Author: Neil Robinson
Introducing Crazy Hat: Photography and Musings
There is a new place where I will be throwing out content into the internet. I can hear Quinn groaning in anguish. Possibly my other friends could be grumbling too, but with Quinn I am certain of this because he has moaned before.
The site is not yet alive. I am still attaching the bolts, clamps, and sourcing sufficiently powerful batteries to ramp up the voltage required to jolt the beast into life. I’ll let you know when I switch on the juice.
That’s not to say it’s going to be a monster. I’m no Dr Frankenstein.
The site is called Crazy Hat — Photography & Musings, and will feature photography and musings.
Hey Neil! Isn’t that what you already do at Waffle Group?
Um… well… Well, yes.
So, what’s the point?
Quiet you! I spent a whole lot of time working on the site and logo for my aborted photography business, and I didn’t want to completely waste the effort. I made pretty designs that I refuse to allow to go to waste.
Seriously though, writing at Crazy Hat will be more focused and of an editorial nature. Only content that meets a certain level of quality will be allowed, and everything will be edited before going online. Things will be published to a schedule. There are fewer, better considered categories available. This is not the case here at Waffle Group. Things are out of hand here. Things are confused, chaotic, random, inconsistent, and not particularly professional. Crazy Hat will strive for professionalism.
What will become of Waffle Group?
Do not fear for Waffle Group. It will trundle along as it always has. Long rambling waffle will appear from time to time, giving you an account of my day-to-day ongoings. Snapshots will materialise. Rants about cellular service providers, banks, and other evil corporate entities (stay tuned for one about Standard Bank — they have raised my ire). Editorial writing hasn’t been happening here much any way, so you can hardly claim you’ve missed it.
So, in summary — business as usual at Waffle Group. A whole bunch of extra, wonderful stuff over at crazyhat.co.uk ! Score!
Hold tight. Crazy Hat coming — end January 2011
Lengthy Internal Dialogue Externalised, Whereby Decisions are Eventually Made
When I was first trying to figure out what to do with my life, I was very concerned about money. No money equated to death, in my mind. Considering that, perhaps I should have become an investment banker. They seem to make a lot of money even when they are actually losing it. That’s a sure bet if there ever was one. I guess I’m just not enough of a socio-path to feel no guilt at that sort of behaviour.
Instead I pursued a career in engineering. It seemed the pragmatic approach to going about things. It was a vocation useful to society, and one which would eventually yield high economic returns guilt-free (well my 17 year old self imagined it to be free of difficult ethical decisions). I remember researching average income for engineers and found the results to be comforting.
Another consideration was the need to acquire a bursary to support my studies. I sensed some pressure from my father in this respect (not blaming you Dad). There weren’t a lot of bursaries on offer for Bachelor of Fine Arts degrees, but bursaries from industrial and mining companies in South Africa were literally growing on trees (the trees are rather odd in South Africa — also, lions prowl in the streets of Johannesburg which is the real reason for the high murder rate). Both my brothers had been awarded bursaries for their academic results, and my academic results were of a similar standard, so it seemed the bursary was mine for the picking. But the political climate in the country had changed, and those bursary trees in the white sand were looking a little withered. Their bursary leaves curling up and falling from the branches, all crackly and brittle.
The ANC had been unbanned and Nelson Mandela had been elected president of South Africa. My pale male skin was no longer a particular advantage to me, and may even have counted against me. There was great pressure on companies to support and train young black talent. My numerous bursary applications yielded a number of interviews, but no financing for my studies. Realising this, and sensing the pushing he may have made for me to pursue a bursary, my father told me to study whatever I wanted to. “You like writing. Study English, or journalism. Study whatever you enjoy.”
It was too late though. I heard what he told me, but I wasn’t going to let it interfere with the way I’d predefined what my future would hold. I had conclusive proof in my mind that pursuing any career other than engineering would leave me destitute on the street. I’d beg for small change and scraps of stale bread. I’d dig in dustbins to survive. I’d be bad at that. Then I’d die.
My parents weren’t the only ones I chose to ignore. I ignored everyone that told me that a career in writing was the thing I should be doing.
