I have an ill wife. She has The Flu. No, not just A Bad Cold, but The Actual Flu. Which sucks. Symptoms were showing on Thursday when her folks arrived, but she managed to fight it until they departed on Saturday. This appears to have used up her last reserves of strength, as she has been holed up in bed now for two days straight. I came home tonight to find her mewling with pain; she couldn't hold herself upright for long enough to fetch the tablets from our medicine cupboard. (To my shame, I even scolded her tonight for being so silly as not to have taken pain relieving tablets all day; way to be supportive, Chris.) This could last for a week or even two, according to NHS Direct.
We have no doctor in London yet (after three years), but I went to the pharmacist to ask for some medication to provide some respite. I now have a 24 hour remedy (colour-coded tablets for night and day) and anaesthetic and antibiotic throat lozenges. Plus plenty of fluids. She hasn't eaten a full meal since Saturday evening; the best she has managed is half a bowl of soup yesterday and, today, a few chunks of pineapple.
We, collectively, as a household, feel like shit at the minute. We've both been hurling ourselves at our work with gusto for so long, and now, at the end of the year, we just seem to be running on empty. There's just nothing left. A sort of long-term exhaustion has set in. Not the self-congratulatory exhaustion that comes at the end of a stint of hard work on one project, but the sapping malaise that comes from realising that once you've finished that project, there are three others to be done, one of which is already late. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. We need a holiday, but we have neither the money to hand over to someone to do it all for us, nor the energy to piece together a budget option. Plus, apparently I only have half a day's holiday left in this year's allocation.
The problem we both have is that we just don't know a different way to work. We both need to be throttling back a bit, I think, for our sanity and physical well-being, but neither of us likes the idea of a job done badly. There must be corners which can be cut or processes which can be streamlined, but for the life of me, I don't know where.
So, yeah, it's all a bit fucking depressing, really. Plus, there's the very real possibility that I'll get this bug from my better half myself.
I can't take this for much longer; something's gotta give.

Working in publishing is a little disconcerting. Having been employed by a magazine (not literally) for over three years now, most of the cosy conceptions I had about magazines, books, television and the rest of the media have been dashed. It's like that bit in the Wizard of Oz – one of the least kiddy-friendly kids films the word has ever seen – when you get to peek behind the screens and see the grand wizard for what he is: a small, timid man.

You see, part of us is disappointed; there's an in-built sub-routine in our minds that likes to be fooled and likes to be subservient to an authority figure which appears to be stronger, wiser and less doubting than us, be that a political leader or Cosmopolitan. My two-bit theory is that that's one of the reasons we still have a monarchy in this country; when we think of the Queen, our thoughts are less about the individual and more about the office.

Back to publishing, I fancy; all this political talk is unnerving here. My wider point about shibboleths as applies to publishing is that I'm saddened that I can now see the people and structures behind some of the titles I once held so dear. I know something of how magazines fill pages, and can glance at a spread in Empire and have an inkling of what was going through the mind of the editor, commissioning editor and writer as it was being put together. 'Oh dear, that actor wasn't very forthcoming in that interview, so we'll have to demote the interview and compile a half-page trivia box-out: it goes to press this afternoon.' Or 'Shit, we've sold more ads and have to cut what was a five-page feature down to three; let's try to cram it all in,' say.

My point is that I now think as much about the people behind the brand as the brand itself. Which is, of course, a nice, savvy position to be in, and one which makes me less susceptible to marketing spin. But, frankly, I enjoy being a little deluded. A comforting white lie can be more pleasant than a truth.

But my heart does go out to the poor bastard who fucked up with the release of the DVD pictured above. I forget now what film it is, but I can picture only too well the plummeting feeling in the stomach of one person when he or she suddenly realises that they've send a disc to duplication with a flaw. The stickers will, of course, help, and it's good that they caught it in time, but I feel for that sorry soul who ballsed up in the first place.

In other news, we've had a relaxing weekend, but I got less of the work done that I'd like. Up early tomorrow morning, I suspect. Also, the young lady has a week off work for the October holidays. She deserves every second.

Frankly, I'm a little nervous about avian flu. The projected figures for the number of dead in the UK alone are sobering. Be that as it may; this post is not about the flu itself, but about some people's reaction to it. At random, I found the comment below on the BBC's Have Your Say section. My major problem is with his conspiracy theorising, but there are other factual and linguistic errors present, so let's just take it one fuck-up at a time, shall we? (Original quote in dark grey, my comments in maroon)

The media/UK Government are whipping up a tide of hysteria You can't whip up a tide, unless you have a god-sized whisk concerning avian flu. There's a clue in the name - avian. Humans can't catch it. Wrong, smart-arse. At present it can't be spread from human to human – though that may change as the virus evolves; the WHO currently counts the number of dead as 60. From what do you think they died? I think there's something else going on here, the drug companies are seeking to cash in on something that doesn't exist. It fucking well does exist you cretin. The WHO's official estimate for the death toll is between 2 and 7.4 million, with the UN cooridinator talking in terms of 5 to 150 million. Remember WMD and the Millennium Bug? I do, yes. I don't know enough to pass judgement on weapons, but I do know that the reason the Millennium Bug was such a non-story in the event was that companies spent billions verifying and upgrading their systems in time. Like avian flu, the Millennium Bug was A Real Thing.

