{display: none;}

I like LibGuides. I'm generally rather sniffy about building-blocks web content because it's usually quite limiting and ridden with javascript (*shivers at the memory of certain VLEs*). But LibGuides is different: there's none of the painful clunk and nested frames one often gets with these things, and, most importantly, a LibGuide can be as simple or as complicated as you want it to be. In a good way. In a proper web-standard sort of way. LibGuides uses boxes of content which you can arrange around your page. The box content can be edited using a WYSIWYG editor or by using a Plain-Text source editor, so you can be as simplistic or as tricksy as you like when adding stuff to the page. In theory your page could just be one big box which you edit as you might edit any other web page.  You can use their basic bits of Duplo, or you can mortar in some real solid bricks. And this flexibility is good, because it suits Walter who's up for retirement and has no interest in engaging with HTML, and it suits Zoe the web whiz-kid who wants to employ all the tricks she learnt in her computer science days.

My first encounter with this fully codable and customizable world was when I was playing around with my LibGuides profile and accidentally misused the <plaintext> tag. <plaintext> does not change styled text into unstyled text as I had guessed it might. <plaintext> renders any subsequent HTML code as plain text, and should be accompanied by a closing </plaintext> tag. I did not accompany it with an accompanying </plaintext> tag, and consequently the LibGuides profile web-form melted before my eyes into a slurry of pointy brackets. I had to hack the code in my browser (see last month's post on the virtues of Opera) to save my LibGuides from the internet version of a China crisis. It was a frightening moment, but one which excited me to the freedoms inherent in LibGuides.

So lesson one: don't use a <plaintext> tag in LibGuides. On a related note, always be sure to close any <div> tags you might use, lest they hang beyond your box and prevent you from editing it ever again. In other words: it is very easy to break bits of LibGuides and there is no "undo" button. If you're going to play around, do it with either a) a little knowledge (a dangerous thing) or b) a browser that lets you tweak the script locally should the worst come to the worst.

The last paragraph was needlessly alarmist, you will be relieved to hear. While it is very easy to break bits of LibGuides, you are unlikely to ever do anything that will break bits of LibGuides. LibGuides is pretty sturdy even if it can be unforgiving.

Last December I was charged with the task of setting up a booking system on LibGuides (using its sister application: LibCal) and spent a couple of weeks tweaking the style-sheets to get them to match the library branding. I had used style-sheets before, on my own web-pages, but never for anything more than setting fonts. It was an exciting learning experience, and I began to get an idea as to the more unconventional areas of LibGuides customisation.

During my time at the University of Hull this year I was asked to research the ways that other institutions use their LibGuides. We then pulled together something of a wish-list of ideas: what we thought should be on the guides, and how we might make them look and work in a way that would be foolproof to navigate. I was given the job of putting some of these ideas into practice.

What most LibGuides tend to look like.

The image above shows your typical average LibGuide (the content and tab order represent the mode of the top umpteen Google hits for libguides.ac.uk and subjectguides.ac.uk domains). There is some logic to this content which is why it occurs with such regularity, but the appearance owes most to the box from which it came: we're looking at a factory default, and not everything in that default is strictly useful.

In this post I'm going to talk about some of the tricks I learnt in the process of giving Hull's LibGuides a facelift. The reasons for the changes we made, both cosmetically and in terms of content, are probably better left to those still involved with the project: this is not a corporate account of a rebranding. I'm here to talk about the mechanics of LibGuides more generally, and what can be achieved. But as an illustration you might like to compare the above generic page with one of the new Hull guides (Computer Science, for example).

The secret to customising LibGuides lies in mastering the CSS. Before I started playing about the other month I didn't know very much about the finer points of style sheets, but nosing at the page source of various LibGuides across the country alerted me to some useful bits of code, and the first one of any real import was:

{display:none;}

Don't want some part of LibGuides to show up on the page? {display:none;} is your friend. Say you were worried that the LibGuides search box distracted from your catalogue search box, you could switch off the former by putting <style>.lgsearch{display:none;}</style> somewhere in your page (the custom CSS section if you have that option, though any old bit of box via Plain-Text Edit will do). All you need to know to switch off a part is its element name (e.g. .lgsearch in the case of the search box) and that's the hardest part. The slow way of doing it is to parse the page source with a fine-toothed comb and a knowledge of HTML and CSS. The quick way is to use a DOM inspector, and that's the approach I took to taking, using the Opera browser's built-in DOM inspector: Dragonfly. All I then had to do was right-click on the bit of the page I was interested in and inspect it. I could even tweak the code 'live' to see what would happen. I have no better words to describe such playing about than: "well cool!" Pretty much every bit of a LibGuide has its own class and can therefore be turned on or off. Say you wanted to generate a list of guides by using the built-in box options, but you didn't want the names of the list owners to be displayed (as they are by default in such lists). It so happens that the list authors have the class ".pdisplay_author", so you can consign them to the back of the net with a quick line of code.

