The water thing. Part II.
The Wessex Water workmen didn't return the next day as originally promised, which meant we had a week or so with the jerry-rigged hosepipe supplying the house with running water. In the meantime, the local plumber was summoned. He's a very charming young chap by the name of Ollie, does a good job, is polite, friendly and doesn't demand unlimited tea and biscuits. Plus the dog loved him. He examined the work done outside, and then ferreted around the kitchen looking for water pipes.
He ascertained that all the pipes were sited behind the (new-ish) kitchen cabinets, so went to investigate the downstairs toilet for possible pipe access.
"Oh dear," he said. "It's a really nice little room, isn't it?"
Yes it is. Thanks for noticing. Oh, you mean too nice to hack holes in the walls to get to the pipes? Yes, that too.
We had a cup of tea while we decided how best to approach the problem. The problem being that the water pipes running from the OUTSIDE of the house to the INSIDE of the house are most likely in the same terrible colander-like state of corrosion as the external water pipes, and therefore need to be replaced.
And, of course, we have to arrange - and pay for - that part of the work to be done, hence the visit from Ollie the Plumber. The tea drunk, we decided on a plan of action. Sadly, some of the kitchen cupboard interiors would have to be sacrificed to the greater good, but there would be no visible damage to the exteriors. I was ok with that, and set about emptying cupboards with a will. Mr WithaY deftly dismantled the complicated corner cupboard can-store mechanism thingy, and we were ready to go.
Well. The plumber laid out giant dustsheets all over the kitchen floor and strewed a collection of tools across them. The dog immediately sneaked in and stole one of his screwdrivers, carrying it proudly to Mr WithaY. We returned it, and tried to teach the dog what "Get the most expensive-looking drill" means, but to no avail.
Ollie the plumber began carving holes in the back of the cabinets. He was very careful and tidy, but even so. When you've spent a bloody fortune having your kitchen refitted from top to bottom, it's not much fun watching it being partially dismantled and hacked about to fix something that is beyond your control.
I closed the door and the dog and I sat companionably in the sitting room, trying not to listen to the sound of holes being drilled in the house. Every so often I would pop my head into the kitchen and see how things were going. There was a deep, deep hole running from the back of the cupboard out to the garden. Ollie was trying to connect it up with the hole on the other side, and wasn't having much luck, it seemed.
The drilling continued, the house shook, the dust levels increased, and the long day wore on.
Eventually the plumber came and found me. He was unable to go any deeper until we had the septic tank emptied, as it was so full that it was backfilling the hole as fast as he pumped it out.
Ugh.
So. We booked the nice man with the shit-sucking truck to come and do the dirty deed, and once that was complete we could get the plumber back to connect up the interior pipework. Once THAT was done the Wessex Water chaps could come back and reconnect our water supply to the proper underground pipes rather than the temporary blue plastic hose.
It was like some sort of evil nursery rhyme. The old lady who swallowed the fly, then swallowed the spider and so on until she swallowed a horse*.
Anyway. Where there was once a deep pit several inches full of dirty water, now there is a tidy patch of concrete with a neat little plastic drain cover in it. And we have a stopcock inside the house, which I don;t think we had previously. All we need now is the bill from the plumber.
One a different note, this week I watched a 1970s TV documentary about the first English chapter of the Hell's Angels that I was pointed to via Twitter. It was interesting, in a weird "Withnail and I" way, and the voice-over commentary made it sound like an old Monty Python sketch. One of the gang had wildly crossed eyes, the result, the commentator explained neutrally, of having "both his eyes knocked out of their sockets in a fight."
The thing that struck me the most, apart from the lack of traffic on the streets, was how young they all looked. I assume that's because I am getting old.
*She's dead of course.
Friday, 27 July 2012
Friday, 13 July 2012
WaterWorld
Well yesterday was exciting. Mr WithaY was off out working, and after we'd walked the dog, he headed off by about 9am. So far so good.
I pottered around in the kitchen for an hour, doing the usual domestic drudgery stuff, but that came to a grinding halt when I realised that we had no water coming out of the taps. To be specific, there was no hot water coming out of the kitchen tap, and the barest trickle of cold water. There was no water at all upstairs.
I went over to the petrol station and asked if they still had water. Yes they did. I asked our immediate neighbours if they had water. Yes they did.
Oh good. Just us without, then.
In the course of the conversation with the neighbour, he told me that there was a "huge leak" in the village somewhere, which the people at Wessex Water had been looking for for months. My heart sank. I telephoned Wessex Water and told them that I had no running water, but the neighbours did. They were very helpful and said that they'd send someone out "soon."
Sure enough, a short (ish) time later, a large smiley man knocked on the door. I took him round to the back garden and showed him what I had discovered - namely that the hole in the patio where the main water stop-cock* is sited was completely full of water, and a small spring could be seen in one corner, making a pretty cascade across the garden.
He stripped off his high-vis coat and plunged an arm into the water to turn off the water at the mains. A few moments later, his hand emerged, clutching the broken stop cock.
"Ah," he said. "That's not supposed to happen."
We agreed that it was unfortunate, standing out in the rain as he tried to massage life back into his arm. Apparently our cold water is really, really cold.
He sucked his teeth. I hopped from foot to foot anxiously. Water continued to cascade across the patio into the lawn, making an impromptu bog garden feature.
"Well, the guys are on their way," he told me. "I'll wait in the van till they arrive." Off he went.
Some time later, two chaps arrived with a lot of digging equipment, and a small pump. Things got noisy. A large hole was dug. More water was pumped out of the hole and across the garden. The dog was beside herself with excitement, so I only took her out into the garden when she had her lead on, as I didn't want her to run into the way of the workmen, or, more worryingly, run out of the garden if the gate had been left open.
After a couple of hours, the workmen showed me the water pipe they had extricated. It looked like a long cylindrical colander, peppered with small holes, one huge hole at the end. Apparently it must have been leaking for years, which explains why the patio is in such a terrible state at that end of the house. The good news was that the pipe can be replaced. The bad news is that there's more pipe, probably in a similar terrible state, running up into the house, and anything inside the house is our responsibility, not that of the Wessex Water people.
Arse.
Another prolonged period of drilling, pumping and stop-cock jiggery-pokery** followed, and the workmen told me that the water "ought to be working ok" now.
Nope. They then tried to rejig the water softener that lives under the kitchen sink in case that was the problem. Nope. They sucked their teeth and hummed and hawed. One of them said "This looks like a pretty new kitchen. I don't suppose you'll want to have all these cabinets cut out, do you?"
No I fucking won't.
The long afternoon wore on, the rain continued to piss down relentlessly, and I was still without running water. The workmen rigged up a sort of interim system involving long plastic tubes which at least allowed me to use all the taps in the house, and left, having called the Wessex Water plumber to come and "sort it out for you."
I took the dog for a walk, despite the monsoon that West Wiltshire was currently enjoying.
On our return, the plumber rang and said he'd be there in 15 minutes. Sure enough, he arrived as promised, and I explained the situation to him. He looked at the water softener, then at me.
"I'm really not sure why they called me in, to be honest," he said. "I don't think the water softener is the problem here." I agreed, but for the look of the thing we went through a complex rigmarole of turning taps on and off as he fiddled with various stop-cocks under the sink. After a few minutes of this, we agreed that the water softener was indeed functioning fine, and the real issue was the perforated water pipes under the house.
So, that's how things have been left. The workmen promised that they'd be back today to finish up, but so far there's no sign of them. My back garden is still a tangled mess of bright blue pipework, bags of cement, heaps of spoil, and of course all the crap we took out of the garage and stacked on the patio till we could find a home for it.
And of course, it's still pissing down.
In other news, the dog is brilliant.
*Sorry. It's hard to talk about this without using many, many double entendres.
**Told you.
I pottered around in the kitchen for an hour, doing the usual domestic drudgery stuff, but that came to a grinding halt when I realised that we had no water coming out of the taps. To be specific, there was no hot water coming out of the kitchen tap, and the barest trickle of cold water. There was no water at all upstairs.
I went over to the petrol station and asked if they still had water. Yes they did. I asked our immediate neighbours if they had water. Yes they did.
Oh good. Just us without, then.
In the course of the conversation with the neighbour, he told me that there was a "huge leak" in the village somewhere, which the people at Wessex Water had been looking for for months. My heart sank. I telephoned Wessex Water and told them that I had no running water, but the neighbours did. They were very helpful and said that they'd send someone out "soon."
Sure enough, a short (ish) time later, a large smiley man knocked on the door. I took him round to the back garden and showed him what I had discovered - namely that the hole in the patio where the main water stop-cock* is sited was completely full of water, and a small spring could be seen in one corner, making a pretty cascade across the garden.
"Ah," he said. "That's not supposed to happen."
We agreed that it was unfortunate, standing out in the rain as he tried to massage life back into his arm. Apparently our cold water is really, really cold.
"Well, the guys are on their way," he told me. "I'll wait in the van till they arrive." Off he went.
Some time later, two chaps arrived with a lot of digging equipment, and a small pump. Things got noisy. A large hole was dug. More water was pumped out of the hole and across the garden. The dog was beside herself with excitement, so I only took her out into the garden when she had her lead on, as I didn't want her to run into the way of the workmen, or, more worryingly, run out of the garden if the gate had been left open.
After a couple of hours, the workmen showed me the water pipe they had extricated. It looked like a long cylindrical colander, peppered with small holes, one huge hole at the end. Apparently it must have been leaking for years, which explains why the patio is in such a terrible state at that end of the house. The good news was that the pipe can be replaced. The bad news is that there's more pipe, probably in a similar terrible state, running up into the house, and anything inside the house is our responsibility, not that of the Wessex Water people.
Arse.
Another prolonged period of drilling, pumping and stop-cock jiggery-pokery** followed, and the workmen told me that the water "ought to be working ok" now.
Nope. They then tried to rejig the water softener that lives under the kitchen sink in case that was the problem. Nope. They sucked their teeth and hummed and hawed. One of them said "This looks like a pretty new kitchen. I don't suppose you'll want to have all these cabinets cut out, do you?"
No I fucking won't.
