Wednesday, September 30, 2026

The Meaning of Life via Formal Analysis


When we are confronted with a question to which we want an exact, or at least profound, answer, and the question is posed in natural language, a useful first step is to remove as much ambiguity as possible. In logic we do this by formalising the question: deciding what its terms actually mean and what would count as an answer.

Consider the notoriously vague but apparently profound question: What is the meaning of life?

Two words immediately cause trouble: meaning and life.

Start with meaning. The English word itself has several quite different senses. The most straightforward concerns reference or denotation. Suppose somebody encountering Hegel meets the German word Seele but does not speak German. They ask: “What does Seele mean?” The rough answer is soul.

We give this a simplified model-theoretic description. There is an expression in one language whose interpretation the questioner does not know. There is some domain of things or concepts about which the language speaks, together with an interpretation function connecting linguistic expressions with that domain. The English speaker already possesses the corresponding machinery for English. We solve the problem by supplying an English word, soul, whose semantic interpretation sufficiently overlaps that of Seele.

Natural language is much messier than Tarskian semantics, of course. Translation involves history, context and connotation as well as denotation. But the logical picture will do: an unfamiliar expression is connected, through an interpretation, with something already understood.

This is plainly not what somebody means when asking about the meaning of life. They are not asking what object the word life denotes.

There is another sense of meaning: significance or intent. The classic joke concerns Talleyrand, the notoriously subtle French statesman. On hearing that Talleyrand had died, Metternich is supposed to have remarked: “I wonder what he meant by that.”

Metternich knows perfectly well what death is. His supposed problem is to discover how this particular event fits into some larger pattern of intentions, plans and consequences.

That gives us a different structure. We have an event or action embedded in a larger setting, together with an implicit theory of that setting. People perceive things, acquire beliefs, formulate intentions, pursue goals and act. We understand an action when we can locate it within this wider scheme. Somebody abruptly leaves a meeting; once we learn that their house is on fire, the behaviour acquires its significance.

Meaning in this sense is relational. Something has meaning because of the place it occupies within some wider explanatory structure.

That is much closer to what people are asking when they enquire after the meaning of life. They want to know what life signifies: what larger structure it belongs to, what role it plays within that structure and, perhaps, towards what end the whole arrangement is directed.

Unfortunately this merely transfers the difficulty. With Talleyrand we already have the larger political framework. With life as a whole, it is precisely the larger framework that is missing.

Then there is the second troublesome word: life.

If by life we mean simply what human beings have in common with tadpoles and cabbages, the question has several answers, none of them particularly interesting. One naturalistic account begins with physics. 

Given a universe initially very far from thermodynamic equilibrium, continuing flows of usable free energy, suitable chemistry and the right local conditions, highly organised structures can arise. Once some of them acquire replication, heredity and variation, Darwinian evolution takes over.

On this account life is one of the interesting things matter does under particular conditions. It is elaborate non-equilibrium physics which, once replication appears, bootstraps itself through natural selection.

This may be broadly right as an account of biological life. It is not usually taken to be what the questioner really wanted.

The intended sense of life is normally much narrower and more peculiarly human. It concerns the existence of a conscious social being possessing a conception of themself, giving an account of themself to other people, making choices and seeing those choices as forming some kind of trajectory.

We speak of a family life, a career, a vocation, achievement, failure, loyalty, betrayal and purpose. A human life is not construed as metabolism continuing for eighty years. It's a project.

We can therefore reformulate the original question:

What is the significance of the life of a human being reflecting upon their situation and available choices?

It also contains an assumption about value. The person asking does not normally expect to be told that every possible life is equivalent. Become a surgeon, raise children, collect stamps, spend forty years intoxicated, torture strangers, kill yourself - it makes no difference?

We do not experience our possible futures as occupying a flat value space. Some possibilities appear worthwhile, others contemptible; some fulfilling, others disastrous. Asking for the meaning of life therefore amounts to asking for some framework within which these differences in value can be understood.

Religion supplies one candidate framework. Human existence forms part of a created order; that order has a purpose; human beings have a nature and an intended end; certain ways of living conform to that order better than others and are virtuous.

In the terminology of the present argument, religion supplies the missing boundary conditions.

Remove it and matters become less comfortable.

Another answer is nihilism. Conclude that there is no encompassing structure. Human beings manufacture local purposes, but the universe supplies none. Asking for the meaning of life is therefore rather like asking for the foreign policy of a cabbage: the question presupposes a level of reality-embedding which does not actually exist for the vegetable.

There is, however, a less drastic naturalistic answer. We can relativise our values to the kind of creatures we actually are.

Human beings are evolved organisms carrying a characteristic collection of needs, emotions and motivations: attachment, sexuality, parental concern, reciprocity, curiosity, status, play, achievement, fear, anger, compassion and so forth.

These are not at all decorative additions to an otherwise neutral reasoning machine. They are the primary machinery by which anything matters to us in the first place.

Evolution explains why this machinery has approximately the shape it does. Organisms wholly indifferent to survival, danger, offspring and cooperation have an obvious tendency not to leave descendants. Their motivational architecture removes itself from the population.

This does not mean that whatever evolution produced is morally right. Natural selection is not a moral philosopher. The more modest point is that any account of a satisfactory human life must begin with the creature whose life it is. A viable conception of human flourishing cannot be radically detached from human biology, psychology and social nature.

This gives us a naturalistic answer to the question, but only a relative one.

These things are not important because the universe regards them as important. They are important to creatures like us because of what creatures like us are.

There is nevertheless one harder constraint.

