It was the morning after the confrontation with the owners of Flat A. about the deluge.
So I knocked on the door of Flat A, after two attempts one of the tenants answered, a youngish blonded woman, who I recognised from the last attempt at repair to the entrance door into Faeces Close. On that occasion I had enquired if she still had a key to the door and was met with a blank look, but not just a blank look it was more like the deceased Patrick Swayze addressing Demi Moore in 'Ghost', was I in another dimension?
Anyway when she came to the door she blanked me out as much as anyone could blank out someone who's just knocked on the front door, "It's about the water leaking from the flat above"
(Blank)
"I from up there, water drip, drip is happening now?"
(Blank)
"WATER, DOWN, COMING IS NOW?"
"I no.. understand..."
Ascertaining when, if ever, this plumbing problem is cured could be a protracted business.
30th March. A Love Renewed.
Curiously after yesterday's venting of steam and magmatic gases, the tectonic plates of matrimony seem to have shifted a little then settled again. The tremendous stresses that had been building up along the fault line have been relieved.
Driving back along the dual-carriageway, as we passed the Hotel on the east bound side, thoughts wandered to that original honeymoon stop-over with the then 'soon-to-be' mother of 'Junior'. It occured that 2007 would have been the 25th Wedding Anniversary, Silver in fact.
Although it may as well have been 30 million years ago when the Americas broke away from the continent of Africa, certainly a devastating upheaval. Then the Atlantic rushed in and filled the enormous rift between them, and that was that.
Driving back along the dual-carriageway, as we passed the Hotel on the east bound side, thoughts wandered to that original honeymoon stop-over with the then 'soon-to-be' mother of 'Junior'. It occured that 2007 would have been the 25th Wedding Anniversary, Silver in fact.
Although it may as well have been 30 million years ago when the Americas broke away from the continent of Africa, certainly a devastating upheaval. Then the Atlantic rushed in and filled the enormous rift between them, and that was that.
29th March. Versuvius Enacted.
What with the cat's bladder and what have you, I'm afraid I lost the plot this morning in a frenzied attack on the washing-up shortly before leaving late for Mr J's rubble-ized house. This resulted in several dish breakages and a laceration to the right index finger.
Isabelle gave me a good whacking with the plastic dish drainer but told me later that she "Still liked me deep down despite being VERY pissed-off at the time".
These eruptions seem to occur with a frequency of about once every ten years, then the most we can say is that the volcano is 'dormant'. To say it was 'extinct' would be a mistake but perhaps I exaggerate, it was nothing like Mount St Helens or Krakatoa.
Isabelle gave me a good whacking with the plastic dish drainer but told me later that she "Still liked me deep down despite being VERY pissed-off at the time".
These eruptions seem to occur with a frequency of about once every ten years, then the most we can say is that the volcano is 'dormant'. To say it was 'extinct' would be a mistake but perhaps I exaggerate, it was nothing like Mount St Helens or Krakatoa.
28th March. My e-Bay Wetsuit.
On the return from another rubble-filled day in Chimney World I stopped off to make an assessment of the local watercourse. This was with a view to stepping up from the indoor heated 'Leisure' Pool to the real work of ploughing through the considerably more head numbing River Earn.
Anticipating another delivery from e-Bay, this time of a secondhand wetsuit ('Used once') and reputed to be specific to swimming, I thought it best to reconnoiter the riverbank with a view to immersion before the weather and the water warms up fully.
Despite all the news about Scotttish salmon dying in their thousands because a water temperature of 20 degrees C. is apparently lethal, the Earn felt like it was a good bit less than that today when I stuck my hand in for about two seconds...
Another worry, besides the temperature and the possibility of drowning, will be the avoidance of entanglement with local anglers and their paraphernalia.
If all else fails I, or indeed Isabelle, can always re-advertise the wetsuit as 'used twice'.
Anticipating another delivery from e-Bay, this time of a secondhand wetsuit ('Used once') and reputed to be specific to swimming, I thought it best to reconnoiter the riverbank with a view to immersion before the weather and the water warms up fully.
Despite all the news about Scotttish salmon dying in their thousands because a water temperature of 20 degrees C. is apparently lethal, the Earn felt like it was a good bit less than that today when I stuck my hand in for about two seconds...
Another worry, besides the temperature and the possibility of drowning, will be the avoidance of entanglement with local anglers and their paraphernalia.
If all else fails I, or indeed Isabelle, can always re-advertise the wetsuit as 'used twice'.
27th March. Dr Romanov and The Bicycle.
Unless Dr. Romanov's centre of gravity is substantially altered by an immense beer belly his advice concerning maximum cycling efficiency may involve taking a hacksaw to my brothers bike.
This information came to light once the bicycle was connected to the giant hamster wheel. According to the Doctor, the weight of one's body is most effective when above the pushing of the pedals. Thus one is in effect permanently falling over the handlebars and gravity does all the work.
His idea is that one cannot push any harder than one's own weight (true enough). This is the maximum force that could ever be exerted. It's possible then that a massively overdeveloped stomach when coupled with the correct seating position could be a winner... but only in The Tour de France, probably not in a Triathlon.
This information came to light once the bicycle was connected to the giant hamster wheel. According to the Doctor, the weight of one's body is most effective when above the pushing of the pedals. Thus one is in effect permanently falling over the handlebars and gravity does all the work.
His idea is that one cannot push any harder than one's own weight (true enough). This is the maximum force that could ever be exerted. It's possible then that a massively overdeveloped stomach when coupled with the correct seating position could be a winner... but only in The Tour de France, probably not in a Triathlon.
26th March. Happy Arsemas.
Scarred for life and yet that unseemly boil has acted as a spur to action for precisely one calendar year.
I must congratulate my bottom. Of course it's an ill wind indeed that blows no good, those voracious bacteria acted as a timely mid-life shot across the bows together with the laboured breathing of my fellow patients on the ward during that brief hospitalization. Sadly some of these will no doubt have breathed their last, before this anniversary.
I had to sit and twiddle my thumbs tonight for at least an hour whilst Isabelle was 'giving a talk' in Dundee. From the vantage of the car park I could see that piece of kinetic public art redolent of H G Wells' War of the Worlds. The surroundings have certainly changed since the day I played some part in its final placement. That day, one of the main problems concerned emptying ones bladder at such a conspicuous site.
