Distractions, reflections

David Ing, at large … Sometimes, my mind wanders

Monthly Archives May 2006

20/20 vision in my left eye

A successful cataract surgery returns my long vision, but it will be three weeks until I get my reading glasses!
What a difference a day makes! As scheduled (for some months now), I had my cataract surgery yesterday. This morning, I went for the post-op checkup, and I now can report 20/20 vision in my left eye.

Yesterday, my surgery was scheduled for 1:35 p.m. Diana and I went the requisite 2 hours early, and checked into the day surgery clinic (on the fifth floor at St. Michael’s Hospital). It’s been designed as a welcoming place — some benefactors must have spent some time there! — with a wood panel reception area. We were directed down a very long hall — the place is huge — and were given a cubicle large enough for a reclining chair and two guest chairs. The curtain was drawn in front, and I was given the usual hospital gown (actually designed with a side slit) and a very large white terry bathrobe. I removed my street clothes, and was down to underwear and socks under the bathrobe. The nurses went about to correct the attendant who had brought me down: for cataract surgery, they’re only interested in the head, so I could actually have kept my pants on. I opted to stay in my underwear, because it’s about as comfortable as being in my shorts at home.

A nurse came in to do the usual medical history, and put a catheter in the back of my right hand for the anaesthetic. Diana and I chatted for for about 45 minutes until the intern came. At that point, I handed over my glasses to Diana, so I wasn’t seeing much, either out of the left eye with the cataract, or my normal myopic right eye! I was wearing little booties over my socks, and the staff decided that I might as well walk down to the operating room (rather than take a wheelchair).

As the operating staff introduced themselves — it was impossible for me to make them out without my glasses! — I got up onto the operating table. They put a folded towel under my head, and then — rip, in a sound like a roll of Scotch tape! — they wrapped a strip of tape over my forehead and under the operating table. I remarked that this seemed primitive, but obviously functional. The staff bundled me up in warm towels, including a little tunnel for my left arm. I remember the nurse introducing herself, as she must have connected the catheter in my right hand to the anaesthetic. I remember the intern telling me that he was going to clean my left eye with three swabs of cleanser, counting 1 … seeing yellow … counting 2 …. and then … I don’t remember much.

In the pre-admission visit, the doctor had said that cataract surgery calls for a light anaethetic, because the patient has to be awake to respond to requests to move the eye. I can imagine that I was awake, but I really don’t remember anything. I do remember a few voices as they were working through the surgery … it sounded like they were having a little difficulty getting out my cataract, and I heard when they said that the artificial lens was put in … but everything else is pretty much a blur. I barely remember them taking off all of the blankets, getting down off the operating table, and then getting wheeled down to the recovery area. The surgery probably took about an hour.

The nurses asked me for Diana’s name, and she got paged to join me. (She doesn’t get called as Diana Ing very often). The nurses took my blood pressure, and gave me a turkey sandwich and apple juice. (It was annoying to be fasting since midnight the night before, but I was the last surgery of the day). I wasn’t feeling any real pain, just a slight sensation of a dry eye. I put on my street clothes, got in a wheelchair pushed down to the front door, and Diana and I took a cab home.

At home, I had some soup (I was on a cooking spurt on Saturday, having found tarkeys on sale for half price on Friday!). I watched tv in bed, and put in eye drops every hour. I guess that I fell asleep about 6:30 p.m., for a few hours. When I woke up, I decided to pop out the left lens from my glasses, which seemed to show that I had normal vision in the left eye, but I really couldn’t get my right and left eyes to line up. I had some cereal, watched some more tv, and went to sleep.

This morning, I had a shower, and decided to put in my right contact lens so that I could wear sunglasses to my post-op appointment. (It’s actually a rainy day). I actually haven’t worn contact lenses since last June, because my optometrist then said that glasses would allow more light into my left eye. Now, however, a contact lens works best. There’s no disparity, as with a pair of glasses with only the right lens in. One thing that I do notice is a slight colour difference between my eyes: the right eye has a slight yellow tinge in it, as I guess my natural lens is getting old.

Diana drove me over to the eye clinic. As we were passing over the Richmond Street viaduct, it’s interesting to observe how blind I was in driving with the cataract in one eye. Sure, I could see, but it was pretty much tunnel vision. With two eyes this morning, I could see traffic, the building, the trees. It was an amazing, joyous feeling.

