Ah, technology.
Once more I am able to converse on the telephone. Once more, I can surf the myriad wonderful shores of the Internet. Once more I can dick about on Facebook. Once more, we discover that life is not like Star Trek.
Last Saturday, about teatime, I was sitting on the comfy sofa, dealing with some mindless nonsense on my iPad, eBay, possibly, when the gloomy message "You are not connected to the Internet" popped up in the middle of my screen. I tried refreshing the screen.
Nope.
I went into Settings and tried to reconnect to the relevant WiFi thingy.
Nope.
I turned it off and on again. The last resort.
Nope. Well, bollocks.
On further investigation (going upstairs and glaring at the blue lights on the BT Homehub box) it was clear that my Internet connection was broken. Mr WithaY emerged from his study, blinking in the light, and asked if there was a problem with the phone, as his Internet wasn't working. A second investigation revealed that the OTHER BT Homehub box (yes, yes, yes, we have two, long story, probably going to get rid of one this year) wasn't working either.
The handset on the phone in the hall displayed the message "Check Line Cord" which we know from experience means Serious Issues With The Phone. As we live in the Village Of No Mobile Reception, we couldn't ring BT to let them know, so left it till the next day, hoping that the phone line might have magically sorted itself out overnight.
I went to work on Sunday morning, and was not particularly surprised when a neighbour from further up the road called in to ask if our phone worked. The shop phone did, but I told him our home phone was out of order.
"So's ours! And all the neighbours' on either side! AND the phone box!" he told me. He'd already been on the (mobile) phone to BT to report the fault, which meant finding a spot at the top of the hill by the church where there's intermittent reception, and then spending almost £10 on his emergency pay as you go mobile whilst BT kept him on hold. He wasn't happy.
One of the more endearing quirks of reporting a fault to BT is their insistence that you listen to their instructions about resolving faults at your end. They ought to call it It's All Your Faults. They insist that you check that your phone isn't unplugged, or the dog hasn't eaten your WiFi box, or the house hasn't burned down while you weren't concentrating, and only then will they agree to send out an engineer. Even then, you have to agree to pay a huge fee (almost £200!) if they find that it's Your Fault.
Anyhoo, the fault had been raised with BT, so I rang them as well, told them that our phones were also affected, and agreed to hand over a huge sack of cash if it turned out not to be their problem. On leaving work, I spotted a BT engineer doing something at the base of the telephone pole on the corner. I wandered over to see.
Me: Hello. Have you come to fix all our phones?
Engineer: Hello. Yes.
Me: So what's the problem?
Engineer: Well. Look.
The engineer gestured at the thick black cable that runs up the length of the phone pole. It had been neatly cut in half about a foot from the ground. A myriad of small wires poked out of the two severed ends.
Me: Ah.
Engineer: (wearily) Yep, this is me for the next couple of hours.
He declined the offer of a cup of tea, so I left him to it. By the time it was dark, his van had gone, and so had he, and the broken cable was all patched back up. However, the phones still weren't working.
I went to work on Monday morning. To my non-astonishment, a neighbour came in to ask if our phone worked. I told her it did, and asked if her's was out of order.
"Not exactly," she told me. "My number is now in Jean's house. And Jean's number is ringing in my house."
Ah.
As more people came into the shop, it became clear that a terrible, terrible thing had happened to our phones. We all had each others' numbers, but nobody knew who had which, or where they were calling. I tried calling both our numbers from the shop phone but they just rang endlessly so I gave up.
Once again, BT were called. Once again I had to agree to give them all my money if the fault was mine. I explained that at least 12 houses were affected, and that it was most likely that the problem rested with the massive severed cable that had been sellotaped back together inaccurately.
Early on Monday morning, a BT engineer appeared at my house. I explained the situation at length.
Me: BT have run line tests and said my phone is fine, but look - there's no dial tone." My voice might have gone a bit squeaky as I waved the dead handset about.
Engineer: (backing away slightly) Ok...so...your phone is dead. And yet we have a good line signal. (He looked at his electronic handset thingy, then back at my dead phone.)
Me: YES. My phone number works, just not in my house!
Engineer: Ok. I'll get on with this then. (More fiddling with his tricorder) Ah, your phone is ringing at a Mr Sanders' house. Do you know him?
Me: (coldly) No.
(He went back out to his van, possibly to have an aspirin.)
An hour or so later, both our phones were working, and we had Internet access once more. Hurrah. The engineer stood on the doorstep chatting cheerfully as we said our goodbyes.
Me: And will you be going to all the other houses now to sort them out too?
Engineer: Um. What other houses?
I told him about all the neighbours' phone issues, and the phone box. He was appalled.
Engineer: I only have two call-outs for today, and neither of them are in this village!
Me: Well, there are at least a dozen houses with this problem. And the phone box.
Engineer: So why haven't they reported them?
Me: No phones! No Internet! No mobile reception!
When I went to work that afternoon, there was a huge BT cherrypicker truck with a bloke deedily reattaching wires at the top of the phone pole. It was there quite a while.
In other news, I am now working full-time in the village shop. I really like it. There's a shift pattern which suits me well, as you do four days on, two days off, so your days off vary from week to week, and even on the days you work you either have a morning or an afternoon to yourself.
The first couple of late shifts I did were nerve-racking, as you have to lock everything and set alarms and so on, but once I got the hang of it, it was fine. It's sociable and friendly, and apart from my feet hurting at the end of a shift - there's nowhere to sit for most of the time - I like it very much. I daresay my feet will adapt.
A customer came in the other day, bought a few bits and pieces, and then gave me a handful of change to pay for it. As he dropped the money into my hand I realised it was sticky. Very, very sticky.
Me: Ewww! What's all over this money? Why is it so sticky?
Customer: (who was very, very Welsh) Oh, sorry love, That's just orange juice.
Me: Really.
Customer: Yeah. Had a bit of an accident in my cab, see. Sorry about that.
Me: Orange juice. Hmmm.
Customer: Yeah, it is, honest. Go on! Smell it!
Pleuk.
Showing posts with label Star Trek comparisons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Star Trek comparisons. Show all posts
Wednesday, 28 January 2015
Friday, 21 November 2014
Tidy
I've been having a bit of a clear-out this week, partly in despair at the enormous tottering mountains of magazines, paperwork and books in every corner of the house, but mostly in a desperate effort to make the annual pre-Christmas house-cleaning less arduous in a few weeks.
It started more or less by accident yesterday, when I was sorting out laundry. I ought to draw a critical path analysis diagram to illustrate the path of progress I took.
Step 1: Sort out a load of laundry and put it in the washing machine. Decide to tidy up my Heap of Shame in the corner.
Step 2: Pick up assorted items of clothing on the floor, sort through and either hang up or place in laundry basket. Stand back and admire empty spot where Heap of Shame previously lived. Decide to hoover the bedroom.
Step 3: Fetch hoover, realise that Mr WithaY's Heap of Shame threatens to overwhelm his half of the bedroom. Suggest* he sorts it out.
Step 4: Decide to clean window frames of black filth and mould while he sorts out the Heap. Fetch cleaning wipes from the bathroom. Clean bathroom sink, bath and shower with cleaning wipes, as they're all a bit grubby now you look at them.
Step 5: Return to bedroom. Clean all black filth from window frames. Decide to dust window ledges, as they are grey and fluffy rather than white and shiny.
Step 6: Fetch duster from study. Find furniture polish cleaning wipes in box with duster. Realise desk is very grubby. Clean with furniture polish wipes. Move dressmakers form out of study onto landing to be put back in the loft later.
Step 7: Mr WithaY, taking a break from sorting his Heap, scrambles up into the loft to put the dressmakers form away. Both stand back and admire the empty spot in the study where it used to be.
Step 8: Return to bedroom. Dust window ledges. Realise every other flat surface in the bedroom is also grey and fluffy. Dust everything else. Raise huge clouds of dust. Re-dust window ledges as a result. Finally, with Mr WithaY's Heap of Shame cleared, hoover the bedroom floor.
Step 9: Hoover the landing, study, spare bedroom (in a cursory manner, then shut the door on it), and finally the bathroom. Oh, and then the top half of the stairs.
As you see, this endless displacement activity type of cleaning goes on in an indefinite loop, until you run out of cleaning wipes or the hoover needs emptying. In this example, it ended with Mr WithaY making us a cup of tea, thus cunningly breaking the cycle.
This morning I was planning to get all the ironing done. My ironing routine is simple, but effective. I put the TV in the bedroom on, find something fairly unchallenging to watch (Frasier, Star Trek, Big Bang Theory, as examples) and then stand there for an hour or two, turning a basket full of scrumpled tatty-looking rags into several neat piles of pressed folded clothes. It's deeply satisfying, in a low-grade way.
I was thwarted by the weather. (First world problems klaxon here.)
