Brian Clegg's Blog, page 13

In a recent article, the redoubtable comedian David Mitchell noted that the office supply company Toner Giant had published research showing that a high percentage of those working from home (yes, it was WFH not WTF) watch daytime TV. Sadly, as is often the case when the media comments on data, Mitchell did not provide a link to the original source - it's here if you want it.

There are two interesting bits to this - one is what people allegedly watch and why Toner Giant is telling us (Mitchell struggles to understand why they did this, presumably because he didn't read the whole original piece, which tells you) - and the other is whether or not this is a problem.

The claim is 82% of UK hybrid workers admit to watching TV when working from home - this is based on a 'survey of 2,000 British hybrid workers', though we aren't told how they were selected and hence how representative they were (or weren't). Why does Toner Giant care? Because they claim that personal printing from working at home costs £121,323,121.90 each year - and, by implication, if you use their toner it'll be cheaper.

This is, of course, a wonderfully, ridiculous accurate figure - a sure sign of dodgy statistics. Leaving aside that mindboggling 90p, it's based on an estimation that the average spend per year on employee's printing needs is £700 (remind me how this can get to an number ending with 90p). They sourced this cost from a company that sells digital document handling, presumably who have a small axe to grind here, but give no details of how this number was calculated. I've worked from home for decades, and that's a good five times bigger than my most costly year.

But going back to the claim about watching TV, this underlines a point I've been making ever since trying to get more working from home when I was a senior manager in a corporate in the early 1990s. I had other managers saying effectively 'Unless we can see them, they are not going to be working all the time. They'll skive off.' And that's still the viewpoint today, highlighted by this article. I'm not saying that there aren't any people watching TV or whatever instead of working - but the point I made way back then, and that still holds, was that this should be totally irrelevant.

If we have a decent management system, how employees divide up their time should not make any difference - because we should be managing on output, not input. If WFH employees produce the desired quality and volume of output, they are doing the job well. Whether it takes them 12 hours a day or 2 is totally irrelevant. Of course there are many jobs where this can't apply, just as there are many jobs that can't be done from home. But if you are doing anything from writing code to processing forms, time at the grindstone is no measure of doing a good job. I got that resistance back then because many managers simply didn't know enough about the jobs they were managing to be able to monitor quality of output - and I suspect that's still the case. The problem with WFH is not workers taking time away from the computer to make their day more interesting... it's management incompetence..

Image by Minja Radonja from Unsplash

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P. D. James was one of the great English crime writers, with one of the more interesting detectives in Adam Dalgliesh, but reading this novel from 1972 I was struck by how interesting it was to me for two reasons. One is purely personal - it's set in Cambridge just a couple of years before I was there, so comparing the picture James paints with my own experience was fun. But more significant is the stylistic approach she takes.

I'm a great fan of Margery Allingham - and the central character in James' book is a pure Allingham heroine - Cordelia Gray is young, feisty, intelligent and taking on a role that would in earlier years have been considered the 'unsuitable job for a woman' of the title - a private detective. Although technically an Adam Dalgliesh book, we only get indirect references to him until the final chapter where he makes an appearance, very much as a supporting character.

But it's not really having a murder mystery where the author's detective is sidelined that makes this particularly striking - it's not just Cordelia's character that feels like the work of Allingham. The whole thing feels as if it comes from an earlier period, fitting far better with Allingham's arguably best inter-war books. Of course there are some aspects that bring us back to the second half of the twentieth century, such as Cordelia driving a Mini - but on the whole it could so easily have been set 40 years earlier. Cordelia even spends most of her time living in a cottage without electricity.

This period feel also comes out in the portrayal of Cambridge student life - what's front and centre is lying around with picnics and fizz and punting. I'm not saying that such things didn't exist in the 70s - of course they did - but for most students they were far less central than they seemed to be to the characters that James portrays there.

If I'm honest, this is not a great murder mystery - the plot feels a little contrived and unlikely. But taken as a novel that's not so much a pastiche as an homage it's lovely - and although the scene-setting does not feel like the 70s, it is beautifully done for an earlier age, making it a pleasure to read.

