For the last two years I've produced a review of the highlights of my year. This year, however, hasn't had that many highlights. I don't mean that it's been bad - at least, not too bad - but from where I sit now on 31st December, nothing really stands out for me. So, instead of highlights, here are my views on the year.
Home: Well, it's still untidy. But it holds those that I love. And, thanks to Luc, a new ceramic hob!
Work: I make it a rule not to comment on work, except in general terms. I work with some great people, and the new building should be fantastic once the heating is fixed, but there have been some very bad patches.
Holiday: Now that was wonderful! Perfect setting, great food, good enough weather .... ok, so Luc and I were both ill for part of it, but I still loved it! Pity the cottage is under new ownership, so may not be available in 2010.
Pets: We started with two cats, two bearded dragons, two leopard geckos and a vivarium fill of anoles and geckos. The two beardies, Bruce and Sheila, turned out both to be male and started to fight, so went back to the centre to be partnered up with females and in their place we got two Rankin's dragons - smaller versions of the same thing. The new Bruce and Sheila are doing well, but Sheila keeps having problems with a bad shed on her left fore-arm, so we're keeping an eye on that. Nutty the leopard gecko has really impro0ved in his confidence (but still growls at Luc whenever he sees him), while Spot must be the most anti-social creature ever. We've gained Slinky, a Berber skink, who was amazingly well-behaved when he accompanied me to the St Francis's Day pet service. There have also been some comings and goings in the anole/gecko vivarium; we seem to have some personality problems issues there. Moving on to the cats, Dyson seems to have put his struvite problem behind him, and is braver with people; he has made a number of friends, not the least of whom are our temporary postman and our downstairs neighbour (who has been known to cook sausages purely for Dyson). We had a scare with Snowball when we found a number of lumps on her belly but they turned out not to be serious, for which I am very grateful.
Other: I enjoyed the five mile walk I did for the Alzheimer's Society, and plan to do the ten miles next year! The knitting/sewing club I joined later in the year is great, and a real find. Next year I MUST make progress on the big project! I've also recently joined my first cross stitch Round Robin.
Health: Well, I thought I was doing well, until I had the trouble with my teeth in November. That's (almost) behind me now - just the extraction to go - but was quite an experience, especially the allergy to the anaethsetic!
And that's about it. Roll on 2010!
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Sunday, 13 December 2009
"Trust me, I'm a ,,,,.."
Part One: Trust me, I'm a vet.
When Snowball went to the vet for her annual injections earlier this year the vet said that she needed a lot of work on her teeth which would best be done under a general anaethsetic. We decided to have this done by the end of the year. Then a couple of months back, Luc found that she had a small, soft lump on her belly; we kept a close eye on it for a week or so, but it didn't seem to be getting any bigger or bothering her at all - there was no intensive grooming - so we decided to get that looked into at the same time as her teeth. Looking back, I realise we delayed both of these treatments more than we needed, but Snowball is a cat who loathes being messed around with and we didn't feel that either matter was of imminent urgency.
So, two weeks ago, we took Snowball in. Something a little odd happened when the vet asked exactly where the lump was. "Back towards her left rear leg" I replied. "No, in the middle" Luc corrected me.
It turned out we were both right. At mid-day, the vet called; having shaved her for surgery, he had found three lumps - a soft one on her tummy button (which Luc knew about), and two on mammary glands (one of which I knew about). He was most concerned about these two, one of which was soft and one hard. We gave the go-ahead to remove all three.
We were able to bring Snowball home at around 6.30 that evening and when we collected her the vet told us that, in his opinion, all three looked not to be serious, but we would know more when the histology came back. She had also had five teeth removed (some of which, if not all, had been loosened by the kicks in her face given by her first owners).
On the Friday evening, he 'phoned us with good news; all three were clear; the two soft ones were just little lumps of fat, while the hard one was a benign growth.
This just left the stitches to come out on the following Thursday. According to Luc (I was elsewhere - more later), she didn't complain too much about being caught, put into her box or taken to the car; it was when he opened the car door at the vet's that give gave a long, loud howl! Well, who can blame her, after what had happened last time she was there?
She's now back to her old self, apart from a pink shaved belly. She's choosing not to go out much in this cold weather.
**********************************************************
Part Two: Trust me, I'm a dentist.
Four or five years ago, my trusted and loved dentist retired. The practice was bought by another dentist whose first action was to declare all her NHS patients private. I kept going. She also put the surgery opening time back from 8 o'clock in the morning to 9 o'clock - rather inconvenient for commuters like me, but I stayed with her. Then, after I had arrived for my 9.00 appointment at 8.50, she arrived at 9.35. After a five minute inspection she declared that I needed a small filling but as she was running late she couldn't do it then. I made an appointment for 9.20 (the earliest I could get) the following week. When she arrived at 9.25, her 9.00, 9.10, and 9.30 patients were waiting with me .....
So that's why I haven't been to the dentist for three years or so.
I've known there were problems with one tooth for over 18 months, and another for about six months, but I've not had any pain with either. I also know it's virtually impossible to register as an NHS patient in this area. And I knew that my lack of professional dental care would come back to bite me some time .....
Three weeks ago, on Sunday evening, I noticed a swelling above a tooth on the upper left of my mouth. The following morning it was still there, but I hoped against hope it would sort itself out. On Tuesday it was worse, but I was tied up all day so it wasn't until Wednesday morning that I started to search for a dentist.
I must have gone through about two dozen, some near home and others near work. Most weren't taking NHS patients, and many weren't taking emergencies. Eventually I found one a mile or so from where I live that had a free appointment in half an hour; unfortunately I was in work - 90 minutes from home - so I got an appointment for the following morning. I already had the day booked as annual leave, but now had a change of plans for what I was doing with my time off.
On Tuesday and Wednesday I took more pain killers than I had in the last four years!
When I saw the dentist on Thursday morning she asked me all the usual questions, including whether I have any allergies, e.g. penicillin, latex. No, I haven't. Then she gave me a prescription for three days of antimicrobials and five days or double-dosage antibiotics, and told me to come back the following week when the infection had gone. Both drugs had a listed side-effect of drowsiness, and the antimicrobials meant no alcohol; in fact, the pharmacist stressed I should check sauces if eating out, and the contents of my mouthwash. I also had to come off the pain killers.
I would have taken the Friday off sick but I was booked into a prestigious seminar at the Royal Society. It was an interesting seminar, but six hours of lectures aren't much fun when you're on two drugs that both make you drowsy. And an after-seminar drinks reception isn't much fun when you're not allowed alcohol.
My next appointment was on the Wednesday which, by coincidence, I also had booked as annual leave. A full dental inspection revealed that I needed four fillings and an extraction of the infected tooth. I opted for hospital treatment for the extraction, and made an appointment for two days' later to start the fillings.
The first two fillings were on the left side, one upper and one lower, so I had two injections. It was all finished by 11.30, and I headed in to work. By 1.30, I had a visibly raised rash over most of my body.
The next day I started on antihistamines. These had the side effect of making me feel drowsy, and also meant that I was off alcohol again. I also telephoned the dentist to tell her about the reaction I'd had, presumably to something in the anaethsetic.
On Tuesday I turned up for my 9.30 appointment just as the dentist 'phoned in to say she was ill, but I'm not going to hold that against her.
By Thursday the rash had mostly gone, so I came off the antihistamines; by this time I was feeling pretty wretched, having spent the best part of two weeks on varying drugs all of which caused drowsiness. In the afternoon (at the same time as Snowball was having her stitches out) I had the other two fillings done, both upper right, so only one injection - with a different anaethsetic this time. I went home and awaited any reaction; none!
This also means that I'm signed off with the dentist (who was wonderful and with whom I will most certainly keep up attendance), and am just awaiting the call from the hospital about the extraction. The dentist has also suggested I go for allergy testing to discover exactly what caused the reaction.
**********************************************************
All in all, quite a worrying couple of weeks!
When Snowball went to the vet for her annual injections earlier this year the vet said that she needed a lot of work on her teeth which would best be done under a general anaethsetic. We decided to have this done by the end of the year. Then a couple of months back, Luc found that she had a small, soft lump on her belly; we kept a close eye on it for a week or so, but it didn't seem to be getting any bigger or bothering her at all - there was no intensive grooming - so we decided to get that looked into at the same time as her teeth. Looking back, I realise we delayed both of these treatments more than we needed, but Snowball is a cat who loathes being messed around with and we didn't feel that either matter was of imminent urgency.
So, two weeks ago, we took Snowball in. Something a little odd happened when the vet asked exactly where the lump was. "Back towards her left rear leg" I replied. "No, in the middle" Luc corrected me.
It turned out we were both right. At mid-day, the vet called; having shaved her for surgery, he had found three lumps - a soft one on her tummy button (which Luc knew about), and two on mammary glands (one of which I knew about). He was most concerned about these two, one of which was soft and one hard. We gave the go-ahead to remove all three.
We were able to bring Snowball home at around 6.30 that evening and when we collected her the vet told us that, in his opinion, all three looked not to be serious, but we would know more when the histology came back. She had also had five teeth removed (some of which, if not all, had been loosened by the kicks in her face given by her first owners).
On the Friday evening, he 'phoned us with good news; all three were clear; the two soft ones were just little lumps of fat, while the hard one was a benign growth.
This just left the stitches to come out on the following Thursday. According to Luc (I was elsewhere - more later), she didn't complain too much about being caught, put into her box or taken to the car; it was when he opened the car door at the vet's that give gave a long, loud howl! Well, who can blame her, after what had happened last time she was there?
She's now back to her old self, apart from a pink shaved belly. She's choosing not to go out much in this cold weather.
**********************************************************
Part Two: Trust me, I'm a dentist.
Four or five years ago, my trusted and loved dentist retired. The practice was bought by another dentist whose first action was to declare all her NHS patients private. I kept going. She also put the surgery opening time back from 8 o'clock in the morning to 9 o'clock - rather inconvenient for commuters like me, but I stayed with her. Then, after I had arrived for my 9.00 appointment at 8.50, she arrived at 9.35. After a five minute inspection she declared that I needed a small filling but as she was running late she couldn't do it then. I made an appointment for 9.20 (the earliest I could get) the following week. When she arrived at 9.25, her 9.00, 9.10, and 9.30 patients were waiting with me .....
So that's why I haven't been to the dentist for three years or so.
I've known there were problems with one tooth for over 18 months, and another for about six months, but I've not had any pain with either. I also know it's virtually impossible to register as an NHS patient in this area. And I knew that my lack of professional dental care would come back to bite me some time .....
Three weeks ago, on Sunday evening, I noticed a swelling above a tooth on the upper left of my mouth. The following morning it was still there, but I hoped against hope it would sort itself out. On Tuesday it was worse, but I was tied up all day so it wasn't until Wednesday morning that I started to search for a dentist.
I must have gone through about two dozen, some near home and others near work. Most weren't taking NHS patients, and many weren't taking emergencies. Eventually I found one a mile or so from where I live that had a free appointment in half an hour; unfortunately I was in work - 90 minutes from home - so I got an appointment for the following morning. I already had the day booked as annual leave, but now had a change of plans for what I was doing with my time off.
On Tuesday and Wednesday I took more pain killers than I had in the last four years!
When I saw the dentist on Thursday morning she asked me all the usual questions, including whether I have any allergies, e.g. penicillin, latex. No, I haven't. Then she gave me a prescription for three days of antimicrobials and five days or double-dosage antibiotics, and told me to come back the following week when the infection had gone. Both drugs had a listed side-effect of drowsiness, and the antimicrobials meant no alcohol; in fact, the pharmacist stressed I should check sauces if eating out, and the contents of my mouthwash. I also had to come off the pain killers.
I would have taken the Friday off sick but I was booked into a prestigious seminar at the Royal Society. It was an interesting seminar, but six hours of lectures aren't much fun when you're on two drugs that both make you drowsy. And an after-seminar drinks reception isn't much fun when you're not allowed alcohol.
My next appointment was on the Wednesday which, by coincidence, I also had booked as annual leave. A full dental inspection revealed that I needed four fillings and an extraction of the infected tooth. I opted for hospital treatment for the extraction, and made an appointment for two days' later to start the fillings.
