Another extension

Another meeting today, supposedly the final one before the big off.

Instead we ended up going over plans for the San Fran office, and now I’ve got to get a business plan together. On one level it’s a real pain, since I’m champing at the bit to get going. On the other it’s a vote of confidence that my publisher is wanting my input on where we’re going, and we’ve come up with some interesting ideas.

The delay also lets me finish some of the books I'm really going to miss before they go into storage. I'm currently half way through the Neville Shute series. He's a mid century British author, best known for 'A Town Like Alice' and 'On the Beach'. His early stuff isn't great but he really came into his own in the Second World War and writes alternately rollicking good adventure tales and surprisingly deep philosophical stuff eg 'Round the Bend'.

While he has a typical old fashioned view of the role of women (saint or slut) and uses language that rightly wouldn't be allowed these days on racial grounds, he's well worth a read. After I've finished his oeuvre it'll be onto the Iain (M) Banks...

BSOD

There are many nice ways to start the day. Waking up next to Tina Fey would rank high on the list, failing that high thread count sheets on a balmy summer’s morning are nice, or even being stirred from slumber by the opening of the Archers Omnibus.

But this morning was one of the bad ones. No, nothing as major as arising to the sound of the anti-terrorism squad kicking in the door or waking up next to Anne Widdecombe wearing a wedding ring but pretty bad nevertheless.

The cause of the morning’s ire was the dreaded blue screen of death (BSOD). The standard morning routine if I’m without company is to slip out of bed, make a cup of tea (and Marmite toast if I’m hungover) and then fire up the laptop to see what news has broken overnight. This allows the wake up process to be fairly useful, letting you deal with any urgent problems and clear the email backlog before heading into the office.

This morning started well. Hearing Charlotte Green collapse into giggles on the Today programme (around 8:47) was a good start to be sure. But then the laptop died. BSOD no matter what I tried – safe mode, boot disk, whatever. After spending 45 minutes trying to sort it out I admitted defeat, headed in and handed it over to the office IT problem to sort out.

It’s amazing how crippling a laptop loss can be. I keep the important stuff on a small USB key ring but passwords and login details are too sensitive and you miss all those little tweaks that make using the machine easy rather than a chore.

Thankfully the problem was sorted, and S from IT is getting a bottle of organic lager to show my appreciation. Three groups you should always stay on the good side of in work; IT, reception and HR. It’s a good rule of work.

Back to work

It’s always fun to come back to work after a break. The Chinese apparently have a saying that if you find a job you love you’ll never work a day again in your life. It’s true in this job – well almost at least.

On the moving front things should be sorted out by the end of next week. There’s some final contract negotiations to be sorted out but that shouldn’t take too long. Dealing with an employer is a tricky business; even if you’re getting something you want you need to negotiate hard, because next time you might not be in that position.

Anyway, the current state of play is I have a meeting with the bosses on Monday to hammer out the last details and then the 30 day clock starts. Personally, I can’t wait.

Beware the black dog

An oddish sort of a day. Very nice Sunday lunch with V, hubby Mr. P (short for Perfect – the way she first described him) and family. But the walk back was full of the realisation that I’ll probably not see them again until Christmas. What will have changed in that time, and will their little CJ even remember me as she gets a year older I wonder?

It’s a difficult feeling, something like pre-homesickness. This wasn’t helped by the weekend’s packing and the knowledge that the family are all overseas at the moment. We usually spend Easter together but schedules didn’t allow it this time. Maybe I should have gone to Portugal with some of them after all.

Anyway, all things pass, and my bedroom currently makes Tracy Emin’s ‘Bed’ look like the work of an obsessive neat freak.

WTF!

In the last 48 hours I've seen four hailstorms hit (one with ice the size of your fingernail), snow, sleet and tropical-style rain. This is just not right, and a poor way to spend the 'nail a troublemaker to a tree' long weekend. Bring on the fog of San Francisco say I.

Anyway, enough of my whinging. I spent most of the morning at Borough Market food shopping and eating bratwurst with sauerkraut. Picked up some lovely venison that's going to go into a massive stew on Monday, with lashings of bacon, onions, red wine and mushrooms, as well as getting two of the best chocolate brownies in the world - one of which was promptly inhaled.

I am a bit concerned about where to find game in the US. I've found one place in the city that sells venison, but it's sourced from New Zealand so hardly low in food miles. But there's nowhere that sells rabbit and a year without its tender flesh would be a misery, or at least a decided embuggerance. Of course you can get A rabbit, but I feel the Saveabunny folks might get suspicious after the second or third visit.

