Very good, Sniffy, how about updating your blog then?
Why don't I have any time anymore? It's ridiculous. I used to have stacks of free time in the evenings, but these days it seems as if it's nearly bedtime as soon as I've had my evening meal. Sometimes this is in fact true, especially at weekends when I don't eat until 9pm. Not that I'm ooh la la, continental or anything. It's just that it happens to be that way when I'm with my other half.
Of course the biggest time thief in my life (apart from work) is my little dog. I love him, I in no way resent him, and most of the time I really enjoy him tippy-tappying up and down, up and down, up and fucking down along the laminate flooring-of-much-distress. I love taking him for his run around the woods in the evening, but it does take time - especially when I'm hiding behind trees, avoiding the scary leprechaun man.
But the little dog and weird leprechauns aside, a more recent drain on my time has been house pride. This has involved all sorts of things an visits from talkative electricians, joiners... and plumbers - all associated with making the house a home, ready for decoration.
We finally painted the living room the other week. This should have been straightforward had I not insisted on trying to take the radiator off. Did I close the valves, empty it? Did I fuck. Did I put something in place to prop it on so the connectors weren't put under immense strain when we realised we couldn't hold its filled weight and so had to put it on the floor? No, this is me we're talking about. Did I panic and scream like a girl when the pipe connector gave way under the weight and the entire contents of my central heating system pissed out onto the living room floor? You fucking betchya! But at least I managed to paint behind it ok, so I'm guessing the eventual outcome was what I'd been looking for.
But I've learned a valuable lesson and bought a paint pad for when the dining room gets daubed in "rice cake": the radiator stays put or I die on fire.
Sterlise the fuckers
The lawless youth have been rampaging through our cities, causing mindless destruction and looting. I think the majority of the population are finally coming round to my way of thinking with regards to sterilising waste of space scum whose families haven't worked for generations. They're parasites, plain and simple. The only things they're capable of are 1) filling out benefits forms, 2) causing trouble and 3) breeding. Remove (1) to discourage (3) and there'll be fewer of them for (2). And if that doesn't work, we should try the sympathetic intervention of horsewhipping the little cunts into the next decade.
Thursday 11 August 2011
Tuesday 12 July 2011
UniFried
It was only after I'd tried to view both my gas and electric bills online that I realised I had the wrong sort of account with my supplier. They were very nice to me, switched me to something that was capped for a couple of years so that, when the time comes to change tariffs, gas and electricity will probably cost five times more than they do at the moment.
Anyway (:@), I've been put on a UniFi account, which comes with one of those energy monitor thingies. You put a clip around the mains cable and it sends information about electricity usage to a little monitor that takes up yet more shelf space and gathers dust with the rest of the nick nacks. The clever thing about this system is that it links to the internet - woooooh. It also has a clever plug system that means you can control devices remotely: plug your device into the UniFi plug, configure the plug online and you can turn it off and on at a whim. Better still, there's an iPhone app for it.
Who'd have thought electricity could be so much fun? So I plugged my UniFi plug in, set it up online, then it went "click", its light died and it wouldn't come back on again. It also gave me an electric shock when I removed it from the socket.
A lesson there then: electricity is not a toy; reinforced by 240V through the nipples.
I'd hoped to be able to play with the little dog's mind while I was out at work by activating the radio or TV at random times during the day. Alas, I won't be able to that until the replacement plug arrives. What I can do, however, is check in to see that he's not messing about with the lights while I'm away. This is the sort of thing you see:
That's 48p I've used so far today. Clever, non? Gimic? Absofuckinglutely.
Hostage room
My living room isn't what it was. After living in my magnolia dream home for nearly two years, my girlfriend has decided that it's time for some colour. I hate colour. Especially matchpots of colour. We spent an afternoon last week daubing the walls with 7 different types of emulsion - this was because B&Q didn't have the sample pot for the colour we thought we'd like. When we did get hold of one, and completed the four wall daubing with 8 splodges of colours, our original choice was confirmed.
Not being able to decorate for a few weeks, and me not being able to live in something reminiscent of a 1970s Maze Prison dirty protest, the paint daubs are now semi covered with the original magnolia: two coats of the bloody stuff.
In the time and effort it's taken to get to this:
...Repeated on all the walls of the room. (And yes, that's Psychic Sally on the telly).
The entire room could've been painted in our colour of choice.
We'll get there.
There's new furniture coming tomorrow, so the sofa was taken by the council today. The living room now resembles a 5 star Beirut hostage cell,
but at least that's only for one day.
The new furniture leaves me with a dilemma: the telly. It kind of dominates the room and I want it more out of the way (especially if I'm watching Psychic Sally). Without a corner to put it in, positioning on top of one the alcove cupboards would be ideal, but then there wouldn't be room for the cable box and DVD player. Then it dawned on me: I put it to my other half that I'd had an idea, but she probably wouldn't like it. "I think we should get a wall bracket for it", I suggested meekly.
"Ha, ha, ha", she laughed, "for a moment there, I thought you said we should put it on the wall."
"Errm, well, yes", I responded, waiting for the backlash from 90 miles away.
"Which wall were you thinking of?"
"In the alcove, on one of those brackets that allows you to pull it out and swivel it?"
