Style matters

Today I am pondering the nature of Time.

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

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

Mr WithaY:  Read the date again.

Me:  1954.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Decorated

Christmas is almost here!  I'm excited, which is nice.  The last couple of years have been slightly odd.  Two years ago we barely celebrated at all, what with all the SSFH* crap that we had to deal with, and last year we both had heavy colds and chest infections, but this year (so far) we are both hale and hearty, and looking forward to the festive season.

I've been very busy Making Things, which has been both productive and enjoyable.  I have made (in no particular order):

1)  About a gallon of Christmas spiced cranberry and port preserve, containing cranberries, oranges, apples, sugar and port.  And spices. Nom nom nom.

2)  A beautiful rose out of wired parcel ribbon, which I just made up as I went along, and was very pleased with.  In a gesture of largesse, I gave it to one of Mr WithaY's mates who had popped in quickly for something one evening.  He took it graciously, if bemusedly, and said he'll put it in his Landrover.  So that was nice.

3)  A huge and delicious fruit salad, containing cherries, pineapple, grapes, blueberries, mandarins, peaches, lychees and figs.  It was splendid, though I say so myself.

The fruit salad was to take to my lovely Mum's house, as we had the tradtional pre-Christmas family gathering last weekend.

London Niece's birthday is around this time of year, so we all met up to celebrate that, and to exchange Christmas presents and cards, and to see each other before the holidays really got under way.   It was lovely, if noisy, everyone was looking well** and looking forward to Christmas.  We ate and drank and pulled crackers and popped party poppers, and had birthday cake.

The cake was interesting.

As we didn't have the required number of small candles (16), there was a blinding display of ingenuity, and this was the result:

Thirteen, plus two, plus one.  A maths lesson AND a cake.

Previous birthday cake entertainment involving candles can be found here.

4)  The manga-stylee frock, which was London Niece's birthday present.  Readers, though I say so myself, it turned out rather well.

  

I had suggested that the best way to create it was if a top of the correct size was bought, sent to me, and I would make the skirt to match.  Which is what I did.  In the picture I was sent, the character has more decoration on the front of the top, but I left that off, as the top already had sequins all over the front, and adding anything else might have looked a bit weird.

Anyhoo, London Niece was very pleased.

The amount of swearing involved in making those ruffles though....gah.  It would have made a sailor blush.

Other news:  My car is broken again.  It's the same problem it had a few weeks ago - when you put your foot down there's a dramatic loss of acceleration, and the Engine Warning light comes on.

I took it to a local garage who ran a diagnostic check (£58 thank you very much) and returned it to me with the diagnosis "There's something wrong with the turbo.  Or maybe the electrics.  You should take it back to the Toyota garage"

Thanks.

I took it back to the Toyota garage last Friday morning.  I rang the Toyota garage yesterday (Monday) morning to ask if they had any idea when I could have my car back.

They said they'd have a chat with the chaps in the workshop and ring me later.  At ten to five that night they rang.

They hadn't found the problem, but it's something to do with the turbo.  Probably.  Did I want to come and collect my car?

I declined, on the grounds that if it was still broken there wasn't much point me driving all the way back here, then taking it all the way back there again in a day or two.

Gah.

In other, more cheerful, news, we have put our Christmas tree up and it looks lovely.  This is the top half.

Our decorations include the Christmas Lobster.  He has a teeny sprig of holly in one claw.

There's also the Christmas Hunter, complete with hound and dead deer.

And the Christmas Lobster Pots.

And the more traditional glass reindeer.

Awww.







*Shit Storm From Hades, now thankfully very much behind us.

**Except poor Youngest Sis - hope your back is feeling better!

Speed 2

The encountering odd people on public transport theme continues.  Allow me to share: 

Yesterday evening, as I was struggling into a seat on the bus to Waterloo, lugging my rucksack awkwardly into the luggage space and perching on the suspiciously clammy seat, I became aware of an Irritating Loud Woman. 

Irritating Loud Woman was on her phone, using a headset so that she had both hands free for Important Gesticulation And Shit.  Irritating Loud Woman was bellowing to her caller about all the travelling she had been doing.

ILW:  God I KNOW!  Yes...yes...I was there too recently.  Yes...booked a room on your recommendation actually.  Yes, loved it.  Amaaaaazing place! 

A short pause followed where she rolled her eyes and played with her handbag strap as the person on the other end of the phone had the temerity to play a speaking part in the conversation.  Her eyes narrowed and she threw in the trump hand grenade of bragging. 

ILW:  So...yeah...yeah...I was in China.  Yes.  (slightly louder) China.  Then Spain. Then Ireland.  *loud guffaw*  I know!  I've been home like 10 days in the last 2 months!  And I'm off to the Bahamas at the end of the month!  *guffaw*

It did occur to me to wonder why she was on the bus, albeit on the back seat, and not in a taxi, judging by the details of her jetset lifestyle.  As this uncharitable thought played through my jaded brain, a tall black girl with amazing dreadlocks marched down the aisle, dragging a selection of bags and a shopping trolley behind her.   

