I got a new bike today. I know – same old story. This one is a bit newer than the last new one. It is way less cute and considerably more nickable-looking, and it has gears (three of them) and is another of those weird Dutch hybrid bikes. Having encountered two such bikes in close succession encouraged me to look around a little, and discover that there are, in fact, many bikes in the basement of this block of flats alone which are this sort of hybrid. This bike brakes a little more smoothly than Dinky when backwards pedalling occurs. This is not exactly difficult, but I like it a lot.
Either the new bike has been named already, or it is owned by Raphael.* The sticker on its handlebars says so. Raphael seems like a good enough name to me, so Raphael it is. I think that Raphael will be my main bike, as she comes with a working dynamo and two lights attached, both of which work.
Today has been a day of shopping and dynamos. It is Wednesday, which is market day, so I went into town first thing this morning** to buy fruit and vegetables. That accomplished, I treated myself to pea soup with some sausage in and returned home.
I had been told that the guy in the flat across the way from me had a dynamo that I could use on Dinky bike. I was to ring his doorbell at 3pm. I was only three minutes late (I was trying to finish my tea – I sensed that the dynamo exchange could be long, involved and incomprehensible, and I wanted both to be properly hydrated and to ensure that no flies could drown in my tea while I was away. I am all about the safety of flies), but there was no answer. I didn’t push the issue,*** and returned to the flat to make poppies out of felt, and to learn German.
At 4pm, my closest neighbour rang my bell, and asked if I had seen neighbour across the way. I said that he had been out, which she translated (I think) as he had been sleeping. She probably had a lot more knowledge about the situation, so it was very good that I didn’t push the issue. When she rang the doorbell, it was answered, and the quest began.
It all started out simply enough. We went into the basement and two dynamos were located. One was deemed to be suitable, and I was shown how it must be fitted. I said that it was not difficult to fit a dynamo, and that I had a spanner to go with the proffered spanner, then thanked the neighbours. Neighbour across the way departed. So far so good.
But it was not good enough. Neighbour below me had to be summoned by closest neighbour to fit the dynamo. I don’t think that females here are expected to be able to handle two spanners round here. He came, and we eventually got the dynamo attached. It would have been faster had I been left alone, but it hadn’t taken all that long. I thanked the neighbours and hoped that the task had been completed.
The task had not been completed. Although I had seen how to fit the wires to the dynamo, I had to do it while watched. The back wire connected easily enough, but the back light didn’t work. Closer inspection revealed a distinct lack of bulb. This was quickly remedied, and all was good.
The front light, however, was a problem. Its wire was too short to reach the dynamo. As I have a spare front light with batteries in in the flat, I wasn’t worried. My neighbours, however, were. First, the light was inspected and a bulb was fitted (which sounds simple, but took about ten minutes). I gather that these are important for proper functioning of bike lights. A piece of copper wire was obtained, and put into the dynamo. It was held against various parts of the bike light to no avail (please note that we did turn the wheel to make the dynamo do its thing). Apparently, electricity in Germany is no more magic than the English sort. The wire was poked into bits of the light and the process repeated. Eventually, the bulb was removed and put into the rear light. It was found not to be working.
A new bulb was procured. I inspected the inside of the light and wondered how it could possibly work. I have, for a number of years, been of the opinion that electricity has to have an in and an out to make a light bulb work, and this only had an in. Or an out. Either way, one of the directions appeared to be missing.
While I was pondering this mystery, another light was procured from another bike. The bike was rather dead, apparently, although it looked a lot better than those I am riding. I think that the bottom bracket was kaput. Also, it had no saddle. Again, it was poked and prodded, and the copper wire was inserted. Again, this process was to no avail. New bulbs were inserted, wire was removed from kaput bike, connections were made, bulbs were moved around. Nothing.
The dynamo was then removed from kaput bike, and attached to Dinky bike. It wasn’t sitting against the wheel properly, but I figured that I could fix that when I was alone. When appropriate, I discreetly held the new dynamo in place so that it produced power. Still nothing.
By now, it was 6pm. I had things to do (more shopping and e-mailing), so I asked if I could finish fixing it myself tomorrow. I think that I won’t be fixing it alone (or, possibly, at all), but the project eventually came to an end at 6.15. This is when I was given another bike to use, and promised that the lights worked. They did. I am very pleased.
Finally, I was able to send e-mails and do the rest of my shopping. This wasn’t very interesting. I then returned home, tidied up a bit in preparation for my friend’s arrival tomorrow (today’s train tickets were too expensive), learned some more German while playing the recorder (go, Blackadder theme tune!) and cooked and ate an artichoke. It was delicious, but the butter didn’t contain enough salt.
The flat looks good now, though. It needs to be hoovered and some surfaces in the kitchen need to be wiped, but I finally feel as though I am settling in properly.
And before you say anything, I am immensely grateful to my neighbours for their help and concern. They really do go above and beyond the call of duty for this uncommunicative foreign girl who arrived in their midst (in the flat of the strange foreign man who doesn’t wear shoes a lot of the time). Without them, my stay here would already have been a lot more difficult. I am thinking of making them a cake. And possibly also something out of felt.
*I don’t ask where the bikes come from. I would have to use German to ask the question, and even more German to understand the answer. I just trust that they have come from authorised sources, and will give them back when I leave.
**OK, at 1pm. This lack of routine is not doing my sleeping any favours. Nor is my lack of self-control.
***One pushes the issue by ringing the doorbell multiple times. If nobody is in, they do not know that one is pushing the issue; if somebody is in, they come to the door eventually (generally), but they are angry. Good things do not come from pushing the issue, particularly when one does not speak the language.
Showing posts with label Bikes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bikes. Show all posts
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Dinky!
My new bike is made out of cute! It is ever so small and light, and only has one gear. It has shiny new tyres, which make an excellent contrast with the rest of the bike, which is pleasantly aged. It does not look very nickable to me, which is exactly the sort of bike one wants around here!
Also, it seems to go quite fast. I expect that this is just the illusion one gets when one is pedalling hard, but it is a comparatively exhilarating ride. I like it a lot. I think that it will be a she, and I will call her Dinky.
Dinky is, however, part-Dutch. Obviously somebody’s German bike had a bit of a thing with a Dutch bike, and this was the result. She has one actual brake, and also the pedal backwards thing going on. I find that I don’t mind this – having one brake makes me feel a lot better than having no brakes, and I appear to be able to control my pedalling backwards a lot better than I could when I was riding the Dutch bike on the first day. So far, there hasn’t been anything even approaching an incident.
I must make the saddle higher, though. And attach some lights. I discovered some lights on the table by the front door, which will save me some money. They look good, too. They are, however, too big – the little black things which attach round the bars of the bike will rotate freely at their tightest. I must ameliorate this problem!
I am thinking of making something out of felt to make the black things tighter. I know – profound thought! Think of all of the engineering involved! But it’s OK – I have started to make things out of felt again, and so far it is going well. I would like to set up an Etsy shop, but first I must have some things to put in it. At the moment, I am making a large (i.e. approximately poppy-sized) poppy, which can either be a poppy in its own right, or some sort of accessory. I think that it will be pretty when it is finished. If it is not, I think that perhaps this Etsy project is not meant to be. I have half-made some fuchsia already – I think that they will make good earrings (well, these two flowers will not, but my next lot could well do. Tricky things, fuchsia flowers). I still need to obtain some dangly bits for the bottom. I was thinking of spinning my own from the same wool as I am using for the outer, but I am not convinced that I will get round to buying the spindle. Having said that, I would only need a few centimetres of thread. It shouldn’t be too difficult to spin some myself without the aid of a spindle. Well, it’s not as though I am short of time at the moment!
No news on the arrival time of my friend tomorrow. Perhaps she is not coming. Ah well – perhaps I will buy myself an interesting new pesto to make up for it. Perhaps supermarket own brand this time – last time I was accidentally extravagant. Tomorrow is also market day. I promised myself cherries, a lemon and some vegetables. Tomorrow will be a good food day! I must also obtain more breakfast cereal. I am running out and experimented with the oats again today. There was cramping. Bearable, but I certainly won’t be eating oats more than once a week!*
Mind you, if my friend does not come to stay, I needn’t have put off making the teff pancakes.** Apparently, the batter needs to ferment for three days, and I didn’t think that teff pancakes on their own (which could well be what I will end up eating) would necessarily make an entertainment-worthy meal. Especially if they don’t work out as planned. Having said that, I could experiment with that oniony orange dish. I wonder what its ingredients are, apart from onion, injera and chilli powder. Must do some research!
Hmm. This post looks to be a bit of a brain-dump. This posting every day thing is all very well, but it might not be right for me, given that I am not exactly doing a lot at the moment. I suppose, though, that it isn’t really an issue, as nobody is reading my blog. I can ramble away to my hearts content, and nobody cares at all!
Speaking of rambling away, I have just noticed that my arms aren’t really fat any more! My recent weight gain has been way above and beyond what I have ever gained before, and my arms, which usually manage to stay reasonably slim-looking (I am the classic English pear shape, with a lot of weight on the bottom and very little on top) became quite fat. Now they look OK again. I keep getting a shock when I look at them.
