After I was assaulted last year, an awful lot of people pointed out that if I go into dangerous situations, I should expect bad things to happen, and that if I don’t want bad things to happen, I shouldn’t go into dangerous situations.

I [...]]]> I’m scared to go to OSCON or the Community Leadership Summit this year.

After I was assaulted last year, an awful lot of people pointed out that if I go into dangerous situations, I should expect bad things to happen, and that if I don’t want bad things to happen, I shouldn’t go into dangerous situations.

I was harassed at OSCON & CLS last year. I got a lot of grief after I wrote about my experience at ApacheCon. And I fully expect that some of the people responsible for both of those things will be at OSCON & CLS this year.

I don’t think it’s realistic to assume that I’ll be able to get through this year’s conference without being harassed again, and O’Reilly don’t seem to be willing to assure me that I’m wrong. But worse, I genuinely get the impression that if anything does go wrong, if I do get harassed, that O’Reilly don’t want to know, they don’t care, and they won’t do anything to help me, to help prevent it happening again, to help prevent it happening to someone else.

A very smart friend of mine reminded me that fear is not a good driver, and suggested that I consider whether OSCON is valuable and whether I can send a positive message by attending.

I’ve been looking forward to speaking. My slides have been rewritten from a previous version of this talk that was very well received, and I think they’re a really good deck. It’s a topic I care about, and I love being able to share my knowledge. Plus, I’m expecting a couple of potential employers to be there, as well as many friends.

And aside from that, there are so many talks I want to see, often several at once! There are people I want to catch up with, and parties I’m looking forward to. So yeah, OSCON is valuable to me.

Can I send a positive message? I’m not sure. I’ve seen the research, and I know from my own experience, that open source events and projects need more role models, and need more women as role models. And frankly, I don’t want people who’ve gone through things like I did at ApacheCon to think that it’s “ok, game over, I can’t go to industry events any more”. That’s not true; I’ve been to and enjoyed many conferences since then. But OSCON is a big event, and it’s a big message to send.

On the other hand, I really don’t want my attendance to be taken as a message of “everything is fine here”. I don’t want to be held up as a statistic, as an example of “plenty of women speaking at OSCON”.

So, on that front, I don’t know if I can send a positive message. I’m just not sure.

I don’t feel safe going to OSCON, and I want your advice.

Is this a dark alley that I should stay out of? Or is there some reason you think I’m wrong, and that I’ll be safe at OSCON?

And to those of you who’ve offered to join my posse, I’m grateful, but I was assaulted at ApacheCon in a bar with dozens of my friends, so I don’t assume that even the best posse will keep me safe.

I’ve spent the [...]]]> In other words, I’m looking for a new job. I’m currently wrapping up things in Zurich, and planning to take a few months off to volunteer with a few projects I really love. I’ll be available from the new year for sure, but am willing to negotiate for the right opportunity

I’ve spent the last few years as a writer, working in Google’s European engineering headquarters in Zurich. For most of that time, I’ve been the sole writer in that office (or even timezone!), so I’ve worked on everything from UI text to API references, from user help to operations documentation. I’ve also been continuing my work with the Apache Software Foundation, providing a new voice on their Board for the last year, and I’ve only recently passed on the mantle of their Conference Planning leadership.

I’m passionate about Open Source, community development, documentation, and communication. I’m at my best when I’m teaching people about the things I love, facilitating
individuals and groups in learning how to do things for themselves, and generally connecting people with knowledge and information. I love travel, but I definitely have a preference for working with or near other people. Distributed is fine, but I’d rather not be the only remote member of a centralized team, especially if there’s nine timezones between us!

You can find my contact details, and more information about some of the things I’ve done in the past, in my CV. Feel free to give me a call or send me an email if you’re looking for someone, or know where I might fit in. In particular, if you’re looking for a community builder, user advocate, happiness engineer, or just a great communicatrix, please get in touch!

The good came first. The ApacheCon lightning talks were, as usual, hilarious. The talented Paul Fremantle brought out his tinwhistle and I danced an only-slightly off-time hornpipe. Bertrand revealed the secrets of the members@ mailing list with a speaking chorus. A [...]]]> I had a hell of a time last night – in good and bad ways.

The good came first. The ApacheCon lightning talks were, as usual, hilarious. The talented Paul Fremantle brought out his tinwhistle and I danced an only-slightly off-time hornpipe. Bertrand revealed the secrets of the members@ mailing list with a speaking chorus. A crazy person with a graphing calculator and a psychedelic three-ring binder gatecrashed and spoke about no-one’s sure what. Ross, Paul and I did an “Ask Me!” talk. Leo, Rich, Shane filled their five minutes in traditional and hilarious and moving fashions. Jean-Frederic had us saying Hello World in more languages than I could count. We laughed as we counted hesitations, repetitions and deviations. It was great.