Then again, thanks to the 2nd amendment I should have to right to bear arms and go and hunt my own. Although thinking about it didn't they bring that amendment in to stop limeys shooting up the country in the first place?

Spoilsports

Honestly, first day of spring, the start of Easter and it's freezing cold and raining. Mother Nature is not playing fair.

And my podcast at work got cut. More specifically the line "We'll be back after the break, and remember, without a death penalty we'd have no Easter."

Let's hope for a better weekend.

Hiatus, imagined and ultimate

I’m still waiting for the final go, and it looks like no progress for a week. It’s getting so every time asks me when I’m going I clench a little inside. At this rate I’ll be stuck over for a major birthday and that’s not going to happen.

So Easter will be a hiatus, and time to do some ruthless pruning, in the garden and the wardrobe. Some charity shop is going to do very well this weekend, if their category of success is a few suits and two bin bags of vendor branded clothing.

Ten years of press conferences have led to an astonishing assortment of t-shirts, baseball caps, sweatshirts and even a pair of fingerless leather gloves. I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall in that marketing meeting.

The other real problem is the books. I’ve around 2,000 of the little tyrants hanging around and the move was supposed to be a winnowing, but there’s precious little I really want to get rid of. I’m certainly dumping a box of juvenilia; I doubt there’s really a market for 70s schlock horror and books about 'humorous' graffiti.

There’s a fair few duplications too. There’s a web site V told me about called Bookcrossing where you can print out a form, stick it in the back of the book and then leave it in a public place. They then log onto the site and tell you where it is and what they thought of it, repeat as necessary. The only problem I can see is that in these paranoid times leaving a hardback at an airport might be construed as a security hazard.

The morning’s rather grim task was to write the obit for Arthur C Clarke* . The man was a visionary, and a very humble one. He once said that but for Jules Verne man wouldn’t have stepped onto the moon. But thanks to him we’ve made massive strides and will make many more with any luck.

Clarke’s work opened up science and space to a generation of us, and hopefully more in the future. I can still remember sitting under the blankets in my Scots uncle’s home reading one of his short stories, ‘Summertime in Icarus’ and getting lost in the story and the mechanism behind it. He told cracking yarns, packed with detail and loved the occasional verbal fun, such and ending a story with the punch line “All that is left of the ship is a star-mangled hammer.”

He had his flaws, notably the lack of strong female characters and putting his name to a lot of co-written rubbish in later years. Devoting pages of Imperial Earth to how the rotary dialler for phones would last for millennia must also have made him wince, if a guest had been so rude as to bring it up.

But he spoke of a dream of making space exploration "the moral equivalent of war", a stunning concept. Clarke flowered in the Second World War, helping invent the radar that guides planes to land in bad weather. He knew what could be achieved if a country, or a planet, buckled down and really concentrated, and considered it a far better use of money than, for example, the $300bn Iraq has cost.

When it became clear that the end was nigh he recorded a final goodbye to family and fans in a video message. It is characteristically self-effacing and included three wishes, one of which was for peace in his beloved Sri Lanka.

If you haven’t sampled his stuff I’d recommend Childhood’s End, 2001 (helps finally understand the film), 3001 for closure and The Fountains of Paradise. The latter may prove the most important, since a space elevator is the only way to move equipment into orbit at a profit.

But the job wasn’t all bad, I had a keyboard cleaning moment after logging onto the Popbitch message board that made me love the site again. Clarke was a humanist but it would have been nice for him to chuckle as I did when the news had been posted thus:

“Arthur C Clarke Dead. Suffering breathing problems, apparently. Pretty extreme problems by the sound of it.”

*It stands for Charles – no I didn’t know and neither did anyone else in the office. This sparked one of those search-engine hunting sessions where you find the middle names of other authors. Hunter S Thompson has the improbable Stockton, where as Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald makes me wonder if his parents were deranged.

Prudence or pleasure

Well the last few contractual nibblets seem to be unravelling and with any luck the 30 day move clock will start ticking around the middle of next week. Now it's time to address practical concerns.

As part of the new job is going to mean travelling outside the city to meetings then a car is a must. Public transport in San Francisco is good but beyond the Caltrain to San Jose there's virtually nothing.

Driving in America is a very different experience to the UK, at least once you get out of the cities.

