Stuff that's happened

Right and wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 11 Apr 2020 07:45:00 +0000

Let's get something out of the way and off my chest.

When the first reports of coronavirus first appeared on the evening news, I said, and this is an almost verbatim quote, "Well, that's the Australian bush fires nicely toppled from the top news item. I wonder how long this virus lark will last and what's next after that?"

I was quite spectacularly wide of the mark.

The past few weeks have bought into sharp focus what's right and wrong, what's propaganda, sage advice, misinformation or the human race at its finest and frankly its worst.

Here's a view, to add to the several trillion opinions sloshing around out there.

The media
Even the left wing press - who presumably are not that keen on our Prime Minister - continue to endlessly report on his health in monumental detail and frequency. Meanwhile the numbers of 'ordinary' people ill or dead becomes a footnote. Please stop it, because it's fucking annoying.

Experts
Like we all knew enough about economics to have a view on Brexit, we're now all suddenly epidemiologists. I know nothing about virus transmission and will take expert advice if that's alright with you. The downside to this approach is that face-masks were for some time considered to be borderline pointless outside of hospitals, and now expert opinion is not quite so clear cut, which is kinda awkward.

Politicians
I'll row lightly on this, but footage of MPs applauding and cheering when public sector workers were denied a pay rise, cheek by jowl with images of the very same MPs applauding every Thursday is disturbing to put it mildly. Hypocrisy is very much alive and well and not requiring a ventilator.

Anxiety
Everyone is somewhere on an anxiety scale and this has increased for almost everyone. If you're underling anxiety level was 8, this has probably tipped you over the edge. If you're fortunate enough to be healthy, have no kids, or elderly relatives, live in a house with a garden, have money and haven't been laid off, then this situation maybe doesn't bother you beyond its obvious inconvenience. And if it does, you might want to ask yourself why that is.

Spin
Is an PM whose go-hung approach to shaking hands and not self-isolating a hero and essential worker who risked his life to keep the country going, or a bumbling, arrogant man who is keen to dismiss anything that he can't win at. Dunno, but it feels like a discussion worth having. On second thoughts, let's not bother.

Trump
No change there, he's a catastrophically poor leader, dreadful communicator and continues to thrash around trying to blame anyone but himself and his administration. What's more incredible is that people vote for him, I do feel for those in the USA who didn't.

Isolation
Doesn't bother me that much TBH, didn't go out much anyway and holding conversations with someone whilst 20 feet away from them suits me just fine.

Scapegoats
Let's have a go at the rich, overpaid footballers shall we, they're an easy target. Almost predominately working class and definitely not hedge fund managers, political donors or Richard Branson.

Social media
Endless checking in has reduced to a trickle on Facebook, complemented by more posts of what people are eating. Whilst over on Twitter the trolls are successfully winding up anxious, house-bound people with consummate ease.

Society
Will all this change anything? C19 I mean, not this post. I hope so, but doubt it. The NHS has had an accidental and literally priceless PR coup from all this. I suspect politicians will tread very carefully from now on in that area.

But will the key workers who keep the country going be seen as any more valuable than the important people? I doubt it. We'll soon revert to type, humans have very short memories, but hope very much I'm wrong...again!

At the seaside

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 21 Nov 2019 15:20:00 +0000

We opted for some winter sun this year and headed off to Mauritius.

The timing wasn't exactly ideal as we've got builders in and I was half expecting to return and they say something like "Oh, when you said that you didn't want that wall knocking down, I thought you meant you did."

Fortunately none of that happened, although there was some what surreal WhatsApp video call with me on the beach peering at assorted rotten timbers, holes in the floor and a jungle of acro props and having to make a decision. Can't quite recall what that was, but a decision was made.

Both places we stayed at were what can only be described as 'compounds' which isn't ideal but there wasn't much in the way of local shopping, nightlife or restaurants to frequent anyway, so we mostly stayed put, although we did hire car and drove around a bit.

It was a fuck of a long way to travel, pretty much 24 hours door to door. Next time we're doing a beach holiday we'll try Greece. It's nearer and cheaper.

Things said, thought and seen

“It’s going to piss it down the whole holiday!”

Someone stresses over the weather forecast.

G, for reasons not clear then or now, decides to pour my cup of tea into his lap on the flight to Dubai.

The pleasant jog cum frantic sprint for the connecting flight. Then leisurely drafting the dismissal notice of the numpty who only reserved one plane seat 😑

Andy’s experiment proving beyond doubt that getting zero sleep affects cognitive ability.

Getting nil, zero, no response when phoning seat A88.

“I know I should try new things, but I just can’t be arsed”.

Someone has fruit again for desert.

The sinister room call asking us to visit reception to discuss something with the manager 😟

“The beach always looks better when the tides in”.

Unsolicited advice for the local wedding photographer.

“I’ve had five of these, on an empty stomach and I’m not even half tipsy”

Andy complains about the barely alcoholic cocktails.

“But I haven’t packed my tuxedo!”

Needless panicking about the dinner dress code.

“You really don’t want those sea urchin spines in your foot, did that in 1982, it hurts.”

Andy recounts teenage holiday stories.

“So I look down and I’m surrounded by them!”

Another boring sea urchin tale to endlessly recount for the next 30 years.

Wondering whether the hotel being opposite the local dole office is a good thing, or not.

“Oh come on, straight men don’t wear trunks like that”

Beach gaydar is on.

“Gin, just gin, no ice, or tonic”

Andy circumvents the watered down drinks policy.

Thinking we’re in a cute, authentic Mauritian shopping experience when it’s actually the equivalent of Longsight market.

“There’s nothing to worry about”.

The resort manager spots someone’s anxious body language.

“Ooh, look, power tools!”

A shopping trip goes very right.

The ridiculously over-specified Chinese school cum gulag with no pupils.

“I don’t need to see deer, I know what they look like.”

Andy boycotts the zoo.

“Why are we in Woolworths?”

