My dearest nearly geek friend,
How are you and your Carol? On holiday again? Working hard? Running a Donkey Sanctuary on Cyprus?
My signing on was an experience and I continue to be in receipt of no benefits what so ever. I signed on Tuesday – sat down in front of the bloke and he asked, “how are you today?” I started to tell him that my foot was giving me gip but he cut me short and asked what I was doing to find work. I handed over my “Finding Work” form filled with page after page of job details I’ve applied for. He seemed taken aback. Apparently their “customers” generally only put one or two job details on the form every couple of weeks and I filled the whole 6 pages in my first week! I explained that I was keen and it was sure to wear off soon but asked for a continuation form anyway. I asked him if he knew when I might get any benefit money, “four to six weeks from date of signing” (apparently their stock answer) “I signed eight weeks ago” I told him. I got the distinct impression I was now getting annoying as he sighed deeply and prodded his computer even harder. “We have no details” he explained and then added “you have to ring Canterbury; we sent your details to them” Now, I’ve been in this position before or somewhere similar “Anyone in Canterbury?” I asked thinking maybe Town Hall, Post Office, Mrs Jessing at No.42 Glebe Place or maybe the fish shop “Yes just ring Canterbury and they’ll put you through” I asked for their number and got another big effort sigh. On my return home I rang the number he gave me (I won’t bore you with the 37 minutes it took me to get through) Well it turns out Canterbury don’t have my details. “Reading told me they’d sent them to you and that I should give you a call to find out when I might get benefit payments” I whimpered with desperation creeping into my voice “Why did they tell you that?” I was asked, by “Katttrania” I didn’t shout “HOW THE FECK SHOULD I KNOW” but was sorely tempted. After a while it emerged that my local branch had not in fact sent my details to Canterbury (another of their tricks they play on new signers probably). Canterbury insist I ring the local branch to find out where my details are … this is going to drag on I’m sure.
Do you have a spare aluminium scaffold pole? About 10M should do the job – post it if you have one – you shouldn’t need a postal tube nor should you need to wrap it up, just write my address in indelible ink along its length. I should sellotape the stamp if I were you though.
The brunette had her last exam yesterday and is now mooning about the place like some lost sheep although she has laid a bet that she will find a job before I do … I snook down the bookies and put a pound on that one to win.
Our local museum needs a Documentation Assistant again – someone to document the archaeology collections – they ask for someone with “an interest in archaeological material of all periods” well I’m interested of course and can identify a broken pot when I see one but I wouldn’t know if it came from the Jurassic or Crustacean periods – was the Jurassic period in the bronze age? I know from school that the Dark ages were when all the knights were roaming about the place.
Have you heard any more about any jobs at the factory? Anything in Watford maybe? Still no word from Tim or Bal. I got a new set of “Trainer Tamers” yesterday and spent this morning cutting them to shape and fitting them into my shoes then I listened to the Gypsy Kings for a while until the tape switched and Steve Earl came on yelling about some hillbilly road.
I’m going to clean the kitchen cupboards tomorrow.
D
25 May 2006
10 May 2006
10/5/2006
Hi me old china – (cockney rhyming slang),
I’m on the Rock and Roll (cockney rhyming slang)
Zsd;foi ia poaewrtpo aw]epo]poawetpo ]awetpok (nonsense)
The brunette has ordered me not to look for full time work but in it’s stead I should search out some part time thingy. Apparently I am needed to take kids to school and then collect them again afterward. This leaves me free to start work at 10am and finish again at 14.00hrs. I expect I’ll get used to these new long hours but it may take some while. So unless Rita needs someone to lend a hand for a while around lunch time every day he can get stuffed – actually no don’t say that as the brunette would change her mind if I explained the benefits of money to her. For now though I’m being compliant – it’s only fair until her finals are over in a couple of weeks time.
I’ve taken to selling junk on @bay – I listed a camera lens I dug out of the far corner of the shed last week – some twit in Austria gave me a bunch worth of intergalactic PayPal credits for it ! I’ve now dug out some old amps, a CB radio (10-4 good buddy), two portable CD players and an old black and white luggable video camera. I’m trying to keep it quiet from the brunette but I may have to use her bank account as my three appear to be broken.
How cerise of me – how was your holiday bloke? Get a tan did you? Buy a plot of land eh? Tuck into some goat stew or haloumi on toast with honey? Did yer go and see Aphrodite’s whatsit?
All the best
Your favourite seller
D
I’m on the Rock and Roll (cockney rhyming slang)
Zsd;foi ia poaewrtpo aw]epo]poawetpo ]awetpok (nonsense)
The brunette has ordered me not to look for full time work but in it’s stead I should search out some part time thingy. Apparently I am needed to take kids to school and then collect them again afterward. This leaves me free to start work at 10am and finish again at 14.00hrs. I expect I’ll get used to these new long hours but it may take some while. So unless Rita needs someone to lend a hand for a while around lunch time every day he can get stuffed – actually no don’t say that as the brunette would change her mind if I explained the benefits of money to her. For now though I’m being compliant – it’s only fair until her finals are over in a couple of weeks time.
I’ve taken to selling junk on @bay – I listed a camera lens I dug out of the far corner of the shed last week – some twit in Austria gave me a bunch worth of intergalactic PayPal credits for it ! I’ve now dug out some old amps, a CB radio (10-4 good buddy), two portable CD players and an old black and white luggable video camera. I’m trying to keep it quiet from the brunette but I may have to use her bank account as my three appear to be broken.
How cerise of me – how was your holiday bloke? Get a tan did you? Buy a plot of land eh? Tuck into some goat stew or haloumi on toast with honey? Did yer go and see Aphrodite’s whatsit?
All the best
Your favourite seller
D
13 April 2006
13/4/2006
Dear Dino,
After our day in the big city, the nine year old is even grumpier today – doesn’t want to pack for his holiday skiing in French Alps, just wants to do something exciting. I explained that going on holiday was exciting but he couldn’t see it. Brunette has taken him to pony club thing this morning with her mother then they’ll come back for lunch and t’other nanna will arrive to take him away (I’ve not been told for how long yet but I expect to be put in the picture in due course).
Once we got back from t’smoke last evening we watched a Narnia DVD thing to settle them before bed and consequently we weren’t woken until after 7:30 this morning. Nine year old didn’t want to eat breakfast because it was boring. He didn’t want to wash or brush his teeth because it was boring. Getting dressed was too boring. Getting his pony club gear together was boring and waiting for Grandma to arrive was even more boring. Getting piles of clothes from the wardrobe and putting them on his bed ready to be packed was boring and he was too bored to do up his pony club tie. Apparently winding the three year old up wasn’t boring, but me putting soap in his mouth for swearing at his mother was the last straw and he was too bored to even exist and just sat in his room with hoodie and dark glasses on whilst spitting bits of soap into his bin. Grandma arrived bringing armfuls of toys left at her place during our last visit and then they left to watch nine year old horse riding.
Three year old and I are now watching StarWars episode 2 and raiding the cupboard for biscuits and sweets.
Brunette keeps pointing out jobs in the local paper – “driving for the elderly”, school caretaker, supermarket trolley collector, leaflet deliverer etc etc. I would like to be a park keeper with a leaning towards robotics but there don’t seem to be any of those jobs about (I could even supply my own shed, wellies, deckchair and kettle).
How come the ALF dislike zoos but next door can keep rabbits and budgies in their own private petting compound? I leant over the fence the other day and said how the kids loved the animals – “it’s like having their own petting zoo” I said “and its cheaper than visiting a real zoo” “No” she said, “zoos are bad”. I stood in silence for a moment looking at their wire and concrete compound, then went, and leant on our other fence to see what the other neighbour was up to.
I’m going to be squeezing filler into various gaps around the house today – but am not allowed to sand anything down as it makes too much mess…
Catch up later
D
After our day in the big city, the nine year old is even grumpier today – doesn’t want to pack for his holiday skiing in French Alps, just wants to do something exciting. I explained that going on holiday was exciting but he couldn’t see it. Brunette has taken him to pony club thing this morning with her mother then they’ll come back for lunch and t’other nanna will arrive to take him away (I’ve not been told for how long yet but I expect to be put in the picture in due course).
Once we got back from t’smoke last evening we watched a Narnia DVD thing to settle them before bed and consequently we weren’t woken until after 7:30 this morning. Nine year old didn’t want to eat breakfast because it was boring. He didn’t want to wash or brush his teeth because it was boring. Getting dressed was too boring. Getting his pony club gear together was boring and waiting for Grandma to arrive was even more boring. Getting piles of clothes from the wardrobe and putting them on his bed ready to be packed was boring and he was too bored to do up his pony club tie. Apparently winding the three year old up wasn’t boring, but me putting soap in his mouth for swearing at his mother was the last straw and he was too bored to even exist and just sat in his room with hoodie and dark glasses on whilst spitting bits of soap into his bin. Grandma arrived bringing armfuls of toys left at her place during our last visit and then they left to watch nine year old horse riding.
Three year old and I are now watching StarWars episode 2 and raiding the cupboard for biscuits and sweets.
Brunette keeps pointing out jobs in the local paper – “driving for the elderly”, school caretaker, supermarket trolley collector, leaflet deliverer etc etc. I would like to be a park keeper with a leaning towards robotics but there don’t seem to be any of those jobs about (I could even supply my own shed, wellies, deckchair and kettle).
How come the ALF dislike zoos but next door can keep rabbits and budgies in their own private petting compound? I leant over the fence the other day and said how the kids loved the animals – “it’s like having their own petting zoo” I said “and its cheaper than visiting a real zoo” “No” she said, “zoos are bad”. I stood in silence for a moment looking at their wire and concrete compound, then went, and leant on our other fence to see what the other neighbour was up to.
I’m going to be squeezing filler into various gaps around the house today – but am not allowed to sand anything down as it makes too much mess…
Catch up later
D
10 April 2006
10/4/2006
Hi Dino,
We’re (Brunette, me, 9 year old goldfish brain and three year old) off up to the big smoke tomorrow. I’ve spent the morning planning my route via Google and various travel web sites. I’ve found it very difficult to know whether we are going to be travelling in “peak” or “off peak” times. We are to be leaving very early so as to arrive at the passport office near to Victoria Station at 8:15am and I simply needed to know at what time “peak” started of a morning – all the sites inform one as to what time “off peak” starts – 9:30am until 4:30 and then it is “peak” but surely it can’t still be “peak” at 4:00am the next morning? Well the best answer I could get was “peak starts in the morning sir” from a very polite but savvy lacking Brick Lane accent. Political politeness restrains me from letting on which end of Brick Lane but you’ll get the gist.
Our nine year old took part in a “fun run” this last Sunday (quite what “fun” has to do with running I’m not sure) any road it was ran or run at the same time and in the same rough area as the now infamous Reading Half Marathon or “4 ½ yard beetle” as my mate calls it (half the full nine yards). As you can imagine, Readinge (pronounced Readinge) comes to a complete standstill for this one day a year with nearly all roads closed except to busses, taxis, steel band mini-busses and lunatic cyclists. Well to make a short story longer; our portion of the day’s events ended about 7 hours ahead of the main event – it being a fun 2k and not 13. whatever miles – so I had two choices – stay for the next 7 hours and enjoy the pain on the staggering finishers contorted faces or use my direction-finding skills to get us home for an afternoon of crocus and bind-weed pulling. I smugly flicked on the local radio station in the car to be greeted with “Here is the traffic report for all you people trying to get home or to the shops while the Reading Half Marathon is on … most of the surrounding area is grid locked and the list of road closures is on our web site”. The brunette giggled nervously. I took up the challenge. The brunette tightened her seat belt and called over her shoulder to the kids to do likewise. With a 23 mile detour I made it to the far side of Town in just under 3 hours 57 but then to my utter dismay, we had to stop for an hour and a half at a MacDonald’s (it wasn’t my idea – I was just humming the tune – the kids said we had to stop). Anyway as it turned out by the time we’d scoffed our way through the best part of three quid, the roads were opened again but for next time, how on earth can I get the inter wibbly in the car? Am I that far out of date and it is common place these days to surf the wobbly while tackling the hairpins on the B348?
Any who, to get to the point of my email – how are you dear chap? Have you completed your decorating task? Have you written it down for t’book? Any news of my imminent appointment as lay-about in-waiting at the City Office?
We’re (Brunette, me, 9 year old goldfish brain and three year old) off up to the big smoke tomorrow. I’ve spent the morning planning my route via Google and various travel web sites. I’ve found it very difficult to know whether we are going to be travelling in “peak” or “off peak” times. We are to be leaving very early so as to arrive at the passport office near to Victoria Station at 8:15am and I simply needed to know at what time “peak” started of a morning – all the sites inform one as to what time “off peak” starts – 9:30am until 4:30 and then it is “peak” but surely it can’t still be “peak” at 4:00am the next morning? Well the best answer I could get was “peak starts in the morning sir” from a very polite but savvy lacking Brick Lane accent. Political politeness restrains me from letting on which end of Brick Lane but you’ll get the gist.
Our nine year old took part in a “fun run” this last Sunday (quite what “fun” has to do with running I’m not sure) any road it was ran or run at the same time and in the same rough area as the now infamous Reading Half Marathon or “4 ½ yard beetle” as my mate calls it (half the full nine yards). As you can imagine, Readinge (pronounced Readinge) comes to a complete standstill for this one day a year with nearly all roads closed except to busses, taxis, steel band mini-busses and lunatic cyclists. Well to make a short story longer; our portion of the day’s events ended about 7 hours ahead of the main event – it being a fun 2k and not 13. whatever miles – so I had two choices – stay for the next 7 hours and enjoy the pain on the staggering finishers contorted faces or use my direction-finding skills to get us home for an afternoon of crocus and bind-weed pulling. I smugly flicked on the local radio station in the car to be greeted with “Here is the traffic report for all you people trying to get home or to the shops while the Reading Half Marathon is on … most of the surrounding area is grid locked and the list of road closures is on our web site”. The brunette giggled nervously. I took up the challenge. The brunette tightened her seat belt and called over her shoulder to the kids to do likewise. With a 23 mile detour I made it to the far side of Town in just under 3 hours 57 but then to my utter dismay, we had to stop for an hour and a half at a MacDonald’s (it wasn’t my idea – I was just humming the tune – the kids said we had to stop). Anyway as it turned out by the time we’d scoffed our way through the best part of three quid, the roads were opened again but for next time, how on earth can I get the inter wibbly in the car? Am I that far out of date and it is common place these days to surf the wobbly while tackling the hairpins on the B348?
Any who, to get to the point of my email – how are you dear chap? Have you completed your decorating task? Have you written it down for t’book? Any news of my imminent appointment as lay-about in-waiting at the City Office?
08 April 2006
8/4/2006
Hey Hi,
I went onto “google earth” yesterday and it looks like the day they took the photy of your house you were outside sunbathing – where did you get those trunks? I know it is you as I recognise the tattoo on your calf. What is Rita’s’ address?
I went onto “google earth” yesterday and it looks like the day they took the photy of your house you were outside sunbathing – where did you get those trunks? I know it is you as I recognise the tattoo on your calf. What is Rita’s’ address?
24 March 2006
24/3/2006
My dear Dino,
I’ve not heard from the man yet from my interview this past Tuesday as he promised and so can only surmise he delved into my background just a little too deeply and has deemed feedback unnecessary, as I should have known better than to apply in the first place. I’ve heard of a job going at the London Zoo training Meer Cats to use computers – apparently the Army has suffered cutbacks and now is considering using them to act as lookouts and then to email in reports on enemy positions. I understand a server is to be buried and installed underground in a burrow with terminals in each burrow branch opening and linked via Ethernet and fibre. I suggested at my interview they ought to maybe consider Blackberries but it seems the meer cats can’t hold them properly and they keep pressing the volume button when climbing trees behind enemy lines and they’ve tried giving them belts with pouches for the devices but they keep slipping down as they don’t have discernable waists. Personally I think they could have persevered and tried braces or shoulder holsters but I didn’t push it as I didn’t want to appear too cocky at the first interview. If I do get the job though it’ll be nice to wear my camouflage jacket and slotted balaclava again. Any way I’d better go as the brunette is doing something with aubergines and seems to have forgotten the meat again. Hope you’ve got over your jet-lag now from your Bolivian adventure. Chin up fella.