The first two fillings were on the left side, one upper and one lower, so I had two injections. It was all finished by 11.30, and I headed in to work. By 1.30, I had a visibly raised rash over most of my body.
The next day I started on antihistamines. These had the side effect of making me feel drowsy, and also meant that I was off alcohol again. I also telephoned the dentist to tell her about the reaction I'd had, presumably to something in the anaethsetic.
On Tuesday I turned up for my 9.30 appointment just as the dentist 'phoned in to say she was ill, but I'm not going to hold that against her.
By Thursday the rash had mostly gone, so I came off the antihistamines; by this time I was feeling pretty wretched, having spent the best part of two weeks on varying drugs all of which caused drowsiness. In the afternoon (at the same time as Snowball was having her stitches out) I had the other two fillings done, both upper right, so only one injection - with a different anaethsetic this time. I went home and awaited any reaction; none!
This also means that I'm signed off with the dentist (who was wonderful and with whom I will most certainly keep up attendance), and am just awaiting the call from the hospital about the extraction. The dentist has also suggested I go for allergy testing to discover exactly what caused the reaction.
**********************************************************
All in all, quite a worrying couple of weeks!
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Celebratory meal (not a blog but a menu)
A couple of days ago we went out for a meal (which happened to coincide with a friend's birthday) in the centre of culinary excellence that is Knockholt. Other than say that the meal was wonderful, all I'm going to do is post the menu of the nine courses that were served.
Mixed herbs potato cake, ratatouille chutney, crème fraiche
Soupe de poisson, rouille, grated Emmenthal, croutons
Smoked haddock Okra, grapefruit, avocado and almond salad
Boeuf Bourguignon
Braised saddles of rabbit, boulangère potato, roasted beetroot, wild mushrooms, red wine sauce
French cheese plate, red onions jam
Rich chocolate ganache, cassis sorbet
Light apples tart, vanilla ice cream
Tea or coffee and homemade chocolates
Mixed herbs potato cake, ratatouille chutney, crème fraiche
Soupe de poisson, rouille, grated Emmenthal, croutons
Smoked haddock Okra, grapefruit, avocado and almond salad
Boeuf Bourguignon
Braised saddles of rabbit, boulangère potato, roasted beetroot, wild mushrooms, red wine sauce
French cheese plate, red onions jam
Rich chocolate ganache, cassis sorbet
Light apples tart, vanilla ice cream
Tea or coffee and homemade chocolates
Friday, 30 October 2009
An integrated ticketting system for London transport?
Sorry, it's back to my nemesis, Transport for London.
I can't remember when I first obtained my Oyster card but, for several years I've had zonal travel cards loaded on it allowing me the freedom of buses, trains, underground and trams in five TfL zones. Most recently, working in Euston, my route to work involved bus, train and underground, so it was natural that I'd go for one ticket to cover all.
Then two weeks ago, my office moved. Only a short distance, but enough either to add a ten minute walk to my 1 hour 15 minutes travel, or a change on the underground to a second line. So I considered my options.
If I walk to my nearest station (13 minutes brisk walk), I have four slow trains an hour into London (the station I currently use has fast trains every three to five minutes, which is why I take the bus into that station). My new office is 23 minutes brisk walk from Charing Cross. So I could walk - train - walk, add only five to ten minutes each way more than my "fast" journey, get exercise and save money by buying a point-to-point ticket rather than a zonal.
So I decided that's what I'm going to do.
Two days before my old Oyster travelcard was due to expire I stopped at the ticket office and asked to but a monthly ticket to Charing Cross starting in two days' time. I was asked for my photocard.
I don't have a photocard; I don't need one with an Oyster.
But I'm now travelling on Southern Railways, and they haven't got Oyster yet.
To be permitted to buy my next month's ticket, I have to get my photograph taken, get a photocard and then I'm issued with a paper ticket.
Talk about a retrograde step!
I can't remember when I first obtained my Oyster card but, for several years I've had zonal travel cards loaded on it allowing me the freedom of buses, trains, underground and trams in five TfL zones. Most recently, working in Euston, my route to work involved bus, train and underground, so it was natural that I'd go for one ticket to cover all.
Then two weeks ago, my office moved. Only a short distance, but enough either to add a ten minute walk to my 1 hour 15 minutes travel, or a change on the underground to a second line. So I considered my options.
If I walk to my nearest station (13 minutes brisk walk), I have four slow trains an hour into London (the station I currently use has fast trains every three to five minutes, which is why I take the bus into that station). My new office is 23 minutes brisk walk from Charing Cross. So I could walk - train - walk, add only five to ten minutes each way more than my "fast" journey, get exercise and save money by buying a point-to-point ticket rather than a zonal.
So I decided that's what I'm going to do.
Two days before my old Oyster travelcard was due to expire I stopped at the ticket office and asked to but a monthly ticket to Charing Cross starting in two days' time. I was asked for my photocard.
I don't have a photocard; I don't need one with an Oyster.
But I'm now travelling on Southern Railways, and they haven't got Oyster yet.
To be permitted to buy my next month's ticket, I have to get my photograph taken, get a photocard and then I'm issued with a paper ticket.
Talk about a retrograde step!
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Post-script to Luc's ramblings
I posted Luc's tale of his dealings with Snowball yesterday.
Before I went to bed last night, both cats were insistent so I let them out into the night and made sure that Luc was aware they were both out. I'm pretty sure he would have tried to get them in before he came up to bed later on.
This morning, I woke unaided by cat at 8.15. Realistically, this can mean only one thing.
I got dressed quickly, went downstairs, put food down for both cats (experience has shown that an upset cat is even less likely to want to wait while you put food down than a normal cat - and I use the word "normal" in its widest sense), then went down to the main door to call them both in.
Dyson was waiting patiently at the bottom of the steps - but then he often wants to spend the night out and knows that he'll be let in when I'm ready. Snowball was nowhere to be seen.
I called. Dyson trotted up the steps and in and, after a few seconds, Snowball appeared some way along the footpath and ambled in - this was one cat who was going to do this at HER pace, not mine. As she finally came in she stopped, turned, looked up at me, and gave the loudest, most dissatisfied "MOW-OW-OW" that I have heard in the six-plus years we have had her.
Both came in and ate their food, and I started up the computer and got going on a few things. Dyson stayed around to be fussed for a few minutes while Snowball made her way upstairs.
Five minutes later, Snowball was back, as I expected. Demanding more food, as I expected. So I gave her the little bit I had held back for just this situation, as she expected. Snowball ate, then wandered off under the desk.
Half a minute later there was a loud POP and everything went black.
Snowball had stepped on the power switch for the computer.
She came out from under the desk, looked up at me in silence, then headed back upstairs. Her revenge for being left out all night was complete.
Before I went to bed last night, both cats were insistent so I let them out into the night and made sure that Luc was aware they were both out. I'm pretty sure he would have tried to get them in before he came up to bed later on.
This morning, I woke unaided by cat at 8.15. Realistically, this can mean only one thing.
I got dressed quickly, went downstairs, put food down for both cats (experience has shown that an upset cat is even less likely to want to wait while you put food down than a normal cat - and I use the word "normal" in its widest sense), then went down to the main door to call them both in.
Dyson was waiting patiently at the bottom of the steps - but then he often wants to spend the night out and knows that he'll be let in when I'm ready. Snowball was nowhere to be seen.
I called. Dyson trotted up the steps and in and, after a few seconds, Snowball appeared some way along the footpath and ambled in - this was one cat who was going to do this at HER pace, not mine. As she finally came in she stopped, turned, looked up at me, and gave the loudest, most dissatisfied "MOW-OW-OW" that I have heard in the six-plus years we have had her.
Both came in and ate their food, and I started up the computer and got going on a few things. Dyson stayed around to be fussed for a few minutes while Snowball made her way upstairs.
Five minutes later, Snowball was back, as I expected. Demanding more food, as I expected. So I gave her the little bit I had held back for just this situation, as she expected. Snowball ate, then wandered off under the desk.
Half a minute later there was a loud POP and everything went black.
Snowball had stepped on the power switch for the computer.
She came out from under the desk, looked up at me in silence, then headed back upstairs. Her revenge for being left out all night was complete.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Luc's night-time ramblings (with cat)
I switched on the computer to find this email from my partner.
**********************************************************
Cats, no respecters of late nights.
It is one a.m. and I’m in for a very late night. We have been out (three of us) at a friend's house for a birthday meal and I am feeling very rough (and no, I haven’t had a drop to drink – honestly!). I suppose your friends going mad with the Indian takeaway menu will do that if you try to eat it all in one sitting.
For the last hour I have been pestered by both cats to go out, as only cats can pester and, as the weather is lousy, I have held fast and not given in. Besides, Snowball hates bad weather and it would be my fault if she went out in it. Finally reaching the end of my tether I throw on my overly hot jumper to cover me and open the flat's door. Both cats run out, so I wander down to the main door to show them that they really don’t want to go out in this. That’s my second mistake. The door opens a fraction and both cats are lost to the night. Bother. Now I’ll have to remember to go get Snowball in an hour or I’ll have some serious grovelling to do. (The male cat, being black and larger, won’t be seen again until breakfast time – as usual).
It is now 4.30 a.m. and I have to go to bed, however, I feel as I must sleep, as the two girls are asleep and must be up at 6 I will try very hard not to disturb them. I switch off the computer and rise carefully out of the chair. Then it hits me, the cats are still out. I open the flat door and stagger tiredly down the stairs to the main door. If I’m lucky there will be no sign of the cat, this means she’s bedded down on a car and will be grateful to be allowed back in.
Oh dear. There is a cat hunkered down in a corner of the platform outside the door. A white cat. This means I am in TROUBLE as she has decided to wait however long is needed for the door to be opened. This always means that whoever opens the door is automatically to blame for however cold or wet she may be despite the huge sheltered car park with the myriad of ultra comfortable beds (my sidecar providing at least three) from which to choose.
She sees me approach the door, despite never looking my way. She gets up and paws at the door mowing silently at me. This is not a good sign. She’s been out here way longer than she’s happy about and somehow I’m going to pay.
She quietly comes in and, slightly slower than usual, runs up the stairs to the flat door. Here I try and show her how to open the door. She gets the idea quickly that she needs to stand on her back legs and push the door open with her front paws. She enters tail up and proceeds to her food dish. I walk part way up the stairs and gesture to her that it’s bed time not food time – she does seem to understand basic hand gestures, she does not look like following.
I make it past the one bedroom, through the other and through the adjoining wardrobes into the bathroom without making a sound (not bad for 6’3" in pitch black) and turn on the light above the vanity unit. I look back between the wardrobes to the bedroom to see the cat has followed me as she is wont to do, but she whirls round to head out when she sees I’ve spotted her.
Then she decides it is time for me to pay for leaving her out.
She has spun back around and leapt on something I can’t even see on the lower door rail. It’s neatly hooked with one paw and suddenly the cat is hurtling towards me, paws flying in all directions, tail streaming, waving out behind her and whatever she’s jumped on being battered from paw to paw like a professional footballer dribbling the winning goal. Only cats, whatever they may think aren’t quite that good and every other shot she misses. She’s not worried though as it simply bounces off the bottom wooden rail of the wardrobe. Whatever she’s hitting would appear to be quite heavy and rather solid judging solely by the sheer noise it makes slamming in to the wood at quite high speed; the combination of charging cat ripping at the carpet and ricocheting object really is quite impressive in the echoing confines of the walk-through wardrobes, or it would be at any sane time of the day. For now all I can do is stand there, wazzing into the porcelain, holding my breath, and wait for the cat and missile to get to me. It does. Missile goes behind the loo and cat goes behind me. Good, no chance of cat's tail getting wet – yes, been there done that).