A shopping trip goes badly wrong.

The local restaurant run by one brave and hardworking woman and the mental corner shop that hadn't been re-stocked since 1983.

30 years later

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 23 Aug 2019 19:15:00 +0000

The last time I was at a festival of any description was Glastonbury 1986. In case you were wondering the headliners were Psychedelic Furs, Van Morrison and The Cure, who played their set in the middle of a suitably gothic thunderstorm.

Things were different back then. For starters it cost twenty quid and secondly mobile phones were a good decade away from part of every-day life.

It was also decidedly analogue, or to be specific, paper. At the entrance was a massive board with hundreds of bits of scrappy paper attached to it. Mostly half illegible and those that were said something along the lines of "Dave. I'm in the blue tent to the left of the main stage. Alan."

Invariably there was a response which said "Alan. There's fucking hundreds of blue tents! Which one?"

My school pal Bairst was there, apparently sleeping in a van and my note to him probably went along similar lines. I should have just sent him a text.

Thirty years later I end up at Blue Dot festival at Jodrell Bank. A bit closer to home and a damned sight more expensive. The wi-fi was shit though, so not much change there.

It was G's idea - who had never been to a festival - I only tagged along once I realised Kraftwerk were playing :o)

We slept in what can only be described as a Wendy house. The bed took up about two thirds of the floor space, it was boiling hot and you couldn't stand up. I slept in a hedge in Mykonos for a week with my friend Jon once that was more comfortable.

There were showers which was good, but also a fair amount of mud. The worst bit was going to the toilets, the floor of which by mid weekend were almost entirely covered in mud. Visually it looks like something else and there's a part of your brain that thinks it IS something else. This thought can mostly be overridden except when you spot something on the floor that's definitely something else and then you start to wonder just how much of that stuff that you thought was mud, actually isn't. With all this running through your head it's very easy to forget what you actually went in there for.

Kraftwerk were great, although I got a sense they were coasting somewhat. I'd not seen them for donkeys years and know their catalogue well enough to not be bothered about some obscure album track. In fact on reflection most of it was obscure album tracks.

Along the way both G and I bumped into assorted friends and colleagues which was nice. The audience was very white, very middle class, but hey, this is deepest Cheshire!

New Order played on the Sunday night but by this time we'd already decided to pack and leave that night. So we saw a few songs and then decided to buzz off.

Would we go again? Probably not. It was enjoyable, but I suspect that neither of us are really festival goers and are likely to put this into the 'one off fun' pot and move onto the next experience - whatever and wherever that might be.

Ace

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 03 Aug 2019 18:55:00 +0000

For the last few years my former boss has asked me if I'd like to play tennis at the Home Office sports day.

I'd worked with David for only a short time, on a series of staff events across the UK and in the margins whilst hanging around in venues from Glasgow to London and most places in between we'd talked tennis, although never got close to actually setting foot on court together.

He lives in Northampton, I was 140 miles north and London - where we both were nominally based - another 70 miles from there. The sports day was also often on or very close to my birthday, it seemed like a lovely idea but just way too much hassle. I can play tennis 3 miles and 10 minutes drive away, so why schlep all the way to the other end of the country?

This year David asked again and for reasons not completely clear I agreed.

Traipsing across London the day before with a heavy tennis bag the size of a small car on the hottest July day ever, it seemed more and more like a ridiculously bad idea.

My mate Michael kindly put me up the night before and the next morning I set off across London to Esher. I'd never heard of it either, it's in London, or south of London, or Surrey, a long way anyway.

On arrival the courts were grass. Real grass. Not very good grass. You'd get a more consistent bounce playing in a quarry and it was a surface I'd not played on for a decade and prior to that the last time I played on it I was a teenager.

There were 8 pairs, with me being not only the oldest but the shortest. Neither of which constitute an automatic loss, but they're not particularly helpful stats either.

We romped through the first three pairs 6-2, 6-0, 6-0, including last year's tournament winners and then came up against some half decent opposition. One of them was pretty handy, a significant notch above David and I, but his partner wasn't so good. We should have won, we were 5-3 up and serving but ended up losing the tie-break. We dispatched the final two pairs 6-1, 6-2 and then just had to wait for the maths.

As the pair that beat us also lost a set, we ended winning the tournament on games difference as we'd trounced everyone else and they quite frankly hadn't. Tennis is like that, I beat player B, who then beats player C, so I should easily beat player C, but that's not always how it works.

Why does any of this matter? Well, it doesn't, really, but it was a nice feeling particularly after all the travel. Youth, talent and enthusiasm is clearly no match for cunning, guile and experience :o)

Fifty shades of grey

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 11 May 2019 16:25:00 +0000

Having moved house primarily to have more space it seemed somewhat contrary to then have an entire room dedicated solely for stuff that either had no proper home or was on the way to somewhere else.

For six glorious years was the lot of the middle reception room for want of a better description - more on that later.

It served little purpose except being home to the hoover and my bike. Those aside, the only reason we ever went in there was to get something which shouldn't have been in there anyway.

A nice problem to have I guess, first world and all that.

There were only three things in there that survived the clear out, a couple of lovely chairs from our friend Peter, a bookcase which previously belonged to my grandpa and said bike. Oh and a dozen or so coats.

I didn't think there was much to do, a gas fire that had to go and a new one fitted, but I wasn't going to do that anyway, so all it needed was decorating. How long can that take? Two month is now long it can take.

First to depart was the gas fire. We mulled over having a real log burner but they're hassle and not much use if all you want to do is read for half a hour. Following that was the usual conundrum over colour schemes.

We decided on grey, a bit funereal perhaps but it's very now and I'd never used that colour before. It took a while to get used to it, particularly when I thought it was mauve! The floor had been done by the previous owners, so all that took was a bit of sanding and varnish.

The 'after' pictures below don't include my bike, which everyone thinks looks stupid in there - well, Julie and Fran do - or assorted coats. There's simply nowhere else for either item(s) to go. Sorry.

