Style matters

Today I am pondering the nature of Time.

This is mostly in the context of a party we are heading off to in a bit, up there in Cheltenham.  Coo er gosh posh eh?  A dear friend is having a Significant Birthday this week, and we have been invited along to help him celebrate.  When the invitation arrived, I looked at the clever vintage-stylee design, and the large, highly visible Date of Birth thereon.

Me:  "I can't believe he's 50!  Already!  it only seems a couple of years since we all went to his 40th birthday!  Remember that evening?  That Chinese restaurant in Gloucester?  What a laugh."

Mr WithaY:  Read the date again.

Me:  1954.

Mr WithaY:  And 2014 minus 1954 is....?

Me:  (uncertainly, what with my terrible Maths Blindness affliction)  Um...50?

Mr WithaY:  No.  60.  He's 60.  It's TWENTY YEARS since we went to his 40th birthday.

Me:  But I still have the handbag I took to that party!

So, we are off to a birthday party for a friend who is, incredibly, 60 .  The lithe bugger started long-distance running a year or two ago and is fitter and healthier than he has been in all the time I've known him.  He posts photos on Facebook of him running 10k races, and 25k races, and wearing medals from races, and he looks less knackered than I do after I've hoovered the stairs.

This morning, Mr WithaY has been preparing himself for the event.  He's been rummaging in his wardrobe, selecting garments, then rejecting them, then picking them up again to see the effect with a different waistcoat.  He has, and I am not joking, just been in a quandary as to which pocket watch he ought to wear.
I suggested he forgo the pocket watch, and wear a wristwatch like any sane human, but apparently if you wear a waistcoat, you have to wear a watch chain, and if you wear a watch chain, you have to wear a pocket watch. Well duh.

Mr WithaY has two modes for clothes. He has Work Mode, which involves multiple layers of fleece, Goretex, moleskin, gaiters and heavy boots, with a complicated belt arrangement which has knives, a firelighting kit and his phone attached to it, and he has Going Out Mode, which involves cravats, waistcoats, 1930s trousers, or possibly overcoats, and the same heavy boots (minus gaiters.)  I'm pretty sure that if I didn't put my foot down, he'd wear a monocle.  Maybe two, as he's short-sighted.

To make matters worse, today he has been having to make additional holes in his belt, as he has lost so much weight due to being a manly outdoor type*, so he's smugly looking forward to showing off his svelte shape in front of our friends later.

Next week we're going shopping to buy him some sensible shoes, as all his shoes look like Ray Mears has been tromping across Africa in them.  I haven't told him yet. I'll pretend we're popping into Salisbury for a mooch round the market and lunch at Wagamama, then drag him to a shoe shop.  Bwahahahahaha.

I'm wearing a new skirt and a pretty top, and some lipstick, in order to fulfil the dress code of "smart casual" which is the most hellish of all dress codes. I can do smart - I have ballgowns, and tiaras and evening gloves and feather boas - and I can do casual - look, I am doing that right now - but Smart Casual is a nasty mixture in the middle.  Will I be too casual?  Will I be overdressed?  Will anyone care?

Thankfully, the answer to that last question is a resounding "no," because these are very old friends who for 20 years only really saw me in a field, dressed as a Seventeenth Century musketeer.  Their expectations are low.

In other news, we have had a bit of a health scare with the dog.  A peculiar lump appeared on one of her paws, just above the dewclaw, so I did what you should never do, and Googled "weird lumps on Labradors."  Immediately, inevitably, I became convinced she had terminal Death Paw Cancer Lumps, so we took her to the vet the next day for a check-up.  The vet took a biopsy and added to the alarm by telling us it could either be a cyst (not too bad) or a tumour (GAAAAH WHAT DID YOU SAY??) but that she wouldn't know till after the results came back.

A stressful few days followed, with us playing telephone tag with the vet, trying to get the results. Things were not helped by them leaving a message saying "It's not massively bad, can you ring us please?"

What the hell does "not massively bad" mean?    We only need to amputate one foot?  She could live at least another six months?  Brrr.

Anyhoo, eventually I spoke to the vet, who told me it was most likely a cyst-type thing as a result of an irritation like a bite or a sting or a thorn, and it should go away by itself in six to eight weeks. We have to take her back for a check up in a fortnight though, just to make sure.

The most encouraging thing was that they didn't find any cancer cells, which is what they were looking for.