I think that I am about 68kg now, compared to 77 when I arrived at Taize. And no, I don’t know what that is in real weight – I did the calculations and was so horrified that selective amnesia immediately took hold. It is for the best – it was a big amount of weight. You can work it out for yourself, if you care. Anyway, I think that I am trying to lose another 10kg, although the selective amnesia wasn’t suitably selective, and I don’t remember that bit, either. It’s definitely more than 50kg (the final weight I want to be, as opposed to the amount that I want to lose), because 50kg is a weight for some 14-year-old girls, and I am not one of them. I remember weighing 45kg when I was 13, and that equates to about 7½ stone. I think that I want to be more than 8½ stone. How much more, I do not know. We shall see. Not more than 9¼ stone. That is the heaviest I can be and still have something like a flat stomach.
It’s a bit strange to care about this again. I suppose that having very little to do will warp one’s mind. I find the idea of watching football to be an OK one at the moment, as long as it is in English. I enjoyed watching the horse riding event in Aachen, even though it was in German. BBC world service is excellent except for the repeats (even the short attention span it seems to encourage does not upset me too much), and those can be avoided by watching CNN world service, or the Dutch channel which occasionally (or possibly frequently – I may find out over the next few months) has old sitcoms in English with subtitles.
Even the German CDs make suitable entertainment when combined with some felting. I must do more felting and learning, though. I am currently revising CD 3 of 16, which really isn’t good enough, considering that I have been in Germany for over a week now. I should be on at least CD 8. Must try harder!
I can also water plants. The seeds I planted have started to germinate, and I must go to the vegetable garden again and water that. It is slightly exciting, waiting for these things to sprout. I have just this moment started to regret planting one edible thing each in three different pots, though. It could be a little confusing. Hopefully I can be relied upon to pick the parsley and not the poppies when I want something tasty to eat.
*Note my hierarchy of worries. Loneliness is obviously a concern, but the real issue is whether or not I will get to eat nice things. Hang on – isn’t this using food as a reward? Don’t people who do that end up really fat? Well, that explains a few things!
**Teff being the staple grain of Ethiopia, apparently. It is gluten-free, and full of protein and all sorts of nutrients. This is partly because the grain is so tiny that the husks cannot be separated from the insides, so teff flour is always wholemeal, and partly just because it is just generally great. Teff pancakes, or injera, are really yummy when made by people who are not me. I have only had proper fresh ones once, and they were delicious, but I have eaten a lot of mushed up ones in traditional Ethiopian food. Oh, the joys of having a housemate who lived in Ethiopia. I have been waiting for several years to get my hands on some teff flour. This had better be good!
Also, it seems to go quite fast. I expect that this is just the illusion one gets when one is pedalling hard, but it is a comparatively exhilarating ride. I like it a lot. I think that it will be a she, and I will call her Dinky.
Dinky is, however, part-Dutch. Obviously somebody’s German bike had a bit of a thing with a Dutch bike, and this was the result. She has one actual brake, and also the pedal backwards thing going on. I find that I don’t mind this – having one brake makes me feel a lot better than having no brakes, and I appear to be able to control my pedalling backwards a lot better than I could when I was riding the Dutch bike on the first day. So far, there hasn’t been anything even approaching an incident.
I must make the saddle higher, though. And attach some lights. I discovered some lights on the table by the front door, which will save me some money. They look good, too. They are, however, too big – the little black things which attach round the bars of the bike will rotate freely at their tightest. I must ameliorate this problem!
I am thinking of making something out of felt to make the black things tighter. I know – profound thought! Think of all of the engineering involved! But it’s OK – I have started to make things out of felt again, and so far it is going well. I would like to set up an Etsy shop, but first I must have some things to put in it. At the moment, I am making a large (i.e. approximately poppy-sized) poppy, which can either be a poppy in its own right, or some sort of accessory. I think that it will be pretty when it is finished. If it is not, I think that perhaps this Etsy project is not meant to be. I have half-made some fuchsia already – I think that they will make good earrings (well, these two flowers will not, but my next lot could well do. Tricky things, fuchsia flowers). I still need to obtain some dangly bits for the bottom. I was thinking of spinning my own from the same wool as I am using for the outer, but I am not convinced that I will get round to buying the spindle. Having said that, I would only need a few centimetres of thread. It shouldn’t be too difficult to spin some myself without the aid of a spindle. Well, it’s not as though I am short of time at the moment!
No news on the arrival time of my friend tomorrow. Perhaps she is not coming. Ah well – perhaps I will buy myself an interesting new pesto to make up for it. Perhaps supermarket own brand this time – last time I was accidentally extravagant. Tomorrow is also market day. I promised myself cherries, a lemon and some vegetables. Tomorrow will be a good food day! I must also obtain more breakfast cereal. I am running out and experimented with the oats again today. There was cramping. Bearable, but I certainly won’t be eating oats more than once a week!*
Mind you, if my friend does not come to stay, I needn’t have put off making the teff pancakes.** Apparently, the batter needs to ferment for three days, and I didn’t think that teff pancakes on their own (which could well be what I will end up eating) would necessarily make an entertainment-worthy meal. Especially if they don’t work out as planned. Having said that, I could experiment with that oniony orange dish. I wonder what its ingredients are, apart from onion, injera and chilli powder. Must do some research!
Hmm. This post looks to be a bit of a brain-dump. This posting every day thing is all very well, but it might not be right for me, given that I am not exactly doing a lot at the moment. I suppose, though, that it isn’t really an issue, as nobody is reading my blog. I can ramble away to my hearts content, and nobody cares at all!
Speaking of rambling away, I have just noticed that my arms aren’t really fat any more! My recent weight gain has been way above and beyond what I have ever gained before, and my arms, which usually manage to stay reasonably slim-looking (I am the classic English pear shape, with a lot of weight on the bottom and very little on top) became quite fat. Now they look OK again. I keep getting a shock when I look at them.
I think that I am about 68kg now, compared to 77 when I arrived at Taize. And no, I don’t know what that is in real weight – I did the calculations and was so horrified that selective amnesia immediately took hold. It is for the best – it was a big amount of weight. You can work it out for yourself, if you care. Anyway, I think that I am trying to lose another 10kg, although the selective amnesia wasn’t suitably selective, and I don’t remember that bit, either. It’s definitely more than 50kg (the final weight I want to be, as opposed to the amount that I want to lose), because 50kg is a weight for some 14-year-old girls, and I am not one of them. I remember weighing 45kg when I was 13, and that equates to about 7½ stone. I think that I want to be more than 8½ stone. How much more, I do not know. We shall see. Not more than 9¼ stone. That is the heaviest I can be and still have something like a flat stomach.
It’s a bit strange to care about this again. I suppose that having very little to do will warp one’s mind. I find the idea of watching football to be an OK one at the moment, as long as it is in English. I enjoyed watching the horse riding event in Aachen, even though it was in German. BBC world service is excellent except for the repeats (even the short attention span it seems to encourage does not upset me too much), and those can be avoided by watching CNN world service, or the Dutch channel which occasionally (or possibly frequently – I may find out over the next few months) has old sitcoms in English with subtitles.
Even the German CDs make suitable entertainment when combined with some felting. I must do more felting and learning, though. I am currently revising CD 3 of 16, which really isn’t good enough, considering that I have been in Germany for over a week now. I should be on at least CD 8. Must try harder!
I can also water plants. The seeds I planted have started to germinate, and I must go to the vegetable garden again and water that. It is slightly exciting, waiting for these things to sprout. I have just this moment started to regret planting one edible thing each in three different pots, though. It could be a little confusing. Hopefully I can be relied upon to pick the parsley and not the poppies when I want something tasty to eat.
*Note my hierarchy of worries. Loneliness is obviously a concern, but the real issue is whether or not I will get to eat nice things. Hang on – isn’t this using food as a reward? Don’t people who do that end up really fat? Well, that explains a few things!
**Teff being the staple grain of Ethiopia, apparently. It is gluten-free, and full of protein and all sorts of nutrients. This is partly because the grain is so tiny that the husks cannot be separated from the insides, so teff flour is always wholemeal, and partly just because it is just generally great. Teff pancakes, or injera, are really yummy when made by people who are not me. I have only had proper fresh ones once, and they were delicious, but I have eaten a lot of mushed up ones in traditional Ethiopian food. Oh, the joys of having a housemate who lived in Ethiopia. I have been waiting for several years to get my hands on some teff flour. This had better be good!
More perky
I am feeling a bit more perky today. I actually started to feel better yesterday evening. No idea why. Today I gave myself a list of things and accomplished them. OK, so the list consisted of going into a building, looking at a piece of paper, sending a text message and then doing a few things on the Internet, but I did it all! Go me!
Then (then being after I wrote the list, but before I started to accomplish things on it. My time-line is not excellent), in a fit of responsibility, I took out my biological waste, which consisted of two tea bags and some cereal on which I poured milk which smelled fine, but looked, shall we say, gloopy. Not a good look for milk. It does have a big advantage, though – I was able to salvage most of the cereal by scooping the really nasty bit out and putting the rest in another bowl. This pleased me – gluten-free cereal is not cheap, and this has something approximating real chocolate in it.*
While I was accomplishing this great feat of preventative flat maintenance (avoiding both fruit flies and bad smells), I decided that I would go to the bike shop over the road if the time was after 2pm. As it was 1.58 at the time, I gave myself a day’s grace and went into the basement to get the bike (phew – that was a close shave!). On the way up the basement steps, with the considerably heavy bike by my side (well, at arms length ahead of me – I find that if I lock my arms straight it makes pushing the bike up the cunning slope at the side of the steps that much easier), I was accosted by a man.
