Oh internet, where art thou?

Dear Reader,

It's said that it's unfair to kick a man when he's down, is the same true of a multi-billion pound earning internet service provider? No, especially when said provider has been failing to deliver consistent internet connectivity to my household since I moved house six months ago. In that situation you make sure your boots have got sharp toes.

Internet outages have become a commonplace occurrence in our household, particularly irritating as we both work from home and have no access to mobile phones signals, so no plan b. It should be noted, we haven't moved to Mars, just nearer to sheep and trees. As a result brushes with the customer service department of BT have become increasingly commonplace.

Communicating with BT is like communicating with the IT Crowd, they really want you to turn it off and turn it back on again.

I am regularly turning it off and turning it on again. The it in my case turns out to be the hub, the little box which connects to the phone line and then distributes the joy of the internet all around the house. 

Every time I call I learn a little more, (and possibly) navigate a step further through the flowchart of solutions available to the representative on the other end of the line. Some examples are required...

BT Person, (having quizzed me as to who I am): What is your problem sir?

Me, (having proved who I am): Internet connectivity is broken again.

BT Person: I am sorry to hear that, that can be very frustrating. Is the telephone line working?

Me: Yes...

BT Person: If you cannot make calls from the phone line...

Me: I CAN MAKE CALLS FROM THE PHONE LINE. THIS CALL IS FROM THE PHONE LINE.

BT Person: Thank you sir, let me just check a couple of things.

At this point I wonder what those checks might be. Does the BT person have to find another piece of paper with some more questions on? Does he also have to check which pieces of paper have been used before? 

BT Person: Have you tried taking the power out of the back of the hub for 10 seconds and then putting it back in again?

Me: Yes.

BT Person: Have you tried taking the power out of the back of the hub for 30 seconds and then putting it back in again?

Me: Erm, no. That will make a difference, will it?

BT Person: Yes, most assuredly, sir.

BT Person: Is it back up? I have been changing some settings in the meantime....

Me: What settings, and why weren't they set properly in the first place?

I am beginning to believe that the internet is in fact like telephone exchanges from the past where you phone an operator

BBC.co.uk? Just putting you though...

BT Person: Is it back up?

Me: Yes, it is back up.

Of course that wasn't the only conversation, there were many more and they were getting progressively more surreal.

BT Person: Have you tried taking the power out of the back of the hub for 10 seconds and then putting it back in again?

Me: Yes.

BT Person: Have you tried taking the power out of the back of the hub for 30 seconds and then putting it back in again?

Me: Yes.

BT Person: Have you tried taking the power out of the back of the hub for precisely 57 seconds whilst putting your finger in your ear and whistling Frere Jacque and then putting the power back in it again?

Me: Yes.

BT Person: Have you got a paperclip?

Me: What?

BT Person: A paperclip, so we can reset the hub.

Me: Of course, a paperclip why didn't I think of that, that must be the solution

BT Person: There is a small hole in the back which if you push a paperclip into for precisely 28 seconds then the hub will reset.

Me: Is that a different kind of reset than the reset that I get if I press the button labelled reset?

BT Person: This is a hard reset.

Me: Yes it is, it took me ages to find a bloody paperclip.

This carries on over the following weeks, I have been turning it off and turning it back on again everyday for the last two weeks and then this happened. We had another outage, only this time it wasn't just me, it was the entire customer base. When I phoned the helpline, bracing for another surreal instruction from customer service, all I got was an engaged tone, again and again and again. Apparently I wasn't the only one.

The reason for all of this, according to BT, was a faulty router. I have a faulty router. Could it be that my router is the cause of all this? Oh and one other thing, if you think the turning it on and off again advice is exaggerated, this tweet from BT Customer Services says it all.

On that note, I'm off. Off to the opposition that is. Bye bye BT, it's been emotional.

More soon Dear Reader.

Postcards from Australia Part 3 - Jet Lag and the 50th Shade of Unfashionable Lateness

Dear Reader, 

When I last left you, breatheless with excitement no doubt, I had just vented with regards to inappropriate queuing behaviour outside airplane toilets. You will be pleased to hear this post contains no toilet humour of any sort, honest.

Having arrived at out hotel in sunny Sydney (even in Winter) at 9am local time we were more than a little miffed to find that our room would not be ready until Midday. Just what we needed to hear having been travelling for the best part of thirty hours. We camped in reception, looking moody and homeless and eventually had a room ready for about 10, amazing what a little bit of righteous indignation can do.

Jet lag is an amazing thing. We were meeting friends in the evening who were hardened travellers. They advised sleep, but only a little bit, a couple of hours a most. We managed five and then ventured out into the Sydney night. After the pleasant sunshine of the morning we were a little shocked to find that the evening was bloody freezing. Oh well. 

After a pleasant evening we returned to our hotel and the miracle of jet lag and a mini bar ensured we were tucked up in bed by 4am, awakening fresh as a daisy by 7am. Something was not right, but we were awake. So we trooped to Taroonga Zoo, after an ill-conceived walk to the ferry. The sun may have been out but Sydney's Main Street to the ferry was wreathed in shade (bloody cold again) and much further away than expected. This, coupled with my initial bold strides in completely the wrong direction (albeit on the right road) didn't help matters. 

We eventually arrived at the zoo cold and grumpy. A mood which was shared by the animals, most of whom were either asleep or hiding away.

The ferry terminal is bracketed on side by that venerable Australian landmark, the Sydney Opera House. Having set eyes on it close up for the first time, I realised it is much like a polar bear... I may need to explain. From a distance a polar bear looks pearly white and shiny, get up close (not too close) and the polar bear has a distinctly yellow tinge. The Opera House is much the same. Every photo I had ever seen portrays a brilliant white Opera House. Up close it is yellow, definitely yellow. Anyhoo...