Existence is the precondition for every other project, value and experience. For any system of values to remain instantiated in the universe over evolutionary time, some continuing lineage of agents capable of holding those values must persist. A value system which systematically causes its bearers to disappear does not thereby become false; it simply ceases eventually to have any bearers.

That sounds almost trivial. It becomes less trivial once intelligence acquires the ability to alter its own motivational machinery.

Human nature is not logically necessary. It is the contingent product of a particular evolutionary history of the species. Advanced genetic engineering, neurotechnology and artificial intelligence may eventually allow us to alter the very neural mechanisms upon which our values subsist.

At present there is a rough coupling between affect and biological success. Sex feels good; attachment feels important; children provoke extraordinary investment; achievement, status, curiosity and social belonging motivate enormous effort. 

Evolution did not give us these experiences in order to make us happy. It produced organisms in which such proximal motivations tended, statistically and imperfectly, to generate behaviour compatible with survival and reproduction.

An intelligent species can eventually do something about this trick.

Why undertake the cumbersome business of strenuous achievement in order to experience satisfaction if satisfaction itself can be engineered? 

Why pursue the complex business of sexual relationships if the associated affect can be generated directly?

Why endure the expense and inconvenience of children if parental fulfilment can be perfectly simulated?

Once the proximal psychological reward can be detached from the behaviour for which evolution originally selected it, a dangerous possibility appears. The organism can consume the reward while abandoning the very activity which made the reward system evolutionarily viable in the first place.

Imagine beings engineered to experience intense positive affect directly and indefinitely. They might inhabit perfect virtual worlds, experience astonishing happiness, reproduce rarely or not at all. Eventually all such beings disappear.

From inside their altered value system there need be nothing wrong with this.

This is not peculiar to humanity. It is a general problem for any intelligent lineage produced by evolution.

Natural selection builds agents whose immediate motivations are proxies for outcomes which tended to generate reproducing descendants. But sufficient intelligence and technology eventually allow those agents to understand and manipulate the proxies themselves.

At that point evolution has produced something capable of defeating the mechanism by which evolution produced it.

There is no logical reason why this must lead to extinction. A civilisation might deliberately preserve reproductive and expansionist drives, or redesign itself with long-term persistence as an explicit goal. But the coupling is no longer automatic. For the first time, perhaps, the continuation of the lineage becomes an engineering decision. The abyss remains.

In the very long run, the universe will belong not necessarily to the creatures with the truest values, but to those whose values permit them to remain in it.

P(doom): Where Are They?

There is an obvious speculative connection here with the Fermi paradox.

A sufficiently advanced civilisation may eventually acquire the ability to redesign not merely its environment but its own affective machinery. Indeed it would be surprising if it did not. The reward systems left to us by evolution are makeshift, frequently unpleasant and spectacularly inefficient and hard work. Any technologically mature species might reasonably wish to improve them.

But that creates the possibility of a peculiar Great Filter. Civilisations may discover how to optimise subjective experience before they have secured indefinite survival. Instead of expanding through the galaxy they turn inward, uncouple reward from reproduction and exploration, and disappear in perfect contentment.

This cannot by itself be a complete solution to the Fermi paradox. It would have to happen with an extraordinarily high probability. Even one civilisation retaining a strong drive towards expansion could eventually become conspicuous on astronomical scales.

But it reminds us of the general principle. Intelligence does not merely increase a species' power to survive. Eventually it gives the species power over the very desires which caused its ancestors to survive in the first place. Use with care.


Tuesday, September 29, 2026

Consciousness in the Machine


My position is that I'd like an engineering-based, materialist theory of experienced affective consciousness (qualia) - but I doubt it is there to be found, even in principle.

The trouble is that, unlike intuitions in the past, the robotic/LLM emulation of an apparently conscious human being doesn't seem that conceptually difficult - and may even be achieved in decades.

But nowhere in that design would there be anything to identify as consciousness, I suspect. It seems only an extrapolation of current hardware and software design. Truly we are en route, it appears, to building something/someone whose status we can't settle on: it acts and converses as we do, the lights are on, but most likely no-one's at home.

It's even harder when you think that the experience of things (pain, pleasure, the look and feel of colours) surely has an evolutionary history. So there must be animals today, much less social and smart than humans, which experience sensations. A crab or a lizard? Are they more like robot vacuum cleaners or more like us?

The trouble is, I can imagine drone designers eventually producing drones isomorphic in behaviour to crabs and lizards while identifying neither a need to invoke, nor independent evidence of, consciousness in their creations.

But evolution is natural design, so doesn't this undermine our confidence in inferring animal consciousness from behaviour? In our own case, of course, experience is where we start, not something we infer by watching ourselves. So introspectively there can't be any doubts. 

It's hard to reconcile these two intuitions.

Selection can explain why an animal detects injury and learns to avoid it. Does that also explain why that injury hurts?

Philosophers argue that experiential consciousness might simply be what certain engineering mechanisms constitute by virtue of their functional organisation.

And I retort: how? The same argument does for the crab and the crab-drone. Are we to say that by virtue of their designed functions the flame of conscious experience has turned on for both entities? 

Perhaps experiential consciousness (pain, pleasure, the affective experience of the world; qualia) is not a logical consequence of certain kinds of designs. We have evidence connecting and correlating neural processes with felt-experiences, but no compelling explanation of why those processes should feel like anything.

Perhaps experiential consciousness is not explicable ultimately by the laws of physics plus boundary conditions, not another effective theory. Perhaps expecting such an explanation is itself a category error.

