Just rang my iPhone using this. Probably taken out the local BT network but it worked with one 9v battery, some crocodile clips, two Bakelite phones, one to dial, one to connect to, and an old Marconi line tester – the call to the connection effected by  several turns of a magneto handle,  (remember not to have hand in box when turning handle – the shock from a magneto is surprising invigorating)  the call to the BT exchange effected using a 1930’s GPO model 232 and a significant amount of trial and error as to which wire went where. Unbelievably exciting – I feel like Dr Who. Now to photograph it properly so I don’t forget how I did it, then instruct Maria to put on her best 1930’s telefonist voice and see what happens if I ring in and get transferred. The only limitation is that a transferred call is transferred from the phone at one end of my desk to the phone at the other, but you get the idea. Grandchildren need urgently to come an play telephones with me. Feel a bit of a plonker ringing myself and transferring to myself and Maria not quite as excited as me.

Most splendiferous time with my younger sister and her husband – more visits please.

I have for some reason been feeling particularly well for the last three days. Just like I was a few years ago. Quite energetic, not floaty, comfortable, ready. I think the painkillers have finally withdrawn from the field. I thank them for their service from the bottom of my heart. I intend to build a small altar and make daily offerings to the power and majesty of the blessed god Gabapentin and to the lesser god Tramadol.

Those of you who follow the sensationalist, irresponsible health news will know that processed meat gives you cancer <FACT>. Well there’s a thing, most of my Italian relatives live beyond 90 on a diet heavy in salami, mortadella, and Italian sausage. Maria and I had to laugh when Radio 4 indulged the scaremongering by listing the other things that can give you cancer. Apart from the obvious horse having bolted irony of it all, the pronouncement also included warnings for those that use paint and those that have coal fires as well as the usual suspects – smoking and asbestos. I jest not – at that very moment Maria was painting the bathroom, we had just enjoyed a ham sandwich and had lit the wood burner. I should have been smoking an asbestos pipe to clinch it. A triple whammy. I guess we are lucky to survive the night.

I have finished ‘Marge’ more or less to my satisfaction. It needs, what we theatre designer lovies call, set dressing and sprucing up, but otherwise, it’s done.

To my surprise the programming was easy. I had never used MAX/MSP seriously before and the adaptation to a signal flow way of thinking flumuxed me at first but once I stopped trying to find ways of compressing everything into a series of nested if statements and started just joining virtual wires in ugly loops and gates it has worked like a dream. Looks like spaghetti but who cares. It runs unattended and any errors are likely to arise as the result of faulty hardware contacts, leaves on the line, chilly nights, cats, rats etc.

“Marge” has been like a mini, and much more fun PhD (sorry Alistair). I have been completely obsessed – out in my dressing gown with a torch at 4 am (is a minor example), I have read the relevant bits of a 1937 tome on telephony, ((Atkinson – the standard textbook for GPO trainee engineers) – Roger may have memorised the revised edition in the 60’s when he was 4)) and I have spent hours meticulously building switch boxes and sensors from scraps of Bakelite and Evostick (the only glue to bother with – forget superglue, you have to get it under the counter at B&Q cos it’s so good for sniffing, another bonus ). I have concluded that IP cameras are hateful, belligerent, temperamental bits of diva kit that will never work reliably despite have the signal strength of Jodrell Bank pointed at them. ( I can now pick up our broadband connection at the bottom of the street, meanwhile the stupid webcam feigns weak signal strength like a diving Italian football player. I have resorted to a free Baby Monitor app and an old drum mic. Someone good at all this would have taken about a month, as I am crap at it and thus it has taken six. The lie downs and TV box sets have slowed things down as well, but to be frank my satisfaction at this stage knows no bounds. On to the really fun bit.

Meanwhile as a by product of my telephonic obsession I now own a 1940’s dolls eye switchboard acquired for 50 quid less a few swappsies.

This magnificent machine is barely liftable (well I don’t dare) but most remarkably it seems to work. I doubt it has been powered up since 1940 and yet yesterday evening I figured out the Na meant a sodium battery and connected it to 12 volts. The dolls eyes rolled hysterically for a second or two the buzzer buzzed and like the Golem it came to life. I shouted with joy. It had survived a disasterous postal adventure which split it in two places and dislodged some of the internal components including a curious amount of black tar to hold the buzzer in place. Old tech has the mark of human endeavour all over it and consequently restoring it feels like reviving it and is very satisfying.

As a consequence of my return to a more healthy status I am hoping to return to work more fully and actually travel onto campus from time to time. The details have yet to be resolved so we will see what the university wants me to do.

All in all it is a big day.

Love to all.

All night my mobile received e-mails, every few seconds telling me that a spider had spun its web across my IPCamera’s lens, or that the moon was shining, a dewdrop had formed, a stray cat had twitched it’s whiskers, or a man in a blue striped jersey was climbing through the bathroom window. Useless!!!. Eventually it crashed my server and my website went down. As I know so many of you are eager for your daily dose of my pearls the website is now restored and I have turned off all the webcams alarm reporting functions until I have figured out how to mollify it nervousness. Is that the right word? I have never used it before and it looks odd.