"So long as it's not on the chimney breast. I think that's a great idea", she agreed.
So, there you go. I'm entering the realms of the common as muck scum and I'm going to have my telly on the wall.
I might cover it up with an oversized doily when it's not in use though.
Next up: a stick-on electric fireplace for the chimney breast.
Anyway (:@), I've been put on a UniFi account, which comes with one of those energy monitor thingies. You put a clip around the mains cable and it sends information about electricity usage to a little monitor that takes up yet more shelf space and gathers dust with the rest of the nick nacks. The clever thing about this system is that it links to the internet - woooooh. It also has a clever plug system that means you can control devices remotely: plug your device into the UniFi plug, configure the plug online and you can turn it off and on at a whim. Better still, there's an iPhone app for it.
Who'd have thought electricity could be so much fun? So I plugged my UniFi plug in, set it up online, then it went "click", its light died and it wouldn't come back on again. It also gave me an electric shock when I removed it from the socket.
A lesson there then: electricity is not a toy; reinforced by 240V through the nipples.
I'd hoped to be able to play with the little dog's mind while I was out at work by activating the radio or TV at random times during the day. Alas, I won't be able to that until the replacement plug arrives. What I can do, however, is check in to see that he's not messing about with the lights while I'm away. This is the sort of thing you see:
That's 48p I've used so far today. Clever, non? Gimic? Absofuckinglutely.
Hostage room
My living room isn't what it was. After living in my magnolia dream home for nearly two years, my girlfriend has decided that it's time for some colour. I hate colour. Especially matchpots of colour. We spent an afternoon last week daubing the walls with 7 different types of emulsion - this was because B&Q didn't have the sample pot for the colour we thought we'd like. When we did get hold of one, and completed the four wall daubing with 8 splodges of colours, our original choice was confirmed.
Not being able to decorate for a few weeks, and me not being able to live in something reminiscent of a 1970s Maze Prison dirty protest, the paint daubs are now semi covered with the original magnolia: two coats of the bloody stuff.
In the time and effort it's taken to get to this:
...Repeated on all the walls of the room. (And yes, that's Psychic Sally on the telly).
The entire room could've been painted in our colour of choice.
We'll get there.
There's new furniture coming tomorrow, so the sofa was taken by the council today. The living room now resembles a 5 star Beirut hostage cell,
but at least that's only for one day.
The new furniture leaves me with a dilemma: the telly. It kind of dominates the room and I want it more out of the way (especially if I'm watching Psychic Sally). Without a corner to put it in, positioning on top of one the alcove cupboards would be ideal, but then there wouldn't be room for the cable box and DVD player. Then it dawned on me: I put it to my other half that I'd had an idea, but she probably wouldn't like it. "I think we should get a wall bracket for it", I suggested meekly.
"Ha, ha, ha", she laughed, "for a moment there, I thought you said we should put it on the wall."
"Errm, well, yes", I responded, waiting for the backlash from 90 miles away.
"Which wall were you thinking of?"
"In the alcove, on one of those brackets that allows you to pull it out and swivel it?"
"So long as it's not on the chimney breast. I think that's a great idea", she agreed.
So, there you go. I'm entering the realms of the common as muck scum and I'm going to have my telly on the wall.
I might cover it up with an oversized doily when it's not in use though.
Next up: a stick-on electric fireplace for the chimney breast.
Monday 11 July 2011
The leaving of Liverpool
I spent a very enjoyable weekend in Liverpool recently. I'm sure the weather helped enormously, but there was something about the city, a vibrancy, openness, warmth, that I've never felt in my home town of Manchester... and that I'm certain not to get in Stornoway, where I'm sure a wicker effigy awaits me.
What the fuck is wrong with my dog?
Anyway (:@), Liverpool. It's my mother's place of birth, the place she still calls home; the place my dad calls home, despite having never lived there. As children, we'd be dragged there all the time, catching the bus down to the Pier Head where we'd look at the Liver Buildings - again - go on the Mersey Ferry and back - again - stand bored as Mum allowed herself to be washed by the breeze coming from the big river - A-FUCKING-GAIN.
Back then, it was a shithole. It was always grey, raining. The best thing about the place was the St John's Centre, which in comparison to Manchester's Arndale, was awful. There, the finest dining could be found in Gregg's sit down cafe, or maybe is was Sayers.
Liverpool was naff. The people were up their own arses; they had a huge chip on their shoulders and were determined to drag themselves down, while wallowing in the collective grief of Boys from the Black Stuff. They needed to get a grip and forget their past glories - move on, it's the 1980s!
Regeneration has come to Liverpool though, at least around the dock area. The place is unrecognisable from that dreary, rain-soaked dump that I visited so many times as a youngster. It's fair to say that the main reason for this new found glamour is a shiny shopping centre that houses all the same shops that you'd find anywhere else in the world, but it's much more than that. There's a vibrancy and positivity that I don't feel in Manchester, which seems edgy in comparison. You walk around the city (not the St John's area, which is still awful) and it feels wealthy and proud, as it used to be when it was in its pomp. It's a place where people want to visit from all over the world, a truly international attraction. This is good to observe - Liverpool deserves a break and hopefully, the regeneration of the city centre will send ripples of optimism and an economic boost out to the poorer areas.