The party moved up to my room. We had beer, and beer pong, and altogether too many people crammed in. It was more egalitarian than I remember last year’s being – lots of new people, lots of people who weren’t part of the old Apache guard. A charming Southern gentleman with the most awesome belt I’ve ever seen (Carl, where did you get that!?), an excited Berliner who picked me up and whirled me around and somehow managed to avoid having me kick anyone in the head. I lay across the bed, sat on laps, generally tried to squish in to any available space and get time to talk to all the fabulous people thronging the place.

At some point, it was too late and too loud to reasonably continue. Everyone cleared out (Nick, you are a *god*, for spending the extra five minutes to clear the carnage, so that I could wake up in a room that showed no signs of what had happened the night before!), and we headed to the Irish pub next door that has become our local.

Some food, a few more beers. Squeezing everyone up so I could sit next to someone I wanted to talk to. Laughing at the events of the week, and the night.

And then I went to the loo, and as I was about to go in, Florian Leibert, who had been speaking in the Hadoop track, called me over, and asked if he could talk to me.

I’m on the board of Apache. I’m responsible for our conferences. I work on community development and mentoring. If you’re at an Apache event and you want help, information, encouragement, answers, I will always do my best to provide. So this wasn’t an unusual request, and it wasn’t one I expected to end the way it did.

He brought me in to the snug, and sat up on a stool. He grabbed me, pulled me in to him, and kissed me. I tried to push him off, and told him I wasn’t interested (I may have been less eloquent, but I don’t think I was less clear). He responded by jamming his hand into my underwear and fumbling.

I broke away, headed back to the group, and hid behind some of the bigger, burlier infra guys, while Bill sorted out all the people who’d left stuff in my room, so that I could reasonably escape. We headed back, people got their stuff, Bill stayed around, and I slept.

When Bill woke up, I pretended to still be asleep, because I couldn’t deal with speaking to anyone. I sent a mail to our planning committee to say that I’d been assaulted. Charel came to talk to me, and then I e-mailed Nick, who came up and helped me sort things out so I could get to the keynote and feel safe. Florian didn’t turn up today, and it’s probably for the best.

I had a few drinks. I was wearing a skirt of such a length that I had cycling shorts on under it to make me feel more comfortable getting up on stage and dancing. I had been flirting with a couple of other boys at the party.

It’s not the first time something like this has happened to me, at all. It’s not the first time it’s happened to me at a tech conference. But it is the first time I’ve spoken out about it in this way, because I’m tired of the sense that some idiot can ruin my day and never have to answer for it. I’m tired of the fear. I’m tired of people who think I should wear something different. I’m tired of people who think I should avoid having a beer in case my vigilance lapses for a moment. I’m tired of people who say that guys can’t read me right and I have to read them, and avoid giving the wrong impression.

But I don’t give the wrong impression, and it’s simply not true that guys can’t read me right. I don’t want to be assaulted, and the vast majority of guys read that just fine. It is not my job to avoid getting assaulted. It is everyone else’s job to avoid assaulting me. Dozens of guys succeeded at that job, across the week. In the pub, in the stairwell, on the MARTA, in my bedroom.

One guy failed, and it’s his fault.

ETA: My heartfelt thanks to the Atlanta police for their sensitivity and professionalism.

Switzerland’s wonderful public transport got us easily to Muotathal, where the [...]]]> Yesterday, I joined some of my colleagues on a cave walk. Having previously experienced Ailwee Cave in the Burren, I was expecting a leisurely walk through some beautiful geological features. In retrospect, the name of the cave–Hölloch, or Hell Hole–should perhaps have provided a clue.

Switzerland’s wonderful public transport got us easily to Muotathal, where the cave is situated. Four-minute connections between Swiss trains are a solid guarantee that you’ll get there on time – unlike Ireland, where they’d be a pretty good guarantee that you’ll miss your connecting journey and have to re-route via the furthest point on the island.

The first clue should perhaps have been when we got to the caving center, and they asked for name, address and phone number – specifying that they didn’t want our mobile numbers, but a number that could be used in case of emergency Next clue, had I been watching, might have been the welly boots, full suit overalls, heavy gardening gloves, and good solid helmets. But I wasn’t watching, and once we were all suited up, we headed off happily up the mountain to the cave entrance.

