The tangled web of social networks

If you are reading this, then you probably have also heard about the recent debate on the health warnings about the extensive use of web 2.0 by our youngsters. The storm that raged about the use of social networking sites in particular took place in a teacup called the House of Lords, whipped up largely by one Baroness Greenfield .

You will not be surprised that the Daily Mail jumped on the bandwagon to broadcast the headline “Social websites harm children's brains: Chilling warning to parents from top neuroscientist“

Nor will it surprise you that the scientific evidence to support this claim has since been brought into question, and indeed Catherine Bennett had a go at Baroness Greenfield on the Comment page in the Observer today.

The problem I have with the entire debate is that of course the liberal front will attack the Baroness for expressing such “antiquated” opinions and borderline prejudice towards technology - that is the cool stance to take. And the House of Lords is an easy target. It is uncool, and just so 20th century, to be a sceptic when it comes to the infiltration of modern ICTs into our daily lives.

Simultaneously (paradoxically), it is hip to be very critical indeed of the use of ICTs by governments and the diffusion of (mass surveillance) technology. The division of labour in this debate is such that the cool kids warn us of “the erosion of freedoms” whilst the government officialdom are seen as the crude Orwellian technocrats who in their endless pursuit for more power (of information) will drain society of civil liberties (read about it here).

To point out the paradox, in case you wondered what it was, those who defend web 2.0 and social networking will happily plaster personal information about themselves all over the net, whilst concerns have been raised in another “cool camp” about the exploitation of this giant pool of data (volunteered by individuals) for commercial purposes (or indeed for something altogether more sinister). In fact, my own recent status update alerted fellow facebookers to this piece of news. (erm, no one batted an eyelid)

Make what you wish of this debate, or choose a side even. What I am going to do instead is to add another, a rather more blogite, layer to it.

I want talk about the perils of social networking, not because I believe that it is going to “rewire your brain” (which is what Baroness Greenfield would have you believe) and therefore make you suffer from permanent ADHD. Nor because it looks like facebook might sell the right to access your personal information to faceless multinationals.

The subject of this post, admittedly after a lengthy introduction, is the potential personal cost of exposure to online social networks. I am about to discuss some observations made since giving up on my resistance to join the facebook frenzy back in October 2007.

A personal and well, yes, at times funny, article by Georgina Hobbs-Meyer appeared in the Guardian a while ago about the break-up of one marriage and how it all played out on facebook. Reference was naturally made to the infamous case of Chelsy Davy’s relationship status update. Albeit slightly naively written from the perspective of a 24-year old (/young) woman discovering her husband having an affair with a "younger woman" aged 19 (yes, it's all relative, isn't it?), it made me want to add my tuppence worth on the broader topic of social networking.

Today’s comment in the Observer by Catherine Bennett touches very lightly upon a previously uncharted territory of twittering about the end of your life – something she (surprisingly) attributes to “an older subscriber” - "looking down at my grey motionless body". I was struck by that assumption made about the nearness of death and old age particularly as none of us has been spared from the poor Jade Goody making a very public affair of her terminal cancer.

A friend of mine has become a twitter fan of Stephen Fry, Russell Brand and “Wossy” (who all tweet generously) and therefore I, too, have some exposure to the sort of things these gentlemen choose to broadcast about their daily lives. If Jade Goody was a twitterer (I don’t know if she is) her tweets would surely make a good case study of this emerging concept of web 2.0, social networks, exhibitionism and death. Then again, due to the very nature of web 2.0, there’s no money to be made from twittering your cancer diary (the attention economy has nothing to do with cash exchanging hands) - a fair assumption then that Jade Goody does not twitter, about her illness anyway.

Back to my sentiments/observations about facebook – or should I say fakebook: people post updates and photos portraying an image of them as party animals, looking gorgeous and being on top of the world generally. I heard recently of an encounter where a friend had met someone in the flesh and could not have recognised them on the basis of their profile picture (looking like a sex goddess, the truth being far from it). I, too, know of one or two people who might be guilty of faking it on facebook. That having said, I don’t know of any women who would post an entirely unflattering image of themselves, but there is a distinction to be made between flattering and unrealistic. Mind, once on facebook most of us are exposed to (un)helpful friends tagging us in photos looking… well… realistic.