At the eye clinic, the intern saw me first. He looked into the eye, and said that the lens was perfectly centered. I read the eye chart, and he said that I have 20/20 vision. I asked about the lens that they put in yesterday. He said that my eye is about 6, and they put in a lens to correct to 8. Of course, the downside is that I’m now farsighted in the left eye, so I really need reading glasses. The intern said that the human brain will adapt, so I’ll probably start reading more out of my right eye. He also said that my left eye is still dilated, so my vision should improve over the next few days. He was a bit concerned about a bit of pressure in my eye, but Dr. Squires, joining us, mentioned that the pressure was there before the surgery. I asked what I can and can’t do until the final checkup in three weeks, and Dr. Squires said no jumping up and down — so there goes badminton — no heavy lifting or exertion — so there goes bicycling — but otherwise I can live pretty normally (including showering!)

I’ll get fitted for glasses at the appointment in three weeks. In the meantime, my long vision is great, but with drops in my eye from this morning’s exam, it’s hard for me to judge what life will be like over the next three weeks. In a reversal of the condition before the operation, I can see long distances well enough to drive, but have found newspaper type to be illegible. I’ve been playing with the font sizes on Windows XP, so I can be functional on the computer — albeit with less screen real estate!

[Blogging note: I’ behind maybe 6 posts on multiple blogs, so I’ll be playing catch up over the next few days. WordPress has a feature that enables changing posting dates, so the entries on Fuschl, Finland, Manchester and Hull will still appear in correct date order.]

A mundane visit to Yorkshire

I revel in the mundane details of life and work on my visit to Hull.
My friend Ian says that I take the most mundane photographs of anyone he knows. I’m proud to say: the more mundane, the better. I’m really into local building and architecture, and how people live, work and play in their everyday lives — background social practices1. I find humour in my own preconceptions about the way that the societies work, with that bit of surprise that things can be done differently. With Jennifer generously allowing me to stay in her home, my visit to Pockington, Cottingham (the area about the University of Hull) and Kingston-upon-Hull (Hull itself) was full of these little mundane delights.

Small memories include:

  • Jennifer drove by Pockington post office in the morning, and sent Cameron into the back to pick up a package. The town is small enough that he could go to the back, without security guards or barb wire protecting the Royal Mail.
  • The drive in front of the circle has some other cars parked in it, and Jennifer deftly squeezed her car with about 2 inches on either side of it. I’m a relatively confident driver, but I would have been scared of scraping off some paint, and Diana wouldn’t have even attempted it. Jennifer’s got an amazing grasp of the size of her car. She proved this again later, doing a U-turn/three-point turn in a one-lane street from a parking space with cars parked on both sides, to go the other direction.
  • When we went grocery shopping at Tesco, we couldn’t find canned chicken stock so that I could make soup. (On the other hand, in Finland, Minna had doubts about finding chicken stock in her supermarket, but then found one litre packages of it in the “specialty food” section, as a new featured item). I guess soup-makers are classified as only those who start from whole chickens, and those who like it completely ready-made.
  • Out at a pub for a quick lunch with a professor before a class, he had a beer — 20 minutes before he was to start a class. (The teetotalling culture from IBM still lives in memory, although it was lifted when Lou Gerstner became CEO.)

I got to see a bit of the local scenery while doing errand runs.

  • Brian took me into town (Hull) while he stopped by a optician to pick up some contact lenses. We stopped by a bank branch in the centre of town — I think it only had two tellers. He did point out a few sights. The Beverley Gate was famous for being a key site in in the beginning of the English Civil War in 1642, but was demolished, so that lack of presence hardly stands up to it historicity. We viewed the ferry docks that are now rarely used, as land travel passes over the Humber Bridge, which held the world record as the longest single span suspension bridge for 17 years.
  • Jennifer needed a key cut, and discovered that the local man that does that in Pocklington closes for all of Tuesdays. (Many store owners close on Tuesday afternoons). We drove into Hull to stop at a store that I’ll nominate as best knock-off of a Home Depot that I’ve ever seen — down to the orange signs. They don’t cut keys. We tried another hardware supply store, that also doesn’t cut keys, and were given directions by a woman with such a thick Yorkshire accent that I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She had directed us to a mall, but we never did find it.
  • In Pockington, there are several neighbourhood “family butchers”. I assume that they don’t mean men with cleavers who make house calls!

Naturally, each university has its own quirks.