We crossed a few small bridges on the way up the mountain, which I found a bit terrifying – but I pressed on, assuming that once we got to the cave, all would be well. Our guide stopped for a moment along the way, and asked if anyone had asthma, was afraid of heights, or narrow spaces. Thinking back to the last time I was asked that latter question, in Newgrange, I thought “well, yeah, I am petrified of truly narrow spaces, but the spaces in Newgrange weren’t so bad, so maybe this will be fine.”

I am, I will readily admit, an idiot.

So, we walked in to the cave, it’s not nearly as beautiful as Ailwee (and we’re all on headlamps – no artistically arranged electric lighting here!), but that’s ok, we’re only at the entrance. Next up, the guide warns us, is a little bit of scrambling. I’m mostly ok with that – I’m afraid of real climbing, and heights, but this is more just low ceilings and craggy floors.

Mild terror sets in when we come to a bit where you have to lie down and wiggle through the crack, but it’s a very short stretch, and I can see that it opens up to standing-room on the other side, so it’s fine. We all get through, and the guide takes a photo of us from way above, down through a fairly narrow gap. He had gone around the other way, and I’m assuming we all now go back the way we came, and on the way he had gone. But no. Now we’re meant to climb up there!?

With a bit of a boost to get me up as far as the first foothold, and plenty of encouragement from those who’ve done it, I manage to get up. Argh! Scary!, but I’ve made it. We get everyone out, and start walking down further into the cave. As we walk along, I’m thinking “y’know, he asked about heights and claustrophobia, but he never asked about fear of the dark. It’s pretty dark in here. I’m kinda scared”. I try not to be a scaredy-cat, but heights, narrow spaces, climbing, and the dark are all things that will set me off.

Next stop, whaddaya know, it’s time to turn the lights off. There is no place darker than a cave with all the lights off, unless it’s a few hundred meters into the cave, and several hundred meters down, and even if there were cracks to the air above, they’re all filled in with an alpine winter’s worth of snow… And now he wants us to walk along like this!?

I put my left hand on the shoulder of the guy in front, and the guy behind me puts his left hand on my shoulder. Right hands are on the rock face, and off we go. The guy in front races ahead, and I’ve lost him within seconds – the guy behind keeps gently pushing me forward. I didn’t scream, but only because my breathing was far too panicked to get enough power into my lungs. I’m sure we can’t have gone too far, but it was horrific.

We spent about 3hrs exploring the cave, and I’d estimate less than half an hour of that was in spaces where I could stand straight. We climbed and crawled across sharp rocks, wedged ourselves into spaces to keep from slipping back on sandy spots, and at one stage traversed a two-foot-deep pool across a space that can’t have been more than 3’6″ before the water came. I was crying by the time I made it across – and I would never have made it at all if it weren’t for a colleague holding my hand, coaching me, telling me to breathe, keeping my balance right! Thank you Matthias!!

Two-thirds of the way through, we stopped for a rest, and an optional side tour. Stephen, Pierre and I opted out, and sat down on the rocks. Then, it started to get cold. So Steve and I found the one spot where we could stand mostly-upright, and broke into the Charleston With a bit of encouragement, he even managed to do a swing-out, although I had to be careful where I stepped, as we had a “slot” just wide enough for one foot at a time between the rocks!

The break, and the dancing, did me good. When the guide returned with the others, he suggested that I stick straight behind him – keeping the whole group at the pace of the slowest member. I would have felt bad at doing so earlier, but I was getting tired and sore, and I was glad of his help. With lots of grit, and plenty of help from my friends, I made it through to the last hurdle.

“There’s a ladder”, he said. “You should go last, so I can help you”, he said. We got to the spot, a ravine with a ladder stretched over it. Hard to see what was on the other side. The guide went over, then the first of our gang. Across the ladder, and then somehow “up”. Rocks in the way, no way to know what happened next. Sitting beside the chasm, petrified of the ladder. Everyone else goes across. The guide tells the other person who’s afraid of heights “just look at me, don’t look down”.

I can do that. I have to, to get out of the cave. I crawl across to the ladder, fix my eyes on the flame of the guide’s lamp, and slowly make my way across. Hang on, it’s a dead end. Where now? Up!?

The way out of the cave is a 50m climb, straight up. Through a narrow crack. In the dark.

I can’t even get my foot to the first foothold. I climb up on the guide’s knee, and make it from there. I have never been so afraid. There are metal rungs sticking out of the rock. Some of them, I can get. Most of them are a few inches too high. Sometimes, the guide can push my foot up, and I make it. Other times, I just have to wedge my back against the wall behind me and make that leap of faith. It was, without exaggeration, the scariest thing I’ve ever done. It seemed to go on forever. Towards the end, the rungs turn into a ladder. There’s more space, but there’s also a ladder in the way And it’s offset, a couple of feet to the left of the rungs I’ve been relying on.

