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Earlier this evening, I walked out of the office after my last day as an employee in the IT industry. For now, at least, and for good if I have any control over my future. We had our “official” send-off in the pub two weeks ago, so today there was no fanfare, no send-off beyond a few handshakes, and electronic well-wishes from half-a-dozen time zones. That was how I wanted it; in most senses but the physical, I left long ago.

Tomorrow is the first day of orientation at University College Dublin, a day dedicated to we “mature students”. The main orientation starts on Monday, but I will not be involved until Thursday and Friday next week. The few days off were a welcome surprise that will come in handy. On the Monday after that, the real work starts; in the first year, my main worry is the Maths, since in my last years of school, the introduction of Calculus sent my marks in to a downward trend from A+ to B-. The same was not true of Physics and Chemistry, which I enjoyed all the way to my final A, and which forms a smaller part of my course.

The other side of the course is creative; it is a mixture of Engineering and Design, with the prospect of something more than mere numbers at the end of it. Outside the class, I’m looking for creativity in other fields too, and intend to get back in to playing music after too long away. I ordered a new Tune 4-string bass from Germany, earlier this week, a demo model at a knockdown price: I guess an amplifier is next: something portable.

I don’t expect to escape computers altogether, and I would not want to: I know they will be part of my future studies and work. If anything, not having to deal with a multitude of computer problems may rekindle some of my old enthusiasm for using them in creative ways, but I want and intend to live and work in the real world, once the studies are done. What I am leaving behind is the idea of computing for computing’s sake. Blogging is one example: it used to mean something, to me at least, but those days are over.

If a hunter shoots his gun in the forest, but there’s no-one there to hear it, did it really go off? In the real world, you can go and look at the hole in the squirrel tree, and you have the evidence that the gunshot really happened, and there were consequences. In writing this blog, I’ve been a poor hunter in a virtual forest, taking potshots at tempting targets, and never knowing if I actually hit anything. Today’s bloggers are more focused on a particular target; they know what they are doing out here, and wear better-fitting armour, but they are not much better at leaving holes in the real world.

As a hunting season ends when the majority of the hunter’s prey has migrated to warmer climes, my blogging season is now over; my reasons to be out here, in the chilly virtual evening, have flown away, so I am packing up my weapons and taking them home. There’s not much in my swag bag, but I did not go hungry. My pantry is well-stocked for the winter, and that will suffice. If a new season comes, will I step outside again, blunderbuss over my shoulder? I don’t know; that, too, must suffice.

No, it’s not real: the Gematriculator is a spoof Numerology analyser for web pages or text. Well, if this says good things about the site, I can’t take much of the credit: it’s analysing the underlying HTML code too, and most of that is generated by wordpress.com and the Theme I use.

My two years of pill-popping have started: so far I have three bottles of capsules from America, complete with Federal warning labels, each with about a month’s supply of… a lot, a little, or nothing. The capsules are the smallest I’ve ever seen, so small it’s hard to imagine anyone having trouble taking them. Since I have to take one a day, I’ve set up alarm reminders, which means I won’t be forgetting to take my vitamins, either.

I spent most of the day just sitting around, and was able to write a few thousand words of… well, that’s for another day. There was no internet access, so no normal work was possible, but I could take coffee breaks. The worst parts of yesterday’s hospital visit were the ECG exams. (Electrocardiogram, also known as EKG.) I had one in the morning, before the first dose of medicine, and another later in the evening.

If you know about the ECG, you might be asking: what’s the problem? It’s quick, non-invasive, and all you need to do is lie still. Well, all that is true, but in my case the problem is preparation. I’m male, so I don’t get the luxury of modesty: I’m lying on a trolley with my shirt off, while everyone and their sister walks past, or pokes their noses in to say Hi! to the nurse. A pretty female nurse, who has to repeatedly reattach electrodes that refuse to stick to my hairy chest. It took alcohol swabs, surgical tape, and a threat to break out the razor and shaving cream, before they held still long enough for a minute’s data.