American roads are, in the most part, a joy to drive on. Huge highways criss-cross the nation, tracing the contours of the land with gentle curves and have excellent visibility, enabling the easy spotting of police vehicles. The only downside is the ridiculously low speed limits but you get used to those and without the cameras that bedevil British motorways going a bit above the limit isn't a problem.

In 2005 I took a week off after a conference in San Francisco, hired a car at an absurdly cheap rate and pointed it south (see above picture). After some initial confusion about driving down the road on the wrong side, particularly a sphincter-clenching moment when I realised I had turned into oncoming traffic, it was a breeze – and turned into one of the best holidays of my life.

The only real downer on the trip was hearing the news that Hunter S. Thompson had died. He'd been a hero of mine for years, ever since reading Hell's Angels, and I was actually in Barstow when the news broke that he'd gone out with a bang not a whimper. Sadly there were no drugs to take hold (to quote Fear and Loathing) and when I asked the check-out clerk he'd never even heard of the man who put Barstow on the map.

Today's oil price news will cast a bit of a damper on that now. Petrol (I can't bring myself to call it gas, although that may change) back then was around $2.50 a gallon. It seemed incredibly cheap compared to the $7 I would have been paying in the UK and it was an intoxicating feeling. I travelled over 2,000 miles on that trip, mainly because I kept making detours to interesting sounding places.

Now petrol is up to $4 a gallon and motoring will be pricy – not as bad as the UK but more of an issue. So I'll need something reasonably economical, reliable (nothing ruins an interview like arriving late) and fun to drive.

Another key feature is that it'll have to be a manual, not automatic. This isn't just because automatics hurt miles per gallon. Automatic gearboxes are like having a plastic cover from your phone – eminently sensible but take some of the fun out of the whole experience.

Logically I should go for a Honda or Toyota, cars that never go wrong and provide a reasonable ride. American cars are out – I've never driven one I wouldn’t happily throw on the scrap heap due to cripplingly uncomfortable seats, suspension like overcooked spaghetti or the cornering abilities of a supertanker.

But I've just spied this little beauty on Craigslist, the Mazda MX5. I had one of these ten years ago and it was the most fun you can have in a car with your clothes on. A rear wheel drive sports car that's sure-footed, quick off the blocks and very forgiving. I am sorely, sorely tempted.

Bless the Inland Revenue

Now there's a phrase you don't expect to hear to often.

The Inland Revenue, or Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs (HMRC) to give them their official name, have the kind of reputation that any organisation gets after taking money out of citizen's pockets since 1665 – not an advertising slogan I think they'll be considering any time soon.

Sometimes that reputation is justified but generally they are just like any other government department – slow, bureaucratic and seldom prone to admitting mistakes. Yet taxes are the price we pay for a civilised society and pay them we must.

I was concerned I was going to get hit with all kinds of costs in deferred tax etc, so much so I'd be living in a barrel when I got back from the US. Amazingly enough however they not only have a helpline, but it works and seems to give good advice.

So as it turns out the rules on National Insurance (NI) contributions have changed recently. Previously you had to show 44 years of NI payments to get a full pension. Now it seems you only have to do 30 – and I've already worked 17 of those. So taking a year's holiday shouldn't be too bad one would hope.

But I have to say I'm still feeling there's something I'm missing on this one. So if you see a surprisingly neat man with a sign saying "Will work for food or books" in a year's time you'll know that maybe HMRC isn't all its cracked up to be.

The long dark teatime of the soul

Sunday evening, or what Douglas Adams used to call the long dark teatime of the soul, and I'm reflecting on the weekend's events with a full stomach and a glass of wine.

It's been a busy weekend. Saturday was taken up with a meeting of the London Atheists Meetup Group, a lively bunch of kindred spirits gathering in a pub to discuss what is to be done with the world. Atheism's important to me but I'm slightly nervous as to how it's going to go down in the US.

In the past it's never been a problem, and I don't think it will be in San Francisco, although it's not the case in other states such as Pennsylvania, where atheists are barred from holding public office. A recent Gallop poll found that an atheist was less likely to be voted for than women, ethnic minorities, homosexuals or the over 70s.

Beliefs are a personal matter, but with religious fervour on the rise it's worrying times. I'll not deny my atheism in conversation, but won't bring up the topic unless it's relevant, and always maintain a civil attitude to the religious. I may think they are wrong, but antagonism is useless – something Richard Dawkins would do well to remember when he's being so stupid with his cleverness.

