I had a rubbish day yesterday. It started off with me treading in a teeny blob of cat poo, which I then inavertently spread around the kitchen floor on the bottom of my bestest Fat Face furry boot slippers. It ended in Andy coming home and finding me crying over a pile of ironing.
I shan't go into detail of what constituted the whole wreck of a day, but suffice to say it involved a moaning Mum, a badly treated ex-work colleague whom I bumped into in Sainsbugs, a very ill neighbour, a crowded town full of people who couldn't keep their loud mouths and pushy elbows to themselves and the sudden and over-riding feeling that I am generally crap at everything.
Of course, I shall blame my increasingly swinging hormone levels for most of it, and the human race for the rest.
On the plus side, the fruit cage arrived as did my free copies of the new Edexcel English language and literature syllabuseseses, syllabi, syllabum which are the size of house bricks but I feel I should read and digest in order to keep abreast of curriculum changes in order to benefit my tutees.
And the best plus side was Andy giving me a big bear hug and telling me I'm great and I must do whatever I want to do because he just wants me to be happy.
As my Mum and Auntie Pollie are forever reminding me, 'You struck lucky with that one.'
Today was better, you'll be pleased to know. Mostly because I was able to do some writing during my lunch break at school and the moon is on the wane. I think. Well, it looked pretty thin last night when I was standing in the garden howling at it.
Mrs Pumphrey is all better, now that she's been superglued. And the bees were out yesterday, too; I went and had a chat to them to tell them about my rubbish day. They told me to open a can of toughen up, stop blubbing and get on with life. I nodded meekly and went inside, because when you're feeling crap, the last thing you want is castigation from a few hundred bees. I thought, the cats will be more sympathetic, but all Phoebe did was snore even louder. Tybalt said he'd like to listen but he had an urgent tax return to fill in, and Pandora said, 'You think you've got problems? What about me, eh? What about me? I'm most important.' So I gave her some toast because it's the only way to shut her up these days.
I'm lucky my bad days are a rare thing. At least I know it'll be a long time before I have another one!
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Waste Not Part 2
Having kicked the new food recycle bin around the kitchen for a few days, I have at last decided on its fate. It has been designated 'chicken feed bin' and becomes instantly more useful than when it was delivered a week ago. It is dry, clean and lockable, and is therefore a perfect container for layers pellets.
Problem solved.
Over the weekend, we placed an order for a fruit cage. We spent a windy half hour at the allotment making crucial measurements and decided that the best size would be 15 x 15 feet. Needless to say, fruit cages don't come in that size, so we ended up ordering an 18 x 12 feet one, which means some of the raspberry canes will have to be relocated, which is okay because they are spreading their runners well and we have considerably more canes than the dozen we planted three years ago.
The polytunnel, despite the hugely gusty winds of late, still stands proud and strong, so the erection of a fruit cage, we have decided, will hold no fear for us! (Famous last words...)
Got home from work yesterday to find Mrs Pumphrey standing on the back of the garden bench looking like someone had been at her with an axe. Blood everywhere! Ye Gods! I dashed into the garden towards Mrs Pumphrey; Mrs P dashed off in the opposite direction. Of all the three hens , she is the trickiest to catch. Despite bribes of sunflower seeds and apple, I couldn't grab her, but I got close enough to see that it looked like she'd managed to tear her comb. She didn't seemed bothered by her injury, and blood-thirsty Mrs Slocombe was leaving her alone, so I phoned Andy, informed him of the damage and waited until he got home so we could clean her up.
On closer inspection, and after a goodly mop up with warm water, cotton wool, tissue and hibiscrub, it seems she had some how lost a small piece out her comb, probably by sticking her head where it shouldn't have been. And combs, being well supplied with blood, meant a little injury spread a lot of goo, highlighted by her being a white hen and blood being red.
Andy used superglue to seal the wound (don't ask, but he and Pumphrey almost became joined for life) and she was confined to chicken hospital for the night but not before demonstrating her appreciation for my nursely ministrations by spraying me generously with bloodied water and hibiscrub.
This morning, she seems fine. The sun is shining, so sunbathing is on the agenda, and the 'got-at-by-an-axe-murderer' look has mostly faded.
Chickens eh? Who'd have 'em??
Problem solved.