Then, just as we near completion we ponder what to call it.

There's no table, so it's not a 'dining room', that much is clear. For a week or so it was 'the snug', which I dislike intensely. It's a word that sticks in the claw, well my claw, along with 'toasty', just plain annoying if you ask me.

A friend asked me what I planned to do in there, I said, "Dunno really, read?" to which he suggested calling it The Library. Works for me, and has to be better than calling it the Billiard Room.

Before

During

After

Capability Brown

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 31 Mar 2019 13:16:00 +0000

The front garden at Sutton was wild and the highest of maintenance and what with the nearest garden refuse tip being over an hours round trip away, something had to give.

The garden was fundamentally unchanged since it was first designed - I use the term loosely - when the bungalow was built.

Monster hedges, neglected roses, overgrown ivy, belligerent pampas grass and a purple shrub which can only be described as huge ball of thorns. All elegantly framed by concrete slabs, crazy paving and a drive that had a cinder section to catch leaking car engine oil. The 1970s personified.

You could look at the garden no problem, but as for actually getting in it, well, you'd be wise to tell someone first.

Dad keep the garden nicely in check, but he undoubtedly liked the challenge and had spare time to throw at it. So last autumn I had block paving throughout and the garden pulled up.

I had a vague plan of intent, a beach style, low maintenance affair. Think Derick Jarman's Dungeness but less ambitious. Pebbles, grasses, driftwood - that kinda thing.

Five trips to the local garden centre later, we have something that's a little easier on the eye and a darn sight easier to maintain.

We ran out of time to do much in the way of planting, but the intention is there.

Before

During

First attempt above. Not right. Once I saw a woman's enormous arse, I couldn't unsee it.

So that was deconstructed and thought arches might work. Kinda like the Sydney Opera House I thought. Again, failed (below), too wobbly and it just looks like a stupid road with no idea where it's going.

Then, finally, an asymmetric, Aztec thing. That'll do.

After

Six boxes

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 12 Jan 2019 18:55:00 +0000

I did some shopping in Stockport today, primarily to get three plastic storage boxes and then pick up something from Boots.

So far, so nondescript.

I'd secured said boxes, only £2 each from Poundland or Discount World or some such. What's not to like.

They weren't heavy, just bulky, one of those things that takes half a dozen attempts before you've worked out the best way to carry it. After toying with the idea of wearing them as a kind of space helmet I settled on just carrying them in front of me.

As I approach the entrance to Boots the day changed.

A teenage lad dashes out of the shop clutching three boxes of something or other. DKNY aftershave as it turns out. Similarly he was holding these to his chest, although I suspect he'd not faffed around with different techniques for the last five minutes.

At this stage I'm not thinking much, probably just "oh". Then a split second later a woman, I presumed a Boots shop assistant, follows him out the shop shouting something to the effect of "Oi, stop!"

The lad was dressed all in black with the standard issue hoody, and then I realised what was going on.

So, what to do? Tut loudly, remind myself to vote to bring back National Service at the next available opportunity, pursue, or just amble in to Boots and ask for nasal decongestant spray as planned.

In these situations one has very little time to ponder the options, which really doesn't suit my mindset. Ideally I'd have gone home, researched it until both the internet and I were worn out and then produced a Gantt chart.

Not practical, although it did very briefly cross my mind.

So I legged it after him.

I know, what was that all about? Middle aged Guardian reader with zero experience of martial combat verses teenage scroat who probably ties fireworks to next doors cat just to see what happens.

In the meantime the lad was frantically trying to mount his bike and pedal off, presumably to some pub to sell whatever it was he'd just knicked. I've ridden bikes before and if you're starting in the wrong gear it takes a fucking eternity to get past about two miles an hour.

It wasn't clear whether this was the case or he was unsettled by some insane bloke legging after him carrying three enormous plastic boxes. Indeed, why not drop them, well they cost me six quid, I wasn't about to just offload them!

Mounting a bike with someone in pursuit is tricky when you're also trying to find the best way to get into the right gear and carry three boxes. He failed.

One, then two and finally a third box slipped from his grasp and landed on the pavement. He barely even made it to the road. Disappointing.

During this brief pursuit it had crossed my mind what on earth I was going to do if or when I got to him. I've not been involved in a fight of any description since school and there was no time to research how to lamp someone hard enough to ensure they don't get up again.

Thankfully the lad pedalled off furiously and probably furious. I was quite glad about that to be honest, the fact that he didn't come back that is, how angry he was didn't really concern me.

I ambled into Boots with now a collection of six boxes, the contraband neatly fitting into my own, completely legal boxes. It was a rather satisfying arrangement.

I was thanked by the Boots assistants who told me that happens at least once a day and they're told not to pursue, because one of them did once and got stabbed. Nice.

Modern

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 05 Jan 2019 08:02:00 +0000

Last year some friends descended on Manchester, arriving from Brighton, London and Glasgow.

On the day, I got a running commentary on train arrivals, departures, ETAs and the price of coffee on Virgin Trains, which I already knew.

Michael was using FB Messenger, Sally WhatsApp and Janine good old fashioned SMS. Mercifully everyone had moved on from e-mail or God forbid phone calls.

Had the later happened I'm not sure what I'd do, apart from ignore and then respond through some other means.

It was all a darn sight easier than back in 1987 when I visited my school pal Andy in Brighton. I wrote to him in advance, because neither of us had a phone of any description, saying I'd visit on date X and if that wasn't convenient he should write back. It wasn't convenient because he was away in Wales and what with that being a different country, he didn't even get my letter.

So I arrived at Brighton after a six hour train journey, waited an hour at the train station then came home!

Looking back that seems insane but aged 20 and with barely enough money for the train, just booking into a hotel and making a weekend of it wasn't something that even occurred to me.

At the age of 50 something and not to mention working in comms, I'm acutely aware that no one writes letters any more. Indeed e-mail and text already seem kinda old.

