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?
Monday, 8 September 2008
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.
Friday, 5 September 2008
In which I reveal my most embarrassing and dangerous musical moments
As a decidedly amateur musician, I have had my fair share of embarrassing musical mishaps with a large audience watching, plus many more with a small audience in attendance.*
I started playing the piano nearly 20 years ago, when I was seven. I started to play the organ about 10 years ago, when Dave the Organist offered to teach me. Recently, he said that it had been a pleasant diversion, but I think that he may have been looking back with rose-tinted spectacles, as I did not practise nearly enough for his liking. I think that he might have known what I am capable of. I hate it when people work that out - they start to expect things of me.
However, I was a useful person to have around, as I was able to take over much of the musical side of the service, leaving him free to stay in bed/go on holiday, a couple of times. I also occasionally played the piano for a few hymns during the service, as Dave was not a pianist.
On one such occasion, I think that I was playing the service on my own; I know that I was on the piano at the time. I do not remember the hymn, nor do I remember having any problems playing it. I suspect that the "music" group may have been doing their thing, but cannot be sure.
As I played the hymn, some time within the first verse I noticed a commotion in the congregation: some old guy had keeled over, taking some old dear with him (like giant dominoes). People went to see whether or not he was OK, but I did not know what to do. Nobody ever tells you what to do in this sort of situation. I had to improvise.
On the one hand, finishing the hymn seemed to be an awkward choice, as I didn't know whether or not this was a wildly inappropriate thing to do. Nor did I want to trail off and cause an awkward silence punctuated by the noises of first aid and summoning of ambulances, where there had previously been awkward singing.
I finished playing the hymn. Next time somebody keels over, I shall probably do the same thing. I shall keep a note of the hymn, though, just in case it turns out to be significant. It could be a good weapon to use on recalcitrant congregations. I suspect the vicar was glad of the thinking space. I seem to recall him finishing the hymn, too. I may have made that up.
Domino guy didn't die in the end. I was glad about that. Domino lady was fine, too, albeit a little shaken.
That was not overly embarrassing; to the best of my knowledge, he would have keeled over had I not been playing, except that he would have been unlikely to be standing up and singing had there been no musical accompaniment. Mind you, one never knows.
A far more embarrassing incident** occurred when I got my first organist job. Before the first hymn I was nervous, and rightly so (notice a theme here?). As I was determined to be a proper organist, I used the pedals. I had about two weeks to practise before the service, and had been able to make it so that I could play all of the hymns, although they were a bit shaky. Alas, the first hymn did not start well, nor did it continue well, nor did it finish well. To be fair, by the third verse it was possible to make out which hymn it was that I was trying to play, but I think that I lost the confidence of the congregation. However, I did well really. I kept going. They always tell you how important it is to keep going, and I did just that. Well done me. A lesser*** organist would have given up after the introduction and started again.
On the plus side, whenever I have to do something which has the potential to be embarrassing, I ask myself whether it could be as embarrassing as that hymn. The answer is always no. It was character-building.
I have since learned that being a proper organist is over-rated; getting the notes right**** is much more important. People are more likely to believe I can play the thing if they think I am getting the notes right. This was reinforced at my recent wedding. Must not make that mistake again, again.
Now it never gets any worse than messing up half a verse repeatedly. On Sunday it was going very well until I realised that I had left an important hymn book at home. I messed up the next bar. Never think of things while playing. Fortunately, I was able to use the church's copy, which lives to the side of the organ.
I occasionally forget how to read music just before the start of a hymn, too. That is inconvenient; it makes choosing the starting notes rather challenging. Perhaps when I am more experienced this won't happen to me any more.
Of course, my current organ causes all manner of problems. I spoke to the guy who put it all together, and he was pointing out where all of the different bits came from. The case either came from somebody's house or from a school in Preston. The stool came from a church in Caton. Five of the pipes came from our mother church (the dodgy-sounding ones). I lost track after that.
Organs use a variety of different methods to get a pipe to sound when a key is pressed. My organ is unusual in that it has two manuals (keyboards - two is usual) with two different methods of communicating with the pipes. The top manual uses a tracker action, which is where the keys communicate with the pipes via a load of interconnected rods, and the bottom manual uses a tracker action for one set of pipes and an electric action for the rest. With the electric action, every time a key is pressed, an electrical circuit is completed; this (I think) activates an electro-magnet which allows air into the pipe. It is all very complicated. The pedals are just electric action.