{visibility:hidden;} is {display:none;}'s more sophisticated sister: she renders elements invisible rather than non-existent. Applying {visibility:hidden;} to this paragraph would leave an enigmatic gap on the page, while {display:none;} would shunt the next paragraph up into its place.

But it's not just about turning things on or off or obscuring them from view. You can set the font styles of every single different flavour of text, so if you wanted bigger type for your lists of links, <style>.itemlist li {font-size: 200%;}</style> would double the default font-size. A similar approach can be applied to the tabs at the top of the page, should you favour a chunkier look.

As with all things, the more you fiddle, the more you learn. http://www.w3schools.com/css/ has become a regular reference as I've sought to put ideas into code. Hours have been spent shunting box content around with margin tags. The best way to find out how something works remains to find an example of that something and to take it apart (this was the approach I took when replicating the quick links menu from the main University website). This is not as easy as it used to be a decade ago, because things are increasingly held in separate style sheets (which is why a DOM inspector is a handy bit of kit to have to hand). Not everyone's going to want to do that. Most of you are probably already reeling at the various different flavours of brackets and punctuation I've thrown at the page. But even if you know only the faintest smattering of HTML or CSS, you can stick it into LibGuides quite freely, and that is something rather refreshing and also rather liberating.

There are still some frustrating limitations with LibGuides, chief among them being that you can't create replicable directory structures as you might with web-pages: a link to a tab on one guide will need to be replaced if you make a copy of that guide, requiring a fair bit of tedious mucking about if you're rolling out a new template that makes use of such links. But mostly LibGuides are a Good Thing: straight, friendly webpages put together in a way that suits beginners and experts alike. And that's why I like them.

Some useful element identifiers:

topnav	The bar at the top that contains:
breadcrumbsl	The breadcrumbs trail
bc_library_home	The library homepage part of the breadcrumbs
bc_lbguides_home	The libguides homepage part of the breadcrumbs
bc_guide_name	The current page in the breadcrumbs
guide_header_title	The page title
guidedesc	The page blurb
guideattr	The bar containing:
lastupdate	Last update
guideurl	URL
printguideurl	Print guide option
rssupdatelink	RSS feed
addthis_button	Share button
tabsI	Tabs (other versions available depending on set-up)
stitle	The bar containing:
guide_tab_title_bar_page_name	Page name
guidse_tab_title_bar_page_print	Print page option
lgsearch	Search box
innerbox	Internal box content (generic)
headerbox	Box title (generic)
roundbox outerbox	Parts of the whole box (generic)
boxatt	Generated content (generic)
box_comments	Box comments line (generic)

Futurology II (or "How Many Students Does It Take To Change Higher Education?")

In my last post I vented about the state of the library profession in academia. Now, I try to look at it from the point of view of another interested party...

What do the students want from us?

• They want the books and articles they want/need to use.
• They want somewhere to work (both individually and in groups, with or without machinery).
• They want/need help with the resources and the work.

They don't strictly give a monkeys as to our pro or am status, or where we come on the pay spine. They just want to get their essay done.

Things like self-issue machines, which dramatically alter how staff operate, probably have less effect on the students. Some will be alienated by new technology and others will be liberated: giving the students a choice between machinery and humanity is the best possible approach in this situation.

Back-room changes like book sorting machinery and 'shelf-ready' purchasing do not have as obvious an effect on the students (moral or financial motivations notwithstanding). In some cases (where implemented wisely) they will speed up turnaround times, increasing the likelihood of stock appearing in the main stacks when the students go about their hunting. Better still, of course, is to make sure there are enough books in the first place.

Let's do some quick arithmetic. A year's worth of lecturer comes to about £35-40k, which is about four students' worth of fees. In other words, four friends could club together and buy a year's worth of dedicated lecturing. Add another friend and you have the best part of £10k to spend on books for the five of them. That should punch a reasonable hole in most reading lists.

This is crude maths. It fails to consider the expenses inevitable in upscaling that model beyond the capabilities of a small room. It fails to factor in the support structures and general perks of your average university. It fails to take account of the gobsmacking resource costs we are likely to meet as we ascend to those scales. But as a back of a weblog calculation, it is a lot for us to try to live up to.

Most students have not even remotely considered this sum. The student mortgage is just an obstacle they must surmount if they want to be a student. Most students, I suspect, will not actually question where the money is going. Most students will be happy to believe that we cannot (in all possible economies) afford to provide every student with every text on a reading list. In the current situation, at any rate, it is true. But that truth is born of priorities, and the university's priorities may differ from those of the student.

Remuneration is one obvious factor. In a nation of growing financial inequity, it is only a matter of time before students begin to look upon the pay-cheques of the university management with envious eyes. It might do us all a lot of good if that happens, particularly if some of that wealth were to be redirected to the library! Extra-curricular entertainments aside, the purchasing of educational resources must be high on a student organisation's shopping list were they redesigning the university budget from scratch. 