Only the cat doesn’t see why her fun should end there, and really she’s quite dextrous with her paws so why should it?? Missile located, she reaches out with a paw and successfully hooks it. An experimental pat shows it’s still good for play so it gets wacked. And comes to rest on my bare foot (I’m still wazzing). As the cat leaps after it I have to speak. I cannot move. She has broken my silence. Speech is not required, I move my foot one way and the cat explodes the other, ripping along the corridor and round the corner into the hall and only she knows where from there. I bend down and look at her toy. It’s a boiled sweet, mainly square about an inch across, unwrapped and now (if it ever wasn’t) covered in fur so it’s fairly mouse-like I suppose, and quite heavy for its size. And solid. Oh yes, defiantly solid. Where it came from I have no idea; we haven’t had any sweets for a while and nothing, I am sure, shaped like this.
There are sounds of people moving from both bedrooms so it looks like mission successful for the cat, everyone has now been disturbed. But nothing is ever mentioned about it, maybe no-one was disturbed enough to register what happened that night?
No Just when the memory of that dreadful cat’s revenge were fading I get asked “What on earth was Snowball charging around after the other night? I was having a great dream and then…….”
Cats. Remember folks, next time one wants to go out at 1a.m. into the dark night, no matter what happens, no matter what it costs,
JUST SAY NO
It'll be worth it in the long run.
**********************************************************
Cats, no respecters of late nights.
It is one a.m. and I’m in for a very late night. We have been out (three of us) at a friend's house for a birthday meal and I am feeling very rough (and no, I haven’t had a drop to drink – honestly!). I suppose your friends going mad with the Indian takeaway menu will do that if you try to eat it all in one sitting.
For the last hour I have been pestered by both cats to go out, as only cats can pester and, as the weather is lousy, I have held fast and not given in. Besides, Snowball hates bad weather and it would be my fault if she went out in it. Finally reaching the end of my tether I throw on my overly hot jumper to cover me and open the flat's door. Both cats run out, so I wander down to the main door to show them that they really don’t want to go out in this. That’s my second mistake. The door opens a fraction and both cats are lost to the night. Bother. Now I’ll have to remember to go get Snowball in an hour or I’ll have some serious grovelling to do. (The male cat, being black and larger, won’t be seen again until breakfast time – as usual).
It is now 4.30 a.m. and I have to go to bed, however, I feel as I must sleep, as the two girls are asleep and must be up at 6 I will try very hard not to disturb them. I switch off the computer and rise carefully out of the chair. Then it hits me, the cats are still out. I open the flat door and stagger tiredly down the stairs to the main door. If I’m lucky there will be no sign of the cat, this means she’s bedded down on a car and will be grateful to be allowed back in.
Oh dear. There is a cat hunkered down in a corner of the platform outside the door. A white cat. This means I am in TROUBLE as she has decided to wait however long is needed for the door to be opened. This always means that whoever opens the door is automatically to blame for however cold or wet she may be despite the huge sheltered car park with the myriad of ultra comfortable beds (my sidecar providing at least three) from which to choose.
She sees me approach the door, despite never looking my way. She gets up and paws at the door mowing silently at me. This is not a good sign. She’s been out here way longer than she’s happy about and somehow I’m going to pay.
She quietly comes in and, slightly slower than usual, runs up the stairs to the flat door. Here I try and show her how to open the door. She gets the idea quickly that she needs to stand on her back legs and push the door open with her front paws. She enters tail up and proceeds to her food dish. I walk part way up the stairs and gesture to her that it’s bed time not food time – she does seem to understand basic hand gestures, she does not look like following.
I make it past the one bedroom, through the other and through the adjoining wardrobes into the bathroom without making a sound (not bad for 6’3" in pitch black) and turn on the light above the vanity unit. I look back between the wardrobes to the bedroom to see the cat has followed me as she is wont to do, but she whirls round to head out when she sees I’ve spotted her.
Then she decides it is time for me to pay for leaving her out.
She has spun back around and leapt on something I can’t even see on the lower door rail. It’s neatly hooked with one paw and suddenly the cat is hurtling towards me, paws flying in all directions, tail streaming, waving out behind her and whatever she’s jumped on being battered from paw to paw like a professional footballer dribbling the winning goal. Only cats, whatever they may think aren’t quite that good and every other shot she misses. She’s not worried though as it simply bounces off the bottom wooden rail of the wardrobe. Whatever she’s hitting would appear to be quite heavy and rather solid judging solely by the sheer noise it makes slamming in to the wood at quite high speed; the combination of charging cat ripping at the carpet and ricocheting object really is quite impressive in the echoing confines of the walk-through wardrobes, or it would be at any sane time of the day. For now all I can do is stand there, wazzing into the porcelain, holding my breath, and wait for the cat and missile to get to me. It does. Missile goes behind the loo and cat goes behind me. Good, no chance of cat's tail getting wet – yes, been there done that).
Only the cat doesn’t see why her fun should end there, and really she’s quite dextrous with her paws so why should it?? Missile located, she reaches out with a paw and successfully hooks it. An experimental pat shows it’s still good for play so it gets wacked. And comes to rest on my bare foot (I’m still wazzing). As the cat leaps after it I have to speak. I cannot move. She has broken my silence. Speech is not required, I move my foot one way and the cat explodes the other, ripping along the corridor and round the corner into the hall and only she knows where from there. I bend down and look at her toy. It’s a boiled sweet, mainly square about an inch across, unwrapped and now (if it ever wasn’t) covered in fur so it’s fairly mouse-like I suppose, and quite heavy for its size. And solid. Oh yes, defiantly solid. Where it came from I have no idea; we haven’t had any sweets for a while and nothing, I am sure, shaped like this.
There are sounds of people moving from both bedrooms so it looks like mission successful for the cat, everyone has now been disturbed. But nothing is ever mentioned about it, maybe no-one was disturbed enough to register what happened that night?
No Just when the memory of that dreadful cat’s revenge were fading I get asked “What on earth was Snowball charging around after the other night? I was having a great dream and then…….”
Cats. Remember folks, next time one wants to go out at 1a.m. into the dark night, no matter what happens, no matter what it costs,
JUST SAY NO
It'll be worth it in the long run.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
A guilty feeling of happiness
A few years back, when I worked across the road from a library, I found several authors I hadn't known before, but liked. One in particular stood out, and as her newer books were published I bought them, or asked for them as birthday presents.
It was only a year ago that I realised that, as I was being given the books within a few months of their publication, I had several UK first editions in hard back. So I started looking around on Ebay, and elsewhere on the internet, and bought a few more first editions. I avoided being extravagant over the prices; there were several more I could have bought if I'd been prepared to spend a few hundred pounds.
Earlier this summer I decided I couldn't afford any more, unless I spotted a real bargain. So every couple of weeks I've done a quick trawl through the auction sites for the eight titles I'm missing, and if I'm passing a charity shop I drop in and have a quick look, but I've not found anything.
****************************************************
Luc normally buys the food for our lizards and geckos, but he's away at the moment and the reptiles still need to eat so, this afternoon, I went to buy live food for them; luckily we now have two shops in the high street that sell live food, where nine months ago we had none.
I called into the first shop; they had live mealworms but no crickets, and Nutty's partial to crickets (i.e. he won't eat anything else at the moment), so I walked up to the very top of the high street to the second shop, where I was able to get both.
****************************************************
Walking back down the high street I came to a charity shop. I strolled in, looked through the china (the set we use is 20 years old and we're missing a few pieces), the glasses (ditto), and the hard-backed books. Nothing. But as I turned to leave, I saw another shelf labelled "Crime Books".
There on the shelf was a title I knew only too well, but the book didn't look right. I took it down from the shelf and looked at it closely; then I remembered - the author was signed by a different publisher for her first few books, and this was the first publisher. I turned to the title page; the date was, as far as I could remember, right; thinking about it, a quick reprint for a relatively new author was unlikely. So I dared to look at the print run.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A first edition. And in good condition too - I would say it's been on a shelf somewhere, unread, for the last 15 years.
So I bought it, and when I got home checked Ebay; there were two UK first editions for sale, one stating he was selling very much under the going price.
The upshot is that I'm extremely happy with my purchase but, at the same time, feeling rather guilty because the charity shop didn't know the value.
The two for sale on Ebay are priced at £235 (slightly high) and £75 (definitely low). I just paid £2.49.
It was only a year ago that I realised that, as I was being given the books within a few months of their publication, I had several UK first editions in hard back. So I started looking around on Ebay, and elsewhere on the internet, and bought a few more first editions. I avoided being extravagant over the prices; there were several more I could have bought if I'd been prepared to spend a few hundred pounds.
Earlier this summer I decided I couldn't afford any more, unless I spotted a real bargain. So every couple of weeks I've done a quick trawl through the auction sites for the eight titles I'm missing, and if I'm passing a charity shop I drop in and have a quick look, but I've not found anything.
****************************************************
Luc normally buys the food for our lizards and geckos, but he's away at the moment and the reptiles still need to eat so, this afternoon, I went to buy live food for them; luckily we now have two shops in the high street that sell live food, where nine months ago we had none.
I called into the first shop; they had live mealworms but no crickets, and Nutty's partial to crickets (i.e. he won't eat anything else at the moment), so I walked up to the very top of the high street to the second shop, where I was able to get both.
****************************************************
Walking back down the high street I came to a charity shop. I strolled in, looked through the china (the set we use is 20 years old and we're missing a few pieces), the glasses (ditto), and the hard-backed books. Nothing. But as I turned to leave, I saw another shelf labelled "Crime Books".
There on the shelf was a title I knew only too well, but the book didn't look right. I took it down from the shelf and looked at it closely; then I remembered - the author was signed by a different publisher for her first few books, and this was the first publisher. I turned to the title page; the date was, as far as I could remember, right; thinking about it, a quick reprint for a relatively new author was unlikely. So I dared to look at the print run.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A first edition. And in good condition too - I would say it's been on a shelf somewhere, unread, for the last 15 years.
So I bought it, and when I got home checked Ebay; there were two UK first editions for sale, one stating he was selling very much under the going price.
The upshot is that I'm extremely happy with my purchase but, at the same time, feeling rather guilty because the charity shop didn't know the value.
The two for sale on Ebay are priced at £235 (slightly high) and £75 (definitely low). I just paid £2.49.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
A short but heartfelt appeal for sponsorship
Ok, I don't know how many people actually read my blog, or if this will get any attention, but on 20th September I will be taking part in a Memory Walk in aid of the Alzheimer's Society.
The AS does great work both for people with Alzheimer's Disease and those who care for them. Take a look here http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/site/scripts/documents_info.php?categoryID=200126&documentID=80 to find out more. And if that touches you, even in the least, visit http://www.justgiving.com/Jane-Darnbrough-Memory-Walk/ and sponsor me. Please.
Go on, do it now .... before you forget.
**********************************************************
A more normal blog entry will appear here shortly, I promise.
The AS does great work both for people with Alzheimer's Disease and those who care for them. Take a look here http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/site/scripts/documents_info.php?categoryID=200126&documentID=80 to find out more. And if that touches you, even in the least, visit http://www.justgiving.com/Jane-Darnbrough-Memory-Walk/ and sponsor me. Please.
Go on, do it now .... before you forget.
**********************************************************
A more normal blog entry will appear here shortly, I promise.
Sunday, 2 August 2009
The story of the song thrush chicks, part two
Although we were saddened by the loss of one chick on Monday morning, it wasn't unexpected, and by the evening we were encouraged by one of the remaining two making controlled hops up to the perches in the cage. While the cats were out, we let the two of them out of the cage so that they could exercise their wings more fully, and we got - well, a bit of gliding and a scrambled finish - certainly better than a drop to the floor.
By Tuesday we were noticing changes in the pair of them. Tail feathers were under way, and their calling had changed from a raucous "feed me!" to something definitely musical. They still weren't keen on mealworms, though. We stopped covering the cage overnight so that they would be in tune with the natural light cycles.
They got the idea of mealworms on Wednesday, although they had to be fed with tweezers; the little dish of them we left in the cage went untouched. We now had a definite "lift and land" onto the perches and, when they were out of the cage, something more like a flight than the previous day. We were trying to touch them as little as possible, which meant leaving them to see if they could sort themselves out when a landing didn't go quite as planned, and they didn't do too badly.
