Today was grey wheelie bin day. A relatively painless one albeit not without discomforts. There is the discomfort of hauling my carcase out of a warm bed, supported of course by temporary bed bases, at 07.00 hrs on a cold,drear and dark morning when the central heating has only just kicked in. Another discomfort is having to leave a still cool house before 07.30hrs and step into a freezing outdoors to carefully position the bin as directed by the council Uberbinfuhrer. The final discomfort is repeating my cold slipper shuffle to retrieve the bin when and at whatever time the evil bin Oompa Loompas deign to arrive, wheel and return it. A fellow blogger (you know who you are) has kindly included a photo of West Country bin Ooompa Loompas. A random thought causes me to digress slightly. Regular readers will know that I enjoy a digress every so often. We have many organisations and internet websites offering consumers the opportunity to compare various providers ranging from gas and electricity to house and car insurance. It seems that you can compare or read reviews on almost anything these days. Is there something that caters for wheelie bin services? In line with hospital and schools are councils required to provide wheelie bin league tables? If so, I must have personally bottomed out Fylde Borough Council's chances. If the Laplanders, or Sami, to give them their correct title, have to transport their bins to the nearest collection point would they be O Sami bin laden?
Well, a collection date has arrived for the bed bases. I say bases because I have three at present. One occupying the landing, ready to wedge and trap those unwary visitors of an ample figure and two occupying the area beneath my mattress, providing support for a resident, sadly on the verge of an unwanted, but inevitable ample figure. I say inevitable because the combination of a bread machine, a Kenwood Chef and a healthy appetite make it so.
The date for collection is next Sunday - an unusual day for the transport of returning bed bases. And so to the several horns of the Dalai Lama or dilemmas in everyday speak. Will my current snow-free abode still be accessible? Do I pre-empt the promise of a refund and bravely order a new base? Do I wait until the refund dust has settled and imitate a squat by camping out on a mattress on the floor. I have done such sleeping larks in the past but not for some years. More dilemmas - how long will I be baseless?; having got down to floor level in a supine position will I be able to get up again? (important stuff for those of a certain age!); if I order a new base will it, horror of horrors, arrive before the old ones are collected and if it did, where the hell would I put them? My lounge is not miniscule but I know it and I could not cope with a 3 piece suite and 3 bed bases. Which replacement should I purchase? What is the difference between torsion sprung, pocket sprung and Miracoil? This last decision is of vital importance as whatever sprung I select has to last me a considerable number of years - I'm not going through all this again!
Monday, 29 November 2010
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Friends, Beer, and another Wet Bed
On Thursday I picked up Dom, a Symi pal, at Preston station and hightailed it up the M6 to Keswick where we were meeting other Symi friends for a Northern Reunion. Dom hadn't been as far north as Lancashire before so he kept an anxious eye out for the dragons which were apparently mentioned on his maps. No fearsome beasts were spotted, only rain and some fearsome drivers. The weather being miserable with limited visibility there wasn't much point in taking the scenic route through Kendal and Windermere but we did call in at the Rheged Centre near Penrith for some refreshment and, as I am a gentleman of a certain age, a "comfort" stop. We arrived at Keswick shortly after, checked into the hotel and then repaired to the bar to meet the other arrivals. After the usual greetings melee and a few libations of ale we decamped to the hotel across the road as the cask ale had run out.
Thursday evening continued with a sumptuous repast of fish & chips. There was something familiar about the restaurant owner's wife - she was a Greek Cypriot. Now the chances of the Greeks having penetrated as far as the English lakes are pretty slim and the chances of a Symi Reunion mob encountering them are even slimmer. Slimming, however, had nothing to do with the burgeoning plates of fish & chips. The evening continued with more excellent ale. My evening, however, was cut short by an attack of Monteczuma's Revenge which resulted in my spending more time in the bathroom than I would normally wish. Feeling very tired and washed out I retired to bed only to wake up a few hours later to find the bed sheets soaked. No, dear reader it was not what you think. I was running a temperature and it seemed had sweated out all the ale consumed previously. This set the scene for the rest of the get-together. Kojak had an upset tummy and wet the bed at night... with perspiration only!
Friday dawned cold but bright and sunny and our intrepid crew set off on a cruise around Derwentwater. There was not a breath of wind and the lake was as smooth as a mirror. Given good weather I think there are very few places quite as beautiful.
Thursday evening continued with a sumptuous repast of fish & chips. There was something familiar about the restaurant owner's wife - she was a Greek Cypriot. Now the chances of the Greeks having penetrated as far as the English lakes are pretty slim and the chances of a Symi Reunion mob encountering them are even slimmer. Slimming, however, had nothing to do with the burgeoning plates of fish & chips. The evening continued with more excellent ale. My evening, however, was cut short by an attack of Monteczuma's Revenge which resulted in my spending more time in the bathroom than I would normally wish. Feeling very tired and washed out I retired to bed only to wake up a few hours later to find the bed sheets soaked. No, dear reader it was not what you think. I was running a temperature and it seemed had sweated out all the ale consumed previously. This set the scene for the rest of the get-together. Kojak had an upset tummy and wet the bed at night... with perspiration only!
An added bonus to the reunion was that Keswick was hosting a food festival. The main street was lined with stalls and our nostrils were assailed with tempting aromas. My gippy tummy did not prevent me from sampling local cheeses, pasties, cakes etc. One advantage of the icy cold weather was that my car boot substituted as a very effective fridge for my purchases. Friday night was also the night that the Christmas lights were switched on. Our hotel was perfectly placed to watch the proceedings in comfort. It was a stroke of pure luck that we selected that particular date when it was all happening.
Saturday dawned fine and sunny after yet another night of hot & cold shivers and soggy sheets . By now, Kojak was beginning to feel under the weather. I gave up breakfast after a bowl of cereal, the plate of scrambled eggs the waitress was persistent in serving me was left largely untouched. I got through the goodbyes and made a final circuit of the shops and stalls with Dom before setting off on the return journey.