I’ve screamed a couple of times along the way, and cried once. But it’s nothing to this ascent, which is punctuated by a stream of terrified invective against the cave, the ladder, and my slippery wellingtons! By the time I make it to the top, I’m barely breathing, and shaking from head to toe.

In the finest Swiss tradition, we finish with an Apéro. Beautiful plates of cold cuts are laid out, with fresh bread, and delicious wine. I go straight for the bottle of water, fill my cup, pass it on, take it back to refill my cup, and repeat until I’m almost calm. I’m still shaking, but the food helps a little. My lungs are full of cave dust – it’s a solid eighteen hours before I can breathe properly again. We head out of the cave, and back down the valley, where the wonderful Swiss transport system conveys us safely home.

Yesterday, every muscle in my body was jelly. I could barely stand (although I did an almost-convincing Charleston a couple of times on railway platforms to keep warm!). Every movement felt like fire. My legs were constantly threatening to cramp.

And yet, amazingly, today, I’m generally alright. By some miracle, I can move, I can walk, I’m not a solid mass of stiffness. My right shoulder is oh-so-sore, and my neck is beyond painful. My knees are skinned, and bruised to halfway down my shins. My back is blue and purple, my left forearm is yellow and blue, my right upperarm is just solid purple. But overall, I’m just thrilled that I made it out alive!

Lessons learned:

• When someone suggests an offsite, do some research before signing up.
• When someone suggests an offsite outdoors, be doubly careful.
• When someone suggests an offsite in a cave, just say no.
• When in doubt, Charleston! It’ll keep you warm if you’re cold, take your mind off the cave if you’re panicked, loosen your muscles if they’re threatening to get stiff (A swing-out is an acceptable alternative, but requires slightly more space, and should perhaps be avoided on busy train platforms.)

Does anyone have some arnica?

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve made several new friendships, and spent time with old friends, among my Google colleagues. It seemed like half the engineers formerly-known-as Sysops were in Mountain View, and I had already stayed up til 6AM with Tiarnan more than once [...]]]> Or “It seemed like a good idea at the time!”

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve made several new friendships, and spent time with old friends, among my Google colleagues. It seemed like half the engineers formerly-known-as Sysops were in Mountain View, and I had already stayed up til 6AM with Tiarnan more than once before last weekend.

Last weekend, however, truly set the bar for future great nights out, or indeed whole weekends The previous bar was hazy: depending on how you measured, it could have been any of many nights at CTYI, one of a few nights in Munich, or a particularly memorable night during the offsite-residential part of one of my courses while I was studying in Munich, when we stayed up til dawn singing (including some awesome German on-the-spot rapping, a citronella candle full of bugs, and swimming in Chiemsee).

Looking back, the following seem to be common threads in any great night:

• Staying up far later than is reasonable…
• With people who are generally insensibly bright, and experts in their chosen field…
• But who still manage to be socially stimulating…
• Listening to good music, particularly if it’s of a genre I’m not especially familiar with…
• Telling stories, sharing jokes, having a laugh…
• And trying things I wouldn’t normally do, or that I haven’t tried before, or that are generally inadvisable (in the sort of “but why would you want to set a styrofoam cup on fire?” “Just to see what happens?” way)…

Last weekend involved all of these, and more!

Friday/Saturday

It started out on Friday evening, with a reasonably sedate dinner at a delicious Vietnamese place. Present were Dim, my flatmate in the corporate apartment; Gordon, a Sysops manager; Liam, another Irish EngProd exile visiting from Zürich; Tiarnan, whose official function is not yet clear to me, but appears to be some kind of anti-productivity mission; and I, your humble narrator.

After dinner, Dim, Liam, Tiarnan & I had planned to go to Bourbon & Branch, possibly my favourite bar in San Francisco. Our plans were sadly foiled by the fact that Liam’s passport was back in Mountain View, and they were being especially strict about the types of ID they would accept (which they had failed to relay to me in either the phone call or the e-mail I had received that afternoon, confirming our reservation ). Not to be put off by such a piffling defeat, your intrepid party carried on to an almost-equally-fine establishment nearby, which was immeasurably improved by the presence of a pool table down the back, which had lots of free space around it.

(At this point, I must refer back to my foursquare feed to be quite sure of what that establishment was called It was Rye.)

I was disappointed to learn that a strawberry daiquiri was out of the question, but found myself suitably consoled by their Hemingway. We stayed at Rye until well after midnight, at which point we attempted to relocate to Swig. Unfortunately, they were being just as fussy about ID as B&B had been, so we retired to the corporate apartment that Dim & I were sharing.