Sunday was spent clearing out some of the detritus that has accumulated over time, mostly dead technology stuff, household paperwork and an astonishing pile of branded clothing given away as press freebies. But the surprise of the day was Sunday lunch.

R cooked a fantastic roast lamb as a goodbye treat and was rewarded when his team, Cardiff City, made it into the semi finals of the FA Cup. To those not into football this is as likely as George Bush declaring he's made a colossal mistake and not only should he not have invaded Iraq but he also wears a very fetching black leather bondage suit in his spare time. Oh if wishing made it so…

A legend leaves the stage

The hack* community said goodbye to a legend last night, Mike Magee, the Keith Richards of IT journalism, co-founder of the Register and founder of the Inquirer.

Mike's a tough old hack of the old school. He tak es no prisoners and has an attitude which alternately horrifies and fascinates some of my American counterparts. He's not afraid to be probing, has zero tolerance for bullshit and treats fools with no mercy, but respects proficiency and honesty in all who have those rare qualities.

At the first Intel Developer Forum (IDF) the two of us attended together, nearly a decade ago, his very presence in the room would set experienced flacks reaching for the rosaries, and their credit cards. Mike has a prodigious thirst and takes the reasonable view that if he's got to listen to a few hours of marketing nonsense then he should damn well get a pint after it.

Mike is a journalist of the old school. No matter what, the story comes first.

One night we held an impromptu global memorial service for a dearly loved flack friend who died tragically young - some of us in San Francisco at IDF, others in London with her family and friends and still more in New Zealand, where a bunch of hacks happened to be at the time.

Mike found the barman in our hotel was happy to serve gin and tonics by the pint glass and we raised numerous toasts to the dearly departed. Many drinks were quaffed (it's like drinking but you miss your mouth more) and after many hours I weaved my way to my room to file the day's copy.

I woke up face down on the keyboard to the sound of the mobile bleating; my editor was wanting to know when I was going to file. Mike of course had already filed and as I dragged my hungover backside down to breakfast he was looking cheerful as ever and puffing away on a cigarette as though nothing had happened.

All this caught up with him in the end and he suffered a massive heart attack in a London train station. If the ambulance had been ten minutes later he'd have been a gonner but the gods look after drunks and small children and he made it in time for his quadruple bypass.

A month or so later I met him at a press party and inquired as to his health.

"Fine," he replied with the traditional broad grin.

"I'm only allowed a glass of wine a day and no smoking but other than that I'm OK."

He reached down and pulled out a nearly full pint glass and a packet of Marlboro Reds and asked me for a light. Mike is not someone to change when he's having fun.

He's off to India now to train up a new generation of journalists, who may make up the vanguard of journalism being outsourced as effectively as IT or manufacturing. If he imparts the same lessons to them as he has taught journalists here the future of the profession is in safe, if slightly unstable, hands.

You'll be missed Mike, but we know you'll be back.

*The term hack has been applied to journalists since the 18th century, and is used to denote people who write fast for money. PR folk are traditionally referred to as flacks, since they handle the flack from journalists asking awkward questions.

I also like to think it's a term of affection, from one mercenary breed to another.

Intro/Outro - with a nod to Neil Innes

At the tail end of last year I got good and bad news. The bad is that the head of our San Francisco office had decided to move companies, and indeed countries. The good was that they needed someone to replace him and I was in the running.

Now it looks as though I'm not only in the running but the favourite, with the next best option being a three legged nag expecting a visit to the nearest Pedigree Chum factory. So long as I can get certain details sorted it looks as though I'll be able to start the 30 day clock some time in the next week or so and be in Fogtown by April. Exciting but a wee bit scary.

The last few months have been a tad stressful and there have been many ups and downs, some of which will get referenced at some point I have little doubt. But in the meantime, at the suggestion of a good friend I'll be blogging the experiences of a dyed-in-the-wool Brit moving to San Francisco and becoming a stranger in a very strange land indeed.

The following blog will hopefully serve many purposes. It'll save an awful lot of phone calls by keeping my friends and family updated, let me vent in a city where I know fewer people than the fingers on my left hand and give an outlet to write.

Writing's what I do for a living and it's also my passion – there are very few things in life that can compete with feeling of a good sentence flowing onto the page and the others generally involve other people, intensely good music or near frozen Moskovskaya Cristall with an en suite snow-bound sauna.

Read and enjoy, and comments are always welcome.