The satellite link to the upstairs TV is badly affected by the weather. If it rains, even a little bit, the signal breaks up and the programme becomes unwatchable. Clearly, I cannot be expected to iron without the amusing exploits of American actors to keep me occupied, so I have to put the iron back down with an exasperated sigh, and go and do something else. And here we are.
One thing I could do is go and sort out Mr WithaY's dressing table. I was browsing through a gift catalogue which arrived with a weekend newspaper, trying to find something that wasn't related to golf or coffee** and I spotted a Gentleman's Tidy. Something like this, but made in faux leather rather than wood.
I seriously considered ordering it as a Christmas present, and then I thought a bit harder about what tends to occupy Mr WithaY's dressing table.
Among the usual litter of aftershave bottles, toiletries, cufflink boxes and a clothes brush, yesterday there were:
Several pairs of clean pants, neatly folded and waiting to be put away in a drawer
A plastic fork
A huge heap of old receipts and scraps of paper, none of them necessary for tax purposes
A coin sorter (almost empty)
Several coins
String
Cord (not the same as string)
A book about neolithic cooking
Hazelnuts, foraged and then forgotten about, in the manner of an absent-minded squirrel
I don't think there is a Gentleman's Tidy in existence which is designed to cope with that little lot.
Back to the drawing board.
Also, how do they sort out their laundry on Star Trek, eh? I've seen evidence of a bar, a barber and beauty parlour, several places to eat, even showers, but never any laundry facilities. I like to imagine that deep in the bowels of the Starship Enterprise is a dry-cleaners, manned by a grouchy Ferengi.
*Shout down stairs "Can you please come and move all your clothes, it's a pigsty up here."
**Slim pickings, I can tell you.
It started more or less by accident yesterday, when I was sorting out laundry. I ought to draw a critical path analysis diagram to illustrate the path of progress I took.
Step 1: Sort out a load of laundry and put it in the washing machine. Decide to tidy up my Heap of Shame in the corner.
Step 2: Pick up assorted items of clothing on the floor, sort through and either hang up or place in laundry basket. Stand back and admire empty spot where Heap of Shame previously lived. Decide to hoover the bedroom.
Step 3: Fetch hoover, realise that Mr WithaY's Heap of Shame threatens to overwhelm his half of the bedroom. Suggest* he sorts it out.
Step 4: Decide to clean window frames of black filth and mould while he sorts out the Heap. Fetch cleaning wipes from the bathroom. Clean bathroom sink, bath and shower with cleaning wipes, as they're all a bit grubby now you look at them.
Step 5: Return to bedroom. Clean all black filth from window frames. Decide to dust window ledges, as they are grey and fluffy rather than white and shiny.
Step 6: Fetch duster from study. Find furniture polish cleaning wipes in box with duster. Realise desk is very grubby. Clean with furniture polish wipes. Move dressmakers form out of study onto landing to be put back in the loft later.
Step 7: Mr WithaY, taking a break from sorting his Heap, scrambles up into the loft to put the dressmakers form away. Both stand back and admire the empty spot in the study where it used to be.
Step 8: Return to bedroom. Dust window ledges. Realise every other flat surface in the bedroom is also grey and fluffy. Dust everything else. Raise huge clouds of dust. Re-dust window ledges as a result. Finally, with Mr WithaY's Heap of Shame cleared, hoover the bedroom floor.
As you see, this endless displacement activity type of cleaning goes on in an indefinite loop, until you run out of cleaning wipes or the hoover needs emptying. In this example, it ended with Mr WithaY making us a cup of tea, thus cunningly breaking the cycle.
This morning I was planning to get all the ironing done. My ironing routine is simple, but effective. I put the TV in the bedroom on, find something fairly unchallenging to watch (Frasier, Star Trek, Big Bang Theory, as examples) and then stand there for an hour or two, turning a basket full of scrumpled tatty-looking rags into several neat piles of pressed folded clothes. It's deeply satisfying, in a low-grade way.
I was thwarted by the weather. (First world problems klaxon here.)
The satellite link to the upstairs TV is badly affected by the weather. If it rains, even a little bit, the signal breaks up and the programme becomes unwatchable. Clearly, I cannot be expected to iron without the amusing exploits of American actors to keep me occupied, so I have to put the iron back down with an exasperated sigh, and go and do something else. And here we are.
One thing I could do is go and sort out Mr WithaY's dressing table. I was browsing through a gift catalogue which arrived with a weekend newspaper, trying to find something that wasn't related to golf or coffee** and I spotted a Gentleman's Tidy. Something like this, but made in faux leather rather than wood.
I seriously considered ordering it as a Christmas present, and then I thought a bit harder about what tends to occupy Mr WithaY's dressing table.
Among the usual litter of aftershave bottles, toiletries, cufflink boxes and a clothes brush, yesterday there were:
Several pairs of clean pants, neatly folded and waiting to be put away in a drawer
A plastic fork
A huge heap of old receipts and scraps of paper, none of them necessary for tax purposes
A coin sorter (almost empty)
Several coins
String
Cord (not the same as string)
A book about neolithic cooking
Hazelnuts, foraged and then forgotten about, in the manner of an absent-minded squirrel
I don't think there is a Gentleman's Tidy in existence which is designed to cope with that little lot.
Back to the drawing board.
Also, how do they sort out their laundry on Star Trek, eh? I've seen evidence of a bar, a barber and beauty parlour, several places to eat, even showers, but never any laundry facilities. I like to imagine that deep in the bowels of the Starship Enterprise is a dry-cleaners, manned by a grouchy Ferengi.
*Shout down stairs "Can you please come and move all your clothes, it's a pigsty up here."
**Slim pickings, I can tell you.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Cheep and nasty
Activities in my life since my last post can be summarised thus:
Sewing, fitfully and without enthusiasm, with a growing sense of panic about deadlines. Self-imposed deadlines, mind, not anything that I have been ordered to make. There's a cake sale and sort-of craft sale in a couple of weeks in the village, and in a fit of enthusiasm I agreed to have a stall there. So of course, I need some stuff to sell. It's very strange making things that other people will look at and then decide if they want them enough to give me money in exchange. Previously when I have made things for people it has either been as a gift, when they respond politely, or on commission, when I know that what I am making is what they want.
Knitting, whilst watching TV and complaining about the programme I happen to be watching. I'm about halfway through Mrs Jones' scarf, and I am pleased with how it looks so far. I've never tried making anything that involved short rows before, and I shall definitely be using them again. Perhaps for a charming hat.
Watching TV, usually criticising whatever is on loudly, whilst looking stuff up on IMDB to validate my assertions. Unless it's MasterChef, in which case I just shout at Gregg Wallace and his odd shiny head. Oh, and make monstrous "gnnaaaaaaaaarghkkkk!" noises whenever he opens his cavernous maw to devour a huge forkful of whatever the sweating terrified contestants have produced.
Cleaning the house. The place looks like some sort of bizarre show-home, one occupied by wild animals and someone with a baking fetish. And Davy Crockett. And a Medieval robber baron. And a Victorian seamstress who likes cushions.
Grocery shopping. The high spot of that particular achievement was getting a discount on diesel because I spent more than £60. Which meant when I filled my car up, I saved almost £7. It all adds up. I did go to the Frome Farmers Market yesterday, though. I bought mild goat's cheese from a tousled and attractive young man, and a horseshoe-shaped load of olive bread which is delicious
Dicking about on the Internet. Obviously. I've been trying to get my head round Twitter again, giving it a rather longer period to win me over than I did last time. I think I gave it about 48 hours last time, and then gave up on it, deciding it was a sack of arse. Oh, and playing World of Warcraft with a friend in America, which has been terrific fun. Yes, I know. I can't get my head round Skyrim, I find the look of the game rather depressing, and that limits my desire to play it.
So yes, I've been reacquainting myself with Twitter. It's a process of trial and error. It's been great for finding some interesting new blogs to read but I get very bored with my feed when it's full of the same two or three people saying much the same thing over and over again. There are a few very funny people out there, and I am enjoying their input, but I'm afraid anyone who just constantly pushes their website, or re-tweets stuff I'm not interested in gets removed from my feed.
One gem I found, and which has been making me cry with laughter, is the Star Trek - The Next Generation Series 8 feed - @TNG_S8 if you're inclined to take a look. It runs as-yet unfilmed plots for the 8th series of TNG, and whoever is writing it is inspired.
Examples:
A transporter error quickly fills the ship with hundreds of excited dogs. Worf calls them "fools" and "disgusting".
A world with a terminal plague tries to attract the Borg as a cure. Geordi's visor falls off into the toilet for the millionth time.
Alien minstrels trap Riker in a 90's dreamscape, only Picard can swashbuckle him free. Data and Geordie tie the hula hoop competition again.
If you're not a Star Trek nerd, I daresay you will merely sigh and move on, but if you are (like me) you will love it. Take a look.
Cooking. Actually, the last entry on the list of non-achievement reminds me that we had some friends over for dinner last weekend. More or less on a whim, which is something that I like very much, and I spent much of Saturday making a variety of Indian dishes. Nom nom nom. I even made coriander flatbread - from scratch - which worked reasonably well. I made (brace yourselves):
My excellent mate* brought a pudding. I love living in a village.
