Once you’ve got the hang of Debian/Ubuntu’s package management system and have had a fine time smoothly upgrading your system periodically, at some point the inevitable will happen: while upgrading a package will get installed that will break something.
It could be, as happened to me recently, a version of Google Chrome that won’t play nice with some element of Gnome or the GTK toolkit – any button on a webpage that should launch a dialogue box took minutes to do so. Several minutes. So we need to reverse this, by downgrading the package to the previous version, and then prevent it from being reinstalled automatically. How?
The most common Debian package manager frontend is
apt-get. There are a number of different options, from powerful but complex
dpkg, it’s more user-friendly brother
aptitude, to the full blown X-windows GUI of
synaptic. But apt-get is most people’s first choice, the most straightforward, and the one which comes with no obvious switch or option included – the following demonstrates how.
I’ve been filling in for friends at the Zagat London food blog these last weeks, which means the opportunity to research some interesting restaurant and bar openings, and get paid for it, rather than just fall into the usual suspects (and get carried out). In the process I managed to swing a visit to the
Continue Reading “Food blogging for Zagat”
Yesterday I wandered down to Spitalfields Market to visit the Independent Record Market, an occasional gathering of indies big and small (but mostly small) that meet there several times a year, last in August. At the were labels like Bella Union, Big Dada, Fierce Panda, Fire, Full Time Hobby, !K7, Laissez Faire Club, Monotreme, Moshi
Continue Reading “Independent Record Market at Spitalfields”
Sunday 30th September, Mar Cantábrico near A Coruna.
NE force 4, 1020 mbar.
The boat cuts through the quiet sea, as it has continuously for the last four nights. By 3am we’ve reached the Spanish coast at Cape Ortega, heading west on the last leg. To port lies the dark mass of Galician hills, black against a bright, moonlit sky, with lights picked along roads and great lighthouses semaphoring their unique messages out to those watching for them. Trawlermen rumble past along the coast, nets out in the waters. Ahead of us I can see the glow on the clouds from the lights over Ferrol – Franco’s birthplace – miles away, still hidden behind the headland. As our phone signal has reappeared on reaching inshore waters, I text Carmen, my friend from A Coruna who is celebrating her birthday back in London.
“I can see your house from here”, I say.
Saturday 29th September, Bay of Biscay.
NNE force 4, 1009 mbar.
The rocking and rolling of the boat, the incessant creaking of the cabin walls, and being occasionally flung across my bunk do not make for a restful night’s sleep. The watch rota is three hours on, six hours off, so when given the opportunity to sleep at night it’s foolish to turn it down – even if actual sleep is harder to come by.
Friday 28th September, Bay of Biscay.
SW force 3, 1050 mbar.
I sleep uneasily. The ship rattles, the wooden partitions of the cabin creaking with the pressure of the waves on the hull. Everything creaks and groans. The ship rolls and pitches strongly, and I am tossed from one side of the bunk to the other, and resort to trying to brace myself against each wall with my feet. But the motion is not because the weather is rough outside. In fact, sometime around 3am I awake to almost total stillness, only the gurgle of water under the keel. It feels like we’ve slowed almost to a stop.
Thursday 27th September, Western English Channel.
SW force 4, 1020 mbar.
I emerge groggily from below decks to find the dark clouds have dispersed, the sun is shining and the wind has dropped. After last night’s experience I had secretly hoped we were nearly there, so I am pretty disappointed to discover that I can still see the English coast. My god, sailing is slow. Having had to tack a bit through the night because the wind was against us, we’ve not even reached as far as Plymouth in 18 hours of sailing. However, my stomach is relieved to find it is a calmer sea through which Salamander cuts a brisk pace, and when cups of tea and oatcakes go down and stay down, it seems I have found my sealegs and am declared fit for duty.
Wednesday 26th September, Poole Marina.
S force 5, 990 mbar.
The plan was to leave last night, but there were still too many unticked items on the list of things to do, the wind was against us and Michael, the captain, was happy to have a vegan shepherd’s pie and a final sleep on (or at least docked beside) British soil before we left. He had waited 12 years for this, after all, so another night would cost nothing.
Rummaging through my virtual filing cabinet the other day I came across this. I must have written in about 2000 or 2001, not that long before I too was on my way somewhere else. I quite like it, for all the 23-year-old I was when I wrote it, and all the things that were happening then. So here it is, exactly as it has been lying around all this time, gathering only electronic dust.