We happily polished off a bottle of the delicious Judd’s Hill “Magic”. As I went to explain the story behind the wine, Tiarnan idly remarked that the magic was that it erased memories, and pointed out that we’d shared a bottle of the same stuff previously

Liam left us sometime about 02:00, and Dim retired closer to 03:00, leaving Tiarnan and I to sort out a bottle of the eminently drinkable “Hess Collection Mount Veeder 19 Block Cuvée“. We did our best, and Tiarnan gladly educated me on the talents of several artists I’d never before heard of, including the truly fabulous Jewel, using the magic pixies behind Grooveshark! I also had my first taste of swing dancing, and was utterly confused by what now seems like a relatively simple triple-step

Shortly before 06:00, we continued on our way, and finding the Muni just about to pull out as we got to Brannan, we hopped onboard! Happily, we were on the right line, as we headed towards Carl & Cole on the N Judah. Our luck wasn’t entirely to last, as we missed our stop and ended up walking back a ways. We stopped in to an early-morning cafe, where they took one look at us and pointed us straight down the street to Kezar Bar & Grill. We missed the kickoff, but caught most of the Ireland-Italy match, interrupted only briefly by a reasonably authentic full Irish.

The England-Wales match saw us sharing our second-breakfast, a plate of French toast deep-fried in sugar. It kept us awake until Liam arrived to rejoin us, and once the match was over, some bright spark suggested we head to Dottie’s. Unfortunately, some time between leaving for dinner the night before, and leaving the pub after the second match, a flaming ball of nuclear energy had appeared in the sky. We were none too pleased with this development, but soon found ourselves queuing up for a third breakfast.

In front of us in the queue were a teacher with her 5mo old baby, and her cousin Stacey. The teacher was in San Francisco for a conference, and Stacey had come to help with the baby. We chatted away, laughed at each other’s jokes, and generally shared good cheer as we waited for yet more food (preferably tiramisu), deep-fried in sugar. At some point, Stacey gave me not only a phone number and an e-mail address, but also directions, in case I should ever find myself lost or bored in Dunsmuir, all charmingly scrawled on a sheet of beautiful flower notepaper

Saturday/Sunday

By the time we had eaten breakfast, Tiarnan & I were thoroughly broken, and Liam had to return to Mountain View. For those of you keeping score, I had been up for >30hrs by that time, and Tiarnan was only an hour or two behind. We headed back to the hotel for a brief kip, and woke again conscious, if not refreshed, some time around 18:30. Tiarnan was planning to go out dancing, and just as I was about to head home, foolishly extended an invitation for me to join him

But before we could dance, it was time for fourth breakfast dinner. Dim rejoined us for a delicious Indian, and Tiarnan & I made plans to be at The Rent Party in time for their drop-in Swing class at 21:30. We got there at 21:00, only to find out that the class had started at 20:30. Tiarnan graciously offered a crash-course, during which I learnt the aforementioned triple-step, and succeeded in tying myself in rather impressive knots every time he tried to swing me out

It wasn’t long before his friends (henceforth, the Sacremento posse) arrived, and our lesson was interrupted. Tiarnan’s friends, it should be pointed out, are overwhelmingly female. This worked out famously for me, coming from the typical Google world, where I can tell that it’s a writing-team meeting if the proportion of women tips above 10%. The Sacremento posse in particular are people who know him from the dancing world. For the record, Tiarnan has been dancing for many years, and is, to put it mildly, accomplished. This became relevant sooner than I had expected.

Tiarnan graciously shared the first dance with me, and I think I acquitted myself reasonably. This may have been because he confined his dancing to the two steps he had taught me so far, but we won’t speculate too far on that. I was about to sit down when one of the Sacremento posse invited me to dance. Knowing full-well that there’s only one polite reply to such an invitation, I acquiesced gladly. This dance went about as badly as the previous one had gone well. It improved somewhat, about halfway through, when the lead stopped for a moment, looked at me, and said, as politely as I’m sure he could, “you don’t know East Coast, do you?”. I explained that no, we hadn’t been introduced, and in fact, I had only started dancing in the prior half hour, which he took with great grace. He proceeded to teach me the basic East Coast step, which I promptly forgot.

My third dance, in which I learned the value of a good lead (or the additional difficultly that a poor lead presents to a new follow ). Nonetheless, I had fun, but now I needed a break, and some time to shove my rapidly-melting brain back in to my ears. I found the water coolers, wrote my name on a cup (not much contention for “Noirin”, really!), and tried to process.

