Yesterday evening I had my first shower - no *the* first shower - in our new shower. Yes, really. Our bathroom fitter came round as arranged in the morning and calibrated the mixer and now it does hot, and it does cold. Brilliant.
There was one slight additional problem that I didn't mention last time. The lever that controls the flow between the rain head and the shower head doesn't work properly. It's supposed to flip between the two. What it actually does, as you move it from fully down to fully up, is slow the rain head down to a trickle while starting the shower head up, but it never *quite* shuts the rain head off, until it reaches the uppermost position, at which point it shuts them BOTH off.
Not ideal, and not something he could fix yesterday (he had to call the manufacturer, and their support lines aren't open on Sunday), but it's a detail. At least we can shower. We're not there yet by God, but the end is in sight.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
The gas chamber
It was back in February that I first wrote about our neighbour leaving his gas on, and us being able to smell it in the house.
I stayed up late tonight, having fallen asleep in front of the TV and then not being tired by the time I came upstairs. After writing a couple of blogs and some emails I decided it was time for bed around 1.30am. Walking into our bedroom I was hit by the obvious smell of gas once again. After our last experience I knew immediately what was going on, but 1.30 in the morning! What to do? I didn't feel I could go banging on his door alone, but I knew I couldn't leave it until after sunrise. By that time the concentration of gas in his house could have reached dangerous levels where even turning on a light can cause an explosion.
I called the emergency gas helpline. The programmed text that their operators have to go through involves turning off *our* gas supply, which I refused to do - knowing that it's not us with the problem. The engineers guarantee to be at the property within an hour, so I woke Nikki gently and explained the situation, and we sat drinking (decaf!) coffee in the study until I heard a knock at the door (they won't ring the bell in case of sparks!) around ten past two. As before it took a moment only to check that our supply was gas tight, after which we walked over to next door. The gas man pushed his probe through the letter box.
The machine didn't howl, but the reading must have indicated something significant enough for him to knock on the door and shout through the letter box. "Step away from the property sir," he instructed me. "We don't know how much gas there is in there, and if he turns a light on it might go pop."
It took three attempts at knocking and shouting before our neighbour came to the door. The gas man headed off for the kitchen while I explained why we were there. He's confused enough at the best of times let alone having been roused from his bed at past 2am. The gas man shone his torch at the cooker with the words "...and sure enough..."
Yes, one of the gas burners left on again, unlit. The man must have no sense of smell at all. I could hardly breathe and I was only stood in the hall. So this is the second time in as many months, despite his son assuring us that he doesn't do it "very often." I think I'll be making another phone call tomorrow.
I stayed up late tonight, having fallen asleep in front of the TV and then not being tired by the time I came upstairs. After writing a couple of blogs and some emails I decided it was time for bed around 1.30am. Walking into our bedroom I was hit by the obvious smell of gas once again. After our last experience I knew immediately what was going on, but 1.30 in the morning! What to do? I didn't feel I could go banging on his door alone, but I knew I couldn't leave it until after sunrise. By that time the concentration of gas in his house could have reached dangerous levels where even turning on a light can cause an explosion.
I called the emergency gas helpline. The programmed text that their operators have to go through involves turning off *our* gas supply, which I refused to do - knowing that it's not us with the problem. The engineers guarantee to be at the property within an hour, so I woke Nikki gently and explained the situation, and we sat drinking (decaf!) coffee in the study until I heard a knock at the door (they won't ring the bell in case of sparks!) around ten past two. As before it took a moment only to check that our supply was gas tight, after which we walked over to next door. The gas man pushed his probe through the letter box.
The machine didn't howl, but the reading must have indicated something significant enough for him to knock on the door and shout through the letter box. "Step away from the property sir," he instructed me. "We don't know how much gas there is in there, and if he turns a light on it might go pop."
It took three attempts at knocking and shouting before our neighbour came to the door. The gas man headed off for the kitchen while I explained why we were there. He's confused enough at the best of times let alone having been roused from his bed at past 2am. The gas man shone his torch at the cooker with the words "...and sure enough..."
Yes, one of the gas burners left on again, unlit. The man must have no sense of smell at all. I could hardly breathe and I was only stood in the hall. So this is the second time in as many months, despite his son assuring us that he doesn't do it "very often." I think I'll be making another phone call tomorrow.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
I *really* need that shower!
This weekend is one of the only times we have free to get the study tidied before our forthcoming housewarming party. We've booked a plasterer to come the week after the party and the entire study has to be empty. It's one of the few large accessible spaces so we've tended to use it as a dumping ground since we moved in for anything that's too heavy to carry up into the attic room (or when we just couldn't be arsed) and it's also pretty full of bookshelves and filing.
All this has to go somewhere else by May 31, but this has the added advantage of freeing the study up to be the karaoke room on party night. The original plan was to use the conservatory for this, but I'd been worried by the proximity of that to the main party areas, especially the lounge where I'd really wanted disco music to be playing. The two activities are mutually exclusive in my experience and while I didn't want to lose the karaoke, I didn't want it to detract from the main party music.
Having it upstairs solves that problem, so today's task was to move as much "stuff" as possible out of the study. Mainly up into the attic, but also in some cases out into the shed, or (temporarily) into our room.
Hot, sweaty work. Dusty too, since much of it was still covered in building dust from when the toilet wall came down. All day long I was looking forward to that first shower. Stepping under the cool drizzle from our super new rain head and soaping up all over. It's what kept me going, up and down the loft ladder, until about 5pm.
Finally, it was time. I turned on the shower and undressed. The water ran very hot, so stepping around the downpour to reach the dial, I turned it toward the cold. It ran hotter. Unsure whether this was just because the combiboiler was only now reaching its operating temperature, I turned the control the other way. The water stayed hot. I turned it fully clockwise. Hot. Fully anticlockwise. Hot. Too hot to stand underneath. Nikki had been watching the whole show and we just looked at each other through the shower screen, unable to believe it. Can I say jinxed?
I turned the shower off and stepped out. I could understand if the pipes had been plumbed the wrong way round - our dear fitter has a track record for that, having plumbed the taps incorrectly on both the bath and the sink - but the shower behaved as if it had *only* a hot water supply. Nikki fetched the instructions while I dried off. Reading the final installation instructions, it appeared likely that the calibration hadn't been completed properly. The temperature knob has to be set to the right position to allow a normal range of water temperature. The instructions also mentioned a stop button - to prevent the knob being turned accidentally to a scalding position. I found the button and tried the shower again, holding my hand under the flow. But even with the full arc of adjustment available, the water still ran hot at both extremes.
We've arranged for the plumber to call back tomorrow, but after all that expectation it's another setback in a six-week saga that has been beset by them. We're really hoping it is a calibration error. If it turns out he's plumbed two hot supplies to the shower unit then the only recourse will be to lift more tiles, with all the problems that will entail for the underfloor heating.
All this has to go somewhere else by May 31, but this has the added advantage of freeing the study up to be the karaoke room on party night. The original plan was to use the conservatory for this, but I'd been worried by the proximity of that to the main party areas, especially the lounge where I'd really wanted disco music to be playing. The two activities are mutually exclusive in my experience and while I didn't want to lose the karaoke, I didn't want it to detract from the main party music.
Having it upstairs solves that problem, so today's task was to move as much "stuff" as possible out of the study. Mainly up into the attic, but also in some cases out into the shed, or (temporarily) into our room.
Hot, sweaty work. Dusty too, since much of it was still covered in building dust from when the toilet wall came down. All day long I was looking forward to that first shower. Stepping under the cool drizzle from our super new rain head and soaping up all over. It's what kept me going, up and down the loft ladder, until about 5pm.
Finally, it was time. I turned on the shower and undressed. The water ran very hot, so stepping around the downpour to reach the dial, I turned it toward the cold. It ran hotter. Unsure whether this was just because the combiboiler was only now reaching its operating temperature, I turned the control the other way. The water stayed hot. I turned it fully clockwise. Hot. Fully anticlockwise. Hot. Too hot to stand underneath. Nikki had been watching the whole show and we just looked at each other through the shower screen, unable to believe it. Can I say jinxed?
I turned the shower off and stepped out. I could understand if the pipes had been plumbed the wrong way round - our dear fitter has a track record for that, having plumbed the taps incorrectly on both the bath and the sink - but the shower behaved as if it had *only* a hot water supply. Nikki fetched the instructions while I dried off. Reading the final installation instructions, it appeared likely that the calibration hadn't been completed properly. The temperature knob has to be set to the right position to allow a normal range of water temperature. The instructions also mentioned a stop button - to prevent the knob being turned accidentally to a scalding position. I found the button and tried the shower again, holding my hand under the flow. But even with the full arc of adjustment available, the water still ran hot at both extremes.
We've arranged for the plumber to call back tomorrow, but after all that expectation it's another setback in a six-week saga that has been beset by them. We're really hoping it is a calibration error. If it turns out he's plumbed two hot supplies to the shower unit then the only recourse will be to lift more tiles, with all the problems that will entail for the underfloor heating.
Friday, April 27, 2007
We have a shower!
It has seemed like an age (in fact it was here - exactly three weeks ago) since I wrote anything about our bathroom refit. You must have been wondering what's been happening! Nothing, is the answer. We've been waiting for the replacement shower glass, and the initial estimate of a week turned out to be two weeks with a further week's delay before the plumber could arrange to come and fit it.
But I arrived home tonight from Croydon (where I'd had to drive today from yesterday's Coventry trip) shortly before 7pm to find our cheery bathroom man in the middle of fitting it. A couple of hours later and the glass was all in place, the shower fitting was completely assembled, the shower tray had been caulked and I was treated to a short demonstration of how to work all those lovely chrome-and-porcelain knobs and dials.
Brilliant. We have to leave it around 24 hours for the sealant to cure but tomorrow, finally after all this waiting, I'll be able to have my first proper shower in this house.
But I arrived home tonight from Croydon (where I'd had to drive today from yesterday's Coventry trip) shortly before 7pm to find our cheery bathroom man in the middle of fitting it. A couple of hours later and the glass was all in place, the shower fitting was completely assembled, the shower tray had been caulked and I was treated to a short demonstration of how to work all those lovely chrome-and-porcelain knobs and dials.
Brilliant. We have to leave it around 24 hours for the sealant to cure but tomorrow, finally after all this waiting, I'll be able to have my first proper shower in this house.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Three rants for Thursday
I was sent to Coventry today. I mean literally, not figuratively. The solution architects group with whom I work were having an away-day at the Menzies Leofric Hotel. Notwithstanding my recent penchant for train travel, I decided to drive. Since the hotel is smack bang in the centre of Coventry I went armed with a turn-by-turn route, courtesy of the AA.
As usual, things went just fine until I was about half a mile from my destination. At this point, the route turns its back on such directions as "take the second exit on the A429" and resorts to using local street names instead. Only trouble is, only about one in five of the streets has a friggin' sign.
"At the traffic lights, turn left onto Little Park Street," it says. Yep, there are the lights but...no street sign. So I turn left anyway and about two minutes later realise that I'm hopelessly lost as the street layout doesn't match the rest of the instructions AT ALL. Backtracking to the last point where my position matched the instructions isn't that easy either, because of the hellish one-way system and series of dual carriageways, but eventually I'm back at the lights. They're red, so I can cast around for a sign that perhaps was tucked away somewhere out of obvious view. High up on a building, maybe? Or slightly further round the corner than usual? No. And the lights have changed, so I carry on straight ahead, looking for Little Park Street.
After three sets of traffic lights, I hit a roundabout and realise I must have gone too far, so I backtrack (again) and consult instead the Googlemaps detailed local map. Having circled the area twice now, I recognise the layout of the streets and spot right away that Little Park Street was, in fact, the left turn at the THIRD set of lights. You guessed that it still didn't have a street sign, right?
Why are we so bad at this in the UK? Probably because locals all know the street names anyway, so they don't kick up a fuss, and travellers are either one-offs (so it's not worth the hassle of finding out who to complain to) or regulars (in which case they learn where everything is). At least I didn't get as badly lost as those who relied on their sat nav systems, apparently.
Once I'd arrived at the hotel, I found two more of my "favourite" bugbears. Visiting the gents' during the first comfort break of the day, I discovered the management had decided to install those evil hot air hand dryers with the automatic sensors. Nothing so mundane as a simple button to press here, mate. Oh no. We will detect your hands in the vicinity of the dryer and burst into life automagically. Except the sensors are positioned so that you have to bark your knuckles up against the wall to get the damn thing started at all, and then there's not enough room to move your hands around to dry them properly. Or if you do, they move out of sensor range and the dryer dies. Arrgh!
Once the business of the day had been concluded, I retired to my room to freshen up for the evening meal, and call Nikki. The telephone cord was so badly twisted it was almost in knots, and picking up the handset resulted in the entire phone leaping into the air and crashing off the desk. I dangled the handset for a few seconds to let the cord unravel - but how do they get into this state in the first place? You pick the phone up, make a call, and put it back again. What part of that involves twisting it around a few times? To unravel the cord on this occasion the handset made at least a dozen complete revolutions. Why? How? Some people must do weird stuff when they're on the phone.
