Common courtesy

Remember at the end of the 19th century, when we all got together and agreed to stop bowing and curtseying and saying “good heavens, whatever is the matter child?”

That was progress.

I know we’re more than a dozen years into the 21st century now, but it’s not too late. We can make a little progress of our own. Can we all just agree to stop acting out bollocks door-holding courtesies like anyone gives a shit?

It may be ok, if you’re out on a date. Open the door with a flourish. This is fine, don’t get me wrong. But it has no place in an office or on the street. Stop giving way – you are actually getting in everybody’s way.

And besides, everybody knows the only reason you’re doing this is to check out their arse. Definitely not an office thing.

It’s not even about women. I was in a lift the other day with seven other men. And somehow I had to push my way past all seven to get off, even though it was the last stop and they all had to get off too. Why? Because they were all trying too hard to give way to everyone else.

No, they weren’t looking at my arse. Shut up. They weren’t.

You know that awkward moment when someone’s holding the door for you, and you have to skip ahead at half a run, just to get there in time? Who is this helping? I am a grown up. I can open a door. Let. It. Go.

Every time there’s a fire alarm, you’ll see the insanity. As we all crowd through those emergency exits, the guy in front will hold the door for you. When you get there, you take it off them. But that’s not enough – he’ll want to hold it for the guy behind you too. And even the next guy behind is already reaching over you to try to hold it for you. And before you know it, your hands all end up touching, and then nobody can ever look each other in the eye again.

So, from this day forth, hold no doors, except for the following allowances:

  • person behind holding something with both hands
  • person behind in a wheelchair, or on crutches, or conspicuously pregnant
  • the door happens to be one of those truly lethal fast-swinging ones
  • person behind less than ten years old
  • you’re on a date
  • your front door.

As an additional note, that person who always shouts “there’s room for one more” in the lift, when there are plenty more lifts and honestly no room, shall henceforth be committed to the lift shaft without remorse.

White guys

I hate white guy jokes. I find them deeply offensive. I don’t understand why it’s considered ok to group “white guys” when the same jokes about “black guys” would probably get you fired.

Because they are the same. No, that’s not true. They’re worse. When people say “black guys”, it no longer means uneducated poor people. It’s changed, and usually refers to people who dress a certain way, act a certain way.

But “white guys” is back to the old definition. When you make “white guy” jokes, you’re playing on the stereotype of white guys being wealthy, educated and family oriented, and by your definition “black guys” or anyone else, is not.

The more you say these things, the more the stereotype is enforced.

I’m disappointed that in the recent election, it was only the democrats bleating about “white guys” for Romney. Why do that? I thought you guys were supposed to be above that kind of thing.

Don’t say “white guys”. Don’t tell “white people” jokes. Don’t tell me that’s “the whitest thing you’ve ever said”. It’s offensive to white people, black people, asian people, australasian people, gay people, straight people, tall people, small people, average people, weird people, male people, female people, all the people. We the people.

Rise above it.

Literature

Back in secondary school… No, wait, I’m in America. What do you call it? High school? Something like that? Ok.

Back in High School, I studied English Literature. Not by choice, you understand. I was compelled.

It was absolutely excruciating. Never has anything destroyed my interest in a subject quite like English Lit. I remember that we spent a whole term – that’s three months – on Act 1, Scene 1 of Macbeth.

Maybe my teacher felt overly familiar with that chapter, being something of an old crone herself. But we read it, we analysed it, we interpreted it, we acted it, we watched the movie, we went to the play (ok, the whole play, not just the first act) by the RSC. God, that was dull.

But still not as dull as Great Expectations. A book whose ironic title is the only wit to be found. I *hated* being forced to read this. I’d sneak a Pratchett book into class to read instead. How ridiculous that I had to sneak a book into an English lesson.

But despite hating Lit with a passion, I found myself becoming rather good at it. My secret was in finding that there were no limits. You could take the piss as far as it would flow.

I remember we were analysing a rather harmless poem about picking blackberries. My family and I do this every year down by the river. It has fond memories for me.

“What’s the poem about?”
“Blackberry picking”
“Go on.”
“Er…”
“What was the author intending?”
“Er.”
“What are the blackberries symbolising?”
“I dunno. Life?”
“Excellent!”
Really? Ok then, “the nature of the berry signifies the promise of the summer fruit, of the joys of life, and while it is fleeting and momentary, there are plenty more to be found, until the season, much like life itself, eventually comes to a close.”
A+

I owned English Lit from that point onwards. My reinterpretation of the hundred words of Act 1 Scene 1 ran on for seventeen pages. Front and back.