Anyway, over a decade has passed since, I'm surprised it's still standing and capable of movement, a bit like me...
I must congratulate my bottom. Of course it's an ill wind indeed that blows no good, those voracious bacteria acted as a timely mid-life shot across the bows together with the laboured breathing of my fellow patients on the ward during that brief hospitalization. Sadly some of these will no doubt have breathed their last, before this anniversary.
I had to sit and twiddle my thumbs tonight for at least an hour whilst Isabelle was 'giving a talk' in Dundee. From the vantage of the car park I could see that piece of kinetic public art redolent of H G Wells' War of the Worlds. The surroundings have certainly changed since the day I played some part in its final placement. That day, one of the main problems concerned emptying ones bladder at such a conspicuous site.
Anyway, over a decade has passed since, I'm surprised it's still standing and capable of movement, a bit like me...
25th March. Labels for this post: bore, running, Dr. Romanov.
When it comes to running 10k I'm hoping to steal a march on the other competitors by following the techniques of one Dr Romanov. No relation, presumably, to The House of Romanov last imperial dynasty of Russia, although maybe that explains why the good Doctor's shacked up in Florida?
There always seems to be some special credibility lent to anyone with a name like Dr Romanov particularly when coupled with the mystique of a heavy foreign accent. Dr Romanov's techniques seem to revolve around letting gravity do the work, ie falling, I mean, for instance it would be difficult to run if you were weightless in space.
Of course it's all fascinating to me, if no one else. As Junior was fond of telling me "I only had three topics of conversation":
1. Posture
2. The screenplay to If..
and
3. I can't actually remember what the third one was, I'll have to ask.
There always seems to be some special credibility lent to anyone with a name like Dr Romanov particularly when coupled with the mystique of a heavy foreign accent. Dr Romanov's techniques seem to revolve around letting gravity do the work, ie falling, I mean, for instance it would be difficult to run if you were weightless in space.
Of course it's all fascinating to me, if no one else. As Junior was fond of telling me "I only had three topics of conversation":
1. Posture
2. The screenplay to If..
and
3. I can't actually remember what the third one was, I'll have to ask.
24th March. When People That Live Here Die.
Just in case we were both killed on the M90, Isabelle felt it necessary to leave word about Tigger, who wasn't coming to Edinburgh and was staying in the kitchen, because if we died no one would know and Tigger's bladder would explode (see previous).
After a few days, as well as the dead cat, they would find on the kitchen table a pair of 'Shimano Dura Ace' pedals awaiting fitment, and a cheap heart rate monitor. They'd say "Well, he's never going to do that Triathlon now, is he? Some of this stuff might fetch a bit on e-bay, otherwise the rest can go to charity shops. And oh, can you phone Holden's Environmental for a skip"?
A couple of days should be enough to completely clear away one's existence. Well, three days maximum, that's how long it took me to destroy the remaining evidence of the previous owners thirty year occupancy of this house.
After a few days, as well as the dead cat, they would find on the kitchen table a pair of 'Shimano Dura Ace' pedals awaiting fitment, and a cheap heart rate monitor. They'd say "Well, he's never going to do that Triathlon now, is he? Some of this stuff might fetch a bit on e-bay, otherwise the rest can go to charity shops. And oh, can you phone Holden's Environmental for a skip"?
A couple of days should be enough to completely clear away one's existence. Well, three days maximum, that's how long it took me to destroy the remaining evidence of the previous owners thirty year occupancy of this house.
23rd March. Silicon Face.
I can never quite get a 100% seal with swimming goggles even yet (see earlier), due to being very bony or just plain deformed about the face, maybe if I was a bit more fat and puffy about the eyes they would seal ok.
After giving some thought to the matter a solution presented itself in the guise of that trusted and indispensible product, silicon rubber. The instructions always say "Ensure surface is dry and free from grease" , so logically if the surface was very greasy it wouldn't stick at all?
What better way to form a perfect mating surface with one's face, simply, pre-oil face, apply silicon rubber to the goggles, put on goggles, tighten strap, wait until the curing process is finished then remove to observe a custom shaped soft rubber seal that can only fit the one visage.
I selected a bottle of skin care lotion from the many in the bathroom and rubbed well into the forehead and around the necassary contours. The Clear Silicon Rubber was a small tube provided with Selkirk Chimney products which must be good stuff, I applied a liberal quantity and positioned the goggles. Sorted.
After about two seconds the Acetic acid released during the curing process began to cause my eyes to water, so I shut them. After a minute had elapsed there was a noticeable burning sensation in the skin in contact with the silicon. I prised the goggles off, reasoning that my face would still leave an impression but the suction was so high the moulding effect was compromised. The burning continued unchecked.
Keeping my eyes shut I made my way to the bathroom via the porch fumbling around for abrasive hand cleaner, all that stuff about not sticking to oil isn't strictly true. The abrasive action of the cleaner made some impression, well, enough to be safe to reopen my eyes.
The rest of it I was able to pick off like peeling skin whilst watching some drama on BBC1.
After giving some thought to the matter a solution presented itself in the guise of that trusted and indispensible product, silicon rubber. The instructions always say "Ensure surface is dry and free from grease" , so logically if the surface was very greasy it wouldn't stick at all?
What better way to form a perfect mating surface with one's face, simply, pre-oil face, apply silicon rubber to the goggles, put on goggles, tighten strap, wait until the curing process is finished then remove to observe a custom shaped soft rubber seal that can only fit the one visage.
I selected a bottle of skin care lotion from the many in the bathroom and rubbed well into the forehead and around the necassary contours. The Clear Silicon Rubber was a small tube provided with Selkirk Chimney products which must be good stuff, I applied a liberal quantity and positioned the goggles. Sorted.
After about two seconds the Acetic acid released during the curing process began to cause my eyes to water, so I shut them. After a minute had elapsed there was a noticeable burning sensation in the skin in contact with the silicon. I prised the goggles off, reasoning that my face would still leave an impression but the suction was so high the moulding effect was compromised. The burning continued unchecked.
Keeping my eyes shut I made my way to the bathroom via the porch fumbling around for abrasive hand cleaner, all that stuff about not sticking to oil isn't strictly true. The abrasive action of the cleaner made some impression, well, enough to be safe to reopen my eyes.
The rest of it I was able to pick off like peeling skin whilst watching some drama on BBC1.
22nd March. Cat Bladder World.
Life seems to be revolving around the cat's bladder these days.
