w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

I gather everyone had mixed weather over the Bank holiday, but yesterday we had crashing thunderstorms, without the hot weather that usually precedes them. Hmmm.

Still, the cargo of flat-packery is rapidly diminishing and assemblage is near-finished.

I have this vivid image of Bruv flying a stall-sized kite in a howling gale...

Magic carpets, Matey?

Enjoy yours

* Bolox to that (see Today's lyric)

I eat when I'm hungry. I drink when I'm thirsty. (Actually, I also drink when I'm not thirsty, but that's another matter).

Though an atheist, I live a generally christian life e.g murdering occurs but rarely in the course of a normal working week. And yes, there are routines in my life. Getting up at 5.50 a.m. (yeah, that's a real start to the day, Matey) to commute to work.

But when I stepped outside this morning, I thought "Fcuk that 'Ne'er cast a clout' nonsense" and put my coat back in the porch wardrobe. And walked over London Bridge in my trademark short-sleeved shirt. With a pair of trousers on, too, naturellement.

Was chuffed to see lots of other rebels like me.

The latest e-missive from Number One Son assures his mother that the sharks he's been snorkelling with in Malaya are all vegetarians. Bet they're enjoying this week, then?

And he reminds her (as if she's not counting the days anyway) that it's now five months since we delivered him to Heathrow, to start his (mainly solo) World Tour.

I fully expected to read the line "... it's just so nice here, I've decided to stay." but I know the wanderlust would eventually get the better of him and he'd even leave whatever idyllic island he's currently lounging in.

I am just so jealous.

Compare and contrast



I love it when buildings catch the sun, against a dark background? This shot of Tower Bridge, from London Bridge, was taken last week as I was going home. It's un-retouched, apart from cropping the stern of HMS Bellerophon (as I prefer to call her), even though she was built in my home town.

The end of the wireless broadband interwebnet thingy saga

Being the last chapter in the sorry saga of getting a second laptop wirelessly connected.. YAY!!

Ah, I thought, I seem to remember there is a switch somewhere on the laptops. So I changed the setting on our wireless laptop (which does work) to "off" and... Nothing. It still worked?

So - the only thing left to try is what BT Broadband helpdesk suggested. Remove Number One Daughter's *ahem* borrowed security software (which could be blocking the wireless connection for the second unit).

So we bought some of Mr McAfee's finest produce to replace the *ahem* borrowed security software, slammed in her wireless adapter, flicked her switch to "on" and... Nothing.

"Dad" she said (she calls me that 'cos I'm her Dad) "why don't you try your adapter in my laptop?"

So we did, and...Yes! Joyous dancing around the kitchen. So did she!

So it was a duff adapter after all that work, right? Hang on, let's just make sure our adapter still works in our laptop. Slammed it in and...Yes!

Slammed her adapter back into her laptop and...Yes! Eh? How come?

I'm still totally confused. Very happy, but totally confused.

Framed

We've commissioned the frames for our recently-purchased drawings. They'll be silver bezel-framed, with black and pale grey mounts and non-reflective glass. And being A1 sized, it ain't cheap, but we want to do them justice. A virtual prize if you can guess which two we bought?

Clocking off

This kind person is helping me to re-set the clock on my blogsite, so that it displays British Summer time. Working on it, Luke.

Bowled over

Like most homes, we have several buckets and bowls, for washing, mixing wallpaper paste, general portage etc.

Yesterday, washing the cars, three sprang a leak. All three, on the same day? The Ministry of Guesswork must be able to calculate the odds against that happening?

The Office dined here last night. Excellent food - 2 courses for a tenner, and reasonably priced House wine.

I do believe even Value Witch would be impressed!

When I say "the Office", I mean me and seven women colleagues. There I sat, the sole male, and object of fawning and slavish attention*, while the waiters (again, all female) served up delicious platters of tasty stuff. And no rush to get you back out of the door, the moment you'd finished.

I like that.

* they talked to me occasionally

Neither does Southern Rail. Know what's up, that is. I honestly can't say which is worse - the squalid, decrepit slam doors or the new rolling stock where the doors fail to open just about every other day?

Anyway.

Ring ring.

"Que?"

"Hello, this is (insert name of large supermarket) 'phoning about your job interview?"

"Que?"

"This is (inols)" Is that (insert common Spanish name)?"

"Que?"

"Look, this is (inols)"

"Agency?"

"No, not agency, (inols). Is that (icSn)?"

"Que?"

"Oh, fcuk this"

And that, dear friends, is how the second-choice applicant got the job.

It was about six months bibab* that I first posted lyrics from that song.

The other day I saw a documentary about the lads who made it to the final of the auditions for the stage version of Billy Elliot. One of them divulged he was a 'self-taught' drummer, but then you saw that his dad also had his own kit, so it wasn't really surprising that he'd inherited the genes.

I was reminded of a story told by the then DJ Chris Evans' radio manager, about a music concert he'd gone to at his son's school. A huge van was being unloaded, with Pink Floyd-scale boxes of drum kit being ferried into the building.

"Someone's keen" he remarked to his son. "Oh, that's Palmer, he's pretty good."

Then, when he got to hear the lad play, he made the connection to Carl Palmer, of Emerson, Lake and Palmer fame. See - it's in the genes.