There were a couple of pieces of sad news, unfortunately. One of them involves our mates with the mad spaniels. They had to have one of them taken to the vet for the last time as she was - in addition to being a venerable old spaniel lady - quite poorly. I remember when she was a teeny tiny puppy, I spent an evening in the pub with her flopped bonelessly over my shoulder like a rag doll, completely comfortable, sleeping. She was a sweet-natured character and will be missed. On the plus side, she probably had about the best life a dog could ever wish for, and it was a long one too. And she got to be a bridesmaid a few months ago.
*Hello Jo!
Sewing, fitfully and without enthusiasm, with a growing sense of panic about deadlines. Self-imposed deadlines, mind, not anything that I have been ordered to make. There's a cake sale and sort-of craft sale in a couple of weeks in the village, and in a fit of enthusiasm I agreed to have a stall there. So of course, I need some stuff to sell. It's very strange making things that other people will look at and then decide if they want them enough to give me money in exchange. Previously when I have made things for people it has either been as a gift, when they respond politely, or on commission, when I know that what I am making is what they want.
Knitting, whilst watching TV and complaining about the programme I happen to be watching. I'm about halfway through Mrs Jones' scarf, and I am pleased with how it looks so far. I've never tried making anything that involved short rows before, and I shall definitely be using them again. Perhaps for a charming hat.
Watching TV, usually criticising whatever is on loudly, whilst looking stuff up on IMDB to validate my assertions. Unless it's MasterChef, in which case I just shout at Gregg Wallace and his odd shiny head. Oh, and make monstrous "gnnaaaaaaaaarghkkkk!" noises whenever he opens his cavernous maw to devour a huge forkful of whatever the sweating terrified contestants have produced.
Cleaning the house. The place looks like some sort of bizarre show-home, one occupied by wild animals and someone with a baking fetish. And Davy Crockett. And a Medieval robber baron. And a Victorian seamstress who likes cushions.
Grocery shopping. The high spot of that particular achievement was getting a discount on diesel because I spent more than £60. Which meant when I filled my car up, I saved almost £7. It all adds up. I did go to the Frome Farmers Market yesterday, though. I bought mild goat's cheese from a tousled and attractive young man, and a horseshoe-shaped load of olive bread which is delicious
Dicking about on the Internet. Obviously. I've been trying to get my head round Twitter again, giving it a rather longer period to win me over than I did last time. I think I gave it about 48 hours last time, and then gave up on it, deciding it was a sack of arse. Oh, and playing World of Warcraft with a friend in America, which has been terrific fun. Yes, I know. I can't get my head round Skyrim, I find the look of the game rather depressing, and that limits my desire to play it.
So yes, I've been reacquainting myself with Twitter. It's a process of trial and error. It's been great for finding some interesting new blogs to read but I get very bored with my feed when it's full of the same two or three people saying much the same thing over and over again. There are a few very funny people out there, and I am enjoying their input, but I'm afraid anyone who just constantly pushes their website, or re-tweets stuff I'm not interested in gets removed from my feed.
One gem I found, and which has been making me cry with laughter, is the Star Trek - The Next Generation Series 8 feed - @TNG_S8 if you're inclined to take a look. It runs as-yet unfilmed plots for the 8th series of TNG, and whoever is writing it is inspired.
Examples:
A transporter error quickly fills the ship with hundreds of excited dogs. Worf calls them "fools" and "disgusting".
A world with a terminal plague tries to attract the Borg as a cure. Geordi's visor falls off into the toilet for the millionth time.
Alien minstrels trap Riker in a 90's dreamscape, only Picard can swashbuckle him free. Data and Geordie tie the hula hoop competition again.
If you're not a Star Trek nerd, I daresay you will merely sigh and move on, but if you are (like me) you will love it. Take a look.
Cooking. Actually, the last entry on the list of non-achievement reminds me that we had some friends over for dinner last weekend. More or less on a whim, which is something that I like very much, and I spent much of Saturday making a variety of Indian dishes. Nom nom nom. I even made coriander flatbread - from scratch - which worked reasonably well. I made (brace yourselves):
- Lamb and aubergine curry, with a home-made spice mix, which was fab, though I say so myself
- Tandoori chicken, basically chicken pieces marinaded in yoghurt and spices, then baked till tender
- A red lentil daal, with loads of ginger and black pepper. It tasted lovely but looked like workhouse gruel.
- Sag aloo, with potato, spinach and spices, very nice
- Plus the afore-mentioned flatbread and rice, and some little samosas which I bought from the supermarket and which we had as an appetiser.
My excellent mate* brought a pudding. I love living in a village.
There were a couple of pieces of sad news, unfortunately. One of them involves our mates with the mad spaniels. They had to have one of them taken to the vet for the last time as she was - in addition to being a venerable old spaniel lady - quite poorly. I remember when she was a teeny tiny puppy, I spent an evening in the pub with her flopped bonelessly over my shoulder like a rag doll, completely comfortable, sleeping. She was a sweet-natured character and will be missed. On the plus side, she probably had about the best life a dog could ever wish for, and it was a long one too. And she got to be a bridesmaid a few months ago.
*Hello Jo!
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Problem in Engineering
I'm writing today's instalment of quasi-realism on my old laptop. Blimey it's slow.
The keyboard is all bouncy. And the screen's quite small. And it's noisy.
Other than that, though, it's great.
The reason for this trip to my technological past? My PC is in the shop for refurbishment, having its innards tweaked, upgraded, be-jiggered and finally put back into a funky new case, large enough to contain the enormous new graphics card that it apparently now needs.
I wanted to get my system upgraded, as I had started to get error messages - you know the sort - that helpfully informed me 10 seconds before my PC froze solid that all was not well. Sometimes, for a nice change, I'd get the error message when I rebooted the machine, shortly after it had frozen solid, leaving me swearing at a black screen and a dead keyboard.
Gah. Technology.
Once again, as I plod wearily through the 21st Century, I ask an uncaring universe why life is not more like Star Trek. I was promised a glorious, robot-filled future. Where is it? Where's my personal replicator? Where's my teleport system? Where's my inter-galactic space vehicle? Eh?
Nowhere, that's where.
In Star Trek, when something technical goes wrong, the Captain calls for an update from Engineering. Engineering reply immediately, shouting through clouds of steam, sparks flying, people being buffeted across the room by wildly flailing cables in the background. It's mayhem down there.
The Captain will demand to know what the problem is. Engineering always know, or at the very least have a working theorem which turns out to be correct. The Captain will ask how long it will take to fix whatever the problem is. Engineering always have an oddly specific estimate to give the Captain, usually a few hours. In a crisis situation they might tell him something like "It'll take us at least seventeen and a half minutes, Sir...."
And sure enough, the problem is fixed within the timeframe, disaster is averted and they carry on about their business.
To summarise: Problem is identified. Solution is identified. Solution is implemented. Problem is resolved. Tea and medals all round.
It's not like that in real life.
I put my PC on the counter in the computer shop, and the nice man looked at it speculatively. It's four years old, which in computer terms makes it not quite a vintage classic, but certainly past its best.
Computer shop man: Soooo....what do you want doing with this?
Me: It needs a graphics upgrade, and possibly some more RAM? I don't know, it's got really slow and laggy, and I keep getting graphics-related error messages.
CSM: Hmm. Let's have a look inside.
He removed the case and revealed a hellish filth-pit full of precariously-slotted-in computer parts and dust bunnies. It was disgusting in there.
Me: Oh no, look how dirty it is! I'm sorry about that.
CSM: Nah, I've seen a lot worse. Hmm, you've got a *tech* operating system in here so if I add more *tech* it won't make much difference. How about if I *tech* *tech* tech* and then it will do *tech* and *tech*?
Me: Um. Sure. Yeah.
CSM: And you don't need more RAM, but you DO need more power. To supply the new graphics card. Otherwise it will *tech*, and you won't want that.
He pulled the memory card thingies out and waved them around, wafting clouds of filth and dust bunnies over both of us.
Me: Oh. Sure. Yeah. (Nodding wisely) Power. Mhmmm.
CSM: You've got a good size hard disk, and the current RAM will be fine. So, just the graphics card and a new power supply? Oh, and I'll reload the operating system to speed things up. That'll make it *tech* and *tech*, much better.
Me: (relieved and slightly bored now) Yes, lovely, thank you. That'll be fine, I'm sure.
CSM: But the new card is pretty big. I don't know if it'll fit in this.
He indicated my computer with a dismissive finger as he said "this."
Me: Um. What?
He went across to the window display and pulled a huge graphics card out of the artfully arranged heap of techno-parts designed to lure passers-by into the shop.
CSM: See this? If I install one of these, it won't fit.
He put the posh new graphics card next to my poor old PC, and waggled it about, demonstrating how deficient my machine was in terms of space.