Perhaps consciousness is instead a further attribute of reality? Part of what exists beyond what our physical, data-driven descriptions capture - whether something additional to matter or something about matter we have not understood?

This may both be true and yet not constitute the basis of a research programme. Perhaps science - the dialectic of theory and practice - is something which requires the third-party materialist paradigm as its precondition?

We remain confronted by mystery - one towards which, if we're honest with ourselves, our intuitions push us, faute de mieux.


Monday, September 28, 2026

My father on D+10


I've just brought Clare back from the Wells Film Centre, where she watched Pressure, a movie about the argument over the weather forecast before D-Day (6th June). The invasion had already been postponed from 5 June 1944. Now the forecasters were predicting a narrow break in the bad weather. Eisenhower had to decide whether it was enough.

My father, Fred Seel, went over to France on D plus ten: Friday, 16 June. Did he endure a Channel crossing in a tempest?

The contemporary records suggest the day was cloudy, with rain during the morning. There was good visibility and a moderate north-westerly wind but rough seas. Off Sword Beach, a midshipman aboard HMS Serapis recorded that the weather had improved since Friday, bringing more Allied bombers overhead. Further west, off Omaha, an American sailor aboard USS PC-553 was still complaining of the cold and cloud. Better weather for military purposes was not necessarily pleasant weather.

Men and equipment continued to arrive. The great storm which wrecked the American Mulberry harbour began on 19 June, three days after my father landed.

He was a REME welder. Much of his work involved repairing battle damage to tanks: welding back armour plates that had been blown off and working on damaged tracks. By D plus ten, his services must have been sorely required.

Here is what my father said himself, in his own written account. He joined REME as a craftsman welder in 1943 (he was 18 years old) and, before D-Day, served in various workshops, becoming “engaged on the final stages of building the Mulberry Harbour.”

His landing date is explicit: “I landed at Arromanches (Gold Beach) D + 10. (June 16th 1944) as a reinforcement.” He then “Joined 30 Corps Advanced Base Workshop for a few months before being posted to the 8th Armoured Brigade Workshop.”

His subsequent service took him to Nijmegen during the attempt to relieve Arnhem, then to the Ardennes that winter, where he celebrated his twentieth birthday with “a bottle of stout saved from my Christmas rations.”

He was at Bremerhaven when the war in Europe ended, and later transferred to the Light Aid Detachment of the 5th Royal Tank Regiment.


Sunday, September 27, 2026

Remembering the Glastonbury Festival


We first went to Glastonbury in the summer of 1987, taking Alex and Adrian, then eight and six. The festival was already well established, but it was still, then, a CND-aligned, broadly hippy occasion: an enclave of the sixties and seventies still persisting in Somerset.

Once the tent was pitched, it was magical simply to wander. Stalls sold joss sticks, exotic sculptures and paintings; music came from marquees where you could stop and discover some band or act. People were calm, relaxed and friendly. This was a million miles from the practised, impersonal friendliness of business; at Glastonbury at that time the people were there to celebrate an unironic shared cause of peace and love - and to enjoy themselves in an uncomplicated way.

This vaguely spiritual atmosphere seemed to extend across the entire festival. Intrinsic virtue - virtue-signalling was not yet a big thing.

We returned with Alex and Adrian two years later, in 1989. Beautiful weather, great music, the same easy friendliness. It felt very, very safe.

When Clare and I next went, without the children, it was 1993. The character of the place had changed utterly. Madchester was in and hippies were out. The drug dealers from Bristol carried inch-thick wads of filthy banknotes. There was an air of criminality. A high perimeter fence encircled the festival, and security was much in evidence.

The following year Channel 4 would arrive and Glastonbury would be subsumed into metropolitan boho culture - in which it remains enmired today.

Nevertheless in '93 we tried to recreate that old atmosphere, the two of us.


At the end of the weekend we returned to our car and found it had been broken into. Some of our belongings had been stolen.

We never went again.


Friday, September 25, 2026

A reconstruction of our wedding (February 25th 1978)

We were married on a Saturday in February 1978 at the Roman Catholic church of Our Lady of the Assumption in Gateacre, south Liverpool. A small service with immediate family and friends. We were both utterly careless of convention: no elaborate outfits and no big arrangements afterwards. And no honeymoon - Clare went off to work the following Monday to the horror of her boss, who promptly gave her a holiday from the typing pool.


In particular there were no photographs of the wedding itself. Which meant that we now have to reconstruct the event based on adjacent-in-time pictures (like the one below taken at my sister's wedding in October 1978) and a photo that was taken later at the reception from a very side angle. Clare and I worked hard today to nudge these pictures into the shape of our memories, and the results - we think - are not too bad. This is what I must have looked like (above).


And this is our best guess for Clare's wedding day appearance, although she recalls a blue top for the actual ceremony.


The wedding ceremony itself would have been very much like this, although the church geometry as depicted is wrong: it's shown as a traditional linear nave, although the actual church is more of a 'fan out' architecture with multiple aisles radiating to the sanctuary. Still, small matter perhaps.

Do we look like the Vances?


This above is an actual contemporary photo of Clare and myself at my sister's wedding later in the year (October 1978) at which point I had lost the beard ('scratchy thing,' said Clare).

Even making allowances for the times (the late seventies) and the fact that I could never seem to get clothes which fit me, I'd have to say we deserved each other.


Thursday, September 24, 2026

"Sweet William" guitar solo


This is solo #2 from James Shipway's guide to playing electric lead guitar, Blues Soloing. I'm playing over the tutorial track (played by Mr Shipway at performance speed) and it's not entirely trivial. It's a help to have his solo cueing me along.