At about 3pm we returned to our apartments, shattered and needing sleep. This was a little unfortunate, as we had to be in North Sydney for 7pm for a pre-wedding get together. 

We had a little snooze and woke up before 7pm, but only just. Jet lag had us in it's grip. Getting ready was a little bit like running through treacle, slow and sticky. 

Eventually we made it out into the Sydney night and arrived at the venue at 9.30pm. This gave us ample time to meet all the relatives of the happy couple as they were leaving.

Following this the Dear Lady Wife and I were treated to a night out in North Sydney with the lucky groom and one of the groomsman. Much fun was had as we were accosted in a pub by a man who thought he had solved the worlds problems by inventing an iPhone cover! This iPhone cover would change the world by reflecting microwave radiation generated by mobile phones away from the user. My suspicion was that he spent time at home with his head covered in tin foil (just for testing purposes). 

An amusing photo opportunity presented itself, unfortunately photos are a bit of a challenge in the dark but you get the idea...

Groom, Dear Lady Wife and Groomsman in spitroast shocker.

Infantile, I know, but there are some photos that you just can't resist. For some reason this amused me as well. Details for the caption competition will be disclosed shortly.

Insert caption here...

More soon Dear Reader.

xx

Postcards from Australia Part 2 - The Flight

Dear Reader,

When I last left you I had cleared security and boarded a flight to Australia. This was largely un-eventful with the exception of one issue which I refuse to let pass. Sadly this post involves toilet humour.

Strangely, just like the last post, this is in fact a queuing issue. So, at the back of our plane where we are sat there are two toilets. As the plane is wide, there is a middle bank of seats, resulting in queues naturally forming for the toilets on either side of the plane. These queues are managed by an old-fashioned thing called good manners. If you are at the front of your queue, then you are facing the leader of the other queue across the width of the plane. If a toilet becomes free then either you, or the person you are facing grabs a toilet, depending which of you was there first. Does any of the above sound like rocket-science beyond the grasp of the average tool-wielding chimp, let alone human?

The Nirvana we dreamed of

I have reached the front of the queue on my side of the plane. This position is by an exit door, so I spend my time watching nothing in particular whilst I wait for nature to take it's course in front of me. The lady facing me who shall be named Superbitch Lady A is, based on the system outlined above is after me. All is well in the world.

At this point the toilet in question becomes vacant. The door opens, someone leaves, avoiding the carnage that is about to ensue. Superbitch Lady A stares down Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B. Words are exchanged. Superbitch Lady A wins the war of words, taking the cubicle with her. Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B, remains stoically in front of me, intending to take the second available cubicle.

This is too much, at this point I have choices. I could make a scene, which would be a much larger scene as she has no intention of backing down twice, or back down. I choose a third option, being that we are close to landing, which is to wake the Dear Lady Wife from a deep slumber to tell her all about it. She is not amused.

Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B has not finished with me yet. When the plane lands it transpires that Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B is only sat a couple of rows in front of me. I am in the process of dis-embarking, about to pass the seat where Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B resides. She has not as yet retrieved here hand-baggage (which I presume to be a broom-stick and a very angry black cat) from the overhead storage lockers. Undoubtedly spying me with her third eye, she decides to start this process whilst I am parallel with her. She does this by throwing her not inconsidable body mass in my direction, propelling me into the right hand row of seats as she retrieves her items.

When I recover, and rejoin the shuffling ranks exiting the plane, I find myself behind her and her family. She only stops to talk for ten minutes to each flight attendant she passes on the way out of the plane, deploying that body mass in such a manner that means she won't be passed. I wonder whether urinating down her skirt is unacceptable behaviour on a long-haul flight, as I still haven't been.

Ah, this will be the luggage

Eventually we clear Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B and security and spot her and her brood once more awaiting the arrival of the luggage. Our cases emerge first, a small victory, but you have to hold on to what you can. As I leave the baggage area I spy a long item of luggage which definitely isn't a case wrapped in brown paper retrieved by Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B... Yep that'll be the broomstick.

 

Myself and the DLW are now in Australia. Who knows what will happen next. More soon Dear Reader.

Xx

 

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Postcards from Australia Part 1 - The Journey

Dear Reader,

A dear friend is getting hitched in Australia, which provided enough excuse for me and the Dear Lady Wife to finally make the journey from the UK to Sydney. This was an interesting journey, dotted with notable events, some of which I will attempt to recapture here.

 

We begin at Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3. We have arrived unfashionably early, as we have many important supplies to acquire at the airport. The intention being to breeze through check-in and security leaving us two hours to eat and purchase the essentials for the trip.

 

Problems started almost immediately. We tried to check-in automatically, using the machine provided for the task. After what the machine described as a moment, but was in fact a string of moments joined together to form an eternity, our attempt failed. This excluded us from the short bag drop queue. The much longer check-in queue beckoned. This queue snaked towards the entrance of the departures hall. Apparently this was a problem to our airline, who came up with a novel solution. Solutions which sprung to my mind included opening more check-in desks, staffing the existing check-in desks with humans who possessed the ability to do the job and so on. The airline was way ahead of me though.

You may have encountered a device like before, it is called the tensabarrier. This device, linked to a huge number of it's friends are deployed in airports throughout the world to control tired and irritable travellers at check-in and security to stop riots from occurring. Sometimes, they are deployed for a bit of a laugh, which was the approach of the airline here. So, the check-in queue, which already resembles the world's largest conga line has spilled beyond the control of the tensabarrier colony currently deployed. We are currently queuing in the "beyond the conga line" part of the queue. A representative of the airline addresses the area "beyond the conga line", excited we think more of the numerous currently empty check-booths to our left will be opened and this is where we were going. We were wrong. A new colony of tensabarriers had been hastily assembled to control the area "beyond the conga line". We were now part of the "outer conga line". There is a gap of a couple of metres to the "inner conga line", this is the "conga-less zone", an area so riddled with unseen danger and peril that an airline attendant has to guide people across it. You can imagine my amusement.