Here she is, being all stressed out by the situation.

*And not eating 5 custard doughnuts a day whilst sat on his arse at a desk

Dogs, Mice, People

This week I have mostly been making some biggish life decisions.  Well, one decision.  The last few weeks have been sad and stressful and strange, and I know that's not a good time to decide stuff which may impact on your future.  Best to wait until things are more settled and less emotional.   Despite knowing that, though, I did it anyway.

About 18 months ago I found a part time job as a cook at the care home in our village. Only for a few hours a week, and in the early evenings, so it fitted handily around other stuff I do.  Occasionally they asked me to come and cook lunch on the days when the full-time cooks were away, which I really enjoyed, as it is "proper" cooking.  Lots of home-made soups, cakes, puddings and meat and vegetable main courses.

It was all useful professional catering experience in a comparatively safe environment, as the menu is planned days in advance and there aren't huge numbers of people to feed.  The scope for failure is limited to service being a few minutes late if (for example) you forgot to make gravy. Getting positive feedback from the residents is lovely, and knowing that my apple cake, or cottage pie, or pea and ham soup has made them enjoy their day a bit more than they might have otherwise is a great feeling.

The experience we've had with father in law WithaY living in residential accommodation has really brought it home to me how important the food is in someone's day.  Sometimes lunch is a really big deal.

During the time I worked there, they built the huge new nursing home behind the old house. This was the place we moved Mr WithaY's dad to in May this year, and where he was able to enjoy the views, the top-of-the-range accommodation - he loved the hydro bath - and the interesting and well-made food.  I would say that, of course, but the team of chefs and cooks there are genuinely very good, and the quality of the food is brilliant.

Anyhoo, as a result of father in law's death, it now makes me very sad to go to work.  Walking up the drive, looking at his old home, it's a forcible reminder which means I go into work with a heavy heart.  I know it will pass, as everything does, but even so.

This is in itself not really enough of a reason to quit, but there have been a few other issues.  My upcoming surgery will mean I will have to take at least 3 months off work, which will be a nuisance.  The catering business is ramping up for Christmas, and a lot of the bookings are on days when I would be working at the care home.

Add to this the feeling I now have that the time I am at work is impinging on my life annoyingly - yes, it's only a few hours, but if Mr WithaY has been out all day, he arrives home almost exactly as I leave for work, and I value the "cup of tea and how was your day?" ritual we have - so I thought I'd hand in my notice.

If nothing else, it's a good incentive to make sure the Christmas fêtes and bazaars we are taking part in with the catering company are a success.

It's surprising how easy it was to give notice.  I think over the last few years I have got better at major change. Leaving the MoD, then the Civil Service, starting a small business, learning to work in an entirely different profession, managing my time when I have so much more of it free than I have ever done in my life.  It's all good.

I think I'm going to find a course at the local college and learn something new this winter.  When we first moved here I went to Frome college and did an evening course in stained glass making, which was great fun.  I never managed anything really huge, like a window, but I made some nice smaller pieces for the house and for friends and family, and I still like looking at them and thinking "I did that."

Time to do something new.  I rather fancy learning how to make hats.

In other news, has anyone else been driven to FURY by those awful mini adverts that Channel 4 are showing around the Simpsons?  They're for some shop or other, I can't remember who, and feature a variety of pretend families. The plot runs thus:

Child (who looks at least 25, and who is seen lying on the sofa, or on their bed with a laptop) screams the word "Mum" or "Dad" continuously for the length of the snippet.  This in itself is fucking irritating.

Parent (dopey looking simpering doormat) then appears at the door of the room, summoned by the bellowing slightly younger person.

Child then demands a new item of clothing, presumably seen on a website on their laptop. No use of the word "please" is made. Not once.

Parent agrees. WITH A SMILE.

NOTHING about those adverts makes me want to use the product they are advertising. And whilst I understand the concept of targeted adverts - if you don't understand it, you're not the target market - I genuinely struggle to see who their target market is.  Is it the parents?  If so, portraying them as spineless walking wallets at the beck and call of their appalling offspring seems like a peculiar way to get them to buy into the concept.

If it's the children, why are they shown as being so old? My reaction to the bloody things (and this may be the point of course, some smart advertising concept person has come up with a way to make people sit up and take notice, even if it's only in fury) is to ask:

"Why doesn't that mother give that squawking great oaf of a son a clip around the ear for being such a bone idle, demanding, obnoxious bastard, instead of saying "Oh alright then..." with a simpering smile when he bellows at her and then orders her to get him new trainers?"