Thursday, however, was almost a disaster. Both cats were upstairs, so we let the birds out. One was now picking his spot, flying directly to it, and only crashing a little bit on landing. Which was when Luc head the very slight sound of the bell on a cat's collar; Dyson had crept downstairs, and was just half an inch from the more advanced chick when Luc rescued him. Later that night, the two of them started helping themselves to mealworms from the dish.
Friday came, and we took the dish out of the cage - leaving the mealworms so the chicks would have to search for them a bit more. Having made sure both cats were definitely out, we went onto flying again; one was now in full control, and found himself a safe spot up high to rest and start to go to sleep - getting quite aggressive when Luc tried to get him down. We were heartened that he wasn't tame, in fact he backed off calling an alarm signal. The other wasn't flying too badly either - just a day or so behind in his progress.
We had planned to release them on Saturday, but there were high winds and we weren't sure how they would cope, so it was Sunday that we carefully carried the cage out the the garden and selected a quiet area, with a selection of shrubs and trees. The birds went quiet during the walk; there was still a slight wind, which they must have felt, and there was also other birdsong. We set the cage down on a table, and opened the door - and for the first time in days there wasn't a rush to get out.
We lifted the more developed chick out and put him on the edge of the cage; he promptly hopped back in. Had we left it too long? We got him out again. He flew .... about eight feet, and landed on the ground. We heard more bird song, this time including a song thrush, from nearby.
His second flight took him into a holly bush, where he settled and started calling.
After both birds were gone we waited for a while, just in case we had a returner, but we didn't.
Later that afternoon I took a walk round the garden; no chicks struggling on the ground, which was good news. As I approached the holly bush I said "Tweet" and got a little burst of song back.
That was now two weeks ago. We have no idea how our young birds fared, but they were capable of feeding themselves, flight and safe landings, and were wary of humans, so we like to think they made the transition back to the wild. If nothing else, we gave them a chance which they didn't have when we first found them.
By Tuesday we were noticing changes in the pair of them. Tail feathers were under way, and their calling had changed from a raucous "feed me!" to something definitely musical. They still weren't keen on mealworms, though. We stopped covering the cage overnight so that they would be in tune with the natural light cycles.
They got the idea of mealworms on Wednesday, although they had to be fed with tweezers; the little dish of them we left in the cage went untouched. We now had a definite "lift and land" onto the perches and, when they were out of the cage, something more like a flight than the previous day. We were trying to touch them as little as possible, which meant leaving them to see if they could sort themselves out when a landing didn't go quite as planned, and they didn't do too badly.
Thursday, however, was almost a disaster. Both cats were upstairs, so we let the birds out. One was now picking his spot, flying directly to it, and only crashing a little bit on landing. Which was when Luc head the very slight sound of the bell on a cat's collar; Dyson had crept downstairs, and was just half an inch from the more advanced chick when Luc rescued him. Later that night, the two of them started helping themselves to mealworms from the dish.
Friday came, and we took the dish out of the cage - leaving the mealworms so the chicks would have to search for them a bit more. Having made sure both cats were definitely out, we went onto flying again; one was now in full control, and found himself a safe spot up high to rest and start to go to sleep - getting quite aggressive when Luc tried to get him down. We were heartened that he wasn't tame, in fact he backed off calling an alarm signal. The other wasn't flying too badly either - just a day or so behind in his progress.
We had planned to release them on Saturday, but there were high winds and we weren't sure how they would cope, so it was Sunday that we carefully carried the cage out the the garden and selected a quiet area, with a selection of shrubs and trees. The birds went quiet during the walk; there was still a slight wind, which they must have felt, and there was also other birdsong. We set the cage down on a table, and opened the door - and for the first time in days there wasn't a rush to get out.
We lifted the more developed chick out and put him on the edge of the cage; he promptly hopped back in. Had we left it too long? We got him out again. He flew .... about eight feet, and landed on the ground. We heard more bird song, this time including a song thrush, from nearby.
His second flight took him into a holly bush, where he settled and started calling.
After both birds were gone we waited for a while, just in case we had a returner, but we didn't.
Later that afternoon I took a walk round the garden; no chicks struggling on the ground, which was good news. As I approached the holly bush I said "Tweet" and got a little burst of song back.
That was now two weeks ago. We have no idea how our young birds fared, but they were capable of feeding themselves, flight and safe landings, and were wary of humans, so we like to think they made the transition back to the wild. If nothing else, we gave them a chance which they didn't have when we first found them.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Who would have thought it?
Announcement on London Underground:
"We are sorry to advise passengers that the next westbound Circle and District line train is ten minutes away. This is due to long delays".
No it's not; that IS a long delay. But what caused it?
"We are sorry to advise passengers that the next westbound Circle and District line train is ten minutes away. This is due to long delays".
No it's not; that IS a long delay. But what caused it?
Sunday, 26 July 2009
The story of the song thrush chicks
It all started on Thursday, two and a half weeks ago. I'd had an email from home mid-afternoon "Please get milk" so, as I was on my way I decided to 'phone and check there was nothing else that we needed - and save myself an extra shopping trip. My first call home wasn't answered, so I left it a while and tried again - still no answer, which was a bit puzzling, so I tried Luc's mobile. This time, he answered.
"Where are you, and do we need anything more than milk?"
"I'm in the car park. You'd better come straight home; we've got a bit of a situation".
This had me worried. Had someone damaged the car? Was there water pouring from our flat into the car park below? But the, Luc hadn't sounded upset or angry .... more bewildered, if I had to say.
I got home and checked the car park. Luc wasn't there, and I couldn't see any immediate signs of damage or water, so I went up to the flat. As I walked in, I asked what the matter was.
"Be quiet and listen".
Nothing except birdsong from the open window. No, it was too loud to be from outside ....
"There's a bird in here. Did it fly in and can't get out?" But if that was the case, Luc would be trying to help it.
"It's more complicated than that. Look in the box".
There was a largish cardboard box on the sofa. I open it carefully .... and saw (and heard) three very small birds looking up at me.
**********************************************************
Around 4.00, Luc had gone down to the car park, and spotted a bundle of feathers in the middle of the entry. Using a blanket so as not to put his own scent on it, he moved it gently into the shrubs (which had been cut the previous day) which go down one side of the car park. He could hear a couple of other birds tweeting, which he assumed were the parents, and hoped they would find and rescue the chick.
Half an hour later he went back to check. The one he had put in the shrubs was back in the middle of the car park, and the other two were now in the open as well, and both were chicks. Not an adult in sight, or in hearing.
If left where they were, they weren't going to last long. We have a number of cats on the estate, and the chicks weren't exactly being quiet. So, having satisfied himself that there were no adults around, Luc found a box that some one had put in the paper waste, added some shredded paper, and gently put the chicks in and brought them up to the flat.
We can only assume that, when the shrubs were cut, the nest was disturbed or destroyed and the parents left.
**********************************************************
An internet search turned up only one place near us that might be able to take them, but they weren't answering the 'phone, so we had to start trying to care for them, for while at least. The local pet shop very kindly lend us a large bird cage, and we had mealworms at home for the dragons .... but the chicks wouldn't eat them. They seemed too young for that.
Another internet search showed an expert soaking dry cat food with water until it became a thick paste, then feeding young birds with a dropper. Luc found a dropper immediately, but we didn't have any dry cat food - since Dyson was ill earlier this year, we don't feed either cat with dry food as, if there's anything left over in Snowball's bowl Dyson will eat it.
So I went and bought some dry cat food. For the birds. And we explained to the cats that the birds weren't for them.
The first feeding was a bit of a struggle. None of the chicks understood what was going on, so we had to open their beaks very gently and give them the food. It took a while, but we got something in all three of them, none of them brought it back up, and they all quietened down for a while.
Half an hour later, they were calling for food again. Two, at the sight of the dropper, opened up their beaks and took the food happily, but the third still didn't want to know. This one looked to be the eldest - he was certainly the biggest - but, once again, we managed to get some food inside him.
We continued with less-than-hourly feeds until about 11 pm when we fed them once more and then covered the cage with a blanket.
**********************************************************
The following morning I was dreading going downstairs in case I found them dead but, as I was about to make my way down, I heard a loud tweet. So at least one of them had made it through the night. I lifted the blanket and looked into the bottom of the cage .... and had three sets of bright eyes on me in an instant, and a lot of noise!
Having got them through the night, we decided not to try to get them into a rescue centre, as the transfer to yet another environment might prove detrimental. Luc continued with the regular feeding while I was at work, and gave up his regular Friday evening at the airgun club. From their shape, markings and where we had found them, I was able to identify them (via another internet search) as thrush - probably song thrush.
The one was still not feeding on his own, but was showing the start of some tail feathers; we hoped we could get enough food into him to keep him going until he could fly, but we thought this unlikely. The other two were feeding well, and getting bigger. We got them some maize, but that didn't seem to interest them, and the mealworms were still off the menu.
By Saturday, two of them (including the one that wasn't feeing properly) were getting themselves up onto the perches in the cage, albeit not that gracefully. While the cats were out of the way we took the birds out of the cage and encouraged them to exercise their wings, but none of them were anywhere near flying.
Sunday was pretty much the same. The two younger chicks were feeding well, and one now matched the size of the older chick, who wasn't growing, and was giving us some real concern.
Monday was Luc's birthday. It was also the morning when he found that the chick that hadn't been feeding had died overnight. It wasn't a surprise, but it was still upsetting.
To be continued
"Where are you, and do we need anything more than milk?"
"I'm in the car park. You'd better come straight home; we've got a bit of a situation".
This had me worried. Had someone damaged the car? Was there water pouring from our flat into the car park below? But the, Luc hadn't sounded upset or angry .... more bewildered, if I had to say.
I got home and checked the car park. Luc wasn't there, and I couldn't see any immediate signs of damage or water, so I went up to the flat. As I walked in, I asked what the matter was.
"Be quiet and listen".
Nothing except birdsong from the open window. No, it was too loud to be from outside ....
"There's a bird in here. Did it fly in and can't get out?" But if that was the case, Luc would be trying to help it.
"It's more complicated than that. Look in the box".
There was a largish cardboard box on the sofa. I open it carefully .... and saw (and heard) three very small birds looking up at me.
**********************************************************
Around 4.00, Luc had gone down to the car park, and spotted a bundle of feathers in the middle of the entry. Using a blanket so as not to put his own scent on it, he moved it gently into the shrubs (which had been cut the previous day) which go down one side of the car park. He could hear a couple of other birds tweeting, which he assumed were the parents, and hoped they would find and rescue the chick.
Half an hour later he went back to check. The one he had put in the shrubs was back in the middle of the car park, and the other two were now in the open as well, and both were chicks. Not an adult in sight, or in hearing.
If left where they were, they weren't going to last long. We have a number of cats on the estate, and the chicks weren't exactly being quiet. So, having satisfied himself that there were no adults around, Luc found a box that some one had put in the paper waste, added some shredded paper, and gently put the chicks in and brought them up to the flat.
We can only assume that, when the shrubs were cut, the nest was disturbed or destroyed and the parents left.
**********************************************************
An internet search turned up only one place near us that might be able to take them, but they weren't answering the 'phone, so we had to start trying to care for them, for while at least. The local pet shop very kindly lend us a large bird cage, and we had mealworms at home for the dragons .... but the chicks wouldn't eat them. They seemed too young for that.
Another internet search showed an expert soaking dry cat food with water until it became a thick paste, then feeding young birds with a dropper. Luc found a dropper immediately, but we didn't have any dry cat food - since Dyson was ill earlier this year, we don't feed either cat with dry food as, if there's anything left over in Snowball's bowl Dyson will eat it.
So I went and bought some dry cat food. For the birds. And we explained to the cats that the birds weren't for them.
The first feeding was a bit of a struggle. None of the chicks understood what was going on, so we had to open their beaks very gently and give them the food. It took a while, but we got something in all three of them, none of them brought it back up, and they all quietened down for a while.
Half an hour later, they were calling for food again. Two, at the sight of the dropper, opened up their beaks and took the food happily, but the third still didn't want to know. This one looked to be the eldest - he was certainly the biggest - but, once again, we managed to get some food inside him.