Several months pass, during which time we cross the "conga-less zone" without incident, and approach the end of the "inner conga zone". At that point another attendant of the airline asks if anyone on the several flights preceding ours are in the queue. Several people behind us stick up their hands. I initially presume they are going to be told that they are too late for their flight and settle in for the wailing, shouting and fighting to ensue. Image my horror when it transpires they were being allowed to "conga line jump", thus further delaying our journey. By this point I was ready to have them shot.

A mere week later and the queue jumpers have been shot checked-in. We made the front of the line. As always, at this point all check-in desks are populated by family groups spanning five generations, all of whom have, unbelievably, considering how long they have been in the "inner conga line", not got their documentation to hand. I wonder whether tossing imaginary hand-grenades in an airport is an act of terrorism.

 

Then a gap, and we check-in. This takes less than a minute, which leads to question it was taking so long to check everyone else in. Never mind, we are through, to security, anyway.

 

I wish I could say this bit was easier, but I am not that good a liar. The signs on the walls make it quite clear what you must do before going through security. Strip down to bare essentials, no belts, shoes, whips, concealed hand-guns etc. Also no liquids, everyone clear on what a liquid is? It is the sloshy stuff that isn't solid. Why am I always waiting for someone to throw away three gallons of the sloshy stuff? Why do they always have to re-pack their hand luggage as a result of doing this? We clear security, leaving only twelve minutes to board. Just about enough time to have a meal and buy some magazines and make last call for boarding feeling thoroughly sweaty and bedraggled. It can only get better.

 

More soon Dear Reader.

Xx

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Car Park Wars Part Deux

Dear Reader,

When I left you yesterday, I left a cliffhanger. For those who can't be arsed to read yesterday  a bulletpoint summary below. This is a little like the bit at the start of a TV series episode which if you are watching in sequence you don't need to see. I fast-forward to get a minute of my life back, on this occasion if you are dialled-in as it where, skip the bullets and go straight to the plot. Otherwise, you will need read the bullets. So,   

• Dear Lady Wife (from this point forward DLW) has parked in a car park on a Monday, purchasing a weekly ticket. She has a fractious history with the car parking attendant
• DLW departing car park on Monday on a hot day with windows open encounters a mischievous gust of wind, ticket flies out of window. All should be good, as the receipt has not suffered the same fate
• On Tuesday DLW displays the receipt, assuming that this would be sufficient proof of ticket purchase.
• Receives a parking contravention ticket.
• On Wednesday DLW displays the receipt again, assuming that this would be sufficient proof of ticket purchase.
• Receives a parking contravention ticket.

Things are a tad fraut when I return on Wednesday, crockery has been broken, there is a cat dangling from the lamp shade, which can only mean one thing, DLW is NOT HAPPY. A letter has been written, a blog must be written and a solution planned. The solution involves A4 paper and blu-tack. Now the fool that evaluates DLW's car everyday cannot fail to miss the proof of purchase. See below...

Come on, do your worst!

I was very excited when this very evening my DLW walked to the car. I was actually, live to her, via satellite to ascertain what the status of the car was. The previous sentence sounds like I had a news team waiting by the car, helicopters overhead and other stuff to catch the latest, which isn't true. I phoned, DLW approached the car and the truth was revealed.

So, what was this truth? 

...

...

...

...

Keep going

...

...

...

...

NO TICKET!

So, a battle has been won but the war is not over. We still have two days parking to reclaim. We have a letter to file. This matter is not over until a lady of significant physical presence sings.

More soon Dear Reader. 

xx

Car Park Wars

Dear Reader, 

After a long silence which may or not be explained at a later date, I am compelled once again to discuss an irritant in my life, or more specifically in the Dear Lady Wife's (from this point forward DLW's) life. 

So, every day we are currently commuting from our local train station as work requires, leaving our cars in the station car park to be collected for the journey home. This does not always happen. Alcohol has been known to disrupt these best-laid plans, meaning cars holiday overnight in the station car park. This in itself does not pose a problem. A problem arises when next morning, in the mad rush to make the appropriate* train, there simply isn't enough time to renew the ticket on the car. 

*Appropriate - in these circumstances has to tick the following boxes...

• Leaves at such a time to allow a longer lay-in than we intended
• But not so much later that many eyebrows are raised at our respective places of work

It's a fine balance, anyhoo...

That evening, if we are unlucky, the dreaded yellow and black sticky envelope will be attached to the windscreen. A ticket, a fine and much grumbling about the unfairness of the world. No amount of grumbling makes up for the fact that the ticket, no matter how irritating, is fair.

OK, fair cop this time.

There are times when it does not seem fair. There have been times when we have both committed the same offence, in the same car park at the same time, but the DLW has got a ticket on her car, whilst I have not got one on mine. DLW calls this victimisation, I call it Karma, it's all about the viewpoint I suppose.

Then there are the times when it really isn't fair, such as now. On Monday, the DLW purchased a weekly parking ticket, which results in a ticket and a dated receipt dispensed on two small pieces of paper. On Monday evening, the DLW collects the car, it is warm and the air conditioning is about as effective as three asthmatic hamsters with hay-fever wheezing at you from the dashboard. Windows are opened and the journey home begins. A breeze picks up the parking ticket and blows it out of the window in transit, not a problem, the DLW still has the receipt. 