As usual, things went just fine until I was about half a mile from my destination. At this point, the route turns its back on such directions as "take the second exit on the A429" and resorts to using local street names instead. Only trouble is, only about one in five of the streets has a friggin' sign.
"At the traffic lights, turn left onto Little Park Street," it says. Yep, there are the lights but...no street sign. So I turn left anyway and about two minutes later realise that I'm hopelessly lost as the street layout doesn't match the rest of the instructions AT ALL. Backtracking to the last point where my position matched the instructions isn't that easy either, because of the hellish one-way system and series of dual carriageways, but eventually I'm back at the lights. They're red, so I can cast around for a sign that perhaps was tucked away somewhere out of obvious view. High up on a building, maybe? Or slightly further round the corner than usual? No. And the lights have changed, so I carry on straight ahead, looking for Little Park Street.
After three sets of traffic lights, I hit a roundabout and realise I must have gone too far, so I backtrack (again) and consult instead the Googlemaps detailed local map. Having circled the area twice now, I recognise the layout of the streets and spot right away that Little Park Street was, in fact, the left turn at the THIRD set of lights. You guessed that it still didn't have a street sign, right?
Why are we so bad at this in the UK? Probably because locals all know the street names anyway, so they don't kick up a fuss, and travellers are either one-offs (so it's not worth the hassle of finding out who to complain to) or regulars (in which case they learn where everything is). At least I didn't get as badly lost as those who relied on their sat nav systems, apparently.
Once I'd arrived at the hotel, I found two more of my "favourite" bugbears. Visiting the gents' during the first comfort break of the day, I discovered the management had decided to install those evil hot air hand dryers with the automatic sensors. Nothing so mundane as a simple button to press here, mate. Oh no. We will detect your hands in the vicinity of the dryer and burst into life automagically. Except the sensors are positioned so that you have to bark your knuckles up against the wall to get the damn thing started at all, and then there's not enough room to move your hands around to dry them properly. Or if you do, they move out of sensor range and the dryer dies. Arrgh!
Once the business of the day had been concluded, I retired to my room to freshen up for the evening meal, and call Nikki. The telephone cord was so badly twisted it was almost in knots, and picking up the handset resulted in the entire phone leaping into the air and crashing off the desk. I dangled the handset for a few seconds to let the cord unravel - but how do they get into this state in the first place? You pick the phone up, make a call, and put it back again. What part of that involves twisting it around a few times? To unravel the cord on this occasion the handset made at least a dozen complete revolutions. Why? How? Some people must do weird stuff when they're on the phone.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The early train
The second 5.20am train of the week and I'm beginning to wonder what I've done to deserve this. With my innate desire never to be late for anything, I always book a taxi for 4.45, it always turns up five minutes early and so I arrive at Piccadilly a full 30 minutes before the train is scheduled to depart.
As I stand on the platform, staring at the door button for coach B waiting for it to be activated and let me on to the train, I ponder the benefit of the potential extra twenty minutes I could have stayed in bed, and try to calculate how much of my life I've wasted standing on platforms staring at door buttons or timetable displays.
Virgin have "passenger control" down to a fine art. At Euston, we're held on the concourse until about 8 minutes before the train leaves, the sign displaying only "Being Prepared" instead of a platform number. Every other service displays a platform number except the train to Manchester. I asked the hapless Virgin staffer about this once and was politely told it was because Euston didn't guarantee a platform to the arriving Manchester trains so they didn't know in advance where it would be.
This is blatant gobshite. The Manchester-London service runs every half hour and there is always one in when the next one arrives, so each train must arrive anything up to an hour before it has to be ready to depart. Easily long enough to clean and prepare it for the return journey and allow passengers to take their seats at their leisure, rather than via the mad scramble that ensues when the platform is *finally* revealed 8 minutes before departure.
At Piccadilly thecrowd passenger control is much simpler. They announce the platform but keep the train locked until 5 minutes before it leaves. Small queues build up outside every door and, as I'm always half-an-hour early, I'm always at the front of the one outside the forward door to coach B. Staring at the button.
When we finally set off the train manager is very keen to check tickets. Most mornings this doesn't happen until well past Stockport, but today he's spotted some dodgy looking characters and he's on the ball. Sure enough, they don't have valid tickets.
"That's a saver ticket and it's not valid on this train unless it's been bought on a Railcard"
"I didn't know"
"Well that's why I announced it before we left Manchester, and you were awake"
"How do you know I was awake?"
"Because you walked on to the train"
"Well I've got a Railcard anyway"
"Can I see it?"
"I haven't got it with me"
"That's OK, but you had to buy the ticket with it. If you haven't got it with you, you couldn't have bought the ticket with it, so it's an invalid ticket for this journey. You'll have to get off at Stockport and wait for an off-peak train after 8.30"
"Can't you give me a break?"
"I can give you a bill - standard single fare is £109 - or you can leave the train"
Stockport is only about 8-10 minutes from Piccadilly by train so it wasn't long after the train manager had left the vicinity (to mumbles of "Jobsworth" and "yeah, call the transport police, what do I care?" from the annoyed party) that we pulled into the station. No-one left the train and we set off again. A little while later the manager was back having consulted with his controller by radio. He asked the guy once more whether he was going to purchase a ticket and, faced with the reality of being handed over to the transport police at Wilmslow, he coughed up the difference between his saver ticket and a full fare - about £79.
The ticketing system is a lot simpler than it was, but is still arcane to an occasional traveller, and even though the various ramifications are explained over the PA system prior to departure it's easy to miss the finer points if you're a novice. A little while ago Virgin changed their policy so that saver tickets and various other kinds could not be purchased on board. The only ticket they will sell you on a train is a standard single fare. With every train manager being equipped with a mobile computerised ticket machine, this is another blatant rip-off. They could easily sell the cheapest valid ticket for the route, but choose not to, thus maximising their profits at the expense of the unwary, inexperienced, or anyone who has caught the train in a hurry. Hardly an incentive to start to use the trains if you're not a regular.
As I stand on the platform, staring at the door button for coach B waiting for it to be activated and let me on to the train, I ponder the benefit of the potential extra twenty minutes I could have stayed in bed, and try to calculate how much of my life I've wasted standing on platforms staring at door buttons or timetable displays.
Virgin have "passenger control" down to a fine art. At Euston, we're held on the concourse until about 8 minutes before the train leaves, the sign displaying only "Being Prepared" instead of a platform number. Every other service displays a platform number except the train to Manchester. I asked the hapless Virgin staffer about this once and was politely told it was because Euston didn't guarantee a platform to the arriving Manchester trains so they didn't know in advance where it would be.
This is blatant gobshite. The Manchester-London service runs every half hour and there is always one in when the next one arrives, so each train must arrive anything up to an hour before it has to be ready to depart. Easily long enough to clean and prepare it for the return journey and allow passengers to take their seats at their leisure, rather than via the mad scramble that ensues when the platform is *finally* revealed 8 minutes before departure.
At Piccadilly the
When we finally set off the train manager is very keen to check tickets. Most mornings this doesn't happen until well past Stockport, but today he's spotted some dodgy looking characters and he's on the ball. Sure enough, they don't have valid tickets.
"That's a saver ticket and it's not valid on this train unless it's been bought on a Railcard"
"I didn't know"
"Well that's why I announced it before we left Manchester, and you were awake"
"How do you know I was awake?"
"Because you walked on to the train"
"Well I've got a Railcard anyway"
"Can I see it?"
"I haven't got it with me"
"That's OK, but you had to buy the ticket with it. If you haven't got it with you, you couldn't have bought the ticket with it, so it's an invalid ticket for this journey. You'll have to get off at Stockport and wait for an off-peak train after 8.30"
"Can't you give me a break?"
"I can give you a bill - standard single fare is £109 - or you can leave the train"
Stockport is only about 8-10 minutes from Piccadilly by train so it wasn't long after the train manager had left the vicinity (to mumbles of "Jobsworth" and "yeah, call the transport police, what do I care?" from the annoyed party) that we pulled into the station. No-one left the train and we set off again. A little while later the manager was back having consulted with his controller by radio. He asked the guy once more whether he was going to purchase a ticket and, faced with the reality of being handed over to the transport police at Wilmslow, he coughed up the difference between his saver ticket and a full fare - about £79.
The ticketing system is a lot simpler than it was, but is still arcane to an occasional traveller, and even though the various ramifications are explained over the PA system prior to departure it's easy to miss the finer points if you're a novice. A little while ago Virgin changed their policy so that saver tickets and various other kinds could not be purchased on board. The only ticket they will sell you on a train is a standard single fare. With every train manager being equipped with a mobile computerised ticket machine, this is another blatant rip-off. They could easily sell the cheapest valid ticket for the route, but choose not to, thus maximising their profits at the expense of the unwary, inexperienced, or anyone who has caught the train in a hurry. Hardly an incentive to start to use the trains if you're not a regular.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
A Day of busy work
Party preparations for our housewarming and joint 50th birthday celebration at the end of next month continue in earnest and one of my tasks for today was to hang the low-voltage lanterns we bought to decorate the conservatory.
A bargain at under a tenner, I wasn't expecting much from these but as it turned out I was pleasantly surprised. Cleverly packaged with all the coloured inserts together, all the lanterns "grilles" together, all the tops in a bag and the bulb loop folded neatly in on itself, assembly consisted of untwisting the wire carrying the bulbs and then sliding a top over each, followed by a colour and a grille to make the "lantern." I settled on the colour scheme Blue, Red, Amber, Green in a subtle homage to BRAG status reports that will be totally lost on ALL our guests but nevertheless amused me and had the whole string assembled in under half an hour.
One of the things that attracted me to this set was that it has 10 metres of bulbs AND 10 metres of extra cable, so I was certain of being able to reach the nearest power outlet in the lounge. Ten metres proved just enough to hang lanterns around the windows on all sides and then return along the beam in the middle of the conservatory. I haven't had chance to switch them on in the dark yet, so I'll post a photo when I do.
After interrupting lighting assembly to get the lawn cut before the rain started in earnest, my third task of the day was to assemble the free-standing towel rail and loo roll holder that we bought yesterday.
Both suit the bathroom perfectly and are exactly the right sizes for the spaces we'd intended. I'm holding off fitting the glass shelf for the time being, for two reasons. Firstly we haven't actually bought the matching mirror yet, and if we find a nicer one and have to return the shelf, it's better if it's still boxed. But the second and more important reason is that Nikki's little voice is telling her we shouldn't fit any glassware, mirror or shelf, until after the shower door is fixed.
We've found the mirror online priced £20 cheaper than Aqua Accessories in any case, so will probably buy from there. We also need a small glass corner shelf for Sheldon (our pot fantasy dinosaur) to live on.
Mid-afternoon our neighbours called round with a surprise invitation to their son's confirmation party tonight. That should be a good night, although we'll have to leave quite early as I have a 4am start tomorrow :(
A bargain at under a tenner, I wasn't expecting much from these but as it turned out I was pleasantly surprised. Cleverly packaged with all the coloured inserts together, all the lanterns "grilles" together, all the tops in a bag and the bulb loop folded neatly in on itself, assembly consisted of untwisting the wire carrying the bulbs and then sliding a top over each, followed by a colour and a grille to make the "lantern." I settled on the colour scheme Blue, Red, Amber, Green in a subtle homage to BRAG status reports that will be totally lost on ALL our guests but nevertheless amused me and had the whole string assembled in under half an hour.
One of the things that attracted me to this set was that it has 10 metres of bulbs AND 10 metres of extra cable, so I was certain of being able to reach the nearest power outlet in the lounge. Ten metres proved just enough to hang lanterns around the windows on all sides and then return along the beam in the middle of the conservatory. I haven't had chance to switch them on in the dark yet, so I'll post a photo when I do.
After interrupting lighting assembly to get the lawn cut before the rain started in earnest, my third task of the day was to assemble the free-standing towel rail and loo roll holder that we bought yesterday.Both suit the bathroom perfectly and are exactly the right sizes for the spaces we'd intended. I'm holding off fitting the glass shelf for the time being, for two reasons. Firstly we haven't actually bought the matching mirror yet, and if we find a nicer one and have to return the shelf, it's better if it's still boxed. But the second and more important reason is that Nikki's little voice is telling her we shouldn't fit any glassware, mirror or shelf, until after the shower door is fixed.
We've found the mirror online priced £20 cheaper than Aqua Accessories in any case, so will probably buy from there. We also need a small glass corner shelf for Sheldon (our pot fantasy dinosaur) to live on.