  • The Business School at the University of Hull has just moved into a newly renovated complex of buildings — a real showcase. The parking lots are on the back side, so employees naturally want to come in through the back door. The back door, however, was not really intended as an entrance, so there’s no pull or knob, and the door always has an impromptu stopper in it to allow people to enter.
  • The computers at the business school have security on the network locked down so tightly, that the physical address of the network card of my laptop had to be manually entered so that I could get access. (Network access is authored by software address at every other network in the world I’ve seen — and I’ve seen quite a few!)

Over time — maybe with too much study of “theory of practice”, I’ve tried to learn to not judge why things are done one way in one locale when they’re done another way in some other locale. People are (generally) smart, so there must be an explanation — although delving into how practices come about can really sometimes get convoluted.

(See more of Pocklington, Hull, and Yorkshire on the snapshot server in our basement).


1This philosophy is associated with phenomenology, including thinkers such as Heidegger: The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy describes this idea in context: ” Phenomenology … leads into analyses of conditions of the possibility of intentionality, conditions involving motor skills and habits, background social practices, and often language, with its special place in human affairs”. 

Sunday brunch/church, train travel, and medieval York

On Sunday, I had brunch in a renovated church in Nottingham, people-watched on trains, on then toured York on the way to Pocklington.
After a long day on Saturday, I got a slow and relaxing start on Sunday with Martin, saw more English countryside on the trains, and got a tour of York highlights with Jennifer.

Martin had said that on Sunday morning, there was a church that I might enjoy, “not for worship, but as a stunning place to chill out”. I have to admit to not knowing Martin very well before this trip, and didn’t know exactly what to make of this before I arrived in Nottingham. It turns out that church has been completely renovated into an elegant restaurant — the Pitcher and Piano — and it serves brunch. In my quest for local cuisine, I had the lamb roast, served with more altitude than traditional English servings.

Martin dropped me off at the train station, making sure that I got onto the right track. Unlike my usual behaviour on airplanes, I didn’t feel much like reading or listening to my minidisc player, so I just people-watched and looked out the window at the English countryside. On the first leg, I was seated across from a mother, her one-year-old and four-year-old sons, and her aunt. I could barely understand their English through their accents. I try to not judge parents on their child-rearing styles, and was amused at the mother handling the four-year old. (The aunt claimed that he was a terror). The young boy wanted one of the the baby’s toy, and it was a battle of wills with the mother. My intuition tells me that her sons will grow up to be more competitive than mine.

I changed trains at Chesterfield station, onto a Virgin train. (They have nice interiors, and LCD panels over each seat indicating reservations). There were three young men travelling together, having fun and showing videos to each others on the mobile phones. They must have been 19-year olds, on their way to begin training in the army. I asked if they thought they would see action, and they said that the army was a “great way to see the world”. I didn’t press my view of the world on them, but got to reflect at the optimism of leaving small-town life and leaving the familiar behind. In my day, though, we didn’t have mobile communications for family to phone us up to say final farewells.

20060507_York_station.jpg

At York station, it seems that pay phone has become an extinct species, so the gentleman at the information booth allowed me to use that phone to call Jennifer. She was just minutes away. I thought Jennifer’s car — a Renault — was interesting, because we don’t see any of those in North America. We decided to take a quick look around York before heading off to Jennifer’s place in Pocklington. Since my usual walking tours are around markets and museums, we headed for the city centre.

I had read a lot about the Shambles on the Internet, and I like to walk urban areas. The area has many of the original features from medieval days, although the butchers that gave the area the name have long since departed. The cobblestone streets were actually wider than I had expected. Most shops were closing in the late afternoon, but I wasn’t looking to buy anything, anyway.

20060507_York_Shambles.jpg

Jennifer led me over to York Minster. Describing York Minster as a cathedral is an understatement. Any one of the four or five major gathering places could easily be described as a cathedral with some grandure. Services were in session while we walked around the other areas, and we got to watch the choir promenading out. Unexpectedly, these students from the Minster School choir were all girls.

20060507_York_Minster.jpg

The drive to Pocklington revealed more of the English countryside. I saw lots of fields of yellow flowers, which I guessed as canola — known as rapeseed in the UK. Jennifer says that when the crop is mature, it emits a foul odour, so it’s possible to smell harvest season.

At Jennifer’s house, I unfortunately usurped her son Cameron from his bedroom, as he got to stay in the livingroom for the week. Jennifer’s house is in a small subdivision outside the centre of Pockington itself.

(See more of York on the snapshot server in our basement).