It doesn't have a downstairs toilet or a conservatory, his gesture seemed to say. The bedrooms are too small. The stairs are cramped and dingy. And that kitchen...how can you bear it?
I may be reading too much into his waggling, of course.
Anyway, I agreed to have a new, larger case, and any of the old computer insides which survive the new regime will be slotted into it, along with the giant greedy graphics card, which I have no doubt will be ruling the roost, hogging the comfy chair and the remote control, demanding cups of tea and biscuits, gloating about its posh new power supply unit at the meek RAM, over in their squalid little corner.
At least there won't be any dust bunnies in there with them all. For a while.
So. In the meantime, I am back on my laptop.
I asked how long it would take to perform all these miracles of techno-rejuvination, and was told "Hmmm, a few days. Probably five or six working days, as I need to test everything thoroughly." He fixed me with a basilisk stare as he said "Thoroughly."
It's not like that in Star Trek. NOTHING gets tested. That's why the shields fail after one shot is fired at them, every single time.
Other news: I am pleased to report that Mr WithaY had a fab time at his bushcraft training course last week, and is sitting in his study as I type, busily writing up his homework for the next module. He was very pleased that he passed the "make fire with your bare hands and a bunch of twigs and other materials scavenged from the soaking wet forest floor" test. Apparently not everyone did, unfortunately.
I've been cooking new things this week, as I was getting bored with my repertoire of meals. Today I made a huge fish pie, containing salmon (which was on offer in Morrisons), smoked trout (caught by Mr WithaY and smoked by a local smokehouse) and prawns (from the freezer, can't remember where we got them from,)in a white sauce, topped with creamy mashed potato. We're having it for supper. Nom nom nom.
Last night I cooked a new variation on pork steaks - I cut them up and simmered them for a couple of hours in a sauce made from chopped onions, garlic, several sliced cooking apples (skin left on), vegetable stock, and white pepper. In the last 15 minutes or so, I added a generous splosh of double cream, which worked well. Serve with new potatoes, peas and carrots. Delicious.
And now I'm going to go and make flapjacks.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
News of the week
I was reading the local paper this morning, over a refreshing breakfast* of bacon, eggs and baked beans. Always full of interesting things, the local paper.
If The Framley Examiner went bust, I reckon my local paper would be in the running to replace it.
Top headlines this week:
Town Hall Tidy Up. An in-depth expose about how the town hall needed to be tidied up. A start has been made by a group of volunteers who have already "removed rubbish from offices...and cleaned the carpets." Phew. I hope next week we hear about the windows being washed and the bins emptied.
Advice From Local Travel Expert. A local travel agent is giving people advice about, well, travel. I wonder if Deanna Troi is a reporter on this paper. "Captain, I am sensing the bleedin' obvious..."
Yes to Flats. Some flats will be built. I was wondering about that myself. This is in addition to the regular feature on planning decisions, where we all get to read about who had their planning application approved and who had theirs rejected. This usually leads to conversations with the neighbours along the lines of "Well, I thought they were pushing it, asking for a new conservatory...that's a listed building, isn't it?" and endless speculation about why they need a garage that size anyway**. Oh, and it's about bloody time those trees were cut down, they're dangerous.
Burglary Halts Broadcast is one of those stories that you have to read, just to understand the headline. Sadly, it wasn't about the local radio station DJ being stolen away mid-show, leaving a lot of dead air time until he was found dumped in a garden half a mile away. No, much more mundane. The transmitter was stolen. Much less exciting, but probably harder to replace than a DJ. And easier to sell for scrap.
Longleat Keeper Becomes Mum To Otter Pups led me down a line of thought that was rather unsavoury. Who's the father? Will she be breast feeding? Was it a water birth? Will her child support be paid in fish?
It turns out, on closer inspection of the story, that she is a foster mother. Aaaaah. That makes more sense. Too weird, otherwise, even for Wiltshire.
Talking of weird...
Warminster, The Final Frontier details the recent Weird Weekend, held in town, where people who are keen on UFOs, the paranormal, space aliens, the X Files, anal probing*** and ghosts all get together to discuss it. I imagine there are a lot of unresolved issues. Nobody can ever say definitively "Well, I KNOW this is true." Must make arguments go on forever. There are photographs of the convention goers, most of them clutching self-published books about their pet subjects and looking cheerful.
There are several pages of exam results, because, as we all know, names sell local papers. My favourite story this week is:
Cow Trapped In Ditch. Yes, it's a headline. Once I stopped laughing and actually read the whole article, I learned that the unfortunate animal "was stuck upside down in a ditch near the Co-Op store."
Upside down? Was someone reversing it, and got the back hoof stuck in the ditch, and overturned it? Why was it near the Co-Op? Had it nipped out for some milk? Unlikely, I'd suggest.
The story reports that several fire crews came to rescue it, using a sling to get it out. Not though, the kind of sling where they fling it into the next county. More like a hoist, I suppose. But the best part? It was trapped in a "four foot ditch". A two foot ditch could have trapped a chicken, maybe, or even a person, but a four foot ditch? That's for quadrupeds only.
I love living here.
*Well, lunch really, but I feel less slovenly if I pretend it was breakfast
**Unless it's our mate who is assembling an aircraft in his - we all know he needs a big garage for that.
***Aliens always seem to do that, apparently. Why?
If The Framley Examiner went bust, I reckon my local paper would be in the running to replace it.
Top headlines this week:
Town Hall Tidy Up. An in-depth expose about how the town hall needed to be tidied up. A start has been made by a group of volunteers who have already "removed rubbish from offices...and cleaned the carpets." Phew. I hope next week we hear about the windows being washed and the bins emptied.
Advice From Local Travel Expert. A local travel agent is giving people advice about, well, travel. I wonder if Deanna Troi is a reporter on this paper. "Captain, I am sensing the bleedin' obvious..."
Yes to Flats. Some flats will be built. I was wondering about that myself. This is in addition to the regular feature on planning decisions, where we all get to read about who had their planning application approved and who had theirs rejected. This usually leads to conversations with the neighbours along the lines of "Well, I thought they were pushing it, asking for a new conservatory...that's a listed building, isn't it?" and endless speculation about why they need a garage that size anyway**. Oh, and it's about bloody time those trees were cut down, they're dangerous.
Burglary Halts Broadcast is one of those stories that you have to read, just to understand the headline. Sadly, it wasn't about the local radio station DJ being stolen away mid-show, leaving a lot of dead air time until he was found dumped in a garden half a mile away. No, much more mundane. The transmitter was stolen. Much less exciting, but probably harder to replace than a DJ. And easier to sell for scrap.
Longleat Keeper Becomes Mum To Otter Pups led me down a line of thought that was rather unsavoury. Who's the father? Will she be breast feeding? Was it a water birth? Will her child support be paid in fish?
It turns out, on closer inspection of the story, that she is a foster mother. Aaaaah. That makes more sense. Too weird, otherwise, even for Wiltshire.
Talking of weird...
Warminster, The Final Frontier details the recent Weird Weekend, held in town, where people who are keen on UFOs, the paranormal, space aliens, the X Files, anal probing*** and ghosts all get together to discuss it. I imagine there are a lot of unresolved issues. Nobody can ever say definitively "Well, I KNOW this is true." Must make arguments go on forever. There are photographs of the convention goers, most of them clutching self-published books about their pet subjects and looking cheerful.
There are several pages of exam results, because, as we all know, names sell local papers. My favourite story this week is:
Cow Trapped In Ditch. Yes, it's a headline. Once I stopped laughing and actually read the whole article, I learned that the unfortunate animal "was stuck upside down in a ditch near the Co-Op store."
Upside down? Was someone reversing it, and got the back hoof stuck in the ditch, and overturned it? Why was it near the Co-Op? Had it nipped out for some milk? Unlikely, I'd suggest.
The story reports that several fire crews came to rescue it, using a sling to get it out. Not though, the kind of sling where they fling it into the next county. More like a hoist, I suppose. But the best part? It was trapped in a "four foot ditch". A two foot ditch could have trapped a chicken, maybe, or even a person, but a four foot ditch? That's for quadrupeds only.
I love living here.
*Well, lunch really, but I feel less slovenly if I pretend it was breakfast
**Unless it's our mate who is assembling an aircraft in his - we all know he needs a big garage for that.
***Aliens always seem to do that, apparently. Why?
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Money well spent
There was great excitement earlier this week when the washing machine man came round.
Well, we asked him to.
It's not like he just turns up unnanounced and demands tea and biscuits.
For a while* now, the washing machine has been making terrifying clanking rattling noises. Intermittently Not all the time, not every time we use the machine, not even every time we do the same kind of wash. That rare delightful thing, a truly intermittent fault.
It came to a head last weekend. I'd put a load of washing in, and the machine was rattling and graunching as though it had several tons of gravel inside it. A sharp crash, like metal on glass, reached us and Mr WithaY, a man pressed to breaking point, leapt to his feet and then to the phone. Ten minutes later, we had a hot date with the repairman.