In the meantime we maximise those resources we can afford. It seems particularly in vogue at the moment to try tinkering with loan periods. I hope someone is doing a proper study of it all. Though by the time such a study is published, e-texts may have done for this whole area of debate! [This paragraph is a whole other blog post waiting to happen.]

Then there's the library as study space. The students can study anywhere. Especially if we rent out portable devices. They might equally try the campus bar, common room, or any other nook / cranny the local architecture has to offer. They needn't even be on university property. But a good library designs good study spaces, and good free space is increasingly at a premium. It needn't be the library's space, but it is, and that's good for all of us. The libraries of the future, from a study environment perspective, will be mad places: hanging bean-bag gardens overlooking spectacular scenery b/w cryptic candlelit carrels (budgets permitting).

 So we try to provide somewhere for the students to do their work, and we try to provide them with some resources to work with: not enough resources (probably not even enough spaces) but we try to do our best with what we've got. 

And then we have to explain to them how it all works. This is a necessary evil, but the whole university is operating on the premise of education so we might as well chip in, eh?

I don't think it's naïvety, then, to suggest that student aspirations for our service are broadly compatible with our own self-interest, without recourse to any macro-economic slights of hand (it probably helps that we aren't the best paid profession ever). It's far more naïve to anticipate any sort of student-led revolutionary re-budgeting. But to be able to argue from a position of genuine academic necessity (I opine that texts are the second most important element of higher education after the teaching staff themselves (some might even raise their level of importance a position further)) must be some sort of advantage for us. That said, rationality seldom has much of a place in economics...

Futurology (or "The Librarian Has Got Some Clothes On")

Academic libraries: what are we for?

We're here to support the educational process by providing:

• support materials (mainly, but not exclusively, texts)
• a study environment
• assistance in the sound use of both

Academic librarians: what are we for?

We're here to support the educational process by providing:

• support materials (the right ones, sourced in dialogue with the academics, and made sufficiently locatable and available)
• a study environment (properly equipped to anticipate student needs)
• assistance in the sound use of both

The role of the academic librarian, then, is to facilitate the sound function of the academic library. This is a "professional" role, by which I mean that this a role for which the incumbent has undergone some form of training and assessment accredited by a trade body. The idea behind such professionalism is to ensure certain standards: standards of capability on the behalf of the professional, which in turn suggest certain standards of remuneration.

(nowadays you need several grand to turn pro)

The precise framework of this professionalism need not be rigid, provided that sufficient rigour is applied in the determination of what constitutes an appropriate level of expertise. The important thing is that that expertise is recognised as being of sufficient value. 

There is a British Institute of Facilities Management, and an Institute of Chartered Secretaries and Administrators, not to mention the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development. Librarians are not the only professionals on campus. That is not to say that all cadres are valued equally. Indeed it may well be that your value is determined not by your cartel but by where your job has been pegged by the goddess HERA.

HERA and similar job evaluation schemes are an attempt to grade academic staff according to the demands inherent in their role. Anyone who has looked at the paperwork will notice that these things tend to be skewed to particular flavours of administration and that they are often just a wee bit woolly in places. Still, the consequence is that various library roles are pegged into a local framework: shelvers sit under library assistants who sit under librarians of various shades. The question for all three strata is: to what extent was my position in the grand scheme fudged, and what degree of (in)tolerance exists to threaten it?

I have seen shelvers having to be taken outside the system and treated as a special case to stop them being on the same grade as assistants, such are the limitations of role assessments (other alarming tales are heard beyond the library doors). The whole thing lands us into messy territory: any change to our role should really be met with a new assessment, although what can go up may also go down. I just did a quick back-of-a-datesheet HERA assessment of typical librarian roles and got anything from 100-300 points depending not only on how much responsibility is given to the role but also on where the limits of that responsibility are drawn. 100 points is very lowly indeed, and perhaps best serves as a cautionary exaggeration. The point is that convention and received attitudes can be as important as our actual duties when it comes to playing the role profiling game. Shift out one level of the strata that hold us in place, and the ground crumbles beneath us.

Peg a shelver on grade three, stick a library assistant on grade four, and you can start pegging senior library assistants and junior librarians at the grade five mark. But were you to remove the shelvers from the picture, replacing them with zero-hour students or trainees, the subsidence can begin to bed in. The undermining starts below us: the clue is in the name.

Self-service machines are easier to use than they once were, reducing desk traffic and with it the library assistant's communication score. Book sorters potentially de-skill the role of the shelver. Out-sourcing of processing and other back-room duties may also have a de-skilling effect, or may simply lead to redundancies. The work still exists beyond our walls, made monotonous, production-line and ill-paid, rather than as part of a varied and pleasant library job. The move to a 24-hour service may see us training up our contracted security staff (also outsourced for economy) who will happily do a lot of the work our shelvers and assistants do for none of the money, just for something to do in the small hours.

