Oil me up

I was hoping that by now I could be posting photos of the burgeoning Springtime, trees in early leaf, blossoms, tweeting birdies, flowers in the dell, all that stuff.  Instead, it is grey, cold and blowy outside. Also, dear readers, it is cold and grey (but less blowy) inside.

Why?

Because we have managed to run out of oil.  For those of you who live in towns and cities where things are all piped into your homes and you never have to worry about them (except paying the bills) allow me to explain.

Where we live, there are not a lot of mains services.  We have electricity  which does tend to fail at times, plunging the entire village into the Fourteenth Century.  We have running water, although that too has issues sometimes.  We have telephones, and therefore the Internet, thank goodness.  Other than that, we're on our own.

Thus our cooker runs on bottled gas, bought at huge expense, and our central heating and hot water run on oil, also bought at vast expense, stored in a tank in the garden.  When we had the oil tank installed about 12 years ago, we had a sensor fitted.  A little radio/wireless thingy that transmitted to a readout in the kitchen, telling us how much oil was in there. When it got to one bar (much like a mobile phone battery life indicator) you knew it was time to order more oil.  When the one bar started flashing and little icon of an oil pump lit up, you knew it was really time to order more oil, or to start panicking that the oil you had already ordered hadn't arrived yet.

There's always quite a wait. Sometimes three weeks, depending on the oil supplier, the time of year and whether the tanker driver can be arsed to come to our village.  Of course, to add to the complicated nature of this system, you have to shop around, as the price of oil varies considerably from supplier to supplier, so you seldom use the same supplier twice.

Oh, if you're bored with this story, imagine how it feels to have to LIVE it.

Anyhoo.  The oil tank sensor thingy failed last year sometime - the batteries ran out and you have to replace the whole thing, as apparently it's dangerous to dick about with batteries in a tank full of oil.  Cuh.  Lightweights. So, we bought a new one, exactly the same as the old one, and Mr WithaY installed it in the tank.

Fine.

The sensor in the tank worked ok; it told us we had oil.  However, the receiver unit in the kitchen didn't do what it was supposed to.  It flashed up a random and annoying set of bars and icons, and then defiantly went blank.  On referral to the Internet, which as we know is never wrong, it seemed that the unit wasn't set up quite correctly.  Several months of tweaking, resetting and giving up in exasperation followed, leaving us with a receiver unit in the kitchen that was left permanently turned off in disgust, and a sensor in the oil tank which Mr WithaY went to check every so often.

Just before Easter I said "How much oil have we got?"  Mr WithaY went out to check the sensor, and came in to report that we were down to the last bar.  Time to order more.  The tiresome research was done, and the cheapest oil price was obtained, and we placed our order.  They told us it would probably take "up to two weeks" which was fine. We knew from experience that we had enough oil to last a few weeks, as we were only on the last bar, not the flashing "get more oil NOW" icon.

However.  On the Tuesday after Easter, Mr WithaY announced that the boiler had locked up. He went out and checked the tank - physically dipping it, rather than looking at the sensor - and it was empty. The sensor still showed one bar.  Arse.

Since Tuesday last week, therefore, we have had no heating or hot water, as we are still waiting for the oil delivery.  They've taken the money for it - over £500 - but of course we are still at the mercy of their delivery schedules, and they told us how long it was likely to take when we placed the order.

Brrr.

On the plus side, we have an open fire and plenty of logs, so are able to keep the house warm. The dishwasher and washing machine still work perfectly well, it's just getting ourselves washed which is inconvenient.  Thankfully, we have lovely neighbours* who have kindly invited us over to use their shower when we need to.  

Last week also saw the visit of Middle Nephew, who was unphased by the lack of showering facilities, merely complaining that he couldn't do his hair properly.  He declined the offer of a shower at the neighbour's, saying that he'd wait till he got home.  Ah, teenage boys.

Mr WithaY took Middle Nephew out in the Landrover one afternoon.  They managed to get stuck in the mud, and had to walk miles in the snow to a v posh house at the edge of the woods to ask for help.  Fortunately, as so often seems to be the case, the locals were friendly and willing to help; some of them towed the Landrover out of the mud, and they all went to the pub afterwards.  Middle Nephew was unimpressed by this, and decided not to go out in the woods again.

