Something odd is going on. Someone is using my distorted laws of relationships to understand the laws of science.
This is what he wrote (his name is Bryan) ‘you've done a great service to all the budding scientists of the world’ and there I was thinking I was doing a service to all budding confused potential lovers in the world.
So I’m thinking maybe I’ve got this all wrong, backwards or somewhat distorted. Perhaps I should be using the basic laws of relationships to understand the laws of science.
And so I was lead to attempt to find out what exactly the basic laws of relationships are. This was a while ago. There was a fairly major problem. There are none. Or at least all the ones I was offered on a famous search engine and online encyclopaedia differed from each other. As any dedicated researcher like myself knows that means that there are none.
Why has no one applied the scientific method of proof to the field of relationships? It seems simple enough. All that is required is the use of observation and experimentation to obtain a law.
Hence I took it upon myself to do so.
This is what happened.
Hypothesis tested:
Man fancies Woman
Equipment used:
Man
Woman
Test tube
Method:
Put Man and Woman together in a test tube, mix thoroughly and observe what happens. (Note – I couldn’t find a test tube of sufficient size so I had to put the Man and the Woman near a test tube instead) (Also note that I didn’t actually have a man to participate in the experiment so I had to use a cat instead) (so for Man read cat).
Results:
1. Man and Woman had interesting conversation about test tubes.
2. Man and Woman tried to use test tube to grow a baby.
3. Man had a nice purr and snuggled down on Woman’s lap.
4. Man discovered that there was a mouse/football in the next room so he left.
5. Woman washed up test tube and went to bed.
Conclusions:
Probably not.
So – Basic Relationship Law 1:
Men don’t fancy women if they are cats and not men. But they think they’re okish.
Obviously there is a lot more work to do. I’m applying for a research grant. Or donations. Please. This is important work. Also if there are any men out there interested in furthering my research please contact me as the cat is not all that cooperative.
And Bryan – research suggestions always welcome as I can see now the whole reverse field is fraught with hazard. And cats.
Showing posts with label Problem Solving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Problem Solving. Show all posts
Friday, 2 May 2008
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
How I’ve Found my Perfect Career
I’ve finally found my perfect career. Well paid, interesting, high-flying.
This is what I’m going to be:
An astronaut.
Don’t think I’ve gone into this without any research. Or much research. Or a passing piece of research. No, I’ve dug trivially into the ESA (European Space Agency for you non-astronaut types) website to discover if I’m properly qualified for the job.
This is what they specified:
Youth – between the ages of 27 and 37. Is that youth? Still some people say I look as young as 38 which is very near 37. My mental age is in single digits as is my emotional age. So, when averaged out I’m about 27.5757. Perfect.
Experience - They must have experienced Real Life – I believe my life has been as genuine as the next space woman’s.
Scientifically Minded – I am the Relationship Physicist after all. They suggest that a degree in science might be a boon. Well I have a degree in miscellany which is surely better. And my daughter will have a degree in physics so that must count.
Patience – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have patience but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism.
Bravery – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have bravery but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism and extraordinary bravery.
Prepared for strange lifestyle – Already there.
Psychologically sound – Well, I sound psychological.
I have written the covering letter for the application:
Dear ESA,
I want to be an astronaut because I believe I will be ideally suited to being an astronaut. The suit will be ideal to cover any unfortunate bumps that exist on my body. The weightlessness will ideally cover my usual lack of balance. The long hours stuck in a confined space with only a few young, experienced, scientifically minded, patient, brave, prepared and sane astronauts will ideally be ideal for my idea of an idealised life.
The applications open 19 May, mine will be first on their spacemat.
This is what I’m going to be:
An astronaut.
Don’t think I’ve gone into this without any research. Or much research. Or a passing piece of research. No, I’ve dug trivially into the ESA (European Space Agency for you non-astronaut types) website to discover if I’m properly qualified for the job.
This is what they specified:
Youth – between the ages of 27 and 37. Is that youth? Still some people say I look as young as 38 which is very near 37. My mental age is in single digits as is my emotional age. So, when averaged out I’m about 27.5757. Perfect.
Experience - They must have experienced Real Life – I believe my life has been as genuine as the next space woman’s.
Scientifically Minded – I am the Relationship Physicist after all. They suggest that a degree in science might be a boon. Well I have a degree in miscellany which is surely better. And my daughter will have a degree in physics so that must count.
Patience – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have patience but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism.
Bravery – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have bravery but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism and extraordinary bravery.
Prepared for strange lifestyle – Already there.
Psychologically sound – Well, I sound psychological.