(your services are no longer required)

Outsourcing is a great way of bypassing all those expensive agreements the university has made with the unions over the years, and a brilliant way of pulling people out of the pay spine. It cheerfully disregards things like reward, happiness and work-ethic for the sake of a few quid. Councils have demonstrated that outsourcing is generally a horrible mess but this won't stop certain quarters of academia giving it a go. Mostly these will be the already well-established bad eggs, but just look at how campus security has been treated by even the nicer universities to get an idea as to what is possible. Cleaners and catering are the next obvious targets, and then they might look to the library, where outsourced staff are already keeping the place going during most of the day.

On top of all this is the concept I will now call digital slippage: as more and more of our holdings go online, they become invisible. In the past we could point to the crammed stacks and say "build us a library extension", the creaking tangibility serving as a compelling argument in our favour. Now we walk the rope in a tug-of-war between electronic and physical: our stacks can be painted as anachronisms; our digital collections, whispily drifting across campus, might equally belong to I.T. In a world where collections can be infinitely large, our powers of weeding become irrelevant and the departments might as well take over the whole stock-managing malarkey for themselves. It might even make Open Access more straightforward for everyone!

The physical collection management will remain, though it is likely to become increasingly archival in nature as current content becomes more consistently virtual (catastrophes not withstanding). The study environment could, let's face it, belong to anyone, not least I.T. We might be able to manage it better than anyone else (members of the British Institute of Facilities Management included) but space management requires less heads than stock management (nobody needs to catalogue the comfy chairs).

Which tilts the bagatelle of librarianship to information skills. Information skills are genuinely important in academia, which is why they end up being taught by librarians in brief and ill-attended induction sessions. There is more to it than teaching students how to use EBSCO: even if interfaces did become "easy" they would still inevitably bring up crap (Google is the epitome of "easy") and evaluation is just as important as Boolean logic.

(if you think The Sun's bad, you should see Page 3 of Google)

Variety is the spice of life, and academic librarianship is currently a very well spiced profession (not all of it, but some). I would like it to stay that way (it was one of the things that drew me to it in the first place): I want to be able to juggle teaching, stock-management, space-management, archiving, I.T, and all the other stuff we do: it makes for an interesting and pleasant job, and interesting and pleasant jobs make for happy and productive workers. I am worried that this interesting and pleasant job is on the verge of fragmentation: the teaching going one way, the stock management another, etc. Which bits retain the "librarian" moniker and is there any way of holding them together? Because if we don't, we run the risk of dropping down the spine: not only will our work be less varied (and hence more tedious) but it will also, as a consequence, be deskilled and therefore worth less money. As such we need to ensure that all aspects of our work are clearly and incontrovertibly associated with librarianship: all of them. Or else we must cut our losses and hitch our roles to another profession: teaching, archiving, facilities management. Either we hold together, reinforcing the core idea of the library as a centre of study support and the librarian as the agent of that support, or we let it disintegrate and throw our lot in with some other part of HE. I think the former option is still available.

The library building is still there, with both the books and the study spaces. The need for information literacy is both real and compelling. The array of products and licences, the horrors of copyright, the fog of open access, the mysteries of repositories and research data... they constitute a mess of support materials to which we can readily claim some mastery. It's easy to lose sight, from the inside, of the externally apparent mysteries of stock procurement and management (particularly digital stock). Librarians can cast and read those runes in a way that other academic staff cannot. We know what we're doing in that regard. And if we're worried that our magical capabilities might be outsourced, then we should also get our mitts on juicy research data and various repositable gubbins that might be better kept inhouse than out. We need to pull together all teh stuff and make sure everyone knows it's ours. In that regard, it is vitally important to ensure that our work is seen and valued. This is seldom easy for us: running a COUNTER report can only tell so much, and there are no truly effective ways to measure the impact of a LibGuide. So we have to talk about it. We have to show off at every convenient opportunity. We have to stick together and we have to advocate.

Which is where CILIP/ILPUK comes in. Or should come in. Unionisation also has a role (especially in terms of the undermining aspects) but the professional body is key to reinforcing the values of librarianship and of the work we do; of giving the lead and offering a sense of direction. Academia is in a very odd place at the moment, with no real sense of direction, and we could conceivably be in the middle of it, forging something wonderful. But it needs a bit of coordination and the odd gala luncheon to provide the necessary momentum to carry us forward. It needs us all mucking in and looking out for each other, and it needs a little flamboyance from our body. We should be getting out there, flapping our beautiful wings and boasting about how fantastic and essential we are, but instead we are wailing and gnashing our teeth. With a little braggadocio you can convince an emperor to parade naked, so convincing him that librarians are important (which they actually are) ought to be a doddle. If self-belief requires a name change, then (as daft as it is, and it is very very daft) let's do it so we can get stuck in to what matters.

Never a cross word...

It's the last bank holiday weekend before term, so here's an opportunity to spoil it. Your resident Saint has been slaving over a dictionary to produce the Summer 2013 AView Crossword. I'm pretty sure I've weeded out all the mistakes...