Anyway, the tracker action (the one with the rods) is great - when you press the key, the note sounds. With the electric action, we are not always so lucky.
I have a book called "The Organ Today", which was published in 1967. The electric action I have is illustrated in this book, which suggests that it was up-to-date at that point. I believe that it has now been superseded at least twice since then, and for good reason. A lot of oxidation builds up at a certain point in the circuit, and when this happens, the note often will not sound. Each pipe has its own circuit (as I said, it is very complicated), so oxidation on one piece of metal will not affect the other notes. However, I often lose notes during the service. They can be playing quite happily one minute, and gone the next. If I hold down the note, push the stop (i.e. the sound selector) back in (to stop the sound) and pull it out again (to re-start the sound), the note will usually come back, but I cannot do this during a service. I therefore often have notes missing, which sounds as though I do not know what I am doing.
Another lovely little quirk my organ has is to do with its couplers. The couplers link the two manuals together, so that everything I play on the main manual is also played on the secondary manual - it presses the notes down in what some consider to be a ghostly fashion. Have a look here for a guy playing something on the organ with lots of manuals coupled together. Mine does that, but with just two manuals.
The coupler is a useful device - it means that you can use stops (and thus sets of pipes making particular sounds) on both manuals, and also that you can use more stops and so play more loudly. The only way to use all of the stops properly is to couple them together.
However the coupler does not work for one note, that note being G above middle C, which is right in the middle of most women's singing range, and gets used in most hymns. What this means is that, when using the coupler, there is a little gap whenever I play that G. When the stops I use sound really similar, or where the main manual is making a louder sound than the secondary one, this is not noticeable. Unfortunately, my congregation do not sing loudly enough for me to play loudly on the main manual, so I have to create the additional volume from the quieter second manual. To make people follow the hymns better, I use one stop which is an octave higher than normal for most hymns.***** This means that if I couple the two manuals together, it drops down an octave every time I reach that particular G. This sounds absolutely terrible, and has caused me to stop what I was playing, apologise to the congregation and start again (but with different stops). Once I worked out what was happening, it made my life ever so slightly easier.
The organ has other, more serious problems, but they do not disrupt it so much. They're only massive structural damage, rather than notes not sounding. I mean, how bad can it be, really?
*What? You mean the congregation aren't there to listen to me? Philistines.
**This is the most embarrassing incident to which I am prepared to admit. It is also the most embarrassing incident I can remember, except for that one.****** I suspect this may be due to selective amnesia, combined with my family not knowing about whatever embarrassing memories I have buried and thus not repeating them back at me at awkward moments.
***For "lesser", you are welcome to read "sensible".
****That is to say, the congregation believes I got the notes right.
*****This does actually seem to work. To make them keep up, you make sure the bass notes are also played an octave lower (i.e. use the pedals).
******You know, the one where I... No. Not going to happen.
I started playing the piano nearly 20 years ago, when I was seven. I started to play the organ about 10 years ago, when Dave the Organist offered to teach me. Recently, he said that it had been a pleasant diversion, but I think that he may have been looking back with rose-tinted spectacles, as I did not practise nearly enough for his liking. I think that he might have known what I am capable of. I hate it when people work that out - they start to expect things of me.
However, I was a useful person to have around, as I was able to take over much of the musical side of the service, leaving him free to stay in bed/go on holiday, a couple of times. I also occasionally played the piano for a few hymns during the service, as Dave was not a pianist.
On one such occasion, I think that I was playing the service on my own; I know that I was on the piano at the time. I do not remember the hymn, nor do I remember having any problems playing it. I suspect that the "music" group may have been doing their thing, but cannot be sure.
As I played the hymn, some time within the first verse I noticed a commotion in the congregation: some old guy had keeled over, taking some old dear with him (like giant dominoes). People went to see whether or not he was OK, but I did not know what to do. Nobody ever tells you what to do in this sort of situation. I had to improvise.
