Movie Review: The Dark Knight

Took the girls to Manchester's IMAX theatre today to see this. Apparently there are six (or so) scenes shot in IMAX 3D.

This is the first time I've been to a 3D show where you didn't have to wear special glasses to get the effect. OK, OK, that shows (a) my age and (b) that I don't go to the cinema much any more. What can I say? When you have a 50-inch plasma TV and a Dolby5.1 surround-sound home cinema system, you don't need to go to the cinema much.

Except to see IMAX. God. It was awesome. And I mean that in its original sense, not in the vacuous American high school "ah-summmmm" sense. Those 3D scenes - the ones shot from high above the Gotham city skyline looking down, especially the night-time one where Batman leaps from a tall building, extends his bat-wings and flies (glides) around the skyscrapers for a bit - were simply breathtaking.

Special effects apart, and not wishing to spoil the plot for anyone, the rest of the movie was good. Much has been written about how dark it is, and it is. Both literally in places, and figuratively. But in this case that's a good thing. It's quite clever too - the symbolism of starting the film with mainly sunny scenes and daytime aerial shots, and moving it to night scenes as the story gets darker. Very graphic.

Much has also been written about Heath Ledger's monumental performance as the Joker. I suspect most of that is right too. No, he didn't "steal" the film. He was a very significant, but integral, part of it. But his acting? You can't really call it acting. He INHABITED the character. He was the Joker, pure and simple, and for once, and rightly so, there was nothing funny about the Joke. I'd put Heath's Joker in the top five performances I've seen in a film, ever. He'll be a hard act to follow, and presumably (OK, small spoiler coming up), since the Joker survived he will at some stage be followed.

Criticisms? If pushed I'd say the movie is about 30 minutes too long. Indeed at one point somewhere between 1:50 and 2:15 (and since our showing started at noon, those are both times-into-the-movie and actual clock times) things got so slow and tedious that I fell asleep, only to be woken up with a HUGE jump by a set of exploding windows. That'll teach me. And those interminable fight scenes. Why do directors think we want to see long sequences of thwapthwapthwapthwap when you can't really tell what's going on? Yawn. Very clever, seen it before, get on with the plot, thank you.

One for the DVD collection though, definitely. There is so much going on in the film that it will certainly stand another watch. Might even be the one that convinces me to buy a Blu-ray player.

We're all fired up!

Due at 9.30, the fireplace fitters were 15 minutes early and after exactly two-and-a-half hours, the new fire was in and looking pretty damned good.

Just having that awful gaping hole plugged has made the room look so much more complete. The end is now enticingly near. I just have some woodwork painting to complete and we can order the carpet fitters. Oh, and I need to pour some self-levelling compound in front of the new hearth. It's marginally shallower than the previous hearth, so there's a small gap. Too small to be cemented in - it would crumble eventually and leave the carpet sagging in front of the fire.

As with the radiator, we had to suffer a test firing, but at least it was only in the one room this time, and only for a few minutes. Looks brill with the flames on, btw.

Book Review: The Riders

Book of the month for July, I finished this yesterday - just in time for the book club meeting tomorrow. Recommended by a member who originally hails from Australia, it's written by an Australian writer - Tim Winton - who receives all the usual sycophantic gushing praise in his cover notes, but who stirs up a storm of adverse comment if you read some of the reviews of this novel, The Riders, on Amazon.

So let's accentuate the positive to start with. Winton has a unique descriptive formula. A way of selecting words that are at once slightly out of the ordinary and yet also surprisingly apt. It's a clever trick. One which, when you first start to read this book, feels a little uncomfortable and awkward, but which after a few chapters begins, almost against your will, to feel natural, clever and right. So I'd have to say that yes, I ended up enjoying his writing style, his use of language, and the meter of his prose.

But of this novel in particular, I'd have to say: No. A virtually plotless mish-mash of travelogue-style observations, a few good but half-formed characters thrown into the mix in various separate geographical locations, and a central character who verges on being a child abuser by virtue of dragging his 7-year-old daughter halfway round Europe on a hopeless quest to find a wife who he believes is just missing but, we have to conclude, never really wanted to be with him at all.

This is a book to read if you're depressed and you want proof that someone is worse off than you. Less skilled at living than you, more stupid than you, uglier than you and certainly, with the exceptions of Billie and Postman Paddy, lonelier than you. It's one of those books that you finish and your uppermost thought is how much life you wasted reading it, that you'll never get back. Does it help that the desperately tedious voyagings of Scully as he drags Billie from Ireland to Greece to France to Holland are well written? Not really.

It helps that the book is a page-turner, I guess, but only because you rattle through it looking for answers at a cracking pace. Trouble is, you find none. It's like climbing a hill and cresting it only to find there's another hill further on. And another. And another. And when you finally reach the top, there's nothing there. Not even a particularly rewarding view.

Blowing hot and cold

Continuing the theme I started yesterday, with a bifurcated post on writing and decorating, today was a day for blowing hot and cold too.

The cold? My daft way of referring to the 5th and final draft (hahaha! 'draft' geddit? I crack myself up) of my novel, which I began today. Working through the feedback I've had from my most excellent beta-readers Nat & Blythe, I took it from the top. I noted as I progressed through the chapters that the volume of comments dropped off steeply. There could be several reasons for this.

I think the main one is that the quality of writing improves as the story picks up pace. Bearing in mind some of the early chapters were written 7-8 years ago and despite being edited several times still had structural faults that I hadn't spotted. But I like to think a secondary reason is that both of them became so engrossed in the story towards the end that they kind of forgot they were supposed to be reviewing. I'm fairly comfortable with that delusion. And I'm not losing out, revision-wise. Funny, but the fact that someone else is reading/has read it has made me review it more closely, even in the absence of many comments.

The hot? Well wouldn't you know it, we "chose" the hottest day of the year on which to have the new radiator fitted in the lounge. With temperatures pushing 30° we had to run the heating for half an hour to test the installation. Sheesh! I'm melting! Meeeellllllting!

Anyway, it was worth it. Here's our nice new rad all ready to go. The end of this project is nigh. It's nigh, I tell ya!

New light through old windows

It's a pun. Shorthand for two subjects I want to write about today. The inevitable and the inspirational.

Decorating
This, of course, is the inevitable. At least, it will be for the next few years as we traverse the house, repairing the neglect and damage wrought by the previous occupants and restoring the place to some semblance of habitability. In the case of the old windows, I refer to those in the new lounge, which have not seen a brush, mop, leather, squeegee or even vacuum cleaner in however many years it takes to build up a layer of dust and dead bugs several millimetres deep on the rails. There's paint to scrape off, dirt to wash off and broken catches to screw off, but sadly we can't stretch to a full refurb job on these lovely Edwardian sashes just yet, so they'll have to make do with a spit and polish.

So a spit and polish is exactly what I gave them yesterday. One of the hottest days of the year so far and I'm stood with both hands submerged in a bucket of hot sugar soap, with a scrubbing brush for the larger areas and an old toothbrush to winkle out the grime and grit from the lead work. As I've remarked before I'm not wedded to the idea of returning the house entirely to its original state. In 2008 I believe it should be comfortable, functional and benefit from the one-hundred-years of progress we've made since it was built. Even so I love some of the period detail and I would be sad to lose these windows. They may not be the most detailed or interesting examples of leaded lights you've ever seen, but I like their symmetrical simplicity.

Writing
And this is the inspirational. Eyes are the windows of the soul, poets have told us through the ages, and mine can certainly be classed as old, so I've felt ... well, blessed I suppose is the best word for it and, yes, inspired ... this week, to have some new light come in through these old windows in the shape of some fresh perspectives on my writing.

I have a colleague on TV Scoop who regularly bemoans the lack of feedback on his writing and it's true that blogging of any kind, unless you're one of those fortunate enough to appear on a "top 100" list somewhere, is a shot in the dark. With a few notable (and welcome!) exceptions among family and friends, you never really know who, if anyone, is reading your blatherings and from those, who is really enjoying it.

So here's a heartfelt thank-you to those who have felt moved to comment recently. Since childhood, I've never felt comfortable receiving compliments. I put this down to having it drummed into me by my mother that I would become "big-headed." Something, apparently, almost worse than being two-headed, at least in her mind. Whether I overcompensated or what, I don't know, but I've always been very... British... when it comes to compliments. Oh, no, seriously? You liked it? Well...thank you. It's nothing really.

It's nothing really. Why do I say that? It's my life. It's my heart and soul. It's everything, really. And I've already spent almost 50 years denying it. So, I must learn to accept compliments graciously and admit that, yes, your words of encouragement, enjoyment, and even enchantment with my writing have not only touched me deeply but also given me a new impetus. A work-free week stretches before me and I'll be spending as much of that time writing as I can.