The rest of the night went swimmingly. I managed about a dozen dances, with no fewer than eight leads. I mostly survived, and the leads were all very gracious. I may have broken one of them just a smidge, when I proceeded to hijack the dance slightly, and teach him the triple-step, but overall I think all involved had fun. I enjoyed watching some stunning dancers, particularly in the Blues room, and suffered only a minor shock on returning to the Lindy room from the Blues room and discovering that the music was approximately twelve times faster

Tiarnan having warned me that he planned to leave before midnight, I was not entirely surprised when we ended up closing the joint, and the magic of the internets (and the cars of the Sacramento posse) got us to Grubstake. I wasn’t really ready for their delicious chips, but did enjoy the gallon of ice-cream that I was served in the guise of a milkshake.

I managed to remain conscious long enough to get out of the diner and into a taxi. We headed back to the hotel, and rounded three sides of it before we found an open door, and crashed into bed. It was about this time that Tiarnan sent the following tweet, and yes, noirins was well and truly broken, although I would point out in my defence that it wasn’t so much the 30 hours that killed me, as the night of dancing that followed.

Sunday, I’m almost sure…

We were woken at some truly unmerciful hour, it can’t have been much past noon, the next day (for those of you who’ve lost track, the narrative has now made it to Sunday, at least in some universe), by the hotel fire alarm. I was perfectly content to die in the fire, as long as it didn’t involve moving anything below my hips. Tiarnan, on the other hand, insisted that we evacuate, a decision that was happily overruled by the lady on the intercom assuring us that the alarm was under investigation and we would be informed if there were any further developments. It wasn’t long before she returned to tell us that it was a false alarm, but by then we were awake.

For full disclosure, we had woken to the sound of Tiarnan’s alarm shortly before 07:00. Happily, he had been unable to stream the Scotland-France match over the internet fumes that the hotel provided, so we had rapidly returned to the embrace of Morpheus.

Anyway, once the fire alarm had woken us for real, I conducted a thorough study of the ceiling while Tiarnan conversed with no fewer than a dozen people via at least three media. We got up and found the most hip of San Francisco’s many hipster cafes. I had a swig of his mocha, and was surprisingly impressed. Tiarnan had thus introduced me to Swing and coffee in one weekend, a combination I feel confident will reoccur at some point.

At this point, I had planned to go home, get changed, and head to a Superbowl ad-watching party. Not the most dreadful state, but one from which I was rescued by yet another invitation to join Tiarnan’s friends. Given that the ad party was being held in the Internet Archive’s location, I figured I’d find a more fun gender-balance with his mates, and the decision was made. San Francisco being truly, wonderfully San Francisco, it was no problem for me to run out, get clean socks and a t-shirt, even in the twenty minutes I had before we were due to leave. For the record, if you’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days straight, and can only change one thing, make it your socks. OMG, that felt good!

Who dat!?

After possibly the wildest taxi ride of my life, including both San Francisco hills and driving down the street on the sidewalk, we found the party, and I settled in between the wonderful N’Awlins Helena and a dancer called Dana. Helena provided illegally delicious BBQ shrimp, with a sauce you could just drink. Dana, not to be outdone, explained the rules of American football as only a woman can, and we proceeded to transmit as much sound energy as possible directly back through the screen to the Saints.

I will readily admit to a certain fondness for New Orleans, and was only too happy to support the Saints. The football was, surprisingly, more entertaining than the ads, although I will give full props to Dove for possibly-unintentional comedy value, and to Google for a very well-received Parisian Love. (The football may also have been made more fun by the fact that Dana had placed a small bet, and we were therefore screaming for specific scores at both half- and full-time, not just for a single winner )

Once the game was over, and the victory celebrated, the weekend seemed almost complete. But no! What of the ad-watching party!? We headed back towards the Tenderloin to meet up with Tom, and find out how the party had been. Sadly, Tom’s companion had just been turned away from Swig, because her ID didn’t meet their exacting standards So we retired to the hotel bar for a bevvy (and no, I still hadn’t gotten my strawberry daiquiri!). Tom & Pam left us after one, and since both Tiarnan & I were in possession of the magic harp-stamped documents, we returned to Swig just one more time.

The lack of strawberry daiquiris at Swig rapidly became moot, as we shook our booty to a rousing chorus of “Oh when the Saints” from the live band. It was almost as fun as Hallowe’en in New Orleans, and possibly better since it involved slightly more manageable crowds. I had my first taste of Blues dancing, and any preference for Lindy that I might have expressed on Saturday was rapidly forgotten as I fell in love with yet another new dance.

The end of the night was marred by a drunken Irish idiot, who didn’t understand the basics of “no”, but Tiarnan did an absolutely impeccable job of looking after me, and really, the whole affair should not be mixed up with the absolutely fabulous weekend I enjoyed.