Besides, he starts off by saying it's the media/government that's behind it all, then he goes on to say it's the drugs companies. Can't even get his conspiracy theories right, let alone his facts. Grrr.

Today, I love London. While my better half went off to the Royal Academy to meet up with one of her teaching chums to see an exhibition of Edvard Munch, Jamie and I went to gawp at animals at London Zoo. Then we all met up on Bankside, and had an overpriced dinner and many glasses of wine in a fug of bonhomie. You couldn't have such a varied day not in London. (Awful grammar, but you know what I mean.) Click on the picture above for a bigger version.
The highlight of the Zoo wasn't the tigers or the penguins – awesome though both were – but a small exhibit of nocturnal animals tucked away beneath an out-of-the-way house that's due for renovation. The light was incredibly dim – to the extent that I was waving my hands about in front of me as I was walking – but the tiny little nocturnal mice, bush baby-type animals and bats were utterly entrancing. I could spend hours in there.
So yes, a good weekend. Very relaxing. I ought to have done a little bit of work, but I think I'll just get up early tomorrow and finish of a few bits and pieces.
And now, if you don't mind, my wife needs some TLC, so I'm off to administer it. Goodnight, all.

One of the new features in iTunes 6 is Just for You, a service which analyses your past purchases and makes recommendations for new music you may like based on what you have already bought. In general, I like this model – one that Amazon uses to devastating effect – as it means that everyone's a winner: the retailer sells more, more obscure artists get a look-in, and, ultimately, the consumer gets to hear of music of which he might not previously been aware. Great.

The service does, however, rely on having enough data to analyse. Because I've bought so little music from iTMS, it appears to be struggling a little to make meaningful recommendations to me. If someone can play the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon and get me from Bach to Bon Jovi in six steps or fewer, I'll be mightily impressed. Do you think it's just alphabetical?

Today promises to be a good day. I did some design work yesterday for our awards night – I do like being able to flex my design muscles every now and then – and got it all polished off last night. My workload at the moment seems manageable, and this evening I'll be at the BBC watching the live stream from San Francisco of Steve Jobs pulling another technological bunny from his oh-so-stylish hat. ('Beanie' rather than 'top', I feel)

Plus, the sun is shining, and our newly-renovated office is a sanctuary of neutral colours and quiet; the photo above is of our desk this morning. You can't see it in the photo, but the lilies are so bursting with life that they're dripping nectar onto the table.

I like the life my wife and I are building down here. Salut!

So, do we reckon this entry on Motorola's site suggests:

a) An admirable focus on you, the customer. You, you reading it, you're the most important person in the world to us at Motorola.

b) Motorola has only one customer who asks questions on a regular basis. Frequently, in fact.

c) Motorola has only one customer.

d) Someone at Motorola doesn't understand basic English grammar.

Beware, boys and girls: this is what happens when you blow-dry your hair and then forget where you put your brush. May cause moderate hilarity and giddiness. In other news: my wife appears to have incredibly pink lips. That is all.

We have played host for the last couple of days to some random American*. He brings gift of fancy truffles and cultivated wild rice – something of a paradox there, I feel – and is therefore welcome at any point in the future.

Unfortunately, we did only 'play' at host, however, for though we carefully prepared our spare room for his arrival, I was far too tired to be of any use a a host, having been up all night with Jenny who had contracted a violent stomach bug. Needless to say, the young lady herself was about as much use as a nun in a knocking shop. So we did try very hard to be witty, vivacious and entertaining hosts, but fear we may have appeared as foul-mouthed, barely-animate zombies. Sorry, Cope.

In other news, we saw the new Wallace and Gromit movie (Mini-review: Warm-hearted and very rewarding) and I made some kick-ass consommé for my convalescent wife.

The site is coming on; all feedback appreciated.

* The odd nature of the method by which we know this man was brought home to him when he went through HM Customs and Excise: when asked who he was staying with, he gave our name. Then he was asked how he'd met us. In retrospect, his honest answer of "On the Internet" was perhaps not the best one, but the man let him through. After conducting a full body cavity search.†

† Not really.‡

‡ Yes, really! ◊

◊ No...

It's always daunting, writing a first post on a site. Luckily, I have a reason in this case: I'm reviewing the software used to build Receding Hairline, so I don't have to feel pressured to make a sparkling debut.

Similarly, you'll no doubt find bits of this site that are unfinished, and regular visitors (who am I kidding?) will probably notice the structure shuffle around a fair bit. But do feel free to have a poke around, and please do drop me a line if you notice any spectacular errors.