Over the weekend, we placed an order for a fruit cage. We spent a windy half hour at the allotment making crucial measurements and decided that the best size would be 15 x 15 feet. Needless to say, fruit cages don't come in that size, so we ended up ordering an 18 x 12 feet one, which means some of the raspberry canes will have to be relocated, which is okay because they are spreading their runners well and we have considerably more canes than the dozen we planted three years ago.
The polytunnel, despite the hugely gusty winds of late, still stands proud and strong, so the erection of a fruit cage, we have decided, will hold no fear for us! (Famous last words...)
Got home from work yesterday to find Mrs Pumphrey standing on the back of the garden bench looking like someone had been at her with an axe. Blood everywhere! Ye Gods! I dashed into the garden towards Mrs Pumphrey; Mrs P dashed off in the opposite direction. Of all the three hens , she is the trickiest to catch. Despite bribes of sunflower seeds and apple, I couldn't grab her, but I got close enough to see that it looked like she'd managed to tear her comb. She didn't seemed bothered by her injury, and blood-thirsty Mrs Slocombe was leaving her alone, so I phoned Andy, informed him of the damage and waited until he got home so we could clean her up.
On closer inspection, and after a goodly mop up with warm water, cotton wool, tissue and hibiscrub, it seems she had some how lost a small piece out her comb, probably by sticking her head where it shouldn't have been. And combs, being well supplied with blood, meant a little injury spread a lot of goo, highlighted by her being a white hen and blood being red.
Andy used superglue to seal the wound (don't ask, but he and Pumphrey almost became joined for life) and she was confined to chicken hospital for the night but not before demonstrating her appreciation for my nursely ministrations by spraying me generously with bloodied water and hibiscrub.
This morning, she seems fine. The sun is shining, so sunbathing is on the agenda, and the 'got-at-by-an-axe-murderer' look has mostly faded.
Chickens eh? Who'd have 'em??
Monday, 7 February 2011
Publicity Hussy
Where to begin? Well, in the shower, of course, which is where I have many of my ideas, some of them crazy.
So there I was, getting ready to go out yesterday evening. Andy and I had tickets to see Gyles Brandreth at our local theatre. I'm in the shower (best not to imagine this bit), and suddenly...
'Take a copy of Nearly King Jimbo with you,' I said to myself.
'Why?' I replied.
'To give to Gyles Brandreth, of course,' I said. 'Stupid.'
'No need for that.' I said. 'You know I can't abide rudeness.'
'I apologise,' I said. 'But I really think you should take a copy with you this evening and find a way of getting it to Mr Brandreth. He is, after all, a writer, raconteur, bon viveur, all-round arty celeb-type personality, and I bet he knows a lot of people.' And I tapped myself on the side of my nose. 'If you know what I mean. You need to make the most of these opportunities when they come along.'
'I do,' I said. 'But how am I supposed to get a copy of Nearly King Jimbo into the hands of such a celebrity? Throw it onto the stage wrapped in a thong?'
'Well,' I said. 'You are sitting right at the front. You wouldn't have to throw it far.'
Off we went to the theatre. In my bag was secreted a copy of NKJ. At this point, I think it is fair to say, I was verging on the chickening out side of my plan.
The show was very entertaining. Mr Brandreth has a bottomless pit of humorous stories to tell; well, he leads a very full and star-spangled life, so I suppose he would.
All the while I am thinking, how can I do this? He'll think I'm some kind of mad-bonkers stalker woman if I go thrusting self-published books at him.
'He might not,' I said back to myself.
Oh, here she goes again, I thought.
'He might think,' I continued with dogged determination, 'that it's a jolly good book, and that you are a writer worth championing, or at least to pass on to someone else to champion.'
'In my dreams,' I said.
'It's where all life's magic starts,' said I.
Then at the interval, I was thrown a life line. Copies of Gyles Brandreth's book would be on sale in the foyer from his wife, Michele. And after the show, Gyles Brandreth would be signing the copies that were bought.
'Aha!' I said. 'There's your opportunity. Invest in his book - it'll be a good read anyway- and then whilst he is signing it, thrust NKJ at him, but think carefully about what you are going to say; you don't want to come across like a desperate mad-bonkers writer/ stalker.'
'Okay,' I said. 'And he did say he loved puns, and NKJ is full of puns, so shall I take that as a sign to take the risk?'
'Only if you are very superstitious,' I said.