The skies were beginning to cloud over as we left but it was sufficiently clear for us to return via the scenic route. Dom had only seen one lake so far so he was able to notch up Grasmere, Thirlmere and Windermere, albeit from the car. The roads were surprisingly clear as we were headed in the opposite direction to most. A brief but necessary "comfort" stop at Kendal brought us back into heavy traffic for the first time but we managed to extract ourselves without incident. Kendal had been the first idea for a reunion but after seeing how busy it was I was thankful we had chosen Keswick. An uneventful journey brought us down to Preston in good time for Dom's train, which was just as well because parking near the station proved impossible. Preston was also switching on it's Christmas lights and the town was heaving. We eventually managed to park well away from the station and settled for a leisurely coffee before retrieving Dom's bag from the car and walking to the train.
Driving home I felt more and more unwell. My house-sitter, Liz had not become wedged between the bed base on the landing as I feared and soothed my fevered brow with a very welcome cup of tea. I wasn't up to accompanying Liz to the pantomime staged by friends and retired to bed at 6.30pm leaving my bag unpacked. Sunday passed very quietly, Liz left at lunchtime and I managed to eat half a boiled egg. Monday morning began with another surveillance of the evil bin men, it being recycling day involving three different collections. I was impressed by the smooth transition from a throwing motion to a carefully replaced box once my presence had been clocked. This was obviously a practised movement.... I am clearly not alone in this war of attrition. On a brighter note, the firm I purchased the bed from once again agreed a refund . I in turn, now await a collection date before beginning the hunt for a bed once again.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Bad Beds and Good Service
A very quick blog before I depart for the Lake District. The weather is as I remember the Lakes - raining!
My euphoria at finally getting the replacement base unit for the bed came to an abrupt end when I began to assemble the bits. Pulling one of the drawers out to fix the handle on I was left holding half a drawer in my hand. Somewhere along the route it had sustained a blow which had effectively caused it to come apart. Deep gloom ensued. By this time the diminutive delivery man had long gone and office hours had similarly come to an end. On reflection this had been a whole catalogue of disaster from start to finish. I resolved to try and get a refund and start the whole hunt off again.
This morning I again spoke to the manufacturer's Customer Services department. They apologised profusely but said they could not deal with a refund as the bed had been purchased from another company. Confused? - I was. Dredging up the email which I had, as always, kept "just in case" I discovered the vendor's name. The website gave no phone number, only an email contact point. Reading the returns policy on the website it also seemed that they would be loath to refund my cash, only provide yet another replacement. I sank deeper into gloom, especially as I was due to depart for the Lake district in a few hours. Nonetheless I emailed the firm and then dashed out to the Post Office, thinking that they were bound to phone while I was out. No surprise then that I heard the answerphone as I opened my front door. There was a panicky scrabble for the phone as I managed to pick up the call. A very sympathetic man apologised for the week-long trauma and immediately offered a full refund. All I need to do is phone on Monday morning to arrange collection. Bless you, Ian from the Good Bed Company, you've made an old man very happy... in the nicest possible way of course. Kojak is off to the Lakes with a happy heart!
My euphoria at finally getting the replacement base unit for the bed came to an abrupt end when I began to assemble the bits. Pulling one of the drawers out to fix the handle on I was left holding half a drawer in my hand. Somewhere along the route it had sustained a blow which had effectively caused it to come apart. Deep gloom ensued. By this time the diminutive delivery man had long gone and office hours had similarly come to an end. On reflection this had been a whole catalogue of disaster from start to finish. I resolved to try and get a refund and start the whole hunt off again.
This morning I again spoke to the manufacturer's Customer Services department. They apologised profusely but said they could not deal with a refund as the bed had been purchased from another company. Confused? - I was. Dredging up the email which I had, as always, kept "just in case" I discovered the vendor's name. The website gave no phone number, only an email contact point. Reading the returns policy on the website it also seemed that they would be loath to refund my cash, only provide yet another replacement. I sank deeper into gloom, especially as I was due to depart for the Lake district in a few hours. Nonetheless I emailed the firm and then dashed out to the Post Office, thinking that they were bound to phone while I was out. No surprise then that I heard the answerphone as I opened my front door. There was a panicky scrabble for the phone as I managed to pick up the call. A very sympathetic man apologised for the week-long trauma and immediately offered a full refund. All I need to do is phone on Monday morning to arrange collection. Bless you, Ian from the Good Bed Company, you've made an old man very happy... in the nicest possible way of course. Kojak is off to the Lakes with a happy heart!
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Climax, Anti-climax and a Very Little Man
Tuesday's blog left me eagerly awaiting the arrival of the replacement base for my bed. Although the timespan for delivery ended at 8pm, by the 6 o'clock news my already waning excitement had almost drained away. By 9pm anger had replaced any remaining scrap of optimism. It was of course far too late to vent my ire on Customer Services again so I set to with a heavy and uncharitable heart to reassemble the bed so at least I had something to sleep on.
I had a doctor's appointment this morning, too early to telephone the firm. Normally my doctor is fairly timeous with his appointments but today, as usual, the barrel of fate served up yet another rotten apple. Appointments were running extremely late - 30 minutes in my case. One of the nurse practioners was sitting in and conducting examinations under the doctor's supervision. Now this was highly enlightening as I got a detailed explanation of all my various ailments but time was ticking by and my thoughts were of an empty house and a delivery van. My anxiety was not soothed by the mention of my age in almost every sentence. I came out of the surgery wondering whether I should have had a zimmer frame delivered along with the bed.
Back home, I noted with relief that 50% of a sprung base had not been dumped on my doorstep in the rain. Switching quickly into irate customer mode I telephoned the firm. A sweet but confused customer services lady first announced that the firm did not sell to members of the public. Now I know that I had not posed as a retail outlet or, given my increasing waistline, a wholesale one because I'd printed off the online order form and there was no mention of "Kojak Ltd." or "Kojak & Sons". I don't have a son, well, not to my knowledge...The lady did phone back later to say the errant bed would arrive that afternoon. And so it did and with it the answer to the mystery of the separate bed and mattress deliveries. Bases are delivered by two men. Mattresses are delivered by one very small one. Staggering under the weight of half a bed base was a diminutive man. I felt a pang of guilt as it was my insistence for an early replacement that had brought this about. The guilty pang did not prevent me pointing him in the direction of the stairs, however. The bed, divested of a double polythene wrapping is almost ready for assembly. Only one task remains. The Staple Gun Kid has once again been running amok...
