A couple of weeks ago there was a phone call for Mr WithaY from his bank. That in itself was enough to worry me, as generally the relationship we have with the bank is low-key and unfussy. We don't bother them, they don't bother us. They store our money in carefully-labelled mouseproof shoeboxes out the back somewhere, and give it to us when we ask for it.
So far, so good.
The lady from the bank was polite but insistent. She really REALLY needed to speak to Mr WithaY. Yes, it was important. No, she couldn't tell me what the call was about. When he came home that evening, I passed on the message, and the following morning he called them back.
It was not good news. Apparently the bank had noticed a pattern of "unusual spending" on the account, had declined a transaction, and decided to contact Mr WithaY.
The transaction they had declined was an attempt to borrow money from one of those payday loan companies. The ones who charge thousands of percent APR, that are always advertising on TV, trying to persuade us to borrow money for short-term emergencies. Or holidays. Or a new car. Or anything we want, really...after all, why do they care? As long as we pay it back, it's all cool.
In the interests of research, I just went to one of their websites and checked out how much it would cost to borrow £250 for 30 days. The additional interest and fees come to just over £80. The APR is 4214%. Over FOUR THOUSAND PERCENT. Obviously, they intend it to be a very short term solution, but bloody hellfire. Four thousand percent.
But I digress. Mr WithaY spent a depressing time on the phone to the bank, going through his recent expenditure, and it was established that yes, his identity had indeed been stolen, and some filthy thieving fucker* had taken about £1000 from his account.
I have to say that the bank were extremely helpful. Once they had established what was legitimate Mr WithaY spend and what was thievery, they said that all the stolen money would be refunded, and they would contact the police to report the theft.
We had a nice cup of tea and discussed the event, with a lot of tutting about the parlous state of morals in this country, and the bloody invidious TV adverts that encourage people to live on ever-increasing debts to support some media-fuelled aspirational lifestyle. Gah.
Some time passed.
Last week, while Mr WithaY was away at twig camp, several letters arrived for him. We don't tend to open one another's mail, in general, so I piled his letters up on the hall table and thought no more of it. Then, on Friday, a postcard arrived. It looked like one of those "Sorry you were out when we called" cards that the postman leaves when he tries to deliver your new Terry Pratchett book while you're in the shower.
Those.
I read it. It said that due to their inability to contact him, a "representative" would be coming to see Mr WithaY on a certain date, and could he please telephone to confirm that he would be at home for the appointment. There was a phone number, and the name of a company I had never heard of.
I did what any diligent** wife would do, and Googled the company name. Guess what? It was a payday loan company.
So, yesterday, once all the bushcraft kit was unpacked, and the smell of woodsmoke had dissipated a little, Mr WithaY rang the number on the card. It seems that whoever stole his identity had successfully borrowed money from this company, and, not surprisingly, they wanted it back, as per contract terms and conditions.
Once again, the lady he spoke to was incredibly sympathetic and helpful. Whoever had stolen the money had used a real name (Mr WithaY's) and a real address (ours) but had given fake references. Well you would, wouldn't you?
Once the payday loan company checked the references, after the money had been lent, they discovered that the roofing company the thief claimed to work for didn't exist. Well DUH.
Seems more sensible to check references and then hand over the cash, but hey, I'm sure they know what they're doing***.
Anyway, the payday loan company said that they would talk to the bank, and asked Mr WithaY to let them have the crime reporting number so that they too could report their losses to the police, or the insurance, or the ombudsman, or whoever is responsible for making sure nobody loses out.
So now we have to wait and see if we get any more slightly intimidating postcards alerting us to the fact that a "representative" of a loan company is going to come and see us. Oh, and whether our credit rating has been fucked up big-time**** by this tiresome drama.
And how did this all come about, you may ask? Did we stupidly put documents in the bin that someone later picked out and used? Did we use a public computer for fiscal transactions and left ourselves logged in? Did we lose our bank card, and also our PIN which was on a scrap pf paper next to it?
No.
We are both incredibly careful about all that stuff, and burn anything with our details on it once it's finished with.
Mr WithaY recently used a reputable and supposedly safe online shop, with all the correct https protocols in place. A little while after he had used the shop, they emailed him to tell him that their secure (ha!) server had been hacked, and that therefore his bank details may have been compromised.
So. Be very careful, dear readers. It could happen to you. And if it does, you could end up with Knuckles and No-Ears Eddie paying a visit to take your TV away if you fail to pay the 4214%.
*Technical law-enforcement terminology
*Nosy
**No I don't. I think they're irresponsible and stupid.
****Technical banking terminology
Showing posts with label fuckwits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fuckwits. Show all posts
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Paint it ...cream
Today, I ache. My arms, my tummy, my back, and most especially, my knees.
Mr WithaY and I spent yesterday decorating at my lovely Mum's house. We painted the bedroom - a small-ish room, to be fair - in a day. Ceiling, walls, woodwork. We work fast when we get going. Plus it was really nice emulsion and satinwood paint which went on easy and dried fast. And, though I say so myself, it looked really smart when we'd finished. And, the most important thing, my lovely Mum was pleased.
On the way home, me driving, Mr WithaY in the passenger seat, we were discussing how much lighter the evenings are now.
Me: Wow, it's half past five and not dark. Excellent.
Mr WithaY: And the mornings are lighter, which is great.
Me: I woke up really early and although the sun wasn't up, it was light. I guess it stays light for a bit after the sun sets too?
Mr WithaY: Yes, that's why you're legally allowed to shoot for an hour after sunset and before sunrise, as it's still light.
Me: So this would be "dusk" about now?
Mr WithaY: Yep, the sun has gone down but it's not dark.
Me: And there's the morning version of dusk as well.
Mr WithaY: (After a short, incredulous pause). Yes. You mean "dawn."
We had stopped at some traffic lights, which was just as well, because we both laughed until we cried.
Easily amused, we are.
What else is new? Well, in big procurement news, I have bought a staple gun. I make these pretty padded memo boards, and they require quite a lot of stapling to keep everything in place. Previously, I have borrowed Mr WithaY's heavy duty staple gun, but I thought I should get one of my own, dedicated for girlie craft stuff rather than stapling animal skins to trees or whatever it is he does all day.
I picked one up in Homebase - almost £25, thank you very much - a few months ago, and it sat on my shelf, waiting to be useful. It has a handy little plastic tool case, so I felt like a real professional when I unpacked it for the first time at the weekend.
Readers, it was SHITE.
Really. Almost everything about it was awful. The staples have to be dropped down a tube to load it, and then a separate spring-loaded stick thingy gets pushed down the hole to hold them in place. Unless you get the angle of pitch EXACTLY right, the staples break apart and jam the stapler. I assumed I was being too oafish and heavy-handed, and persevered until I had a cartridge of staples inserted properly. I tried it out on a thick wad of newspaper. There was a satisfying THUNK noise.
When I looked at the newspaper, though, the staple was only partially embedded, with a clear air gap between the cross piece and the paper. I dicked about with the adjustment wheel thingy that alters the force of the staple, and tried several more times. No discernible difference. Still a big air gap.
Isn't it interesting that there are so many technicalities to stapling? No?
Anyway. I decided to carry on, as I had already started 4 memo boards. I continued with the lame-ass half-stapling for a while, until I had finished the first stage of the memo board making process, and then I went and found a small hammer from Mr WithaY's study. I like creative projects which require hammers.
I went round all of the work I'd already done and hammered all these stupid not-even-making-an-effort staples so that they were properly embedded, and then gave up in disgust.
After that, I went on Amazon and ordered a new stapler, advertised as being suitable for DIYand upholstery. It arrived this morning, I have high hopes.
In the meanwhile, the Homebase stapler will be taken to a charity shop and left there to make some other poor sod's DIY/crafting a misery. And I won't bother buying any of Homebase's own brand tools or equipment again.
Gah.
Other news: Progress on the big long-term business plan is being made. I might be able to actually tell people about it on here without feeling like I am jinxing it.
In related news, I took (and passed) an online food hygiene training course last week. I now know not to lick raw chicken blood up off the floor.
Mr WithaY and I spent yesterday decorating at my lovely Mum's house. We painted the bedroom - a small-ish room, to be fair - in a day. Ceiling, walls, woodwork. We work fast when we get going. Plus it was really nice emulsion and satinwood paint which went on easy and dried fast. And, though I say so myself, it looked really smart when we'd finished. And, the most important thing, my lovely Mum was pleased.
On the way home, me driving, Mr WithaY in the passenger seat, we were discussing how much lighter the evenings are now.
Me: Wow, it's half past five and not dark. Excellent.
Mr WithaY: And the mornings are lighter, which is great.
Me: I woke up really early and although the sun wasn't up, it was light. I guess it stays light for a bit after the sun sets too?
Mr WithaY: Yes, that's why you're legally allowed to shoot for an hour after sunset and before sunrise, as it's still light.
Me: So this would be "dusk" about now?
Mr WithaY: Yep, the sun has gone down but it's not dark.
Me: And there's the morning version of dusk as well.
Mr WithaY: (After a short, incredulous pause). Yes. You mean "dawn."
We had stopped at some traffic lights, which was just as well, because we both laughed until we cried.
Easily amused, we are.
What else is new? Well, in big procurement news, I have bought a staple gun. I make these pretty padded memo boards, and they require quite a lot of stapling to keep everything in place. Previously, I have borrowed Mr WithaY's heavy duty staple gun, but I thought I should get one of my own, dedicated for girlie craft stuff rather than stapling animal skins to trees or whatever it is he does all day.
I picked one up in Homebase - almost £25, thank you very much - a few months ago, and it sat on my shelf, waiting to be useful. It has a handy little plastic tool case, so I felt like a real professional when I unpacked it for the first time at the weekend.
Readers, it was SHITE.
Really. Almost everything about it was awful. The staples have to be dropped down a tube to load it, and then a separate spring-loaded stick thingy gets pushed down the hole to hold them in place. Unless you get the angle of pitch EXACTLY right, the staples break apart and jam the stapler. I assumed I was being too oafish and heavy-handed, and persevered until I had a cartridge of staples inserted properly. I tried it out on a thick wad of newspaper. There was a satisfying THUNK noise.
When I looked at the newspaper, though, the staple was only partially embedded, with a clear air gap between the cross piece and the paper. I dicked about with the adjustment wheel thingy that alters the force of the staple, and tried several more times. No discernible difference. Still a big air gap.
Isn't it interesting that there are so many technicalities to stapling? No?
Anyway. I decided to carry on, as I had already started 4 memo boards. I continued with the lame-ass half-stapling for a while, until I had finished the first stage of the memo board making process, and then I went and found a small hammer from Mr WithaY's study. I like creative projects which require hammers.
I went round all of the work I'd already done and hammered all these stupid not-even-making-an-effort staples so that they were properly embedded, and then gave up in disgust.
After that, I went on Amazon and ordered a new stapler, advertised as being suitable for DIYand upholstery. It arrived this morning, I have high hopes.
In the meanwhile, the Homebase stapler will be taken to a charity shop and left there to make some other poor sod's DIY/crafting a misery. And I won't bother buying any of Homebase's own brand tools or equipment again.
Gah.
Other news: Progress on the big long-term business plan is being made. I might be able to actually tell people about it on here without feeling like I am jinxing it.
In related news, I took (and passed) an online food hygiene training course last week. I now know not to lick raw chicken blood up off the floor.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
...Written on the back of my hand
Ah, the cold harsh light of the new year shines into the cobwebby filth of my brain, much like the sunshine streaming through the windows and highlighting the cobwebs festooned across the ceilings.
Mr WithaY and I have recovered from the horrible snotfest that began immediately after Christmas, and are getting on with New Year stuff. In his case, this has been attending an interview (successful, yay) and making more excellent bushcraft stuff.
Look, he made these:
Moccasins, made to an authentic pattern, hand-stitched out of elk skin*.
They're a lot better than my dire iPhone photography would indicate. Plus he looks like Will Ferrell in Elf when he wears them.
I've been sorting out my burgeoning dressmaking business, although I think calling it a "business" is optimistic. But regardless, I've ordered some business cards and fabric labels to sew into stuff I make, which is a start. Oh, and I've registered myself as "self employed" with the fine people at Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, so I have to pay my own National Insurance for the first time in my working life. I have no idea how to do that, perhaps a plain brown envelope full of cash through their letterbox once a week?
