Four years ago I posted a picture of a door, repeating what my supervisor told me: “when you go out this door, you’ll have your PhD.” Here is is again…

… four years later, here’s me going through it…

DONE! — here is it.

It has been a bumpy ride, and I can’t say it was all enjoyable or “fun”. It was intellectually and mentally challenging, and required a lot of patience and self-driven determination. In the process I learned a lot, and I’d like to think that I also made a contribution. Someone described it also as a humbling experience, and I tend to agree. It has been quite an experience, and one that not many have — I have no regrets, though I sometimes play with the thought of whether it was worth it.

I’d like to thank my family, Caroline, and the friends who supported and encouraged me along the way; it meant more to me than they perhaps realize. I’m also grateful to Xilinx for funding my research and for being supportive technically. Please read page 4 of my dissertation for a more detailed acknowledgment.

Some obligatory pictures…

With graduation garbs (red hood means PhD with the last academic degree not being from Cambridge):

Mom, dad, and brother at the Senate House lawn:

With Markus, diploma in hand:

Bad news: I’m balding.

Turns out the idiot works as a communications director for a Montana congressman. He was later fired after his extracurricular contractual endeavors were publicized in sites like reddit.

So, two things. Firstly, not everyone who talks shop is an expert… this applies to real life too. Secondly, if people still have not realized that other people are not who they say they are (in real life too!) they deserve this kind of treatment. The more this happens, the more people be careful what they say or write, mostly in consideration of their future. In our world, where everything is recorded and archived, nothing is forgotten. Memory is cheap. Remember this when, in five years’ time, your potential employer asks you about the time you got drunk, busted, and jailed on new years’ eve, as you detailed with pride on your now moldy myspace page. Old-school cool becomes new-school stupid.

Oh, yeah, some fucker stole my bike; the joy of living in Cambridge. Somehow, uncharacteristically to the island, no security cameras covered the scene.

Good news I am still alive. Bad news is that I lost the mood to blog, for now.

Doing OK, busy with trying to make some productive progress towards the PhD thing. Been to Spain at the end of September and going to Ireland this coming weekend. In the meantime I attended the 10^th annual “Apple Day” in Cambridge’s Botanic Garden. I sampled many apples (roughly 30 kinds) with the favorite being “Ashmead’s Kernel“, an “old” apple concocted in the 1700 England:

An old English winter russet, medium size, golden-brown skin with the crisp, dense, yellowish flesh, characteristic of russets: sugary and aromatic with intense flavor. Winner of taste tests and has some resistance to scab and cedar apple rust.

(These descriptions remind me of wine labels… they mean absolutely nothing until you’ve had a sip. They are so silly too! But I digress…)

Not much else to publicly report.

“Eat British Beef with Confidence” or, “We’ll do our damn best to keep the existence of mad cow in your beef to ourselves.” I’ve never eaten with my confidence, I wonder what it is like.

While on the topic of food… In the UK they like to get them while they are young (this is a mini-can, just the size for a nutritious baby meal.)

UPDATE: I should have mentioned that the can was brought to my attention, and purchased (!), by a friend who prefers to remain nameless (his hand is shown below ;). If you have the right language skills, I am sure you’ll enjoy his weblog, “Verdade ou Consequência“.

Who is this idiot?

The air lasted for about 3.5 minutes. I walked to the lab, then home; I missed dinner. And the pump? Nowhere to be seen. I’m not sure what happened to it, but I can speculate. That’s what happens when I try to be nice.

Anyway, I had an argument with my supervisor regarding some technicality. He was more adamant about his point, so I let go; he tends to be more right than wrong, so there’s a fair chance I’m mistaken. I concluded, “fine, we’ll all go home and check who was right on wikipedia.” To this he replied, “that just means I’ll have to get home before you and change it!” which I thought was hilarious and definitely deserved to be written about.

Cheers everyone!

(now you are wondering who was right, right? I’m not going to check, but I’m sure Markus will and tell me tomorrow morning if he was right :)

I took my camera with me since during the last trips I really wanted to take some pictures to show you. I am fascinated with signs in this country; they obviously make sense for the locals, but I find them odd. For example, did you know what “ecclesiastical” means? I didn’t, and was surprised to see one on the side of a public footpath.

I wonder if the “humped pelican” is indigenous to the area and why, of all the animals in the kingdom it needs a special crossing. Zebra’s are not local, but at least it was obvious what the sign referred to.

And now for some religious comic relief. In Duxford, we found where the gods play and within the village church, this creative last supper scene.

Finally, the huge fields of the bright yellow rapeseed, looked wonderful.

And finally finally, when riding your bike in the spring here, keep your mouth shut. Not for the usual fear of what would come out, but rather what would fly IN.

Background: yesterday I went to my college after some weeks that I have not been there. I checked my pigeonhole and saw three (!) late notice letters from the UL. Yes, these were pieces of paper in envelopes sent via regular mail to my college. Who sends late library notices via snail mail anymore? You now know the answer.

Anyway, I enter the library and go to the counter and say “I think this book is a little overdue” (as a tribute to one of the best comedies ever made, UHF, in the scene “Conan the Librarian.”) I knew fully well that there is no reasoning with them, since they got better things to do than be understanding to poor students, so I knew I’ll need to pay the fine, I was just going to have some fun. Conan takes the book and says “yes, 2 pounds.” As I shuffle for the money I say, “you know, you sent the notices to my college, I don’t live there… do you send email notices? “, “well, if you give us your real address then…” (email inquiry ignored) Library:1; Saar:0. Me: “You see, I didn’t know the book was over due…” Conan: “It’s stamped right here on the slip inside the book.” Library++. I went for the kill, “tell me, do you do the e-mail thing?” Stare. Pause. “We don’t send emails.” Although I lost by score, I once again felt an inner victory knowing that I proved to Conan that they are a bit backwards, technology wise at least. I quickly went out back to the sun and the 21^st century.

These were 2 GBP well spent, though. Now I know where to go to get material for this weblog during lull times.

My £50 bike is doing pretty good for, well, a £50 bike. Today I gave it the royal treatment of basking it in WD40. I also removed all the mud that didn’t fall off from riding really fast… in puddles… in the rain. I’ve been out on numerous bike trips with my friend Sabine in the Cambridge area since I got here. Being winter, most trips involved muddy bridleways or fields that made our bikes all clogged; and yes, the wheels stop turning. Basically, mud starts collecting on the wheel like a snowball and then gets collected between it and the mudguard (yes, I’m aware of the irony here.) By design, in these muddy areas there are no slender, rigid objects available to clear these clogs… amazing, but true. One time I had to carry the bike on my back (irony strikes again) up a hill because hunters were behind us and the foreman told us they are about to start shooting so we better get the hell out of there. They were serious, a bunch of birds were hanging and dripping in the back of their truck. The downhill that followed was great for a rain of mud that accelerated from my wheels and a good way to not getting killed.

But the point of this story is this: When biking on this island, carry a stick.