You may rest assured, dear readers, that despite the doctor's concentration on my age I feel no necessity for a zimmer frame in the foreseeable future. I do, however, possess my late father's walking stick should the need arise.
I had a doctor's appointment this morning, too early to telephone the firm. Normally my doctor is fairly timeous with his appointments but today, as usual, the barrel of fate served up yet another rotten apple. Appointments were running extremely late - 30 minutes in my case. One of the nurse practioners was sitting in and conducting examinations under the doctor's supervision. Now this was highly enlightening as I got a detailed explanation of all my various ailments but time was ticking by and my thoughts were of an empty house and a delivery van. My anxiety was not soothed by the mention of my age in almost every sentence. I came out of the surgery wondering whether I should have had a zimmer frame delivered along with the bed.
Back home, I noted with relief that 50% of a sprung base had not been dumped on my doorstep in the rain. Switching quickly into irate customer mode I telephoned the firm. A sweet but confused customer services lady first announced that the firm did not sell to members of the public. Now I know that I had not posed as a retail outlet or, given my increasing waistline, a wholesale one because I'd printed off the online order form and there was no mention of "Kojak Ltd." or "Kojak & Sons". I don't have a son, well, not to my knowledge...The lady did phone back later to say the errant bed would arrive that afternoon. And so it did and with it the answer to the mystery of the separate bed and mattress deliveries. Bases are delivered by two men. Mattresses are delivered by one very small one. Staggering under the weight of half a bed base was a diminutive man. I felt a pang of guilt as it was my insistence for an early replacement that had brought this about. The guilty pang did not prevent me pointing him in the direction of the stairs, however. The bed, divested of a double polythene wrapping is almost ready for assembly. Only one task remains. The Staple Gun Kid has once again been running amok...
You may rest assured, dear readers, that despite the doctor's concentration on my age I feel no necessity for a zimmer frame in the foreseeable future. I do, however, possess my late father's walking stick should the need arise.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Half a Bed and a Double Glazer
I am resigned to having to get up in the middle of the night on a Monday to lurk for the bin men. Unfortunately I must have briefly lurked in the wrong place because my bin was neatly returned to the pavement but not within my boundaries. Perhaps they thought my neighbour would want my bin. It is, after all in pristine condition being regularly deep cleaned. I do give to charitable institutions but dustbin charity firmly begins and stays at home! I am not resigned to repeating an early start on a Tuesday but since the replacement base is arriving I have had to haul my protesting carcase out of a warm bed for the second day in a row.
As I type, the double glazing man is attending to the draught in my lobby. Since this involves opening and closing the front door the ground floor of the house is now rather draughty too. It is perilously close to the time when the first bed delivery was made and I fear that my prediction of a pitched battle between the double glazer and the bed men may prove to be fact.
The other, nasty stained base now resides on the landing where it will languish until the bed base delivery service deigns to come and collect it.
I leave for the Lake district on Thursday so it will not be too much of an encumbrance to me. Unfortunately a friend is arriving on Thursday night to stay for a few days so she will have to squeeze past it to get to her bed. I hope that my return on Saturday will not find her wedged and starving on the landing. Perhaps I should leave a strategically placed survival pack there just in case.The double glazer has completed his work on my and my neighbour's house as he had a draught up his lobby too. We haggled the price of the double glazing down by dangling a tempting joint installation in front of several firms. I rather enjoyed the sight of various salesmen desperately vying for our favours in the knowledge that half a dozen or so other firms also had their snouts in our single glazed troughs. A quick check of the offending draughty areas seems to indicate an improvement although we do not have the howling gales of a few days ago. Time will tell and I am hopeful of an ambient temperature in the lobby area.
Ending on a happy note it has just been announced that our next King but one is to be married in the spring or summer of next year. The Royal succession is further assured and my lobby should be warmer. All I need is the arrival of an unsullied half of a bed and my cup should runneth over.
Thursday, 11 November 2010
One and a Half beds, Gales and a Draught up My Lobby.
For some time I have been bothered by an intermittent draught up my lobby. This is not something the doctor can cure nor is it fatal, merely uncomfortable and a tad chilly.
Last year I had new UPVC double glazing installed which has largely behaved very well except in the lobby area. Now I don't expect or want a tropical ambiance in my lobby but I had hoped that replacing the old and ill-fitting wooden door would at least take the chill off the place. I cannot understand why the manufacturers of a double glazed door would take such advertised care over draught proofing and yet incorporate a keyhole with a raised edge that not only allows a howling gale to blow through but which has a design that prevents any sort of cover being fitted to preclude the said draught.
Today I have been awaiting the promised gale force winds to hit the north-west of England. As befits an English gale it was late arriving and most of the day has just reflected the lull before the storm. At last it arrived and fortunately the wind direction enabled me to locate precisely the non-keyhole areas where the offending draughts are sneaking in. Now I have to hope that when the double-glazing man arrives next Tuesday the wind continues to perform in a similar manner. There's nothing worse than being on the end of that "look" when you feebly state "Well, it was there yesterday".
In addition to the wind rattling doors, windows and my lobby I received notification of the delivery date of half a bed to replace the offending wet half that was delivered 2 days ago. Quick work, you may think and I have to admit that I was impressed at first. If there is a rotten apple in the barrel of lfe it has generally been my misfortune to retrieve it and on this occasion I retrieved a delivery date when I was to be away in the Lake District at a reunion of holiday friends. After much whining to Customer Services the very helpful lady managed to arrange a new delivery date before I left for more northern climes. Because they will have to use a different delivery service, one which normally only delivers mattresses, they will not be able to take away the original half of the base. This brings up an interesting point. Is there some sort of demarcation between delivering mattresses and bed bases? Are special, non-transferable skills required for each? If you order a complete bed do you get the mattress one week and the bed base the next or vice-versa?
So Tuesday should be interesting. I have visions of the double glazing man defending the door with a draught detector while delivery men try to force an entry using half a bed as a battering ram. I have not yet thought where I am supposed to store the other half of the bed pending collection. I have some ideas but I suspect that they are both illegal and anatomically impossible...