He turned up as promised on Wednesday morning and got straight down to business, refusing my offers of hospitable refreshment. Tea? Coffee? A cold drink? Digestive biscuit? Toast? Anything? Just please FIX IT.
I had to restrain myself from clutching at his lapels.
He turned the machine on. No clanking. He turned it off. He turned it on, but on a different wash programme. Silence. He looked at the dials with a furrowed brow. I put the kettle on. He turned it** off, then on, then off again. I made tea.
We looked at one another in silence, frowning, him in genuine puzzlement, me just joining in to be friendly.
"Can you fetch me some towels?" he asked. Perhaps he needed to mop his fevered brow as he figured out what was wrong. Or maybe he got confused when he saw the kettle boiling and thought someone was having a baby.
Anyway, I went and fetched a couple of big towels which he loaded into the machine, before turning it on again.
There was a terrible rattling, graunching noise. Success.
He looked at me with some relief and said "Ah yes, I know what that is."
He turned it off, drained the water out and pulled the filter out of the bottom of the machine. He ferreted about up in the innards, which seemed rather indelicate, then extracted a 5p piece, holding it aloft in triumph.
"There," he said. "That was getting sucked into the [[tech]] and making it [[tech]] which is why it was [[tech]]."
"Aaah," I said. "Was it really? Gosh."
"Yes. That'll be a hundred pounds please."
*At least six months
**The washing machine, not the kettle
Well, we asked him to.
It's not like he just turns up unnanounced and demands tea and biscuits.
For a while* now, the washing machine has been making terrifying clanking rattling noises. Intermittently Not all the time, not every time we use the machine, not even every time we do the same kind of wash. That rare delightful thing, a truly intermittent fault.
It came to a head last weekend. I'd put a load of washing in, and the machine was rattling and graunching as though it had several tons of gravel inside it. A sharp crash, like metal on glass, reached us and Mr WithaY, a man pressed to breaking point, leapt to his feet and then to the phone. Ten minutes later, we had a hot date with the repairman.
He turned up as promised on Wednesday morning and got straight down to business, refusing my offers of hospitable refreshment. Tea? Coffee? A cold drink? Digestive biscuit? Toast? Anything? Just please FIX IT.
I had to restrain myself from clutching at his lapels.
He turned the machine on. No clanking. He turned it off. He turned it on, but on a different wash programme. Silence. He looked at the dials with a furrowed brow. I put the kettle on. He turned it** off, then on, then off again. I made tea.
We looked at one another in silence, frowning, him in genuine puzzlement, me just joining in to be friendly.
"Can you fetch me some towels?" he asked. Perhaps he needed to mop his fevered brow as he figured out what was wrong. Or maybe he got confused when he saw the kettle boiling and thought someone was having a baby.
Anyway, I went and fetched a couple of big towels which he loaded into the machine, before turning it on again.
There was a terrible rattling, graunching noise. Success.
He looked at me with some relief and said "Ah yes, I know what that is."
He turned it off, drained the water out and pulled the filter out of the bottom of the machine. He ferreted about up in the innards, which seemed rather indelicate, then extracted a 5p piece, holding it aloft in triumph.
"There," he said. "That was getting sucked into the [[tech]] and making it [[tech]] which is why it was [[tech]]."
"Aaah," I said. "Was it really? Gosh."
"Yes. That'll be a hundred pounds please."
*At least six months
**The washing machine, not the kettle
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Hair! Again!
Sorry if you aren't remotely interested in hair. On the bright side, I only go to the hairdresser about 3 times a year, so it isn't very often you have to put up with this.
Ta-daa! Check out the new do:
I could have just posted the photo without the highly professional editing to conceal my secret identity, but it amuses me to look like a middle-aged ninja, so it stays like this. Mr WithaY suggested I add some huge bug eyes as well. He thinks he's funny.
The charming girl at the hairdresser has chopped off loads of the skanky bits at the ends, layered it so it is all bouncy and wavy again, and given me a bit of a fringe to stop me getting too bored with it. I am very pleased. Also, (and this is why she gets a tip) she said I have no need to colour it as it has barely any grey, and that it looks lovely. So hurrah.
I went to the music shop in Salisbury as I want to get the tab book for Alice in Chains "Black Gives Way To Blue" but no luck. To be fair, I don't even know if the book exists, I just assumed it did. I heard "Your Decision" on the TV a few nights ago, used my mighty iPhone to Shazam it so I knew what it was, and then downloaded the album on iTunes. All while sitting watching CSI. I love technology, I get to pretend I am on the USS Enterprise when I do stuff like that.
I found the chords online but am not convinced they are correct, as it sounds rather odd. Plus the timing is a bugger, as soon as I try to sing AND play it at the same time it all goes horribly wrong.
I still sound like I have a cold, even though I don't, so my singing is nowhere near the way it should be. I wonder if I have some sort of yukky low-grade sinus infection or something left over from the Black Lung outbreak.
If I am still sounding bunged-up by the end of the week I might ask the doctor what he suggests. He may well suggest that I go away and stop bothering him, of course.
Mr WithaY has had a cold for almost a week, but is on the mend now. He celebrated by cleaning out the fishtank this morning. The soundtrack for this diligent activity was very loud trance music. Apparently the fish like it. It just made me think of Father Fintan Stack from Father Ted.
"I've had my fun and that's all that matters." One of the best lines in comedy ever.
Ta-daa! Check out the new do:
I could have just posted the photo without the highly professional editing to conceal my secret identity, but it amuses me to look like a middle-aged ninja, so it stays like this. Mr WithaY suggested I add some huge bug eyes as well. He thinks he's funny.
The charming girl at the hairdresser has chopped off loads of the skanky bits at the ends, layered it so it is all bouncy and wavy again, and given me a bit of a fringe to stop me getting too bored with it. I am very pleased. Also, (and this is why she gets a tip) she said I have no need to colour it as it has barely any grey, and that it looks lovely. So hurrah.
I went to the music shop in Salisbury as I want to get the tab book for Alice in Chains "Black Gives Way To Blue" but no luck. To be fair, I don't even know if the book exists, I just assumed it did. I heard "Your Decision" on the TV a few nights ago, used my mighty iPhone to Shazam it so I knew what it was, and then downloaded the album on iTunes. All while sitting watching CSI. I love technology, I get to pretend I am on the USS Enterprise when I do stuff like that.
I found the chords online but am not convinced they are correct, as it sounds rather odd. Plus the timing is a bugger, as soon as I try to sing AND play it at the same time it all goes horribly wrong.
I still sound like I have a cold, even though I don't, so my singing is nowhere near the way it should be. I wonder if I have some sort of yukky low-grade sinus infection or something left over from the Black Lung outbreak.
If I am still sounding bunged-up by the end of the week I might ask the doctor what he suggests. He may well suggest that I go away and stop bothering him, of course.
Mr WithaY has had a cold for almost a week, but is on the mend now. He celebrated by cleaning out the fishtank this morning. The soundtrack for this diligent activity was very loud trance music. Apparently the fish like it. It just made me think of Father Fintan Stack from Father Ted.
"I've had my fun and that's all that matters." One of the best lines in comedy ever.
Friday, 29 January 2010
Scanners
Last night I did my occasional "Big Night Out In London" thing with Tall Richard. Mr WithaY and I have been mates with Mr and Mrs Tall Richard since I was a student. I think Tall Richard helped push my long-gone still-lamented first car* on several occasions when it died as we arrived at places in a cloud of black smoke and bad language. We've spent many hours drinking, singing, telling jokes, drinking, singing some more and quipping. Happy days. He is a master of the bon mot.
Their eldest son is now having a whale of a time at university; I remember him before he was born. Seeing friends' and family's children growing up is the only thing that really brings home to me how time is marching on. Ah well.
Anyway. I was meeting Tall Richard at his office after work, and was a little bit early, so I sat in the very intimidating foyer for a few minutes while I waited. The security guards looked at me, but not one of them wandered over to ask me who I was, or what I was doing, or could they see my ID in case I was a random nutjob who had wandered in off the street and was planning mischief. Strange.
They have a complicated access system, involving various airlocks, scanners and gates, as so many buildings do these days. A chap stepped into one of the tube airlock thingies, then as he waited for it to open, he downed a pint of milk from a plastic carton. Most unexpected.
Tall Richard and I scooted across to a nice little pub just off the Strand, and I amused myself by showing him some of the old pics I have scanned into the computer and uploaded onto my iPhone. Ahhh technology. I almost understand some of it.
Ate a fine Italian meal, caught up on all the gossip, and made it back to Waterloo in time for the 8:20 train home. The high life. I am reading "Starship Troopers" on my iPhone at the moment, which is pleasingly diverting on that long, long journey. Not much like the film, but so many books are very different from the screen version.