Tuesday comes, the DLW returns to the station car park, displaying the receipt for the weekly ticket (containing full details of date and time purchased and amount paid - DLW is dictating this bit to me), in the windscreen. 

Tuesday night comes. Ticket! 

Wednesday night comes. Ticket!

What is highly annoying about this is that in an effort to dispel any attempt at unjustified dispute, the warden of the car park company takes three photos of the dashboard, left, right and centre to make it clear that a ticket has not been displayed. So, for the last two days they have photographed DLW's proof of purchase and still issued tickets.

Tomorrow shall be different. This is a vendetta against DLW. She is waging a WAR OF JUSTICE (by leaving notes and underlining words rather than actual killing), but even so, it is a noble war and a people's war. Let them issue a ticket, let them take their photos. What they will be photographing is this...

Damn them

This is a social experiment. Will the evil attendant blindly ignore this clear evidence of purchase and plaster another ticket on the car? Note that in doing so the attendant will have to photograph this evidence and store it on the car park operators website. Will common sense prevail?

We have written a complaint to the car park operator, who, for the moment, shall remain *APCOA*  nameless. Damn this stupid computer. I thought I had sorted the "don't insert what I think, just what I type" issue last week. The letter is yet to be posted as we are waiting to see what happens tomorrow. There may be more miscarriages of justice to pursue. 

I will be back with an update soon Dear Reader.

xx 

Of Mice and Men

Dear Reader,

In 1786, the Scottish poet Robert Burns inadvertently disturbed a mouse nest whilst ploughing a field. The poem To a Mouse, followed as an apology to the uprooted mice. A necessary excerpt follows (with translations):

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone] 

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry] 

Perhaps not the most promising start to a post I know, bear with me.

In 2012, I was summoned in no uncertain terms by the Dear Lady Wife from my upstairs position on the computer. When I say "in no uncertain terms" it was quite clear from the volume and repetition of the high pitched screech emanating from downstairs that I must come immediately.

I arrive in the kitchen, where the youngest of our cat brood, Randall, is sitting, smug, cheeks stuffed, like a hamster. There is a thin grey thing sticking out of his mouth. He then spat out the contents of his mouth, which transpired to be a field mouse covered in cat saliva. This post is an apology to that saliva covered field mouse.

The determination is real, the mouse tail isn't.
If I could do puffed cheeks I would.

Episodes involving field mice happen. One does what one can. Attempt to quarantine the cats, then capture the mouse and finally return the mouse to the wild. This is not always straightforward.

This occasion was particularly convoluted, some bullet points will be introduced:

• Discover Randall in kitchen, mouse in mouth
• Pick up determined Randall (see above) who is rigid, like a plank and then fights like a banshee
• Eventually, Randall exhales mouse from mouth
• Saliva covered mouse does not run away, instead sits between Randall and another resident cat, Pippy, blinking
• I attempt mouse rescue
• Randall, sensing what is coming, stores the mouse in his mouth again
• I pick up Randall, who is stiff as a board, screaming instructions at Dear Lady Wife which amount to "bring me a glass"

At this point I have to drop out of the bullet points to make an observation. Cats are stronger than you think. Randall is not one for being picked up, or cuddled. He will tolerate about four seconds and then will start to squirm until you put him down. He squirms this time, but it is with the strength of ten Randalls, I place him on the floor, for fear of hurting him and the mouse is ejected again. Back to the bullets...

• Quarantine cats
• Find the mouse, which proves to be fruitless. I didn't see which direction it headed as I was too busy dealing with the banshee Randall cat. At this point there are choices, either give up and let the mouse meets it fate (the outcome of this can be very smelly) as our furred friends may or may not finish the job, or, release the hounds (cats) in the hope that they will find him/her before I do (highly likely)
• Release cats
• Wait
• Wait some more

Whilst the waiting is going on a picture needs to be painted, regarding the behavior of our three cats in this situation. They begin alert, sniffing and searching, through many objects. Having exhausted the obvious possibilities (slippers, boxes) they revert to a state of mild disinterest, feigning sleep, whilst always pointed in the direction of where they think the prey might be. Are they trying to fool the mouse?

Guys, stay focused, it must be behind the radiator.

Two of my cats were on guard duty when this photo was taken so we had to use stunt doubles. Guard duty is not an exaggeration... if the prey does not emerge immediately (within ten minutes) they take turns observing the perimeter, whilst the others go and eat, stare at fish, sleep, lick bottoms etc.

Guard duty was being held around the base of the TV cabinet, designed (it seemed) for field mice in a bind. Too small a space for a cat paw but just the right height for a field mouse. As it got later in the evening I realised I would have to come up with another plan, as the cats would wait all night if necessary. I know this to be true as a mouse once hid in the vacuum cleaner, which I subsequently released. The cats chose to ignore the fact that I had released the mouse and stared at the vacuum cleaner for three days. They are determined little kitties.

More bullets...

• Quarantine cats
• Find object that will fit under TV cabinet that is long enough to poke out the other side. This proved to be a squashed roll of wrapping paper
• Insert object under TV cabinet and fish around until the mouse emerges
• Mouse emerges
• Attempt to capture mouse in glass
• Mouse goes back under TV cabinet
• Insert object under TV cabinet and fish around until the mouse emerges etc
• Repeat until bored
• Eventually, out of sympathy, the mouse wanders into my clumsy trap

Once ensconced in the glass, the mouse is transported to the garden and released, out of sight of the cats, who, released from quarantine are staring at the TV cabinet again.

Three days later, the cats are released from their hypnosis, (might have been the Jeremy Kyle re-runs) and return to their normal lives.