I bought a copy of his book. I had a little chat to his wife, who was very nice. She admired my necklace and we both agreed that £5 notes are very rare these days.
All through the second half I was thinking about what I was going to say. I talked myself out of my plan at least three more times.
But when the time came, I just went for it. I waited until most of the audience had gone because I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of too many people. My nerves were eased a little when I reached his table and he looked up at me and said, 'Hello! You look rather lovely!'
Blimey, I thought; I've just been chatted up by Gyles Brandreth!
Anyway, we got chatting to him; he is a very personable person. And then I whipped out NKJ and said:
'I have a small gift for you. It's a book I wrote. Andy did the illustrations. I'm hoping to create a 'lucky co-incidence'. If you don't read it, you might leave it somewhere where someone else will pick it up and read it. Like an agent or a publisher. It's been rejected several times. We self-published it.'
(Shut up now, I thought. You're starting to ramble).
'It's the best way to go these days,' said Gyles. 'And of course I'll read it. Look, Michele. These lovely people have given me a gift.' And he showed the book to his wife.
'Will you sign it for us?' she said. 'You must sign it for us.'
So whilst Gyles was signing his book, I was signing ours! I signed my autograph in a book I wrote!!
It was all very surreal and I got a bit shaky and wobbly at this point because I was feeling ridiculously excited at my book being in the hands of a celebrity.
And if he does read it, I hope he enjoys it and maybe as a laugh or two in return for all the laughs he gave us last night.
I'll just have one last excited shriek if you don't mind...
'EEEEEEEEEKKKK!!!!!!'
So there I was, getting ready to go out yesterday evening. Andy and I had tickets to see Gyles Brandreth at our local theatre. I'm in the shower (best not to imagine this bit), and suddenly...
'Take a copy of Nearly King Jimbo with you,' I said to myself.
'Why?' I replied.
'To give to Gyles Brandreth, of course,' I said. 'Stupid.'
'No need for that.' I said. 'You know I can't abide rudeness.'
'I apologise,' I said. 'But I really think you should take a copy with you this evening and find a way of getting it to Mr Brandreth. He is, after all, a writer, raconteur, bon viveur, all-round arty celeb-type personality, and I bet he knows a lot of people.' And I tapped myself on the side of my nose. 'If you know what I mean. You need to make the most of these opportunities when they come along.'
'I do,' I said. 'But how am I supposed to get a copy of Nearly King Jimbo into the hands of such a celebrity? Throw it onto the stage wrapped in a thong?'
'Well,' I said. 'You are sitting right at the front. You wouldn't have to throw it far.'
Off we went to the theatre. In my bag was secreted a copy of NKJ. At this point, I think it is fair to say, I was verging on the chickening out side of my plan.
The show was very entertaining. Mr Brandreth has a bottomless pit of humorous stories to tell; well, he leads a very full and star-spangled life, so I suppose he would.
All the while I am thinking, how can I do this? He'll think I'm some kind of mad-bonkers stalker woman if I go thrusting self-published books at him.
'He might not,' I said back to myself.
Oh, here she goes again, I thought.
'He might think,' I continued with dogged determination, 'that it's a jolly good book, and that you are a writer worth championing, or at least to pass on to someone else to champion.'
'In my dreams,' I said.
'It's where all life's magic starts,' said I.
Then at the interval, I was thrown a life line. Copies of Gyles Brandreth's book would be on sale in the foyer from his wife, Michele. And after the show, Gyles Brandreth would be signing the copies that were bought.
'Aha!' I said. 'There's your opportunity. Invest in his book - it'll be a good read anyway- and then whilst he is signing it, thrust NKJ at him, but think carefully about what you are going to say; you don't want to come across like a desperate mad-bonkers writer/ stalker.'
'Okay,' I said. 'And he did say he loved puns, and NKJ is full of puns, so shall I take that as a sign to take the risk?'
'Only if you are very superstitious,' I said.
I bought a copy of his book. I had a little chat to his wife, who was very nice. She admired my necklace and we both agreed that £5 notes are very rare these days.
All through the second half I was thinking about what I was going to say. I talked myself out of my plan at least three more times.
But when the time came, I just went for it. I waited until most of the audience had gone because I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of too many people. My nerves were eased a little when I reached his table and he looked up at me and said, 'Hello! You look rather lovely!'
Blimey, I thought; I've just been chatted up by Gyles Brandreth!