I went to see my lovely Mum at the weekend, as I took Middle Nephew home too, and was able to chill out, have a bath and enjoy a very relaxing visit.  We went out for a drive on Sunday, up onto the Trundle, home of Goodwood Racecourse, where I almost managed to drop my car down a steep incline after misjudging the angle of approach to a car park entrance.  A swift change of plan and a backwards hill-start onto the main road (not recommended, kids!) meant we escaped unscathed  but it was a little alarming.

Oh, that reminds me. There was an impressive car accident in the village the other week.  The road outside our house is remarkably lively, not least because there is a popular pub, a very busy petrol station, and several minor roads all joining it within about quarter of a mile.

One afternoon, a car came trundling down one of these minor roads, and the driver - newly qualified, apparently - didn't realise she was approaching a junction with a major road. She failed to stop, and sailed out into the path of a huge oncoming lorry.  The lorry hit the car, flipped it across the road, through a set of railings and down the pathway into the side of the pub.  Incredibly, nobody was hurt, although apparently the lady in the pub who was sitting on the other side of the wall which the car smashed into didn't stop screaming for some time.

Other news:  Dog still lovely.  Weather still shite, but improving slightly, although that might be my metabolism getting used to the cold, what with the "no heating" thing.  Mr WithaY has been working up at Old Sarum, constructing Neolithic roundhouses as part of an experimental archaeology project.  More on this anon.   Catering stuff still plodding along slowly but surely.  Work still going well.

How are things with you?





*Hello Sarah!

Glimpses of life

The week in snippets.

Sunday.  A quiet half-hour in the WithaY household, sipping tea and discussing the Vikings.

Me:  Would you fancy going to Valhalla when you die?

Mr WithaY (after a thoughtful pause)  I don't know. It sounds a bit raucous.

Me:  So, you'd prefer a quiet corner, not one of the carousing tables?

Mr WithaY:  Yes. I'd go if there was a chillout room.

Monday.  Arriving at my sister's house, as previously arranged via text, to spend the evening with her and the family, and enjoy some quality family time. And a lie-in on Tuesday.

The look of shock on her face when she opened the door was a picture.  Apparently she'd completely forgotten I was coming.   We decided to get an Indian take-away (brave, given my recent stomach upset, but you'll be glad to know there were no ill effects) as there were apparently only 4 burgers in the fridge.  Heh.

Tuesday.  Watched a flustered man in a pink shirt struggle to open his box of salad to eat on the homeward journey, lose patience, jerk frustratedly at the lid, and successfully tip grated carrot, beans, couscous and salad dressing all over himself and the table.  He muttered "...fuck...." sheepishly, scraped the mess up and sat there all the way to Basingstoke in a salad-dressing-smelling shirt.

Wednesday.  You know, I can't remember a single event from Wednesday?  Not one. Perhaps I spent the day asleep.  Or locked in a cupboard.  Or in another dimension.  In all events, I have nothing to offer.  Sorry.

Thursday.  Arrived home from work, to a house with a strange smell.

me: Can I smell vinegar?

Mr WithaY:  (proudly)  Yes!  I've been pickling!

Me:  Oh.  (with some trepidation) What have you pickled?

Mr WithaY:  Ash keys!  Look!  

He ran into his study and returned triumphantly, waving a small jar with, yes, pickled ash keys and a garlic clove floating in it.  Lord.

Me:  Oh.  Um.  Well done?

Friday:  Today has been all about fishwatching.  We've had seven fatalities so far in the last week - two of the new samurai gourami, two tiger barbs, a leopard cory and two neon tetras.  It may just be unfortunate coincidence, but Mr WithaY will be checking the water chemistry tomorrow to see if something has gone badly wrong.  Over a year with no sad, last, long flushings, and now seven.  In a week!  Gah.

Oh, and I had a guitar lesson which - forgive the term - ROCKED.  We played Sweet Child of Mine AND Freebird. 

Fucking rock and roll, man. 

Rock and roll.

Mostly bullets

So. Yeah. Hello again. 

I'm not dead, nor have I been captured by pirates and sold into slavery, to be rescued in a breathless paragraph in Chapter 27 by Conan the Barbarian.  Dammit.

I've been doing a bit of travelling, of late.  Nothing too fancy.  Well, you know me.  I don't like to be a trouble.