Insignia - you drive; we nag

I made the mistake of giving the local Vauxhall dealer my email address, so every now and then I receive a gentle reminder that it's been a while since I bought a car. The reminder usually includes a supposedly tempting offer I can't refuse and/or an "irresistible" graphic of their latest climate change inducing product.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what arrived in my much-abused Inbox yesterday.

This is the Vauxhall Insignia. "Designed to make life easier," the marketing blurb trumpets, "new Insignia is packed with technological innovation:" and then proceeds to supply a bulleted list of features clearly intended to make the prospective car buyer's mouth water.

My mouth watered alright. Only it was the kind of watering that usually precedes vomit. Especially when I reached the final point.

"The Front Camera System even reads speed limit signs and displays a reminder"

Whoop-di-do! You know, that's really useful. Cos my eyes aren't that good any more and I find it hard to read those little round red "30" signs when I'm doing 85 past my local primary school. So a dashboard reminder is guaranteed to make me think "oh - 30 is it? Gosh, I'd better slow down right away."

Good grief.

'Course, it's only a matter of time before that "Front Camera System" is connected directly to the throttle and rather than displaying a reminder it will simply adjust the speed for you. Welcome to Stepford.

Getting down with the brown

Having taken the day off on Sunday, I figured yesterday that it was time to get back to it. I also figured that if I worked a slightly shifted day, I could probably get around the top of the walls - above the picture rail - before dinner.

Putting down my proverbial quill at 3pm and picking up my paintbrush, I started on the umpteenth circumnavigation of the room. Astonishingly, by around 4.30 I'd completed two tours - edges and filling in - and on such a bright sunny day I had at least another 3 hours of usable light left. What could I do but press on?

The simple explanation for my increased speed is the reduced accuracy with which I needed to paint the edges. Having already applied one coat, I could skim around the cornice, picture rail and door frame very quickly (and inaccurately) with no ill effect. In those few areas where the first coat hadn't quite covered the white base coat I had to take a bit more care, but these made up less than 5% of the total. I was flying!

I completed the whole room at 6.50, which made me feel very smug and put me back on track with my self-imposed schedule. This schedule is a double-edged sword. There's no doubt it has speeded up the whole process - when compared to the five months the study was out of commission, this room (admittedly only half the size) has so far only taken two - but it has also made me feel pressured to keep up the pace. Taking a day off has felt like a guilty pleasure. I like the increased level of control over the project, but if I plan the next one in such detail, I'll set a more relaxed pace and build in some down time.

All grown up

I'm sitting here in the study, staring at the empty space on the floor where for the last few weeks my elder daughter's worldly belongings - or at least that part of them she had with her in Uni halls of residence for a year - have sat patiently waiting to be taken to her new home.

The new home for which yesterday, at 12:30, she picked up the keys and moved in.

A lovely place it is too. As I commented to the other families assembled while Nat's housemates collected their keys: at least three orders of magnitude better than anything I ever lived in as a student. It has brand-new carpet throughout, not the threadbare rags we walked quickly over, on account of them being so sticky-dirty they threatened to hold you down forever if you stood for too long in one spot. It has bright, modern, NEW decor, not the damp and peeling Anaglypta that provided a depressing back-drop to our evening revision sessions. All the furniture is new, including (double) beds and mattresses, so she won't have to sleep on a lumpy, sagging, stained, single bed like I did. The kitchen is equipped with every modern appliance - separate upright fridge and freezer, washing machine, tumble drier and dishwasher, combi boiler, kettle, microwave and cooker. We had a cooker, a kettle and a small fridge. Laundry was dragged around the corner to the laundrette, or taken home in the holidays for Mum to do. In a house of 6 blokes, I'll let you guess which was the more popular option.

No, I wouldn't have wished my digs on my worst enemy, let alone my own daughter, so I'm very pleased she's found such a grand place. Didn't stop me having a small pang as she waved us goodbye and closed her own front door to spend her first night alone in the place though.

Browned off

If I thought last Saturday's efforts were a marathon, nothing could have prepared me for yesterday.

I'd intended to make an early start to put the final coat on the cornice (the first coat went on in two stages during the week) and finish that before breakfast so I could progress to the colour - the bit we'd all been waiting for. Ha! I hadn't appreciated just how long it would take for the whole room. Thing is, the cornice is so detailed it effectively has nine surfaces to be painted. So each metre takes nine times as long as a metre of, for example, skirting board. I started at 7.30 and didn't finish until 11am. A late breakfast then.

Although breakfast was a leisurely affair - when the girls are here we like to take our time, chew and chat as it were - it wasn't long enough for the cornice to have skinned over, so I started the edge work below the picture rail. We went through four different choices of colour for this room, trying to find a brown that was rich and warm without being too dark. Our final choice still didn't have our full confidence, so we only had one tin mixed up just in case it proved wrong. We needn't have worried. It was clear even at this early stage that it was perfect.

But again, my estimates of elapsed time were way off. I expected to have finished the first coat by mid-afternoon, but I was having to take much greater care with the brown than I had with the white undercoat. I wanted to get the edges as near perfect as I could, which meant very slow progress with the brush along the edge of the picture rail (although the bottom edge wasn't so critical, since I always leave skirting boards 'til last).

By around 1pm I'd completed the lower section of walls and graduated to the upper section. Here progress proved even slower. Now I had two critical edges - cornice and picture rail - and I was working on a plank. I decided to complete both edging and rollering in one circuit, but this slowed me down even further, as I had to keep swapping from brush to roller. It was after 5 by the time the upper section was complete, but having already worked for so long I was determined to finish the whole room in one day.

I finally completed the bottom section rollering at 6.40, having worked for eleven hours with only a short break for breakfast. Even though this is the first coat (of two), the coverage of this paint is excellent and we were very pleased with the result. The photo doesn't really do it justice. It was starting to get dark and I had to use flash. Imagine that Wedgewood's Jasperware comes in brown - oh, hang on (*checks Google*), it does - so yeah, it's that kind of effect. That powder-brown (cf powder-blue) matt effect against the crisp white of Jasperware, during daylight, and in artificial light it takes on a wonderful rich, warm, chocolatey aspect which is exactly what we were trying to achieve.

It needs a second coat, but that's a job for another day. Me? I'm taking the day off to recuperate!

I have done 53 stupid things

Been a dearth of "Friday Fives" recently, so here's an alternative bit of Friday fun. I don't usually do these, but I found this on my younger daughter's blog and I don't mind making a fool of meself, so here goes.

Level 1.
[X] Said LOL out loud. (Not until you two started!)
[] Forgotten your own age.
[] Tried to lick your elbow.
Total so far: 1

Level 2.
[] Said the wrong name in bed. (Came close, but covered it up with an authentic-sounding moan)
[X] Had unprotected sex.
[X] Hurt yourself sexing.
[] Sexed yourself hurting.
Total so far: 3

Level 3.
[] Licked your toe.
[] Licked a frozen pole.
[] Licked a dog bone.
[] Licked a dog.
Total so far: 3

Level 4.
[] Drank old milk.
[] Drank milk right from a cow.
[] Ever thought chocolate milk came from brown cows.
[] Drank Qwik right from the brown cow.
[] Pushed a cow over.
Total so far: 3

Level 5.
[] Eaten bugs.
[] Eaten garbage.
[X] Eaten food off the floor after five seconds. (Umm...chewing gum. Off the pavement. When it had a footprint on it)
[] Eaten a booger.
Total so far: 4

Level 6.
[X] Been in a five-seater car with more than seven people. (Easy. I've been in a four-seater car with 10 people. And I was driving)
[] Been in a seven-seater van with over twelve people.
[X] Driven in a seven-seater van by yourself.
[X] Driven a tricycle past the age of three.
[X] Driven yourself to the wrong house.
Total so far: 8

Level 7.
[] Put dirty dishes in the fridge.
[] Put bowls of food in the dishwasher.
[] Put a full glass of juice in the cupboard.
[] Put salt in your coffee.
[] Dropped the cap into the glass you were drinking from.
Total so far: 8

Level 8.
[] Jumped over a car.
[X] Jumped out of a moving car. (It was a bus actually)
[] Jumped into a thorny bush on purpose.
[] Jumped off a bridge.
[X] Jumped off your house. (Outhouse, but still counts :o))
Total so far: 10

Level 9.
[] Forgotten where you live.
[] Forgotten your own birthday.
[X] Forgotten to zip up in the morning.
Total so far: 11

Level 10.
[X] Walked into a pole.
[X] Walked into a wall.
[X] Walked into someone.
[X] Walked into a parked car.
Total so far: 15

Level 11.
[] Won a burping contest.
[] Burped the alphabet.
[] Burped just to break the silence.
[] Burped too hard and thrown up.
Total so far: 15

Level 12.
[X] Eaten a whole bag of chips.
[X] Eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night. (One night? One helping! :o))
[X] Eaten a whole pizza so no one else could have a slice.
Total so far: 18