D
I’ve not heard from the man yet from my interview this past Tuesday as he promised and so can only surmise he delved into my background just a little too deeply and has deemed feedback unnecessary, as I should have known better than to apply in the first place. I’ve heard of a job going at the London Zoo training Meer Cats to use computers – apparently the Army has suffered cutbacks and now is considering using them to act as lookouts and then to email in reports on enemy positions. I understand a server is to be buried and installed underground in a burrow with terminals in each burrow branch opening and linked via Ethernet and fibre. I suggested at my interview they ought to maybe consider Blackberries but it seems the meer cats can’t hold them properly and they keep pressing the volume button when climbing trees behind enemy lines and they’ve tried giving them belts with pouches for the devices but they keep slipping down as they don’t have discernable waists. Personally I think they could have persevered and tried braces or shoulder holsters but I didn’t push it as I didn’t want to appear too cocky at the first interview. If I do get the job though it’ll be nice to wear my camouflage jacket and slotted balaclava again. Any way I’d better go as the brunette is doing something with aubergines and seems to have forgotten the meat again. Hope you’ve got over your jet-lag now from your Bolivian adventure. Chin up fella.
D
10 March 2006
It only took me two weeks to change the light bulb in our kitchen and this is how I did it
Brunette - "Oi ! when you've finished sglurping your breakfast, the bulb in the kitchen has blown again!"
Me - (cheerily) "Yes dear! just coming!" and as an after-thought "what wattage would that be dearest?"
Brunette - "You tryin to be funny!!??"
Me - (hesitantly) "umm, probably, umm dearest"
.
.
Anyway, I went to change the light bulb whereupon the light fitting just crumbled and broke in my hands. We needed a replacement light fitting for the kitchen. Cor a technical job I could really get into. I went out and bought a sparkly new chromed fitting from ye olde DIYe shoppe.
Wobbling on the kitchen three legged stool and on attempting to fit the fitting, I immediately noticed two things.
1) The wires coming down from the ceiling did not include an Earth - essential for this type of fitting.
2) The wire protruding from the ceiling was of the old 'rubber' type and the insulation was crumbling away.
We needed new wire ..This job was getting bigger very quickly. I may have to don my brown workshop coat and tape a pencil behind my ear - should impress them down at the hardware shoppe.
Upstairs in the box room, I merrily pulled up the carpet to reveal the floorboards which needed removing to allow me to replace the wiring. This then also revealed another problem.
1) The boards were crumbly and riddled with woodworm.
I scuttled back to the ‘olde hardware shoppe’ with tape measure in hand to purchase a tin of their finest 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment. At the same time I impressed myself by purchasing some lengths of replacement floor boarding and a reel of twin and earth.
I could tell there had been some DIY in this area before – aha! A rare chance to study someone else’s DIY techniques without them noticing me watching from the bushes. Under the floor boards should have been an albeit dark and dusty – space. Yes, space was missing. I had the dark and dusty but I was somehow missing the ‘space’ bit. It was full of old bits of copper 15mm & 22mm pipe, cut wires, broken terminal blocks, bits of brick, plaster and chunks of general masonry, spent matches, old floor-board nails, half of a workman’s cap (left side), a screw driver (large flat bladed) and a house number plaque for No.27 ! (we live at No. 32 so this was particularly worrying). Finally, there was the handle from a china t-cup. I rubbed my hands together – at least my DIY will be better than the last bloke I thought and hopped around the room on one leg (the other had gone to sleep seven minutes previously). I removed all the affected wood and carted it down stairs to the dust bin, dispersing infected wood dust around the house to ensure years of DIY pleasure for decades to come. I retrieved my workshop hoover from the shed and set about reclaiming the spaces between the joists then shut the door on the dust until the morning.
I sploshed the 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment around the area and, whilst it all soaked into the wood, read the instructions on the tin
"Keep away from cables and wiring"
"do not replace carpets for 6-8 weeks"
"Highly flammable - keep away from sparks and live wires"
"not suitable for wood"
"do not liberally splosh about the place"
yada
yada
I beetled down stairs and removed the relevant fuse (clearly pencilled “smorl bedrume”), from the Bakelite fuse-box on the wall, after, of course, first removing three tonnes of junk from in front of the afore mentioned.
Down in the sitting room the telly went off. We were bathed in silence for a short yet metric second …
"Hey! mum! the telly has gone off!" shouted the eight year old from the sitting room. I thought ... "Coo that boy’s bright – he’ll go a long way he will." Then called “Oops, wrong fuse”. I replaced that one and as none proclaimed to be for kitchen lights, removed the one marked "Dawn Stares Sokits". Prayers went out to the Mr Previous Owner - Hey presto, the box room light went out. Off I went again, up the ever lengthening stairs. I stopped and thought - Ah yes of course - although I'm working in the box-room (upstairs), the light fitting is the kitchen fitting (downstairs) - simple but deadly mistake. I'd better check and label those fuses - one flat Monday.
I examined the fittings for the light switch in the space under the floor boards and below in the kitchen - the two screws normally firmly twisted into a beam or some such were actually just poking through one of the lathes (yep lathe and plaster ceiling below). These were then prevented from disappearing into the kitchen by having a piece of wire wrapped around the two threaded screws.
After a rummage in my “Battleship Blue” shed I found just the piece of wood I needed. Pine I think, or maybe Leylandii or Horse Chestnut. Up to the box room and a short while sawing, planing and sanding later I fitted the best looking noggin you've ever seen. It fitted in all the right places, it had clean sleek lines and crisp edges. I’d waxed it as well so whom ever came after me could see the sheer quality of the DIY that I could do. Unfortunately while I was doing this, the pull-cord switch fell from the ceiling below and shattered into small fragments on the cold, hard kitchen floor. This then elicited a barrage of loud calling from below as the Brunette was mixing a practice batch of Yorkshire Pudding at the time and the shock of the crashing light switch caused her to have a sudden movement (momentous occasion) and consequently the batter mixture sprayed liberally around four walls and the Brunettes best Sunday outfit (its a Saturday).
Once I'd cleaned the kitchen, (it somehow became my job as the Brunette had to sit down and recover) I returned to the box room, gathered my tape measure, attached it to my trouser belt and popped out to the olde DIY shoppe once again - this time for a new light switch. As a rule, I’ve always found it best to visit the DIY shoppe looking as though I know what I’m doing, (hence the tape-measure) otherwise I get palmed off with something I don’t want and then have to find another shoppe to get what I really wanted in the first place, as I’m then too embarrassed to go back to the original shoppe to exchange the wrong thing for the right thing.
So, back up to the box room. Then down again to the kitchen – “up down up down up down like a whores drawers!” “What’s that?” “Nothing dearest, just up and down stairs a lot, that’s all”. I screw the new light switch through the ceiling and into my smart looking ‘noggin’. Beautiful! Both screws ‘do-up’ tightly. I trundle back up to have a look.
Back in the box room, something in the floor space sparks – “Woah!!” I jump back and fly down stairs – the fuse is not on the ironing board where I left it! “Err, Brunette?” I call tentatively, “Do you know where the fuse is that I left on the ironing board?” “Oh I put it back in the fuse box – I thought you’d finished with it” My mind wanders back to just the other evening. The Brunette was asking about my life insurance … I remove the fuse once again and place it carefully in my pocket.
Wires get replaced with proper 5A ‘twin & earth’, fittings get installed, dust and debris get brushed and vacuumed and all works wonderfully. Hoorah! The stairs light hasn't flickered since either, which is just a little strange. I cut the floor boards and screw them down – I don’t like using nails as I know I’ll only have to pull them out again and it’s always much easier when the boards are screwed down. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once.
Basking in my success with the noggin, I examine the step down into the box room – turn of the century terraces have strange configurations sometimes - there really ought to be two steps as opposed to the one glopping great cliff in place at the moment. I mentally plan re-fitting the step and making two smaller ones to replace the one large step. “It’ll be a doddle love and it will be easier for you when carrying the baby” Brunette looks at me with that knowing but doubtful look of hers. “Why don’t we sit in front of the TV tonight and share a pot of ‘half-baked’?” she says, her steely look softening. I'm already thinking about replacing the shower unit and I spend the remainder of the day replacing my tools into their proper marked places in my shed and checking my stock of plumbing bits and pieces for next weekend - it shouldn't take long surely... just remove the old shower and put a new one in its place ... surely ...
Me - (cheerily) "Yes dear! just coming!" and as an after-thought "what wattage would that be dearest?"
Brunette - "You tryin to be funny!!??"
Me - (hesitantly) "umm, probably, umm dearest"
.
.
Anyway, I went to change the light bulb whereupon the light fitting just crumbled and broke in my hands. We needed a replacement light fitting for the kitchen. Cor a technical job I could really get into. I went out and bought a sparkly new chromed fitting from ye olde DIYe shoppe.
Wobbling on the kitchen three legged stool and on attempting to fit the fitting, I immediately noticed two things.
1) The wires coming down from the ceiling did not include an Earth - essential for this type of fitting.
2) The wire protruding from the ceiling was of the old 'rubber' type and the insulation was crumbling away.
We needed new wire ..This job was getting bigger very quickly. I may have to don my brown workshop coat and tape a pencil behind my ear - should impress them down at the hardware shoppe.
Upstairs in the box room, I merrily pulled up the carpet to reveal the floorboards which needed removing to allow me to replace the wiring. This then also revealed another problem.
1) The boards were crumbly and riddled with woodworm.
I scuttled back to the ‘olde hardware shoppe’ with tape measure in hand to purchase a tin of their finest 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment. At the same time I impressed myself by purchasing some lengths of replacement floor boarding and a reel of twin and earth.
I could tell there had been some DIY in this area before – aha! A rare chance to study someone else’s DIY techniques without them noticing me watching from the bushes. Under the floor boards should have been an albeit dark and dusty – space. Yes, space was missing. I had the dark and dusty but I was somehow missing the ‘space’ bit. It was full of old bits of copper 15mm & 22mm pipe, cut wires, broken terminal blocks, bits of brick, plaster and chunks of general masonry, spent matches, old floor-board nails, half of a workman’s cap (left side), a screw driver (large flat bladed) and a house number plaque for No.27 ! (we live at No. 32 so this was particularly worrying). Finally, there was the handle from a china t-cup. I rubbed my hands together – at least my DIY will be better than the last bloke I thought and hopped around the room on one leg (the other had gone to sleep seven minutes previously). I removed all the affected wood and carted it down stairs to the dust bin, dispersing infected wood dust around the house to ensure years of DIY pleasure for decades to come. I retrieved my workshop hoover from the shed and set about reclaiming the spaces between the joists then shut the door on the dust until the morning.
I sploshed the 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment around the area and, whilst it all soaked into the wood, read the instructions on the tin
"Keep away from cables and wiring"
"do not replace carpets for 6-8 weeks"
"Highly flammable - keep away from sparks and live wires"
"not suitable for wood"
"do not liberally splosh about the place"
yada
yada
I beetled down stairs and removed the relevant fuse (clearly pencilled “smorl bedrume”), from the Bakelite fuse-box on the wall, after, of course, first removing three tonnes of junk from in front of the afore mentioned.
Down in the sitting room the telly went off. We were bathed in silence for a short yet metric second …
"Hey! mum! the telly has gone off!" shouted the eight year old from the sitting room. I thought ... "Coo that boy’s bright – he’ll go a long way he will." Then called “Oops, wrong fuse”. I replaced that one and as none proclaimed to be for kitchen lights, removed the one marked "Dawn Stares Sokits". Prayers went out to the Mr Previous Owner - Hey presto, the box room light went out. Off I went again, up the ever lengthening stairs. I stopped and thought - Ah yes of course - although I'm working in the box-room (upstairs), the light fitting is the kitchen fitting (downstairs) - simple but deadly mistake. I'd better check and label those fuses - one flat Monday.
I examined the fittings for the light switch in the space under the floor boards and below in the kitchen - the two screws normally firmly twisted into a beam or some such were actually just poking through one of the lathes (yep lathe and plaster ceiling below). These were then prevented from disappearing into the kitchen by having a piece of wire wrapped around the two threaded screws.
After a rummage in my “Battleship Blue” shed I found just the piece of wood I needed. Pine I think, or maybe Leylandii or Horse Chestnut. Up to the box room and a short while sawing, planing and sanding later I fitted the best looking noggin you've ever seen. It fitted in all the right places, it had clean sleek lines and crisp edges. I’d waxed it as well so whom ever came after me could see the sheer quality of the DIY that I could do. Unfortunately while I was doing this, the pull-cord switch fell from the ceiling below and shattered into small fragments on the cold, hard kitchen floor. This then elicited a barrage of loud calling from below as the Brunette was mixing a practice batch of Yorkshire Pudding at the time and the shock of the crashing light switch caused her to have a sudden movement (momentous occasion) and consequently the batter mixture sprayed liberally around four walls and the Brunettes best Sunday outfit (its a Saturday).
Once I'd cleaned the kitchen, (it somehow became my job as the Brunette had to sit down and recover) I returned to the box room, gathered my tape measure, attached it to my trouser belt and popped out to the olde DIY shoppe once again - this time for a new light switch. As a rule, I’ve always found it best to visit the DIY shoppe looking as though I know what I’m doing, (hence the tape-measure) otherwise I get palmed off with something I don’t want and then have to find another shoppe to get what I really wanted in the first place, as I’m then too embarrassed to go back to the original shoppe to exchange the wrong thing for the right thing.
So, back up to the box room. Then down again to the kitchen – “up down up down up down like a whores drawers!” “What’s that?” “Nothing dearest, just up and down stairs a lot, that’s all”. I screw the new light switch through the ceiling and into my smart looking ‘noggin’. Beautiful! Both screws ‘do-up’ tightly. I trundle back up to have a look.
Back in the box room, something in the floor space sparks – “Woah!!” I jump back and fly down stairs – the fuse is not on the ironing board where I left it! “Err, Brunette?” I call tentatively, “Do you know where the fuse is that I left on the ironing board?” “Oh I put it back in the fuse box – I thought you’d finished with it” My mind wanders back to just the other evening. The Brunette was asking about my life insurance … I remove the fuse once again and place it carefully in my pocket.
Wires get replaced with proper 5A ‘twin & earth’, fittings get installed, dust and debris get brushed and vacuumed and all works wonderfully. Hoorah! The stairs light hasn't flickered since either, which is just a little strange. I cut the floor boards and screw them down – I don’t like using nails as I know I’ll only have to pull them out again and it’s always much easier when the boards are screwed down. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once.
Basking in my success with the noggin, I examine the step down into the box room – turn of the century terraces have strange configurations sometimes - there really ought to be two steps as opposed to the one glopping great cliff in place at the moment. I mentally plan re-fitting the step and making two smaller ones to replace the one large step. “It’ll be a doddle love and it will be easier for you when carrying the baby” Brunette looks at me with that knowing but doubtful look of hers. “Why don’t we sit in front of the TV tonight and share a pot of ‘half-baked’?” she says, her steely look softening. I'm already thinking about replacing the shower unit and I spend the remainder of the day replacing my tools into their proper marked places in my shed and checking my stock of plumbing bits and pieces for next weekend - it shouldn't take long surely... just remove the old shower and put a new one in its place ... surely ...
It only took me two weeks to change the flapper valve on our loo and this is how I did it
“Lover?” the gorgeous brunette whispered in my ear “If I sit the kids in front of the telly and come back to bed for a while, do you promise to eat this hot, buttered, bacon sandwich?” It was of course a dream, and one from which I really didn’t want to surface.
Muffled voices from down stairs, “The loo won’t flush” more muffling and slightly louder voices “what’s he done to it?”, “bloody thing … COME ON FLUSH” sounds of persistent handle yanking – the type where you just know the handle will break off at any moment. Then silence. With the handle yanking session over (later I’d see the handle survived its ordeal) heavy footsteps appeared on the stairs. Not so muffled and becoming clearer by the footstep. “Are you still in bed?” Head around the door now, “I said, are you still in bed?” “yes dear, will you be joining me?” “No I bloody won’t – what’ve you done to the toilet? It won’t flush” “I haven’t done anything my love, I’ve been in bed” “I can see that. Get up and fix it ‘cos it won’t flush” “ok my equine brunette, I’m getting up now. You could pour some water down it for now to manually flush it” “Eh? How much water?” “Oh probably a gallon or two love, I won’t be long” Mumbled steps get fainter as the brunette descends the stairs once more. I hear mugs being moved about … the brunette calls up the stairs “how many mugs of water to a gallon?” Now, I could have said twenty, just to keep the brunette busy whilst I got up and dressed, also it would have taken far too long to explain the problems with the one-mug-at-a-time strategy but, I decided on option three and just called “ok love, won’t be a minute” and went back to getting my sock on without falling off the bed. The eight year old came up the stairs “the bog won’t flush and mums done a po …” “THANK YOU” I hastily interrupted, “yes I know and we call it a loo or a toilet in our family” “what?” “What, what?” “What do we call a loo or a toilet?” “Pardon?” “You said we call IT a loo or a toilet”. An eight year old brain at work is an awesome and rare event and he’d clearly forgotten what he’d just that second asked me. This was a somewhat strange conversation to have first thing in the morning, whilst sitting on the bed half dressed – even with an eight year old goldfish brain. Come to think of it though, maybe its not that strange, there must be many, many parents who notice conversations getting more and more difficult as their little sugar lumps race towards nine, ten and beyond. The question is really, do I persist and explain that the white porcelain bowl he so admirably and regularly misses in the bathroom is called a ‘toilet’, or do I divert his strange train of abstract thought and get him to do something vaguely useful. “Can you go down the road and buy a paper? – you can keep the change – ask mum for a quid” This should fox him. The newsagent is up the road and has been for at least the past 13 years to my knowledge but we’ll see how far he gets. Unlaced trainers scramble down the stairs to claim that ‘quid from mum’.