Tall black girl with amazing dreadlocks:  (In unexpected Yorkshire accent)  Scuse me!  Scuse me!  You.  Yeah you!  Can you stop being so loud on the bus please! 

ILW:  ......?

TBGWAD:  I can hear you right down the end!  Can you keep noise down please?

ILW:  .....?

I had to suppress a snort of delighted glee as the Irritating Loud Woman blushed deeply, then continued her conversation in a much quieter voice.  She moderated it down to normal speaking tones, I'd guess, rather than the show-off bellow she had previously deployed. 

The bus started pulling away from the stop we were at, throwing the girl with the dreads and bags into a panic.

TBGWAD:  (To the bus driver)  Scuse me!  Hey!  HEY!  Scuse me!  I need to gerroff here!  Stop bus!

The driver obliged, opening the doors.  There was a long and comical struggle as several people at the front of the bus jostled to help her with all her bags.  I think had we had more time, she would have been carried off in triumph on their shoulders, frankly.

I missed my train as a result but it was worth it.

I covertly watched the ILW for the remainder of the journey.  She was mortified.  I was glad.

Other news:  My car is fucked.  Gah. 

I was driving home from the railway station last night.  It was very dark.  It was very cold. So cold, in fact, that I had had to de-ice my car (inside and out) before I could leave the station car park.  It was getting late. 

I set off on the short but time-consuming trip through winding lanes and troll bridges, through the woods, through the little teeny villages, past the burned-down pub, up hill, down dale, over the river and back to Hobbiton. 

My thoughts were filled with the delicious roast chicken dinner* that I knew was waiting for me. 

I had just emerged from the bosky glades and hit the main road (Two lanes!  Some streetlights at the major junctions!) when I realised that my speedometer was stuck on 0.  Zero.  Nil. 

I knew that was wrong.  Well, I was moving, for a start. 

I was dopily looking at the speedo, then back at the icy road ahead, then back at the speedo, not sure if I was seeing things or not, and then the orange "Check Engine" warning light came on too. 

Ohhhh fuck noooooooo.

It may have been my imagination, but I would swear that I felt the car shudder, like a wounded beast about to roll over and die. 

There was a moment where I considered pulling over and phoning Mr WithaY to come and rescue me, but I bit my lip and ploughed on.  The car juddered again.  I stopped.  I switched off the engine, then restarted the car.  The "Check Engine" light went out.  I pulled away.  The speedo was still dead. There were several heavy seconds of anticipation, then the orange light came back on.

If you were driving towards Shaftesbury late yesterday evening, you may have heard what you thought was a siren, wailing eerily.  That was me.  Well, it was if the siren sounded like someone wailing "fucking hell nooooooooooo" for 5 miles non-stop. 

So, today I rang the chaps at the garage.  They told me take my car down there for them to look at.  There followed a couple of hours of traipsing back and forth to the garage, talking to the chaps, waiting for Chap 2 to return from a delivery to confer about technical stuff with Chap 1, Chap 1 making phone calls to Toyota, Chap 2 telling me horror stories about how badly things can go wrong with cars, and finally I was given a lift back home and told to Wait.

Later that same day, a call from the garage. 

Good news:  They know what's wrong.  I'd tell you, but my brain did that Star Trek thing of just hearing "tech...tech...tech....computer....tech....expensive....tech.....new part will be here on Friday....tech...£188 plus VAT.....tech."  I don't do it on purpose. 

It's like maths lessons used to be at school.  I started out every time with good intentions, but after 3 minutes my brain simply refused to acknowledge what was being said, and sent me pictures of Alex Lifeson and Bruce Dickinson, or composed endless bad poems I was going to write down as soon as I could find a nice enough poetry notebook. 

I swear, if I replayed every maths lesson I attended between 1977 and 1983, apart from the two weeks we did spatial geometry, which I understood and enjoyed**, it would just sound like white noise.

Bad news:  It wil cost £188 (plus VAT) for the part they need.  Plus labour.

Arse.

So.  I'm working at home tomorrow, as my car is not really safe to drive. 

And I might be selling my Rickenbacker.





*Mr WithaY is just great. 

**The maths teacher was flummoxed, and would ask me with irritation "If you can understand this, why can't you understand quadratic equations?"  I'm certain she thought I was doing it deliberately.  It never occurred to her that my failure to understand might in some way be linked to her unimpressive teaching skills.  Bah.

Oh yes...

...Continuing the Mystical Theme of today, check this out.

So, who decided that it was a representation of a mathematical figure? And how did they arrive at that conclusion?

Seriously. If anyone out there can explain that to me I will be very grateful.