Georgina Hobbs-Meyer’s account talks about discovering your husband having cyber-sex, thus she writes quite scornfully about the hedonistic side of facebook, and also of the dark side of becoming obsessed with using the tool to consume every bit of information you can about someone else.

In my social network I have witnessed an ex-lover hacking into their former love interest's facebook account and causing havoc. Another person inadvertently disclosed to a number of people through facebook about their recent miscarriage, and for good measure the same thread contained intimate details of her friend’s relationship break down. Not so much a slip of the tongue, but a slip of the finger. Thanks to facebook’s functionality, emails were sent to a whole host of unintended recipients.

The tangled web of social networks is such that it could happen to you - be warned.

Former Fan of Wintry Weather

Winter used to be my favourite season, and yes that sounds perverse coming from someone who is from Finland - a country where everyone moans about the length and breadth of winter, and conversely, praises the sweetness of the short-lived summer.

Not me though, I used to love the winter, always. The darkness I didn't mind, in fact, when evening wrapped its thick dark blanket around the landscape from 3 pm onwards, I felt strangely alive. Alive, I guess, because it made me acutely aware of the changing seasons and all that comes with it. Plus you could go out at 6 pm, lie on your back against the snow and gaze at the starry sky, engulfed in blackness. Blackness that is in fact made up of whiteness, zillions of little glistening snow crystals reflecting light from the stars above. It feels like floating in space - although I've never floated in space, I used to imagine that's what it must be like for the astronauts.

Winter used to be special.

So what happened? For quite a while after moving to England I would still get excited over a bit of snow, or frost even, being reminded of the magic that was winter. Not that we'd get too many days in a year with decent frost in Manchester; the Pennines, the Irish Sea and an urban micro climate make sure that wintry conditions are a rarety in these parts. Even now when the rest of the country, it seems, has had a foot of snow or more, there's hardly any evidence of the white stuff in and around South Manchester.

But my recent turn against wintry weather has nothing to do in fact with snow, the lack thereof, or the reported chaos in those parts of the UK blessed/cursed with a fair dose of it. Although I do feel sorry for all those people stranded at airports and such like, I know what that feels like having been grounded at Copenhagen once for 17 hours due to a blizzard.

It's the fact that I can't get warm in the winter that does it for me. The house I co-own has loft insulation, additional underfloor insulation, double-glazed windows and central heating (goes without saying if you ask me, but let's just say it anyway).

When the weather is cool (that's to say, approximately 8 months of the year in Manchester) I wear woolly socks around the house, layers upon layers of clothes, often a fleece, and when I sit down I have to wrap myself in a blanket like an old squaw.

I am known to have worn all of the above to bed as well, because there's nothing more unpleasant than slipping in between cold sheets if you ask me - the bed feeling like a block of ice underneath you (of course, ironically the opposite is true in the summer, but this is not summer, is it?).

I almost begin to see the point of hot water bottles and electric blankets, but still after 9 years I stand proud (and cold) thinking that I will not be caught with such items. Also, I have a slight phobia of being electrocuted in bed due to some dodgy wiring in the blanket "made in home town" as Xiaolu Guo would put it (for those who haven't had the pleasure of A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers, it's well worth a read).

As a former fan of wintry weather, I still enjoy the aesthetic improvements that snow brings upon the Manchester streetscape, it makes it very Lowry-esque, methinks.

But let it be known that I am oh-so-sick of being cold.

"PhD's are not good for you"

Wise words from our Professor, the formidable Cecilia Wong when she spotted me back at my desk the day before yesterday after a period of absence/interruption.

My supervisor had told her about the calamity in my life on all fronts. I don't generally half-do things, so perhaps it is just as well that I have a full-blown crisis in all departments.

I do remember attending a "welcome talk" by the Dean of the School to all new PhD students some 2.5 years ago, and she quoted bleak statistics. So many of us would never complete, so many will end up in a relationship break down and so many will face some other untoward incident the likelihood of which goes up with aspirations for high academic achievement.