I took a peek around the bathroom door and quickly retreated deciding breakfast was required before anything else.
The cistern lid lifted off without any problem to expose the inner workings. There was an array of rusty bits, lime scale encrusted bits, plastic bits, remains of ‘blue-loo’ bits, a marble, a yellow Lego man with missing head, one dead bee, a large red ball on a long metal rod and a gallon or two of water. I gently moved the flushing handle to see all the levers and pulleys working. All appeared to move in unison but the water stayed where it was. I flushed more vigorously – the calm water remained. I began to yank. Then harder and harder. Rust began to fall off the inner parts of the handle mechanism and into the choppy but flush resistant water. Yanking like a man possessed I yanked to a crescendo of flashing arm movements. I sank back against the bathroom door, sweat forming on my brow and breathing heavily. What was I going to do if it did eventually flush? Would I tell the brunette to yank the handle a couple of dozen times really frantically and that it would be all right because then it may or may not flush? To be honest, if it didn’t flush with the first movement of the handle then it needed fixing so, it did absolutely no good at all to work myself up to a sweat but it felt good that I was at least doing something and they (the now huddled and whispering family) could tell I was doing something.
I knelt down and stuck my head as far as I could round the underneath of the cistern immediately recoiling, stumbling to the shower, fumbling for the tap in blind panic and drenching my head over the side of the bath. Now, I knew those firemen we see on the telly don’t really look quite so daft in their totally enclosed Germ Warfare Suits and I wished I had one. I slowly stood up and reached for the towel. I (remarkably) calmly called to the brunette that I wouldn’t even think of fixing the loo until it had been totally cleaned at least twice. The cleaner liquid and a cloth appeared through the gap in the door and then it closed again. I notice my knees are wet and realise all too late just where all the odd drips and splashes go over the weeks, months, years. I mentally shrug, recovering my composure, resigned to being germ ridden and smelly for a day or so … and silently vow never to have a carpet in a bathroom or anywhere near a toilet again.
I tore up the sodden carpet and rolled it as neatly as possible, touching it only with my finger tips and my boots. Calling to the brunette to get the front door open, I paused and waited for her confirmation. I dashed through the kitchen and the dining room – but, but “NO” the eight year old goldfish brain had arrived back with a newspaper and is now stood at the bottom of the stairs and directly in my line of sight to the front door “what doing?” he asked but by this time I was running at full tilt and could only shout “GET BACK”. He fell backward onto the bottom few steps as I rhino’d passed and on through into the sitting room and out the front door narrowly missing the milkman who was busily arranging milk bottles on my freshly tended annuals. The two year old was shouting out of the window “Yeah, Daddy winning yeah”. I tossed my carpet caber over to the right as I headed down the path and on into the street knowing our car would stop me. I thudded into the door and flattened the wing mirror, setting off the alarm. Brian, a couple of doors down, stopped polishing his car and called “Hi Derek, I see they’re building new flats in George Street then” as I collapsed against our car. Then adding “Ah, I see you’re sitting down then, Derek” as if to show off his talent for stating the bleedin’ obvious. The brunette came out and asked if it was our car alarm and the two year old was jumping up and down at the window yelling “YEAH yeah Daddy winner yeah”. Goldfish brain looked out of the front door and said “The bog won’t flush” I couldn’t take any more. I cut the top off a nearly empty, one gallon, washing liquid container, leaving a bucket sized vessel to be filled from the bathroom sink and used for flushing down the loo. Then I packed my tools away for the day, sank into a hot bath and then the sofa, in that order.
A day became three. The eight year old couldn’t understand how to flush the loo with the one gallon plastic washing liquid container.
I thought long and hard about the problem. Three days became a week …
I awoke that morning feeling suddenly and alarmingly alive. I was ready for action and capable of tackling anything. Before breakfast I’d turned the water stop cock off. Then turned it back on again when I realised I couldn’t wash or brush my teeth. Also that I would need to clean in and around the loo at least twice again before sticking my head anywhere near it. So, I turned the stop cock back on.
First of all, the cistern needed emptying. I had just the right tool to empty the cistern – a drill operated water pump. I’d seen it in Alan’s Hardware a couple of years ago and knew it would come in handy one day. And I knew exactly where it was – in my shed, under the workbench and in a wooden crate on the left – where the brunette couldn’t stumble across it and ask awkwardly “when did you get this?” and “what are you going to use this for?” I turned the stop cock off and organised my drill-pump. A few minutes later and the cistern was empty, except for a layer of lime scale and rust flakes.
It then took two hard fought hours to get the cistern off as the wing nuts underneath were rusted solid and by the time I’d got them both undone my fingers were bruised and hurting, covered in WD40 and the colour of rust, as was the toilet bowl and seat and the cistern. I lay the cistern on the floor. If I ever have to do this again I’ll soak the wing nuts in WD40 for a day or so first. I easily removed the siphon tube arrangement by undoing the large plastic nut on the bottom of the cistern and lifted the whole contraption out and onto the floor.
The old flapper valve dismantles quite easily but has the looks and consistency of an old and torn plastic sandwich bag – surely it has to be more substantial than this? I look around for something more substantial yet still pliable. I cut the flat side from the plastic container used for the flushing to now use as a flapper making sure it is a good fit but doesn’t chafe on the sides of the siphon body - the diyee shoppe didn’t stock them but my new stronger flapper will surely last for ever. I quickly make plans to make hundreds and market them. I have a brilliant idea for a TV advert campaign involving a stingray and a surfer. I visualise brightly coloured cardboard signs in DIYee Shoppes. So long as I can get hold of lots of empty plastic gallon containers I could be a millionaire. It’d be named after me - known as ‘The Flapping Derek’ – after the ‘Spinning Jenny’. I quickly reassembled everything and practised ‘dry runs’. It seemed to function as it should.
I turn stop cock back on. There was water coming from absolutely everywhere but I need to try my fabulous “Flapping Derek”. Disappointingly it takes three goes to flush and then it only flushed a bit and not even all the water from the cistern. I quickly dive under the kitchen sink and turn the stop cock off once more. I begrudgingly undo all the joints and seals, squeeze in plenty of Gutter Sealing Compound, and retighten the joints. Turn stop cock back on and two new leaks appear but the originals have gone away – at least for now. Once again I turn the stop cock off. All this is fast becoming tedious. Every five minutes someone wants to use the loo or wants to make a cup of tea or do the washing up. I have to admit to stamping my feet when the eight year old wanted to do some painting with his water paints. The brunette leaps to his defence but I counter with a brilliant “It’s the middle of July” I state the bleedin’ obvious; “he got them for Christmas, why does he need to do his painting now when I’m trying to fix the loo?” I plead. Her look stops my pleading in its tracks. I turn the stop cock back on and sulk out to the shed then wished I’d made a mug of tea first to take out with me.
I return after an hour to find painting wasn’t done as he got bored within five minutes and couldn’t decide what to paint. I turn the stop cock off.
After closely examining the fibre washers in the compression joints and the soldering skills of Mr Previous Plumber I decide to renew all the fittings and solder new joints, fit new fibre washers and new compression olives. As is normal with this type of work I quickly burn a finger on a recently resoldered joint but ha! The water is off so I can’t soak my smarting finger under cold running water – I hop around the bathroom with my hand under my armpit whilst calling to the brunette for help. She has gone for a rest upstairs and says it is my fault for turning the water off. The nearest water is in the cats bowl. I fall to my knees like some dying desert escapee and hold my finger in as little of the murky luke warm and slimy liquid as is possible while still gaining some cooling effect. I struggle to my feet and lurch back to the bathroom to finish replacing the joints and connections.
Whilst I was in the shed sulking, I rummaged in my plumbing bits box and found a brand new, still in a plastic pack, isolator valve. I carefully cut pipe under cistern 11 mm shorter (I measured it twice) position the isolator valve and tighten against the compression olives. There is no space between the radiator and the cistern but I get a little pressure on the spanners and do them up as much as possible. In my experience the compressions have to be done up as tightly as possible but joints with fibre washers just need to be finger tight then a quarter of a turn with a spanner as any more and they would distort and leak.
Turn stop cock back on – I can hear running water from somewhere … I run to the bathroom. Again there is water everywhere – blind panic search for screw driver (flat head not cross head) turn isolator valve off – there is only one leak but it could be from any one of three places. I stick a bowl under the dripping leak then clean up the standing water from bathroom floor and pack up for the day … this becomes another week.
Some days later and one afternoon, I visit ye local olde diyee shoppe to get a new ball valve assembly as the mounting thread had gone all messy and skewed on the existing one after so many attempts to stop leaks. I notice a special deal on towel heater radiators and make a quick decision to replace the rad that is too close to the cistern (I keep burning my arm on it when I’m sitting on the loo) with the towel heater as I can mount it higher meaning
a) I won’t burn my arm any more and
b) There would be enough space to tighten the compression fittings for the pipes to the loo.
Trudge home, head bowed, feet shuffling. I’m becoming older by the hour.
clean the area around the inlet hole and fit the ball valve assembly to the cistern as shown in diagram 1.8.D.
Turn Isolator valve off – stop cock remains on so the rest of the house can function while I work. Well, what d’ya know? The ball valve assembly is the wrong length and ball jambs between the siphon tube and side of cistern and I buggered it up trying to make it fit so can’t even take it back to ye olde diyee shoppe for the correct model. I sit and sob on the bathroom floor; but what’s this? I notice on the hastily discarded packaging, a note could this be the problem with most of my leaking joints?
I strip the whole thing down again and meticulously clean all the seals and joints.
A Long think and some cooking sherry later I measure the old ball valve – 13 inches from bottom to top. Wearily I slump into an arm chair and call for the local directory to check for plumbers merchants – brunette graciously reminds me “I told you to look in there first thing - a week ago”
I spy a pack of flapper valves on a hook by the door as I enter the crowded merchants shoppe – ten for about fifty pence. I make a lunging grab incase they’re the last pack on earth then clutching my pack of flappers I shuffle over to the counter and ask for a ball valve with bottom entry and it has to be about 13 inches from bottom to top. Lots of teeth sucking and head scratching later; they don’t have a special long ball valve with bottom entry but they say there is a merchant at the end of the trading estate who does have one. Payment made for pack of flappers I shuffle out to find the next merchant – they say they don’t have a long valve – “but” I tell them with desperation creeping into my tone, “the other place said you did” – “did they tell you what shelf it is on?” they ask and several other proper plumbers at the trade counter end of the shoppe laugh.
Anyway, they find one – a special silent fill model with special short ball and lever arrangement. I am expecting a special price by this time but it turns out to be surprisingly comparable to the one I got from the DIYee shoppe earlier in the day. I pay by cheque – I am told by Mr Important behind the counter “not many people use cheques these days” … I’m tempted to ask how I’m supposed to pay when I’ve got no money in my bank and at least with cheques I know I’ve got a couple of days to get some cash into the account, but I bite my tongue and just smile, lamely pretending to be some sad DIYer who doesn’t know what he’s doing…
Ridiculed but with special and correct parts I return home expecting the worst. A cup of tea is waiting for me as I walk through the front door with my purchases. I sit and read the instructions on the packets while sipping my tea.
The cistern is back together now and the loo flushes just fine although now I need to lay some vinyl tiles on the bare floor and there is still a bowl under a bend in the piping to the cistern because somewhere there is a leak which drips about once every two hours. Maybe I’ll be able to tighten the compression joints a bit when I get around to changing the radiator for the heated towel rail. If only I’d called a plumber two weeks ago, I’d have been sitting on my loo in comfort by now …
Muffled voices from down stairs, “The loo won’t flush” more muffling and slightly louder voices “what’s he done to it?”, “bloody thing … COME ON FLUSH” sounds of persistent handle yanking – the type where you just know the handle will break off at any moment. Then silence. With the handle yanking session over (later I’d see the handle survived its ordeal) heavy footsteps appeared on the stairs. Not so muffled and becoming clearer by the footstep. “Are you still in bed?” Head around the door now, “I said, are you still in bed?” “yes dear, will you be joining me?” “No I bloody won’t – what’ve you done to the toilet? It won’t flush” “I haven’t done anything my love, I’ve been in bed” “I can see that. Get up and fix it ‘cos it won’t flush” “ok my equine brunette, I’m getting up now. You could pour some water down it for now to manually flush it” “Eh? How much water?” “Oh probably a gallon or two love, I won’t be long” Mumbled steps get fainter as the brunette descends the stairs once more. I hear mugs being moved about … the brunette calls up the stairs “how many mugs of water to a gallon?” Now, I could have said twenty, just to keep the brunette busy whilst I got up and dressed, also it would have taken far too long to explain the problems with the one-mug-at-a-time strategy but, I decided on option three and just called “ok love, won’t be a minute” and went back to getting my sock on without falling off the bed. The eight year old came up the stairs “the bog won’t flush and mums done a po …” “THANK YOU” I hastily interrupted, “yes I know and we call it a loo or a toilet in our family” “what?” “What, what?” “What do we call a loo or a toilet?” “Pardon?” “You said we call IT a loo or a toilet”. An eight year old brain at work is an awesome and rare event and he’d clearly forgotten what he’d just that second asked me. This was a somewhat strange conversation to have first thing in the morning, whilst sitting on the bed half dressed – even with an eight year old goldfish brain. Come to think of it though, maybe its not that strange, there must be many, many parents who notice conversations getting more and more difficult as their little sugar lumps race towards nine, ten and beyond. The question is really, do I persist and explain that the white porcelain bowl he so admirably and regularly misses in the bathroom is called a ‘toilet’, or do I divert his strange train of abstract thought and get him to do something vaguely useful. “Can you go down the road and buy a paper? – you can keep the change – ask mum for a quid” This should fox him. The newsagent is up the road and has been for at least the past 13 years to my knowledge but we’ll see how far he gets. Unlaced trainers scramble down the stairs to claim that ‘quid from mum’.
I took a peek around the bathroom door and quickly retreated deciding breakfast was required before anything else.
The cistern lid lifted off without any problem to expose the inner workings. There was an array of rusty bits, lime scale encrusted bits, plastic bits, remains of ‘blue-loo’ bits, a marble, a yellow Lego man with missing head, one dead bee, a large red ball on a long metal rod and a gallon or two of water. I gently moved the flushing handle to see all the levers and pulleys working. All appeared to move in unison but the water stayed where it was. I flushed more vigorously – the calm water remained. I began to yank. Then harder and harder. Rust began to fall off the inner parts of the handle mechanism and into the choppy but flush resistant water. Yanking like a man possessed I yanked to a crescendo of flashing arm movements. I sank back against the bathroom door, sweat forming on my brow and breathing heavily. What was I going to do if it did eventually flush? Would I tell the brunette to yank the handle a couple of dozen times really frantically and that it would be all right because then it may or may not flush? To be honest, if it didn’t flush with the first movement of the handle then it needed fixing so, it did absolutely no good at all to work myself up to a sweat but it felt good that I was at least doing something and they (the now huddled and whispering family) could tell I was doing something.
I knelt down and stuck my head as far as I could round the underneath of the cistern immediately recoiling, stumbling to the shower, fumbling for the tap in blind panic and drenching my head over the side of the bath. Now, I knew those firemen we see on the telly don’t really look quite so daft in their totally enclosed Germ Warfare Suits and I wished I had one. I slowly stood up and reached for the towel. I (remarkably) calmly called to the brunette that I wouldn’t even think of fixing the loo until it had been totally cleaned at least twice. The cleaner liquid and a cloth appeared through the gap in the door and then it closed again. I notice my knees are wet and realise all too late just where all the odd drips and splashes go over the weeks, months, years. I mentally shrug, recovering my composure, resigned to being germ ridden and smelly for a day or so … and silently vow never to have a carpet in a bathroom or anywhere near a toilet again.