The long afternoon wore on, the rain continued to piss down relentlessly, and I was still without running water. The workmen rigged up a sort of interim system involving long plastic tubes which at least allowed me to use all the taps in the house, and left, having called the Wessex Water plumber to come and "sort it out for you."
I took the dog for a walk, despite the monsoon that West Wiltshire was currently enjoying.
On our return, the plumber rang and said he'd be there in 15 minutes. Sure enough, he arrived as promised, and I explained the situation to him. He looked at the water softener, then at me.
"I'm really not sure why they called me in, to be honest," he said. "I don't think the water softener is the problem here." I agreed, but for the look of the thing we went through a complex rigmarole of turning taps on and off as he fiddled with various stop-cocks under the sink. After a few minutes of this, we agreed that the water softener was indeed functioning fine, and the real issue was the perforated water pipes under the house.
So, that's how things have been left. The workmen promised that they'd be back today to finish up, but so far there's no sign of them. My back garden is still a tangled mess of bright blue pipework, bags of cement, heaps of spoil, and of course all the crap we took out of the garage and stacked on the patio till we could find a home for it.
And of course, it's still pissing down.
In other news, the dog is brilliant.
*Sorry. It's hard to talk about this without using many, many double entendres.
**Told you.
Monday, 9 July 2012
Saturday, 7 July 2012
Good, Dawg
Hello. Hello hello hello. Sorry. I know. Been a while. I have no excuses to offer other than the usual "I was far too easily distracted to focus on writing a blog post" which I know is lame and weak and terrible.
Anyway. We're all here now.
In a nutshell:
1) Job news. I had a job interview a while ago, following an unexpected email. I thought the interview went well, and they told me at the end of it that I could expect to hear back from them in a "few days." Almost two weeks went by, then I finally got the long-awaited email. In it, they told me that they had decided to go with Agency staff rather than taking on someone for the short term. Fair enough, but what annoyed me was their statement that their Agency staff had started work "this Monday." I got the email on the Thursday. So, they must have known they were going to hire Agency staff at the end of the previous week, and could have emailed me a week before they did. Which would have saved me a week of anxious (borderline obsessive) email-checking.
Gah.
However, on a more positive note, I have actually got myself a different job. It's part-time, only a few hours a week, but it is within walking distance, doing something I like. I shall be a supper cook at a large residential care home, which is something I have become quite interested in since poor old Father-in-Law WithaY went to live in a nursing home. It makes such a huge difference to his day when his food is prepared just how he likes it. I like to think I could make that sort of positive contribution to peoples' days too.
I'm waiting for them to get the relevant references and security clearances sorted out, and then hopefully I can start work shortly. The best thing is that it will allow me to get on with other catering work-related stuff during the day, AND do social stuff in the evening, as the hours are so handy.
2) Home improvements. We've had the garage transformed from a fetid, cobwebby filth pit into two smart rooms, one to be a workshop for Mr WithaY, and the other to be a storage space for the planned catering business. We need to get the wiring done, and new lights fitted, but after that I can get a decent freezer and a blast chiller/fridge in there, and we're good to go. I'm still waiting for the local environmental health people to come and inspect the kitchen, but once they've done that I think we can start with all the "making and selling tasty treats" activities we have in mind.
Mr WithaY spent most of Thursday painting both rooms a smart shade of magnolia. There was a second coat on Friday, and then he painted the floors with some special floor paint. I think it reduces slip hazards, or increases traction, or keeps the dust down. You get a plus-6 buff on your Stamina stats when you walk on it. It kills ants. Something.
The only downside is that the back garden is stacked high with all the fetid cobwebby shite that was in the garage. In the rain. We have to sort it out and decide what we'll keep, and where we'll put it.
On that note, we put some things by the front gate with a "FREE! Take me home!" sign on them. An old wooden kitchen chair. A cassette/radio player. Some assorted oddments. But by far and away the most popular were the Kilner jars. Father-in-Law WithaY was an avid bottler of fruit, and when we cleared out his house there were about 70 Kilner jars, many with fruit still bottled up inside them. We put the jars in the garage. Come reckoning day, out they came again. The fruit - whatever it was - had turned brown and fragmented, lurking in thick viscous jelly. I made an executive decision that there was no way on Earth that we were going to eat any of it, so spent a jolly afternoon prising the lids off, dumping the contents into many, many big plastic sacks, and putting the empty jars through the dishwasher.
As an interesting aside, the addition of 9 year old sauerkraut to a giant bag of mixed mystery bottled fruits creates a pungent and powerful aroma that stays with you for days. Days.
I digress.
The clean jars and lids were put into boxes and placed outside, where they were rapidly snapped up by incredulous passers-by. One lady said to me "If you come home one day and find a jar of marmalade on your front doorstep, it will be from me, as a thank you." Nice.
One chap was less pleased. He stood looking at the jars for some time, humming and hawing. I happened to wander out into the front garden and he said "Are these Kilner jars?
I said they were.
"Aren't they supposed to have rubber seals?" he demanded.
Mr WithaY wandered over and told him that rubber seals could be bought via the Internet very easily.
"Hmph. Well. I don't think I'll bother," he grumbled, and drove off into the sunset, disgruntled and jar-less.
3) Grand days out. We went to the Chalke Valley history festival last weekend. Well, Mr WithaY was actually taking part, as a dashing swordsman. He and our mate from Gloucester went along on Friday (in the posh and comfy motorhome) and I went with some friends on Saturday for a day out. We took a monumentally excellent picnic, the sun shone and there was a flypast from a Spitfire.
I'm rather proud of that photo, given that it was flying a looooong way off.
See? There are some of the crowds, watching it going back and forth over the showground. See it? Almost directly over the apex of the big white tent.
I took an even better photo than that, if you can believe it:
I went to one of the talks - a discussion on the life and work of Elizabeth David, supposedly - but it was a bit disappointing. Of the three panellists, one was a biographer, one was a food writer and the other was the chairman of the Guild of Fine Food (I think) but they managed to make the hour feel like an awkward dinner party conversation between people who disliked each other and only socialised because they were forced to through work. A shame.
Other than that, an excellent day.
I like the juxtaposition here of the Roman gladiator, the Medieval knight and the two seconds for an Eighteenth Century gentleman's duel. Apparently the chaps being gladiators were picked for that role because (and I quote the knight there) "They're the only skinny bastards in the group."
I particularly liked the chillout tent, fitted out with squashy sofas and a couple of classical musicians, filled with people of a certain age* reading the papers and drinking tea. Civilised. Now that's what I call a history festival.
We're definitely going again next year.
4) Family addition. This is the most recent, and the most significant, event of note to take place in the WithaY household. We are about to hear the patter of tiny paws. No, I'm not having a baby. With paws. That would be freaky and wrong. No, we're getting a dog. I feel the need to shriek like Daisy Steiner when I say that, but I will try to refrain for the sake of Mr WithaY's sanity. She's black Labrador, a breed which I think is actually compulsory in this village, and she arrives next week. She's 4 months old, is already called Hester, and is absurdly cute.
Her current owner brought her (and her brother Henry) round last night. They both peed on the kitchen floor - something I suspect I will have to deal with more than once in the next few weeks - and then spent some considerable time finding onions in the vegetable rack, carrying them carefully to their owner, and dropping them at his feet.
This activity exhausted them, and they both fell asleep on the kitchen floor, waking only to come with us into the sitting room where they both fell asleep on the new dog bed. Awwwh.
So. Expect numerous and probably dreadful posts about how cute/clever/obedient the new dog is. They are likely to be a tissue of lies. LIES.
*About my age, probably
Anyway. We're all here now.
In a nutshell:
1) Job news. I had a job interview a while ago, following an unexpected email. I thought the interview went well, and they told me at the end of it that I could expect to hear back from them in a "few days." Almost two weeks went by, then I finally got the long-awaited email. In it, they told me that they had decided to go with Agency staff rather than taking on someone for the short term. Fair enough, but what annoyed me was their statement that their Agency staff had started work "this Monday." I got the email on the Thursday. So, they must have known they were going to hire Agency staff at the end of the previous week, and could have emailed me a week before they did. Which would have saved me a week of anxious (borderline obsessive) email-checking.
Gah.
However, on a more positive note, I have actually got myself a different job. It's part-time, only a few hours a week, but it is within walking distance, doing something I like. I shall be a supper cook at a large residential care home, which is something I have become quite interested in since poor old Father-in-Law WithaY went to live in a nursing home. It makes such a huge difference to his day when his food is prepared just how he likes it. I like to think I could make that sort of positive contribution to peoples' days too.
I'm waiting for them to get the relevant references and security clearances sorted out, and then hopefully I can start work shortly. The best thing is that it will allow me to get on with other catering work-related stuff during the day, AND do social stuff in the evening, as the hours are so handy.
2) Home improvements. We've had the garage transformed from a fetid, cobwebby filth pit into two smart rooms, one to be a workshop for Mr WithaY, and the other to be a storage space for the planned catering business. We need to get the wiring done, and new lights fitted, but after that I can get a decent freezer and a blast chiller/fridge in there, and we're good to go. I'm still waiting for the local environmental health people to come and inspect the kitchen, but once they've done that I think we can start with all the "making and selling tasty treats" activities we have in mind.
Mr WithaY spent most of Thursday painting both rooms a smart shade of magnolia. There was a second coat on Friday, and then he painted the floors with some special floor paint. I think it reduces slip hazards, or increases traction, or keeps the dust down. You get a plus-6 buff on your Stamina stats when you walk on it. It kills ants. Something.
The only downside is that the back garden is stacked high with all the fetid cobwebby shite that was in the garage. In the rain. We have to sort it out and decide what we'll keep, and where we'll put it.
On that note, we put some things by the front gate with a "FREE! Take me home!" sign on them. An old wooden kitchen chair. A cassette/radio player. Some assorted oddments. But by far and away the most popular were the Kilner jars. Father-in-Law WithaY was an avid bottler of fruit, and when we cleared out his house there were about 70 Kilner jars, many with fruit still bottled up inside them. We put the jars in the garage. Come reckoning day, out they came again. The fruit - whatever it was - had turned brown and fragmented, lurking in thick viscous jelly. I made an executive decision that there was no way on Earth that we were going to eat any of it, so spent a jolly afternoon prising the lids off, dumping the contents into many, many big plastic sacks, and putting the empty jars through the dishwasher.