So at Xmas I was quizzing Lis - my nearly 18 year old niece - about it all. Although I didn't mention the disastrous trip to Brighton in case she just just thought I was a bit mental, not to mention terribly old.

Apparently it's Snapchat, which I'd heard of but can't say I'd had any reason to start using.

Am not keen on the logo TBH. It looks like a dated computer game icon, PacMan or some such. Anyway, I'm now on it, with only my nieces as friends, or contacts or whatever. Perhaps all my 50 something pals are too busy e-mailing to bother.

The avatar took an eternity to construct. I know my eye colour and that I've got massive eyebrows, but as for what 'shape' my ears are, how the fuck do I know? I've never even seen them.

Apparently on Snapchat you can add enormous eye-lashes or something, I know what they look like, so that's cool.

Going underground

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 14 Dec 2018 08:53:00 +0000

Operation Cellar Workshop has been in the fullest of swings for the past four months. I started mid August and although all the heavy lifting is now complete there's still the not insignificant task of putting the entire contents of the front cellar back.

Why?

Well the cellars are my fave part of the house, am not too sure why but they've always had a fascination for some strange reason. It's not a childhood thing because I was in my early twenties before I ever set foot in one.

I also need somewhere to drill, hammer and saw, the dining room table has had a couple of near misses and both the table and I can do without the stress. G would also welcome a space for his projects.

So, I'd done all this conversion lark before on the back cellar, so was pretty much on auto pilot for the duration. The only challenge this time around was some damp, which being below ground is kinda expected.

I'd heard of tanking before, but presumed that was inserting a massive metal box into the cellar, ie a 'tank' as in water tank or some-such.

But no, it's really just thick paint. So gallons of tanking slurry were liberally sloshed around the place - that's the olive green stuff in the during photos - which mostly works. I say mostly because you can then get condensation in places, which you think is penetrating damp, except it's not.

So you google that, find some builders message board cum chat room and find someone with the same problem and some other builder, let's call him Alan, goes "Sounds like condensation".

Yes, yes, Alan, that's helpful but how do I fucking fix it?

The rest of the chat is incomprehensible builders jargon from Alan and his kind that I only half understood. So there are odd patches of the cellar where the black paint struggles to dry. Except only I know where they are, so it doesn't really matter.

The other bit that was new to me was levelling the floor. It was really rough concrete with a loads of aggregate, so impossible to sweep or hoover. So buckets of floor levelling compound were acquired, mixed and poured. The floor now looks like a series of tectonic plates, with joins where the compound dried at different rates, however it's now smooth. I can live with a few minor earthquakes if they start moving.

Along the way assorted bits of history were uncovered, included a case of records. Inside was a Pete Shelly 12", a fave for us both, and a few days later we hear of his death.

There's one more bit of the cellar that needs sorting, plus the possibility of an entire new room being opened up. It's like finding an undiscovered Egyptian tomb, except more exciting.

How much did this all cost? Well I did intend to keep the receipts, but then got a bit bored with that. I'd say heading towards £1000 all told, including the shelves.

Before

Found this, RIP Pete Shelley :o(

Which was inside this! I don't suppose he'd have been too chuffed.

During

Finito!

My god, it's full of stars

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 06 Oct 2018 11:38:00 +0000

We decided to take a week of semi-mindless sunshine to mark G leaving the world of full-time paid work and headed off to Tenerife.

For assorted reasons, I wasn't involved in researching or booking any aspect of the holiday, which is almost unheard of.

Actually it's totally unheard of because it's never happened. After this, I might be prepared to consider it happening again. Might.

It was the usual stuff; wake, eat, beach/pool, swim, read, snooze, drink, eat, drink, sleep, repeat.

The one exception was a day-trip up into the mountains, or to be specific, volcanoes. I thought they were extinct (ie dead ones, never to erupt again) but apparently not. Anyways, that was fun and made for some good photo opportunities.

My highlight was swimming off shore to establish territorial rights on my island. Annoyingly it was invaded about half an hour later by others with presumably the same idea. A decision they may regret. G's highlight was the day trip 'star gazing' excursion, where we saw four planets, although they just looked like stars to me, and sat on a coach for four hours.

Things said, remembered and overheard

The bizarre Jet2 “No drinking, no shouting, no fighting” announcement clearly aimed at the scroats, who weren’t listening anyway.

“Good. I don’t like minibuses. They’re too small and you’re expected to be sociable”. Andy hides at the back of the coach.

The bouncy beach music, just the right volume and amount of bounciness. It’s probably called Chillax House or some such.

“I thought the tides were on the large side for the Mediterranean”. Someone has a limp grasp of holiday geography.

The pool aerobics bollox. Noisy, unwelcome and pointless.

“I’d give the breakfast 3 stars. Operationally it’s just not delivering on the Sugar Puffs.” As usual, someone’s head is firmly wedged in the detail.

The endless star gazing lecture. The light sabre bit was cool, everything after about 20 minutes was fucking dull.

“This is easily the best ice cream I’ve ever had”. Rum & Raisin and Banana has never tasted so good.

“I may have to annex the East side”. Andy’s response to invaders on his recently discovered island.

“That wouldn’t happen. Or that. Seriously? Oh come on!” Andy refuses to separate reality from drama whilst watching the Bodyguard.

“I’m going for a piss”. Andy to no one in particular half way through the over-long star gazing lecture.

“I need some sky blue swim shorts”. Next years beach wardrobe planning.

“Oh do fuck off.” Mental response to the round of applause on landing.

Four Step

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Jun 2018 07:01:00 +0000

The front of the house was painted a couple of months ago and looks lovely. Even more lovely by virtue of the fact that I did very little myself, well, a bit including the back of the house, but more on that some other time.

The front steps meanwhile were decidedly not lovely. For starters they leaked, no, I didn't realise that stone steps could do that either, but if you went underneath them and into the cellar and stood there for a while, you'd soon find out.