Mid-afternoon our neighbours called round with a surprise invitation to their son's confirmation party tonight. That should be a good night, although we'll have to leave quite early as I have a 4am start tomorrow :(
Saturday, April 21, 2007
A Day in the Lakes
The bathroom refit still isn't finished, in case you were wondering - although we had some good news yesterday: the replacement glass for the shower finally arrived from the glaziers and should be fitted early next week. In the meantime we've been trying to find a mirror and other assorted small items of bathroom furniture that are smart and modern yet still in keeping with the classic style of the porcelain we've chosen.
A secondary objective is to put as little on the walls as possible - those smooth clean newly plastered & painted lines are still a rarity in our house and we want nothing to interrupt the cool blue surface if it's avoidable.
We found some attractive free-standing towel rails and loo-roll holders locally, but Nikki discovered some even better designs online. To be sure of a perfect match for the suite we felt we needed to see them in the flesh, but the nearest stockist is in Ulverston, in the Lake District. What better excuse for a day in the Lakes? We haven't been for about eighteen months and with Spring well and truly sprung, the views should be spectacular. It was a "girls weekend" too, so it gave us a chance to have a family day out - something we haven't done since last year.
I can't remember ever visiting Ulverston before, but we couldn't have chosen a better day for our first trip: St. George's Day and the town had organised a pageant!
The town square was full of market stalls, with a stage rigged at one end where a court jester in tricorn hat and stripy leggings was cavorting for the amusement of the crowd. I say cavorting, it was more like flirting with the visiting young ladies really, one of whom was eventually dragged up to take part in a contest.
As we walked around the town we passed a dragon, closely followed by St. George and his squire on horseback.
We found Aqua Accessories without too much trouble and within a few minutes had selected the range that best complemented our bathroom fittings. Sadly when we came to check them over the mirror had a blemish on one edge and it was the last one they had in stock.
Ordinarily I would have accepted an offer of increased discount, but the bathroom mirror is something you have to stare at several times a day and the fault was very obvious. We're determined not to compromise on any of our fittings, so it had to be perfect. We took the other pieces - a glass shelf, and the freestanding towel rail and toilet roll holder - but the mirror will have to follow on once the new stock arrives.
Apart from the pageant and the bathroom supplies, there appeared to be very little in Ulverston worth looking at. We did have a quick gander around the indoor market, where a stall sported this rather strange sign. Some kind of local code, perhaps? I half expected to overhear someone asking "have the special pies come in yet, Hilary?" but I never did.
Leaving Ulverston and looking for somewhere to lunch, we realised Ambleside was only a short drive away, which meant we could indulge our passion for the excellent Bath buns to be found at the Apple Pie tea shop on the main street. It also gave us chance to take the lovely scenic route along the west coast of Coniston Water. As usual Ambleside was busy, but not unpleasantly so, and the bath buns were every bit as good as we remembered. We brought some home with us for tea tomorrow too!
On a previous visit to the Lakes many years ago I saw an original painting by a local artist in one of the art shops. Done in acrylics, it was the most incredible rendition of waves breaking on a shore I have ever seen, before or since. I've always regretted not buying it, although it would have been a stretch. I've never seen it again, nor anything to approach it, and I can't remember the name of the artist. Nevertheless every time we visit Ambleside or Windermere we check out the art shops in the hope of finding something similar.
On this occasion, we were lucky. Stopping off in Windermere on the way back, we found a really unusual black-and-white print of a rock formation on the coast of Grasmere. The picture, in portrait orientation, leads your eye up and into the lake - a perfect optical trick for the wall at the end of our landing, outside the new bathroom. That short corridor can feel a little claustrophobic, but with the view of Grasmere at the end, it will now stretch almost to infinity! I'll need to sort out some extra lighting, but we were very pleased with this find and with the other purchases we made today.
A secondary objective is to put as little on the walls as possible - those smooth clean newly plastered & painted lines are still a rarity in our house and we want nothing to interrupt the cool blue surface if it's avoidable.
We found some attractive free-standing towel rails and loo-roll holders locally, but Nikki discovered some even better designs online. To be sure of a perfect match for the suite we felt we needed to see them in the flesh, but the nearest stockist is in Ulverston, in the Lake District. What better excuse for a day in the Lakes? We haven't been for about eighteen months and with Spring well and truly sprung, the views should be spectacular. It was a "girls weekend" too, so it gave us a chance to have a family day out - something we haven't done since last year.
I can't remember ever visiting Ulverston before, but we couldn't have chosen a better day for our first trip: St. George's Day and the town had organised a pageant!The town square was full of market stalls, with a stage rigged at one end where a court jester in tricorn hat and stripy leggings was cavorting for the amusement of the crowd. I say cavorting, it was more like flirting with the visiting young ladies really, one of whom was eventually dragged up to take part in a contest.
As we walked around the town we passed a dragon, closely followed by St. George and his squire on horseback.We found Aqua Accessories without too much trouble and within a few minutes had selected the range that best complemented our bathroom fittings. Sadly when we came to check them over the mirror had a blemish on one edge and it was the last one they had in stock.
Ordinarily I would have accepted an offer of increased discount, but the bathroom mirror is something you have to stare at several times a day and the fault was very obvious. We're determined not to compromise on any of our fittings, so it had to be perfect. We took the other pieces - a glass shelf, and the freestanding towel rail and toilet roll holder - but the mirror will have to follow on once the new stock arrives.Apart from the pageant and the bathroom supplies, there appeared to be very little in Ulverston worth looking at. We did have a quick gander around the indoor market, where a stall sported this rather strange sign. Some kind of local code, perhaps? I half expected to overhear someone asking "have the special pies come in yet, Hilary?" but I never did.Leaving Ulverston and looking for somewhere to lunch, we realised Ambleside was only a short drive away, which meant we could indulge our passion for the excellent Bath buns to be found at the Apple Pie tea shop on the main street. It also gave us chance to take the lovely scenic route along the west coast of Coniston Water. As usual Ambleside was busy, but not unpleasantly so, and the bath buns were every bit as good as we remembered. We brought some home with us for tea tomorrow too!
On a previous visit to the Lakes many years ago I saw an original painting by a local artist in one of the art shops. Done in acrylics, it was the most incredible rendition of waves breaking on a shore I have ever seen, before or since. I've always regretted not buying it, although it would have been a stretch. I've never seen it again, nor anything to approach it, and I can't remember the name of the artist. Nevertheless every time we visit Ambleside or Windermere we check out the art shops in the hope of finding something similar.
On this occasion, we were lucky. Stopping off in Windermere on the way back, we found a really unusual black-and-white print of a rock formation on the coast of Grasmere. The picture, in portrait orientation, leads your eye up and into the lake - a perfect optical trick for the wall at the end of our landing, outside the new bathroom. That short corridor can feel a little claustrophobic, but with the view of Grasmere at the end, it will now stretch almost to infinity! I'll need to sort out some extra lighting, but we were very pleased with this find and with the other purchases we made today.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Frightened of success
As I've alluded to a few times over the past months, I've been working on a large bid for more than a year. If you take a step back from this process and look at it dispassionately, it's a ridiculous waste of time and money all round. Supposedly designed to ensure that suppliers compete equally for any piece of business, that the business eventually "let" has the best chance of delivering a value-for-money solution, and that the customer's requirements are as fully satisfied as possible, it requires a huge up-front investment of people, and therefore money, from every supplier who decides to bid, and offers no guarantee of success to any of them. But no-one has yet come up with a better way to procure large computing solutions, so this is the process we're stuck with.
When you spend a year working on something, it's inevitable that it begins to mean more to you than it perhaps should. At this stage, it's an ephemeral thing. To an extent you could say it's not real. But in order to give it your best shot, it has to become real in your mind. You have to envisage the completed solution: how the individual requirements (over 3,000 in this case, at the start of the process) will be met; how the individual parts will come together to make the whole thing work; how much effort is involved in each part; and what the different options are for those parts - selecting the best fit for compliance, performance and budget.
You have to be prepared to explain all that, defend it against other ideas, adapt it when a better option is revealed, respond to changes in requirements, changes in budget, changes in timescales, and finally, you have to present it to the customer as the best possible solution on offer. But all the while, it's not yet real. You haven't won the business. And you know that at the end of the evaluation process, you may not win.
Losing is a scary thought. Having invested a year of your life in something, to be told to put it down and walk away - start again on something completely different - is a wrench. It can almost be like a bereavement. But because the solution you've defined is not yet real - at this stage, at its simplest level, it's only a bunch of images in Powerpoint and a representation of your ideas and experience - losing can seem a less scary prospect than winning. Winning would mean having to take that design, those thoughts and ideas, and make it do what you said it would do. For real. To "step up to the plate." To "put your money where your mouth is."
So for the past two weeks, while the customer grinds through the evaluation process to decide which supplier to choose, these thoughts have been circling in my mind. Whether I'd prefer the easy option of losing, and going off to think deep and meaningful thoughts about another piece of ephemera, or the much harder and scarier option of winning, and spending the next two years building something that until now I've only imagined. From a distance, this may seem like a no-brainer. Clearly, winning business is the only way to stay in business and hence has to be preferable. The image of the easy path downwards and the hard rocky path upwards is always with me.
As of 9.30 this morning, thinking about it is a luxury I no longer have. We won the business. The scary, rocky, upward path is before me and on Monday I will take the first steps along it. Without trying to sound pompous or arrogant, in almost 30 years in the computer industry I have never once been asked to do something that I couldn't do. But it's also true to say that many, many times I've been asked to do something that, at the start, I had no clue how I would achieve. So while those previous successes may be taken as an indication of my probability of success this time round, it doesn't stop it being a frightening prospect.
When you spend a year working on something, it's inevitable that it begins to mean more to you than it perhaps should. At this stage, it's an ephemeral thing. To an extent you could say it's not real. But in order to give it your best shot, it has to become real in your mind. You have to envisage the completed solution: how the individual requirements (over 3,000 in this case, at the start of the process) will be met; how the individual parts will come together to make the whole thing work; how much effort is involved in each part; and what the different options are for those parts - selecting the best fit for compliance, performance and budget.
You have to be prepared to explain all that, defend it against other ideas, adapt it when a better option is revealed, respond to changes in requirements, changes in budget, changes in timescales, and finally, you have to present it to the customer as the best possible solution on offer. But all the while, it's not yet real. You haven't won the business. And you know that at the end of the evaluation process, you may not win.
Losing is a scary thought. Having invested a year of your life in something, to be told to put it down and walk away - start again on something completely different - is a wrench. It can almost be like a bereavement. But because the solution you've defined is not yet real - at this stage, at its simplest level, it's only a bunch of images in Powerpoint and a representation of your ideas and experience - losing can seem a less scary prospect than winning. Winning would mean having to take that design, those thoughts and ideas, and make it do what you said it would do. For real. To "step up to the plate." To "put your money where your mouth is."
So for the past two weeks, while the customer grinds through the evaluation process to decide which supplier to choose, these thoughts have been circling in my mind. Whether I'd prefer the easy option of losing, and going off to think deep and meaningful thoughts about another piece of ephemera, or the much harder and scarier option of winning, and spending the next two years building something that until now I've only imagined. From a distance, this may seem like a no-brainer. Clearly, winning business is the only way to stay in business and hence has to be preferable. The image of the easy path downwards and the hard rocky path upwards is always with me.
As of 9.30 this morning, thinking about it is a luxury I no longer have. We won the business. The scary, rocky, upward path is before me and on Monday I will take the first steps along it. Without trying to sound pompous or arrogant, in almost 30 years in the computer industry I have never once been asked to do something that I couldn't do. But it's also true to say that many, many times I've been asked to do something that, at the start, I had no clue how I would achieve. So while those previous successes may be taken as an indication of my probability of success this time round, it doesn't stop it being a frightening prospect.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Someone loves you
That's how my horoscope started this morning. "Someone loves you," it said. "They see right down to your deepest, murky bits and still want to hold your hand. So don't hurt them just because you don't like those murky bits yourself."
You always hurt the one you love, the old song used to go. The one you shouldn't hurt at all. When you live with someone with whom you feel able to be completely and utterly yourself, shorn of the glamour and glitz you put on for the outside world, it's easy to hurt them by omission, rather than by commission.
You may not think you put on any glamour for other people. You don't dress up, you don't fix your hair, or shine your shoes, or wear any bling or fragrance. So no obvious prettification, but when those other people greet you and ask how you are, you put on a smile and say "fine, thanks. You?" Maybe behind your smile all you want to do is ignore them. To not have to say anything, and especially not smile, because today is not a good day and you really can't be arsed.
So that's your glamour. You make more of an effort, even if you're not conscious of it.
But back home? Well, home is home. You can be yourself. You can slob around in your old trackie bottoms and the same T-shirt you've had on all week. You can avoid shaving for as long as possible. You can leave the lipstick off. And yet home is also the place where that someone lives. The someone who loves you. The someone who is quite possibly the only one who deserves your glamour.