Gah.

The obvious answer is to stop watching TV, of course.

What else has been going on?  Well, Mr WithaY and I went to the excellent Frome Super Market on Sunday. This is a monthly event held in the town centre, with all sorts of stalls selling foods, coffee, sausages inna bun, arty crafty stuff, dog treats, wooden doorstops, bunting and enamel baths. It's eclectic.

I bought some chocolate moulds from the organic Real Chocolate stall - most of what is sold is either Organic, Artisan or Hand Crafted.  Frome is a bit like that - and have been amusing myself making chocolate mice for the upcoming Christmas fairs.  Some have been more successful than others.

I made a batch of my delicious Chinese Style Plum Sauce, and am currently working on labelling that is more interesting and gift-friendly than my current style.  Unfortunately my handwriting is readable but dull, so hand-written labels might be off the agenda.  I might ask Mr WithaY to write them, as he can do gorgeous calligraphy, but that would take a lot of time, and time is money.  Hark at me.  That's a small business person right there.

I've also made a batch of mincemeat, and am planning to make some mini mince pies to take as free samples, in the hope that it will encourage people to buy the mincemeat.  And if not, at least they'll know we make lovely mince pies if they're thinking of having a Christmas party catered.

Oh, I bought a recipe book for treats for dogs too.  I know, via certain dog owners of my acquaintance, that people like to buy their dogs treats, and so I am going to make some festive dog biscuits and see if they sell.  I will ensure they are clearly labelled FOR DOGS even though they will be safe for human consumption.  The environmental health are funny about stuff like that.

Oh, and I bought a dog bed cover for Hester, from a company called Tuffies.  It arrived before they said it would, it fits perfectly, and the dog loves it.

So well done Tuffies, and if you'd like to send me a free dog bed in return for all this advertising, I'd like a large one in flame red please.  Ta.

Choppy

Hey, hello!  Remember me? I used to post stuff on here fairly regularly.  More than once or twice a month, anyway. I hope at least some of you are still hanging in there, waiting for something to appear.  I'd still do it even if it was into an empty, echoing void, but it feels somehow friendlier to imagine one or two people reading what I write.

So. What's new with me, I hear you ask?

I now have TWO part-time jobs, as well as the fledgeling catering business, so my spare time is far more limited than it has been for the last 18 months or so.  I'm really enjoying both jobs, one as a cook and one as a waitress/barmaid in a pub, both within walking distance, both of which get me out of the house and allow me to interact with lots of people.

The new business progresses slowly but steadily too.  We've had some business cards printed, have advertising arranged in a local publication, and have a few jobs already in the calendar. We have to get some dull statutory stuff sorted out before we start "properly" but we've got plans for that too.

One of the things that needed doing was setting up an account with the local Cash and Carry store.  For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, a Cash and Carry is a huge warehouse full of enormous ENORMOUS boxes of foodstuffs and catering/hospitality supplies which you buy at prices far below those charged in supermarkets.  The idea is that businesses are able to effectively buy in wholesale quantities and thus make a profit when they retail the products, or use them in their hotel, or pub or whatever.

You have to have joined the organisation and have been sent a membership card before you are allowed to shop there, and in order to join the organisation you have to be able to prove that you have a business.  So.  It was a big day when I was able to go to Trowbridge and fill in all the paperwork which allowed me to take my giant industrial shopping trolley round the aisles.

Well.  It's like Aladdin's Cave in there.  If you imagine Aladdin's Cave to be full of 100kg sacks of rice, and giant multi-packs of cotton wool, and mustard in vats you could bathe in.  We scampered round the warehouse in high glee, exclaiming over the things we found.  Huge pots of jam.  Teeny tiny pots of jam in packs of 100.  Gallon jars of pickles.  Ickle teeny tiny individual plastic containers of pickle, sold by the box of 250.  Bazillions of napkins.  Booze.  Varied and interesting catering equipment.  It was fantastic.  Honestly*.

We loaded up the trolley with about 200 different things, including antibacterial hand-wash (pack of 6), a catering first-aid kit, some smart white aprons, a box of bars of dark chocolate**, assorted flours, sugars and butters, and headed to the checkout.

