It Starts When You Need Something and It Doesn’t Exist

There’s a particular moment that triggers research and development. It isn’t a board meeting. It isn’t a grant application. It isn’t even a dramatic eureka with lightning and violins. No — real R&D starts when you’re halfway through doing a job and you realise the tool you need simply doesn’t exist. Or it does exist, but costs the same as a small bungalow and comes with a “licence fee” that makes your eyes water.

This is the point where normal people shrug and improvise. But if you’ve got the R&D itch, your brain immediately whispers: “Well… I could build it.” Suddenly you’re sketching something on the back of an envelope, mentally rummaging through your boxes of sensors, cameras, brackets, PVC tubing, spare bolts, and that mysterious bag of “useful bits” you refuse to throw away because it contains the future.

It’s rarely about being fancy. It’s about being practical. Teaching science? You need a rig that shows the experiment clearly, survives student handling, and doesn’t explode when someone plugs the wrong thing into the wrong thing. Filming a sailing session? You need a camera mount that doesn’t vibrate like a washing machine full of bricks. Trying to measure something properly? You discover that the “standard” apparatus is either missing, flimsy, or designed for a world where nobody ever drops anything.

Then comes the best bit: the prototype stage. Prototype One works brilliantly, as long as nobody breathes near it. Prototype Two is sturdier, but now it blocks the view of the very thing you wanted to film. Prototype Three is nearly perfect… except for the one tiny issue where it behaves beautifully in the lab and then immediately misbehaves outdoors because wind exists, water exists, and reality is rude.

And somewhere in all that tinkering, you end up learning far more than you would have done if you’d just bought a solution off the shelf. You learn what matters, what doesn’t, what fails first, and which “obvious” idea is only obvious until you actually try it. Most importantly, you build knowledge you can reuse: a method, a rig, a workflow, a sensor setup, a filming technique — something that becomes a repeatable system rather than a one-off bodge.

The punchline is that R&D doesn’t start with a lab coat. It starts with frustration. A missing bracket. An experiment that should be easy but isn’t. A piece of kit that’s nearly right but not quite. And if you’re the sort of person who can’t leave that alone… congratulations. You’re doing R&D. You’ve simply disguised it as “trying to get on with the job”.

 

Taking everything online

There was a time when “going online” meant you’d sent a slightly blurry email attachment and then made a cup of tea while the dial-up screamed in the background like a distressed seagull.

Now it means… everything. Lessons. Meetings. Booking systems. Homework. Payments. Resources. Marketing. Support. Video. Short-form. Long-form. Live. Recorded. Captioned. Clipped. Repurposed. Uploaded. Downloaded. Backed up. Backed up again (because you definitely backed it up the first time… didn’t you?).

And here’s the thing: taking everything online isn’t just “moving what you already do onto a screen”. Done properly, it’s more like building a second version of your business — one that works when it’s raining, when the student is home with a cold, when the roads are gridlocked, or when someone lives 200 miles away and still wants proper tuition.

The good news: online can be brilliant

When you’re teaching online with the right kit (and not balancing a laptop on a cereal box) you can get close to the best parts of being in the room together. Multiple cameras. Visualisers. Clear audio. Live annotation. Screen shares that don’t look like a CCTV feed from 1997. You can switch between a whiteboard, a close-up practical, and worked exam questions faster than a student can say, “Sir, my Wi-Fi’s doing a thing.”

For science and maths, it’s even better when you can show it. Practical demonstrations, live problem-solving, model answers, and that crucial moment where you stop the student from confidently adding the denominators “because it feels right”.

The less good news: online exposes the cracks

Going online is a spotlight. If your booking is messy, it becomes very messy. If your resources live in twelve folders called “NEW NEW FINAL v7”, online will find them… and laugh. If your communication relies on “I’ll text you later”, you’ll lose track the moment three parents message at once.

Online demands systems:

• A simple booking process

• A clear weekly routine

• One “source of truth” for resources

• A way to follow up without living inside your inbox

• A plan for what happens when tech fails (because it will, usually five minutes before a lesson)

The secret weapon: online scales the bits that matter

The best part is that online lets you reuse your best teaching. Explanations become videos. Worked examples become downloadable packs. Common mistakes become mini-clips. Revision plans become templates. Parents get clarity. Students get structure. And you stop repeating the same intro speech so often you start doing it in your sleep.

It also changes how people find you. Because once you’ve got your lessons, your resources, and your proof (videos, posts, results, testimonials) online… you’re not limited to whoever happens to live nearby and has heard about you at the school gate.

The goal isn’t “online”. It’s “better”

Taking everything online isn’t about chasing tech for the sake of it. It’s about making learning easier to access, easier to revisit, and harder to derail.