Where have I been?  Well, I'll tell you.

1)  Sussex.  Went down to visit my lovely Mum for a day, which was very pleasant.  Also called in at Youngest Sis's house where I was roundly trounced on the Wii Formula 1 car racing game by several children.  The kitten, as is traditional, migrated immediately to Mr WithaY, where it fell into a deep and peaceful sleep on his lap.

2)  Cornwall.  We were invited by some mates to join them for a couple of days at their little holiday cottage thing in St Ives.  I'd never been to St Ives before, and I can recommend it.  Probably best not to go in the summer though.  I imagine it would be a complete fucking nightmare then.  But in early October it was lovely. 

We went to the beach one afternoon.  It was glorious.  The sun shone, the sky was blue, the sea was emerald green and had a seal in it, swimming about 6 feet from the beach.  Of course, nobody took a photo.  We were all too busy pointing and exclaiming how close it was to us. 

Our friends produced a kite from the boot of the car.  I sat on the sea wall to watch.  For some strange, possibly eldritch, reason I decided to "just watch" the others fly the kite up and down the beach.  I don't know...maybe it was a foreboding.  A little flash of foresight.  A teeny glimpse into the future.  Who knows.

Plus, my ankle was hurting after walking around up and down some steep hills, so I thought a rest would be nice.

Our friend went first, launching the kite with enthusiasm, and making it dart around the sky like a professional.  It had a long red tail*, so looked most impressive, looping and fluttering for many yards behind the kite itself.  After a while, Mr WithaY wanted to have a go.   

The wind seemed to have dropped a little, so it was much harder to get the kite off the ground.  Mr WithaY had to run a fair way down the beach to actually get any kind of lift on it. 

There were people on the beach.

If this was a disaster movie, we'd have little vignettes of the people on the beach about now. 

...The cheerful Asian family having a teatime picnic on a blanket. 

...The dad and young sons digging in the sand. 

...The elderly couple walking their small yappy dog along the waterline. 

...The young mother, quietly breastfeeding her baby as she sat and enjoyed the sparkling water and warm sun of the early evening. 

Ah. So peaceful. So relaxed.  I think there would have been a cheerful, optimistic soundtrack too, maybe something by the La's.

But then, all of a sudden, the music changes.  A menacing note is heard.  Mr WithaY is running backwards along the beach, desperately trying to keep the kite airborne.  The wind has dropped and the kite is dropping with it, swooping low and fast near the innocent bystanders.  People are starting to watch with alarm as the kite cuts through the air, narrowly missing the small yappy dog.

Personally, I would pay money to see a small yappy dog knocked sideways into the sea by a kite, but maybe that's just me.

The lady with the baby was now watching with alarm as Mr WithaY drew parallel with her, the kite darting up and down, closer and closer to her, and of course, to the baby.  I could see from my vantage point on the sea wall that things could turn ugly. 

However.  Nature took a hand.  Across the beach ran a small river.  It was in a shallow cleft in the sand, several feet wide and about 6 inches deep, the water running through it slowly.  Most scenic.

Mr WithaY, eyes fixed on the errant kite, desperate hands on the kite handles, continued running backwards.  Right up until he fell over backwards into the river. 

The beach erupted in laughter; apparently the man standing behind Mr WithaY almost fell over too, he was laughing so hard.  Mr WithaY extracted himself from the river with dignity and squelched back across the beach to sit by me on the sea wall.

The kite?  Well, that sank to the ground like a bird landing on a tree, the tail curving gracefully around it. 

3)  Gloucester.  We went up for a weekend to visit our lovely mates and their three mad spaniels.  It was marvellous. 

Work is a bit stressful, what with the massive cuts and all, but hey ho, what will be will be. 

My ankle is still a bit buggered, but is recovering slowly. 

I have lost 2 stone in weight so far, and am sticking with it.  Only 4 more to go.

That is all. 


*The kite.  As far as I know, our friend has no tail, red or otherwise.

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?

Plumb crazy

We've had the plumber round. 

The WithaY bathroom is was a thing of beauty.  Spacious, well-lit, an excellent shower, a large, deep bathtub.  We even have a view of the woods, and the meadow, and the river.  Lovely. 