Planes and trains and visiting Nottingham

Despite waking up late for the taxi out to the Helsinki airport, I had a great day as a tourist in Nottingham, as hosted by Martin Gladwell.
I haven’t seen much of England, in my past travels. I’ve been through London a few times on business, and had a vacation with Diana where we saw Slough, Oxford and Greenwich. On way to visit at the University of Hull, I thought I’d meet up with Martin Gladwell, on his home territory of Nottingham. I’ve heard that Nottingham is a fun town.

The day didn’t begin well, starting out to the airport. Petri had called for a taxi to pick me up a 5 a.m. for an early flight.  After getting caught up on a bit of e-mail and packing, I went to bed about 10:30 at night, … and the next thing I knew, light was just breaking and Petri was waking me up to say that the taxi was waiting. I had set multiple alarms, but must have set them all wrong! (That’s a stress signal for me!) I took a few minutes to quickly finishing packing the last few items into my suitcases. I got in the taxi, and arrived well in time for the flight. (The waiting taxi charged me an extra 20 Euros). The flights, routing from Helsinki to Copenhagen to Manchester, were relatively uneventful.

When I arrived at the Manchester airport, the customs officials wanted to check my baggage. This wasn’t like American customs check — the British official was quite friendly and relaxed. Afterwards, I asked why he thought to check me. He said that from my baggage tags, he could see that I had arrived on the Copenhagen flight, but he couldn’t tell from where. The customs officials weren’t busy that morning, so I guess that they had the opportunity to indulge every curiosity.

While in Finland, I was able to receive a text message from Martin on my mobile phone service, but it doesn’t allow me to reply internationally. Martin was waiting for me right outside the arrival area doors in the Manchester airport terminal. He had arrived from an IBM meeting in Madrid the previous evening, and stayed overnight in a hotel. I trailed him down to the train station, and he helped me buy tickets for trip to Nottingham, as well as to York on the next day. I made jokes that I was getting used to having all the arrangements done for me, because in Finland, it seems that my hosts (Minna, Taina, Ritva, Annaleena) can always get simple things done faster in the native language.

20060506_Manchester_airport_train.jpg

We changed trains at Manchester Piccadilly1. When travelling from one country to another on a single trip, I feel slight cultural dissonances. Certainly, the architecture in British train stations feature Gothic or Roman touches, whereas Finnish buildings are either Scandinavian modern or rustic (as in the old houses in Porvoo). On the train platform, the crowded space, the casual style of dress, and multitude of ethnicities was a completely different feeling from being in Finland. We waited for the train beside two old Chinese ladies carrying plastic shopping bags — as they would in Hong Kong or in Toronto — chatting in the Hoisan dialect (that my parents speak) about the price of groceries. I assume that whatever immigration policies prevailed in Canada in the 1960s and 1970s also prevailed in the UK.

We got onto a crowded car on the train, and seats were full. In the entry passage, I sat on the jump seat, and Martin sat on his suitcase. Chats with other passengers suggested that this train to Sheffield and then Nottingham often runs to capacity. Most interesting to me was the large number of passengers on the train going to watch the football game. They were carrying around large cans of beer in plastic shopping bags, and casually consuming them. I told Martin that I was unsure whether this was legal or illegal in Ontario, because it just isn’t done2. The football fans weren’t threatening — some came as complete families — but Martin warned that they could get loud. They gave me a good sampling of football songs and cheers as a natural part of their trip.

At Nottingham, we took a taxi back to Martin’s flat. I was intrigued the by the design of British “black cabs”: there’s no trunk, but an entry into a massive passenger space with doors wide enough to bring in luggage. If more passengers come in, there are jump seats (facing backwards). These are so practical, I wondered if anyone has ever tried importing them or building something similar in North America3.

20060506_Nottingham_taxi.jpg

We took a few minutes to drop off baggage at Martin’s flat, and headed out to catch a double-decker bus into the city centre of Nottingham. While it might have been nice to see Old Market Square before the construction started, it’s currently under construction to become the winning vision of a new public space. On a Saturday afternoon, the Broad Marsh Shopping Centre and pedestrian shopping streets were bustling. Nottingham has a great energy about it. Unlike many other places I’ve visited, the people don’t seem stressed, and many have smiles on their faces. Martin says that Nottingham is a popular place for stag nights and hen parties, so it’s not unusally to see troupes of women cavorting together while dressed alike (e.g. as nuns).