We continued with less-than-hourly feeds until about 11 pm when we fed them once more and then covered the cage with a blanket.
**********************************************************
The following morning I was dreading going downstairs in case I found them dead but, as I was about to make my way down, I heard a loud tweet. So at least one of them had made it through the night. I lifted the blanket and looked into the bottom of the cage .... and had three sets of bright eyes on me in an instant, and a lot of noise!
Having got them through the night, we decided not to try to get them into a rescue centre, as the transfer to yet another environment might prove detrimental. Luc continued with the regular feeding while I was at work, and gave up his regular Friday evening at the airgun club. From their shape, markings and where we had found them, I was able to identify them (via another internet search) as thrush - probably song thrush.
The one was still not feeding on his own, but was showing the start of some tail feathers; we hoped we could get enough food into him to keep him going until he could fly, but we thought this unlikely. The other two were feeding well, and getting bigger. We got them some maize, but that didn't seem to interest them, and the mealworms were still off the menu.
By Saturday, two of them (including the one that wasn't feeing properly) were getting themselves up onto the perches in the cage, albeit not that gracefully. While the cats were out of the way we took the birds out of the cage and encouraged them to exercise their wings, but none of them were anywhere near flying.
Monday was Luc's birthday. It was also the morning when he found that the chick that hadn't been feeding had died overnight. It wasn't a surprise, but it was still upsetting.
To be continued
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Cardiff - Ready or not
Last week was rather hectic, going to and from Wales twice. The first time (up Wednesday, back Thursday) was to see the 30th anniversary tour of Jeff Wayne's "War of the Worlds" at the Cardiff International Arena.
Yes, I know it was on much nearer to home, at both the Royal Albert Hall and the O2 - but have you tried to get back to south London by public transport from either of those late at night? So, as Luc has family in Newport, we arranged to stay with them and drive into Cardiff for the show. Added to which, I hadn't seen Luc's mother for almost 18 months, so I was able to kill two birds with one stone, if you'll forgive the expression.
In the main, the plan worked.
According to the map, there are any number of car parks near the CIA, of which David Street is supposed to be one of the best. It probably is but, due to a large amount of redevelopment currently going on around the CIA, a lot of the roads are closed - with very little advance warning (in either language).
We made the turn that should have taken us into David Street, only to find the road was closed. Unfortunately, several vehicles had followed us, so it was a matter of "wait you turn" to ..... well, turn.
So we turned into a street where parking was indicated, and found the car park was open air and full. At least we were somewhere near the head of the queue to turn round this time .....
So we found an NCP multi-storey, still only a few minutes from the CIA.
The show was amazing. We had been worried that it might be a let down, but it was better even than we had hoped.
Then we joined the queue for the car park.
Of course, you have to pay for whatever length of time you've parked before you go back to your car, and the car park we had used wasn't exactly geared up for a couple of thousand people all coming out of the CIA and wanting to pay for their parking at the same time. In fact, it had just two machines. So we queued for around 25 minutes - and made friends with the guy behind us in the queue, even though his opening line of "So where did you come from for this?" didn't work out quite as he had expected; I think he thought his own journey from Weston was a winner .....
We were lucky. We got to the head of the queue and paid for 3 hours 51 minutes of parking (£3.50). If we had exceeded four hours it would have cost £8.00, so we were grateful the queue wasn't longer.
By this point it was almost 11 p.m. and we were starting to feel a little hungry. Luc remembered a wonderful burger bar he used to go to about 16 years ago when he belonged to a motorbike club in Cardiff, and reckoned it was on our route home, so we headed out to Broadway. He wasn't sure which exact corner it was on as, over the last ten years living in London, he's not been a regular customer .....
As we approached a corner, there was a little place all lit up. "It's still open! ..... No it isn't!" as the lights went out at 11.00.
But that wasn't the right corner. The next one was - and the place we were looking for was still open. Ok, it had changed names, but the menu was still the same. So we ordered blue cheese burgers (the main reason why Luc remembered the place).
It was a warm night so, once we had the burgers we headed to the tables and benches
outside the shop. It was rather surreal, eating burgers at a wooden table at 11.30 at night, but they were every bit as good as expected. The conversation with a local cycling home from the pub wasn't bad either. And then the guy from the shop strolled out and said to Luc "Haven't seen you for a bit. You used to be regular fifteen years ago when Nick owned it".
So I can't quite work out whether Cardiff is geared up to deal with people or not. It seems that the big organisations aren't, but the small ones are willing to try that bit harder.
Yes, I know it was on much nearer to home, at both the Royal Albert Hall and the O2 - but have you tried to get back to south London by public transport from either of those late at night? So, as Luc has family in Newport, we arranged to stay with them and drive into Cardiff for the show. Added to which, I hadn't seen Luc's mother for almost 18 months, so I was able to kill two birds with one stone, if you'll forgive the expression.
In the main, the plan worked.
According to the map, there are any number of car parks near the CIA, of which David Street is supposed to be one of the best. It probably is but, due to a large amount of redevelopment currently going on around the CIA, a lot of the roads are closed - with very little advance warning (in either language).
We made the turn that should have taken us into David Street, only to find the road was closed. Unfortunately, several vehicles had followed us, so it was a matter of "wait you turn" to ..... well, turn.
So we turned into a street where parking was indicated, and found the car park was open air and full. At least we were somewhere near the head of the queue to turn round this time .....
So we found an NCP multi-storey, still only a few minutes from the CIA.
The show was amazing. We had been worried that it might be a let down, but it was better even than we had hoped.
Then we joined the queue for the car park.
Of course, you have to pay for whatever length of time you've parked before you go back to your car, and the car park we had used wasn't exactly geared up for a couple of thousand people all coming out of the CIA and wanting to pay for their parking at the same time. In fact, it had just two machines. So we queued for around 25 minutes - and made friends with the guy behind us in the queue, even though his opening line of "So where did you come from for this?" didn't work out quite as he had expected; I think he thought his own journey from Weston was a winner .....
We were lucky. We got to the head of the queue and paid for 3 hours 51 minutes of parking (£3.50). If we had exceeded four hours it would have cost £8.00, so we were grateful the queue wasn't longer.
By this point it was almost 11 p.m. and we were starting to feel a little hungry. Luc remembered a wonderful burger bar he used to go to about 16 years ago when he belonged to a motorbike club in Cardiff, and reckoned it was on our route home, so we headed out to Broadway. He wasn't sure which exact corner it was on as, over the last ten years living in London, he's not been a regular customer .....
As we approached a corner, there was a little place all lit up. "It's still open! ..... No it isn't!" as the lights went out at 11.00.
But that wasn't the right corner. The next one was - and the place we were looking for was still open. Ok, it had changed names, but the menu was still the same. So we ordered blue cheese burgers (the main reason why Luc remembered the place).
It was a warm night so, once we had the burgers we headed to the tables and benches
outside the shop. It was rather surreal, eating burgers at a wooden table at 11.30 at night, but they were every bit as good as expected. The conversation with a local cycling home from the pub wasn't bad either. And then the guy from the shop strolled out and said to Luc "Haven't seen you for a bit. You used to be regular fifteen years ago when Nick owned it".
So I can't quite work out whether Cardiff is geared up to deal with people or not. It seems that the big organisations aren't, but the small ones are willing to try that bit harder.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Three shot wonder
Two points about our main holiday this year. Firstly, we went in June rather than September; and secondly, we had no internet access for over two weeks. So this blog, while drafted in France, was not posted until we were back in England.
Yes, we went to France again; in fact to Brittany, where we’ve had a number of good holidays in the past, but in a totally new area in Finistere.
So there we were, in a Breton supermarket, standing in front of an expansive selection of ciders. There were Normandy ciders (virtually foreign), generic Breton ciders (regional), and local ciders from five kilometres down the road ….
We have a favourite from previous holidays, but Luc asked “So what’s the difference?” “Well, there’s really only one way to find out”.
So we bought three bottles of an unfamiliar Breton cider. Why three bottles? One to form a first opinion, the second to confirm it, and the third to confirm when you’re in a different mood.
So, after a day at a complex where old crafts were demonstrated, we were sitting in front of the wood-burner in the late evening, when I opened the first one. Or rather, I removed the wire cage…..
Normally I’m quite good at opening sparkling wines, but as I looked at this one I registered that the cork was moving of its own accord.
A loud bang, followed by another, then a dull thud. The cats left by the window (yes, it was open). The cork had shot out, hit and dented the wooden ceiling, and landed on the floor by me.
The cider wasn’t bad.
The following night, after a day at a botanic garden, we decided to have the second with our supper. The wire cage was removed …. Followed by a loud bang, followed by another, then silence. The cats disappeared through the open door. The cork had shot out, hit something, and completely disappeared. We hunted for it for ten minutes or so, then gave up and drank the cider. It still wasn’t bad.
Later that evening, I found the cork. I should explain that the bathroom in the cottage was downstairs, off the main living area, and we had left the door open to air it. The cork must have bounced off the main cross beam running across the ceiling of the cottage and gone through the open door of the bathroom. No prizes for guessing where it landed.
The following day, after a morning at a local market and an afternoon at a chocolate makers, we got home in time to spend the late afternoon in the garden. As the temperature started to fall, we decided to open the third bottle of cider. I insisted this was done outside, well away from the cottage.
There was a loud bang, and both cats hot-footed it inside.
I then walked down the garden, pacing out how far the cork had flown. About 15 metres. The cider still wasn’t bad, but we agreed not to have any of it in the car for the drive home.
**********************************************************
On a different matter, Dyson proudly presented his first ‘souris’ on the inside mat within two hours of our arrival. The second one, also brought indoors, came later that evening. After that, he got the idea that ‘les souris’ belong outside, so he left them on the patio. He got eight that we know of. Il sourit.
Yes, we went to France again; in fact to Brittany, where we’ve had a number of good holidays in the past, but in a totally new area in Finistere.
So there we were, in a Breton supermarket, standing in front of an expansive selection of ciders. There were Normandy ciders (virtually foreign), generic Breton ciders (regional), and local ciders from five kilometres down the road ….
We have a favourite from previous holidays, but Luc asked “So what’s the difference?” “Well, there’s really only one way to find out”.
So we bought three bottles of an unfamiliar Breton cider. Why three bottles? One to form a first opinion, the second to confirm it, and the third to confirm when you’re in a different mood.
So, after a day at a complex where old crafts were demonstrated, we were sitting in front of the wood-burner in the late evening, when I opened the first one. Or rather, I removed the wire cage…..
Normally I’m quite good at opening sparkling wines, but as I looked at this one I registered that the cork was moving of its own accord.
A loud bang, followed by another, then a dull thud. The cats left by the window (yes, it was open). The cork had shot out, hit and dented the wooden ceiling, and landed on the floor by me.
The cider wasn’t bad.
The following night, after a day at a botanic garden, we decided to have the second with our supper. The wire cage was removed …. Followed by a loud bang, followed by another, then silence. The cats disappeared through the open door. The cork had shot out, hit something, and completely disappeared. We hunted for it for ten minutes or so, then gave up and drank the cider. It still wasn’t bad.
Later that evening, I found the cork. I should explain that the bathroom in the cottage was downstairs, off the main living area, and we had left the door open to air it. The cork must have bounced off the main cross beam running across the ceiling of the cottage and gone through the open door of the bathroom. No prizes for guessing where it landed.
The following day, after a morning at a local market and an afternoon at a chocolate makers, we got home in time to spend the late afternoon in the garden. As the temperature started to fall, we decided to open the third bottle of cider. I insisted this was done outside, well away from the cottage.
There was a loud bang, and both cats hot-footed it inside.
I then walked down the garden, pacing out how far the cork had flown. About 15 metres. The cider still wasn’t bad, but we agreed not to have any of it in the car for the drive home.
**********************************************************
On a different matter, Dyson proudly presented his first ‘souris’ on the inside mat within two hours of our arrival. The second one, also brought indoors, came later that evening. After that, he got the idea that ‘les souris’ belong outside, so he left them on the patio. He got eight that we know of. Il sourit.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
* Names have been hidden to protect the innocent
On Thursday evening I met up with three friends. We used to work together until April last year, but all four of us have changed jobs since then. Three of us are now working in the Euston/Tottenham Court Road area, but it was when L, who works out of London, announced she was on a course in Regent's Park that day we arranged to meet up.
