Concerns on the implications of frozen pizza

The recent disappearance and sad demise of Joanna Yates has led me to ponder many things, not necessarily directly related to the case.

And speaking of cases, similar ponderings arose following the unusual death of the MI6 agent found dead in a holdall in his own flat.

In the days that followed the disappearance of Joanna Yates one piece of information seemed to be repeated with almost reverance in every report I came across: she had bought a Tesco Finest mozarella cheese, tomato and pesto pizza. Not she had bought a pizza, or a cheese and tomato pizza, but how specific the description always was. Even today in news reports there seems to be an odd focus on the pizza.

As a former (read: failed) journalist, I understand the need for details. I get how your editor wants to know every. single. last. fact. in. detail. I get how if your report of the baby choking death on a tree ornament on Christmas eve covers every detail other than the colour of the bauble, you will be expected to call the grieving parents to ask: was the ball red or green. I'm not sure I understand the need to constantly repeat this detail as if it was some vital piece of information.

But what bothers me now is when after the pub, I stop by Tesco on my way home and buy a pizza. I worry. What if something happens to me. What if I go missing. What if the one piece of information that is constantly repeated about me is that I bought a pepperoni pizza. Not a Tesco Finest pizza. Not a Pizza Express pizza, even though they were on half price, but instead he bought a basic pizza. And a bottle of beer. If I bought more than one bottle, would it be speculated I planned to share the bottles, or just that I had a drink problem? You can end up thinking too much about these things.

As for the "suitcase spy". Yes, he was found dead in a bag in his own flat with no evidence of foul play -- other than that he couldn't have locked himself in a bag. This is an outstanding angle. And there was always going to be salacious or malicious gossip about his sexual preference. But what bothered me was how bad the pictures were of him, in the early days of the investigation.

If you are going to die an unusual death, or go missing in a high profile case (no pun intended) make sure there aren't any embarassing or just plain bad photos of you that might be used in news reports. That photo of you with Y-fronts on your head and pencils up your nose might end up being the one used in all the newspapers. Take the time, get some professional modelling shots done -- just to be on the safe side.

And only buy takeaways that say positive things about you, rather than a 6 pack of special brew and a copy of Razzle.

All through the night, you could hear it in the fog

Image source: http://picasaweb.google.com/Keeches/LogOfFayaway#

All through the night, you could hear it in the fog.

Like the calls of great, strange whales -- deep and mournful -- the horns of the ships were each unique.  Some seemed like they were already aground, bellowing in anger, others much more distant -- sailing through the night to Spain, Scandinavia, and France and calling out to far away travellers.

How far away would a ship have to be before it could no longer be heard?  Do the ice crystals suspended in a fog help a sound travel better, or would it muffle the sound instead?

The cruise liners and the cross-channel ferries and the fishing boats continued their solitary journeys all night, periodically calling and warning with their fog horns.

Long forgotten connection

Not so long ago, I got a "friend request" on Facebook from someone I didn't recognise.  I looked at the face, and I looked at the name, and I puzzled over it.  After a while and some digging through their profile, I finally worked it out -- this girl was my brother's ex-girlfriend.  From about 15 years ago.

I have no idea if my brother still has contact with this girl, but I expect he doesn't -- he isn't big into social networking, has limited contact with people from his past, and has long since moved away from our home town.

I found it more than a little creepy -- I mean, sure, we were quite close once.  When I was 15.  I think everyone drifted apart and found their own lives when my brother and this girl went to seperate universities, and I don't think it's unkind to say I've never really given her that much thought since.  What made it particularly weird for me was seeing that she had already added my parents as friends -- I wanted to tell her not to do that, to leave them in peace, they probably don't know that you aren't obligated to accept every request you receive.

Shunning her request, I thought no more of it.

Skip forward a few weeks or a month or however-long it was.  Another friend request turns up, from a girl named "Kate".  Following directly on from the weekend when I'd been talking to a friend and his fiance -- who is named Kate -- I accepted without thinking.  Then I noticed the little details -- about how our only mutual friends were my family, and I realised I'd accidentally accepted the long-forgotten sibling's ex.  Figuring it would be mean to delete her again, I moved her to Limited Profile so that she'd have restricted access to me and my life.