My previous trip to Liverpool was tainted by much sadness as it was on the day that I realised my then partner was on the verge of betraying me for another. The memories of the place were not good for me.
So, what the hell was I doing there this time? Primarily, we were there to see Jools Holland and his R&B Orchestra in concert. Excellent - nothing more that needs to be added. We decided to make a break of it and arranged to stay in a rather cool hotel in the heart of the action and this gave us the opportunity to explore the place - Albert Dock, Tate Liverpool (I still don't get art), St George's Hall, Pier Head, Liverpool One, Maritime Museum, etc.
It was when were making our down to the Maritime Museum (worth a visit, very good) when I saw a woman walking (marching) towards us with a bearded man alongside her. I stared in horror, did a double take, blinked and exclaimed "Fucking hell, it's CYNTHIA!".
The other week, I noted learning of the death of Marie from Base 2a. Cynthia, fucking eccentric to the extreme CYNTHIA, worked with Marie. Cynthia (Carmelita in very early blog posts) drove me up the fucking wall for six years. And there she was, marching with a purpose past Costa Coffee in Liverpool One. She was too wrapped up in speaking Russian to her husband, the hairy man (he's Russian), to notice my gobsmacked face gawping at her. But the coincidence knocked me for six.
Photo time:
I feared that coincidence would haunt me further on a trip to Waterloo (home of mental Ruthie) to witness Anthony Gormley's Another Place, but I was spared bumping into the Scouse lunatic - not surprising really, since all she does sit in her flat and surf the internet for another victim to attack in an unremitting assault of madness. Here's the deal with the bronze beach people:
As you grow up, you become more appreciative of the history of a place. I still think Scousers have a huge chip on their shoulders and that they're the worst grief junkies in the world, but they have a pride in their city and their roots that should be applauded and cherished. So long as they don't open their mouths.
What the fuck is wrong with my dog?
Anyway (:@), Liverpool. It's my mother's place of birth, the place she still calls home; the place my dad calls home, despite having never lived there. As children, we'd be dragged there all the time, catching the bus down to the Pier Head where we'd look at the Liver Buildings - again - go on the Mersey Ferry and back - again - stand bored as Mum allowed herself to be washed by the breeze coming from the big river - A-FUCKING-GAIN.
Back then, it was a shithole. It was always grey, raining. The best thing about the place was the St John's Centre, which in comparison to Manchester's Arndale, was awful. There, the finest dining could be found in Gregg's sit down cafe, or maybe is was Sayers.
Liverpool was naff. The people were up their own arses; they had a huge chip on their shoulders and were determined to drag themselves down, while wallowing in the collective grief of Boys from the Black Stuff. They needed to get a grip and forget their past glories - move on, it's the 1980s!
Regeneration has come to Liverpool though, at least around the dock area. The place is unrecognisable from that dreary, rain-soaked dump that I visited so many times as a youngster. It's fair to say that the main reason for this new found glamour is a shiny shopping centre that houses all the same shops that you'd find anywhere else in the world, but it's much more than that. There's a vibrancy and positivity that I don't feel in Manchester, which seems edgy in comparison. You walk around the city (not the St John's area, which is still awful) and it feels wealthy and proud, as it used to be when it was in its pomp. It's a place where people want to visit from all over the world, a truly international attraction. This is good to observe - Liverpool deserves a break and hopefully, the regeneration of the city centre will send ripples of optimism and an economic boost out to the poorer areas.
My previous trip to Liverpool was tainted by much sadness as it was on the day that I realised my then partner was on the verge of betraying me for another. The memories of the place were not good for me.
So, what the hell was I doing there this time? Primarily, we were there to see Jools Holland and his R&B Orchestra in concert. Excellent - nothing more that needs to be added. We decided to make a break of it and arranged to stay in a rather cool hotel in the heart of the action and this gave us the opportunity to explore the place - Albert Dock, Tate Liverpool (I still don't get art), St George's Hall, Pier Head, Liverpool One, Maritime Museum, etc.
It was when were making our down to the Maritime Museum (worth a visit, very good) when I saw a woman walking (marching) towards us with a bearded man alongside her. I stared in horror, did a double take, blinked and exclaimed "Fucking hell, it's CYNTHIA!".
The other week, I noted learning of the death of Marie from Base 2a. Cynthia, fucking eccentric to the extreme CYNTHIA, worked with Marie. Cynthia (Carmelita in very early blog posts) drove me up the fucking wall for six years. And there she was, marching with a purpose past Costa Coffee in Liverpool One. She was too wrapped up in speaking Russian to her husband, the hairy man (he's Russian), to notice my gobsmacked face gawping at her. But the coincidence knocked me for six.