Actually, don't bother, it's dark and damp down there and standing around in a cellar waiting for it to rain is frankly rather odd behaviour.

The steps had what can only be describe as an extension, which is clearly obvious in the 'before' photos. After some consideration, we decided to take that out, as any attempts to improve it structurally or aesthetically would compromise what was planned for the rest. Plus it just looked wrong on almost every level.

I'd done little or no cementing or pointing previously, so this was all a bit new. The pointing I'm happy with, but the render to the side is less akin to a mirror and more to a small range of rolling hills.

All went to plan until a deluge of rain washed away most of my manicured pointing. No one told me this - and yes, I do expect to be told these things - so there was some re-work required there.

Then with some guidance from Julie and G a decision was made on what to do with the rendering on the left hand side and the brick wall to the right. The original plan was to paint it. Except the so-called brick red paint I got seemed more Etruscan Orange to my eye.

Despite a blitzkrieg of power tools, pressure washing and agent orange, the paint on the step horizontals refused to totally depart, but it's good enough.

I might add a hand rail to the wall at some stage, but that can wait.

Before

During

After :o)

Dark stone

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 06:57:00 +0000

After much research, the house front and upstairs windows are to be re-painted. Anything over six feet off the ground is going to be done by someone else. I haven't ever fallen off a ladder and have no strong desire to find out what it feels like.

When we bought the house five years ago it didn't cross my mind that it was painted, but it definitely is. Ideally we'd remove it and go back to brick, but that journey is neither easy or cheap.

Yes you can blast it off with sand or bizarrely nut shells for some reason but then you're likely to also blast off the brick glaze which keeps the water out, so then end up with damp problems. Chemical peel is one solution, but the house is a cream colour, so there's no guarantee that you'll remove all the paint and might end up saying, "It looks awful, let's paint it".

Anyway, deciding the colour was relatively straightforward. You can't get house paint mixed to my knowledge so you choose from off the shelf colours only, which makes life easier.

Dark stone it is - top left in the picture above.

The house now.

What it might look like in the new colour.

I'm doing as much advance prep as I can taking into account the six foot rule, which extends to about ten when my risk log permits and the health and safety inspector has gone home.

I'm no painting expert but suspect that preparation is key. You paint on top of flaky paint and it'll soon come off, but doing so takes quite some time. The patch of red brick above, which is basically one third of what I've said I'll do, took me about 3 hours. Ideally I'd do this for the entire house, but have neither the time, motivation nor the head for heights.

The thing is I just don't know how much preparation the paint bloke is actually going to do. Or to be specific, whether what he says he'll do is the same as what he actually will do and I'll probably only find out that he hasn't in about five years time.

Another issue which I've parked for now is that either side of the front bay is what can only be described as 1970s or 1980s brickwork. There's also a couple of steps (above) which weren't there originally.

Yes I could have them taken out, but you start pulling stuff like that out and you uncover a whole host of problems and possibly the reason why they were put there in the first place.

I'll leave all that for another time and possibly another post.

South, east and west

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 02 Apr 2018 17:31:00 +0000

Finally gotten round to this. Several friends, well, two, had been asking about photos so this seems as good a way as any as sharing.

And no, the blog isn't back. It's enjoying it's retirement, playing golf, hanging with the grandchildren and learning how to paint.

Anyway, back in Feb we took ourselves off to the decidedly sunny Barbados. Why there? Well we had some Virgin airmiles and it was a case of anywhere they flew to, direct from Manchester and was warmer than here!

What did you get up to?

Neither of us has been to Barbados before and although it's about the size of the Isle of Wight, there's more than a few places to stay. So we did a few days on the south, then west then east coasts. In hindsight that was a wise move. Staying in the same place for the whole time would have been kinda dull.

Best bit?

The big waves on the south coast, the crescent shaped perfection of the beach on the west coast and the awesome apartment and view on the east. We lucked out with that.

What didn't go to plan?

G getting bollocked for wearing camo trousers within minutes of landing, they're illegal apparently. Who knew? Getting stopped by the Fuzz for driving offences. The car hire that claimed to be at the airport, but was like saying that Norwich is near Gatwick.

Any other memorable moments?

The rich living cheek by jowl. The third place we stayed at whilst not dripping with opulence was clearly purpose built for tourists. Within 100 metres there were locals. living in wooden shacks, and not large ones either. Yet at no stage did we ever feel uncomfortable, threatened or not welcome. I've not been, but understand that Jamaica is very, very different in that respect and it's not that far away.

Any surprises?
We already knew, but it's not a cheap place. We went to the corner shop just after arriving and came back with half a dozen items and parted with eighteen quid.

Things said, things spotted

The lesser spotted smoke alarm warbler.

Andrew obsessing on the local price of honey.

“It’s 5am, the gym’s now open!” Jet leg affects someone’s cognition.

“I haven’t come all this way to obey local bye laws.” Andrew ignores the beach red flag.

“You can have Rum punch, Rum cocktail, Rum and Coke, or Rum, sir”. The bar tender responds to a request for Gin and tonic.

“It’s equatorial here, they don’t do autumn.” Pondering the local foliage life cycle.

“How many would you like sir?”

“It says six on the menu”.

“That’s the price sir”

Andrew struggles to order dinner.

“What’s with all this sweeping bollocks?”

Someone doesn’t get Curling.

“Come on, give me a smile.”

Restaurant waitress to someone who was still waiting for lunch 30 minutes after ordering.

“The red flag means no swimming sir.”

Andrew complies with local bye laws.

The so-called airport car hire that was nowhere near.

G viewing the inside of the local police station for unspecified traffic violations.

“Are you a cruel person, or do you just look cruel?”

Supermarket checkout lady pushes her luck.

Learning to mostly ignore the sat nav and just following the road that was least pot holed.

“Christ have you heard that, it’s really windy out there! Oh, wait, sorry, it’s the fridge making a funny noise.”