When one of my schoolfriends tells these stories, they always end badly. I have been involved in a few myself. She has a strange man magnet, I think. Hers normally start, “I was (insert place and activity here) and this really strange man started talking to me/started to follow me/was minding his own business until I started to talk to him and thus sealed my own fate” (note that she doesn’t actually say the third option, but I have been involved situations with strange men and her more times than I care to remember, and the last option does occur in times of crisis involving lost hikers and a need to know whereabouts on the map we are. At least two times in Wales alone). My stories end better. They usually give me houses, or something.**
This man asked me if I needed a bike. In German, of course. I wonder if he was the Russian man who fixes bikes and is rumoured not to speak much German but to be good at English. If he was, the rumours are not to be relied upon – his English was almost as bad as my German. However, he showed me a bike chained to a nearby railing, unchained it, and motioned that I was to try to ride it. I did this, and marvelled at how diminutive it felt. I think that it was the perfect size for me, but my perception of what a bike should feel like has changed somewhat over this past week. I rode it round, noting that it uses the pedals to brake, like a Dutch bike (although it has a “standard” brake, also), and that it felt like a bike (which is a good thing) He said that he would come to my flat this evening.
This evening, he did indeed come to my flat. He took me to the bike again, greased its chain, and got me to ride it round again. Then he put it in the basement for me. He pointed out that it has no lights (well, no dynamo to power the lights) and I said that I had a rear light, but not a front one, but that I could get them both (note that the conversation was not nearly this succinct – it involved a lot of gestures and, at one point, the English-German dictionary (thank you, Henry – it’s excellent!)). I do need to obtain a screwdriver now, also, but I think that I can manage that.
Alas, that means that I must once again go buying things tomorrow. I have no idea which is the cheapest place to buy cycling accessories. I get the impression that my local supermarket is not it. Perhaps Lidl is the way forward. If only Germany knew about Home Bargains (aka Half-price or less). I don’t understand why countries make do without Home Bargains. I wonder if Germany has an equivalent. I already found the Superdrug equivalent, and was delighted to find a shop which is waay better than any organic chain I’ve seen in the UK (and, in some ways, better than Lancaster’s own Single Step shop. Not in all ways, though. This shop is clearly out to make a Profit). It has teff (flour and non-milled), and everything! But no general cheap shop yet.
It is amazing how expensive some stuff can be in Germany. Take tea, for example. I am paying 10 cents a tea bag. For an English person to pay that much is ludicrous. I can’t afford to support that habit! I just did some maths and discovered that I am accustomed to paying about 5 pence per tea bag. Not such a big difference, then. The paper wrapping on every tea bag does feel a bit excessive, though. A cup of tea is not an occasion – it just happens.
Some things are a lot cheaper, though. Those little holders you can get for felting needles are ¼ of the price, compared to the UK, for example. Also, there is some tasty fruit juice which costs 89 cents for 1 ½ litres. It’s not all that specific about which fruit (I think there are 12 of them, so presumably they blend them according to seasonal availability)
There appears to be some sort of party going on around here somewhere, judging by the music. I cannot imagine that the other people who live in this block like it very much... The not so good thing is that I feel slightly sad that I am not invited. Listening to the music, though, it sounds as though it isn’t a very good party. I remember those. Very awkward. I suppose it is for the best that I am not invited.
Wow – the double glazing here is excellent. They have just closed the window and suddenly the music is just a little background noise. I imagine that my neighbours don’t mind the noise at all if they like to keep their windows closed. Oh, the marvels of German buildings.
Ooh – they’ve opened the window again. The party is happening in the next room. Wow. This building was built well. The music is terrible, though, and the lads there sound like a load of thugs (here’s hoping they don’t find my blog and work out who I am!). The girls have started to sing something very annoying.
For the past three nights, it has been so cold that I have had to sleep underneath my duvet cover, not on top of it. I think that tonight I could be closing the window, also.
I feel ever so guilty, though. I should so be a Catholic. I feel as though I am being bad listening to the music, and that I should turn it down. Ah well – I shall revel in the reflected badness of it all, and feel like a rebel. They can’t pin anything on me! If people knock on my door demanding silence, I shall just mumble in English, and that will make them be quiet! Mwah ha ha ha ha!
Midnight, and the party appears to have stopped. What sort of a party is that?
12.30, and it is in full swing again. I think that the lads have gone, as ABBA has started. It is a big improvement. It is “Knowing me, knowing you”, though. “Breaking up is never easy, I know, but it’s time to go”. Great. Just what I need. Britney Spears. At least it is nothing to do with me this time – last time I heard it, it was coming from my common room. Very embarrassing for all concerned, especially those who decided on the music. I don’t get the impression that they realised that it was embarrassing, though, so I didn’t say anything. How would they have shown their faces again after that?
Argh! James Blunt! I wish that people didn’t think that his music was so abhorrent. If they thought more of it, I wouldn’t have been subjected to input on the TV which means that I can identify some of his music and dislike it with authority. I much prefer not knowing what it is that I dislike. Somehow, the dislike is harder to put up with when it is defined. Also, they forced me to think about the music, as opposed to simply letting it wash over me.
Oh – they didn’t finish that song. Is he so bad that even people who choose to listen to his music, and go to the trouble of obtaining it, can’t listen to the end of the track? Poor guy. Did you know that he’s really posh? Do you realise that admitting that I know this makes me feel a little bit bad inside? But it is my duty to ensure that you are informed of Relevant Facts, when deemed appropriate. As I am the one doing the deeming, we can consider that this timing was indeed appropriate. But if you are better at deeming than I, please do speak up.
In other news, I have people coming to visit me. One friend is rumoured to be coming the day after tomorrow, and staying until Sunday, and Mother and Anne are due on 4th August for a week. I have the transport problem solved as long as I fix the puncture on the fold-up bike, and Anne doesn’t mind riding a Dutch bike. I think that I would really be better finding another bike for her, though. If her braking by use of pedals ability is anything like mine, there will be Incidents. This is one accident-prone child. Hmm. Had better see what I can do. Mother will be riding the “new” bike – her idea of a big enough bike is much smaller than mine, and there is no way she would be prepared to ride the large bike. Which I have just decided to call Hubert. The little Dutch bike is Franzi. It seems like a Franzi to me. The “new” bike doesn’t have a name yet; I’ll keep you posted. I am absolutely sure that you are on the edge of your seat with anticipation, so I will try not to take too much time. Naming bikes is a serious business, though. One cannot name a bike until one has taken it through its paces. It would be a mistake. The name might totally not suit the bike and then one would have to change it, or have a bike with an unsuitable name. Imagine the shame! Not only would one be the crazy person who gives names to a variety of inanimate objects, but one would be seen as having poor judgement.
Louise might visit, also. We shall see. It occurs to me that the weekend she is thinking of visiting could well be while I could be visiting the parents in France. That might not be good. On the other hand, it would be cheaper to entertain her than to take the train to the other side of France! Unless she takes exception to a braking system in the pedals, also. If she has an accident, it could get expensive. If she makes me buy a new bike, it could get expensive. I don’t think that she has that much power, though, and she certainly shouldn’t know my PINs. (Notice my cunning use of no superfluous words! Please note that I actually say “PIN number”, though; I am not actually suitably committed to the cause of Not Saying Things Wrong,*** because it sounds quite strange omitting the “number”. I am inconsistent in my use if correct English, and should be punished. But you’ll have to find me first. Do try – I could really use the company right now.)
*I always wonder why people put real chocolate in these things, though. It’s like ice cream – the chocolate can’t melt because the ice cream is too cold, and so you get chocolate which you can’t taste, which has a weird texture. With the milk in cereals, the chocolate stays similarly cold and weird. However, the chocolate pieces are small and heavy. They sink to the bottom of the bowl. This means that I get a mouthful of chocolate at the end, which I can then hold in my mouth until it warms up and I can taste it. It turns out to be a lovely way to end breakfast.
**Well, the first house in which I lived after ceasing to be an employed person living in student accommodation came to me when I was accosted by an old man in the street asking me if I needed a house. As a matter of fact, I needed one rather urgently. He only charged me twice as much rent as I was prepared to pay, which was about half of the (very cheap – this was in Lancaster) market rate – it was the summer holidays, and one can get some very good deals at times. So that ended very well indeed. The flat in which I am currently living was also offered to me by some guy. He obviously has a well-developed sense of trust! To live up to this trust, I have learned how to put the bins out (very complicated in Germany, although most of the complication comes from not being able to understand the descriptions of what goes in which bin), and have only spilled tea once! That is some sort of record for me, I think. The tea, not the bins. I can usually understand the bin concept and did, in fact, work for two weeks as Queen of the Dustbins in Taize. Although nobody called me that. But I totally was.
***Or, perhaps, Not Saying Things Incorrectly.
Then (then being after I wrote the list, but before I started to accomplish things on it. My time-line is not excellent), in a fit of responsibility, I took out my biological waste, which consisted of two tea bags and some cereal on which I poured milk which smelled fine, but looked, shall we say, gloopy. Not a good look for milk. It does have a big advantage, though – I was able to salvage most of the cereal by scooping the really nasty bit out and putting the rest in another bowl. This pleased me – gluten-free cereal is not cheap, and this has something approximating real chocolate in it.*
While I was accomplishing this great feat of preventative flat maintenance (avoiding both fruit flies and bad smells), I decided that I would go to the bike shop over the road if the time was after 2pm. As it was 1.58 at the time, I gave myself a day’s grace and went into the basement to get the bike (phew – that was a close shave!). On the way up the basement steps, with the considerably heavy bike by my side (well, at arms length ahead of me – I find that if I lock my arms straight it makes pushing the bike up the cunning slope at the side of the steps that much easier), I was accosted by a man.