Level 13.
[X] Been caught picking your nose.
[X] Been caught going to the bathroom outside.
[] Been caught with your pants down.
[X] Been caught having sex.
[] Been caught sexing yourself.
Total so far: 21

Level 14.
[X] Shoved something up your nose.
[X] Picked your nose and studied what came out.
[X] Picked your nose till it bled.
[] Let your nose bleed to see the awesome blood all over you.
[] Blew your nose so goddamn hard your whole body hurt.
Total so far: 24

Level 15.
[X] Told a lie.
[X] Been caught in a lie.
[X] Lied to cover a lie.
[X] Lied to cover your ass.
[] Lied to an undercover hooker cop.
Total so far: 28

Level 16.
[X] Laughed at someone in pain.
[X] Laughed too loud and embarrassed yourself.
[] Laughed at a funeral.
[] Laughed so hard you pissed yourself.
Total so far: 30

Level 17.
[X] Written a letter to Santa Claus.
[] Believed in Santa past the age of eight.
[] Believed your folks when they said that a bunny laid chocolate eggs in the house.
[] Believed you were NEVER too old for trick-or-treating.
Total so far: 31

Level 18.
[] Thrown a party for yourself.
[] Thrown a ball at yourself.
[] Thrown up on yourself.
[X] Thrown a ball at a wall that returned directly to your crotch.
[X] Thrown a super ball in the house and taken it right in the face.
Total so far: 33

Level 19.
[X] Pretended to know what you're doing. (This is my job)
[X] Pretended you were hot shit.
[X] Pretended you weren't listening.
[] Pretended you were Spider-Man.
Total so far: 36

Level 20.
[X] Fell on the sidewalk. (We call them pavements or footpaths over here)
[X] Fell down the stairs.
[] Fell UP the stairs.
[] Went sledding down the stairs.
Total so far: 38

Level 21.
[] Tried to do a really cool back flip...
[] And busted your ass.
[] Tried to do a really cool cartwheel...
[] And didn't lift your feet, retard.
Total so far: 38

Level 22.
[X] Eaten food that you just kind of... found.
[] Eaten the mystery food in the back of the fridge.
[] Eaten something nasty to get a laugh.
[] Cried when no one laughed.
Total so far: 39

Level 23.
[X] Cried when you hurt yourself. (This is the one. Why is this stupid?)
[X] Cried when you didn't get your way. (I was like, 39, so that was perfectly OK)
[] Cried over spilled milk.
[] Cried after sex.
Total so far: 41

Level 24.
[X] Gone swimming naked.
[] Gone swimming in a stranger's pool.
[] Gone swimming with a hose in the yard. (Huh?)
[] Gone swimming in a stank-ass pond.
[] Gone swimming in the bathtub like a champ.
Total so far: 42

Level 25.
[X] Ridden a pony.
[X] Ridden a donkey.
[] Ridden a lawnmower pretending it was an awesome racecar.
[] Ridden a shovel pretending it was an awesome spaceship.
[] Ridden the dog.
Total so far: 44

Level 26.
[] Locked yourself out of your house.
[X] Locked yourself out of your car.
[] Locked yourself IN the car.
[] Trapped yourself in a child's plastic house.
[] Tangled yourself up in a rope.
[] Tangled yourself up in a hose.
[] Locked yourself in the trunk WITH the keys.
Total so far: 45

Level 27.
[X] Overcooked a fancy meal.
[] Overcooked Easy MAC.
[] Overcooked a Pop-Tart.
[] Overcooked a tiny plastic army man.
[X] Overcooked yourself at the beach. (Klingon Head lives!!!)
Total so far: 47

Level 28.
[X] Bitten plastic fruit.
[X] Bitten into something too hard and hurt your teeth.
[X] Bitten down before you got the fork into your mouth.
[] Lifted an empty soda you thought was full, thereby flinging it.
[X] Overcompensated an extra step in the stairs that wasn't there.
Total so far: 51

Level 29.
[X] Mistaken a stranger for a family member and blabbed at them.
[X] Mistaken a man for a woman or vice-versa.
[] Shaved your eyebrows.
[] Poked yourself in the eye with safety goggles! Sweet irony.

TOTAL: 53
(There's definitely some blog posts in there!)

Every cloud...

In tonight's news Lewis Gordon Pugh, dubbed the human polar bear on account of having swum for a kilometre at the North Pole to prove how global warming has affected the polar ice caps, now plans to kayak all the way up there this summer.

This trip *should* be impossible, but returning from his swimming trip last year he predicted it would be possible "sometime in the next ten years." Now that the ice caps are melting faster than anyone believed possible, turns out it can be done this year.

In a grimly ironic turn, the fact that the North Pole will shortly be exposed for the whole summer on a regular basis has heated up (sorry) the race by the oil and mineral companies to exploit the rich natural resources that exist in the Arctic ocean bed. So global warming will itself allow us easier access to more of the fuels whose burning will ... contribute to ... more global warming.

(*sounds of hollow laughter indistinguishable from exasperated weeping*)

A good day's work

Very pleased with progress yesterday. Although I was aching so much I could hardly move, I'd managed to turn the photo from yesterday into one that looks like this:

Starting at 9.30 and working through virtually non-stop until after 5pm I'd effectively done a full day's work - on a weekend! Wah! - but I'd had to circumnavigate the room four times in all. Washing down the cornice and picture rail with sugar soap, going round again to rinse it off followed by a third go round with the paint brush to do "the margins." Old rooms like this have a lot of margins too - both sides of the cornice, both sides of the picture rail, skirting board and windows. Took blimmin' ages. And finally around again with the roller to fill in the blanks.

Damned hard work too. Fresh plaster sucks the moisture out of paint almost instantly, so I had to work quickly. It's inevitably patchy, but I'll be going over it all again today for what is effectively the second undercoat. By then the plaster will be well sealed and ready for the colour coats. (No, we're not having a white lounge! Good grief. It *is* the cheapest base coat though, and very easy to see where you've been :o))

And so it starts

Even such a cold, Northerly room as this has only taken a week to dry out. Look:

Aided by the ventilation of the fireplace, we're ready for painting a week earlier than scheduled. On top of that, I've stolen a march on proceedings by sanding the picture rail and the cornice this week, so apart from a bit of washing down with the old sugar soap, we're good to go.

Had a slight wobble when I couldn't find my pole. It makes painting ceilings so much easier when you don't have to climb up and down a ladder, or walk along a plank. But I couldn't remember where I put it. At least, I *could* remember, but it wasn't there. And it wasn't in any of the other logical places it could be either. And then I found it. In the place I thought I'd put it in the... err... first place. I just didn't look hard enough, if you know what I mean.

I dunno. Going blind now as well as deaf. Sheesh.

Chorlton Beer Festival - Mark 4

Although it was raining (again! Jeez!) early evening, by the time we'd had dinner the clouds had passed over and the rest of the evening looked promising, so we ventured out to the fourth ZestQuest beer fest.

This event has grown bigger and more popular with each passing year, and the early rain certainly had not dampened the spirits of the revellers who thronged the church grounds when we arrived shortly after 8.30. We'd soon filled our half-pint glasses with our first sample tipple - Jaipur India Pale Ale - and caught up with some friends who were already well established on a couple of large rugs in one corner of the grounds. This proved a good pitch later on, when a slight sprinkling of rain was easily held at bay by the canopy of trees above.

Having eaten before we left home, we weren't tempted by the food on offer, even though it looked very good. The hog roast of previous years was absent, but the Danish sausage looked very appetising. Half a pint never lasts very long, so in the space of a few minutes we were back in the "beer tent" (I think it was the vestry, actually) queuing up for two halves of Summer Solstice from the Pictish Brewing Company. "A crisp refreshing blond ale" said the tasting notes and they weren't wrong. Delicious, and helped down by the good company which had by now been swelled by the arrival of another half-dozen friends.

With space on the rug now at a premium, the beers slipped down even faster and before we knew it we were supping on Wild Swan. We had limited ourselves to a £5 voucher each (I'm not going to explain the voucher system). We no longer live within walking distance of the festival, so having to drive meant four halves was my legal maximum and previous years' experience showed that with careful selection of ales we could each enjoy four beers for a fiver. If we'd been attending for the whole session - the Friday night session started at 5pm, and tomorrow the revelries will commence at 1pm and go right through to 11 - we'd have taken the bus, but this was only ever going to be a short, sweet visit.

The Wild Swan was excellent, but we were prevented from enjoying another on account of it having run out. Forced to choose anything at less than £1.25 a half, we opted for the rather mundane Hartington Bitter for our last glug, with a wistful nod in the direction of the more exotically named beers on offer such as Wobbly Bob, Alchemist, Dave's Hoppy Beer, Golden Wrath, Guzzler or Dark Side of the Moose. We'd beaten last orders by five minutes (yes, they rang the church bell to call last orders - how cool is that?) and stood supping our Hartington in the gloom of the churchyard, under the ancient trees and in the company of good friends. A very pleasant two hours or so, and a fine way to start the weekend!