I tore up the sodden carpet and rolled it as neatly as possible, touching it only with my finger tips and my boots. Calling to the brunette to get the front door open, I paused and waited for her confirmation. I dashed through the kitchen and the dining room – but, but “NO” the eight year old goldfish brain had arrived back with a newspaper and is now stood at the bottom of the stairs and directly in my line of sight to the front door “what doing?” he asked but by this time I was running at full tilt and could only shout “GET BACK”. He fell backward onto the bottom few steps as I rhino’d passed and on through into the sitting room and out the front door narrowly missing the milkman who was busily arranging milk bottles on my freshly tended annuals. The two year old was shouting out of the window “Yeah, Daddy winning yeah”. I tossed my carpet caber over to the right as I headed down the path and on into the street knowing our car would stop me. I thudded into the door and flattened the wing mirror, setting off the alarm. Brian, a couple of doors down, stopped polishing his car and called “Hi Derek, I see they’re building new flats in George Street then” as I collapsed against our car. Then adding “Ah, I see you’re sitting down then, Derek” as if to show off his talent for stating the bleedin’ obvious. The brunette came out and asked if it was our car alarm and the two year old was jumping up and down at the window yelling “YEAH yeah Daddy winner yeah”. Goldfish brain looked out of the front door and said “The bog won’t flush” I couldn’t take any more. I cut the top off a nearly empty, one gallon, washing liquid container, leaving a bucket sized vessel to be filled from the bathroom sink and used for flushing down the loo. Then I packed my tools away for the day, sank into a hot bath and then the sofa, in that order.
A day became three. The eight year old couldn’t understand how to flush the loo with the one gallon plastic washing liquid container.
I thought long and hard about the problem. Three days became a week …
I awoke that morning feeling suddenly and alarmingly alive. I was ready for action and capable of tackling anything. Before breakfast I’d turned the water stop cock off. Then turned it back on again when I realised I couldn’t wash or brush my teeth. Also that I would need to clean in and around the loo at least twice again before sticking my head anywhere near it. So, I turned the stop cock back on.
First of all, the cistern needed emptying. I had just the right tool to empty the cistern – a drill operated water pump. I’d seen it in Alan’s Hardware a couple of years ago and knew it would come in handy one day. And I knew exactly where it was – in my shed, under the workbench and in a wooden crate on the left – where the brunette couldn’t stumble across it and ask awkwardly “when did you get this?” and “what are you going to use this for?” I turned the stop cock off and organised my drill-pump. A few minutes later and the cistern was empty, except for a layer of lime scale and rust flakes.
It then took two hard fought hours to get the cistern off as the wing nuts underneath were rusted solid and by the time I’d got them both undone my fingers were bruised and hurting, covered in WD40 and the colour of rust, as was the toilet bowl and seat and the cistern. I lay the cistern on the floor. If I ever have to do this again I’ll soak the wing nuts in WD40 for a day or so first. I easily removed the siphon tube arrangement by undoing the large plastic nut on the bottom of the cistern and lifted the whole contraption out and onto the floor.
The old flapper valve dismantles quite easily but has the looks and consistency of an old and torn plastic sandwich bag – surely it has to be more substantial than this? I look around for something more substantial yet still pliable. I cut the flat side from the plastic container used for the flushing to now use as a flapper making sure it is a good fit but doesn’t chafe on the sides of the siphon body - the diyee shoppe didn’t stock them but my new stronger flapper will surely last for ever. I quickly make plans to make hundreds and market them. I have a brilliant idea for a TV advert campaign involving a stingray and a surfer. I visualise brightly coloured cardboard signs in DIYee Shoppes. So long as I can get hold of lots of empty plastic gallon containers I could be a millionaire. It’d be named after me - known as ‘The Flapping Derek’ – after the ‘Spinning Jenny’. I quickly reassembled everything and practised ‘dry runs’. It seemed to function as it should.
I turn stop cock back on. There was water coming from absolutely everywhere but I need to try my fabulous “Flapping Derek”. Disappointingly it takes three goes to flush and then it only flushed a bit and not even all the water from the cistern. I quickly dive under the kitchen sink and turn the stop cock off once more. I begrudgingly undo all the joints and seals, squeeze in plenty of Gutter Sealing Compound, and retighten the joints. Turn stop cock back on and two new leaks appear but the originals have gone away – at least for now. Once again I turn the stop cock off. All this is fast becoming tedious. Every five minutes someone wants to use the loo or wants to make a cup of tea or do the washing up. I have to admit to stamping my feet when the eight year old wanted to do some painting with his water paints. The brunette leaps to his defence but I counter with a brilliant “It’s the middle of July” I state the bleedin’ obvious; “he got them for Christmas, why does he need to do his painting now when I’m trying to fix the loo?” I plead. Her look stops my pleading in its tracks. I turn the stop cock back on and sulk out to the shed then wished I’d made a mug of tea first to take out with me.
I return after an hour to find painting wasn’t done as he got bored within five minutes and couldn’t decide what to paint. I turn the stop cock off.
After closely examining the fibre washers in the compression joints and the soldering skills of Mr Previous Plumber I decide to renew all the fittings and solder new joints, fit new fibre washers and new compression olives. As is normal with this type of work I quickly burn a finger on a recently resoldered joint but ha! The water is off so I can’t soak my smarting finger under cold running water – I hop around the bathroom with my hand under my armpit whilst calling to the brunette for help. She has gone for a rest upstairs and says it is my fault for turning the water off. The nearest water is in the cats bowl. I fall to my knees like some dying desert escapee and hold my finger in as little of the murky luke warm and slimy liquid as is possible while still gaining some cooling effect. I struggle to my feet and lurch back to the bathroom to finish replacing the joints and connections.
Whilst I was in the shed sulking, I rummaged in my plumbing bits box and found a brand new, still in a plastic pack, isolator valve. I carefully cut pipe under cistern 11 mm shorter (I measured it twice) position the isolator valve and tighten against the compression olives. There is no space between the radiator and the cistern but I get a little pressure on the spanners and do them up as much as possible. In my experience the compressions have to be done up as tightly as possible but joints with fibre washers just need to be finger tight then a quarter of a turn with a spanner as any more and they would distort and leak.
Turn stop cock back on – I can hear running water from somewhere … I run to the bathroom. Again there is water everywhere – blind panic search for screw driver (flat head not cross head) turn isolator valve off – there is only one leak but it could be from any one of three places. I stick a bowl under the dripping leak then clean up the standing water from bathroom floor and pack up for the day … this becomes another week.
Some days later and one afternoon, I visit ye local olde diyee shoppe to get a new ball valve assembly as the mounting thread had gone all messy and skewed on the existing one after so many attempts to stop leaks. I notice a special deal on towel heater radiators and make a quick decision to replace the rad that is too close to the cistern (I keep burning my arm on it when I’m sitting on the loo) with the towel heater as I can mount it higher meaning
a) I won’t burn my arm any more and
b) There would be enough space to tighten the compression fittings for the pipes to the loo.
Trudge home, head bowed, feet shuffling. I’m becoming older by the hour.
clean the area around the inlet hole and fit the ball valve assembly to the cistern as shown in diagram 1.8.D.
Turn Isolator valve off – stop cock remains on so the rest of the house can function while I work. Well, what d’ya know? The ball valve assembly is the wrong length and ball jambs between the siphon tube and side of cistern and I buggered it up trying to make it fit so can’t even take it back to ye olde diyee shoppe for the correct model. I sit and sob on the bathroom floor; but what’s this? I notice on the hastily discarded packaging, a note could this be the problem with most of my leaking joints?
WITHOUT USING ANY JOINTING OR SEALING COMPOUNDS
I strip the whole thing down again and meticulously clean all the seals and joints.
A Long think and some cooking sherry later I measure the old ball valve – 13 inches from bottom to top. Wearily I slump into an arm chair and call for the local directory to check for plumbers merchants – brunette graciously reminds me “I told you to look in there first thing - a week ago”
I spy a pack of flapper valves on a hook by the door as I enter the crowded merchants shoppe – ten for about fifty pence. I make a lunging grab incase they’re the last pack on earth then clutching my pack of flappers I shuffle over to the counter and ask for a ball valve with bottom entry and it has to be about 13 inches from bottom to top. Lots of teeth sucking and head scratching later; they don’t have a special long ball valve with bottom entry but they say there is a merchant at the end of the trading estate who does have one. Payment made for pack of flappers I shuffle out to find the next merchant – they say they don’t have a long valve – “but” I tell them with desperation creeping into my tone, “the other place said you did” – “did they tell you what shelf it is on?” they ask and several other proper plumbers at the trade counter end of the shoppe laugh.
Anyway, they find one – a special silent fill model with special short ball and lever arrangement. I am expecting a special price by this time but it turns out to be surprisingly comparable to the one I got from the DIYee shoppe earlier in the day. I pay by cheque – I am told by Mr Important behind the counter “not many people use cheques these days” … I’m tempted to ask how I’m supposed to pay when I’ve got no money in my bank and at least with cheques I know I’ve got a couple of days to get some cash into the account, but I bite my tongue and just smile, lamely pretending to be some sad DIYer who doesn’t know what he’s doing…
Ridiculed but with special and correct parts I return home expecting the worst. A cup of tea is waiting for me as I walk through the front door with my purchases. I sit and read the instructions on the packets while sipping my tea.
The cistern is back together now and the loo flushes just fine although now I need to lay some vinyl tiles on the bare floor and there is still a bowl under a bend in the piping to the cistern because somewhere there is a leak which drips about once every two hours. Maybe I’ll be able to tighten the compression joints a bit when I get around to changing the radiator for the heated towel rail. If only I’d called a plumber two weeks ago, I’d have been sitting on my loo in comfort by now …
02 January 2006
2/1/2006 Christmas Passes
Dearest Whatsit,
It was great to see you at our Mike & Chris’ over Christmas and many thanks for tea and cake on our bedraggled return from the Natural History up in the big smoke a few days ago.
All hail to Christmas and just what is the New Year going to bring? Christmas is over, the fat bloke just got fatter, please give a treat to the old mans cat, Mystic Meg says “this is my year” but then in another paper Jonathan Cainer said the same for last year … my boss moans I don’t work hard enough for my minimum wage and the guy who does the afternoon shift wants me to upgrade his pc from millennium to XP but he doesn’t want to pay for the proper XP disks. So nothing changes and the status quo is thankfully maintained.
My doctor informs me he’s written to some journal or other to document my amazing weight-gain over this short Christmas period. Oh if only it was as easy to shed the weight as to put it on. He’s given me some tablets for my ingrown toenail and asked me to come back in two weeks – I tried to explain that it took THREE weeks to get that appointment so getting back to see him in two weeks is going to be nigh on impossible but by that time he was asking me if I was taking daily exercise. I raised an eyebrow and offered my standard reply – “what? With my weight and this toenail? then he started to go off into his ‘I always have curry-for-breakfast’ and it’s the most important meal of the day routine. I left quietly, wondering just how tablets could possibly resolve my ingrown toenail. He didn’t say but perhaps I should crush them down with a little jam or mustard into a sort of paste and daub it on to my toe like a sticky poultice? Also just how can I take one tablet, three times a day? Do I apply it then take the poultice off again to apply it again later? The brunette informs me they don’t mean take the same tablet three times a day but instead I should take three different tablets each day, one at a time and equally spaced throughout that day – well why don’t they say that then?
We are having the last of the Turkey for lunch today – grilled with the left-over lemon meringue, Stilton and parsnips. The turkey has been kept moist by being steeped, since the big day, in its roasting juices – resembling strange yellow jelly and a fizzy coffin-liquor. Our dish of nuts only has its impenetrable layer of almonds remaining and even the cats have stopped playing with those.
My tinsel has nearly all blown orf the shed. I pinned your kind and Seasoned Greeting card to the door so I could see it from the house but it blew off on Christmas eve and was last seen being mauled by the boxer dog five doors down. Our cats though, bless ‘em, have become quite attached to their Rudolf masks (£1.28 from Ye Pound Shoppe) and lash out if I get near and try to take them off. I’m sure the string and bungee straps will bio-degrade in time and will come apart so the masks can drop off.
We have a pineapple, bought because when in Waitrose one day I blurted “cor I’ve not had one of those for years”. Well, its now resolutely going soft in the fruit bowl – I wonder what we bought last year because “cor I’ve not had one of those for years”, melon probably or pate – It’ll be chestnuts next Christmas. I must get the chimney swept so I can sit whilst roasting and then burning them on our fire. Or I could bid for some chimney sweep brushes orf @Bay and do-it-meself.
On Saturday we took the first batch of broken and non-working toys back to their respective stores for replacement and a couple of “doubles” back to more astute shoppes for vouchers or alternatives. On the bus on the way in to town there was quite a crowd but we managed to find a space for the little one in his push chair and I stood with my foot wedged against its wheel to stop it roaming around the bus as the driver attempted to make up time. Once he stopped the bus and said I should sit down as he couldn’t take “free-standing passengers” I looked up embarrassed by the sudden attention and stares from 40 people I don’t know. I looked past the long row of straps placed strategically for free-standing passengers to steady themselves and bravely called that I was holding the push chair – he grumpily continued his journey at a more sedate pace. It was never like this in my day. But when was “my day”? Ten, twenty, thirty years ago? Or is “my day” now? The brunette gave me some technical and convoluted answer involving maths and the phases of the moon (I think) but I don’t believe her.
We found where all the chocolate tree ornaments had gone – under the nine year olds pillow in a foil, hair and chocolate sticky glue mix – it goes part way to explain his hyper morning moods of late even though he denies it and says “someone put them there” – now I have another flush of embarrassment – do all kids go through this stage and was I THAT ridiculously naive when I was his age? Did I lie so blatantly and without hope of being thought honest? If I did I’ve blanked it from my memory and don’t wish to be reminded.
The brunettes brilliant idea to keep fruit, veggies and fizzy pop out in the shed to keep cool until needed, worked a treat except we forgot the ‘new’ potatoes, bought for a refreshingly light turkey, pineapple and ham salad on Boxing-day – they’re all green and wrinkly now – I think that was our giant toblerone, warmed pickles and turkey curry day although it’s all a bit hazy now. Luckily Mr Obewan on the corner, opened up over the festive period so we didn’t quite run out of loo roll but it was close for a moment there, although I’m sure he hiked the price since my visit on Christmas eve to wish him a Merry non-denominational yet Festive Seasoned Greeting. However if some bugger burst through my front door over Christmas looking decidedly pale and shouting for loo rolls, I’m sure I’d want to charge a premium too. He fumbled around and tried to tell me he didn’t have change for a fiver but once I’d gritted my teeth and pointed out the risk to his sepia toned 2001 Hygienic Shoppe Award if I didn’t get loo rolls quickly – he magically found the correct change and ushered me out the door.
All in all though it was a satisfactory and pleasantly noisy Christmas and the brunette was happy with the gifts she’d bought for herself and then instructed me to wrap, although she was a bit puzzled when she opened the tin of processed peas I’d wrapped – they, apparently had got mixed up with my wrapping task during a frenzied tidy-up session and I didn’t like to question her choice of gifts so she got it to open Christmas morning. We laughed though so all was well. It’ll now most likely become one of those things done every Christmas – a tradition is born.
So, Happy New Year dear Aunty Whatsit and our very best hopes for you this year.
It was great to see you at our Mike & Chris’ over Christmas and many thanks for tea and cake on our bedraggled return from the Natural History up in the big smoke a few days ago.
All hail to Christmas and just what is the New Year going to bring? Christmas is over, the fat bloke just got fatter, please give a treat to the old mans cat, Mystic Meg says “this is my year” but then in another paper Jonathan Cainer said the same for last year … my boss moans I don’t work hard enough for my minimum wage and the guy who does the afternoon shift wants me to upgrade his pc from millennium to XP but he doesn’t want to pay for the proper XP disks. So nothing changes and the status quo is thankfully maintained.
My doctor informs me he’s written to some journal or other to document my amazing weight-gain over this short Christmas period. Oh if only it was as easy to shed the weight as to put it on. He’s given me some tablets for my ingrown toenail and asked me to come back in two weeks – I tried to explain that it took THREE weeks to get that appointment so getting back to see him in two weeks is going to be nigh on impossible but by that time he was asking me if I was taking daily exercise. I raised an eyebrow and offered my standard reply – “what? With my weight and this toenail? then he started to go off into his ‘I always have curry-for-breakfast’ and it’s the most important meal of the day routine. I left quietly, wondering just how tablets could possibly resolve my ingrown toenail. He didn’t say but perhaps I should crush them down with a little jam or mustard into a sort of paste and daub it on to my toe like a sticky poultice? Also just how can I take one tablet, three times a day? Do I apply it then take the poultice off again to apply it again later? The brunette informs me they don’t mean take the same tablet three times a day but instead I should take three different tablets each day, one at a time and equally spaced throughout that day – well why don’t they say that then?