The mistakes — at this early stage — are a bit excruciating: the bend not muted, which slowly drips away in frequency rather than being cut off; the wobbly pitch control; and the unsuppressed noise from other guitar strings. The pull-offs are still a work in progress.

Still, it's a benchmark. Solo #3 is a Claptonesque piece — Blues Brew — which segues from Strange Brew, the Cream number. Soon.


As I mentioned to my guitar tutor, Stewart, at our last lesson, I'm struck by just how much practice playing good, relaxed, competent lead guitar actually takes. The automaticity of playing is as hard to acquire as effortless driving, and invites comparable hours actually doing this. The guitarists I aspire to play as well as make their living playing and do it all the time. That's never going to be true for me.


That annoying alignment problem


'They're way smarter than us,' you opine, 'Who knows what they really want? Perhaps it's time for a bit of pre-emptive action.'

Who was that German statesman-in-waiting of the interwar years? The one who said:

"... not more intelligent than we are, only more subtle and cunning." That would be Der Angriff then, on 21 January 1929.

Or, "Either he destroys us, or we render him harmless. No other alternative is conceivable." From the political novel, Michael, first published in 1929.

Yes, same guy. His name will come to mind in a moment.

And who was this? “Literally everyone on Earth will die,” (if superhuman AI is built). The recommendation being the destruction of a 'rogue data centre' by a pre-emptive air strike.

History: such a treasure trove.


Wednesday, September 23, 2026

Our day today


We woke up this morning in our usual tangle of an empty duvet cover with a single-bed duvet perched on top, to be wrestled over during the night as one or other of us got hotter or cooler. By quarter to eight we were both up. Clare was seeing to the cat and monitoring her morning ablutions, while I was busy changing the bed and preparing myself for the dentist.

My appointment was at ten to nine. A very short session with the dentist, as it turned out: clean bill of health, clear check-up, no problems, and next appointment June 2027: nine months. Quite unusual for me, given that I have so many fillings that normally at least one of them has broken, cracked or is otherwise causing trouble. But today, apparently, all was well.

Once back, I played a little acoustic guitar (working on 12 bar walking bass, since you ask) while Clare was in the bath, and then read to her the next instalment of Irène Némirovsky's The Wine of Solitude. This is essentially a semi-autobiographical account of the author as a young girl in transition from revolutionary St Petersburg to post-war Paris c. 1919, loving her feckless gambling father and hating her mother, who is serially unfaithful and against whom she plots endless revenge. A good read, then.

After lunch — a delicious chicken curry — we drove into town, Clare hoping to source some russet apples from the market. We arrived there at three o'clock to discover that the market was basically packing up and the fruit and vegetable stall had vanished entirely.

So we consoled ourselves with ice cream: a Mr Whippy for Clare and a tub of ice cream for me, which we ate in the late-September sunshine. It was over 21 degrees and very definitely T-shirt-and-jeans weather; almost too hot, I would say.

Then we resumed our progress down the High Street back towards the car park, making a few purchases en route. I have to help Clare quite a bit with walking at the moment. COVID seems to have made her very tired — me too, though to a lesser extent — and she essentially needs my arm and support to walk any real distance. I doubt she could comfortably manage much more than fifty or a hundred yards entirely unsupported at present. Hopefully that will improve somewhat as she gets over the COVID.

Back home again, I ordered a bigger duvet from Amazon: king-size, one tog. All our duvets up to now fall into one of two categories. Either they are thermally light but too small, and therefore migrate during the night between Clare's side and mine; or they are actually the right size for the duvet cover but much too thick, so we start to slowly cook and try to escape out of the sides.

Hence the weird combination of empty duvet covers or plain sheets, with odd duvets or throws or blankets arrayed on top, with bits and pieces being pulled backwards and forwards during the colder parts of the night. Hopefully the new one-tog king-size duvet will fill the gap for the next month or so, until the cold really does kick in. It's meant to be coming on Saturday.

And I spent the last hour working on my electric guitar, playing solos two and three from James Shipway's Blues Soloing book. In particular I've been working on the Strange Brew-derived, Clapton-esque solo, which today I finally managed to internalise sufficiently to play right through without looking at the book. I impress myself.


Tuesday, September 22, 2026

The Collapse in Vocations to the Catholic Priesthood


Why have vocations to the Catholic priesthood collapsed across the West? There are plenty of theories. Traditionalists blame Vatican II and liturgical liberalism; progressives blame celibacy, clericalism and attitudes to sex; others point to the abuse scandals, poor bishops, weak catechesis or simply dreadful recruitment. And who could deny that all these things are relevant?

But none of them gets to the root of it.

To become a priest you have to believe in dogmatic Christianity rather strongly. It is not enough to reframe Christianity as heritage, ethics, community or a higher-brow cultural accompaniment to Christmas*.

A priest has to believe that God actually exists as a personal reality; that Christ actually died and rose again, inaugurating the New Covenant between God and humanity; that the sacraments actually mediate supernatural realities; that God might actually call you to spend your one life serving Him; and that celibacy, obedience and the surrender of an ordinary family life might therefore make perfect sense.

In former centuries it did not seem nearly so extraordinary because the world itself was enchanted. Parents believed, teachers believed, priests, neighbours and politicians inhabited a broadly Christian reality. The church stood in the middle of the town. The calendar was Christian. Birth, marriage and death were understood through Christian categories.

Nobody had to construct the supernatural world from scratch. Indeed, for most people it would scarcely have been imaginable not to inhabit it.