On the last day of high school my English teacher wished me well and said, “Look forward to seeing you in print.”
Every year I won the English prize at school.
I was rejected by AECI for a bursary in Chemical Engineering, and the reason they gave was “Neil wants to be a writer.”
People working at a chemical factory had a better idea about what I should be doing than I did. I look back at it now, and I want to go and smack my 17-year-old self about the back of his head, and shout, “Look! Look! It’s staring you in the face you bleeding idiot!”
I also created a myth. The myth of doing something one really enjoys to earn money would ruin the love and enjoyment of the activity. Thus writing for a living is something I could never really contemplate, because that would destroy my ability to gain any satisfaction from the activity itself. Broken logic to protect myself from disappointment. I saw myself as a writer, but if I tested this hypothesis and failed to make a living from writing, what would I be?
It’s time to test the hypothesis.
It’s been a long arduous journey to break down the fear that paralysed me. Quitting work in South Africa during a recession, and moving to the haemorrhaging UK economy can hardly be described as “wise.” It has shaken the risk and fear perceptions I’ve held. It’s teaching me to fight.
It’s stupid to fight for something one doesn’t want. For a short while here in the UK I tried to make a professional photographer of myself. This would have been a great idea had I been taking photographs for pleasure all my life, but I haven’t. I felt I could monetise it faster than I could writing, and maybe that’s true, but so what? It will be a fight to get a photography business going. A war even. I’m not going to fight a war I don’t believe in.
Short fiction, longer fiction (Commitmentman? That would be hilarious if I were to make my fortune off that!) freelance article writer. I’m researching journalism courses in Scotland, and have a couple of prospects that I’ll apply to. I’ll also apply for unpaid internships or whatever I can get at publications in the area, in order to get some journalism experience.
However this works out, there is one thing I’m certain of. I’ll be writing about it.
Floods and the Question of Whose Human Suffering is More Newsworthy
You might have heard a lot about some flooding going on in Australia at the moment.
You might not have heard as much about similar flooding going on in Sri Lanka and Brazil. I know I haven’t. I wonder why that might be?
I made simple chart, using the Google Hits metric de facto standard, to assess interest in the various stories. Number of hits in the last day is on the primary Y-axis, while reported deaths from the different floods is plotted against the secondary Y-axis.
There are a greater number of reported deaths in Brazil as a result of flooding, but disproportionately little interest when compared to the flooding in Australia. I’d like to think this is just a symptom of the lack of English-speaking journalists present in Brazil at the moment, and my inability to repeat this little experiment in Portuguese. Sri Lanka is an English-speaking country though, so that excuse doesn’t pan out so conveniently.
Hoping for other explanations for the focus on Australia, I tried searching for “area affected” and “economic damage,” but I didn’t get much joy out of that. No info on areas impacted, and estimates on the economic damage for only the Australian flooding.
With no real reporting on those aspects that would make the Australian story bigger, I’m left scratching my head. Surely it can’t be that the pain and suffering of Caucasian people is of greater concern, their stories more interesting, and their lives more valuable? Surely it isn’t that?
Nope. Probably just more Australian bloggers than Brazilian ones, or something totally banal like that.
—
Sources for death toll figures:
Australia: Reuters
Sri Lanka: Washington Post
Brazil: Reuters
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Tribute to Kelty Dog
Kelty Dog has passed from this realm of existence. He’s moved on to wherever it is that Goose-Chasing-Stinky-Stonky-Peat-Bog-Dogs go.
Kelty, we shall miss your sock-chewing ways and biscuit-begging dances. We shall miss your silky fluffy-fatness and your grumpy-growl when we moved you from a comfy spot. Rest in Peace.
The Frost Came
The frost came to Edinburgh. I took Jethro to the library and we crispy-crunched slippy-slid our way along the pavements. I spotted this frosted autumn leaf in a frosty shrubbery.
Took a snap. Didn’t quite come out the way I hoped and the other pics, illustrating the expanse of frostiness across the shrubbery, just looked terrible.
