It’s now four weeks since I first applied for a broadband connection.
Mr Nobody kindly connected my landline within 2 days. Well, I’m assuming it was Mr Nobody as Virgin Media swears blind it wasn’t them. My particular favourite was being told (repeatedly) ‘But you have no landline connected’. Whilst talking to them... yup... on the landline.
Oh, and when calling to cancel my account, being told that it had never been active in the first place.
Mere moments after that, Mr Nobody switched my landline off. Funny that.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Fields of reference
I’m way out of mine. My weekend nights used to involve a lot of wine, lazy chitchat, maybe cocktails, dinner at a restaurant and a late and bleary following morning. Also usually involving Messers Hunt, Lamb, Cripps, Fricker (and Mrs Fricker) and assorted other players.
Most people in this country don’t live like that. I was reminded of this when I went to a Friday night pub quiz with some friends (Natasha and Stephen) who rescued me from no-car-no-internet-no-work-no-interaction-with-people-week for a night. Hallelujah!
But I barely knew any of the answers. And the ones I thought I knew I got wrong. Serves me right. Turns out I don’t know my Lady Gaga from my Gwen Stefani, or my onions from my beans.
First duty Saturday morning was hollering at a pony-sized Rhodesian Ridgeback, until she got out of a cow-and-calf pen in the stables (before she ate all the calf shit, or was kicked in the head by the cow), then ‘escorting’ her back to the house.
Twice.
Then a new field - or at least a wet and muddy one, which I ran around in the rain, for an hour. With a hangover. With Tash, someone who is a potential Olympic althlete*.
And you know what? I bloody enjoyed all of it.
* Running ‘with’ in this case, really means running ‘quite far behind’.
Most people in this country don’t live like that. I was reminded of this when I went to a Friday night pub quiz with some friends (Natasha and Stephen) who rescued me from no-car-no-internet-no-work-no-interaction-with-people-week for a night. Hallelujah!
But I barely knew any of the answers. And the ones I thought I knew I got wrong. Serves me right. Turns out I don’t know my Lady Gaga from my Gwen Stefani, or my onions from my beans.
First duty Saturday morning was hollering at a pony-sized Rhodesian Ridgeback, until she got out of a cow-and-calf pen in the stables (before she ate all the calf shit, or was kicked in the head by the cow), then ‘escorting’ her back to the house.
Twice.
Then a new field - or at least a wet and muddy one, which I ran around in the rain, for an hour. With a hangover. With Tash, someone who is a potential Olympic althlete*.
And you know what? I bloody enjoyed all of it.
* Running ‘with’ in this case, really means running ‘quite far behind’.
Milk mates
A word of advice… When you’re six miles from the nearest shop, and your car doesn’t work, you should stock up on more cartons of longlife milk than you smugly put by ‘for an emergency’. Or at least have a friend nice enough to drop some off for you in the morning, miles out of her way to work. (Thanks Tash!)
Ladybirds
The cottage is under a plague. Not of locusts – but of ladybirds.
After a rainstorm last Wednesday, I went outside to the woodshed, to collect some wood. (Well, what were you expecting?) Turning around on my way back to the kitchen door, I was amazed by the hundreds, if not thousands of ladybirds crawling across the white clapboards. Astounded. In awe.
All was fine until they started heading indoors. I have red ones with black spots, and black ones with red spots. I have little ones, big ones, nasty buzzy flying ones and sneaky ones that come in through the gap by the kitchen window and also around the back door (as far as I can tell). The catflap seems impervious. So far.
On Saturday morning, my patience was breached by a battalion of the buggers on the kitchen ceiling, walls, windows and so forth. I went to war, armed with a dustpan and brush.
An hour later, I went to war again.
And an hour after that, again.
Personally, I was more worried about the ones I knew were there, but couldn’t find after I turned my back to find the dustpan and brush.
I stopped cursing the spiders, and began egging them on.
After a rainstorm last Wednesday, I went outside to the woodshed, to collect some wood. (Well, what were you expecting?) Turning around on my way back to the kitchen door, I was amazed by the hundreds, if not thousands of ladybirds crawling across the white clapboards. Astounded. In awe.
All was fine until they started heading indoors. I have red ones with black spots, and black ones with red spots. I have little ones, big ones, nasty buzzy flying ones and sneaky ones that come in through the gap by the kitchen window and also around the back door (as far as I can tell). The catflap seems impervious. So far.
On Saturday morning, my patience was breached by a battalion of the buggers on the kitchen ceiling, walls, windows and so forth. I went to war, armed with a dustpan and brush.
An hour later, I went to war again.
And an hour after that, again.
Personally, I was more worried about the ones I knew were there, but couldn’t find after I turned my back to find the dustpan and brush.
I stopped cursing the spiders, and began egging them on.
Spiders
Anyone that knows me, knows that I don’t like spiders. YES, I know I’m bigger than they are. YES, I know they’re probably more scared of me, than I am of them. YES, I know they eat the flies, blah blah blah.
I just don’t like them.
Well, if desensitisation has anything to answer for, its time is now.