That's what I mean by "hurting someone by omission." You reserve your glamour for the outside world and at home you do your own thing. Did you forget how special that someone is? No. But maybe, subconsciously, you trade on the fact that they want you to be comfortable being yourself and you translate that into: I don't have to make an effort.
So what's this about the deepest murky bits? They're the bits about yourself that you like to keep hidden, or about which you may not even be aware. If there are aspects of yourself that you don't like, then you must know about them. But there may also be parts of your character that aren't especially likeable, but are hidden from you.
In the 1950s, two researchers at the University of California devised the Johari window. By observing how subjects expressed their personalities they discovered that there are aspects of our personality that we're open about, and other elements that we keep to ourselves. There are also things that others see in us that we're not aware of. Combining these it's possible to draw up a four-box grid, which includes a fourth group of character traits that are unknown to anyone:
Knowing the worst about you, whether you have chosen to hide it from most other people, or even from yourself, and yet still loving you because it's the whole you they love, is an extraordinary thing. And if some of those parts of you are things you don't like to think about, or talk about, or which make you unhappy, then the only correct response is for you to do something about them. Not spend the anger you feel at yourself, on those who are closest to you and deserve it the least.
You always hurt the one you love, the old song used to go. The one you shouldn't hurt at all. When you live with someone with whom you feel able to be completely and utterly yourself, shorn of the glamour and glitz you put on for the outside world, it's easy to hurt them by omission, rather than by commission.
You may not think you put on any glamour for other people. You don't dress up, you don't fix your hair, or shine your shoes, or wear any bling or fragrance. So no obvious prettification, but when those other people greet you and ask how you are, you put on a smile and say "fine, thanks. You?" Maybe behind your smile all you want to do is ignore them. To not have to say anything, and especially not smile, because today is not a good day and you really can't be arsed.
So that's your glamour. You make more of an effort, even if you're not conscious of it.
But back home? Well, home is home. You can be yourself. You can slob around in your old trackie bottoms and the same T-shirt you've had on all week. You can avoid shaving for as long as possible. You can leave the lipstick off. And yet home is also the place where that someone lives. The someone who loves you. The someone who is quite possibly the only one who deserves your glamour.
That's what I mean by "hurting someone by omission." You reserve your glamour for the outside world and at home you do your own thing. Did you forget how special that someone is? No. But maybe, subconsciously, you trade on the fact that they want you to be comfortable being yourself and you translate that into: I don't have to make an effort.
So what's this about the deepest murky bits? They're the bits about yourself that you like to keep hidden, or about which you may not even be aware. If there are aspects of yourself that you don't like, then you must know about them. But there may also be parts of your character that aren't especially likeable, but are hidden from you.
In the 1950s, two researchers at the University of California devised the Johari window. By observing how subjects expressed their personalities they discovered that there are aspects of our personality that we're open about, and other elements that we keep to ourselves. There are also things that others see in us that we're not aware of. Combining these it's possible to draw up a four-box grid, which includes a fourth group of character traits that are unknown to anyone:- The public area ("Public Self") holds things that are openly known and talked about - and which may be seen as strengths or weaknesses. This is the self that we choose to share with others
- The hidden area ("Blind Spots") contains things that others observe but which we are unaware of. Again, they could be positive or negative behaviours, and affect the way others act towards us
- The unknown area ("Unconscious Self") is those things nobody knows about us - including ourselves. This may be because we've never exposed those areas of our personality, or because they're buried deep in the subconscious
- The private area ("Hidden Self") covers aspects of our self that we know about and keep hidden from others.
Knowing the worst about you, whether you have chosen to hide it from most other people, or even from yourself, and yet still loving you because it's the whole you they love, is an extraordinary thing. And if some of those parts of you are things you don't like to think about, or talk about, or which make you unhappy, then the only correct response is for you to do something about them. Not spend the anger you feel at yourself, on those who are closest to you and deserve it the least.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
We're going to be on the telly!
About three weeks ago I was emailed out of the blue by a TV producer. She was scouting for book clubs who would be prepared to participate in filming for a new book-related quiz to be broadcast later this year on BBC4, and had found our website. Would we be prepared, she wondered, to field 6 or 7 members to sit around discussing a couple of books we'd already read while they filmed us?
There followed a flurry of emails while I solicited the group for potential telly stars and asked for more details from Emma, the producer. After a few false starts we finally settled on a date for filming - last night at 7pm - and a venue: our house. They had originally wanted to film in our normal meeting place, but since we got together as a group a year ago we've nomadically wandered from bar to bar throughout Chorlton without finding an ideal place that combines a good pint with an environment conducive to good discussion. Emma had concerns too about securing permission to film in public places and the background noise we would inevitably encounter in a bar, so I offered our lounge.
The film crew arrived at 6.30pm and quickly agreed that the lounge was the best location in the house. All it took to give the impression of a cozy group was to pull our smaller sofa forward a couple of feet so we could all sit around in an "L" configuration while the cameraman positioned himself in front of the TV. Most of the filming was done in extreme close-up with the boom microphone buzzing around above our heads like an enormous crazed wasp.
We were ready to roll by 7, and when the last member of the group had arrived and we'd charged our wine glasses (with wine for some, and diluted cordial for the drivers!) we launched straight into a discussion of our first book. We'd been coached not to mention the title, author, or the names of the principal characters because the quiz panel watching our discussion will have to guess the book we were talking about, but there was no pressure as Emma had also made it clear that any slip-ups could be edited out when they came to make up the package for the programme.
Conversation flowed very naturally for about 15 minutes, made easier than normal because we'd already discussed the book before, and it was the first time we'd had chance to talk about it without competing with loud background music or other people's conversations! We were still in full flow when Emma called a halt, saying they had tons of material and it was time to move on to the second book.
Twenty minutes later our second book was in the can (get me, with my professional telly talk!) and it was time to recharge our glasses and shoot some additional footage for links and edits. Basically this consisted of the cameraman taking shots of every person in the group turning their head to look at every other person, to provide shots they can use to move the conversation naturally from one person to another and include the others in the group. He also filmed each of us sipping our wine, and then moved out into the conservatory to take a couple of "establishment" shots of the whole group that they will use at the start of each piece, just to give the audience the idea of where everyone is sitting. Two members of our group also had to repeat observations they'd made during filming that the director had especially liked, and wanted to make sure they had clear shots of.
At around 8.30 they declared it a wrap and started packing away their gear. I can't speak for the others, but I found this an utterly fascinating and enjoyable process. The whole film crew were great at putting us at our ease, but in any case I hadn't felt nervous at any time. It was easy to forget the camera and mic were there and just get on with the conversation. The crew seemed pleased with the results and have promised to let us have copies of the final package on DVD. The new quiz programme airs sometime in July, so be sure to watch out for us if you're in a BBC4 reception area!
There followed a flurry of emails while I solicited the group for potential telly stars and asked for more details from Emma, the producer. After a few false starts we finally settled on a date for filming - last night at 7pm - and a venue: our house. They had originally wanted to film in our normal meeting place, but since we got together as a group a year ago we've nomadically wandered from bar to bar throughout Chorlton without finding an ideal place that combines a good pint with an environment conducive to good discussion. Emma had concerns too about securing permission to film in public places and the background noise we would inevitably encounter in a bar, so I offered our lounge.
The film crew arrived at 6.30pm and quickly agreed that the lounge was the best location in the house. All it took to give the impression of a cozy group was to pull our smaller sofa forward a couple of feet so we could all sit around in an "L" configuration while the cameraman positioned himself in front of the TV. Most of the filming was done in extreme close-up with the boom microphone buzzing around above our heads like an enormous crazed wasp.We were ready to roll by 7, and when the last member of the group had arrived and we'd charged our wine glasses (with wine for some, and diluted cordial for the drivers!) we launched straight into a discussion of our first book. We'd been coached not to mention the title, author, or the names of the principal characters because the quiz panel watching our discussion will have to guess the book we were talking about, but there was no pressure as Emma had also made it clear that any slip-ups could be edited out when they came to make up the package for the programme.Conversation flowed very naturally for about 15 minutes, made easier than normal because we'd already discussed the book before, and it was the first time we'd had chance to talk about it without competing with loud background music or other people's conversations! We were still in full flow when Emma called a halt, saying they had tons of material and it was time to move on to the second book.
Twenty minutes later our second book was in the can (get me, with my professional telly talk!) and it was time to recharge our glasses and shoot some additional footage for links and edits. Basically this consisted of the cameraman taking shots of every person in the group turning their head to look at every other person, to provide shots they can use to move the conversation naturally from one person to another and include the others in the group. He also filmed each of us sipping our wine, and then moved out into the conservatory to take a couple of "establishment" shots of the whole group that they will use at the start of each piece, just to give the audience the idea of where everyone is sitting. Two members of our group also had to repeat observations they'd made during filming that the director had especially liked, and wanted to make sure they had clear shots of.At around 8.30 they declared it a wrap and started packing away their gear. I can't speak for the others, but I found this an utterly fascinating and enjoyable process. The whole film crew were great at putting us at our ease, but in any case I hadn't felt nervous at any time. It was easy to forget the camera and mic were there and just get on with the conversation. The crew seemed pleased with the results and have promised to let us have copies of the final package on DVD. The new quiz programme airs sometime in July, so be sure to watch out for us if you're in a BBC4 reception area!
Monday, April 16, 2007
How broad is your broadband?
I see in the technology press today that a new report is about to warn the government the UK has to invest in ubiquitous super-speed Internet connections if it is to compete globally. It's ironic that a few years ago the Internet was referred to in layman's terms as "the information super-highway" and now our access to *that* highway is about to be just as badly curtailed by low investment as our access to more traditional highways.
Schools went back after their Easter break today across much of the country (a few areas still have a week's holiday remaining) and the effect on traffic was immediate and devastating. Taking Nikki to work, the queue at our regular junction stretched back almost half a mile so we elected to take the next junction. As we passed the first junction the queue for the next junction came in sight and was three times as bad! I find it hard to believe that congestion levels can be SO much worse than last week, when even around the traditional rush-hour there was almost no traffic about. This morning it seemed that there were four or five times as many cars on the roads, but I know it's not credible that 80% of the UK's work force took last week as annual leave! So where did they all come from?
Leaving the motorway at the third most convenient junction and threading our way back through the side streets made our normal 15-minute journey into a 40-minute one.
Are we about to become as frustrated with ever-slowing Internet connections as Nikki and I were sitting in that queue this morning? On the face of it, access to the Internet has never been better. Only a few months ago, the average domestic broadband connection was 512kbps. Now connections of 2Mbps are common and more and more providers are offering 8 megabits and higher. But in the local loop these speeds are shared between subscribers and at peak times the actual bandwidth available to any one user can be much lower. With standard contention ratios of 20:1 or even 50:1 you may not notice any degradation except at popular times like Friday evenings and weekends, but as high-speed access to the Internet becomes a requirement in ever-increasing numbers of homes, these contention ratios will be maxed out more often leading to visible reductions in response times for more users.
The report linked above makes the point that in true 21st century cities like Hong Kong and Seoul, 100 megabit connections (i.e. the speed of your local LAN) are common. If UK economies are to compete on an even playing field, the time to start investing in a fibre-optic or wireless local loop is now.
You may be quite happy with your current access, and think that 100Mbps is pushing the envelope a little too far. But as more and more media services become available online, and larger audiences elect to watch TV (for instance) over the Internet using technologies such as Joost instead of via broadcast, bandwidth will increasingly be eaten away. Truly wired home working, too, requires additional bandwidth for messaging, voice- and video-conferencing services, online meetings with remote desktop access and whiteboarding, etc, etc.
The irony is, as better online access becomes available and more of the country's knowledge workers discover that homeworking is a credible alternative, fewer of them will be commuting and the roads will look like an Easter holiday period most of the time. Bring it on!
Schools went back after their Easter break today across much of the country (a few areas still have a week's holiday remaining) and the effect on traffic was immediate and devastating. Taking Nikki to work, the queue at our regular junction stretched back almost half a mile so we elected to take the next junction. As we passed the first junction the queue for the next junction came in sight and was three times as bad! I find it hard to believe that congestion levels can be SO much worse than last week, when even around the traditional rush-hour there was almost no traffic about. This morning it seemed that there were four or five times as many cars on the roads, but I know it's not credible that 80% of the UK's work force took last week as annual leave! So where did they all come from?
Leaving the motorway at the third most convenient junction and threading our way back through the side streets made our normal 15-minute journey into a 40-minute one.
Are we about to become as frustrated with ever-slowing Internet connections as Nikki and I were sitting in that queue this morning? On the face of it, access to the Internet has never been better. Only a few months ago, the average domestic broadband connection was 512kbps. Now connections of 2Mbps are common and more and more providers are offering 8 megabits and higher. But in the local loop these speeds are shared between subscribers and at peak times the actual bandwidth available to any one user can be much lower. With standard contention ratios of 20:1 or even 50:1 you may not notice any degradation except at popular times like Friday evenings and weekends, but as high-speed access to the Internet becomes a requirement in ever-increasing numbers of homes, these contention ratios will be maxed out more often leading to visible reductions in response times for more users.