Online should mean:

• Less friction (students can turn up from anywhere)

• More clarity (resources in one place, not lost in a bag)

• More impact (better explanations, more practice, faster feedback)

And yes… it should also mean fewer moments where you hear:
“Can you see my screen?”
“No.”
“How about now?”
“Still no.”
“Oh. Right. I’m sharing the wrong thing.”

If you’re a teacher, tutor, creator, club organiser, or small business owner trying to “take it all online”, you don’t need to do everything at once. But you do need to do it on purpose: systems first, then shiny extras.

Because the internet is a wonderful place to teach — as long as it doesn’t become the place where your organisation goes to die.

 3D Printing in 2026 — Multi-Filament Magic, Snapmaker U1, and the Joy of Water-Soluble “Cheating”

There are a few moments in life when technology makes you stop, squint, and say:
“Hang on… that’s basically witchcraft.”

Multi-filament 3D printing is one of those moments.

Not long ago, changing filament meant hovering beside the printer like an anxious parent at sports day, ready to leap in at the exact moment it paused. You’d pull one filament out, shove another in, try not to drip molten plastic everywhere, and then pretend the crunchy bit on the print “was part of the design”.

Now we’ve got proper multi-filament exchange systems — and printers like the Snapmaker U1 pushing the whole thing towards “load it, start it, walk away” territory.

And then… someone looked at supports (the bane of every print) and said:
“What if we just… dissolve them?”

Reader, I have never felt so emotionally understood by a spool of filament.

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1) The progress: from “single colour bravery” to “multi-material grown-up printing”

Multi-filament isn’t just about pretty colour changes (although yes, I absolutely want a boat in club colours, and no, I will not be taking questions).

It’s also about materials:

• Rigid + flexible in one print (think grips, bumpers, seals)

• Strong core + cosmetic shell

• Different colours for labels, scales, arrows, safety markings

• Support material that behaves itself

The big leap is reliability. Early multi-material printing could feel like running a relay race while also juggling. Now the exchange systems are getting smarter: better sensing, better feeding, better calibration, fewer “spaghetti incidents”.

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2) Snapmaker U1: why it’s interesting (and what to watch)

The Snapmaker U1 is part of that new wave: printers designed from the start for modern workflows — not “a printer plus a collection of add-ons held together by hope”.

What makes a multi-filament system genuinely useful isn’t the marketing headline (“Up to X filaments!”). It’s:

• How cleanly it swaps (stringing and oozing are the villains here)

• How it handles purge/waste (more on that in a second)

• How well it keeps calibration (because “nearly aligned” is just “wrong” wearing a polite hat)

• How easy it is to keep running (loading, drying, unclogging, and general un-dramatising)

If you’re thinking about using it for real projects (fixtures, mounts, teaching aids, camera brackets, science kit parts), the practical question is:
Will it do the boring jobs predictably, not just the flashy demo prints?

That’s the bar.

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3) Water-soluble filament: the best kind of cheating

Supports are essential… and also awful.

They:

• weld themselves to surfaces you wanted smooth,

• snap off and take half the corner with them,

• leave scars that need sanding,

• and generally turn “print finished!” into “print finished… plus two hours of nibbling plastic with pliers”.

Enter water-soluble support filament (most commonly PVA or BVOH):

• Print your part in PLA/PETG/whatever

• Print supports in soluble material

• Drop the part in water

• Wait

• Supports vanish like they’ve remembered they left the oven on

For complex shapes this is game changing:

• internal channels

• undercuts

• trapped volumes

• intricate text

• mechanical parts that need clean moving clearances

It’s especially brilliant for education, where you want students to focus on the design and the science, not “the support removal trauma”.

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4) The less glamorous truth: soluble supports come with rules

Soluble filament is marvellous… but it’s also a diva.

Moisture is the enemy

PVA/BVOH loves absorbing water from the air. That means:

• popping and fizzing at the nozzle,

• weak, blobby extrusion,

• clogged hotends,

• and a print that looks like it’s been knitted by a spider in a hurry.

Dry storage isn’t optional. A filament dryer (or a very well-sealed dry box) suddenly becomes part of the “multi-filament lifestyle”.

Compatibility matters

• PLA + PVA/BVOH is a common pairing.

• PETG + PVA can be trickier because PETG prints hotter and can cause interface issues.

• Sometimes the best results come from tuning interface layers, temperatures, and cooling.

Purge/waste is real

Every swap usually means some purging. That can mean:

• purge towers,

• wipe lines,

• extra filament used,

• longer print times.

It’s the price of reliability — but it’s worth planning for, especially on long prints.