Fine insults of our time

Just browsin' along, like you do, spinning my Internet wheels when I came across this gem. It was several minutes ago now, my excuse being that I couldn't type before now owing to being collapsed on the floor in fits of giggles.

"He's a RETARDIS. His brain is much smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside."

Genius.

When science fails

In the news today: How biofuels may not be such a good idea after all.

I can't tell you how disappointing this is. How stupid was I to think that we could trust today's scientists to come up with a solution to the world fuel crisis and global warming? The more you hear, the more incompetent they seem. Apparently, the worst offender is fuel made from American corn, which is responsible for releasing 20% MORE CO2 into the atmosphere than regular fuel made from crude oil! How pointless is that?

But naturally, there's more money in biofuel than there is in selling corn to - you know - FEED people, so we're making the world hotter and hungrier at the same time. Great solution guys.

We're drying out

Only two days after plastering and the new lounge is drying out nicely, as you can see from this pic which attempts to capture the same area as the one I took on Friday.

I put two weeks into the plan for drying out, because this is a North-facing room and a lot colder than the last room we had plastered, but I'd not accounted for two things. The new lounge has an open flue, so the moisture is flying up there, and the plaster is mainly skimming, which is a lot less deep than the study, where a lot of the original plaster was blown and had to be removed (or fell off!). With a bit of luck I'll be able to start painting next weekend.

We were planning on visiting Beech Road festival today, but it was bucketing down around noon, so we decided against it. By the time the rain had passed over and the sun came out, we'd already settled comfortably into doing other things and couldn't be arsed to rouse ourselves. Lazy Sundays. Ya can't beat 'em.

Bury Market

Nikki has a project in mind. In anticipation of the new lounge being a colder room than the old, and in an effort to keep the gas bills down in the face of rising fuel prices, she's going to crochet me a blanket to keep my old bones warm when I'm crashed out in front of the telly. The wool is available for an unbelievable price from Bury market, so we all headed off there first thing this morning to see what else is there.

Wow. I've lived in and around Manchester for 30 years and I've never been there, but it's big. A quarter of a million visitors a week and it's easy to see why. An initially confusing array of buildings and assemblies of open-air stalls - Market Hall; Market Place; Market Plaza to name but three - soon takes on a kind of weird logical structure as you wander about familiarising yourself with the place.

We stopped in a café for a breakfast toastie and a coffee (or banana milk shake in the case of the girls) before almost tripping over the right wool stall in our first five minutes. With the business of the day transacted straight away we were free to wander up and down the aisles in search of other bargains. We had an idea we may be able to find something for the new lounge, but in the end nothing was quite right. To be honest, faced with so much choice, I tend to go into a kind of sensory overload, and can't concetrate on any one thing because I'm always distracted by several other things all at once.

I did find a replacement pair of slippers though, which means my old slippers can now take the place of my painting slippers, and my painting slippers can be relegated further down the pecking order of household footwear (which might even mean them fetching up in the bin).

Two hours of dodging the pouring rain (pouring sometimes from the sky, and other times from the edges and corners of various awnings and canopies) was enough for us, and we headed home around 11am. A fascinating place though, which we'll certainly return to when the weather is more conducive to a leisurely amble.

A day for getting plastered

An early start today for our plasterers. They were here at 7.45 and aimed to be finished by 2pm. A much faster job than I'd anticipated, and a welcome surprise because this was not only a day for getting the new lounge plastered, in another sense it was a day for getting ourselves plastered. It was the day of Pete's funeral.

I collected Nikki from work at quarter past eleven, giving us time to return home, change into funeral gear, and step across the road to wait outside the house with the slowly gathering family, friends and neighbours. By the time the hearse arrived about half an hour later, I counted over a hundred people in the crowd. Pete's coffin was piped out of the house and carried behind the hearse down the road, with us all walking solemnly behind.

As we rounded the corner and the church came into view, I was amazed to see at least another hundred people waiting outside, but my astonishment hit new levels when, after a few moments delay, we entered the church to find ANOTHER hundred people had already taken their seats. A man who made his mark on many, many lives, Pete was given the kind of send-off most of us can only dream about.

The service was as nice as it was possible to be, given the sombre nature of the occasion. The priest did a very good job of explaining what was happening for those of us in the congregation not familiar with Catholic ritual, and also for the younger people there, so they weren't confused by the strange symbolism and incantations. My own views on this kind of event can wait for a more appropriate time to be expressed, because this was a day for Pete's friends and family, and in the end, who am I to question another person's beliefs? If the ritual brings them any comfort, then that can only be a good thing.

All told we were in the church for something approaching 90 minutes, which gave us time between the service and the wake, when the family and closest friends headed off to the cemetery to inter the coffin, to pop back home and see how the plastering was coming along.

With accuracy born of long experience, the men were virtually spot on with their estimate, and by the time we arrived home at about 1.45pm they had almost finished tidying up, and the room looked like this. Even in this state, it is so much more relaxing to walk into. To not have the glaring, angry, untidy look of the original paint, and to have the old, wobbly, dowel corners replaced with crisp modern angles just makes me feel calm.

Nikki fetched the colour chart and surprisingly the wet plaster was an almost perfect match to the chocolate colour we've chosen as the main colour for the walls. That copper colour on the picture rails will go - they'll be white - but apart from that, the photo above should be a pretty close approximation to the finished look.

We waited a few minutes for the plasterers to collect the last of their gear before locking up and walking back to the pub where the wake was being held. Almost all of the 300 throng appeared to have stayed behind to raise a glass in memory of Pete. I was only sorry I could only stay for one, but I left Nikki to represent our household and our "branch" of the neighbours' fraternity, while I headed off to pick up my lovely daughters for their weekend visit.

Book Review: Rebecca

Several people shuddered when they heard the book club book for June was a Daphne du Maurier. Apparently she's supposed to be a hard read. Nothing could be further from the truth with Rebecca though.

I wasn't overly familiar with the story, having only the vaguest of memories of the Hitchcock dramatisation as one of the many movies I watched on a Saturday afternoon as a boy, but it wasn't long before the pages were turning as du Maurier's fascinating prose passed beneath my flicking eyes.

Far from being a hard read, the 400+ pages fell away. I found I loved her style (whether it's not traditional du Maurier I don't know) - bubbly, spontaneous and full of sharp observation. I recognised many of the traits of her characters, empathised with the way the unnamed narrator takes off in flights of fancy before coming back to a reality that in the end bears no resemblance, and shuddered at the creepiness of Mrs Danvers as she padded the empty corridors of the west wing.

Much of the story seems formulaic now, having been copied many times since its publication in the 1930s, but somehow that doesn't detract from its charm. Perhaps because it is an original no matter how familiar the structure and how easily spotted are the problems "the second Mrs de Winter" has to handle and the mistakes she makes.

If you're in the mood for an unchallenging read that nevertheless delivers a few surprises and is thoroughly well written throughout, you could do worse than give this classic a try. It didn't quite manage to gain the accolade of the club's favourite book, but it scored very well and rightly so.

Door a done deal

No photo yet, because I haven't fitted the new handles, but the painting plan was completed today on schedule. To the new schedule that is. I decided to give it an extra day for side 1 to dry, both to harden it off more and because we went off to the party on Saturday and I didn't want to be doing painting before going.

So I flipped it over yesterday, and it took its final coat on side 2 today. Very nice it looks too.

Meant to mention as well something amusing I heard in the news last week regarding the petrol prices. There was a summit, apparently, to discuss whether or not OPEC should step up oil production in an effort to bring prices down, and it was reported that the Australian PM had said if they wouldn't comply we should "take a blowtorch to OPEC." The Radio 4 commentator said he thought that was an inflammatory remark.

Ho Ho Ho.

Now we are 50

Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of the last of my mates to attain that age of distinction, at his parents' place somewhere in the quiet countryside of South Notts. A garden filled with gazebos, chairs, tables, food, games, fun, family, but most of all friends and friendship.

You have to love the Gee family. Mum and Dad are an oasis of elegant refinement and good manners in a world increasingly full of yobbishness and selfish behaviour. A reminder of how good things were in a bygone age where everyone was civil to each other, offered a helping hand and a kind word, and did their bit for the community. Their good example is carried like a torch by their offspring, who each strive in their own way to increase the joy and fun of life without being at all pious or po-faced. Just a brilliant crowd who love a laugh, and love to share that laughter.

And laugh we did. Particularly at the gunga-sized version of Jenga, which was played almost non-stop all afternoon by various groups varying in age from single figures to us lot as seen here, all stood round examining it with knowledgeable looks as if we're a bunch of architects examining Westminster Abbey.