Here is a link to one of the ‘Margecams’ currently being tested. Choose the middle or bottom option. You have been sent a username and password

The car-boot sale was excellent. I bought nothing but strolled about without sitting down for a good long while. I have concluded that standing still is actually the trigger for pain but it may be that I have a pain killer that acts on the nerves and that is probably helping a real lot.

Since returning prototype 1 of the telephone is complete and working. It is a bit of a gaffer job at the moment but it communicates successfully with the computer that now knows when someone passes Marge, when someone enters her (hmmm), when they pick up and whether they choose to speak. However the consequence of this knowledge is not spectacular, as she does precisely nothing. At one stage she responded by launching into ABC by the Jacksons, but I decided that might set something of a high bar for me to attain later – so for now, she remains mute. Anyway nothing very fancy but a good start given the untested combination of technologies. Reliable it is not! particularly as it is currently powered by a 4.5 volt battery attached by two crocodile clips. My plan is to just leave it running for a few days and see what crashes, I shall pop in and out from time to time pretending to be a patron, hopefully not the first and last. I have replaced the picture of my voice with a blank canvas as my voice is not inhabiting the space yet. It will be back on Christmas Eve.

I still cannot decide what to do with any utterances made by clients. In this version of the phone they must expressly choose to talk by pressing a button, bit like an intercom. I have not made this feature up. Quite a few handsets were equipped with press to talk buttons, specially those systems designed for GPO technicians or locations like mines oil rigs etc. Not as far as I know in telephone boxes but then Marge is no ordinary telephone box. It makes conversation much cleaner and structured which of course would help the computer were it ever to attempt any speech recognition or whatever. I am tempted to throw these utterances into the air like bubbles but that sounds both pretentious and a bit hurtful for the bubble makers. I will think on.

My body is like my phone box. At each stage in the very long restoration and rebuild process I find box and body are either in harmony or clashing. Except, of course when “Marge,” as it is henceforth to be known, chooses to throw me from her lofty tower while I attempt to untangle (paint) her red tresses. That was more than dissonance, that was attempted murder.

At the moment all the bits of Marge and my body are ringing nicely. Not exactly sounding as they should, but not clashing. For example the prototype telephone (the actual Bakelite thing) can now send and receive sound, very scratchily. (That’s because the purist in me refuses to modernise the internal components, the carbon granule transmitter and the magnet with a metal skin-like actuator as receiver) – similarly I can sleep through the night scratchily (first time last night). Picking up the receiver currently sends a confusing message to the computer that the receiver has been put down. Not a serious problem, literally crossed wires, and in the same way I occasionally forget how many of the different drugs I have taken. This not a serious problem either as my dosage is now in steady decline so the odd crossed wire doesn’t count. Like my body the various cameras and sensors Marge relies on to give voice either over react,  – last night an alert was triggered, I think, by a leaf brushing Marge’s body flirtatiously, or under react, because of the low  sun in the morning the camera can’t see a thing and Marge didn’t respond when a very large red post van parked next to her – perhaps she wouldn’t grass on a fellow red-post-GPO-type-thing. Likewise my bowels, yes I am obsessed, either respond to Allbran as if we’re something to hold on to and preserve like a childhood stamp collection or something to be spat out as speedily as possible, like that mouthwash dentists prescribe that burns your gob. Don’t you agree it really does? Chlorosyl or something like that. Did you know it also turns your teeth black if you use it too often. More research needed in  this area perhaps?

Today there’s the promise of a sunny car boot sale a few miles away. Lovely Maria will have to drive me (she’s not a big fan), but once there I can test my standing up powers. I got up to about a solid hour before the accident so we will see. The carboot is good exercise. It involves walking, standing, kneeling and bending. When your flexing powers pack up there are a couple of those fairground type stalls that sell breakfasts and you have the pleasure of spooning your sugar into your tea from a mug of pre-used spoons standing in a grey/brown liquid (other people’s dregs). None of us complain. We all put up with it. Funny that? I guess if you didn’t like it you wouldn’t really like the car-boot sale ethos. Old stuff mainly sold by oldish people, some scammers, some virtually giving stuff away to make space in their new Barrett burrow, fairly rough people who project a non Corbynite persona, mixed with Henry’s and Jemimas, (who frankly do the same – where is he going to get support) load and loads of dogs, the odd rare ferret, – they don’t smell good and are not mad about being patted, (or is that just Yorkshire). My accent stands out cos it’s not Yorkshire, not posh, just southern. All this voice work makes me doubly aware of what a singularly unattractive one I have. No I am not fishing for reassurance it really is a mean, sexually ambiguous Australians voice. Cos of the voice I think some people see me as an Arthur Daley – southerner on the make. I really do wear the hat (for the sun actually) but maybe I should drop it. Anyway re the refreshment stall – It’s a comfy, if windy, scruffy, smelly sitting place. You know it’s windy because any empty chair is instantly blown over to lie in the litter. Come to think of it the whole thing is quite post apocalyptic, the last eatery before the nuclear winter.