La Forza del Destino

A couple of years ago I wrote (here and here) about how I used Google Sidebar and the Opera web-browser as as my main windows on the internet. At the time I wrote those posts Google Sidebar was set to be killed off, and I was wondering what I might find to replace it. Up to that point my use of RSS feeds was primarily news-based, with a few Twitter accounts and 'blog alerts thrown into a simple index of headlines. The demise of Google Sidebar led me to Google Reader and a centralised feed reader experience with all my content delivered on a plate. No longer did I visit sites ad hoc and on the offchance: Google Reader brought the sites to me!

Opera took the burden of other aspects of my Google Sidebar: the notepad and the Twitter feed in particular. I developed and improved the lists I used in Seesmic, and this became my new source of news headlines. When Seesmic was killed off (briefly) in 2012, I jumped to the near-identical Tweetdeck and tweaked my lists some more. My first column contains news, current affairs and silliness. My second is full of librarians (now just active UK librarian individuals, to keep within Twitter's list-length limits). My third is arts and archives, plus library organisations and librarians from further afield (it lights up at night when the Americans wake up). My fourth is a digest of my favourite tweeters (with an extra-special cadre of quiet but cherished twitterers also being redirected as texts to my mobile 'phone)...

On single-monitor computers, I run Tweetdeck in Opera's side-panel, but recently I've been lucky enough to have two monitors, so Tweetdeck often gets one to itself. It has become a great big side-panel of its own.

Google Reader got axed recently, so now I'm using Old Reader, which is pretty much exactly the same. It briefly got axed too, but not for very long.

The linchpin in my internet activities remains the Opera 12 browser. I've been using Opera for over a decade (albeit with a brief Mozilla flirtation when Opera 7 was launched). It is not a browser with a huge market share, which means that some web sites don't work as well as they should, but these issues are substantially less than they were in the early days when you had to carry Internet Explorer (IE) and Netscape around with you at all times. It lacks the grinding clunkiness of Firefox and the hectoring twitchiness of IE. It may have lost its speed record to Chrome, but makes up for it by being an infinitely customisable Swiss Army Knife rather than a simple plastic fork. Don't get me wrong, I think Chrome is a fine piece of kit, but it's a bit Fisher Price and it's too hard to get the back off.

The added functionality of Opera is particularly useful at work. Let's take a screengrab (this is of my home set-up, but work isn't too different):

Examining a similar image in a previous blogpost using Dragonfly

Box 1 contains some bells and whistles I use now and again.  Many of these tools have their parallels in other browsers, and most are third party extensions. At work I have less of these and I keep them in slightly different places. There's a pixel ruler (handy when making web-pages), a timer to tell me how long I've been staring at different web sites (Tweetdeck has clocked up nearly 200 hours this year at home), an image indexer (handy when looking at image galleries), a tool that lets me draw red lines about the place (very good for teaching sessions), a translator, my Pinterest pin, and the Talis reading lists bookmarklet tool. There's also an option to enforce my own style-sheet on a page, so for instance if I'm using Old Reader in a small window and want to maximise my viewing space, I have set up a hacked style-sheet that removes the top menu bars:

Box 2 contains my trusty search engines. At home these are Wikipedia, YouTube, Google Maps and Google (plus a host of others on a dropdown tab). At work I have Wikipedia, the library catalogue, Google Scholar and Google, (plus various specialist catalogue searches on the dropdown: I've made particular use of the "periodicals by title" search). 

Box 3 is my side-panel: very handy for keeping notes (the one depicted appears to be full of code I've been using while working on the university's LibGuides).  It can also display web-pages (usually Tweetdeck). I've dabbled with using Opera for email and RSS too, but it's a bit too basic for my tastes!

And then there's Box 4 on the screengrab: Opera Dragonfly. I've been using this a lot, lately, while I've been working on prettifying the LibGuides. Dragonfly is Opera's built-in DOM inspector, and it allows me to peel apart a web page, component by component, to see what makes it tick. If I want to know what colour this font is, for example, I can just right-click and look at the relevant code in Dragonfly (it would appear to be #B4A7D6). It's very very useful.

Google killed the Sidebar and the Reader, but at least they've not killed Opera...

And then came Opera 15. Due to reasons practical and doubtless economic, Opera have ditched their Presto engine (the gubbins inside Operas 7 to 12) in favour of Blink (the gubbins inside Google Chrome). This necessitates something of a tabula rasa at Opera, and Opera 15 is a completely new browser: a rebadged Chrome with all the simplicity that that implies. You can't alter the browser layout. You can't even bookmark properly. It is a very different sort of browser to Opera 12: from one extreme to the opposite.

A trawl of the Opera forums demonstrates a significant dismay being aired by long-term Opera users like myself. Moaning is inevitable when faced with any change: we hate our routine being disturbed. I mentioned earlier that I briefly left Opera after they launched Opera 7, and that was in part because it was different (though mainly because they were doing naughty things with their advertising). Likewise, I only came to Opera in the first place because I didn't like the look of Netscape 6. But these differences were nothing to the difference between Opera 12 and Opera 15 (Operas 13 and 14 are lost to the fevered imaginings of developers). They are completely opposed in their philosophies. Beneath all the fan dismay is a sense that perhaps even the developers are not so keen. They have been saddled with a corporate decision and would rather have been playing with their own baby than with Google's. Regardless, the consequence is that Opera 15 has none of the features that make me use Opera. None of them. This is a sad thing for me, and for many of the 1% of all web surfers whose board of choice is Opera. But perhaps Opera are thinking that this 1% of geeks and Norwegians might be traded against an as yet untapped market of people who just want a Fisher Price browser upon which to point and click (and they are probably mathematically safe in this belief). It's Windows 8 all over again...

