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June 2004
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August 2004

Oh the irony

I'll bet this is right up there on daypop, and here I am contributing to it. David Hornick's think piece basically saying more or less what I was saying about a year ago (excluding the swearing and "stream of consciousness gibberish" elements - and no, I'm not linking to it, it's awfully badly written rubbish, but it had a fair point buried somewhere in the middle).

What are more interesting are the comments. "Yes, it must be industry leaders who take this thing forward". No no no nooooo totally missing the point. It must be two or three geeks who are frustrated with something, who build something completely new then find themselves with a paradigm shift on their hands and a business to build while their servers fall over under the strain.

That's one major reason why I love this industry, still. I was gratified to be talking to a really lovely woman from FT R&D SF t'other day who was getting equally frustrated with the limits people seem to have imposed on their own thinking by looking at their navels incessanty.

I'm such a nay sayer, it's a disgrace. However, glad to find that for once, I'm not entirely on my own (at last). Nay sayers of the world, unite in an alternative navel gazing exercise!

I love that girly girl

After spending a few weeks walking up my chest after being lifted off the change mat, on Saturday, down at McK's parents' place, whilst in the middle of standing up practice, Nora's leg lifted up very deliberately, and she put it down about 6 cm forward. She then lifted up the other one. And was ecstatic.

So of course, she wanted to show off her new walking skills and rather obviously, we helped. So she walked three feet or so across the room to Nana, being gently supported under her arms with her small feet very deliberately plonking themselves down, one after the other.

And big rewards of snugs all round.

Today, I realised the origin of classical Indian dancing hand movements, as Nora once again delicately arranged her hands, curving them in the air and watching them. She indulges in this pastime almost constantly, her hand movements almost unconsciously executed as she is actively engaged in watching me, or Mackay, but never the cats. The cats deserve all the attention she can give them because they are fanTASTIC.

And now I must gently go and put her on to her back because she will be in deep sleep and if I don't, she will wake and become deeply upset as she realises she can't turn herself over, having slopped over on to her front as she was falling to sleep. there's something wonderfully sensitive and loving about doing this for her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her small frame, barely disturbed.

I hope.


Oh, the crushing guilt as I cuddle my confused, crying daughter after she has bitten my nipple for the third time in a row has been only partially diffused by the knowledge (now) that she hasn't done it since. An awful few minutes were endured, during which the question "Will she ever go near it again?" was answered only tentatively by a very sad and sobbing little girl.

It seemed so appalling to be trying to teach a seven month year old girl a lesson by pressing her face in to my breast, even just for a milisecond. But, it did work. And she (so far) seems to have got the message. Only the very occasional nuzzly accidental scrape, which is as NOTHING I may tell you to the agonising PAIN of a razor sharp pair of serrated new teeth being pressed in to some of the most sensitive skin on your body.


Hans Christian Anderson

Wrote very soppy fairy tales. So soppy in fact that I cannot actually read The Little Match Girl aloud to Nora. It becomes clear why I might become a little bit too emotional about reading a story about a little girl to an even smaller, much loved little girl around the point when she sees her Grandmother.

Read it and weep. Or don't weep, you hard hearted bastard.

Update: Actually, that translation is very literal. The translation I've got increases the gut wrench value somewhat.

7 months old today


You are a lovely, funny, smiling, chipmunk cheeked munchcake who now is the proud owner of two white, well I would say teeth but they're more like nobbly bits at the moment. Yesterday you went on a swing for the first time and you laughed and laughed. Daddy pushed you and you felt your face against the wind, wide eyed, open mouthed. I wasn't there of course, I was earning your mashed carrot and sweet potato but Daddy told me all about it when I came home, held your yelping, smiling squirmyness in my arms and breathed in your milky sweet aroma.

You wake up amazed because you have been asleep on your front half the night, and you love your stacking cups, but not as much as you love the crunchy lion or Miss Ladybird.

And I still have difficulty sometimes believing that you are real. How on earth did this consciousness get here? Out of me? Apparently so.

Meanwhile, my American counterpart, Dooce is in terrible mourning for having to wean her baby for the most important of reasons. Needless to say, I cried somewhat reading her honest and painfully sad post. But, as she knows, being a strong and decent human being, a well Mum is a very important person in a baby's life.

I stopped seeing my NCT crew for "they are posh, they live in Clapham and can't be botherec to accomodate a non car driving, non rich person" reasons. One of the women there announced, in baby massage, when the kids were about 2 months old "Well, I have to wean her by three months". Ok - you may have difficulty believing this, but it is, nevertheledss true. This woman had booked a skiing holiday before the birth timed at 3 months in, because she thought that by then she and her husband would need a break from their daughter. So she left her daughter behind with her Mum, and went off skiing, and rather than express off her milk, she thought it would be too much hassle and it might be painful to have full breasts whilst skiing. And that's why she stopped breastfeeding.

I measure that reasoning against Dooce's painfully emotional decision, and I am glad that I no longer see that woman.

Nora's namesake news

James Joyce's letter to Nora Barnacle contains lots of lewdness, apparently. He calls her a "Wild-eyed whore". Not something that can be attributed to the slightly younger Nora Jessie. I shall be instructing her teenage boyfriends on how they will be avoiding any such state of being. No wild eyed whoring until she's at least thirty.

Ok, ok, I give in

Sigh. My self imposed "not supposed to be an industry forum, Cait" limits are about to be broken again, about a familiar topic.

so there's a piece about (grits teeth) bloggers giving up in Wired today.

Update: i've just deleted the very dull rant I wrote yesterday because I realised what I *meant* to say was:

Slow news day?