It's a bit of a bugger that the last train home leaves London before 9:30pm. It rather curtails the possibilities for a wild night out on the tiles. Unless I can beg a bed at a mate's of course. I was safe and sound at home by 11pm, and as I don't have to flog all the way to London today, was able to luxuriate in bed till gone 8 this morning. Marvellous.
Other news: I'm off to pick up me new specs this afternoon. I am very excited, it's over 2 years since I had new ones and I am mightily bored with my current pair.
Do I want an iPad? I think not, probably. It looks like a much bigger, less handy iPhone. I'm still not won over by Twitter, either. I think I might take the wise Mr Farty's advice and just use it to pimp the blog.
Also, welcome back to eloh. I was wondering where you'd got to.
*Gavin the Fiat. I loved him.
Their eldest son is now having a whale of a time at university; I remember him before he was born. Seeing friends' and family's children growing up is the only thing that really brings home to me how time is marching on. Ah well.
Anyway. I was meeting Tall Richard at his office after work, and was a little bit early, so I sat in the very intimidating foyer for a few minutes while I waited. The security guards looked at me, but not one of them wandered over to ask me who I was, or what I was doing, or could they see my ID in case I was a random nutjob who had wandered in off the street and was planning mischief. Strange.
They have a complicated access system, involving various airlocks, scanners and gates, as so many buildings do these days. A chap stepped into one of the tube airlock thingies, then as he waited for it to open, he downed a pint of milk from a plastic carton. Most unexpected.
Tall Richard and I scooted across to a nice little pub just off the Strand, and I amused myself by showing him some of the old pics I have scanned into the computer and uploaded onto my iPhone. Ahhh technology. I almost understand some of it.
Ate a fine Italian meal, caught up on all the gossip, and made it back to Waterloo in time for the 8:20 train home. The high life. I am reading "Starship Troopers" on my iPhone at the moment, which is pleasingly diverting on that long, long journey. Not much like the film, but so many books are very different from the screen version.
It's a bit of a bugger that the last train home leaves London before 9:30pm. It rather curtails the possibilities for a wild night out on the tiles. Unless I can beg a bed at a mate's of course. I was safe and sound at home by 11pm, and as I don't have to flog all the way to London today, was able to luxuriate in bed till gone 8 this morning. Marvellous.
Other news: I'm off to pick up me new specs this afternoon. I am very excited, it's over 2 years since I had new ones and I am mightily bored with my current pair.
Do I want an iPad? I think not, probably. It looks like a much bigger, less handy iPhone. I'm still not won over by Twitter, either. I think I might take the wise Mr Farty's advice and just use it to pimp the blog.
Also, welcome back to eloh. I was wondering where you'd got to.
*Gavin the Fiat. I loved him.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Creased
In the car park at the big Tesco in Shaftesbury we saw a builder's van with the name "Crumpler and Son" on it.
What other trade would I want a Mr Crumpler to turn up for, I wonder?
Origami?
Ironing and laundry services?
Plate glass installation?
Panel beating?
Gift wrapping?
Tarmac laying?
So many possibilities. If I ever change my name, I think I will become Lucy Crumpler.
Also, why has nobody created a childrens' television series/book/top trumps game called "Combat Wombat"? I might have a crack at it myself.
There's no plot development or indeed character ideas beyond the name, but if "18 Wheels of Justice" can get made, hell, this must have a future. I bet they started with the title and worked back from there. Mr WithaY refers to it as "The Truck of Shame" which is not a bad title either.
Other news: Finally, finally received the long-awaited letter from the law. It's only taken them 4 months to convey it 20 miles. Still, it draws a line under some of the SSFH* loose ends.
That's a bizarrely mixed metaphor. Sorry.
Also: Twitter. Hmm, not sure I have got the hang of it yet. It seems terribly lonely and one-sided. I like the blog thing, where you write stuff, other people read it, and then comment to tell you (and everyone else) what they think. It feels like a cheerful and friendly way to communicate. Plus I get to do most of the talking. Perfect. Twitter is like dropping meringues into a black hole** and there is no sense that anything you say is registering anywhere else. Maybe I'll get used to it.
Tried playing my guitar this evening, and still can't sing, which is a bugger. If that chest infection has lost me my voice I will be very upset indeed. And my guitar playing wasn't too good either.
*Shit Storm From Hades
**The re-runs of the origianl Star Trek series are brilliant, aren't they? Those tortured metaphors. Those wigs. Kirk's shameless camera-hogging. The boots. Just great.
What other trade would I want a Mr Crumpler to turn up for, I wonder?
Origami?
Ironing and laundry services?
Plate glass installation?
Panel beating?
Gift wrapping?
Tarmac laying?
So many possibilities. If I ever change my name, I think I will become Lucy Crumpler.
Also, why has nobody created a childrens' television series/book/top trumps game called "Combat Wombat"? I might have a crack at it myself.
There's no plot development or indeed character ideas beyond the name, but if "18 Wheels of Justice" can get made, hell, this must have a future. I bet they started with the title and worked back from there. Mr WithaY refers to it as "The Truck of Shame" which is not a bad title either.
Other news: Finally, finally received the long-awaited letter from the law. It's only taken them 4 months to convey it 20 miles. Still, it draws a line under some of the SSFH* loose ends.
That's a bizarrely mixed metaphor. Sorry.
Also: Twitter. Hmm, not sure I have got the hang of it yet. It seems terribly lonely and one-sided. I like the blog thing, where you write stuff, other people read it, and then comment to tell you (and everyone else) what they think. It feels like a cheerful and friendly way to communicate. Plus I get to do most of the talking. Perfect. Twitter is like dropping meringues into a black hole** and there is no sense that anything you say is registering anywhere else. Maybe I'll get used to it.
Tried playing my guitar this evening, and still can't sing, which is a bugger. If that chest infection has lost me my voice I will be very upset indeed. And my guitar playing wasn't too good either.
*Shit Storm From Hades
**The re-runs of the origianl Star Trek series are brilliant, aren't they? Those tortured metaphors. Those wigs. Kirk's shameless camera-hogging. The boots. Just great.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
What to do, what to do....
Mr WithaY is off out for the day tomorrow, weather permitting. I am wondering what to do with myself, home alone all day. I could get up to all kinds of mischief.
I toyed with the idea of going to Bath on the train to gawp at the redevelopment of the city centre, but then I remembered I spend fucking HOURS on the train every week anyway, so rejected that idea.
I could drive there, but parking in Bath is like a punishment for transgressions in a former life. I bet even people on their 50th incarnation, one small step away from Nirvana, still struggle to find a decent parking space in Bath on a Saturday. Unless they get there at 7am. Which they probably do, smug Karmic bastards.
But. But. Bath has some great shops.
Long Tall Sally for one. I always find lovely things in there, and buy them in a sort of deprived-villager shopping frenzy, having learned from painful experience that they will NOT be there next time I pop in. There always seems to be a sale on, with stuff on the rails in my size (that I admired but didn't buy at full price) reduced to eight quid. Who could resist?
Not me, matey.
Also, Lush. Now I am having a moral dilemma about Lush at the moment. They have taken a stance on an issue which I think is wrong; they are, of course, entitled to their opinion.
They are donating a percentage of the profits of a particular product to the hunt saboteurs association. I don't hunt, nor do I think I know anyone who does, but I feel quite strongly that the hunt saboteurs' methods should not be encouraged.
So, do I stop buying Lush products completely, to make a point? Or, do I continue to buy their other products, not the one which they are donating the profit from, as I am completely in support of their organic, environmentally-friendly, non-animal-tested, minimal-packaging, fantastic products?
Does the good that they do in terms of enviromental impact outweigh what I consider to be a bad decision to offer financial support to a group which I think shouldn't be encouraged?
Tough call. So many italics.
There are also some fine jewellery shops, but I am not really able to afford to buy myself a pair of huge solitaire diamond earrings this month. So. Arse.
I expect I'll just pop out get the papers, maybe watch a dvd as there is seldom anything worth watching on TV, play my guitar for a bit, faff about on the Internets, and drink tea. It's not a bad way to spend a day, especially if it's peeing down with rain, as the forecast is promising.
What Would Captain Kirk Do*?
*Other than teach alien women how to love, and get his shirt artfully ripped in a fist fight.
I toyed with the idea of going to Bath on the train to gawp at the redevelopment of the city centre, but then I remembered I spend fucking HOURS on the train every week anyway, so rejected that idea.
I could drive there, but parking in Bath is like a punishment for transgressions in a former life. I bet even people on their 50th incarnation, one small step away from Nirvana, still struggle to find a decent parking space in Bath on a Saturday. Unless they get there at 7am. Which they probably do, smug Karmic bastards.
But. But. Bath has some great shops.
Long Tall Sally for one. I always find lovely things in there, and buy them in a sort of deprived-villager shopping frenzy, having learned from painful experience that they will NOT be there next time I pop in. There always seems to be a sale on, with stuff on the rails in my size (that I admired but didn't buy at full price) reduced to eight quid. Who could resist?