“They won’t sell Araldite here. We need to find a B&Q”

Glue shopping on holiday. It’s a thing.

The nut ban on the flight home. The whole plane suffers due to a single allergy.

From the archive

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 10 Jun 2017 06:56:00 +0000

When: Not completely sure, I'm probably 13 or thereabouts.

Where: Mablethorpe fun fair on the Lincolnshire coast. Think Blackpool but a lot smaller. I look unbearably cocky, like I think I own the ride, the fair and most of East Lincolnshire, none of which was true then, or now. That particular ride was a bit like what NASA use to work out how much you're going to throw up on re-entry and how strong your neck muscles are.

Why: Because where we used to stay a few miles down the road the council banned anything that could be remotely described as 'fun' or indeed 'common'. So no rides, no slot machines, no caravan parks. My mum, who could be a bit of a snob when she put her mind to it, used to just stay in the car when we visited Mablethorpe. She quite enjoyed just watching the world go by and thinking to herself, "Goodness, look at the uneven hem line on that!" I meanwhile, at the other end of town was getting my people to duff up a rival who had just stole my ice-cream.

On the warm side of mild

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 07 May 2017 17:59:00 +0000

Just got back from 5 days of relentless baking heat in Dubai. Think it was high 30s or something during the day and then fell back a few degrees in the evening, but not by much. Put it this way, it was too hot to sit outside for dinner.

I'd been with work when I worked in Abu Dhabi which is about 70 miles down the coast, but G hadn't been so we thought we'd give it a go.

What did you get up to?

We spent a day on some posh private beach, went up the Burj Kaliff thingy, swam with sharks, lounged by the pool, shopped and flailed around at Aqua-adventure water park. All good stuff.

Best bit?

Watching the floodlight fountain display to the soundtrack of Adele's 'Skyfall'with the tallest building on the planet as a backdrop. Imperious. Hairs, neck and all that, and I'm only a luke-warm Adele fan.

What didn't go to plan?

Forgetting my flip flops and having to buy a pair which were unbearably painful. You wouldn't think something so seemingly benign could inflict such cruelty.

Any other memorable moments?

The hotel receptionist calmly dealing with me stressing about the importance of twin beds. He said they could be pushed further apart if I wished.

And did you?

The beds were cheek by jowl but technically twin beds. My lawyer could work with that.

Would you go back?

Doubt it. Other places to see.

Any surprises?

Yeah, wood pigeons cooing their tits off first thing in the morning. Since when did Dubai have woods?

Key quotes and incidents

"I'm melting!"

Andy complains about the heat to no one in particular.

"I can push the beds further apart if you want?"

The hotel receptionist calmly and kindly responding to Andy stressing about the importance of twin beds.

"They're joined!"

Andy's stress levels peaks again on entering the bedroom.

"Just say yes to everything and convert mm to inches on the plans."

What you get told at Dubai planning dept on your first day.

"You are fucking kidding me!"

Andy scoffs at paying £170 for half a dozen crappy waterpark photos.

"Okay, I do an offer."

The sound a desperate sales person says to the back of a departing tourist.

"What's 80 plus 65?"

Two overweight Mary's response to the waterpark ride 120 kg weight limit.

"Oh fuck. Fuck! Help!"

Panic sets in as we destroy the towering display of chocolate almonds in the local supermarket.

"We want Adele! We want Adele!"

Because 'Skyfall' was an imperious backdrop to the Burj Khalif fountain display.

"Are you okay? You look sad."

Andy's perpetual scowl gets noticed in Starbucks.

"We have ladeez here."

The beach attendant's gaydar malfunctions.

"We don't open until 1pm sir."

Random opening times.

"It's a bit chilly."

When swimming with sharks, the water temperature should be the least of your concerns.

"That man's taking pictures of us Petunia."

More gaydar fails from the local Arab ladeez.

Big bird

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 29 Apr 2017 19:36:00 +0000

So, a heron's spotted our pond and we have three lots of evidence to confirm.

1. Eye witness accounts. Needless to say it immediately spotted me, took off and landed on next door's room, much to the annoyance of the local crows who dive-bombed it until it eventually had enough and pissed off.

2. A total collapse of the pond fish population from circa a dozen to circa zero.

3. Video evidence of it wolfing down a couple of frogs.

Anyway, herons are protected or something so gun turrets are out of scope. After some Google research and mulling over the assorted options, none of which are guaranteed to work, we have a fence.

A big beautiful fence. And I know how to build a fence! Regrettably I had to pay for it, although I'm going to see if I can make the heron contribute via sanctions, or something.

Anyway, we also have fish caves (below). They cost £7.50 each so they'd better use them, otherwise they're heading straight back to the builders merchants.

Below are some pics of the local wildlife that visits the pond day and night. The sticks on the right you can see are the temporary 'proof of concept' fence. It failed and we lost another fish.

Mr Fox, a Jackdaw, Mrs Squirrel, next doors cat, a Robbin the best of Bodmin Moor and a fucking massive bird!

25 tea towels, 10 bathmats and three hammers

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 05 Apr 2017 06:56:00 +0000

Just got back from a few days at the bungalow. I popped over there in November briefly and a flying visit in Jan, but this is where there the hard graft started.

The pic above is what can only be described as DIY headquarters for the duration. A buzzing hive of project managers, tools, dust-sheets and accountants. It was also a trip hazard.

Four days, circa 6.30am start circa 8.00pm finish. Thirty mins for lunch, otherwise working right through. Did I get everything done? Well, to be honest, no. I parked some jobs because whilst I'd planned to do them and they definitely needed doing, they could wait, indeed they'd have to.

The place is to some extent dad's house in miniature, but that shouldn't be a surprise. It's not a huge place but I kept on discovering things just when I thought I'd covered it all.