When one of my schoolfriends tells these stories, they always end badly. I have been involved in a few myself. She has a strange man magnet, I think. Hers normally start, “I was (insert place and activity here) and this really strange man started talking to me/started to follow me/was minding his own business until I started to talk to him and thus sealed my own fate” (note that she doesn’t actually say the third option, but I have been involved situations with strange men and her more times than I care to remember, and the last option does occur in times of crisis involving lost hikers and a need to know whereabouts on the map we are. At least two times in Wales alone). My stories end better. They usually give me houses, or something.**
This man asked me if I needed a bike. In German, of course. I wonder if he was the Russian man who fixes bikes and is rumoured not to speak much German but to be good at English. If he was, the rumours are not to be relied upon – his English was almost as bad as my German. However, he showed me a bike chained to a nearby railing, unchained it, and motioned that I was to try to ride it. I did this, and marvelled at how diminutive it felt. I think that it was the perfect size for me, but my perception of what a bike should feel like has changed somewhat over this past week. I rode it round, noting that it uses the pedals to brake, like a Dutch bike (although it has a “standard” brake, also), and that it felt like a bike (which is a good thing) He said that he would come to my flat this evening.
This evening, he did indeed come to my flat. He took me to the bike again, greased its chain, and got me to ride it round again. Then he put it in the basement for me. He pointed out that it has no lights (well, no dynamo to power the lights) and I said that I had a rear light, but not a front one, but that I could get them both (note that the conversation was not nearly this succinct – it involved a lot of gestures and, at one point, the English-German dictionary (thank you, Henry – it’s excellent!)). I do need to obtain a screwdriver now, also, but I think that I can manage that.
Alas, that means that I must once again go buying things tomorrow. I have no idea which is the cheapest place to buy cycling accessories. I get the impression that my local supermarket is not it. Perhaps Lidl is the way forward. If only Germany knew about Home Bargains (aka Half-price or less). I don’t understand why countries make do without Home Bargains. I wonder if Germany has an equivalent. I already found the Superdrug equivalent, and was delighted to find a shop which is waay better than any organic chain I’ve seen in the UK (and, in some ways, better than Lancaster’s own Single Step shop. Not in all ways, though. This shop is clearly out to make a Profit). It has teff (flour and non-milled), and everything! But no general cheap shop yet.
It is amazing how expensive some stuff can be in Germany. Take tea, for example. I am paying 10 cents a tea bag. For an English person to pay that much is ludicrous. I can’t afford to support that habit! I just did some maths and discovered that I am accustomed to paying about 5 pence per tea bag. Not such a big difference, then. The paper wrapping on every tea bag does feel a bit excessive, though. A cup of tea is not an occasion – it just happens.
Some things are a lot cheaper, though. Those little holders you can get for felting needles are ¼ of the price, compared to the UK, for example. Also, there is some tasty fruit juice which costs 89 cents for 1 ½ litres. It’s not all that specific about which fruit (I think there are 12 of them, so presumably they blend them according to seasonal availability)
There appears to be some sort of party going on around here somewhere, judging by the music. I cannot imagine that the other people who live in this block like it very much... The not so good thing is that I feel slightly sad that I am not invited. Listening to the music, though, it sounds as though it isn’t a very good party. I remember those. Very awkward. I suppose it is for the best that I am not invited.
Wow – the double glazing here is excellent. They have just closed the window and suddenly the music is just a little background noise. I imagine that my neighbours don’t mind the noise at all if they like to keep their windows closed. Oh, the marvels of German buildings.
Ooh – they’ve opened the window again. The party is happening in the next room. Wow. This building was built well. The music is terrible, though, and the lads there sound like a load of thugs (here’s hoping they don’t find my blog and work out who I am!). The girls have started to sing something very annoying.
For the past three nights, it has been so cold that I have had to sleep underneath my duvet cover, not on top of it. I think that tonight I could be closing the window, also.
I feel ever so guilty, though. I should so be a Catholic. I feel as though I am being bad listening to the music, and that I should turn it down. Ah well – I shall revel in the reflected badness of it all, and feel like a rebel. They can’t pin anything on me! If people knock on my door demanding silence, I shall just mumble in English, and that will make them be quiet! Mwah ha ha ha ha!
Midnight, and the party appears to have stopped. What sort of a party is that?
12.30, and it is in full swing again. I think that the lads have gone, as ABBA has started. It is a big improvement. It is “Knowing me, knowing you”, though. “Breaking up is never easy, I know, but it’s time to go”. Great. Just what I need. Britney Spears. At least it is nothing to do with me this time – last time I heard it, it was coming from my common room. Very embarrassing for all concerned, especially those who decided on the music. I don’t get the impression that they realised that it was embarrassing, though, so I didn’t say anything. How would they have shown their faces again after that?
Argh! James Blunt! I wish that people didn’t think that his music was so abhorrent. If they thought more of it, I wouldn’t have been subjected to input on the TV which means that I can identify some of his music and dislike it with authority. I much prefer not knowing what it is that I dislike. Somehow, the dislike is harder to put up with when it is defined. Also, they forced me to think about the music, as opposed to simply letting it wash over me.
Oh – they didn’t finish that song. Is he so bad that even people who choose to listen to his music, and go to the trouble of obtaining it, can’t listen to the end of the track? Poor guy. Did you know that he’s really posh? Do you realise that admitting that I know this makes me feel a little bit bad inside? But it is my duty to ensure that you are informed of Relevant Facts, when deemed appropriate. As I am the one doing the deeming, we can consider that this timing was indeed appropriate. But if you are better at deeming than I, please do speak up.
In other news, I have people coming to visit me. One friend is rumoured to be coming the day after tomorrow, and staying until Sunday, and Mother and Anne are due on 4th August for a week. I have the transport problem solved as long as I fix the puncture on the fold-up bike, and Anne doesn’t mind riding a Dutch bike. I think that I would really be better finding another bike for her, though. If her braking by use of pedals ability is anything like mine, there will be Incidents. This is one accident-prone child. Hmm. Had better see what I can do. Mother will be riding the “new” bike – her idea of a big enough bike is much smaller than mine, and there is no way she would be prepared to ride the large bike. Which I have just decided to call Hubert. The little Dutch bike is Franzi. It seems like a Franzi to me. The “new” bike doesn’t have a name yet; I’ll keep you posted. I am absolutely sure that you are on the edge of your seat with anticipation, so I will try not to take too much time. Naming bikes is a serious business, though. One cannot name a bike until one has taken it through its paces. It would be a mistake. The name might totally not suit the bike and then one would have to change it, or have a bike with an unsuitable name. Imagine the shame! Not only would one be the crazy person who gives names to a variety of inanimate objects, but one would be seen as having poor judgement.
Louise might visit, also. We shall see. It occurs to me that the weekend she is thinking of visiting could well be while I could be visiting the parents in France. That might not be good. On the other hand, it would be cheaper to entertain her than to take the train to the other side of France! Unless she takes exception to a braking system in the pedals, also. If she has an accident, it could get expensive. If she makes me buy a new bike, it could get expensive. I don’t think that she has that much power, though, and she certainly shouldn’t know my PINs. (Notice my cunning use of no superfluous words! Please note that I actually say “PIN number”, though; I am not actually suitably committed to the cause of Not Saying Things Wrong,*** because it sounds quite strange omitting the “number”. I am inconsistent in my use if correct English, and should be punished. But you’ll have to find me first. Do try – I could really use the company right now.)
*I always wonder why people put real chocolate in these things, though. It’s like ice cream – the chocolate can’t melt because the ice cream is too cold, and so you get chocolate which you can’t taste, which has a weird texture. With the milk in cereals, the chocolate stays similarly cold and weird. However, the chocolate pieces are small and heavy. They sink to the bottom of the bowl. This means that I get a mouthful of chocolate at the end, which I can then hold in my mouth until it warms up and I can taste it. It turns out to be a lovely way to end breakfast.
**Well, the first house in which I lived after ceasing to be an employed person living in student accommodation came to me when I was accosted by an old man in the street asking me if I needed a house. As a matter of fact, I needed one rather urgently. He only charged me twice as much rent as I was prepared to pay, which was about half of the (very cheap – this was in Lancaster) market rate – it was the summer holidays, and one can get some very good deals at times. So that ended very well indeed. The flat in which I am currently living was also offered to me by some guy. He obviously has a well-developed sense of trust! To live up to this trust, I have learned how to put the bins out (very complicated in Germany, although most of the complication comes from not being able to understand the descriptions of what goes in which bin), and have only spilled tea once! That is some sort of record for me, I think. The tea, not the bins. I can usually understand the bin concept and did, in fact, work for two weeks as Queen of the Dustbins in Taize. Although nobody called me that. But I totally was.
***Or, perhaps, Not Saying Things Incorrectly.
Saturday, 17 July 2010
I am lacking in human interaction
So, it would appear that M!crosoft W0rd is not happy with my blog post. I would normally compose blog posts in Blogger itself (which is, of course, a way to guarantee that my posts will never get lost), but I am without Internet access in this flat. That explains the funny formatting you may have noticed in the previous posts – they were just cut and pasted from Word via some other programme. No idea what. It wasn’t co-operating when I tried to post today’s offering, and so I was unable to accomplish the task of copying and pasting my favourite blog (for this week) onto my memory stick to read at home later. This means that I will have to be productive and learn some German this evening, instead. Damn.