Not me, matey.
Also, Lush. Now I am having a moral dilemma about Lush at the moment. They have taken a stance on an issue which I think is wrong; they are, of course, entitled to their opinion.
They are donating a percentage of the profits of a particular product to the hunt saboteurs association. I don't hunt, nor do I think I know anyone who does, but I feel quite strongly that the hunt saboteurs' methods should not be encouraged.
So, do I stop buying Lush products completely, to make a point? Or, do I continue to buy their other products, not the one which they are donating the profit from, as I am completely in support of their organic, environmentally-friendly, non-animal-tested, minimal-packaging, fantastic products?
Does the good that they do in terms of enviromental impact outweigh what I consider to be a bad decision to offer financial support to a group which I think shouldn't be encouraged?
Tough call. So many italics.
There are also some fine jewellery shops, but I am not really able to afford to buy myself a pair of huge solitaire diamond earrings this month. So. Arse.
I expect I'll just pop out get the papers, maybe watch a dvd as there is seldom anything worth watching on TV, play my guitar for a bit, faff about on the Internets, and drink tea. It's not a bad way to spend a day, especially if it's peeing down with rain, as the forecast is promising.
What Would Captain Kirk Do*?
*Other than teach alien women how to love, and get his shirt artfully ripped in a fist fight.
Monday, 12 October 2009
Starstruck
Back up in London today, after what feels like years, what with my time off work and the recent trips to Bristol. It was tiring, but no more so than I expected, and I felt far more able to deal with work stuff than I have for a long time. I even managed to consider some knotty work problems without deciding I ought to write a letter of resignation. So, progress.
And, as a bonus, when I left the house this morning, there was a glorious bright moon, and a sky full of stars. Lovely.
Which brings me neatly to what I wanted to tell you about: an iPhones application called Planets. It shows you which planets in our solar system are visible at night - if you look at it during the day it just shows the Sun. The two bright stars I saw low in the sky this morning were Jupiter and Venus, I learned.
If you look at the Globe option, it shows you the Earth as it looks at that moment - right now it is dark over Europe and you can see all the lights on the continents. The Americas are currently in daylight. It's fascinating, and I love it. You can also see photos (from giant space telescopes, I assume) of the planets, and rotate them around with your fingertip to see how they look from all angles. It's hugely pleasing.
Other, sad news. Youngest Sis's lovely little dog Charlie passed away unexpectedly yesterday. He was a charmer, and will be missed.
And, as a bonus, when I left the house this morning, there was a glorious bright moon, and a sky full of stars. Lovely.
Which brings me neatly to what I wanted to tell you about: an iPhones application called Planets. It shows you which planets in our solar system are visible at night - if you look at it during the day it just shows the Sun. The two bright stars I saw low in the sky this morning were Jupiter and Venus, I learned.
If you look at the Globe option, it shows you the Earth as it looks at that moment - right now it is dark over Europe and you can see all the lights on the continents. The Americas are currently in daylight. It's fascinating, and I love it. You can also see photos (from giant space telescopes, I assume) of the planets, and rotate them around with your fingertip to see how they look from all angles. It's hugely pleasing.
Other, sad news. Youngest Sis's lovely little dog Charlie passed away unexpectedly yesterday. He was a charmer, and will be missed.
Friday, 4 September 2009
Picture this
I've given up on Photobucket, pile of crap that it is.
Every time I use it it slows my PC waaaaay down to below Impulse Speed, and then smugly crashes Windows entirely after about 3 photos have been uploaded and/or edited edited. Far too tiresome to tolerate.
So. Flickr. I hear good things about it.
Let's see.
Hmmm, ok, created an account, successfully uploaded some photos....
Aha! The cupcakes I made the other weekend...yes, they look ok. Don't look directly at the scones though, your eyes will bleed.
I wonder if I can add more pictures to this post? Bear with me...
O-kay...there is the mixture for our Christmas cake, as created by Mr WithaY last weekend. Please note the spoon standing up in it. This was prior to having to move it across to the preserving pan, mind.
It's a bit tedious though, I have to publish each picture to a blog post and then copy it back into this one. That can't be right, surely? Anyone know how to post multiple photos into the same blog post?
Answers on a postcard, or in the comments section would be most welcome.
And here's the finished cake, ready to be wrapped up and stashed away for three months, only to be revealed to the daylight for a feed of brandy now and again. And, as I said before, that doesn't sound like a bad life to me.
Right, let's see how this looks. Brace yourselves.
Every time I use it it slows my PC waaaaay down to below Impulse Speed, and then smugly crashes Windows entirely after about 3 photos have been uploaded and/or edited edited. Far too tiresome to tolerate.
So. Flickr. I hear good things about it.
Let's see.
Hmmm, ok, created an account, successfully uploaded some photos....
Aha! The cupcakes I made the other weekend...yes, they look ok. Don't look directly at the scones though, your eyes will bleed.
I wonder if I can add more pictures to this post? Bear with me...
O-kay...there is the mixture for our Christmas cake, as created by Mr WithaY last weekend. Please note the spoon standing up in it. This was prior to having to move it across to the preserving pan, mind.
It's a bit tedious though, I have to publish each picture to a blog post and then copy it back into this one. That can't be right, surely? Anyone know how to post multiple photos into the same blog post?
Answers on a postcard, or in the comments section would be most welcome.
And here's the finished cake, ready to be wrapped up and stashed away for three months, only to be revealed to the daylight for a feed of brandy now and again. And, as I said before, that doesn't sound like a bad life to me.
Right, let's see how this looks. Brace yourselves.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
The Darkness
Gah! The lights all went off just now, plunging everything in sight into darkness.
They came back on again pretty sharpish, but it does not bode well. I see that the pub and petrol station are still on emergency backup*, though. Better get all the candles ready, and torches, and light the fire.
The weather forecast for tomorrow is more heavy snow, so I might have to work from home again. I am missing being in the office, tapping away at my laptop feels quite lonely after 3 days of it.
Got my lovely guitar teacher coming over in a few, so I need to go and get my beautiful Rickenbacker ready. It sounds amazing, and I love it to bits.
Even without an amp, if the bloody power goes off again.
*It's like on Star Trek where they go to life support only. Everything dims, and only the Lottery machine works. And the Shields.
They came back on again pretty sharpish, but it does not bode well. I see that the pub and petrol station are still on emergency backup*, though. Better get all the candles ready, and torches, and light the fire.
The weather forecast for tomorrow is more heavy snow, so I might have to work from home again. I am missing being in the office, tapping away at my laptop feels quite lonely after 3 days of it.
Got my lovely guitar teacher coming over in a few, so I need to go and get my beautiful Rickenbacker ready. It sounds amazing, and I love it to bits.
Even without an amp, if the bloody power goes off again.
*It's like on Star Trek where they go to life support only. Everything dims, and only the Lottery machine works. And the Shields.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Flies! Again!
I have a thunderbug INSIDE my PC screen! How did it get in there? What happens when it tries to get out?
It will die in there, I know it, and the tiny mouldering corpse will sit forever in my eyeline.
Fucker.
There it goes, wandering back and forth, probably leaving a trail of toxic crap behind it.
Did it get in through a vent somewhere? Did it lift up a polystyrene ceiling tile and crawl into a duct and then discover it was trapped?
Will there be several, larger, armed thunderbugs coming after it?
It really is most distracting.
It will die in there, I know it, and the tiny mouldering corpse will sit forever in my eyeline.
Fucker.
There it goes, wandering back and forth, probably leaving a trail of toxic crap behind it.
Did it get in through a vent somewhere? Did it lift up a polystyrene ceiling tile and crawl into a duct and then discover it was trapped?
Will there be several, larger, armed thunderbugs coming after it?
It really is most distracting.
Monday, 2 June 2008
Technology
It's all pants. Well, at work it is, at least. Once again, life does not resemble Star Trek.
Picture the scene...Most of our colleagues have gone to work in Bristol, the remainder have moved to another part of the building so we can all sit together. Synergy and all that good stuff.
So far so good.
There were a few minor spats about who sits where (window seats - as precious as the treasure of the Sierra Madre, apparently), where the coat racks were going, who sits nearest the recycling bins and the noisy printer. All that kind of stuff.
But it got resolved. Every one has a desk, a chair, a phone and a computer. However. Not everyone has a working computer. In fact me and a colleague have got spanking new computers on our desks, but are still using the old computer system, which has different hardware.
We are going to be transferred to the new system in November 07/Feb 08/Early May 08/ last Friday/next Wednesday/whenever they fucking feel like it*. So we wait.
So, if I want to use email, write stuff, do presentations, look at the project plan or indeed, do any of my work, I have to leave my desk (where the phone is) and go to my old desk, across the other side of the building. There is a phone we have lifted from another desk, but we have no idea what the number is. The old phones have been disconnected, see, because we moved.