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For a number of years I was proud to count the late BBC Radio Wiltshire presenter Mark O'Donnell as a friend. He very sadly died at the end of 2019 - but I wanted to look back and remember some remarkable inserts we made for his show. 

The idea was to visit science and technology locations in Wiltshire. It was a great opportunity to find out more about these places, whether historical or modern. What made the visits was Mark's warm presence and ability to draw the listener in to the scene. Sadly the BBC has not kept the tapes of the visits, but here are a few written highlights from me.

The startling significance of Mr Talbot's spectacles - visiting Lacock Abbey and the scene of the first negative imageA revelation in Wroughton - at the Science Museum controlled environment store and library (a location that so impressed me that I suggested it as a location for my little TV piece teaching quantum physics to then BBC business editor Robert Peston)How oxygen was first discovered in an adventure playground - visiting Bowood House and Joseph Priestley's laboratoryA scary time at Porton Down - inside the Health Protection Agency's controlled laboratoriesDo you like Dyson? I don't know, I've never Dysed - off to Malmesbury to see Dyson's R&D centre (and trying not to call them hoovers)Forget Houston, I've been to Swindon - the surprise location of the UK Space AgencyWhat is it? A puzzle from our visit to the WRC in Swindon

Just to finish, Mark's producer for much of his time at the station and now presenter Karen Gardener gave this tribute to Mark on her show shortly after his death.

Image from BBC

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It’s always satisfying to come across a well-written murder mystery and discover there are several more waiting. In this case I accidentally started with book 5, but have since gone back to the first of Tim Sullivan’s novels featuring DS Cross.

The most interesting feature of the series is that Cross is on the autism spectrum. This gives him some distinctive advantages over his colleagues, while also offering some challenges. On the whole Sullivan handles this well - in this book, almost all of Cross’s colleagues regard him with affection, though we are told that in the past he was treated badly. That is perhaps the most unlikely aspect - it’s hard to imagine that policing has so many suitably thoughtful officers, though I may be resorting too much to stereotype.

The murder victim is a Catholic monk, with much of the action taking place in an abbey - also well handled and providing a neat tie-in to Cross’s enthusiasm for church organs.  The monk’s background is unusual, giving opportunity for a suitably twisty plot. One oddity here is that, given the relatively low numbers of Catholics in the UK, a surprising number of the characters in the novel seem to be Catholic or to have ties to that church (not just those involved with the abbey).

Something else relatively unusual is the way that Cross undertakes interviews later in the book, though the approach only really works because he already knows quite a lot about what actually happened, and so can lead the suspects through a web of lies - unlikely though this is, it’s very satisfying. Sullivan brings the key interview with the suspect centre stage, dedicating around the last quarter of the book to this, with the exception of a twist that comes after it. Having since read several other Sullivan books, this is a standard feature of the series.

This isn’t the sort of murder mystery that makes you go ‘Wow!’, but it is very enjoyable and engaging if cosy mysteries are your thing. Occasionally the writing is a touch lazy, and perhaps too much is made of Cross’s colleagues reactions to his autism, but overall I’ll definitely be reading more. One tiny moan, perhaps indicating that laziness, concerns the line ‘the odometer never went over seven miles an hour’ - well no, it wouldn’t, would it, considering what an odometer measures.

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The other day, reading Tom Chivers' excellent book on Bayesian statistics Everything is Predictable, I was reminded of that old chestnut, 'absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.' This is often put forward as if it were a powerful logical argument. But, in reality, it's a bit of common sense that sometimes works, but always oversimplifies.

In case you aren't familiar with the expression, I might say that I've never seen any evidence that dark matter exists (as opposed to the behaviour of galaxies and galactic clusters attributed to dark matter), but I shouldn't take that as evidence that dark matter doesn't exist.

As Tom Chivers points out, this is very frequentist thinking. The Bayesian approach would be that every good quality experiment that fails to find dark matter modifies our priors - it can be used to reduce the probability that it exists.