As an interesting aside, the addition of 9 year old sauerkraut to a giant bag of mixed mystery bottled fruits creates a pungent and powerful aroma that stays with you for days. Days.
I digress.
The clean jars and lids were put into boxes and placed outside, where they were rapidly snapped up by incredulous passers-by. One lady said to me "If you come home one day and find a jar of marmalade on your front doorstep, it will be from me, as a thank you." Nice.
One chap was less pleased. He stood looking at the jars for some time, humming and hawing. I happened to wander out into the front garden and he said "Are these Kilner jars?
I said they were.
"Aren't they supposed to have rubber seals?" he demanded.
Mr WithaY wandered over and told him that rubber seals could be bought via the Internet very easily.
"Hmph. Well. I don't think I'll bother," he grumbled, and drove off into the sunset, disgruntled and jar-less.
3) Grand days out. We went to the Chalke Valley history festival last weekend. Well, Mr WithaY was actually taking part, as a dashing swordsman. He and our mate from Gloucester went along on Friday (in the posh and comfy motorhome) and I went with some friends on Saturday for a day out. We took a monumentally excellent picnic, the sun shone and there was a flypast from a Spitfire.
I'm rather proud of that photo, given that it was flying a looooong way off.
See? There are some of the crowds, watching it going back and forth over the showground. See it? Almost directly over the apex of the big white tent.
I took an even better photo than that, if you can believe it:
I went to one of the talks - a discussion on the life and work of Elizabeth David, supposedly - but it was a bit disappointing. Of the three panellists, one was a biographer, one was a food writer and the other was the chairman of the Guild of Fine Food (I think) but they managed to make the hour feel like an awkward dinner party conversation between people who disliked each other and only socialised because they were forced to through work. A shame.
Other than that, an excellent day.
I like the juxtaposition here of the Roman gladiator, the Medieval knight and the two seconds for an Eighteenth Century gentleman's duel. Apparently the chaps being gladiators were picked for that role because (and I quote the knight there) "They're the only skinny bastards in the group."
I particularly liked the chillout tent, fitted out with squashy sofas and a couple of classical musicians, filled with people of a certain age* reading the papers and drinking tea. Civilised. Now that's what I call a history festival.
We're definitely going again next year.
4) Family addition. This is the most recent, and the most significant, event of note to take place in the WithaY household. We are about to hear the patter of tiny paws. No, I'm not having a baby. With paws. That would be freaky and wrong. No, we're getting a dog. I feel the need to shriek like Daisy Steiner when I say that, but I will try to refrain for the sake of Mr WithaY's sanity. She's black Labrador, a breed which I think is actually compulsory in this village, and she arrives next week. She's 4 months old, is already called Hester, and is absurdly cute.
Her current owner brought her (and her brother Henry) round last night. They both peed on the kitchen floor - something I suspect I will have to deal with more than once in the next few weeks - and then spent some considerable time finding onions in the vegetable rack, carrying them carefully to their owner, and dropping them at his feet.
This activity exhausted them, and they both fell asleep on the kitchen floor, waking only to come with us into the sitting room where they both fell asleep on the new dog bed. Awwwh.
So. Expect numerous and probably dreadful posts about how cute/clever/obedient the new dog is. They are likely to be a tissue of lies. LIES.
*About my age, probably
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Interesting
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
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
Monday, 18 June 2012
The Woods. Different ones.
Another weekend, another visit to the Outside. Brrr. Sky. Trees. Weather of all descriptions.
Mr WithaY was away all last week, on the final instalment of his 10-month training course, which will (assuming his portfolio is accepted) provide him with an excellent bushcraft instructor's qualification. He's worked really hard at it for almost a year, and I am tremendously proud of him.
Sunday was billed as the Families Day, and the friends and families of the trainees were invited to go along and spend the day doing various bushcrafty things. We were asked to bring a picnic. I got up early, packed the picnic and headed off. According to my satnav, it would take about an hour and a half to get there, and Mr WithaY had asked me to try and be there as close to 1000 as possible, as the day was due to kick off at about 1030-ish.
I had a very pleasant and uneventful journey, finding the location (almost) first time, where Mr WithaY met me with black fingernails, a five day woodsmoke aura and a huge grin on his face.
We made our way along a rutted muddy track (in a LandRover...well, there was a picnic to carry) to a seemingly featureless bit of woodland. We'd arrived.
Mr WithaY proudly gave me a tour of the site. And now I shall do the same for you.
A couple of the teaching areas, and the tea point. They don't have a water cooler to stand around and chat, but the giant kettle did the job nicely.
I had tea. In the woods.
Look. Outdoor tea. From some sort of metal tea-bucket.
This is a view of the kitchen. There, far away, under that tarpaulin. When I arrived, they were all washing up after a giant fry-up fat-boy breakfast, apparently.
Anyway, tea drunk and tour completed, more people arrived and the day kicked off in fine style. I had a go at starting a fire using a bowdrill.
Fail.
It was very interesting to watch other people doing it though, and most of them managed to at least get some smoke, if not actual fire, so the chaps doing the instructing were pleased.
Then I went and had a go at making damper bread. This is a very simple bread dough which you wrap around a stick and bake over the fire. I made mine - made it a bit too wet, unfortunately - but I got it wrapped and placed over the fire, and wandered off to see what Mr WithaY was up to.
We chatted for a bit, and he asked what I'd had a go at. I said "I'm making damper bread."
"Where is it?" he enquired.
"Cooking..." I replied.
"Yeah. You need to go and watch it. Make sure it doesn't burn."
Gah.
Anyway, I had added cinnamon and sugar to the dough, so in fact it is simply caramelising nicely. Nom nom nom.
Here are some other people not burning their damper bread.
One of the trainees' family included a teeny baby. They constructed a fantastic Bushcraft Baby Rocker device.
Every so often one of the parents wandered over and gave it* a gentle push, and she slept happily for ages in there.
Anyway, here's my damper bread, proudly held aloft before vanishing into my gaping maw.
The picnic was a success. Several years ago, when we both still had "proper" jobs, and therefore disposable income, we bought a ridiculously fancy picnic basket/backpack thing.
It contains a cheeseboard, napkins, salt and pepper pots, one of those fancy cork things with a silver top to put in your bottle of wine to save some for later, and all the crockery and cutlery you might expect to need when you're eating off the floor. In the woods.
And a picnic rug. We're not savages.
I do like the combination of mud-encrusted bushcrafting chap's boot, and dainty gingham napkins. We went for a stroll after lunch and collected up some logs that needed to be moved from one woodland glade to another, and then it was almost time for me to go home.
The weather was perfect. The first properly sunny day for bloody ages, which made it a thoroughly enjoyable time.
Mr WithaY and I walked back down the rutted muddy track to where all the cars were parked, I changed out of my wellies into sensible driving trainers, said our goodbyes and I set off for home. Before I left, I pressed the GO HOME button on my satnav.
The anticipated arrival time seemed a bit optimistic, but I decided that it was just due to traffic. Or roadworks having finished. Or goblins. Let's just say I didn't give it much thought, and leave it at that.
I headed off through the little country lanes, listening to the radio, and enjoying the sunshine. I drove some distance, several times thinking "I don't remember coming along this road on the way here..."
I have a bit of a track record re: navigating, though, so I suppressed my anxiety and put all my faith in my satnav.
Schoolboy error.
I had been driving for about half an hour, and still hadn't seen any signs to where I thought I was headed, and then suddenly I was off the tiny back road meandering through the pretty country villages, and on the A3, heading for London. I swore. Apparently I was on the Hog's Back, where there are no places to turn around. My satnav was still insisting that I was heading in the right direction.
I did not believe it.
Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I then went into the Hindhead Tunnel. Readers, I had never heard of such a thing before, but I assure you it is a very, very long tunnel indeed. I had to drive through it, with my radio and satnav both cutting out, the message on the display screen simply stating "Satellite Not Located" in a blunt refusal to help.
Once out the other side, I turned down the first side street I found, pulled over and looked at my satnav.
Readers, a valuable lesson:
When you press the GO HOME button, please ensure that you have previously programmed it to point to your home. If you have failed to do this, it will default, and send you to the satnav factory's home, somewhere in central London.
I arrived home some considerable time later.
Let's never speak of this again.
*The seat thing, not the actual baby. That would have been unkind.
Mr WithaY was away all last week, on the final instalment of his 10-month training course, which will (assuming his portfolio is accepted) provide him with an excellent bushcraft instructor's qualification. He's worked really hard at it for almost a year, and I am tremendously proud of him.
Sunday was billed as the Families Day, and the friends and families of the trainees were invited to go along and spend the day doing various bushcrafty things. We were asked to bring a picnic. I got up early, packed the picnic and headed off. According to my satnav, it would take about an hour and a half to get there, and Mr WithaY had asked me to try and be there as close to 1000 as possible, as the day was due to kick off at about 1030-ish.
I had a very pleasant and uneventful journey, finding the location (almost) first time, where Mr WithaY met me with black fingernails, a five day woodsmoke aura and a huge grin on his face.
We made our way along a rutted muddy track (in a LandRover...well, there was a picnic to carry) to a seemingly featureless bit of woodland. We'd arrived.
Mr WithaY proudly gave me a tour of the site. And now I shall do the same for you.
A couple of the teaching areas, and the tea point. They don't have a water cooler to stand around and chat, but the giant kettle did the job nicely.
I had tea. In the woods.
Look. Outdoor tea. From some sort of metal tea-bucket.
This is a view of the kitchen. There, far away, under that tarpaulin. When I arrived, they were all washing up after a giant fry-up fat-boy breakfast, apparently.
Anyway, tea drunk and tour completed, more people arrived and the day kicked off in fine style. I had a go at starting a fire using a bowdrill.
Fail.
It was very interesting to watch other people doing it though, and most of them managed to at least get some smoke, if not actual fire, so the chaps doing the instructing were pleased.
Then I went and had a go at making damper bread. This is a very simple bread dough which you wrap around a stick and bake over the fire. I made mine - made it a bit too wet, unfortunately - but I got it wrapped and placed over the fire, and wandered off to see what Mr WithaY was up to.