Photo time:
 |
| Good boy, bad boy... so confused (and that's Tucker Smallwood, Black god from the Sarah Silverman Programme) |
 |
| Toasty bed - a Gormley |
 |
| No idea what that building is |
 |
| Everywhere seems to have a wheel these days, and everyone seems to take a night shot of it reflected in something or other |
I feared that coincidence would haunt me further on a trip to Waterloo (home of mental Ruthie) to witness Anthony Gormley's Another Place, but I was spared bumping into the Scouse lunatic - not surprising really, since all she does sit in her flat and surf the internet for another victim to attack in an unremitting assault of madness. Here's the deal with the bronze beach people:
 |
| Oh look, another Sniffy seascape with a wonky horizon |
As you grow up, you become more appreciative of the history of a place. I still think Scousers have a huge chip on their shoulders and that they're the worst grief junkies in the world, but they have a pride in their city and their roots that should be applauded and cherished. So long as they don't open their mouths.
Sunday 26 June 2011
Like an old friend returning
The sunshine came back today. After what seems like two months of continuous rain, we've been treated to 27C and beautiful sunshine. It won't last, but it's helped to dissolve the worst of the memories of the cold and rain since the end of April.
I saw this on the interweb the other week, it made me smile...Oh, this tossing iPhone is rubbish for blogging from. I can't insert a pic without it being a real arse. In face this iPhone isn't much good for making telephone calls from either. And receiving them depends on what mood it's in, and whether the wind is blowing in the right direction. Pile of crap. I shall return from the fully functioning facility of my laptop - fully functioning apart the network settings being fucked by the VPN, the display driver wiping out on me every twenty minutes, and only one speaker working.
Anyway (:@), happy sunshine while it lasts.
I saw this on the interweb the other week, it made me smile...Oh, this tossing iPhone is rubbish for blogging from. I can't insert a pic without it being a real arse. In face this iPhone isn't much good for making telephone calls from either. And receiving them depends on what mood it's in, and whether the wind is blowing in the right direction. Pile of crap. I shall return from the fully functioning facility of my laptop - fully functioning apart the network settings being fucked by the VPN, the display driver wiping out on me every twenty minutes, and only one speaker working.
Anyway (:@), happy sunshine while it lasts.
Thursday 23 June 2011
Be careful what you Google (part, the second)
Be especially careful what you Google if you happen to go by the name "Veganheart1" on Twitter.
I really don't need to add anything further to this, other than:
FUCKING LUNATIC!!!!!
I really don't need to add anything further to this, other than:
FUCKING LUNATIC!!!!!
Wednesday 22 June 2011
Be careful what you Google
I never Google myself. And no, that's not a euphemism for masturbating. Googling yourself is generally borne of vanity and for that reason alone, those who do check out their internet footprints deserve to come a cropper. I don't like the idea of seeing the stuff that I do know is out there on the internet: old job profiles, angry forum comments, generally embarrassing stuff that I'd rather wasn't in existence anymore. But I'm certain that somebody like me, ie me, has crossed more than a few people who consequently rant on about me on the internet. Maybe I flatter myself.
Anyway, :@), for some reason last week, I decided to see if I could check out what was going on with people from my not too distant past. Nothing malicious intended, just purely out of curiosity. I happened to search for Marie, one of the few people who didn't drive me up the fucking wall at Base 2a when I worked at the falling apart hospital in Cheshire. I came across her obituary. This was Marie. She'd gone from being a relatively healthy 59 year old in July 2007, to being an obituary in August 2010. It shocked me.
Had I not undertaken my little espionage mission, I'd have thought of Marie on increasingly rare occasions and put her back in that box. Now I know she died, probably of cancer, in a hospice and left behind a grieving family. I wish I hadn't done it now.
Be careful what you Google.
Anyway, :@), for some reason last week, I decided to see if I could check out what was going on with people from my not too distant past. Nothing malicious intended, just purely out of curiosity. I happened to search for Marie, one of the few people who didn't drive me up the fucking wall at Base 2a when I worked at the falling apart hospital in Cheshire. I came across her obituary. This was Marie. She'd gone from being a relatively healthy 59 year old in July 2007, to being an obituary in August 2010. It shocked me.
Had I not undertaken my little espionage mission, I'd have thought of Marie on increasingly rare occasions and put her back in that box. Now I know she died, probably of cancer, in a hospice and left behind a grieving family. I wish I hadn't done it now.
Be careful what you Google.
Sunday 12 June 2011
A rainy day in Bolton
I think it's raining all over the world.
Anyway (:@), things are never as simple as you'd hope, but that's life. I've learned a very interesting lesson in 'lectrics today. That being that shite ovens that come in modern houses are essentially plugged in to the 13 amp circuit (this is what makes them shit - no power) and when you want to change them for a decent oven, you have to have your house re-wired and part of the kitchen ripped out.
C'est la vie.
And why can't hairdressers do as you ask? I've had a really good hair cut, but "Sandy" was so horrified when I told her what I wanted, that I had to back down and go with something that she thought best, which is a really good cut, but it's left me looking a little like Elaine Paige.
C'est la vie.
Anyway (:@), despite everything I do have access to sharp objects and I might just snip the bits off that I told her I didn't want and suffer the consequences when I go back in six weeks' time. Is there supposed to be an apostrophe there? If I was as mental as I used to be, I'd know the answer to that question, but I'm a bit more relaxed these days. And no fucker reads this shite, so I doubt I'm going to be bundled, blindfold and gagged into the boot of a car and then beaten to within and inch of my life by the disciples of Lynn Truss for one errant bit of punctuation.