The report linked above makes the point that in true 21st century cities like Hong Kong and Seoul, 100 megabit connections (i.e. the speed of your local LAN) are common. If UK economies are to compete on an even playing field, the time to start investing in a fibre-optic or wireless local loop is now.
You may be quite happy with your current access, and think that 100Mbps is pushing the envelope a little too far. But as more and more media services become available online, and larger audiences elect to watch TV (for instance) over the Internet using technologies such as Joost instead of via broadcast, bandwidth will increasingly be eaten away. Truly wired home working, too, requires additional bandwidth for messaging, voice- and video-conferencing services, online meetings with remote desktop access and whiteboarding, etc, etc.
The irony is, as better online access becomes available and more of the country's knowledge workers discover that homeworking is a credible alternative, fewer of them will be commuting and the roads will look like an Easter holiday period most of the time. Bring it on!
Sunday, April 15, 2007
And now, live from Chorlton...
We write songs, you know, Annie & I. For the past year or so, Annie has been living opposite a bar called Revise, which holds a live "jam session" on Sunday nights. Open mic, all artists welcome, singers, musicians, original music, covers, whatever. A couple of weeks ago, she arranged with the organiser to let us do a short set of our own songs, live, backed by the resident house band.
I don't know what I expected. No, that's not true. I expected to have A BLAST. I've only sung through a professional PA once in my life: when we attended a Beach Boys fan club evening and they left the tribute band's PA up for us to sing karaoke through. That was *fab* so I expected, with a live band, it would be even better.
Annie had given copies of the original MP3s to the band early and being "proper" musicians they'd turned the music into real tabs and annotations for keyboard, lead and bass guitar and drums.
Despite writing the words for all our songs I've never performed them live, and in the case of the one I sang tonight - Dance of the Lonely Old Man - I hadn't looked at the lyrics since we'd recorded the album in the autumn of 2005, so I knew I needed to practice. And practice I did - about a hundred times over the past 3-4 days. In the car, in the garden, in the bath, until I was word perfect and had the timing down too.
Stepping up to the mic this evening I didn't *feel* nervous. I even managed a brief intro and told the audience what songs we would be singing without my voice audibly wobbling. 'Lonely Old Man' lends itself to a rolling introduction and this is what the band played behind my chatter, so as soon as I'd finished talking I waited for the next bar and launched right into the song, hoping they'd just pick it up. And they did - it worked really well - but after a few seconds I realised I was singing a lot higher than the band were playing. Sounded like half a tone to me (Annie said later she thought I was singing the harmony - three semi-tones higher than the melody) but whatever it was, it wasn't quite right, and with the monitor speaker out of action, I couldn't hear myself well enough to correct it.
The muscle memory of my days of practice carried me through - I remained consistently in (my) key throughout the rendition - and once I'd finished and sat down quite a few people congratulated me on the performance. Not being familiar with the song, it may have sounded OK to them: it didn't to me. Later a post-mortem with Annie revealed a further problem. The "perfectionist" band member, whom she'd assumed was a guitar player, turned out to be on keyboard. Great for her number - Home Town - which is mostly keyboard, but a disaster for Dance, for which the melody line is played on guitar. I'd effectively been struggling on with no monitor AND no melody and honestly? I'd been too hyped to notice.
Having had the chance to listen to the original track on our album again, I'm now convinced that I was in the right key, and it was the band who were too low, but whatever the truth and however it came about, the end result was not quite the perfect performing experience I'd hoped for, but with no opportunity to practice with the band beforehand, not entirely surprising.
I was pleased to have been able to sing the song through without a cheat sheet (I pinned it up, but didn't use it) and gratified that I'd had the bottle to go through with it. Whether we do it again will depend on being able to grab some practice time with the band and also sorting out the instrumentation.
The best part of the experience though was getting the band's feedback on our music. Friends, family, loved ones can all say how nice it is, but this is hardly independent feedback no matter how honest or well intentioned. To have other musicians tell you that you've written some really good songs is ... a vindication.
I don't know what I expected. No, that's not true. I expected to have A BLAST. I've only sung through a professional PA once in my life: when we attended a Beach Boys fan club evening and they left the tribute band's PA up for us to sing karaoke through. That was *fab* so I expected, with a live band, it would be even better.
Annie had given copies of the original MP3s to the band early and being "proper" musicians they'd turned the music into real tabs and annotations for keyboard, lead and bass guitar and drums.
Despite writing the words for all our songs I've never performed them live, and in the case of the one I sang tonight - Dance of the Lonely Old Man - I hadn't looked at the lyrics since we'd recorded the album in the autumn of 2005, so I knew I needed to practice. And practice I did - about a hundred times over the past 3-4 days. In the car, in the garden, in the bath, until I was word perfect and had the timing down too.
Stepping up to the mic this evening I didn't *feel* nervous. I even managed a brief intro and told the audience what songs we would be singing without my voice audibly wobbling. 'Lonely Old Man' lends itself to a rolling introduction and this is what the band played behind my chatter, so as soon as I'd finished talking I waited for the next bar and launched right into the song, hoping they'd just pick it up. And they did - it worked really well - but after a few seconds I realised I was singing a lot higher than the band were playing. Sounded like half a tone to me (Annie said later she thought I was singing the harmony - three semi-tones higher than the melody) but whatever it was, it wasn't quite right, and with the monitor speaker out of action, I couldn't hear myself well enough to correct it.
The muscle memory of my days of practice carried me through - I remained consistently in (my) key throughout the rendition - and once I'd finished and sat down quite a few people congratulated me on the performance. Not being familiar with the song, it may have sounded OK to them: it didn't to me. Later a post-mortem with Annie revealed a further problem. The "perfectionist" band member, whom she'd assumed was a guitar player, turned out to be on keyboard. Great for her number - Home Town - which is mostly keyboard, but a disaster for Dance, for which the melody line is played on guitar. I'd effectively been struggling on with no monitor AND no melody and honestly? I'd been too hyped to notice.
Having had the chance to listen to the original track on our album again, I'm now convinced that I was in the right key, and it was the band who were too low, but whatever the truth and however it came about, the end result was not quite the perfect performing experience I'd hoped for, but with no opportunity to practice with the band beforehand, not entirely surprising.
I was pleased to have been able to sing the song through without a cheat sheet (I pinned it up, but didn't use it) and gratified that I'd had the bottle to go through with it. Whether we do it again will depend on being able to grab some practice time with the band and also sorting out the instrumentation.
The best part of the experience though was getting the band's feedback on our music. Friends, family, loved ones can all say how nice it is, but this is hardly independent feedback no matter how honest or well intentioned. To have other musicians tell you that you've written some really good songs is ... a vindication.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Oops I did it again
Regular readers may remember my unfortunate penchant for putting my foot well and truly in it during surprise encounters with celebrities, and how occasionally I manage to refrain from making a complete chump of myself.
It's Chorlton Book Festival week this week and next. As part of the celebrations our book club was asked to participate. We suggested doing a book swap at Chorlton Library and they offered us the 2-4pm slot immediately after an event featuring local crime fiction author Mandasue Heller talking about her work.
When I arrived at the library at 10 to 2, things were already in full swing. Since it was such a lovely sunny day Dave the librarian had suggested we set up on the pavement outside the main entrance. Three of our members had managed to fill two tables with swappable books so I added the dozen or so that I'd brought along and retired to prop up the fence, observe the proceedings and chat with friends. Two or three people had started browsing and the activity around the table soon attracted more. We explained the concept of a book swap: we weren't allowed to sell anything because we didn't have a trader's licence, but if they had books they wanted to get rid of they could bring them along and swap them, one for one.
This concept obviously appealed to the trendy left-wing liberati of Chorlton because several people beetled off home to collect books and bring them back!
One elegant lady dressed in black with long flowing blonde hair even re-entered the library and persuaded Dave to give her two old library books with which to complete her swaps! We also suggested that people might like to visit the local charity shop, buy a few books they didn't really want and bring them along to swap. What a great way to help the local economy, as well as have a great time. Sitting in the sun all afternoon chatting to friends and passersby about books and whatever else came to mind.
About two-thirty the elegant lady returned with another book to swap. A very new looking copy of Mandasue Heller's latest novel! Thinking she must have picked up a free copy from the earlier seminar, and also being so conspicuously "Chorlton" that she'd be game for a laugh, I pointed to the book and declared loudly:
"Sacrilege! You can't swap one of those! She was here this morning!"
She looked at me, a wry smile playing across her lips.
"I know," she said, "I am her."
Funny, I've never seen the pavement open up in Chorlton and swallow anyone, but I sure wished it would right then. I recovered gamely (I thought):
"Well you can only leave it behind if you sign it."
Which she graciously did, even offering to dedicate it to someone if I wished. I declined. Equally graciously, I hope.
The book swap closed at 4pm and was declared a resounding success. Our initial stock had been turned over by at least 50% and, as most people had brought more books than they took away, we were left with plenty to hold another event, possibly at Beech Road festival in the summer.
We retired to the Marble Beer House for some well-earned refreshment. If we hadn't had a previous appointment with a karaoke DJ we'd still be there now!
It's Chorlton Book Festival week this week and next. As part of the celebrations our book club was asked to participate. We suggested doing a book swap at Chorlton Library and they offered us the 2-4pm slot immediately after an event featuring local crime fiction author Mandasue Heller talking about her work.
When I arrived at the library at 10 to 2, things were already in full swing. Since it was such a lovely sunny day Dave the librarian had suggested we set up on the pavement outside the main entrance. Three of our members had managed to fill two tables with swappable books so I added the dozen or so that I'd brought along and retired to prop up the fence, observe the proceedings and chat with friends. Two or three people had started browsing and the activity around the table soon attracted more. We explained the concept of a book swap: we weren't allowed to sell anything because we didn't have a trader's licence, but if they had books they wanted to get rid of they could bring them along and swap them, one for one.
This concept obviously appealed to the trendy left-wing liberati of Chorlton because several people beetled off home to collect books and bring them back!
One elegant lady dressed in black with long flowing blonde hair even re-entered the library and persuaded Dave to give her two old library books with which to complete her swaps! We also suggested that people might like to visit the local charity shop, buy a few books they didn't really want and bring them along to swap. What a great way to help the local economy, as well as have a great time. Sitting in the sun all afternoon chatting to friends and passersby about books and whatever else came to mind.
About two-thirty the elegant lady returned with another book to swap. A very new looking copy of Mandasue Heller's latest novel! Thinking she must have picked up a free copy from the earlier seminar, and also being so conspicuously "Chorlton" that she'd be game for a laugh, I pointed to the book and declared loudly:
"Sacrilege! You can't swap one of those! She was here this morning!"
She looked at me, a wry smile playing across her lips.
"I know," she said, "I am her."
Funny, I've never seen the pavement open up in Chorlton and swallow anyone, but I sure wished it would right then. I recovered gamely (I thought):
"Well you can only leave it behind if you sign it."
Which she graciously did, even offering to dedicate it to someone if I wished. I declined. Equally graciously, I hope.
The book swap closed at 4pm and was declared a resounding success. Our initial stock had been turned over by at least 50% and, as most people had brought more books than they took away, we were left with plenty to hold another event, possibly at Beech Road festival in the summer.
We retired to the Marble Beer House for some well-earned refreshment. If we hadn't had a previous appointment with a karaoke DJ we'd still be there now!
Thursday, April 12, 2007
When innovation isn't a good thing
Since my first experience with central heating back when my folks had it installed in the 1970s, there's been an easy way to do two things.
No longer two-on; two-off settings (and the ability to come on at the first on and go off at the second off). No. Now it's just four programmable "zones" each with a minimum temperature. So for example in the morning zone, we've set the temperature to 17°C and the house will (try to) warm up to that point. The second - midday - zone we set to something like 12°C so the heating will go off at the start time of this zone (when we've gone to work) but if it's a *really* cold day and the interior temperature drops below 12° the heating will still kick in.
The third - evening - zone, which is the equivalent of the old fangled "second on" event we set to a comfortable temperature similar to the first zone, or slightly higher because we're not moving around as much, and finally the last zone - night time - we have set quite low (like 7°) so the heating will generally stay off unless the weather is *really really* cold in which case it'll come on to avoid the pipes freezing up or something.
But. There's no way to either extend a zone for an hour or two, OR force the timer into the next zone. That is, there's no Advance or Extend. The only control you have over the timer settings is to be using them, or to be always on, or always off.
The upshot of this is that if we want the heating on when it's normally off, we switch it over to always on. And we'll end up lying in bed in the dark wondering why the radiators are ticking and we're too hot. And *one* of us (I'll leave it to you to guess which one) will have to get up and plod downstairs to switch it back to "timer."