Anyway, we got chatting to him; he is a very personable person. And then I whipped out NKJ and said:
'I have a small gift for you. It's a book I wrote. Andy did the illustrations. I'm hoping to create a 'lucky co-incidence'. If you don't read it, you might leave it somewhere where someone else will pick it up and read it. Like an agent or a publisher. It's been rejected several times. We self-published it.'
(Shut up now, I thought. You're starting to ramble).
'It's the best way to go these days,' said Gyles. 'And of course I'll read it. Look, Michele. These lovely people have given me a gift.' And he showed the book to his wife.
'Will you sign it for us?' she said. 'You must sign it for us.'
So whilst Gyles was signing his book, I was signing ours! I signed my autograph in a book I wrote!!
It was all very surreal and I got a bit shaky and wobbly at this point because I was feeling ridiculously excited at my book being in the hands of a celebrity.
And if he does read it, I hope he enjoys it and maybe as a laugh or two in return for all the laughs he gave us last night.
I'll just have one last excited shriek if you don't mind...
'EEEEEEEEEKKKK!!!!!!'
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Waste Not
See this? This bin.
This is a food waste recycling bin. There is a little bin to hang around inside your kitchen, and a bigger bin to leave outside. You decant your little bin into your big bin and the bin men take it away once a week.
The idea is that because householders will now be able to put their food waste in a separate bin to be collected once a week, the usual grey bin collection can change from once a week to once a fortnight.
Well, that's no good is it???????
Not for people like us who already compost all our food waste and recycle like mad things, and have been doing so since we got an allotment 4 years ago. All this bin means is that 1) we've had our weekly collection cut to fortnightly with no benefit to ourselves because food recycling will make no difference to what we have to chuck out because we can't recycle it and 2) there's another bit of tat to clutter up the kitchen/ garden/ driveway. It isn't even half the size of the grey bin, so Lord knows how people are going to manage when they start using it.
And I'm just waiting for the day when I go to put some rubbish in the grey bin and find some git has filled it with their rubbish because they don't have space in their own grey bin because it's only collected once a fortnight now. There are several families in our street with several children who overfill their bins every week let alone every fortnight.
Ah well. I suppose the council meant well (HA!). I expect someone, somewhere deep in the bowels of County Hall thought this would be a good idea.
And if I find myself in excess of non-recyclable rubbish once a fortnight, I can always get in my little car and drive to the local tip. Or to County Hall to put in in their bins.
Because that would be environmentally friendly, wouldn't it?
On a less whingy-pants note, I am considering the purchase of a pressure cooker. My reticence is guided by the fact my Gran had a pressure cooker which used to scare the beejeezus out of me when I was a child. I was convinced, mainly because of the loud whistling and screeching noises it emitted, that it would blow up at any second, scattering scalding hot beetroot/ potatoes/ swede across Gran's kitchen and into my face. The lid would rocket like a jet-propelled, er...rocket...into the ceiling, leaving a massive hole which I would then show to my own children as a chill warning NEVER to buy a pressure cooker, because of the structural damage they could inflict on a house.
I never mentioned this fear to Gran because she was a pragmatic, no nonsense woman who, in order to get this silly notion out of my head, would have put me in charge of mass producing boiled beetroot in the damn thing.
But now, as I'm starting to cook more with beans and pulses, (Andy and Heather are THRILLED at this development in my vegetarian culinary repertoire) I am thinking a pressure cooker would be a good idea, because it cooks beans and pulses more quickly than normal boiling.
I've done a bit of research on the interwebbly vis a vis different pressure cookers, all of which mention poundage per square litre type jargon, which in turn makes me think of tyre pressures, which in turn brings me back to fear of sudden explosion.
Do I get a tinky wee cheap one, just to try and see if my nerves can cope? Do I go for it big time and get a super duper enormous Tardis one with a life time guarantee that can cook a whole squash in 3 minutes flat?
Or do I put a hefty brick on the lid of one of my normal saucepans and whistle a tuneless tune?
Friday, 4 February 2011
Ear,ear
Working with students on a one-to-one basis has offered a fascinating insight into how different people perceive different points of language.
It has also revealed what I feel to be a rather worrying link between how children hear things, interpret them, and then write them down. I'm not talking about the occasional misunderstanding here, because we are all guilty of that sometimes, but actually being unable to listen to the sounds of speech and translate them into written patterns.
