Lightbulb moments

Yesterday was busy. We swam, we skipped the Farmers' Market (reluctantly, because there's no certainty we'll make next month's, either, but really we couldn't spare the time) and we went out to a lunchtime event at the Lit & Phil, part of Science Week and also part of Comma Press's ongoing project to put together scientists and writers, this time looking at moments in the history of science. Sean O'Brien read a short story about Joseph Swan, who had demonstrated his incandescent light bulb at the Lit & Phil in 1880, in the lecture theatre which used to occupy the whole downstairs of the building, including the space in which yesterday's event took place.

It didn't entirely work as a short story: there was plenty of interesting material, but it didn't quite cohere. I felt as if the author had talked us through his researches, and pointed out some promising themes, and was now ready to go away and write his story. We never really got an explanation of how a lightbulb works either, or what Swan had done to make it work, so this next bit may just be my misinterpretation: but despite the theme of 'Eureka moments' (the expression "'the original 'light-bulb moment'" comes from the Comma Press website) there was no moment of revelation at which a great scientific discovery was made. The story Sean O'Brien told us (with some footnotes from John Clayson, Keeper of Science and Industry for Tyne and Wear Archives and Museums) was one of incremental technical improvements (the key issue seems to have been how to create a hard enough vacuum in the bulb). This pleased me, because I prefer the narrative of: I worked this out, step by step, by persevering and gradually getting closer to the solution to This came to me in a flash, because I am a Genius.

We had a pleasant and sociable lunch with a potential client, spent the afternoon at Gail's fixing her computer (durham_rambler) and gossiping (me), then we headed off to the Sage for one of their 'future traditions' (i.e. students from the Folk Music degree course) concerts. It had not occurred to us when we bought the tickets that this was St Patrick's Day, and it wasn't mentioned in the advance publicity. I wonder at what point the organisers had that particular light bulb moment?

Would I have been deterred if I had known in advance? Possibly, not because I don't like Irish music, but because I dislike so much of the baggage that goes with it, from the green balloons and Guinness promotions at the pubs to the assumption that all traditional music is Celtic. There was clearly a dress code for the evening: all the performers had found something green to wear (if you stretched a point to include one skirt which was closer to peacock blue than turquoise). And all the music was Irish (if you stretched a point to include one Scottish song): so we had plenty of slip jigs, and a splendid version of The Parting Glass from the first year vocal group (which is the entire first year, since all of them must sing, whether they like it or not, as Sandra Kerr explained). On the way home we discussed how the repertoire had shifted from the Irish songs we learned in the folk clubs in the 1960s: Kevin Barry, Off to Dublin in the Green, The Old Triangle, The Wearing of the Green... We don't need to sing the rebel songs any more, we're all Irish today.

( Bonus light-bulb moment )