On the fourth day, this happens...

Yeah, I did it again. You are getting real good with Photoshop.

And the whole mad saga begins again.

To complete my apology to mouse-kind I leave you with my favorite mouse-related quote from the legendary Les Dawson...

I can always tell when the mother in law's coming to stay; the mice throw themselves on the traps. 

More soon Dear Reader,

xx

Dentistry

Dear Reader,

Whilst munching through a pack of crisps the other day, something odd and unexpected happened. I bit down and encountered something rather more solid than crisp, which I was expecting to basically melt in the mouth. This object did not melt in the mouth, nor did it disintegrate after vigorous chewing. This object was solid. I was excited, had the crisp manufacturer left in the packet something that I could later sue them for?

The object, a little smaller than a fingernail, pointed at one end and thickening towards what I called the base, slightly off-white in colour and quite shiny might have been an artefact from another planet...

It looked like this.

...except it wasn't. At this point, to my horror, I realised that a crown on one of my teeth had vacated my mouth via the most obvious exit and was embedded in my crisps. Upon inspection, there was a gaping hole at the front of my mouth, which had a metal peg sticking out. Not the most attractive look. This could only mean one thing, I would have to go to the dentist.

I work with computers, if I was old enough I might have worked with this a long time ago:

Loving the valves and capacitors, where is the keyboard?

Things have changed:

Loving the blue, still can't find the keyboard though.

This has all happened in a short space of time, approximately seventy years. Let us do this again with dentists tools, some 19th century examples:

Old school.

And spin forward to today:

New school.

There is a problem here. I am pleased that the hammer-like object is no longer a part of the dentist arsenal, but aside from that, things maybe shinier, but they are basically the same. I am told that the "science" of dentistry began in 7000BC, at which point I am sure all that was available was hammers and chisels. Science, indeed.

There is a ton of nuclear-powered equipment driving around Mars at the moment looking for signs of live on the Red Planet, that is science. Accelerating sub-atomic particles to close to the speed of light to simulate conditions that occurred within seconds of the Big Bang, that is science. Reaching for a drill and some pliers to provide dental treatment is a bad mix of medieval torture and DIY. It needs to stop.

There is another issue as well. Nasal hair.

OK, not the prettiest but I have seen much worse.

Given the dentist is quite often looming over the patient / victim one gets a fairly extensive view of his or her nasal hair. Is it too much to be asked that it is trimmed from time to time?

One last thing. I am about halfway through some remedial work to fix the gaping hole left by my vacating crown. This involves taking moulds, much drilling, needles, pliers and all sorts of other nastiness. It also involves colour matching.

Why on earth does it take so long to match the colour of my teeth to one of the stock colours available? How many stock colours can there be? This always leads to a protracted debate between the dentist and dental nurse, with probably a second dentist popping in as well. This conversation happens directly above my prone self whilst I quietly choke to death on my own blood, spittle and the irritating hoover thing that is constantly sucking away at my cheek.

This is all too much. I am going to start hanging around dentists's conventions with a nasal hair trimmer and one of those colour charts you get at a DIY shop when you are buying paint. We know how many shades of grey there are, I wonder how many shades of tooth? As many as fifty?

More soon Dear Reader

xx

Cricket, Curry and the Crackheads

Dear Reader,

Recently, myself and a couple of compatriots decided to travel to Nottingham (UK) to watch some cricket. These compatriots were not the recently discussed Twinnies, they would never be seen at a cricket match. Actually, that is not strictly true, if I sold the concept of a cricket match as an afternoon in the sun with unlimited access to reasonable wine they might come, as long as I didn't mention the word cricket. Back to the plot, such as it is.

This is not a cricket blog and it is also not a photography blog, so let's start with the cricket. We, (England) lost. We had already achieved a cricketing objective, to win on this day would have been ruthless, a trait that, well, just isn't cricket.

Onto photography. I have a camera that has switches and settings and lenses, none of which I understand. It also has a mode labelled P, which I presume stands for Philistine, designed for the likes of me. This setting, which I never venture from, except by accident, allows me to take acceptable photos. Occasionally, entirely by accident, I manage to capture an image that might be better than acceptable, well, to me, anyway.

During the day, image too bright, typical me photo.

Same(ish) shot in the evening, actually looks OK, fluke, pure fluke.

Not only is it by chance, it is under the influence of alcohol. I was unaffected by the demon drink when I took the first one. Enough about photography, I have already written more about it than I can claim to understand. I nearly bought Photography for Dummies, but realised it was too high-brow. So, to the pulsating plot again.

Having observed the cricket, our next task is to return to our hotel to freshen / sober up before the evening festivities begin. Our transition to Trent Bridge just involved a taxi, our return journey would not be so straight-forward. There was walking, there was wailing, there were hills, curses and threats of imminent death to anyone who asked "are we nearly there yet?" 1.4 miles later we are back at the hotel.

Suitably refreshed, we venture out into the night. A bar we passed with a piano had attracted out attention. We entered and ordered drinks. I am fan of a decent gin and tonic, but had never been served one of these.

Yummy

The vegetable matter in the glass is cucumber. This may sound odd, it did to me, but try it, you won't regret it. Chewing all those cucumber slices gave us an appetite, so, regrettably, we returned to the night. A curry was required, and the options were few, well, one in fact.

So good they named it once.

We sat, pleased to see we were not the only people dining, a first big tick for the establishment. It was at this point that the big ticks sort of ran dry. Drinks were requested, and duly delivered. Then we came to order, which was a rather unusual experience. Having recently returned from a foreign clime, I was used to having to point at menus to get someone to understand what I desired. 