The buffet was excellent and the afternoon passed remarkably quickly, punctuated by more games of Jenga and watching Phil open his pressies, many of which had been selected for their compliance with a "50" theme. Or to complement his forthcoming holiday. You know the kind of thing that's just right for someone approaching his second childhood: arm bands for swimming; a bucket and spade; peashooters and catapults.

Plans to decamp to the pub had been shelved in favour of staying in the garden and ordering in fish & chips, which duly arrived around 7pm in three enormous boxes. I've never eaten F&C with 40 people before, but it was a fine experience and one I'd repeat at any time!

As the sunset and the chill factor of the evening increased, a garden heater was brought out and set up under the largest gazebo. Nobody wanted the day to end, but inevitably it did, as taxis were ordered and goodbyes were said by increasing numbers of guests. We held out as long as we could, but the end the cold and the time got to us and we accepted the offer of a lift in one of the taxis heading our way. A brilliant day all round, but most of all because it's finally put an end to Phil's ability to take the piss out of our advanced ages. Now, we are 50!

Dynamic Thinker

Why do I always wake up on Saturday at exactly the same time as I wake up on a weekday, even though the alarm is not on? Just for once I'd love to be able to lie in like I did when I was a kid. Luxuriate in the comfort and relaxation instead of having to be up and at 'em.

All good blogging things come via Diane, so here's a quickfire personality test based on the work of Jung. They promise it only takes five minutes, but I pondered the answers for a little bit longer. Still less than 10 minutes though, and interesting questions. It makes me out to be a Dynamic Thinker, which from the description at the end of that link is pretty much spot on. There's a link on that page for you to take your own test, should you wish.

Life goes on

Couldn't get back to sleep last night after the shocking news, so we sat drinking (de-caf) coffee in the study waiting for the shock to pass. The lights stayed on over the road until long after we went back to bed at 1am. Both of them have large families and judging by the number of cars parked in the road, they had all rallied round.

Stopped off at Asda on the way home from taking Nikki to work this morning for a sympathy card. Silly, meaningless gesture in a way, but you can't not, if you know what I mean. It didn't feel right, taking it round first thing and in any case I figured they'd probably still be in bed. I left it until lunchtime before popping round. The easy thing to do would have been to slip it quietly through the letterbox, but I knew that wasn't an option. Knew I had to grit my teeth and face Linda, having no words that could help her but saying them anyway.

Pete's brother opened the door. Pretty much the whole family seemed to still be there, making tea and swapping memories of Pete. A small forest of sympathy cards had already sprung up on the kitchen counter and with a wry smile I noticed that it wouldn't have mattered which of Asda's extensive collection I chose, it would still have been a duplicate.

I spoke only briefly to Linda. She was getting ready to go and choose a coffin, something which for obvious reasons she would rather not have had to do. I didn't stay long. Didn't want to intrude. Just long enough to pay my respects; offer the usual "if you need anything you only have to ask" that she must have already heard a hundred times.

It seems so ironic that they have only just finished doing up the house. Not really had much of a chance to enjoy it. But they say if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. I expect there were quite a few visitors to that house in the past who have harboured a little jealousy of Pete and Linda. Lovely new house; two lovely kids; lots of parties. None of them would offer to trade places with her now.

It's 10 o'clock, here is the news

We retired early tonight, both being knackered, to watch the news in bed. Then we heard some news we weren't expecting.

The doorbell rang. It's never a good sign when that happens and you're already in bed. Our first thought was that it was the neighbour. We had torrential rain here tonight and entered the bedroom to find the floor soaking wet again. Trouble is, even though we've had OUR roof replaced, HIS roof is still shelling tiles like there's no tomorrow, so the bits are still being washed into the gully, blocking the drain and leading to a repeat of this situation, which will undoubtedly require us to go through this again. So slipping into my dressing-gown and plodding wearily downstairs, I expected to find him on the doorstep wondering why HIS bedroom was under water.

I was wrong. It was the guys from down the road, enquiring whether we could feed their cat when they go away, and also bringing totally unexpected, shocking and very sad news. Our neighbour Pete, who lives directly opposite, died earlier today at work. Sat down to eat his lunch and had a fatal heart attack.

It's one of those situations you can't really grasp at first. You say inane things like "I only spoke to him last week," as if that should have been enough to prevent his death. Or that you might have - should have - spotted something that would have given you a clue of his impending demise. But we don't always get a warning shot. Sometimes it's as sudden as a click of the fingers and you won't ever get the chance to share a beer or a joke with him again. And then you think "Christ, he was nearly two years younger than me." I've found I've been thinking more about death anyway, since I turned 50, so this isn't going to help. Not in a morbid way, but more a sort of fatalistic realisation that I've almost certainly got less time left than I've had already, and the more time passes, the more true that becomes.

But for Pete, there's no time. So I guess the lesson is: make the most of what you've got.

Doors - a plan emerges

This morning, now the paint has dried, the need for an additional step has appeared. Applying a coat of paint has revealed several additional blemishes that weren't apparent when the door was in its original state. The darkness of the stain hid them. So I need to go over it again with the filler and sander, and apply the second coat of undercoat on top of this.

With the door on a trestle, only being able to work on one side, and needing (according to the tin) 16 hours to dry a coat of paint, this means the plan of attack now looks like this (assuming I can keep up the pace):
Today: fill and sand newly exposed marks, undercoat #2 on side 1
24/06: flip door over. Sand and apply undercoat #1 to side 2
25/06: fill newly exposed marks, sand and apply undercoat #2
26/06: apply finish coat #1
27/06: apply finish coat #2
28/06: flip door over. Apply finish coat #1 to side 1
29/06: apply finish coat #2
30/06: fit new hinges and handles

Gives me three days contingency before the plasterer arrives, in case any of the marks are still visible when the finish coats begin - I can backtrack and rework. Not that I'm expecting the door to look perfect, or like new, when it's finished. I want it to look like an original, painted door. But one that's been looked after.

Doors

As there's another ten days before the plasterer comes, I thought I may as well make a start on the door. The doors in this house are original, and therefore around a hundred years old, but the previous owners, who had a liking for natural rather than painted wood, dipped and stripped them.

We have seven interior doors in total that look something like this. Now I'm not exactly averse to a bit of natural wood myself. Trouble is being so old, these doors have been banged about a bit. Cracks here, knocks there, bits of the moulding missing, joints gaping. On top of that, the stripping isn't exactly first class. Chunks of old filler remain, giving the doors a neglected look, and as if all that wasn't bad enough it's not a totally natural finish the last owners went for. No, they preferred to add an unusual blue stain to everything. It doesn't look blue when it's on. I only know it's blue because I found the tin. To look at, once applied, you'd simply think the doors are dirty.

So we've been putting up with these dirty doors for over a year and a half. Even the new bathroom and the new study retained their old doors (well, the study door is still propped up against the wall on the landing - I never refitted it after the carpet went down). The idea was that refurbishing/painting the doors was a project in its own right, but so far that's meant none of them are finished. I didn't want to make that mistake again plus, like I said, I have time to kill in the middle of this project, so...

The problems with the doors range from large splits, through small cracks, to dings and holes. Here are some examples:







The plan is to pin the worst splits (none of the problems will involve any advanced joinery skills!), fill the cracks, sand down and give the doors a couple of coats of undercoat to cover the minor blemishes, followed by a couple of coats of satin finish gloss. I bought some cheap replacement handles yesterday too. Sadly the original Edwardian ones are too badly dinged and messed up to keep. These cheapo brass ones will see us through until we see something we really like.

So after filling the cracks in one side, flipping the door over, pinning the split, filling, sanding an applying one coat of undercoat, the door looks like this. Already a huge improvement on how it looked before, and there's a way to go yet.

People

Sometimes, people can move you to tears with their compassion and their generosity. Then there are those other times where they make you want to weep for an altogether different reason. Their selfishness, ignorance, and arrogance.

I had to go out today. A dream weekend for me is one where I pull up in front of the house on a Friday night and don't have to go out again until Monday morning. Or at the earliest, Sunday night. But this weekend I discovered the nails I'd bought for putting the floorboards back down again were way too big, I was on the verge of running out of filler, and we hadn't bought any snacks with this week's shopping so Friday night had already been a traumatic, snack-free zone and I couldn't face Saturday night being the same. Gritting my teeth, I set off out the door to a series of irksome encounters that proved over and over again how selfish people can be.

It started innocuously enough. The roads around Whalley Range and Chorlton were busy with Saturday afternoon traffic and, as always, heavily parked. Being the patient, considerate chap I am, I spent a lot of time waiting beside a parked car for the oncoming vehicle to come through. I was always taught that it was manners to acknowledge such courtesy with a small wave of the hand, but one after another I received no such acknowledgement. The drivers didn't even nod vaguely in my direction. Or look. Time after time there was no hint of recognition that I had put myself out and waited for them, rather than barging through and forcing them to stop. During the whole journey I didn't receive a single wave.