What I said before about being patient number one turned out to be untrue: I was the first going in, true, but the last going out with a bottle of pills. Well, not quite the last, because I made a new friend yesterday: Cathy, who stayed a little longer than me, and whom I will hopefully see again, on my next visit in two weeks’ time. After the first hour, during which we both failed to present any symptoms whatsoever, we went out for lunch. We also hung out during the day - but not while she was having her ECG: she, at least, got to enjoy a little modesty.

Since I moved to Ireland, just in time for the Millennium celebrations, I haven’t quite settled here. I’ve considered my move temporary, one that might be reversed at any time. I have even kept a couple of UK credit card accounts open, with small credit balances costing me nothing, in case I moved back there.

I must write and close those accounts: this year, for the first time since moving to Ireland, I’m making a commitment of sorts to living here. More than one commitment, actually: at the beginning of September I will be starting a three-year university course, but this week I start a two-year drug trial. Neither of these commitments are irrevocably tied to Ireland, strictly speaking, since they could be continued in another country, but such a move is not in my plans.

The FTY720 (fingolimod) drug trial is a go; the drug company (Novartis) thinks I’m a match, but asked me back for an additional MRI last Friday, since they thought too much time had elapsed since the last one. That takes my tally of spins in Tesla’s tumble-dryer up to four. This time I asked for extra padding behind my head, which made the experience much less painful than before.

The first dose of the drug (real or placebo) will be this coming Thursday: a day of mostly sitting around, so I’ll have the Tablet PC with me. If there’s an Internet connection, I may be able to get some office work done: if not, I have offline writing I can do more on, and I’ll carry a book or two.

I’ve been warned that there’s a small chance that I will be admitted to hospital as a patient, so I can be observed overnight: I suppose that depends on how many beds are free, in one of the biggest and busiest hospitals in Ireland. The chances of this happening will be increased for the same reason I’ve experienced delays and repeat tests: in this current study I am patient number one, the one they are testing all the procedures on.

If I survive that I have a detailed two-year schedule to follow, currently on paper with dates that I need to enter in to my work computer. From there it will be synchronised to my phone, so that I’ll be reminded. Twelve medical examinations will include six eye scans (OCTs), six lung tests (PFTs), and three more MRI scans.

Hey, it could be worse… I could be paying for all this.

We’re almost at the end of the day after Independence Day, and I’m finally getting the opportunity to sit down and write a little about my own Independence Day, 2007. I’m not American, but I had one, nevertheless.

July 4, 2007, was the day I started quitting my job, at a major IT company. I say “started” because I haven’t actually resigned yet: it’s too soon for that. I need to give four weeks’ notice; I gave eight weeks of actual working time, or ten weeks if you factor in holidays that I won’t be taking. What I did was inform my manager that I was leaving, with the rest of the team here being told soon afterwards.

Where am I going? Not another job, at least not yet: in early September I will start full-time study at University College Dublin (UCD). The course is Structural Engineering with Architecture, straddling two disciplines. A lot of mathematics, a lot of looking at the “designed environment”, some graphic design, even some materials and construction.

I thought it was a good all-rounder course: while I enjoy architecture and design, I have no illusions of becoming an Architect with a capital A; it would take a certain level of Arrogance that I don’t have or want (I hope). More details to follow as I get them.

That is not the only change around here: not long after the meeting where I made the announcement, a former colleague of ours came calling. He still works for the same company, but in a different area, and he needed a place to stay for a few days, possibly longer. He’s not Irish, but married an Irish lady, whom (he says) is no longer a Lady. As a result, my place is now his “halfway house” on his way to the divorce courts and out of the country. Good thing I have that spare bedroom.

The last change will take the next eight weeks to engineer: the end of this blog. The reasons are complex, and will be the subject of further entries, but the most straightforward is that this blog is out of step with the way things are done today. Blogging is no longer an end in itself, but a means to an end: an end that I have little interest in achieving.

Sometimes, or so it seems to me, I can be a bit slow on the uptake. I blame my job: troubleshooting computers and storage systems is a job for a literal-minded pedant, whose day can revolve around the tiniest of details that make or break a customer’s installation. The procedures for doing things tend to be linear, with individual steps that you must complete successfully before moving on to the next one. I don’t like what this job has done to me, to be blunt, and while some of my bloody-mindedness may be MS-related, I think I have a need for some mental liberation.

