Funny how little things can seem so important. There is of course that quaint Chaos Theory that suggests a butterfly in motion could upset a balance that leads to a storm elsewhere. At first glance, it seems a ridiculous notion, because the laws of physics clearly indicate that a butterfly would have a hard time creating a massive cyclonic movement of air that flattens most of the Eastern US seaboard. But then again, little things matter.

There was that time I thought I was losing fuel in flight, when in fact it was merely a failure of Cessna's notoriously inaccurate fuel gauges. A minor failure that caused some concern at the time. Or the bolt in my little Nissan Cherry hatchback, the one the mechanic had failed to tighten after a service that left me stranded in the countryside at night. These are of course inconsequential problems despite the inconvenience they caused.

Then we have to think again when we consider the tragic results of minor failures on Space Shuttle flights. One exploded on take off, another burned up on re-entry, both from stupidly tiny and insignificant failures. The trouble is that such disasters are politically embarrasing as well as tragic, and I see that the Space Shuttle fleet is to be retired in 2011, leaving NASA with commercial rockets to send their payloads into orbit. It seems a little sad. The Space Shuttle was supposed to be a step forward, the proof of concept of re-usable spacecraft, and one that proved without doubt that space is even more unforgiving that ordinary flight.

We are of course at an early stage of space exploration. For us, the easy and mundane interstellar travel of popular genres like Star Trek are beyond us for now, if possible at all. A part of me hopes that NASA will recover its nerve (and funding) and make a better attempt at everyday spaceflight in the future.

One wonders what the insurance bill of Virgins projected orbital flights will be, especially after the inevitable tiny failure occurs.

Failure of the Week

Of all things, a tiny signal splitter in my recording gear has disintergrated. It just fell apart, and I had to disassemble my guitar to free bits of it. Not the end of the world, certainly, but an annoying failure which now sends me on a quest across Swindon to find another. The local music store doesn't have one, nor does the video equipment shop outside the library, so I must gird my loins and head toward the business parks and the large premises of major retailers, to do battle with ignorant and insignificant shop assistants.