There's obviously an appetite for simplicity. Of course there is. Most people will never right-click on the internet. It's not a question of dumbing down because they were never "up" in the first place. I accept that what I do with Opera is a very niche pursuit, and a consequence too of my age and background. But it doesn't lessen the sense of outrage when a range of possibilities get taken away from you: when freedoms are removed.

For now, Opera 12 is being kept going by a development team that realise their new product is not yet a fit successor. But I fear that this will be Eudora all over again. A web browser is the scrying glass through which you see the internet, and all glass distorts to some extent. I've always admired the clarity of Opera in spite of certain imperfections, and to be forced into a new prescription will be a terrible strain for me. I fear it will be like using the internet with blinkers.

But to return to the sentiments of the paragraph before last... to the sense of loss for something being axed: not something used by a majority of the population, but cherished by that minority who do... Only 1% of web traffic is through Opera, which pales in comparison to the 35% of the population the Society of Chief Librarians claims pop into a library once a month. By accident or design, the erosion of freedoms is very much in vogue.

I'm not quite sure where to go with the analogy between Opera 12 and libraries. It's too late on a Sunday. But for a moment there I saw something at the corner of my eye. I should make the most of such things while I can...

Look what I found in my bellybutton: a tale of activism, impotence and indolence

Well that's that... the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals (CILIP) will be going ahead with its rebranding exercise, and members will get to vote on a new name in September. Today's general meeting in London was attended by "over 94 people" (97 were apparently registered), and there were 1513 proxy votes. The motion on the table was: 

"This General Meeting believes the current rebranding exercise should be halted, believing it to be a distraction from the urgent tasks of advocacy for the profession, and a waste of scarce resources."

752 voted for the motion, 804 voted against and 16 abstained. There were 1572 votes in total from 1610 registered attendees and proxy ballots (wherein "no vote" was a possible response): approximately 10% of the total membership, if Wikipedia is to be believed.

There were something like 436 tweets on the Storify of the meeting's hashtag, from 108 different tweeters (more people than attended the meeting in person)... probably more if you let the hashtag run through the rest of the afternoon. That's a fair bit of attention and excitement for one vote, and I wonder how it compares to previous CILIP meetings. And to other library issues. As @publiclibnews said: " Can we get as upset about closures please?"

We can't, of course. Would that it were so easy. It's little effort to get excited about CILIP... a lot of us are members. We have a direct, identifiable stake. The targets are easy to determine. Everyone knows where they stand, roughly. To take arms against CILIP is nothing in need of soliloquy. It comes naturally.

Closures are a different matter, if only for the simple reason that one can only defend a library if it is actually being closed. It also helps to be a member of that library. Were my local library under threat, I would like to think that I would be out there and getting involved, but thankfully it is not. As for libraries that are under threat, I don't feel qualified to intervene. 

This is probably not the right attitude to have but it is one born of practicality as much as of provincialism: I am too far away from Gloucester to play a role in their fight, and when the Sheffield protests began it was a 50' bus ride away (at £5 a throw): a long excursion for someone who wasn't a member of that particular authority's service. It didn't feel sufficiently like my problem for me to get myself out of bed. Again, they came for the librarians in Gloucester but I wasn't in Gloucester...

The sense from the recent Umbrella conference seems to be that public libraries are a write-off. There is nothing to be done. Councils have no choice but to cut, and, in the grand scheme of council services, free books look like an expendable luxury. Break free of council control and you lose the protections inherent therein; stay in council control and you face death by a thousand cuts. 

Which brings me back to my last post. To treat library closures as a library issue is to fight a losing battle. In the "something's got to give" mentality, libraries are going to give (we could point out the expenses of local government structures, posh cars and consultancy but it just stays the execution a little). Because libraries are a luxury: a brilliant, fabulous luxury that we've felt it appropriate to afford for over a century, along with a host of other welfare luxuries, each one deserving to live. This is bigger than libraries. It's about local government provision en masse, and it needs a response in like. 

I don't know how to do that. I only know how to moan about how we should do that. It doesn't help that the Labour party is indulging in petty suicide again. Mark Steel and Owen Jones tweet a good tweet but so far remain trapped in their own echo chamber. The unions have merged themselves beyond meaningfulness, and 35 years of demonization has reduced their membership to ineffectual levels. The public/private wedge means that any public sector action is instantly decried before it begins, so we need to generate genuine, widespread popular support. The only way to do that is to make this about the welfare state as a whole, but how we build momentum without friends in high places is the most troubling aspect of all. 

