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Woman holds framed picture of father

A family from Kitchener, Ont., wants to find and say thank you to a Good Samaritan who gave their loved one CPR, extending his life until paramedics arrived on the scene, transported him to hospital and gave his family a chance to say one last goodbye.

Radiators

Jan. 13th, 2026 12:47 pm
cimorene: Blue text reading "This Old House" over a photo of a small yellow house (knypplinge)
[personal profile] cimorene
It's warmed up a little, but we're still in the edge of the cold snap. It's been down to 11° (in the low fifties) inside the bedroom a couple of times this week, which seems to indicate there may be a problem with the radiator in there. We haven't remembered to bleed the radiators the last two years and it's definitely got air in it, but I'm not sure that could account for it.

The individual thermostats on our radiators don't do much, because they're all controlled by the electronic thermostat on the geothermal pump. There's only one sensor and it's on the tenant side, which is already more insulated because it was built in the 70s and not 1950, so our side is always a bit chilly in contrast, since they would be roasting over there otherwise. And the bedroom loses more heat because of its location right under the roof. But normally in winter it's been more like 14-15° (58-59) in there.

In the last week I've been sleeping with three duvets (mostly under two though; the third one is sideways over the feet). This is actually not inconvenient enough to stimulate the executive function to try to fix it promptly though. We are at "Oh, ugh, I guess we have to do something at some point?"

Ancestor Worship

Jan. 13th, 2026 10:05 am
poliphilo: (Default)
[personal profile] poliphilo
 William Allen, the Quaker polymath, scientist, financier and all-round do-gooder was an ancestor of mine. His younger brother Samuel was my several times great grandfather. Does that make William my many times great uncle? I'm not sure. Anyway we are related.

I don't think the brothers were close. Leastways Samuel doesn't get a mention in the biography of William I'm currently reading. William was a high-flier, active on the world-stage, whereas Samuel was never anything more than a respected Quaker preacher.

Here's William, wearing a Quaker hat. (I want one)

William_Allen_abolitionist_by_Amélie_Munier-Romilly_(sq_cropped).jpeg


And here's Samuel, holding forth (gloomily?) at a Quaker Meeting.

Samuel_Lucas_(1805-1870)_-_Samuel_Allen_at_a_Quaker_Meeting_-_HITHM.5518_-_North_Hertfordshire_Museum.jpeg

The difference in status between the two brothers can be gauged by the quality of their portraits. William gets a delicate pencil sketch by Mlle Romilly- the distinguished Swiss painter- while Samuel makes do with a daub by his brother-in-law Samuel Lucas, the brewer. 

Oh, these old time Quakers, they're so serious! William is esteemed by the Duke of Wellington and more than esteemed by the saintly Russian tsar Alexander I but wouldn't it be jolly if he'd occasionally meet a poet (there were enough of them around in his era) or attend the theatre or say something funny.  He had a wonderful mind for facts but he wasn't creative or playful. He partnered the great Robert Owen in setting up schools for the poor but fell out with him over what should be taught. Owen wanted to teach music and dancing and what we would now call ecology while William wanted nothing but Bible study. Oh, Uncle William, do lighten up!'

You may gather I'm having a hard time actually liking him. A man, however mild and obliging, who wants his nieces to read Pliny to him over breakfast is never going to be my soul-brother.

But he did like the ladies! His third marriage- to a woman pushing 70 and a good decade older than himself- allowed the profane to go, "See, we always said the Quakers are randy old goats under those silly hats." Cartoons were published. Sincere and loving Friends wrote to tell him, "Don't do it!"   For the first time in his life he was a cause for merriment....

Ah, unseemliness! Now that's more like it!
tamaranth: me, in the sun (Default)
[personal profile] tamaranth
2026/007: Aberystwyth Mon Amour — Malcolm Pryce
I sat in the corner and gazed through red throbbing eyes at the lurid pageant: drunks and punks and pimps and ponces; young farmers and old farmers; pool-hall hustlers and pick pockets; Vimto louts, card sharps and shove ha’penny sharps; sailors and lobster fisherman and hookers from the putting green; the one-armed man from the all-night sweet shop, dandies and dish-washers and drunken school teachers; fire-walkers and whelk-eaters, high priests and low priests; footpads and cut-throats; waifs, strays, vanilla thieves and peat stealers; the clerk from the library, the engineer from the Great Little Train of Wales … it rolled on without end. [p. 31]

Wales is independent, and has fought a colonial war in Patagonia: the veterans haunt Aberystwyth and its environs. The town is pretty much owned and run by the Druids, as corrupt and wicked a crew as any mob. Private detective Louie Knight is engaged by local chanteuse Myfanwy Montez to investigate the disappearance of a schoolboy -- the first of several to vanish without trace. Louie, with his teenaged sidekick 'Calamity' Jane, unravels a heinous plot involving an ark, an antique Lancaster bomber and a forensic knitting expert.

