Floating down to Camelot

Apparently there's a new Hearts feature on LJ, by which people can click on a little heart to show their appreciation of a post without having to make an actual comment. I say "apparently" because I can't see any hearts myself, perhaps because I use an old style of journal and have stubbornly resisted all urges to update.

So the question is, if I, who can't see these hearts, post a (heartless) post, can people who DO see hearts still apply one to my post? And if they do, do I get any sort of notification about it, or do I live in ignorance? This needs to be tested. For science.

EDIT: Summary of test results so far: I can see no hearts either on my computer or on my phone, where I use an LJ app. When I received my First Heart, I received a notification (10 minutes later) telling me that someone had liked my post. I have not yet received any notifications about the 2 more hearts that have been left since then. However, if I click follow the link to my post in the notification email (via a Gmail app on my phone) I can see the hearts. I haven't yet been able to test what happens if I click on the email link when on my computer at home. Further tests will follow.

EDIT2: I have now clicked on the link in the notification email on my laptop at home, and there are no visible hearts. I presume it will be the same on my desktop. I have still not received any notifications about any of the hearts apart from the first one. I think this concludes the possible tests. Unless I should do a second post to test whether the "send notification for only the first heart" thing is a rule or just an accident, LJ notifications sometimes being temperamental things.

Sorting through some boxes of sheet music today, I came face to face with something that took me instantly back to c. 1977. This was a book called Jibbidy-F and A-C-E, the book that I worked through when I first started piano lessons. Even before I opened it, I could sing the first tune. Granted, the feat of memory required to remember and perform this tune note-perfectly after all these years is not particularly impressive one, since it consists of just one note - your Very First Note. As you play it repeatedly, you sing the immortal lines, "I am C! Middle C! Left hand, right hand, middle C!"

While the proud declamatory cry of Middle C has stayed with me forever, I had forgotten many of the others. Mentally singing the tunes today, I found them instantly familiar, as if part of me has never forgotten them. There's Doggy D, who, although confined to the treble clef, is occasionally allowed to play with Top Line A and Bumble B, his downstairs neighbours, as well as Middle C. However, on the opposite page, we learn that Doggy D thinks Bumble B looks very very fuun-nee, sitting in a bed of flow'rs and turning them to hunn-ee. Funny behaviour indeed. But Doggy D and Bumble B disappear from the scene after this development. Over the page, we learn a new mark. '"A new mark!" says C sharp. "Look at me, I'm very dark." I'm as happy as can be. I have found my first black key.' What is C sharp dark? Is this an evil note? If so, why am I supposed to be happy at finding it?

And why now, 8 hours later, am I unable to get these incredibly uninteresting tunes out of my head. You've never been truly bothered by an earworm until you've been bothered by an earworm with only one note.

And then there's the little tune based on a theme from Haydn's Surprise Symphony which has ensured that for almost 40 years, I have been unable to hear that symphony without singing along. Or, in other words, it has ruined it forever. (NEVER set words to wordless tunes, that's my advice, because once heard, you will never ever forget them, and never ever hear that tune without mentally filling in the words.) Haydn, it tells us, was a happy man, and all the children loved him. "You will learn to love him soon," it finishes, rather threateningly.

Let's see if I can get this reviewing thing back up and running.

( A Regency romance and two fantasies )

- They say the Devil has the best tunes, but it's good to know that he doesn't always have the best dice. Yesterday, playing Neverwinter Nights (the Aielund Saga) we fought our way through a tower of assorted demonic foes right up to the tippiest top of the tower, where a towering creature resided, called just "devil." I drew my Holy Avenger, hit him with it... and he rolled a 1 on his save against the sword's super paladinish awesome powers, and disappeared in a puff of paladinish righteousness. (Or, to be more accurate, disappeared in front of a paladin who stood there, mouth open with bafflement, going, "whu?" since he'd entirely forgotten about that particularly super awesome paladinish power, since he'd been too busy going, "look! My sword is SHINY!" But when the epic picture is drawn of that heroic moment, there will be rather more righteous smiting and less slack-jawed bafflement.)

- I came home on Monday to an answerphone message that said, with slow deliberation, "your trousers have been located." WHich is good.

- This week contains Too Many AGMS, which would be less of a problem if it wasn't for the fact that I have the job of writing the minutes for all of them. (Well, both of them, but they feel like an All.)

- Day off tomorrow! I plan A Walk.

There is no connection between the above points. Devils, as far as I know, do not wear trousers, and do not take minutes of their meeetings.

EDIT: At 7pm, the doorbell rang. A man is ordinary clothes, who had issued from an ordinary card - i.e. not from a delivery van - thrust a parcel at me with barely a word, then turned and hurried off. It turned out to be a router. The router was expected, so this is not some driveby gifting of random routers to random people. It still felt... odd.