First stop B&Q, for those smaller nails and that filler. Clearly the Chorlton branch didn't expect to be busy on a Saturday afternoon, as they had only one till operating. One till with a queue of six people. I selected my goods and returned to the till, where the queue had dwindled to four. On the other side of the store a guy shouted over that he was opening another till, whereupon a couple who had been approaching the first till veered off to make use of that one. Not a glance at those of us already queuing. No hint that they might let anyone at the end of our queue precede them in their desperate hurry to pay. As it happened, it made no difference to me. Of the four people in front of me two proved to be together, so by the time I'd have arrived at the newly opened till I would still have been second in the queue. But, you know, it's the principle. The British are supposed to be a nation of queuers and intrinsically understand the rules. Even that bastion of civilisation is being chipped away by the me generation. In more hot-blooded countries people have been killed for queue jumping.

Out in the car park the space I'd parked in had become a drive-through. As I opened the car and deposited my bag on the back seat, another car rounded the corner of the building. He had a choice of a dozen or more spaces in the row in front of me and I'll let you guess which one he chose. Even though he could see I was preparing to leave.

Next stop Morrison's, for the snacks. As I walked along the snack aisle I saw something incongruous among the crisps, Doritos, bombay mix and Twiglets. A joint of beef. Someone had clearly changed their mind, and rather than walk the vast distance of four aisles to return the beef to the chiller cabinet, they had simply dumped it on the nearest shelf. How long would it sit there before being found by a member of staff? And having found it, would they return it to the beef counter? Its sell-by date intact, but having reached room temperature for perhaps several hours, this will be, for someone, one of those cold purchases that inexplicably goes bad long before its due date. Or worse, leads to a case of food poisoning. All because some ignorant sod couldn't be bothered to put it back where they found it.

Finally, leaving Morrison's, I had to back out of my parking space into the main exit lane. A few yards back, an elderly lady waited with her indicator flashing to take my space once I'd vacated it. Did Chorlton's finest shoppers wait patiently behind her for the few seconds it would take me to complete my manoeuvre? On this day of almost complete selfishness and ignorance, I think you can work out the answer. No, they pulled past her, forcing the incoming traffic to stop, and making it extremely difficult for me to see whether or not it was clear to reverse. But they didn't worry about any of that. What's important is what they want. To get out. To get home. There's no-one else who also wants to get out and home. Or at least if there is, they're not as important. They're OTHER people. The ones we don't think about. The ones we don't even look at.

Friday Five

1. Last party you went to?
Ian's 50th. His local had asked him what he wanted and he said "Armarda" (a local band) so they arranged it, and we all had pride of place on the platform in the main room. Great night.

2. Do you pee in the shower?
What a strange question. Of course. Doesn't everybody? ;o)

3. Have you ever fired a gun?
Yes. Started with an air rifle when I was 14, shooting targets and cans in the back garden. When I went up to Uni I spotted a shooting club and thought it would be fun. They used .22 rifles, but after one session I decided I couldn't get on with all the strapping and paraphernalia they made us use. I didn't go back.

4. Where do you call home?
Whalley Range, Manchester. It's the third time I've lived here and this time (I hope) is for keeps. Or at least as long as either of us are fit and healthy enough to live in a large(ish) house and keep it up.

5. What's your favourite board game?
The one I've played most often would have to be Monopoly, but I used to enjoy Cluedo too. We went through a spate with Trivial Pursuit (around the same time everyone else did) but it was never a favourite. As a kid, I loved Ludo and Snakes and Ladders too. I was a bit of a board game nerd in my twenties, and bought loads of interesting-looking new games like Kensington, 2001, and one I can't remember the name of that had stackable pieces which could move one square for each level of the stack. None of them ever really took off in a big way and I gave up trying to find someone to play with after a few years. Sad but true :(

The 60-year-old Baby

Baby has been in the news this week. She'll be 60 on Saturday. Why am I excited? Well Baby, more properly known as the Small Scale Experimental Machine, was the world's first stored program computer, and so is the logical ancestor of every single computer on the planet, including the one you're using to read this.

Ten years ago, for Baby's 50th anniversary, a bunch of enthusiasts led by the men who originally worked on the project built a replica of the machine using all original parts. It's now on permanent display at MOSI. At one of our last-ever Engineering Conferences, one of the project members gave us an entertaining talk about the rebuild, the fun they'd had and the lengths they'd gone to to find the original parts to use. When Baby was first assembled, money was tight (when was it ever NOT tight for British science?) and they scrounged bits from all over, including buttons from Spitfire cockpits to use on the console. Naturally in 1998 these were pretty hard to come by! They managed it though. If you get chance, go and see Baby. It is a WORKING replica, and it's quite a challenge to think of a program you can write in only 32 instructions - the limit of Baby's memory space.

There's another interesting link that stems from this project. The next machine to be built in Manchester, developing the architectures and ideas used in Baby, was the Manchester Mark I. Two of the Mark I team - mathematicians Conway Berners-Lee and Mary Lee Woods - would later marry, and their son Tim Berners-Lee would go on to invent the World Wide Web.

I listened to the Radio 4 coverage of the anniversary today, on which the presenter mentioned that Baby didn't use transistors because they'd only just been invented and were very unreliable. Instead, the scientists used valves - much more common and reliable in those days. I was amused that he then had to go on to explain what valves were! Makes me feel old, realising that there are now more people in the world that have never heard of valves than have.

Clever photo meme

Ooh I *love* this. From tvor's blog (and she got it from somewhere, so the thread stretches on) a photo meme using Flickr...

The Rules:
a. Type your answer to each of the questions into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd's mosaic maker).

The Questions:
1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favourite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favourite colour?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favourite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favourite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name. (or just your own name if you've not got a flickr account)

Save the photo after you've created it and then load it into Blogger in the usual way (you'll need to resize it some). Here's mine:

All systems stop

Our plumber arrived this morning to take off the old radiators. A simple enough job, you might think, but I've been fooled by such thoughts before. There's always a frozen joint or a corroded bit of pipe to trap the unwary, and the last time I tried to do this for myself we had to put up with a weeping crack for weeks. I vowed there and then to leave such things to the professionals, so here he was.

Removed in a jiffy (to reveal some truly hideous 1970s "pine effect" wallpaper) I felt comfortable calling the plasterer to fix a date. Had I been more of a project manager, I could have dovetailed these two jobs nicely together. But we know the score on that one, so I'd done things serially. As a result the plasterer has now entered a busy period. He can't fit us in until July 4th, so the whole project has moved back three weeks. Still, I can't approach home projects with the same level of planning (and stress!) associated with work projects. They don't, except in rare circumstances, have deadlines, so we'll take the three weeks delay and use it to do something else :o)

Rain stops work

After yesterday's DIY success, today's scheduled task was decidedly more mundane: applying woodstain to the patio doors to complete the ambient patio-and-conservatory look of burnished mahogany.

The Lords of the Cumulonimbus had other ideas though, and as I stepped out onto the patio in my painting duds with stirrer in hand, a few drops fell splashily onto my ever-baldening pate. I stepped back inside sharpish. Never let it be said that I'm a determined and weather-defying wielder of a well-loaded brush. No, the slightest excuse is enough for me, and even though the rain passed over in a few minutes the sun that followed it was sufficiently strong for me to declare the task void for the day.

I busied myself instead with a few more chapters of Rebecca - the book club book for June - and followed this up with chopping the chicken and veg for Nikki as she prepared a chilli chicken dinner for the four of us. And then, as it was Father's Day today, I indulged myself with the director's cut of Blade Runner, which neither of the girls had seen before as far as I could tell.

This has long been at the top of my list of favourite films, but for some reason I watched it today with a more critical eye than usual. The story is set in 2019 and the closer we come to that date, the more far-fetched the image of "futuristic Los Angeles" becomes. I've written before on the dangers of predicting the future. I guess when Blade Runner was made (1982), 2019 sounded sufficiently far into the future to be credible. Now it's not much more than ten years away, flying street cars and genetic designers creating snakes and owls (not to mention humans) from scratch seems laughable. We're only just on the verge of creating the very first lifeform from man-made DNA, but it'll be a bacterium of some sort, not an owl. And off-world colonies? We were closer to that in the 1970s than we are now. Note to self: if I ever write any hard science fiction, make sure it's set at least a hundred years in the future. At least I'll be dead by the time it's proven wrong.

The old film still manages to move me at the end though, with Rutger Hauer's impeccably-delivered line: "I've ... seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those ... moments will be lost in time, like ... tears ... in the rain. Time to die." It's worth watching just for that.

Wired!

Having (finally!) worked out the correct wiring sequence for the new sockets, today was the day to put it into action.