A domestic vignette should give you some idea of the current state of affairs. At work, this afternoon, while in the middle of something else, I hit on a solution to a nagging domestic problem; the lack of a desk. I don’t want to buy one, because I may have to move some day, and every item I have is an item that needs moving. There’s also the problem of quality; the cheapest desks are tiny and not very well-built, so I would need to spend more than I want to, just to be happy with my purchase.

Here at home I have four plastic crates, filled with various bits and pieces, cables, books and CDs. I’ve tried laying my dart board cabinet over the top and using that, but it’s too narrow, and has a knee-skewering screw sticking out its back. (The dart board is just one of the odd items I’ve had handed-down from the various housemates I’ve had here in Dublin, but it’ll be staying behind when I eventually leave this place.)

I needed a long and narrow board to lay on top of the crates; could I buy one, or find one in someone’s shed? The answer was simpler: ten minutes with a screwdriver, this evening, and I had one of my bedroom closet doors off, and over the crates. The noisy desktop PC is to one side, but my 5-year-old Compaq laptop (running Ubuntu Linux) is fine for writing work. As for ergonomics: my “director’s chair” is almost the right height, and I have the old & heavy keyboard out, which suits my heavy typing. A wrist rest, maybe a cushion on the chair, and many words will be written here.

Just as long as I don’t need to get anything out any of the crates, that is…

The screening process, for the FTY720 (fingolimod) drug trial I’ve applied for, has started. It’s not off to a good start: after being told that I had to take a whole day off work, then arranging a day off work, I went in to the Neurology department at St. Vincent’s University Hospital the day before to sign the papers and have a last chat with The Professor. The schedule for the next day, last Thursday? A MRI scan, a chest CT scan, and… that was it. The whole day off is going to come later, with another half-day of eye scans before that, and it might not be a whole day after all. Business as usual in Ireland, then.

It was the first time I’d ever had a CT (CAT) scan), or even seen a modern machine, and it was as quick, painless and cheerful a procedure as one could wish for. The machine itself wasn’t even the “tunnel” I’d seen pictures of, but more of a “ring”, like something out of 50s science fiction. Three minutes and a massive dose of X-Rays later, I was done, without even taking my shoes off.

That was a relief after the MRI, a procedure I’ve undergone twice before, and hardly enjoyed either time. It’s not painful, at least not directly, but halfway through I was brought out for an injection of gadolinium, which enhances the contrast. They were comparing scans from before and after the injection, so I was implored to keep my head still, in an uncomfortable position, for over half an hour in total, including the part where I was injected with a heavy metal.

My head was locked in place anyway, with pads at the sides ensuring that the earplugs did not fit snugly. There is no movement visible from inside the machine’s claustrophobic confines, but I was left under no illusion that huge superconducting magnets were flying around, inches from my nose, with enough liquid helium to turn me into a meat popsicle in seconds. The noise… it was as if HAL9000, Metallica and the Aphex Twin had co-designed a nuclear-powered washing machine that went up to 11.

Did I complain? Well, I am British, and it’s not as if my situation was worse than that of anyone else who needs to lie in a powerful magnetic field and have their protons resonated by a powerful radio transmitter. Never mind that I’ll be back in there every six months for the next two years, at least, and I suspect radiologists might have long memories. Zap.

Today saw the first time, since I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, that I had the chance to discuss my condition with specialists on the condition. After being told that I had MS back in January 2006, I walked out of my neurologist’s office, went home, and heard nothing for over a year. This despite being told that I would be contacted by a MS specialist nurse to discuss treatment options, and that I would be scheduled for follow-up exams. Some one dropped the ball on that one.

Of course, I was in no hurry to go looking for more medical treatment; I was just getting on with life, and work, without any significant disability. I described my symptoms as “annoying”, and no real problem to live with. After my business/vacation trip to the USA in March, however, I was hit by a combination of symptoms that left me feeling I’d aged fifty years while coming down with the flu. I bounced back after about ten days, most of it working from home. It looked suspiciously like a MS relapse, thus confirming the diagnosis, so I called up the hospital, who scheduled me for the MS Review clinic I had heard about.