We chatted for a bit, and he asked what I'd had a go at. I said "I'm making damper bread."
"Where is it?" he enquired.
"Cooking..." I replied.
"Yeah. You need to go and watch it. Make sure it doesn't burn."
Gah.
Anyway, I had added cinnamon and sugar to the dough, so in fact it is simply caramelising nicely. Nom nom nom.
Here are some other people not burning their damper bread.
One of the trainees' family included a teeny baby. They constructed a fantastic Bushcraft Baby Rocker device.
Every so often one of the parents wandered over and gave it* a gentle push, and she slept happily for ages in there.
Anyway, here's my damper bread, proudly held aloft before vanishing into my gaping maw.
The picnic was a success. Several years ago, when we both still had "proper" jobs, and therefore disposable income, we bought a ridiculously fancy picnic basket/backpack thing.
It contains a cheeseboard, napkins, salt and pepper pots, one of those fancy cork things with a silver top to put in your bottle of wine to save some for later, and all the crockery and cutlery you might expect to need when you're eating off the floor. In the woods.
And a picnic rug. We're not savages.
I do like the combination of mud-encrusted bushcrafting chap's boot, and dainty gingham napkins. We went for a stroll after lunch and collected up some logs that needed to be moved from one woodland glade to another, and then it was almost time for me to go home.
The weather was perfect. The first properly sunny day for bloody ages, which made it a thoroughly enjoyable time.
Mr WithaY and I walked back down the rutted muddy track to where all the cars were parked, I changed out of my wellies into sensible driving trainers, said our goodbyes and I set off for home. Before I left, I pressed the GO HOME button on my satnav.
The anticipated arrival time seemed a bit optimistic, but I decided that it was just due to traffic. Or roadworks having finished. Or goblins. Let's just say I didn't give it much thought, and leave it at that.
I headed off through the little country lanes, listening to the radio, and enjoying the sunshine. I drove some distance, several times thinking "I don't remember coming along this road on the way here..."
I have a bit of a track record re: navigating, though, so I suppressed my anxiety and put all my faith in my satnav.
Schoolboy error.
I had been driving for about half an hour, and still hadn't seen any signs to where I thought I was headed, and then suddenly I was off the tiny back road meandering through the pretty country villages, and on the A3, heading for London. I swore. Apparently I was on the Hog's Back, where there are no places to turn around. My satnav was still insisting that I was heading in the right direction.
I did not believe it.
Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I then went into the Hindhead Tunnel. Readers, I had never heard of such a thing before, but I assure you it is a very, very long tunnel indeed. I had to drive through it, with my radio and satnav both cutting out, the message on the display screen simply stating "Satellite Not Located" in a blunt refusal to help.
Once out the other side, I turned down the first side street I found, pulled over and looked at my satnav.
Readers, a valuable lesson:
When you press the GO HOME button, please ensure that you have previously programmed it to point to your home. If you have failed to do this, it will default, and send you to the satnav factory's home, somewhere in central London.
I arrived home some considerable time later.
Let's never speak of this again.
*The seat thing, not the actual baby. That would have been unkind.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
The Trees
There is unrest in the forest. There is trouble with the trees.
If by "forest" you mean" "our back garden", and by "the trees" you mean "the giant leylandii in our neighbours' garden."
When we bought our house, all those* years ago, we were delighted by the fact that there was a lovely view over the hedge at the end of our garden, across the neighbour's meadow to the river and hills beyond. It was really very pretty, and when you stood in the bathroom in the mornings and looked out of the window at it, it was a sight to gladden the heart.
When the dairy farm down the road still had their herd of Jersey cows, we could see them grazing on the hills, which was very scenic. There are often rabbits and squirrels in the meadow, skipping about gaily. Egrets and herons live on the river, flying in and out in that strange ungainly way, looking like something out of a film set on a distant planet. One with large predatory bird-like aliens.
Our hedge was flanked on the other side by a cherry tree, and a small cluster of leylandii trees, both of which were in the neighbours' garden. The cherry tree in particular was very pretty, with blossom in the spring, and plenty of birds coming to visit when the fruit started appearing.
Time passed.
A couple of years after we moved in, the neighbours had a go at the leylandii, trimming them down a bit, taking a big lump off the top. It was a huge job, I seem to remember they had to get blokes with scaffolding in. This pruning encouraged it to grow. It grew, and it grew and it GREW.
More time passed.
Last summer we noticed that the bottom end of our garden was becoming a bit dank. Mossy and gloomy. Also, peculiarly dry. We realised that the leylandii was both shading the garden from the sun, and shielding it from the rain. Which was a bit of a bugger, as the fruit bed and the vegetable bed are both at that end of the garden.
Over the winter, that tree seemed to loom ever larger, literally and figuratively.
Possibly because I was spending far more time at home in the hours of daylight, it became a bit of an obsession to me. Every time I went into the garden to peg out washing, or water the veg, or mooch about admiring the wild flower garden**, I'd see it, looming darkly over the hedge. I took to standing directly under it and seeing just how much it was overhanging our garden, muttering and grumbling.
Me, not the tree.
All the tree does is grow, grow ever taller, providing a house for the ever-increasing population of idiot Wiltshire pigeons. It has all but swallowed up the cherry tree, one branch of which is poking out desperately, like the arm of a drowning man waving from the ocean.
The view now consists of this:
Bear in mind that the hedge is about 6 feet tall (yes, it needs cutting, we are waiting for all the birds to finish nesting) which gives some perspective on the height of the tree.
Something had to be done.
After much discussion between Mr WithaY and I, and also with the neighbours on the other side, who hate and loathe the tree with a passion, it was decided that I should write a little note telling the tree-owners that their tree was a nuisance.
That took a fair bit of thought. It was difficult to put down just how much of a nuisance and encroachment it had become without sounding like a nimby whining busybody, but I think I nailed it. The note was dropped round to the neighbour, and we waited with bated breath for a reaction. I was preparing all sorts of worst-case scenarios where the local planning office would be involved, and possibly the environmental health authority. And the Army. And Godzilla.
As it happened, within 24 hours we had a visit from said tree-owning neighbour. She looked at it from our garden and was horrified at how big it was, and how much light it blocked. We discussed possible solutions, and the upshot was that I got a tree surgeon to come round and give us some price quotes on pruning it, or cutting it right down.
Another little note has been written to next door telling them that the tree surgeon's opinion is that the whole thing should come down due to its size and position. Mr WithaY and I have offered to pay for it to be removed, as we know that things are a bit difficult for the neighbours at the moment. All we need is their go-ahead, and hopefully by the end of the summer we will have our view, and the sunshine, back.
In other news: We are getting the garage converted, and the bloke is coming on Thursday to conduct the survey. The work is due to start at the end of the month. Exciting.
And in other, other news, I had a job interview last week. Waaaay back last summer I applied for a job, a post I felt that I was pretty well fitted for, and was rather disappointed not even to get called for interview. I put it in the "Ah well" file in my head, and moved on. Last week, there was an email from the people who I had sent my application to. Was I still available for work, and if so, would I like to come and have a chat with them?
Oh yes indeedy. So I went in, had a long chat, and am currently waiting to hear back from them about the possibility of a full-time (but temporary) job which would then hopefully lead to a part-time, permanent job. Which would be perfect.
I'll let you know.
*Ten and a half
**Rampant weedy patch in the corner of the garden
If by "forest" you mean" "our back garden", and by "the trees" you mean "the giant leylandii in our neighbours' garden."
When we bought our house, all those* years ago, we were delighted by the fact that there was a lovely view over the hedge at the end of our garden, across the neighbour's meadow to the river and hills beyond. It was really very pretty, and when you stood in the bathroom in the mornings and looked out of the window at it, it was a sight to gladden the heart.
When the dairy farm down the road still had their herd of Jersey cows, we could see them grazing on the hills, which was very scenic. There are often rabbits and squirrels in the meadow, skipping about gaily. Egrets and herons live on the river, flying in and out in that strange ungainly way, looking like something out of a film set on a distant planet. One with large predatory bird-like aliens.
Our hedge was flanked on the other side by a cherry tree, and a small cluster of leylandii trees, both of which were in the neighbours' garden. The cherry tree in particular was very pretty, with blossom in the spring, and plenty of birds coming to visit when the fruit started appearing.
Time passed.
A couple of years after we moved in, the neighbours had a go at the leylandii, trimming them down a bit, taking a big lump off the top. It was a huge job, I seem to remember they had to get blokes with scaffolding in. This pruning encouraged it to grow. It grew, and it grew and it GREW.
More time passed.
Last summer we noticed that the bottom end of our garden was becoming a bit dank. Mossy and gloomy. Also, peculiarly dry. We realised that the leylandii was both shading the garden from the sun, and shielding it from the rain. Which was a bit of a bugger, as the fruit bed and the vegetable bed are both at that end of the garden.
Over the winter, that tree seemed to loom ever larger, literally and figuratively.
Possibly because I was spending far more time at home in the hours of daylight, it became a bit of an obsession to me. Every time I went into the garden to peg out washing, or water the veg, or mooch about admiring the wild flower garden**, I'd see it, looming darkly over the hedge. I took to standing directly under it and seeing just how much it was overhanging our garden, muttering and grumbling.
Me, not the tree.
All the tree does is grow, grow ever taller, providing a house for the ever-increasing population of idiot Wiltshire pigeons. It has all but swallowed up the cherry tree, one branch of which is poking out desperately, like the arm of a drowning man waving from the ocean.
The view now consists of this:
Bear in mind that the hedge is about 6 feet tall (yes, it needs cutting, we are waiting for all the birds to finish nesting) which gives some perspective on the height of the tree.
Something had to be done.
After much discussion between Mr WithaY and I, and also with the neighbours on the other side, who hate and loathe the tree with a passion, it was decided that I should write a little note telling the tree-owners that their tree was a nuisance.
That took a fair bit of thought. It was difficult to put down just how much of a nuisance and encroachment it had become without sounding like a nimby whining busybody, but I think I nailed it. The note was dropped round to the neighbour, and we waited with bated breath for a reaction. I was preparing all sorts of worst-case scenarios where the local planning office would be involved, and possibly the environmental health authority. And the Army. And Godzilla.