We are having the last of the Turkey for lunch today – grilled with the left-over lemon meringue, Stilton and parsnips. The turkey has been kept moist by being steeped, since the big day, in its roasting juices – resembling strange yellow jelly and a fizzy coffin-liquor. Our dish of nuts only has its impenetrable layer of almonds remaining and even the cats have stopped playing with those.
My tinsel has nearly all blown orf the shed. I pinned your kind and Seasoned Greeting card to the door so I could see it from the house but it blew off on Christmas eve and was last seen being mauled by the boxer dog five doors down. Our cats though, bless ‘em, have become quite attached to their Rudolf masks (£1.28 from Ye Pound Shoppe) and lash out if I get near and try to take them off. I’m sure the string and bungee straps will bio-degrade in time and will come apart so the masks can drop off.
We have a pineapple, bought because when in Waitrose one day I blurted “cor I’ve not had one of those for years”. Well, its now resolutely going soft in the fruit bowl – I wonder what we bought last year because “cor I’ve not had one of those for years”, melon probably or pate – It’ll be chestnuts next Christmas. I must get the chimney swept so I can sit whilst roasting and then burning them on our fire. Or I could bid for some chimney sweep brushes orf @Bay and do-it-meself.
On Saturday we took the first batch of broken and non-working toys back to their respective stores for replacement and a couple of “doubles” back to more astute shoppes for vouchers or alternatives. On the bus on the way in to town there was quite a crowd but we managed to find a space for the little one in his push chair and I stood with my foot wedged against its wheel to stop it roaming around the bus as the driver attempted to make up time. Once he stopped the bus and said I should sit down as he couldn’t take “free-standing passengers” I looked up embarrassed by the sudden attention and stares from 40 people I don’t know. I looked past the long row of straps placed strategically for free-standing passengers to steady themselves and bravely called that I was holding the push chair – he grumpily continued his journey at a more sedate pace. It was never like this in my day. But when was “my day”? Ten, twenty, thirty years ago? Or is “my day” now? The brunette gave me some technical and convoluted answer involving maths and the phases of the moon (I think) but I don’t believe her.
We found where all the chocolate tree ornaments had gone – under the nine year olds pillow in a foil, hair and chocolate sticky glue mix – it goes part way to explain his hyper morning moods of late even though he denies it and says “someone put them there” – now I have another flush of embarrassment – do all kids go through this stage and was I THAT ridiculously naive when I was his age? Did I lie so blatantly and without hope of being thought honest? If I did I’ve blanked it from my memory and don’t wish to be reminded.
The brunettes brilliant idea to keep fruit, veggies and fizzy pop out in the shed to keep cool until needed, worked a treat except we forgot the ‘new’ potatoes, bought for a refreshingly light turkey, pineapple and ham salad on Boxing-day – they’re all green and wrinkly now – I think that was our giant toblerone, warmed pickles and turkey curry day although it’s all a bit hazy now. Luckily Mr Obewan on the corner, opened up over the festive period so we didn’t quite run out of loo roll but it was close for a moment there, although I’m sure he hiked the price since my visit on Christmas eve to wish him a Merry non-denominational yet Festive Seasoned Greeting. However if some bugger burst through my front door over Christmas looking decidedly pale and shouting for loo rolls, I’m sure I’d want to charge a premium too. He fumbled around and tried to tell me he didn’t have change for a fiver but once I’d gritted my teeth and pointed out the risk to his sepia toned 2001 Hygienic Shoppe Award if I didn’t get loo rolls quickly – he magically found the correct change and ushered me out the door.
All in all though it was a satisfactory and pleasantly noisy Christmas and the brunette was happy with the gifts she’d bought for herself and then instructed me to wrap, although she was a bit puzzled when she opened the tin of processed peas I’d wrapped – they, apparently had got mixed up with my wrapping task during a frenzied tidy-up session and I didn’t like to question her choice of gifts so she got it to open Christmas morning. We laughed though so all was well. It’ll now most likely become one of those things done every Christmas – a tradition is born.
So, Happy New Year dear Aunty Whatsit and our very best hopes for you this year.
23 December 2005
23/12/2005
Dear Dennis,
My goodness and;
you’re right! And;
It’s sprout gas and ;
I was wondering what it was!
I’m sure the sir Rita knows you’re grateful – it’s what keeps him going. He doesn’t need your thanks or praises just gratitude and then he knows it’s all been worth while. The Turk and I tried the michaelwave but what with his jumper and scarf and all, there was no way he was going in that! Pickles yes pickles “Brunette, get me my sweet piccalilli!” How do you heat your pickled onions? I find a dreamy spit on cocktail sticks over a flaming Christmas pud does the trick, that or the first use of the foot massage bath in front of that film.
Well I’m probably not going to email again this side of Christmas as I’m sure you have very important things to be getting on with. I know I have! ‘Her’ mother will be coming over and I’ve not yet drilled and screwed the saucepan rack to the wall, she gave us last time I relented and allowed her in the house.
Toodle pip old mate, hope the slippers fit
My goodness and;
you’re right! And;
It’s sprout gas and ;
I was wondering what it was!
I’m sure the sir Rita knows you’re grateful – it’s what keeps him going. He doesn’t need your thanks or praises just gratitude and then he knows it’s all been worth while. The Turk and I tried the michaelwave but what with his jumper and scarf and all, there was no way he was going in that! Pickles yes pickles “Brunette, get me my sweet piccalilli!” How do you heat your pickled onions? I find a dreamy spit on cocktail sticks over a flaming Christmas pud does the trick, that or the first use of the foot massage bath in front of that film.
Well I’m probably not going to email again this side of Christmas as I’m sure you have very important things to be getting on with. I know I have! ‘Her’ mother will be coming over and I’ve not yet drilled and screwed the saucepan rack to the wall, she gave us last time I relented and allowed her in the house.
Toodle pip old mate, hope the slippers fit
22 December 2005
22/12/2005
Dear Dennis,
Aye, abandon hope all ye who enter here … and all that.
I have now this evening broken up for Christmas. I plan to spend the evening supping Cavonia and Ginger Wine and growling at carol singers who dare darken our step without the complete and seasonal regalia and extended song-sheets. Our boss (a scotchman by trade) gave me a seasonal gift of Tesco Hamper (complete with wicker basket) and a cheeky bottle of Champers for the shed. Has the Sir Rita metered out his punishments / gifts this Christmas? All suitably watered down as they filter through the layers of managers? Do you remember the old days? Our mum (passed now these few years) used to have to get up at three or four in the morning on Christmas to ovenate the Turk – could it have been that the old town gas was not as hot as our new North Sea Gas? The Turks these days don’t seem to need nearly as long to cook. A mere three and a half of your earth hours for our specimen this year. Or maybe “they” have put something in the gas so we don’t spend as long in the kitchen and can sit for longer staring at the telly box absorbing subliminal messages – the bastards. I remember the workmen on street corners with man-holes in the open position and pipes attached, burning off the old town gas on the day of switch-over. Our gang from the neighbourhood (me, Stephen, Byron (father worked at the American airbase in Ruislip), Terence, Simon, Guy, Gordon and Andy) went from street corner to street corner asking each set of workmen “what ya doing mister?” & “when ya gonna light the flame mister?” each time getting the same reply urging us to clear orf! (it was a school day). Strangely, cough medicine didn’t work in those days either – liquafruita we used to be given – useless. How long does it take to defrost a Turkey? I asked how frozen is it? And what are the temperature settings on the hair dryer? Quite useful bits of data to know but I was soon given short shrift any way. Well it turns out that about 36 hours ought to do the trick with an operation to remove the giblets somewhere about half-time. I’ll have the kids on guard to keep the cats at bay (I’m not having that bloody thing in my shed until it stops dripping) …
Story time ... Got to go …
I love you
D
Aye, abandon hope all ye who enter here … and all that.
I have now this evening broken up for Christmas. I plan to spend the evening supping Cavonia and Ginger Wine and growling at carol singers who dare darken our step without the complete and seasonal regalia and extended song-sheets. Our boss (a scotchman by trade) gave me a seasonal gift of Tesco Hamper (complete with wicker basket) and a cheeky bottle of Champers for the shed. Has the Sir Rita metered out his punishments / gifts this Christmas? All suitably watered down as they filter through the layers of managers? Do you remember the old days? Our mum (passed now these few years) used to have to get up at three or four in the morning on Christmas to ovenate the Turk – could it have been that the old town gas was not as hot as our new North Sea Gas? The Turks these days don’t seem to need nearly as long to cook. A mere three and a half of your earth hours for our specimen this year. Or maybe “they” have put something in the gas so we don’t spend as long in the kitchen and can sit for longer staring at the telly box absorbing subliminal messages – the bastards. I remember the workmen on street corners with man-holes in the open position and pipes attached, burning off the old town gas on the day of switch-over. Our gang from the neighbourhood (me, Stephen, Byron (father worked at the American airbase in Ruislip), Terence, Simon, Guy, Gordon and Andy) went from street corner to street corner asking each set of workmen “what ya doing mister?” & “when ya gonna light the flame mister?” each time getting the same reply urging us to clear orf! (it was a school day). Strangely, cough medicine didn’t work in those days either – liquafruita we used to be given – useless. How long does it take to defrost a Turkey? I asked how frozen is it? And what are the temperature settings on the hair dryer? Quite useful bits of data to know but I was soon given short shrift any way. Well it turns out that about 36 hours ought to do the trick with an operation to remove the giblets somewhere about half-time. I’ll have the kids on guard to keep the cats at bay (I’m not having that bloody thing in my shed until it stops dripping) …
Story time ... Got to go …
I love you
D
03 December 2005
3/12/2005
Dear Dennis,
Well, my friend, this is not my original idea but it goes something like this: suppose there is a teleportation device which actually works in that a travellers awareness is actually reawakened in his travelled copy of himself on some distant planet or on the bridge of some distant space craft. What would happen if the original copy of the traveller was not destroyed – assuming that the device works as follows: The traveller is scanned and an exact copy of all his individual atoms and electrons and information regarding their exact constituents and links and bonds are transmitted to the required destination. Once the destination has received a full compliment of the travellers atoms etc they are faithfully reassembled and tested to ensure the absolute copy including all memories, intentions and hopes and deepest feelings and then the original is destroyed thereby leaving just the reassembled, awakened and fully aware traveller in his new location.
Could or would this duplicated awareness be in two places at once?
Presume some drug is administered to the traveller before the teleportation to render the traveller unconscious and motionless during the procedure.
Suppose the original traveller awoke prematurely – would the assisting technician then have to explain to the traveller
“sorry the drug wore off early but never mind your “other you” has safely arrived and is fit and well on (say) alpha-centauri, so we’ll just er, dispose of you’re “here self”, your er “redundant” copy, it will of course be painless”.
Just because a person is faithfully reproduced does it mean that person then exists in two places at once? Or are there now similar people but somehow different – just because they are made of the same atoms and electrons precisely copied ….. like a pair of books or two of the same computers perhaps ….. what makes it two different people as opposed to the same person twice?
All the best
D.
Well, my friend, this is not my original idea but it goes something like this: suppose there is a teleportation device which actually works in that a travellers awareness is actually reawakened in his travelled copy of himself on some distant planet or on the bridge of some distant space craft. What would happen if the original copy of the traveller was not destroyed – assuming that the device works as follows: The traveller is scanned and an exact copy of all his individual atoms and electrons and information regarding their exact constituents and links and bonds are transmitted to the required destination. Once the destination has received a full compliment of the travellers atoms etc they are faithfully reassembled and tested to ensure the absolute copy including all memories, intentions and hopes and deepest feelings and then the original is destroyed thereby leaving just the reassembled, awakened and fully aware traveller in his new location.
Could or would this duplicated awareness be in two places at once?
Presume some drug is administered to the traveller before the teleportation to render the traveller unconscious and motionless during the procedure.
Suppose the original traveller awoke prematurely – would the assisting technician then have to explain to the traveller
“sorry the drug wore off early but never mind your “other you” has safely arrived and is fit and well on (say) alpha-centauri, so we’ll just er, dispose of you’re “here self”, your er “redundant” copy, it will of course be painless”.
Just because a person is faithfully reproduced does it mean that person then exists in two places at once? Or are there now similar people but somehow different – just because they are made of the same atoms and electrons precisely copied ….. like a pair of books or two of the same computers perhaps ….. what makes it two different people as opposed to the same person twice?
All the best
D.
09 November 2005
19/11/2005
Dear Dennis,
I have an headache and have been excluding draughts from our windows and doors – went to go to the shoppe to get some more excluder but the door was stuck fast so had to send the boy out of the window to push while I pulled. We both ended up on the floor – well I was on the floor and he was on me. Saul thought it was good fun and jumped on us as well. The brunette has twice told me she is late this month … I reminded her I got her a sun dial last Christmas and a watch last birthday but she insists I’m missing the point. I’m nearly as old as you for goodness sake and can’t be doing with all this – am I missing something here mate? I think it could be part of some ruse to get me into full-time work again. Had the man in to fix the washing machine and guess what! he had the right part in his van! Brilliant! I’ve had trouble with my in growing toenail recently and its giving me some gip. I “operated” on it the other evening in the bathroom but swooned and banged my head on the basin. The brunette found me a couple of hours later when she got up in the night. I was sitting on the floor naked, looking dazed, rubbing my head and holding my foot. She just tutted, went to the loo then went back upstairs – apparently she thought it was another of my fantasies being acted out again. I took young Saul to the DIY shoppe today – the large inflatable Santa they’ve got frightened him so we snuck up behind it and surreptitiously punctured it with a 1½” oval nail we got from a bag in row 7 then hid round the end of the aisle and watched while it sank to the floor and the Saturday boy came along to examine it while scratching his head. Saul is not so frightened now but I pity the Santa in the next grotto he goes into. Got to go now as I’m on tea duty because the brunette is akip on the sofa and the boys want fajitas. Coincidentally we went house hunting yesterday – the brunette wants somewhere a bit bigger. I can’t see what’s wrong with our little two up two down but I’d better humour her.
Love to you and Carol
I have an headache and have been excluding draughts from our windows and doors – went to go to the shoppe to get some more excluder but the door was stuck fast so had to send the boy out of the window to push while I pulled. We both ended up on the floor – well I was on the floor and he was on me. Saul thought it was good fun and jumped on us as well. The brunette has twice told me she is late this month … I reminded her I got her a sun dial last Christmas and a watch last birthday but she insists I’m missing the point. I’m nearly as old as you for goodness sake and can’t be doing with all this – am I missing something here mate? I think it could be part of some ruse to get me into full-time work again. Had the man in to fix the washing machine and guess what! he had the right part in his van! Brilliant! I’ve had trouble with my in growing toenail recently and its giving me some gip. I “operated” on it the other evening in the bathroom but swooned and banged my head on the basin. The brunette found me a couple of hours later when she got up in the night. I was sitting on the floor naked, looking dazed, rubbing my head and holding my foot. She just tutted, went to the loo then went back upstairs – apparently she thought it was another of my fantasies being acted out again. I took young Saul to the DIY shoppe today – the large inflatable Santa they’ve got frightened him so we snuck up behind it and surreptitiously punctured it with a 1½” oval nail we got from a bag in row 7 then hid round the end of the aisle and watched while it sank to the floor and the Saturday boy came along to examine it while scratching his head. Saul is not so frightened now but I pity the Santa in the next grotto he goes into. Got to go now as I’m on tea duty because the brunette is akip on the sofa and the boys want fajitas. Coincidentally we went house hunting yesterday – the brunette wants somewhere a bit bigger. I can’t see what’s wrong with our little two up two down but I’d better humour her.
Love to you and Carol
29 September 2005
29/9/2005
Dear Dennis,
I had a dream last night in which a mate (one I’ve not yet met) and I were running from a nuclear blast at the Uni and only just made it outside the blast zone by riding on radio controlled cars to a town some miles away. Finding our cars wouldn't carry us up some irate houseowners stairs we leapt off and hid in his under stairs cupboard (the door handle got hot but we survived). The brunette was miffed that she got vapourised in the first wave along with the kids and two of next doors budgies (I don't recall what happened to the rest). What does it mean mate?