Meanwhile, the wind is howling, the rain is lashing down and I shall take comfort in a rib-sticking stew and perhaps a steamed pudding. The only lashing inside Chez Kojak will be lashings of custard.
Last year I had new UPVC double glazing installed which has largely behaved very well except in the lobby area. Now I don't expect or want a tropical ambiance in my lobby but I had hoped that replacing the old and ill-fitting wooden door would at least take the chill off the place. I cannot understand why the manufacturers of a double glazed door would take such advertised care over draught proofing and yet incorporate a keyhole with a raised edge that not only allows a howling gale to blow through but which has a design that prevents any sort of cover being fitted to preclude the said draught.
In addition to the wind rattling doors, windows and my lobby I received notification of the delivery date of half a bed to replace the offending wet half that was delivered 2 days ago. Quick work, you may think and I have to admit that I was impressed at first. If there is a rotten apple in the barrel of lfe it has generally been my misfortune to retrieve it and on this occasion I retrieved a delivery date when I was to be away in the Lake District at a reunion of holiday friends. After much whining to Customer Services the very helpful lady managed to arrange a new delivery date before I left for more northern climes. Because they will have to use a different delivery service, one which normally only delivers mattresses, they will not be able to take away the original half of the base. This brings up an interesting point. Is there some sort of demarcation between delivering mattresses and bed bases? Are special, non-transferable skills required for each? If you order a complete bed do you get the mattress one week and the bed base the next or vice-versa?So Tuesday should be interesting. I have visions of the double glazing man defending the door with a draught detector while delivery men try to force an entry using half a bed as a battering ram. I have not yet thought where I am supposed to store the other half of the bed pending collection. I have some ideas but I suspect that they are both illegal and anatomically impossible...
Meanwhile, the wind is howling, the rain is lashing down and I shall take comfort in a rib-sticking stew and perhaps a steamed pudding. The only lashing inside Chez Kojak will be lashings of custard.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Wet Beds and Horrors
My bed was wet, not in the way you might think, dear reader! Granted I am a gentleman of a certain age but I have so far avoided the embarrassment of incontinence aids.
A couple of years ago my sister happened to mention that she was buying a new mattress for her bed. During the course of the conversation she mentioned that in addition to the fact that it had developed a "sag" it was high time to change it as she'd had it for well over 10 years. I successfully concealed a guilty look as I was still happily and comfortably slumbering on the same bed that I bought in 1977. Before you throw up your hands in horror I should quickly add that the mattress had been regularly hoovered and turned as all good mattresses should be. It had also been cosily wrapped in a snug protective covering.
Nevertheless a tiny nagging doubt had insinuated itself into my mind. Did the innocuous mattress conceal a seething mass of horrors? Was it alive with those evil-looking microscopic creatures that we are told live on the flakes of epidermic material that we constantly shed? Despite looking a little worn at the edges, the mattress was still in good shape, still firm, no sign of sagging. "But", said the insidious little voice, "did that 'firmness' consist of quality interior springing or was it just years of human detritus being munched by mattress mites?" Well, the doubt lingered and so a few months later I purchased a new posh mattress. As it had been a decade or two since buying my last one I went into moderate to severe shock at the cost. Examining the flimsy bases within my price range I decided to retain the existing and much better quality sprung base.
And so to today and the heading of this blog. Seeking more storage space I purchased a new double bed base with drawers. I blame Marks & Spencer entirely for this because they forced upon us an extremely tempting sale of towels and as everyone knows, one can never have too many towels. The new base was to be delivered the following Tuesday lunchtime so the question of the disposal of the old and perfectly good base had to be addressed. Once again the excellent Freecycle website came to the rescue. It's not often that you see a want-ad for a double bed base. A complete bed yes, but a base only? well, it must be a rarity. Nevertheless, there it was, precisely at the right time! It was arranged that the grateful recipient would call to pick up the old base on the evening of the new one being delivered. What could go wrong? Plenty.....
The first sign of things unraveling was a phone call from the Freecycle man on Monday. Because of work commitments he couldn't collect the old base on Tuesday evening as planned but asked if he could call the next day. This meant keeping the old base propped up in the lounge overnight but hey ho, not a great inconvenience. Tuesday arrived and I attacked the bedroom. A friend, who had promised to help with the heavy stuff, explained, with many apologies, that he'd had an urgent call out to work. I managed to shift the mattress and began to dismantle the old base. More horrors emerged when I viewed the area of carpet under the bed - the parts that other hoovers, including mine, couldn't reach. I set to and managed to remove the unspeakable evidence before I shocked the delivery men and embarrassed myself. The bed base duly arrived at the appointed time, the men helpfully carrying both parts upstairs. Full of optimistic expectation, my IKEA flatpack assembling skills honed to a knife-edge of readiness, I began to unpack the bits. I wonder how we managed before the days of polythene wrapping? Assembly tools nowadays must include a pair of scissors in addition to a screwdriver or two. One this occasion I also had to make judicial use of a staple remover as some staple gun toting person had gone to town on the bag containing castors, drawer handles and associated bits. I noticed that the polythene wrapping was wet but I was not unduly worried because it was raining during the delivery. Unpacking the second base I was concerned to see that the protective cardboard inside the large polythene bag encasing the base was soaked through. Further examination resulted in the discovery of substantial staining on one side of the base. It had to go back. So here I was with half a bed upstairs,the lounge dominated by a dismantled base downstairs and no prospect of a replacement base (bases were made to order) for 6 days. My cries of anguish to the makers were handled sympathetically and they promised to expedite the supply of a replacement but could only suggest that I use the offending part until a replacement arrived. Fortunately the top and connecting sides were dry.
Two glimmers of hope in an otherwise gloomy day:- the old base was collected by a very polite and grateful dreadlocked young man and at least the horrors under the bed have been hoovered away... for the time being anyway...