As it happened, within 24 hours we had a visit from said tree-owning neighbour. She looked at it from our garden and was horrified at how big it was, and how much light it blocked. We discussed possible solutions, and the upshot was that I got a tree surgeon to come round and give us some price quotes on pruning it, or cutting it right down.
Another little note has been written to next door telling them that the tree surgeon's opinion is that the whole thing should come down due to its size and position. Mr WithaY and I have offered to pay for it to be removed, as we know that things are a bit difficult for the neighbours at the moment. All we need is their go-ahead, and hopefully by the end of the summer we will have our view, and the sunshine, back.
In other news: We are getting the garage converted, and the bloke is coming on Thursday to conduct the survey. The work is due to start at the end of the month. Exciting.
And in other, other news, I had a job interview last week. Waaaay back last summer I applied for a job, a post I felt that I was pretty well fitted for, and was rather disappointed not even to get called for interview. I put it in the "Ah well" file in my head, and moved on. Last week, there was an email from the people who I had sent my application to. Was I still available for work, and if so, would I like to come and have a chat with them?
Oh yes indeedy. So I went in, had a long chat, and am currently waiting to hear back from them about the possibility of a full-time (but temporary) job which would then hopefully lead to a part-time, permanent job. Which would be perfect.
I'll let you know.
*Ten and a half
**Rampant weedy patch in the corner of the garden
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Jubilant
So, what did everyone do over the long Jubilee weekend, eh? Street parties? Picnics in the park? Champagne and strawberries under a glorious blue June sky? Lining the streets of London to wave a flag and cheer at the Queen?
No, me neither.
I was in a field. In Derbyshire.
Why oh why oh why was I in a field in Derbyshire? You may well ask. Well. Mr WithaY's new chosen career is that of bushcraft instructor, and he had been asked to go along to the Bushcraft Show to help out with one of the trade stands - a company he has been training, and latterly working with.
He asked me if I'd like to come along, to meet his colleagues, look at all the other stands, and see what it was all about. I said yes. But only on the condition that I could book us into a local B&B, as I have decided that I am too old, too creaky, and in all likelihood too wheezy to camp much these days*.
I found a pub with rooms a few miles from the showground, booked us in for three nights, and off we went on Friday afternoon. It was a hellish journey, inevitably. A long Bank Holiday Weekend, plus the usual evening rush hour traffic meant that it took us probably two hours longer than we had expected, but we arrived eventually. Mr WithaY rang his colleagues to find out if we were needed to go and help set things up, but they were only then leaving home, and weren't likely to arrive much before midnight, so we were free to go and grab some dinner and have an early night, ready for an early start on Saturday.
So. Saturday morning - having left the pub too early to enjoy the included-in-the-room-cost breakfast chiz chiz chiz - we drove across to Elvaston Castle, and this is how the showground looked:
As you can probably tell, it was a bit damp. I did like the giant three-point teepee though. It had a big tv screen in it.
Saturday was successful, there were a lot of people wandering around, and there were many demonstrations of various skills going on. Flint knapping proved very popular, and drew crowds every time the knapper started working.
See how he knaps. I asked him what he does with all the broken bits of flint once he's finished, and apparently they all get placed in a special spoil heap at a university, to ensure that the archaeological record isn't polluted with 21st Century flint arrowheads.
There was also a lovely lady making willow baskets and things. I watched her for ages.
It made me want to have another go, after the excellent day Mr WithaY and I had last Autumn in Somerset, basket weaving.
There was also a chap there who had made several canoes and kayaks. He told us how he'd travelled to Canada, visited some Colonial re-enactment type place and asked them if he could learn to make a canoe in their workshop. They considered it, finally told him he could, but only if he agreed to dress as a Voyageur while he did it, and talk to the public. He spent three months dressed up, learning canoe-making, and said he loved every minute.
Unfortunately, all day on Sunday it pissed down. The rain woke me in the night - did I mention we were staying in a pub, not a tent? - and it didn't let up for about 36 hours. The numbers of people coming through the show were correspondingly low. As I hadn't packed my wellies, by lunchtime my feet were soaked and I was cold and miserable.
I think this encapsulates the mood:
Hopelessly optimistic, offering strawberries and scones in a sea of mud and cold, cold rain.
I took myself off to the car and sat there in the dry, if not the warm, reading my book, playing Angry Birds and snoozing intermittently until it was time to leave. One bright spot was a phone call from some lovely mates who live nearby, who were:
(a) miffed that we hadn't thought to ask them if we could stay at their house, and
(b) seeing if we'd like to meet them for dinner later.
That cheered me right up. A wet, cold, grim day was thus lifted by a lively and good-humoured evening with our mates, and several large glasses of wine. Mmmmm wine. These are the mates we went to Cornwall with a couple of years ago. When Mr WithaY fell in the river. Yeah, you remember.
Monday was much better. The sun shone, there were loads of people, and suddenly everything looked cheerful and interesting again, rather than just rain-sodden and squalid.
We left at about 6 in the evening, having helped to take down the tents and so on, and had an uneventful and much shorter journey home in the bright evening sunshine.
One other highlight of the trip was travelling over to Matlock to pick up my clock. Remember I said I'd commissioned a clock as a "Congratulations on doing 23 Years in the Civil Service" present for myself?
It was ready for collection last weekend, so we went and collected it. Readers, it is a thing of beauty, and I am completely thrilled with it.
Look, here it is in the box, about to be put up on the wall in pride of place. The brush is for dusting it.
And here it is in situ:
It is keeping excellent time so far, but my genius clock-making mate assures me it will need to be adjusted sooner or later. In the meantime, I am enjoying the look of it, and the rather reassuring tick-tock it makes.
It's joined my Rickenbacker on the list of Things I Will Save In A Fire.
*Although if we get one of those funky circular tents you can fit a wood-burner in, I might reconsider
No, me neither.
I was in a field. In Derbyshire.
Why oh why oh why was I in a field in Derbyshire? You may well ask. Well. Mr WithaY's new chosen career is that of bushcraft instructor, and he had been asked to go along to the Bushcraft Show to help out with one of the trade stands - a company he has been training, and latterly working with.
He asked me if I'd like to come along, to meet his colleagues, look at all the other stands, and see what it was all about. I said yes. But only on the condition that I could book us into a local B&B, as I have decided that I am too old, too creaky, and in all likelihood too wheezy to camp much these days*.
I found a pub with rooms a few miles from the showground, booked us in for three nights, and off we went on Friday afternoon. It was a hellish journey, inevitably. A long Bank Holiday Weekend, plus the usual evening rush hour traffic meant that it took us probably two hours longer than we had expected, but we arrived eventually. Mr WithaY rang his colleagues to find out if we were needed to go and help set things up, but they were only then leaving home, and weren't likely to arrive much before midnight, so we were free to go and grab some dinner and have an early night, ready for an early start on Saturday.
So. Saturday morning - having left the pub too early to enjoy the included-in-the-room-cost breakfast chiz chiz chiz - we drove across to Elvaston Castle, and this is how the showground looked:
As you can probably tell, it was a bit damp. I did like the giant three-point teepee though. It had a big tv screen in it.
Saturday was successful, there were a lot of people wandering around, and there were many demonstrations of various skills going on. Flint knapping proved very popular, and drew crowds every time the knapper started working.
See how he knaps. I asked him what he does with all the broken bits of flint once he's finished, and apparently they all get placed in a special spoil heap at a university, to ensure that the archaeological record isn't polluted with 21st Century flint arrowheads.
There was also a lovely lady making willow baskets and things. I watched her for ages.
It made me want to have another go, after the excellent day Mr WithaY and I had last Autumn in Somerset, basket weaving.
There was also a chap there who had made several canoes and kayaks. He told us how he'd travelled to Canada, visited some Colonial re-enactment type place and asked them if he could learn to make a canoe in their workshop. They considered it, finally told him he could, but only if he agreed to dress as a Voyageur while he did it, and talk to the public. He spent three months dressed up, learning canoe-making, and said he loved every minute.
Unfortunately, all day on Sunday it pissed down. The rain woke me in the night - did I mention we were staying in a pub, not a tent? - and it didn't let up for about 36 hours. The numbers of people coming through the show were correspondingly low. As I hadn't packed my wellies, by lunchtime my feet were soaked and I was cold and miserable.
I think this encapsulates the mood:
Hopelessly optimistic, offering strawberries and scones in a sea of mud and cold, cold rain.
I took myself off to the car and sat there in the dry, if not the warm, reading my book, playing Angry Birds and snoozing intermittently until it was time to leave. One bright spot was a phone call from some lovely mates who live nearby, who were:
(a) miffed that we hadn't thought to ask them if we could stay at their house, and
(b) seeing if we'd like to meet them for dinner later.
That cheered me right up. A wet, cold, grim day was thus lifted by a lively and good-humoured evening with our mates, and several large glasses of wine. Mmmmm wine. These are the mates we went to Cornwall with a couple of years ago. When Mr WithaY fell in the river. Yeah, you remember.
Monday was much better. The sun shone, there were loads of people, and suddenly everything looked cheerful and interesting again, rather than just rain-sodden and squalid.
We left at about 6 in the evening, having helped to take down the tents and so on, and had an uneventful and much shorter journey home in the bright evening sunshine.
One other highlight of the trip was travelling over to Matlock to pick up my clock. Remember I said I'd commissioned a clock as a "Congratulations on doing 23 Years in the Civil Service" present for myself?
It was ready for collection last weekend, so we went and collected it. Readers, it is a thing of beauty, and I am completely thrilled with it.
Look, here it is in the box, about to be put up on the wall in pride of place. The brush is for dusting it.
And here it is in situ:
It is keeping excellent time so far, but my genius clock-making mate assures me it will need to be adjusted sooner or later. In the meantime, I am enjoying the look of it, and the rather reassuring tick-tock it makes.
It's joined my Rickenbacker on the list of Things I Will Save In A Fire.