The system is basic but effective.  A cheerful man with a hand-held scanner swiftly beeps everything in on the trolley, hands you the bill, and then you go across to a lady behind a glass screen to pay for it all.

The temptation is to spend far more money than you need to because everything is a BARGAIN.  I will go infrequently, armed with a shopping list, otherwise any money I'd save on low prices will be negated by the sheer quantity of things I buy.  They have ENORMOUS jars of Nutella.  I'm only human.

I've also been buying BARGAINS at the farmers market.  Most recently it has been ginger.  I picked up a 12 kg box of fresh ginger for £2.  TWO QUID.

Once the thrill of cornering the Wiltshire ginger market faded, I had to decide what to do with it all.

I've crystallized a lot, for sale as part of the catering business:

I made a batch of Japanese style pickled ginger, which I hope will turn pink in due course.  The recipe promised that it would:

And, ahahahahahaaaaaaaa clever, I grated a lot of it, froze it in ice cube trays in 1-teaspoon portions, and now have them all bagged up in the freezer for when I need fresh ginger for something.

Some of the crystallised ginger has since been richly enrobed (oooh, get me) in dark chocolate, and I have to say it is pretty spectacular.  I think a lot of people will be getting ginger-related gifts for Christmas.  

One thing I learned: if you chop and peel a lot of ginger, it makes your fingers burn, and if you later rub yourself in the eye, it REALLY burns.  So try not to do that.

Top tip there.

I've also made plum jam - 2 types - and my first ever batch of Chinese plum sauce.  Readers, it is delicious; tangy, not too sweet, heavily scented with star anise.  I will definitely buy another box of plums and make more.

As part of ongoing business development  I bought a box of proper matching jars (and lids) in two different sizes, and it's amazing the difference it makes to see chutney or jam or whatever all in the same type of jar, rather than in recycled (as in the ginger above) pickle or mayonnaise jars.

What else?  The dog, of course.  She continues to be a delight, despite the occasional bout of stomach trouble.  The colitis has cleared up now, and she seems to be back on top form. Although we did have The Day of Vomit the other week.  I gave her her breakfast, which she scarfed down in a matter of moments, then promptly brought the whole lot back up again, in its entirety, onto the rug in the sitting room - the only carpet in the whole of the downstairs.  Perfect target identification, dog, well done.

So, I thought "Ah well, she can wait till lunchtime now," and we carried on with our day.  She ate her lunch and seemed fine for a few hours, dozing peacefully at the top of the stairs outside my study.  I was working hard*** on the computer, and I thought she was fast asleep, until I heard odd wet slurping sounds.  I went out onto the landing, and was greeted by a thick rope of dog vomit, consisting predominantly of grass, which the horrible, horrible animal was about to try and eat.  Re-eat?  Whatever.

I cried out in disgust, then (in even more disgust) picked up the solid lump-o'-vom and carried it outside to the bin.  Gah.

Again, she'd managed to barf it all up onto the carpet, rather than either the tile, stone or wooden floors in the rest of the house.  Well done, dog.  She's so clever.  I'm very proud.  Here she is, placing her order for a walk.

"I'll take this one please.  With extra cowshit for me to roll in, and a plentiful supply of grass to eat.  Oh, and some partridges to startle.  Make it so."

Good job we love her.   She likes to sleep like this, stretched out against the sofa.  It can't be comfortable, she's twisted like a corkscrew.  That white thing under her head is her fleecy blankie that she brought with her from her parents' place when she moved in.  She goes and fetches it from her bed when she wants to go to sleep.

I recently loaded Instagram on my phone.  I can take brown 1970s stylee photos like a pro now.  This is from one of our favourite walks:

Other news:  I have had a drastic haircut.  I know I mentioned it before, but here are photos.  You lucky people.

I'm fortunate to have naturally thick, wavy hair, which has (mostly) retained its natural colour, apart from the occasional brilliant white one.  As my hair is very dark, the buggers really show up.  Bah.

For about the last 10 years I have had it fairly long, which I liked.  However, a few weeks ago I was sitting reading a book, and I realised that my hair was irritating me.  It had got long enough that when I leaned back in my chair, I leaned on it and pulled it, and when I leaned forward it fell over my face and got in the way.  I went to put it up, and as I did so I thought "I always wear my hair up nowadays."  It had got too long to wear down, so it was always clipped up off my face.  And in a blinding flash of inspiration, I thought "Hey!  I could have it cut off, and wear it loose again!"