The other BIG ongoing long-term business plan is still in early stages, but I am quietly optimistic about it.
As part of the whole "enjoying the new way of life" mindset we are actively cultivating, last week we had a big day out in Salisbury. It's a rare treat these days, and it was fab.
We had lunch at Wagamamas, nom nom nom, picked up some bargains in the sales, and went to the pictures to see the new Sherlock Holmes film.
When I say "bargains" I mean "things we intended to buy anyway but found at a vastly reduced price", not "random things we bought because they were cheap." In my book, buying something you didn't already know you needed is not bargain shopping, it's wild and crazy impulse buying, a very different animal.
One of the bargains I found was a new pair of trainers/outdoor shoes, which were reduced by £50. Result. But even better than that, the young man who sold them to me had a Story To Tell. I noticed he sported the remains of what had clearly been a spectacular black eye.
Me: That must have been a spectacular black eye.
Nice Young Man: Yes! Yes, it really was. *laughs* I got it on New Year's Eve.
Me: Oh no!
NYM: Yes, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yeah....Bristol...
He stared off into space for a moment like a war veteran remembering the day they lost the company commander and the flag and all their rations.
Me: Oh dear. What happened?
NYM: Well, we were in a pub in the wrong part of town, it turned out. There were blokes betting in the pub, big stacks of £20 notes all over the table. (Note - this is illegal in the UK, so clearly a dodgy pub if it was going on in full public view.) Anyway, one of the blokes must have thought he was being cheated because a huge full-scale bar-room brawl broke out! One minute we were having a quiet drink, the next minute there's pool balls flying across the room!
Me: Wow! What did you do?
NYM: Legged it.
I took my new shoes and left, greatly cheered by his tale of drunken Bristolian idiots walloping each other.
Other news: Mr WithaY has traded up and got himself an iPhone. Yesterday afternoon, I was fortunate enough to be party to the long and infinitely complex "Transferring of the Phone Number" ritual.
When I did it, there was one step - ring O2 and say "please will you transfer my phone number to the new SIM card that is going into my iPhone?" and it took about 6 minutes in total.
When Mr WithaY did it, it was like watching an ancient and venerated ceremony, the kind invented by monks living in a remote mountain monastary, where time passes slowly and they like to fill their days keeping busy.
Step 1: Ring O2 on the landline. (Important Note: We have no mobile reception in our house.) Ask them to transfer the old number to the new SIM card. Explain why you have called them on the landline, not the mobile.
Step 2: Provide O2 with the old phone number.
Step 3: Provide O2 with some verification that the number is actually yours. They generally ask for the amount of credit you have on your account, which you can obtain from your phone by pressing a combination of keys, including the STAR key. (Important Note: The STAR key on Mr WithaY's phone doesn't work. )
Step 4: Take landline phone and mobile phone into front garden to try and get a signal on the mobile, while trying to make the broken STAR key work to get the outstanding credit balance.
Step 5: Inform the O2 helpdesk that there is barely any battery left in the mobile now. (Important Note: Mr WithaY lost the phone charger several weeks ago, which was one of the reasons he decided to trade up to an iPhone. That and the broken STAR key.)
Step 6: Have long, increasingly stressful discussion with the helpful O2 person to explain that you can't get your outstanding balance figure from your phone because the STAR key doesn't work and you have no signal anyway. And the battery is about to run out.
Step 7: O2 person tries a different verification question and asks which numbers you dial the most often on your mobile. Try to remember, before finally giving them a number. They then tell you that that number has not been called recently enough to be used as verification.
Step 8: The O2 supervisor is called in to the conversation.
Step 9: Send a text to the "frequently called" number to validate your claim that you use it often. This entails another trip into the front garden to try and pick up a mobile signal, clutching two phones, trying to text before the battery dies completely.
Step 10: Success! Your number has been transferred. And it only took an hour and a half.
Step 11: Have a nice cup of tea and a sit-down.
Step 12: Spend the rest of the afternoon dicking about with your shiny new iPhone. Marvellous.
Other, other news: I am drafting some patterns for Medieval clothing which I have been asked to make. A jacket and a sleeveless waistcoat-y type jacket (pourpoint?), to be exact. Anyone with any advice or practical experience on this matter, please feel free to share.
*He didn't shoot the elk. Turns out you can buy elk hides online. Who knew?
Mr WithaY and I have recovered from the horrible snotfest that began immediately after Christmas, and are getting on with New Year stuff. In his case, this has been attending an interview (successful, yay) and making more excellent bushcraft stuff.
Look, he made these:
Moccasins, made to an authentic pattern, hand-stitched out of elk skin*.
They're a lot better than my dire iPhone photography would indicate. Plus he looks like Will Ferrell in Elf when he wears them.
I've been sorting out my burgeoning dressmaking business, although I think calling it a "business" is optimistic. But regardless, I've ordered some business cards and fabric labels to sew into stuff I make, which is a start. Oh, and I've registered myself as "self employed" with the fine people at Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, so I have to pay my own National Insurance for the first time in my working life. I have no idea how to do that, perhaps a plain brown envelope full of cash through their letterbox once a week?
The other BIG ongoing long-term business plan is still in early stages, but I am quietly optimistic about it.
As part of the whole "enjoying the new way of life" mindset we are actively cultivating, last week we had a big day out in Salisbury. It's a rare treat these days, and it was fab.
We had lunch at Wagamamas, nom nom nom, picked up some bargains in the sales, and went to the pictures to see the new Sherlock Holmes film.
When I say "bargains" I mean "things we intended to buy anyway but found at a vastly reduced price", not "random things we bought because they were cheap." In my book, buying something you didn't already know you needed is not bargain shopping, it's wild and crazy impulse buying, a very different animal.
One of the bargains I found was a new pair of trainers/outdoor shoes, which were reduced by £50. Result. But even better than that, the young man who sold them to me had a Story To Tell. I noticed he sported the remains of what had clearly been a spectacular black eye.
Me: That must have been a spectacular black eye.
Nice Young Man: Yes! Yes, it really was. *laughs* I got it on New Year's Eve.
Me: Oh no!
NYM: Yes, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yeah....Bristol...
He stared off into space for a moment like a war veteran remembering the day they lost the company commander and the flag and all their rations.
Me: Oh dear. What happened?
NYM: Well, we were in a pub in the wrong part of town, it turned out. There were blokes betting in the pub, big stacks of £20 notes all over the table. (Note - this is illegal in the UK, so clearly a dodgy pub if it was going on in full public view.) Anyway, one of the blokes must have thought he was being cheated because a huge full-scale bar-room brawl broke out! One minute we were having a quiet drink, the next minute there's pool balls flying across the room!
Me: Wow! What did you do?
NYM: Legged it.
I took my new shoes and left, greatly cheered by his tale of drunken Bristolian idiots walloping each other.
Other news: Mr WithaY has traded up and got himself an iPhone. Yesterday afternoon, I was fortunate enough to be party to the long and infinitely complex "Transferring of the Phone Number" ritual.
When I did it, there was one step - ring O2 and say "please will you transfer my phone number to the new SIM card that is going into my iPhone?" and it took about 6 minutes in total.
When Mr WithaY did it, it was like watching an ancient and venerated ceremony, the kind invented by monks living in a remote mountain monastary, where time passes slowly and they like to fill their days keeping busy.
Step 1: Ring O2 on the landline. (Important Note: We have no mobile reception in our house.) Ask them to transfer the old number to the new SIM card. Explain why you have called them on the landline, not the mobile.
Step 2: Provide O2 with the old phone number.
Step 3: Provide O2 with some verification that the number is actually yours. They generally ask for the amount of credit you have on your account, which you can obtain from your phone by pressing a combination of keys, including the STAR key. (Important Note: The STAR key on Mr WithaY's phone doesn't work. )
Step 4: Take landline phone and mobile phone into front garden to try and get a signal on the mobile, while trying to make the broken STAR key work to get the outstanding credit balance.
Step 5: Inform the O2 helpdesk that there is barely any battery left in the mobile now. (Important Note: Mr WithaY lost the phone charger several weeks ago, which was one of the reasons he decided to trade up to an iPhone. That and the broken STAR key.)
Step 6: Have long, increasingly stressful discussion with the helpful O2 person to explain that you can't get your outstanding balance figure from your phone because the STAR key doesn't work and you have no signal anyway. And the battery is about to run out.
Step 7: O2 person tries a different verification question and asks which numbers you dial the most often on your mobile. Try to remember, before finally giving them a number. They then tell you that that number has not been called recently enough to be used as verification.
Step 8: The O2 supervisor is called in to the conversation.
Step 9: Send a text to the "frequently called" number to validate your claim that you use it often. This entails another trip into the front garden to try and pick up a mobile signal, clutching two phones, trying to text before the battery dies completely.
Step 10: Success! Your number has been transferred. And it only took an hour and a half.
Step 11: Have a nice cup of tea and a sit-down.
Step 12: Spend the rest of the afternoon dicking about with your shiny new iPhone. Marvellous.
Other, other news: I am drafting some patterns for Medieval clothing which I have been asked to make. A jacket and a sleeveless waistcoat-y type jacket (pourpoint?), to be exact. Anyone with any advice or practical experience on this matter, please feel free to share.
*He didn't shoot the elk. Turns out you can buy elk hides online. Who knew?
Friday, 2 December 2011
Extra long honkers
I've been looking at some of the search terms people have used to get to my blog. Many of them are as you might expect - "home made cake," "lives in the woods," "extraordinarily talented unpublished authors of the twenty-first century" - but some are just utterly pure genius bonkers.
For example:
Elven tea. As far as I know I have never offered recipes for any elven food or beverages, certainly not tea. Perhaps I ought to start a cookery suggestions section for all the non-human races. Elven tea. Gnome quiche. Orc battenburg. Troll eclairs. Fairy cakes. Heh. I do remember ranting about the bastard elves in Iceland who threaten to break your legs if you upset them. Maybe that's what they were looking for.
god for harry. Marvellous. I am attracting semi-literate people who are keen on Shakespeare. Or Kenneth Branagh. Or who are frantically researching Henry V for their homework, up against a deadline. Either way, hello, non-capitalising culture fans. Bet this wasn't what you were looking for, eh?
have a proper cold. I like that this sounds like an order. For goodness sake, stop sniffling and whining and just have a proper cold, can't you? Sheesh. No, blood pouring from your ears doesn't count. Nor does the broken bone poking through your shin. Come back when you have a temperature, blocked sinuses and a red shiny nose, not before. Timewaster.
Yellow circles malta bird intrigues me. I can't imagine what that person is looking for. If it was you, please drop a comment and tell me. I bet you were mighty pissed off when all you found were photos of my terrible tie-dyed sheets and some holiday snaps of Malta. Fool.
Dalek blown up toilet seat is another mystery. Dalek, yes. Toilet seat, yes. Both of those subjects have made at least one appearance on here. Both together? Unlikely. Mental.
Extra long honkers. This one made me laugh out loud, and I Googled it myself. All I found out was that it refers to one of the magazines read by Scruffy the Janitor in Futurama, along with "Zero G Juggs." Don't say you never learn anything here. It could also possibly be referring to the many and varied duck/goose decoy honkers which I have commented on in the past. However, I prefer to imagine disappointed cartoon porn magazine seekers finding this blog, and becoming interested in cake and car problems despite themselves.
Look, the hilarious picture of honkers that I took waaaaaay back when we were in Maine last summer, remember? Yeah you do.
In other news: Business plans are gathering pace, to the extent that I am going to be in touch with an accountant next week. More news once stuff is signed. But it's all very exciting.
For example:
Elven tea. As far as I know I have never offered recipes for any elven food or beverages, certainly not tea. Perhaps I ought to start a cookery suggestions section for all the non-human races. Elven tea. Gnome quiche. Orc battenburg. Troll eclairs. Fairy cakes. Heh. I do remember ranting about the bastard elves in Iceland who threaten to break your legs if you upset them. Maybe that's what they were looking for.
god for harry. Marvellous. I am attracting semi-literate people who are keen on Shakespeare. Or Kenneth Branagh. Or who are frantically researching Henry V for their homework, up against a deadline. Either way, hello, non-capitalising culture fans. Bet this wasn't what you were looking for, eh?
have a proper cold. I like that this sounds like an order. For goodness sake, stop sniffling and whining and just have a proper cold, can't you? Sheesh. No, blood pouring from your ears doesn't count. Nor does the broken bone poking through your shin. Come back when you have a temperature, blocked sinuses and a red shiny nose, not before. Timewaster.