So I aced Lit, and I found it useful later in life. In coursework assignments, it’s easy to bulk out an essay with rambling nonsense. Later still, I could knock up a system design specification in about a week. Two hundred pages (big headings). Happy client.

Trouble is, with all that fluff, there’s precious little content.

It is actually not at all a good skill to have.

Recently, a couple of years back, I changed this habit. I decided not to write any more documents that weren’t expressly for the purpose of conveying information. No more bulk, no more fluff. Get to the point, cut it back even further, redraft again for clarity, and then kill any words that aren’t absolutely needed.

It’s harder. Writing less takes longer.

The same is true of speaking. In a meeting, how often do you ramble on? Are you explaining what’s on the slide? Are you saying the same thing you said last week? Are you pointing out something that anyone smarter than a grapefruit already knows? Or something nobody cares about?

It often arises in interviews. You’re nervous, you’re keen to appear knowledgable. So you start waffling. I’ve cut my interviewing back to coding problems on a computer, because waffling wastes so much time. I won’t rank you down for waffling, I’ll criticise myself for not cutting you off.

And of course, I’m terrible at waffling in meetings. I’ll be trying to clarify something in my own head, by explaining again, something I already said last week. Or yesterday. Or five minutes ago.

So stop me. But don’t embarrass me. We’ll need a secret signal between ourselves.

When I’m rambling, just start checking your tweets on your iPhone. Preferably with a large bored sigh. I’ll stop.

And of course, I’ll do the same for you.

Lets do this.

Tpyos

I have a problem with spelling.

It’s a bit like anti-dyslexia. I’ve seen friends stare at a page of text, totally unable to see the glaring errors in front of them. I don’t have that. I get the opposite.

When I look at a page of text, errors jump out at me. They’re distracting. I’m not trying to proofread, not trying to find problems. It’s them. They find me.

Of course, I’m as vulnerable as anyone else when it comes to text I’ve written. It’s hard to proofread your own stuff.

But it’s bad enough that I find it a problem to read on the Kindle. As soon as I see an error, I’m pulled out of the book. The carefully constructed fantasy world is jerked out from under me. I want to feed back to the publisher, so I think about how I could do that. I can’t.

I’ve taken to just highlighting the word. Then I move on. For the rest of the chapter, I’m not reading, I’m just checking words for errors. The next chapter, I can start reading again. But I’m not back into the fantasy world for another three chapters or so.

So I bought this book recently, written by an ex-colleague. It’s good – it’s really good. I want to write back and say I love how he sets the scene, how he builds his characters through their actions rather than simply describing what they’re wearing. How he doesn’t fall for the new-author fate of rewriting the first three chapters straight from a thesaurus, just to appear intelligent; but at the same time, I love the simple choice of words. “Raucous chowder” is a wonderful way to describe Fisherman’s Wharf.

I’d say this, and more, but I wouldn’t be able to say it without adding the soul-destroying “but”. He doesn’t want to hear the “but”. Nobody cares about the “but”.

But there’s a rogue “if” instead of “it” in paragraph eight. And it’s killing me.

And nobody needs to know that.

So maybe I’ll just be quiet.

Exclusive hands-on review – one year in

Here’s my one-year review.

Obviously we’d had this product on order for a long time, and there was a lot of expectations. Would it live up to the hype? In the end it was lovely to see it arrive, right on time. The unboxing was something of a complicated process, and we had some concerns that the product would not fit back in the wrapper if we had to return it. But it does not come with any kind of warranty, so that may not be a problem. The packaging itself is beautiful, and well worth hanging on to.

From first glance, this product is stunning. It is clearly more attractive than all the other models on the market. Home run. The attention to detail is superb, nice to see some familiar features in there, and you just want to pick it up and play immediately.

On the down side, the preinstalled operating system was not really ready for prime time. It would go into sleep mode every hour or so, and require constant recharging. The charger is built into the packaging, which seems inconvenient.

We’re still waiting on the promised voice commands. Waiting a whole year for this obvious feature is frustrating, and I feel this should have been built in when shipped. The inbuilt apps are also not much use. However, we’ve seen more and more available as the product has matured, and each new one is a delight to install.

We are still having a number of problems with sleep mode, which seems to have a mind of its own. I think some sort of hardware switch would be more useful. Equally, the alarm can go off at all times of night, which hasn’t helped with scheduling.