I had a dream last night in which a mate (one I’ve not yet met) and I were running from a nuclear blast at the Uni and only just made it outside the blast zone by riding on radio controlled cars to a town some miles away. Finding our cars wouldn't carry us up some irate houseowners stairs we leapt off and hid in his under stairs cupboard (the door handle got hot but we survived). The brunette was miffed that she got vapourised in the first wave along with the kids and two of next doors budgies (I don't recall what happened to the rest). What does it mean mate?
26 September 2005
26/9/2005
Dear Dennis,
I was this weekend, courtesy of the brunette, tasked with fitting an extractor fan to the bathroom and also with finishing the wiring to the new electric shower (some year and a bit after initially starting it). Even though I am struck down with a nasty cold type virus, I settled into my allotted tasks with enthusiasm and slightly pissed from a mixture of "Original Ginger Wine" and Bells Whiskey. I pulled down the ceiling I had earlier in the year, fitted so expertly and routed the fan ducting through to the outside of the flat roof and down into the cavity of the outside wall and then out again just below the guttering line. All works well and now the fan comes on just before any nasty niffs are emitted and turns itself off again just before the niff is totally expelled. I thought it odd that she insisted on a couple of dry runs "to get her aim in" - phew she whacks a hard stick when she wants to. In the dry run I had to pretend to touch the live wire and ( I thought) she would pretend to knock me off - well Dennis, for a while I thought I'd actually touched the live wire I was seeing so many stars. I thought I heard her speak (evidently she asked if I wanted to try again) and then I must have inadvertently nodded or something because she hit me again with such a whump. Of course Saul thought this great fun and ran off to get his plastic cricket bat and now keeps sneaking up on me and thwacking my head if I sit down for any length of time. Well the up-shot is that the shower works as does the extractor fan but I've had such a lump come up, my hat won't fit any more and I'm too shaky to actually stand in the shower and somehow sitting under it isn't so enjoyable as at any moment I might be walloped with a plastic cricket bat around the shower curtain but a giggling two and a half year old.
I was this weekend, courtesy of the brunette, tasked with fitting an extractor fan to the bathroom and also with finishing the wiring to the new electric shower (some year and a bit after initially starting it). Even though I am struck down with a nasty cold type virus, I settled into my allotted tasks with enthusiasm and slightly pissed from a mixture of "Original Ginger Wine" and Bells Whiskey. I pulled down the ceiling I had earlier in the year, fitted so expertly and routed the fan ducting through to the outside of the flat roof and down into the cavity of the outside wall and then out again just below the guttering line. All works well and now the fan comes on just before any nasty niffs are emitted and turns itself off again just before the niff is totally expelled. I thought it odd that she insisted on a couple of dry runs "to get her aim in" - phew she whacks a hard stick when she wants to. In the dry run I had to pretend to touch the live wire and ( I thought) she would pretend to knock me off - well Dennis, for a while I thought I'd actually touched the live wire I was seeing so many stars. I thought I heard her speak (evidently she asked if I wanted to try again) and then I must have inadvertently nodded or something because she hit me again with such a whump. Of course Saul thought this great fun and ran off to get his plastic cricket bat and now keeps sneaking up on me and thwacking my head if I sit down for any length of time. Well the up-shot is that the shower works as does the extractor fan but I've had such a lump come up, my hat won't fit any more and I'm too shaky to actually stand in the shower and somehow sitting under it isn't so enjoyable as at any moment I might be walloped with a plastic cricket bat around the shower curtain but a giggling two and a half year old.
15 September 2005
15/9/2005
Dear Dennis,
I must have missed your note about your third holiday this year - the last @mail I rmember from you was 1st August.
We trust you had a fine time and returned suitably relaxed and de-stressed. Thanks for speaking with Saul today on the telephone - I think it's important that he gets to know his "uncle" Dennis, don't you? You'll be needed to keep him grounded in this world and not fly off on tangents like his old dad. Although hopefully one day you'll explain the virtues of a good solid shed and cooking sherry.
I spent this past weekend at "Father and Son" cub camp in the rain and under canvas (all meals cooked on wood fires) Bacon and eggs every morning at 7:30, light lunch and then big cooked dinner every evening (not easy in the pelting rain) it was tiring but very enjoyable and we bonded whilst poking the fire with sharp sticks and with our fried chicken, peas and mash rapidly turning to soup in the rain.
Went to the Doc on Tuesday with my knee. He told me to do more exercise but then fell silent when I how I was supposed to exercise with my dodgy knee. As I got up to leave he told me helpfully that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and how he enjoyed curry for breakfast. I think he must have mistaken me for someone else and I smiled while closing his door quietly on my way out.
D.
I must have missed your note about your third holiday this year - the last @mail I rmember from you was 1st August.
We trust you had a fine time and returned suitably relaxed and de-stressed. Thanks for speaking with Saul today on the telephone - I think it's important that he gets to know his "uncle" Dennis, don't you? You'll be needed to keep him grounded in this world and not fly off on tangents like his old dad. Although hopefully one day you'll explain the virtues of a good solid shed and cooking sherry.
I spent this past weekend at "Father and Son" cub camp in the rain and under canvas (all meals cooked on wood fires) Bacon and eggs every morning at 7:30, light lunch and then big cooked dinner every evening (not easy in the pelting rain) it was tiring but very enjoyable and we bonded whilst poking the fire with sharp sticks and with our fried chicken, peas and mash rapidly turning to soup in the rain.
Went to the Doc on Tuesday with my knee. He told me to do more exercise but then fell silent when I how I was supposed to exercise with my dodgy knee. As I got up to leave he told me helpfully that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and how he enjoyed curry for breakfast. I think he must have mistaken me for someone else and I smiled while closing his door quietly on my way out.
D.
04 September 2005
4/09/2005
Dear Dennis,
Our dining room chairs have been successfully recovered whilst the brunette was watching Dalziel & Pascoe last evening and very comfy and smart they are too.
The bathroom had a bomb explode in it. I used an angle grinder to cut the channel for the electric (white 9.5Kw) shower cable yesterday and the dust has only just settled. The brunette will be taking the chilluns to rugby practice this morning and I shall be sneaking a bacon sandwich then soldering joints, drilling holes,wiring and changing light fittings and maybe the extractor fan right up until the Grand Prix starts - then I'll stop for a while - I usually wake up again shortly before the finish of the race - then I'll carry on with the bathroom.
Why is it that when the brunettes friends come around they all say "oh brunette, how awful, how can you live in this mess, what is he doing to your lovely house?" but when my friends come round they all say admiringly "cor you lucky bloke you've got lumber, what a great job, this'll look fantastic" and they ask for technical specifications of some of my handy work and specialised tooling. They even offer advice such as "have you fitted a non-return valve to that?" and "I connected mine to the PC via the serial port so it could automatically stop cold drips once the shower is turned off" and "dead technical ... used USB 2.8 over a very fast UAURT BiDi Centronics port with 2GHz Ethernet VGA wireless cloud mist" then we recline in my deckchairs supping home-made sherry and lying to each other about our DIY prowess and just how straight we can saw a plank of lumber and whether a tennon-saw, lump-hammer,rip-saw, hack-saw or pull-saw are the best for cutting dovetails.
I got really important stuff to do now so I'll catch you later.
D.
Our dining room chairs have been successfully recovered whilst the brunette was watching Dalziel & Pascoe last evening and very comfy and smart they are too.
The bathroom had a bomb explode in it. I used an angle grinder to cut the channel for the electric (white 9.5Kw) shower cable yesterday and the dust has only just settled. The brunette will be taking the chilluns to rugby practice this morning and I shall be sneaking a bacon sandwich then soldering joints, drilling holes,wiring and changing light fittings and maybe the extractor fan right up until the Grand Prix starts - then I'll stop for a while - I usually wake up again shortly before the finish of the race - then I'll carry on with the bathroom.
Why is it that when the brunettes friends come around they all say "oh brunette, how awful, how can you live in this mess, what is he doing to your lovely house?" but when my friends come round they all say admiringly "cor you lucky bloke you've got lumber, what a great job, this'll look fantastic" and they ask for technical specifications of some of my handy work and specialised tooling. They even offer advice such as "have you fitted a non-return valve to that?" and "I connected mine to the PC via the serial port so it could automatically stop cold drips once the shower is turned off" and "dead technical ... used USB 2.8 over a very fast UAURT BiDi Centronics port with 2GHz Ethernet VGA wireless cloud mist" then we recline in my deckchairs supping home-made sherry and lying to each other about our DIY prowess and just how straight we can saw a plank of lumber and whether a tennon-saw, lump-hammer,rip-saw, hack-saw or pull-saw are the best for cutting dovetails.
I got really important stuff to do now so I'll catch you later.
D.
07 August 2005
7/08.2005
Dear Dennis,
Thanks for your @mail I imagine your car boot punters somehow think they are making some sort of effort toward bartering, when you say "£5" and they respond with "£2 mate?" Of course, being half Greek you'll know all about the barter system and could probably tell them a thing or two. Personally I dislike bartering and always hand over whatever price they tell me and if I'm pushed to come back with an offer - I leave as it is emotionally too expensive to buy.
Today I'm going to make a fashionable (empty) wallet out of Duct Tape. I am planning a small Duct Tape / wallet workshop for the kids at my dads barbeque and I'm taking a draft of my pamphlet entitled - It took me two weeks to change the flap valve on our loo, and this is how I did it. I hope to get some constructive thoughts on my writing style and obvious skill.
Got to go now - goldfish need feeding
Good luck with your car bootering
D.
Thanks for your @mail I imagine your car boot punters somehow think they are making some sort of effort toward bartering, when you say "£5" and they respond with "£2 mate?" Of course, being half Greek you'll know all about the barter system and could probably tell them a thing or two. Personally I dislike bartering and always hand over whatever price they tell me and if I'm pushed to come back with an offer - I leave as it is emotionally too expensive to buy.
Today I'm going to make a fashionable (empty) wallet out of Duct Tape. I am planning a small Duct Tape / wallet workshop for the kids at my dads barbeque and I'm taking a draft of my pamphlet entitled - It took me two weeks to change the flap valve on our loo, and this is how I did it. I hope to get some constructive thoughts on my writing style and obvious skill.
Got to go now - goldfish need feeding
Good luck with your car bootering
D.
28 July 2005
28/7/2005
Dear Sycophantic Toady,
We got cut off briefly but have now appealed to BT’s better nature and are connected again for a while. I am on afternoons this week which is nice as I get to serve a different set of grannies.
I am pleased to hear you have survived and from what you describe; your chum had a “good send-off”. I looked up the word Cathartic from your @mail – apparently a laxative. That’ll be the drink I expect. I recall the day we scattered our mum’s ashes. All were present including us kids, dad, aunts and uncles including grandchildren. It was explained that the urn contained mums ashes and with lid removed they were shown to the kids. The time came to each scatter some – we (adults) all thought we’d take the urn and shake it gently then pass it on – unfortunately this was not what was in the grand kids thoughts and they each quickly dipped in and took a handful then with an open mouthed audience, threw it in the air …………………once the cloud had settled and much coughing, brushing of clothes and hair, eye rubbing and spitting later, decorum was recovered. It just goes to show – you can’t trust kids to think like adults, not even at important times. I expect the funeral people see it all the time but I’d never seen it done like that, not even on the telly. Later, I noticed when Aunty G was back at dads, she bent to look closely at the sandwiches, a dusting of ash settled on the plate – I thought it best to not say anything at the time and just to politely say “no thank you” when any were offered in my direction. Everyone seemed to be examining particles in their sherry – I just said dad had gone through the cork when opening the bottle – it was of course screw-top cooking sherry but they all seemed happy enough after a couple of glugs. When I took my shoes off that night the cats were sneezing for about ten minutes. Its all forgotten now though … except that I’ve just written it down so it could conceivably reach my journal of ramblings from t’shed.
I had a P11D from the factory a couple of weeks ago (I had one last year as well) detailing what I’d spent on health care this year – well I thanked them of course and asked for my money to be returned as I don’t work there and certainly didn’t ask for health care and least of all from them. They just replied and said they had removed me from their records and asked me to destroy the offending P11D – of course I sent it straight to the tax office complaining that this factory was obviously operating some scam – well not really, I’ve still got it but it is tempting.
Well that’s it for now, I’m going to iron my money belt and practice shuffling in my old brown shoes.
Catch up soon. All the best to Carol
D
We got cut off briefly but have now appealed to BT’s better nature and are connected again for a while. I am on afternoons this week which is nice as I get to serve a different set of grannies.
I am pleased to hear you have survived and from what you describe; your chum had a “good send-off”. I looked up the word Cathartic from your @mail – apparently a laxative. That’ll be the drink I expect. I recall the day we scattered our mum’s ashes. All were present including us kids, dad, aunts and uncles including grandchildren. It was explained that the urn contained mums ashes and with lid removed they were shown to the kids. The time came to each scatter some – we (adults) all thought we’d take the urn and shake it gently then pass it on – unfortunately this was not what was in the grand kids thoughts and they each quickly dipped in and took a handful then with an open mouthed audience, threw it in the air …………………once the cloud had settled and much coughing, brushing of clothes and hair, eye rubbing and spitting later, decorum was recovered. It just goes to show – you can’t trust kids to think like adults, not even at important times. I expect the funeral people see it all the time but I’d never seen it done like that, not even on the telly. Later, I noticed when Aunty G was back at dads, she bent to look closely at the sandwiches, a dusting of ash settled on the plate – I thought it best to not say anything at the time and just to politely say “no thank you” when any were offered in my direction. Everyone seemed to be examining particles in their sherry – I just said dad had gone through the cork when opening the bottle – it was of course screw-top cooking sherry but they all seemed happy enough after a couple of glugs. When I took my shoes off that night the cats were sneezing for about ten minutes. Its all forgotten now though … except that I’ve just written it down so it could conceivably reach my journal of ramblings from t’shed.
I had a P11D from the factory a couple of weeks ago (I had one last year as well) detailing what I’d spent on health care this year – well I thanked them of course and asked for my money to be returned as I don’t work there and certainly didn’t ask for health care and least of all from them. They just replied and said they had removed me from their records and asked me to destroy the offending P11D – of course I sent it straight to the tax office complaining that this factory was obviously operating some scam – well not really, I’ve still got it but it is tempting.
Well that’s it for now, I’m going to iron my money belt and practice shuffling in my old brown shoes.
Catch up soon. All the best to Carol
D
05 July 2005
5/7/2005
Dear Dennis,
I’m far too important to pass on your details to my mate The Senator Bob. He offered me the ten percent so it just wouldn’t be right would it? However I’m sure I’ll be able to fully equip (split infinitive) your shed as recompense for all you’ve done for me and my family in the past. I do, of course, blame you for everything.
Also I’ve received a summons to appear in the Royal Courts in the post this morning – apparently the Monarch wants a word in my ear about something or other. I expect she heard of my plumbing and bread making skills. They have made out the summons is from the CSA but I know better than to be fooled by that ruse. Apparently I missed some payments (nearly four grand worth) whilst I was employed at the factory (bit strange as money was taken each month without fail direct from my salary) I expect it is a mistake and someone in factory accounts just forgot to pass my money on to the appropriate account … If I were you, I wouldn’t get involved but it is interesting how the factory is still messing with my life. You’d think after this long I’d have shaken them off. All because of a silly email and my unlikely opiate addiction.
Why were your friends upstairs whilst you were Kooking? Is your downstairs telly broken? Or was it a midnight feast for a sleep-over?
As I said, I’m far too important and I have to go now
David
I’m far too important to pass on your details to my mate The Senator Bob. He offered me the ten percent so it just wouldn’t be right would it? However I’m sure I’ll be able to fully equip (split infinitive) your shed as recompense for all you’ve done for me and my family in the past. I do, of course, blame you for everything.
Also I’ve received a summons to appear in the Royal Courts in the post this morning – apparently the Monarch wants a word in my ear about something or other. I expect she heard of my plumbing and bread making skills. They have made out the summons is from the CSA but I know better than to be fooled by that ruse. Apparently I missed some payments (nearly four grand worth) whilst I was employed at the factory (bit strange as money was taken each month without fail direct from my salary) I expect it is a mistake and someone in factory accounts just forgot to pass my money on to the appropriate account … If I were you, I wouldn’t get involved but it is interesting how the factory is still messing with my life. You’d think after this long I’d have shaken them off. All because of a silly email and my unlikely opiate addiction.
Why were your friends upstairs whilst you were Kooking? Is your downstairs telly broken? Or was it a midnight feast for a sleep-over?