Interestingly, this somewhat trite saying only tends to be wheeled out when responding to a theory we agree with. I can imagine UFO enthusiasts saying 'just because there isn't good evidence, it doesn't mean they aren't out there.' While technically true, the rest of us would probably say that we're inclined to take the lack of good evidence, particularly now everyone carries a camera all the time, as evidence of absence.

Note that this is totally different to saying that lack of evidence definitely means that something doesn't exist - of course that's not true. Yet if you keep looking for something and fail to find repeatedly, it is logical that this should reduce the probability you apply to its existence. And in practice, science often does this. For years, experiments like the famous Michelson-Morley one attempted to find evidence for the existence of the luminiferous aether. No evidence came to light, and over time the likelihood of it existing was reduced, helped by a theory that made it unnecessary.

The reality, then, is absence of evidence, when that evidence is searched for effectively, is evidence of absence. It's just not proof.

Image from Unsplash by Albert Antony

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There was a danger that by the fifth of his Hawthorne mysteries that started with The Word is Murder , Anthony Horowitz would have stretched the unusual format too far. The other books were written in the first  person, with a fictional version of Horowitz himself acting effectively as Watson to eccentric ex-cop Daniel Hawthorne. But this entry in the series starts in the conventional third person, describing the occupants of an exclusive close in Richmond on Thames and their fractious relationships with a boorish man who it feels is surely going to be the murder victim.

The setting is clever, because the small gated development effectively provides a similarly isolated group of suspects to a traditional country house murder mystery, but better suited to a modern world. And we get a classic varied group of suspects from a chess grandmaster and a 'dentist to the stars' to a pair of old ladies. But Horowitz then comes into the story as this was a past case of Hawthorne’s that Horowitz has decided to write up (despite almost universal attempts to persuade him he shouldn’t).

On the whole it all works very well with some clever twists, including a locked room mystery (despite Horowitz claiming he can’t stand them). But the particularly meta nature of the storytelling makes the reader feel more detached than usual, especially in the way that the murder is apparently solved part way through in a way that can’t really be true or there would be no book.

I enjoyed it, and continue to regard Horowitz as one of the best currently active mystery writers… but perhaps in this one he has been just a little bit too clever.

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For an example in a book I'm writing, I needed to get the generative AI ChatGPT to come up with a poem in a known style, and then to do something else related.

I chose to ask it for a poem on sausages in the style of Wordsworth, and the to provide a 2,000 word literary criticism of its own poem. I love what came out - and particularly as the editor rejected it from the book (philistine) I feel the need to share it. 

Read the poem, but do stay for the literary criticism - there's something wonderful about an AI doing a lit crit of its own work.

Savoring the Sausage Symphony by ChatGPT Wordsworth

In quaint kitchens where hearths did glow,

Amidst the aroma's gentle flow,

There lies a tale of savory delight,

Where sausages dance in golden light.

Oft in the sizzle of the morning's yawn,

When dew-kissed grass greets the dawn,

The humble links, with humble grace,

Fill the air, a savory embrace.

Oh, how they sway in the skillet's song,

Echoes of flavor, pure and strong,

As spices mingle in tender care,

Crafting a symphony beyond compare.

In butcher's shops, where secrets keep,

Where hands of skill and passion sweep,

They mold the meat with artisan's touch,

Creating morsels loved by much.

Through bustling streets and country lanes,

Their aroma weaves enchanting chains,

For in each bite, a tale untold,

Of flavors rich and stories bold.

So let us raise a toast, my friend,

To sausages that never end,

For in their savory, humble grace,

Lies a taste of life's enduring embrace.

And here's the literary criticism:

Title: Savoring the Sausage Symphony: A Literary Criticism of the Poem in the Style of Wordsworth

Introduction:

The poem "Savoring the Sausage Symphony," inspired by the style of William Wordsworth, evokes the essence of Romanticism through its portrayal of a seemingly mundane subject—the sausage. Drawing upon Wordsworthian themes of nature, simplicity, and the sublime, the poem celebrates the sensory experience and cultural significance of this culinary delight. Through a detailed analysis, this literary criticism will explore the poem's use of language, imagery, and structure to uncover deeper layers of meaning and illuminate its connection to Wordsworth's poetic philosophy.