Yellow circles malta bird intrigues me. I can't imagine what that person is looking for. If it was you, please drop a comment and tell me. I bet you were mighty pissed off when all you found were photos of my terrible tie-dyed sheets and some holiday snaps of Malta. Fool.
Dalek blown up toilet seat is another mystery. Dalek, yes. Toilet seat, yes. Both of those subjects have made at least one appearance on here. Both together? Unlikely. Mental.
Extra long honkers. This one made me laugh out loud, and I Googled it myself. All I found out was that it refers to one of the magazines read by Scruffy the Janitor in Futurama, along with "Zero G Juggs." Don't say you never learn anything here. It could also possibly be referring to the many and varied duck/goose decoy honkers which I have commented on in the past. However, I prefer to imagine disappointed cartoon porn magazine seekers finding this blog, and becoming interested in cake and car problems despite themselves.
Look, the hilarious picture of honkers that I took waaaaaay back when we were in Maine last summer, remember? Yeah you do.
In other news: Business plans are gathering pace, to the extent that I am going to be in touch with an accountant next week. More news once stuff is signed. But it's all very exciting.
Sunday, 26 June 2011
Flaming
I'm typing this slowly and painfully, moving my arms as little as possible. Why, dear readers, is this? Why, it's because I have:
a) Tired old arms from a day of hard work yesterday, mostly spent carrying trays across a sunshiny lawn, whilst nimbly dodging a football being kicked around by many small children.
b) Aching wrists after de-stoning a huge - huge - box of cherries and putting them in the freezer for "later".
c) Managed to get sunburn across by upper back and shoulders this morning whilst enjoying the glorious sudden advent of proper summer in the garden.
Yesterday I was helping a friend cater a garden party, all very smart, in a marquee in someone's garden. It was a cold buffet, lots of ham, salmon, asparagus quiche, potato salad, that kind of thing, and then a shitload* of fruit tarts and chocolate caramel cake.
Everyone was anxious about the weather, it being a garden party and all, but by noon the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the remainder of the day was just gorgeous. The garden overlooks acres of green barley fields, so whenever the wind blew it was magical, watching the barley move like the sea. Loved it.
However, being the lazy non-working lightweight that I am, I was completely knackered by the time I got home, and spent the remainder of the evening on the sofa, whining. And eating a Chinese takeaway. And watching The Odd Couple on DVD, which neither Mr WithaY or I had seen before. It was very pleasant and relaxing.
Today - another gloriously sunny one, must be some mistake, surely - I have been doing stuff in the garden. Things have been transplanted, pruned, watered, trimmed and moved around, and now it all looks fab. My new parasol is finally up, and Mr WithaY and I sat under it together, reading our books for an hour earlier.
As a result of being an idiot, and not wearing sunblock whilst weeding the garden, I have bright scarlet shoulders and upper back. That's going to hurt when I get in the bath later.
Other news: I finally bit the bullet and bought a new mobile phone. My iPhone, which is about two and a half years old, has been playing up for several months, refusing to synch with iTunes, or to backup properly, and I kept putting it off and putting it off. Because, you know, it's a pain in the arse and all, changing mobiles.
I did go so far as to take it in to be examined by the Apple experts at the store in Bath a couple of months ago. Their expert opinion was "It's broken."
Yeah, thanks for that, genius.
Anyway, I had to go to Salisbury earlier this week, and as I was walking around, I passed the O2 store, so popped in and waited until one of the staff deigned to notice me. To be fair, they did have a laminated sign on the cashdesk which said "We're understaffed today, so we might just ignore you for a bit. You don't like it? Tough titty, loser." I may be mis-remembering the exact wording.
After six or seven hours, a girl emerged sulkily from a cupboard at the back of the shop and asked me what I wanted. I felt like replying "I want you all to kneel miserably at my feet while I lambast you at length for your total lack of any kind of customer-facing competence, you useless, useless goons," but what I actually said was "I want to buy an iPhone 4 please."
She looked at me as though I had asked her to sell me a guinea pig curry, then slowly went and fetched the correct item of technological crack cocaine.
We had a long, tiresome discussion about the sim card it needed. In my head, the conversation went like this:
Me: I would like to buy a new phone and keep my current number. How do I do that?
Helpful staff member: You buy the phone - here is one - and a new sim card - also here - and then contact the O2 customer services - here is the contact number - and they will migrate the number when you are ready. Thanks for your valued custom. Oh, and please take this pretty bunch of flowers as a thank you for spending so much money with us in these hard recession-driven times."
In reality, it wasn't quite like that.
Me: I would like to buy a new phone and keep my current number. How do I do that?
Staff member: Oh. Um. Well, we've got the phones in stock. You want one?
Me: Yes, please. (there was a brief struggle until she understood which type of iPhone I wanted, but we got there eventually.) Can I put the SIM card from my current phone into this one?
Staff member: Nah. S'different.
Me: Ok. So do I need a new SIM card?
Staff member: Um. Yeah. You want one?
Me: Yes. Please.
She rummaged under the desk, pulled out a small cardboard folder and dropped it on the counter in front of me.
Staff member: Anything else? (She was clearly bored by now, her attention riveted by the two young men with complicated hair who were sat at a nearby table having an animated conversation with her colleague. If she'd had some gum, she'd have been blowing bubbles at me.)
Me: So how do I transfer my number to the new phone?
Staff member: I can do that now. What's your number?
Me: No, I need to download everything off my old phone before I transfer anything. How do I do it?
Staff member: (exasperated by my stupidity) Yeah, I can do that now.
Me: Do I contact O2 when I'm ready to transfer? Or what?
Staff member: Yeah. You could do that.
I paid for the phone and the SIM card and went home, pausing only to buy a large bag of fresh cherries at the market stall on the way back to the car.
When I got home, 25 miles and 45 minutes later, I discovered that the SIM card was missing. The plastic casing was there, but the actual micro SIM was gone, probably previously sold and the cardboard wrapping dumped under the counter. How I laughed.
So, all the way back to Salisbury the next day to get a new SIM. The young man who served me was less challenging, but still seemed puzzled by what had happened. Well yes, I suggest you get your colleagues to stop chucking empty SIM wrappers in with the ones for sale, matey. That might help.
The story has a happy ending. My new phone is working, and my number has been successfully transferred to it. Yay.
Unfortunately, my OLD phone had stopped backing itself up to iTunes in early March, so I have a bit of work to do to get things back to spec, but otherwise, it's all good.
Oh, and I bought a great big box of cherries on my return visit, as they were so lovely. Today I have been de-stoning and freezing cherries, and my fingers are stained black. Niiiiice.
Other, other news: We've all but cleared out father-in-law WithaY's house now. The sale is progressing. I really hope in a couple of weeks it will all be over and we can stop fretting about it.
This week I am mostly going away with Middle Sis for a few days of pampering, foot massages, swimming, nice food and (if past history is anything to go by) lots of inappropriate laughter. I am very much looking forward to it.
*technical catering term.
a) Tired old arms from a day of hard work yesterday, mostly spent carrying trays across a sunshiny lawn, whilst nimbly dodging a football being kicked around by many small children.
b) Aching wrists after de-stoning a huge - huge - box of cherries and putting them in the freezer for "later".
c) Managed to get sunburn across by upper back and shoulders this morning whilst enjoying the glorious sudden advent of proper summer in the garden.
Yesterday I was helping a friend cater a garden party, all very smart, in a marquee in someone's garden. It was a cold buffet, lots of ham, salmon, asparagus quiche, potato salad, that kind of thing, and then a shitload* of fruit tarts and chocolate caramel cake.
Everyone was anxious about the weather, it being a garden party and all, but by noon the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the remainder of the day was just gorgeous. The garden overlooks acres of green barley fields, so whenever the wind blew it was magical, watching the barley move like the sea. Loved it.
However, being the lazy non-working lightweight that I am, I was completely knackered by the time I got home, and spent the remainder of the evening on the sofa, whining. And eating a Chinese takeaway. And watching The Odd Couple on DVD, which neither Mr WithaY or I had seen before. It was very pleasant and relaxing.
Today - another gloriously sunny one, must be some mistake, surely - I have been doing stuff in the garden. Things have been transplanted, pruned, watered, trimmed and moved around, and now it all looks fab. My new parasol is finally up, and Mr WithaY and I sat under it together, reading our books for an hour earlier.
As a result of being an idiot, and not wearing sunblock whilst weeding the garden, I have bright scarlet shoulders and upper back. That's going to hurt when I get in the bath later.
Other news: I finally bit the bullet and bought a new mobile phone. My iPhone, which is about two and a half years old, has been playing up for several months, refusing to synch with iTunes, or to backup properly, and I kept putting it off and putting it off. Because, you know, it's a pain in the arse and all, changing mobiles.
I did go so far as to take it in to be examined by the Apple experts at the store in Bath a couple of months ago. Their expert opinion was "It's broken."
Yeah, thanks for that, genius.
Anyway, I had to go to Salisbury earlier this week, and as I was walking around, I passed the O2 store, so popped in and waited until one of the staff deigned to notice me. To be fair, they did have a laminated sign on the cashdesk which said "We're understaffed today, so we might just ignore you for a bit. You don't like it? Tough titty, loser." I may be mis-remembering the exact wording.
After six or seven hours, a girl emerged sulkily from a cupboard at the back of the shop and asked me what I wanted. I felt like replying "I want you all to kneel miserably at my feet while I lambast you at length for your total lack of any kind of customer-facing competence, you useless, useless goons," but what I actually said was "I want to buy an iPhone 4 please."
She looked at me as though I had asked her to sell me a guinea pig curry, then slowly went and fetched the correct item of technological crack cocaine.
We had a long, tiresome discussion about the sim card it needed. In my head, the conversation went like this:
Me: I would like to buy a new phone and keep my current number. How do I do that?
Helpful staff member: You buy the phone - here is one - and a new sim card - also here - and then contact the O2 customer services - here is the contact number - and they will migrate the number when you are ready. Thanks for your valued custom. Oh, and please take this pretty bunch of flowers as a thank you for spending so much money with us in these hard recession-driven times."
In reality, it wasn't quite like that.
Me: I would like to buy a new phone and keep my current number. How do I do that?
Staff member: Oh. Um. Well, we've got the phones in stock. You want one?
Me: Yes, please. (there was a brief struggle until she understood which type of iPhone I wanted, but we got there eventually.) Can I put the SIM card from my current phone into this one?
Staff member: Nah. S'different.
Me: Ok. So do I need a new SIM card?
Staff member: Um. Yeah. You want one?
Me: Yes. Please.
She rummaged under the desk, pulled out a small cardboard folder and dropped it on the counter in front of me.
Staff member: Anything else? (She was clearly bored by now, her attention riveted by the two young men with complicated hair who were sat at a nearby table having an animated conversation with her colleague. If she'd had some gum, she'd have been blowing bubbles at me.)
Me: So how do I transfer my number to the new phone?
Staff member: I can do that now. What's your number?
Me: No, I need to download everything off my old phone before I transfer anything. How do I do it?
Staff member: (exasperated by my stupidity) Yeah, I can do that now.
Me: Do I contact O2 when I'm ready to transfer? Or what?
Staff member: Yeah. You could do that.
I paid for the phone and the SIM card and went home, pausing only to buy a large bag of fresh cherries at the market stall on the way back to the car.
When I got home, 25 miles and 45 minutes later, I discovered that the SIM card was missing. The plastic casing was there, but the actual micro SIM was gone, probably previously sold and the cardboard wrapping dumped under the counter. How I laughed.
So, all the way back to Salisbury the next day to get a new SIM. The young man who served me was less challenging, but still seemed puzzled by what had happened. Well yes, I suggest you get your colleagues to stop chucking empty SIM wrappers in with the ones for sale, matey. That might help.
The story has a happy ending. My new phone is working, and my number has been successfully transferred to it. Yay.
Unfortunately, my OLD phone had stopped backing itself up to iTunes in early March, so I have a bit of work to do to get things back to spec, but otherwise, it's all good.
Oh, and I bought a great big box of cherries on my return visit, as they were so lovely. Today I have been de-stoning and freezing cherries, and my fingers are stained black. Niiiiice.