A couple of years ago my sister happened to mention that she was buying a new mattress for her bed. During the course of the conversation she mentioned that in addition to the fact that it had developed a "sag" it was high time to change it as she'd had it for well over 10 years. I successfully concealed a guilty look as I was still happily and comfortably slumbering on the same bed that I bought in 1977. Before you throw up your hands in horror I should quickly add that the mattress had been regularly hoovered and turned as all good mattresses should be. It had also been cosily wrapped in a snug protective covering.
Nevertheless a tiny nagging doubt had insinuated itself into my mind. Did the innocuous mattress conceal a seething mass of horrors? Was it alive with those evil-looking microscopic creatures that we are told live on the flakes of epidermic material that we constantly shed? Despite looking a little worn at the edges, the mattress was still in good shape, still firm, no sign of sagging. "But", said the insidious little voice, "did that 'firmness' consist of quality interior springing or was it just years of human detritus being munched by mattress mites?" Well, the doubt lingered and so a few months later I purchased a new posh mattress. As it had been a decade or two since buying my last one I went into moderate to severe shock at the cost. Examining the flimsy bases within my price range I decided to retain the existing and much better quality sprung base.
And so to today and the heading of this blog. Seeking more storage space I purchased a new double bed base with drawers. I blame Marks & Spencer entirely for this because they forced upon us an extremely tempting sale of towels and as everyone knows, one can never have too many towels. The new base was to be delivered the following Tuesday lunchtime so the question of the disposal of the old and perfectly good base had to be addressed. Once again the excellent Freecycle website came to the rescue. It's not often that you see a want-ad for a double bed base. A complete bed yes, but a base only? well, it must be a rarity. Nevertheless, there it was, precisely at the right time! It was arranged that the grateful recipient would call to pick up the old base on the evening of the new one being delivered. What could go wrong? Plenty.....
The first sign of things unraveling was a phone call from the Freecycle man on Monday. Because of work commitments he couldn't collect the old base on Tuesday evening as planned but asked if he could call the next day. This meant keeping the old base propped up in the lounge overnight but hey ho, not a great inconvenience. Tuesday arrived and I attacked the bedroom. A friend, who had promised to help with the heavy stuff, explained, with many apologies, that he'd had an urgent call out to work. I managed to shift the mattress and began to dismantle the old base. More horrors emerged when I viewed the area of carpet under the bed - the parts that other hoovers, including mine, couldn't reach. I set to and managed to remove the unspeakable evidence before I shocked the delivery men and embarrassed myself. The bed base duly arrived at the appointed time, the men helpfully carrying both parts upstairs. Full of optimistic expectation, my IKEA flatpack assembling skills honed to a knife-edge of readiness, I began to unpack the bits. I wonder how we managed before the days of polythene wrapping? Assembly tools nowadays must include a pair of scissors in addition to a screwdriver or two. One this occasion I also had to make judicial use of a staple remover as some staple gun toting person had gone to town on the bag containing castors, drawer handles and associated bits. I noticed that the polythene wrapping was wet but I was not unduly worried because it was raining during the delivery. Unpacking the second base I was concerned to see that the protective cardboard inside the large polythene bag encasing the base was soaked through. Further examination resulted in the discovery of substantial staining on one side of the base. It had to go back. So here I was with half a bed upstairs,the lounge dominated by a dismantled base downstairs and no prospect of a replacement base (bases were made to order) for 6 days. My cries of anguish to the makers were handled sympathetically and they promised to expedite the supply of a replacement but could only suggest that I use the offending part until a replacement arrived. Fortunately the top and connecting sides were dry.
Two glimmers of hope in an otherwise gloomy day:- the old base was collected by a very polite and grateful dreadlocked young man and at least the horrors under the bed have been hoovered away... for the time being anyway...
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Dawn Patrol, Passports and the Case of the Missing Poster.
Another bin day. It doesn't seem like a week since the last one. Actually it's more than a week as I missed last weeks, being en route from God's Own County of Durham. It was a blessing in disguise really as last week was a "green" bin day. On a green day I have several assorted bins, boxes and sacks or bags to place carefully and precisely outside Chez Kojak, as directed by the Uberbinfuhrer of my Borough Council. Failure to be careful and precise will result in some dire penalty just this side of hanging, drawing and quartering. It should be noted that this care and precision only applies to the placement of the receptacles. A free-for-all is apparently acceptable for the return of the empties. That's not to say that today's "grey" day was not without incident. Noting with rare approval that that the bin had been dumped loosely within my borders I spotted the diktat below pasted on the bin.
In a fiendish move to halve the extra hour in bed my bins must now be in situ 30 minutes earlier! For every winter to come my Dawn Patrol must now become a nocturnal one. If it gets any earlier it will hardly be worth going to bed. Perhaps I should charge them for torch batteries. An eve of bin day placement is not reliably feasible since, living near the coast, a fresh Irish Sea breeze would probably dump the bin and box and certainly blow the bag or sack into the next borough. Municipal red tape being what it is they'd no doubt spend more in carefully returning the foreign and therefore unemptied articles with an admonition than use commonsense and just empty them.
The Uberbinfuhrer is nothing if not active. At the cost of several dozen trees every household has received a notice proudly proclaiming a new, free service to remove heavy and/or metal, electrical, clothing, shoes, textiles etc. etc. This amazing new service is available 24hrs a day, 7 days a week "ensuring your peace of mind, direct from your property" and you won't have to lift a finger" All we had to do was phone the given number. As if this wasn't enough they would put on an introductory service on Saturday 30th October. Overwhelmed by this astonishing offer and having excavated the cupboard under the stairs in a previous blog I duly placed a neat but quite substantial pile outside my front door. Well, they didn't ensure my peace of mind and I did have to lift a finger - several times in fact. By dusk on Saturday the pile was still there and despite lifting my finger to phone they didn't come. They didn't come on Sunday or Monday. "We're running a bit late". I wonder if I should delay next months direct debit for my council tax as I frequently run a bit late too...