"Could I drive to the vet first thing to have his catheter taken out?" Then drive him back home, of course, then do a full day's work with my head down a chimney.
I tell a lie, it wasn't really a full day's work because I didn't have enough bricks with me and the job may prove actually easier than first thought, for once. I may have to 'spin it out a bit' as we call it in the trade, to justify the exorbitant fee already quoted and accepted.
I've no need to feel guilty though, who else are they going to get to do it? I was even recommended by some other guy who started up with an ad in the Yellow Pages, but it must have been too much hassle, which it is. Besides I can't think of anything else to do for a living, and it gets you out of the house away from things like 'Tigger's bladder', for instance.
I came back early full of purpose and started pulling the car apart again only to be summoned to the vets, this time for pills that make a Human pee and presumably a cat as well, by tomorrow morning. If not I can see another trip to the vet's looming.
"Could I drive to the vet first thing to have his catheter taken out?" Then drive him back home, of course, then do a full day's work with my head down a chimney.
I tell a lie, it wasn't really a full day's work because I didn't have enough bricks with me and the job may prove actually easier than first thought, for once. I may have to 'spin it out a bit' as we call it in the trade, to justify the exorbitant fee already quoted and accepted.
I've no need to feel guilty though, who else are they going to get to do it? I was even recommended by some other guy who started up with an ad in the Yellow Pages, but it must have been too much hassle, which it is. Besides I can't think of anything else to do for a living, and it gets you out of the house away from things like 'Tigger's bladder', for instance.
I came back early full of purpose and started pulling the car apart again only to be summoned to the vets, this time for pills that make a Human pee and presumably a cat as well, by tomorrow morning. If not I can see another trip to the vet's looming.
21st March. A Doddle Actually.
It's all been some kind of mistake. I'm not meant to be welding patches on the sills of this car. As a general rule when a vehicle reaches this point of biodegradation it should be sent for 'recycling'.
However a cursory inspection serves to foster the delusion that all that's needed "Is a spot of weld" before the annual MOT Certificate will be firmly in my grasp. In fact, merely a formality guaranteeing another year of fully legal motoring.
Once work is well under way the full extent of the corrosion is revealed. Having taken the nearside rear wheel off to get a better view, the rubber mats are visible through parts of the floor.
It's a classic case.
However a cursory inspection serves to foster the delusion that all that's needed "Is a spot of weld" before the annual MOT Certificate will be firmly in my grasp. In fact, merely a formality guaranteeing another year of fully legal motoring.
Once work is well under way the full extent of the corrosion is revealed. Having taken the nearside rear wheel off to get a better view, the rubber mats are visible through parts of the floor.
It's a classic case.
20th March. A Lovely meal Out.
"Can you eat as you drive?" asks Isabelle when I'm halfway through my Fish Supper in a parking space. This irritates me, but we pull out and set off nonetheless, at a slightly too aggressive pace for driving in town at night, especially whilst eating chips.
"I'll have to get out if you don't slow down and spend the night in Dundee" warns Isabelle, the thought of more expense has the desired effect of moderating our progress.
We have to get back home 'tout de suite' in case Tigger's catheter, which is held in with stitches, has snagged on something in the kitchen and pulled his penis off...
Tigger isn't any more seriously damaged than he already was, in fact the paralysed back legs have a bit of twitching in them now.
"I'll have to get out if you don't slow down and spend the night in Dundee" warns Isabelle, the thought of more expense has the desired effect of moderating our progress.
We have to get back home 'tout de suite' in case Tigger's catheter, which is held in with stitches, has snagged on something in the kitchen and pulled his penis off...
Tigger isn't any more seriously damaged than he already was, in fact the paralysed back legs have a bit of twitching in them now.
19th March. I Thought I was Reasonably Fit????
I headed off for a circuit round to the local shop on the bike which was wasted on my brother as fast as humanly possible, leaving the stopwatch, which is handily provided inside every mobile phone, on the window sill. Twelve mins 3 secs. I repeated the route in the Daihatsu; yes, 1 lap to the shop is 4.66 kms. A quick calculation points to the distinct possibilty of coming last in the 40 km cycling section of that Triathlon thing I've already paid £45 to enter.
Not only that, I ended up feeling a bit sick from lack of oxygen; the hamster wheel attachment can't come soon enough. I've also taken the liberty, as much as I'm disinclined to gadgetry, of purchasing a discontinued heart rate monitor from e-bay, after reading some guff about maintaining a pulse rate that is calculated from age and what have you, which comes out at 136.
I thought I was reasonably fit but I was way off, way off! For instance, with the swimming, it took me 37 mins to swim the allotted number of lengths the other night, and that's after practicing for a good few months. The fastest time in last years Triathlon thing was 19mins!
This was the world record in 1927, but this currently stands at 14mins something.
In-credible!
Not only that, I ended up feeling a bit sick from lack of oxygen; the hamster wheel attachment can't come soon enough. I've also taken the liberty, as much as I'm disinclined to gadgetry, of purchasing a discontinued heart rate monitor from e-bay, after reading some guff about maintaining a pulse rate that is calculated from age and what have you, which comes out at 136.
I thought I was reasonably fit but I was way off, way off! For instance, with the swimming, it took me 37 mins to swim the allotted number of lengths the other night, and that's after practicing for a good few months. The fastest time in last years Triathlon thing was 19mins!
This was the world record in 1927, but this currently stands at 14mins something.
In-credible!
18th March. Tom Cat Catheter.
Poor old Tigger (see previous) has been released from the vet's, now with suspected nerve damage in the lower spine - from what, it's not that clear. Clarification can be bought for roughly £1500 by way of a Cat Scan (No pun intended).
Tigger is happy enough and seems his usual self, apart from being half paralysed and unable to empty his bladder. Isabelle has been given a crash course in Tom cat catheterisation, not an easy procedure emptying a cat's bladder and something to look forward to in the morning.
Whether there is any chance of recovery remains to be seen, it could be some calcified lump between the vertebrae, as there doesn't appear to be any sign of injury.
I'm kind of dreading having a catheter fitted myself (assuming I ever live that long).
Tigger is happy enough and seems his usual self, apart from being half paralysed and unable to empty his bladder. Isabelle has been given a crash course in Tom cat catheterisation, not an easy procedure emptying a cat's bladder and something to look forward to in the morning.