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5) What I’m using it for (and what you might too)

In the Philip M Russell Ltd universe, this is where it gets fun:

Practical kit

• Cable clips and strain reliefs for camera rigs

• Custom mounts for sensors, PASCO kit, and lab demonstrations

• Protective bumpers for equipment

• Brackets for lighting and sound gear in the studio

Teaching aids

• Colour-coded molecular models

• Cross-section parts (different colours for different layers/materials)

• Equipment replicas for “hands-on” learning without fragile originals

Sailing bits (because of course)

• Small fittings, covers, labels, organisers

• Prototypes for bespoke parts before committing to “real” materials

• Colour-coded training aids (port/starboard — fewer arguments, more sailing)

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6) Where this is heading

Multi-filament exchange + soluble supports is one of those combinations that takes 3D printing from:
“hobby printer that sometimes behaves”
to
“tool you actually rely on”.

The next big improvements are predictable:

• better auto-calibration for multi-material alignment

• less purge waste

• more intelligent material profiles

• more “just works” reliability (the dream)

And I am entirely here for it.

Because honestly, anything that reduces the amount of time I spend picking supports off a model like a crab opening a packet of crisps… is a technological miracle.

 

Multi-Sided Dice — Changing the Odds (Without Cheating)

If you’ve ever rolled a die and thought, “I need the universe to be slightly more on my side,” then congratulations — you’re already thinking like a game designer, a statistician, or a student five minutes before an exam.

Most people meet probability via the humble six-sided die (d6). Lovely. Familiar. Comforting. Like a mug of tea that can also disappoint you on a 1.

But the moment you introduce multi-sided dice — d4, d8, d10, d12, d20 (and their more exotic cousins) — you’re no longer just rolling… you’re tuning the odds.

Let’s have a rummage in the maths toolbox.

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1) What changes when you change the number of sides?

A fair die with n sides gives a uniform distribution:

• Every number has probability 1/n

• The average (expected) roll is (n + 1) / 2

So:

• d6 average = (6+1)/2 = 3.5

• d20 average = (20+1)/2 = 10.5

That means swapping a d6 for a d20 doesn’t just “add variety” — it shifts the whole centre of gravity of outcomes.

Bigger die = bigger spread.
More dramatic highs… and more tragic lows (because maths enjoys balance).

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2) “I need at least a 5” — how the odds change fast

Suppose your game / experiment / teacher says:

“Success if you roll 5 or more.”

Let’s compare:

• d6: outcomes 5–6 → 2/6 = 1/3 ≈ 33%

• d8: outcomes 5–8 → 4/8 = 1/2 = 50%

• d10: outcomes 5–10 → 6/10 = 60%

• d12: outcomes 5–12 → 8/12 = 66.7%

• d20: outcomes 5–20 → 16/20 = 80%

Same “target”, totally different reality.

So multi-sided dice let you keep the rules looking the same while changing how generous the universe is being behind the scenes. (This is also how some board games feel “kind” without admitting it.)

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3) One big die vs lots of smaller dice (this is the really useful bit)

Here’s the twist: one die is uniform.
But adding dice changes the shape of the distribution.

Compare these:

• d12 → results 1–12, each equally likely (flat distribution)

• 2d6 → results 2–12, but not equally likely (peaked distribution)

With 2d6, totals in the middle happen far more often:

• 7 is common

• 2 and 12 are rare

So:

• If you want outcomes to cluster around “typical” values: use multiple dice

• If you want outcomes to feel swingy and unpredictable: use one bigger die

Game design translation:

• Multiple dice = consistent characters, predictable systems

• One big die = chaos goblin energy

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4) “Make it exciting” vs “Make it fair”

People often say they want a game to be “fair”, but what they usually mean is:

• “I want to feel I had a chance”

• “I don’t want to fail five times in a row”

• “I want the results to match skill… most of the time”

Multi-sided dice give you dials to turn:

To reduce random drama:

• Use more dice (e.g., 3d6 instead of 1d20)

• Or narrow the range (d6 instead of d20)

To increase drama:

• Use a bigger single die (d20 gives epic swings)

• Add “critical” rules (e.g., max roll = bonus event)

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5) A quick classroom / home experiment (no lab coat required)

Try this with students (or willing family members who haven’t realised what’s happening yet):

Task: Roll each option 50 times, record totals, and plot a simple bar chart.

• Option A: 1d12

• Option B: 2d6

Prediction:

• 1d12 will be flatter

• 2d6 will build a hill in the middle

Extension:
Turn it into GCSE/A-Level discussion:

• mean, median, mode

• range and spread

• why distributions matter (hello, real life)

If you want to go full “data-nerd”, stick it in a spreadsheet and let the bar chart do the storytelling.

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6) Why this matters beyond board games

Multi-sided dice are really just simple models for random events:

• choosing random samples

• simulating “chance” in experiments

• designing scoring systems

• understanding risk and reliability

They’re also brilliant for explaining the difference between:

• uniform probability (one die)

• combined outcomes (multiple dice)

• and why “more rolls” doesn’t always mean “more randomness” — it can mean more predictability.

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7) The takeaway (before the d4 destroys your bare foot)

Multi-sided dice don’t just change the numbers.

