Friday: Fretful porpentine

This is a bridge at Sidney, my college. The blue porcupine is one of the supporters on the college's coat of arms; there is or was a drinking society called the Porcupines, but they were apparently banned when the members climbed up on the Master's roof while he was entertaining guests, and vomited down the windows. So the story goes, anyway.

Thursday was spent working on xzibit, and building unit tests. They were very much needed, but didn't directly contribute to getting the system into a demonstrable state. I need to put in some hours on that over the weekend, as well as on the book.

On Thursday night I went to church. It was the feast of St Mary Magdalene, and the sermon was about how Mary didn't recognise Jesus out of context until he said her name. As I was on my way out of the building, someone said, "Marnanel". It was Carys, from my LJ and Facebook friends lists, and I hadn't recognised her out of context.  The coincidence amused me greatly.

Afterwards, I walked to the Carlton to see some chiarkers, drink a good pint of mild, and eat fish and chips. It was a good evening.

Friday was spent on team-building exercises at the Møller Centre, at Churchill.  Afterwards I went home to see my parents and get ready for seeing my grandfather one more time on Saturday morning, which I shall write about in Saturday's post.

It's been a wonderful, productive, and memorable week.  I have many people to thank, including my parents, and Fin and Alex, but I particularly want to say thank you to Collabora for making it possible.

Saturday: Urban, squat, and packed with guile

This was a game of scratch cricket on Parker's Piece I watched from my hotel room window. The building in the foreground is Hobb's Pavilion.

Rupert Brooke wrote:

For Cambridge people rarely smile,
Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.

Gentle reader, am I urban, squat, and packed with guile?  I suppose I must be.  One thing I have learned anew during the past week is that I am indeed Cambridge people, and will probably always be so.  I feel more at home here than anywhere on earth, even the town in which I grew up.  I am the starfish and this is the sea, and I need to come back more regularly for fear of drying up.

On Friday night I went home by train to my parents' house, where we ate pie and drank beer.  On Saturday morning we went again to see my grandfather.  He seemed somehow older, far more than four days older: his eyes were tired and his speech lacked hope.  He talked to me about family history, and poetry, and the war.  When the others had left he asked me whether I was, in fact, happily married.  There was none of the solemn joking and laughter which usually fills his thoughts; he seems to be preparing to leave.  I told him I would try to be back in the autumn.  "If I'm spared," he said.

Later we went with my grandmother to the Crown in Shillington, where she bought us a very good lunch, and we ate it sitting in the sunshine while we talked.  The ringers in the belltower next to the pub were ringing call changes for a wedding throughout the meal: if you had decided to arrange a perfect meal for me as a treat, you would not have gone far wrong with this one.  I do worry about my grandmother, and how she will cope when her husband is gone.  I'm not sure how I can help.

My mother had kindly washed my clothes when I came back to their house.  I packed them up and returned to Cambridge, and slept for a while, then walked to Churchill where Collabora were throwing a party, with much food and good beer.  I left early and came back to the hotel to get ready to fly to Amsterdam tomorrow.  It seems so strange to be leaving.