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:

• My job
• The healthy state of my finances
• My lovely little dog who provides me with such joy

... hang on a minute

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. 

Even the most negative aspects of my life have huge positives.  The simplest things that most take for granted bring me so much pleasure.  And the most wonderful parts of my life make me feel like I'm the wealthiest person on this planet.

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

I need to come up with a healthy eating plan that's easier for me to stick to (or get depressed and start smoking again).  I'm sure the vegan thing would have been more effective had I given up sugar and reduced my portion sizes to just half a kilo of rice a day, but I don't have the patience to stick to something like that unless the results are better.


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

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.

The man who can't be moved

Or whatever...

A couple of years and a bit ago, there was a song in the charts by the Irish group The Script called The man who can't be moved.  The singer told the sorry tale of breaking up with his girlfriend and, hoping that one day she'd change her mind and want to find him, he'd be there on the corner where they used to meet.

Awwww, what a sentiment.

Shortly after, they followed this sorry tale up with Break even; a song about a bloke being dumped by his girlfriend "I'm still alive, but I'm barely breathing.... I got time while she's got freedom... when a heart breaks, it don't break even". 

Well, he was still hurting, obviously.  As I was at the time - things were still terribly painful for me after my own horrible break up and no, when a heart breaks, it don't break even.  Not when your ex other half is a complete twat who dumps you for somebody else then rubs your face in it while you're still sharing a house. 

But two years on, during which time I eventually got myself back on track and met somebody wonderful and found myself happier than I've ever been, Mr The Script is STILL going on about breaking up with his girlfriend... for fuck's sake.

Talk you down (2009) - yep, she's breaking up with him still

Before the worst (2009) - still trying to persuade her not to break up with him

For the first time (2010) - now they're drunk, and wondering whether they can make it work

Nothing (2010) - his mates take him for a drink because he's broken up with his girlfriend, he gets pissed and starts shouting around the streets, trying to persuade her to take him back

Now, Mr Script, can I suggest something to you?  She doesn't want you.  I could've told you this in 2008 because, after a few weeks of begging somebody to change their mind, you actually know in your heart of hearts that you lost them as soon as they took somebody else's phone number.  Just move on.  Get some counselling.  Have a rebound shag.  But move on, she doesn't want you.

I think Mr The Script should listen to some B52s, turn his hand to writing songs about out of control parties, shopping malls, sea creatures and the like.

Misery
I wouldn't say that I'm feeling miserable as such, just a little fed up.  There's nothing to make you feel quite so alone as when you're left to wonder why there's a tree in your dining room; we got the Christmas tree at the weekend and Ali decorated it beautifully.  I recalled crushing one of the LED Christmas lights last year after noticing that a few of the diodes remained unlit.  But with just me being here, with me being on my own here for the next few weeks, I can't help think it's a bit odd to have a tree where Deirdre the sideboard should be.

Winter isn't treating me well this year.  The darkness that descended in September has had an usually adverse effect on my mood; I am constantly tired and achy.  And it's fucking freezing. But at least I have an electric blanket.  And the love of a wonderful woman and a smelly little dog.

At least I don't make a wanky Christmas card out of these shots

Fuck, my dining room has turned into Narnia!

I might be a bit miserable because of weekly separation from the person I want to be with, but at least I have her.  I count myself very lucky every day.

Now, I wonder if I can attack the little dog's dew claw while he's sleeping....

The return of Consumer Champion Sniffy - again!

I bought a washing mashine in the middle of October 2009.  It wasn't the one I wanted, the one I wanted couldn't be sourced for weeks, so I was offered a Whirlpool one for the same price - brilliant! It's quite fancy, it has a big drum, lots of cycles, it's sleek, it's black, it's sexy .... it's broken.  Twelve months and three weeks after buying it (ok, thirteen months), the digital display died on me, so without being able to see what settings I'm using, doing my laundry has become a game of Russian Roulette (some might say they'd assumed this had been the case all my adult life).

Did I take out the extended warranty at £xx per year?  For a £500 washing machine?  Surely with an expected lifetime for a washing machine of 7 years, you'd expect it to last more than four years before anything went wrong on it?  So no, I didn't, the robbing fuckers.  Are they domestic appliance manufacturers or insurance agents?  Or just twats?

I e-mailed them last week:

Message: I purchased this washing machine in mid October 2009. I ran a load earlier, and when the cycle had finished, the digital display was showing in green, but the numbers were not showing properly. On further investigation, there is no temperature display at all, the time display is very distorted and the spin speed indicator is barely legible. While I realise that this machine is possibly a whopping 2 or so weeks out of warranty, after just a year of low to moderate use (I live on my own), I wouldn't expect a well-maintained, £450 appliance to start showing signs of malfunction after this period of time and nor would anybody else. This is clearly a fault with the machine and I would like it to be repaired, can this be arranged please? Many thanks. Sniffy.

Their response today: 

Dear Dr Sniffy,

Thank you for your email.