I pulled back the second spur cable I'd laid last week and connected it between the two new sockets. This meant I could fully wire up the right-hand socket as at this point neither its incoming nor outgoing cables were connected to the mains. With everything ready for the final connections, I cut the power to the downstairs ring (having first ensured the channel to the first new socket was wide enough to take two cables before I left myself with no power to drill a wider channel, and boiled the kettle for a pot of tea).

Deciding which of the two cables leading to the original socket was the one I needed to pull back required some assistance from Nikki - to see which one wobbled when tugged - but having selected the right one, disconnecting it from its old position and wiring it up to the first of my new sockets was a doddle. I took time out from the job to feel smug and have a cup of tea before tackling the final connection: from the second new socket back to the original socket whose incoming connection I'd just "borrowed."

Knowing that no job is EVER as simple as it appears, I should have saved my smug feelings for later, because I was now faced with two problems.
(1) the channel to the old socket was even tighter than the one I'd been worried about before, and pulling out one of its cables hadn't really helped at all.
(2) the floorboard I'd lifted to gain access to this socket was just slightly more than an arm's length away from the wall, and hence quite awkward to work with.
Try as I might, I couldn't get the new cable up into the channel from underneath, and I couldn't push the gash piece of cable I'd been using as a pull-through down from the socket to the underfloor void. Even knocking out all the plaster from beneath the socket didn't help. There was something behind the skirting board blocking the channel.

I had another cuppa while I pondered the problem and then hit upon the obvious solution: Nature's toolkit. In the shape of a wire coat-hanger. Untwisted and straightened out, it shot down the channel like a rat down a drainpipe. With the hook of the coat-hanger hooked over the grommet and the twisted end bent over to take a piece of strong twine, I tied the coat-hanger to the new incoming cable and pulled it all back. With my arm jammed under the floor up to my shoulder to give a bit of gentle assistance from below, the cable snaked slowly up through the constricted channel and popped out into the box. Until it appeared I hadn't even realised I'd been holding my breath.

The old socket was swiftly wired back up and with only the briefest of frissons I flicked the power back on. The phone beeped, the radio came on and the cooker flashed 00:00. All was well. And this time, my smugness didn't fade.

A day of quiet satisfaction

One of those days when things just feel right. It has its own slow, measured beat and whatever you do, things turn out well.

I started the day helping Natalie move out of halls. It only seems like last week since I was carrying stuff in for her and here I was carrying it out. Only - as is always the way - there was much more to bring out than there had been to take in. I can't believe she's already completed her first year at Uni. Time slips away from you when you're not watching. Another era begins in a few weeks when she gets the keys to her new digs. Somewhere - hopefully - that will be "home" for a couple of years. Alongside the two other homes she already has. Three homes is more than enough for anyone, I reckon.

By early afternoon I'd finished the design document I'd been working on. Ahead of schedule, so I could revel in one of those lazy Friday afternoons when you can savour the approach of the weekend and pretend you don't have a care in the world.

And then, as I listened to the measure tones of Carolyn Quinn on the PM show, came the best news of all. That Ireland had voted NO to the EU Lisbon Treaty (aka a Constitution By The Back Door). Well done to the Micks and Paddys. One of the few countries to actually give its populace a chance to express an opinion and they got it bang on. Brown and Blair should forever hang their heads in shame for not allowing us the referendum they promised in their manifesto pledge (going back on manifesto commitments should be a criminal offence) but in the end Ireland has done our work for us. Hopefully that'll be an end to it, although I suspect there'll be a lot of wriggling and weasel words from Brussels to get through yet. Apparently some of the institutions and procedures that the Treaty calls for have already been implemented ahead of ratification. Typical European disdain for due process - steaming ahead with it anyway because a handful of Eurocrats think they know what's best for us. These should all be dismantled now, but do you really think they will be? The French are not exactly well known for sticking to the letter of the law.

Environ...mental

In the news recently - a pensioner prosecuted (and fined) for putting a tea bag in her regular bin, instead of with the garden waste.

This madness isn't restricted to the home. Here in my office we've had our bins taken away. Another "good corporate citizen" initiative that looks good while achieving very little, and making everyday life just that little bit harder. We now have to march halfway across the office to the "recycling point" and decide which of two bins to put our rubbish in - recyclable material or landfill. So off I stroll with my little parcel of lunch detritus. Two apple cores, two Babybel cheese skins (purple wax) and a banana skin. All into landfill. Yet the majority of it could be composted, so where's the "green" in that? And after the above incident with the tea bag we're told we shouldn't throw food waste into landfill because it gives off methane (a Very Bad Greenhouse Gas, children), so where's the "green" in THAT?

The bins are clearly marked, but on the evidence to date people are clearly confused as to what's recyclable and what isn't. Even with the help of the little pictures on the bin lids (God help us…it's like being back in primary school), folk are still tossing their recyclable plastic cups from the drinks machine into the landfill bin.

Now I know this might sound elitist and snobby, but the people who work here are supposed to be of above average intelligence. We only recruit graduates, and everyone is busy designing high-powered systems for use by central and local government and key financial institutions. And yet, even with the aid of pictures, some of these geniuses still can't work out whether a plastic cup should go left, or right.

I give up and return to my desk. Via the gents, since having carried my parcel over to the bins my hands are rather damp and sticky. Still it could be worse. I could be the one sifting the contents of the bins into the right piles for different recycling plants. Or searching through the landfill bin for misplaced cups. Someone MUST be doing this, right? They can't simply be chucking the bags into a skip. Can they?

Sorry?

Been a while since I saw any licence plates worth commenting on, and then in the traditional manner of buses, two came along at once.

The first on my visit to Slough this week: V60 RRY. Only it was spaced with the V out on its own and from a distance it read: V SORRY. Wonder what the owner was sorry about?

The second I spotted in the office car park on my way out: M30 HMY, again spaced out - somewhat illegally - as M3 OH MY (me oh my), which although mildly amusing did strike me as a bit pointless (don't they all?), even if it was attached to a BMW M3.

It's called a what?

Our recent trip to the Lakes with mates (travelogue still waiting to be written up. I know, I know) held a mystery. Walking along the beach at Seascale, we saw a large number of these either drifting about in, or resting beside, rock pools. The photo gives no clue as to size, but it's about the same as a small clementine.

Ritchie speculated that it might be a sea urchin skeleton, but despite having similar markings I thought it was the wrong shape for that. So I saved one, intending to research it later. This isn't the one I saved. Sadly that one went pop when I bent over to collect another memento of our visit. I'm a bit of a magpie when walking on beaches. Trying to find a replacement for that first specimen was a task, as many of them had been pecked to pieces by marauding seagulls.

In the end, and quite out of the blue, it was Natalie who discovered what the mysterious creature was. With a breathless phone call, and in the midst of much laughter, she told me. It's a sea potato.

The ultimate irony of that will be lost on most of you but trust me: it's too funny.

Feeling congested

So it looks as though Manchester will be getting a congestion charge scheme after all. Not until 2012 or thereabouts, but with the amount of bribery subsidy on offer from the government, it's looking likely. The ten local councils all have to vote on it too, but since 7 out of 10 have already declared themselves in favour, there's no hope there either.

No word yet on what the scheme will mean for residents, although a local pundit on the radio today suggested that only 30% of the local population would end up paying. By this I think he meant many people will be able to "avoid" the charge by using public transport (which until they extend the tram system both South and East won't be an option for either of us, and unless they install guards on every tram to protect commuters carrying laptops from marauding hoodies I wouldn't use even if the routes were in place) or travelling outside the charge hours (7.00 to 9.30 in the morning and 4.30 to 6.30 in the evening - again not really an option for us).

We live inside the M60 orbital, so presumably leaving this area in the morning and heading out of town won't incur a charge, but if I were to be working at home and giving Nikki a lift to work, I suspect I'd incur a £2 fee per day simply for returning home from Northenden, and if I'm going into the office too, I'll pick up a charge when I leave the orbital and head into town from the other side. Sheesh.

An opposition pundit pointed out that drivers already raise £45 billion of revenue a year in one way or another, and this is just another tax on the poor motorist. With the prospect of a change in government in a couple of years' time, maybe this will all be scrapped. Or maybe by the time it's implemented everyone will be so hacked off with the cost of driving there'll be a mass non-payment protest like there was with the poll tax. A lad(*) can dream.

*Use of the word 'lad' not meant to imply age restriction. No warranty implied or given. Interpretation subject to status. Terms and conditions apply.

A day for DIY #2

Forecast fine for today so I leapt into action after morning coffee to apply a coat of woodstain to the conservatory.

Despite the previous owner having told us it should be done every year, I don't think he ever did it. Either that or he used some naff hummus-muncher's compound that's kind to the environment but doesn't last five minutes. Whatever the reason, the woodwork looked decidedly grey after only 18 months, so I took my brush firmly in hand and my swizzle stick in the other (for stirring, you understand) and off I went.

Three hours or so later, the edifice was glowing a deep mahogany brown and I was glowing a slightly less attractive shade of red since the sun had reached and passed its zenith and the day was more than a little warm.

