serve.