The unfortunate bottom line is that we are not desperate enough yet to march from Jarrow. Until we reach pre-war levels of poverty we remain comfortable enough to sit here moaning while the powers that be undo every gain of the last few generations. It is serious and troubling but too risky and too much trouble to fight about. The Arab Spring is enough to put any member of the chattering classes off their talk of revolution.

And yet and yet something must be done. What will it take to get me and everybody else off our arses? Or should I just move to Finland?

I'll not move to Finland. I'll move to wherever the job market forces me to go, because I need a job and beggars are limited in their choices (this particular beggar has now limited herself to Yorkshire and so has even less choice than before). My own sector is not all that happy either, and I should probably be blogging about the problems of academic libraries... 

It's all related. It all comes back to that ideological struggle we were told was dead but which clearly is not. It's state funding versus private funding: socialism versus capitalism, and the old postwar consensus has got lost in the global market. The left and the right are very much at play, it is just that nobody seems to be representing the left any more. There's a sense that it's a done deal but it needn't be so. Assuming there's the will to stop it.

Who will stand up for the welfare state: libraries, education, hospitals and all? What will it take for us to do something? What will they do that will push us that little bit too far as to wrench us from our bread and circuses and actually kick up a real fuss? I include myself in this. Blogging revolutionary rhetoric is easy and requires little actual effort. I'm now going to drink some wine and play on the computer because real revolution is boring and hard work. Maybe that balance will soon shift. These blog posts are perhaps a sign of something happening: some flexing of my library-saving muscles. But until we do find a way to genuinely excite the population as a whole into some real widespread shock at the plight of public services; until there is a clear flag beneath which to rally, I fear this will remain a provincial pursuit. 

We all have different talents. Some are great public speakers and debaters, some can write a mean letter to their MP, some are amazing organizers, some have deep pockets, some are frighteningly good at propaganda, some are just extra muscle, signatories on the petition, votes in the ballot box. To bring us all together requires some sort of framework: some team of likeminded souls with the range of talents required to stick it to the right sticking places. I've already said that I believe the issue to be bigger than libraries, which rules CILIP out as far as I'm concerned, but that's not to say that CILIP doesn't have a role; that it can't have a role. Part of trying to fight for survival is trying to plan for what survival would mean, and there CILIP most definitely has a role. Indeed, CILIP needs to be part of the machine of protest anyway. The general movement has a shared aim, but does not prohibit us from working in smaller units, so long as those units cooperate. Librarian, nurse, teacher, social worker, consultant(?), member of the public employed in the private sector... We need CILIP to be a useful cog in whatever movement we manage to cobble together. We need it to represent us and to represent our interests.

CILIP is not a union. It is not a guild. Furthermore, we are not all members and this means that its power is greatly diminished. CILIP cannot pull strings. Unison is similarly hampered. Maybe we should start rattening the rolling stacks and book sorters to build up a critical mass. The truth is that most people in the world can't be bothered. We want a quiet life. Is that too much to ask? Other people are better than us at this sort of thing.

90% of CILIP membership (so an even larger fraction of librariankind as a whole in this country) did not vote in today's fun and games. That's a lot of people. And most of them are probably shaking their heads at the state the profession is in, and at what's happening to public libraries, and most of them would probably like to stay in a job too. Apathy is normal, especially where professional bodies are concerned. It doesn't mean that these people don't care, just that they've got other things to worry about. We all have. The proportion of librarians involved in various campaigns to save libraries is, I suspect, equal to, if not considerably greater than, the 10% that played today; all of us contribute somehow, when we feel it necessary or possible. It would be great to think that all c.15,000 CILIP members could be out on Kensal Rise and the likes, but it isn't practical. Just as it isn't practical for those same members to attend a general meeting held at short notice in That London. Activism can be an expensive pursuit or a local one.

We mustn't rush to criticise those that aren't actively involved in library campaigns. Someone has to be home doing the librarianing while the others are out saving the world. Some of our best campaigners are not full-time librarians, and it doubtless helps. Others give what they can, when they feel they can, even if it's just moral support. Both pursuits are vital, I suspect. Some of us, like me, are armchair supporters unsure of how to do more of if they could actually be motivated to do more beyond the momentary rush of blood. The important thing is that when they do come knocking we have something to offer, be it a model library service and a template of good practice, or blood, sweat, toil, tears and any other bodily fluids that we can bottle and throw at our enemies. Because in defending our service, we also need a service to defend. Cake is there to be eaten as well as had, and we would be poor librarians if we didn't take advantage of some cake.

All this rambling is my way of saying that I really should do more than I do but that I'm waiting for a proper vehicle in which to do it. We need to save libraries along with all the other local services, and we need to get everyone with us to do it. CILIP aren't going to lead on this. I'm not going to lead on this. Labour aren't going to lead on this. Unison might lead on this. Owen Jones would love to lead on this. Nick Clegg could lead on this but never will. For now nobody is leading on this and my blogs are getting more political than I ever intended them to be. Such are my frustrations: frustrations with myself, with CILIP and with the wider politics that is driving this predicament. I think its time I stopped writing for one night.