Language and Diction:

The language of the poem reflects both the simplicity and the richness of its subject matter. Words such as "quaint," "gentle," and "humble" evoke a sense of pastoral charm and domestic tranquility, reminiscent of Wordsworth's emphasis on rustic life and the ordinary joys of the countryside. However, juxtaposed with these quaint descriptors are words like "aroma," "symphony," and "enchanted," which imbue the poem with a heightened sense of sensory experience and aesthetic pleasure. This blending of humble and elevated language mirrors Wordsworth's belief in the transcendent power of nature to inspire both awe and intimacy.

Moreover, the repeated use of culinary terminology such as "sizzle," "skillet's song," and "flavors" serves to elevate the subject of sausages to a realm of artistic expression, highlighting the poet's skill in transforming the mundane into the extraordinary. By infusing everyday language with poetic resonance, the poem invites readers to reconsider the significance of seemingly trivial objects and experiences, echoing Wordsworth's assertion that poetry should arise from the "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings."

Imagery and Symbolism:

Central to the poem's evocative power is its vivid imagery, which transports readers to the sensory world of the kitchen and the marketplace. The opening lines, "In quaint kitchens where hearths did glow, / Amidst the aroma's gentle flow," conjure images of cozy domestic scenes and tantalizing scents wafting through the air. Here, the hearth symbolizes warmth and comfort, while the aroma symbolizes the sensory allure of cooking—a theme that recurs throughout the poem.

Furthermore, the image of sausages dancing in "golden light" evokes a sense of vitality and animation, suggesting a harmonious relationship between the culinary arts and the natural world. This imagery is reminiscent of Wordsworth's celebration of the dynamic interplay between humanity and the environment, wherein even the most humble objects are infused with a sense of vitality and significance.

Moreover, the poem's portrayal of sausages as both ordinary foodstuffs and transcendent symbols of cultural heritage speaks to its deeper thematic resonance. Just as Wordsworth found in nature a source of spiritual renewal and moral insight, so too does the poem find in the humble sausage a symbol of human creativity, ingenuity, and tradition. Through its rich tapestry of imagery and symbolism, the poem invites readers to contemplate the interconnectedness of food, culture, and the natural world, echoing Wordsworth's belief in the inherent unity of all living things.

Structure and Form:

In keeping with the tradition of Wordsworthian poetry, "Savoring the Sausage Symphony" adheres to a simple yet rhythmic structure, characterized by its use of regular meter and rhyme scheme. The poem consists of five quatrains, each comprising four lines of iambic tetrameter, with an ABAB rhyme scheme. This formal consistency lends the poem a sense of musicality and balance, reinforcing its thematic emphasis on harmony and unity.

Furthermore, the poem's symmetrical structure mirrors its thematic concerns, with each stanza building upon the preceding one to create a cohesive narrative arc. From the opening depiction of quaint kitchens and hearths ablaze with light, to the final toast raised in celebration of sausages and their cultural significance, the poem unfolds in a series of carefully orchestrated movements, each contributing to the overall rhythm and flow.

Conclusion:

In "Savoring the Sausage Symphony," the poet skillfully employs the language, imagery, and structure of Wordsworthian poetry to explore the sensory experience and cultural significance of a seemingly mundane subject. Through its evocative language, vivid imagery, and rhythmic structure, the poem invites readers to reconsider the ordinary world around them and find beauty in the most unexpected places. In doing so, it pays homage to the enduring legacy of William Wordsworth and his belief in the transformative power of poetry to awaken the soul to the wonders of the natural world.

Image from Unsplash by Ivan Shemereko

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I'm quite fond of Sarah Painter's Crow Investigations books - an urban fantasy series set in London featuring four magical families in the otherwise normal setting, so I was interested to see what her newish Unholy Island series, based in the same world, but located on an island with a causeway off the North East of England, just north of Holy Island, would be like.