I have written the covering letter for the application:
Dear ESA,
I want to be an astronaut because I believe I will be ideally suited to being an astronaut. The suit will be ideal to cover any unfortunate bumps that exist on my body. The weightlessness will ideally cover my usual lack of balance. The long hours stuck in a confined space with only a few young, experienced, scientifically minded, patient, brave, prepared and sane astronauts will ideally be ideal for my idea of an idealised life.
The applications open 19 May, mine will be first on their spacemat.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
How Not to Get a Man to Fancy You
I have realised that I’ve been jumping the gun. All this time when I’ve been asking ‘How to Tell if a Man Fancies You’ I should really be starting somewhere near the beginning (traditional I know) and asking ‘How to Get a Man to Fancy You.’
I’ve done some research.
Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:
‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’
Obviously points are important.
As is mass.
It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’
So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.
Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:
Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.
I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.
This is what happened:
I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.
The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.
I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.
The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.
The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.
My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.
I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.
After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.
On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.
I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.
I’ve done some research.
Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:
‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’
Obviously points are important.
As is mass.
It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’
So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.
Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:
Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.
I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.
This is what happened:
I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.
The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.
I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.
The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.
The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.
My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.
I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.
After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.
On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.
I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
How Not to Solve Another Great Science Mystery
I am on a crusade to link science with life and life with science (you probably noticed that). Thus, using only some common sense, some imagination and a small carrot I have solved yet another of life’s great mysteries. Physicists and blog writers have been pondering this question for many a passing moment.
This is the question:
Does Dark Matter Exist?
This is what happened:
One day man looked up into the night skies. Woman was busy doing useful stuff like feeding babies, growing stuff, inventing crochet and reading philosophy. Man noticed something. That the universe was holding itself together. Man believed in gravity (mostly because they had proved it through the phenomena of falling balls).
The problem was that there didn’t seem to be enough stuff to make enough gravity to hold the universe together. So, and here’s the brilliant part, they invented more stuff. But they couldn’t see the stuff. So they called it Dark Matter. There is still a deal of debate amongst physicists as to whether Dark Matter actually even exists.
This is the digression:
The problem with physicists (and I know because I just made scrambled eggs for one) is that they seldom consult the ordinary woman on the street (or in the kitchen cooking scrambled eggs). Common sense is not a prevailing attribute of this breed of scientist. My physicist, for example, can do some very difficult sums, write a lot of letters and symbols on pieces of paper and strew the aforementioned pieces of paper around the house, she can even do a back somersault on a four inch beam, but ask her to discover the use of dusters, pour water from a jug just into a glass and not onto the table, or make scrambled eggs, and she is completely flummoxed.
These are the answers:
So, Dark Matter – does it exist?
Yes, most definitely. Think coal, chocolate, the insides of Wellington boots and the works of Sartre.
Does Dark Matter hold the universe together? –
No. If it did then
1. We would see it if we used one of those very stylish torches advertised in Sunday supplements that shine a very long way.
2. We wouldn’t understand a word the universe was saying.
and
3. The universe would smell quite different, a bit like warm feet pudding.
Then, if not Dark Matter, what exactly is holding the universe together?
And this is where physicists are really going to kick themselves for never having asked the woman on the street, in the kitchen or me before.
The answer is so blindingly obvious. It is the same thing that holds everything else together, is the answer, is all you need, makes the world go round and is a triumph of imagination over intelligence. Love.
After all, gravity, essentially, is the mutual attraction of two bodies.
Next week: Does Dark Matter? The sex lives of the stars.
This is the question:
Does Dark Matter Exist?
This is what happened:
One day man looked up into the night skies. Woman was busy doing useful stuff like feeding babies, growing stuff, inventing crochet and reading philosophy. Man noticed something. That the universe was holding itself together. Man believed in gravity (mostly because they had proved it through the phenomena of falling balls).
The problem was that there didn’t seem to be enough stuff to make enough gravity to hold the universe together. So, and here’s the brilliant part, they invented more stuff. But they couldn’t see the stuff. So they called it Dark Matter. There is still a deal of debate amongst physicists as to whether Dark Matter actually even exists.
This is the digression:
The problem with physicists (and I know because I just made scrambled eggs for one) is that they seldom consult the ordinary woman on the street (or in the kitchen cooking scrambled eggs). Common sense is not a prevailing attribute of this breed of scientist. My physicist, for example, can do some very difficult sums, write a lot of letters and symbols on pieces of paper and strew the aforementioned pieces of paper around the house, she can even do a back somersault on a four inch beam, but ask her to discover the use of dusters, pour water from a jug just into a glass and not onto the table, or make scrambled eggs, and she is completely flummoxed.