I had 10 inches cut off.  Look, here it is:

And here's the end result, please note the extra-attractive red anxious face.  Hair is much shorter, and I think rather excellent.  It's easier to manage, only takes 5 minutes to blow-dry rather than 25, and if I brush it upside down it looks like I've spent ages styling it.  So. Hurrah for impulse decisions that pay off.

It occurred to me several days after I had it cut that I could have saved all the cuttings (clippings? trimmings? whatever) and donated them to that charity that makes wigs for children who've lost their hair.  I was really cross that I hadn't thought of it at the time, as my hair was un-dyed, un-permed and in jolly good nick.  Next time I have a lot off I will do that.

Other head-related news: Mr WithaY made a fox hat.

He worked very hard on it, cleaning and treating the skin to make sure it wasn't going to rot or shed, and then designing the hat, cutting it out, and sewing it together by hand.  I refused to let him use my sewing machine, I have to admit.

Anyhoo.  One evening when I was working in the pub, he came in for a drink and was telling the chaps at the bar about his new hat.  They encouraged him to go and fetch it to show them.  He did so.

They, being farmers and robust Wiltshire country chaps, were very interested in how he'd turned a dead fox into an item of attire, so Mr WithaY was explaining the process.  I and the (much, much younger) barmaid listened in.

Mr WithaY:  ...so once you've cleaned the skin, and dried it a bit, you have to tan it, which takes ages.

Farmers:   Oh yes.  Yarp.  Oo-aarrrr.  (etcetera.)

Mr WithaY:  ...and once it's been tanned you can start cutting it out.

Youthful barmaid: Tanned??  What....with fake tan?  Why did you do that to it???

I think she was imagining Mr WithaY trying to do a makeover on the fox.  Some fake tan.  Eyelash implants.  Painted claws.  Vajazzle the tail a bit.

I'm afraid I bellowed with laughter in a most unladylike manner, and had to go and stand far away till I'd stopped.

Continuing the wildlife theme, the mole has been wreaking havoc in the front garden.  Not content with building a scale model of Silbury Hill in the middle of the lawn, he seems to have reconstructed the entire Western Front trench system in the flowerbeds, and thrown up several smaller hills around the edges.

Bastard.

Life is, in the main, very good.  We're both still enjoying life away from the full-time rat race treadmill thing, and are finding plenty to do to occupy ourselves.







*We don't get out much
**For making cakes. No, really.
***Playing World of Warcraft.  I know, I know.

WaterWorld

Well yesterday was exciting.  Mr WithaY was off out working, and after we'd walked the dog, he headed off by about 9am.  So far so good.

I pottered around in the kitchen for an hour, doing the usual domestic drudgery stuff, but that came to a grinding halt when I realised that we had no water coming out of the taps.  To be specific, there was no hot water coming out of the kitchen tap, and the barest trickle of cold water.  There was no water at all upstairs.

I went over to the petrol station and asked if they still had water.  Yes they did.   I asked our immediate neighbours if they had water.  Yes they did.

Oh good. Just us without, then.

In the course of the conversation with the neighbour, he told me that there was a "huge leak" in the village somewhere, which the people at Wessex Water had been looking for for months.  My heart sank. I telephoned Wessex Water and told them that I had no running water, but the neighbours did. They were very helpful and said that they'd send someone out "soon."  

Sure enough, a short (ish) time later, a large smiley man knocked on the door.  I took him round to the back garden and showed him what I had discovered - namely that the hole in the patio where the main water stop-cock* is sited was completely full of water, and a small spring could be seen in one corner, making a pretty cascade across the garden.

He stripped off his high-vis coat and plunged an arm into the water to turn off the water at the mains.  A few moments later, his hand emerged, clutching the broken stop cock.

"Ah,"  he said.  "That's not supposed to happen."

We agreed that it was unfortunate, standing out in the rain as he tried to massage life back into his arm.  Apparently our cold water is really, really cold.

He sucked his teeth.  I hopped from foot to foot anxiously. Water continued to cascade across the patio into the lawn, making an impromptu bog garden feature.

"Well, the guys are on their way," he told me.  "I'll wait in the van till they arrive."  Off he went.