I was a little surprised to go through the same process with an extremely pleasant English girl who understood my sounds perfectly but had clearly never been to an Indian restaurant in her life. I was (for a change) pronouncing things perfectly, but she had no way of mapping this to the words on the menu as she had never heard most of them spoken. Apparently, I was speaking in a foreign language, which threw me a little. Eventually, some food arrived, which looked at least a little bit like what we asked for, complete with Pilau rice (delightfully pronounced pillow rice by our waitress). Thence to bed.

The following morning, I awake, intending to drive from Nottingham to a business meeting. This didn't turn out as planned. Approaching the car I note something odd. All of the detritus that normally resides in the passenger foot-well of my car (sandwich wrappers, empty water bottles etc) has mysteriously found its way onto the passenger seat. Has there been a hurricane, no, my car has been broken into, passenger window smashed and that side of the car generally examined for booty.

On the upside, there was no booty of any value. Also, I didn't have to make the business meeting. Most importantly, I got to meet representatives of Nottinghamshire Police Force. Minutes after reporting the offence they arrived in a nice squad car. Two strapping members of the force emerged and began to examine the area. 

Conversation ensues. Whenever faced with authority, no matter how innocent the encounter, my mind attempts to get me in trouble, constantly responding inappropriately during conversation. These responses fight with the correct responses, in short I have to concentrate. The conversation, along with the suppressed comebacks follow:

Policeman 1 (P1) stepping out of the patrol car: So, you have been broken into?

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Ah, so you listened to the radio in your car then?

Me, smiling sweetly: Indeed I have.

Policeman 2 (P2) also stepping out from the patrol car: Where did they get in?

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Perhaps you might want to deploy all those years of police training and work this one out for yourself.

Me, smiling sweetly: passenger front window, they smashed it and then rooted around in that part of the car.

P1, waving a torch with some importance: they were looking for whatever attaches to the sucker mount on your windscreen.

Me: Oh.

P2: You should never leave anything of any value visible.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: The sucker mount cost me 0.99, it is of no value.

Me: Nothing of any value was visible, there was nothing of any value in the car, that statement actually includes the car.

P1, noting I have left the area untouched: We can't do forensics, as there is no blood.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: You want blood, I can give you blood.

Me: That's a shame.

P2: We will get them though, it's the Crackheads.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Would this be the Crackheads of 24 Acacia Avenue? In which case go and arrest them.

Me: Oh.

P1: When we do get them, they will get a good kicking.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Oh, yippee.

Me: Oh.

With this they return to their car and drive off. I make a number of phone calls regarding insurance and replacement of glass and then go to the nearest pub. On my return I realise that my parking ticket has expired. I approach the machine which states quite clearly that once a ticket has been paid for, I have 15 minutes to exit the car park. I have been messing around for three hours. Hmmm.

I then do something I have never done before, which is press the button on the ticket machine which puts you through to a human. Astonishingly, someone answers straight-away, maybe no-one ever presses this button. I explain the situation, at this point the conversation continued as below:

Car Park Ticket Machine: You should have informed somebody.
Me: I did inform somebody. I informed several somebodies. I informed the police, my insurance company the company who is replacing the glass, my employers and my Dear Lady Wife. Did I miss somebody?
Car Park Ticket Machine: Yes, you should have informed us.
Me: Oh really, would that have helped?
Car Park Ticket Machine: No, but if you are going to need a new ticket issued you are going to need to contact us.
Me: I'm sorry, I have not had my car broken into in a car park before. I was not aware this was standard practice. I have added you to the list of people I must contact in the event of this occurring again.
Car Park Ticket Machine (sighing): Press the lost ticket button, use that ticket to exit the car park.

This exchange puts me in a much better mood. I leave the City of Nottingham to get my glass replaced,  which occurs without incident.

More soon Dear Reader, xxx.

Postcards from Tenerife - Twinnies and a Car Journey

Dear Reader,

In my last post, I began my experience of being with the Twinnies, AKA Dear Lady Wife and Colleague, in a foreign land. We flew, we arrived and we hired a car. At the end of the last post we had acquired a hire car and began our journey. In short, we had to get from the hire car depot to the motorway, facing in the right direction, drive for about an hour and a bit, and then follow a map scribbled on a piece of paper. Like all good pirate maps, our destination was marked with an X.

Sounds simple enough, but, we have no SatNav, we have a map which has no detail, we have in the car two of the most incompetent people in the world when it comes to navigation and me. Things didn't start well.

Our not particularly glamorous car rental garage, which is a cross between the warehouse where everyone dies in Reservoir Dogs and the dispatch area from cult 70's comedy Taxi, provided us with some instructions for our escape / car rental. "Leff, leff, leff again, straight, head to airport and then keep on going," I was reliably informed by our rental person.

Everyone dies, my Ford focus is just out of shot to the left.

Leff? Leff? Leff again? 

Having departed we go leff, leff, then leff again. In short order we are on a dirt road with vultures circling and coyotes looking eager, this is not the plan. I backtrack, eventually we return to where we started.

The Twinnies, (one in the front, one in the back), find all this highly amusing, this is like some big adventure. After all, once this little issue is solved we will be there in no time. At this point I feel like Thelma and Louises' driver.

Having tried leff, leff and leff for the second time my only choices are leff or straight on. I didn't choose this the first time as arrows make it quite clear that the only way to turn is right. Not wanting to revise the expectations of vulture dinner-time unfairly I plump for right. Shortly we are forced leff and see signs for the motorway. Could this small but obvious flaw in the instructions not have been made clear from the start? A mere thirty minutes after picking up the car we have made the one kilometre transition to the motorway.