Other, other news: We've all but cleared out father-in-law WithaY's house now. The sale is progressing. I really hope in a couple of weeks it will all be over and we can stop fretting about it.
This week I am mostly going away with Middle Sis for a few days of pampering, foot massages, swimming, nice food and (if past history is anything to go by) lots of inappropriate laughter. I am very much looking forward to it.
*technical catering term.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Adrenaline
Ah, weekends away. They are a treat, aren't they? Spending time with friends, away from home and domestic drudgery bliss, enjoying the chance to catch up and relax.
I recently went to Centerparcs with a group of girls. Ladies. Women. Most of us are over 40, but this time there were a few youngsters too. It's something we've done a few times before. In fact I think it is the 11th year we've been there as a group.
Last time I went, I noticed how downmarket the place was getting. Readers, I have to report that things have not improved.
Once again, our group was staying in one of the posh villas with the hot tub and sauna and so on, which was lovely. However, there are even more new villas crammed on the site, and they are building a series of "tree houses" which are being heavily advertised, so I anticipate increased visitor numbers. It all meant that there were queues for everything, and that most of the activities - the selling point that Centerparcs advertises heavily - and treatments at the Spa were already booked up, meaning that a lot of people will have arrived and found that the only thing they could do all weekend (other than walk or cycle around the park in the pissing rain) was use the swimming pool and slides.
We stood and watched the slides for a bit. It was like watching a nature film of spawning salmon, dozens of people all rammed together, sqeeeeeeeeaking slowly down the slide in unison. One day I might break in, wearing the bear costume, and stand at the top, swiping at the slower ones with a huge clawed paw.
A new attraction since my last visit was this, the "Aerial adventure," described on the Centerparcs website thus:
Yes. Well.
Looks nice and straightforward at the start, doesn't it? You climb up a short ladder, walk along a wooden log onto a platform, and then make your way along a series of rope and log traverses, strung between the trees. Yeah. Easy.
Except, it gets higher as you go along, because the ground slopes away.
And higher.
And higher.
And then, as if that wasn't quite enough, you have to zipline across the lake to get to the end, where tea and medals await you.
One of our group* went for a walk one morning, and found herself walking alongside the Aerial Adventure. She was enjoying the sunshine, probably whistling to herself when she heard a "terrible screaming." She stopped, as you would, and looked around to see what was going on. A woman was standing on one of the wooden platforms, in her hard hat, safety rope clipped to the guide cable**, part-way along the Aerial Adventure. She had stopped having an adventure and was instead having a huge panic attack.
Apparently it took half an hour for one of the staff to coax her along the walkway thingy - a series of short logs artfully strung on ropes like a wobbly plank bridge - to the next platform. She was shaking so much that the entire walkway was shaking with her. When she got to the next platform, even higher up, of course, she refused point blank to go any further, and they had to rig up a special abseil rope to get her down. When she got to the ground, there was copious hysterical weeping and the medics had to be called.
Ah, adventure.
Her husband/partner was just behind her on the walkway, probably having persuaded her to give it a go - "You'll be fine, love, it's not that high! It'll be a laugh!" - so I like to imagine the painful, stony silence they drove home in.
Other highlights included a roebuck calmly eating his breakfast right outside our villa kitchen window.
We stood and watched him for ages, it was lovely.
And in less than two weeks I am off to Ragdale Hall for a Spa minibreak with Middle Sis. Hurrah. This not working malarky has a lot to be said for it.
*Hello Viv!
**Safety first
I recently went to Centerparcs with a group of girls. Ladies. Women. Most of us are over 40, but this time there were a few youngsters too. It's something we've done a few times before. In fact I think it is the 11th year we've been there as a group.
Last time I went, I noticed how downmarket the place was getting. Readers, I have to report that things have not improved.
Once again, our group was staying in one of the posh villas with the hot tub and sauna and so on, which was lovely. However, there are even more new villas crammed on the site, and they are building a series of "tree houses" which are being heavily advertised, so I anticipate increased visitor numbers. It all meant that there were queues for everything, and that most of the activities - the selling point that Centerparcs advertises heavily - and treatments at the Spa were already booked up, meaning that a lot of people will have arrived and found that the only thing they could do all weekend (other than walk or cycle around the park in the pissing rain) was use the swimming pool and slides.
We stood and watched the slides for a bit. It was like watching a nature film of spawning salmon, dozens of people all rammed together, sqeeeeeeeeaking slowly down the slide in unison. One day I might break in, wearing the bear costume, and stand at the top, swiping at the slower ones with a huge clawed paw.
A new attraction since my last visit was this, the "Aerial adventure," described on the Centerparcs website thus:
A thrilling combination of Tree Trekking and Zip Wire for the serious adrenaline junkie. You are connected into the ExpoGlider safety harness system whilst you tackle our Aerial Adventure course, experiencing many individual challenges.
Yes. Well.
Looks nice and straightforward at the start, doesn't it? You climb up a short ladder, walk along a wooden log onto a platform, and then make your way along a series of rope and log traverses, strung between the trees. Yeah. Easy.
Except, it gets higher as you go along, because the ground slopes away.
And then, as if that wasn't quite enough, you have to zipline across the lake to get to the end, where tea and medals await you.
One of our group* went for a walk one morning, and found herself walking alongside the Aerial Adventure. She was enjoying the sunshine, probably whistling to herself when she heard a "terrible screaming." She stopped, as you would, and looked around to see what was going on. A woman was standing on one of the wooden platforms, in her hard hat, safety rope clipped to the guide cable**, part-way along the Aerial Adventure. She had stopped having an adventure and was instead having a huge panic attack.
Apparently it took half an hour for one of the staff to coax her along the walkway thingy - a series of short logs artfully strung on ropes like a wobbly plank bridge - to the next platform. She was shaking so much that the entire walkway was shaking with her. When she got to the next platform, even higher up, of course, she refused point blank to go any further, and they had to rig up a special abseil rope to get her down. When she got to the ground, there was copious hysterical weeping and the medics had to be called.
Ah, adventure.
Her husband/partner was just behind her on the walkway, probably having persuaded her to give it a go - "You'll be fine, love, it's not that high! It'll be a laugh!" - so I like to imagine the painful, stony silence they drove home in.
Other highlights included a roebuck calmly eating his breakfast right outside our villa kitchen window.
We stood and watched him for ages, it was lovely.
And in less than two weeks I am off to Ragdale Hall for a Spa minibreak with Middle Sis. Hurrah. This not working malarky has a lot to be said for it.
*Hello Viv!
**Safety first
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Saturday, 12 February 2011
Something fishy
I've had a very exciting offer arrive in my email. It is from the "Saudi Embassy in Philippines", and it goes like this:
"Last Gift
I am Dr Michael Law, a diagnosed cancer woman on bed is willing to donate her funds to help you as her last gift from God. reply to dr.michaellaw1@9.cn "
Before I compose my reply, let's examine this more closely.
From the Saudi Embassy...hints at there being some fabulously weathy Arab involved. I like this already. In the Philippines, though. Hmm, possibly one of the less affluant Saudis, then. Possibly disappointing. Not to dismiss it too soon, though, let's read on.
"Last Gift" is a nice title. Almost like a short story, or possibly a daytime movie starring someone who used to be in Dynasty, or Little House on the Prairie. Or Felicity Kendall. It has promise. Provokes a warm feeling in my heart.
The sharp inquiring feeling between my ears remains, however. Let us continue the analysis.
Dr Michael Law, a name to inspire confidence. Trust. It's reassuring. And he's a doctor, even better. Doesn't say what he is a doctor of, mind. Medicine? Political science? Media studies? Is it a made-up Internet doctorate that you can buy for £20 and a bit of form-filling? Is he, in short, someone I would allow to perform any kind of medical procedure on me?
The seeds of doubt are growing.
Then it gets even stickier. "A diagnosed cancer woman."
Sooo...she has been diagnosed with cancer? Or diagnosed as being a woman? Or diagnosed as someone who was born in late June/early July? Or maybe she has crabs?
Be more specific, Dr Law, my sympathy and interest are dwindling.
But wait..."on bed." Ahahaha. She is on bed. That makes all the difference. However, again we are left to wonder. Is it a hospital bed? A vegetable bed? The sea bed? Details, man, details.
Then comes the crux of the matter.
This crab-infested woman lying out in the garden among the cabbages wants to "donate her funds" to me for no reason whatsoever. How nice of her. I assume that "donate her funds" isn't a euphamism.
Well, Dr Law, here's what I suggest you do. Get her to transfer all of "her funds" into a British bank account, and then email me with the details. Have her sign over authority to access that bank account to me, notarised by a professionally qualified and legally certified lawyer with a current license to practice law in England, and I will pick up the funds when I have time.
Thanks.
Oh, and the email address - Chinese, I think? Idiot.
"Last Gift
I am Dr Michael Law, a diagnosed cancer woman on bed is willing to donate her funds to help you as her last gift from God. reply to dr.michaellaw1@9.cn "
Before I compose my reply, let's examine this more closely.
From the Saudi Embassy...hints at there being some fabulously weathy Arab involved. I like this already. In the Philippines, though. Hmm, possibly one of the less affluant Saudis, then. Possibly disappointing. Not to dismiss it too soon, though, let's read on.
"Last Gift" is a nice title. Almost like a short story, or possibly a daytime movie starring someone who used to be in Dynasty, or Little House on the Prairie. Or Felicity Kendall. It has promise. Provokes a warm feeling in my heart.
The sharp inquiring feeling between my ears remains, however. Let us continue the analysis.
Dr Michael Law, a name to inspire confidence. Trust. It's reassuring. And he's a doctor, even better. Doesn't say what he is a doctor of, mind. Medicine? Political science? Media studies? Is it a made-up Internet doctorate that you can buy for £20 and a bit of form-filling? Is he, in short, someone I would allow to perform any kind of medical procedure on me?
The seeds of doubt are growing.
Then it gets even stickier. "A diagnosed cancer woman."
Sooo...she has been diagnosed with cancer? Or diagnosed as being a woman? Or diagnosed as someone who was born in late June/early July? Or maybe she has crabs?
Be more specific, Dr Law, my sympathy and interest are dwindling.
But wait..."on bed." Ahahaha. She is on bed. That makes all the difference. However, again we are left to wonder. Is it a hospital bed? A vegetable bed? The sea bed? Details, man, details.
Then comes the crux of the matter.
This crab-infested woman lying out in the garden among the cabbages wants to "donate her funds" to me for no reason whatsoever. How nice of her. I assume that "donate her funds" isn't a euphamism.
Well, Dr Law, here's what I suggest you do. Get her to transfer all of "her funds" into a British bank account, and then email me with the details. Have her sign over authority to access that bank account to me, notarised by a professionally qualified and legally certified lawyer with a current license to practice law in England, and I will pick up the funds when I have time.
Thanks.
Oh, and the email address - Chinese, I think? Idiot.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Viva Las Sulis
You'll be delighted to know that Mr WithaY and I are both still full of cold. We seem to be taking part in an unofficial sneezing contest - a sneezathon, if you will - with both of us taking turns to scare the shit out of the other one with several explosive sneezes, followed by weak half-hearted nose-blowing and gasping for air. Sometimes there will also be an apology, but it never sounds very genuine.
I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy.
We are pasty and grumpy. More so than usual, I mean.
In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday. We had been planning the trip for a while. Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City. Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.
Or so we thought.
There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months. I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story.
Anyhoo. We got to the car park by 10.30. The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level. Gah! Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason. There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it. He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar.
The agenda for the day was as follows:
1) Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY. Don't ask.
2) Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**.
3) More charity shop scouring. There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.
4) Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.
5) Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.
6) Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends.
7) Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.
The reality was somewhat different.
Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town. The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more. Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice." All for under £25.
They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat.
I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it. Result.
So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission. What to do...what to do?
Aha! There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath. Where they sell Eggs Benedict. Nom nom nom. We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains.
Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.
In the covered market, I found this. Elvis. But in Lion form!
I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect. Look at the sneer on him!
And the attention to detail...well...
I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.
Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago? I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off.
Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:
It was raining! So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain. For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid.
Lunch. Ah yes, lunch. We went to the Hall and Woodhouse. It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely. It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich.
It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.
Mmmmm. Appetising.
