[This is written for my daughter Trinity and my mother Katrina]
A table covered with several empty bottles stands in the corner of the room. A sobbing sound is heard.
“Ohh, ooo, hoo, hooo! No one likes my poetry. Now they poke fun at me for having a beach named after my grandfather, in Australia, at the end of the earth!”
A man lay on an Italian walnut sofa chair face down. He wore a shirt; on the floor a top-hat, tie and jacket have fallen.
There was a knock at the door. The man sat up and straightens himself – he limped towards the door and opened it.
“Miss Shelly! What a delight! And Lady Lovelace as well? How wonderful to see you both. A poet on one hand a mathematician on the other! Truly both hands of Leonardo’s Vetruvian man have come to me today!”
“Lord Byron, you are a mess!” Ada exclaimed, looking him up and down, then marching in.
Byron pouted, and brushed a crumb at his waist, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“How are you George?” Mary kisses him on the cheek and looked at him affectionately.
“Come in, come in!” Byron swept his hand.
“There is a terrible problem in London, Byron!” Lovelace stood in a corner looking stern.
Byron looked at her with mild curiosity.
“This world we have made is a horror!” Lady Ada looked indignant.
“A horrible creation.” Byron cast a thoughtful look at Mary.
People are working long hours in horrible conditions!”
“Positively monstrous.” Byron gave another knowing look to Mary.
“And now people are working long hours on books of log tables!”
“What on earth for?” Byron looked back to Ada.
“They use them to check their Navigation on ships, to calculate precisely where they are, using trigonometry.”
Byron looked at her puzzled.
“Perhaps one day people will carry little steam engines that calculate trigonometry for them – but for now, they are left with these log tables to use.”
“But doesn’t your friend Babbage some sort of box of gears that does this stuff?” Byron looked curious for a moment.
“Oh the Difference Engine? It’s still not working. It needs more time, and he has run out of money.”
“I don’t understand it.” Bryon started to look frustrated.
“Well it is like knitting different rows in a jumper. But instead of knitting wool, you are knitting numbers – with different patterns for each row.”
Byron rolled his eyes, “Oh pooh to your numbers! Your numbers will knit themselves!”
Sparks flashed in front of Ada’s eyes.
“Say that again please Lord Byron?”
“Oh I’ve had enough. I said your numbers will knit themselves!”
Adas’s eyes boggled. She closed her mouth, and looked at the glowing coals in the fire.