So I found myself alone early this weekend; normally I'd be with my other half until later on this evening, but I had to rush back this morning to be told I was a complete spaz for buying the wrong oven by my electrician. But never mind, I know about 32 amp circuits and stuff now, so it's not as bad as it could have been.... had I wired the oven in myself and burnt the house down.
Another year and we're not going to get a summer... again - it's pissing it down and 9°C out there, in June. Finding myself getting a little down in the dumps, I took myself off to Sainsbury's in Bolton, which is never a treat, but I needed coffee and something for my tea. Having decided that I wanted to watch the Kill Bills, I took myself to the DVD section where I found this:
Anyway (:@), things are never as simple as you'd hope, but that's life. I've learned a very interesting lesson in 'lectrics today. That being that shite ovens that come in modern houses are essentially plugged in to the 13 amp circuit (this is what makes them shit - no power) and when you want to change them for a decent oven, you have to have your house re-wired and part of the kitchen ripped out.
C'est la vie.
And why can't hairdressers do as you ask? I've had a really good hair cut, but "Sandy" was so horrified when I told her what I wanted, that I had to back down and go with something that she thought best, which is a really good cut, but it's left me looking a little like Elaine Paige.
C'est la vie.
Anyway (:@), despite everything I do have access to sharp objects and I might just snip the bits off that I told her I didn't want and suffer the consequences when I go back in six weeks' time. Is there supposed to be an apostrophe there? If I was as mental as I used to be, I'd know the answer to that question, but I'm a bit more relaxed these days. And no fucker reads this shite, so I doubt I'm going to be bundled, blindfold and gagged into the boot of a car and then beaten to within and inch of my life by the disciples of Lynn Truss for one errant bit of punctuation.
So I found myself alone early this weekend; normally I'd be with my other half until later on this evening, but I had to rush back this morning to be told I was a complete spaz for buying the wrong oven by my electrician. But never mind, I know about 32 amp circuits and stuff now, so it's not as bad as it could have been.... had I wired the oven in myself and burnt the house down.
Another year and we're not going to get a summer... again - it's pissing it down and 9°C out there, in June. Finding myself getting a little down in the dumps, I took myself off to Sainsbury's in Bolton, which is never a treat, but I needed coffee and something for my tea. Having decided that I wanted to watch the Kill Bills, I took myself to the DVD section where I found this:
Fucking yes!!!!!
So I did my shopping, got to the car and realised I'd forgotten this:
So I went back in and found these:
Wiggle your big toe to that!
This rain-soaked, miserable Sunday might not turn out too bad after all.
Wednesday 8 June 2011
Chosen by you
Asda, part of the Wal*MART family. Dear Lord.
My opinion of Asda has gone up since moving here... not the Asda in the town nearest here, which is Hell on earth, but the other one, which is bigger so the nastiness is diluted over a wider surface area. Anyway, this has made me realise that, apart from having to be very selective about what you can actually buy in the store, the really horrible thing about Asda is the people who shop there; hideous cunts. This contrasts to the staff, who are by and large lovely. You tend to find that there's a kind of skewed distribution in the pleasantness of shops staff that's related to where the store is on the la-de-da scale.
I've tried to draw this here:
So my issue with Asda isn't the staff; it's the produce and it's the customers. So when the customers are allowed to have a say in the produce, you know that the outcome is going to be very, very bad.
There's this range of products at Asda called "Chosen by you" - this from people whose general idea of cuisine ranges from a bag of Quavers to KFC.
I don't think I'll be buying anything that's been chosen by People of Asda. I'll buy things from Asda that has been chosen by their buyers; things that I can make things from myself.
My opinion of Asda has gone up since moving here... not the Asda in the town nearest here, which is Hell on earth, but the other one, which is bigger so the nastiness is diluted over a wider surface area. Anyway, this has made me realise that, apart from having to be very selective about what you can actually buy in the store, the really horrible thing about Asda is the people who shop there; hideous cunts. This contrasts to the staff, who are by and large lovely. You tend to find that there's a kind of skewed distribution in the pleasantness of shops staff that's related to where the store is on the la-de-da scale.
I've tried to draw this here:
There's this range of products at Asda called "Chosen by you" - this from people whose general idea of cuisine ranges from a bag of Quavers to KFC.
I don't think I'll be buying anything that's been chosen by People of Asda. I'll buy things from Asda that has been chosen by their buyers; things that I can make things from myself.
Tuesday 7 June 2011
Cold call
I'm forever having people call at my front door, annoying me. Nobody I know ever comes to the front of my house, so a knock is always a sign of trouble. It's usually not even for me. It's usually somebody from a power company asking if the previous owners want to change their energy company.
The answer is always no.
These people know this too. I tell them to make sure they know: "I'll just look on uSwitch and do a comparison there - there's no way I'm taking your word for it."
So why do they keep calling? Because they're paid to annoy people, be given the brush off by people having their evening meal, and to be growled at by the dog that has to be held because they always stand there with the fucking gate wide open onto the main fucking road.
Fucking idiots.
I feel forced into putting one of those horrid signs up that you see in the Easy Living catalogue: "No salesmen, No takeaway menus, No, No, No. Just whatever you want, NO!".