The decisive achievement of secularism was to make naturalism the default. Science — rational, empirical, cause-to-effect reasoning — explains the physical world; the body and mind; the sociology of behaviour. In Douglas Adams's phrase, we've mastered Life, the Universe and Everything. The concept of God, marginalised, blurs into Mystery: perhaps it's still there, a final defence against purposelessness, but not doing much explanatory work.

Deeply Catholic Poland is now struggling to generate priests and is importing clergy from Africa and Asia. If Poland cannot sustain its own clergy, it becomes difficult to blame the British collapse on Anglican competition, the French collapse on republicanism, or the German and Dutch collapse on liberal bishops. Poland had John Paul II, packed seminaries, immense clerical prestige and Catholicism bound tightly to national identity. But as Polish society belatedly entered the same late-modern cultural world, the same process began.

Here are some American figures. Among US ordinands in 2025, 92% had been baptised Catholic as infants, 89% had been raised by a married couple, 78% regularly practised Eucharistic Adoration before seminary, and 89% said somebody had explicitly encouraged them towards the priesthood. In the West, vocations now emerge disproportionately from very dense Catholic microcultures. The old society produced these almost automatically; the modern Church has to engender them explicitly, and that is so much harder.

The only thing really working for the church is the absent core of secular modernism itself: it's hard to really see oneself as an organic robot, here to turn the hamster wheel for the Man. 

Religiosity says that that really isn't all there is. But the Catholic formulation of that insight draws one into a truly complex and heavy journey.**


* An unkind person would say we leave that to the Anglicans.


** “Every lifelong Catholic I've ever met is like "I think we're supposed to give this food to poor people" and every adult convert is like "the Archon of Constantinople's epistle on the Pentacostine rites of the eucharist clearly states women shouldn't have driver's licenses."

From a comment at Marginal Revolution.


Monday, September 21, 2026

Suppose we'd dated when we were both seventeen?

Our hypothetical disco-date, when we were both seventeen

The venue would have been the Locarno, the city centre disco in Bristol close to the harbour and the Council House - Clare couldn't actually have made it as she was living in Liverpool with her family at that time, but she was 'just seventeen'.

This is the summer of '68.

The scene you see above - ChatGPT's best reconstruction - is pretty much as my memory tells it: the boys in their somewhat stuffy outfits (there was a male dress code - no jeans); the girls all revelling in their sixties freedoms; yes, these were my girlfriends.

And when I actually met Clare, when she and I were twenty six, I do recall her somewhat uninhibited dancing style - there was not much self-consciousness there. In this, as in so many other areas, I was and am the polar opposite. *

Clare at sixteen (AI reconstructed)

In Clare's case we don't have many teen pictures so GPT-5.6 Sol Extra High (to give its fully illustrious title) had to do some deblurring from ancient family pictures and some de-aging from ten years on. The resulting image above seems not wholly out of line

Nigel at eighteen (sadly, this is reality)

In my case we have this brooding portrait from 1969 when I was 18. Vanity has lost the glasses, which were by then a necessity. Blues, Progressive Rock and Theoretical Physics were my top attractors, at least intellectually.

And then there was the Locarno, where I also sought to follow Feynman's example.

Yes, I think the psychology of the top picture is spot-on: there is some magic trying to get out... but neither party seems to have really noticed; the boundaries of the subconscious are not too porous as a teen. It's better that we waited another nine years to meet.


* Clare would say indignantly that she would never have worn a dress like that: she'd have worn jeans.

And she's right: Clare would take no prisoners, would make no concessions to female convention, would not dress to impress and would laugh at the idea of 'attracting boys'.

And that often works too - more often than you'd think.

But it's my post, so I'll just let it be the way I'd have wanted it...


Thursday, September 17, 2026

COVID Symptom Day Four

My symptoms started on Sunday (Clare is four days ahead of me). So today being Thursday I'm in the 4–6-day window when symptoms are at their most acute. Today it's shivering, muscular and joint aches, and the feeling of being alienated from one's own body. A poor night's sleep last night was partially compensated for by three hours' sleep this afternoon.

I haven't picked up a guitar for serious practice for three days — I lack the energy and mental concentration. Instead, I'm escaping into Jerry Pournelle (Janissaries, Mamelukes, Starswarm).

I did also finish The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera) and, as always, was awestruck by the penetrating intelligence of this novel: its characterisation, its narrative arc and its deep integration of philosophy and cultural analysis (cf. kitsch) with personal destiny. The bar is set very high for would-be novelists here.

Around me, life swirls actively: Alex and Clare were at the garden centre this morning while I was shiveringly putting a washing cycle through; this afternoon, while I slept, seven or eight purchased plants and bushes were relocated into the back and front gardens. To be honest, I am largely indifferent, but that's a minority position.

And the P(doom) nonsense continues unabated — luckily, COVID inoculates you against caring that 'someone (a lot of people) said something (lots of things) very stupid on the Internet (and MSM)'.


Wednesday, September 16, 2026

COVID has rolled around again


Tested myself this morning. Clare was unwell starting last Thursday, six days ago, and my own symptoms started on Sunday, three days ago.

Didn't quite feel like a cold - too much fatigue for both of us.

I'd almost forgotten about COVID (except for my vaccination against it coming up in a couple of weeks).


Monday, September 14, 2026

23 years gone today

Clare at Herne Bay, September 14th 2003

Herne Bay is a seaside town on the north coast of Kent, about 7 miles north of Canterbury and roughly 5 miles east of Whitstable. It faces north across the Thames Estuary towards Essex, with Margate farther east along the coast.