Still we have a frozen leaf in the shade. Cold and sombre-looking, with some vaguely cheerful berries spotting the image.
Winter is coming. I wonder what the snow will be like.
The Leaf Family
A most curious family I met on my travels around Edinburgh. Falling all about most of the time, they managed to gather themselves up for a few photographs.
Costa: 100% Rainforest
Well not really. 100% Rainforest Alliance Approved or something like that, but it all comes down to perspective doesn’t it?
Also — what’s with the fake wooden slats on the table? You can’t really see from the photo, but the wooden slats on the table are actually stickers. It’s a solid table surface made to look as if it is made from wooden slats, optical illusion style. Except when I look down through the slats, I don’t see my legs under the table so it isn’t very convincing.
Bean Serving her Second Month of Incarceration
The New Life — A Review
We’ve been living in Edinburgh for about two and a half months now, which is enough time to get halfway settled, and certainly enough time for some spection.
Spection isn’t a word. Retrospection; introspection; inspection; but no spection. The closest seems to be Spectioneer, or Specksioneer. This is “the chief harpooner, who also directs in cutting up the speck, or blubber; — so called among whalers.”
Cutting through the blubber of my experiences. Feels like a strangely appropriate metaphor.
A Brief Summary of Things
We’re living in Edinburgh. We found affordable (at the moment) shelter. It has the things we need, like beds, an oven, refrigerator, TV, heating, hot water. It’s in a decent area.
We have public transport. We can get around the city as we need to. Haven’t had any real need for a private vehicle so far (although missing buses can sometimes be a drag).
We found Jethro a nursery to meet other children. He goes three times a week for 5 hours. We’d send him more but it costs a lot.
That’s all the blubber cut up, which leaves me with the mess of a vivisected whale. And the mess is this…
Underemployment
Disclaimer: I am predisposed to melodrama. Vivisected whale metaphors included.
I also feel that tweeting has done my writing of lengthier, thoughtful pieces, a disservice.
Underemployment is arguably better than unemployment, but both are a rocket-harpoon to the belly of your ego. The ego doesn’t really survive being disembowelled, so instead it is reincarnated into some other form. My current place of underemployment is at a telephone call centre, as a market research telephone interviewer. Good thing I spent all those years of pain getting that Chemical Engineering degree under my belt!
It’s a job that is less terrible than one might imagine, and really makes me wonder why I bothered educating myself at all. It’s straightforward work. It isn’t stressful (once you get some experience). And you get a broad range of interaction with the human condition — a fascinating and often hilarious sample of the world of people out there. It really can be quite entertaining. The work isn’t exhausting either, leaving me some energy for more creative pursuits. At least, I’d have more energy if I didn’t have to match a 2-year-old’s endless supply. Two-year-olds are the solution to our fossil-fuel economy, if only we can find an efficient way to harness them as a power source.
All I needed to do was kill my Chemical Engineer self, and replace it with a more humble accepting self. One that had lower expectations. Or perhaps the humble one was there all along, getting trampled on and being ignored. Not exactly suicide, but some sort of psychological insurrection is running its course within me. I’m hoping to limit the collateral damage.
I’m not the only underemployed one in my household. Angie is struggling with some underemployment issues herself. Considering her epic CV, this is really a bit of a mystery. The recruitment agents keep putting her name forward for jobs. The insane employers keep not employing her. It’s not really a total mystery. We have our suspicions about the problem, but all I’ll say is this: The Nazis had an over-developed sense of nationalism.
I know about Godwin’s Law. I don’t care.
It’s not all a pool of bloody water and disembowelled Cetaceans
Well it is in the whaling nations, but not so much in Edinburgh.
There are good things, so I probably should try to bring some balance to this woeful account of my woeful woes.
Light-hearted musings
Pavements: They have them here in the UK because the powers that be aren’t entirely taken by surprise by the fact that one may want to walk from point A to point B. I note this because of the stark contrast to South Africa. In South Africa the municipality seems to believe that it’s only worthwhile building pavements for the rich people, and since the rich people drive everywhere, they don’t bother laying too many pavements.