Some time later, two chaps arrived with a lot of digging equipment, and a small pump.  Things got noisy.  A large hole was dug.  More water was pumped out of the hole and across the garden.  The dog was beside herself with excitement, so I only took her out into the garden when she had her lead on, as I didn't want her to run into the way of the workmen, or, more worryingly, run out of the garden if the gate had been left open.

After a couple of hours, the workmen showed me the water pipe they had extricated.  It looked like a long cylindrical colander, peppered with small holes, one huge hole at the end.   Apparently it must have been leaking for years, which explains why the patio is in such a terrible state at that end of the house.  The good news was that the pipe can be replaced. The bad news is that there's more pipe, probably in a similar terrible state, running up into the house, and anything inside the house is our responsibility, not that of the Wessex Water people.

Arse.

Another prolonged period of drilling, pumping and stop-cock jiggery-pokery** followed, and the workmen told me that the water "ought to be working ok" now.

Nope.  They then tried to rejig the water softener that lives under the kitchen sink in case that was the problem.  Nope.  They sucked their teeth and hummed and hawed.  One of them said "This looks like a pretty new kitchen.  I don't suppose you'll want to have all these cabinets cut out, do you?"

No I fucking won't.

The long afternoon wore on, the rain continued to piss down relentlessly, and I was still without running water.  The workmen rigged up a sort of interim system involving long plastic tubes which at least allowed me to use all the taps in the house, and left, having called the Wessex Water plumber to come and "sort it out for you."

I took the dog for a walk, despite the monsoon that West Wiltshire was currently enjoying.

On our return, the plumber rang and said he'd be there in 15 minutes.  Sure enough, he arrived as promised, and I explained the situation to him.  He looked at the water softener, then at me.  


"I'm really not sure why they called me in, to be honest," he said.  "I don't think the water softener is the problem here."  I agreed, but for the look of the thing we went through a complex rigmarole of turning taps on and off as he fiddled with various stop-cocks under the sink.  After a few minutes of this, we agreed that the water softener was indeed functioning fine, and the real issue was the perforated water pipes under the house.


So, that's how things have been left.  The workmen promised that they'd be back today to finish up, but so far there's no sign of them.  My back garden is still a tangled mess of bright blue pipework, bags of cement, heaps of spoil, and of course all the crap we took out of the garage and stacked on the patio till we could find a home for it.


And of course, it's still pissing down.


In other news, the dog is brilliant.














*Sorry. It's hard to talk about this without using many, many double entendres.
**Told you.

Sloth

I have been up less than half an hour, and it is quarter to one in the afternoon. Indeed, I am sitting here typing this in my dressing gown and slippers, cup of tea at hand.

Mr WithaY has been gone just over 24 hours and I am already turning into Miss Havisham.

I was up ridiculously late playing Second Life last night, which goes some way to explaining the enormity of my lie-in. However, I think I have worked out why the game is so compelling. I once heard someone talking about "intermittent reward" being truly addictive.

The example they used was fishing. When you go fishing there is no guarantee that you will catch anything. Sometimes you can be out all day and not get anything. Other days you can come home with pockets stuffed full of turbot. (I speak figuratively, Mr WithaY has only once brought a turbot home from a fishing trip and it was too big to go in his pocket.)

Anyhoo, Second Life is entirely unpredictable. Some days you sign in, none of your mates are around, nothing seems to be going on, so you meep about aimlessly, a bit bored, hoping something fun will happen. It doesn't, so eventually you call it quits and go and do something more useful and three-dimensional instead.

No reward for playing.

Other times, you sign in, ALL your mates are there, there's loads of great stuff happening and you have a fab time, ending up staying online till the wee small hours, (which is maybe not such a good idea.) You get a huge reward from playing, so come back the next time hoping for the same thing.

But you can't predict it, so it is addictive.

Actually, I think the dog behaviourist we took our mental "angry" dog to told us much the same thing. Don't always give the dog a food treat, sometimes just praise him when he's been good. Otherwise he comes to expect the food treat and stops behaving because he is used to the reward always being there.

But the best part of all this is that I can now tell people that I am not just a sad old roleplay game addict, but that instead, I have an addictive personality and the intermittent reward culture of Second Life has reeled me in. Much like a turbot.

Ah well. Time for a shower, then to pack my stuff for next week, then sort out the ridiculously complex logisitics involved in getting the painter into the house and Jim out of it while I am away.

Good job we have great neighbours who are around nearly all the time - I will give one of them a top hat and a tailcoat and get them to act as a doorman for me.