Whirlpool is the number one white goods manufacturer in Europe and our appliances are made to the highest standards. They enjoy a world-wide reputation for reliability and durability but of course any appliance that has functional parts or electronic components can fail at any given point resulting in repairs being required.

As a safeguard against unexpected and sometimes expensive repairs after the initial warranty period has expired Whirlpool offer both extended service and parts cover at prices that are competitive with other major manufacturers. These contracts are considered a wise investment by many of our customers.

Whilst I can sympathise with your disappointment that this repair is required unfortunately in the absence of any warranty this would be fully chargeable. I understand this may not be the response for which you had hoped but I apologise nevertheless for any inconvenience caused.

Kind regards

Whirlpool UK, C.U.N.T.Y.

And my response to them: 

Dear Whirlpool Cuntstomer Service,

Thanks for your response.  Disappointngly, it was as expected, which is quite frankly disgraceful and an admission that Whirlpool doesn't expect its products to last for any decent length of time or care when they don't (in this case, three weeks out of its warranty period - THREE weeks).  Consequently, it effectively blackmails its consumers with overpriced insurance policies to cover for its products' shortcomings.

I can confirm that I will not be buying any Whirlpool products in the future and I will make strong recommendations to anybody I have contact with that they avoid Whirlpool like the plague. I will be starting with the shop I bought the machine from so they can inform their customers about the fault with these machines and Whirlpool's attitude when alerted to them.  In fact, the only reason I ended up with a Whirlpool was because there was a pan-European delay on the Hotpoint (how I wish I'd have waited). 

With all due respect,

Sniffy

So to all you people thinking of buying an appliance - don't bother with Whirlpool

And this is just the start.  I shall soon be waving the Sale of Goods Act at them, with reference to the section on durability.

Why can't these idiots realise how word of mouth from satisfied customers is their most effective way of advertising?

Contrast my sister, Bomb's experience with Bosch when her lawnmower blew up, way out of warranty.  They were so embarrassed that they were really apologetic and gave her a replacement free of charge.  That's the Germans for you.

And do you know that Bosch tumbledryers have a light inside the drum?  They do.  Fabulous.

Ooops

I should remember to keep things simple.  The only bits I know about technology are through trial and error and through having somebody on hand to repair the damage when I mess things up.  In the absence of my sorely-missed 24hr tech support guru, I should know not to mess.

I messed.

I fucked up the old blog (you can try the link, but I assure you, it's fucked).

Ah well.

But fuck.  FUCK!  BIG, MASSIVE FUCK!

Why do I have to mess?  What can't I be one of these people who lives within the limits of their intellectual capabilities, one who knows to leave well alone?

Because I'm a dick.

Anyway (;@) what's done is done.  Move on.

Twitter
I've been trying twitter this week.  I don't get it. Admittedly, I've been contributing to this blog for years now, but I didn't start out with any expectation that anybody would read it.  People did, and it was flattering when folk left comments, and fun when people from Stornoway started arguments with me in their funny little illiterate Bebo-esque way, but I always write things here as a bit of fun; it gives me the opportunity to digest my thoughts and reflect on my experiences instead of reacting and going on the rampage.

But Twitter?  It's for people who expect an audience - like a text message to the world in the expectation that all who care to know the most mundane things about our existence, like where we are on the Bristol Stool Form Guide on any particular day.

It's not that different to this I suppose, only for the illiterate.  And I just don't get it.


Christmas
Christmas approaches, it has been doing for the past six weeks I suppose, but the TV adverts are telling us to panic buy in readiness for the supermarkets being closed for two days RIGHT NOW!  This year, I'm going to be enjoying the true spirit of the season - time with loved ones and family being highest on my priority list.  This is mainly because I'm skint and I can't afford to buy any presents, but I don't expect to receive any either.

The thorny issue of where I'm spending Christmas has already been resolved, and I'm happy that the solution doesn't involve me eating two Christmas dinners, but I do get to wake up on Christmas morning with my beautiful girlfriend.

Compromise is something you only need between the ages of 15 and 80 - outside these limits and you're justified in telling everyone else to go fuck 'emselves.

Just like post-communist Russia

I don't understand supermarkets.  Well I do, obviously:

1. Park up as close as possible to the entrance
2. Pick up a trolley - one of the midi ones because bending down to put stuff in the big ones is a touch too much for your ageing back
3. Wander around the store, picking up items from your shopping list, tutting occasionally at shoppers who abandon their trolleys in the middle of the aisle with not quite enough of a gap to squeeze yours through without touching theirs*.

• Grapefruit - check
• Milk - check
• Mozzarella - check
• Warburton's thickest loaf - che... Ooh, look, it's on offer.  I'll get two and freeze one.
• Mustard seeds - check
• Turmeric - check
  
• Ground cumin - che...  Hang on, no cumin?  At all? 

