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Every Sunday morning, the elderly woman who works at the local newsagent's moans about the weight of my newspaper as she hauls it across the counter to zap with her barcode reader. I'm not exaggerating, she moans about it every single week. She doesn't moan in a friendly, aren't-these-big-newspapers-a-real-nuisance kind of way; she moans as if to admonish me for not choosing a lighter paper.
I think she's in the wrong job.
I became invisible for approximately 45 minutes on Thursday.
I say approximately because I didn't become invisible to myself, only to other people, so it's hard to tell exactly when the invisibility kicked in. It must have been shortly after I collected my trolley and headed into Tesco. The woman on the lottery counter certainly seemed to be able to see me—she didn't show any surprise at all when I asked to collect my winnings (two tenners in a fortnight: my syndicate and I are on a roll!)—but, by the time I had got to the fruit and veg section, I had become the invisible man.
The first sign of my invisibility was when people began cutting in front of me as if I wasn't there. At first, I took this to be common rudeness, but, after a couple of minutes, I became convinced something was up: people were acting as if I wasn't there far more spectacularly than usual: they marched straight at me, stepped right in front of me when I was travelling at speed, and hove their trolleys into my path with all the grace and inertia of oil tankers. Then, as I was heading (rather appropriately) towards the ginger display, a red-headed man cut in front of me and parked his trolley in such a way that it made a 'V' shape with the shelves. He then stood in the opening of the 'V', totally monopolising the ginger. I tried to squeeze round the side of him, but he stepped into my path, looking neither directly at nor directly away from me. I tried sneaking round the other side, but he moved again. So I gently pushed his trolley out the way. The ginger-headed man gaped in open amazement as an invisible force propelled his trolley sideways into the aisle.
But what really brought my invisibility home was when a fat, sweaty woman handbreak-turned her trolley directly into my path, blocking the aisle in front of me. I stared at her in irritation, while she looked straight through me, eyeing-up the chocolate biscuits.
Let's be honest, we've all fantasised about becoming invisible at some point, but have you ever worked out exactly what you would do if you could become invisible for 45 minutes? Me too! But Tesco isn't really the place you had in mind, is it? Me neither. And, thinking about it, I now realise that it probably wasn't me who had become invisible at all; my trolley must have been invisible all the time, and had somehow extended its cloak of invisibility to me. That's a much more rational explanation.
And who wants the 45 minutes of invisibility they've always dreamed about if they have to lug a supermarket trolley around with them as part of the deal?
BBC: Pinter wins Nobel literary prize
Controversial British playwright and campaigner Harold Pinter has won the 2005 Nobel Prize for literature.
No he hasn't: Harold Pinter has been awarded the 2005 Nobel Prize for literature. He did not actively participate in any competition, and was probably oblivious to the fact that he was in the running. To be awarded a Nobel Prize is a great honour; to say that he won it makes it sound as if Pinter sought the prize—which rather cheapens it.
Nice one, Harold!
In celebration of the centenary this year of Albert Einstein's annus mirabilis (for which he should, by rights, have won not one, but three Nobel Prizes), I think it's about time I told you my Einstein joke. It's a fairly significant anniversary for the joke as well: I thought of it 25 years ago this year. I was still at school studying physics, and there had been a lot of programmes on the telly about the 75th anniversary that year of Einstein's annus mirabilis.
So, without further ado, here it is:
The Einstein Joke
Albert Einstein had a brother named Fred, who also dabbled in physics. Being a close relative of Albert's, he had more than a passing interest in Albert's ideas on relativity.
Fred read up on the subject and learnt that, as objects move towards you at close to the speed of light, they appear to be more blue in colour (a phenonmenon known as blue shift), whereas objects moving away from you at close to the speed of light appear more red in colour (a phenomenon known as red shift).
This got Fred thinking: what would objects look like if they moved across your field of vision at close to the speed of light? Would they be red-shifted or blue-shifted?
So Fred took out his slide-rule and his protractor and set to work trying to answer this fascinating question. After many months of calculations, he came to the remarkable conclusion that objects moving across your field of vision at close to the speed of light would appear to have red and blue diagonal stripes running across them. Because this phenomenon was half red shift and half blue shift, Fred decided to name it half shift.