It's worked well for about 6 years or so, give or take the odd slight leak.  Right up until earlier this year, in fact, when the door to the shower cubicle started to stick as it was slid shut.  Of course, you have to close it all the way or when you turn the shower on, water will piss all over the floor and eventually bring down the kitchen ceiling in a rain of dirty water, limestone floortiles, plasterboard and dodgy crud crammed between the joists.  So, something to be rectified.

Before we went on holiday I rang the plumber to see if he could come over and take a look. He's very good, our plumber.  Thorough.  Yes, that's the word. 

One way and another we didn't manage to find a mutually-convenient date for the new shower cubicle to be fitted until after we came home.  Oh, and while he was here, I thought I'd get the bath taps repaired, as one of them has been a bit dodgy for ages.  Kill two birds with one stone, that kind of thing.

The plumber came.  He looked at the shower and told me it was a standard size, but an unusual shape.  He looked at the bath taps and told me that they were an unusual size and an unusual shape.  He looked at the tiles on the walls and told me they were an unusual shape.

I have a freakily unusual bathroom, it seems.

The nice, thorough, plumber told me that he could order in all the parts (taps, shower cubicle, fittings etc) and get the job done over a couple of days.  As I am still off work* as I still can't drive**, this week seemed the ideal opportunity. 

It all started in earnest yesterday.  At 0800.  Eight AM.  In the morning.  I was already up and showered and hair-washed as I guessed that the shower would probably be out of action overnight, and I greeted him with a cup of tea and a cheery smile.  He scampered upstairs, strewing dustsheets in his wake and got right down to business. 

There was a good deal of crashing.

After a while I stuck my head round the door, and almost screamed in horror.  My beautifully-tiled shower had several tiles missing from one corner.  Not part of the original plan.  The plumber said "Don't look at it!" and ushered me out.  I asked why the tiles were missing.  He said that they'd come off the wall when he took the shower cubicle off, because they hadn't been stuck on properly. 

Now, we had already had long complicated discussions about the tiles.  I love those tiles.  They are one of the things I really like about the bathroom.  We don't have any spare ones, and I had resigned myself to the fact that the tiles around the bath would have to be replaced, probably with something different.  The original tiles were too hard to track down, what with their freaky shape*** and all.

So the fact that four of them had been removed from one corner of the shower was a bit of a fucking problem, really. 

I went and made a cup of tea, genuinely upset by this turn of events.  Yes, I know, I'm a contender for one of Belgian Waffle's First World Problems posts. 

The plumber said he would carefully chisel off the tiles around the bath and we'd be able to use some of those for the shower.  He was careful, but I think using a chisel is not always the best idea on a plasterboard wall.

Even if it's got tiles on it.

Additional ventilation?  Extra storage for bath necessities? Somewhere to post a letter from the bank you don't want to read?  Suggestions appreciated.

Things got really interesting after that.  As he removed the bath taps, artfully positioned and a work of glorious modern gleaming chrome, he announced that they had originally been plumbed right into the wall, then cemented over.  He was going to have to change that, in case we ever had a problem.

So.

We can't use the shower.  We can't use the bath.  I may have to wash my hair in the toilet. 

On the bright side, he went to a specialist tile shop, showed them one of the now-useless tiles from the shower and they told him they could order some in, even though they are a freaky shape, a non-standard size and have been discontinued.  We had high hopes for this afternoon, but nothing had arrived by 6pm.  Fingers crossed for tomorrow, eh?

If anyone wants me, I shall be in the garden, washing my feet in the birdbath.

*Starting back on Monday in London, working at home tomorrow and Friday, hurrah!

**The ankle.  Remember? Yeah you do.  Possibly fractured, possibly not, still swollen and revolting to look at., thanks for asking.

***Rectangular.  I know!  Crazy!

Catalogue of disasters

Today has been a day of almost unmitigated disaster.

To be honest, the whole week's been a bit like an old silent movie, one where the Keystone Cops fall out of cars and people hang from impossibly high scaffolding by their teeth.  But with fewer impressive stunts.  In fact, the only thing that has been remotely impressive has been the volume and variation of my swearing.

Why has it been so disastrous, I hear* you ask?  Among other things, I have been clumsier than a bull in a china shop.  I think, actually, a bull in a china shop would be better able to navigate his way around the house without smashing things than I have been recently.