I'm not sure why this didn't work for me. Read more... )

Artificial Intelligence

Jan. 13th, 2026 03:18 am
ysabetwordsmith: Cartoon of me in Wordsmith persona (Default)
[personal profile] ysabetwordsmith
Researchers poison stolen data to make AI systems return wrong results

Researchers affiliated with universities in China and Singapore have devised a technique to make stolen knowledge graph data useless if incorporated into a GraphRAG AI system without consent.


I'm reminded of how alchemists would leave out a critical detail, or make a substitution, so that nobody could steal and reproduce their work.
[syndicated profile] cbc_topnews_feed
A profile shot of a man, in dark silhouette, holding a glass containing a golden liquid to his mouth to take a sip.

Many people are starting 2026 by taking part in Dry January, swearing off alcohol for the first month of the year. But new research from the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) is raising concerns about how much Canadians are drinking.

Choices (9)

Jan. 13th, 2026 08:42 am
the_comfortable_courtesan: image of a fan c. 1810 (Default)
[personal profile] the_comfortable_courtesan
So much to boast of

Dickie Smith was a little chagrined that his talents in surreptitious following had not been called upon in this most interesting case of Mr Taskerville. That had been conducting a liaison with Lady Whibsall, and she, most imprudent, had sent him letters, and he, even more imprudent, had kept 'em, and they had fallen somehow into the hands of one that was demanding recompense for silence in the matter. For Mr Taskerville had expectations from an exceedingly pious great-aunt, that was also wont to make him generous gifts, while there was a considerable fear that Sir Francis Whibsall had a notion towards bringing a crim.con. action did he have evidence on hand.

And here was Taskerville, already not entirely rolled up but in less than flourishing circumstance due to his ill fortune at race-courses – Dickie snorted to himself, for he apprehended that the gentleman had no great understanding in that business! Dickie had passed some months as a groom in Terence Offerton’s stables, pursuing a case on behalf of the Johnson agency, and had learnt a good deal about such matters to supplement what one that had been about the Jupp stables since childhood and was acquainted with The Lady – Mrs Penkarding – already knew concerning horseflesh.

Had transpired that the business 'twixt Taskerville and the extortionist was not conducted in person, but by means of notes left in certain places. At which Matt had frowned, and sighed, and said that argued one that somehow had the entrée to the houses and clubs that Foolish Phineas frequented – but could be a footman, or able to present as one – though makes one wonder whether 'tis one that he would recognize did he see him –

So Matt went about to persuade Taskerville to bring him the next note he received – lord, I had to assure him that just because it says Burn this! he is not obliged to do so.

But at the moment Dickie was engaged on the useful if not very exciting task of cutting out pieces from the newspapers that mentioned the work of the agency or touched on cases or individuals in whom they took an interest. And when he had done so, Miss Frinton, that would not entrust it to anyone else, would paste 'em up in the agency scrapbooks, and mark 'em down in her indexes so that they might be found when needed.

La, said a voice from the doorway, look at those dirty hands! All printers’ ink! Here – Leda Hacker tossed him a damp cloth – Matt has got the latest note Foolish Phineas received and we are convoking over it in his office. Come along.

Dickie jumped up. This was something like!

In Matt’s office, that was furnished in such a way as to communicate confidence to those that came seeking the agency’s services – no fly-by-night enterprize! – Miss Frinton was examining the letter and holding it up to the light to scrutinize the watermark.

She snorted. 'Tis good enough writing-paper, but 'tis nothing very rare – a common enough make – widely sold about Town – one might find it in a deal of escritoires –

Hacker twitched it out of Frinton’s hand. Precisely, she said, and does it not look like a lady’s fist? She laid it down on Matt’s desk.

Matt nodded. Has that style, he agreed. Though whether that means our villain is a villainess, or whether 'tis one with a fine skill at counterfeiting hands – Hacker blushed a little, and Dickie wondered whether her childhood apprenticeship to the ken-cracker Laffen had included forgery among the skills she had learnt – or whether there is a female confederate in the business.

Whoever it is, said Hacker, is not very subtle and not playing for high stakes.

They all looked at her.

She shrugged. 'Tis not the like of Rathe, is it? That was playing a deep game with a long view and picking his victims with care, that either were in government offices or already had some kind of power and influence, or would be like to have in future. This one is choosing idle wastrels for small gains.