They change:

• how often you succeed

• how swingy outcomes feel

• whether results cluster or scatter

• and whether your game/lesson feels “fair”, “brutal”, or “suspiciously generous”

So next time you’re tempted to say, “It’s just a different die”…

No.
It’s a probability settings menu — in physical form.

And unlike most settings menus, this one can be launched across the room when someone rolls a 1.

Odd Time Signatures Aren’t Complicated… They’re Just 2s and 3s in a Trench Coat

Most music you hear is politely organised. It arrives on time, sits down neatly, and behaves itself in either 4/4 (“count to four, repeat until the biscuit tin is empty”) or 3/4 (the waltz: “one-two-three, look elegant, try not to fall over”).

But every so often, a piece of music turns up wearing a suspiciously large coat, sunglasses indoors, and a fake moustache… and you realise it’s not in 4/4 at all.

It’s in 5/4, 7/8, 11/8, or some other metre that makes your inner primary-school teacher reach for a whiteboard marker.

Here’s the secret: odd time signatures aren’t complicated — they’re just 2s and 3s in a trench coat.

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Why use “strange” time signatures at all?

Because they do things that straight 4/4 simply can’t do as naturally.

1) They give you instant personality (and a built-in hook)

A groove in 4/4 can be brilliant… but it can also be dangerously familiar.
Odd metres create a distinctive “footprint” immediately.

• 5/4 often feels like a confident, slightly off-kilter stride.

• 7/8 can feel urgent and dancey, like it’s always leaning forward.

It’s the musical equivalent of someone walking into the room and you instantly thinking:
“Ah yes. They’re interesting. Possibly trouble. Definitely interesting.”

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2) They match real speech and movement better than you’d expect

People do not speak in perfect blocks of four beats.

Try saying:

“Don’t forget the camera battery.”

That doesn’t naturally land in neat, symmetrical chunks. Odd metres let the stresses fall where they want instead of forcing them into a musical straightjacket.

This is why odd metres are brilliant for:

• lyrics that sound conversational

• rhythmic riffs that mimic real movement

• music that wants to feel human rather than looped

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3) They create forward momentum without changing the tempo

In 4/4, the downbeat arrives like a reliable bus. In odd metres, it’s more like a bus that’s technically coming… but not exactly when you expect it.

That gentle uncertainty makes the music feel like it’s pulling you into the next bar.

Great for:

• film scoring

• suspense and build

• “something’s happening” YouTube underscoring

• energetic instrumentals without turning everything into a panic attack

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4) They’re a brilliant contrast tool (without touching BPM)

You can keep the same tempo, same harmony, even the same instrumentation — and simply switch metre to change the whole vibe.

For example:

• Verse in 4/4 (comfortable)

• Pre-chorus in 7/8 (uh-oh, something’s shifting)

• Chorus back to 4/4 (big release)

It’s like walking slightly downhill for a while, then stepping onto a flat path again.
You didn’t notice the slope until it stopped.

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5) They stop your music sounding like “another four-chord loop”

If you write regularly (or create lots of content), you start to recognise your own habits.

Odd metres are a friendly nudge that says:
“Try something new, Philip. Your chord loop is wearing the same jumper again.”

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The simple way to understand odd metres

Most “weird” time signatures are just groups of 2 and 3.

Think accents, not maths.

• 5 = 2+3 or 3+2

• 7 = 2+2+3 or 3+2+2

• 11 = 3+3+3+2 (or any sensible combination that doesn’t injure the drummer)

Once you feel those groupings, the metre stops being mysterious and starts being… well… fun.

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A few musical examples (so you can actually hear it)

You don’t have to be a theory wizard. Just listen for where the “long step” happens.

Example 1: 5/4 (grouped 3+2)

Count it like:
ONE-two-three ONE-two
Clap on the ONE each time.

A classic reference point: a certain famous jazzy 5/4 groove (you’ll know it when you hear it — it turns up in TV, films, and every drummer’s “look what I can do” moment).

Example 2: 7/8 (grouped 2+2+3)

Count:
ONE-two ONE-two ONE-two-three

This one is brilliant for energetic riffs. It feels like it’s always slightly ahead of you, in a very motivating way.

Example 3: Mixed metre (4/4 + 3/4)

This is the “phrase tidy-up” metre.
You’ve written something that naturally wants to end a beat early — so you let it. No padding. No filler. No musical small talk.

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A practical tip for writers, musicians, and content creators

If odd time signatures feel intimidating, don’t “learn 11/8”.

Just learn:

• where the accents are

• and how to group 2s and 3s

That’s it.

Odd metres aren’t there to confuse the listener.
They’re there to make the music feel alive.

And if anyone asks why you used 7/8, you can say:
“It’s not weird. It’s just 2s and 3s in a trench coat.”
Then walk away before they ask you to clap it.