Name The Baby Competition!

On reflection, that seems pointless. Who wants to name a baby competition? Let's just call it The Baby Competition.

The essence of what's already become known as The Baby Competition is that one lucky reader will get to name the baby when it pops out next May. Below is our shortlist; feel free to add your own suggestions. Here's a picture from today's scan to help the mulling process.

The foetus gets beamed up by aliens

Add your chosen name to the comments box below. After the birth, we'll scribble all the names onto pieces of paper and put them into a Moses basket, and get the baby to pull one out. Whoever's name gets picked will win a free umbilical cord and a half hour swim in the birthing pool.

Boys' names	Girls' names
Engelbert Humpyheather	Rihanna R. Riheather
Mohammed	Mohammed
Sir Harry Pearce	Abigail Downtonia
Willsnkate	Pippabottomarse
Rumpelstiltskin	Rapunzel
Terry Tearaway	Mrs Goggins
Mummy's Little Soldier	Daddy's Little Princess
Beowulf	Boadicea
Dawkins	Mrs Gren
Baby Bublé	Baby Gaga

Anatomy of a ballot form

I still have a few Santander shares, ultimately dating back to the carpetbagging era and the sad demise of the Alliance & Leicester Building Society.

Recently I received my ballot paper for the forthcoming Santander AGM; and it represents a masterpiece of ballot design. There are twenty-five resolutions up for debate, with the self-explanatory names 1A to 12. I am supposed to reflect prayerfully on each, and then indicate whether I am in favour of the motion or against it. So far, so good: each resolution has a For box and an Against box to assist me in informing the General Secretary of the results of my twenty-five coin tosses.

For or against?

But wait! What if I'm unable to decide? Shouldn't I be allowed to abstain on some of the motions, and leave the decision to wiser heads? Should I just leave both boxes blank?

Careful: my eye catches sight of Note 1:

If you return the form and do not mark a box for an agenda item it shall be deemed that your vote is in favour of the Board proposal.

So a blank vote is the same as a vote in favour! One wonders why they need the For box at all. But back to the question: how can I abstain? Fret not: they've thought it through, and added a row of Abstain boxes below the For and Against boxes.

For or against or abstain? Or just leave it blank if you want to vote in favour.

That's a relief. Spurred on by the promise of "this fantastic credit/travel card wallet*" for returning my ballot paper,

*Stocks are limited.

I can now get down to the serious business of voting.

Hang on, though: what's that fourth row of boxes doing? Thoughts of that fantastic credit/travel card wallet can wait until I've sorted that out.

Should I tick the Blank box? Or just leave it blank?

So I can vote For, or vote Against, or Abstain, or leave it blank (which is the same as voting For), or I can vote Blank. That's the same as leaving it blank, right? So it's a vote in favour?

According to the By-laws of Santander, any proposal at the Annual General Meeting may be voted in favour, against or in blank. From a practical viewpoint, a vote in blank effectively works like an abstention.

So voting Blank is not the same as leaving it blank. "Voting in blank" (i.e., voting Blank) is the same as voting Abstain, whereas leaving it blank is the same as voting For. Got it. I can almost feel this fantastic credit/travel card wallet*

*Stocks are limited.

in my pocket.

But I needn't bother with filling in the paper at all: Santander, being efficient and eco-friendly, provide a means of voting online, and I, being married to a treehugger, feel compelled to take advantage.

The online voting web site offers many blessings unknown to the traditional voter. Not only does it provide effective protection against paper cuts, and the promise of a credit/travel card wallet every bit as fantastic as the one enjoyed by paper voters; the web site also fulfils its disability obligations by catering for those with split personality disorder. For each resolution, I can vote against myself by allocating some shares For, some Against, some to Abstain, and some Blank! Any unused shares will presumably be treated as blank (not Blank). No more worries about whether I did the right thing: I can hedge my bets and cancel myself out. Just a word of caution: remember that blank is the same as For, and Abstain is the same as Blank. So a truly agnostic vote doesn't allocate 1/5 of one's shares to each box: you want 1/6 of the votes For, 1/3 Against, 1/6 Abstain, 1/6 Blank, and 1/6 blank.

