Week notes: week notes

Week notes are a thing I do now. I have enjoyed reading the week notes of a small number of strangers on the internet, mostly published on their own IndieWeb sites, and why shouldn’t I join in?

Last week, the process of reflection made me realise I’d managed to do a pleasing amount of work – a valuable process. This week, I appear to have done less – which is healthy too. I have done some other things.

I took some photographs. They were better than last week’s. Great!

I picked up some rubbish from off of the sides of some roads. Like, I’m fond of saying, a pound shop David Sedaris, or Ian McMillan. Those BBC radio stalwarts use special equipment – “grabbers” – but I’m not that serious yet. I do recommend rubber gloves1, and a basket to which is attached a bicycle, and a plastic bag clipped on with clothes pegs. Sunday was a particular purple patch: the strangest item for a few days (a ¾ full box of croissants) dumped near a ford, and then I finally captured my white whale (a lager tin that had taunted me for weeks, embedded in a hedge) using a large twig.

It reminds me a bit of the postmodern Stone Clearing With Richard Herring, which is not my cultural highlight of the week, but remains a podcast in the list of podcasts I listen to. Gathering litter is only slightly more worthwhile than Herring’s hobby of the ancient art of moving stones from a field to its perimeter. Rampant capitalism and air pollution are more serious than fly-tipped food and drink packaging.

I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’ve been encouraged by the Daily Mail–backed “Great British Spring Clean” campaign, which is at least not as bad as 2016’s “Clean for The Queen” (ugh).

  1. Disappointingly, the Co-op’s fairly traded rubber gloves are much worse than the Marigold brand. 

Week notes: Bono's house

This week, it has been mostly windy. Still, I managed a to ride on a bicycle two decent distances without being blown into a hedge. Maybe it’s at times like this that the memory of sailing lessons – tacking and jibing, etc – comes in useful.

I went past Bono’s house.

Blickling Hall

Photographing buses and coaches in rural places is an endless source of fun, but the results were all rubbish this week. Oh well. My excuse is that it’s hard to stand up and hold a camera straight in high winds.

I managed to do some work. Here’s a bug I thought would be intereresting to write about here, but quickly realised wouldn’t. Sometimes I need to make the computer calculate the bearing/heading/direction of a bus, to make the little arrow on the big map point in that direction. I do so with some trigonometry I copied and pasted from somewhere, and it works – but recently sometimes it hasn’t been. In a half-awake state this morning, it dawned on me why not: sometimes it’s calculating the angle between two identical pairs of coordinates, because somewhere I’m making the computer compare a string representation of a datetime with a datetime, and they’re never equal. A classic mistake. Cool story, bro.

My cultural highlight of the week is the stylish thriller Deutschland 86. So far, it is stylish and thrilling. It reminds me I can’t remember much of Deutschland 83 now, but does that matter? I don’t think it matters.

January and February 2019

November and December 2018


Some years ago, I went to Italy. I saw some nice sculptures, and some tremendous frescoes – hey, why wait for plaster to dry before painting on it? – but what really stuck with me was some paper towels.

You must understand that paper towels are often emblazoned with patterns. Toilet paper is often embossed – with little pictures of dogs, for example, which is quite a strange thing to wipe one’s bum with, isn’t it? – and so are paper towels (also known as “kitchen paper”), sometimes with the added use of ink.

The Italian paper towels that really stuck with me were decorated with pictures of elephants holding watering cans.

I’m uncertain about a couple of things: whether the elephants were holding the watering cans with their trunks or their forelegs, and whether they were decorating the actual paper towels or the plastic packaging. As you might expect, I’ve done some research:

But there’s no evidence of either elephant mascot having brandished a watering can. And if it’s been scrubbed from the web, then I’m not surprised, because what message is an elephant using a watering can supposed to send out?

Elephants are renowned for their trunks, proboscises that can suck up water – a bit like what a paper towel can – and squirt it out – a bit like what a watering can can. Showing an elephant using a watering can, as if human-made technology is somehow superior to an elephant’s trunk, seems like some kind of imperialism. 1 2

Which makes me think of flypaper. Now, it’s taken me so long to finish writing this that the unpopular winged insects have faded into obscurity for the winter. But earlier, they would swarm all over any unattended biscotti, strudel, etc at a moment’s notice, so catching them seemed like the right thing to do. Nature has some fine ways of catching flies: there are the Venus flytrap and other carnivorous plants, and there are spiders’ webs. But we think we have to improve on that by covering strips of paper with invidiously sticky glue, and dangling them from the ceiling.

As you might expect, I’ve done some research, and found that the satirist Craig Brown wrote a frivolous piece for his column in the wretched Daily Mail: “Why I get a real buzz out of fly-paper”. Brown observes that flypaper is an effective means of stopping flies defecating on your custard slice, strawberry tart, etc, but that it’s unfashionable compared to alternatives such as electric flyswatters.

Sure enough, most shops don’t sell flypaper. My local convenience store, which has room for five kinds of hummus, sells fly spray but not flypaper. Like the perverse selection of pasta shapes – sometimes the only option is fusilli, the worst pasta shape – the availability of fly spray baffles me, because I don’t understand the appeal of spraying poison into the air. Brown writes:

Fly-sprays are always an option, of course, though whenever I use them they trap me in their fall-out: I look up towards the ceiling to check how many flies are spiralling to their deaths, and a great nuclear cloud of lavender-scented mist descends on my eyes, to a chorus of malicious chuckles from all the surviving flies.

Eventually, I found a retailer that retailed flypaper, and noticed that the most prominent language on the box was not English but German:

We’re so used to having special anglophone packaging, with foreign languages confined to small writing on the back – but apparently the English-speaking market for flypaper is too small. Meanwhile, German-speaking people seem to have more correct tastes in fly-extinction merchandise. (The Wikipedia article about fliegenfänger is a bit more detailed than the flypaper one.) Isn’t it interesting how different countries are different? Another difference being the use of elephant mascots by the paper towel industry.

Anyway, one of the readers’ comments on Brown’s article reads:

What a dull non story. 5 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

  1. Unless the elephant has a disability, and the watering can is an assistive technology that lets it enjoy the same activities as able-trunked elephants. In which case we should celebrate this large mammal cyborg. 

  2. The depiction of the elephant standing on its hind legs, holding tools with its front foot, is also disquieting. A true elephant would walk on all four legs, and use his or her trunk to hold stuff. But the illustrators of the paper towel show it behaving like a human, as if it’s better and aspirational – two legs good, four legs bad. 

October 2018

September 2018

August 2018

July 2018

June 2018