On the one hand, finishing the hymn seemed to be an awkward choice, as I didn't know whether or not this was a wildly inappropriate thing to do. Nor did I want to trail off and cause an awkward silence punctuated by the noises of first aid and summoning of ambulances, where there had previously been awkward singing.
I finished playing the hymn. Next time somebody keels over, I shall probably do the same thing. I shall keep a note of the hymn, though, just in case it turns out to be significant. It could be a good weapon to use on recalcitrant congregations. I suspect the vicar was glad of the thinking space. I seem to recall him finishing the hymn, too. I may have made that up.
Domino guy didn't die in the end. I was glad about that. Domino lady was fine, too, albeit a little shaken.
That was not overly embarrassing; to the best of my knowledge, he would have keeled over had I not been playing, except that he would have been unlikely to be standing up and singing had there been no musical accompaniment. Mind you, one never knows.
A far more embarrassing incident** occurred when I got my first organist job. Before the first hymn I was nervous, and rightly so (notice a theme here?). As I was determined to be a proper organist, I used the pedals. I had about two weeks to practise before the service, and had been able to make it so that I could play all of the hymns, although they were a bit shaky. Alas, the first hymn did not start well, nor did it continue well, nor did it finish well. To be fair, by the third verse it was possible to make out which hymn it was that I was trying to play, but I think that I lost the confidence of the congregation. However, I did well really. I kept going. They always tell you how important it is to keep going, and I did just that. Well done me. A lesser*** organist would have given up after the introduction and started again.
On the plus side, whenever I have to do something which has the potential to be embarrassing, I ask myself whether it could be as embarrassing as that hymn. The answer is always no. It was character-building.
I have since learned that being a proper organist is over-rated; getting the notes right**** is much more important. People are more likely to believe I can play the thing if they think I am getting the notes right. This was reinforced at my recent wedding. Must not make that mistake again, again.
Now it never gets any worse than messing up half a verse repeatedly. On Sunday it was going very well until I realised that I had left an important hymn book at home. I messed up the next bar. Never think of things while playing. Fortunately, I was able to use the church's copy, which lives to the side of the organ.
I occasionally forget how to read music just before the start of a hymn, too. That is inconvenient; it makes choosing the starting notes rather challenging. Perhaps when I am more experienced this won't happen to me any more.
Of course, my current organ causes all manner of problems. I spoke to the guy who put it all together, and he was pointing out where all of the different bits came from. The case either came from somebody's house or from a school in Preston. The stool came from a church in Caton. Five of the pipes came from our mother church (the dodgy-sounding ones). I lost track after that.
Organs use a variety of different methods to get a pipe to sound when a key is pressed. My organ is unusual in that it has two manuals (keyboards - two is usual) with two different methods of communicating with the pipes. The top manual uses a tracker action, which is where the keys communicate with the pipes via a load of interconnected rods, and the bottom manual uses a tracker action for one set of pipes and an electric action for the rest. With the electric action, every time a key is pressed, an electrical circuit is completed; this (I think) activates an electro-magnet which allows air into the pipe. It is all very complicated. The pedals are just electric action.
Anyway, the tracker action (the one with the rods) is great - when you press the key, the note sounds. With the electric action, we are not always so lucky.
I have a book called "The Organ Today", which was published in 1967. The electric action I have is illustrated in this book, which suggests that it was up-to-date at that point. I believe that it has now been superseded at least twice since then, and for good reason. A lot of oxidation builds up at a certain point in the circuit, and when this happens, the note often will not sound. Each pipe has its own circuit (as I said, it is very complicated), so oxidation on one piece of metal will not affect the other notes. However, I often lose notes during the service. They can be playing quite happily one minute, and gone the next. If I hold down the note, push the stop (i.e. the sound selector) back in (to stop the sound) and pull it out again (to re-start the sound), the note will usually come back, but I cannot do this during a service. I therefore often have notes missing, which sounds as though I do not know what I am doing.
Another lovely little quirk my organ has is to do with its couplers. The couplers link the two manuals together, so that everything I play on the main manual is also played on the secondary manual - it presses the notes down in what some consider to be a ghostly fashion. Have a look here for a guy playing something on the organ with lots of manuals coupled together. Mine does that, but with just two manuals.