Seems that wasn't enough, since accepting her request was apparently like saying "please contact me further" and she sent me a long email.  Not much of it stands out, apart from the bit where she mentions having emailed my brother but not got a reply, and how she'd been looking at the photos of his boy.  I still find the whole thing more than a little bit weird.

I'm currently in a dilemma, despite all of the above.  I feel bad for not replying.  I know that I'm slightly offended when my emails go completely ignored, so part of me wants to send something -- however brief and short on details.  But the other part continues to insist that to reply will only encourage her -- and whether deliberate or not, my brother's tactic of not responding might be a better one.

Strike me

Image source: http://76.12.250.57/

In a weird sort of way, I kind of enjoy the Tube strikes in London.

I'm a big fan of changing my routine. Every day, I take the Docklands Light Railway to Bank underground station, and then change to the Northern Line. But every once in a while -- maybe once a week, sometimes not even that -- I will get off the DLR a stop earlier, and instead change trains to go in to Tower Gateway.

Tower Gateway DLR station is separate to Tower Hill Underground station, so there is a short walk involved in the interchange -- but what all this changing of trains business means is that every once in a while I get to walk past the Tower of London. It's humbling to look at this building that has stood for hundreds of years and seen prisoners, kings, queens, plotters, guards and tourists all walk over the same ground.

I read somewhere that only something like 10% of what we see each day is actually being physically "seen", the other 90% our brains just makes up from memory. When you visit somewhere new, there is almost a feeling of exhaustion -- as everything has to be seen afresh and processed.

A change to my journey's routine encourages me to notice and appreciate the things around me.

This morning, with various Tube services suspended and disrupted, I decided not to take a chance on being able to complete my journey in the normal way. Even if the required stations were open, there was a chance of being stuck on an over-crowded platform somewhere, unable to move among a mass of hot and bothered commuters.

Instead, I went overground to Shoreditch. I have nothing but affection for Shoreditch, and it is slightly better first thing in the morning than in the evenings. On a cold November morning, it was still waking up -- it felt like the streets were stretching themselves like a sleepy animal, and that at any moment a door would burst open and a band would stumble out from an all-night recording session, blinking in the light.

I took a turn down a street I'd never been down before, just because it was heading in the right direction and I'd seen other people going the same way. Before too long, I found a brightly painted wall with the word "Scary" and nothing more on it -- professionally, too, not in the style of a grafitti tag. This is something I'd never have found on any normal day.

I could go this way every day, if I was so inclined. But then it would become "normal", and I'd stop really seeing anything.

Musings on space

Do you suppose Astronauts get depressed?

I guess they must do, really. Away for so long from the people they love. Away from the earth. The cold emptiness of space. It must do things to you.

But do you suppose the shuttle arrives at the moon on a Monday morning and the other Astronauts are all like "Neil! Neil! We're at the moon, Neil! Get your space-boots on!"
"I don't feel like it. Leave me alone."
"But it's the moon! We've been in the spacecraft for months! You've waited your whole life for today!"
"I don't care, leave me alone. I want to stay in bed."
"But Neil..."
"I want to be a builder, I've decided."

Lost and Found

I got wondering today about lost property offices.

What if there was an office where everything you had ever lost was being kept? There would be hats, scarves, single gloves, jackets lost in clubs, wallets left on counters in shops. Maybe there would be beliefs or abstract emotions that had fallen by the wayside.

All these things exist in an office, in a room, and wait to be retrieved. But to retrieve anything there is a price. The cost for each item you want to keep is you would have to exchange it for something else, something you would miss. You have to choose which item you would miss more.

Do you want that scarf you were given as a present one winter which you left on a train late at night, two days on? Do you want your favourite jacket that you left on the back of a chair, which you realised was missing, but came back to find it was gone?

Do we value more the things we lose? What if you visit the office and you find these things you had almost pined for were no longer your style?

What if that feeling of confidence you once had and lost you now found feels more like a false bravado?

Maybe you would leave the lost property office with none of the things you missed.