The Evidence:

1)  Dropped the one remaining Denby Regatta craftsman's mug** that we were given as wedding presents onto gorgeous but unforgiving granite workstop in the kitchen.  Knocked large unsightly chip from the base of the mug.  Superglued chip back in place, doing poor repair job, leaving it all still very visible and unattractive, creating Frankenstein's Mug. 

2)  Got Superglue all over hand (see above), fortunately noticing it before sticking hand to anything or anyone else.  Ran glue-covered hand under kitchen tap for ages, turning glue into concrete-hard crust which took several days to wear off skin.  Was told amusing story by neighbour about family member getting Superglue all over his hand, then sticking hand to TV Times, then sticking TV Times to face in a panic.  Laughed, but was secretly suddenly terrified of doing similar thing to self.

3)  Had long-anticipated haircut.  Failed to communicate requirements effectively to hairdresser, and now have Dusty Springfield stylee haircut with many layers and heavy fringe.  Very sexy in a 1960s way, but not entirely what I was hoping for.  Made my feelings known by saying "Hm, the fringe is a bit different than I thought it would be," and leaving a slightly smaller tip.  Yeah.  That showed her.

4)  Tried to renew car tax online, as will be leaving car parked at the airport for a month while we're on holiday, and bloody tax expires while we're away.  Found out that MoT has expired.  Booked car in for MoT tomorrow.  Arse.  More expense.  Also, why don't we get reminders when MoT expires?  There is a database with all the details on it, why not send out a letter to remind people a month before?  Bastards.

5)  Went to town with Mr WithaY to order dollars for holiday.  Had lengthy Whitehall Farce style session with Mr WithaY and I visiting different banks, building societies etc, going into back rooms, coming back out again onto the street, just missing one another. This climaxed with him going all the way back to the car park to see if I was there, and me waiting in the street, equidistant between the bank and the building society, calling him on his mobile, which was sitting at home, turned off.  Oh, how we laughed***.

6)  Whilst moving all the pictures and fragile treasures from external walls and shelves ready for the Insulation Man's visit tomorrow, managed to drop my gorgeous glass windchime, shattering it into a bazillion pieces.  Wept uncontrollably for 20 minutes.  Have completely failed to remember where I bought it from, possibly John Lewis, possible Bavaria.  Not a fucking clue.

On the plus side, I have lost another pound, making it 17 pounds in 16 weeks.  Slow but steady. 

Also, went to the tip today to get rid of a load of rubbish, and was (I think) chatted up by the man in the little hut.  He was quite a catch, if you like them gold of tooth and red of face. 




*with my sonic ear trumpet

**If anyone can let me know where I can get some more for less than £7 each, I'd be grateful.

***No we didn't.

Medical notes

Welcome to the House of Many Ailments. 

Today, for your entertainment we can offer:

1)  Hideous racking coughs, often with choking and gasping.  The special extended remixed version also features a weak hand pressed to the sweat be-dewed forehead, fluttering eyes like a Victorian heroine dropping into a swoon, followed by effusive swearing.  "Fucking hell.  I am SICK of this FUCKING COUGH." 

Medical advice:  Try not to suffocate, hold onto something solid and wait for it to pass.  And cut down on the swearing. 

2)  Explosive sneezing.  For best effect this happens completely out of the blue, loudly, and for several minutes, leaving the sneezer exhausted and spume-speckled.  The other person in the house must shriek "Will you STOP DOING THAT!" once they recover from their shock. 

Medical advice:  Stay out of the blast radius and make sympathetic noises afterwards to try and mask the shouting you did initially. 

3)  Snot-related trauma.  This often follows the sneezing, and is exemplified by the victim having to run to the nearest box of tissues (we have them in almost every room in the house at the moment) and making noises which would only ever normally be heard in a film about alien slime monsters.  It's like a Giger drawing being interpreted through the medium of sound. 

Medical advice:  Stand clear and make sure there are plenty of tissues at strategic points throughout the house.  And wastepaper bins. 

4)  Headaches. These are vague and usually shortlived, but render the victim incapable of doing more than flopping weakly on the sofa and flicking savagely through the TV channels, hissing through their teeth at the paucity of quality entertainment available at 11am on a Wednesday.  