The first order of business today was to confirm that what happened last month; was it a MS relapse or not? The consensus was that it was; the fatigue and loss of motor control were classic signs. The way I’d recovered so quickly was odd to me, but not to the specialists, who were quite used to it.

The hospital I go to, St. Vincent’s in South Dublin, is affiliated with the nearby University College Dublin, where they are doing research into MS, so you can probably guess what happened next: they wanted my blood, and a lot of it. Ten 5ml vials in total, going to various places, for various forms of analysis; the usual general health screens, plus some extra tests, including DNA sequencing.

So I’m back on the track regarding MS treatment, and I have some options for treatment. At the time of my initial diagnosis, my neurologist and I agreed that I did not need to start any treatment at that time. Now that I’ve had a relapse, the picture is different, and it’s time to start thinking about future relapses, and how drugs can reduce their frequency and ameliorate their severity. (Do I get bonus points for finding a use for the ten-dollar word ameliorate?)

The most interesting treatment option, by far, is an invitation to join the Phase III double-blind trial of an upcoming MS therapy called FTY720. Some details about the drug and its current status can be found at the following link. This is the last phase of trials, designed to generate the data that the manufacturer needs before they can submit the drug for approval.

The “unique selling point” for this drug is that it’s the first made-for-MS treatment that comes in capsule form, to be taken orally; all the other current therapies are administered by injection. That would not be a show-stopper for me, I suppose, but their efficacy in reducing the incidence of relapses - about 30% - means that I’d think carefully before accepting such a treatment regime. I’d have to start one of those straight away, and it would take years of injections before anyone could say whether it’s doing me any good.

So, I think I will volunteer for the FTY720 trial. Not only do I have an interest in furthering research and helping it to market; I have the luxury of a mild MS condition that means I can experiment with treatments. The double-blind nature of the trial means that I could conceivably be given a placebo, and effectively have no treatment for the two-year duration of the trial. I can afford to take that risk.

A Saturday at home, with my energy levels back to normal. I’ve been taking advantage of the fine weather to stay indoors, giving my bedroom a top-to-bottom cleaning. Windows and walls first, cleaning off a strange black dust that may be fungal. It might be a sign of damp, which would be odd considering I’m on the top of a 3-floor building that doesn’t leak. It’s only happening on the inside of the external wall in that room, and it may have something to do with its construction; under the flaking wallpaper is a layer of galvanized steel, and I have no idea why.

While cleaning the wall I had my Bluetooth headphones on, catching up on podcasts, but anyone watching me would have been bemused by some of my odd expressions and exclamations as I was on my knees with brush and cloth. You can share the experience I had; head off to Neil Gaiman’s web site, and enjoy Neil’s reading of his short story How To Talk To Girls At Parties. The story is included in his Fragile Things anthology, which I bought last weekend but haven’t started yet. Hilariously surreal, it follows a couple of teenage boys as they blag their way in to a party with some most unusual guests.

With the curtains washed, rehung, and closed to dry, and parts of the carpet wet, I’ve been doing more laundry, making lunch, and have settled down with coffee to watch the Grand National at Aintree. One false start, struggles to get the riders lined up, but … They’re Off!

all fools’ day, the belated spring
twitched his moist nose over the crest
of the brown earth bordering the hole
in which he had overslept
the winter that had held him unconscious
beyond his regularly scheduled waking

what it lacked in depth it offered as length
not as bluntly cold as years before, but sullenly
clinging to the clammy walls of his emerald den
far from the sun behind high cloud
in shades of monochromatic grey

stretches its legs
shakes out the knots in its sinews
and pauses in consternation
is it safe to stay outside, today?

… and I ain’t got much of it. It’s Friday evening, and I’m testing my ability to write and post a full blog entry without using the keyboard at all.