To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention.
I should write restaurant reviews.
Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list. Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale. It's great being slightly less obese. You have so much more choice in clothes shops.
Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.
What a sack of arse that was.
It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles. In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street. I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.
Bastards.
I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."
*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon. With pay machines.
**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above. It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year.
***Yes, yes, I gave him some money. Well, it's traditional.
I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy.
We are pasty and grumpy. More so than usual, I mean.
In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday. We had been planning the trip for a while. Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City. Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.
Or so we thought.
There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months. I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story.
Anyhoo. We got to the car park by 10.30. The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level. Gah! Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason. There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it. He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar.
The agenda for the day was as follows:
1) Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY. Don't ask.
2) Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**.
3) More charity shop scouring. There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.
4) Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.
5) Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.
6) Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends.
7) Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.
The reality was somewhat different.
Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town. The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more. Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice." All for under £25.
They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat.
I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it. Result.
So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission. What to do...what to do?
Aha! There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath. Where they sell Eggs Benedict. Nom nom nom. We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains.
Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.
In the covered market, I found this. Elvis. But in Lion form!
I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect. Look at the sneer on him!
And the attention to detail...well...
I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.
Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago? I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off.
Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:
It was raining! So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain. For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid.
Lunch. Ah yes, lunch. We went to the Hall and Woodhouse. It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely. It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich.
It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.
To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention.
I should write restaurant reviews.
Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list. Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale. It's great being slightly less obese. You have so much more choice in clothes shops.
Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.
What a sack of arse that was.
It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles. In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street. I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.
Bastards.
I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."
*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon. With pay machines.
**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above. It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year.
***Yes, yes, I gave him some money. Well, it's traditional.
Friday, 14 January 2011
In the bag
Whilst travelling to the office the other morning, I was interested to see this going on:
They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios. I shall take another picture when it's finished. I bet you can't wait.
As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases. She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself. He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park. She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.
I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her. To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.
Anyhoo. The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
"Gosh," I thought. "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."
As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.
"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered. "Here! Wait!"
Everyone turned round, and he said: "That's my basket! Give it back!"
The kind commuter was horrified. "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.
"No! It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"
Heh.
The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.
By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket. A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.
They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios. I shall take another picture when it's finished. I bet you can't wait.
As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases. She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself. He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park. She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.
I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her. To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.
Anyhoo. The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
"Gosh," I thought. "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."
As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.
"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered. "Here! Wait!"
Everyone turned round, and he said: "That's my basket! Give it back!"
The kind commuter was horrified. "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.
"No! It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"
Heh.
The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.
By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket. A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Austerity measures for Dummies
I went to the supermarket today. That felt like a bit of an achievement, given that I can hardly breathe half the time, and the rest of the time has me coughing repulsively. Anyhoo, I went in armed with too many re-usable bags and no shopping list, never a good combination.
I resisted the temptation to buy bargain hot pies, or huge 25-bag multipacks of crisps, or gallon vats of cheap ice cream (a decision I have been regretting on and off ever since, I might add) and stocked up with all manner of sensible meat-and-potato meal makings. And vegetables. And washing up liquid. Yes, I am that sensible.
In my trolley were two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) for Father-in-Law WithaY, who has recently developed a taste for them. All seemed uneventful as the shopping was scanned and beeped and tagged and tracked* by the nice till lady.
She scanned the two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) then said "There's a Buy One, Get Two Free" offer on these. Do you want another tube of the same flavour?"
Me: No thanks, I only want the two tubes.
Till lady: But there's an offer on! You can have another one and get three but only pay for one!
Me: (packing potatoes and washing up liquid into a bag with grim efficiency) But I only want these two. Really.
There was a slightly accusing silence as she carried on scanning groceries and I packed bags, the two tubes of Pringles sitting folornly on the end of the conveyer belt like unwanted game show prizes.
Till lady: Well then, I will take off one of these tubes from the bill so you get one free. But you could have two free. Do you want two free?
Me: No.
I must admit that by this point I was interested to see what happened next, and prepared to argue cogently for my right to have just two tubes of Pringles if I wanted to.
This happened next:
Till lady: Oh! Gosh, that's strange.
Me: What is?
Till lady: It's taken both tubes off the bill. So...um...you get them both free. I think.
She fiddled about with the till for a bit, then slid both tubes down the counter to me as I continued cramming tins of beans and pots of probiotic yogurt** into the bags. There was a queue forming behind me, which may have affected her decision making.
Till lady: Yes. You get them both free. We'll just have an extra tube on the shelves now.
Me: (Warily) So...I get them for free? Are you sure?
Till lady: Yes. You can take them.
Me: (not touching them) Really? I don't want to take them without paying for them.
Till lady: (pushing them towards me encouragingly) But you get two free! So you can take those.
I relented and put them in my bag, paid for the shopping - not the Pringles, though, obviously - and left the shop without setting off any alarms.
All the way home I tried to work out how she had arrived at the conclusion that "buy one, get two free" can be converted into "buy two, don't pay for either of them." I am still not convinced by her logic, and am waiting for a knock on the door from the Fraud Squad.
Other news: I have bronchitis. Again. I went to the doctor on Tuesday. He listened to my chest, told me cheerfully that he's heard me sounding much worse, and gave me a prescription for the scary syphillis pills he prescribed at the end of my last bout of Black Lung.
He said "Chest infections usually only last five days or so. Let's see...how long did your last infection go on for? Hmmmm....December till.....oh. May. Well, yes. You were obviously a bit unlucky, weren't you?"
Yes, in the same sense that Cornwall is a bit wet at the moment.
He also commented "Oh, you've lost weight." I nodded, and was about to expound on my slow but steady progress when he said sternly "I hope it's not because of all the stress*** you've been dealing with?"
No, not stress, but thanks for asking, doctor. Eating fewer pies and drinking less cider, mostly.
I told him how much weight I intend to lose in total in order to be a non-overweight person according the the BMI scale; he advised me not to pay too much attention to BMI figures, and to weigh "as much as you feel comfortable with." Interesting advice, which I intend to ignore.
I am still up and writing my blog at 1am, by the way, because when I lay down in bed I start coughing hard enough to make my eyes shoot out of my head and slam into the bedroom ceiling. And that gets old fast.
Big day tomorrow. The auction house is coming to Father-in-Law WithaY's place to take out all the stuff that is going to be in a sale next month. So, hopefully I will be able to get in and give his place a bit of a clean and spruce-up once it's a bit less crammed with antiques. And then who knows, we might even sell it.
Which would be nice.
*I'm sure that we are all being monitored via our shopping.
**I'm on antibiotics. I have bronchitis again. Yay me.
***Shit Storm From Hades, although that is receding a bit now. More on this anon.
I resisted the temptation to buy bargain hot pies, or huge 25-bag multipacks of crisps, or gallon vats of cheap ice cream (a decision I have been regretting on and off ever since, I might add) and stocked up with all manner of sensible meat-and-potato meal makings. And vegetables. And washing up liquid. Yes, I am that sensible.
In my trolley were two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) for Father-in-Law WithaY, who has recently developed a taste for them. All seemed uneventful as the shopping was scanned and beeped and tagged and tracked* by the nice till lady.
She scanned the two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) then said "There's a Buy One, Get Two Free" offer on these. Do you want another tube of the same flavour?"
Me: No thanks, I only want the two tubes.
Till lady: But there's an offer on! You can have another one and get three but only pay for one!
Me: (packing potatoes and washing up liquid into a bag with grim efficiency) But I only want these two. Really.
There was a slightly accusing silence as she carried on scanning groceries and I packed bags, the two tubes of Pringles sitting folornly on the end of the conveyer belt like unwanted game show prizes.
Till lady: Well then, I will take off one of these tubes from the bill so you get one free. But you could have two free. Do you want two free?
Me: No.
I must admit that by this point I was interested to see what happened next, and prepared to argue cogently for my right to have just two tubes of Pringles if I wanted to.
This happened next:
Till lady: Oh! Gosh, that's strange.
Me: What is?
Till lady: It's taken both tubes off the bill. So...um...you get them both free. I think.
She fiddled about with the till for a bit, then slid both tubes down the counter to me as I continued cramming tins of beans and pots of probiotic yogurt** into the bags. There was a queue forming behind me, which may have affected her decision making.
Till lady: Yes. You get them both free. We'll just have an extra tube on the shelves now.
Me: (Warily) So...I get them for free? Are you sure?
Till lady: Yes. You can take them.
Me: (not touching them) Really? I don't want to take them without paying for them.
Till lady: (pushing them towards me encouragingly) But you get two free! So you can take those.
I relented and put them in my bag, paid for the shopping - not the Pringles, though, obviously - and left the shop without setting off any alarms.
All the way home I tried to work out how she had arrived at the conclusion that "buy one, get two free" can be converted into "buy two, don't pay for either of them." I am still not convinced by her logic, and am waiting for a knock on the door from the Fraud Squad.
Other news: I have bronchitis. Again. I went to the doctor on Tuesday. He listened to my chest, told me cheerfully that he's heard me sounding much worse, and gave me a prescription for the scary syphillis pills he prescribed at the end of my last bout of Black Lung.
He said "Chest infections usually only last five days or so. Let's see...how long did your last infection go on for? Hmmmm....December till.....oh. May. Well, yes. You were obviously a bit unlucky, weren't you?"
Yes, in the same sense that Cornwall is a bit wet at the moment.
He also commented "Oh, you've lost weight." I nodded, and was about to expound on my slow but steady progress when he said sternly "I hope it's not because of all the stress*** you've been dealing with?"
No, not stress, but thanks for asking, doctor. Eating fewer pies and drinking less cider, mostly.
I told him how much weight I intend to lose in total in order to be a non-overweight person according the the BMI scale; he advised me not to pay too much attention to BMI figures, and to weigh "as much as you feel comfortable with." Interesting advice, which I intend to ignore.
I am still up and writing my blog at 1am, by the way, because when I lay down in bed I start coughing hard enough to make my eyes shoot out of my head and slam into the bedroom ceiling. And that gets old fast.
Big day tomorrow. The auction house is coming to Father-in-Law WithaY's place to take out all the stuff that is going to be in a sale next month. So, hopefully I will be able to get in and give his place a bit of a clean and spruce-up once it's a bit less crammed with antiques. And then who knows, we might even sell it.
Which would be nice.
*I'm sure that we are all being monitored via our shopping.
**I'm on antibiotics. I have bronchitis again. Yay me.
***Shit Storm From Hades, although that is receding a bit now. More on this anon.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Lexicon of the Weird
In the absence of anything unusually hilarious happening to me lately, here are some more results from the word search thingy that people use to stumble upon my blog:
1) emma stone. I have no idea who emma stone is, or why she doesn't get capital letters for her name. Is she a relation of e.e. cummings? More to the point, how did they get to my blog by typing in her name? Very strange.
2) foot, leg, and ankle swelling I'm guessing my blog is now a magnet for sprain pervs, and possibly also people who like to see freak show horrors. I imagine there is a whole market segment dedicated to spraining injuries, possibly with its own glossy magazine that comes out once a quarter, with a section for Readers' Sprains at the back, just in front of the adverts for crutches and padded ankle supports. Brrrrr. It's slightly disturbing that the single most viewed image on my blog - the window, if you will, into my whole life and innermost psyche - is of my revolting, swollen, sprained ankle. I might have to grow a beard, or develop a second head to maintain the carney-like ambience once the ankle novelty wears off. Sickos. Yeah, you.
3) rick leek quarter horsesshow lucy artiscally obvious lucy Say WHAT? Whoever typed this into their search engine has a lot on their mind. Leeks? Horses? Slightly agricultural, so I can understand why it ended up here. Repeated mention of my name? Irritating, but again, can see the link. "Artiscally obvious" has me stumped, I admit. Do they mean "Artistically obvious"? Which is slightly hurtful, and implies that my fabulous attempts at mixed media art are not nearly as original as I imagine, dammit. And who is "rick"?
4) the oinkmaster pig roast Aha. Ahahahahahaaaaa. Yes indeed. The Oinkmaster Pig Roast. I remember it well. I think, reader, that it was in fact the Oinkmaster 3000, to be exact. No wonder you ended up here, you're not being specific enough, you muppet.
In other news: The Black Lung seems to be making an early appearance, giving me plenty of time to prepare for the annual Christmas chest infection-fest. Yay.
