Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
Please Enjoy Each Episode Equally
I’m a bit late to the party, almost two weeks, but anyway… I’m happy that Severance is finally back for its second season, after what feels like an eternity in the innies’ break room! Two episodes in, it’s safe to say: the weirdness has returned in full swing. The same unsettling blend of corporate dystopia (perhaps even amped up!), eerie humour, and slow-burning mystery is as sharp as ever. And the cinematography really shines.
A Curious Trade: Epilogue
Long after the swirling snow had settled into a gentle hush outside, Ambrose found himself alone at the counter, poring over a large, leather-bound ledger. The lantern light flickered against the old pages, revealing names, dates, and cryptic notations scribbled in Ambrose’s spidery handwriting. Each line represented a deal—some trifling, some monumental—sealed within the walls of his shop.
He ran a fingertip down one column, skimming the entries of the day:
Irrational Public-Speaking Anxiety – Traded for a pocket watch.
Temptation to Erase Guilt – Declined; no sale.
Persistent Self-Doubt in a ‘Chosen One’ – Claimed as partial payment for… well, let’s call it “services rendered.”
A Curious Trade
Winter had laid its icy grip upon the town, painting the cobblestones with frost and casting halos of pale light around the few lanterns still burning. The air was crisp and sharp, the kind that bit at your nose and turned each breath into a fleeting cloud. The town itself, nestled against the bend of a slow-moving river, seemed to have been frozen in time as much as by the season. Crooked buildings leaned toward each other like old conspirators sharing secrets, their roofs bowed with the weight of centuries.
It was a quiet morning, the kind where sound seemed to carry farther, where the crunch of boots on snow echoed in the stillness. The river ran sluggishly under a crust of thin ice, its surface rippling faintly in the weak morning light, like an elderly man grumbling his way through another cold day.
The Threads We Leave Behind
The Watchman tossed and turned in his narrow bed, the chill of the morning doing little to quiet his restless mind. The child’s question echoed in the corners of his thoughts, gnawing at him with an insistence that no amount of pulling the blanket over his head could muffle. "What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?" The words struck like a splinter he couldn’t pry loose, sharp and nagging.
At his feet, Moss, his ever-faithful border collie, let out a low, impatient whine. The dog had been watching him with an intensity that suggested he shared the Watchman’s unease. Finally, Moss stood, padded over to the bedside, and pawed at his master’s arm. The Watchman groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "All right, Moss. I’ll bite. You win. No one gets any rest, apparently."
The Watchman
The town lay quiet beneath a velvet blanket of winter, its snow-covered rooftops glistening under the pale light of a crescent moon. The hour was late, and though a few sounds of merriment escaped from the alehouse near the square—a clatter of mugs, a burst of laughter—even these seemed to be softening, like the sleepy yips of puppies settling down for the night. The cobbled streets wound through the town like frozen veins, silent and unbroken save for the occasional echo of footsteps. Night was creeping in, the kind of deep, impenetrable night that left no room for the lingering warmth of day. The cold had long since bullied the townsfolk into their homes, and chimneys puffed small clouds into the brittle air. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its notes carried on the icy wind.
A Winter Tale
The snowstorm roared like a wild beast, lashing at the young traveller with icy fangs. Athanasius, bundled in a cloak that did little to shield him, hunched over the neck of his weary horse. The beast snorted, steam rising from its nostrils as it plodded forward, each step a laborious battle against the snowdrifts.
"Easy there, old friend," Athanasius muttered, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. His fingers, numbed despite his gloves, clutched the reins as he squinted into the white chaos. The road—if it could still be called that—had long disappeared beneath a thick blanket of snow, leaving him to trust in the horse’s instincts more than his own sense of direction.
Windswept Reflections: The Edge of the World
[…] Books I couldn’t fit into my luggage sit patiently in the shelves of my mental library, their beautifully designed covers captured in quick photos, their intriguing titles jotted in the margins of my travel notes. […] Among these is Michael Pye’s The Edge of the World, a book I first spotted in Edinburgh but only recently revisited while scrolling through my photo archives. Now holding it in my hands, I see how perfectly it aligns with what that journey left me with: a fascination with the unlikely connections, invisible influences, and untamed forces that have shaped British history (and far beyond).
The Lone Swordsman Goes Ambitious
…or delusional. It’s all a matter of perception.
Anyway, how did it all start? Well, by yours truly collecting watches. Why watches? Because in a world of planned obsolescence, they remind us that some things are still made to last. There’s a beauty in their craftsmanship, in the way they defy time even as they measure it.
And how did I come up with the idea for a book? (Wham! Wait, what?!?)
More than Silence: My Meandering on the Isle of Man
It took a bit longer than planned to sit down and continue this tale, partly because life had a way of throwing a few distractions my way since I returned. Actually even before my holiday, I managed to do what most people would think impossible – I "injured myself walking." Yes, you read that right. No daring escapades, no heroic sports feats, just an ill-timed, awkwardly angled step and bam! Torn adductor muscle. My friends were graciously baffled by how one manages such a feat without, say, catapulting oneself off a bike into the nearest tree (given my love for cycling), or at least attempting some ill-advised breakdancing in a crowded pub.
The reason I bring this up is that throughout the holiday, my injuries kept me from doing what I love most - nature photography. It was quite a bummer, to be honest. I half-expected it, even toyed with canceling the whole trip after the doctor’s grim face delivered the news about the recovery period. But I’m stubborn, so I went anyway.
