First day at nursery



[Image of Humuhumu in khaki trousers and a stripey jumper, being held by a pretty blonde nursery staff member in a red t-shirt.]

On her first day at nursery, Humuhumu had a fabulous time. She’s quite sociable, plays on her own for long stretches of time and will happily eat most things. The big culinary discovery this week was custard. I think she’s wondering why we’d never given it to her previously. She’s even managed to pick up a new trick over the course of her first three days. She now knows how to throw a toy out of her reach and then wait for us to pick it up. It is even more tedious than I had previously imagined.

On Humuhumu’s first day at nursery, her mummy went to the campus cafe to hide behind dark glasses and a large cappucino and pretend not to be crying. She did manage to do a bit of work and to have a long walk, but she went to pick up Humuhumu fifteen minutes early because she couldn’t stand it any longer.

First day at work



[Image of me with shiny salon hair and dark sunglasses in front of the Floozie in the Jacuzzi, central Birmingham.]

My first day back at work was last Friday. On Thursday, I got my first non-self-inflicted haircut in 18 months, pictured above. On Friday, I got up at 5:30 am to breastfeed Humuhumu and was out the door by 6. I ended up missing the 18:15 on the way back and had to take a later, slower train, so I didn’t get home until 10 pm. However, I had good briefings with colleagues and a tasty pub lunch and I moved my desk to a new office.

Additionally, I took part in the following exchange.

Me, re an ex-colleague: He’s gone to work on software interfaces for a Russian moon lander.
Labmate: In Soviet Russia, moon lands on you!

This is why I missed my work.

Viennese shop windows

I've been going through the photos I took in Vienna and these made a little series.



Image of a little stone angel with her tilted head resting on her hands.

( +3 )

And in conclusion, BABY.


[Image of a shirtless Humuhumu laughing at her daddy, reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe behind her.]

Dear London Midlands train service,

I appreciate that operating smoothly out of Birmingham New Street with its 24+ platforms that it tries to pretend are only 12 by calling them a, b and even occasionally c, is a farcical aspiration. But my journey home last night passed beyond farcical and into the realms of "episode of Benny Hill".

I arrived at the station to find the 19:49 to Worcester Shrub Hill had been delayed. The departure board indicated nothing about when it might be expected. I waited several minutes and the following announcement was made.

"The delayed 19:49 to Worcester Shrub Hill will be arriving on Platform 12b in five minutes."

I joined the mad stampede to Platform 12b, which was already packed with people expecting the 20:12 to Plymouth that was actually displayed. Five minutes later came another announcement.

"The train now arriving at Platform 9b is the delayed 19:49 to Worcester Shrub Hill."

Cue a second stampede. The train arrived. The doors did not open and the train remained dark.

Five minutes later, a train arrived on Platform 9a and an announcement was made.

"This announcement is for the London Midlands train crew. The delayed 19:49 to Worcester Shrub Hill will now depart from Platform 9a."

The third stampede was decidedly less enthusiastic than the first and second, although this time we were allowed on the train. Just as everyone had gotten comfortable, a Network Rail employee, who looked as if he were ready to bolt at the first sign of commuter rage, poked his head through the doors and spoke to us.

"I'm really sorry to do this to you again. The 19:49 really is on Platform 9b. This is going to be the 20:59."

The fourth stampede oozed back to the train on Platform 9b, where the doors had finally been released. We hovered nervously in our seats until the driver put us out of our misery.

"This is definitely, 100% for sure, the 19:49 to Worcester Shrub Hill and we are now leaving Birmingham New Street."

Although my brain was mightily amused by this chain of events, my eight-months-pregnant body was definitely not thrilled. Since the train departed at 20:23 rather than 19:49 as advertised, I would be grateful for some expression of apology for being forced to participate as an extra in what I can only assume was your attempt at alternative theatre. The additional entertainment for the price of an Anytime Day Single may have been well meant, but next time, I suggest that you opt for complimentary cups of tea and biscuits.

xo xo
nanila

~*~

Today is my birthday. I'm celebrating it by working, reading (Alastair Reynolds from sister-out-law!) and indulging in sun-worship in the conservatory with Telstar. I have drunk several cups of tea and hot chocolate and am generally feeling content. I think this may mean that I'm old now.

When I do an outreach session, one question I'm almost invariably asked afterward is, "What got you into science?" I have a range of answers to this, all of which are partially true and all of which, singly, seem to be accepted by the qeustsions as The Answer. I find this frustrating, because as far as I can tell, for most people there is no Great Epiphanic Moment that lets you know what your vocation should be for the rest of your life. But for some reason, many of us have this anticipation ingrained into us so deeply that we end up wandering around expecting it in vain until we die, and I hate perpetuating it in this way. Although I'm quite happy with my job and the life I've built, I realise there are probably a half-dozen other ways in which I could have been equally happy doing something entirely different.

Here are the answers I give to this question.

1. Carl Sagan's "Cosmos" and/or David Attenborough's "The Living Planet", in which they express pure unabashed enthusiasm for science. These were among a handful of television programmes that I was allowed to watch as a child, aside from the news and "The Muppet Show". (I re-watched "Cosmos" recently and found it a little creepy. He never stops smiling.)
   