1) emma stone. I have no idea who emma stone is, or why she doesn't get capital letters for her name. Is she a relation of e.e. cummings? More to the point, how did they get to my blog by typing in her name? Very strange.
2) foot, leg, and ankle swelling I'm guessing my blog is now a magnet for sprain pervs, and possibly also people who like to see freak show horrors. I imagine there is a whole market segment dedicated to spraining injuries, possibly with its own glossy magazine that comes out once a quarter, with a section for Readers' Sprains at the back, just in front of the adverts for crutches and padded ankle supports. Brrrrr. It's slightly disturbing that the single most viewed image on my blog - the window, if you will, into my whole life and innermost psyche - is of my revolting, swollen, sprained ankle. I might have to grow a beard, or develop a second head to maintain the carney-like ambience once the ankle novelty wears off. Sickos. Yeah, you.
3) rick leek quarter horsesshow lucy artiscally obvious lucy Say WHAT? Whoever typed this into their search engine has a lot on their mind. Leeks? Horses? Slightly agricultural, so I can understand why it ended up here. Repeated mention of my name? Irritating, but again, can see the link. "Artiscally obvious" has me stumped, I admit. Do they mean "Artistically obvious"? Which is slightly hurtful, and implies that my fabulous attempts at mixed media art are not nearly as original as I imagine, dammit. And who is "rick"?
4) the oinkmaster pig roast Aha. Ahahahahahaaaaa. Yes indeed. The Oinkmaster Pig Roast. I remember it well. I think, reader, that it was in fact the Oinkmaster 3000, to be exact. No wonder you ended up here, you're not being specific enough, you muppet.
In other news: The Black Lung seems to be making an early appearance, giving me plenty of time to prepare for the annual Christmas chest infection-fest. Yay.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Searching
This stats thing is horribly compelling. Not the numbers, I ignore those now I know that the majority of my dedicated readership are crouched in some vile scam den in the Ukraine, trying to steal credit card numbers or sell their sisters to lonely vulnerable men in the UK.
No, the numbers can fuck right off. But the keyword search, well, that's a very different story indeed.
This week, apparently, I have been discovered by people using the following search expressions:
1) 5000 chicken birds how much feets shed wanted hopw much mony Ok....what? "5000 chicken birds" I can sort of understand. "How much" I can get a handle on. Maybe someone wants to buy some chickens to start up a poultry farm. Perfectly reasonable. Then it goes off the rails slightly. "Feets shed wanted" is bewildering. "Shed wanted" again fits with the chicken farm there. "Feets" is a red herring, thrown in to no purpose. The "hopw much mony" again relates to the chicken farmer theme, albeit one who can't spell.
2) moose come out frome woods If this is a statement, it is incorrect. If it is a question, the answer is "no, moose do NOT come out of Frome Woods." As far as I know, there are no moose in the woods round here, or around Frome. Walk in peace, my friends, fear not random moose attacks in Somerset.
3) what animals lives in woods? Oh gosh. Mice. Voles. Deer. Badgers. Foxes. Rabbits. Toads. And of course, famously, bears. No moose though. Not round here.
4) the difference in a person hat lives in the woods and a country Hmm, now this is challenging. I'm assuming it's a "town mouse, country mouse" kind of thing, and leave it at that.
5) horror veg carving is my favourite so far. It pretty much sums up a good percentage of this blog, and is also the name of my first death metal album, when I get round to making it.
No, the numbers can fuck right off. But the keyword search, well, that's a very different story indeed.
This week, apparently, I have been discovered by people using the following search expressions:
1) 5000 chicken birds how much feets shed wanted hopw much mony Ok....what? "5000 chicken birds" I can sort of understand. "How much" I can get a handle on. Maybe someone wants to buy some chickens to start up a poultry farm. Perfectly reasonable. Then it goes off the rails slightly. "Feets shed wanted" is bewildering. "Shed wanted" again fits with the chicken farm there. "Feets" is a red herring, thrown in to no purpose. The "hopw much mony" again relates to the chicken farmer theme, albeit one who can't spell.
2) moose come out frome woods If this is a statement, it is incorrect. If it is a question, the answer is "no, moose do NOT come out of Frome Woods." As far as I know, there are no moose in the woods round here, or around Frome. Walk in peace, my friends, fear not random moose attacks in Somerset.
3) what animals lives in woods? Oh gosh. Mice. Voles. Deer. Badgers. Foxes. Rabbits. Toads. And of course, famously, bears. No moose though. Not round here.
4) the difference in a person hat lives in the woods and a country Hmm, now this is challenging. I'm assuming it's a "town mouse, country mouse" kind of thing, and leave it at that.
5) horror veg carving is my favourite so far. It pretty much sums up a good percentage of this blog, and is also the name of my first death metal album, when I get round to making it.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Spam spam spam
Quick note for those of you who comment. And for anyone else who might feel like leaving a comment at some point in the future, I suppose.
Due to the sudden proliferation of shite comments being submitted on very old posts, ranging from links to other "blogs" which in fact are no such thing, to adverts for all manner of dodgy crappy stuff, I have now made some changes to the comments regime on this blog.
If you want to comment on a post that is more than 14 days old, it will get moderated, as it does now. If you leave a comment on a post that I have made within the last 14 days, you'll get the word verification thingy to fill in, rather than the moderation that I used to do.
Ha. Take that, robot spammers. Like an old-style Dalek confronted with a steep flight of stairs, your reign of terror* is over. OVER.
And on the plus side, people can publish their comments whenever they like, no longer having to wait for me to get round to it. Life is good.
Other news: First week back at work in London was ok. I still can't walk very far, but I am trying to walk further each day, and to limp less. Worryingly, my ankle now hurts quite a lot on the other side of my foot - the bone on the inner side, rather than on the outer side. If it hurts as much by the middle of the week I am going back to the doctor. It's still swollen as well, and looks like more bruising is coming to the surface. Ugh.
Also, had my first guitar lesson last night, after a 3 month hiatus. It was great. GREAT. My gorgeous guitar teacher is also recovering from an ankle injury, although his was much more scary and dramatic. He told me all about it last night. Apparently the snap of his ankle breaking could be heard all the way across the cricket pitch. Gah. I tried to listen but it was so awful that my ears closed up at certain points, so what I actuall heard was:
"Blah blah lucky there was a paramedic in the cricket crowd blah blah blah intravenous morphine blah blah dislocated AND broken blah blah sedated while they put it back in place blah blah delayed the surgery blah blah a week in hospital blah blah blah."
Brrrrrrrrrrr.
*Well, ok. Your increasingly-irritating spam emails.
Due to the sudden proliferation of shite comments being submitted on very old posts, ranging from links to other "blogs" which in fact are no such thing, to adverts for all manner of dodgy crappy stuff, I have now made some changes to the comments regime on this blog.
If you want to comment on a post that is more than 14 days old, it will get moderated, as it does now. If you leave a comment on a post that I have made within the last 14 days, you'll get the word verification thingy to fill in, rather than the moderation that I used to do.
Ha. Take that, robot spammers. Like an old-style Dalek confronted with a steep flight of stairs, your reign of terror* is over. OVER.
And on the plus side, people can publish their comments whenever they like, no longer having to wait for me to get round to it. Life is good.
Other news: First week back at work in London was ok. I still can't walk very far, but I am trying to walk further each day, and to limp less. Worryingly, my ankle now hurts quite a lot on the other side of my foot - the bone on the inner side, rather than on the outer side. If it hurts as much by the middle of the week I am going back to the doctor. It's still swollen as well, and looks like more bruising is coming to the surface. Ugh.
Also, had my first guitar lesson last night, after a 3 month hiatus. It was great. GREAT. My gorgeous guitar teacher is also recovering from an ankle injury, although his was much more scary and dramatic. He told me all about it last night. Apparently the snap of his ankle breaking could be heard all the way across the cricket pitch. Gah. I tried to listen but it was so awful that my ears closed up at certain points, so what I actuall heard was:
"Blah blah lucky there was a paramedic in the cricket crowd blah blah blah intravenous morphine blah blah dislocated AND broken blah blah sedated while they put it back in place blah blah delayed the surgery blah blah a week in hospital blah blah blah."
Brrrrrrrrrrr.
*Well, ok. Your increasingly-irritating spam emails.
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Flowers in the dust
I have been getting stuff ready for the big holiday. The house is full of suitcases, partly because we had to empty out the loft (more on that later) and partly because I have bought myself a new Holiday Bag. My old suitcase had more or less given up the ghost; the zip was getting unreliable, and it had a horribly squeaky wheel. The squeaky wheel was so bad that when you dragged it through an airport, small children wept and security guards looked irritated. I thought it best to replace it.
Well, it was 15 years old. I bought it when we got married, it has been to America twice, and all over Europe and the UK. It's better-travelled than a lot of my friends.
So, to the Internet! I ordered an Antler Size Zero case on Sunday, it turned up on Wednesday. That's service. It weighs something absurd - 3.3kg - and has lots of useful pockets. I look forward to cramming it full of new clothes on the way home again. We plan to travel light, and buy clothes while we're over there, as last time we went things were so much cheaper. Admittedly, we were getting almost 2 dollars to the pound back then, but even so, I expect to find bargains.
I also bought, on impulse of course, a new camera. My old camera is a Nikon Coolpix L1, and I have always enjoyed using it. But, and it's a big but, it takes AA batteries and they only last for a few dozen pictures. So I always have to ensure that I have spares with me, and it's a pain in the arse to keep changing them.
The new camera is a Canon Ixus, which takes a small rechargeable camera battery, which should last me several hundred pictures. I will buy a spare one so that I can have one on charge while the other one is in use, and it will be more cost-effective in the long run, not having to buy loads of AAs.
I had a go with it in the garden. The weather here has been lovely for the last few days, and everything has gone beserk, growing wildly and gorgeously, so I thought I'd take some pictures.
The oriental poppy, we have a huge plant in the front garden which was here when we moved in, and it always delivers a ton of flowers.
Clematis, just starting to go over now, but still looking great.
Different colour oriental poppy. We usually only get one of these.
Chives. The bees adore them.
Also, remember I said I broke my glass windchime? Yeah you do. Mr WithaY salvaged the bits of it that weren't shattered to a million billion pieces and we have hung them on the rose arch. We call it the rose arch even though the only thing growing on it is the clematis. That's how we roll.
Other news: Brother in law is continuing his recovery at home, which is excellent. Father in law WithaY is in good spirits too, although slightly grumpy about our impending holiday. Mother in law WithaY is coming over from France next week and will be staying at the house for a few days while we're away, so we need to put stuff back in the loft.
Oh yeah. The loft. The cavity wall insulation boyos* arrived on Thursday, as planned, and spent a few hours drilling holes in the exterior walls, pumping silicon-coated fibreglass** into the cavity and then filling all the holes again. They worked hard, made as little noise*** as possible, and were charming and polite.
When they'd finished they asked me to do an inspection of their work, and sign off the paperwork. I asked if I should do that after they insulated the loft. They said no, the loft team were a different team, and I would have to wait for them to turn up. In the meantime, if I could just sign here, and here, and then over the page here...ta love.
The company had already called us to say that someone had called in sick that day and they might not be able to come and do the insulation. I made my renowned "Middle-aged woman being mildly inconvenienced" noise, which always goes down well.
The girl I spoke to said "Oh, have you taken the day off work to be there?" Yes, I told her, I have. And we've emptied the loft so the house is a tip. She was very sympathetic, and said she'd try her hardest to get us a different team to come and do the work, so when the cavity wall chaps arrived I assumed they were it. But no.
Shortly after they left, job well done, the company called again. No joy finding a loft insulating team, and the next available appointment is the end of July. Gah.
So, back up the rickety loft ladder today for Mr WithaY, and then we'll re-empty it after we get home from holiday.
Other, other news: We have bought a new phone for the house. Our old one had an answering machine which contained a cassette tape (retro, huh?) and was being temperamental about letting us know if anyone had left a message. The light would flash, but the tape would be blank. No bleeding use whatsoever. Now we have a phone with a digital answering machine, and I can wander the house whilst chatting to people. It's a whole new world.
*They were from South Wales, and, as it turned out, from a place about 10 miles from where my Mum comes from. Small world, eh?