Now, it should all be plain sailing and for a while, it is. A wrinkle occurs about forty minutes in, I am not sure what happens, but we are not on a motorway any more but find ourselves plunging into a city called Santa Cruz. Whilst pleading with the now sleepy and slightly grumpy Twinnies to look at maps and provide advice, I plunge on through the city, reasoning that we will pick up the motorway on the other side.

I have since discovered there is no motorway on the other side of Santa Cruz. There is, however an extremely long and windy mountain hugging road which leads to the middle of nowhere (Tenerife, Northern tip). This discovery took approximately forty-five minutes. Another forty-five minutes later I discover  that the extremely long and mountain hugging road looks very similar going the other way. On the upside, there is a traffic lane between me and the sea, several hundred feet below.

Below is a map with some lines drawn on it. The red line indicates where we should have gone, the blue squiggles are an artists impression of the way we actually went.

Back on track, uneventful motorway follows, we eventually reach a signpost which points to the region where our villa is located. Neither Twinny can make sense of the map. I pull off at the first exit and demand to see it. I note a number at the bottom which appears to indicate a junction number, not far from where we are. Shortly after this we arrive at our villa, a mere three and a half hours after picking up the hire car.

They say practice makes perfect. When it comes to car journeys in foreign climes with Twinnies, I can attest to the truth of this saying. The return journey to the car rental desk / warehouse took a mere one hour and seven minutes.

More soon Dear Reader 

xxx

Postcards from Tenerife - Easyjet and the Twinnies

Dear Reader,

I find myself travelling again. Regrettably, I find myself once again on my least favourite orange coloured airline. I have spoken about these chaps before here, today they have some new surprises for me.

Today we have a new part to play, yay!

First we have to get to the airport. It is an early flight, the thought of which makes me shudder. The blow has been softened a little by spending the previous night in a hotel approximately four centimetres from the check-in desk. This does not prevent us having to get up three hours before we went to sleep so we are in time for our flight.

Having awoken, early and angry, we arrive at check-in to find our dear orange friends have requisitioned an entire hall of check-in desks for us to queue in, how thoughtful. What a shame they hadn't manned any of them. Given we were queueing within fifteen minutes of check-in opening I was somewhat disappointed to be dragged out of line when it became clear we would miss our flight if we stayed in the queue.

Dragged out and checked-in, we advance through security at high-speed. At this point we are united as a group, my good self, the Dear Lady Wife and her Twinny. 

I should break at this point and explain the Twinny. Twinny is a female colleague of the Dear Lady Wife and they share enough attributes to make the word Twinny seem appropriate. A  list of shared attributes follows:

• Shopping - preferably by mail order
• Lack of organisation
• Love of wine
• Love of animals (every single one, but especially cats and donkeys)
• Ability to wail at the slightest inconvenience
• Ability to meltdown at a slightly larger inconvenience
• Inability to make decisions.

I share most of these attributes so we get on well. For the journey we require magazines, speakers and something from the chemist. I do the speakers, DLW does the magazines and the Twinny does the chemist. We vow to meet somewhere. This doesn't happen. Last call for the flight is announced. I rendezvous with DLW, but no sign of the Twinny.

We run for the gate, making it with approximately three minutes to spare. Twinny, however has not arrived. We phone, she is still in the chemist haggling over the price of some unguent. Then her name comes over the tannoy... "RUN" we say. Having finalised her transaction, along with three or four others, she deigns to run. Having stood on the transfer bus for ten minutes, we see her appear at check-in. Astonishingly, she is only second to last. United again, we advance to the plane.

There were two special moments on the plane; for once I don`t just mean take off and landing. Our orange friends had gone above and beyond the call of duty. First, we ordered food, which in itself was not special. What was special was one of the food items. It was so special I had to capture a shot of the packaging.

WTF is this?

I have never heard the words meat, festival, arctic, bread and wedge used in the same sentence before, but there they were. I attempted to imagine what combination of ingredients could encompass such a grand and wordy title, I came up short. How many ingredients are required for a meat festival? Two of them, apparently. 

This astonishing artefact was in fact a lifeless chicken, ham and cheese sandwich in pitta bread with some leaves. Hardy a festival, but definitely a wedge. Below is the item in all it's glory. You will note a bite has been taken out of it. There were no more bites to follow.

Come to the Meat Festival...

Our second special moment came when the orange flight attendant attempted to sell some of their on-board wares. During his little speech he referred to page 494 of his brochure and announced the following... "We have a number of Loreal products at excellent duty free prices, and I know we have some Loreal fans on the plane today...". "HOW?" I couldn`t stop myself from asking out loud. Do you stop them in the check-in area, on the way to the flight? Do you suck out their minds when they check-in on-line in an attempt to get their buying preferences? I didn't get a suitable answer.

Eventually, we land and collect our belongings with surprisingly little hassle. I have a piece of paper which is our hire car voucher. It says that we should pick up our car from the Orinoco desk or something similar. The desk in question does not exist. After much wandering up and down the terminal looking lost, we locate someone who explains that Orinoco have a person who occasionally appears in the airport, waving a board. The Twinnies look less than impressed. As promised, the person eventually arrives. At this point, we are escorted to a mini-van, which may, or may not, take us to the fabled hire desk. We may be kidnapped; if only I was friends with Liam Neeson.

We arrive at what can only be described as an underground garage, located some distance from the airport. The possibility of kidnap looms larger. There is a desk, of sorts. Driving licenses are perused, papers signed and we are away in a car, on the wrong side of the road with no clue as to where we are going. Sat-Nav is neither an option on the car or as a stand-alone add-on. We are given a mysterious piece of paper with lines and pictures on it and ushered on our way. Apparently this is a map, I have heard of these but didn't think people still used them.

Thus ends the first part of our little adventure.