While the initial outlay for the product was very low, it ships with a binding multi-year contract, and the monthly fees are very high. Be very sure this is what you want when placing your order. Accessories are also expensive, if you want to look the part.

We’ve tried a little networking, which seems to be going well. I can get the devices almost talking to each other, but we haven’t completed a full handshake yet, let alone transferred any meaningful data.

Despite this, viruses can still be easily caught, though you can get some anti-virus plugins. They are painful to install, but apparently worthwhile, and the minor viruses we’ve seen have been shortlived.

Ultimately, like any luxury good, this is a product requires significant customisation and time, but will grow with you. I think it’s well worth the investment of time and money, and I look forward to playing with it for years to come.

10 / 10

Ten Excuses

Ten reasons your wife should get up to shush the baby tonight:

  • You’ve had a hard day at the office today
  • You’ve got a hard day at the office tomorrow
  • You did it last time
  • She’s better at it
  • You’ve had a beer
  • The baby is closer to her side of the bed
  • The noise bothers her more than you
  • You’d only wake her up anyway
  • Mothers have these hormones
  • She probably enjoys the bonding time

Of course, the problem with all of these is that they’re utter bollocks.

But that doesn’t stop them running through your head every time it’s your turn to get up.

Zzzzzz…

CSS

Working at Twitter is something of a luxury. And I don’t mean the snacks.

I work on twitter.com, the main website for desktop browsers. My everyday tools are JavaScript and Ruby. Which surprises me, since every other job has heavily involved HTML and CSS.

At Twitter, this has been a very minor consideration. Why? Because our designers handle the HTML and CSS. I work with Mark Otto, who has designed a non-trivial percentage of the Internet through his Bootstrap library. He knows his stuff, but is still happy to learn or adjust if needed, to make the best result. It works very well.

Now, a lot of you are thinking “so what?” and “this is normal”. Maybe for you, this is.

But I’ve spent the majority of my career working at digital advertising agencies. There, the “creatives”, who are all “Art Directors” by rank, throw a Photoshop PSD over the wall and forget about the rest of the process. They don’t care what CSS is, they don’t care what HTML tags are.

I once worked with an Art Director on a style guide. I thought this would be a really simple idea. Not so. After carefully explaining the heading tags, H1 through H6, I turn up the next day to find the guide complete: heading tags H1 through H6, paragraph tags P1 through P6 and table tags T1 through T6.

I’ve never been able to understand why a web designer wouldn’t be interested in learning the basics of the material they work with. It is, quite literally, the media. If they were print designers, I would expect them to know about paper. Instead they live in Photoshop, on a Mac, and know nothing about the world outside.

However, thinking about it, I realise that I’ve been wrong to blame them.

At a digital agency, the “creative”‘s job is not to design.

Their job is to satisfy the client.

And the client, invariably, is impossible. They want three different executions of an idea. By tomorrow. Even though they’ve already decided what they want. Even though they already have a brand guide that limits any hope of creative spark. And no budget.

Oh, and the site has to be completely different to anything else. And viral. And have video.

Never will the client care about accessibility, semantic markup, reusability, comments or sanity. Except perhaps to check a box.

At Twitter our designers can take the time to iterate on new features with their Product Managers, and engineers too, until they’re really happy they’ve got it right.

At a digital agency, designers work all night to complete three page designs they know will be useless, because they haven’t been properly briefed. There’s no time to mock up designs in CSS, or test the interaction model on an iPhone. It’s an impossible job.

But they do these things. Clients get happy, sites gets churned out, money is made.

It’s two different worlds, with different requirements and different results.

For now, I think I prefer it on this side.

45 minutes

Babies are a blank slate. They’re the absolute zero of human experience, completely devoid of any knowledge about the world they arrive in. They’re learning machines.

You can’t surprise a newborn. It’ll just look at you and say to itself, “ok, so there’s that.”

They do come with a surprising array of built in features. Poop, for a start. But also the morrow reflex, where they reach out to grab if they fall. And they can also track down your moobs, even through a T-shirt, in the hope of finding food.

I’ve always laughed off adult sleep experts. They say we have a 90 minute “cycle”. Waking halfway through a cycle gets you a bad start, leaves you cranky and tired.

Have a baby, and that’s a permanent state of mind.

I never believed that crap though. I’ll leave “biorhythm” to the hippies dancing naked through the solstice. And I’ll set my alarm clock to whatever time I need.