So off I go. First of all Maria is kindly bringing me croissants in bed. There’s a culture clash.

Not in the way I hope it will eventually but in a way that I find  immensely satisfying. Probably at least two months behind schedule but that couldn’t  be helped. By now my intention was to be back at work teaching and dreaming of ways in which my students projects could in some way relate back to its magnificent isolation and ruddiness. Oh what opportunities they have missed! Actually that’s not true. As it has always been conceived as a symbol of me- ness I should not fall into the trap of sharing and risk tainting the project with otherness. I have found this discipline rather difficult. To turn off the desire to be successful, to have your work admired, to be loved professionally is something that has been lodged in my guts since I started in theatre,  leaving it out as an ultimate  goal has felt weird.

Every person who has strolled by the box (all very approving btw, ahh nostalgia and iconic, modernist design)  and has got beyond complete bemusement as to its intended use, has asked, not necessarily in so many words, “will it be interactive” – meaning “will I be able to play with it like a computer game, will I be in charge? Will there be a screen?” To which I answer “no”, partly to avoid the inevitable disappointment when they try it and it fails to live up to Disneyland or GTA or even making a sand-castle and mainly because IT IS NOT, or rather no more so than a classical opera audience might interact with a performance — sit, in this case, stand and listen, or not, and stare out the window, or not, but don’t expect to have any < I mean any effect on the performance at all. HA! I suppose that’s not entirely true either as the box has a very simple means of knowing you are there, namely you have answered the phone or picked it up expecting to make a call.  – Now I realise I need not have bothered with that either, after all it’s still a performance even if there is no audience. On the other hand if I have a story to tell I do need to be able to start at the beginning not to be encountered mid flow by someone sheltering from the rain or taking a piss. Still – HURRAHHHHH! I am so sick of interaction. The presumption of audiences (users) that they matter! What interests me, a little, is the degree to which they are bound to think that in some way or other they are having an effect, after all just as with any other telephone they can choose to talk back. It’s just when they do, the only person listening will be themselves. All phones have a circuit that ensures you hear your own voice through the earpiece, I have forgotten what it’s called but Roger will know. Without it you feel semi detached. Another way of looking at is as the antithesis to the IPhone – a phone you can’t carry, you cannot make a call from, interact with and unlike Siri it doesn’t listen to you or know where the nearest Pizza Express is.

Below you will find in no order, the front, the inside, the incomplete telephone, the incomplete electrical connections, the box at night, and the dedication to my aunt who financed the lot. The fairly scary image was a snapshot I took – single take, of my ‘voice.’  I have yet to complete all the connectivity although the bare bones have been tested and work, the composition itself isn’t started although the words are, the grass needs to be repaired, Maria has plants to plant and I have some not terribly taxing programming of the various sensors and the audio system. The physical electrical tasks have meant a lot of soldering and worrying about electrocution. The box has both heating and cooling to try to keep the components from packing up in mid winter. Needless to say I do have to keep an eye on leaks, as electrocuting patrons would be be uncool.

It will speak on Christmas Eve.

Hopefully Julie and Ricky and coming to find things in our lofts but if they encountered me now they might go off the idea. Yesterday I got a major bollocking at the hospital, had to stay behind after school to see the registrar all because John the nurse was absolutely horrified that I was driving and they almost kept me in overnight after he misread my blood pressure which seemed to indicate that I was barely alive. The registrar was a beautiful gentle Malaysian woman, who at first seemed unruffled but even she was concerned once the enormity of the dose of pain killers I was taking was revealed to her. Both were somewhat comforted by the fact that I had failed to take my last two doses while at the hospital, in part to avoid detection and in part because I forgot to bring them along. Anyway the result was that I am now on a reduced consumption of pain killers from a peak of 26 per day to 15 and one particularly nuclear one has been dropped all together. I can feel the withdrawal already or at least I can imagine it. Luckily the Daily Express, all that was available in Costa during the two hour wait for my results, reminded me that Gabapentin, the dose of which had ironically been increased, can induce suicidal feelings and feelings of despair – thus during the journey home I was on the edge of my seat wondering if I would suddenly feel the urge to plunge my Volvo into the Ouse. Knowing Volvos it is probably equipped with flotation chambers or oxygen masks so that would have been embarrassing.

Anyway despite a all these efforts to destroy myself, my bloods have remained stable, my consultant is unconcerned, Jon my nurse, is secretly pro Corbyn, loveable if a lousy taker of blood pressure, my beard is off by accident, Arthur assuring me the clippers did a number one, they don’t they do a number minus one, I am a bit confined to bed again, mainly due to mood but a little to do with side effects of coming off the frigging things and a cold. My telephone parts have not arrived. I am learning Arduino. I am happy.