Matt looked at her with approval, and nodded his head. You sum it up very just. Mayhap 'tis an idle wastrel himself, finds himself pockets to let, goes poke about to see what he might find – one wonders has anybody missed small items of value of late, trinkets &C –

Hacker winked and said, would go ask in the usual quarter about that! For one understood that she had connexions in the world of fences, as well as pawnbrokers that did not make any searching enquiries concerning the goods they were offered.

– comes across compromising letters – or mayhap notes concerning gaming debts or such – and fathoms that he may turn these to profit. You might enquire of Dumaine, next time you go there as Babsie, whether he knows of any that might be in that condition.

Hacker wrinkled her nose, saying, would not be going to Dumaine’s very immediate, had this commission concerning Sir Hobday Perram’s precious Persian things

Matt grunted. Was going to suggest, that you take young Dickie with you, as excellent instructive for him –

Dickie was unable to repress a delighted yelp.

– so I will go dine with Dumaine myself and sound him out.

So, there was his mother and father, looking upon him very serious and saying, trusted that he would do the family credit going out in the capacity of Miss Hacker’s 'prentice. For Timothy and Nell Smith might be the keepers of the Buffle Arms tavern, adjacent to her brother Sam’s livery stables, but these days 'twas a fine respectable place. And had they not expanded to open the Beaufoyle Arms Song and Supper Room, where Clo Marshall had made her name?

Did not Pa become quite the businessman these days, convoking with their relative Maurice Allard over whether one might go it even further and open one of these halls for music and entertainment that was springing up hither and yon over Town? For Maurice might have made his reputation as a modiste with the finest eye for ladies’ fashion, but was renowned throughout their connexion for his acuity in all matters to do with business.

So, here Dickie was, dressed exceeding proper, in a railway carriage with Hacker, that grinned at him and said that she hoped he had something more comfortable in his dunnage, for fancied there would be a deal of clambering about and mayhap crawling into attics &C.

Dickie grinned back and said that Ma had been very wishful that he should make a good first impression.

There was Hacker herself, got up as if she was applying for a post as a governess! Most exceeding meek and proper.

He was somewhat astonished at the condition of Sir Hobday’s mansion – brought up in a household under the hand of one that had been trained in good practices was almost shocked – but Hacker murmured under her breath, la, 'tis a sad bachelor establishment, and he supposed that must explain it.

Though indeed, once they came to convoke with the master of the house, came to apprehend that there had also been some matter of lack of funds – but here was Lord Sallington, what a fine young man was that, had remarked that certain old paintings acquired by Sir Hobday’s ancestors would be exceeding vendable by art dealers, and now he might mend the roof and spruce up the old place.

Matt had took Dickie aside and told him to study upon Hacker’s manner with clients.

There she was, most sympathetic – listening – asking the occasional question – lightly mentioning the certain collections they had already been about protecting – Mr Grigson, the wealthy China merchant’s wonderful things from the Celestial Empire

La, perchance 'twas a strange occupation for a female, but had been taught by her foster-father

No, they were not putting up at the Crown, though they heard it was a very comfortable inn, they were staying at Attervale –

Here Hacker looked at her most exceeding prim governessy and disclosed that upon occasion she undertook secretarial work for Dowager Lady Bexbury, that had very kindly put 'em in the way of Lady Emily Merrett’s hospitality – was an antient friend of that family –

Dickie, that had seen Hacker in her guises as Babsie Bolton and Larry Hooper, was hard put not to laugh at how genteel she showed!

She showed a deal more relaxed in the company of the Ladies of Attervale, Lady Emily Merrett and her companion Miss Fenster, that treated her entirely informal and on the level of a friend, asking after dear Lady Bexbury &C – supposed Mr Smith would find himself more comfortable in the kitchen –

Indeed he did, where there was a fine table set, and a deal of eager enquiry about certain recent cases of the Johnson agency that had been reported in the press –

Thatching, that was the groom, was in particular interested in that matter of underhand behaviour about racecourses, that Dickie had been so closely involved in investigating – as they pushed back their chairs at the end of the meal, and Thatching lit his pipe, said he dared say that Smith would care to take a look at their own cattle here?

Would I! said Dickie. Sure Lady Emily is quite renowned – The Lady, that is, Mrs Penkarding, that is a neighbour of ours, will ever speak highly of her –

All looked very gratified and nodded their heads.

So – at this time o’year 'twas still light – when all finally got up from table Thatching took Dickie over to the stables and sure that was a very fine sight!

Mentioned that his uncle – Sam Jupp – Jupp’s Livery Stables and Carriage Hire – kept his own cattle in fine condition – treated 'em well – sent 'em out to recruit at his farm in Berkshire, did not believe in working 'em to death – but they was working nags, not the like of this.