**I asked what it was.
***Apart from shitloads of drilling, I mean.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Easter basket cases
I've done a lot of driving lately. I went down to Sussex on Friday to pick up my lovely Mum, who is staying with me over Easter. We're having a bit of a girlie weekend, which is very pleasant.
Mr WithaY has made himself scarce, off on some woodsmans training course, where he will be honing his bushcraft and survival skills. I daresay that even now he is sitting by a campfire, munching on pemmican, trying to dry himself off. He made a batch of venison jerky last week, ready for the weekend. Then, struck by inspiration, he finely ground up some of the jerky, added dried cranberries and suet, moulded the whole lot into squash-ball-sized lumps and packed it in his survival kit. He was very proud of it.
Pemmican. Mmm. Fatty. And if he doesn't get through it all, I daresay the birds will enjoy it.
Anyway, the driving. I went down to Sussex, as I said, a journey of just about 100 miles which usually takes me 2 hours, give or take a bit. The weather was horrific. Heavy, heavy rain, thick blinding spray on the roads, and of course all the fuckwit holiday drivers who are determined to drag their caravans all the way to the South Coast despite the fact that it is like the end of the world outside.
Gah.
I know I've mentioned this on the blog a few times before, but why oh why oh fucking why do people insist on driving with their lights off in poor visibility? I almost sideswiped a silver van as he came up fast on the outside, completely masked in the spray and gloom. Luckily I spotted him before I started to overtake the car in front of me, but even so it was close.
The trip home was marred by traffic. Traffic traffic traffic. We sat on the road into Salisbury for 45 minutes, just waiting to get into the city. Once in, it was fine. The roads were relatively clear, but the queue on the way was just appalling. I only went that way because I had driven past miles of traffic heading west down the A303 on the way out that morning, and thought I'd be wily and avoid it going home.
Schoolboy error.
Here's a picture of similar traffic on the A303 I took a while back. I daresay some of the same cars were in the queue on Friday.
I logged the queue on Friday at about 6 miles. Nice.
It took us 3 hours to get home. THREE. Once here, however, we have been having a nice time. Yesterday we went for lunch to the rather funky Indian restaurant on the side of the A36, which used to be a Little Chef. They kept the elephant slide outside but have decorated it tastefully. Today we plan a trip to the garden centre, as the sun has made an appearance.
It's all go here.
Mr WithaY has made himself scarce, off on some woodsmans training course, where he will be honing his bushcraft and survival skills. I daresay that even now he is sitting by a campfire, munching on pemmican, trying to dry himself off. He made a batch of venison jerky last week, ready for the weekend. Then, struck by inspiration, he finely ground up some of the jerky, added dried cranberries and suet, moulded the whole lot into squash-ball-sized lumps and packed it in his survival kit. He was very proud of it.
Pemmican. Mmm. Fatty. And if he doesn't get through it all, I daresay the birds will enjoy it.
Anyway, the driving. I went down to Sussex, as I said, a journey of just about 100 miles which usually takes me 2 hours, give or take a bit. The weather was horrific. Heavy, heavy rain, thick blinding spray on the roads, and of course all the fuckwit holiday drivers who are determined to drag their caravans all the way to the South Coast despite the fact that it is like the end of the world outside.
Gah.
I know I've mentioned this on the blog a few times before, but why oh why oh fucking why do people insist on driving with their lights off in poor visibility? I almost sideswiped a silver van as he came up fast on the outside, completely masked in the spray and gloom. Luckily I spotted him before I started to overtake the car in front of me, but even so it was close.
The trip home was marred by traffic. Traffic traffic traffic. We sat on the road into Salisbury for 45 minutes, just waiting to get into the city. Once in, it was fine. The roads were relatively clear, but the queue on the way was just appalling. I only went that way because I had driven past miles of traffic heading west down the A303 on the way out that morning, and thought I'd be wily and avoid it going home.
Schoolboy error.
Here's a picture of similar traffic on the A303 I took a while back. I daresay some of the same cars were in the queue on Friday.
I logged the queue on Friday at about 6 miles. Nice.
It took us 3 hours to get home. THREE. Once here, however, we have been having a nice time. Yesterday we went for lunch to the rather funky Indian restaurant on the side of the A36, which used to be a Little Chef. They kept the elephant slide outside but have decorated it tastefully. Today we plan a trip to the garden centre, as the sun has made an appearance.
It's all go here.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Poor example
Oh. My. Word. I thought this was a joke at first, but I don't think it is.
How does someone get to be 42 years old believing that being morbidly obese is not only a good thing, but something to be aimed at, an achievement?
The article, for those of you who can't be arsed to read it, says that she weighed 520lbs when she had her daughter (which in itself raises questions I don't want answers to), now weighs 600lbs, and is aiming to weigh 1,000lbs so she can break the world record for being fat.
"She runs her own website where people pay to watch her eat, or see her wash her huge body. " Nice.
I could run a website where people pay to watch me eat. Or doing the ironing. Or cleaning the windows. Hot steamy domestic goddess action. Not sure I'd make much money though.
Apparently her website* makes enough to cover her weekly food bills.
I'm trying to understand what she thinks she is doing. She has a young daughter and a teenage son, she must know that by continuing with this she will probably reduce her life expectancy. Is she so stupid that she thinks she will break the Fattest Woman Ever record, then magically get thinner so she can have a normal life again?
Who's going to pay her inevitable medical bills? Is this self-inflicted injury? Would medical insurance cover it? I have no idea. Diabetes, heart disease, arthritits. All that fun stuff is pretty much guaranteed if she stays that size for very long.
I know I sound like a size fascist, but really. Christ on a bike.
I remember seeing an archive photo from the 1920s or maybe 1930s. Depression era, anyway. It showed a "Fat Family" at a carnival. A mother, father and teenage son, all plump, relaxed, smiling for the camera. A crowd of onlooked stood looking at them.
What was striking was that the fat people in the picture looked like "normal" people to me. You see fatter people walking round town any day of the week nowadays. The striking thing about the picture was how thin the people in the crowd were. Sharp cheekbones and clothes hanging off them.
Times have changed.
*There wasn't a link to it from the Telegraph article. I looked.
How does someone get to be 42 years old believing that being morbidly obese is not only a good thing, but something to be aimed at, an achievement?
The article, for those of you who can't be arsed to read it, says that she weighed 520lbs when she had her daughter (which in itself raises questions I don't want answers to), now weighs 600lbs, and is aiming to weigh 1,000lbs so she can break the world record for being fat.
"She runs her own website where people pay to watch her eat, or see her wash her huge body. " Nice.
I could run a website where people pay to watch me eat. Or doing the ironing. Or cleaning the windows. Hot steamy domestic goddess action. Not sure I'd make much money though.
Apparently her website* makes enough to cover her weekly food bills.
I'm trying to understand what she thinks she is doing. She has a young daughter and a teenage son, she must know that by continuing with this she will probably reduce her life expectancy. Is she so stupid that she thinks she will break the Fattest Woman Ever record, then magically get thinner so she can have a normal life again?
Who's going to pay her inevitable medical bills? Is this self-inflicted injury? Would medical insurance cover it? I have no idea. Diabetes, heart disease, arthritits. All that fun stuff is pretty much guaranteed if she stays that size for very long.
I know I sound like a size fascist, but really. Christ on a bike.
I remember seeing an archive photo from the 1920s or maybe 1930s. Depression era, anyway. It showed a "Fat Family" at a carnival. A mother, father and teenage son, all plump, relaxed, smiling for the camera. A crowd of onlooked stood looking at them.
What was striking was that the fat people in the picture looked like "normal" people to me. You see fatter people walking round town any day of the week nowadays. The striking thing about the picture was how thin the people in the crowd were. Sharp cheekbones and clothes hanging off them.
Times have changed.
*There wasn't a link to it from the Telegraph article. I looked.
Friday, 12 March 2010
Train times
Ah, trains. Trains, trains, trains.
There was a family of trolls on the train home earlier this week. It was a commuter train, packed to the roof with tired grey-faced business types, all trying to sleep or read or faff about on their laptops.
There was a family of trolls on the train home earlier this week. It was a commuter train, packed to the roof with tired grey-faced business types, all trying to sleep or read or faff about on their laptops.
Sleeping is difficult. For a start there isn't much space, so you can't relax physically. I am quite tall, so end up with my legs squashed against the back of the seat in front if I don't pick my position carefully. Then there is the head issue. What do you do with it? If you just lean back on the seat (a challenge in itself if you are at all fastidious about rubbing your hair in unknown filth) you may start drooling or snorting. If you let it loll forwards you run the risk of waking up with a loud grunt every ten minutes.
Such a problem.
Such a problem.
So, if I can get a seat by the window I do, and then try to lean on it and doze as best I can. However, every time a train goes past in the opposite direction it makes the window go "Whooomph!" which wakes me up. Sometimes the shock is sufficient to bounce my head on the glass with an audible clonking noise. I have to then either pretend to still be asleep to hide my chagrin, or just wake up and brazen it out by pretending that I'm not bovvered.
Luckily I have a great internal voice which lies to me. It usually says "It's ok, nobody noticed." It says that a lot. I have to pretend to believe it.
Anyway. The trolls. There were many of them. Oh, soooo many. They got on at (I think) Basingstoke, in a huddled chattery gang, dragging enormous bundles and cases with them. The lead troll, a woman of indeterminate age with bright ginger hair, was organising them. She fussed and chattered without stopping for about 45 minutes.
"Come on, sit here. Sit down, just here. No, HERE. Where's your bag? *tch* Give it here. I said GIVE IT HERE. I'll put it away for you."
She'd then stagger down the carriage dragging the bag, walloping people with it as she went, stuff it into the luggage area, then make her unsteady way back to her shuffling, fidgeting troll bretheren. Then it would all start again with the next one.
"You sit here. No you can't sit over there. There's someone already sat there. Yes there is. Look, there. THERE. That man there *pointing at some crimson-faced inoffensive commuter trying to read his book* You can't sit there. Just sit down here. SIT DOWN."
I can only assume it was some sort of outing for the Terminally Bewildered.
And so the long journey wore on.
Things took a different turn yesterday. My, what a day that was.
As we approached Basingstoke, the loudspeaker crackled:
"This is the driver speaking. Would the guard please make their way to the driver immediately. Immediately please."
Everyone perked up, wondering what was going on. Had we been hijacked? Was a crazed gun-toting desperado trying to take the train to Cuba? I for one hoped so.
After a few minutes there was another announcement from the driver.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that this train is now cancelled. We will be terminating this train at Basingstoke."
Arse.
There then followed a long and detailed itinerary of all the other trains which were going to London from Basingstoke, what times they'd be running, what platforms they'd be using, and how many stops they were going to make before getting to Waterloo.
Few people even pretended to be paying attention, they were fighting to get their coats on, and pack up all their stuff. When the train stopped, we all got off and stood stupidly on the platform. I was half expecting a few railway employees with large brooms to come and shoo us away.
"Come along now *tchook tchook* Off to Platform Three with you..."
There was a disagreeable 20 minute wait in the cold, then a small local sprinter type train pulled up and we all crammed aboard. There were very few seats, so most of us stood crammed together in the middle of the carriage, pretending not to mind. I was lucky enough to grab a seat at Woking when some people disembarked, but even so it was very unpleasant.
I arrived into the office almost an hour late, which is impressive given that I don't usually get there till half nine anyway. I checked the train times online every hour or so as the day went on, ready to leg it out the door if there looked like being any more problems. Fortunately, ther problem, whatever it was, had been resolved by mid-afternoon. I left the office at about 5, planning to saunter back to the station and catch the ten to six train. The Tube gods were on my side though, and I made it in time to leap aboard the twenty past five with two minutes to spare.
What a schoolboy error that was.
Of course, there was not a seat to be had. Even the little fold-down seats in the corridors were all fully occupied, and I ended up standing in the gap between two carriages, along with half a dozen other people, all trying to keep our feet as the train joggled along.
It alternated between baking hot and stuffy, and chill winds blowing through the rubber seals, bringing plenty of diesel fumes with them. Nice.
After half an hour or so of this I realised that I was feeling dizzy, and of course, as soon as I realised that, I felt worse and worse. I got queasy, and trembly. Cold sweat began to make itself felt, and I knew if I didn't sit down I would probably swoon dramatically all over the annoying yuppies to my right.
