Euler's thing

My father told me that, between them, he and his brother could answer any question. Whenever I asked him a question, eg, What is the capital of Peru, he would reply "Ah, that's one my brother knows."

For those of you who have been trembling with frustration, here is Euler's famous equation, or, more properly, formula:


If you want to know what it means, well, erm, that's one my brother knows.

Bach's Organ Works.

Think Yamaha. Think keyboard, Think digital. My goodness, what an organ my daughter has. It is awesome: a zillion rhythms, including even 5/4 time (I wish you could hear my fragmented 5/4 version of "My Favourite Things", the musical equivalent of a motorway pileup. My next project is to do Bach's Toccata and Fugue in the same time signature - that should get old Johann Sebastian turning in his urn); and a trillion voices, including a breathy tenor saxophone that is pure Stan Getz, and a jazz guitar that is pure Django.
I WANT ONE. I want an organ that does justice to my talent. Or one that at least covers up my lack of it.

An arresting thought

I am very concerned about American security, and indeed about my own, but I don't know what to do about it.

My concern arises from the fact that on SIX occasions in the last two years, Immigration Control has taken my fingerprints and scanned my eyeballs. In fact it is SEVEN times, because on this latest trip, they did me at JFK on the way in, and at O'Hare on the way out. This means that they have multiple images of me and my bits in various places on their computers.

If one day, someone decides to collate all the records, they will find SEVEN of me and immediately put 2 and 2 together and make, well, 7. Don't misunderstand me, the uniformed gents and gentesses at Immigration Control are always a model of courtesy and helpfulness, but, mein Gott, one day they might regret letting SEVEN of me into the country.

What is their equivalent of a fatwa?

I hate the idea of G-Men descending on me as I stand at the water's edge with my grandchildren feeding bad bread to the ducks in the park, accusing me of goodness knows what heinous unAmerican offences, like feeding bad bread to American ducks in the park, and whisking me away - oh the shame of it - while my grandchildren look on thinking "You know, there always WAS something odd about Grandpa."

Am I worrying unnecessarily? Only time will tell, but I am seriously thinking of changing my name to something anodyne like Gorbachev.

Trouble is, eyeballs and fingerprints never lie. They have got me by the short and curlies and no mistake.

Mountain Plover

Well, here it is. The ones I saw weren't as well marked as this one (this one is in breeding plumage). An elusive bird, most people only see them when they come down to the lowlands for the winter, which is where I saw them. Even in dull winter garb, the eyebrow is noticeable.

Now, if it doesn't make your pulse race, I do understand. It's just that at my stage of the game, any little excitement is welcome.

And if I get melancholy back here in the Fens, I can always go and contemplate my neighbour's compost heap.

You say tomayto and I say tomahto

Ah well, it was bound to happen. You go away and bingo! you're back. I thought that 45 days would last at least 6 weeks, but something speeded them up. Bloody Einstein messing with time perhaps, I don't know. All I know is that, in no time at all as it were, tomaytoes turned back into tomahtoes, hoods and trunks became bonnets and boots again, cilantro coriander, eggplant aubergine, and, well, you get the picture.
Six weeks with the Munchkins has left me dazed but happy. Already I miss the hugs and the games and the runny noses. Kids are cute, but only to their parents and grandparents, so I won't gush. Just a line from each one to give you the flavour of the wonderful parallel universe they inhabit:

Kiki
In response to ANYTHING AT ALL that I said: "I already knew that, Grandpa" I tried quoting Euler's equation to her (you know, the one that incorporates 1, 0, pi, e and i) and waited less than a second: "I knew that already, Grandpa." (Check out the wicked grin)

Harry
"I want a boiled head."
"You mean a boiled egg."
"No, I want a boiled head."
(Check out the wicked grin)

Sophie
"That's my cousin."
This was her reaction to every primate we saw in San Diego Zoo.
(Check out the wicked grin).

Ten things that I loved about San Diego
1 The weather
2 The Zoo and the Wild Animal Park (Photo above taken at the latter)
3 Balboa Park
4 The birds
5 San Diegans' openness, smiles, friendliness
6 The crusty bread from the local deli
7 The buxom Mexican ladies working in the local supermarket
8 Breakfast at Zanzibar and the Big Kitchen
9 The canyons and the sea
10 Chicken piccata at Pizza Nova in Hillcrest.

Ten reasons to be happy I am back in Haddenham
1 My house and especially my marshmallow bed
2 Broadband (Sorry, Sarah, but dialup sucks)
3 Food (no disrespect to American food, but..)
4-10 er, sorry, can't think of anything else

The stack of mail awaiting me on my return contained the usual dreary bills - telephone, electricity ( HOW MUCH???) and tax demands. The Income Tax demand is intriguing. In fact they have not sent me a bill, but only a letter telling me that if I don't pay by 31 January, they will send round the heavy mob to beat the sh.. out of me, and maybe follow that up with a fatwa and a murrain on my cattle. So, I have to pay an unspecified amount by a specified date. Cunning, that.
Thank goodness I also had a stack of Christmas cards to open (What do you do about the people to whom you didn't send a card, but who have sent a card to you? What do you do about the miserable people to whom you DID send a card, but who did not send a card to you? Problems, problems).
Last Thursday, it seems, there were 100 mph winds. They blew my fence down, so now I can see my neighbour's dustbins and compost heap without climbing a ladder. There's always something, isn't there?

Toujours la Politesse

Of course we teach our children to be polite, to say please and thank you, but it rebounded on me this morning. At the breakfast table, I said to Kiki: "Let me pour you some milk."
She replied, solemnly: "Say it properly, Grandpa."
So I asked "Please may I pour you some milk, Kiki?"
"Yes, Grandpa, you may," she replied with regal solemnity.

It's not easy being a Grandpa.

Another example. I was playing "I Spy" with Sophie, and it was her turn. She came up with: "I spy with my little eye something beginning with W I T C."
I couldn't crack this one and gave up.
"Where Is The Cat," said Sophie triumphantly.

I think I am going to take up something easier, like Quantum Mechanics.

Happy New Year, and how!

I am using dialup, which is like walking through treacle, so forgive me if it's a short note. The munchkins go back to school next week, so I hope to do a bit of shameless birding, trying to bump up my American list. I got a lifer last Thursday (grandpa's day off): Mountain Plover, a flock of about 60 wintering on fields below the Salton Sea in Imperial County. If I could I'd post a picture.
Great fun, of course, with the children, and a few munchkin gems. My favourite was a comment from Sophie:
"When Grandpa eats icecream, he gets all girlish and giggly."
Who me?
Love and stuff.