As I said, I’m far too important and I have to go now
David
24 May 2005
Bloody noses
I was settling down to make some bread this morning when the eight year olds school rang – he’d hit a wall with his nose and it wouldn’t stop leaking claret. I left the dough and jumped in the car. He’s gonna have a couple of black eyes and his nose is now VERY big – I took him for a quiet sit-down in A&E for a couple of hours – have you been there recently? – its moved and nigh-on impossible to find and there’s no parking. Any way the triage nurse took a look once we’d given full family history and the whole familys set of shoe sizes, then we waited for the secondage nurse to have another look … … … while we were there several builders came in (not all at the same time) with various broken or bleeding parts – obviously a dangerous job – steer yours away if you can. And a couple of care home kids with carers – one had fainted and another twisted a finger (worried about insurance claims I suppose). Do family Doctors do NOTHING these days? Well our turn came – ‘we’ don’t do anything for noses apparently – wait a few days until the swelling goes down and if it looks bent then go to ENT – didn’t even stick cotton buds up to straighten it like they do in boxing on the telly – no wonder there’s so many ugly kids out there. There didn’t seem to be a firstage nurse so we just left. Oh well he can go back to school tomorrow. I’m trying to make some tomato bread this afternoon – ordinary bread but when I knead the dough, I put in bits of sun dried tomato and olive oil – smells ok – should be done in about fifteen minutes. Could be a bit weird with butter and marmalade, more a salad or pasta type bread I expect. He’s (the eight year old) playing Xbox now – I can’t even go shopping ‘cos there was a report in the paper about truancy patrols finding most kids skipping off are out shopping with their parents – there’s nothing wrong with him but the school won’t take him back today – it’s the same if he is sick – they won’t take him for 48 hours – of course he knows this and has been ‘sick’ twice this year already – but now we’re wise and demand to see the vomit. No vomit – no stayee at homee. We gave the two year old some calpol before crèche once and made the mistake of telling them – thought they’d like to know – they refused to take him – now of course we just don’t tell them.
19 May 2005
Making Robots in the shed (Shed Robotics)
** use ROT13 for any unitelligible letter sequences **
I started with an old VDU monitor, stripped it down and tore all the heavy metal, the tube and circuit boards out, then added wheels and gearboxes a few relays and circuits, a head full of sensors through an RS232 to 8 bit I/O converter and in the base, a sealed 12v lead acid battery. I strapped an old laptop to the top with some elastic bands, plugged in the Centronics relay board and turned the whole thing on - I stood back expecting either nothing or else something really big ... it booted - I resisted shouting for the Brunette to come and see what I'd done until some tests had been carried out. It smelled ok and the laptop booted into jvaqbjf v95 - so far so good. I loaded my program to the laptop to make it drive around and avoid things - it started forwards then erupted into a very noticeable and embarrassingly large blueish/grey cloud of smoke and stopped. All the neighbourhood cats jumped off the shed roof and birds stopped chirping. The smoke wafted up through the trees. Children began to cry. Mrs Oybaqr from two doors up, took her washing in. Turned out I had the relay phasing wrong and when in the process of changing direction the relays swapped polarity to the motors ok but did it before disconnecting the current - a dead short with a fully charged battery is not a calming event (the Beta-blockers earned their keep that day) and when I jumped up to pull a wire off the battery - I nearly cut my fingers off because the wire was glowing and insulation was molten. Mental note: fit a big cut-off switch to the top of the next one and double check the relay sequencing. It took a long time for my fingers to heal and they still ache in cold weather so be warned.
Well, I examined the mess and surprisingly there was relatively little damage. Apart from smoke and finger damage, a track had burnt through on the relay board (this probably saved the old laptop from more serious damage). The power circuit for the laptop was fried as I'd tried to be clever and used the 12 volt battery to power everything including motors, sensors and laptop and when the current surge hit the power control board the chips had sprung leaks and haemorrhaged their blue smoke and it is nigh on impossible to get that blue smoke back into the chips once it has got out. Anyway I cut all the (now empty) chips out of the laptop and chopped the burnt bits of board out then wired it with a variable voltage mains adaptor to the point looking the most likely place for power input - blimey it worked - booted into jvaqbjf v95 no problem. I was on a roll. I immediately went to the corner shop and bought a lottery ticket.
The joys of neighbour watching
I have to report we have some ‘new people’ moved in next door.
The chap pulled up in a very utilitarian, box–Luton type, van (diesel) (electrical tail-lift) and deftly reversed into a very cosy space outside our house, just nudging the old Merc back a few inches – I looked at it from the window for a while but then decided it was much better where he left it than where I had on my return from the shops earlier. In any case I couldn’t be bothered to change my vest and exchange slippers for shoes to just go outside for an engagement in a remonstration. Anyway that aside, he and his significant other then spent a hectic afternoon moving chattels from the van to the house whilst our two childs looked on from the safety of the window sill and reporting anything interesting looking, to me reclining on the sofa reading the paper and watching moto GP. Anyway, evening came and with the van apparently empty, their front door was shut. Lo and behold a few minutes later the chap was out the back erecting his shed – well I have to admire his stamina and assignment of priorities. He even got the felt roof on in the rain – I waved a couple of times from the upstairs bedroom and raised my mug of tea in respect but he didn’t seem to notice me in my deckchair I’d arranged next to the window so I could see how he put the shed together – nails not screws – he’ll learn. His other came out after a while in an anorak and held a pot of clout nails presumably so he didn’t have to keep getting down off the roof when he dropped his handful. I called from the window once or twice with witticisms to keep him from flagging but as I say, I don’t think he noticed. Still, we’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted. I'll need to knock his door soon enough – I need to get him to replace his fence as it is a bit lopsided now after I nailed the cable to my shed to it and the boys keep kicking the panels – bless them.
The chap pulled up in a very utilitarian, box–Luton type, van (diesel) (electrical tail-lift) and deftly reversed into a very cosy space outside our house, just nudging the old Merc back a few inches – I looked at it from the window for a while but then decided it was much better where he left it than where I had on my return from the shops earlier. In any case I couldn’t be bothered to change my vest and exchange slippers for shoes to just go outside for an engagement in a remonstration. Anyway that aside, he and his significant other then spent a hectic afternoon moving chattels from the van to the house whilst our two childs looked on from the safety of the window sill and reporting anything interesting looking, to me reclining on the sofa reading the paper and watching moto GP. Anyway, evening came and with the van apparently empty, their front door was shut. Lo and behold a few minutes later the chap was out the back erecting his shed – well I have to admire his stamina and assignment of priorities. He even got the felt roof on in the rain – I waved a couple of times from the upstairs bedroom and raised my mug of tea in respect but he didn’t seem to notice me in my deckchair I’d arranged next to the window so I could see how he put the shed together – nails not screws – he’ll learn. His other came out after a while in an anorak and held a pot of clout nails presumably so he didn’t have to keep getting down off the roof when he dropped his handful. I called from the window once or twice with witticisms to keep him from flagging but as I say, I don’t think he noticed. Still, we’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted. I'll need to knock his door soon enough – I need to get him to replace his fence as it is a bit lopsided now after I nailed the cable to my shed to it and the boys keep kicking the panels – bless them.
It took me two days to change a light-bulb
And this is how I did it ...
Brunette - "Oi ! when you've finished sglurping your breakfast, the bulb in the kitchen has blown again!"
Me - (cheerily) "Yes dear! just coming!" and as an after-thought "what wattage would that be dearest?"
Brunette - "You tryin to be funny!!??"
Me - (hesitantly) "umm, probably, umm dearest"
.
.
Anyway, I went to change the light bulb whereupon the light fitting just crumbled and broke in my hands.
We needed a replacement light fitting for the kitchen. Cor a technical job I could really get into.
I went out and bought a sparkly new chromed fitting from ye olde DIYe shoppe.
Wobbling on the kitchen three legged stool and on attempting to fit the fitting, I immediately noticed two things.
1) The wires coming down from the ceiling did not include an Earth - essential for this type of fitting.
2) The wire protruding from the ceiling was of the old 'rubber' type and the insulation was crumbling away.
We needed new wire ..This job was getting bigger very quickly. I may have to don my brown workshop coat and tape a pencil behind my ear - should impress them down at the hardware shoppe.
Upstairs in the box room, I merrily pulled up the carpet to reveal the floorboards which needed removing to allow me to replace the wiring. This then also revealed another problem.
1) The boards were crumbly and riddled with woodworm.
I scuttled back to the ‘olde hardware shoppe’ with tape measure in hand to purchase a tin of their finest 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment.
At the same time I impressed myself by purchasing some lengths of replacement floor boarding and a reel of twin and earth.
I could tell there had been some DIY in this area before – aha! A rare chance to study someone else’s DIY techniques without them noticing me watching from the bushes. Under the floor boards should have been an albeit dark and dusty – space. Yes, space was missing. I had the dark and dusty but I was somehow missing the ‘space’ bit. It was full of old bits of copper 15mm & 22mm pipe, cut wires, broken terminal blocks, bits of brick, plaster and chunks of general masonry, spent matches, old floor-board nails, half of a workman’s cap (left side), a screw driver (large flat bladed) and a house number plaque for No.27 ! (we live at No. 32 so this was particularly worrying). Finally, there was the handle from a china t-cup. I rubbed my hands together – at least my DIY will be better than the last bloke I thought and hopped around the room on one leg (the other had gone to sleep seven minutes previously). I removed all the affected wood and carted it down stairs to the dust bin, dispersing infected wood dust around the house to ensure years of DIY pleasure for decades to come. I retrieved my workshop hoover from the shed and set about reclaiming the spaces between the joists then shut the door on the dust until the morning.
I sploshed the 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment around the area and, whilst it all soaked into the wood, read the instructions on the tin
"Keep away from cables and wiring"
"do not replace carpets for 6-8 weeks"
"Highly flammable - keep away from sparks and live wires"
"not suitable for wood"
"do not liberally splosh about the place"
yada
yada
I beetled down stairs and removed the relevant fuse (clearly pencilled “smorl bedrume”), from the Bakelite fuse-box on the wall, after, of course, first removing three tonnes of junk from in front of the afore mentioned.
Down in the sitting room the telly went off. We were bathed in silence for a short yet metric second …
"Hey! mum! the telly has gone off!" shouted Charlie from the sitting room. I thought ... "Coo that boy’s bright – he’ll go a long way he will." Then called “Oops, wrong fuse”. I replaced that one and as none proclaimed to be for kitchen lights, removed the one marked "Dawn Stares Sokits". Prayers went out to the Mr Previous Owner - Hey presto, the box room light went out. Off I went again, up the ever lengthening stairs. I stopped and thought - Ah yes of course - although I'm working in the box-room (upstairs), the light fitting is the kitchen fitting (downstairs) - simple but deadly mistake. I'd better check and label those fuses - one flat Monday.
I examined the fittings for the light switch in the space under the floor boards and below in the kitchen - the two screws normally firmly twisted into a beam or some such were actually just poking through one of the lathes (yep lathe and plaster ceiling below). These were then prevented from disappearing into the kitchen by having a piece of wire wrapped around the two threaded screws.
After a rummage in my “Battleship Blue” shed I found just the piece of wood I needed. Pine I think, or maybe Horse Chestnut. Up to the box room and a short while sawing, planing and sanding later I fitted the best looking noggin you've ever seen. It fitted in all the right places, it had clean sleek lines and crisp edges. I’d waxed it as well so whom ever came after me could see the sheer quality of the DIY that I could do. Unfortunately while I was doing this, the pull-cord switch fell from the ceiling below and shattered into small fragments on the cold, hard kitchen floor. This then elicited a barrage of loud calling from below as the Brunette was mixing a practice batch of Yorkshire Pudding at the time and the shock of the crashing light switch caused her to have a sudden movement (momentous occasion) and consequently the batter mixture sprayed liberally around four walls and the Brunettes best Sunday outfit (its a Saturday).
Once I'd cleaned the kitchen, (it somehow became my job as the Brunette had to sit down and recover) I returned to the box room, gathered my tape measure, attached it to my trouser belt and popped out to the olde DIY shoppe once again - this time for a new light switch. As a rule, I’ve always found it best to visit the DIY shoppe looking as though I know what I’m doing, (hence the tape-measure) otherwise I get palmed off with something I don’t want and then have to find another shoppe to get what I really wanted in the first place, as I’m then too embarrassed to go back to the original shoppe to exchange the wrong thing for the right thing.
So, back up to the box room. Then down again to the kitchen – “up down up down up down like a whores drawers!” “What’s that?” “Nothing dearest, just up and down stairs a lot, that’s all”. I screw the new light switch through the ceiling and into my smart looking ‘noggin’. Beautiful! Both screws ‘do-up’ tightly. I trundle back up to have a look.
Back in the box room, something in the floor sparks – “Woah!!” I jump back and fly down stairs – the fuse is not on the ironing board where I left it! “Err, Brunette?” I call tentatively, “Do you know where the fuse is that I left on the ironing board?” “Oh I put it back in the fuse box – I thought you’d finished with it” My mind wanders back to just the other evening. The Brunette was asking about my life insurance … I remove the fuse once again and place it carefully in my pocket.
Wires get replaced with proper 5A ‘twin & earth’, fittings get installed, dust and debris get brushed and vacuumed and all works wonderfully. Hoorah! The stairs light hasn't flickered since either, which is just a little strange. I cut the floor boards and screw them down – I don’t like using nails as I know I’ll only have to pull them out again and it’s always much easier when the boards are screwed down. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once.
Basking in my success with the noggin, I examine the step down into the box room – turn of the century terraces have strange configurations sometimes - there really ought to be two steps as opposed to the one glopping great cliff in place at the moment. I mentally plan re-fitting the step and making two smaller ones to replace the one large step. “It’ll be a doddle love and it will be easier for you when carrying the baby” Brunette looks at me with that knowing but doubtful look of hers. “Why don’t we sit in front of the TV tonight and share a pot of ‘half-baked’?” she says, her steely look softening. I'm already thinking about replacing the shower unit and I spend the remainder of the day replacing my tools into their proper marked places in my shed and checking my stock of plumbing bits and pieces for next weekend - it shouldn't take long surely... just remove the old shower and put a new one in its place ... surely ...
Brunette - "Oi ! when you've finished sglurping your breakfast, the bulb in the kitchen has blown again!"
Me - (cheerily) "Yes dear! just coming!" and as an after-thought "what wattage would that be dearest?"
Brunette - "You tryin to be funny!!??"
Me - (hesitantly) "umm, probably, umm dearest"
.
.
Anyway, I went to change the light bulb whereupon the light fitting just crumbled and broke in my hands.
We needed a replacement light fitting for the kitchen. Cor a technical job I could really get into.
I went out and bought a sparkly new chromed fitting from ye olde DIYe shoppe.
Wobbling on the kitchen three legged stool and on attempting to fit the fitting, I immediately noticed two things.
1) The wires coming down from the ceiling did not include an Earth - essential for this type of fitting.
2) The wire protruding from the ceiling was of the old 'rubber' type and the insulation was crumbling away.
We needed new wire ..This job was getting bigger very quickly. I may have to don my brown workshop coat and tape a pencil behind my ear - should impress them down at the hardware shoppe.
Upstairs in the box room, I merrily pulled up the carpet to reveal the floorboards which needed removing to allow me to replace the wiring. This then also revealed another problem.
1) The boards were crumbly and riddled with woodworm.
I scuttled back to the ‘olde hardware shoppe’ with tape measure in hand to purchase a tin of their finest 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment.
At the same time I impressed myself by purchasing some lengths of replacement floor boarding and a reel of twin and earth.
I could tell there had been some DIY in this area before – aha! A rare chance to study someone else’s DIY techniques without them noticing me watching from the bushes. Under the floor boards should have been an albeit dark and dusty – space. Yes, space was missing. I had the dark and dusty but I was somehow missing the ‘space’ bit. It was full of old bits of copper 15mm & 22mm pipe, cut wires, broken terminal blocks, bits of brick, plaster and chunks of general masonry, spent matches, old floor-board nails, half of a workman’s cap (left side), a screw driver (large flat bladed) and a house number plaque for No.27 ! (we live at No. 32 so this was particularly worrying). Finally, there was the handle from a china t-cup. I rubbed my hands together – at least my DIY will be better than the last bloke I thought and hopped around the room on one leg (the other had gone to sleep seven minutes previously). I removed all the affected wood and carted it down stairs to the dust bin, dispersing infected wood dust around the house to ensure years of DIY pleasure for decades to come. I retrieved my workshop hoover from the shed and set about reclaiming the spaces between the joists then shut the door on the dust until the morning.
I sploshed the 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment around the area and, whilst it all soaked into the wood, read the instructions on the tin
"Keep away from cables and wiring"
"do not replace carpets for 6-8 weeks"
"Highly flammable - keep away from sparks and live wires"
"not suitable for wood"
"do not liberally splosh about the place"
yada
yada
I beetled down stairs and removed the relevant fuse (clearly pencilled “smorl bedrume”), from the Bakelite fuse-box on the wall, after, of course, first removing three tonnes of junk from in front of the afore mentioned.