There was absolutely nowhere to sit, so I just slid down onto the floor, filthy as it was, and hoped I'd feel better. It helped, but I was still feeling ropy when we got to the first stop and a few people got off the train. I was able to grab one of the little fold down seats and perched there for another 45 minutes or so. Finally I was able to sit on a proper seat for the last half an hour of the journey, and was still feeling shaky when I got off the train.
I pay almost five thousand pounds a year for this.
Aren't I lucky?
Luckily I have a great internal voice which lies to me. It usually says "It's ok, nobody noticed." It says that a lot. I have to pretend to believe it.
Anyway. The trolls. There were many of them. Oh, soooo many. They got on at (I think) Basingstoke, in a huddled chattery gang, dragging enormous bundles and cases with them. The lead troll, a woman of indeterminate age with bright ginger hair, was organising them. She fussed and chattered without stopping for about 45 minutes.
"Come on, sit here. Sit down, just here. No, HERE. Where's your bag? *tch* Give it here. I said GIVE IT HERE. I'll put it away for you."
She'd then stagger down the carriage dragging the bag, walloping people with it as she went, stuff it into the luggage area, then make her unsteady way back to her shuffling, fidgeting troll bretheren. Then it would all start again with the next one.
"You sit here. No you can't sit over there. There's someone already sat there. Yes there is. Look, there. THERE. That man there *pointing at some crimson-faced inoffensive commuter trying to read his book* You can't sit there. Just sit down here. SIT DOWN."
I can only assume it was some sort of outing for the Terminally Bewildered.
And so the long journey wore on.
Things took a different turn yesterday. My, what a day that was.
As we approached Basingstoke, the loudspeaker crackled:
"This is the driver speaking. Would the guard please make their way to the driver immediately. Immediately please."
Everyone perked up, wondering what was going on. Had we been hijacked? Was a crazed gun-toting desperado trying to take the train to Cuba? I for one hoped so.
After a few minutes there was another announcement from the driver.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that this train is now cancelled. We will be terminating this train at Basingstoke."
Arse.
There then followed a long and detailed itinerary of all the other trains which were going to London from Basingstoke, what times they'd be running, what platforms they'd be using, and how many stops they were going to make before getting to Waterloo.
Few people even pretended to be paying attention, they were fighting to get their coats on, and pack up all their stuff. When the train stopped, we all got off and stood stupidly on the platform. I was half expecting a few railway employees with large brooms to come and shoo us away.
"Come along now *tchook tchook* Off to Platform Three with you..."
There was a disagreeable 20 minute wait in the cold, then a small local sprinter type train pulled up and we all crammed aboard. There were very few seats, so most of us stood crammed together in the middle of the carriage, pretending not to mind. I was lucky enough to grab a seat at Woking when some people disembarked, but even so it was very unpleasant.
I arrived into the office almost an hour late, which is impressive given that I don't usually get there till half nine anyway. I checked the train times online every hour or so as the day went on, ready to leg it out the door if there looked like being any more problems. Fortunately, ther problem, whatever it was, had been resolved by mid-afternoon. I left the office at about 5, planning to saunter back to the station and catch the ten to six train. The Tube gods were on my side though, and I made it in time to leap aboard the twenty past five with two minutes to spare.
What a schoolboy error that was.
Of course, there was not a seat to be had. Even the little fold-down seats in the corridors were all fully occupied, and I ended up standing in the gap between two carriages, along with half a dozen other people, all trying to keep our feet as the train joggled along.
It alternated between baking hot and stuffy, and chill winds blowing through the rubber seals, bringing plenty of diesel fumes with them. Nice.
After half an hour or so of this I realised that I was feeling dizzy, and of course, as soon as I realised that, I felt worse and worse. I got queasy, and trembly. Cold sweat began to make itself felt, and I knew if I didn't sit down I would probably swoon dramatically all over the annoying yuppies to my right.
There was absolutely nowhere to sit, so I just slid down onto the floor, filthy as it was, and hoped I'd feel better. It helped, but I was still feeling ropy when we got to the first stop and a few people got off the train. I was able to grab one of the little fold down seats and perched there for another 45 minutes or so. Finally I was able to sit on a proper seat for the last half an hour of the journey, and was still feeling shaky when I got off the train.
I pay almost five thousand pounds a year for this.
Aren't I lucky?
Sunday, 28 February 2010
It's just cooking
I've been watching Masterchef. It's compelling, in a sick, car-crash kind of way.
It's a cooking contest between four eager competitors from a variety of walks of life; plumbers, secretaries, builders, insurance brokers. To start with, they each have to cook a dish in about 15 minutes with ingredients selected by the judges, maybe a nice bit of steak, or scallops, or mackerel, and the best two (or three, I get confused at this point) go on to the next round.
Sometimes there is a huge disaster where the finished dish looks like something you'd knock up after a long evening at the pub, when you were drunk and adventurous. Usually there is a sauce that is far too runny, or a bit of fish that has been charred beyond redemption.
The judges taste their efforts and tell them how much better it could have been, while the competitor stands there biting their lip and trying to look pleased to have some constructive criticism. I assume the big sharp knives are removed for safety before the judging bit begins.
The next round is set in a "top restaurant", where the hapless competitors are dropped into the middle of a full service to prepare some of the signature dishes for paying customers. If I were having lunch in a "top restaurant" I'm not sure how happy I'd be at the thought that some wannabe reality TV personality* was making a lash-up of it out the back. Especially if I was paying full price for it.
There is a very serious commentator who tells us all about the progress of each competitor as the show goes along.
If the competitor doesn't have an interesting-enough job, the commentator refers to them as "mum of two" or "keen amateur cook" throughout the programme. If they are under about 28 they get referred to as "keen young cook" as well.
One of the current crop is an "interior architect". He's called Jonty. What's that short for? Jontythan?
Jonty's speciality is dicking about with huge syringes to "inject flavour" into the food he prepares. It doesn't seem terribly successful so far. The judges look at the plates of food he prepares (and they are always referred to as "plates of food", rather than, say, plates of knitting, or plates of cat litter, presumably to help we poor ignorant non-cooks watching at home to recognise them for what they are) and admire the sheer beauty and artisrty with which he presents stuff.
Jonty is an artiste.
There are usually teeny-weeny julienne of this and frilly fronds of that, all injected full of additional flavour till they squeak. He was injecting balsamic vinegar into strawberries last time I saw him. I'm guessing young Jonty didn't have many friends as a child.
The judges spend a few moments praising Jonty's skill at decorating, then they taste his creations. Jonty stands there sweating, trying not to look too smug while they praise him. You can almost see him thinking "I am an architectural genius. With FOOD."
Jonty gets on my nerves.
He sweats more as they taste his food, their faces betraying their reaction before they say anything. They almost always tell him that there is "no flavour" despite all his efforts at syringing it in. At this point I laugh uproariously, in an unkind manner.
It is interesting how the competitors try to justify their desire to win. Rather than being honest, and saying "I want to be the WINNER. Not a sad, lonely, broken loser. I want to become a TV chef, with a multimillion pound business empire, raking in the cash without me having to do much to earn it, other than knock up a tower of handcut chips and an onion marmalade a couple of nights a week, please."
No.
They say things like "It's always been my dream to cook." The presenters look earnest, nodding and doing the strokey beard thing, as if they are sharing some deep, well-thought-out philosophical ideas.
Well come round my house one evening and make me dinner, you dissembling tiresome slackers. And don't inject anything with anything.
They say insightful things like "Well, I've been cooking for three years now, and I want to take it to the next level."
I've been cooking for about 30 years. If you don't cook, you are very limited in what you get to eat, usually. It's not rocket science. Most people I know can cook, at least a bit. Some of them are even children.
Some of them are excellent at roast dinners. Some of them make fantastic puddings. Some of them have made truly memorable pies.
None of them, as far as I know, have ever dicked about with syringes full of balsamic vinegar.
And what is the next level? Preparing the deadly fugu fish? Making the most exquisite miniature bread known to man? Cooking for endangered baby pandas?
They talk about cooking as though it is a life-changing event. They try to sound as though winning the competition will be the best thing ever to happen to them. Ever. You get the impression that if they were offered the choice of discovering a cure for cancer or winning Masterchef, they'd take the winning.
They are terribly earnest. Sometimes they have tears in their eyes, at which point I make disparaging remarks and mock them from the comfort of my sofa.
It's most refreshing.
*I use the term loosely
It's a cooking contest between four eager competitors from a variety of walks of life; plumbers, secretaries, builders, insurance brokers. To start with, they each have to cook a dish in about 15 minutes with ingredients selected by the judges, maybe a nice bit of steak, or scallops, or mackerel, and the best two (or three, I get confused at this point) go on to the next round.
Sometimes there is a huge disaster where the finished dish looks like something you'd knock up after a long evening at the pub, when you were drunk and adventurous. Usually there is a sauce that is far too runny, or a bit of fish that has been charred beyond redemption.
The judges taste their efforts and tell them how much better it could have been, while the competitor stands there biting their lip and trying to look pleased to have some constructive criticism. I assume the big sharp knives are removed for safety before the judging bit begins.
The next round is set in a "top restaurant", where the hapless competitors are dropped into the middle of a full service to prepare some of the signature dishes for paying customers. If I were having lunch in a "top restaurant" I'm not sure how happy I'd be at the thought that some wannabe reality TV personality* was making a lash-up of it out the back. Especially if I was paying full price for it.
There is a very serious commentator who tells us all about the progress of each competitor as the show goes along.
If the competitor doesn't have an interesting-enough job, the commentator refers to them as "mum of two" or "keen amateur cook" throughout the programme. If they are under about 28 they get referred to as "keen young cook" as well.
One of the current crop is an "interior architect". He's called Jonty. What's that short for? Jontythan?
Jonty's speciality is dicking about with huge syringes to "inject flavour" into the food he prepares. It doesn't seem terribly successful so far. The judges look at the plates of food he prepares (and they are always referred to as "plates of food", rather than, say, plates of knitting, or plates of cat litter, presumably to help we poor ignorant non-cooks watching at home to recognise them for what they are) and admire the sheer beauty and artisrty with which he presents stuff.
Jonty is an artiste.
There are usually teeny-weeny julienne of this and frilly fronds of that, all injected full of additional flavour till they squeak. He was injecting balsamic vinegar into strawberries last time I saw him. I'm guessing young Jonty didn't have many friends as a child.
The judges spend a few moments praising Jonty's skill at decorating, then they taste his creations. Jonty stands there sweating, trying not to look too smug while they praise him. You can almost see him thinking "I am an architectural genius. With FOOD."
Jonty gets on my nerves.
He sweats more as they taste his food, their faces betraying their reaction before they say anything. They almost always tell him that there is "no flavour" despite all his efforts at syringing it in. At this point I laugh uproariously, in an unkind manner.
It is interesting how the competitors try to justify their desire to win. Rather than being honest, and saying "I want to be the WINNER. Not a sad, lonely, broken loser. I want to become a TV chef, with a multimillion pound business empire, raking in the cash without me having to do much to earn it, other than knock up a tower of handcut chips and an onion marmalade a couple of nights a week, please."
No.
They say things like "It's always been my dream to cook." The presenters look earnest, nodding and doing the strokey beard thing, as if they are sharing some deep, well-thought-out philosophical ideas.
Well come round my house one evening and make me dinner, you dissembling tiresome slackers. And don't inject anything with anything.
They say insightful things like "Well, I've been cooking for three years now, and I want to take it to the next level."
I've been cooking for about 30 years. If you don't cook, you are very limited in what you get to eat, usually. It's not rocket science. Most people I know can cook, at least a bit. Some of them are even children.
Some of them are excellent at roast dinners. Some of them make fantastic puddings. Some of them have made truly memorable pies.
None of them, as far as I know, have ever dicked about with syringes full of balsamic vinegar.
And what is the next level? Preparing the deadly fugu fish? Making the most exquisite miniature bread known to man? Cooking for endangered baby pandas?
They talk about cooking as though it is a life-changing event. They try to sound as though winning the competition will be the best thing ever to happen to them. Ever. You get the impression that if they were offered the choice of discovering a cure for cancer or winning Masterchef, they'd take the winning.
They are terribly earnest. Sometimes they have tears in their eyes, at which point I make disparaging remarks and mock them from the comfort of my sofa.
It's most refreshing.
*I use the term loosely
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