Besides checking my bed (before I get into it), the floor (before I get out of bed), my shoes (before I put them on), my slippers (before I take off my shoes), the shower (before I take off my clothes), and my clothes (before I put them on), I’m fine.
Apart from, however, the behemoth that drummed across the floor towards me the other morning. I’ve seen smaller cats. A slight scream may have escaped me. Alas, I was doing so well…
I just don’t like them.
Well, if desensitisation has anything to answer for, its time is now.
Besides checking my bed (before I get into it), the floor (before I get out of bed), my shoes (before I put them on), my slippers (before I take off my shoes), the shower (before I take off my clothes), and my clothes (before I put them on), I’m fine.
Apart from, however, the behemoth that drummed across the floor towards me the other morning. I’ve seen smaller cats. A slight scream may have escaped me. Alas, I was doing so well…
All is not going according to plan
The day after my final drive down from London, The Maxi stopped working. Trying to start it resulted in a noise somewhat like a big old rusty chain tumbling around inside a dry washing machine – on spin cycle. Not good.
I swear that car has a perverse personality. On this occasion, it was saying ‘I got you down here, now do the rest on your own’. Awkward, sodding machine.
Luckily, one of the first questions I asked my new neighbours, was if they knew someone who would be sympathetic to the whims of an aging, cranky Austin Maxi. Luckily, they did.
With this number, I called the breakdown service. The Maxi was duly collected, and taken off (in disgrace) to a garage in Ringmer.
Where it has remained ever since.
They ordered a starter motor, and were sent the wrong one. They ordered a new set of points, and were delivered a set with one missing. So all were sent back, and they (and I) are still awaiting correct parts (the postal strike is not helping here). After they finally get delivered, the goddamn thing had better start or its days are numbered.
And still no Internet. It’s far too long and boring a saga to get into, as by the time this is published, hopefully it will be sorted. But HOW CAN IT TAKE A MONTH TO FLICK A SWITCH AND CONNECT ME?
No-one said it would be easy.
Thank God for walking boots and a bicycle.
I swear that car has a perverse personality. On this occasion, it was saying ‘I got you down here, now do the rest on your own’. Awkward, sodding machine.
Luckily, one of the first questions I asked my new neighbours, was if they knew someone who would be sympathetic to the whims of an aging, cranky Austin Maxi. Luckily, they did.
With this number, I called the breakdown service. The Maxi was duly collected, and taken off (in disgrace) to a garage in Ringmer.
Where it has remained ever since.
They ordered a starter motor, and were sent the wrong one. They ordered a new set of points, and were delivered a set with one missing. So all were sent back, and they (and I) are still awaiting correct parts (the postal strike is not helping here). After they finally get delivered, the goddamn thing had better start or its days are numbered.
And still no Internet. It’s far too long and boring a saga to get into, as by the time this is published, hopefully it will be sorted. But HOW CAN IT TAKE A MONTH TO FLICK A SWITCH AND CONNECT ME?
No-one said it would be easy.
Thank God for walking boots and a bicycle.
The more things change…
…the more they change.
I’ve swapped an enviable riverside flat, in the most beautiful part of London (I think) for a small clapboard cottage in a hamlet in East Sussex (equally beautiful I also like to think).
Not to mention saying goodbye to the closest-knit community of neighbours I’ve lived amongst, and some very good friends I hope distance will make no difference to. You know who you are.
So, I’ve gone from; next door to a riverside pub (and three doors away from the next one on the other side – although that one was a bit rubbish), a cosy gourmet restaurant across the way, and the local convenience store five minutes down the road to…
A church. 14 houses. A pretty village green. Six miles to the nearest shop (which is also the closest supermarket). And no pub - not in this village, and not in the next one either.
Some of my friends seem to find this a bit shocking.
But did I mention being woken by the hooting of owls, instead of the rattling of trains?
Gentle sunshine dappling through the trees around the church?
The pale turquoise river that flows sometimes fast, sometimes slow, through the wide, flat valley towards the sea?
Have I mentioned them?
I think I have now.
I’ve swapped an enviable riverside flat, in the most beautiful part of London (I think) for a small clapboard cottage in a hamlet in East Sussex (equally beautiful I also like to think).
Not to mention saying goodbye to the closest-knit community of neighbours I’ve lived amongst, and some very good friends I hope distance will make no difference to. You know who you are.
So, I’ve gone from; next door to a riverside pub (and three doors away from the next one on the other side – although that one was a bit rubbish), a cosy gourmet restaurant across the way, and the local convenience store five minutes down the road to…
A church. 14 houses. A pretty village green. Six miles to the nearest shop (which is also the closest supermarket). And no pub - not in this village, and not in the next one either.
Some of my friends seem to find this a bit shocking.
But did I mention being woken by the hooting of owls, instead of the rattling of trains?
Gentle sunshine dappling through the trees around the church?
The pale turquoise river that flows sometimes fast, sometimes slow, through the wide, flat valley towards the sea?
Have I mentioned them?
I think I have now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