I have only the vaguest memory of this visit. Were we looking for something? Margate - which we visited a little later? We had just come back from our two years in America.

I don't remember - Clare's treating it as a holiday. 

Perhaps a T. S. Eliot pilgrimage?

Eliot retreated to Margate in the autumn of 1921. Granted a mandated leave of absence from his desk at Lloyds Bank to recover from a severe nervous collapse, he sat in a seaside shelter and wove his fracturing mental state into the third section of The Waste Land.


Thursday, September 10, 2026

Oh, puss-puss! Why...?


Within the last week or so we've had occasions of the cat weeing behind the TV, and then in this corner. Which explains why you see above the old blue cloth tablecloth protecting the carpet, with the yellow plastic tablecloth layered on top. Didn't stop puss-puss urinating on it yesterday evening, however. 

You see it above after I mopped up the still-warm fluid with kitchen roll and then sponged it over with disinfectant.

ChatGPT said that it was either a medical condition or stress. We think the puss is perfectly well - not at all off her food and, at 7 years old, in her prime.

But there has appeared lately a much larger black cat laying claim to our garden. Puss-puss has been ferociously chased a few times through the cat-flap and into the kitchen.

The AI's solution was litter, to tide her over the stress of going outside (although Clare has taken to riding shotgun first thing in the morning with conspicuous success). So off to Tesco in the car yesterday evening and half an hour later, these stashed away...



Here's the miscreant: butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.


Wednesday, September 09, 2026

Robert Conquest’s 3 Laws of Politics (GPT-5.6 redux)


Robert Conquest's three celebrated laws of politics are usually given as follows:

1. Everyone is conservative about what he knows best.

2. Any organisation not explicitly right-wing sooner or later becomes left-wing.

3. The simplest way to explain the behaviour of any bureaucratic organisation is to assume that it is controlled by a cabal of its enemies.

When I quoted these on this blog in 2014, I offered three glosses as to what Conquest might have meant:

1. Head over heart where it's important.

2. Eventual capture by the many idealists with a retributive agenda.

3. Regulatory capture.

Let's ask GPT-5.6 to review my response at the time.


Looking at them again twelve years later, I think all three of your responses deserve revision. Conquest's jokes are better than your explanations of them. Beneath the political provocation lie three rather general propositions about knowledge, institutions and incentives.

The first law is not really about choosing the head over the heart. It is about expertise. The more closely one understands a complicated system, the more one discovers that its apparently irrational features often embody constraints invisible to outsiders. Radical simplification is easiest when somebody else has to deal with the consequences.

The network engineer knows why the ugly legacy system cannot simply be ripped out. The surgeon knows why the irritating procedure exists. The programmer has learnt what usually happens when somebody proposes rewriting the twenty-year-old application from scratch. Expertise does not necessarily make people politically conservative. It makes them conservative about interventions in systems whose failure modes they particularly understand.

Conquest's first law is therefore a kind of informational Burkeanism: knowledge breeds respect for somewhat esoteric constraints. We are most susceptible to schemes of radical reconstruction precisely where we know little.

The second law is more interesting than Conquest's partisan formulation suggests. Organisations do not have opinions in quite the same sense as people do. They acquire opinions because particular kinds of people have stronger incentives to shape them.

A hospital, university, museum, charity or professional association contains many people principally interested in medicine, scholarship, paintings, charitable work or their profession. Such people may have perfectly definite political views, but they did not join the organisation in order to make it express them. Alongside them are people with much stronger views about what the institution itself ought publicly to stand for. They write policies, join committees, redefine missions and supply the moral vocabulary in which institutional decisions are discussed.

Those with intense preferences repeatedly defeat those with weak ones. The latter may disagree, but usually not enough to spend Tuesday evening arguing about the wording of the diversity statement.

That makes Conquest's second law less a law of Left and Right than a special case of Mancur Olson's general thesis. Organised minorities with strong incentives beat diffuse majorities with weak incentives. In the cultural circumstances of modern Western institutions, the energetic institutionalisers have very often been progressive. Under a different social equilibrium the ideological direction could conceivably be different.

So I would now rewrite the second law as: unowned institutions drift towards the ideology of those most determined to run them.

Your old explanation of the third law as regulatory capture was simply too narrow. Regulatory capture describes the familiar case in which an industry succeeds in bending its regulator towards the interests of the regulated. Conquest is making a larger and rather nastier joke.

Institutions can behave as though their enemies had taken control of them without anybody intending this outcome at all.

A bureaucracy rewards behaviour actually visible to the bureaucracy. Staff learn to satisfy procedures, targets, budgets, audit requirements and career incentives. Managers minimise risks to themselves. Departments defend their territory. Metrics substitute for purposes. The people who become most successful within the organisation are increasingly those who have mastered the organisation rather than necessarily those most committed to whatever it was originally created to achieve.

No conspiracy is required. Indeed that is the point of Conquest's joking insight. Ordinary institutional incentives can produce outcomes so perverse that sabotage seems the more charitable explanation.

This is the territory of principal-agent problems, Parkinson, Goodhart and Pournelle's Iron Law of Bureaucracy rather than regulatory capture. The organisation gradually becomes one of the things it exists to maintain.

So my revised glosses would be:

1. Knowledge breeds respect for constraints.

2. Unowned institutions drift towards the ideology of those most determined to run them.

3. Bureaucracies eventually optimise for themselves rather than their ostensible purpose.

Stripped of some of Conquest's conservative mischief, the laws actually become stronger. The first concerns information, the second collective action and the third principal-agent failure.

