How to draw an owl
I had just come out of a two hour meeting and it was so hot on the bus I was close to getting out my hand fan: black, plain but still, I feared, embarassingly feminine. If only I had the courage of a hipster as well as the beard.
I sweated and read The Joy of Clojure and then it happened: I couldn't figure out the code I was looking at. I was immediately swept back to A level maths, where I remember the equation equivelant of the following:
I looked again but couldn't parse any of the code. None of it made sense. I blamed the heat and looked out the window with the book open on my lap. I haven't returned to it yet. I don't want to. I want to read more Caitlin Moran, or maybe the entire Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism that I have on my bedside table.
But I will return, because the book authors of The Joy of Clojure have prepared me for a challenge. It's not a failure, it's an opportunity to prove capability, and who can resist that?