To do the bulk of the writing, I’m using a program called Dasher, which lets you select characters and words by controlling a cursor. When you select a character, that affects the following selections, which seem to unfold in an organic manner. It’s context sensitive, and allows me to enter text very quickly with a minimum of practice. For editing I have an on-screen virtual keyboard, and the rest is done in Firefox.

Sounds like fun, and it’s not the first time I’ve tried this, but today it’s a little more serious. Sometime on Monday this week, my body decided to remind me that I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis just over a year ago, and to disabuse me of the notion that my neurologist might have read the MRI films incorrectly. I was at work on Tuesday, thinking I might have caught the Flu on the plane from Denver, but when I tried to sign a form, and could barely hold the pen, my situation needed a rethink.

The main symptoms are fatigue and some loss of fine motor control, which go together. I worked from home today, and did a fair amount of typing, but by the end of the day it was a struggle to lift my hands to type, and my fingers would not hit keys on demand.

It’s a good thing I’ve made a few preparations, I suppose. I belong to a virtual team at work, with the ability to get work done from remote locations, and the main obstacles to working from home on a regular basis are more procedural than technical, with regulations about ergonomics getting in the way.

So I will still have to go in to the office, but not for a few days yet. One particularly nasty MS symptom hit me on Thursday night; a massive cramp has has left me with a torn calf muscle that has me hobbling around like an extra from a low budget Dickens production. Just to add injury to insult, you know.

Now my wrist is getting sore, and I’ve done enough whining for one day. If it wasn’t for the physical problems I would be fine, actually, and I know I’ll be better in a few days. I will NOT start using txtspk, with Dasher making it easier to use good English than bad. I just need to take it easy for a bit.

On Wednesday I noticed that I was sunburned; this was only after another long walk that topped up Tuesday’s UV exposure to overflowing, and had the hotel receptionist laughing at me. I followed the Cherry Creek path most of the way, which runs alongside Speer Boulevard to the south east. The creek (but not the path) runs through the exclusive Denver Country Club, where I imagined Dynasty’s Blake Carrington with a 9-iron in mid-swing… how eighties is that?

Then the Cherry Creek Mall, mostly posh fashion emporia, and a food court where a Japanese-owned Greek fast food outlet sold me a Gyros. It sounded glamorous until I realized that it was just another name for a Souvlaki, a Shawarma, or a Doner Kebab; pressed meat, broiled on a rotisserie, shaved in to pita bread, with salad and dressings. I came 5,000 miles for this? Still, it was nice enough, and gave me a chance to read the Denver Post I had been schlepping around all morning.

The walk down Colorado Boulevard took my day’s shoe wear up to about seven miles, most of it in thin air and bright sunshine. I had sunscreen on, but not enough, it seems. On the way back to the hotel I stopped by the Pepsi Center, wondering whether there were any seats for the hockey game. The scene was familiar to me from rock concerts; many scalpers outside, with signs and shouts of “any tickets?”, while people walk past them to the box office, to buy tickets at face value. Expensive, but $66 got me a center balcony seat, and I headed back there after an hour at the hotel, writing the previous post.

The game was fun: the draft Coors was actually pretty good, not expensive by Irish standards, and the place was nearly full for one of the NHL season highlights; the Calgary Flames visiting the Colorado Avalanche. The ESPN summary of the game can be found here. My seat gave me a good view of the whole of the ice, except for the head in front of me during the first period. It got cold, as expected, which suited my red neck just fine.

The first surprise for me was the absence of any show of impartiality by the hosts; each Colorado team member was given the star treatment, with a video introduction, while Calgary came on unannounced. Between shots the announcer revved up the partisan crowd, helped by big-screen slogans and chants.

The game wasn’t hard to follow, though it took me a little while to figure out what a Power Play was: a penalized player in the “sin bin” for two minutes, giving the other team an advantage. Power Plays gave Calgary a 2-1 lead in the first period, but the Avs regrouped, scoring a goal in the second, and a third goal at the start of the third period, leaving the fans happy with a 3-2 home win. There was even a fight on the ice, cheered on by the 14,000-strong crowd.