The evidence was there, PhD's are not good for you. My good friend and fellow PhD candidate and I didn't think those statistics had anything to do with us - we were mature, sorted and settled sort of people. We were in long-term established relationships with careers and mortgages, after all. So what's the worst that can happen?

Your dad dies, you spend 3 months of a year abroad, fuck up your long term relationship and find yourself looking for somewhere to live, with a major backlog of work that makes your stomach turn.

It's time for serious self discipline and a ban on foreign holidays (that includes conferences, but not any long weekend type city breaks that one's mother is likely to initiate).

Maybe it'll all be worth it in the end?

The Pun of the Year 2008

"it seems to me that you can already maintain your stroke well over the length"

adding to that,

"Also you're receptive to learning new skills"

said my swimming instructor to me this morning, and in so doing put a smile on my face. The funniest thing about it is that I don't think the instructor meant to sound so ruthlessly carry-on. This is just normal swimming talk.

I signed up for tutored swimming classes run by the University's Swimming Club this semester in order to "improve my technique and stamina" in the pool.

I was allocated a place in the middle group which has meant quite a wide variety of skills amongst us. A very wide spectrum indeed. I've enjoyed it nevertheless although I've missed a good few sessions due to being in various locations in the world, frankly, anywhere but Manchester. There's only one final session left and we received an email about enrolling to the continuation classes over the Spring term.

Yes please, I thought, but I could do with a challenge. Should I suggest moving up to the advanced class?

The answer lies in the stroke - maintained over the length, mind, one is not to stall or slow down half way up the length, that does not earn you a place in the advanced group.

From there on you build your stamina to maintain the stroke over longer sessions (or greater lengths). Can't wait.

Pause for thought

I should start this post by wishing Finland a very happy 91st birthday. The Finnish Independence Day is a big deal at home, and to prove the point I, too, gathered with a number of compatriots at the Ambassador's Independence Day reception at his official residence last night. To my defence I would have had to make a trip to the Embassy anyway to pick up a certificate which the Finnish authorities require in dealing with my father's estate. Today, the President of the Republic hosts her own (televised) reception which the entire nation follows with interest: who's been invited, who wears what (the fashionistas making live commentary online, such this one from 2007), who's on their own and who launches a new partner by their side on the red carpet. The sombre and serious cause of our nation's independence has been turned into one of the biggest showbiz extravaganzas of the year. Go figure.

It's been a bit quiet on this blog since my trip to Australia, from where I continued to Shanghai and Nanjing for a quick look around. China was a real eye-opener, but Sydney impressed me most (pictured left). Beautiful city, great weather, food to die for at reasonable prices. Perfect for a holiday. The only problem is of course the hideously long journey to get there from almost anywhere in the world, bar New Zealand perhaps.


That having said, Shanghai was intriguing to say the least, it was at the Urban Planning Exhibition opposite to the People's Square where I saw this gigantic model of Shanghai (pictured right). I reckon it's the only way to get a proper grip of the city - once you're in it the high rises, complex motorway flyovers and little narrow alleys merge into this one giant bowl of noodles. An enourmous pulsating beast of a city. Only by looking at the city physically at your feet you understand what's where and the scale of it. Particularly if you only have three days as in my case. In 2010 Shanghai will host the World Expo, and having looked at the displays of the various Pavilions, and the plans for huge redevelopment of the river side where the Exhibition Village is going to be built, one is almost tempted to go back to have a look at it in 2 years time. As a peculiar little detail, the authorities have launched a "better city, better life" campaign as part of which for example the extent of spitting that happens in the city will be curtailed. Yep, that's right, spitting.

The day before I was due to leave Manchester for Melbourne I received a phone call from home - it was mum saying dad had been taken into hospital. 16 days later when I came back I had a hectic 5 days in Manchester before dashing off to Finland for a surprise visit on Father's Day. I was supposed to come back straight away and crack on with my PhD but that was not going to happen. Dad's condition deteriorated suddenly, so I decided it would be a bad move to return to England. Only four days later he passed away. Even the nurses were shocked at the speed of his decline. They assured us it was actually a good thing, in the case of a combined liver and heart failure it's not a nice experience for anyone to hang around for a prolonged period of time.