Cookies
This actually did happen to a real person, and the real person is me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in Cambridge, U.K. I was a bit early for the train. I'd gotten the time of the train wrong.
I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword, and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table.
I want you to picture the scene.
Infinite Cosmos
A recent release from National Geographic is Infinite Cosmos, a gorgeous-looking book by Ethan Siegel (with intro by Brian Greene). It’s about the history of the JWST, humanity’s biggest ever space telescope, a machine that allows us to peer deeper & clearer into the universe than ever before, and some of the amazing results obtained through its use.
A short essay on FROM
There are certain TV shows that exist not to provide answers, but to push us into the murky depths of mystery, leaving us to wonder why we even embarked on the journey in the first place. FROM, a modern horror-mystery series, does precisely that; it keeps you suspended between dread and fascination, much like a holiday brochure for a destination you’d absolutely never want to visit but can’t stop reading about. If that sounds familiar, it’s because this sensation mirrors the experience I had reading Cloven Country by Jeremy Harte, a book I stumbled upon during my visit to Scotland last year. It delves into the folklore of rural England, where the devil himself is said to have roamed. Much like the eerie town in FROM, Harte’s landscape is full of picturesque locations that mask deep, ancient horrors.
Outer Range: Another Prime Example of Prime Time Cancellation
With the way shows are being canceled these days, it's like trying to hold onto a slippery fish in a sink. You think you've got a firm grip, but swoosh! they're gone. So, it's no surprise that a cerebral neo-Western like Outer Range got the axe from Amazon after its (stellar) second season. But that doesn't make it any less painful.
Three's a Crowd: Isle of Man, Liverpool, and Manchester
I began my preparations for this trip with the usual meticulousness of a man who doesn't know what he's doing. I made lists, checked weather forecasts, and even consulted a psychic for advice on which souvenirs to bring back. It was a whirlwind of activity, much like a squirrel trying to gather nuts before winter, except without the cute factor. Lots of things to to, lots of choices to be made. The choice of luggage was a particularly vexing one. I considered the pros and cons of hardshell versus soft-shell for hours, weighing the durability of the former against the flexibility of the latter.
In the end, I decided to err on the side of caution and opt for a suitcase that was so heavy, I could probably use it as a doorstop.
A Tale of Two Bears and a Trail of Laughter
So, my parents recently had a 'close encounter of the bear kind' while hiking in a seemingly tourist-friendly area. Can you imagine the scene? Two somewhat seasoned hikers, blissfully strolling along, suddenly finding themselves face-to-face with a mama bear and her two adorable cubs. Cue the panic, the heart-pounding, and perhaps a little bit of 'Oh, crap!'
The Oldest Map Of The World
This ~20-minute piece is about a Babylonian map - the oldest in the world - Written and inscribed on clay in Mesopotamia around 2,900-years-ago, it is, like so many cuneiform tablets, incomplete. However, the wizard, errr... Mr. Finkel and a particularly gifted student of his — Edith Horsley — managed to locate a missing piece of the map
How to Survive a Bucharest Heatwave (Without Selling Your Soul for a Cold Beer)
This heatwave is no joke. It's gone beyond "unbearable" and entered the realm of the downright absurd. We're talking scenes straight out of a fever dream (or maybe a particularly spicy episode of "Hot Ones").
The Taps Run on Steam: Forget refreshing showers. Turning on the tap releases a plume of scalding steam, perfect for that in-home sauna experience you never wanted.
The Great Bucharest Beer Shortage: Craft beer, the lifeblood of hipsters and expats alike, is dwindling faster than your patience. At this rate, the entire middle class could vanish in a craft beer-fueled mirage within three days.
My Favourite Facts About Scotland
Forget kilts and haggis (although, let's be honest, they're pretty great too), it's time to delve into the real reason Scotland's so darn interesting: their brains! Yes, you read that right, brains. Apparently, according to a hefty tome titled "The Scottish Enlightenment" by Arthur Herman, there was a whole era where Scots weren't just battling sheep for the best hillside real estate, they were also battling big ideas.
The echoes of last year's visit are still lingering, like the faint strains of a lone bagpiper battling the wind. But this time, I come armed …
Coldplay Brings the Lollipops, The Smile Brings the Soul
Bucharest witnessed a tale of two bands. Coldplay, the pop veterans clinging to their youthful optimism, and The Smile, the brooding newcomers offering a dose of reality. It's a choice, folks: do you want your music to be the soundtrack to a bouncy castle or a deep existential crisis? At least I know where I stand.
How Music Broke Through The Static
The year was 1986, the Iron Curtain a looming presence. I was just six years old, trapped in a world of carefully curated reality. Propaganda droned from the single state-sanctioned radio station, and television flickered to life for only a few hours each day. Yet, within the confines of our small apartment, a revolution was brewing. My parents, yearning to expose me to a world beyond the grey monotony, procured a peculiar radio – a contraband Kasprzak, its name a whisper from a Polish lady's hushed transaction. Unlike its bland counterpart, this radio held a secret power: the ability to capture whispers from beyond the Iron Curtain. Bulgaria, Austria, sometimes even Germany, their faint signals crackled through the static, a symphony of forbidden sounds that promised a world waiting to be discovered.