We stopped for some tapas at La Tasca — a bit of calamari, some chorizo, some (non-salty) anchovies. We stopped into St. Mary’s Church — it dates back to construction in 1376 — and I was amazed by the dates and inscriptions on some of the crypts built into its walls.

20060506_StMarysChurch_crypts.jpg

As it started to rain, we retreated in the City of Caves for a tour of underground Nottingham (literally). Actors told history about the medieval tannery pits — the tanners never caught the plague because even the rats couldn’t stand the smell — as well as the caves used as shelters during the bombings in World War II. Martin and I then wandered over by Nottingham Castle, where we looked at the Robin Hood statue and plaques on the wall.

20060506_Nottingham_Robin_Hood_statue.jpg

I was intrigued by two uniformed officers taking digital photographs of a very nice sports car parked nearby — and Martin informed me that digital images are a method of presenting evidence on parking tickets in the UK.

For a late afternoon break, we stopped by Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem — which proclaims to be the oldest inn in England, back to 1189 A.D. Martin and I sat out in the courtyard, listening some boisterous drinkers in the main room singing pub songs (e.g. old Beatles sounds, Paul McCartney would be proud!) until the barman complained about the volume. I guess every bar has its limits. Martin had previously pointed out the Bell Inn, nearer to the center of town, that disputes the “oldest inn” claim. Dating “from timbers in the Bell Inn” reveals construction circa 1420, whereas Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem’s “building itself dates from the 16th or 17th century” — although its “caves may date to the 11th century”. More interesting for Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem is the Cursed Galleon in the Rock Lounge. It’s a model ship over the bar, and “last 3 people to clean it have all mysteriously died”.

We went back to Martin’s place so that he could have a quick nap, while I caught up on e-mail. For the evening, we decided on a Japanese restaurant for a quick dinner, and then on to a (relatively quiet and smoke free) pub. I might have been in the mood for some music — jazz or folk — but it seems that Nottingham gets so much business on weekends, that venues don’t need live music to attract customers. Music is something that happens on weekend nights. In any event, I got to meet Martin’s friend Roger, and we had an interesting conversation about rock musicians getting old. Roger’s band used to play progressive rock, so it’s a real challenge to remember guitar parts, not only because progressive rock can be intricate, but also because some pieces run 10 to 12 minutes in length!

By the end of the evening, I was pretty wiped out, so I was happy when Martin offered me his bed and he slept on the couch. It’s been a long time since I’ve stayed with a bachelor, so I’ve almost forgotten what living alone is like!

(See more of Nottingham on the snapshot server in our basement).


1I asked Martin about the etymology for piccadilly. He didn’t know. Geraldo Carneiro cites two alternative etymologies: “I’ve learned from Jorge Luís Borges a probably false, but delicious, etymology: “Piccadilly” was the place in which the Portuguese made his “pecadilhos” (little sins). Afterwards I learned from Anthony Burgess (funny as those two writers have the same name, signifying bourgeois) that the word “Piccadilly” came out of a family of fat people that created “pickardils”, that means healthy pigeons, if my precarious English does not fail (and it does!)”.  

2Now at home, I can see that the Alcohol and Gaming Commission of Ontario says that it’s illegal: “It is illegal to transport beverage alcohol in a motor vehicle, a motorized snow vehicle or a boat unless the beverage alcohol is in a container that is unopened and the seal unbroken, or unless the beverage alcohol is packaged in baggage that is fastened closed or is not otherwise readily available to anyone in the vehicle. In a boat, the beverage alcohol must be stored in a closed compartment.” 

3“Black cabs” appear to be all built by London Taxis International in Coventry. It turns out that there’s been a London Taxis of North America company out of Massachusetts since 2000, and they received a U.S. government approval for import as taxis in 2003.

Machine (man) down

My Thinkpad died while in Finland, but I got lucky — temporarily using Minna’s similar machine — and a replacement finally reached the Helsinki office before I left for Manchester.
After a week in Austria, but before my trip through the UK, my Thinkpad died in Finland!

Minna had picked me up from the airport on Thursday night (April 27), and I had a chance to plug in the Internet connection at her home to catch up. On Friday morning, I lectured at the class at Stadia and then went out for lunch and shopping in Hakaniemi with Ritva. I took the bus back to Minna’s house, plugged in my laptop … and the machine wouldn’t boot. My experience (as a former IBM systems engineer!) suggested that this was system board failure, and definitely a hardware problem. While I was puzzling through options, I made dinner.