Down in the sitting room the telly went off. We were bathed in silence for a short yet metric second …
"Hey! mum! the telly has gone off!" shouted Charlie from the sitting room. I thought ... "Coo that boy’s bright – he’ll go a long way he will." Then called “Oops, wrong fuse”. I replaced that one and as none proclaimed to be for kitchen lights, removed the one marked "Dawn Stares Sokits". Prayers went out to the Mr Previous Owner - Hey presto, the box room light went out. Off I went again, up the ever lengthening stairs. I stopped and thought - Ah yes of course - although I'm working in the box-room (upstairs), the light fitting is the kitchen fitting (downstairs) - simple but deadly mistake. I'd better check and label those fuses - one flat Monday.
I examined the fittings for the light switch in the space under the floor boards and below in the kitchen - the two screws normally firmly twisted into a beam or some such were actually just poking through one of the lathes (yep lathe and plaster ceiling below). These were then prevented from disappearing into the kitchen by having a piece of wire wrapped around the two threaded screws.
After a rummage in my “Battleship Blue” shed I found just the piece of wood I needed. Pine I think, or maybe Horse Chestnut. Up to the box room and a short while sawing, planing and sanding later I fitted the best looking noggin you've ever seen. It fitted in all the right places, it had clean sleek lines and crisp edges. I’d waxed it as well so whom ever came after me could see the sheer quality of the DIY that I could do. Unfortunately while I was doing this, the pull-cord switch fell from the ceiling below and shattered into small fragments on the cold, hard kitchen floor. This then elicited a barrage of loud calling from below as the Brunette was mixing a practice batch of Yorkshire Pudding at the time and the shock of the crashing light switch caused her to have a sudden movement (momentous occasion) and consequently the batter mixture sprayed liberally around four walls and the Brunettes best Sunday outfit (its a Saturday).
Once I'd cleaned the kitchen, (it somehow became my job as the Brunette had to sit down and recover) I returned to the box room, gathered my tape measure, attached it to my trouser belt and popped out to the olde DIY shoppe once again - this time for a new light switch. As a rule, I’ve always found it best to visit the DIY shoppe looking as though I know what I’m doing, (hence the tape-measure) otherwise I get palmed off with something I don’t want and then have to find another shoppe to get what I really wanted in the first place, as I’m then too embarrassed to go back to the original shoppe to exchange the wrong thing for the right thing.
So, back up to the box room. Then down again to the kitchen – “up down up down up down like a whores drawers!” “What’s that?” “Nothing dearest, just up and down stairs a lot, that’s all”. I screw the new light switch through the ceiling and into my smart looking ‘noggin’. Beautiful! Both screws ‘do-up’ tightly. I trundle back up to have a look.
Back in the box room, something in the floor sparks – “Woah!!” I jump back and fly down stairs – the fuse is not on the ironing board where I left it! “Err, Brunette?” I call tentatively, “Do you know where the fuse is that I left on the ironing board?” “Oh I put it back in the fuse box – I thought you’d finished with it” My mind wanders back to just the other evening. The Brunette was asking about my life insurance … I remove the fuse once again and place it carefully in my pocket.
Wires get replaced with proper 5A ‘twin & earth’, fittings get installed, dust and debris get brushed and vacuumed and all works wonderfully. Hoorah! The stairs light hasn't flickered since either, which is just a little strange. I cut the floor boards and screw them down – I don’t like using nails as I know I’ll only have to pull them out again and it’s always much easier when the boards are screwed down. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once.
Basking in my success with the noggin, I examine the step down into the box room – turn of the century terraces have strange configurations sometimes - there really ought to be two steps as opposed to the one glopping great cliff in place at the moment. I mentally plan re-fitting the step and making two smaller ones to replace the one large step. “It’ll be a doddle love and it will be easier for you when carrying the baby” Brunette looks at me with that knowing but doubtful look of hers. “Why don’t we sit in front of the TV tonight and share a pot of ‘half-baked’?” she says, her steely look softening. I'm already thinking about replacing the shower unit and I spend the remainder of the day replacing my tools into their proper marked places in my shed and checking my stock of plumbing bits and pieces for next weekend - it shouldn't take long surely... just remove the old shower and put a new one in its place ... surely ...
11 May 2005
11/5/2005
Dear Dennis,
Why is it that you choose to reply to some of my communications but not others? If we were standing together in the quad at your factory you’d respond to every aspect of conversation. Do you somehow imagine that is acceptable for you to pick and choose which aspects of communication you respond to? Well, I have recognized your strategy and plan to only reference a single topic from now on, in each email or text.
I have applied at the Town Museum for a job as artifact labeler – I imagine I have to write those cardboard labels normally sellotaped to pictures and statues and the like ……………. Picture of Horse ………. Or …………. Really old statue. I have again written you in as a referee and have agreed that they can contact you if they really think you’d reply. Although I have advised them to keep it singular to save your confusion.
Why is it that you choose to reply to some of my communications but not others? If we were standing together in the quad at your factory you’d respond to every aspect of conversation. Do you somehow imagine that is acceptable for you to pick and choose which aspects of communication you respond to? Well, I have recognized your strategy and plan to only reference a single topic from now on, in each email or text.
I have applied at the Town Museum for a job as artifact labeler – I imagine I have to write those cardboard labels normally sellotaped to pictures and statues and the like ……………. Picture of Horse ………. Or …………. Really old statue. I have again written you in as a referee and have agreed that they can contact you if they really think you’d reply. Although I have advised them to keep it singular to save your confusion.
04 May 2005
4/5/2005
Dear Dennis,
I firstly wish to inform you I have published a new recip on my web site and the fudge link is on the index page in the normal manner.
So here goes – Dennis, I have put a recip for fudge on my web site.
I purchased a vest the other day whilst mooching in town. The brunette is threatening to tell all my friends if I continue to wear it in bed, however seeing as you are my only friend, I considered it polite to inform you first myself. It is a white string vest and it keeps me cool in summer and warm in winter and has smooth stitched seams.
My feet are giving me jip in this weather and the arthritis in my big toe causes me to wince at every step.
Saul has learned a new trick – he made blood come out of his lip and his nose at the same time last Saturday – tripped and bit our back concrete step. It made me feel right queer I can tell you – the brunette refused to look so I held him tight with a cold flannel until his sobs subsided. He is fine now – just a few days later and you’d never know – if it had been me I’d have had a three week stay in hospital I can tell you. Strangely the cats didn’t lick the blood drips from the step.
All the best eh
D
I firstly wish to inform you I have published a new recip on my web site and the fudge link is on the index page in the normal manner.
So here goes – Dennis, I have put a recip for fudge on my web site.
I purchased a vest the other day whilst mooching in town. The brunette is threatening to tell all my friends if I continue to wear it in bed, however seeing as you are my only friend, I considered it polite to inform you first myself. It is a white string vest and it keeps me cool in summer and warm in winter and has smooth stitched seams.
My feet are giving me jip in this weather and the arthritis in my big toe causes me to wince at every step.
Saul has learned a new trick – he made blood come out of his lip and his nose at the same time last Saturday – tripped and bit our back concrete step. It made me feel right queer I can tell you – the brunette refused to look so I held him tight with a cold flannel until his sobs subsided. He is fine now – just a few days later and you’d never know – if it had been me I’d have had a three week stay in hospital I can tell you. Strangely the cats didn’t lick the blood drips from the step.
All the best eh
D
26 April 2005
26/4/2005
Dear Dennis,
Sincere apologies – it appears my ‘tome of the other day’ could have been rejected by some yahoo type emailer service … never mind, I have reproduced it here as I wouldn’t wish you to miss anything I have to say :..
The brunette has informed me it is no longer ‘cool’ to tuck my t’shirt inside my trousers – when was this decision made? I didn’t notice any article in the ‘Shed Times’ regarding this matter.
………………..
The involvement of Sappho is probably as good a guess as any and indeed to my prejudiced 1950’s & 60’s upbringing, seems to have elicited a string of brightly clothed visitors to next door with various and strangely coiffeured hair pieces and some with dogs pulled along on bits of rope. I saw the girls gaily chatting in their garden the other day and the one who was hammering nails into their shed roof (I shall call this one Bob) never seems to do any washing up so that proves it. And whilst ‘Bob’ was erecting some netting affaire to retain the rabbits, I bravely lent ‘him’ my cordless – ‘he’ was very appreciative and applied the correct grip straight away, whereas ‘Joan’ could only offer “I’ve never had much luck with those things”. The cordless was returned promptly the next day although the battery was flat. I quickly returned it to the dusty corner (back, left) in the shed to recover its patina (I think it had been polished) and shed-like odour. I notice Gary (next door the other side) has taken to wearing a long peaked cap whenever he has to go down to his shed – presumably he doesn’t wish to be noticed staring. Personally I’ve cleared a space in our Charlies bedroom, next to the window and I’ve cut a hole in his curtain just the size to fit my new binoculars – I can only report at this time that the rabbits seem to be functioning ‘normally’.
More some other time my friend
D
Sincere apologies – it appears my ‘tome of the other day’ could have been rejected by some yahoo type emailer service … never mind, I have reproduced it here as I wouldn’t wish you to miss anything I have to say :..
The brunette has informed me it is no longer ‘cool’ to tuck my t’shirt inside my trousers – when was this decision made? I didn’t notice any article in the ‘Shed Times’ regarding this matter.
………………..
The involvement of Sappho is probably as good a guess as any and indeed to my prejudiced 1950’s & 60’s upbringing, seems to have elicited a string of brightly clothed visitors to next door with various and strangely coiffeured hair pieces and some with dogs pulled along on bits of rope. I saw the girls gaily chatting in their garden the other day and the one who was hammering nails into their shed roof (I shall call this one Bob) never seems to do any washing up so that proves it. And whilst ‘Bob’ was erecting some netting affaire to retain the rabbits, I bravely lent ‘him’ my cordless – ‘he’ was very appreciative and applied the correct grip straight away, whereas ‘Joan’ could only offer “I’ve never had much luck with those things”. The cordless was returned promptly the next day although the battery was flat. I quickly returned it to the dusty corner (back, left) in the shed to recover its patina (I think it had been polished) and shed-like odour. I notice Gary (next door the other side) has taken to wearing a long peaked cap whenever he has to go down to his shed – presumably he doesn’t wish to be noticed staring. Personally I’ve cleared a space in our Charlies bedroom, next to the window and I’ve cut a hole in his curtain just the size to fit my new binoculars – I can only report at this time that the rabbits seem to be functioning ‘normally’.
More some other time my friend
D
22 April 2005
22/4/2005
Uh, I made a mistake – the guy next door is a bird – I just presumed as this anorak clothed figure hammered nails into their shed roof. In fact two fair maidens live next door to us now and the shed is not for tools in appropriately painted shapes on peg-board walls but instead for rabbits – waste of a fairly good decent shed if you ask me but I expect they know what they’re doing. They’ve also erected a substantial cage type pen around the shed to house their collection of budgies – collective noun for budgerigars? [cage-full] perhaps or even a dyke of budgies? Any road up the kids are excited at the prospect of a petting and poking zoo next door and the cats have taken to spending the daytime splayed out on the pen roof. They get quite a collection some days, especially when it is warm and sunny. You’ve not commented on my money making scheme from my previous tome … I take your silence as tacit approval and you’re just waiting to see if I survive long enough to spend it? I wrote a letter to our local paper recently, complaining about our local MP – he replied and accused me of “fashionable sarcasm” well that’s the last time I vote the Raving Looney’s in.
How was your migraine? Worth much? Did you get yur mug on TV?
I had an email from my web hoster saying my site was the highest of the month at 800 something hits – thanks mate – keep it up. Have you and Carol tried my recipes yet?
When will you be down our way again?
How was your migraine? Worth much? Did you get yur mug on TV?
I had an email from my web hoster saying my site was the highest of the month at 800 something hits – thanks mate – keep it up. Have you and Carol tried my recipes yet?
When will you be down our way again?
18 April 2005
18/4/2005
Dear Dennis,
I have to report we have some ‘new people’ moved in next door.
The chap pulled up in a very utilitarian box – Luton type van (diesel) (electrical tail-lift) and deftly reversed into a very cosy space outside our house and just nudging the merc back a few inches – I looked at it for a while but then decided it was much better where he had left it than where I had on my return from the shops earlier. In any case I couldn’t be bothered to change my vest just to engage in a remonstration. Anyway, he and his significant other then spent a hectic afternoon moving chattels from the van to the house whilst our two childs looked on from the safety of the window sill and reporting anything interesting looking to me reclining on the sofa. Evening came and with the van apparently empty, their front door was shut – low and behold a few minutes later the chap was out the back erecting his shed – well I have to admire his stamina and assignment of priorities. He even got the felt roof on in the rain – I waved a couple of times from the upstairs bedroom and raised my mug of tea in respect but he didn’t seem to notice me in my deckchair which I’d arranged next to the window so I could see how he put the shed together – nails not screws – he’ll learn. His other came out after a while in an anorak and held a pot of clout nails presumably so he didn’t have to keep getting down off the roof when he dropped his handful. I called from the window once or twice with witticisms to keep him from flagging but as I say, I don’t think he noticed. Still, we’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted – I need to get him to replace his fence as it is a bit lopsided now after I nailed the cable to my shed to it and the boys keep kicking the panels – bless them.
Kind regards
I have to report we have some ‘new people’ moved in next door.
The chap pulled up in a very utilitarian box – Luton type van (diesel) (electrical tail-lift) and deftly reversed into a very cosy space outside our house and just nudging the merc back a few inches – I looked at it for a while but then decided it was much better where he had left it than where I had on my return from the shops earlier. In any case I couldn’t be bothered to change my vest just to engage in a remonstration. Anyway, he and his significant other then spent a hectic afternoon moving chattels from the van to the house whilst our two childs looked on from the safety of the window sill and reporting anything interesting looking to me reclining on the sofa. Evening came and with the van apparently empty, their front door was shut – low and behold a few minutes later the chap was out the back erecting his shed – well I have to admire his stamina and assignment of priorities. He even got the felt roof on in the rain – I waved a couple of times from the upstairs bedroom and raised my mug of tea in respect but he didn’t seem to notice me in my deckchair which I’d arranged next to the window so I could see how he put the shed together – nails not screws – he’ll learn. His other came out after a while in an anorak and held a pot of clout nails presumably so he didn’t have to keep getting down off the roof when he dropped his handful. I called from the window once or twice with witticisms to keep him from flagging but as I say, I don’t think he noticed. Still, we’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted – I need to get him to replace his fence as it is a bit lopsided now after I nailed the cable to my shed to it and the boys keep kicking the panels – bless them.
Kind regards
23 March 2005
23/3/2005
Fve,
Ba zl jnl vagb Ernqvat ba gur N4, V fnj n fvta cbvagvat gb “Pvgl Prager” – V pbhyqa’g jbex bhg juvpu jnf pybfrfg, Ybaqba be Bksbeq – va nal pnfr, gb juvpu Pvgl ner gur ebnq fvtaf ersreevat? Jul ba rnegu vf Ernqvat Pbhapvy jnfgvat zbarl ba fvtaf yvxr gung? Gurl znl nf jryy chg hc fvtaf cbvagvat gur jnl gb Jnyrf be Tbq sbeovq, Ovezvatunz sbe nyy gur hfr gurl ner.
Orfg Ertneqf
Qnivq
Ba zl jnl vagb Ernqvat ba gur N4, V fnj n fvta cbvagvat gb “Pvgl Prager” – V pbhyqa’g jbex bhg juvpu jnf pybfrfg, Ybaqba be Bksbeq – va nal pnfr, gb juvpu Pvgl ner gur ebnq fvtaf ersreevat? Jul ba rnegu vf Ernqvat Pbhapvy jnfgvat zbarl ba fvtaf yvxr gung? Gurl znl nf jryy chg hc fvtaf cbvagvat gur jnl gb Jnyrf be Tbq sbeovq, Ovezvatunz sbe nyy gur hfr gurl ner.
Orfg Ertneqf
Qnivq
12 March 2005
12/3/2005
Dear Dennis,
If I receive an invite to a party, however I cannot attend due to some prior arrangement. Am I entitled to request a ‘doggy-bag’ of the food and drink I would have consumed had I actually attended?
D
If I receive an invite to a party, however I cannot attend due to some prior arrangement. Am I entitled to request a ‘doggy-bag’ of the food and drink I would have consumed had I actually attended?
D
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)