Now, I know English is a funny old language, with many foibles and inconsistencies. That's what makes it such a rich and vibrant tool of the arts. And I know that a lot of spelling patterns have to be learnt by rote, because they do not correspond with the sounds the voice make when it speaks the word. But simple words that sound as they are written i.e phonic, should really cause no problems at all.
Some issues surround the way we say words. Here in Kent we are commonly guilty of saying, 'Could of,' rather than 'could have.' So children tend to write 'of ' instead of 'have' because that is what it sounds like we say. It's lazy, but correctable for the purposes of proper Inglish Gramma, innit?
But sometimes a student will misspell a word, and I'll say, 'Does that spell like it sounds?' and they say 'Yes,' and I'll say, 'Listen to me saying the word,' and I'll say the word slowly and clearly, and they'll still not get it.
Like today. The word was 'human.' I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, well, easy mistake. They might think it's pronounced 'humman' as in buzzy bee hum.
No. Matthew's attempt was 'fuman.'
'Human,' I said.
'Fuman,' said Matthew.
'Hu......man,' I said.
'Foooo....man,' said Matthew.
'Hooo...man,' I tried, slowly and careful, looking at this point like some deranged chimpanzee.
'Foooooooooooooooooo....man,' said Matthew, trying not to laugh.
'Human,' I said quickly, trying to catch him off-guard.
At this point, Matthew laughed. 'I can't say it,' he said.
'Can you hear that it starts with a 'h' sound and not a 'f' sound?' I said.
'Yes,' he said. 'Fuman.'
'Huckin' fell,' I thought.
I don't know exactly what it is, but I have, as I suspect you can guess, got my theories.
1) Have you heard children's TV these days? Have you seen Rasta Mice? I rest my case.
2) i-pods, personal sound systems, whatever else it is that youngsters plug into their ears FOR 12 hours a day and play at a level that is audible across all lanes of the M25 during rush hour.
3) The inability to converse with each other without SHOUTING at the TOPS OF THEIR VOICES, because they live in a society where the most important person is ME and I'm GOING TO MAKE MYSELF HEARD, even though I have nothing of value to say, I just WANNA BE LOUD AND FAMOUS!
4) The inability to take turns when speaking, ditto number 3; when I was classroom teaching I reckon every day I must have said at some point, 'I have only one pair of ears and one brain. Please do not shout at me all at once.' It's quite fascinating listening to a group of five or six girls all talking with their own agenda in mind so you hear six different topics all at once, and none of them are listening to anyone else. They aren't having a conversation, they are competing for air time. No wonder it ends in punch ups and misunderstandings sometimes.
5) The fact we are constantly surrounded by sound; traffic, music, muzak, chatter, tv, radio, internet, gossip, nightclubs....as I grow older, I grow more intolerant of sound. This week we've barely had the tv on, and the evenings have been punctuated with no sound louder than the turning of a page, the scratching of a pen, and the occasional, 'Cup of tea, hot pants?'
So this weekend, take time to listen to the sound of nothing. To the sound of your brain ticking, your imagination working, your body breathing. I know I'm going to.
It's one of the best ways, after all, to feel fuman.
It has also revealed what I feel to be a rather worrying link between how children hear things, interpret them, and then write them down. I'm not talking about the occasional misunderstanding here, because we are all guilty of that sometimes, but actually being unable to listen to the sounds of speech and translate them into written patterns.
Now, I know English is a funny old language, with many foibles and inconsistencies. That's what makes it such a rich and vibrant tool of the arts. And I know that a lot of spelling patterns have to be learnt by rote, because they do not correspond with the sounds the voice make when it speaks the word. But simple words that sound as they are written i.e phonic, should really cause no problems at all.
Some issues surround the way we say words. Here in Kent we are commonly guilty of saying, 'Could of,' rather than 'could have.' So children tend to write 'of ' instead of 'have' because that is what it sounds like we say. It's lazy, but correctable for the purposes of proper Inglish Gramma, innit?
But sometimes a student will misspell a word, and I'll say, 'Does that spell like it sounds?' and they say 'Yes,' and I'll say, 'Listen to me saying the word,' and I'll say the word slowly and clearly, and they'll still not get it.
Like today. The word was 'human.' I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, well, easy mistake. They might think it's pronounced 'humman' as in buzzy bee hum.