Each 20-minute period took over 40-minutes to play, and was followed by an intermission meaning that each period started on the hour. Family-friendly, there were plenty of kids around, and not just in the audience; two junior teams took to the ice in the intermissions, first for standard play, then a shoot-off. Plenty of audience participation, with WW2 veterans taking a bow, remote-controlled balloons dropping coupons for food and newspapers, dance contests for the arena camera, and free t-shirts flying around, though I was too far up in the nosebleed section to partake in any of the bounty.

I was back in downtown Denver well before 11PM, looking for supper on 16th Street, yet nearly everything was closed, except for a McDonalds - no thanks - and a Taco Bell, which sold me a boring burrito. I know it was a weekday night, but the street was hardly deserted, after a big hockey game.

In general, I was very disappointed with nearly all the food I had in the USA. Quality was always overruled by quantity; sandwiches have plenty of meat with little flavour of its own; chicken didn’t taste like anything, not even chicken. If I lived there I would be doing a lot more cooking of my own, I suspect, once I figured out where to get the ingredients. I don’t know if I would gain weight, from becoming acclimatised to the blandness, or lose weight in reaction to chronic culinary disappointment. As for the coffee; Starbucks was the best, which is really not saying much at all, at the prices they charge.

A strange sight from Fort Collins, Colorado, on my walk last Saturday. I didn’t go inside the “Bible Superstore”, out of respect… who am I kidding? I didn’t go in because I knew I’d be at risk of falling down laughing, and making a fool of myself. How could there be such a thing as a Bible Superstore? I can just imagine the layout:

• Aisle 1: Bibles
• Aisle 2: Bibles
• …
• Aisle 7: Bibles
• Aisle 8: Bibles
• Aisle 9: Bible Study
• Aisle 10: School Books (Intelligent Design)

On Sunday I moved to Denver from Fort Collins, and on Monday I took a flying visit to Colorado Springs by Greyhound Bus. From the bus station I grabbed a cab to my company’s offices; the cabbie looked like Jerry Garcia, and we got talking about Colorado Springs, since it was my first time there. When I asked about Springs’ reputation as a very Christian town, with churches visible everywhere, it was like setting a fire under him. He was what you can call a pantheist, meaning he had a general belief in a “universal power”, but he’d given up on organized religion many years before that. The recent scandals in the town, involving Ted Haggard of the 14,000-strong New Life Church, had made world headlines (such as CNN), and to the cabbie this was just the latest confirmation of his opinion that organized religion is morally bankrupt.

I spent the day with my North American counterparts and their manager, who are about the only people left in a cavernous office floor. Cubicle after cubicle of beige and brown, desks gathering dust, chairs upended, the carpet in the aisles grubby and faded. It was a beautiful day outside, so we all walked down the hill to a barbecue joint, where I had another huge but tasteless sandwich. (If the bread, meat and cheese have no taste, no volume of condiments can make a great sandwich!)

My presence seemed to bring out the worst in my colleagues, in a good way - if that makes any sense. They had a new face to pour out their troubles to, all the while keeping up a brave sense of humour that would not be out of place in a Dilbert cartoon. I got even more of the same from their manager, who took me back in to central Colorado Springs and joined me for dinner and a beer. (I had a nicely microbrewed oatmeal stout and a huge “Chicken Gringo” concoction, with cornbread and potato wedges, that I couldn’t finish.)

As I Twittered in from the bus station, on the way back to Denver: it was one of those days that confirms your suspicions and fears. My US colleagues feel just as threatened as we in Europe do, and as isolated and frozen out of the “career path” in my company. For most of the day I was just someone to talk to, a role I’m happy to play if it helps, and this time I’m sure it did. The manager treated me as an equal, and clearly needed someone to help him make some sense of what is going on.

My qualms about the my employer’s plans seem to be well-justified. I am not going mad, and neither are those colleagues of mine with similar concerns. I can’t really say any more, but what I can say is that there are changes coming my way this year. I’ve learned things I might not be supposed to know, but the effect will be to give me more time to prepare.

The last couple of days in Denver were a mix of gonzo walks and lazing around in my nice hotel room. I will say some more later, but right now I have an ice hockey game to go to, so I need to get my skates on.