Medical advice:  Turn off the TV and suggest they take the recycling out.  Fresh air is good for headaches. 

5)  Aches and pains.  These come and go, depending on the level of interest in other stuff going on in the house at the time.  For example, whilst watching a good film, nothing.  All limbs are comfortable and fully-functional.  However, when pottering around in the kitchen, looking hatefully at the accumulated debris of the past ten days it is imperative to walk with bent knees, one hand pressed to the small of the back, shuffling like an aged chimpanzee with advanced gout. 

Medical advice:  The offer of a cup of tea and a mince pie can work wonders.

6)  Knife wounds.  Always at least one of these in the house at any given time.  The sufferer will move through the various behavioural stages of Panic, Dismay, Relief That It's Not Worse, Grouchiness, Forgetfulness and finally Bragging.  During the Forgetfulness stage there will be several incidents where the wounded appendage is knocked or bashed, causing the sufferer to swear and hop about. 

Medical advice:  Ice, pressure, elevation, tea, sympathy, exasperation and finally mockery.

And remember, always ask a trusted medical professional if things seem to be getting too dull.  They always have loads of gruesome anecdotes. 

The entertainment value of injuries may go down as well as up.

Pleased to meet you...

You know what I like most about my funky new people-counter thingy? Down on the right, keep going, bit lower, looks like an iPhone...that's the bunny. Anyway, know what I really like about it?

It tells me where all the lovely, lovely readers are.

Mostly in the UK, but far more than just my family and friends would account for, so yay for that. But the most exciting part is all the people from Other Places. Bermuda for example. Sri Lanka. Switzerland.

It's amazing. Who are you all? How did you find me? Are you a regular, or a once-only visitor? Although, clearly, if you're a once-only you won't see this post, so I'll never get an answer. Heh.

Drop me a comment and tell me, I am nosy and bored.

Thank you.

Other news: The fool who disrupted every train in the West of England apparently wasn't flattened in the accident. But his car was.

Accidents will happen

Been working at home today, it being Wednesday, and until about 2 minutes ago it was all going rather well. I had managed to resolve a few pressing issues that seemed insurmountable at the end of yesterday, and even made progress on some of the dull but necessary jobs that we all leave till the last minute.

Yes, you. I know you do it too.

I was on a roll, redrafting something for the scary lawyers (brrrrr brrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrr) when I got the message "unable to connect to shared drive...error saving file"

Fuck.

Yes, once I managed to close down Word, restart it and find my file I'd been working in, it had lost the last 15 minutes worth of changes, meaning a long a tiresome trawl back through all the associated documentation I'd been referring to, trying to remember what I'd said.

How I laughed.

Actually, what I did was swear under my breath and then shut down the laptop.

Yeah. That'll teach it, bloody thing. Hopefully by the time I get into the office tomorrow it'll all be magically fixed.

Busy day tomorrow. Got to finish all the stuff for Friday's Big Workshop, also have a meeting with my boss, incorporating a meeting with an external stakeholder who is usually very worth listening to.

Oh, and I'm meeting my mate Andy for lunch. Yay.

Other news: Popped out at lunchtime to get some groceries, drop into the doctor's for some admin, and get cash at a cashpoint that doesn't charge a bloody fortune for the privilege of getting to my own money. So much to do.

Whilst parking in town* I witnessed a nasty little accident. There was a girl parked in the space next to mine. I didn't realise she was actually in her car until she started reversing out of the space as I was pulling forward.

Unfortunately, I think she was so busy watching that she didn't scrape into my car as she went back, that she failed to notice a bloke in a van pulling into the space on the other side of her car.

She smashed into the front of his van pretty impressively, then leapt out of her car apologising. I went to get my parking ticket, and as I came back I asked if everyone was alright. The van driver nodded, the girl was in her car getting her documentation out.

"Want a witness?" I asked the van driver, who was standing in a heap of broken glass and plastic. The girl's car looked relatively undamaged but the van was a mess.

He looked at me sadly and said "Nah. No point."

It really wasn't his day.

Just had a most enjoyable lesson with my gorgeous guitar teacher, and we played the bejeebus out of The Eagles' "Outlaw Man", and Bryan Adam's "When You're Gone". I need a decent vocalist to sing that with me, so I can do all the complex harmonies though.

My fingers hurt now. Excellent.


*ha