And so to passports. Noting that my nasty EU style passport is due to expire shortly before a holiday next June I have decided to apply well in advance in the hope that I get the new one in time. Having been a Government employee for most of my working life and even been responsible for rewriting various leaflets in "plain english" I never cease to be amazed at how difficult these forms are to fill in. Having been exhorted at the Post Office to keep within the confines of the boxes I found the said boxes for payment details coloured in such a pale yellow that they were quite hard to see. Most forms today consist of little boxes and invariably the boxes are very little. Now Malvina Reynolds sang a song called "Litttle Boxes" back in the 1960s. If she were alive today I'm sure she'd have ticky-tacky'd a verse on about very little boxes. At least I have, for the first time, succeeded in getting a passport photograph which looks vaguely human. The previous one, taken in the ubiquitous photo booth, looked as if I'd just sat in something nasty.
On my third visit to Symi I was greeted on the quayside by a line of friends wearing "Kojak" masks drawn by an artist friend. The artist himself brandished a full-sized matching poster. We all hastened along to the Meltemi Bar for the usual welcome drink or five. My pal Michaelis, who ran the bar, grabbed the poster and immediately nailed it up above the door. There it stayed for many years, gazing down at the clientele until the bar's sad demise.
The whereabouts and indeed the survival of the poster have been a mystery to me since then. Various people have hinted that it was "safe", others thought it no longer existed. The man himself told me only this year that as he'd given up the bar at short notice all the fittings etc. were taken out while he was away and he didn't know what happened to the poster. Imagine my surprise then when a photograph of it appeared in a Facebook group.
The poster is obviously not in it's original surroundings but the visible background isn't quite enough for me to immediately recognise it's location. Further investigation, dear reader, is necessary...
In a fiendish move to halve the extra hour in bed my bins must now be in situ 30 minutes earlier! For every winter to come my Dawn Patrol must now become a nocturnal one. If it gets any earlier it will hardly be worth going to bed. Perhaps I should charge them for torch batteries. An eve of bin day placement is not reliably feasible since, living near the coast, a fresh Irish Sea breeze would probably dump the bin and box and certainly blow the bag or sack into the next borough. Municipal red tape being what it is they'd no doubt spend more in carefully returning the foreign and therefore unemptied articles with an admonition than use commonsense and just empty them.
The Uberbinfuhrer is nothing if not active. At the cost of several dozen trees every household has received a notice proudly proclaiming a new, free service to remove heavy and/or metal, electrical, clothing, shoes, textiles etc. etc. This amazing new service is available 24hrs a day, 7 days a week "ensuring your peace of mind, direct from your property" and you won't have to lift a finger" All we had to do was phone the given number. As if this wasn't enough they would put on an introductory service on Saturday 30th October. Overwhelmed by this astonishing offer and having excavated the cupboard under the stairs in a previous blog I duly placed a neat but quite substantial pile outside my front door. Well, they didn't ensure my peace of mind and I did have to lift a finger - several times in fact. By dusk on Saturday the pile was still there and despite lifting my finger to phone they didn't come. They didn't come on Sunday or Monday. "We're running a bit late". I wonder if I should delay next months direct debit for my council tax as I frequently run a bit late too...
And so to passports. Noting that my nasty EU style passport is due to expire shortly before a holiday next June I have decided to apply well in advance in the hope that I get the new one in time. Having been a Government employee for most of my working life and even been responsible for rewriting various leaflets in "plain english" I never cease to be amazed at how difficult these forms are to fill in. Having been exhorted at the Post Office to keep within the confines of the boxes I found the said boxes for payment details coloured in such a pale yellow that they were quite hard to see. Most forms today consist of little boxes and invariably the boxes are very little. Now Malvina Reynolds sang a song called "Litttle Boxes" back in the 1960s. If she were alive today I'm sure she'd have ticky-tacky'd a verse on about very little boxes. At least I have, for the first time, succeeded in getting a passport photograph which looks vaguely human. The previous one, taken in the ubiquitous photo booth, looked as if I'd just sat in something nasty.
On my third visit to Symi I was greeted on the quayside by a line of friends wearing "Kojak" masks drawn by an artist friend. The artist himself brandished a full-sized matching poster. We all hastened along to the Meltemi Bar for the usual welcome drink or five. My pal Michaelis, who ran the bar, grabbed the poster and immediately nailed it up above the door. There it stayed for many years, gazing down at the clientele until the bar's sad demise.
The whereabouts and indeed the survival of the poster have been a mystery to me since then. Various people have hinted that it was "safe", others thought it no longer existed. The man himself told me only this year that as he'd given up the bar at short notice all the fittings etc. were taken out while he was away and he didn't know what happened to the poster. Imagine my surprise then when a photograph of it appeared in a Facebook group.
The poster is obviously not in it's original surroundings but the visible background isn't quite enough for me to immediately recognise it's location. Further investigation, dear reader, is necessary...
Friday, 29 October 2010
Rear View Mirrors Lingerie and Irn Bru
Last weekend I was summoned up to Newcastle to attend my niece-in-law's 50th birthday party. The invitation stressed that fancy dress was to be worn. What to wear? An excavation of the fancy dress drawer revealed that the hippy costume of genuine Brutus jeans and denim jacket had succumbed to that mysterious but common ailment of wardrobe shrinkage. Rousing the aged brain cells from their slumber I remembered that during a wardrobe clear-out in aid of the Lancashire Air Ambulance I had unearthed a "Jimmy Hat" - a scotch bonnet complete with a tasteful fringe of red hair. I also knew that my sister possessed a kilt which had belonged to one of my nephews. The fancy dress theme was settled! I lacked a sporran but showing remarkable ingenuity, I performed a makeover on a nylon bumbag which I'd felt compelled to purchase but had never used - fate had clearly demonstrated stunning foresight! The "sporran" lacked tassels but I gave it a true Scottish air by attaching 3 cans of Irn Bru. Braces, Pringle socks, suspenders and a wig from my amateur operatic days coordinated the ensemble perfectly. I was packing on the morning of the party when disaster struck. The "Jimmy Hat" was nowhere to be found! Doubtless it will turn up in an obvious place in the next few days. Inspiration came to the rescue magnificently. Now we are all told by the chattering classes that today's multicultural society embroiders life's rich tapestry. Kind and thoughtful friends, aware of my Telly Savalas appearance, had presented me with a rastafarian hat complete with dreadlocks. What better way to demonstrate the rich mix of cultures that makes up today's society! The costume was complete!