In the UK a huge amount of consideration goes into how a pedestrian might get access to something. While doing maintenance on the road, the builders are likely to close off massive stretches of road to vehicular traffic, in order to ensure that pedestrians can still walk safely. Brightly coloured barriers guide us safely along.
I’ve noticed less jay-walking in Edinburgh, than I experienced in South Africa, but the reason isn’t what you might expect. British people are just as inclined to jay-walk as any one else in South Africa would be, but in South Africa the powers that be have more important things to worry about. In Edinburgh the city council puts up all manner of barriers along the road to discourage people crossing the roads at convenient places. People sort of bounce off the barriers in a confused manner, and slowly shuffle their puzzled sheeple bodies over to the pedestrian crossing points. Keeping us all safe from ourselves, as any good nanny-state should.
Dog-fouling: The thing about having pavements is that dogs can crap on them. This can cause quite a bit of consternation, with dire warnings posted everywhere regarding the terrible financial consequences of allowing your dog to foul the verges and pavements.
The £100 fines don’t deter every dog owner, as I frequently discover that my shoes have become malodorous due to a misstep of mine. Perhaps those were stray dogs?
Silly rules about alcohol: South Africa certainly had stupid rules about the sale of alcohol. Only licensed liquor stores can sell all types of alcohol, but not on a Sunday after a randomly chosen time. Supermarkets are only allowed to sell wine. Licensed restaurants can sell any type of alcohol at any time, including on Sundays when the retail places have to close their doors.
It’s sort of nuts in Edinburgh too, but there are extra levels of complexity that are, frankly, incomprehensible to me at the moment.
Supermarkets sell wine and malt, but the licensing in the restaurants is weird. We tried going out with Jethro in tow on a Sunday evening and were turned away from several pubs because of the child — but for different reasons. At one establishment, Jethro got us barred because he was under the age of five and the restaurant/bar didn’t have small child facilities. At the next place, we were barred because children weren’t allowed after 5pm, and at the place where we finally stopped, we were barred because children weren’t allowed on the premises at all.
How is it that we stopped where children were not allowed on the premises? Jethro was asleep in his pram, so we sat on the edge of the pub’s property, and placed Jethro on the other side of an imaginary line which marked the boundary between the pub property and the neighbouring property.
Comparison of the air: The air in Edinburgh is cleaner than it is in Johannesburg. Evidence, other than the fact that one cannot see the air in Edinburgh (while this is possible during winter in Jozie), is that my asthma is gone. Perhaps the lower altitude, and consequential higher concentrations of oxygen are helping me out there too.
The air is colder though. It’s October now, and the frosty chill in the atmosphere is getting noticeable and I know it is only a an aperitif before the main course of winter. I’m going to miss the African summer, methinks.
Walking around at night: People do this in Edinburgh. People do this in Johannesburg. Life expectancies are vastly different between those two populations of nightwalkers. Not saying I haven’t come across some dodgy folk on my night adventures around Edinburgh. Just saying that I haven’t taken any extensive nightwalking samples in Johannesburg.
Public transport: I’ve been using the buses in Edinburgh, and they are excellent (except the No.10 which generates a disturbing resonance when the engine idles, causing my brain to rapidly oscillate around inside my skull, bashing the sides and making me feel quite nauseous). They have a different approach to service than the South African mini-bus taxis.
- Buses in Edinburgh stop at the designated stops. South African mini-buses stop anywhere the customer is or wants to be.
- Buses in Edinburgh adhere to passenger capacity limits. South African mini-buses ignore passenger capacity limits.
- Buses in Edinburgh leave a stop once the passengers waiting get on. South African mini-buses leave the stop when the mini-bus is full.
- Buses in Edinburgh have their drivers intimidated by antisocial passengers. South African mini-buses have their passengers intimidated by antisocial drivers.
- Buses in Edinburgh have bus lanes reserved for them. South African mini-buses have to reserve normal or emergency lanes for themselves.
I think both parties could learn something from the other one.
In Conclusion
I think I need to meditate more on patient acceptance.
The Waffle Group 