Flouncing about

It's a bracing 11 degrees in my study this morning.  Mmmmm.  Fresh.

Yesterday afternoon, around 2pm, I was sitting in here, pleating ruffles for a funky dress I am making.  London Niece asked me to make her a costume to wear to some Manga convention, and helpfully emailed me pictures of the relevant character to work from:

I'm not making the umbrella, hat, boots or creepy ghost thingy. Just the frock.

Anyhoo.

Radio 4 Extra was on; I think I was listening to a Sherlock Holmes dramatisation.  Well, that's what always seems to be on Radio 4 Extra.  That and endless dull dramatisations of twentieth-century political novels I've never read.  Oh, and Elvenquest.  I like Elvenquest.

So, as I said, I was sitting in here, pleating miles and miles of black satin, and I thought "Hmm, it's getting a bit chilly now. I'll put the heating on a couple of hours early."

Normally our heating only comes on for an hour or so in the morning, just before getting-up time, and then again at teatime until bedtime*.  

So, I scampered downstairs, pressed the Advance switch on the boiler, made a cup of tea and scampered back up here.  Another half-hour, and more Sherlock Holmes, passed.  I realised I was still chilly - the tea masked that for a while - and felt the radiator.  Stone cold.

Hmm.

Did I press the wrong button on the boiler?  Not the first time I'd have done so, if I had.  Back down to the kitchen, and a proper look at the boiler control panel.

All the correct lights were on.  I ran the hot tap and ensured that there was hot water.  Yep.  Checked the oil tank sensor thingy.  Yep, still loads of oil there.  I pressed the heating button uselessly a few more times, then dug out the "Welcome to your new boiler" booklet that lives in among the cobwebby filth at the bottom of the boiler cupboard.

I read all the "Troubleshooting" advice, then tried everything they suggested.  The options were limited, to be fair.  I had to turn the hot water and heating temperature dials up to MAXIMUM POWER and listen for the burners igniting.

It was like the launch of the space shuttle.

The burners ignited with a satisfying THUMPFWOOOOOOSSSSSSSSHHHHHHH but there was nothing going on with the radiators.

Fuck.

I rang the boiler people and after a 20 minute wait on hold, interrupted by repeated attempts to make me go to the Internet, I got through to a helpful lady.

She listened to my babbling account of the problem - I suspect the only thing she was really interested in was my address and credit card details - but she made sympathetic noises and assured me that a repair man would be here on Saturday.  I asked when. Oh, any time between 0800 and 1600.

Fantastic.

After that, I went out to the impossibly awkwardly-placed log pile in the shed and managed to scavenge a basket of firewood.  We have far too many sheds.  You'd think at least one of them would be easy to use, wouldn't you?  The log shed (formerly the dog shed) has our supply of firewood in it.  I discovered yesterday that it has a leaky roof, and that Mr WithaY has rigged up a complex system of boards and tarpaulins inside the shed to keep the wood dry.

Unfortunately it makes it almost impossible to reach the log pile.  I perched atop flimsy boards and slippery tarpaulin, grabbing at logs randomly, feeling the whole heap move each time I removed something.  It was like playing Extreme Jenga.

It added an element of excitement to a routine chore, I suppose.

So.  I lit the fire in the sitting room at about 4pm, as it was getting dark and cold, and then sat there like a Victorian miser, doling additional firewood out according to a complex calculation involving the amount of heat required, estimated duration of log burn, critical mass of fire needed to retain structural integrity and number of logs left in the basket to last me the evening.

I went to bed at 9pm, cheered by the thought that I have a hot water bottle in the back of a cupboard.  I was going to fill it from the hot tap in the bathroom, wrap it in a small towel and a pillowcase, then snuggle in bed under a duvet and a heap of blankets, watching TV till I was sleepy.

I may even have hummed a happy tune as I filled my hot water bottle, after running the hot tap for ages to ensure maximum warmth.  I screwed the lid on and turned it upside down over the sink to shake out the water in the neck of the bottle.  Water poured from a myriad of tiny holes all over the bloody thing.

It's old.  It's rubber.  It's perished.

Fuck.

I went to bed in a bit of a sulk and contented myself with posting grumpy and petulant messages on Facebook, watching TV and finding extra blankets.

Mr WithaY is away on his bushcraft course this week.  Every time he goes away in the winter the boiler plays up.  Every bloody time.

Anyway, the boiler man rang me at 0730 to tell me he was on his way, and he is currently up to his ears in the boiler cupboard, fixing it.

In fact, update, he has finished, and the heating is back on.

So ignore the above.

Sorry about that.










*You should see our clocks.  No numbers involved.

Dressing up

This morning I woke up to the first proper frost of the winter.  We were out for dinner last night with friends* and walking home, the stars were beautiful.  One of the many benefits of living out here is that (assuming the pub and petrol station turn off their exterior lights when they close) we have dark skies, and can enjoy the stars.

I always wish I knew more about the stars, without actually wanting to do anything so pedestrian as study them, so I point out the constellations I know (Orion, the Plough, Cassiopeia....um.....possibly the Dragon, the Pleiadies) and then have to content myself with sighing in an affected manner and saying trite things like "Gosh, there are so many of them.  Aren't they lovely?"

