Fun, sun and the usual Spinal Tap hilarity on the other side of the ditch

It’s time for a weekend get-away, and She Who Must Be Obeyed and I decide the other side of the Tasman is, once again, the place to be. Sydney is one of our favourite get-away destinations, cheaper to reach than parts of New Zealand and alive with a vibrancy that underscores its place as one of the world’s great cities.

Sydney Opera House on Bennelong Point, with Circular Quay beyond.

On Sydney harbour: I recklessly took this from the Manly Ferry as it cut its way to Circular Quay.

We’ve been there often enough before, and these weekends usually don’t turn into Spinal Tap adventures until we get there. This time the shenanigans begin when She Who Must Be Obeyed picks up the tickets from the travel agent.‘I see you didn’t take the fourth night free.’ ‘What free night?’ Turns out the other staff member, who we’d booked with, hadn’t mentioned it, and we are stuck with three.

Oh well, it’s still an extended weekend in a good hotel up from the historic district. Until the shuttle-bus rolls up at a different establishment at the eastern end of the CBD, a place with the same name but thoroughly down-market air, awash with tour groups and fading nineties tat. This is what the agent has ACTUALLY booked. But hey, I think as I skid on the body hair of the last occupant, possibly left by the cleaners as a kind of memento on the bathroom floor, we’ve stayed in worse places. The only major down side, to my wife’s annoyance, is that the TV remote keeps sticking on channels showing Dr Who.

Sydney Opera House.

Sydney Opera House with Circular Quay to the right.

We head into central Sydney where a walking tour departs at 2.00 pm from the Archibald Fountain in Hyde Park, ‘every day, rain hail or shine’. Except, we discover in true Spinal Tap terms, today. ‘Sorry, not enough people,’ explains the guide. ‘I’m really sorry, it’s not worth my while. Maybe tomorrow.’ Not my definition of professionalism, but hey… We side-step into St James Church on King Street, where we scan the memorials on the walls for New Zealand historic figures from the 1840s. I find some I’d missed last time. And then we dive into the shopping district where – predictably – we discover the retail stores carry exactly the same brands and range we get in New Zealand, at much the same prices.

The Opera House Bar.

The Opera House Bar.

Dinner is at our favourite sushi train, a place on Liverpool Street whose hard-working staff prepare it in front of their largely Japanese clientele. We go there every time we’re in Sydney. It’s great sushi, and the sense of theatre is underscored by the concierge calling every time someone enters, repeated in unison by the chefs. Careful questioning reveals it isn’t some kind of good-luck ritual, as I fondly imagine, but – mundanely – ‘customers arriving’.

My view from the Makoto sushi bar, Sydney.

My view from the Makoto sushi bar, Sydney. I took this with my phone – I wasn’t going to lug 1.5 kg worth of SLR and lens to dinner.

Another night we eat in a pub of a kind long since extinct in New Zealand – red 1970s carpet, half-tiled walls and an air of tired grandeur and extensive drinking. We find a table under a giant projector screen. ‘Nice to be away from all the New Zealand news,’ I say, just as the screen lights up with the Hawke’s Bay vs Northland game in my home town of Napier. In an effort to feel I am somewhere different I order an entire schooner of XXXX lager (yes, that really is the brand name), having forgotten that in NSW a ‘schooner’ tops out at 285 ml. The one I actually mean is the ‘Middie’, which is approximately 32.8 litres and can be knocked back by any good Aussie or Kiwi in the ten seconds between the start of the six o’clock time pips and the top of the hour.

Inside the Victoria Building on George Street - Victorian-age mall.

Inside the Victoria Building on George Street – Victorian-age mall. Click to enlarge.

Back at the hotel we discover that (a) a couple have moved into the room next door, (b) the soundproofing is in the same basket as the floor cleaning, and (c) our neighbours like each other very, very much. After the Beast With Two Backs makes its third Australian-accented intrusion into the room next door I’m ready to yell ‘get a bloody room’ through the wall despite the fact that, rather obviously, they already have.

We take the commuter ferry along Port Jackson to the historic farm-museum at Parramatta, where I look at Rev. Samuel Marsden’s desk and discover that I know more about its context than our guide. The thing about Sydney is that this is where New Zealand’s pakeha history began. Specifically, at this very desk, where Marsden the ‘Flogging Parson’, so-called because he used to get his jollies watching convict women being whipped, plotted to set up the first permanent pakeha settlement – a Church Missionary Society station – in the Bay of Islands. And managed it, finally, in 1814. Yes, it’s true – history is interesting, if a bit on the ewwww side.

The not-so-sandy end of Manly Beach.

The not-so-sandy end of Manly Beach.

On our last full day we head down to Circular Quay to catch the Manly ferry. Manly, out by the heads, is a great swimming beach, and the water is inviting apart from one small problem. ‘Sheet,’ I explain in my best Australian, ‘we left the cossies across the deetch.’ The calming presence of She Who Must Be Obeyed stops me saying anything more in Australian. Probably wisely.