So where to meet? Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) had raved to L for some time about a bar in the Hampstead Road that did wonderful food, so we went with her recommendation.
And next, when to we meet? L's course finished at 4.30, I reckoned I could get out of work at 4.30 but had to take a camera in to a place at the top of TCR, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) finishes at 5.00, and D would be out at 5.30 - so if I met up with L a bit before 5, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) would join us at 5.15 and D would be there before 6. Then we would have the whole evening.
*******************************************************
In fact, I didn't finish until 4.45 and, as I left work and turned my mobile on, I found a text from L. It appeared that the "bloody place" didn't open until 5.
I took the camera in, and headed up to meet L, only to find her standing in the street, looking somewhat unhappy. The bar still wasn't open. And the menu didn't look that wonderful.
We chatted for a minute or two, wandered down the road a bit to check out a nearby restaurant, then back to the bar which finally got round to opening at about 5.15. We walked in .... and nearly walked out again.
It was rather dingy, didn't look that clean, and the menu was as uninspiring as we remembered from looking at it outside five minutes earlier. But we had arranged to meet the other two there, so we ordered a couple of cokes and sat at a table.
An uncomfortable look appeared on L's face. She slowly lifted her arms from the table .... or tried to. They were stuck to it.
We examined the menu again. Sill not promising. In fact, there was a distinct shortage of hot food available; wraps, salads and cold pasta salads, but nothing hot except a side order of potato wedges. Oh, and a spit roast chicken but, as L pointed out, chicken couldn't exactly be spit roast to order, and you didn't know how long it had been hanging round.
L explained her particular situation. She hadn't felt well the previous evening, so had skipped dinner. An early start to get into London from the wilds of Surrey meant she hadn't eaten before she left home, but she had promised herself a breakfast on arrival at Waterloo. Only when she got to Waterloo, a power cut meant none of the food outlets were open. By the time her course broke for lunch, she was feeling in need of some fresh air so she went out for 15 minutes; and by the time she got back, all that was left of the lunch was a tiny bowl of leeks and two falafel balls. She pinned her hopes on the biscuits with the afternoon tea.
Afternoon tea came, and with it came .... marshmallows.
L doesn't like marshmallows.
So she had planned to get to the bar at around 4.45 and settle down with her book, a coke, and a plate of chips. Except the bar didn't open until 5.15, and didn't serve chips. Now she fancied a burger, and little else would do.
We looked at the menu again, in the hope that it had changed while we weren't looking. But, no, there was still no magical "burger 9 3/4".
And then we realised that it was after 5.30 and there was no sign of Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) either. A quick exchange of texts elicited the information that she was dealing with a SUSAR* at work, but would with us before long.
The menu still didn't look any better. What's more, seeing plates of food being delivered through the front door of the bar was a little disconcerting.
Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) arrived at around 5.50, and declared her desire for "some of the wonderful tempura" that was the reason why she had recommended this bar. We passed her the menu. She wasn't happy. She asked the barmaid if they were still offering the tempura; the barmaid reckoned it could be done and left the bar to check. It couldn't be done.
But, as we couldn't leave to go somewhere else before D arrived, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) ordered a round of drinks, and I went to the bar to help her with them.
At this point, L gave in and ordered a club wrap (this is important) and a side order of potato wedges. So I ordered a caesar wrap and potato wedges. Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) didn't order anything. It transpired that her nearest supermarket was offering "2 for 1" on six packs of caramel cakes, so she'd been forced to eat twelve of them that day .....
When the barmaid passed me my drink, I asked if I could possibly have it in a glass without lipstick on it. She got me a fresh drink.
I asked if I could have it in a glass without a 5 cm brown mark down the inside.
*******************************************************
D arrived late, muttering murderous thoughts about a consultant. She'd warned us she wouldn't be eating until she got home, but a look at the menu changed her mind (ok, it looked reasonable if you didn't want anything hot).
At that moment, a small Chinese girl bearing two plates of food came through the front door of the bar and made her way to our table. Now, don't take this the wrong way .... It's not a racist comment, but just an observation that the words "club wrap" aren't that easy to make out when spoken with a heavy Chinese accent.
And the side order of potato wedges turned out to be six wedges each less than 3 cm long.
D reconfirmed that she would be eating when she got home, and ordered a round of drinks. When the barmaid passed her hers, she asked if she could possibly have it in a clean glass ......
*******************************************************
By this point, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) was mortified. Possibly because we kept reminding her it was her recommendation that had brought us there. And no matter how many times the issue of prawns at a pub L had recommended for a previous occasion (my leaving lunch, to be precise) was mentioned, her shame wasn't lessened.
And I haven't even mentioned the loos. All I can say is .... don't go there!
*******************************************************
* SUSAR - Suspected Unexpected Serious Adverse Reaction. Don't ask!
So where to meet? Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) had raved to L for some time about a bar in the Hampstead Road that did wonderful food, so we went with her recommendation.
And next, when to we meet? L's course finished at 4.30, I reckoned I could get out of work at 4.30 but had to take a camera in to a place at the top of TCR, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) finishes at 5.00, and D would be out at 5.30 - so if I met up with L a bit before 5, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) would join us at 5.15 and D would be there before 6. Then we would have the whole evening.
*******************************************************
In fact, I didn't finish until 4.45 and, as I left work and turned my mobile on, I found a text from L. It appeared that the "bloody place" didn't open until 5.
I took the camera in, and headed up to meet L, only to find her standing in the street, looking somewhat unhappy. The bar still wasn't open. And the menu didn't look that wonderful.
We chatted for a minute or two, wandered down the road a bit to check out a nearby restaurant, then back to the bar which finally got round to opening at about 5.15. We walked in .... and nearly walked out again.
It was rather dingy, didn't look that clean, and the menu was as uninspiring as we remembered from looking at it outside five minutes earlier. But we had arranged to meet the other two there, so we ordered a couple of cokes and sat at a table.
An uncomfortable look appeared on L's face. She slowly lifted her arms from the table .... or tried to. They were stuck to it.
We examined the menu again. Sill not promising. In fact, there was a distinct shortage of hot food available; wraps, salads and cold pasta salads, but nothing hot except a side order of potato wedges. Oh, and a spit roast chicken but, as L pointed out, chicken couldn't exactly be spit roast to order, and you didn't know how long it had been hanging round.
L explained her particular situation. She hadn't felt well the previous evening, so had skipped dinner. An early start to get into London from the wilds of Surrey meant she hadn't eaten before she left home, but she had promised herself a breakfast on arrival at Waterloo. Only when she got to Waterloo, a power cut meant none of the food outlets were open. By the time her course broke for lunch, she was feeling in need of some fresh air so she went out for 15 minutes; and by the time she got back, all that was left of the lunch was a tiny bowl of leeks and two falafel balls. She pinned her hopes on the biscuits with the afternoon tea.
Afternoon tea came, and with it came .... marshmallows.
L doesn't like marshmallows.
So she had planned to get to the bar at around 4.45 and settle down with her book, a coke, and a plate of chips. Except the bar didn't open until 5.15, and didn't serve chips. Now she fancied a burger, and little else would do.
We looked at the menu again, in the hope that it had changed while we weren't looking. But, no, there was still no magical "burger 9 3/4".
And then we realised that it was after 5.30 and there was no sign of Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) either. A quick exchange of texts elicited the information that she was dealing with a SUSAR* at work, but would with us before long.
The menu still didn't look any better. What's more, seeing plates of food being delivered through the front door of the bar was a little disconcerting.
Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) arrived at around 5.50, and declared her desire for "some of the wonderful tempura" that was the reason why she had recommended this bar. We passed her the menu. She wasn't happy. She asked the barmaid if they were still offering the tempura; the barmaid reckoned it could be done and left the bar to check. It couldn't be done.
But, as we couldn't leave to go somewhere else before D arrived, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) ordered a round of drinks, and I went to the bar to help her with them.
At this point, L gave in and ordered a club wrap (this is important) and a side order of potato wedges. So I ordered a caesar wrap and potato wedges. Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) didn't order anything. It transpired that her nearest supermarket was offering "2 for 1" on six packs of caramel cakes, so she'd been forced to eat twelve of them that day .....
When the barmaid passed me my drink, I asked if I could possibly have it in a glass without lipstick on it. She got me a fresh drink.
I asked if I could have it in a glass without a 5 cm brown mark down the inside.
*******************************************************
D arrived late, muttering murderous thoughts about a consultant. She'd warned us she wouldn't be eating until she got home, but a look at the menu changed her mind (ok, it looked reasonable if you didn't want anything hot).
At that moment, a small Chinese girl bearing two plates of food came through the front door of the bar and made her way to our table. Now, don't take this the wrong way .... It's not a racist comment, but just an observation that the words "club wrap" aren't that easy to make out when spoken with a heavy Chinese accent.
And the side order of potato wedges turned out to be six wedges each less than 3 cm long.
D reconfirmed that she would be eating when she got home, and ordered a round of drinks. When the barmaid passed her hers, she asked if she could possibly have it in a clean glass ......
*******************************************************
By this point, Anne Marie (sorry, I mean AM) was mortified. Possibly because we kept reminding her it was her recommendation that had brought us there. And no matter how many times the issue of prawns at a pub L had recommended for a previous occasion (my leaving lunch, to be precise) was mentioned, her shame wasn't lessened.
And I haven't even mentioned the loos. All I can say is .... don't go there!
*******************************************************
* SUSAR - Suspected Unexpected Serious Adverse Reaction. Don't ask!
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Re Cycling
This morning, as I approached a zebra crossing by Euston station I looked to my right and saw two oncoming "vehicles" - one bicycle and one ambulance. Both drivers saw me and had plenty of time to stop, but only one did.
Thank you, Mr ambulance driver.
Thank you, Mr ambulance driver.
Friday, 1 May 2009
If the shoe fits ....
I have small feet. Lengthways, that is. Unfortunately, I also have big feet widthways, which makes buying shoes quite a problem.
I can still recall, about 30 years ago, going into a shoe shop in the London Wall area, and having a very confident young salesman approach me.
"I'm looking for a court shoe".
A sweep of the arms "We have plenty madam".
"About a two and a half to three inch heel".
A wider sweep "Of course madam".
"In black".
A move to the stand on the left "Yes madam".
"In leather".
A raised eyebrow - but still that confident smile "I think we can find that for you madam".
"In size 3".
Silence. A look of panic removed the smile. "Ah. I'm sorry madam, I don't think we can help you".
*****************************************************
Since then, as I've got older, my feet have grown slightly. In both directions, unfortunately.
I have a bit of a struggle finding anything that fits, and is also comfortable to wear for a significant period (e.g. 07:00 - 18:00, my regular travel-work-travel time). And if you rule out anything with either Barbie or My Little Pony on it, that narrows the field further.
And I do rule out Barbie and My Little Pony.
Among my favourites at the moment is a pair of canvas Converse-type shoes in black with white trim. These actually fit! I can also wear them all day, even if that means running for the bus or standing on the train.
As I said, I can wear them all day. But I am not allowed to.
My office has a dress code, which includes "No trainers". Now, these shoes aren't trainers; they have none of the cushioning or support that a half-decent trainer needs. But the small print of the dress code includes the words "no sporty footwear", and someone more senior to me has determined that my favourite shoes of the moment are "sporty".
The funny thing is that, the day I was given a "polite reminder" of the dress code, I noticed that at least two of the other women in my room had worn heels to work but were now barefoot. But I guess barefoot isn't sporty (unless you include Zola Budd in the argument) so that's ok.
*****************************************************
This morning, I decided I was actually going to have my feet professionally measured.
I can proudly announce that I'm now a size 3.5. Officially, adults start at size 4.
I'm also a G to H fitting. A normal width would be a C.
The shop didn't have much in that size. And by the time you ruled out the pink stuff, they had less. And this was a Clark's shop, so I had been quite hopeful.