EDIT 2: Doing some quick NWN playing before the latest AGM, Pellinor said, "I've put some breaches on the dragon." So even if devils don't wear trousers, dragons sometimes wear breeches. Or at least they do if you just talk about them out loud, and don't ruin the whole thing with spelling.

For the last few weeks, I have been reading The Chronicles of St Mary’s by Jodi Taylor, which has seven novels published so far, with more to come, and around the same number of short stories.

( Adventures through time )

I saw Christmas sandwiches in the shops today! Part of me wants to say, "Already? In early October! It's barely stopped being summer! I've not started wearing a coat yet!" But the rest of me is too busy capering joyously and shouting, "O frabjous day!" I mean, stuffing and bacon? This is just my two favourite food items in the universe, all presented under one roof* - a roof they're sharing with turkey and sausage, which aint half bad themselves. The only downside is that I'm currently trying to lose a few pounds in between summer overindulgence and the coming overindulgence of birthday and Christmas, and the nicest Christmas sandwiches - one of the M&S ones was my clear favourite last year, but I look forward to comparing and contrasting this year's offerings - provide rather more calories than I want to eat for lunch at the moment. The low calorie alternatives are Right Out, since they are built on the premise that piles of fresh greenery are an acceptable substitute for stuffing. The horror! :-O

* Every year, I have the following conversation with my Mum. Mum: "What do you want for pudding on Christmas dinner?" (I don't like Christmas pudding.) Me: "More stuffing and bacon rolls." Mum: "No, be serious. What do you want for pudding." Me: "I am being serious. More stuffing and bacon rolls with my main course, and no pudding." Mum: "No, be serious. I already serve you a veritable MOUNTAIN of the things, and there's no room on your plate for more. What do you want to eat while we're all eating Christmas pudding?" Me: "Okay, if I've got to have something at pudding time, just keep back some stuffing and bacon rolls and serve them to me, cold, in a bowl." I try this every year. It never works. Last year I ended up with ice cream. It was not stuffing flavoured.

So that's two posts in a week about stuffing. :-D

I've decided that I ought to post every day (or almost every day), no matter how inconsequential and silly the subject matter. So here goes...

Walking to the corner shop this evening, I saw a gorgeous young cat, a tawny and black tabby, really pretty. "Meow! Meow! Meow!" said the cat, clearly meaning, "Hello, hello! I want to be friends with you!" I slowed down, bent down, and lowered my hand. "Hello, hello!" said the cat. "I really want to meet you!" It ran up, smiling, and touched its nose to my hand... only to recoil, and run away at a rate of knots, with traumatised ears. Baffled, I sniffed my hand... and remembered that barely minutes before, just before leaving the house, I had used my hands to shape balls of sage and onion stuffing. I did wash them afterwards, but the smell remained. Clearly gorgeous tawny tabbies like sage and onion stuffing considerably less than I do. Although, really, I think almost any living being on this planet probably likes sage and onion stuffing less than I do. Posh shop-bought stuffing is all very well, some of it really quite nice. Homemade stuffing can be delicious. But basic Paxo sage and onion stuffing is, for me, one of the best things in existence. I could quite happily eat it with every single meal.

In other news, we have been playing Mage Knight for the last 6 hours, struggling to remember the rules. We played it quite a bit last year, but Christmas brought Mistfall (another co-op fantasy RPG board game) and Pandemic, which led to the utter awesomeness that is Pandemic Legacy (Best. Game. Ever) and many, many Pandemic expansions. Since we were struggling to remember the rules, we're playing the long co-op version, not the shortened one, which we felt demanded a certain amount of competence right from the start, rather than random flailing. The long game is looooong, so we've retired for the night only half way through. Much of the game was done to the soundtrack of 50s rock and roll, which is not perhaps the most obvious soundtrack for assaulting mage towers full of ice golems, but somehow... works.

One day I will post some more about our Venice holiday, but today is not that day.

Now watching Hooten and the Lady, which is incredibly silly, but rather fun. Also drinking some strange, nameless bottles of homemade multi-coloured booze that Pellinor salvaged from a recent LARP weekend. This might not be wise...

It's all Bunn's fault, really. She posted a picture of a boat whose job is to service light-vessels, and the consequences were inevitable. Many Things I should have been doing for the last few hours, but instead I have been doing this. How could I not?

( Servicing light-vessels )

Musing about the search for the Holy Grail last night, I began to wonder if the introduction of certain aspects of modern technology would have made the whole quest easier or harder. The words are inspired by Malory. The content is... not.

___

At the feast of Pentecost, when all the fellowship of Camelot were comen unto Camelot, right so there entered into the hall a damosel clad in white samite. "Arthur," quoth the damosel, "thou and thy knights must search for the Holy Grail," and as she spoke, there came a light seven times brighter than day, and singing from the empty air.