Thinking about it, you were lucky not to have to read my previous blog post (the one eaten by W0rd), as it started off describing what I was going to eat for dinner, then saying that this really wasn’t an adequate blog topic, and that I could really do with some human interaction. This paragraph was much shorter and only a miniscule amount less funny.
It’s funny, though, because I don’t appear to be making a very good job of responding to my e-mails, and they are interaction with a real person, albeit at a distance. I suppose that I don’t really feel like responding to other people’s questions.
It is lonely here, you know. I don’t speak the language, and don’t know anyone who is helping me to get integrated into any sort of social scene. I missed going to the garden to help out today because I got up late, and figured that people would be unimpressed were I to fail to be punctual, so I made no new friends today. Tomorrow, I shall try out the English-speaking church. It looks like totally not my scene, and could take a long time to get there, but social interaction is social interaction, and it might surprise me...
However, in order to get there, I must ride the bike. The bike is a lovely piece of machinery, which really seems to want to be good. It could teach Marigold the Death Bike a thing or two about being nice to people (although I feel that it would be a mistake to expose it to Marigold’s malign influence). However, it has a few problems. It really likes to select its own gear (although it has been holding steady for a few says now), it is only the forces of good holding the front wheel straight, and it is too big for me. The first two problems would only really be an issue with a bike which wasn’t so anxious to please (go, anthropomorphic personification!), but the third problem has started to hurt my knees. My knees are important to me, and so I shall have to brave the bike shop very soon. Probably on Monday. Argh! If I could speak German, it would be less frightening. I only hope that the shopkeeper speaks English. I think that the place over the road from here is a bike shop which sells a lot of second-hand bikes, and I think that their prices will be reasonable, especially as I particularly do not want a bike which looks good. Here in Münster, bikes are disabled by means of a bike lock, and then abandoned, not attached to anything but themselves. I feel that a bike which looks as though it might be worth actual money might not last long here. There’s no point in paying extra for a more nickable bike. Oh, how I miss Marigold. Apart from her lack of seat (thank you, Louise) and stand, she is exactly what I want. I suppose that her homicidal tendencies are hardly ideal, but she has never actually tried to kill me...
I made a discovery today. Orange-flavoured milkshake does not taste good. Of course, I knew this already, but I decided to try it anyway. Now I know for sure. Please trust me when I say that it is as bad as you might imagine it to be. There really is no need to try it out for yourself. I should have trusted my instincts, but I was thirsty and it was cheap. Never go shopping while you are thirsty! (Although I realise that sometimes it is necessary to go shopping while thirsty in order to buy oneself a drink, and that one might possibly become ill were one to be denied this opportunity to go shopping, should a suitable drinking water tap not be in the vicinity. Under these circumstances, I would argue that it is more useful to go shopping than to refrain therefrom. Which is a word the spellchecker seems to think that I just made up.)
I bought plants, seeds and nectarines at the market today. The plants were basil, parsley, sage and lavender, the seeds were sweet peas and wild flowers (all due to be planted before the end of last month), and the nectarines smell tasty. They will be eaten with yoghurt – this is my new favourite snack. It makes me feel healthy and virtuous, and tastes excellent. Any deficiencies in the nectarine’s flavour can be disguised with honey, which is so much better than sugar because it is more natural. Or something.
Anyway, I now have a little garden on my balcony, and it should smell good. The sweet peas, should they grow big enough, should climb towards the balcony above me, and hopefully won’t cause me to fall to my death while trying to cut a particularly high-up bloom (because that would totally be the fault of the flowers, as opposed to me). The wild flowers may look pretty, should they do the flowering thing. The Lavender will annoy my mother, and the other herbs will smell good and help with my cooking. Which reminds me – I need to get Delia’s parsnip and parmesan bread recipe at some point (the tenuous link being that it involves sage, and is pretty much all I ever used my previous sage plant for). Probably before I have someone to visit me for a meal. Although perhaps I should be feeding them potato soup with potato croutons, followed by mashed potatoes with potato sauce and potatoes on the side, then sweet potato fritters (as in potatoes with sugar on, as opposed to sweet potatoes themselves, which are, in fact, a different species from potatoes and, moreover, are absent from this flat). Perhaps with a potato smoothie. Potato lassi, anyone? I have cheese to go with it now. Anyone?
Tomorrow marks the one-week anniversary of my arrival here in Münster. It’s weird to think that this time last week, I was sitting in my last church service in Taizé. How things change. At Taizé, life goes on, and here, nothing much happens.
I felt, when I arrived, that it was a good idea to cut myself some slack and not worry about getting a job straight away. I felt that one or two weeks would be long enough to get settled in, and then I could start to look. Now I am feeling slightly guilty because I have scarcely made a start with advertising my amazing English skills (about all I have that is marketable at the moment, I think, because pretty much every other job requires some German skills, at least while one is applying for the job), and certainly feel no closer to finding out how one might go about getting a cleaning job. Of course, it could all change tomorrow when I go to church. Or it could not change at all. The latter scenario seems more likely to me, but I am aware that I am a reasonably cynical sort of person. Also realistic, sometimes. Except for that time I really trusted that guy, and it turned out to be a bad idea. That wasn’t cynical at all. So not only am I inconsistently cynical, but I am also not good at arguing my own point, and step in to ruin my own argument. Go me. I don’t think that I have a point any more. Instead, I shall have a shower and go to bed. I shall see what tomorrow brings.
Thinking about it, you were lucky not to have to read my previous blog post (the one eaten by W0rd), as it started off describing what I was going to eat for dinner, then saying that this really wasn’t an adequate blog topic, and that I could really do with some human interaction. This paragraph was much shorter and only a miniscule amount less funny.
It’s funny, though, because I don’t appear to be making a very good job of responding to my e-mails, and they are interaction with a real person, albeit at a distance. I suppose that I don’t really feel like responding to other people’s questions.
It is lonely here, you know. I don’t speak the language, and don’t know anyone who is helping me to get integrated into any sort of social scene. I missed going to the garden to help out today because I got up late, and figured that people would be unimpressed were I to fail to be punctual, so I made no new friends today. Tomorrow, I shall try out the English-speaking church. It looks like totally not my scene, and could take a long time to get there, but social interaction is social interaction, and it might surprise me...
However, in order to get there, I must ride the bike. The bike is a lovely piece of machinery, which really seems to want to be good. It could teach Marigold the Death Bike a thing or two about being nice to people (although I feel that it would be a mistake to expose it to Marigold’s malign influence). However, it has a few problems. It really likes to select its own gear (although it has been holding steady for a few says now), it is only the forces of good holding the front wheel straight, and it is too big for me. The first two problems would only really be an issue with a bike which wasn’t so anxious to please (go, anthropomorphic personification!), but the third problem has started to hurt my knees. My knees are important to me, and so I shall have to brave the bike shop very soon. Probably on Monday. Argh! If I could speak German, it would be less frightening. I only hope that the shopkeeper speaks English. I think that the place over the road from here is a bike shop which sells a lot of second-hand bikes, and I think that their prices will be reasonable, especially as I particularly do not want a bike which looks good. Here in Münster, bikes are disabled by means of a bike lock, and then abandoned, not attached to anything but themselves. I feel that a bike which looks as though it might be worth actual money might not last long here. There’s no point in paying extra for a more nickable bike. Oh, how I miss Marigold. Apart from her lack of seat (thank you, Louise) and stand, she is exactly what I want. I suppose that her homicidal tendencies are hardly ideal, but she has never actually tried to kill me...
I made a discovery today. Orange-flavoured milkshake does not taste good. Of course, I knew this already, but I decided to try it anyway. Now I know for sure. Please trust me when I say that it is as bad as you might imagine it to be. There really is no need to try it out for yourself. I should have trusted my instincts, but I was thirsty and it was cheap. Never go shopping while you are thirsty! (Although I realise that sometimes it is necessary to go shopping while thirsty in order to buy oneself a drink, and that one might possibly become ill were one to be denied this opportunity to go shopping, should a suitable drinking water tap not be in the vicinity. Under these circumstances, I would argue that it is more useful to go shopping than to refrain therefrom. Which is a word the spellchecker seems to think that I just made up.)
I bought plants, seeds and nectarines at the market today. The plants were basil, parsley, sage and lavender, the seeds were sweet peas and wild flowers (all due to be planted before the end of last month), and the nectarines smell tasty. They will be eaten with yoghurt – this is my new favourite snack. It makes me feel healthy and virtuous, and tastes excellent. Any deficiencies in the nectarine’s flavour can be disguised with honey, which is so much better than sugar because it is more natural. Or something.
Anyway, I now have a little garden on my balcony, and it should smell good. The sweet peas, should they grow big enough, should climb towards the balcony above me, and hopefully won’t cause me to fall to my death while trying to cut a particularly high-up bloom (because that would totally be the fault of the flowers, as opposed to me). The wild flowers may look pretty, should they do the flowering thing. The Lavender will annoy my mother, and the other herbs will smell good and help with my cooking. Which reminds me – I need to get Delia’s parsnip and parmesan bread recipe at some point (the tenuous link being that it involves sage, and is pretty much all I ever used my previous sage plant for). Probably before I have someone to visit me for a meal. Although perhaps I should be feeding them potato soup with potato croutons, followed by mashed potatoes with potato sauce and potatoes on the side, then sweet potato fritters (as in potatoes with sugar on, as opposed to sweet potatoes themselves, which are, in fact, a different species from potatoes and, moreover, are absent from this flat). Perhaps with a potato smoothie. Potato lassi, anyone? I have cheese to go with it now. Anyone?