Funny though, our old pot and pan (Old man - Dad) has never played an instrument in his life, yet Bruv and I love the drums? Guess it's gotta start somewhere...

* before I became a blogger

Inspired by Bruv's posting yesterday, (no, not the footie content - pah! the musical references) I slid a "Clash" compilation into the minidisk this morning and had to physically restrain myself from bopping along to the beat.

Well, I am nearly 52 and it might be unseemly to the other commuters.

Bass pedal leg was twitching, though... Topper Headon - you were a star.

Bruv - remember when we saw them and they were 'supported' by The Slits? And we thought what a gas it must have been for Budgie, the male drummer, touring with an otherwise all-girl band. But then, when you looked a bit more closely at Joan Jett, we thought "Hmmm, maybe not..."

An absolutely boring weekend, involving further relocation of diverse flatpacks from ground floor to first, followed by more assemblage and screwage and swearage.

Only 'livened up' by another hour-plus conversation with the truly excellent (and very patient) BT Broadband Helpdesk, trying to hook up a second wireless laptop to the hub.

Anyone (or anything) that tells you Broadband installation is a doddle should be immediately strangled. I reckon it's taken me six hours so far, and the second computer is still not talking to us!

Labels: Broadband

Was just trying to be constructive, is all.



I wonder if Noah shopped at M.F.I?

Right. Off to meet this lovely lady for some transacting.

I've convinced the office that I'm off to do some private modelling for a life class afficionado (which, of course, she is).

They were, in equal parts, intrigued and impressed by my 'bravery'.

If only ...

update

Two for the price of one!

No, not the drawings, which I'm waiting for Mrs.D. to get from work before I unwrap.

Two lovely, interesting women. The Blogger herself, of course, and her compadre, "Bails" - she of the very brave salon snaps.

And with a wonderful sense of humour*

You'll never hear the name Scunthorpe again without snorting, will you?

Thankyou both for the amusing hour.

* she laughed at my stories

A colleague has been invited on a boat-fishing trip (jammy cow!)

So she can hold her own with the no doubt hardened anglers (not fishermen - that's what trawlermen are) she's just had a crash course in fishing jargon.

'Rotten bottom': not the squits, but a deliberately weaker length of monofilament (which is what used to be called catgut) designed to snap off if you get snagged, thus preserving your main line.

'End tackle': not - no, I won't go there - the hook and length of line attached to the main line.

'Flapper' - a mackerel with the skeleton removed, so that the flanks 'flap' in the tide when used as bait.

'Priest': a short length of wood or steel tube, used to stun/kill a landed fish (from the expression "to be visited by the priest" i.e. given Last Rites) I jest you not!

I had to come into work yesterday.

There were a few camera-toting tourists on London Bridge, but the deeper into the City I went, the quieter it got. Barely a cab stirring.

It was very odd, being virtually the only person in the centre of one of the busiest capitals in the world.

Reminded me of Earth Abides.

The Californian reviewer seems to be a fan, too?

So the smug, oleaginous, sweaty little fcuk got back in, then.

Following some timely advice about not having to disclose your voting number to political activists at the polling booths, I thoroughly enjoyed denying the Tory hag any personal details last night. (I was the only one in the queue who did).

"But it's to stop you getting 'phone calls to see if you voted" she whined.

"Look" I replied, using one of Crony's own favourite sentence-starters, "I've lived on this manor for fifteen years and no-one has ever 'phoned me, so you are not getting any information." At which I pirhoutted smugly back into the queue.

So Bush gets returned and so does Crony Bliar. We both turn 52 this year but apart from that, he's a million miles distant from me.

I'm very disappointed.

"Air pistol teacher freed"

I thought it said "fired".

Our new bedroom furniture was delivered yesterday. Four double wardrobes, two bedside cabinets and a five-drawer chest. Although it's all flatpack, it's filled the dining room.

Now all I have to do is lug it upstairs, read the assembly instructions, curse a bit and build it all.

I will get a life, one day...

I know - it's taken me nearly four years to buy it.

But you know, don't you, when you hear the first few bars of the first track of a previously-unheard album, that you are going to love it.

Vintage, classic, unmistakeable, trademark stuff. It arrived just as I was leaving to visit my parents and expecting 90mph performance*, I fed the CD player's slot and pulled off the drive. Barely half an hour later, a vaguely familiar track kicked in.

Had I not picked up on a released single that hadn't registered its source with me? Nah, impossible, I'd recognise 'em from 5,000 miles away. Glancing down at the display, I noticed that Track 1 had made a surely premature reappearance?

Yep, a CD that lasts 32 minutes and 33 seconds. Now guys, you used to be able to manage two sides of a vinyl album back in the Seventies, so that was 40 minutes worth.

And I know that if it was played at normal speed, it might be a 45-minute CD; but then it wouldn't be you and it wouldn't be fun.

But 32 minutes? Good job there's not a duff track on it!

A very kind 'stranger' has left some helpful instructions on how to reconcile my banner problems, so I will try my hand at this HTML stuff and see how we do. Whether I succeed, or whether I don't, thank you again for the considerable trouble you took to help me out.**

* Me and The Band (sorry, Officer)

** Update: That's very close to what I was after. Merci, mam'selle. x