Whether there is any chance of recovery remains to be seen, it could be some calcified lump between the vertebrae, as there doesn't appear to be any sign of injury.
I'm kind of dreading having a catheter fitted myself (assuming I ever live that long).
17th March. Tigger The Half Cat.
8am found me crawling on my stomach along the bottom of the hedge behind the container with instructions to retrieve Tigger, missing for two days.
Reaching under to grab him he made no attempt to evade capture which was uncharacteristic. Having pulled him out the reason for this became clear, both of his back legs were all floppy and lifeless.
Obviously another 'urgence medical'. The usual vet, Dr. Death, wasn't due in for another two hours, which may have been a blessing as Dr Death is a strong advocate of euthanasia and usually manages to dispatch the patient anyway during the course of treatment.
The competition around the corner was able to offer a swift diagnosis 'an illiac thrombosis' this is a clot that cuts off the blood supply to the back legs. Prognosis is not good, drugs are administered to hopefully dissolve the clot.
The fitting of a rear axle with a pair of wheels probably isn't practical, poor Tigger's existence hangs in the balance, dear oh dear... and costs are rising.
Reaching under to grab him he made no attempt to evade capture which was uncharacteristic. Having pulled him out the reason for this became clear, both of his back legs were all floppy and lifeless.
Obviously another 'urgence medical'. The usual vet, Dr. Death, wasn't due in for another two hours, which may have been a blessing as Dr Death is a strong advocate of euthanasia and usually manages to dispatch the patient anyway during the course of treatment.
The competition around the corner was able to offer a swift diagnosis 'an illiac thrombosis' this is a clot that cuts off the blood supply to the back legs. Prognosis is not good, drugs are administered to hopefully dissolve the clot.
The fitting of a rear axle with a pair of wheels probably isn't practical, poor Tigger's existence hangs in the balance, dear oh dear... and costs are rising.
16th March. The Magic Movie Camera. (A Dream of Speculation)
I find myself in receipt of a cardboard box containing an old 8mm movie camera and a selection of reels of film. For some reason these can be watched without a projector, through the medium of the camera.
We start to watch one, a fascinating picture of the town some time ago, "This movie has the capacity to transport you to the past" I remark, actually quite literally, it appears. We are now standing at the corner of Glenearn Road, work is in progress on the building of Tesco, the first one that was demolished a few years ago.
The roads are quieter too and judging by the model of Ford Escort this must be about 1967?
I have an idea, it's Thursday, property day in 'The Courier', let's have a look at the price of flats! We could buy half a dozen at a hugely reduced price, then return to the present day and - Bingo!
A newsagent beckons, I pick up a copy of the long running newspaper, wait a minute though, is this pre-decimalisation? How can I pay for it with money that hasn't even been invented yet?
I leaf through the paper, there are some grainy school photos that have made the local news section, there I am in a group shot.
Maybe this is 1971?
"Is this definitely today's date" I ask the shop assistant, who understandably looks at me as if I am mental. I fumble through a handful of loose change looking for coins with older dates on... otherwise it could precipitate an enquiry.
"23 pence..?"
Aaaach! It's all so confusing. Does it really matter about the dates? I've got a 20 pence piece... but didn't they come in at a later date?
We start to watch one, a fascinating picture of the town some time ago, "This movie has the capacity to transport you to the past" I remark, actually quite literally, it appears. We are now standing at the corner of Glenearn Road, work is in progress on the building of Tesco, the first one that was demolished a few years ago.
The roads are quieter too and judging by the model of Ford Escort this must be about 1967?
I have an idea, it's Thursday, property day in 'The Courier', let's have a look at the price of flats! We could buy half a dozen at a hugely reduced price, then return to the present day and - Bingo!
A newsagent beckons, I pick up a copy of the long running newspaper, wait a minute though, is this pre-decimalisation? How can I pay for it with money that hasn't even been invented yet?
I leaf through the paper, there are some grainy school photos that have made the local news section, there I am in a group shot.
Maybe this is 1971?
"Is this definitely today's date" I ask the shop assistant, who understandably looks at me as if I am mental. I fumble through a handful of loose change looking for coins with older dates on... otherwise it could precipitate an enquiry.
"23 pence..?"
Aaaach! It's all so confusing. Does it really matter about the dates? I've got a 20 pence piece... but didn't they come in at a later date?
15th March. Achievable Goals, Pointless Exercise.
The Training Pool seems to have got shorter. 60 lengths isn't the same as it was a few weeks ago, it's the only explanation. Now we can tick one box and move on.
Next up is the purchase of a giant hamster wheel, the secret weapon in winning the war against Cycling Fatigue. This connects to the back wheel and has a few magnets in it, with a bit of ingenuity the device could power the television for Isabelle's benefit.
Running poses a special problem which I intend to solve by recruiting someone with a driving licence, ie not Isabelle. I don't know if you've ever seen yourself running on a video, there's always one leg going all awry which not only wastes energy but also virtually guarantees a hip replacement, long term.
The corrective procedure involves attaching a wardrobe door with full length mirror to the back of the car, then following at a close distance at a pre-agreed pace...
Next up is the purchase of a giant hamster wheel, the secret weapon in winning the war against Cycling Fatigue. This connects to the back wheel and has a few magnets in it, with a bit of ingenuity the device could power the television for Isabelle's benefit.
Running poses a special problem which I intend to solve by recruiting someone with a driving licence, ie not Isabelle. I don't know if you've ever seen yourself running on a video, there's always one leg going all awry which not only wastes energy but also virtually guarantees a hip replacement, long term.
The corrective procedure involves attaching a wardrobe door with full length mirror to the back of the car, then following at a close distance at a pre-agreed pace...
14th March. An Unproductive Morning.
Mr & Mrs S. are at that stage in life between finishing work and going into a care home.
"You'll be alright for a pension if you've still got a 25% share in the company" I said.
"I didn't even start thinking about a pension until I was 55" replied the former Managing Director.
Mr S. seemed to have a bit of a strop on today, there he was all gloved up and hacking away at gorse bushes lathered in sweat the way that retired people do. I motioned to him across the windswept grassland that his opinion was required yet again regarding the positioning of the stove, which is Ivory coloured to match the 3 piece suite.
As a former CEO Mr S is mindful only of results and productivity, not labour relations, whereas I am more concerned with not bringing down the living room ceiling and other potential disasters.