Or I could continue to take pleasure at watching them being dripped on from the guttering that seems to be leaking directly above where they stand.
Easy living
Is that what it's called? The little booklet that's the official Nazi Party version of the Betterware catalogue? It comes with the Sunday supplements every couple of months. Google tells me it's Easy Life (easy life if you're a member of the Daily Mail hang 'em high collective, that is).
I think they used to be Innovations, but they were clearly taking the piss. I'm sure some of the products are quite good if you're retired, bored have reduced mobility, but have too much money. However, some of the stuff is just really a bit mean spirited and designed with the intention of shooing things off, such as:
Here's to good health!
That was always the toast at Christmas and New Year. Add love and happiness and you can''t ask for much more from life. In fact, if you have all three, you're pretty much laughing I reckon.
If you have a chronic problem with your hip (for "chronic" read two months) it starts to get you down after a while. I'm starting to think that I might have done something to it while I was skiing. Anyway, I'm going for an assessment in a couple of weeks.
People keep recommending chiropracters and osteopaths to me. These people swear by theirs, who they've been seeing for YEARS with their back problems. I point this out to them. They don't get it. I also point out that homeopathy has been shown to be buncum, yet it's still sometimes funded from the Public purse, but the fact that osteopathy and chiropracterism (??) isn't offered on the NHS should indicate that they're viewed as even crapper than homeopathy.
Nothing is more effective than homeopathy.
Think about that one.
Anyway, I assume that the assessment will show that there's nothing can be done for me and that I'll have to rely on time and the correct exercises to help ease my problem. I guess it's also important to find out whether there's anything I should absolutely avoid doing.
I think the days of me getting my ankles round the back of my head are way behind me.
Bed time
You know, I have no idea where time goes.
It seems that one hour of not work time is worth three hours of work time. I swear I've only been home for two hours and it's bed time already. Yet I get to work at 8am, send off a load of e-mails, do some spreadsheety things, have a cup of coffee, go for a poo, look at the clock and it's 8:08.
I get home from work, prepare and eat my dinner, take the little feller out for his walk, come back, and it's bed time.
This is where I take him:
It's just up the road from here. He can run along pathways, bounce through the long grass, completely missing the fact that there are fifty rabbits bouncing around him. This evening the swallows were doing stunt flying at his height and within a metre or so of him. He didn't really notice because he'd found another dog's poo to sniff at from close up.
The answer is always no.
These people know this too. I tell them to make sure they know: "I'll just look on uSwitch and do a comparison there - there's no way I'm taking your word for it."
So why do they keep calling? Because they're paid to annoy people, be given the brush off by people having their evening meal, and to be growled at by the dog that has to be held because they always stand there with the fucking gate wide open onto the main fucking road.
Fucking idiots.
I feel forced into putting one of those horrid signs up that you see in the Easy Living catalogue: "No salesmen, No takeaway menus, No, No, No. Just whatever you want, NO!".
Or I could continue to take pleasure at watching them being dripped on from the guttering that seems to be leaking directly above where they stand.
Easy living
Is that what it's called? The little booklet that's the official Nazi Party version of the Betterware catalogue? It comes with the Sunday supplements every couple of months. Google tells me it's Easy Life (easy life if you're a member of the Daily Mail hang 'em high collective, that is).
I think they used to be Innovations, but they were clearly taking the piss. I'm sure some of the products are quite good if you're retired, bored have reduced mobility, but have too much money. However, some of the stuff is just really a bit mean spirited and designed with the intention of shooing things off, such as:
- Cats
- Spiders
- Flies
- Door-to-door salesmen
- "Foreign-looking and gypsies"
Here's to good health!
That was always the toast at Christmas and New Year. Add love and happiness and you can''t ask for much more from life. In fact, if you have all three, you're pretty much laughing I reckon.
If you have a chronic problem with your hip (for "chronic" read two months) it starts to get you down after a while. I'm starting to think that I might have done something to it while I was skiing. Anyway, I'm going for an assessment in a couple of weeks.
People keep recommending chiropracters and osteopaths to me. These people swear by theirs, who they've been seeing for YEARS with their back problems. I point this out to them. They don't get it. I also point out that homeopathy has been shown to be buncum, yet it's still sometimes funded from the Public purse, but the fact that osteopathy and chiropracterism (??) isn't offered on the NHS should indicate that they're viewed as even crapper than homeopathy.
Nothing is more effective than homeopathy.
Think about that one.
Anyway, I assume that the assessment will show that there's nothing can be done for me and that I'll have to rely on time and the correct exercises to help ease my problem. I guess it's also important to find out whether there's anything I should absolutely avoid doing.
I think the days of me getting my ankles round the back of my head are way behind me.
Bed time
You know, I have no idea where time goes.
It seems that one hour of not work time is worth three hours of work time. I swear I've only been home for two hours and it's bed time already. Yet I get to work at 8am, send off a load of e-mails, do some spreadsheety things, have a cup of coffee, go for a poo, look at the clock and it's 8:08.
I get home from work, prepare and eat my dinner, take the little feller out for his walk, come back, and it's bed time.