And all the fellowship did jump unto their feet. "I will search for the Holy Grail!" they cried with great voice, but King Arthur sank his head into his hands and sat a little while apart. "Alas," he said, "for this will be the undoing of our fair fellowship."

Sir Gawain was the first to start upon his search. Many dangers did he face, but at length, after many trices, his speaking device was within his hand. "I will search for the Holy Grail," quoth Sir Gawain, "by the power of Android," and with his fingertips, he traced the words "holy grail," and searched for it.

( Searching for the Holy Grail )

The stated justification for the Round Table is that no knight takes precendence. However, most medieval depictions of said table show King Arthur sitting at it. This is a clear contradiction of the stated aim, since precedence will be defined by proximity to Arthur. Yes, you could randomise this, perhaps by holding a daily raffle (proceeds to go to distressed damsels), but you could do this just as easily with a plain old rectangular board. I think the most likely solution is that King Arthur sat in the middle, either in a hole cut in the exact centre, or sitting on an elevated platform that dangles from the rafters. No knight should suffer the ignominy of having the king's back turned to him, so the King would have to rotate. It would be easy to devise a mechanism for this, like a turnspit or a donkey-powered well, powered by dogs or small servant boys (but probably not hamsters.)

However, other problems present themselves. Some sources put the number of Knights of the Round Table as high as 150. That is a VERY large table, and likely to need a veritable forest of legs beneath it. However, medieval carpenters who can build cathedral roofs can cope with such a table. But what about the poor king, stuck in the centre of a circle large enough to hold 150 round its circumference? Think of the noise, and the constant shouting of "what? What?"

And then there's the problem of serving. Service a la Russe hadn't come along yet, so all dishes need to be put on the table at once. With a rectangular board, you can fill up from both sides. High Table, sitting on only one side, can be served from the opposite side, and regular people can ask the person opposite to pass them the buttered parsnips. With the guests sitting around the rim of a vast circle, only a tiny part of that table can be used for serving food, and the rest is wasted, and impossible to clean without clambering on it. The King, stuck in the middle, would need food parcels thrown at him - a skill, perhaps, practiced by pages in the tilting yard?

But there are other ways to denote precedence at the dining table. Take the whole "above the salt" thing. Clearly it would be out of the question to have a single, elaborate Salt on the table. Thus we see the origin of the small salt shaker that we see now on every cafe table - or maybe even tiny sachets, that survived into the present century only in Salt 'n' Shake crisps. And what about boars' heads and such like, and the honour of carving such things? If Knight A has a boar's head put in front of him, and Knight B only has some boiled cabbage, then Knight A is clearly more favoured! Instead of this divisive practice, we would need a vast array of small plates of mixed food stuffs, none of them an obvious centrepiece. Did the dining needs of Camelot lead to the invention of tapas?

Or did the Round Table itself rotate along with the King, thus bringing boar's head to each knight in turn? Was the Round Table the origin of the Lazy Susan?

I've failed badly in my resolution to write reviews of everything I read in 2016. Blame holidays, which got me out of the habit.

For several weeks, from late May to the middle of June, I was reading through Dorothy L Sayers' Peter Wimsey novels. I did so in a fairly random order, the first book (Murder Must Advertise) being chosen for me out of thousands of possibles by a series of die rolls. From a random beginning, it seemed fitting to carry on in a random order, so I went to Strong Poison, which I liked, and Gaudy Night, which I liked a lot. I'd read one or two of the series some years ago, but I found them too lacking in emotion for my taste at the time. I don't know why I reacted better to them this time. Perhaps I was just in a different mood. Perhaps it was because Gaudy Night gave me an emotional way in, being a lot more focused on such things than some of the other books. I do often struggle to warm to a main character until I've seen them through other people's eyes, which is why I often find first person narration unengaging. But, anyway, whatever the reason, I read my way - in a fairly eccentric order - through most of the novels, and then went on holiday to Wales, where I got waylaid by King Arthur, so moved on without quite completing my reading of the series.

At some point during my reading of that series, I paused to read The Monstrous Child by Francesca Simon - a brief YA retelling of Norse mythology, from before the building of Asgard all the way through the Ragnarok and beyond, all told in the first person by Hel. The voice is that of a modern teenage girl, informal, colloquial and very angry. It's had some rave reviews, but I just found it grim, depressing and unengaging.