Tomorrow marks the one-week anniversary of my arrival here in Münster. It’s weird to think that this time last week, I was sitting in my last church service in Taizé. How things change. At Taizé, life goes on, and here, nothing much happens.
I felt, when I arrived, that it was a good idea to cut myself some slack and not worry about getting a job straight away. I felt that one or two weeks would be long enough to get settled in, and then I could start to look. Now I am feeling slightly guilty because I have scarcely made a start with advertising my amazing English skills (about all I have that is marketable at the moment, I think, because pretty much every other job requires some German skills, at least while one is applying for the job), and certainly feel no closer to finding out how one might go about getting a cleaning job. Of course, it could all change tomorrow when I go to church. Or it could not change at all. The latter scenario seems more likely to me, but I am aware that I am a reasonably cynical sort of person. Also realistic, sometimes. Except for that time I really trusted that guy, and it turned out to be a bad idea. That wasn’t cynical at all. So not only am I inconsistently cynical, but I am also not good at arguing my own point, and step in to ruin my own argument. Go me. I don’t think that I have a point any more. Instead, I shall have a shower and go to bed. I shall see what tomorrow brings.
Friday, 23 January 2009
Moving?
So.* I found us a new house. I spoke to the current tenants and to the landlord, and it looks as though we are likely to move in to it in just over a month. Nothing is signed yet, and there is still plenty which can go wrong, but I am hopeful.
This new house is quite different from our current house. It is quite a bit bigger: it has three bedrooms instead of two; the main bedroom is a decent size; two reception rooms instead of just one (although they are each quite a bit smaller than our current living room) and a large kitchen diner. It has storage cupboards built in (joy of joys!) and the cupboard under the stairs is a real thing instead of just something which could have happened had they made a hole in the wall.
It has a yard instead of a garden (good: no cat poo; bad: no garden), and a small brick outbuilding instead of a garage (not great, but OK), and no loft (where on earth will we put our supply of boxes for when we move next time? Oh, I remember: HWSNBN's mum's garage's attic).
It is in town, but away from the centre. We will be able to walk to the centre to the pub without any problems, and back again even more easily (because alcohol makes walks shorter and less challenging unless one needs a wee), but HWSNBN will not have to cope with the one-way system to get to the motorway to go to work in Next City Down, where he works. We currently live half-way between City and Next City Down, so it will be more of a drive for him, but I don't think that the difference will be too great. Coming home, he may have difficulties getting on to the motorway, as the queues may not be very nice. I shall be able to cycle to work on my new-to-me bike. Hooray! I get to actually use it, and my bright yellow semi-waterproof garment.
Today I am terrified. It seems as though the list of things I must get through is insurmountable. HWSNBN says that I must also get rid of a lot of clothes before we move, too. I reckon I need to get rid of about half of them, which will be traumatic. I am very tempted to buy many, many garments I don't want so that I can get rid of them and it looks better. Of course, that would be stupid. It is tempting, though. There are also other things which are worrying me, but that is probably going to involve the biggest amount of trauma (I prefer my trauma to be soft and velvety, not this crappy pain, illness and dying sort some people have to put up with). I am mostly terrified about teaching maths, big career decisions with approaching deadlines and moving out of our current house.
We are thinking of moving here for about a year. The housing market is due to crash in that time, and we may be able to afford a house at that point. If nothing else, this move will give us (me) the impetus to de-clutter so that the next move will be easier, and we will not have too much crap in our first real home.
It will be very good indeed to be connected, though. I will have friends, pubs and parties within walking distance. I can go cycling along the old cycle track I used to love. Church will be close (although I expect I will still have to drive, as the music is quite heavy and I am knackered after afternoon practice sessions). Serena's house will be just round the back of mine. The kitchen diner will be great for parties.**
I think that it will be good. One last year of connectedness before throwing ourselves into the house search and hopefully finding something that suits us both; in the middle of nowhere with a decent pub less than 10 minutes walk away would probably be great, especially if vegetable-growing facilities could be installed in the back garden.
So now all we have to do right now is wait. It could come to nothing, but I don't think so. Fingers crossed it goes smoothly! I don't quite believe that I had the audacity to get to this stage (HWSNBN was not really on-side, IYSWIM).
*Why do I always seem to want to start my posts with "So"? If you look through the archives you probably won't see it very often, because I mostly make myself delete it.
**I cannot move into a house without at least one party room - that is my main requirement. Part of it is that I need to have one big room. I was brought up in a very large Victorian house and cannot get used to the lack of space in so many houses within my price range. The other part is that I will not live in a house in which I can't have parties - it's just a bit boring, really.
This new house is quite different from our current house. It is quite a bit bigger: it has three bedrooms instead of two; the main bedroom is a decent size; two reception rooms instead of just one (although they are each quite a bit smaller than our current living room) and a large kitchen diner. It has storage cupboards built in (joy of joys!) and the cupboard under the stairs is a real thing instead of just something which could have happened had they made a hole in the wall.
It has a yard instead of a garden (good: no cat poo; bad: no garden), and a small brick outbuilding instead of a garage (not great, but OK), and no loft (where on earth will we put our supply of boxes for when we move next time? Oh, I remember: HWSNBN's mum's garage's attic).
It is in town, but away from the centre. We will be able to walk to the centre to the pub without any problems, and back again even more easily (because alcohol makes walks shorter and less challenging unless one needs a wee), but HWSNBN will not have to cope with the one-way system to get to the motorway to go to work in Next City Down, where he works. We currently live half-way between City and Next City Down, so it will be more of a drive for him, but I don't think that the difference will be too great. Coming home, he may have difficulties getting on to the motorway, as the queues may not be very nice. I shall be able to cycle to work on my new-to-me bike. Hooray! I get to actually use it, and my bright yellow semi-waterproof garment.
Today I am terrified. It seems as though the list of things I must get through is insurmountable. HWSNBN says that I must also get rid of a lot of clothes before we move, too. I reckon I need to get rid of about half of them, which will be traumatic. I am very tempted to buy many, many garments I don't want so that I can get rid of them and it looks better. Of course, that would be stupid. It is tempting, though. There are also other things which are worrying me, but that is probably going to involve the biggest amount of trauma (I prefer my trauma to be soft and velvety, not this crappy pain, illness and dying sort some people have to put up with). I am mostly terrified about teaching maths, big career decisions with approaching deadlines and moving out of our current house.
We are thinking of moving here for about a year. The housing market is due to crash in that time, and we may be able to afford a house at that point. If nothing else, this move will give us (me) the impetus to de-clutter so that the next move will be easier, and we will not have too much crap in our first real home.
It will be very good indeed to be connected, though. I will have friends, pubs and parties within walking distance. I can go cycling along the old cycle track I used to love. Church will be close (although I expect I will still have to drive, as the music is quite heavy and I am knackered after afternoon practice sessions). Serena's house will be just round the back of mine. The kitchen diner will be great for parties.**
I think that it will be good. One last year of connectedness before throwing ourselves into the house search and hopefully finding something that suits us both; in the middle of nowhere with a decent pub less than 10 minutes walk away would probably be great, especially if vegetable-growing facilities could be installed in the back garden.
So now all we have to do right now is wait. It could come to nothing, but I don't think so. Fingers crossed it goes smoothly! I don't quite believe that I had the audacity to get to this stage (HWSNBN was not really on-side, IYSWIM).
*Why do I always seem to want to start my posts with "So"? If you look through the archives you probably won't see it very often, because I mostly make myself delete it.
**I cannot move into a house without at least one party room - that is my main requirement. Part of it is that I need to have one big room. I was brought up in a very large Victorian house and cannot get used to the lack of space in so many houses within my price range. The other part is that I will not live in a house in which I can't have parties - it's just a bit boring, really.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Aaargh! Helmets!
Yesterday was the day of the much anticipated* church bike ride. As the weather was fine, we went ahead with it. There were five children and three adults going, which is a fairly respectable ratio. The plan was to cycle to the beach, about 3 1/2 miles away, and to have a picnic lunch. We would then return to church, then go home.
It started off well. We all gathered round with our bikes and everybody was happy. This lasted until the leader told us we were going to wear helmets. Seemingly, this was unacceptable. They are not cool, and make you look dorky, or something. One child (hereafter Recalcitrant #1) refused to move for about five minutes, so great was her indignity. She was only about 10, though...
I am pleased to report that my "new" bike is lovely - it has an impressive range of gears (compared to what I am used to), and will free-wheel for a long time after I stop pedalling. Actually, free-wheeling is the main reason I like cycling, I think. What other form of exercise allows you to look vaguely as though you are achieving something when you are actually just staying upright and avoiding bumping into things? It's almost the opposite of Pilates, which looks like you are doing nothing, but really hurts. I suppose that one has to put in effort to reach an acceptable speed, but with, say, jogging there is no free-wheeling. But I digress.
Anyway, I had a semi-wonderful time being back on a bike for the first time in many months, and we made it to the beach with no major incidents. The weather held, too - it hardly rained at all, and we even experienced some sunshine! We were met on the promenade by the car-using, food-carrying component of our group.
Once at the beach, the children went to play on what passes as sand round these parts. I went to the supermarket to procure a spoon, some baby wipes and lunch.** I returned with two sporks, some baby wipes and lunch. One child pronounced my double chocolate brownies to be "disgusting", which amused me. How does one reach that conclusion? Perhaps she was trying to be awkward. I had been worried that other people would finish my brownies, leaving none for me to take home; these worries were unfounded, thank goodness. Having been reminded of my brownies, I have just eaten a second one. Still yummy. When HWSNBN gets off his computer (he's killing aliens, I think), has a bath and presents himself to be fed, perhaps I can get something with nutritional value into me; until then, brownies it is.