So my research was put on the back burner. I have officially "interrupted" my studies for 3 months, starting from 1st November until 31st January 09. This is to give me more time to spend at home over the Christmas period and generally to take stock.

2008 has been a very, very hectic year. I have contemplated on my carbon footprint - in the space of 11 months I have been to Madrid, Amsterdam, Florence, Helsinki (7 weeks), Cinque Terra, Nice, Marseille, Melbourne, Sydney, Shanghai and Nanjing. Oh, and then Helsinki again.

Things will be different next year.

Lessons in life and coffee at Pellegrini's

After my first sweaty day in Melbourne, dinner in the form of rice paper rolls from a street side stall in the Block Arcade, I thought a few drinks would be in order. I tried two different rooftop bars, since the weather was more than favourable for al fresco drinking, I would recommend both for anyone who wants to soak up the atmosphere of cosmopolitan Melbourne in stylish surroundings. The first place was upstairs of an Tuscan restaurant on Bourke Street, the other the famous Supper Club on Spring Street.

The former was more relaxed, the latter perhaps bordering on pretentious but with fabulous views overlooking the Parliament building and a very exclusive atmosphere (and wine list, you could order a bottle of plonk for a reassuring $600. Needless to say I didn’t). I did, however, try some very nice Aussie wines – the nicest one actually served in the first place I went to, the less salubrious of the two rooftop joints.

Earlier in the day I had walked past an Italian espresso bar called Pellegrini’s (pictured below). It caught my eye for many reasons so I earmarked the place for a visit later in the day. The way to describe it is that this place was the perfect antidote to the Starbucks generation of coffee bar chains which have mushroomed all over Melbourne. Pellegrini's oozed individuality and old fashioned charm.

I didn’t expect Pellegrini’s to be open when I was walking home from the Supper Club, jetlagged and exhausted with the heat, around 10 pm. Cafes generally seem to close around 5 or 6 pm in Melbourne, but not Pellegrini’s.

I stepped in, and it felt like I travelled back in time and found myself on the scene of a Federico Fellini film. Not the least because the owner of the place, a gregarious Italian gentleman called Sisto, greeted me with a beaming smile and called me “la bella”. Take a seat here, bella, now what would you like? Espresso, here, is that good for you? Do you like it shorter or taller? A little bit of gelato, there you are, lemon and vanilla. Home made. Try it!

I popped in for a quick espresso on the way home, and ended up being served espresso, gelato, lemonade and two pasta dishes before Sisto offered to drop me off at the hostel at closing time (midnight). I refused the lift, and insisted on walking home to get some fresh air.

In the kitchen of his espresso bar, when I was tucking into some ravioli and pasta marinare, Sisto declared that “If I was 30 years younger, I would ask you to marry me tomorrow”. Awh.

Sisto introduced me to Pellegrini’s “resident artist”, a Kiwi lady called Louise. Louise had spent the past two months in Melbourne finishing her book. She also sings, plays the guitar and writes poetry, mainly in Pellegrini’s when she in Melbourne.

The trouble with being treated like this is payment. I asked Louise for advice, as Sisto would clearly refuse any offer of money. I slipped $20 onto the tip tray which was spotted by one of the staff. Rosie, the vigilant Italian lady, at the end of the night, took out my $20 note and handed it back to me, saying it was too much. “If you give me $5”, she said, “I’ll accept it”. I gave her $10. She handed me a fiver back. Did you ever have to do reverse haggling? Bizarre.

In the course of the week, I went back to Pellegrini’s almost every day. In the kitchen, Sisto taught me everything I need to know about the art of coffee, and cooking pasta “the proper way”.

Coffee is not just a drink, it’s nourishment for the soul. The way they serve it in Pellegrini’s, I have to agree.