The view from the living room takes in another white elephant, the 'mothballed' Hyundai semi-conductor plant, a bit of a disaster for the British tax payer. Mr S. gave me a lecture on the decline of manufacturing, how workers in the UK want £27.50 an hour as against £2.50 in the far-east.
"We just canny compete with that".
"You'll be alright for a pension if you've still got a 25% share in the company" I said.
"I didn't even start thinking about a pension until I was 55" replied the former Managing Director.
Mr S. seemed to have a bit of a strop on today, there he was all gloved up and hacking away at gorse bushes lathered in sweat the way that retired people do. I motioned to him across the windswept grassland that his opinion was required yet again regarding the positioning of the stove, which is Ivory coloured to match the 3 piece suite.
As a former CEO Mr S is mindful only of results and productivity, not labour relations, whereas I am more concerned with not bringing down the living room ceiling and other potential disasters.
The view from the living room takes in another white elephant, the 'mothballed' Hyundai semi-conductor plant, a bit of a disaster for the British tax payer. Mr S. gave me a lecture on the decline of manufacturing, how workers in the UK want £27.50 an hour as against £2.50 in the far-east.
"We just canny compete with that".
13th March. Back in Circulation.
In an idle moment I gazed out of the window over the motorway to the site of the former open cast coal mine, now pleasantly grassed over.
The umpteen millions of tons of carbon are long gone, having been burnt and returned to the atmosphere for better or worse. This is so we can enjoy life with the convenience of electricity.
In the process somebody's farm was swallowed up, not to mention the farmhouse. That's how this palatial testament to the tastes of the 80's was erected on this side of the M90 as compensation for the retiring farmer. A gentleman now, sadly, also returned to the atmosphere and carbon cycle.
The umpteen millions of tons of carbon are long gone, having been burnt and returned to the atmosphere for better or worse. This is so we can enjoy life with the convenience of electricity.
In the process somebody's farm was swallowed up, not to mention the farmhouse. That's how this palatial testament to the tastes of the 80's was erected on this side of the M90 as compensation for the retiring farmer. A gentleman now, sadly, also returned to the atmosphere and carbon cycle.
12th March. Talk Dirty Then.
"You must get sick of seeing other peoples' roofs all the time" said the friendly oak flooring man with a strangely out of place West Country accent, although for all I know he could have been from Kent.
"It's a living" I replied.
"Still getting a job then" said the friendly bicycle selling man in between the showers of rain.
"There's always people waiting for me" I said.
"It's a pity it's so strenuous, nothing's easy though" he added.
There always has to be easier ways, surely, of making a living, these premium rate phone numbers seem to be quite a good earner.
It's a known fact there must be people, that is men, who have some sort of sexual predilection to anything you'd care to mention - Chimneys for instance:
"....Yeah well, there was this really big chimney in an eighteenth century terrace house, two storey, right? Very lumpy...mmm.... Blocked solid with soot and twigs, absolutely filthy and d'you know what? The middle chimney pot had fallen in, disgusting. I had to break in through the attic, and give it a good hammering with the vibrating hammer before I could even think about 8 metres of 6 inch 904 flexible and etc etc...
Call Charge £1/min.
"It's a living" I replied.
"Still getting a job then" said the friendly bicycle selling man in between the showers of rain.
"There's always people waiting for me" I said.
"It's a pity it's so strenuous, nothing's easy though" he added.
There always has to be easier ways, surely, of making a living, these premium rate phone numbers seem to be quite a good earner.
It's a known fact there must be people, that is men, who have some sort of sexual predilection to anything you'd care to mention - Chimneys for instance:
"....Yeah well, there was this really big chimney in an eighteenth century terrace house, two storey, right? Very lumpy...mmm.... Blocked solid with soot and twigs, absolutely filthy and d'you know what? The middle chimney pot had fallen in, disgusting. I had to break in through the attic, and give it a good hammering with the vibrating hammer before I could even think about 8 metres of 6 inch 904 flexible and etc etc...
Call Charge £1/min.
11th March. The 'Chicken 'n' Mushroom' Tree.
"It's weird without the tree there anymore", was tonight's comment.
The 'Chicken and Mushroom' Tree had to go as it was beginning to cast a shadow not only over the house but also the marriage.
The 'Mushroom' tree transmogrified to the 'Chicken and Mushroom' tree after it became the habitual roost of various fowl that repeatedly refused to spend the night in the relatively soundproof hen house. The resultant neighbourhood reveille, anticipating dawn by several hours, was becoming a source of domestic disharmony.
The time for debate was over, the Robin would have to find an alternative perch for singing, the Blue Tits would have to swoop down to the peanuts from somewhere else.
Over the years the Robin, who favours the very top of this particular Leylandii, had been relentlessly pushed towards the stratosphere. At one time the bird was level with the upstairs windows, but nowadays had become practically inaudible from ground level.
A few years ago the tree had previously threatened the marriage when in an uncharacteristic frenzy I took a saw to the lower branches after another Blue Tit had been ambushed by Jiminy the cat.
"What the *uck have you done to the tree!!?" yelled Isabelle, "That was a beautiful tree!"
"It'll grow back" I answered menacingly, still wielding the saw. Of course it never did and the result was a tree that looked like a mushroom.
The 'Chicken and Mushroom' Tree had to go as it was beginning to cast a shadow not only over the house but also the marriage.
The 'Mushroom' tree transmogrified to the 'Chicken and Mushroom' tree after it became the habitual roost of various fowl that repeatedly refused to spend the night in the relatively soundproof hen house. The resultant neighbourhood reveille, anticipating dawn by several hours, was becoming a source of domestic disharmony.
The time for debate was over, the Robin would have to find an alternative perch for singing, the Blue Tits would have to swoop down to the peanuts from somewhere else.
Over the years the Robin, who favours the very top of this particular Leylandii, had been relentlessly pushed towards the stratosphere. At one time the bird was level with the upstairs windows, but nowadays had become practically inaudible from ground level.
A few years ago the tree had previously threatened the marriage when in an uncharacteristic frenzy I took a saw to the lower branches after another Blue Tit had been ambushed by Jiminy the cat.
"What the *uck have you done to the tree!!?" yelled Isabelle, "That was a beautiful tree!"
"It'll grow back" I answered menacingly, still wielding the saw. Of course it never did and the result was a tree that looked like a mushroom.
10th March. Care Home Hullabaloo.