I mentioned to the lady who did the measuring that my office have ruled against my footwear of choice. Her response was "And did they make any suggestion where you could get suitable shoes in your size?"
I can still recall, about 30 years ago, going into a shoe shop in the London Wall area, and having a very confident young salesman approach me.
"I'm looking for a court shoe".
A sweep of the arms "We have plenty madam".
"About a two and a half to three inch heel".
A wider sweep "Of course madam".
"In black".
A move to the stand on the left "Yes madam".
"In leather".
A raised eyebrow - but still that confident smile "I think we can find that for you madam".
"In size 3".
Silence. A look of panic removed the smile. "Ah. I'm sorry madam, I don't think we can help you".
*****************************************************
Since then, as I've got older, my feet have grown slightly. In both directions, unfortunately.
I have a bit of a struggle finding anything that fits, and is also comfortable to wear for a significant period (e.g. 07:00 - 18:00, my regular travel-work-travel time). And if you rule out anything with either Barbie or My Little Pony on it, that narrows the field further.
And I do rule out Barbie and My Little Pony.
Among my favourites at the moment is a pair of canvas Converse-type shoes in black with white trim. These actually fit! I can also wear them all day, even if that means running for the bus or standing on the train.
As I said, I can wear them all day. But I am not allowed to.
My office has a dress code, which includes "No trainers". Now, these shoes aren't trainers; they have none of the cushioning or support that a half-decent trainer needs. But the small print of the dress code includes the words "no sporty footwear", and someone more senior to me has determined that my favourite shoes of the moment are "sporty".
The funny thing is that, the day I was given a "polite reminder" of the dress code, I noticed that at least two of the other women in my room had worn heels to work but were now barefoot. But I guess barefoot isn't sporty (unless you include Zola Budd in the argument) so that's ok.
*****************************************************
This morning, I decided I was actually going to have my feet professionally measured.
I can proudly announce that I'm now a size 3.5. Officially, adults start at size 4.
I'm also a G to H fitting. A normal width would be a C.
The shop didn't have much in that size. And by the time you ruled out the pink stuff, they had less. And this was a Clark's shop, so I had been quite hopeful.
I mentioned to the lady who did the measuring that my office have ruled against my footwear of choice. Her response was "And did they make any suggestion where you could get suitable shoes in your size?"
Saturday, 11 April 2009
The best things in life are furry!
I've mentioned before that Snowball, our white cat (who would have guessed?), is more clever than she has a right to be, and this morning she repeated one of her tricks.
On work days (i.e. five out of seven) my alarm goes off at six o'clock. If, for any reason, I don't get up immediately (for example it's Saturday), Snowball comes and taps on my cheeks or purrs loudly in my ear, so I don't oversleep.
So, at 6.06 this morning I was awakened by a soft paw on the nose ....... Now, I didn't want to be too late getting up, but neither did I want to be up quite that early. "Ok Snowball, I don't need to be up yet. Give me another hour - that's five past seven".
After which I turned on to my stomach and went back to sleep. And Snowball climbed onto my back and went back to sleep too.
Well, her internal clock was just a fraction out. So it was 61 minutes later - 07:06 - that I heard a soft purr followed by a polite tap on the cheek . Who needs an alarm clock?
On work days (i.e. five out of seven) my alarm goes off at six o'clock. If, for any reason, I don't get up immediately (for example it's Saturday), Snowball comes and taps on my cheeks or purrs loudly in my ear, so I don't oversleep.
So, at 6.06 this morning I was awakened by a soft paw on the nose ....... Now, I didn't want to be too late getting up, but neither did I want to be up quite that early. "Ok Snowball, I don't need to be up yet. Give me another hour - that's five past seven".
After which I turned on to my stomach and went back to sleep. And Snowball climbed onto my back and went back to sleep too.
Well, her internal clock was just a fraction out. So it was 61 minutes later - 07:06 - that I heard a soft purr followed by a polite tap on the cheek . Who needs an alarm clock?
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Bus stop conundrum
I'm not sure I'm impressed with Croydon Council's new health initiative.
I guess I'm supposed to walk!
This morning I had to run for my bus, only to find my way blocked .....
I guess I'm supposed to walk!
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Commuted sentence
It's been a bad couple of weeks commuting.
Just for the record, my normal journey is by bus to East Croydon, train to either Victoria or London Bridge, then underground to Euston. In all, around 1 hour 15 -25 minutes each way.
Tuesday, 17th. Half-term week, so I was expecting a fast journey into work, with virtually no traffic on the way to the station. And I was right; in fact I got as far as Victoria underground station by 07:50 and was expecting to be at my desk by 8:05. But a train failure delayed services and, just when I finally got onto a train and reckoned I was getting somewhere, there was a signal or points failure (I can't remember which) and it was 8:45 before I made it to work. Then, in the evening, a fatality on the train line messed the train service up a fair bit.
Wednesday, 18th. Apparently there was a fatality in the early afternoon, and the rail service was starting to recover from that when there was a second fatality. This meant chaos - very few trains, throughly overcrowded (not helped by the fact that, being half term, there were lots of families expecting to travel home from a fun day out in London, with multiple children and pushchairs, who didn't seem to realise that trains might be busy in the rush hour).
Then there were a few days when things were ok.
Thursday, 26th. Signalling failure on the underground in the morning made me hot, tired and late by the time I reached work. Signalling failure on the underground in the evening made me hot, tired and late by the time I reached Victoria. Where I found there had been another fatality .....
Friday, 27th. More signalling problems on the underground in the morning. And - what a surprise - more in the evening as well.
What this really brings home to me is not that the transport services in London are unprepared for incidents of various kinds, but there are no viable alternatives. Routes cannout be bypassed. And, as all of London transport is working at capacity in the peak periods, when one part of the system fails the remainder cannot pick up the slack. There is no slack.
London will host the Olympic Games in three and a half years' time. This week, there has been an announcement about the "enhancement" of walking and cycling routes to the Olympic Park, but those will benefit a relatively small number of people in north and east London; all of London is paying an extra charge to fund the Games yet, unless something is done urgently to improve the reliability of services from other parts of the city, the Games will be completely inaccessible to millions of Londoners.
It also seems to be prioritising able-bodied spectators over those with handicaps.
But none of that is what worries me.
I am now seriously concerned that - during the lead-up to the Games, the main competitions and the Paralympic Games - so much effort will be steered towards the Olympics that other London routes will be in total disarray.
Which means no way to get to work for tens of thousands of people.
Please, Transport for London, give us some believable assurance that the council tax-paying, travel card-buying public will not be abandonned.
Just for the record, my normal journey is by bus to East Croydon, train to either Victoria or London Bridge, then underground to Euston. In all, around 1 hour 15 -25 minutes each way.
Tuesday, 17th. Half-term week, so I was expecting a fast journey into work, with virtually no traffic on the way to the station. And I was right; in fact I got as far as Victoria underground station by 07:50 and was expecting to be at my desk by 8:05. But a train failure delayed services and, just when I finally got onto a train and reckoned I was getting somewhere, there was a signal or points failure (I can't remember which) and it was 8:45 before I made it to work. Then, in the evening, a fatality on the train line messed the train service up a fair bit.
Wednesday, 18th. Apparently there was a fatality in the early afternoon, and the rail service was starting to recover from that when there was a second fatality. This meant chaos - very few trains, throughly overcrowded (not helped by the fact that, being half term, there were lots of families expecting to travel home from a fun day out in London, with multiple children and pushchairs, who didn't seem to realise that trains might be busy in the rush hour).
Then there were a few days when things were ok.
Thursday, 26th. Signalling failure on the underground in the morning made me hot, tired and late by the time I reached work. Signalling failure on the underground in the evening made me hot, tired and late by the time I reached Victoria. Where I found there had been another fatality .....
Friday, 27th. More signalling problems on the underground in the morning. And - what a surprise - more in the evening as well.
What this really brings home to me is not that the transport services in London are unprepared for incidents of various kinds, but there are no viable alternatives. Routes cannout be bypassed. And, as all of London transport is working at capacity in the peak periods, when one part of the system fails the remainder cannot pick up the slack. There is no slack.
London will host the Olympic Games in three and a half years' time. This week, there has been an announcement about the "enhancement" of walking and cycling routes to the Olympic Park, but those will benefit a relatively small number of people in north and east London; all of London is paying an extra charge to fund the Games yet, unless something is done urgently to improve the reliability of services from other parts of the city, the Games will be completely inaccessible to millions of Londoners.
It also seems to be prioritising able-bodied spectators over those with handicaps.
But none of that is what worries me.
I am now seriously concerned that - during the lead-up to the Games, the main competitions and the Paralympic Games - so much effort will be steered towards the Olympics that other London routes will be in total disarray.
Which means no way to get to work for tens of thousands of people.
Please, Transport for London, give us some believable assurance that the council tax-paying, travel card-buying public will not be abandonned.
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
The Chow Mein Strikes Back
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away … well it was in a park in Sheffield exactly.
******************************************************
Earlier today, one of my colleagues was going on about her most extreme comfort food – chicken chow mein. At a suitable break in the conversation, I asked her a straightforward question. She looked at me, confused.
So I told her what happened to me about twenty five years ago.
******************************************************
A friend and I went up to Sheffield one weekend to see Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet (see, I said it was a long time ago) performing in a tent in a park in Sheffield. As you do. By the Saturday evening we’d worked out that there weren’t any restaurants in the vicinity of the park, so we got ourselves a Chinese takeaway and walked, takeaway and Kodak Instamatic camera in hand, to find a quiet park bench. You know the camera I mean; the one where the cover swings down to become a handle.
After about ten minutes we found somewhere suitable. That’s when I discovered that one of the takeaway bags had leaked, and there was chicken chow mein all over my camera.
I cleaned it up as well as I could, wiping some of the white print of the inside of the cover in the process, but then I realised something quite serious (well, in camera function terms, anyway).
There was chicken chow mein in the view finder. Not on the view finder; in the view finder.
What’s more, while the camera was closed everything was fine, but the moment I opened the case there was all all-pervading smell of chicken chow mein.
I didn’t have enough time to take the camera anywhere on Monday lunchtime but, after work, I rushed up to the top of the high street to take my camera up to the photographic department in Boots. I got their ten minutes before they were due to close, and asked the assistant if they could repair cameras. He replied that they could send them away for repair, and asked what the problem was.
“There’s chicken chow mein in the view finder”.
He looked at me disbelievingly, and opened the case. Luckily, it still smelt ok, but it was definitely chicken chow mein.
The camera was, of course, just out of warranty, so he asked how much I’d be prepared to pay for the cleaning, if it could be cleaned. He explained that the particular model I had was no longer available, but the nearest replacement model was £20, so I agreed to pay up to £10 – anything more than that, and I’d get a new camera. And keep it away from Chinese takeaways.
By this time, another assistant was hurrying him to finish and close up, but he still had to fill in the form to be sent off with the camera.
Please clean due to …… “I can’t say that. What do you want me to say?”
“Tell the truth. Besides, they’ll know the second they open it”.
“That’s true”. Please clean due to chicken chow mein in the view finder.
******************************************************
A week later, I can back from lunch to find a note on my desk telling me that Boots had rung, and my camera was ready for collection. One of my colleagues was just about to go to lunch and offered to pick it up for me, so I gave her the receipt and £10.
Half an hour later she came back with my camera and the £10 note. “There was no charge”.
Ok, that’s a bonus. I took the camera out of the bag and opened the cover. Nothing. I checked the view finder. Totally clear.
Hold on, my camera had a scratch on the top of the cover, and this doesn’t. And I wiped some of the white printing off when I cleaned it up, and this has all the printing in place. This isn’t my camera; it’s brand new. In fact, there’s even a packing note curled up in the film compartment.
******************************************************
It was about three weeks later that I opened up the back of the camera to put a new film in, and took out the slip of paper for the first time.
It wasn’t a packing note. Or, at least, it was – but not an official one. There were two comments in different handwriting.
One said “It smelled lovely”.
And the other ….. “Wot, no chopsticks?”
**********************************
Which only leaves the question that so confused my colleague this morning.