By way of a break, and because it was slightly cooler indoors than out, I then took my courage in both hands and attempted to refit The Brackets. This was not a cool job. Either physically or emotionally. But after much cursing, and an interim abortive selection of yet another wrong fixing (even though supposedly designed especially for medium weight tasks in a traditional brick wall) I did prevail.

Just with The Brackets though. By the time I got through with them, I didn't trust my temper with the Actual Pole. Not to mention The Finials which, being glass screwed into brass, tend to fall apart at the slightest provocation. No. Not today. Calm, calm, calm.

A day for DIY

I could have called this post "string theory," as I spent much of the morning working out how to string together the new sockets in the (new) lounge. [Aside: I confuse myself with the name of this room in its interim state. I guess it's still "the dining room" at the moment, since it hasn't changed function yet, and we're still lounging in the old lounge, but it's also occasionally referred to as the new lounge, which is also correct in its own way, since we can't use it as a dining room while it's in the process of being refurbished]

After an inspiring suggestion from Annie I realised it would be quite simple to incorporate them into the ground floor ring rather than spur them off from existing sockets, but this suggestion came too late to avoid me laying two lots of cables across the room (using the sub-floor space as described earlier) where only one would have been needed had I thought of it earlier. Still it's a much better solution all round, so the next time I'm in there I'll be pulling one of those cables back and connecting it between the two new sockets.

I also made a start on my third attempt to erect Nikki's curtain pole. There has been an abortive second attempt using a fixing that proved useless. Its uselessness was not apparent until after I'd tightened it up in the hole though, whereupon extracting it necessitated the removal of a large section of wall along with it. Many expletives were expleted. Explicitly. Today I began the process of filling the hole back up again prior to attempting to refix the brackets with more suitable fixings.

I love old houses, but I do NOT love the walls that come with them, with their crumbling plaster of unknown depth, and extremely hard bricks that cause drill bits to draw childish patterns in the plaster as they skate across their surface.

Friday Five

1. What's your weather?
Overcast. Forecast is rain for this morning, brightening up in the afternoon. I'm not usually bothered, but today I'd planned to give the conservatory a coat of woodstain, so I'm holding off for this afternoon. Doesn't LOOK much like rain at the moment thoughbut.

2. Where are you on your way to?
Downstairs to get another coffee (you might have guessed I'm writing this on Saturday morning - does that count as a Friday Five? LOL).

3. Are you good with directions?
Yes. As long as I know where I'm directing someone too, naturally.

4. Do you know your neighbours?
Haven't we had this one before? I know 13 out of 15 of the closest neighbours and socialise with 6 of them on a regular basis (the ones that like to socialise).

5. What do you smell?
The coffee I just fetched. The fresh morning air coming in through the study window. And, when I go downstairs, that funny soil smell I told you about before (but getting fainter now).

First fix fire

Our fitters came today to rip out the 1950's monstrosity and prepare the chimney breast for plastering, and to install the gas. I may have mentioned this before, but the surveyor had told me these Edwardian houses with suspended floors had little "hatches" in the floor so tradespeople could crawl about underneath to do their work without spoiling the line of the floorboards.

Very enterprising, even if it did give me a visual of a small boy climbing up a chimney.

He'd hunted for the hatch and concluded that it must have been under the stairs before the downstairs khazi was fitted, but after he left I discovered it at the far end of the kitchen. True to his word the fitter disappeared in a subterranean direction. This turned out quite serendipitous, as it meant he had to crawl past the point where the old boiler was installed. And where there's a boiler, there's gas. So he had a ready-made supply to tap into, and "all" he had to do was run the pipe along the rest of the kitchen, through the hall, and elbow into the new lounge. Simple. I wouldn't have done it though.

Meanwhile his lad was ripping out and making good, leaving a fireplace looking something like this:

The bags of rubble are for back-filling, which ensures the heat from the fire doesn't disappear into next door. The whole job only took a couple of hours (ripping out alone would probably have taken me a whole weekend) but left the house with an unmistakable smell of old soil. Couldn't work out if this was coming from the underfloor area, stirred up by all the crawling about, or from all the fine soot that had been knocked out of the hearth.

This evening we were treated to a visit from our friend Christine who lives in Winnipeg. We met up with her for a drink in the club and she brought along a couple of friends - the parents of Andy Whyment who plays Kirk in Coronation Street - who proceeded to regale us with behind-the-scenes tales from the studios and also from Soapstar Superstar, which Andy famously appeared in a couple of years ago alongside Richard Fleeshman.

An eventful trip to the smoke

Normally my train journeys to the smoke are very mundane. Read the paper on the way down, do the crossword on the way back, or sit with my laptop open working, writing, or playing cards. Either way, I'm in a world of my own and that, for the most part, is how I like it.

Today was a little different.

On the way down, I was joined at my table by a pair of golden boys - businessmen with their trademark cropped grey hair, loud ties and stripey shirts, who proceeded to spend the rest of the journey jousting with each other to see how many buzz-phrases they could cram in to the smallest sentence. I wish I'd had my Buzzword Bingo card with me, cos I'd have scored a full house in no time. We had downsizing, going through the process, utilising, pushing the envelope, empowerment, game plans and leveraging galore. If I'd been offering extra points for combination play I'd have won the lottery.

Anyway that's not the main point of my story. What really made this a journey to remember was the return trip, when I was again joined at my table by two people. Young women this time, and they had a third friend who elected to sit across the aisle from the first two rather than squeeze in around the table.

I kept my head buried in the crossword to start with, looking up occasionally to answer questions on the location of the loo and the train shop. And did they sell drinks. And when would we be getting into Manchester. And did I do this trip often.

When they returned from the shop with three small bottles of coke and proceeded to extract a litre of Bacardi from their handbag (can you have a collective handbag?) I had a gestalt realisation that I wasn't going to be finishing the crossword this time round. Sure enough their conversation became ever louder and more bawdy as the trip progressed, interspersed with the odd "sorry" from the girl on my right - who I later learned was Chris - as she kept nudging me with her elbow. Chris it was who first failed to work out how to lock the toilet door (there are instructions posted on the inside, but they must be fairly incomprehensible to most folk, as not a trip goes by without someone pressing the toilet alarm instead of the "unlock" button), and was walked in on in the middle of ... err ... proceedings by a young man, causing an explosion of giggles from all three. During the course of the journey one of her mates also failed to decipher the mystery of the lock, and was also walked in on by another, different, young man.

The three of them were off to sample the delights of the Greater Manchester conurbation, in the shape of three of Bolton's finest lads they'd hooked up with via t'Interweb. This coincidence having given us a common frame of reference, the remaining hour of the journey passed in shared conversation, which eventually incorporated the other two occupants of our section of carriage - a Mum with two (very) young children in tow and a single woman who initially appeared tempted by their offer to seek a fourth mate from Bolton if only she would accompany them on their sojourn to Moon Under Water. Name of establishment not an instruction for submarine exposure activities, lest there be any doubt.

By the end of the journey the six of us, and just about anyone else who happened past, were all behaving as if we'd known each other all our lives. Stories had been shared, jokes exchanged, as well as promises to let us all know how they got on with the modern equivalent of a blind date. We parted at Piccadilly with hugs and smiles and wishes of good luck, and I was left marvelling at how a normally boring trip had been transformed by the liberal splashing of a bit of Bacardi and bonhomie.

Here be workers

Busy day here at Chez Digger. After our recent break-in I decided our alarm system needed a couple of minor upgrades - a PIR motion detector in the hall (together with an alarm panel upstairs so we can activate/deactivate without setting it off!), and a shock sensor on the window used for said break-in.

We had the security firm install a couple of infra-red-activated lights too, down the side of the house where it's dark, there's plenty of tree cover, and it's way too easy for someone involved in nefarious activities to lurk undetected. If they try it now they'll be blasted with several hundred watts of arc light.

While the alarm man was crawling around in the attic finding a power supply for these lights, the freezer man arrived. You'll remember it was playing up before we went off to the Lakes. It took him about a minute and a half on his initial visit to discover the problem - the heater element had burned out, meaning the auto defrost function wasn't working. The consequent frost build-up forced the poor compressor to work overtime and still fail to keep the temperature down. This meant (a) he had to order a part and (b) we'd have to defrost the freezer (which we did on Saturday).

So his task for today was to remove the burned out element and fit the new one. A tough job apparently, as the element has to be carefully "threaded" through the fins of the freezing unit. Clever stuff this - the heater comes on once a day to blast off any frost build-up on the freezing element - which then drips down the back onto the compressor and evaporates.

"This is the hardest part of my job," said Mr Freezer Man, "these are really difficult to fit. Luckily they're extremely reliable, so I don't have to do this very often."
"There's a certain irony," I rejoined, "in you telling me how reliable they are while you're fitting a replacement."