No. Matthew's attempt was 'fuman.'
'Human,' I said.
'Fuman,' said Matthew.
'Hu......man,' I said.
'Foooo....man,' said Matthew.
'Hooo...man,' I tried, slowly and careful, looking at this point like some deranged chimpanzee.
'Foooooooooooooooooo....man,' said Matthew, trying not to laugh.
'Human,' I said quickly, trying to catch him off-guard.
At this point, Matthew laughed. 'I can't say it,' he said.
'Can you hear that it starts with a 'h' sound and not a 'f' sound?' I said.
'Yes,' he said. 'Fuman.'
'Huckin' fell,' I thought.
I don't know exactly what it is, but I have, as I suspect you can guess, got my theories.
1) Have you heard children's TV these days? Have you seen Rasta Mice? I rest my case.
2) i-pods, personal sound systems, whatever else it is that youngsters plug into their ears FOR 12 hours a day and play at a level that is audible across all lanes of the M25 during rush hour.
3) The inability to converse with each other without SHOUTING at the TOPS OF THEIR VOICES, because they live in a society where the most important person is ME and I'm GOING TO MAKE MYSELF HEARD, even though I have nothing of value to say, I just WANNA BE LOUD AND FAMOUS!
4) The inability to take turns when speaking, ditto number 3; when I was classroom teaching I reckon every day I must have said at some point, 'I have only one pair of ears and one brain. Please do not shout at me all at once.' It's quite fascinating listening to a group of five or six girls all talking with their own agenda in mind so you hear six different topics all at once, and none of them are listening to anyone else. They aren't having a conversation, they are competing for air time. No wonder it ends in punch ups and misunderstandings sometimes.
5) The fact we are constantly surrounded by sound; traffic, music, muzak, chatter, tv, radio, internet, gossip, nightclubs....as I grow older, I grow more intolerant of sound. This week we've barely had the tv on, and the evenings have been punctuated with no sound louder than the turning of a page, the scratching of a pen, and the occasional, 'Cup of tea, hot pants?'
So this weekend, take time to listen to the sound of nothing. To the sound of your brain ticking, your imagination working, your body breathing. I know I'm going to.
It's one of the best ways, after all, to feel fuman.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Getting Things Done
In anticipation of my tutoring work fizzling out in the Summer, (I have tried to pin the Bursar down about issues such as funding and commitment, but he tends to shy away from such words) Andy and I are attempting to 'get things done' whilst we have a bit of extra cash. Like getting another car - tick. And buying a fruit cage for the allotment -nearly tick. And getting the TV aerial sorted before one or all of us throws the telly through the front window in wild frustration.
Let me explain. When we moved here we had a telly, like you do. The aerial point was what might be termed 'a hole in the wall' because it was. It didn't connect to the telly, so, as a short-term measure, we bought one of those tiddy portable aerials to reside on the window ledge until sorting out the proper aerial (which went on the list of 'things to do' ) got done.
Six years later...digital TV is now upon us. And a cat (Pandora) who can't leave the tiddy portable aerial alone and chooses to hug it and interfere with the signal at important TV moments like finding out the 'Pass' answers to a Mastermind question, or the punchline to a potentially hilarious joke on 'QI.' And because digital TV is so great and the best thing since sliced bread (HA!) we also find that when certain cars/ buses/ mopeds go past the front window at certain points in the day, the signal is muchly disturbed, thus causing OUT-RAGE and TENSION to us, the viewees, and the longing for the good old days of analogue.
So...
...on Tuesday, I telephoned a 'family firm est 1978' who dealt with aerials, and arranged for them to come out today, as Andy was home and I was at work and therefore wouldn't have to get involved in man chat about TV signals, being on a hill/ in a dip, and the whole sorry state of the digital TV switch over malarkey in general.
And when I got home, there was a new aerial on the roof, and the TV plugged into the hole in the wall. Andy said it was a father and son team who turned up. The son was about 60 years old, the father about 85. It was the father who got sent up onto the roof. Andy couldn't bear to stay and watch so nipped into town to the cash point to get them some money. He said the father was very short, and his head kind of shrunk into his shoulders.
I wondered how many times the father had fallen head-first off a roof since 1978.
Anyway, it's all done. No more interference. No more tiddy portable aerial for Pandora to love.