And thus you have the tale of possibly the best weekend I’ve ever had. I made new friends, I got in more girl-talk than I’ve had in the last very-long-time, I fell in love with two new dances (and I’m already signed-up for Lindy classes when I get home!), I got to talk all night long, for several nights in a row, I discovered new music (listen to Jewel & Sarah McLachlan’s “Water is Wide”!), I had, in short, an absolute blast.

Unfortunately, I have now returned to work, where I am trying to write concise, informative documentation, on a shockingly short deadline. I would have made this post more brief, but I just didn’t have time. If you made it this far, my apologies for the length. Remind me the next time we’re in the same city, and I’ll buy you a pint

As the quarter-century creeps steadily up on me, I’ve been having a blast seeing the sights and meeting friends old and new. I can’t help thinking back to all the things I’ve enjoyed (and suffered through!) along the way. I’ve been incredibly lucky, and I hope that [...]]]> Or “Turning Twenty-Five in the San Francisco Bay Area”

As the quarter-century creeps steadily up on me, I’ve been having a blast seeing the sights and meeting friends old and new. I can’t help thinking back to all the things I’ve enjoyed (and suffered through!) along the way. I’ve been incredibly lucky, and I hope that the next 25 years are as fun as the past 25 have been!

The following are just a few of the things that have set me off down memory lane

• Winetasting in Napa made me reminisce about collecting Michelin stars with the Ellerays when all we (the kids!) wanted to do was see who could grow the biggest, coolest, oldest Tamagotchi.
• A going-away party for the coolest kernel hacker around reminded me of the weekend I spent with Natasha, trying to create a working Linux boot floppy for a hand-me-down machine that didn’t have a bootable CD drive.
• Hot-tubbing with engineers, dancers, and a girl who “does circus” was fun – but when we jumped in the (relatively) freezing pool, I was brought straight back to Ennareilly and our “punch, punch, punch-punch-punch” strategy for surviving the cold!
• Paddling in the Pacific, well, I’ve done that before – on the other side! Remember Caloundra, and the pelicans?
• Of course, the hour-long commute (in a very well-kitted-out bus) puts me more in mind of the camper van. Remember the ginger beer all over the camper? The flies all over the rest stop? The sugar-cane we begged for and then never got through?
• Wandering around San Francisco, taking the cable-car to Ghirardelli Square, puts me in mind of our wanderings in Zurich, and all the wonderful times you’ve come to see me. I guess this year it’s my turn to come to you!
• On the other hand, getting settled in the corporate apartment, checking out the farmers’ market for lunch, looking for the laundry room, and settling in to a glass of wine and a home-made dinner is more like Munich. That spag bol was great, although I’m glad to have graduated to a slightly bigger kitchen!
• When Steve destroyed my new top in the laundry, how could I help but remember that beautiful white Susst top? And how could I help but be grateful for the thousands of loads of laundry you’ve done for me? Thanks mum!
• Of course, the trip to Liz Claiborne afterwards? Let’s just say there are still things in your wardrobe I wish I could borrow

I haven’t found anything as good as your bread yet, and I miss our long, evening dinners catching up. I hope your year on the island is as fulfilling as all our childhood expeditions were – from the Giant’s Causeway to the Wicklow lighthouse, from Kilmainham to the Cliffs of Moher.

Thank you, mum and dad, for twenty-five wonderful years. (And Eoin & Rosie, for almost 45 between you )

Like many others, I had a seriously hard time trying to decide who to write about. I’ve been so lucky in many ways, and [...]]]> I had some computer troubles yesterday, so I’m posting my Ada Lovelace Day post a little late. It’s still March 24th in Hawaii though, so I think I’m alright really

Like many others, I had a seriously hard time trying to decide who to write about. I’ve been so lucky in many ways, and one of them was finding the right people at the right time.

In the end though, I had to go with Valerie Aurora. I cringe to re-read the email I sent Val, as she was known then, when I saw her book scholarship for Women Don’t Ask. But her response was warm and gracious, as I have always found her to be since. The book has certainly made a difference in my life. But Valerie has made an even bigger difference.