After dinner, I got Minna’s permission to try an experiment. (This really made Petri uncomfortable, but I’ve done this dozens of times!) Since Nokia also uses Thinkpads, she happened to have the model similar to mine — a T41. I removed the hard drive from my Thinkpad, and put it into her machine. Success! Although her T41 came with a Finnish keyboard and better screen resolution, my hard drive started up as normal. I connected to the network, tunnelled into IBM, and started some Sametime chats with various internal support people. I finally connected by Mary Penner, in the IBM Canada CIO’s office. The solution was, it appears, to put the Thinkpad Emergency Replacement Program (TERP) into effect. This is a great program, designed a decade ago, when it was realized that IBM consultants can’t effectively do client work when they don’t have a working Thinkpad. The distribution centre maintains an inventory of identical model units, so that a replacement can be sent out, working parts (e.g. hard drives, memory) can be swapped as required, and the non-working machine is returned for repair. This works well in Canada, and the IBM consultant is back in business in about 24 hours. Maintenance facilities typically don’t keep system boards on hand, so getting local service isn’t an option.

Working abroad, however, is a bigger challenge. Since I was going to be in Finland for another week, Mary initiated a shipment for me — starting with ordering inventory pulled down in the distribution centre on Friday’s third shift — so that the appropriate customs paperwork could be done on Monday morning. On this schedule, the replacement Thinkpad was to arrive in Finland on Thursday.

I wrapped up as much work as I could on Friday night, and went to Porvoo on Saturday. The rest of the weekend — while Minna and Petri celebrated Vappu (May Eve and May Day) with friends, I worked on Minna’s Thinkpad, knowing that I’d have to return it when the work week began. I transferred some of the content to a memory stick, and stashed away various files on the Internet at daviding.com, because getting Internet access is easy.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I was at Stadia and HUT, where Internet access on library computers worked well. I tracked the shipment of my replacement Thinkpad on the FedEx web site, and noted that it had arrived at the airport distribution centre on Thursday. On Friday morning, at IBM, Jyrgi Koskinen and Taina Gunay phoned FedEx for me. There was a bit of confusion about the customs status for the Thinkpad — it seemed like we were importing a computer from Canada — but they straightened that out. The computer was to arrive by lunchtime. I gave my scheduled presentations at IBM.

At lunchtime, Jyrgi phoned FedEx and they said that they would deliver by 2 p.m. We went down to the mailroom, and asked the clerks to watch for us. Around 2 p.m., Jyrgi phoned FedEx again, and they said that the shipment would definitely arrive by 4 p.m. The mailroom closes at 4 p.m., and this was a Friday afternoon! Coming up to 4 p.m., Jyrgi phoned FedEx again, and the dispatcher gave him the mobile phone number for the driver. The driver said that she was tangled in traffic, and would arrive soon. Jyrgi gave her directions to deliver to the front reception desk, so the mailroom employees could go home. I went downstairs to wait. An unmarked van pulled up around 4:30 p.m., and a woman rushed out with the package. Finally!

I took the Thinkpad upstairs, swapped the hard drives, and started up the computer. I was back in business. I found Mary Penner online in Toronto and thanked her, and asked about the return. She replied that she actually hadn’t initiated a formal TERP, but had assigned me a second Thinkpad. She said that the last time that she did a TERP to an IBMer in France, it took her six months to track the return through shipping and customs! I meant that I not only got to carry one Thinkpad in my hand luggage through the UK before coming home, but two! (More physical exercise than I really needed!).

Still, the process worked, and I would have a functional computer with me for my final week in the UK. That evening, it was a scramble between getting caught up on urgent e-mails, and packing up for a flight to Manchester in the morning ….

Entertaining at (someone else’s) home

Another Chinese feast at a friends’ home!
In this stage of life where we all have full time jobs, families and community, entertaining friends at home is a small luxury. For me, entertaining in friends’ homes is a nice respite from jet age travel. It’s a great opportunity to share time, food and wine together.

Taina and Pekka hosted the dinner on this trip. Minna invited Tuula (since Petri and Tommi had prior commitments) and I invited Karlos. Annaleena had just returned from the U.S., but had picked up some stomach troubles on the trip, and thought it best to stay home. Taina chauffeured me over to the K Citymarket hypermarkets at Iso Omena — a reliable place to pick up Chinese-style tofu! — and I prepared about five dishes, as usual. Continue readingEntertaining at (someone else’s) home

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