In a plastic bag on the floor of the airing cupboard were half a ton of brand new, unused tea towels, plus ten bathmats. I get having spares, but this seems a lot. On sorting through the shed and outhouse there also appeared to be four borderline identical saws and nearly as many hammers, plus hosepipe of assorted lengths whose role in life wasn't immediately clear.

I guess that's the post-war mentality dad grew up in, money was tight, things were tight and you keep stuff just in case.

Below are some highlights in the tried and tested format. Next up are the shed and the beach hut, date TBC.

Outhouse

Sitting room

Bedroom

Muddy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 12 Mar 2017 11:50:00 +0000

Only two and a half years since I got my bike, I finally went for a ride today. By that I mean a ride which wasn't for the express purpose of transporting myself from A to B.

Previously, usage had been 85% cycling to work, 5% to the gym, another 5% to the tennis club and then assorted other trips making up the remainder. That makes it sound like I keep a log. I don't, but prefer to be precise about these things.

My scorecard states I'm supposed to going for a bike ride at least once a month. Not exactly a stretch target, but as the total over the previous 30 months was a big fat zero, it was at least something to aim for.

Anyway, for reasons unknown - actually not unknown, very much known, I couldn't face the gym - this morning I decided to get up, off and out.

I'd been previously banned from Strava for cheating, but my lawyer got that overturned, so I re-installed the app and headed off.

To where?

Unusually for me, there had been zero advance planning. Nil. None. I'd heard of this thing called the Fallowfield loop, which sounded about right. So I head off on that and find it comes to big fat dead end in a Sainsbury's car park, in Fallowfield! So am still not sure what the 'loop' bit is all about.

Anyway, I then decided to head towards Didsbury which I kinda know. There's a river there and reckoned that's bound to have some puddles I can plough through.

13 miles later I'm back home, muddy, but content. That might not sound like a lot but I'm more used to 3 and the most I've ever done previously is 9 and that was two years ago. So not bad for a first effort.

Along the way I saw squirrels, frogs, assorted ducks and at the end a Jackdaw attacking a mouse, which needless to say was less than happy with this. I waded in and broke up proceedings allowing the somewhat stressed out rodent to scamper off into the grass.

From the archive

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 11 Feb 2017 08:17:00 +0000

When: Circa 1979, which would make me 13 or 14.

Where: Judging by the tree and the playing field behind, this is at my high school.

Why: I'd not seen this before, it's one of dad's slides that never actually made it to photo form. Dad liked slides, but mum hated them. I played right back, but only when Stuart Hall, who was bigger, stronger and more importantly better, couldn't be arsed to get out of bed on a Saturday. Grandpa was never sold on me being in that position, said I was too short or something. TBH I'm not completely sure how I ended up playing there either. Inside my head I was an aggressive ball winning right midfielder, or failing that, a lightening right winger. The stark reality was neither.

The value of everything

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 02 Jan 2017 09:30:00 +0000

During 2016 a theory started to form inside my head which was a sort of mash-up between what individuals do at this time of year (new year's resolutions) and what organisations do to stay in business (the balanced scorecard).

I suspect that this fell out of losing dad and turning 50 within the space of a few days. When those kind of things happen it's inevitable that you start to ask questions and we all know that those are just plain annoying without answers.

The starting premise is that everyone wants to be happy. If you could have one single target, or objective in life, that's it. No one actually wants to be miserable, although we all know people famous or not, who sometimes give a jolly good impression that their purpose in life is to be as miserable as humanly possible!

Everything leads to happiness. Money might do that, or being healthy, or having positive relationships with friends and family, but the top dog objective in life is happiness.

My supporting argument is that whilst plans might not work quite as expected, with a plan you're more likely to reach your objective or destination than without one. If you're on a journey and have a map, then arriving, on time or at all, is more likely to happen than without one.

Several weeks ago, I might have briefly twittered on about all this over several bottles of wine, so whilst only one person is aware of this half-baked idea, I thought it about time I got on with it.

So I now have my own 'happiness dashboard'. Yes really.

I settled on eight indicators, which are in two groups, with none any more important than the others. Five are labelled with 'love' (a heart) and three with 'money' (a dollar sign). They are; home, volunteering, Fernleigh & Sutton, finances, tennis, friends & relationships, work and health & fitness.

Each objective has; a guiding image, a series of 'I will' statements and 12 boxes, which at the end of each month are coloured red, amber or green.

Red: Fuck all happened, get a move on!
Amber: Good, there's been some progress, keep going.
Green: You make this look easy.

One might argue that all this is a bit pointless, just do stuff and stop being so organised! Well yes, I might, for example, play tennis by default, but even stuff I like doing, stuff that makes me happy, can get lost and forgotten amongst all the other things that compete for my time and attention.

Work for example, can take over too much of your life if you let it. No one ever said on their death bed that they wish they'd spent more time in the office. The quality of relationships can sometimes be forgotten amongst the day-to-day challenges of life, and if you're too hedonistic, too focussed on the illusion of happiness, you're likely to run out of funds PDQ. And whilst money can't guarantee happiness, it certainly helps!

Is any of this actually informed by reading, research or academic papers? Nope. It's all made up, and all the more flaky for it. Actually, I was once pretty well informed about the balanced scorecard but that was about 15 years ago, so doesn't really count.

Will any of this work? Probably not, but it'll be fun trying.

From the A6 to California

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 18 Dec 2016 12:12:00 +0000

In August the office I mostly work out of moved. Not the actual building, because that would be very expensive not to mention impractical, but those who worked in it moved to another location, which in case it wasn't obvious, was somewhere else.

This meant I had to shift my gym too, because although I also visit at weekends, if it's not accessible as part of my commute, exercise just won't happen. Then more recently I started to work at home a bit, therefore not commuting and therefore not being anywhere near my gym first thing. After considering the options with the help of an Excel planner (look, it's just how my mind words, get over it) I decided to move back to the one I used to patronise.