The explicitly political content is somewhat incidental while the institutional pessimism is certainly not.


Monday, September 07, 2026

'Kickin' Off'




This is the 'Kickin' Off' solo, the first one, from James Shipway's book shown above.

I last played the guitar in public at the beginning of 1970, at Warwick University, when I was 19. Soon after that I joined the revolutionary left, sold my strat and abandoned guitar. I think I recognised my limitations as a budding musician.

Here, I'm really showing the difference between the early tentative playing of an exercise vs. a proper performance. Lots of errors (bends not properly cut-off, strings being traversed in a rather hit-or-miss fashion) - but of course practice is everything.

And - compare and contrast...


Friday, August 28, 2026

Guitar progress report: August 2026


After about nine months of serious guitar practice, I've reached the point where progress is apparent but deficiencies are also becoming clearer. My studies now divide into two broad streams: acoustic fingerstyle and electric blues soloing.

Acoustic fingerstyle

The attraction of fingerstyle lies in using the guitar as a self-contained instrument, combining bass, harmony and melody in a complete solo performance. It remains my principal interest and, plainly, a long-term undertaking.

I am approximately two-thirds of the way through Berle and Galbo’s Beginning Fingerstyle Blues Guitar. I am currently working on alternating and walking bass, chord inversions and chords in higher positions. The book concludes with several integrated pieces in traditional blues styles.

My principal limitation is that my thumb and finger movements are not yet sufficiently independent. I can maintain an alternating bass beneath a simple picking pattern, but the treble notes remain tied to that pattern instead of developing into a freely shaped melody above it. Realistically, that is probably what one should expect at this stage: I have learnt some coordinated patterns, but not yet the ability to vary the melody freely while the thumb carries on regardless.

The immediate plan is therefore to complete the present book without rushing its final material, study all the concluding blues pieces for what they teach, and bring at least some of them to a secure and musical standard.

After that, I intend to move on to Joseph Alexander’s Fingerstyle Blues Guitar. That should extend the same underlying skills: alternating-bass control, finger independence, blues vocabulary and the ability to place more varied melody lines above the bass.

Working on technique alone can be pretty tedious and also doesn't really calibrate progress. I am also working on several accessible and personally interesting acoustic performance pieces: Sunshine of Your Love in an acoustic version, Here Comes the Sun and Killing the Blues. I also have the Paul Simon pieces Stewart pointed me to previously to return to later. These provide something recognisably musical alongside the technical exercises and expose my limitations.

Electric blues soloing

My interest in amplified blues guitar goes back to my early teens. Very little in popular music matches the emotional force of a good blues lead guitar. Unfortunately, my current abilities remain at the most basic skill set. I have to work on:

  • improving picking-hand accuracy, string selection and string crossing;
  • developing effective muting and control of unwanted string noise;
  • consolidating scale positions while learning the locations of root notes and other important intervals;
  • developing controlled bends, vibrato, timing, rests and phrasing; and
  • connecting adjacent areas of the neck rather than remaining trapped inside one memorised scale box.

I am finding James Shipway’s Blues Soloing for Guitar, Volume 1: Blues Basics useful because it provides a structured syllabus rather than an assortment of famous solos to imitate. Work on the first of its five solos has already exposed weaknesses in string selection, picking accuracy and coordination.

Occasional work on existing songs, particularly material by Cream, will provide some variety and allow the new techniques to be used in a familiar musical setting. The Shipway book will remain the main line of study as it's extremely systematic.


Thursday, August 27, 2026

The Best Instant Coffee?

Grind

My question: "Grind is pretty good instant coffee, but it is by no means the most expensive. Could you recommend an instant coffee of even better quality for a black Americano than Grind is? Perhaps I can order it over the internet if it's not in Waitrose."

[GPT-5.6 makes some recommendations].

My response: "None of these apparently do micro-ground coffee as part of the product, which you said was very important for giving the oils and the deeper taste."

GPT-5-6 concedes:

You are right. I conflated two different kinds of “better”.

Speciality freeze-dried instant such as Colonna or Common can offer cleaner, more distinctive fruit and floral flavours—but may be lighter-bodied.

Freeze-dried plus microground coffee gives more suspended coffee solids, roasted aroma and mouthfeel. It is more likely to produce the deeper black-Americano character you want.

I also overstated the oil point slightly. Microground particles retain some coffee lipids and aromatic material, but they do not simply release large quantities of oil into the water. Their principal effect is greater body, texture and roast flavour.

Grind unusually combines speciality-grade Arabica, slow freeze-drying and 15% microground coffee. By comparison, Illy contains 3% microground and Lavazza Prontissimo Intenso about 10%; Starbucks VIA also contains microground coffee but does not appear to disclose the percentage. None is convincingly superior to Grind overall.

So I should revise my recommendation: for a rich black Americano, Grind may already be the best readily obtainable true instant coffee. Colonna might be more refined and interesting, but it is not necessarily better for your particular taste and could seem thinner. I would stay with Grind unless you want to experiment in a different, lighter speciality-coffee direction.


Tuesday, August 25, 2026

A Child's Guide to the Quantitative Sciences


Mathematics is the study of surprising relationships between patterns. Almost nobody outside the subject can see why anyone would want to spend grown-up time on it.

The mathematician starts with some definitions, adds a few axioms, and then spends the next twenty years discovering consequences which were logically but obscurely present from the beginning. Occasionally it turns out that two completely different branches of mathematics are covertly describing the same structure. This is regarded as tremendously exciting, and quite properly so, by the twelve people capable of understanding it.