Having played and eaten lunch, it was time to return home. Once again, helmets were not universally accepted. There was more resistance this time, although I am not sure what they expected to achieve. The way they were going to get home was on their bikes, and they were not allowed to ride them without helmets. I fear I may have made myself unpopular with my silent standing and waiting, punctuated with occasional offers to adjust helmets. I had given up suggesting that a high pony tail was perhaps not the thing to have when wearing a cycle helmet (I myself had my hair in bunches - forward planning and all that).
As Recalcitrant #1 had her bike leaning on mine, I was last to go, and followed her along the pier to the lighthouse. At one point she stopped riding, so I stopped too. After a few minutes I got bored and started up again. I assume that she thought I was going to talk to her, as she started up again, too, albeit without her helmet. I didn't think I was going to win that argument, nor was I going to get that close, so she returned to the group without her helmet on.*** When we were ready to return home, Recalcitrant #1 cycled very slowly indeed to the main road, and again on the roundabout. Perhaps she wanted to die. Alas, I was behind her and so more of a target for vehicles which actually wanted to go places. A much larger target, too.
Having crossed over the roundabout (and, thankfully, in a nice wide cycle lane on a slow road), Recalcitrant #2 (aged 11) decided to try it on. She declared that she was not going to wear a helmet. I declared that she was, and us adults agreed that she was not going anywhere without it on. She put it on and refused to move while wearing it. I laughed at her and said that we would wait, which we did. After a surprisingly short amount of time (seriously - I was amazed), she moved along, very sulkily. We made it back to the dedicated cycle track with no more incidents, and had been going for nearly 1/4 of a mile before Recalcitrant #2 undid her helmet strap. Another standoff ensued, in which one of her parents was called. She complained that we had been making her wear the helmet too tightly, which we had not; we had given up with making her wear it for her protection, and were content that she had it on her head with the strap fastened.
Eventually, she accepted that she was going to wear the helmet, and she and Recalcitrant #1 set off very slowly. They soon seemed to forget that they looked so incredibly uncool and stupid and started cycling at an appropriate speed and chatting, at which point the ride started to be fun. Thank goodness.
Towards the end of the ride, we lost the Recalcitrants - they made their own way back. Damn. I took the two lovely ones, who behaved like real people, back. We went down rather a large hill, which is always fun.
Upon arriving back at church, I found that I did not have enough strength left to lift my bike back into my car, which was unfortunate and embarrassing. Not that anyone noticed, except for me and the new scratch in my car door. I really must make it so that I am fit enough to cycle for 7 miles at an average speed of, I would guess, about 6 mph, and still able to do what I could do before such a ride. I'm glad I went with slow people, though - normally I cycle as fast as I can sustain, and I suspect that I would have damaged myself using that policy yesterday. I would also have gone a far more interesting route, except that I wouldn't, because my bike would have stayed at home, rather than coming to church with me - it's about 12 miles away. I am so not cycling that route, as my organ music is too heavy (no storage facilities at church), and the route is very dangerous a lot of the way - cars at 50-60 mph, with the cycle lanes there when they are not really necessary, and disappearing when they are essential, because the road isn't wide enough (that is why they are essential, and also why they are not there - it's not worth investing in making the road wider for cyclists, apparently).
When I got home, I waited for HWSNBN to return to extract my bike. That was useful. I like it when he is useful.
In conclusion, children can sometimes be awkward and petty. Who knew?
*It was much anticipated by some of the children - I wasn't all that keen.
**I can't eat gluten, so the provided sandwiches were not an option for me, and I was too lazy to prepare lunch in advance, especially considering that we were going to be next to my favourite gluten-free supermarket.
***I know - I can't believe I'm writing this, either. Bored yet?
It started off well. We all gathered round with our bikes and everybody was happy. This lasted until the leader told us we were going to wear helmets. Seemingly, this was unacceptable. They are not cool, and make you look dorky, or something. One child (hereafter Recalcitrant #1) refused to move for about five minutes, so great was her indignity. She was only about 10, though...
I am pleased to report that my "new" bike is lovely - it has an impressive range of gears (compared to what I am used to), and will free-wheel for a long time after I stop pedalling. Actually, free-wheeling is the main reason I like cycling, I think. What other form of exercise allows you to look vaguely as though you are achieving something when you are actually just staying upright and avoiding bumping into things? It's almost the opposite of Pilates, which looks like you are doing nothing, but really hurts. I suppose that one has to put in effort to reach an acceptable speed, but with, say, jogging there is no free-wheeling. But I digress.
Anyway, I had a semi-wonderful time being back on a bike for the first time in many months, and we made it to the beach with no major incidents. The weather held, too - it hardly rained at all, and we even experienced some sunshine! We were met on the promenade by the car-using, food-carrying component of our group.
Once at the beach, the children went to play on what passes as sand round these parts. I went to the supermarket to procure a spoon, some baby wipes and lunch.** I returned with two sporks, some baby wipes and lunch. One child pronounced my double chocolate brownies to be "disgusting", which amused me. How does one reach that conclusion? Perhaps she was trying to be awkward. I had been worried that other people would finish my brownies, leaving none for me to take home; these worries were unfounded, thank goodness. Having been reminded of my brownies, I have just eaten a second one. Still yummy. When HWSNBN gets off his computer (he's killing aliens, I think), has a bath and presents himself to be fed, perhaps I can get something with nutritional value into me; until then, brownies it is.
Having played and eaten lunch, it was time to return home. Once again, helmets were not universally accepted. There was more resistance this time, although I am not sure what they expected to achieve. The way they were going to get home was on their bikes, and they were not allowed to ride them without helmets. I fear I may have made myself unpopular with my silent standing and waiting, punctuated with occasional offers to adjust helmets. I had given up suggesting that a high pony tail was perhaps not the thing to have when wearing a cycle helmet (I myself had my hair in bunches - forward planning and all that).
As Recalcitrant #1 had her bike leaning on mine, I was last to go, and followed her along the pier to the lighthouse. At one point she stopped riding, so I stopped too. After a few minutes I got bored and started up again. I assume that she thought I was going to talk to her, as she started up again, too, albeit without her helmet. I didn't think I was going to win that argument, nor was I going to get that close, so she returned to the group without her helmet on.*** When we were ready to return home, Recalcitrant #1 cycled very slowly indeed to the main road, and again on the roundabout. Perhaps she wanted to die. Alas, I was behind her and so more of a target for vehicles which actually wanted to go places. A much larger target, too.
Having crossed over the roundabout (and, thankfully, in a nice wide cycle lane on a slow road), Recalcitrant #2 (aged 11) decided to try it on. She declared that she was not going to wear a helmet. I declared that she was, and us adults agreed that she was not going anywhere without it on. She put it on and refused to move while wearing it. I laughed at her and said that we would wait, which we did. After a surprisingly short amount of time (seriously - I was amazed), she moved along, very sulkily. We made it back to the dedicated cycle track with no more incidents, and had been going for nearly 1/4 of a mile before Recalcitrant #2 undid her helmet strap. Another standoff ensued, in which one of her parents was called. She complained that we had been making her wear the helmet too tightly, which we had not; we had given up with making her wear it for her protection, and were content that she had it on her head with the strap fastened.
Eventually, she accepted that she was going to wear the helmet, and she and Recalcitrant #1 set off very slowly. They soon seemed to forget that they looked so incredibly uncool and stupid and started cycling at an appropriate speed and chatting, at which point the ride started to be fun. Thank goodness.
Towards the end of the ride, we lost the Recalcitrants - they made their own way back. Damn. I took the two lovely ones, who behaved like real people, back. We went down rather a large hill, which is always fun.
Upon arriving back at church, I found that I did not have enough strength left to lift my bike back into my car, which was unfortunate and embarrassing. Not that anyone noticed, except for me and the new scratch in my car door. I really must make it so that I am fit enough to cycle for 7 miles at an average speed of, I would guess, about 6 mph, and still able to do what I could do before such a ride. I'm glad I went with slow people, though - normally I cycle as fast as I can sustain, and I suspect that I would have damaged myself using that policy yesterday. I would also have gone a far more interesting route, except that I wouldn't, because my bike would have stayed at home, rather than coming to church with me - it's about 12 miles away. I am so not cycling that route, as my organ music is too heavy (no storage facilities at church), and the route is very dangerous a lot of the way - cars at 50-60 mph, with the cycle lanes there when they are not really necessary, and disappearing when they are essential, because the road isn't wide enough (that is why they are essential, and also why they are not there - it's not worth investing in making the road wider for cyclists, apparently).
When I got home, I waited for HWSNBN to return to extract my bike. That was useful. I like it when he is useful.
In conclusion, children can sometimes be awkward and petty. Who knew?
*It was much anticipated by some of the children - I wasn't all that keen.
**I can't eat gluten, so the provided sandwiches were not an option for me, and I was too lazy to prepare lunch in advance, especially considering that we were going to be next to my favourite gluten-free supermarket.
***I know - I can't believe I'm writing this, either. Bored yet?
Saturday, 6 September 2008
Bang!
I collected my new bike on Thursday evening. It has all sorts of exciting features my dead bike did not have, such as panniers and extra gears for hills.