Accusations were flying this week apparently, down at the Care Home. Mother got a bit obstreperous with the staff insisting that her ruby ring '...Was missing and must have been stolen'! By all accounts it took about two hours to get her calmed down. The jewellery in question had in fact been given to my brother for safekeeping about two years ago, which he explained to her the next day when she raised the issue again.
The facts regarding memory seem to be, in essence, last thing in - first thing out, so explanations of any sort only have a temporary effect.
An 'assessment' is on the cards, which always sounds a bit sinister to me, smacking a bit of the Third Reich, but really it will likely be a variant of the 'Tony Blair Test' (see previous). I wonder what they ask if the Tony Blair Test is considered too difficult?
'She always was domineering' admits my brother, well if that's not an understatement I don't know what is.
Having shed a fair amount of data processing, mainly social convention and polite chat, it seems we are left with the core user-interface of the operating system itself, which is "I WANT TO SEE THE MANAGER!"
The facts regarding memory seem to be, in essence, last thing in - first thing out, so explanations of any sort only have a temporary effect.
An 'assessment' is on the cards, which always sounds a bit sinister to me, smacking a bit of the Third Reich, but really it will likely be a variant of the 'Tony Blair Test' (see previous). I wonder what they ask if the Tony Blair Test is considered too difficult?
'She always was domineering' admits my brother, well if that's not an understatement I don't know what is.
Having shed a fair amount of data processing, mainly social convention and polite chat, it seems we are left with the core user-interface of the operating system itself, which is "I WANT TO SEE THE MANAGER!"
9th March. How Green Was My Depression?
I even joined the Green Party and stood as a candidate in the local elections. Course I was younger then, I got a bit depressed about the planet in the mid 1980's and to think all that hand-wringing was in vain. Thanks to Channel 4, a weight may have been lifted, there may be no need to maintain that life-denying pessimism that's so much a part of me, may be the atmosphere isn't going to boil off by 2010 leaving us with a climate like Mars.
Global Warming may not be everything it's been hyped-up to be, but let's not forget the plight of the Orang-Utan and the Sumatran Tiger. I'm still paying WWF £2 a-month direct debit to ensure they don't go the same way as the Giant Moa and whatever other things we've killed off, including several species of human beings, Neanderthals et al.
Yes, the forest in Borneo is cleared to produce Palm oil to make margarine that may give you a 'healthy heart' yeah well I'd rather keep the Tiger and eat butter.
But about these Ice cores, does the CO2 level lag 1000 years behind the Global temperature or not? And if it does what other explanation is there other than CO2 not causing temperature rise?
Cosmic Rays and Climate yes
http://denmark.dk/portal/page?_pageid=374,931599&_dad=portal&_schema=PORTAL
Cosmic Rays and climate no
http://www.realclimate.org/index.php/archives/2006/10/taking-cosmic-rays-for-a-spin/
Global Warming may not be everything it's been hyped-up to be, but let's not forget the plight of the Orang-Utan and the Sumatran Tiger. I'm still paying WWF £2 a-month direct debit to ensure they don't go the same way as the Giant Moa and whatever other things we've killed off, including several species of human beings, Neanderthals et al.
Yes, the forest in Borneo is cleared to produce Palm oil to make margarine that may give you a 'healthy heart' yeah well I'd rather keep the Tiger and eat butter.
But about these Ice cores, does the CO2 level lag 1000 years behind the Global temperature or not? And if it does what other explanation is there other than CO2 not causing temperature rise?
Cosmic Rays and Climate yes
http://denmark.dk/portal/page?_pageid=374,931599&_dad=portal&_schema=PORTAL
Cosmic Rays and climate no
http://www.realclimate.org/index.php/archives/2006/10/taking-cosmic-rays-for-a-spin/
8th March. Global Warming, My Arse?
According to Channel 4, man-made Global warming is a complete scam. It's always the ice cores dating back thousands of years that are held up as incontrovertible proof that there's a link between CO2 levels and global temperature.
There is a link but apparently the line of CO2 follows the line of temperature, not the other way round. That is CO2 doesn't cause the temperature change. As the oceans warm up, less CO2 can be held in them and so this ends up in the atmosphere.
The Global temperature closely follows solar activity. They say when there's more solar wind, as in more sun spots, this reduces the amount of cosmic rays reaching Earth's atmosphere. The cosmic rays have something to do with cloud formation, so less cosmic rays mean less clouds and therefore a warmer temperature.
This will be good news for sea levels here, we may not have to move house after all, but possibly bad news for cousin B. whose career depends on persuading us all to reduce CO2 emmisons. Junior was just through telling me on the phone that the Earth was *ucked, possibly, but in this light it will be from the Political chaos due to the oil running out rather than the Climate chaos from burning it.
There is a link but apparently the line of CO2 follows the line of temperature, not the other way round. That is CO2 doesn't cause the temperature change. As the oceans warm up, less CO2 can be held in them and so this ends up in the atmosphere.
The Global temperature closely follows solar activity. They say when there's more solar wind, as in more sun spots, this reduces the amount of cosmic rays reaching Earth's atmosphere. The cosmic rays have something to do with cloud formation, so less cosmic rays mean less clouds and therefore a warmer temperature.
This will be good news for sea levels here, we may not have to move house after all, but possibly bad news for cousin B. whose career depends on persuading us all to reduce CO2 emmisons. Junior was just through telling me on the phone that the Earth was *ucked, possibly, but in this light it will be from the Political chaos due to the oil running out rather than the Climate chaos from burning it.
7th March. The Aristocrats.
I get a call from Lady Somebody-or-other after a chimney fire. The Aristocracy are normally the preserve of Old W., one of the few competitors in the field, who, they say, only works for the 'Titled'.
According to Lady So-and-So, 'Old W. is unavailable due to ill health' but having briefly assessed the job it seems likely that Old W. could be simply feigning illness in order to avoid the hassle, adhering to the maxim of 'picking the low-hanging fruit'. On the other hand, Old W. may have something terminal, which would leave a clear monopoly apart from Old R. who is practically up for retirement anyway.
Old Lord So-and-So is wheeled into the sitting room well wrapped in a tweed blanket with the housekeeper in attendance, on the off chance of catching any new pronouncement on the chimney. Old W's quote was 'nothing short of extortion' according to her Ladyship, so I was keen to learn something, for once, of his current pricing structure. In truth, the figure was only marginally more extortionate than what could be considered 'reasonable'.