But a baby is a blank sheet. And this blank sheet definitely sleeps in 45 minute cycles. By the clock. I don’t mean he checks his wristwatch before he gets up, I mean he sleeps for 45 minutes *exactly*, goes through a half-awake transition, then nods off for another 45.

If you’re lucky. At the moment we are not lucky. He’s ill, he’s teething. He’ll wake most multiples of 45 during the night, demanding attention.

He hasn’t learned this. This is a built in feature.

The 45 minutes is astonishing. Sometimes it’s not perfect, can drop to 35 or 30 minutes some days. But you won’t wake baby after ten minutes no matter what you do.

But after 44 minutes, you’ll be damn quiet, or there’ll be hell to pay.

Gimme a break

In 2002 I found myself in a miserable job. The new managers had been forced to merge their successful department with our unsuccessful one, and were not happy about it. Everyone with any sense had left months ago, including the clients. I was sitting at a workbench facing into a corner, and I hadn’t felt useful in months.

I quit, obviously, to find a better job. “The money doesn’t matter,” I said to recruiters, “I’m just looking for interesting projects.”

This is exactly the wrong thing to say to recruiters, since they don’t care about anything except the money, and their cut. They usually know nothing about the job itself, and are happy to lie their arses off to get you placed.

I found myself at a large accountancy firm working on an internal timesheeting project. Sadly, the project was nearly complete, and the money (shock) wasn’t great. I quit, obviously, to look for more work.

I found work at an international business computing firm. The commute was awful: 2hrs each way. But the money was good. They needed me “urgently”. Sounded good.

First day: “Er, it’s not been signed off yet. Why not just train yourself on this computer here.”

Four months later, still waiting for signoff, I was trudging to “work” through the snow, and I realised that I didn’t care any more. I hadn’t been interested in work for two years. Making something that I cared about seemed so completely unattainable that I didn’t think it was possible.

When I got back to town, I went to a travel agent. I asked for a round-the-world trip. “Where?” they said. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Come back when you’ve decided,” they say.

“No.” I say. “You must do this all the time. You know where people go, what they want to see, how long to spend in each place. Just get me on a plane next Saturday, and have me home by Christmas. I’ve heard South America’s interesting, I want to see Australia, but the rest is up to you.”

I walked out with a handful of tickets, and instructions for the visas.

California, Hawaii, Peru, Brazil, Ecuador, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, Japan and Vietnam.

It was totally worth it.

If I had to do it again, I’d go again to Tokyo, to Hanoi, to the islands of Fiji. The best bits were the places that were totally unlike home. Oddly, though, I loved sitting in cheap Internet cafes in obscure parts of the world, and coding.

Sometimes you have to take a break from your job to remember what makes it fun.

Take a holiday.

Favourites

Matt Knox asked me this over breakfast the other day,
“What’s your favourite thing about being a dad?”

My brain spun. I didn’t have an answer. I think I fluffed a reply with something like “it’s not something you have favourites for, it’s something you live for.”

Yeah, that’s a bit lame. But it’s a tough question. I could’ve easily worked out a top-ten list of the things I didn’t like doing. Like emptying a potty. Ever tried that? Not pleasant. Not fun at all.* But favourite? No, too hard.

Anyway, I thought about it later.

What’s best about being a dad is being married.

Yes, of course, there’s all sorts of heart-warming moments with the baby. The arrival. The first smile. In fact, every smile. Talking, walking, crawling, holding. Just being able to hold and cuddle. Seeing parts of you. It’s a reason to live.

All that is granted.

But I couldn’t do this alone. I couldn’t manage. I’m shattered just feeding at nights and doing two playgrounds in a weekend.

Knowing that I have a soulmate to entrust with the little one’s upbringing is everything.

And actually, getting married is excellent preparation for having a baby. The stress, the organisation, the planning; coordinating relatives; coordinating jobs. It you can get through that together, you’re well prepared for the shock of having a baby.

Mind you though, what I miss most is: being married.

I miss whiling away the weekends doing nothing. I miss snuggling up on the sofa watching TV late into the night. I miss the lazy Sunday mornings in bed.

For now, for us, those times are gone. We’re in bed by ten at the latest, too tired to talk much. We don’t watch TV for fear of waking the sleeping one. Besides, it’s too much noise for us.

I miss my wife. I love my wife. I depend on my wife. Every day.


* Top ten worst things:
– emptying the potty
– lack of sleep
– dealing with escaped poo
– waking baby
– lack of sleep
– fear of the future
– lack of sleep
– lack of social life
– lack of sleep
– lack of sleep