This is a distinct retrograde step, but having played with the timer I'm convinced there's no way to advance between zones. Maybe it's time to get the manual out.
- Move the heating to the next time period. If it's the afternoon and you're feeling a bit chilly, you can click it over to the next programmed period (i.e. "evening") and the heating will stay on until the time it usually goes off at night. This is usually called "Advance"
- Cause the heating to stay on longer than usual at the end of a programmed period. If it's a Friday night and you're staying up late, a couple of clicks on the programmer and the heating will stay on for an extra hour, or two. This is usually called "Extend"
No longer two-on; two-off settings (and the ability to come on at the first on and go off at the second off). No. Now it's just four programmable "zones" each with a minimum temperature. So for example in the morning zone, we've set the temperature to 17°C and the house will (try to) warm up to that point. The second - midday - zone we set to something like 12°C so the heating will go off at the start time of this zone (when we've gone to work) but if it's a *really* cold day and the interior temperature drops below 12° the heating will still kick in.
The third - evening - zone, which is the equivalent of the old fangled "second on" event we set to a comfortable temperature similar to the first zone, or slightly higher because we're not moving around as much, and finally the last zone - night time - we have set quite low (like 7°) so the heating will generally stay off unless the weather is *really really* cold in which case it'll come on to avoid the pipes freezing up or something.
But. There's no way to either extend a zone for an hour or two, OR force the timer into the next zone. That is, there's no Advance or Extend. The only control you have over the timer settings is to be using them, or to be always on, or always off.
The upshot of this is that if we want the heating on when it's normally off, we switch it over to always on. And we'll end up lying in bed in the dark wondering why the radiators are ticking and we're too hot. And *one* of us (I'll leave it to you to guess which one) will have to get up and plod downstairs to switch it back to "timer."
This is a distinct retrograde step, but having played with the timer I'm convinced there's no way to advance between zones. Maybe it's time to get the manual out.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Corporate mentality
My friend, mentor and writing partner Colleen Patrick wrote recently about Crisis Mentality, taking the wind out of my sails somewhat as I had it in mind to write a similar piece about short-termism in the arena of public services (which is every bit as bad in the UK as in the US). I might get back to that sometime later, but a recent email from a different Transatlantic friend caused me to focus on another of life's bugbears: the corporate machine and its insidious effects on anyone who works in it or depends on it for any part of their life.
There was a time, and it wasn't so long ago, when it was sufficient to work hard for seven-and-a-half (or eight) hours a day at the end of which not only were you free to come home and pursue other interests (like cooking dinner), but you felt as if you were free. All your colleagues were working the same pattern and there was no pressure to outdo each other, certainly not in the matter of number of hours worked.
A couple of days ago I wrote briefly about my years spent in support and it's true that we worked extra hours back then. But it was paid overtime. It was a fair day's work for a fair day's pay and if you worked more? You were paid more.
This is about more than just money though. It's also about fun. Yes, it is possible to have fun at work, and I did. It was camaraderie, it was taking time to help colleagues work out answers to hard problems or design complex solutions, it was the sense that we were all in it together (whatever "it" was). Real team work and a sense of knowing what you were about, where you were going, and how you were going to get there.
Today, the constant focus on the bottom line is poisonous. It ruins relationships (both in work time and at home), reduces the time you can spend on coaching and developing a rounded solution to a problem and generally takes the fun out of everything. People are just assets to be sweated and all the while companies put out the spin that "people are their most valuable resource." They should invest in them then, instead of working them into the ground!
It is regularly reported in news media that folk in the UK feel coerced into working long hours - 50+ hours a week - because they think if they're not seen to be working as hard as, or harder than, everyone else their job will be at risk. This is outrageous. Little wonder family life is suffering, relationships are breaking down, and kids feel lost, abandoned and hopeless. Especially when all they have to look forward to is the day when they will be caught up in it too!
If I'm sorry enough to leave my laptop connected to the company mail server, then I can be sure to receive emails at midnight, or 6am, and on Saturdays and Sundays. Many people work extraordinary hours and a few are known to work during the whole of their waking time. They stop when they sleep and start again when they wake the next day.
Ever heard the line "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"? Dull doesn't come close. Mad would be better.
Short bursts of exceptional activity are expected when there are important deadlines to be met. But it's too easy for this to become the norm, especially when people move from one "important" piece of work to the next without a break, or time out for training, or for less pressured tasks. What attracted me to software development in the first place, and what has kept me in computing for almost thirty years is that it's not just technologically exciting. That is a large part of the attraction, but at the same time you get the sense of creating something that would help other people. There's a deal of satisfaction in being able to stand back and say "I built that."
Unfortunately so much of creating a solution today is simply plugging together standard components. What used to be an engineering industry has now almost completed its metamorphosis into a service industry. There are no more frontiers. And being a service, the corporate and commercial pressure is on to drive out costs, increase productivity and do more and more for less and less. So it's not surprising that companies are very happy to let their employees work long hours. In the absence of overtime payments a fifteen hour day represents a 100% increase in throughput for a zero% increase in cost.
But this is like running a carbon-based economy in the absence of carbon taxes. There is a price to pay, but it's hidden. It's being paid by the employees in terms of its effects on their long-term (mental) health, by their families in terms of lost hours and, therefore, by the company itself eventually in terms of employee burn-out. Until the financial effects of this "asset sweating" are exposed, calculated, and added to the bottom line, we will continue to be subjected to the growing expectations of the long hours culture.
There was a time, and it wasn't so long ago, when it was sufficient to work hard for seven-and-a-half (or eight) hours a day at the end of which not only were you free to come home and pursue other interests (like cooking dinner), but you felt as if you were free. All your colleagues were working the same pattern and there was no pressure to outdo each other, certainly not in the matter of number of hours worked.
A couple of days ago I wrote briefly about my years spent in support and it's true that we worked extra hours back then. But it was paid overtime. It was a fair day's work for a fair day's pay and if you worked more? You were paid more.
This is about more than just money though. It's also about fun. Yes, it is possible to have fun at work, and I did. It was camaraderie, it was taking time to help colleagues work out answers to hard problems or design complex solutions, it was the sense that we were all in it together (whatever "it" was). Real team work and a sense of knowing what you were about, where you were going, and how you were going to get there.
Today, the constant focus on the bottom line is poisonous. It ruins relationships (both in work time and at home), reduces the time you can spend on coaching and developing a rounded solution to a problem and generally takes the fun out of everything. People are just assets to be sweated and all the while companies put out the spin that "people are their most valuable resource." They should invest in them then, instead of working them into the ground!
It is regularly reported in news media that folk in the UK feel coerced into working long hours - 50+ hours a week - because they think if they're not seen to be working as hard as, or harder than, everyone else their job will be at risk. This is outrageous. Little wonder family life is suffering, relationships are breaking down, and kids feel lost, abandoned and hopeless. Especially when all they have to look forward to is the day when they will be caught up in it too!
If I'm sorry enough to leave my laptop connected to the company mail server, then I can be sure to receive emails at midnight, or 6am, and on Saturdays and Sundays. Many people work extraordinary hours and a few are known to work during the whole of their waking time. They stop when they sleep and start again when they wake the next day.
Ever heard the line "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"? Dull doesn't come close. Mad would be better.
Short bursts of exceptional activity are expected when there are important deadlines to be met. But it's too easy for this to become the norm, especially when people move from one "important" piece of work to the next without a break, or time out for training, or for less pressured tasks. What attracted me to software development in the first place, and what has kept me in computing for almost thirty years is that it's not just technologically exciting. That is a large part of the attraction, but at the same time you get the sense of creating something that would help other people. There's a deal of satisfaction in being able to stand back and say "I built that."
Unfortunately so much of creating a solution today is simply plugging together standard components. What used to be an engineering industry has now almost completed its metamorphosis into a service industry. There are no more frontiers. And being a service, the corporate and commercial pressure is on to drive out costs, increase productivity and do more and more for less and less. So it's not surprising that companies are very happy to let their employees work long hours. In the absence of overtime payments a fifteen hour day represents a 100% increase in throughput for a zero% increase in cost.
But this is like running a carbon-based economy in the absence of carbon taxes. There is a price to pay, but it's hidden. It's being paid by the employees in terms of its effects on their long-term (mental) health, by their families in terms of lost hours and, therefore, by the company itself eventually in terms of employee burn-out. Until the financial effects of this "asset sweating" are exposed, calculated, and added to the bottom line, we will continue to be subjected to the growing expectations of the long hours culture.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Still, small voice
Do you have a little voice? I don't mean "do you speak quietly?" but rather: does your mind offer you quiet, gentle, sometimes almost imperceptible suggestions whose effect would be to keep you out of trouble if you heeded them?
I say "mind" for want of a better term, and because my little voice does indeed go on inside my head, but you could just as well call it your conscience, or experience, subconscious, or (as I prefer) Spirit guide.
It's a very easy voice to ignore. Often it presents itself as only a fleeting thought. You have to be quick to catch it, and it's all too easy to miss it altogether, or dismiss its message by thinking "oh, it'll be alright" or by telling yourself not to be so silly. I'd like to say I've learned to trust my voice, but too often all I've learned is the ability to look back and think: "I should have listened to my voice." Like the time I was taking some unwanted clutter to the charity shop. Only a few items - some bagged, some not - but among them three carving knives, two of which were the serrated "Kitchen Devil" type. As I struggled to pick everything up in one go to avoid making two trips between shop and car, my voice told me quite clearly: "If you pick those knives up like that, one of them will slip and cut your finger." Nah, I thought, I'll be fine. So I picked all three knives up in one hand, and one of them slipped and cut my finger.
I'm not claiming precognition of any kind; maybe it was "common sense" or experience, but I thought it would happen, and it did. Like I said, it's easy to miss. You have to maintain a state of awareness to tell the difference between regular thoughts and the little voice.
But yesterday, I didn't need any special state of awareness. My little voice yelled at me. Yesterday, we cooked the turkey crown we didn't have at Christmas. And because we wanted to enjoy thin slices of succulent breast today, we left it out on the cooker to cool before carving. "The cat can't get to it up there," said Nikki, "and anyway, she wouldn't be interested."
"Oh yes she can," screamed my little voice, "and she would!"
But I was very comfortably ensconced on the sofa with both my lovely daughters. We were watching episodes of Heroes back-to-back and even though I'd seen them all before, I didn't feel like moving. So I ignored my voice and, engrossed in the action, forgot all about the turkey.
Twenty minutes later an almighty crash from the kitchen disturbed our viewing. Footprints on the front of the cooker marked where our cat Mimi had stretched up to reach the turkey. Footprints on the draining board revealed where she had discovered an alternative route. The upturned roasting tin, lying by the bin and bleeding turkey fat all over the floor, indicated that she had jumped from draining board to cooker and knocked it off. And the turkey crown, one side chewed half away, didn't need a detective to determine that some time had elapsed between the jumping and the knocking off.
This is the cat who eats only biscuits and tinned tuna. Who turns her nose up at chicken, fish, and roast beef. We didn't know she loved turkey. But my little voice did. I am honestly getting better at listening to it. But I ain't there yet.
I say "mind" for want of a better term, and because my little voice does indeed go on inside my head, but you could just as well call it your conscience, or experience, subconscious, or (as I prefer) Spirit guide.
It's a very easy voice to ignore. Often it presents itself as only a fleeting thought. You have to be quick to catch it, and it's all too easy to miss it altogether, or dismiss its message by thinking "oh, it'll be alright" or by telling yourself not to be so silly. I'd like to say I've learned to trust my voice, but too often all I've learned is the ability to look back and think: "I should have listened to my voice." Like the time I was taking some unwanted clutter to the charity shop. Only a few items - some bagged, some not - but among them three carving knives, two of which were the serrated "Kitchen Devil" type. As I struggled to pick everything up in one go to avoid making two trips between shop and car, my voice told me quite clearly: "If you pick those knives up like that, one of them will slip and cut your finger." Nah, I thought, I'll be fine. So I picked all three knives up in one hand, and one of them slipped and cut my finger.
I'm not claiming precognition of any kind; maybe it was "common sense" or experience, but I thought it would happen, and it did. Like I said, it's easy to miss. You have to maintain a state of awareness to tell the difference between regular thoughts and the little voice.
But yesterday, I didn't need any special state of awareness. My little voice yelled at me. Yesterday, we cooked the turkey crown we didn't have at Christmas. And because we wanted to enjoy thin slices of succulent breast today, we left it out on the cooker to cool before carving. "The cat can't get to it up there," said Nikki, "and anyway, she wouldn't be interested."
"Oh yes she can," screamed my little voice, "and she would!"
But I was very comfortably ensconced on the sofa with both my lovely daughters. We were watching episodes of Heroes back-to-back and even though I'd seen them all before, I didn't feel like moving. So I ignored my voice and, engrossed in the action, forgot all about the turkey.