The coupler is a useful device - it means that you can use stops (and thus sets of pipes making particular sounds) on both manuals, and also that you can use more stops and so play more loudly. The only way to use all of the stops properly is to couple them together.
However the coupler does not work for one note, that note being G above middle C, which is right in the middle of most women's singing range, and gets used in most hymns. What this means is that, when using the coupler, there is a little gap whenever I play that G. When the stops I use sound really similar, or where the main manual is making a louder sound than the secondary one, this is not noticeable. Unfortunately, my congregation do not sing loudly enough for me to play loudly on the main manual, so I have to create the additional volume from the quieter second manual. To make people follow the hymns better, I use one stop which is an octave higher than normal for most hymns.***** This means that if I couple the two manuals together, it drops down an octave every time I reach that particular G. This sounds absolutely terrible, and has caused me to stop what I was playing, apologise to the congregation and start again (but with different stops). Once I worked out what was happening, it made my life ever so slightly easier.
The organ has other, more serious problems, but they do not disrupt it so much. They're only massive structural damage, rather than notes not sounding. I mean, how bad can it be, really?
*What? You mean the congregation aren't there to listen to me? Philistines.
**This is the most embarrassing incident to which I am prepared to admit. It is also the most embarrassing incident I can remember, except for that one.****** I suspect this may be due to selective amnesia, combined with my family not knowing about whatever embarrassing memories I have buried and thus not repeating them back at me at awkward moments.
***For "lesser", you are welcome to read "sensible".
****That is to say, the congregation believes I got the notes right.
*****This does actually seem to work. To make them keep up, you make sure the bass notes are also played an octave lower (i.e. use the pedals).
******You know, the one where I... No. Not going to happen.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Digger!
From my office I can see a three-storey building which is just about to be demolished. It is missing one side, as that was demolished several months ago (always fun, working next to a demolition/building site. So relaxing). They have just started to take bits of the roof off, and it looks as though there is a hole in the far side of the top floor wall.
I saw some lights moving round a bedroom on the top floor, but they were moving in a not-a-person way. There is a small digger* roaming around within this building. It is weird. I keep noticing bright lights where they shouldn't be. There is just something fundamentally wrong about diggers in bedrooms.
There is a large (gigantic), thing with a long arm behind the building, too. No idea what that's doing, but I find its presence far less disturbing than that of the internal digger.
*I use this term to mean self-propelled construction machine with a man on/in it and one of those long arms at the front, which goes up and over with an attachment on the end.
I saw some lights moving round a bedroom on the top floor, but they were moving in a not-a-person way. There is a small digger* roaming around within this building. It is weird. I keep noticing bright lights where they shouldn't be. There is just something fundamentally wrong about diggers in bedrooms.
There is a large (gigantic), thing with a long arm behind the building, too. No idea what that's doing, but I find its presence far less disturbing than that of the internal digger.
*I use this term to mean self-propelled construction machine with a man on/in it and one of those long arms at the front, which goes up and over with an attachment on the end.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Soap, vegetables and secondary school
Yesterday's soap has turned a very strange colour - it's lilac (for want of a better word) on the outside, and a weird greenish shade on the inside. I wonder if this is to do with drying out, pH, or oxidation. Or something else I haven't thought about. I hope it improves before tomorrow, at which point I have to give some of it to somebody.
It has all been cut up and is drying in shoe boxes (what? Do you not use shoe boxes to dry soap?), which are useful because they stack well. I now have to start packaging some in preparation for tomorrow.
I went to The Field to gather some vegetables in payment for this bike, only to be met with evidence of my inadequacy. Although I had plenty of beans (plenty being a conservative description) and more than enough artichokes, the peas were long past their best, and it appears that I failed to plant any radishes. This means that I do not have the means to 'pay' for my bike tomorrow. I am hoping to pop into a vegetable shop and fake the peas, but I don't think there is much I can do about the radishes. The really galling thing is that, had I made it there last week, I would probably have had massive amounts of lovely fresh peas to eat, all by myself. I shall have to do better next year. If we get any sun, that will be easier.
It has all been cut up and is drying in shoe boxes (what? Do you not use shoe boxes to dry soap?), which are useful because they stack well. I now have to start packaging some in preparation for tomorrow.