Pushing bellybuttons

In politics it is an observed phenomenon that when a party loses long-held power it inevitably gazes upon its navel. It then proceeds to tear its navel apart, destroying its electability until such time that the party in power has itself lost it. Public libraries are in serious trouble and academic libraries have some pretty big issues to overcome too. Those are the fights we need to be fighting right now, and for that reason this blog has until now been mum on the whole CILIP rebrand business.

That is not to say that one should not seek to redress problems within the camp at the same time as prosecuting a battle. A well disciplined army may be essential to the victory. There is a fine line between addressing problems at home and burning down the house, and fear of the latter can leave us too scared to light the candles of our extended metaphor. I've made fun of CILIP's name in the past, and something more straightforward would certainly buy extra airtime in a media war of words.

But the way CILIP has gone about the rebrand exercise has been bothersome: bothersomely secretive, bothersomely botched, bothersomely expensive and bothersomely delivered (this post by Tom Roper expresses some of the bothers quite effectively). Now ok, CILIP are a registered charity: the product of lots of lovely people doing hard work in their own time for not much thanks; we might expect (and indeed accept) some degree of inelegant botchery. But they're a charity that exists to represent "information professionals", and frankly stuff like the rebrand consultation report and indeed the exercise as a whole is an embarrassment to the information profession. If any chartered institute should be able to do this sort of thing well (and without the need to use an agency, no matter how 'cheap') then it's surely ours. But hey ho, there we go...

The people at CILIP may have felt it necessary to move this particular deckchair at this particular time, and would have probably expected the move to be met with widespread enthusiasm (it was my first reaction, until I saw the survey). But they moved it right in the middle of the Punch & Judy show and in a way that churned up all the sand on the beach into one really unpleasant sandstorm. The methodology misfired in a big way and has perhaps highlighted deeper problems with the organization. Be our body called CILIP or Information UK, the more pressing issue is that it is not currently geared up to do the job we really need it to do right now: primarily to save public libraries in the face of the biggest wave of shock therapy this country's faced since the more overt privatisations of the '80s and '90s. A name change is not going to solve this (though it might well help in communication, or even just in morale for a profession seeking some self-validation)... it needs a wholesale rethink of what our body is for and is allowed to do. We need a war machine, not a think tank. I personally would love to see something a lot more like a Library Union, though that model would not be without its own problems. Quite what we want is, frankly, part of the problem...

We keep fixating on names. The old chestnut of whether the name "librarian" holds us back was raised at the Umbrella conference today. As a cardigan wearer I feel that our stereotype is a positive one, all the more so for being tangible and identifiable. And I suspect it is easier to mould a stereotype than to attempt to build a new one from scratch. A rose by any other name will still smell of Jif. Big brands can force us into saying Snickers if they're really persistent, but "sex worker" is still just a euphemism. In my view, "librarian" is a good hook we can use, and it has a lot of support, even if it is support that doesn't fully understand what we do. I've blogged a couple of times about the 'Frank Skinner' effect and how it can play both ways. Babies and bathwater require an effective detergent.

The thing is, we haven't got time to sit here squabbling. We may need CILIP to be something it can't be, but by the time we've voted in Michael Foot, lost our Gang of Four, told ourselves "we're alright" and diluted our principles just when we didn't need to, there won't be any libraries left to save. There'll be neither librarians nor information professionals. There'll just be a lot of K6s filled with Catherine Cooksons, and nobody there to clean up the mess.

The issue is bigger than libraries. The latest government spending review slashes another 10% off central funding for local councils that are already struggling to provide the public services that are their raison d'etre. Libraries start to look like a luxury and will continue to feature high in the pecking order of stuff to cut. Perhaps as the cuts take their toll on other areas of local government provision there may be an opportunity for greater unity: the camel's back may finally snap as it gets pressed against the wall, and we will all feel the need to do something at last. We're not there yet, but that, it seems to me, is the angle we need to take. To try to fight for our survival in terms of "libraries/librarians are really important" is not going to work against the divide-and-conquer slashing that pitches us against social care services. We need to make a general stand, something those at the bottom of the wood-pile may be unwilling to do so readily (they came for the librarians but I wasn't a librarian...). We have to fight this in terms of a defence of local government provision (and even state provision more generally) as a whole. But can we do it without sounding like a bunch of Marxists and potentially alienating swathes of the middle classes? Is it all just going to come down to a general strike, another winter of discontent, and who knows what else? Or will we all just sit on our hands and watch the welfare state get dismantled and sold off because those that understand are too idle and those that don't don't?

I type as one of the idle. I'm all fingers, me. Words without actions. More libraries will close. Massive unemployment in our sector. Until the metaphorical faeces hit the other blades of the fan we will just have to keep fighting each individual fire as best we can. Perhaps the sand kicked up by CILIP might be useful after all...