   
2. My grandfather. He was an artist, but he was also a craftsman with an abiding interest in science and engineering. He helped me make some wonderful models in primary school - a slice of clay painted to show the layers of the Earth's interior, dioramas of dinosaurs, a papier mache volcano.
   
   
3. My mother the librarian. She brought home stacks of books for me, gradually tailoring them to my growing interest in science as I aged.
   
   
4. The desire to do something "difficult". I found I could get good marks in most academic subjects without exercising the full capacity of my brain. Science, especially chemistry and physics, proved more challenging and hence more fun. We got to build things! Make dangerous compounds! Carry out controlled explosions! What wasn't to like?
   
   
5. The desire to know more about the way the universe works. There are so many questions. We still have so far to go before we can start exploring our solar system, let alone our galaxy, in person. I want us to survive long enough to be able to make all those wonderful science fiction fantasies we have come true. It won't happen in my lifetime, but I'm happy knowing that in my tiny way, i'm contributing to the process of inching toward that goal.
   
   
6. The knowledge that I'm doing something that gives people hope for something more than just surviving on this small dirty rock/beautiful blue marble.

Here are the answers I don't give, but are also true.

1. The desire to travel. Let's face it, you need money to travel. If you haven't been born to parents who are able and willing to help you do so, you'll have to earn enough to do it on your own. Science, engineering and IT, if you develop your technical skills well enough, allow you to either fund your own trips abroad or go to conferences.
   
   
2. The desire for creature comforts. I could survive in a tent with no hot water and access only to chemical toilets. I just don't want to, or at least not for longer than a week. Again, this comes down to money. I like my lifestyle. I wouldn't, at this point, be willing to live in a cramped flat trying to scrape a living off one of my less developed skills (writing, photography, painting), which is why they are hobbies.
   
   
3. It passes the time in a stimulating manner.

The truth, then, is a complicated mixture of selfishness and altruism, but does anyone really want to hear that?

Bonus weird anecdote: My first outreach event this week was at the ScienceAlive centre in Harlow, Essex. A man came up to me afterward urging me to vote Republican "so they won't cut NASA's budget". Given that NASA's budget was at a high of 4.4% during the Apollo mission and has been on the slide pretty much ever since, I don't think that logic works too well. (Also, no.) I won't be basing my decision exclusively on what happens to NASA's budget (Also, NO.) What gives you the right to tell me how to vote after I've given a talk on Cassini at Saturn - and after I've told you our team's funding doesn't come from NASA - anyway? (Did I mention, no?)

It transpired he'd been watching Fox News. May the heavens preserve the UK from the incursions of Fox News. The Daily Mail is quite enough, thankyouverymuch.

Bonus anecdote #2: My second outreach event was at a secondary school in Tottenham, London, to a bunch of Year 9 students (about 14 years old). The organisers neglected to tell me that I wasn't going to be speaking to the top set, but rather to an "aspirational" group. Read: kids with behavioural problems. I figured this out about halfway through my talk, but damn, that was unnecessarily exhausting without the forewarning. It's always harder talking to a disaffected audience. That doesn't mean I don't believe it's worth doing. But at least if I know this in advance, I'm mentally prepared for the two or three people who clearly don't want to be there and aren't afraid to show that they couldn't care less that I've given up my time to come and speak to them.

Overheard in London this morning whilst walking along Exhibition Road from South Ken to Imperial:

Harassed Mum: "Darling, we can't stop for ice cream. Ice cream isn't important right now."
Gap-toothed Little Girl: "Mummy, if ice cream isn't important then everything isn't important."

There are a few people I see regularly on my commute whom I consider my "train buddies". These aren't necessarily people I know terribly well, but I enjoy conversing with them because they're cheerful. I ran into two of them last week on my way home and we all sat together around one of those four-seat tables. We chatted for a short while and then one of them opened the Evening Standard she was holding and said, "Look at this. I don't understand this."

"What's that?" I said.

"This Chris Huhne, did you read about the woman he's dating now?"

I had, but I shook my head. "She's been married twice before, to women."

I blinked. "And?" I said, failing entirely to see what she was driving at, other than being slightly scornful.

"So, she's bisexual. Don't you think he's worried she might leave him for another woman?"

I blinked some more. "Um, probably not any more than he would be that she might leave him for another man?"

She stared at me. "I just don't understand that at all."

I shrugged despairingly, and changed the subject.

In another reality, a braver, bolder me made the following speech so compellingly and humourously that she would have understood. "Sexual orientation and faithfulness are not dependent characteristics. Being bisexual doesn't make a person more or less likely to be unfaithful in a monogamous relationship. I'd be willing to bet there is at least one heterosexual person on this train who is in a monogamous relationships who has cheated on their partner. I'd also be willing to bet there is a bisexual person who has never cheated on anyone at all, and a heterosexual polyamorous person who has two husbands, and an aromantic asexual person who has never slept with anyone (and, incidentally, is perfectly content), and a gay person who has only ever had one partner and has been with them for fifty years. I'd even be willing to bet there is a person on this train who enjoys sex the most while wearing a Batgirl costume and is impatiently waiting to get home to her - or his - Stormtrooper. That isn't me, by the way, so you can't win the bet by guessing that."

I'm not that braver, bolder me. But I would like to be.