“Yes, but have you ever got chicken chow mein in the viewfinder of a camera? …… Ok, it must be only me then”
******************************************************
Earlier today, one of my colleagues was going on about her most extreme comfort food – chicken chow mein. At a suitable break in the conversation, I asked her a straightforward question. She looked at me, confused.
So I told her what happened to me about twenty five years ago.
******************************************************
A friend and I went up to Sheffield one weekend to see Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet (see, I said it was a long time ago) performing in a tent in a park in Sheffield. As you do. By the Saturday evening we’d worked out that there weren’t any restaurants in the vicinity of the park, so we got ourselves a Chinese takeaway and walked, takeaway and Kodak Instamatic camera in hand, to find a quiet park bench. You know the camera I mean; the one where the cover swings down to become a handle.
After about ten minutes we found somewhere suitable. That’s when I discovered that one of the takeaway bags had leaked, and there was chicken chow mein all over my camera.
I cleaned it up as well as I could, wiping some of the white print of the inside of the cover in the process, but then I realised something quite serious (well, in camera function terms, anyway).
There was chicken chow mein in the view finder. Not on the view finder; in the view finder.
What’s more, while the camera was closed everything was fine, but the moment I opened the case there was all all-pervading smell of chicken chow mein.
I didn’t have enough time to take the camera anywhere on Monday lunchtime but, after work, I rushed up to the top of the high street to take my camera up to the photographic department in Boots. I got their ten minutes before they were due to close, and asked the assistant if they could repair cameras. He replied that they could send them away for repair, and asked what the problem was.
“There’s chicken chow mein in the view finder”.
He looked at me disbelievingly, and opened the case. Luckily, it still smelt ok, but it was definitely chicken chow mein.
The camera was, of course, just out of warranty, so he asked how much I’d be prepared to pay for the cleaning, if it could be cleaned. He explained that the particular model I had was no longer available, but the nearest replacement model was £20, so I agreed to pay up to £10 – anything more than that, and I’d get a new camera. And keep it away from Chinese takeaways.
By this time, another assistant was hurrying him to finish and close up, but he still had to fill in the form to be sent off with the camera.
Please clean due to …… “I can’t say that. What do you want me to say?”
“Tell the truth. Besides, they’ll know the second they open it”.
“That’s true”. Please clean due to chicken chow mein in the view finder.
******************************************************
A week later, I can back from lunch to find a note on my desk telling me that Boots had rung, and my camera was ready for collection. One of my colleagues was just about to go to lunch and offered to pick it up for me, so I gave her the receipt and £10.
Half an hour later she came back with my camera and the £10 note. “There was no charge”.
Ok, that’s a bonus. I took the camera out of the bag and opened the cover. Nothing. I checked the view finder. Totally clear.
Hold on, my camera had a scratch on the top of the cover, and this doesn’t. And I wiped some of the white printing off when I cleaned it up, and this has all the printing in place. This isn’t my camera; it’s brand new. In fact, there’s even a packing note curled up in the film compartment.
******************************************************
It was about three weeks later that I opened up the back of the camera to put a new film in, and took out the slip of paper for the first time.
It wasn’t a packing note. Or, at least, it was – but not an official one. There were two comments in different handwriting.
One said “It smelled lovely”.
And the other ….. “Wot, no chopsticks?”
**********************************
Which only leaves the question that so confused my colleague this morning.
“Yes, but have you ever got chicken chow mein in the viewfinder of a camera? …… Ok, it must be only me then”
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Think before you speak
I was on a train from Victoria a couple of evenings ago. For anyone who isn’t familiar with that London terminus (and the clue is in the word “terminus”), it consists of a rather large concrete/marble/whatever concourse, with 19 platforms leading down from one edge.
A family, including a teenage boy, must have walked from the concourse and down the platform before deciding to sit in the same carriage as me, seven carriages from the concourse.
As he sat in the seat in front of me, facing back the way he had walked for the oh-so-solid concourse, the teenager said “Which way is it pulling out? I hope it’s that way (pointing back towards the concourse) because I don’t like travelling backwards”.
Personally, I’d rather travel backwards onto clear track than forwards into several hundred tons of building …..
A family, including a teenage boy, must have walked from the concourse and down the platform before deciding to sit in the same carriage as me, seven carriages from the concourse.
As he sat in the seat in front of me, facing back the way he had walked for the oh-so-solid concourse, the teenager said “Which way is it pulling out? I hope it’s that way (pointing back towards the concourse) because I don’t like travelling backwards”.
Personally, I’d rather travel backwards onto clear track than forwards into several hundred tons of building …..
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
When is a pet not a pet?
Sometimes I think I’d having nothing to blog about if it wasn’t for summer holidays.
I've started looking into travel insurance for this summer, and have found that some policies I looked at had a clause headed “Pet Cover” or similar, which basically says that, should the return journey be delayed for any valid reason, the costs of additional kennel or cattery fees (presumably for pets left in the UK while their owners are on holiday) will be paid.
Which is a good idea. Except lizards don’t go to kennels or catteries; they go to a reptile sanctuary.
But the clause heading is most definitely about PETS, so perhaps they were using kennels and catteries as an inclusive term.....
So I emailed them, asking if this clause also applied to other small domestic pets, explaining that we would be boarding out lizards and, for good measure, adding that the cats would be coming with us but had their own insurance. (would that be purrsonal insurance?)
I was expecting a simple answer yes; after all, one small domestic animal is pretty much like any other small domestic animal – well, in insurance terms, anyway – and boarding fees for lizards are almost certainly going to be less than kennel or cattery fees. It’s not like I was expecting cover for stabling a horse ….
After a little more than 24 hours the answer came back.
No cover.
So we have another new definition - Pet: A domestic animal that is boarded in either a kennel or a cattery.
I wonder if I can find a kennel that accepts lizards?
I've started looking into travel insurance for this summer, and have found that some policies I looked at had a clause headed “Pet Cover” or similar, which basically says that, should the return journey be delayed for any valid reason, the costs of additional kennel or cattery fees (presumably for pets left in the UK while their owners are on holiday) will be paid.
Which is a good idea. Except lizards don’t go to kennels or catteries; they go to a reptile sanctuary.
But the clause heading is most definitely about PETS, so perhaps they were using kennels and catteries as an inclusive term.....
So I emailed them, asking if this clause also applied to other small domestic pets, explaining that we would be boarding out lizards and, for good measure, adding that the cats would be coming with us but had their own insurance. (would that be purrsonal insurance?)
I was expecting a simple answer yes; after all, one small domestic animal is pretty much like any other small domestic animal – well, in insurance terms, anyway – and boarding fees for lizards are almost certainly going to be less than kennel or cattery fees. It’s not like I was expecting cover for stabling a horse ….
After a little more than 24 hours the answer came back.
No cover.
So we have another new definition - Pet: A domestic animal that is boarded in either a kennel or a cattery.
I wonder if I can find a kennel that accepts lizards?
Friday, 6 February 2009
Snow comment
Towards the end of January I was thinking “Thank God that’s nearly over”. Then came February, and the snow.
Last Sunday night I went to let Dyson out for his last prowl of the day, only to find it was snowing steadily and we already had about three inches of snow. Dyson therefore changed his mind about going out, and decided to wait for the morning.
He didn’t even stay to enjoy the view.
On Monday morning, it was pretty clear Dyson wasn’t going out. And neither was I.
I live in a flat and, once I leave my front door, I have a flight of stairs down to a glass and wooden porch. The door of the porch opens outwards onto a wooden platform, from which there is another small flights of wooden steps to the footpath.
Except the porch door doesn’t open outwards when there’s around eight inches of snow the other side of it.
So I emailed work and told them I’d be late. Dyson, who hates using an indoor tray, crossed his legs and went back to bed.
Later on, someone managed to get the porch door open far enough to squeeze out, so I got myself dressed up and headed out. I got as far as the road when people returning told me there were no buses or trains running.
I went back home.
In the four minutes since I’d gone out, the porch door had frozen shut. It took the help of a neighbour, a couple of kitchen knives and around a quarter of an hour for me to open the door enough to get back in.
I emailed work and told them I was working from home.
By the evening Dyson was climbing the walls. Literally. Eventually, he was carried outside, placed in an area that had been partially cleared, and left for five minutes.
He was ready and waiting to be let back in.
It was Thursday night before he went out of his own volition, and he was still very eager to come in after ten minutes.
Snowball, of course, hasn’t ventured within two feet of the front door for more than a week.
Snow, Dyson, Snowball, cats
Last Sunday night I went to let Dyson out for his last prowl of the day, only to find it was snowing steadily and we already had about three inches of snow. Dyson therefore changed his mind about going out, and decided to wait for the morning.
He didn’t even stay to enjoy the view.
On Monday morning, it was pretty clear Dyson wasn’t going out. And neither was I.
I live in a flat and, once I leave my front door, I have a flight of stairs down to a glass and wooden porch. The door of the porch opens outwards onto a wooden platform, from which there is another small flights of wooden steps to the footpath.
Except the porch door doesn’t open outwards when there’s around eight inches of snow the other side of it.
So I emailed work and told them I’d be late. Dyson, who hates using an indoor tray, crossed his legs and went back to bed.
Later on, someone managed to get the porch door open far enough to squeeze out, so I got myself dressed up and headed out. I got as far as the road when people returning told me there were no buses or trains running.
I went back home.
In the four minutes since I’d gone out, the porch door had frozen shut. It took the help of a neighbour, a couple of kitchen knives and around a quarter of an hour for me to open the door enough to get back in.
I emailed work and told them I was working from home.
By the evening Dyson was climbing the walls. Literally. Eventually, he was carried outside, placed in an area that had been partially cleared, and left for five minutes.
He was ready and waiting to be let back in.
It was Thursday night before he went out of his own volition, and he was still very eager to come in after ten minutes.
Snowball, of course, hasn’t ventured within two feet of the front door for more than a week.
Snow, Dyson, Snowball, cats
Monday, 19 January 2009
Holiday 2009 - The Saga Begins
I decided I was going to get an early start on sorting out the holiday this year, especially as it seems to be getting more and more difficult to find an English company that will accept a booking that includes the two cats.
I was right; I couldn't find one.
So that means a French company; but with prices quoted in Euros and exchange rates crashing, that's looking expensive, compared to last year.
We've also decided to change our holiday dates this year, to go in June rather than September, as so many sites in central and northern France seem to close after the first week of September.
Then I looked at ebay. There was a small gite, right in the middle of Brittany (to be honest, right in the middle of nowehere), about the right size and - importantly - about the right price. I checked that Luc's happy with the location and driving, then emailed the vital question.
"Excuse me for asking ... do you accept cats?"
And the answer came back "Fine by me".
So I've sorted out my leave from work (which only took a week to do), confirmed the booking, and the deposit's in the post. I've looked into ferries and decided which we're using (bit of a no brainer really; have you looked at Norfolk Lines' prices compared to P&O and Sea France?), so will book that in the next few days.
I've also looked into overnight stops in both directions, and got a good idea of where we'll be staying. And where we'll be eating.
I've never been so organised. It worries me; it really does worry me .......
I was right; I couldn't find one.
So that means a French company; but with prices quoted in Euros and exchange rates crashing, that's looking expensive, compared to last year.
We've also decided to change our holiday dates this year, to go in June rather than September, as so many sites in central and northern France seem to close after the first week of September.
Then I looked at ebay. There was a small gite, right in the middle of Brittany (to be honest, right in the middle of nowehere), about the right size and - importantly - about the right price. I checked that Luc's happy with the location and driving, then emailed the vital question.
"Excuse me for asking ... do you accept cats?"
And the answer came back "Fine by me".
So I've sorted out my leave from work (which only took a week to do), confirmed the booking, and the deposit's in the post. I've looked into ferries and decided which we're using (bit of a no brainer really; have you looked at Norfolk Lines' prices compared to P&O and Sea France?), so will book that in the next few days.
I've also looked into overnight stops in both directions, and got a good idea of where we'll be staying. And where we'll be eating.
I've never been so organised. It worries me; it really does worry me .......
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)