*Although if we get one of those funky circular tents you can fit a wood-burner in, I might reconsider
Monday, 28 May 2012
Goop
To celebrate the glorious weather, I decided to colour my hair. Yeah. That's how I roll, me. I am fortunate to have a nice natural hair colour to begin with - dark brown with a fair bit of red in it - and I didn't want to change it very much. What I DID want to do was disguise the increasing number of pure silver threads which are starting to appear. Not just in ones and twos any more, either. No, these bastards are multiplying, and having very dark hair, they are incredibly noticeable.
Well, I think they are.
Mr WithaY gets a bit tetchy when I whine and bitch about all the grey in my hair. He makes harrumphing "retired brigadier" noises at me, grumbling that "I can't see any" and "it looks fine." Men. He looks distinguished with a bit of grey in his hair. I look like a witch. Cuh.
So.
I went to visit my lovely mum last week, and decided to pop into town* before we went home in the afternoon. Well, there's a Lush there. Mr WithaY refuses point blank ever to go into a Lush shop "because of the awful smell." I said they'd soon get used to it, but no, he stayed outside.
I stocked up on their lovely shampoo bars - these ones, if you're interested - and also bought a block of their finest, brownest, henna.
The next day, having Googled the instructions, as there were none provided with the product, I prepared to get a-colouring. I have used henna before, and am well aware how revolting and messy it can be, so I decided to do it in the garden as much as possible.
The first thing you have to do is melt the henna block in hot water. It looks like a giant bar of chocolate, and you break off as many chunks as you think you'll need. I decided to go for two blocks, as my hair is pretty thick and fairly long, but I wasn't looking to change the colour very much. I have no idea if those are the correct criteria for henna-block allocation.
So. Into a GLASS bowl went the two chunks - it stinks, by the way - and then boiling water. I stirred it for ages with an old wooden spoon, adding more water intermittently. Several of the instructions I'd found online suggested that a bain marie was a good idea to keep it all warm while it melted, so I put the bowl over a pan of simmering water and stirred for bloody ages.
After about 20 minutes of simmering and stirring, it was ready. I carried the pan and bowl out into the garden, where I had already stashed an old towel that I wasn't worried about staining, a box of clingfilm, some hair clips and several old tea towels. It looked like someone was about to have a baby pioneer-style, and then smear it with hot green poo. Outdoors.
There was an uncomfortable hiatus where I thought "How the bloody hell am I actually going to do this?" I briefly considered ringing a friend** to come and help, but decided to crack on on my own, and see how it went.
After considering several options, I went for the "grab a handful and slap it onto your hair" approach. Then another handful. Then another.
And so the long afternoon wore on.
I spent 20 minutes working it into my hair, whilst trying not to fling it all over myself, and I was running very low on both patience and henna mixture by the time my hair was covered. I kept adding more hot water to the henna left in the bowl to eke it out, and sort of squidged it through my hair, hoping it would reach all the bits I'd missed.
Once you've created a stylish set of mud dreadlocks, you have to wrap your head in clingfilm. TOP TIP: Don't do this outside. Especially if it's a bit breezy. I must have spent at least 10 minutes persistently untangling a long strip of clingfilm, trying to wrap it around my goopy mud-filled hair, only to have a gust blow it all into a spiral of uselessness, when I would have to start untangling again.
I gave up and went indoors to wrap up in the end.
This was the result. CAUTION: You may be struck with nausea and/or desire, depending on your tastes.
Note the attractive beetroot shade of my face after hours of standing over a hot stove, bending over in the blazing hot garden, and fighting with recalcitrant clingfilm. Sexy, no? You'll be relieved to know that I wiped off all the henna from my face before it stained me patchily brown.
Anyway. I wrapped the revolting mess in an old towel, then left it to mature.
Three hours later, with a stiff neck and a banging headache, I started washing it out of my hair. Readers, this took bloody ages. AGES. The instructions suggested using a lot of conditioner to help get all the twigs and gravel out, so I did just that. Two big handfuls of conditioner later, the water was starting to be less brown and muddy, so I bravely moved to shampoo. Ugh.
Several shampooings later, yet more conditioner, and finally the water was running clean, so I could assume I was about done. I dried it, and eagerly looked at it in the mirror.
It looked almost exactly the same.
Gah. Five hours well spent there, then.
Still, the silver hairs are now sort of pale brown/gold, which I prefer, and it is VERY shiny.
Also, please admire my domestic goddess pinny.
In other news: We have arranged to have our garage converted into a storage room (for me) and a workshop (for Mr WithaY) for our respective business plans. Mine will contain a fridge, a freezer, some cupboards and a lot of jam jars. His will contain a lathe, some antlers and a giant heap of woodshavings, as far as I can make out.
I'm quite excited about it, as it will allow me to get Plan B underway, since our farm shop idea bit the dust.
In other, other news, we went to a barbecue with some neighbours on Saturday night. I decided to take my little travel guitar along, as it was that sort of a day. Well, every day is that sort of a day, to be honest, but you know, sunshine, barbecue, wine, yadda yadda yadda. On the way there, walking through the village we ran into a friend***, so we stopped for a chat.
"Are you off to the barbecue?" she asked us.
We said yes, we were.
"Oh, is that your guitar?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said proudly. I'm still absurdly proud of my travel guitar.
"Did they ASK you to bring it?"
"Um. No."
Her peals of laughter followed us along the road for quite some time.
*Hello Chichester!
**Jo, it would have been you. Sorry.
***Hello Sarah!
Well, I think they are.
Mr WithaY gets a bit tetchy when I whine and bitch about all the grey in my hair. He makes harrumphing "retired brigadier" noises at me, grumbling that "I can't see any" and "it looks fine." Men. He looks distinguished with a bit of grey in his hair. I look like a witch. Cuh.
So.
I went to visit my lovely mum last week, and decided to pop into town* before we went home in the afternoon. Well, there's a Lush there. Mr WithaY refuses point blank ever to go into a Lush shop "because of the awful smell." I said they'd soon get used to it, but no, he stayed outside.
I stocked up on their lovely shampoo bars - these ones, if you're interested - and also bought a block of their finest, brownest, henna.
The next day, having Googled the instructions, as there were none provided with the product, I prepared to get a-colouring. I have used henna before, and am well aware how revolting and messy it can be, so I decided to do it in the garden as much as possible.
The first thing you have to do is melt the henna block in hot water. It looks like a giant bar of chocolate, and you break off as many chunks as you think you'll need. I decided to go for two blocks, as my hair is pretty thick and fairly long, but I wasn't looking to change the colour very much. I have no idea if those are the correct criteria for henna-block allocation.
So. Into a GLASS bowl went the two chunks - it stinks, by the way - and then boiling water. I stirred it for ages with an old wooden spoon, adding more water intermittently. Several of the instructions I'd found online suggested that a bain marie was a good idea to keep it all warm while it melted, so I put the bowl over a pan of simmering water and stirred for bloody ages.
After about 20 minutes of simmering and stirring, it was ready. I carried the pan and bowl out into the garden, where I had already stashed an old towel that I wasn't worried about staining, a box of clingfilm, some hair clips and several old tea towels. It looked like someone was about to have a baby pioneer-style, and then smear it with hot green poo. Outdoors.
There was an uncomfortable hiatus where I thought "How the bloody hell am I actually going to do this?" I briefly considered ringing a friend** to come and help, but decided to crack on on my own, and see how it went.
After considering several options, I went for the "grab a handful and slap it onto your hair" approach. Then another handful. Then another.
And so the long afternoon wore on.
I spent 20 minutes working it into my hair, whilst trying not to fling it all over myself, and I was running very low on both patience and henna mixture by the time my hair was covered. I kept adding more hot water to the henna left in the bowl to eke it out, and sort of squidged it through my hair, hoping it would reach all the bits I'd missed.
Once you've created a stylish set of mud dreadlocks, you have to wrap your head in clingfilm. TOP TIP: Don't do this outside. Especially if it's a bit breezy. I must have spent at least 10 minutes persistently untangling a long strip of clingfilm, trying to wrap it around my goopy mud-filled hair, only to have a gust blow it all into a spiral of uselessness, when I would have to start untangling again.
I gave up and went indoors to wrap up in the end.
This was the result. CAUTION: You may be struck with nausea and/or desire, depending on your tastes.
Note the attractive beetroot shade of my face after hours of standing over a hot stove, bending over in the blazing hot garden, and fighting with recalcitrant clingfilm. Sexy, no? You'll be relieved to know that I wiped off all the henna from my face before it stained me patchily brown.
Anyway. I wrapped the revolting mess in an old towel, then left it to mature.
Three hours later, with a stiff neck and a banging headache, I started washing it out of my hair. Readers, this took bloody ages. AGES. The instructions suggested using a lot of conditioner to help get all the twigs and gravel out, so I did just that. Two big handfuls of conditioner later, the water was starting to be less brown and muddy, so I bravely moved to shampoo. Ugh.
Several shampooings later, yet more conditioner, and finally the water was running clean, so I could assume I was about done. I dried it, and eagerly looked at it in the mirror.
It looked almost exactly the same.
Gah. Five hours well spent there, then.
Still, the silver hairs are now sort of pale brown/gold, which I prefer, and it is VERY shiny.
Also, please admire my domestic goddess pinny.
In other news: We have arranged to have our garage converted into a storage room (for me) and a workshop (for Mr WithaY) for our respective business plans. Mine will contain a fridge, a freezer, some cupboards and a lot of jam jars. His will contain a lathe, some antlers and a giant heap of woodshavings, as far as I can make out.
I'm quite excited about it, as it will allow me to get Plan B underway, since our farm shop idea bit the dust.
In other, other news, we went to a barbecue with some neighbours on Saturday night. I decided to take my little travel guitar along, as it was that sort of a day. Well, every day is that sort of a day, to be honest, but you know, sunshine, barbecue, wine, yadda yadda yadda. On the way there, walking through the village we ran into a friend***, so we stopped for a chat.
"Are you off to the barbecue?" she asked us.
We said yes, we were.
"Oh, is that your guitar?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said proudly. I'm still absurdly proud of my travel guitar.
"Did they ASK you to bring it?"
"Um. No."
Her peals of laughter followed us along the road for quite some time.
*Hello Chichester!
**Jo, it would have been you. Sorry.
***Hello Sarah!
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Rocks
I went to the seaside the other day.