Full of excitement, Fred showed his calculations to his brother. But Albert took one look at them and sadly shook his head:
"Nein, Friedrich," he said (because he was still German in those days), "I am afraid zat you are inkorrect: as any dummkopf knows, light can't half shift."
I thank you.
All joking aside, I'm beginning to think that I really must be in league with the devil. Try this one on for size (apologies in advance, it's a bit convoluted, so I've split it into bullet points—bear with me on this one):
…And, from Hebden Bridge,
Somebody said to me,
"I can't understand a word you say."
He said, "99% of non-smokes die"…
So there you have it: I must be in league with the devil, because my favourite song-writer has made reference to me in a re-worded version of my favourite Fall song—even though he probably doesn't even realise it.
Well, that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.
See also: Fall Heads Roll (photo)
Stense is 'working from home' this week. On Monday, I sent her an email, accusing her of swanning around. This morning, she sent me a text message:
…Got in late last night to yr 'swanning around' email - I had just got in from seeing Swan Lake!
I am in league with the devil.
I met a retired ballerina once. Her name was Dame Margot Fonteyn. She was tiny, graceful and delicate—totally unlike a swan, in fact.
Swans aren't tiny, graceful and delicate; swans are HUGE, LUMBERING BASTARDS. It's common knowledge that they can break a man's arm with a beat of their wings. You wouldn't catch Dame Margot doing that. And, when they're not breaking people's arms, swans are pecking at you with their VISCIOUS beaks. But they don't call them beaks. Oh no, they call them bills. How bloody pretentious is that? When you think about it, swans are nothing more than oversized, dangerous ducks. They might act all innocent, but I half suspect swans actually eat people. They're supposed to live on weeds and gravel and shit off the bottom of ponds, but have you see the size of them? They're SODDING ENORMOUS! They didn't get that size by eating pondweed, I tell you.
Someone should do something.
See also: Bapera
Richard Carter - George Michael Tribute Act
Richard Carter appeared on Stars in their Eyes in March 1999. He proved to be a popular contestant and was well credited for his performance.
Richard's act contains everything from early George Michael hits such as 'Everything She Wants' and 'A Different Corner' and follows his career up to date with his latest hits.
Not wishing to be unkind to my namesake or anything, but I think he looks more like me than he looks like George Michael.
In fact, I think I'd go so far as to say that the resemblance is pretty damn spooky.
There was a scruffy man standing at the entrance to the farmers' market when I popped into town for the papers this morning. He had his hand clapped to his ear, and was talking in a very loud voice—actually it was more like monosyllabic chanting than talking. I assumed that he had a poor reception on his mobile phone. I also assumed that he had a really embarrassing phone, because he seemed to be going to great lengths to conceal it behind the flat of his hand.
It turned out he was a folk singer.
New Scientist letters: Not so Fibonacci
From Ian Stewart Coventry, Warwickshire, UK:
Gael Mariani and Martin Scott perpetuate a series of myths in their letter about Fibonacci numbers in nature (3 September, p 19). It is true that the Fibonacci numbers are associated with a particular kind of spiral - the logarithmic spiral - and they are also closely associated with the "golden number", which is roughly 1.6. And the nautilus shell does have the form of a logarithmic spiral.
Unfortunately the correlation ends there, because there are many different logarithmic spirals. In such spirals the space between consecutive windings grows exponentially at a fixed rate, and this rate can be any positive number. The usual "Fibonacci" spiral has a growth rate of about 6.8 - the fourth power of the golden number - whereas that of the nautilus is about 3, meaning it is too tightly wound to be related to Fibonacci. This growth rate is different in different gastropod species.
The spirals in horns have even less to do with Fibonacci. The connection with elephant tusks is pretty much non-existent. The spirals of galaxies are not even logarithmic. In particular, most have two arms winding from the centre, whereas the logarithmic spiral has a single arm.
The connection between Fibonacci numbers, certain spirals, the golden number and the structure of many plants is genuine and increasingly well understood. Most other alleged occurrences of Fibonacci in nature are bogus.
A great example of people getting carried away by an interesting phenomenon.
Fitz did a great cartoon about Fibonacci spirals in snail shells many years ago. I must ask him if he still has a copy—but only maths anoraks will appreciate it.
Talking of obscure mathematical cartoons, see also: Challenge