In the future no-one will understand it.

Physics is what happens when people rummage through this enormous mathematical warehouse and discover that some of the weirder items appear to describe actual phenomena.

Physicists are much less fussy than mathematicians about whether the machinery is actually legal. If an integral diverges, a function does not really exist, or an infinite quantity has to be subtracted from another infinite quantity to obtain the measured mass of an electron, the physicist just calculates to see what number comes out. If the answer agrees with experiment to eleven decimal places, this is normally regarded as ok. The mathematicians can tidy up afterwards (if they feel like it; the physicist does not care).

Chemistry begins where physics is too hard to use.

In principle, most chemists know perfectly well that everything they are doing is quantum mechanics. In practice, doing chemistry from quantum mechanics is like deriving the rules of chess from quantum chromodynamics. There may be no philosophical objection - but life will be over before you have got anywhere.

Chemists therefore employ a magnificent collection of approximations, heuristics, semi-empirical rules, diagrams, conventions and things which generally happen if you heat something for twenty minutes in the presence of a catalyst. Electrons are represented by dots. Bonds are represented by lines. Molecules actually have 'shapes' which are not quite the shapes shown in the book. Reactions proceed through mechanisms which are not little films of what the atoms are actually doing, but which are close enough to enable somebody to manufacture aspirin.

At intervals a physicist explains why one of these rules works; nobody cares.

Biology is chemistry complicated by the fact that human beings cannot bring themselves to believe that a cat is merely a complex series of chemical reactions at scale.

This is biology's permanent intellectual embarrassment. Every biologist knows that organisms consist entirely of ordinary matter obeying ordinary physical laws. Yet almost the entire vocabulary of biology suggests otherwise. Hearts are for pumping blood. Eyes are for seeing. Cells send signals.

Evolution by natural selection makes this language legitimate without requiring God, Aristotle or an élan vital to be hiding inside the mitochondria. Everyone plays lip service to it, even the media.

But there's a robust emotional resistance to the proposition that a living creature really is an immensely complicated chemical system. Tell someone that a crystal is molecules and they nod. Tell them that what they see in the mirror is molecules and they feel that biology has omitted something important.

Economics, by contrast, is largely common sense formalised for the benefit of people whose common sense stops working when the answer becomes politically or emotionally disagreeable. Not that those folk will pay any attention.

Most of its elementary propositions are almost insultingly obvious. People respond to incentives. If a product gets cheaper, people mostly want more of it. If you make an activity more expensive, they tend to do less of it. Resources used for one purpose cannot simultaneously be used for another. Somebody always eventually pays. You can't indefinitely distribute goods which nobody has produced.

None of this sounds like much of a science, and indeed much of it would not be necessary if human beings were better at following an argument through its second and third consequences.

Which unfortunately they are not.

And sociology? Tell me, how do you feel about that?


Saturday, August 22, 2026

The Diarist and his Wife Elizabeth (1660s)


Portrait of Elizabeth and Samuel Pepys at home in the 1660s - in oils by GPT-5.6. Elizabeth's likeness from the National Portrait Gallery engraving.

Sadly, Elizabeth died of typhoid fever in 1669, aged 29 — Pepys was 36 — and he was devastated. Despite living to 70, he never married again. They had been married for fourteen years.


Friday, August 21, 2026

Today: after the style of the Diary of Samuel Pepys

Amazon

I'm currently reading the abridged diaries of Samuel Pepys to Clare. As of today we're in early December 1660. I thought it would be interesting to write this day today in the style of Mr Pepys - let's see if GPT-5.6 can oblige?

---

"Up about 8 o’clock, and presently to the clothes which had stood drying all night upon the horse, and put them into the tumble-dryer, that they might be got dry and put away. And so downstairs to my wife, and there we sat together reading the Times, and discoursing upon several things therein.

At a quarter before 10 took the car and with my wife to church, where to Mass, and heard Father Tony preach very well upon Pope St Pius X, whose feast is this day; a very good homily, and much to my liking. And before all the congregation he did thank me for my pains in getting the new urn for the kitchen bought and plumbed in, which will be of great convenience to the women that make the tea and coffee after Mass; which pleased me.

There also I was told that the switch to the courtyard lights is broke, so that the lights cannot now be put out; and moreover that the vacuum cleaners do work very ill. So I resolved that the old ones should be cast away and new ones got in their place.

Our car being already pretty full of cardboard, garden rubbish, old metal and other things designed for the recycling place without the town, we did put into it several ancient vacuum cleaners, being scarce fit for use, with a great company of pipes and other pieces belonging to them. And after Mass, having had some merry discourse with the others and made trial of the new urn, away we went to the recycling place, which lies a little to the south-east of the town, and there discharged the whole load, and so home.

By then it was time to dine, and my wife had made a casserole of beef and barley, which was excellent, and I ate it with great pleasure.

After dinner much of the afternoon at my guitars; first near an hour upon my new acoustic guitar, practising fingerstyle blues, and afterwards some 25 minutes upon my Sire S3 electric guitar and the 25-watt amplifier, playing lead solos very loud, to the great delight, as I choose to suppose, of all the neighbours. And was much pleased with my playing.

Meanwhile my wife abroad for a little walk, for her exercise, and afterwards to the ironing. And by this time supper, where we had only a light meal of salad, ham and rolls with cheese and other things.

Afterwards my wife to the cricket on TV, England against Pakistan in the Test Match, and I to my shower; and thence hither to set down the passages of this day, and then to bed."