Kimmeridge, in Dorset, to be exact. Mr WithaY needed to go and forage for edible stuff for one of his bushcraft assignments, so he picked the best day of the week weather-wise and we headed out early.
Kimmeridge is famous for being part of Dorset's Jurassic Coastline. This does NOT mean that there are dinosaurs roaming the earth just outside Corfe, or that you will see volcanoes erupting in Weymouth.
Shame, because that would be excellent.
No. It's all about the Jurassic geology. And there's plenty of it to see. Creationist readers, probably best if you stop reading and go and make a cup of tea while I finish this. WARNING: There will be fossils.
So. A fairly long drive, a fiver to park in a big almost-empty field at the top of the cliff, a walk down the slopey slippy path, over a trip-trappy bridge, a nasty wade through the giant heaps of festering seaweed, and there is is! The sea!
The sun was out, the sky was blue and it was about as perfect a day as you could wish for.
We got there just as the tide was starting to go out, so we walked along the beach as far as possible - the red flags were out so the Army were firing on the range, and we couldn't go all the way around the headland as a result - but we were able to go most of the way. Then we turned around and walked back, peeking into the rock pools that were exposed by the receding tide.
The walk was enlivened by the occasional gentle patter of eroding cliff, showers of shale falling onto the beach. Also machine gun fire, I assume from the Army range. If not, it was all kicking off in Corfe big time.
I love the way you can see the different layers of rock in the cliffs, and watch how the tiny shale rockfalls gradually loosen up the bigger pieces of rock to cause a major cliff fall. Fascinating. Just make sure you stand several hundred yards away.
Closer to the water, the rock surface is eroded into geometric lines so that it looks like the skin of some giant sea-monster. I decided that if I ever film a low budget sci-fi movie, I will use Kimmeridge for the location, as it looks like the canals on Mars.
In my head.
We discovered these markings on a rock. I have no idea what they are, I assume they are man made but they might be natural. Whatever they are, they are funky and tribal looking, and I like them very much.
And of course there are fossils. Pretty much everywhere you look you can see them, and as more of the cliffs break apart, more are exposed.
There's a causeway that is exposed at low tide, and we were able to walk along it. A chap was there with a small dog, which was whimpering and straining at a tennis ball floating in the water, too far away to be reached. We discussed it with the chap. He was confident that the dog would jump in and fetch the ball. Any minute now. Aaaany minute.
As we watched, the dog screwed up its courage and leapt into the sea. At exactly that moment the tennis ball, waterlogged and heavy, sank like a stone to the bottom.
The dog owner sighed deeply, rolled up his trousers and waded into the water with a resigned look on his face.
I got the feeling that little scenario had played out more than once that day already.
Once we had walked along the beach, wading in the shallow water in our wellies, and staggering through the mounds of rotting seaweed, we went up the path to the little marine life museum/exhibition there. They had a small display of native wildlife that could be found in the area, and there were several volunteers outside cleaning a huge World War 2 mine that had pride of place in the flowerbed.
We passed a pretty waterfall cascading onto the beach.
Awwwh.
Then we walked back along the cliff-top path to the car park, admiring the view from the hill.
Wellies off and back into the car to Swanage, where we walked from the car park at the edge of town through the park, and then to the excellent fish and chip shop.
If there's a nicer lunch than freshly-fried fish and chips eaten from a paper bag, sitting on a bench outside in the sunshine watching yachts on the sea, I don't know what it is. Mr WithaY went mad and bought his own mini bottle of ketchup, which left his lunch bag looking like an axe murder scene.
Lunch finished, ketchup wiped up and leftover chips thrown in the bin, we waddled back up the hill and headed home.
At one point as we walked on the beach, the breeze blowing and the sun shining, we agreed that it was much nicer than working.
In other news: I've got some forms to fill in from the council which will (hopefully) pave the way for a new business plan. Fingers crossed.
Kimmeridge, in Dorset, to be exact. Mr WithaY needed to go and forage for edible stuff for one of his bushcraft assignments, so he picked the best day of the week weather-wise and we headed out early.
Kimmeridge is famous for being part of Dorset's Jurassic Coastline. This does NOT mean that there are dinosaurs roaming the earth just outside Corfe, or that you will see volcanoes erupting in Weymouth.
Shame, because that would be excellent.
No. It's all about the Jurassic geology. And there's plenty of it to see. Creationist readers, probably best if you stop reading and go and make a cup of tea while I finish this. WARNING: There will be fossils.
So. A fairly long drive, a fiver to park in a big almost-empty field at the top of the cliff, a walk down the slopey slippy path, over a trip-trappy bridge, a nasty wade through the giant heaps of festering seaweed, and there is is! The sea!
The sun was out, the sky was blue and it was about as perfect a day as you could wish for.
We got there just as the tide was starting to go out, so we walked along the beach as far as possible - the red flags were out so the Army were firing on the range, and we couldn't go all the way around the headland as a result - but we were able to go most of the way. Then we turned around and walked back, peeking into the rock pools that were exposed by the receding tide.
The walk was enlivened by the occasional gentle patter of eroding cliff, showers of shale falling onto the beach. Also machine gun fire, I assume from the Army range. If not, it was all kicking off in Corfe big time.
I love the way you can see the different layers of rock in the cliffs, and watch how the tiny shale rockfalls gradually loosen up the bigger pieces of rock to cause a major cliff fall. Fascinating. Just make sure you stand several hundred yards away.
Closer to the water, the rock surface is eroded into geometric lines so that it looks like the skin of some giant sea-monster. I decided that if I ever film a low budget sci-fi movie, I will use Kimmeridge for the location, as it looks like the canals on Mars.
In my head.
We discovered these markings on a rock. I have no idea what they are, I assume they are man made but they might be natural. Whatever they are, they are funky and tribal looking, and I like them very much.
And of course there are fossils. Pretty much everywhere you look you can see them, and as more of the cliffs break apart, more are exposed.
There's a causeway that is exposed at low tide, and we were able to walk along it. A chap was there with a small dog, which was whimpering and straining at a tennis ball floating in the water, too far away to be reached. We discussed it with the chap. He was confident that the dog would jump in and fetch the ball. Any minute now. Aaaany minute.
As we watched, the dog screwed up its courage and leapt into the sea. At exactly that moment the tennis ball, waterlogged and heavy, sank like a stone to the bottom.
The dog owner sighed deeply, rolled up his trousers and waded into the water with a resigned look on his face.
I got the feeling that little scenario had played out more than once that day already.
Once we had walked along the beach, wading in the shallow water in our wellies, and staggering through the mounds of rotting seaweed, we went up the path to the little marine life museum/exhibition there. They had a small display of native wildlife that could be found in the area, and there were several volunteers outside cleaning a huge World War 2 mine that had pride of place in the flowerbed.
We passed a pretty waterfall cascading onto the beach.
Awwwh.
Then we walked back along the cliff-top path to the car park, admiring the view from the hill.
Wellies off and back into the car to Swanage, where we walked from the car park at the edge of town through the park, and then to the excellent fish and chip shop.
If there's a nicer lunch than freshly-fried fish and chips eaten from a paper bag, sitting on a bench outside in the sunshine watching yachts on the sea, I don't know what it is. Mr WithaY went mad and bought his own mini bottle of ketchup, which left his lunch bag looking like an axe murder scene.
Lunch finished, ketchup wiped up and leftover chips thrown in the bin, we waddled back up the hill and headed home.
At one point as we walked on the beach, the breeze blowing and the sun shining, we agreed that it was much nicer than working.
In other news: I've got some forms to fill in from the council which will (hopefully) pave the way for a new business plan. Fingers crossed.
Monday, 14 May 2012
Sparks
I went out last night. Yes! Out of the house, right out of the village, even. Ooh, get me.
Mr WithaY got home from his week living in the woods on Sunday night, had a swift shower and change of clothes to try and mitigate the smell of mud/wood-smoke/squirrels, and then we scooted over to Salisbury City Hall to watch Rich Hall perform.
He was hilarious.
My favourite joke (also one of the few I can remember) came while he was talking about visiting Graceland, and being asked to leave for laughing at something he was looking at whilst the tour commentary was talking about the death of Elvis. He said "Anyway, if he was The King, why was he buried out in the back yard like a hamster?"
The young woman sitting next to me had the loudest laugh I have ever heard, almost to the point of pain, and she found pretty much everything he said hilarious. Well, most of it was. I scooched away from her as much as possible, ending up leaning on Mr WithaY cosily, if a bit uncomfortably.
It made me consider the etiquette of such a situation. What do you do? What would YOU have done?
(A) Say "Can you please stop laughing so much?" It was a comedy show, after all, and I was laughing too. I'd have sounded like a miserable old bag, for sure.
(B) Say "Can you please try to laugh more quietly?" Again, she was having the time of her life, and there was no reason for me to try to make her feel self-conscious. Also, miserable old bag-ness.
(C) Say "Can I have some of that white wine you're necking please?" I think that may have contributed to the non-stop screams of hilarity she was emitting. Greedy, but less miserable old bag, potentially.
I should have gone for option C.
To be fair, her boyfriend/partner was nudging her when she was in danger of shattering the light fittings, but he was laughing his head off too. Well, everyone was. It was lovely.
We drove home in a fine mood, admired the glorious stars for a bit in the front garden and then came in to a ridiculously late supper of lemon chicken, pasta and grape salad. Nom nom nom.
Today the electrician has been here, replacing the light in my study. I had a funky lampshade made of millions of bits of metal, like tiny mirrors on springs, which I liked a lot, but it had a single low-energy light bulb in it. Fine when I am sitting at my computer, right by the window. I can work in comfort, enjoying an abundance of natural light and the many car accidents and near misses I get to see out of the window.
However, when I am sewing, my sewing table is at the other side of the room, far away* from the window, and the lighting is appalling even in daylight. I realised I had to do something about it when it took me almost 5 minutes to thread the needle in my sewing machine because I just couldn't see the bloody thing properly.
So. Now I have a smart little 3-halogen spotlight, providing me with task lighting for my desk AND my sewing table. It also lights up my guitars beautifully. The Rickenbacker is on a stand now, next to the Les Paul, both looking rather gorgeous. If only I could play them with anything approaching real skill. Hey ho.
