FIrefox 2 is coming – come join the UK party

Posted by Chris Green on Monday August 28 @ 10:45 am

Get Firefox!

With the launch of Firefox 2 coming soon, a whole movement has spring up to organise and hold launch parties in honour of the best browser on the market.

Sign up for the UK party here – I’ll be there!

Let’s see if we can make the UK party the best-attended party of the lot, after all, we did invent the web!

New UK airport procedures create chaos for business travellers

Posted by Chris Green on Thursday August 10 @ 9:35 am

IT PRO

3.30am hand luggage ban extends to laptops, phones, PDAs, BlackBerry devices, electronic car keys and even newspapers.

Following the overnight discovery of a UK-based plot to blow up one or more aircraft in mid flight, the Department for Transport and the Home Office have introduced sweeping restrictions on carry-on luggage on all flights departing from UK airports creating chaos at check-in and hampering business travellers.

read more at IT PRO

Poem of the day

Posted by Chris Green on Wednesday August 2 @ 10:47 pm

Middlesex – A poem by John Betjeman

Central Line Train

Gaily into Ruislip Gardens
Runs the red electric train,
With a thousand Ta’s and Pardon’s
Daintily alights Elaine;
Hurries down the concrete station
With a frown of concentration,
Out into the outskirt’s edges
Where a few surviving hedges
Keep alive our lost Elysium – rural Middlesex again.

Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly,
Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green
Hiding hair which, Friday nightly,
Delicately drowns in Dreen;
Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer,
Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa,
Gains the garden – father’s hobby –
Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby,
Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen.

Gentle Brent, I used to know you
Wandering Wembley-wards at will,
Now what change your waters show you
In the meadowlands you fill!
Recollect the elm-trees misty
And the footpaths climbing twisty
Under cedar-shaded palings,
Low laburnum-leaned-on railings
Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill.

Parish of enormous hayfields
Perivale stood all alone,
And from Greenford scent of mayfields
Most enticingly was blown
Over market gardens tidy,
Taverns for the bona fide,
Cockney singers, cockney shooters,
Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters,
Long in Kelsal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone.

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