These are the answers:
So, Dark Matter – does it exist?
Yes, most definitely. Think coal, chocolate, the insides of Wellington boots and the works of Sartre.
Does Dark Matter hold the universe together? –
No. If it did then
1. We would see it if we used one of those very stylish torches advertised in Sunday supplements that shine a very long way.
2. We wouldn’t understand a word the universe was saying.
and
3. The universe would smell quite different, a bit like warm feet pudding.
Then, if not Dark Matter, what exactly is holding the universe together?
And this is where physicists are really going to kick themselves for never having asked the woman on the street, in the kitchen or me before.
The answer is so blindingly obvious. It is the same thing that holds everything else together, is the answer, is all you need, makes the world go round and is a triumph of imagination over intelligence. Love.
After all, gravity, essentially, is the mutual attraction of two bodies.
Next week: Does Dark Matter? The sex lives of the stars.
Saturday, 15 March 2008
Who Not to Marry
I have fallen out with Mr Delchem. His Flapper Flush Valve (with Lever) has caused a great deal of strife and could lead to the immanent collapse of civilisation as we know it. Not a great loss I know, but some might miss it.
It was the ‘with Lever’ bit that started the whole sorry mess.
This is what happened:
Having satisfied myself that the cistern had stopped leaking from the many orifices that cisterns enjoy leaking from I decided to replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws. This is where I discovered that Mr Delchem was not quite what he seemed. The Lever he was so very proud of had no capacity to lengthen. Not an unknown problem for men like Mr Delchem. But, (and perhaps this is a testament to my general attractiveness) a problem that I had never come across before.
I could not, therefore, replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws without impairing the effectiveness of Mr Delchem’s Lever. I’m sure you will agree that this was a serious problem. But not as serious as what came next:
I decided there was nothing for it but to cut a hole in the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws to allow the free movement or Mr Delchem’s Lever.
For this I needed my hacksaw.
For this I needed the light that illuminated the small room in which I keep all my tools for just this sort of serious situation.
The lightbulb broke.
The light fitting turned out to be a crumbling mess probably first installed in the latter part of the fifteenth century.
I set forth to my favoured DIY emporium for the appropriate replacement.
I broke down.
And caused a traffic jam.
Normally, a small traffic jam on the A470 leading into Cardiff is but a twinge in the otherwise cheerful side of civilisation.
Not today. Today all of the world was on its way into Cardiff to watch our gallant boys with the large thighs and moth-eaten ears beat the world in that thing they do with the ball they never quite managed to work out how to make into a sphere.
Civilisation, essentially, was caused a nasty case of acute appendicitis. I blame Mr Delchem. And his Lever.
He has yet to respond to my proposal of marriage and perhaps it is all for the best.
It was the ‘with Lever’ bit that started the whole sorry mess.
This is what happened:
Having satisfied myself that the cistern had stopped leaking from the many orifices that cisterns enjoy leaking from I decided to replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws. This is where I discovered that Mr Delchem was not quite what he seemed. The Lever he was so very proud of had no capacity to lengthen. Not an unknown problem for men like Mr Delchem. But, (and perhaps this is a testament to my general attractiveness) a problem that I had never come across before.
I could not, therefore, replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws without impairing the effectiveness of Mr Delchem’s Lever. I’m sure you will agree that this was a serious problem. But not as serious as what came next:
I decided there was nothing for it but to cut a hole in the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws to allow the free movement or Mr Delchem’s Lever.
For this I needed my hacksaw.
For this I needed the light that illuminated the small room in which I keep all my tools for just this sort of serious situation.
The lightbulb broke.
The light fitting turned out to be a crumbling mess probably first installed in the latter part of the fifteenth century.
I set forth to my favoured DIY emporium for the appropriate replacement.
I broke down.
And caused a traffic jam.
Normally, a small traffic jam on the A470 leading into Cardiff is but a twinge in the otherwise cheerful side of civilisation.
Not today. Today all of the world was on its way into Cardiff to watch our gallant boys with the large thighs and moth-eaten ears beat the world in that thing they do with the ball they never quite managed to work out how to make into a sphere.
Civilisation, essentially, was caused a nasty case of acute appendicitis. I blame Mr Delchem. And his Lever.
He has yet to respond to my proposal of marriage and perhaps it is all for the best.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
How Not to Solve All One’s Problems
I have made a resolution. A post New Year, sort of a bit later in the year, February sort of resolution.
This is what happened:
I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.
The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.
Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.
You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.
These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?
Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.
I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.
Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.
PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.
This is what happened:
I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.
The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.
Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.
You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.
These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?
Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.
I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.
Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.
PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.
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