Confident in the sartorial elegance of my costume I set off, steeling myself for the usual trauma of the M6. I don't make a habit of regularly checking the Highway Code or every small bit of legislation passed by our Parliamentary representatives but I'm reasonably sure that rear view mirrors have not been abolished. Worryingly, an increasing proportion of the motoring public seem to have removed theirs. Life on the M6 north of Junction 32 is a constant battle to avoid being swiped into the fast lane without notice or even worse, being squeezed into no lane at all. Add the middle lane hoggers and those who seem to think that a slip road has priority and the drive up requires more weaving than the Bayeux Tapestry.
By some miracle I arrived at my sisters unscathed. The search for the missing "Jimmy Hat" had delayed my departure so there wasn't much time left to assemble the, frankly stunning costume. I know it was stunning because my sainted sister was stunned when she saw it. She did recover her composure sufficiently to take the photograph above. Anyway, I digress. Followers of this blog will know by now that I digress quite frequently. There's nothing wrong with a little digress now and then and I propose to continue digressing. Life is often full of difficulties and I discovered another difficulty, namely that the kilt had also suffered wardrobe shrinkage. My blessed sister came to the rescue with 3 large safety pins to preserve my modesty.
The party went well and I received many favourable comments on my garb. I knew people liked it because they all smiled and some even lapsed into hysteria. It was a particularly cold night and despite not being a true Scot I was conscious of a distinct draught that a prudent choice of Damart could have averted. My shivers were nothing compared to those of a brave soul who arrived wearing only his wife's underwear. I presume it was his wife's underwear else someone's washing line is missing some very expensive lingerie. The next day was spent shivering and sneezing - I had most certainly got a chill in my sporran...
Confident in the sartorial elegance of my costume I set off, steeling myself for the usual trauma of the M6. I don't make a habit of regularly checking the Highway Code or every small bit of legislation passed by our Parliamentary representatives but I'm reasonably sure that rear view mirrors have not been abolished. Worryingly, an increasing proportion of the motoring public seem to have removed theirs. Life on the M6 north of Junction 32 is a constant battle to avoid being swiped into the fast lane without notice or even worse, being squeezed into no lane at all. Add the middle lane hoggers and those who seem to think that a slip road has priority and the drive up requires more weaving than the Bayeux Tapestry.
By some miracle I arrived at my sisters unscathed. The search for the missing "Jimmy Hat" had delayed my departure so there wasn't much time left to assemble the, frankly stunning costume. I know it was stunning because my sainted sister was stunned when she saw it. She did recover her composure sufficiently to take the photograph above. Anyway, I digress. Followers of this blog will know by now that I digress quite frequently. There's nothing wrong with a little digress now and then and I propose to continue digressing. Life is often full of difficulties and I discovered another difficulty, namely that the kilt had also suffered wardrobe shrinkage. My blessed sister came to the rescue with 3 large safety pins to preserve my modesty.
The party went well and I received many favourable comments on my garb. I knew people liked it because they all smiled and some even lapsed into hysteria. It was a particularly cold night and despite not being a true Scot I was conscious of a distinct draught that a prudent choice of Damart could have averted. My shivers were nothing compared to those of a brave soul who arrived wearing only his wife's underwear. I presume it was his wife's underwear else someone's washing line is missing some very expensive lingerie. The next day was spent shivering and sneezing - I had most certainly got a chill in my sporran...
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Bin Men and Tyre Pressures
What have bin men and tyre pressures got in common? Well, not much really except that they happened on the same day.
I thought I'd escaped that Monday morning feeling when I retired. Not so, because the bin men arrive each Monday morning and I am, for my sins (which must have been grievous), first on the rota for "the treatment". I have to be up and alert each Monday at 8am sharp to monitor whatever nefarious deeds they commit in the name of recycling. I should really hestitate to comment on their iniquity for fear of even more drastic consequences but let's just say I am almost on first name terms with the Head Recycler and I have his mobile number.
Today was "grey" day, a relatively easy surveillance because it involves only one grey bin. Easy, you may think and yet they still manage to raise my blood pressure. As a self-confessed grumpy old man (I could have written the BBC series) it is not difficult to incite my ire and I really should resist biting the bullet, or rather the bin. Ze Instruktions are to have the bins ready for collection by 8am. Bin bags left on the pavement will NOT be collected. Why then, this morning, did they arrive at 07.50? Was it to catch out unwary late sleepers? And why, did the bin man reach inside my bin and lift out the black bin bag? leaving in the bin, odd bits of detritus that I'd picked up outside and which the wind always seems to dump on my patch of lawn. Now, I keep a very tidy bin and everything of my own is always placed in a bag before being binned but you'd think that he'd have given a cursory glance inside, given that he'd gone to the effort of actually lifting the lid. Today's bin men are delicate creatures, not the hearty bin men of old who effortlessly swung metal bins on their back, carried them some considerable distance and then hoisted them up with a fluid ease to empty the bin into the lorry. They even brought the bin back into the garden and placed it cheerfully back from whence it came. Todays timid creatures can only wheel, not lift, and then only wheel if the nasty bin isn't too heavy. Some seem to lack numeracy as my bin has been known to roam despite the house number on it being visible to overhead aircraft. So much for the sins of "grey" day. Next week is "green" day, the very thought of which causes a need for a strong cup of tea. I have a green bin, a green box and either a white sack or a blue bag, depending on what the bin man deigned to leave me the last time. There are 3 seperate collections which means a constant state of red alert from 8am until noon(ish). One would think that "green" operatives, given the nature of their jobs, would be more civic minded and eager to please - nope! I have to be ready to spring out of my door with alacrity if I sense that the bin, box or sack/bag is destined to land outside my territorial boundarys. I need several cups of tea on a green Monday...