This is where I take him:
It's just up the road from here. He can run along pathways, bounce through the long grass, completely missing the fact that there are fifty rabbits bouncing around him. This evening the swallows were doing stunt flying at his height and within a metre or so of him. He didn't really notice because he'd found another dog's poo to sniff at from close up.
Friday 20 May 2011
Cos it's gettin' better
I wish could report that my back troubles are behind me (there's a pun in there somewhere), but there's still quite a bit of residual pain and weakness in my lower limbs - they being my legs.
But enough of woes and worries, life is good. Observing my parents over the years, I've learnt that you can't dwell on things that are wrong; you have to appreciate the things that are great, and I'm so fortunate to so many things that are fantastic:
There, I automatically concentrate on the things that cause me anxiety. I must stop doing this and break down the things that cause me anxiety and turn them into positives.
And I love cocodamol and diclofenac.
Vegone
My flirtation with the vegan diet is very much on the wane. It's one of those things that's observed with so many things, but especially things like taking medicines: compliance is so much better when there's an obvious benefit.
Stairway to the top of my stairs
Here's a thing. I take photos... LOTS of photos. I'm not quite as bad as Rainman, or in need of a memento of all my movements ("remember Sammy Jenkis"), but I do document my life on camera. I rarely show my photos to anybody; I think they're shit. I have on my computer thousands of images, amounting to nearly 60GB disk space, that I've captured over the years, yet I've struggled to find sufficient to do this:
I wanted to have a display that journals some events and travels with my girlfriend. My life before her can go shit off for all I care - well, my life with the other one can, that's for sure. Anyway, I think they look pretty cool (with varying degrees of help from photoshop... and cocodamol). I must learn to be less self-critical, to see the photograph within the image. Out of all of them, my favourites are:
So, that's two photos out of thousands.
I am awesome.
I'll be back again soon with some venomous ranting. I'm storing quite a few subjects up and top of my hitlist are Salford City Council and car headlamps. Oh, and students, motorcyclists, supermarkets... and Scottish Power meter readers... idiot colleagues.
CAAAAAALM
But enough of woes and worries, life is good. Observing my parents over the years, I've learnt that you can't dwell on things that are wrong; you have to appreciate the things that are great, and I'm so fortunate to so many things that are fantastic:
- My job
- The healthy state of my finances
- My lovely little dog who provides me with such joy
There, I automatically concentrate on the things that cause me anxiety. I must stop doing this and break down the things that cause me anxiety and turn them into positives.
- My job is relatively well paid and relatively secure. I work for a really good employer, get great holidays and have a good pension. The work is flexible and I am privileged to work with some of the most academically brilliant people you could meet. The fact that I am high up on the autistic spectrum makes it ideal for me in many ways, what with all the spreadsheets and that.
- My finances are not and will never be in a healthy state. I don't have any credit card debt, but my overdraft suffers as a result. I should be rolling in it, but I'm not. I don't know where my money goes. I'm too scared of money to look at where it goes. I've tried; every time I think I'm sorted, I try really hard to keep track, but then it gradually drifts into the red again and I get scared to look. I'm a grown-up, for goodness' sake - I should be able to deal with money. At work, I deal with accounts worth more than I'll earn in a lifetime, and I can account for every single penny in them, but at home, it just doesn't work for me.
- My little dog has never, and will never be well behaved. I've come to the conclusion that he's just not wired right. I can control certain aspects of his behaviour - every afternoon when I get in from work, I raise my head to the skies and start howling and he joins in - but I've learned that he is predictably unpredictable. It's just the way he is, and I love him all the same. I love him for the way he greets me with his entire body when he's not seen me for a while. Even though it's mildly irritating and painful having him rake his claws on me as he jumps all over me, I know that this type of unconditional love and joy (and relief) cannot be bought with all the money in the world.
And I love cocodamol and diclofenac.
Vegone
My flirtation with the vegan diet is very much on the wane. It's one of those things that's observed with so many things, but especially things like taking medicines: compliance is so much better when there's an obvious benefit.
- I take diclofenac for pain relief - my pain is relieved - diclofenac is effective for pain relief
- I take cocodamol as a recreational drug because I don't drink or take other drugs - cocodamol makes me a bit squiffy - cocodamol is OK if you fancy getting off your tits
- I tried a vegan diet to lose weight, it meant changing my entire eating habits and depriving me of pasta and sausages - I stuck to it and didn't lose weight - a vegan diet makes you depressed
Stairway to the top of my stairs
Here's a thing. I take photos... LOTS of photos. I'm not quite as bad as Rainman, or in need of a memento of all my movements ("remember Sammy Jenkis"), but I do document my life on camera. I rarely show my photos to anybody; I think they're shit. I have on my computer thousands of images, amounting to nearly 60GB disk space, that I've captured over the years, yet I've struggled to find sufficient to do this:
I wanted to have a display that journals some events and travels with my girlfriend. My life before her can go shit off for all I care - well, my life with the other one can, that's for sure. Anyway, I think they look pretty cool (with varying degrees of help from photoshop... and cocodamol). I must learn to be less self-critical, to see the photograph within the image. Out of all of them, my favourites are:
So, that's two photos out of thousands.
I am awesome.