I come back to my "new" desk and I can't do any work unless it is with a paper and pen, or face to face with my immediate colleagues, as all the information I need is on the IT. Including the telephone directory, so I can't even ring people without asking other people to find the numbers for me.
I come back to my "old" desk and can't be contacted except by email. Oh, and my team are all disgruntled because they are having to answer my phone, and I am not around to talk to them.
As Marcellus Wallace would say, pretty fucking far from ok.
Other news: Mr WithaY's Landrover has gone in for some welding. A week without Landrover trouble is like a meal without wine. Or something.
Garden looks nice though.
*Delete as applicable
Picture the scene...Most of our colleagues have gone to work in Bristol, the remainder have moved to another part of the building so we can all sit together. Synergy and all that good stuff.
So far so good.
There were a few minor spats about who sits where (window seats - as precious as the treasure of the Sierra Madre, apparently), where the coat racks were going, who sits nearest the recycling bins and the noisy printer. All that kind of stuff.
But it got resolved. Every one has a desk, a chair, a phone and a computer. However. Not everyone has a working computer. In fact me and a colleague have got spanking new computers on our desks, but are still using the old computer system, which has different hardware.
We are going to be transferred to the new system in November 07/Feb 08/Early May 08/ last Friday/next Wednesday/whenever they fucking feel like it*. So we wait.
So, if I want to use email, write stuff, do presentations, look at the project plan or indeed, do any of my work, I have to leave my desk (where the phone is) and go to my old desk, across the other side of the building. There is a phone we have lifted from another desk, but we have no idea what the number is. The old phones have been disconnected, see, because we moved.
I come back to my "new" desk and I can't do any work unless it is with a paper and pen, or face to face with my immediate colleagues, as all the information I need is on the IT. Including the telephone directory, so I can't even ring people without asking other people to find the numbers for me.
I come back to my "old" desk and can't be contacted except by email. Oh, and my team are all disgruntled because they are having to answer my phone, and I am not around to talk to them.
As Marcellus Wallace would say, pretty fucking far from ok.
Other news: Mr WithaY's Landrover has gone in for some welding. A week without Landrover trouble is like a meal without wine. Or something.
Garden looks nice though.
*Delete as applicable
Monday, 5 May 2008
Music, not the food of love
Guess what I am doing today?
I am reloading all my music onto my new PC because I have completely failed to manage to copy it from the laptop. I didn't give up immediately, of course.
I first spent many hours messing about transferring files from one iTunes music library to another, and then going "Oh bollocks!" at it when the new library failed to find the files and play them. So, as the vast majority of stuff on my iPod is from CDs I own, I just decided to give up and start from scratch.
I suppose I can burn the songs I bought onto a CD and load it onto the new machine?
Gah. I am yet again disapoointed by how little my life resembles Star Trek.
Oh BOLLOCKS. I just discovered that all the albums I loaded on this morning have been deleted again. When I say "have been deleted" I mean I deleted them. Thinking I was getting rid of stuff that was not working.
So. Back to square 1.
Good job I have already done loads of useful stuff today or I'd feel like I was wasting my life doing this.
I am reloading all my music onto my new PC because I have completely failed to manage to copy it from the laptop. I didn't give up immediately, of course.
I first spent many hours messing about transferring files from one iTunes music library to another, and then going "Oh bollocks!" at it when the new library failed to find the files and play them. So, as the vast majority of stuff on my iPod is from CDs I own, I just decided to give up and start from scratch.
I suppose I can burn the songs I bought onto a CD and load it onto the new machine?
Gah. I am yet again disapoointed by how little my life resembles Star Trek.
Oh BOLLOCKS. I just discovered that all the albums I loaded on this morning have been deleted again. When I say "have been deleted" I mean I deleted them. Thinking I was getting rid of stuff that was not working.
So. Back to square 1.
Good job I have already done loads of useful stuff today or I'd feel like I was wasting my life doing this.
Thursday, 27 March 2008
That's Entertainment
We have been culture vultures. In a very small way, and not proper black tie and opera glasses culture, but still. Culture sparrows, perhaps.
We went to see Omid Djalili on Tuesday night at Salisbury City Hall....Ahhh, the bright lights, the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd etc. He was interesting and amusing, but to be honest his support act, Boothby Graffoe, made me laugh more.
Just Googled him...he's from Hull. Who'd have thought?
If you haven't already seen it, I can recommend Omid Djalili's "Nigerian Traffic Warden" impression. Apparently it has got him out of a few parking tickets.
It was a very pleasant change, going out in the week. We went out for dinner* first and everything. How grown up we are. Most of the other people in the restaurant were also at the show, we realised as the evening progressed.
I love tiered seating in the theatre, you can look at everyone else without appearing unduly nosy.
I took Wednesday off work** and during the day I rang the local garage to book my car in for a service. I mentioned to them that it has been a bit juddery of late. The ensuing conversation left me very depressed.
Apparently there is a known fault with the hjdgi ybfps vfdg jfdsfg jvfdzdfs*** and the manufacturer is going to do a recall. So, I might be without a car for a bit. In the meantime, it is going in for a service tomorrow. Hopefully I will still be able to at least use impulse power after that.
Mr WithaY's Landrover is a bit shagged**** as well, so we could be completely car-less. Nightmare. If we miss the bi-weekly bus to town we're buggered.
Other news: We had a threatening letter from a satellite TV provider today. Straight up.
We had a subscription to a couple of channels which, to be totally honest, we had forgotten about and never watched. So, when we remembered we were due to renew our subscription soon, we decided not to and cancelled the direct debit at the bank.
Today, we had a letter saying that unless we sent them the payment within 7 days they would be contacting a debt collection agency.
Fuckers!
Mr WithaY got on the phone straight away to them. He got, not as you might expect, an apology, but a grudging "Oh yeah, our system made a mistake."
It's just crap and intimidating, and there's no excuse for it. We shall NOT be using their services again. Ever.
On the bright side, watched X-Men 2 last night on DVD, which we hadn't seen before. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Can see why Hugh Jackman's wife got him to take his X-Men uniform home after filming had finished.
Mmmmmmm Wolverine.
*Ask, where we both had pasta. I know some of you keep tabs on what we eat.
**Not hung over, as my staff accusingly assumed, just tired after a v late night.
***It was a bit like Star Trek where they give a v long gibberish tech explanation of why the ship will explode in EXACTLY 2 hours. I went "mmhmm....mmhmmm....oh shit, really?....mmmhmmm" a lot.
****Conked out 3 times on a 4 mile trip to the supermarket and back. Gah.
We went to see Omid Djalili on Tuesday night at Salisbury City Hall....Ahhh, the bright lights, the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd etc. He was interesting and amusing, but to be honest his support act, Boothby Graffoe, made me laugh more.
Just Googled him...he's from Hull. Who'd have thought?
If you haven't already seen it, I can recommend Omid Djalili's "Nigerian Traffic Warden" impression. Apparently it has got him out of a few parking tickets.
It was a very pleasant change, going out in the week. We went out for dinner* first and everything. How grown up we are. Most of the other people in the restaurant were also at the show, we realised as the evening progressed.
I love tiered seating in the theatre, you can look at everyone else without appearing unduly nosy.
I took Wednesday off work** and during the day I rang the local garage to book my car in for a service. I mentioned to them that it has been a bit juddery of late. The ensuing conversation left me very depressed.
Apparently there is a known fault with the hjdgi ybfps vfdg jfdsfg jvfdzdfs*** and the manufacturer is going to do a recall. So, I might be without a car for a bit. In the meantime, it is going in for a service tomorrow. Hopefully I will still be able to at least use impulse power after that.
Mr WithaY's Landrover is a bit shagged**** as well, so we could be completely car-less. Nightmare. If we miss the bi-weekly bus to town we're buggered.
Other news: We had a threatening letter from a satellite TV provider today. Straight up.
We had a subscription to a couple of channels which, to be totally honest, we had forgotten about and never watched. So, when we remembered we were due to renew our subscription soon, we decided not to and cancelled the direct debit at the bank.
Today, we had a letter saying that unless we sent them the payment within 7 days they would be contacting a debt collection agency.
Fuckers!
Mr WithaY got on the phone straight away to them. He got, not as you might expect, an apology, but a grudging "Oh yeah, our system made a mistake."
It's just crap and intimidating, and there's no excuse for it. We shall NOT be using their services again. Ever.
On the bright side, watched X-Men 2 last night on DVD, which we hadn't seen before. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Can see why Hugh Jackman's wife got him to take his X-Men uniform home after filming had finished.
Mmmmmmm Wolverine.
*Ask, where we both had pasta. I know some of you keep tabs on what we eat.
**Not hung over, as my staff accusingly assumed, just tired after a v late night.
***It was a bit like Star Trek where they give a v long gibberish tech explanation of why the ship will explode in EXACTLY 2 hours. I went "mmhmm....mmhmmm....oh shit, really?....mmmhmmm" a lot.
****Conked out 3 times on a 4 mile trip to the supermarket and back. Gah.
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