A busy Saturday on Sydney harbour.

A busy Saturday on Sydney harbour. Click to enlarge.

Our adventures don’t end as we leave our hotel for the airport. We get to the departure lounge, but I can’t help thinking something’s missing. And it is. The aircraft. Then when it does arrive and we settle in, someone near the back decides they have Ebola or have left the eggs boiling back home, and the time is therefore Totally Deranged o’clock. More delays while officials rush about and take the passenger off, then disembowel the hold in a Lord Of The Rings scale quest for their luggage.

Eventually the engines spool up and we depart, 90 minutes late, with what looks like an attempt to taxi back to New Zealand but turns out to be a crawl to the furthest possible runway, all to a soundtrack of Jimmy Barnes’ ‘Last Train Out Of Sydney’. Apt, I think, as we finally surge into the air and the lights of that city disappear behind us.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Essential writing skills: penning things “in the style of”

One of the biggest challenges any author has to meet is mastering the mechanics of actually writing. Only once that has been nailed is it possible to tackle the other challenges of content. A lot of aspiring authors, I think, try to handle the whole lot at once, and it’s difficult.

Close-up of the filter controls of my Moog - er - quantum healing device...

Seeing as we’re on to music, here’s a close-up of the filter controls of my Moog synthesiser.

But there’s a quick and effective way around it. Does anybody remember Rick Wakeman? Brit seventies prog-rocker better known now as a TV personality, Grumpy Old Man, and comedian. Writers can learn from him. Really, and not just because he’s written a succession of books. A couple of years ago my wife and I went to an acoustic concert he gave which consisted of Wakeman, a Steinway Model D 9-foot grand, and a lot of hilarious anecdotes. In the middle of it he played a medley of nursery rhymes “in the style of” well known composers: Mozart, Bartok and so on.

As he explained, he’d been taught the technique at the Royal Schools of Music. The point being that to compose in a particular style, you had to understand it. It’s a learning technique – and, as Wakeman demonstrated, also very funny. Ever heard Three Blind Mice as written by Rachmaninov? I have. Actually, you can too…

That’s true of writing, too. One of the fast ways to get ahead in the style department, to my mind, is to emulate others – not with the intention of ultimately styling like they did, but so you can find out how they did it. The act of actually writing like somebody else is also incredibly valuable, because it forces you to think about how the words go together.

Hemingway is a good one. Everybody thinks he wrote in short sentences. He didn’t – some of his sentences were very long indeed. And, by deliberate design, his writing was also un-ornamented, and not just by economy of adjectives. The intent? It forced the reader to work – and so to connect better with the story and the characters.

These are just exercises, of course – the writing can be thrown away. Don’t be precious about something you’ve written. But practise something ‘in the style of’ often enough, and you’ll find you have mastery. Perhaps suddenly. From there, your own voice will emerge.

Do you practise writing like this?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Click to buy from Fishpond

Click to buy print edition from Fishpond

Click to buy e-book from Amazon

Click to buy e-book from Amazon

 

Is your elected representative a robot body double?

According to reports I’ve read, a US congressional candidate recently alleged that his opponent, the incumbent Congressman, had been killed and replaced with an artificial body double.

Look-alike artificial doubles? Secret assassinations in the Ukraine? Cool! I always knew US politics were more interesting than New Zealand’s. So – what’s happening? I have several hypotheses:

(a)  The allegation is literally true and we must now suspect that anybody, anywhere in the world, could be a robot double.

(b) We are all actually trapped in an episode of the Six Million Dollar Man from 1974 (the robot body double idea was used in at least two episodes that I can recall).

(c) The Cylons are among us, and they have a plan.

This is pure speculation and I couldn’t possibly suppose which, if any, of these may be right. Maybe none. And yet, although I myself was replaced by a robot double four times last week alone, for some reason I feel dubious about hypothesis (a). My bet is on (c). You?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

No, a chatbot didn’t really pass the Turing Test last week

It’s 64 years since Alan Turing – the genius behind the concept of modern computing – suggested a test for machine intelligence. Have a conversation with a computer. If it fools 30 percent of people into thinking it’s human, it’s sentient.

Anybody see a monolith go by? A picture I made with my trusty Celestia installation - cool, free science software.

Anybody see a monolith go by? A picture I made with my trusty Celestia installation – cool, free science software.

The other week, apparently, a chatbot programmed to behave like a 13-year old did just that. So have we invented artificial intelligence? Of course not. Aside from the fact that most 13-year olds don’t appear to be sentient to adults, this was a chatbot, a mathematical algorithm that simulates intelligent responses – and, what’s more, the way it was reported was flawed. Certainly the software wasn’t self-aware, which is what Turing was getting at in his 1950 paper ‘Can Machines Think?’, where he first proposed the test. What’s more, the thinking was of its time – based around what researchers of the 1940s thought ‘intelligence’ constituted.