I'll be back again soon with some venomous ranting. I'm storing quite a few subjects up and top of my hitlist are Salford City Council and car headlamps. Oh, and students, motorcyclists, supermarkets... and Scottish Power meter readers... idiot colleagues.
CAAAAAALM
Tuesday 3 May 2011
Sooooooo, anyway......
Crikey, I've been crap at this. Have we had winter and Christmas yet?
Yes, well, anyway (:@) I only popped in to check on things, but it might be nice to regale you all (two of you) with stories of skiing exploits (twice) and other stuff that hasn't really happened.
Sniffy, what are you doing?
The words echoed around my head for weeks after my first encounter with alpine skiing in France in January. Poor Noel, my instructor. Poor, poor Noel. I'd be taking a rest, or being unsuccessful at what I was trying to make my skis do, or falling over and his words would ring out through the crisp January air: "What are you dooeeeeng?"
I never really had an answer for him, so I just smiled, hoping that the pain would go away at some point. Because it hurts, you see, skiing. Everything really, really hurts. Mainly shins and knees, but also arms (from using poles), feet, head (from concentrating), lungs (through lack of oxygen), stomach (from overeating).
But yes, skiing: it's actually fun. I never thought I'd find myself admitting it, or even trying it in the first place, but it's great fun. And nothing can beat the fresh air, the wonderful views, the feeling of achievement in actually being able to do something physical rather than intellectual. And that feeling of cruising along, with only the sound of crisp snow shooshing beneath you (because you're on a spaz slope that accomplished skiers wouldn't be seen dead on apart from the end of the day on their last run into the village). But you find yourself at peace.... until you inexplicably lose it and have to figure out how to get up.
So that's skiing for you. Painful, but fun, and every ache and pain is worth it when you consider the boutique catered chalet life that you enjoy for the week. My word. Spoilt.
Falling apart at the seams
Life is blissfully dull, although my 41st year has brought with it the onset, or aggravation, of a number of persistent niggles that are achy and annoying and ridiculous. I recently gave myself a stomach ulcer from prolonged use of ibuprofen (back); I can't walk more than a couple of miles without my feet giving me crippling pain; I'm having blood tests "for my glands".
But life's great. The sun, it shines, and with it I am filled with happiness. I still detest people (hateful, selfish morons), but my shouty episodes are soon forgotten and I find it very easy to appreciate that I'm very wealthy and terms of love, contentment, and shiny things that make it all better.
Hot water
One thing that I really appreciate is hot water. Nothing is more soothing than being able to take a hot shower whenever I like; washing my hands under hot water with nice soap - an absolute luxury. Just think about it, washing your hands in cold water, or not being able to at all. *shudders*
And people are whinging because they have to wait for a bit until they can have their next gadget or a new car. Get a fucking grip.
Vegan
I'll come back to this one.
Yes, well, anyway (:@) I only popped in to check on things, but it might be nice to regale you all (two of you) with stories of skiing exploits (twice) and other stuff that hasn't really happened.
Sniffy, what are you doing?
The words echoed around my head for weeks after my first encounter with alpine skiing in France in January. Poor Noel, my instructor. Poor, poor Noel. I'd be taking a rest, or being unsuccessful at what I was trying to make my skis do, or falling over and his words would ring out through the crisp January air: "What are you dooeeeeng?"
I never really had an answer for him, so I just smiled, hoping that the pain would go away at some point. Because it hurts, you see, skiing. Everything really, really hurts. Mainly shins and knees, but also arms (from using poles), feet, head (from concentrating), lungs (through lack of oxygen), stomach (from overeating).
But yes, skiing: it's actually fun. I never thought I'd find myself admitting it, or even trying it in the first place, but it's great fun. And nothing can beat the fresh air, the wonderful views, the feeling of achievement in actually being able to do something physical rather than intellectual. And that feeling of cruising along, with only the sound of crisp snow shooshing beneath you (because you're on a spaz slope that accomplished skiers wouldn't be seen dead on apart from the end of the day on their last run into the village). But you find yourself at peace.... until you inexplicably lose it and have to figure out how to get up.
So that's skiing for you. Painful, but fun, and every ache and pain is worth it when you consider the boutique catered chalet life that you enjoy for the week. My word. Spoilt.
Falling apart at the seams
Life is blissfully dull, although my 41st year has brought with it the onset, or aggravation, of a number of persistent niggles that are achy and annoying and ridiculous. I recently gave myself a stomach ulcer from prolonged use of ibuprofen (back); I can't walk more than a couple of miles without my feet giving me crippling pain; I'm having blood tests "for my glands".
But life's great. The sun, it shines, and with it I am filled with happiness. I still detest people (hateful, selfish morons), but my shouty episodes are soon forgotten and I find it very easy to appreciate that I'm very wealthy and terms of love, contentment, and shiny things that make it all better.
Hot water
One thing that I really appreciate is hot water. Nothing is more soothing than being able to take a hot shower whenever I like; washing my hands under hot water with nice soap - an absolute luxury. Just think about it, washing your hands in cold water, or not being able to at all. *shudders*
And people are whinging because they have to wait for a bit until they can have their next gadget or a new car. Get a fucking grip.
Vegan
I'll come back to this one.
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