I don't understand Old W's penchant for the Nobility as they invariably have little money, just large draughty houses and a few ponies in fields. I suggested Her Ladyship tries it on with their house insurer and meanwhile agreed to carry out a Colonoscopy on the living room chimney this Friday.
According to Lady So-and-So, 'Old W. is unavailable due to ill health' but having briefly assessed the job it seems likely that Old W. could be simply feigning illness in order to avoid the hassle, adhering to the maxim of 'picking the low-hanging fruit'. On the other hand, Old W. may have something terminal, which would leave a clear monopoly apart from Old R. who is practically up for retirement anyway.
Old Lord So-and-So is wheeled into the sitting room well wrapped in a tweed blanket with the housekeeper in attendance, on the off chance of catching any new pronouncement on the chimney. Old W's quote was 'nothing short of extortion' according to her Ladyship, so I was keen to learn something, for once, of his current pricing structure. In truth, the figure was only marginally more extortionate than what could be considered 'reasonable'.
I don't understand Old W's penchant for the Nobility as they invariably have little money, just large draughty houses and a few ponies in fields. I suggested Her Ladyship tries it on with their house insurer and meanwhile agreed to carry out a Colonoscopy on the living room chimney this Friday.
6th March. Why Holidays Ruin You.
"Your job's quite exciting!" said Mr. B. looking up and casting an eye over the huge hole in his gable wall. For a moment I looked at him dumbfounded, "Well that's certainly a novel take on things" I replied.
There's a generally accepted rule that everybody in employment secretly harbours a desire for an entirely different career. The Pharmacist that wanted to be a farmer, the Engineer that wanted to be an Airline pilot etc etc.
Mr B. had been a Headteacher, not a vocation I can say has ever really appealed and an increasingly unappealing career choice to everyone else, hence the crisis in education. As the exception that proves the rule I seem to lack that inner calling for an alternative profession or in fact any known type of work.
The second day back is worse than the first. The first at least had an aspect of novelty. From the vantage of the second, holes in walls etc stretch ahead to the horizon, like the converging of parallel railway lines,
By the third day I hope to have regained the more or less normal level of self-deception which is so vital in preserving mental health.
There's a generally accepted rule that everybody in employment secretly harbours a desire for an entirely different career. The Pharmacist that wanted to be a farmer, the Engineer that wanted to be an Airline pilot etc etc.
Mr B. had been a Headteacher, not a vocation I can say has ever really appealed and an increasingly unappealing career choice to everyone else, hence the crisis in education. As the exception that proves the rule I seem to lack that inner calling for an alternative profession or in fact any known type of work.
The second day back is worse than the first. The first at least had an aspect of novelty. From the vantage of the second, holes in walls etc stretch ahead to the horizon, like the converging of parallel railway lines,
By the third day I hope to have regained the more or less normal level of self-deception which is so vital in preserving mental health.
5th March. Back To (Harsh) Reality (With a Bump).
Mr B. looked a little drawn this morning and announced that shortly he would be 'Having to leave me to it' and 'Did I mind?' as he had to depart forthwith to pick up Mrs B. from hospital.
'Oh?' I replied.
'Yes we've had quite a weekend of it, I must admit.
Mrs B. had been cleaning the kitchen window when she crashed down on the recently ceramic tiled floor shattering one wrist and incurring a concussion. 'Blood everywhere, had to wait three hours for an ambulance... She's not the most mobile of people' explained Mr B. (A litttle too heavy on the hips, if memory serves).
Looking around the B's living environment with a renewed perspective the cottage resembles an obstacle course for anyone with compromised mobility, decking with stairs (lethal when wet), rustic uneven steps down to the drying green, several dogs all with leads and the strength to pull you over.
Of course this is the likely future for most couples, luckily we have timber floors throughout which have the benefit of being a little more forgiving.
'Oh?' I replied.
'Yes we've had quite a weekend of it, I must admit.
Mrs B. had been cleaning the kitchen window when she crashed down on the recently ceramic tiled floor shattering one wrist and incurring a concussion. 'Blood everywhere, had to wait three hours for an ambulance... She's not the most mobile of people' explained Mr B. (A litttle too heavy on the hips, if memory serves).
Looking around the B's living environment with a renewed perspective the cottage resembles an obstacle course for anyone with compromised mobility, decking with stairs (lethal when wet), rustic uneven steps down to the drying green, several dogs all with leads and the strength to pull you over.
Of course this is the likely future for most couples, luckily we have timber floors throughout which have the benefit of being a little more forgiving.
4th March. I Meet Johnny Rotten.
It's a wet saturday afternoon and I find myself in a claustrophobic village hall somewhere in rural Wales. "It must be difficult when you're the only gay in the village" I chortle to the denim clad gent who happens to be sitting next to me, an oblique reference to the 'homosexualist' Daffyd living in the similarly narrow-minded fictional Welsh town of Llanddewi Brefi.
The man adjacent turns out to be Steve Jones ex-guitarist of the Sex Pistols "Let's get the *uck out of here" he says "D'you wanna go round and see Johnny Rotten?"
I give this suggestion a nod of assent.
A short walk and we are at the local BP Filling Station, to be greeted on the forecourt by the proprietor and former lead singer of the notorious punk band. I wonder that such an unruly character had the necessary business acumen and stability to acquire and run such an enterprise.
I try to enter into a discussion "You know... 'Holidays in The Sun'?" referring to the 4th single.
"Yeah?" he says wearily,
"Well there's never really been anything with the same drive and energy since...has there? " I enthuse.
"Yeah, whatever..." he mouths before returning to more pressing matters regarding driving and energy.
The man adjacent turns out to be Steve Jones ex-guitarist of the Sex Pistols "Let's get the *uck out of here" he says "D'you wanna go round and see Johnny Rotten?"
I give this suggestion a nod of assent.
A short walk and we are at the local BP Filling Station, to be greeted on the forecourt by the proprietor and former lead singer of the notorious punk band. I wonder that such an unruly character had the necessary business acumen and stability to acquire and run such an enterprise.
I try to enter into a discussion "You know... 'Holidays in The Sun'?" referring to the 4th single.
"Yeah?" he says wearily,
"Well there's never really been anything with the same drive and energy since...has there? " I enthuse.
"Yeah, whatever..." he mouths before returning to more pressing matters regarding driving and energy.