More soon Dear Reader.

xxx

Shhh! It's the Olympics Opening Ceremony

Dear Reader,

Last week myself and the Dear Lady Wife were invited to the Olympic opening ceremony. Actually, that is not completely accurate; we were invited to a pub/bar which showed the opening ceremony on a big screen and we had a reserved table. Come Friday (yesterday as I write this) we were very excited indeed, as it appears was most of rest of the nation.

The World gets a Summer Olympics opening ceremony once every four years, no matter where you are, geographically. To have one in your own country is something special. This was, without doubt going to be an occasion, up there with the Jubilee, a Royal Wedding, a soap opera wedding where nobody dies, an egg with two yolks, you get the idea.

The last time this happened was 1948...

The city that housed the venue for our evening out was eerily quiet. There was a good reason for this, (apparently everyone watched it on the telly.) We arrive at the pub/bar. It also is quiet, but not ghostly quiet, just quieter than normal. Every table is occupied, all attention focused on the big screen. There is not however the normal nine-deep throng trying to get god-awful cocktails at the bar. This is all fine, I will not have to fight when it is my turn to order some god-awful cocktail from the bar.

Two of my five a day!

I join my compatriots and purchase my first god-awful cocktail. It is at this point I realise something is wrong.  There is an irritating buzzing sound, right on the edge of the audible range which won't stop. Am I getting tinnitus? Combined with this observation is another (they're coming thick and fast, must be the god-awful cocktail), I can not only clearly hear the conversations of my compatriots, I can join in without screaming.

The god-awful cocktail and my brain work together to make the connection. The barely audible buzzing isn't tinnitus, it is the speaker system. The reason I can hear every conversation is because there is nothing competing. The reason every face in this bar is looking so intently at the screen is because they are trying to learn how to lip-read (in itself not easy after a god-awful cocktail or three), they are trying to lip-read without any lips as a point of reference. They are trying to lip-read the commentary.

I am a little annoyed. This venue and table was booked in good faith, it was booked because of the big screen. I do not believe there was explicit mention of sound being provided, but this is sort of implied. We live in the 21st Century and the Olympic opening ceremony is not a silent movie. If it was I would have requested the sub-titles to be in bold and perhaps a larger font, but we have moved on a bit. Ah, digressing, sorry.

I discuss this with the early arivals, they say they have asked and nothing appears to have changed. I scratch my chin whilst formulating a plan. I will not harass passing waiting people who are delivering food, I will accost a man or woman bearing the badge of responsibility. The badge shall be engraved in gold and shall be inscribed with the following... Manager.

This proves to be slightly more difficult and certainly a little more painful than I had anticipated. The bar is ill-lit for this sort of pursuit, which means I have to stare at the chests of numerous staff members before I find the one called Manager. Peering myopically at bar people's chests can produce mixed results. Having been called a perve, told to piss off, provided an explanation of working hours, (I only do that on Tuesdays... which confused me a little as it was clearly a Friday and she was working,) I eventually found the manager.

Having accosted the gentleman, I felt we should have a little chat, the good new was I didn't need to shout. It sort of went like this.

Manager: How can I help you?
Me: Well, I can't help thinking that you should turn up the Olympic opening ceremony just a tiny amount. It is after all a celebration of many things, but I suspect the silent movie industry was not high on their agenda.
Manager: (appraising me with a glare), You're not the first person to ask, but we can't turn it up.
Me: (reverting to playground argument mode) Why?
Manager: This is as far as it goes.
Me: Really? Are you sure? Have you actually tried? I came here a few months ago and my ears bled, partly because the music was terrible, but also because the music was quite loud. I didn't imagine it. I have fantasies, they involve cats, there were no cats in this bar, this is how I know it was real. (I use the cat thing to confuse authority).
Manager: We wouldn't want to upset our other punters.
Me: (Being quite close to the front, I look behind me, moving my arm out in a sweeping gesture, so as to encompass those sitting at the tables, rapt, they do not notice me, I would be a distraction to their new discipline, commentary reading. One enterprising couple in their twenties have found ear-trumpets from somewhere). This lot you mean? (I am perhaps not doing justice to my gesture).
Manager: No, there are people outside as well.
Me: (Sensing my pray is on the verge of defeat). The outside people? One, they cannot see the screen and two, THEY CANNOT SEE THE SCREEN. What does it matter what comes out of the speakers. Also, they are mostly smokers, so they don't count and will probably lose the right to vote shortly. (I don't mention  at this point that I am about to have a cigarette, I have him where I want him).
Manager: Anyhow, this conversation is pointless, the amplifier only goes up to 10.
Me: Is it on 10? Are you sure it does not have an 11? (Spinal Tap references may not help at this point, but you have to try).

These ones go to eleven...

Manager: (has wandered off) ...

Either the god-awful cocktails helped or my hearing got better. Maybe my race-memory kicked in and I became a pre-historic hunter, stalking an Olympic opening ceremony sound-track for hours on end. It seemed to get slightly louder, but not enough to inject a proper atmosphere into the occasion. The rest of the bar was so busy commentary-reading they were no help.

As if our cordial hosts could not do enough to please, they managed to switch off Paul McCartney five minutes before the official end of the broadcast. 

If using the Olympics as a cunning ploy to get people into your bar and then ripping off every person that attended was an Olympic demonstration sport, we may have been congratulating this entrant and celebrating TeamGB's first Gold medal. Sadly, it was a ploy, but not a demonstration sport.

I watched it all the next day from the comfort of my own hangover, when I am at my most critical. It was hard to find much wrong with the whole affair. I hoped you enjoyed it too, Dear Reader. I will be back soon, when the sport stops, or I can't take any more.

xx