So you go to the "ethnic" aisle and prepare to buy a 4kg bag of the stuff - none there either.  What the fuck?  So you are then compelled to return to the normal spice aisle and do this:

Honestly, what were they thinking when they designed this packaging?  But it's nice to know that shoppers can have this fun in Tesco, Sainsbury and Waitrose.  They don't do herbs and spices in Asda because they only sell bottled "He-he, this'll make you shit" and "Fucking poof coconut girlie shite" curry sauces that are ready made for the exquisite tastes of their own particular brand of shopper.

The great thing about the world foods section is that you can get what you want for a lot cheaper than from the standard produce aisles.  For example, red kidney beans in salted water for 30p a can instead of shitty red kidney beans in salt-free water for 50p a can.  I got three cans of really nice coconut milk for 50p a can tonight when the normal crappy stuff is about £1 a can from the next aisle.

I'm sure this amounts to discrimination against white, British people who are a bit wary of venturing into those sections of the store where the packaging comes in foreign languages.  


*What is it about other shoppers' trolleys that makes them off bounds in terms of moving them out of the way, or ramming them into the backs of their legs when they dump them right in front of the shelf you want to get to?  There's an unwritten law that says you simply cannot touch another person's trolley with any part of your anatomy, you have to gently squeeze past it or give it a gently nudge with your own trolley.  Just think about it next time you're in Tesco.  You'll find yourself doing it.

Anyway (:@), you finally fill your trolley with stuff that you didn't need and none of the things you did want and take it to the till where you don't have to interact with the checkout assistant any more.  They just fling things at you after scanning them and you face the task of bagging things up before your entire load of shopping piles up around your ears.  The transaction is completed by the shopper too, sometimes prompted by a nod and a "put your card into the reader", you take your own receipt and trundle out of the store... slowly.... as you're always caught behind somebody in their 60s taking their 90 year old mum for her weekly shop.

Of course we have self checkouts these days. If you don't have the privilege of having your shopping scanned and thrown at you by somebody else, surely you should get a discount?

The "unexpected item in bagging area" is usually a bag.

There will be an uprising.  Not of layabout, so-called "students", or agitator union-types (I will attend to these imbeciles in due course).  No, the normal, every day MOP (member of public) will decide one day that they've had enough and they will demand service.  Come on Tesco, Sainsbury's, Morrisons, Waitrose, the lot of you.  Get some real people on the tills and make the experience of your customers not quite so soul-destroying.

Every little helps.

Anyway.... ;@)

So it came to pass that I became a homeowner on the 29th October.  It's all a bit weird since, apart from a letter from my solicitor telling me that the business was completed on 29th October (and a big hole in my current account), there's nothing here to say that it's ours (mine, but ours).

Nothing apart from a new toilet seat* and a pile of aspirational magazines that display wonderful homes that one can only ever, well, aspire to. But the homes in these magazines aren't real, not for people who can't even afford an average-priced house; they're beyond aspirational and drift into other-worldly.  After having discussions about wallpaper emblazoned with bold patterns, it was interesting to note that the homes featured in Homos in their Gardens, Period House, Cunty Living and the like, they don't have wallpaper, they're just plain with pictures and soft furnishings to add colour to a living space ("living space", for fuck's sake).  Nice houses don't have bold wallpaper and feature walls, oh no, this is the reserve of the Horror Houses that you see on Rightmove in the £95,000-£120,000 bracket. I have seen them ALL.

In addition to starting a new line in designer toilet seats, I'm going to start a monthly periodical (how can anybody not laugh at that?) that features real homes, decorated by normal people with decent taste, on a moderate budget.  The sorts of folk who get their kitchens and decorating materials from B&Q and their furniture and soft furnishings from M&S (or even the never knowingly undersold shop).  I'd also produce a monthly magazine digest of the worst homes currently showing on Rightmove.... like THIS horror in Glossop, or this bugger not far from here.

There is no problem with falling house prices, people are just trying to sell rubbish homes.

*One thing struck me on the day that I moved in to this place last year: the flimsiness of the toilet seat.  I know I don't have the most delicate of derrières, but even so, the original B&Q toilet seat on the B&Q cheapo toilet was beyond a joke and was the first thing to be replaced once we had hold of the keys (metaphorically speaking).  Needless to say, we shunned the opportunity of going for the £60 soft-close variety and went for a bog-standard, yet solid little number that will hopefully provide many hours and years of comfortable toilet visits.  I'm sure there's a market out there for designer toilet seat embellished with images from the Bristol Stool Form Scale.  I could make millions from it!


A special day
Friends and loved ones will gather on Wednesday to say their farewells and celebrate John McCusker.  A man who left himself somewhere else and became known and very much loved as cute wee John Pigster, or Piggy.  There will be tears, but there will be colour and hopefully lots of smiles once the tension and sadness of his funeral has passed.

His death was tragic, his life cut short so unexpectedly, he will be missed terribly, but he will live on eternally in the fond memories of those who came to love him.

The cunt.