You'll be allright for as long as you're not in rubber thongs

It was a promising start for the journey, despite my initial fears that 60 minutes between arrival at the infamous Terminal 5 and departure towards Melbourne (via Hong Kong) from Terminal 4 at Heathrow was cutting it a tad fine. The transfer guide in the seat pocket onboard the BA flight Manchester-Heathrow advised passengers to allow 120 minutes to transfer between T5 and T4. An hour would have just about done it, but as it happened, the Qantas flight to Hong Kong was delayed by almost an hour. A fact I discovered only after having legged it to the gate thinking I have minutes to spare.

This second leg of the journey was gruesome. Mercifully, I had a window seat and the two seats next to me were occupied by a very nice Dutch couple in their 50’s, no screaming children anywhere near.

The problems started some time after the main meal: “greek beef” with very suspicious mini bottle of red wine with a long list of additives. I want to know why wine always tastes shocking during flights, is it just the quality of the wine (sub-standard) or is there something about serving wine at that altitude/atmosphere that is best avoided? After the food was served, coffees drunk and everyone snug in their seats somewhere over Russia the crew switched the lights off and it was time to go to sleep. The moon shone beautifully on the landscape way down below, we were following the silver ribbon of a river which reflected the moon remarkably brightly. There was fat chance of me catching any sleep. My body clock knew it was only 17:00 GMT.

Up until that point I hadn’t familiarised with the in-flight entertainment kit, I had been too busy reading “Le Dossier” (or how to survive the English) and the Rough Guide to Melbourne, making mental notes as I went along. Now I was stuck. I could read no longer, the plane was dark and the only thing to do (apart from sleeping) was to watch “on demand” films or documentaries. My headphones wrapped in plastic, the remote control stuck on the side of the armrest, I fiddled with each for a while but soon understood I was not going to find the socket for the headphones in the dark and gave up.Thankfully I had my Mp3 player to keep me company.

My legs were aching, I hadn’t had a chance to go for a walk along the corridor, and now I really wanted to but the nice Dutch couple next to me were in slumber land - I couldn’t bring myself to disturb them.

By the time the lights were switched on again, breakfast about to be served, I was stiff, tired, achy and just about to fall asleep.

Breakfast, my friends, was an extraordinary affair, not in any positive sense. “Baked egg” with some unidentifiable objects which were supposedly imitating sausages, a rubbery piece of bacon all sitting in a pool of what can only be described as brine. My analysis is that the whole affair came from a tin. The Dutch couple next to me were grunting their approval and discussed the green matter that formed part of the “baked egg” experience. Yep, spinach, yum-yum, tuck in.

A refuel and a welcome stretch of legs in Hong Kong, and it was back to the business of flying. Disappointingly didn’t see much of Hong Kong, it was very foggy (or smoggy) so visibility was nil. Could just about make out high rise buildings and steep mountain sides in the distance.

On arrival in Melbourne I somehow knew I wasn’t going to be reunited with my luggage. Reluctantly I made my way to the carousel only to confirm that my fears were indeed correct. “Was it a tight connection in London” the operative asked me. Well, it could have been, I said, but the flight was delayed by an hour so there should have been plenty of time to get all the bags onboard. To apologise for the inconvenience, Qantas gave me a little pouch containing the following items:

Qantas pyjamas consisting of a t-shirt and boxer shorts; toothbrush; toothpaste; comb; shower gel; deodorant; body lotion; and disposable razor.

It is now Sunday morning and I am yet to be reunited with my luggage.All the free pyjamas in the world are not going to make up for this inconvenience. After four uses, the bristles are coming off the complimentary toothbrush.

It is not funny.

Although, sourcing a pair of shoes to allow myself to dine respectably Saturday evening, I enquired at a shoe stall at the famous Queen Victoria Market what sort of footwear one gets away with in these parts.

“For as long as you’re not wearing rubber thongs, you’ll be all right” she said.

OK, that was funny. I told the friendly assistant not to worry, that I had no intention of wearing rubber thongs for dinner.

For information, “rubber thongs” refer to flip flops of the Havaianas kind. For further information, Ozzie people do widely go about their business wearing rubber thongs in the city. I also spotted several pairs of naked feet in Melbourne yesterday (it was +29 degrees and very humid, but still).