I have put the funky million mirror lightshade in the spare bedroom, so I can still admire it when I want to.
The electrician had also been asked to look at one of the lights in the kitchen. We have v posh downlighters under the cabinets on the walls, and one of them packed up a few months ago. We replaced the bulb, we replaced the replacement bulb, we tried the non-working bulb in other light fittings where it worked perfectly, and we eventually concluded that the actual light unit was broken.
The electrician listened to this tale of woe and said "Ah, it's probably the transformer."
I had visions of Optimus Prime putting together light fitting ineptly, thus causing the problem, but no, he meant the little box of electric magic that sits up on top of the cabinet, out of sight.
He got up on his stepladder and waggled the cables about till the transformer came into view. He inspected it and said "Hmm, looks ok."
Then he turned the lights on, and hey presto, bastard corner light worked.
Mr WithaY almost had kittens.
So. A loose connection. Probably. If it stops working again, we may have to get a new transformer. But we may just need to get the electrician to come and waggle it about a bit. Much cheaper.
Today I have applied for a couple more part time jobs, but with no great expectations of being fortunate. I think I am too old and/or too over-qualified for a lot of the jobs I see advertised. I am also picky. I want something part time - not more than 25 hours a week, ideally - within 15 miles of home. That limits me considerably. And I don't want to do anything dull.
I read this article with interest the other day.
This quote in particular struck a chord:
Ministers are determined to change the culture of the civil service in which “lazy” staff are allowed to get away with poor performance because their managers are unwilling to have “difficult conversations”.
They also say:
Yes. Yes it would. For example, I suggest that a lot of Departments would simply grind to a shuddering halt, with the remaining staff squawking in terror as the sheer volume of work overwhelms them because no fucker has had the forethought to cancel projects, or cut out entire workstreams which no longer have the resources to complete them.
Be nice, too, if they remove the multiple layers of externally-imposed measurement and reporting schemes which took up about a quarter of my time in some jobs. All "important" and "urgent" and "mandatory" so you had to spend fucking hours filling in Dashboard Reports and Progress Plans and Transition Staircase Reviews rather than actually delivering anything.
....aaaaand breathe.....
In the almost 23 years I was employed by the Civil Service, I only knew of one person who got fired, and that was for breaching the rules about publishing information on the Interwebs, the fuckwit. I did, however, encounter a number of people who were lazy, dishonest, cunning, under-performing and sometimes downright mental, all of whom kept their jobs because they were able to play the system and make sure that they got transferred to be someone else's problem before they were put on formal disciplinary measures.
I worked with a chap once who was suspended for looking at porn on his laptop in the office. Whilst several colleagues were in the same room, me included. Yes, that's right. ON HIS WORK LAPTOP. IN THE OFFICE. DURING WORKING HOURS.
He continued to do so after several of his colleagues asked him not to. Eventually - after a couple of polite requests were ignored - he was reported to his boss, and then to the head of the team.
He got put on "gardening leave" for fucking months and months, there was an enquiry, he was reprimanded, he dropped a grade in pay, and then came back to work in the same office, tanned, fit and gloating about how nice his garden was looking after having all that time off to look after it.
Not very impressive.
I've also worked with people who had social skills presumably learned from bonobo chimps.
Scratching. Hands waaaay too deep and too active in pockets whilst talking to female colleagues. Inappropriate "adjusting" of parts whilst in meetings. Nose picking. Farting. Belching. Taking off shoes to share the stench of old socks with the rest of the office.
Yes, it was pretty much all there bar the shit flinging, and given the right combination of canteen food and boredom, I expect that could have happened.
I might not be earning much money these days, but by Swansea I am far, far less stressed and unhappy and frustrated than I was for the last 5 years of my corporate career.
*About 8 feet. It's a small room.
Mr WithaY got home from his week living in the woods on Sunday night, had a swift shower and change of clothes to try and mitigate the smell of mud/wood-smoke/squirrels, and then we scooted over to Salisbury City Hall to watch Rich Hall perform.
He was hilarious.
My favourite joke (also one of the few I can remember) came while he was talking about visiting Graceland, and being asked to leave for laughing at something he was looking at whilst the tour commentary was talking about the death of Elvis. He said "Anyway, if he was The King, why was he buried out in the back yard like a hamster?"
The young woman sitting next to me had the loudest laugh I have ever heard, almost to the point of pain, and she found pretty much everything he said hilarious. Well, most of it was. I scooched away from her as much as possible, ending up leaning on Mr WithaY cosily, if a bit uncomfortably.
It made me consider the etiquette of such a situation. What do you do? What would YOU have done?
(A) Say "Can you please stop laughing so much?" It was a comedy show, after all, and I was laughing too. I'd have sounded like a miserable old bag, for sure.
(B) Say "Can you please try to laugh more quietly?" Again, she was having the time of her life, and there was no reason for me to try to make her feel self-conscious. Also, miserable old bag-ness.
(C) Say "Can I have some of that white wine you're necking please?" I think that may have contributed to the non-stop screams of hilarity she was emitting. Greedy, but less miserable old bag, potentially.
I should have gone for option C.
To be fair, her boyfriend/partner was nudging her when she was in danger of shattering the light fittings, but he was laughing his head off too. Well, everyone was. It was lovely.
We drove home in a fine mood, admired the glorious stars for a bit in the front garden and then came in to a ridiculously late supper of lemon chicken, pasta and grape salad. Nom nom nom.
Today the electrician has been here, replacing the light in my study. I had a funky lampshade made of millions of bits of metal, like tiny mirrors on springs, which I liked a lot, but it had a single low-energy light bulb in it. Fine when I am sitting at my computer, right by the window. I can work in comfort, enjoying an abundance of natural light and the many car accidents and near misses I get to see out of the window.
However, when I am sewing, my sewing table is at the other side of the room, far away* from the window, and the lighting is appalling even in daylight. I realised I had to do something about it when it took me almost 5 minutes to thread the needle in my sewing machine because I just couldn't see the bloody thing properly.
So. Now I have a smart little 3-halogen spotlight, providing me with task lighting for my desk AND my sewing table. It also lights up my guitars beautifully. The Rickenbacker is on a stand now, next to the Les Paul, both looking rather gorgeous. If only I could play them with anything approaching real skill. Hey ho.
I have put the funky million mirror lightshade in the spare bedroom, so I can still admire it when I want to.
The electrician had also been asked to look at one of the lights in the kitchen. We have v posh downlighters under the cabinets on the walls, and one of them packed up a few months ago. We replaced the bulb, we replaced the replacement bulb, we tried the non-working bulb in other light fittings where it worked perfectly, and we eventually concluded that the actual light unit was broken.
The electrician listened to this tale of woe and said "Ah, it's probably the transformer."
I had visions of Optimus Prime putting together light fitting ineptly, thus causing the problem, but no, he meant the little box of electric magic that sits up on top of the cabinet, out of sight.
He got up on his stepladder and waggled the cables about till the transformer came into view. He inspected it and said "Hmm, looks ok."
Then he turned the lights on, and hey presto, bastard corner light worked.
Mr WithaY almost had kittens.
So. A loose connection. Probably. If it stops working again, we may have to get a new transformer. But we may just need to get the electrician to come and waggle it about a bit. Much cheaper.
Today I have applied for a couple more part time jobs, but with no great expectations of being fortunate. I think I am too old and/or too over-qualified for a lot of the jobs I see advertised. I am also picky. I want something part time - not more than 25 hours a week, ideally - within 15 miles of home. That limits me considerably. And I don't want to do anything dull.
I read this article with interest the other day.
This quote in particular struck a chord:
Ministers are determined to change the culture of the civil service in which “lazy” staff are allowed to get away with poor performance because their managers are unwilling to have “difficult conversations”.
They also say:
Another minister, with a background in business, said there were “real problems” with the quality of the civil service. “It is far too big. They are lazy. There is no leadership. You can’t get rid of people,” the minister said.
Sacking 90% of staff and paying the remaining 10% high salaries would revolutionise the way some departments work, the minister suggested.
Yes. Yes it would. For example, I suggest that a lot of Departments would simply grind to a shuddering halt, with the remaining staff squawking in terror as the sheer volume of work overwhelms them because no fucker has had the forethought to cancel projects, or cut out entire workstreams which no longer have the resources to complete them.
Be nice, too, if they remove the multiple layers of externally-imposed measurement and reporting schemes which took up about a quarter of my time in some jobs. All "important" and "urgent" and "mandatory" so you had to spend fucking hours filling in Dashboard Reports and Progress Plans and Transition Staircase Reviews rather than actually delivering anything.
....aaaaand breathe.....
In the almost 23 years I was employed by the Civil Service, I only knew of one person who got fired, and that was for breaching the rules about publishing information on the Interwebs, the fuckwit. I did, however, encounter a number of people who were lazy, dishonest, cunning, under-performing and sometimes downright mental, all of whom kept their jobs because they were able to play the system and make sure that they got transferred to be someone else's problem before they were put on formal disciplinary measures.
I worked with a chap once who was suspended for looking at porn on his laptop in the office. Whilst several colleagues were in the same room, me included. Yes, that's right. ON HIS WORK LAPTOP. IN THE OFFICE. DURING WORKING HOURS.
He continued to do so after several of his colleagues asked him not to. Eventually - after a couple of polite requests were ignored - he was reported to his boss, and then to the head of the team.
He got put on "gardening leave" for fucking months and months, there was an enquiry, he was reprimanded, he dropped a grade in pay, and then came back to work in the same office, tanned, fit and gloating about how nice his garden was looking after having all that time off to look after it.
Not very impressive.
I've also worked with people who had social skills presumably learned from bonobo chimps.
Scratching. Hands waaaay too deep and too active in pockets whilst talking to female colleagues. Inappropriate "adjusting" of parts whilst in meetings. Nose picking. Farting. Belching. Taking off shoes to share the stench of old socks with the rest of the office.
Yes, it was pretty much all there bar the shit flinging, and given the right combination of canteen food and boredom, I expect that could have happened.
I might not be earning much money these days, but by Swansea I am far, far less stressed and unhappy and frustrated than I was for the last 5 years of my corporate career.
*About 8 feet. It's a small room.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)