Twenty minutes later an almighty crash from the kitchen disturbed our viewing. Footprints on the front of the cooker marked where our cat Mimi had stretched up to reach the turkey. Footprints on the draining board revealed where she had discovered an alternative route. The upturned roasting tin, lying by the bin and bleeding turkey fat all over the floor, indicated that she had jumped from draining board to cooker and knocked it off. And the turkey crown, one side chewed half away, didn't need a detective to determine that some time had elapsed between the jumping and the knocking off.
This is the cat who eats only biscuits and tinned tuna. Who turns her nose up at chicken, fish, and roast beef. We didn't know she loved turkey. But my little voice did. I am honestly getting better at listening to it. But I ain't there yet.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Semper in Faecibus
For a few years before he died, my Dad ran a trophy shop. After a lifetime of toiling every day at a job he hated, those last few years were a joy for him. He loved the simple creative process of designing unique trophies from the various parts that were available: blocks of granite, marble, and onyx; cups and shields; golden statues of athletes, animals, or interesting futuristic shapes; and small brass or silver plaques upon which he would engrave the required legend.
He took particular pleasure in making trophies for schools and thinking of the delight his efforts would bring when the children were awarded their prizes, or saw their names engraved on the house cup or county shield.
At Christmastime, he would often create special trophies as quirky surprise gifts for family and friends. He noticed that an Olympic torch, raised triumphantly in the hand of one of his statues, looked a little like a hand trowel. It became the centrepiece of a "World's Best Gardener" trophy he gave to my Mum that year.
When I worked in software support in the mid-80s, I came to my Dad with an unusual request. For a desk calendar bearing the team's motto. The exact Latin form had been debated, sometimes heatedly, between the two support guys who studied Latin, and one of the developers who also had a "classical" education. In the end, we settled on: "Semper in faecibus sumus, sola profunditas variat."
I brought that desk calendar home this week from the office. As usual my Dad excelled himself and made something I was delighted to have on my desk and on which many visitors have remarked, but after twenty-three years I figured it was time it retired. The pen holders that once graced the left and right corners have long since tarnished and fallen off, their pens exhausted, but the calendar lives on to mark the passing of days.
It's been almost twenty years since I worked in support, where our motto was demonstrably, tangibly true every day as we fought back the mountain of bug reports that flooded in from customers. But in the years since then I've been reminded time and again of our old motto and with a wry smile realised it remains true no matter what the job, or how much planning is put in, or how good the people are with whom you're working.
I never had an office job, before or since, that I enjoyed as much as those six years I spent in support. The work was hard, the hours were long and the pressure was constant, but the camaraderie of that group as we worked together against all odds to fix thorny problems and turn disgruntled customers into satisfied ones was an energising force that made us unstoppable and buoyed our spirits to turn the blackest moments into the brightest diamonds of success.
What I learned from those years is that there will always be problems to solve. They may be big or small and occasionally they will be immense and appear overwhelming, but whatever problems come your way, "life" is about how you tackle them. And you always have a choice. Moan about how hard it all is, or knuckle down and get on with the job. Whichever road you choose, remember:
We are always in the shit; it's only the depth that varies.
He took particular pleasure in making trophies for schools and thinking of the delight his efforts would bring when the children were awarded their prizes, or saw their names engraved on the house cup or county shield.
At Christmastime, he would often create special trophies as quirky surprise gifts for family and friends. He noticed that an Olympic torch, raised triumphantly in the hand of one of his statues, looked a little like a hand trowel. It became the centrepiece of a "World's Best Gardener" trophy he gave to my Mum that year.
When I worked in software support in the mid-80s, I came to my Dad with an unusual request. For a desk calendar bearing the team's motto. The exact Latin form had been debated, sometimes heatedly, between the two support guys who studied Latin, and one of the developers who also had a "classical" education. In the end, we settled on: "Semper in faecibus sumus, sola profunditas variat."
I brought that desk calendar home this week from the office. As usual my Dad excelled himself and made something I was delighted to have on my desk and on which many visitors have remarked, but after twenty-three years I figured it was time it retired. The pen holders that once graced the left and right corners have long since tarnished and fallen off, their pens exhausted, but the calendar lives on to mark the passing of days.It's been almost twenty years since I worked in support, where our motto was demonstrably, tangibly true every day as we fought back the mountain of bug reports that flooded in from customers. But in the years since then I've been reminded time and again of our old motto and with a wry smile realised it remains true no matter what the job, or how much planning is put in, or how good the people are with whom you're working.
I never had an office job, before or since, that I enjoyed as much as those six years I spent in support. The work was hard, the hours were long and the pressure was constant, but the camaraderie of that group as we worked together against all odds to fix thorny problems and turn disgruntled customers into satisfied ones was an energising force that made us unstoppable and buoyed our spirits to turn the blackest moments into the brightest diamonds of success.
What I learned from those years is that there will always be problems to solve. They may be big or small and occasionally they will be immense and appear overwhelming, but whatever problems come your way, "life" is about how you tackle them. And you always have a choice. Moan about how hard it all is, or knuckle down and get on with the job. Whichever road you choose, remember:
We are always in the shit; it's only the depth that varies.
Friday, April 06, 2007
No more chips, thanks
We were warned that tile replacement would be a tricky business, but that cream chip in our lovely grey bathroom floor screamed at me every time I stepped over it. So yesterday young Mr Bathroom Fitter came back to replace the chipped tile. He stood at the door with a hammer in his hand and a chill sped along my spine. Was I doing the right thing? Was I sacrificing over £500-quid's worth of underfloor heating just to fix a chip that probably no-one but us would notice?
When the first hammer blow fell, the question became moot. We were on our way.
The underfloor heating is supplied as a mat. The exact dimensions of the room have to be provided to the supplier as the mat is made to measure. It can't be cut. The wiring that provides the heat is threaded through the mat, which is made of a kind of woven plastic raffia. When tile cement is plopped onto this raffia, it seeps into the weave and sets, so while lifting the tile is relatively easy (once it's been broken into a million pieces), cutting the hardened tile cement from around the wires without breaking them, crushing them, or cutting through them is a tricky business.
But after 90 minutes banging and chiselling, it looked very much as though the process had been successful. We were left with a tile-shaped hole in the floor inside of which eight loops of wire appeared from under adjacent tiles and neatly disappeared back again. Ten days have to elapse to allow the tile cement to fully cure before the heating can be turned on. Since we now have one new tile that ten day clock has had to be reset, so we won't know for certain that the crisis has passed until we can test it. For the moment though, I'm enjoying the fact that there is no longer a small cream mouth yelling at me while I'm cleaning my teeth.
When the first hammer blow fell, the question became moot. We were on our way.
The underfloor heating is supplied as a mat. The exact dimensions of the room have to be provided to the supplier as the mat is made to measure. It can't be cut. The wiring that provides the heat is threaded through the mat, which is made of a kind of woven plastic raffia. When tile cement is plopped onto this raffia, it seeps into the weave and sets, so while lifting the tile is relatively easy (once it's been broken into a million pieces), cutting the hardened tile cement from around the wires without breaking them, crushing them, or cutting through them is a tricky business.
But after 90 minutes banging and chiselling, it looked very much as though the process had been successful. We were left with a tile-shaped hole in the floor inside of which eight loops of wire appeared from under adjacent tiles and neatly disappeared back again. Ten days have to elapse to allow the tile cement to fully cure before the heating can be turned on. Since we now have one new tile that ten day clock has had to be reset, so we won't know for certain that the crisis has passed until we can test it. For the moment though, I'm enjoying the fact that there is no longer a small cream mouth yelling at me while I'm cleaning my teeth.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
A desk job
I love shopping on the Internet. It was designed for people exactly like me who hate crowds, hate struggling along smelly, dirty streets weighed down with packages, and get ratty when we're overheated. Malls are good. Close parking, relatively clean, lots of watering holes and a good choice of shops. But online shopping rocks, and the choice is virtually limitless (see what I did there?)
I know some people have horror stories about Internet shopping that has gone wrong, lost money, missing goods but, without wanting to put a jinx on in, we've been pretty lucky. Especially since moving in here. Our new bedroom furniture cost the thick end of £3,000 and that was all purchased online; all delivered without a hitch. That's the most expensive example since moving in here, but we also bought our fridge and freezer online, and the new Topfield. In the past we've purchased a plasma TV and a top-of-the-range PVR and all of this retail therapy went like clockwork.
So I guess some would say we were overdue for a problem.
A couple of months ago, Nikki wrote about some changes we were making to the use of space in the study, and included a picture of her new desk. Only at that time it wasn't quite her new desk yet: it hadn't arrived. We ordered it on December 4 last year and the money left my credit card account way before Christmas, but there we were in February and still no sign of her desk.
I'd chased it twice already. Problems with the suppliers, apparently. In fact (and this did nothing for my confidence) they'd had trouble with them once before and stopped carrying their items for a while, but the quadrant desk was so popular with their customers they had to start accepting orders again. I wasn't surprised at that - you try finding curved corner desks. There aren't many, unless you want to pay stupid prices. After the latest phone call I was promised it would be arriving in their warehouse by mid-Feb and, because we'd been waiting so long, would be sent out by "emergency courier."
It never did arrive that time round. Whether the boat had sunk or not I can't quite remember, but there wasan excuse a reason. We were assured it would be on the next boat. Then it was in the warehouse. Oh! no, it wasn't in the warehouse. Yes it was, it was being sent out next week. It had already gone out. It hadn't gone out. Oh! yes, it had, but it had had to go up to the courier's depot in Newcastle first. It would be with us first thing next week. By Tuesday. Definitely on Thursday.
Thursday (today) was fine with me, I told them the last time we spoke, as long as it was after 9am. It arrived at 7.25am. But you know what? At least we have it, in its brown paper bag, in the hall. Four months to the day (almost) after we ordered it. The longest wait ever, but proof that perseverance pays. Just don't let anyone tell you that shopping at the speed of the Internet is a guarantee of fast delivery!
I know some people have horror stories about Internet shopping that has gone wrong, lost money, missing goods but, without wanting to put a jinx on in, we've been pretty lucky. Especially since moving in here. Our new bedroom furniture cost the thick end of £3,000 and that was all purchased online; all delivered without a hitch. That's the most expensive example since moving in here, but we also bought our fridge and freezer online, and the new Topfield. In the past we've purchased a plasma TV and a top-of-the-range PVR and all of this retail therapy went like clockwork.
So I guess some would say we were overdue for a problem.
A couple of months ago, Nikki wrote about some changes we were making to the use of space in the study, and included a picture of her new desk. Only at that time it wasn't quite her new desk yet: it hadn't arrived. We ordered it on December 4 last year and the money left my credit card account way before Christmas, but there we were in February and still no sign of her desk.
I'd chased it twice already. Problems with the suppliers, apparently. In fact (and this did nothing for my confidence) they'd had trouble with them once before and stopped carrying their items for a while, but the quadrant desk was so popular with their customers they had to start accepting orders again. I wasn't surprised at that - you try finding curved corner desks. There aren't many, unless you want to pay stupid prices. After the latest phone call I was promised it would be arriving in their warehouse by mid-Feb and, because we'd been waiting so long, would be sent out by "emergency courier."
It never did arrive that time round. Whether the boat had sunk or not I can't quite remember, but there was
Thursday (today) was fine with me, I told them the last time we spoke, as long as it was after 9am. It arrived at 7.25am. But you know what? At least we have it, in its brown paper bag, in the hall. Four months to the day (almost) after we ordered it. The longest wait ever, but proof that perseverance pays. Just don't let anyone tell you that shopping at the speed of the Internet is a guarantee of fast delivery!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Transports of delight
Transport has been in the news a lot recently, whether it be the proposals for Manchester to introduce congestion charging, or the government's barmy road pricing and tracking scheme, the petition against which garnered over 1.8 million signatures by the time it closed on 20 February.
We hear a lot about how we "can't do nothing." Indeed my own personal response to the petition from the Prime Minister himself (*koff*) said as much. It also raised a number of spectres designed to make me fear that I didn't understand the issue and that nice Mr Blair does, or that any worries I might have about the government really wanting to track me wherever I go are totally unfounded because, of course, "road pricing is about tackling congestion." Right. So if that's the case, why do the government's plans steadfastly ignore many of the easier, simpler and most important of all less invasive ways of tackling congestion? Could it be, as a member of the opposition suggested on the radio a few weeks ago, that it's because these easier and simpler schemes are "boring" and not nearly headline-grabbing enough for this media-conscious government.
All governments to a greater or lesser extent suffer from short-termism. That special model of political blinkers that only allows UK governments to think about the next five years, and preferably things that will show demonstrable results within five years so they can go back to the polls waving their flags of success and achievement and beg the UK electorate for another go on the rollercoaster ride of power they love so much.