Then after some more pondering and discussions with my accountant (not really, even I'm not that obsessive) I decided that the membership fee of close to sixty quid a month was too much. I figured that my exercise regime was centred around three things; tennis, cycling and gym And paying nearly £700 a year was not right, in fact it was all wrong.

Following a bit more research, I've now settled on one which is 6 minutes walk away. Not five and not ten. I've timed it. Yes really. Partly because there's two possible routes and I wanted to know which was quickest. They're actually both the same to within a few seconds. I know you don't care, but I do.

The new place works out at £22 a month if I pay a year up front, which is about 75% of what I spend on petrol just getting to my previous gym. So the way I see it, Shell and Esso are now effectively paying the lions share of my gym membership.

Today I padded round the corner and gave the new place a go, after paying a visit a week or so ago just to check that it was as advertised.

I reckon we'll get along just fine. There's more than enough equipment there to keep me occupied and at 9am it was what can only be described as 'quiet'. Likewise the pool.

The running machines are the same as I'm used to, they have a video screen where you can select your route and decide to run, jog or just shuffle through exotic locations.

So, today, rather than stare blankly at Stockport Road, I was flailing away through the glorious Marin County countryside. What is there not to like?

From the archive

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Nov 2016 21:16:00 +0000

When: Probably around 1990, the record deck kinda dates it.

Where: My council flat in Hulme with mum. Back when councils had flats and before Hulme was more or less totally demolished.

Why: I moved in for my third year at Poly. Back then there was a black market in council flats. You could buy a set of keys for about fifty quid, move in, then wander down to the council office, tell them, and they'd say, "Okay, just sign here".

We though it was a bit daft, but the area was designed for families and no family in their right mind would live in Hulme back then, so they were kinda grateful for anyone would pay the rent.

Mum and dad came to visit a couple of times. Lord only knows what they made of the place. Even the dog was scared stiff of the stairwell. Bengy dug his paws in, refused to move and had to be carried. One time I looked after him whilst mum and dad were on holiday. He spent most of that week hanging around in the stairwell just sniffing the walls having gotten over his initial concerns. He seemed quite happy so as with the tenancy, I didn't question it too much.

2026

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 15 Oct 2016 06:46:00 +0000

Dad's photos - a car load, circa 80 albums, or a full bookcase whichever best captures the scale for you - are now in some semblance of order. The bookcase above had been languishing in the dining room for the past four years or so, so was deconstructed, shipped upstairs and filled.

Which is all very well, except the order that's been 'semblanced' is analogue, or to be specific, paper. I think silver nitrate might be involved somewhere too, but can't be bothered to Google it.

Along with half a ton of memories, I also shipped back to Manchester dad's scanner. Mine had been scowling at the back of a cupboard for the best part of a decade. If I wanted to scan a photo, I just took a photo of it.

After a cursory investigation, dad's was better and newer and I could get drivers for it, so mine is now earmarked for recycling whether it likes it or not.

The plan is to digitise everything. Yes really. Well, not everything, just the photos, although I might do everything if I finish ahead of schedule.

Why?

1. Digital makes sharing photos quicker and easier.
2. When I die, someone will have to decide what to do with all these photos and frankly they'll thank me for doing that for them.
3. I'm concerned that the bookcase above might plunge through two floors and end up in the cellar.

The plan is to start with my own pre 2003 photos and then take it from there. That date being when I got my first digi-camera.

What I haven't mentioned is that dad was also a fan of 'slides' and there's several dozen boxes of those back at his place waiting to be looked at. Mum hated that format and probably for good reason. We had this handheld viewer - a bit like the one below - but it was a bit of a hassle TBH. Dad's argument was that he could use the slides in presentations. Why exactly he would want to 'present' our summer holiday is anyone's guess. But then dad saw messages in everything.

I'm also not sure if the slides are in addition to the albums, or a total duplication, or a partial subset. So for all I know that's actually the ice below the berg so to speak - I mean the mass of photo albums I can see is actually only a small part of the total mass.

The unsanwered question to all this is will I then see it through properly and bin the physical photos and slides. No. So there, it's now answered.

You take the photos out of the album, put an elastic band round them, date them and put them in a box in a dry place along with a bag or two of silica gel. It seems to me that 90% of the volume is taken up by the actual album. The slides are compact, they can just sit in a box and get on with it. Also, I don't have the guts.

How long will all this take? Ages. Ask me again in a decade.

Note: I now realise I've kinda already blogged on this not so long ago. Oh well, it's written now and I'm not deleting it.

From the archive

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 14 Oct 2016 18:41:00 +0000

When: If I'm about 3 and Julie five that would make it 1969 or thereabouts.

Where: The dining room at home.

Why: This photo is one of my favourites, although I know Julie will look back on her short hair with a resigned sigh. Mum was keen apparently, my sister less so. Hair aside, we are both wearing what can only be described as awesome knitwear. I'd wear that jumper now if they did it in my size, the cardigan too for that matter, in fact I'll take them both!

Pixels

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 21 Sep 2016 19:32:00 +0000

Last time it was a stuffed badger, this time the car is full of photo albums.

77 of them. Yes, I've counted, it should come as no surprise, it's the sort of thing I do. This excludes the sixteen that Julie kept, nor the boxes of slides that remain at dad's house. A lot of pictures, indeed a lifetime's worth.

I love photos, so when we divided them up, I was more than happy to take the lion's share. The obvious question remains, what now?

What indeed. They're in boxes and lined up in my study. After that, dunno.

Actually, that's not true, I do know.

All my photos from around 2003 are digital, presumably as that's when I got my first digital camera. So the plan is to digitise all my photos that pre-date that, see just how excruciatingly tedious that is, and the turn my attention to dad's. On mentioning this to Julie she suggested I had too much time on my hands.

The end game here is that when I die - which unless it turns out I'm immortal or medical science makes a remarkable breakthrough is somewhat inevitable - then my executors will just be able to press control, alt, delete and it's all done with.

Stuff that's Happened however will remain until the end of time, or possibly even longer.