And so to tyre pressures. At this point I have to admit that I have never actually checked the tyre pressures on my current car, leaving it to my trusty local garage man to do this on each service. I was prompted into guilt by my pal, the Blessed Ian (he who helped with the patio), who has the same make of car. He announced that after checking his tyres he was amazed at the difference it made in handling and fuel economy. Now I know all this, but things got lax when I bought this car because it doesn't have a cigarette lighter socket where I can plug in my home car tyre inflator thingy. It's a poor excuse but it's the only one I have, mea maxima culpa. Anyway, yet again, I digress. Bear in mind that it is some time since I approached a free air pump at a garage. Shock number one - air is no longer free. Fortunately, as car parking has not generally been free for quite a while, I have a small cache of coinage in the car ashtray (why do they sell a car with an ashtray but no cigarette lighter? Do they assume that if we can afford a packet of fags then we can probably afford a lighter?) Shock number 2 - a perusal of the Skoda User Manual told me that the correct tyre pressures were to be found on the inside of the fuel filler cap. Now, as I'd combined the search for fuel and purchaseable air with a visit to the supermarket, it was dark by the time I emerged from Mr Tescos laden, of course by many more items than the 3 I had intended to buy. Fortuitously, on my car key ring, I have a small torch, courtesy of a 2009 quality Christmas cracker else the quest for air would have ended there and then. Even when illuminated, the figures meant nothing to me. Skoda have no truck with lbs per square inch, being a foreign make built outwith the sunny bounds of the late British Empire. I was faced with 220/2.20 which meant absolutely nothing to me and that was just for the front tyres. Full of trepidation, clutching my 20p piece I noted that you got precisely 5 minutes air for it - even the airlines don't charge that much. I hope the government doesn't get any ideas or pensioners won't live to get much of their taxes back. Shock number 3 - it's all automatic. Gone are the days where you pressed a little lever and watched the dial. Now you just set the pressure, plug in the hose and a little beeper beeps as it automatically cuts off at the correct level. At least at the petrol pumps you still have to press something to get the desired amount of fuel. The only thing that can go wrong is picking up the wrong fuel hose. But that's another story......
I thought I'd escaped that Monday morning feeling when I retired. Not so, because the bin men arrive each Monday morning and I am, for my sins (which must have been grievous), first on the rota for "the treatment". I have to be up and alert each Monday at 8am sharp to monitor whatever nefarious deeds they commit in the name of recycling. I should really hestitate to comment on their iniquity for fear of even more drastic consequences but let's just say I am almost on first name terms with the Head Recycler and I have his mobile number.
Today was "grey" day, a relatively easy surveillance because it involves only one grey bin. Easy, you may think and yet they still manage to raise my blood pressure. As a self-confessed grumpy old man (I could have written the BBC series) it is not difficult to incite my ire and I really should resist biting the bullet, or rather the bin. Ze Instruktions are to have the bins ready for collection by 8am. Bin bags left on the pavement will NOT be collected. Why then, this morning, did they arrive at 07.50? Was it to catch out unwary late sleepers? And why, did the bin man reach inside my bin and lift out the black bin bag? leaving in the bin, odd bits of detritus that I'd picked up outside and which the wind always seems to dump on my patch of lawn. Now, I keep a very tidy bin and everything of my own is always placed in a bag before being binned but you'd think that he'd have given a cursory glance inside, given that he'd gone to the effort of actually lifting the lid. Today's bin men are delicate creatures, not the hearty bin men of old who effortlessly swung metal bins on their back, carried them some considerable distance and then hoisted them up with a fluid ease to empty the bin into the lorry. They even brought the bin back into the garden and placed it cheerfully back from whence it came. Todays timid creatures can only wheel, not lift, and then only wheel if the nasty bin isn't too heavy. Some seem to lack numeracy as my bin has been known to roam despite the house number on it being visible to overhead aircraft. So much for the sins of "grey" day. Next week is "green" day, the very thought of which causes a need for a strong cup of tea. I have a green bin, a green box and either a white sack or a blue bag, depending on what the bin man deigned to leave me the last time. There are 3 seperate collections which means a constant state of red alert from 8am until noon(ish). One would think that "green" operatives, given the nature of their jobs, would be more civic minded and eager to please - nope! I have to be ready to spring out of my door with alacrity if I sense that the bin, box or sack/bag is destined to land outside my territorial boundarys. I need several cups of tea on a green Monday...
And so to tyre pressures. At this point I have to admit that I have never actually checked the tyre pressures on my current car, leaving it to my trusty local garage man to do this on each service. I was prompted into guilt by my pal, the Blessed Ian (he who helped with the patio), who has the same make of car. He announced that after checking his tyres he was amazed at the difference it made in handling and fuel economy. Now I know all this, but things got lax when I bought this car because it doesn't have a cigarette lighter socket where I can plug in my home car tyre inflator thingy. It's a poor excuse but it's the only one I have, mea maxima culpa. Anyway, yet again, I digress. Bear in mind that it is some time since I approached a free air pump at a garage. Shock number one - air is no longer free. Fortunately, as car parking has not generally been free for quite a while, I have a small cache of coinage in the car ashtray (why do they sell a car with an ashtray but no cigarette lighter? Do they assume that if we can afford a packet of fags then we can probably afford a lighter?) Shock number 2 - a perusal of the Skoda User Manual told me that the correct tyre pressures were to be found on the inside of the fuel filler cap. Now, as I'd combined the search for fuel and purchaseable air with a visit to the supermarket, it was dark by the time I emerged from Mr Tescos laden, of course by many more items than the 3 I had intended to buy. Fortuitously, on my car key ring, I have a small torch, courtesy of a 2009 quality Christmas cracker else the quest for air would have ended there and then. Even when illuminated, the figures meant nothing to me. Skoda have no truck with lbs per square inch, being a foreign make built outwith the sunny bounds of the late British Empire. I was faced with 220/2.20 which meant absolutely nothing to me and that was just for the front tyres. Full of trepidation, clutching my 20p piece I noted that you got precisely 5 minutes air for it - even the airlines don't charge that much. I hope the government doesn't get any ideas or pensioners won't live to get much of their taxes back. Shock number 3 - it's all automatic. Gone are the days where you pressed a little lever and watched the dial. Now you just set the pressure, plug in the hose and a little beeper beeps as it automatically cuts off at the correct level. At least at the petrol pumps you still have to press something to get the desired amount of fuel. The only thing that can go wrong is picking up the wrong fuel hose. But that's another story......
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