I also read Ferguson's Gang: The Remarkable Story of the National Trust Gangsters, by Polly Bagnall and Sally Beck. Ferguson's Gang were a mysterious group of people who raised money for the National Trust in the 1930s, and presented it masked, in a variety of dramatic and headline-grabbing ways. This was in the early days of the National Trust's involvement in preserving buildings, and Ferguson's Gang arranged and funded their purchase of several small buildings across the country, including Newtown Town Hall on the Isle of Wight. I spent ages one day in Newtown Town Hall reading the facsimile of "The Boo," their minute book. All the members took on assumed names and personas, and The Boo is full of jokes, jollity and japes; it reminded me quite a lot of the minute book of various student societies I was involved in, full of digressions and in-jokes. All the members were women graduates in their 20s, from a variety of backgrounds, so it fitted in quite nicely with my reading of Gaudy Night. One of the authors of the book is the granddaughter of "The Arthichoke," the gang's tame architect, who raised his family in one of the buildings the Gang preserved. The book tells the story of the Gang and of the real people behind the pseudonyms, many of whom had colourful lives, and I found it extremely interesting and readable.

While in Wales, I read the Four Branches of the Mabinogion (Penguin Classics edition) and meant to carry on, but reached the bit when Culhwch spends 6 pages listing every single one of Arthur's warriors, and laid it down for a while, weary. I misaimed on picking it up again, so ended up dipping in and out of Gerald of Wales instead, both his tour of Wales and his description of Wales. I do like Gerald, with his shameless bias towards his own birthplace and family's lands, his ability to go off on long tangents about the habits of beavers, and the way he misses no opportunity to plug his latest book or have a dig at Geoffrey of Monmouth. (Must reread him, too.)

I tried to read the Maginogion sequence of novels by Evangeline Walton, but really didn't take to them at all, so gave up very early.

Since getting back from Wales, I've been obsessing on Arthurian legend, but I did take a brief break from it to read Binny Bewitched by Hilary McKay - one of the few children's book authors who gets me to read out of my usual favourite genres. I particularly love her Exiles series - humorous mini-misadventures of a family of four book-obsessed sisters - but I'm enjoying this current series, too, of which this is the third. Set in a small Cornish village, it deals with 12 year old Binnie, her family and her various nemeses - she always seems to have a nemesis. There are no massive dramas and no heavy-handed Issues. It's just the small dramas of daily life, with nice characters, lots of humour and some lovely turns of phrase.

We got back yesterday evening from a week's holiday in South Wales, where most of our time was spent in castle or in tea shops, with occasional diversions up tea-less mountains and nostalgia-fuelled trips to random Arthurian themed stones in the middle of nowhere.

( Holiday, part one )

Oops. I've got very behind with my write-up of the books of 2016. I finished Farthing, the first book in the Small Change trilogy by Jo Walton, exactly 4 weeks ago, while waiting for Pellinor to pick me up from the ferry terminal in Southampton before heading off to Cornwall. I read the next two during the first half of our roleplaying week. Since so long has gone by, I don't feel like writing a proper review, but I want to at least record the fact that I read them, for future reference.

( Small Change series )

I started my coastal path walk at 16.10 last Saturday, having managed to leave work a little early. I finished on Monday at 15.06 and 30 seconds. Yes, the 30 seconds is important, since I'd spent the last two miles walking as fast as I could, desperately clock-watching as I aimed the 15.08 bus.

( A rather long walk, with pictures )

I must have at least 100 pictures of the Victorian cemetery next to my old workplace. They're all neatly organised in a folder called "cemetery," and a few years ago, I made monthly LJ posts about the flora and fauna of the place.

Today I walked that old route to work for the first time in at least six months. It was unrecognisable! The path I used to take was one of the most overgrown parts of the cemetery. On gloomy days, it had the appearance of a dark forbidding tunnel, where shadowy ruined stone angels lurked in the shadows. The path itself was deeply rutted and very muddy. I had take a longer route throughout the winter months to avoid arriving at work with mud up to my ankles, and even on dry days, I could never walk it after dusk, since the ground was so irregular that I was afraid I'd break my ankle.

Today the path was a broad, smooth path of scattered bark and wood chippings. All the overshadowing trees had gone. Suddenly there were rhodedendrons visible, previously lost in the gloom, and views out of the buildings beyond. The health centre car park next door is transformed, too - no longer enclosed and dark, but seeming twice the size now that it's got a view into the cemetery beyond.

Is is like a totally different place - so different that I found myself struggling to remember exactly how it had looked for all those years I had walked it.

And do I have a single picture of that particular part of the cemetery - the path I walked more than any other path - in my collection of my 100+ pictures?

Of course not!

Moral: photograph everything, just in case it suddenly changes.

During a short break from roleplaying last weekend, Pellinor and I went to nearby Cotehele. This is a medieval manor, much altered in the early Tudor period, and mostly left alone since then. Naturally, since it's a National Trust place, we spent a while drinking tea in a courtyard, but we also explored the manor and the grounds, and Pellinor tried to run away with some wraggle-taggle folk dancers-o.

( Tapestries, chairs and dancers )