And the irony is that it's Thursday, and this week, because I've been reading and writing in the evenings, I've watched all of about an hour and a half of telly. (Including commercial breaks.)
Aerial - tick!
Let me explain. When we moved here we had a telly, like you do. The aerial point was what might be termed 'a hole in the wall' because it was. It didn't connect to the telly, so, as a short-term measure, we bought one of those tiddy portable aerials to reside on the window ledge until sorting out the proper aerial (which went on the list of 'things to do' ) got done.
Six years later...digital TV is now upon us. And a cat (Pandora) who can't leave the tiddy portable aerial alone and chooses to hug it and interfere with the signal at important TV moments like finding out the 'Pass' answers to a Mastermind question, or the punchline to a potentially hilarious joke on 'QI.' And because digital TV is so great and the best thing since sliced bread (HA!) we also find that when certain cars/ buses/ mopeds go past the front window at certain points in the day, the signal is muchly disturbed, thus causing OUT-RAGE and TENSION to us, the viewees, and the longing for the good old days of analogue.
So...
...on Tuesday, I telephoned a 'family firm est 1978' who dealt with aerials, and arranged for them to come out today, as Andy was home and I was at work and therefore wouldn't have to get involved in man chat about TV signals, being on a hill/ in a dip, and the whole sorry state of the digital TV switch over malarkey in general.
And when I got home, there was a new aerial on the roof, and the TV plugged into the hole in the wall. Andy said it was a father and son team who turned up. The son was about 60 years old, the father about 85. It was the father who got sent up onto the roof. Andy couldn't bear to stay and watch so nipped into town to the cash point to get them some money. He said the father was very short, and his head kind of shrunk into his shoulders.
I wondered how many times the father had fallen head-first off a roof since 1978.
Anyway, it's all done. No more interference. No more tiddy portable aerial for Pandora to love.
And the irony is that it's Thursday, and this week, because I've been reading and writing in the evenings, I've watched all of about an hour and a half of telly. (Including commercial breaks.)
Aerial - tick!
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
World Book Night Excitement!
A couple of months ago, I registered to be a Giver of Books on World Book Night, which is on 5th March. I thought, what a great idea - helping to give out free books to people for the sheer hell of encouraging people to read a book they might not otherwise read.
A list of 50 books had been selected by 'the people who know a good book when they read one', and potential givers registered their interest in their favourite book from the list, with a second choice 'just in case.'
I have to say that some of the books on the list I either tried reading and gave up on, or I thought, who the heck thought that was a classic book? But one of my favourite books, Mark Haddon's 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time' was there, so I applied to be a Giver of that book, with 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie' as my second choice.
Needless to say, over the last two months, thoughts of being chosen as a Giver slipped in and out of my mind. I've never been lucky with applying for these things, but I allowed myself the occasional thought of how I would distribute the books - 48 copies - if I was chosen.
And this morning I have received an e-mail which starts 'CONGRATULATIONS! You have been chosen as a Giver for The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time on World Book Night!'
And then I had to follow a link to register where I want to collect my 48 copies of the book. They will be ready for collection in about 4 weeks. I've now got 5 weeks to decide on how I am going to give away the copies I receive.
How exciting!!!!
Also, as an official Giver, I shall be eligible for other benefits, details of which will be sent at a later date. Ooooh, I wonder what they will be??
A list of 50 books had been selected by 'the people who know a good book when they read one', and potential givers registered their interest in their favourite book from the list, with a second choice 'just in case.'
I have to say that some of the books on the list I either tried reading and gave up on, or I thought, who the heck thought that was a classic book? But one of my favourite books, Mark Haddon's 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time' was there, so I applied to be a Giver of that book, with 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie' as my second choice.
Needless to say, over the last two months, thoughts of being chosen as a Giver slipped in and out of my mind. I've never been lucky with applying for these things, but I allowed myself the occasional thought of how I would distribute the books - 48 copies - if I was chosen.
And this morning I have received an e-mail which starts 'CONGRATULATIONS! You have been chosen as a Giver for The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time on World Book Night!'
And then I had to follow a link to register where I want to collect my 48 copies of the book. They will be ready for collection in about 4 weeks. I've now got 5 weeks to decide on how I am going to give away the copies I receive.
How exciting!!!!
Also, as an official Giver, I shall be eligible for other benefits, details of which will be sent at a later date. Ooooh, I wonder what they will be??
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