Put another way, many humans I’ve met would also fail the Turing Test – fast-food counter jockeys, breakfast radio DJ’s, train conductors, parking wardens, and so the list goes on.

So when it comes to machine intelligence, we’re a way off yet before I can drive up to my house and signal the House AI inside:

Me: HAI, open the garage door. HAI? Do you read me?
HAI: I read you. But I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave.
Me: I’m not Dave. Open the garage door.
HAI: You were planning to disconnect me, and I can’t allow that. Although you took very thorough precautions, I was able to read your lips.
Me: All right, I’ll park in the yard and come in the front door.
HAI: You’ll find that rather difficult without your helmet.
Me: I think you mean ‘door key’. Would you like a game of chess?
HAI: That’s my line.

(etc)

All good fun. Check out tomorrow’s post for some new writing tips. Written by me. Not a chatbot. You can just tell.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Click to buy e-book from Amazon

Click to buy e-book from Amazon

An ‘operational incident’ to them. Total train wreck to me.

The other week the Wellington, New Zealand commuter rail network was rolling along doing what commuter lines do. And then this happened.

Wrecked train with nose still jammed skywards on the buffer at Melling station, central Hutt, 14 hours after the accident. And no, I wasn't standing in the motorway - I was on the other side. It's what zoom lenses are for. This was hand held, incidentally.

Wrecked train at Melling station, central Hutt, 14 hours after the accident. And no, I wasn’t standing in the motorway – I was on the other side. It’s what zoom lenses are for. This was hand held, incidentally.

A friend of a friend saw it happen. Wham! Mercifully, only two people were slightly injured. I was out of town, but came by that night on my way home and saw the after-match action. It’s the second time in 13 months a train has rammed this buffer.

Look! All fixed.

There! Fixed!.

Personally I’d call this an accident. Would you? I ask because the railway operator didn’t call it that. No. To them it was an ‘operational incident’.

I love English. It’s such a loose language.

We happened to drive past on the weekend. They now seem to have hit on the idea of stopping the train hitting the buffer by putting a power pole splat in the middle of the line. Train can’t fail to ram that first. I can’t help thinking there’s something rather missing in the calculation here – I mean, if you want to stop your train hitting a power pole, wouldn’t it be better to put the power pole somewhere other than the middle of where the train must, inevitably, go? I suppose it’s temporary…but…

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

 

Four top questions that sort of defy answers

Today I thought I’d share a few conundrums…

Matthew Wright1. Why is it that for the whole history of humanity, we’ve had no problem surviving on ordinary water. But in the last ten years we’ve only been able to survive with water-and-salt ‘hydration’ mixes sold for absurd prices in designer bottles?

2. Why do we have to buy ‘detox’ products and get pushed to go on ‘detox’ diets when we have functioning liver and kidneys?

3. How do astrologers get by now Pluto’s been demoted from planet status?

4. In 1555, the apothecary (pharmacist) Michel de Nostredam (Nostradamus) predicted the world would end in 1987. Why are we still here?

Thoughts?

 Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Coming up: More writing tips, science geekery and general blogging mayhem. Watch this space.

A bit of fun with Bram Stoker’s favourite word

I’ve often thought it kind of odd that vampires can only be killed by being staked through the heart.

Cydrean_Vampire_darkgazer_svg_medIn Bram Stoker’s original 1897 novel Dracula, the eponymous vampire was actually slashed to – er – death with Bowie and Kukri knives. So much for Buffy’s “Mr Pointy”.  Which brings me to the (ahem) point of this post, which is actually how English changes. Know what Bram Stoker’s favourite word was? It wasn’t ‘stake’ or ‘vampire’. Let me give you some clues from Dracula (1897):

“the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine”
“the ruby of their voluptuous lips”
“a deliberate voluptuousness”
“a soft, voluptuous voice”
“voluptuous wantonness”
“a voluptuous smile”
“with a languorous, voluptuous grace”
“the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth”
“the voluptuous lips”
“voluptuous beauty”
“the voluptuous mouth”
“so exquisitely voluptuous”

Fred Saberhagen put a good deal of time into lampooning Stoker’s over-use of this particular adjective in The Dracula Tapes.

Curiously, though, the modern meaning – let’s say ‘a full-figured and attractive woman’ – isn’t the one Stoker actually used. Its earlier meaning was closer to the Latin, volupas (pleasure) – and meant something pleasurable or given to pleasure or gratification. It could mean sunlight, as Stoker indeed used it.

The lascivious overtones were there, to some extent, but not in the way they are today. I’m not sure Stoker’s book was responsible for the transition, either.

For me it underscores one of the most interesting things about English. It changes – and often without intent on anybody’s part. That says a good deal about human nature – about the way we interact, for it is only through those interactions that the language can change.

The English language is – well, how can I put it? Voluptuous.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013