As it has been sitting around doing little for the past 13 years or so, I gave it a wash and a tidy up, then took it for a ride. On my return, I realised that the front tyre had split. Fortunately, I have two spare bikes with tyres in the same size, so I cannibalised one if them. Having put the wheel back on the bike, I put a lot of effort into pumping up the tyre - running on flat tyres reduces efficiency.
Alas, when I tried to disengage the pump, the inner tube burst rather loudly. I didn't really hear it myself; I think it just made my hearing shut down. Did you know that inner tubes have powder in? I didn't, but now I do. HWSNBN came out to see what the noise was (apparently it was easier to hear within the house), and fiddled with the bike a bit while I waited to see whether or not my hearing would come back. Once I had accepted the ringing in my ears, I cannibalised the inner tube from the dead bike and tried again. This time, it worked. Thank goodness. In future, I shall only inflate it until I have to use my own bodyweight to press the handle down; seemingly any more pressure is a bad thing.
Tomorrow, weather permitting, I shall take it on a ride. If it rains, I shall do organ practice instead.
As it has been sitting around doing little for the past 13 years or so, I gave it a wash and a tidy up, then took it for a ride. On my return, I realised that the front tyre had split. Fortunately, I have two spare bikes with tyres in the same size, so I cannibalised one if them. Having put the wheel back on the bike, I put a lot of effort into pumping up the tyre - running on flat tyres reduces efficiency.
Alas, when I tried to disengage the pump, the inner tube burst rather loudly. I didn't really hear it myself; I think it just made my hearing shut down. Did you know that inner tubes have powder in? I didn't, but now I do. HWSNBN came out to see what the noise was (apparently it was easier to hear within the house), and fiddled with the bike a bit while I waited to see whether or not my hearing would come back. Once I had accepted the ringing in my ears, I cannibalised the inner tube from the dead bike and tried again. This time, it worked. Thank goodness. In future, I shall only inflate it until I have to use my own bodyweight to press the handle down; seemingly any more pressure is a bad thing.
Tomorrow, weather permitting, I shall take it on a ride. If it rains, I shall do organ practice instead.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Bike and soap
A little while ago I lent my lovely bike, Claud, to some guy and he killed it.* It was my fault, of course; I had left the derailleur system rather badly adjusted, so when this guy dropped it into bottom gear (something I would never do, which is why I didn't pick up on the problem) the dangly bit that holds the chain in the correct position (sorry - please stop me if my language gets too technical) leapt into the back wheel, mangling the chain, much of the making-it-go-forward system, bending a few spokes and bending the frame. The front fork and wheel, the handlebars, and the saddle are still good, but it was not economically viable to repair, especially given Claud's age (44).
I have been meaning to replace Claud for some time, as my other bike is also not in excellent condition;** generally I prefer my bikes to have two pedals. However I cannot afford a new bike, especially not the sort I would particularly like to own. There is a place in town which recycles bikes and sells them on for much less than a new bike would cost, but that is only open during working hours; I happen to work during working hours.
On Friday I decided to take action: I put an advert in our local swap shop e-mail. This came out on Sunday. Today I had an e-mail from a lady who has just the sort of bike I am looking for, apparently. It is 20 years old, so it has a bit of history,*** and it was once used to cross the Sierra Nevada (is that a thing one can do with the Sierra Nevada? If not, it wasn't used for that, after all). It sounds as though it has a cross-bar which goes across, and so will take my lock without any problems. I am looking forward to collecting it.
Of course, this being a swap shop, I have to give something in return. I shall be giving peas, artichokes, french beans (purple) and radishes from my vegetable patch, and some homemade soap. This was the perfect excuse to make some more soap - I hadn't made any since March, and my supplies of nice soaps I would be happy to give to people I don't know well have diminished, along with my supplies of really gentle soap for my poor, delicate skin.****
I therefore made two soaps from the same batch of oils. I took one lot out early and made an unscented cold process soap, which will be ready within six weeks, and left the rest in to make a lime and lemon scented hot process soap, which will be ready after I cut it tomorrow. I shall give some of that soap away to the bike lady, and I hope to make another batch, too. The other batch can be mostly lavender cold process soap, with some jasmine hot process soap to give away.
I made an infusion of alkanet in olive oil to colour my next batch. Alkanet is dark red, and the infusion will be, too. However, it will probably turn the soap blue, lilac, purple or grey, possibly red; apparently it depends on the pH of the soap. I don't quite know what causes the pH of the soap to vary, or what sort of pH leads to what sort of colour, so I have no idea how it will turn out. It should be interesting, though. It is a natural colouring, so it is therefore entirely safe and lovely and better than the artificial alternative in every way. It adds an element of unpredictability... I shall have to make sure I don't use hemp oil or avocado oil in the soap, as the yellow/green could alter the final colour in a negative way.
That was my idea of a less boring post. Perhaps photos would make it less eye-gougingly dull for the rest of you. I should work on that. Perhaps I shall.
*Note how the bike gets a name but the man does not.
**It was acquired by accident, when I was in the middle of my dissertation. Making it work seemed like impossibly good fun at the time, but less fun after I had submitted. I have now accepted that its destiny is to be fixed by someone else.
***I like bikes to have history. I wonder if this is a self-protection mechanism: I know that I am not getting a new bike, so I come up with an obscure reason why old bikes are better anyway. They are more solidly built. 1988 was a peak year for quality bike production. (Oh, but I did love the 1964 one - much more than I love the 1973 one, which is out to claim as many victims as it can. She was named Marigold the Death Bike by her first owner, and has tried to kill three people. I was recommended to put her on the tip rather than return her to her owner. Instead she languishes in my parents' basement, having the occasional part (saddle post) stolen by my little sister. This was not a popular move. The bike is no longer comfortable to ride. But I digress.)
****Stupid poor, delicate skin. Drives me mad. I am not the sort of person to have allergies and sensitive skin. I am an 'I can do that' sort of person, and I would like 'that' to include eating bread, pasta, cake, sausages and all sorts of other tasty but gluten-containing foods, using scented moisturiser, using biological washing powder and shaving my legs.*****
*****Yes, that's a lovely image, isn't it? You're welcome.
I have been meaning to replace Claud for some time, as my other bike is also not in excellent condition;** generally I prefer my bikes to have two pedals. However I cannot afford a new bike, especially not the sort I would particularly like to own. There is a place in town which recycles bikes and sells them on for much less than a new bike would cost, but that is only open during working hours; I happen to work during working hours.
On Friday I decided to take action: I put an advert in our local swap shop e-mail. This came out on Sunday. Today I had an e-mail from a lady who has just the sort of bike I am looking for, apparently. It is 20 years old, so it has a bit of history,*** and it was once used to cross the Sierra Nevada (is that a thing one can do with the Sierra Nevada? If not, it wasn't used for that, after all). It sounds as though it has a cross-bar which goes across, and so will take my lock without any problems. I am looking forward to collecting it.
Of course, this being a swap shop, I have to give something in return. I shall be giving peas, artichokes, french beans (purple) and radishes from my vegetable patch, and some homemade soap. This was the perfect excuse to make some more soap - I hadn't made any since March, and my supplies of nice soaps I would be happy to give to people I don't know well have diminished, along with my supplies of really gentle soap for my poor, delicate skin.****
I therefore made two soaps from the same batch of oils. I took one lot out early and made an unscented cold process soap, which will be ready within six weeks, and left the rest in to make a lime and lemon scented hot process soap, which will be ready after I cut it tomorrow. I shall give some of that soap away to the bike lady, and I hope to make another batch, too. The other batch can be mostly lavender cold process soap, with some jasmine hot process soap to give away.
I made an infusion of alkanet in olive oil to colour my next batch. Alkanet is dark red, and the infusion will be, too. However, it will probably turn the soap blue, lilac, purple or grey, possibly red; apparently it depends on the pH of the soap. I don't quite know what causes the pH of the soap to vary, or what sort of pH leads to what sort of colour, so I have no idea how it will turn out. It should be interesting, though. It is a natural colouring, so it is therefore entirely safe and lovely and better than the artificial alternative in every way. It adds an element of unpredictability... I shall have to make sure I don't use hemp oil or avocado oil in the soap, as the yellow/green could alter the final colour in a negative way.
That was my idea of a less boring post. Perhaps photos would make it less eye-gougingly dull for the rest of you. I should work on that. Perhaps I shall.
*Note how the bike gets a name but the man does not.
**It was acquired by accident, when I was in the middle of my dissertation. Making it work seemed like impossibly good fun at the time, but less fun after I had submitted. I have now accepted that its destiny is to be fixed by someone else.
***I like bikes to have history. I wonder if this is a self-protection mechanism: I know that I am not getting a new bike, so I come up with an obscure reason why old bikes are better anyway. They are more solidly built. 1988 was a peak year for quality bike production. (Oh, but I did love the 1964 one - much more than I love the 1973 one, which is out to claim as many victims as it can. She was named Marigold the Death Bike by her first owner, and has tried to kill three people. I was recommended to put her on the tip rather than return her to her owner. Instead she languishes in my parents' basement, having the occasional part (saddle post) stolen by my little sister. This was not a popular move. The bike is no longer comfortable to ride. But I digress.)
****Stupid poor, delicate skin. Drives me mad. I am not the sort of person to have allergies and sensitive skin. I am an 'I can do that' sort of person, and I would like 'that' to include eating bread, pasta, cake, sausages and all sorts of other tasty but gluten-containing foods, using scented moisturiser, using biological washing powder and shaving my legs.*****
*****Yes, that's a lovely image, isn't it? You're welcome.
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