They gaze with envy at the transport systems of countries like Japan, or even France, where railways run smoothly and efficiently, and are used by a large percentage of the population. Indeed France is in the news again at the moment after yesterday breaking the world speed record with this rather sleek looking TGV train - the V150 - which sped down a new track at a blood-draining 357mph (574kph). But these systems didn't materialise overnight, or even within a single five-year period. They are the result of long-term investment programs lasting twenty or thirty years, or even longer. The MD of the French railway appeared on last night's PM programme and was asked how France could achieve this while Britain's railways creak and groan along at a maximum of 98mph? His answer underlines my point: France have been investing in TGV trains for over 25 years. Since 1981 in fact.
But expensive long-term investments like this are only part of the story. So much more could be achieved with much simpler initiatives. In Manchester at the moment, the schools are on their Easter break. The effect of this on rush-hour congestion is staggering, and instantaneous. A few initiatives aimed at prolonging the "half-term effect" would go a long way:
When I worked in Greece a few years ago, I was impressed with their scheme for allowing taxi sharing. Basically a cabbie can pick up as many people as he has room for, provided all travellers are going in roughly the same direction. Their meters are capable of recording multiple journeys so each passenger pays only for his or her own journey, together with a small discount for the period in which the cab is shared. Introducing this scheme in the UK could reduce the number of taxis on the roads dramatically.
Finally more efficient policing and tracking of criminals and tax evaders could help cut congestion. It is estimated there are 2 million illegal cars on the roads. Removing these would reduce traffic by almost 7% at a stroke. Add to that road tax and insurance fraudsters and the figure could reach 10%.
And yet any and all of these initiatives are discounted by this bankrupt government in favour of congestion charging and schemes to collect all revenue through petrol duty, which have a disproportionate effect on the poor, on countryside dwellers who have to use their cars more, and on businesses, putting up prices for everyone.
We hear a lot about how we "can't do nothing." Indeed my own personal response to the petition from the Prime Minister himself (*koff*) said as much. It also raised a number of spectres designed to make me fear that I didn't understand the issue and that nice Mr Blair does, or that any worries I might have about the government really wanting to track me wherever I go are totally unfounded because, of course, "road pricing is about tackling congestion." Right. So if that's the case, why do the government's plans steadfastly ignore many of the easier, simpler and most important of all less invasive ways of tackling congestion? Could it be, as a member of the opposition suggested on the radio a few weeks ago, that it's because these easier and simpler schemes are "boring" and not nearly headline-grabbing enough for this media-conscious government.
All governments to a greater or lesser extent suffer from short-termism. That special model of political blinkers that only allows UK governments to think about the next five years, and preferably things that will show demonstrable results within five years so they can go back to the polls waving their flags of success and achievement and beg the UK electorate for another go on the rollercoaster ride of power they love so much.
They gaze with envy at the transport systems of countries like Japan, or even France, where railways run smoothly and efficiently, and are used by a large percentage of the population. Indeed France is in the news again at the moment after yesterday breaking the world speed record with this rather sleek looking TGV train - the V150 - which sped down a new track at a blood-draining 357mph (574kph). But these systems didn't materialise overnight, or even within a single five-year period. They are the result of long-term investment programs lasting twenty or thirty years, or even longer. The MD of the French railway appeared on last night's PM programme and was asked how France could achieve this while Britain's railways creak and groan along at a maximum of 98mph? His answer underlines my point: France have been investing in TGV trains for over 25 years. Since 1981 in fact.But expensive long-term investments like this are only part of the story. So much more could be achieved with much simpler initiatives. In Manchester at the moment, the schools are on their Easter break. The effect of this on rush-hour congestion is staggering, and instantaneous. A few initiatives aimed at prolonging the "half-term effect" would go a long way:
- staggered start times for schools in a given area;
- the introduction of school buses that work so well in other countries (both on traffic levels and pupil safety);
- the banning of cars from dropping off passengers within a mile of schools
- Permanent park-and-ride schemes - not just at Christmas;
- Staggered start times for offices, to match those for schools
- Incentives for car sharing (or disincentives for single occupancy vehicles)
- Incentives for people to work at home (perhaps at the corporate level)
When I worked in Greece a few years ago, I was impressed with their scheme for allowing taxi sharing. Basically a cabbie can pick up as many people as he has room for, provided all travellers are going in roughly the same direction. Their meters are capable of recording multiple journeys so each passenger pays only for his or her own journey, together with a small discount for the period in which the cab is shared. Introducing this scheme in the UK could reduce the number of taxis on the roads dramatically.
Finally more efficient policing and tracking of criminals and tax evaders could help cut congestion. It is estimated there are 2 million illegal cars on the roads. Removing these would reduce traffic by almost 7% at a stroke. Add to that road tax and insurance fraudsters and the figure could reach 10%.
And yet any and all of these initiatives are discounted by this bankrupt government in favour of congestion charging and schemes to collect all revenue through petrol duty, which have a disproportionate effect on the poor, on countryside dwellers who have to use their cars more, and on businesses, putting up prices for everyone.
Monday, April 02, 2007
The Big Day
I've never considered myself particularly good at bid work. This stems from a dry spell around 1998-9 when my score was "played 7; lost 7" and my confidence was totally shot. Since then I've steered clear of it whenever I can, and I'd been pretty successful at hiding too - having been on design and delivery work pretty much full-time for the last seven years.
But when I was earmarked as the lead solution architect for this latest piece of work, I knew there would come a time when I would have to get on my hind legs in front of the customer, and sell our solution to them. That time was this afternoon at 2pm. We'd worked on the presentation all day Friday. Some people had added bits during Saturday and I'd been revising my sections on the train down to London yesterday afternoon. Then we rehearsed it twice yesterday evening and continued working on our own sections either late last night or early this morning, depending on personal preference. I added a few discreet builds to my slides to help me tell the story, and amended some graphics for added legibility. I also converted my script into punchier and more personalised language, and then transcribed it into bulleted mnemonic form so I wouldn't fall into the trap of reading it out.
Following a get-together of the presentation team for a further run-through to check the changes, we then had one final rehearsal in front of the full team (presenters and those who were there to assist with the Q&A session) before taking it to the customer.
So by the time I stood up, I'd been through the material four times before in full-on presentation mode, as well as reading and re-reading my notes countless times. I know someone who will be impressed with this level of preparation and it will come as no surprise to her that the final delivery went off not only without a hitch, but brilliantly. In particular, I received personal compliments on my presentation from each individual in our team, including the Managing Director who said my section had been full of energy and enthusiasm. For the first time ever, I came out of the experience feeling positive and buoyed up with team spirit. Shortly followed by actual spirit as we adjourned to the bar across the road to celebrate a successful presentation and relax after the tension of the past four days.
After 'The Big Day' comes 'The Big Wait' as they deliberate on the suppliers' different solutions and choose the one they want to go with. We'll find out in seven days.
My mate Bon asked if he could keep up with my blog via RSS, so you'll notice I've now included a link to the feed in the 'Links' section on the right. By now I might have my first subscriber ;o)
But when I was earmarked as the lead solution architect for this latest piece of work, I knew there would come a time when I would have to get on my hind legs in front of the customer, and sell our solution to them. That time was this afternoon at 2pm. We'd worked on the presentation all day Friday. Some people had added bits during Saturday and I'd been revising my sections on the train down to London yesterday afternoon. Then we rehearsed it twice yesterday evening and continued working on our own sections either late last night or early this morning, depending on personal preference. I added a few discreet builds to my slides to help me tell the story, and amended some graphics for added legibility. I also converted my script into punchier and more personalised language, and then transcribed it into bulleted mnemonic form so I wouldn't fall into the trap of reading it out.
Following a get-together of the presentation team for a further run-through to check the changes, we then had one final rehearsal in front of the full team (presenters and those who were there to assist with the Q&A session) before taking it to the customer.
So by the time I stood up, I'd been through the material four times before in full-on presentation mode, as well as reading and re-reading my notes countless times. I know someone who will be impressed with this level of preparation and it will come as no surprise to her that the final delivery went off not only without a hitch, but brilliantly. In particular, I received personal compliments on my presentation from each individual in our team, including the Managing Director who said my section had been full of energy and enthusiasm. For the first time ever, I came out of the experience feeling positive and buoyed up with team spirit. Shortly followed by actual spirit as we adjourned to the bar across the road to celebrate a successful presentation and relax after the tension of the past four days.
After 'The Big Day' comes 'The Big Wait' as they deliberate on the suppliers' different solutions and choose the one they want to go with. We'll find out in seven days.
My mate Bon asked if he could keep up with my blog via RSS, so you'll notice I've now included a link to the feed in the 'Links' section on the right. By now I might have my first subscriber ;o)
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Not what I call a Sunday
Regular readers might remember that I had a weekend stolen not so long ago. Unbelievably that piece of work is still grinding on, and we have a "final" - competitive - presentation to give to the customer tomorrow, so now I've had a Sunday stolen too.
In the end, we gave the after-show party a miss. I disappeared upstairs early evening to write up my review of Doctor Who for TV Scoop, which we'd time-shifted, and having been distracted with other stuff while I was online 11pm soon rolled round, by which time Nikki had fallen asleep on the sofa and neither of us really felt like going.
A good thing as it turned out, since we were expecting the workmen back this morning and I had loads to do before catching the 14.10 train to Euston. When they arrived they made suitable expressions of sympathy at the chipped tile, and offered to break it out and replace it. They'll have to be very careful - if they break even one element of the heating pad, the whole thing will stop working. They've done this before, apparently, and have a 100% success rate, but even so there's a risk. It was a hard decision whether to leave it or chance it, but in the end I decided we haven't had the benefit of the heating yet, so if it never works that'll be just one of those things. I'd rather not keep staring at that chip!
We have a fantasy art picture of a mermaid which we decided would be perfect for the space between the windows. You'd better believe that whenever I hang it I'll be standing on a very thick mat while I'm holding the hammer.
I worked until 9.30pm tonight. I definitely wouldn't have fancied that with a party head on. One of the guys I was working with had been to a 40th birthday party the night before and he was *really* struggling. We arrived at the hotel at 9.50 and headed for the bar after checking in, only to find that the hotel restaurant had closed moments before. The four of us staying in the same hotel were pretty desperate for something to eat. I'd had nothing since breakfast and one guy hadn't eaten anything but a bag of crisps all day.
So we headed out around the corner to the local Indian restaurant: La Portes des Indes. We were lucky - the place closes at 10.30pm on Sundays and we made it with ten minutes to spare. The manageress said she'd be happy to serve us as long as we could choose our dishes within those ten minutes. We were so hungry that wasn't a hard task - we just went for the fixed menu. The place is stunning. Carved mahogany banisters everywhere, huge palm trees, expensively tiled floors. The fixed menu was excellent with a choice of three starters and four mains which we all shared, but when the bill came I was glad I was eating on expenses. Over £170 for the four of us, and beer at £7.60 a pint!
In the end, we gave the after-show party a miss. I disappeared upstairs early evening to write up my review of Doctor Who for TV Scoop, which we'd time-shifted, and having been distracted with other stuff while I was online 11pm soon rolled round, by which time Nikki had fallen asleep on the sofa and neither of us really felt like going.
A good thing as it turned out, since we were expecting the workmen back this morning and I had loads to do before catching the 14.10 train to Euston. When they arrived they made suitable expressions of sympathy at the chipped tile, and offered to break it out and replace it. They'll have to be very careful - if they break even one element of the heating pad, the whole thing will stop working. They've done this before, apparently, and have a 100% success rate, but even so there's a risk. It was a hard decision whether to leave it or chance it, but in the end I decided we haven't had the benefit of the heating yet, so if it never works that'll be just one of those things. I'd rather not keep staring at that chip!
We have a fantasy art picture of a mermaid which we decided would be perfect for the space between the windows. You'd better believe that whenever I hang it I'll be standing on a very thick mat while I'm holding the hammer.
I worked until 9.30pm tonight. I definitely wouldn't have fancied that with a party head on. One of the guys I was working with had been to a 40th birthday party the night before and he was *really* struggling. We arrived at the hotel at 9.50 and headed for the bar after checking in, only to find that the hotel restaurant had closed moments before. The four of us staying in the same hotel were pretty desperate for something to eat. I'd had nothing since breakfast and one guy hadn't eaten anything but a bag of crisps all day.
So we headed out around the corner to the local Indian restaurant: La Portes des Indes. We were lucky - the place closes at 10.30pm on Sundays and we made it with ten minutes to spare. The manageress said she'd be happy to serve us as long as we could choose our dishes within those ten minutes. We were so hungry that wasn't a hard task - we just went for the fixed menu. The place is stunning. Carved mahogany banisters everywhere, huge palm trees, expensively tiled floors. The fixed menu was excellent with a choice of three starters and four mains which we all shared, but when the bill came I was glad I was eating on expenses. Over £170 for the four of us, and beer at £7.60 a pint!
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