Then came in Lady Emily herself, that saw Dickie’s admiration and appreciation of her cattle and grinned. Fancy you would know what’s what! she said. Now, Miss Hacker gives you the name of a sensible young man that can move quiet and discreet – should you like to come look at my hawks?

Dickie was unable to find words to express how much he should. Oh, he would have so much to boast of to his brothers and Lizzie!


Snowflake Challenge: day 6

Jan. 13th, 2026 07:43 am
shewhostaples: View from above of a set of 'scissor' railway points (railway)
[personal profile] shewhostaples
two log cabins with snow on the roofs in a wintery forest the text snowflake challenge january 1 - 31 in white cursive text

Top 10 challenge

I'm onna train, so here are 10 railway stations I like. In no particular order, and for various different reasons.

1. Frankfurt Hbf. This was where my international rail travels began. Standing on the concourse, looking at the departure boards (getting slightly earwormed by Stuttgart and Fulda), realising that I could get pretty much anywhere from here...

2. London St Pancras. It's beautiful. It's not actually a terribly pleasant experience getting a train from here (maybe the East Midlands and South Eastern platforms are better) but from the outside it's a fairy tale castle.

3. Stockholm. Rolling in, bleary eyed, off the sleeper from Malta, through dingy orange lights, and then suddenly you're in this marble palace. (I got chugged in Stockholm station. I don't know what I was doing to look like a Swede with disposable income rather than a discombobulated tourist, but there we go.)

4. London King's Cross. Never mind all that wizard nonsense, it has a fully functional platform zero. Also the toilets are free these days.

5. Liège Guillemins. Just glorious.

6. Ryde Pier Head. When it's operational and when you don't just miss the train because the catamaran was thirty seconds late. But there's still something fun about a station in the sea.

7. Dawlish. Train to beach in under a minute (your mileage may vary, as may mine considering I haven't been there in about a decade).

8. York. Never mind a pub in the station, it has one on the platform. Lovely stained glass, too.

9. Norwich. Light, gracious, makes you glad you've arrived.

10. Luxembourg. Stained glass again - and just time for an ice cream before the train.
sovay: (Sydney Carton)
[personal profile] sovay
Running this many days without sleep, I find it hard to tell whether I had an insight about creativity this weekend or just reinvented a 101-level objection to LLMs and so-called generative AI, but it ocurred to me that such technologies are not capable of allusions. Their algorithms are not freighted with the same three-dimensional architecture of associations which accrete around information stored in the human cold porridge, all the emotional colors and sensory overtones and contextual echoes which attend the classic example of a word like tree when you throw it out across the incommensurable void between one human mind and another to be plugged into their own idiosyncratically plastic linkage of bias and experience whose least incompatibility may be the difference between a bristlecone and a birch and Wittgenstein has to lie down with a headache, but all of these entanglements form as much of the texture of a writer's style—of any human communication—as the word cloud of their vocabulary or their most commonly diagrammed sentences. It has always interested me to be able to detect the half-rhymes or skeletons of familiarity in the work of other writers; I have always assumed I am reciprocally legible if not transparent from space. I've seen arguments against the creativity of LLMs based on intentionality, but the unintended encrustrations seem just as important to me. By way of illustration, this thought was partly sparked by this classic and glorious mashup.

I was delighted to find on checking the news this morning that a new Roman villa just dropped. Given the Iron Age hillforts, the twelfth-century abbey, the Georgian country house, and the CH station, Margam Country Park clearly needed a Roman find to complete the set. I have since been informed of the discovery of a similarly well-preserved and impressive carnyx. Goes shatteringly with a villa, the Iceni tell me.

I joke about this rock I spend most of my time under, but how can I never have heard of Marlow Moss? The Bryher vibes alone. The Constructivism. And a real short king, judging by that jaunty photo c. 1937 with Netty Nijhoff. Pursuing further details, I fell over Anton Prinner and have been demoralized about my comprehension of art history ever since.

Last night I read David Copperfield (1850) for the third time in my life. It has the terrible feel of a teachable moment. In high school I bounced almost completely off it. About ten years later, I enjoyed the dual-layered narration and was otherwise mostly engaged by the language. Now it appears I just like the novel, which I have to consider may be a factor of middle age. Or I had just read the necessary bunch more of Dickens in the interval, speaking of traceable reflections, recurring figures; my favorite character has not changed since eleventh grade, but I can see now the constellation he's part of. It seems improbable that I was always reading the novel while waiting for chorus to start, but I did get through Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886) in the down time of a couple of rehearsals that year. I was not taking either of the standard literature classes, but I had friends who left their assigned reading lying around.

I have to be at three different doctors' offices tomorrow. I could be over this viral mishegos any second now.

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