Maybe voting against myself is a little over the top. Let's hang the notion of voting against myself, and make a firm decision on each resolution. In which case I have twenty-five resolutions, and five options for each; so let's fill in the form like this:

That, according to the stated rules, is five resolutions marked For, five Against, five Abstain, five Blank(=Abstain), five blank(=For). So that's more positive than negative, but presumably the Board know roughly what they're doing, so maybe that's fair enough. I wouldn't want to be so spineless as to be overall neutral. Let's go ahead and cast the ballot.

And now the crowning irony. Here's the confirmation page:

D'oh! Your vote has been counted (errors and omissions excepted)...

When Stroke Strikes, Act F.A.S.T. (2011 edition)

Every so often, something comes along to revolutionize medical science. In 1928 it was the discovery of penicillin; this week we found out that coffee, nose blowing and sex are nigh-on certain to give you a stroke.

This necessitates some sort of public health campaign to make people aware of the dangers. The NHS's "Act F.A.S.T." poster will, of course, have to be redesigned.

Fortunately, I've managed to get hold of an early draft of the new version. Expect to see this on bill boards around the country soon.

The Bottom Line: which cubicle?

One might think that a couple of months in Australia would be relaxing and refreshing, with freedom from the worries of everyday life. Unfortunately, it's one difficult decision after another.

Playing The Odds: In Search Of A Royal Flush

Yesterday, I was faced with a serious problem. I badly needed to take a dump. At home, that's not too much of a problem: realistically there is only one toilet that can be considered adequate, so there is no decision to be taken. Also, there is no danger of contamination: there are only two of us who live there, and I have reluctantly learnt to embrace Helen's bum as if it were my own. But I was at the University of Melbourne, and the situation called for some careful thinking: five communal toilet cubicles, and I knew nothing of their history. Where should I park?

As you enter the little boys' room, you are met by five cubicles on your left, with sinks on the right. The cubicles are not all equidistant from the entrance; and this is what gives the problem its crunchy texture. How do you find the least-used toilet?

Let me present you with my own reasoning, and then give you a chance to decide for yourself.

Pure Gamble? Let's Shoot Some Craps!

Obviously Cubicle 1 is out. It will receive far too much traffic from unthinking visitors who rush in where angels fear to sit. Pass by on the other side.

Doing one's business in Number 2 would have a poetic ring to it, but would also be misjudged. Plenty of customers will no doubt sensibly rule out the first toilet, but take the analysis no further, and dive head first into the second one. Besides, whenever the first cubicle is occupied, thoughtless types are going to be drawn to the second.

Now it gets harder. I suspect that the furthest cubicle would attract the naturally reclusive and socially withdrawn; and there are plenty of them in a typical computing department. So it, too, probably gets more than its fair share of attention. Number 5 would be a bum steer.

That leaves us with Cubicle 3 and Cubicle 4. What to do? It is tricky to make a strong case for one over the other. For a while, there was a serious danger that I would stand fixed for ever, equidistant between the two cubicles, like Buridan's famous ass. But at least the worst his ass had to look forward to, in the short term at any rate, was getting a bit peckish: my own ass, analogically speaking, was likely to force the issue if it didn't get some outside direction soonest. I had to make a choice.

Why would someone end up in Number 3? There are two plausible reasons:

1. Someone is occupying Number 1 (highly likely), and our new chap wants to place a respectable distance between himself and the current occupant of Number 1. My guess is that in this case he would be likely to go for Number 3 (sufficient distance) or Number 5 (as much distance as possible).
2. When all cubicles are empty, going in Number 3 preserves the symmetry. It may well appeal to a certain mathematical way of thinking that could be prevalent among computing academics.

Neither of those is a watertight argument, but on the other hand, I couldn't see any reason at all why someone would end up in Cubicle 4.

So, flying, to some extent, by the seat of my pants, I made friends with Number 4.

But I couldn't sleep last night.

The nagging thought: did I get the wrong one?

Have I embarrassed myself with foolish reasoning?


What would you have done?