3rd March. "Gooooood morning, Tes-coooooooo!!"
Pulled in at Tesco with a view to provisioning for the coming week, the new dictate regarding tinned food coming immediately into force. The net result was that whole swathes of the store were now, what amounted to, no go areas.
Of course it would be impossible to reproduce the diet of the last three weeks in all its diversity; a customer could easily be left searching the aisles in vain for Live Eels, Chickens Feet, or Goat's Udder. The only goat products regularly stocked relate purely to the contents of the udder.
At the fresh fish counter all the fish are dead so they're not really that fresh. I bought a bag of Cashew nuts the only purchase in a full trolley that has the potential to keep longer than about three days.
Of course it would be impossible to reproduce the diet of the last three weeks in all its diversity; a customer could easily be left searching the aisles in vain for Live Eels, Chickens Feet, or Goat's Udder. The only goat products regularly stocked relate purely to the contents of the udder.
At the fresh fish counter all the fish are dead so they're not really that fresh. I bought a bag of Cashew nuts the only purchase in a full trolley that has the potential to keep longer than about three days.
2nd March. More Whims of Fortune/ How the Cookie Crumbles.
After an emotional farewell to Isabelle's Grandparents we pull up at the traffic lights in Trang-Bang, a coffin is being made ready over the road, someone has recently died.
Turns out the deceased was the rider of the motor cycle that was on it's side in the middle of the highway last night on the way back from the goat place.
The combination of alcohol and the belief in youthful invulnerability was pulled up short by the concrete barrier that separates the carriageways. The 22 year old had run a red light and collided with a Honda 50 pulling a trailer. All in a failed attempt to get away from the local police, no crash helmet of course. A more or less weekly occurence, so they say.
HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES.
Isabelle's dad hands over a small denomination note to a Saigon lottery ticket seller who is missing both arms.
There are other similar men to be seen on the streets , all about the same age, all with various amputations. Outside the ice-cream shop a regular feature is a man who wears a shoe on each hand and part of a car tyre where his legs should be. Another, who still has part of one leg, gets around on a skateboard.
"Who are these guys?" I enquire of Isabelle's dad.
"All soldiers of South Vietnamese army" is the answer. Not only unlucky enough to have something horrendous as having both legs blown off, they also happened to be on the losing side of the war.
As a result they hadn't exactly endeared themselves to the government of the last thirty years. They don't get any other money or help at all.
THE CASE AGAINST HEINZ.
One has to take for granted that any soujourn at the grass-roots level of rural Vietnam is bound to result in a catalogue of minor illness, even without eating the lettuce. I'm certainly glad to have taken a fleece as it proved to be still possible to feel cold, given the right contagion, with an air temperature languishing, in the mid 30's celsius.
What has perplexed me, despite the huge variance in diet and a daily consumption of spices, salt and beer, is the complete absence of the twin evils of indigestion and heartburn.
And yet barely out of Asia and some aspect of Air France catering 'doesn't agree'. Suspicion falls on tinned food - the Tuna. It can't be the fish itself, I've eaten more fish in 3 weeks than the last 3 years. It's all been fresh food, the only thing out of a can was beer, and most of that was in bottles anyway.
The research program will continue. No more beans ?
Turns out the deceased was the rider of the motor cycle that was on it's side in the middle of the highway last night on the way back from the goat place.
The combination of alcohol and the belief in youthful invulnerability was pulled up short by the concrete barrier that separates the carriageways. The 22 year old had run a red light and collided with a Honda 50 pulling a trailer. All in a failed attempt to get away from the local police, no crash helmet of course. A more or less weekly occurence, so they say.
HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES.
Isabelle's dad hands over a small denomination note to a Saigon lottery ticket seller who is missing both arms.
There are other similar men to be seen on the streets , all about the same age, all with various amputations. Outside the ice-cream shop a regular feature is a man who wears a shoe on each hand and part of a car tyre where his legs should be. Another, who still has part of one leg, gets around on a skateboard.
"Who are these guys?" I enquire of Isabelle's dad.
"All soldiers of South Vietnamese army" is the answer. Not only unlucky enough to have something horrendous as having both legs blown off, they also happened to be on the losing side of the war.
As a result they hadn't exactly endeared themselves to the government of the last thirty years. They don't get any other money or help at all.
THE CASE AGAINST HEINZ.
One has to take for granted that any soujourn at the grass-roots level of rural Vietnam is bound to result in a catalogue of minor illness, even without eating the lettuce. I'm certainly glad to have taken a fleece as it proved to be still possible to feel cold, given the right contagion, with an air temperature languishing, in the mid 30's celsius.
What has perplexed me, despite the huge variance in diet and a daily consumption of spices, salt and beer, is the complete absence of the twin evils of indigestion and heartburn.
And yet barely out of Asia and some aspect of Air France catering 'doesn't agree'. Suspicion falls on tinned food - the Tuna. It can't be the fish itself, I've eaten more fish in 3 weeks than the last 3 years. It's all been fresh food, the only thing out of a can was beer, and most of that was in bottles anyway.
The research program will continue. No more beans ?
1st March. Farewell to Trang-Bang.
A welcome return to the Goat Restaraunt 'en famille' marked the occasion of the Grand Finale here in Trang-Bang. This time the famous deep fried Goats Udder was augmented with some bring-your-own intestinal pig tripe, produced by Grandmother from a tupperware.
This was pretty good as tripe goes but at this late stage in life I don't know if I'll ever be a complete convert to chopped intestinal wall.
Earlier today lunch had featured another hitherto unseen delicacy; chicken soup with quail eggs, chicken salad and the piece de resistance, a platter of boiled chicken's feet.
The quail egg is excellent but I'm afraid I lacked the necessary courage for the boiled feet, partly because of the thought of those distorted, bumble-footed claws of 'Hettie' and 'The Cream Puff' et al, back home.
This was pretty good as tripe goes but at this late stage in life I don't know if I'll ever be a complete convert to chopped intestinal wall.
Earlier today lunch had featured another hitherto unseen delicacy; chicken soup with quail eggs, chicken salad and the piece de resistance, a platter of boiled chicken's feet.
The quail egg is excellent but I'm afraid I lacked the necessary courage for the boiled feet, partly because of the thought of those distorted, bumble-footed claws of 'Hettie' and 'The Cream Puff' et al, back home.
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