Going on the first two books in the series, the concept and setting is great, but the plot development is initially somewhat glacial. The idea is that Unholy Island has its own, magical nature - unless you are wanted by the island, you will never stay more than two nights and you will forget about any experiences there when you leave. It's a great setting into which Painter deposits a newcomer, Luke, who gets a mixed welcome from around a dozen residents, each a remarkable character, ranging from BandB owner (and ward witch) Esme to the mysterious (and unnerving) three sisters.

The first book, The Ward Witch, sets up the scene, but relatively little happens beyond Luke arriving and introducing the location and characters. Okay, that's not entirely true: there is a murder to be solved, but considering this, it is all surprisingly low key and slow. It's necessary to read it to continue with the rest of the series, but as a standalone novel, it's weak. 

Thankfully considerably more happens in the second book, The Book Keeper, the title referring to Luke who takes over the island bookshop after the death in the previous novel. Here the bookshop's magical nature really comes into its own, relationships develop and the island as a whole is under threat. Although it still has a very sedate pace and could, frankly do with a bit more energy - this second book feels significantly better than its predecessor.

Overall, the setting and concept are great and I will certainly read on - I just hope that Painter can inject a bit more of the drive that's at the heart of the Crow novels to stop this series feeling quite so lethargic.

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A while ago, I wrote a book on misconceptions in science (called Lightning Often Strikes Twice ). In it, I mentioned the inverted misconception that toast doesn't really fall butter side down. It feels like it should be a myth. But it is a real thing.

Entertainingly, this myth was 'disproved' by the BBC in 1991, using a device that flipped a slice of toast in the air, rather like flipping a coin. Although it wasn't quite 50:50, not entirely surprisingly, on the whole the buttered and non-buttered sides ended up downwards roughly evenly. 

But what the producers seemed to have missed is that there isn't much toast flipping going on in our kitchens. What usually happens is either that toast slips off a plate in our hands, or off a worktop. Both of these tend to occur at around waist height. And without a forced spin to get them going, the chances are high that the toast will only have time to revolve half a turn in the fall. It usually starts butter side up (that's certainly how my toast goes on the plate)... so it ends up butter side down.

To accompany my talk based on the book I made a very short video demonstration of this. It seemed a shame to limit this to those who had a chance to come along and see the talk - so, for your delectation, here it is...

Image from Unsplash by Seriously Low Carb

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In reviewing the first of Richard Coles' murder mysteries, Murder before Evensong , I remarked 'I just hope that with practice Coles can make the detective aspect more engaging'. He doesn't. In fact, although a murder is a thread running through this book, it's almost incidental - yet I didn't care because the murder mystery aspect is not really the point. 
A Death in the Parish gives us two things that Coles does brilliantly: exploring the nature of British village life in the 1980s, when the country was going through a significant culture change as the old respect for authority was dying out, and giving us a novel with a realistic vicar as a central character, as opposed to the clumsy stereotypes we usually seen in fiction.

I don't know if this was Coles' conscious intent, but the 'cosy murder' part feels like little more than a way to get more readers, because there is far less of a market for a novel about the realities of village life and the Church of England. And as my personal fictional matter is largely limited to police procedurals, science fiction and fantasy, I would be unlikely to pick up such a book. But I'm so glad I did.

I've lived in a village off and on through my life, and Coles really gets into the spirit of such a place with both its petty playing off of characters against each other and its unmatched sense of community and continuity, however faded it might be. I'm also very familiar with the Church of England (Anglican/Episcopalian for those who haven't come across it), an institution that may be dying, but that is so central to the English cultural heritage. 

As a retired vicar, Coles is ideally placed to understand the niceties of church politics - particularly when he pits his traditionalist, Anglo-catholic central character against a colleague whose ideas are far too evangelical and Bible-literalist for his liking.

You don't expect cosy murder mysteries to be un-put-downable, but I rushed through this book, soaking up the atmosphere and revelling in Coles' understanding of the sense of place and the impact on institutions of culture change. The cover quote saying 'Best of the new cosy crime writers' totally misses the point. It's very average crime writing, but it's an excellent novel.

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