According to Wikipedia (and when is the Internet ever wrong, eh?) there are 88 modern constellations.  I can recognise 4, possibly 5.  That's not a good average, even allowing for the fact that I can't see the ones in the Southern Hemisphere.

I note with interest that the stars that make up the Dragon are located within The Black Tortoise Of The North in Chinese skies.  I like that name.  It sounds like it ought to belong to a really crap pirate, renowned for his lassitude and inability to catch anyone he chases across the high seas.  With a wrinkly neck, and an inordinate fondness for grapes and lettuce.

This week is an exciting one, as it is likely to be when we find out if the planned new business venture can go ahead as we want, or whether we will have to go to Plan B, or even Plan C.  I don't even know if we have a Plan C, to be honest.

I'm trying hard not to get too excited about things, at least until we have stuff on paper in a legal manner, but it's really tempting to start planning things and deciding what would be best to do when we get the go-ahead.

This week is also the start of a new sewing project. My London Niece has asked me to make her an outfit based on a Manga comic character, so this weekend we chose the fabric and made the necessary measurements. It will involve a shitload of frills.  It's years since I made anything that wasn't "ordinary" so this will be good practice.

Mr WithaY wants me to make him a set of Elizabethan clothing, and possibly some Regency and Medieval stuff too, so I need to get my eye back in.  I like a challenge, me.
 
At the weekend, whilst Middle Sis and London Niece were visiting, we all went out for a curry.  The curry house we go to is a way away, on the main road between here and Salisbury.It used to be a Little Chef restaurant, so it's huge, and never feels crowded, which I like. I also like the fact that the old elephant-shaped slide out the front has now been decorated to look like an Indian ceremonial elephant, complete with gold paint and eye-liner.

We ate a fine meal, paid the bill and were walking out to the car.  There was a shout behind us, and the restaurant owner burst out through the doors, scampering after us.  We all stopped, wondering if we'd forgotten a coat, or perhaps under-tipped, and were about to get the business end of a curry ladle.

No.  He was mortified that he hadn't been by the front door to wish us a goodnight, and thank us for coming.  Apparently he'd been in the kitchen, supervising a "complicated dish" and had missed us leaving.  He shook our hands, said a fulsome goodnight, and we went on our way.  What a nice chap.

Other news:  I made ginger cake from a recipe in my Great British Baking book. Readers, it was excellent.  On a not entirely unrelated note, I weighed myself this morning and was mortified to discover that I have got heavier.  It may be partly due to my gym visits, muscle weighs more than fat, blah blah blah, but I have a nasty feeling it has more to do with my fondness for cramming cake into my fat face.













*Hello Sarah!

Winter wonderland

It's still snowing. It doesn't feel like England at all. Unless you watch the news and see the "not used to snow" chaos out there: cars trapped up trees, cats in snowdrifts, houses sliding down hills.

Aieee!

It's weird to think that there is a whole generation for whom this is the first significant nationwide snow. I seem to remember loads of snowy winters when I was little. Mind you, we were in Germany for some of them.

One of the neighbours has been going up and down the road outside in his tractor with a snowplough blade on the front, which is helpful. Although, if it keeps coming down like it is at the moment it will all be under a blanket again in an hour.

We went over to the pub for dinner last night, as it was too bloody snowy to go shopping, and we have reached the "three scabby carrots, 200 poppodums and dented cans with no labels on" stage in the kitchen. The place was pretty quiet, as you'd expect, but a few more people came in as the evening went on, and we ended up having quite a convivial time.

At about nine o'clock the snow started again, huge heavy flakes that quickly settled, covering the roads. We watched it, with the bar girlies getting more and more excited, until they decided they were going to go out and make snow angels. So I went as well, to watch. I am far too old and creaky to lie in the snow.

Some of the chaps in the pub started reminiscing about Great Dares Of Our Time, triggered by the conversation about the advisibility of making a snow angel in the middle of the road.*

One of the Great Dares appealed to me - a chap had to sit (on a chair from the pub) on the white line in the middle of the road outside, drinking his pint. Apparently all the traffic just slowed down and drove round him.

Another one involved making a chap run naked down the main road to pick up a diesel glove from the garage, then run back. It took ages "because he kept stopping and hiding in the bushes". Excellent.

So. More snow due over the weekend. I just hope I can get to the office on Monday, I am starting to go a bit stir crazy now.


*We decided against it, and used the garage forecourt instead.

Seasonal

Wow, it is really snowing!

Loads! Proper old fashioned snow you can use to go sledging on.

It is quite spectacular. And bloody cold.

I put some breadcrumbs out for the birds a couple of hours ago, and those that were't snaffled up by the starving blackbirds have been buried under the snow already.

It looks like Siberia out there. But with fewer bears.

Ice ice baby

Went out a little while ago to move the cars around so I can scoot off at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and my car has a sheet of ice on the INSIDE of the windscreen.

That's not good.

And it's foggy.

Gah.