I’ve learned so much from Valerie, both from watching how she does things and from talking to her. She’s seriously smart, and yet she’s never once made me feel stupid. She’s tough as nails, up for a laugh, inspiring, funny, interesting, and just damn brilliant! And I still owe her dinner

So three cheers for Valerie Anita Aurora. And Valerie, if you’re reading this, big props on the name change. I think you now have the coolest name of anyone I know

Step one, somewhat unintuitively, is the middle – the toffee. This basically involves cooking a can of condensed milk until it turns into caramel My mum always used to make this on the [...]]]> Once you’ve made it once, you’ll never again need a recipe for banoffi – it’s a fantastically forgiving dish

Step one, somewhat unintuitively, is the middle – the toffee. This basically involves cooking a can of condensed milk until it turns into caramel My mum always used to make this on the stove, but I never bothered to enquire about the details while she was still making my desserts. There’s plenty of scary stuff on the internet about exploding the cans, so I used the method described by Ian Dowding in his “Original Banoffi Pie Recipe“. Ian says that Banoffi wasn’t so much invented as it evolved, so I don’t feel too bad about the vast differences between his recipe and what I came up with…

Find a saucepan big enough to fit a few cans of condensed milk (gezuckert, available in Migros, yay!), but small enough to fit in the oven. You’ll need two cans for one banoffee pie, but it keeps for approximately forever Preheat the oven to 140C. Put the cans in the saucepan, and cover them with water. Boil the water on the stovetop, put a lid on the pot, and transfer it to the oven. Leave it there for 3.5h, and be very, very careful taking it out – it will be hot!

While that’s going on, you can make the base – empty a packet of biscuits into a freezer bag, and bash them up with a rolling pin until they’re just crumbs Melt up about 100g of butter, and mix it in with the biscuit crumbs. Fill the bottom of a (lined!) springform pan with the biscuit mixture, and let it settle.

When the toffee is ready – be careful, don’t slice your finger on the can! – empty two cans of toffee onto the biscuit base, and spread it around gently til the base is evenly covered in toffee. Slice the bananas, and lay them out on the toffee in a double layer. Sprinkle a little bit of lemon juice over the bananas if you have it, to make sure they don’t get brown too quickly. Clingfilm and pop it in the fridge until you’re ready to go.

When you’re ready to serve, whip up a pint of cream – with a small amount of instant coffee, if that’s your thing – and spoon it out over the bananas. Sieve a sprinkling of cocoa powder over the top, and you’re ready to go

Tasty++! And once you have the toffee made, it’s super-quick too… Just don’t even try to count the calories

Before I do though, what is the challenge? Suw Charman-Anderson set up a pledge on PledgeBank, saying “I will publish a blog post on Tuesday 24th March about a [...]]]> Costigan Quist says he’s not taking the Ada Lovelace challenge. But I think he’s missed the point, and in my own rambling fashion, I’ll shortly explain why.

Before I do though, what is the challenge? Suw Charman-Anderson set up a pledge on PledgeBank, saying “I will publish a blog post on Tuesday 24th March about a woman in technology whom I admire but only if 1,000 other people will do the same.” Within a week, 1,000 other people signed up, and I can’t wait for 24th March, to read about all those amazing women! The pledge is still open to sign up, and there’s more about the background on the Finding Ada blog, if you’re interested.

Costigan says he’s not in, because the women he knows in technology are just as anonymous as the men. He says ‘all I can do is to say of someone “she’s achieved the same as a man, but she’s only a girlie – well done you!”‘. Which, to give him his due, he recognises as rather patronising I think he’s missed the point big-time though.

“Blog about a woman you admire” doesn’t mean “blog about someone you think should be famous”. There’s nothing wrong with being an unsung hero – or heroine! But women have a greater need for female role-models than men have for male role-models. And Ada Lovelace Day is about showing women that there are role-models out there. A role-model doesn’t have to be someone famous, or even necessarily the top of their field. A role-model is just someone who occupies a role to which you aspire. It’s someone who does something that you would like to be doing, or gotten somewhere that you would like to go…

Ada Lovelace Day isn’t about saying “she’s achieved the same as a man, but she’s only a girlie – well done you!”. I don’t even think it’s about giving the women we blog about their 15 minutes of fame. It’s about showing the women who need female role-models that those role-models exist. It’s about showing the men who need a role model – male or female! – that there are role-models out there for whatever it is you want to do, or be, or have. Maybe they are famous. Maybe they’re completely anonymous. Maybe they don’t even know that they are a role-model to someone. But they’re there.

Maybe what they’ve done is stupendous. Maybe it’s fairly ordinary. A recent example I came across was someone desperately wanting to know if there were any women who’d gotten promoted to a particular level while they had a young child, because the person asking could only find male examples of people who’d gotten promoted to that level while they had a young child. And there were women who could say “yes, I have”. And that made a difference. They were doing the same things as the men around them. They got their fair due. But this isn’t for those women. It’s for the people who are asking. Who want to know if it’s even possible. Who just need, on whatever level, to know that there are women out there who’ve done it.

And Costigan, even if it’s only namechecks, knowing that there are role-models out there makes a difference, to many, many people.