I went to The Field to gather some vegetables in payment for this bike, only to be met with evidence of my inadequacy. Although I had plenty of beans (plenty being a conservative description) and more than enough artichokes, the peas were long past their best, and it appears that I failed to plant any radishes. This means that I do not have the means to 'pay' for my bike tomorrow. I am hoping to pop into a vegetable shop and fake the peas, but I don't think there is much I can do about the radishes. The really galling thing is that, had I made it there last week, I would probably have had massive amounts of lovely fresh peas to eat, all by myself. I shall have to do better next year. If we get any sun, that will be easier.
*******************
*She has actually just arrived back in the UK, I think - she was due to be collected from the airport at 10.30.
**I do hope it doesn't hurt too much if she falls off this pedestal. She's a gymnast, so she should be able to think of an imaginative landing...
My baby sister, Anne, starts secondary school tomorrow. She will be attending my old school. Our cousin, who is fifteen, will be walking to school with her, which is good - it's reassuring to have someone to walk in with on the first day, and a co-pupil is much more useful and less embarrassing than a parent. She is so lucky to get on with her cousin so well, and to have her living so close by.
When Anne was born, I was fifteen. It seemed that it would take an awfully long time for her to reach this age, and it did. I was mindful that by the time she was my age, I would be 30. I couldn't imagine what I would be doing at that age, and I am still unsure. I don't foresee any children by that point, but I have no clue what career I will be in (I've narrowed it down to four possibilities, one of which is what I am doing now; I could be completely wrong). It doesn't really matter - it's just an age.
Anne was a delightful little baby (except at bedtime), and was wonderful until she was three, then a bit annoying until she was seven, and has reverted to being delightful. Long may it last... I have been making a point of spending time with her these past two summers, as I know she will not be a child for much longer. Last summer she came to stay for a long weekend, and we sat on The Field, eating most of the peas we were picking for the parents, until she suggested we should stop. This year, we visited our other sister, Louise, in Bordeaux.* She had a lovely flat, right in the centre, with a balcony accessible from her bedroom windows. The cockroaches were much cuter than I expected, too. Anne behaved beautifully, and was a lot less annoying than I.** It was good to have the opportunity to get to know her a little better before she changes into a grumpy teenager. I do not look forward to that.
Anyway, good luck to her as she embarks on the next stage of her life. I do hope she turns out to be less lazy than I was, and that she makes friends as good as mine.
When Anne was born, I was fifteen. It seemed that it would take an awfully long time for her to reach this age, and it did. I was mindful that by the time she was my age, I would be 30. I couldn't imagine what I would be doing at that age, and I am still unsure. I don't foresee any children by that point, but I have no clue what career I will be in (I've narrowed it down to four possibilities, one of which is what I am doing now; I could be completely wrong). It doesn't really matter - it's just an age.
Anne was a delightful little baby (except at bedtime), and was wonderful until she was three, then a bit annoying until she was seven, and has reverted to being delightful. Long may it last... I have been making a point of spending time with her these past two summers, as I know she will not be a child for much longer. Last summer she came to stay for a long weekend, and we sat on The Field, eating most of the peas we were picking for the parents, until she suggested we should stop. This year, we visited our other sister, Louise, in Bordeaux.* She had a lovely flat, right in the centre, with a balcony accessible from her bedroom windows. The cockroaches were much cuter than I expected, too. Anne behaved beautifully, and was a lot less annoying than I.** It was good to have the opportunity to get to know her a little better before she changes into a grumpy teenager. I do not look forward to that.
Anyway, good luck to her as she embarks on the next stage of her life. I do hope she turns out to be less lazy than I was, and that she makes friends as good as mine.
*She has actually just arrived back in the UK, I think - she was due to be collected from the airport at 10.30.
**I do hope it doesn't hurt too much if she falls off this pedestal. She's a gymnast, so she should be able to think of an imaginative landing...
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Thinking about it...
It wouldn't actually be all that interesting looking at photographs of soap or bikes. Perhaps I should compose these posts at times when I am not supposed to be sleeping, so that I retain some semblance of a grasp of what is interesting and what is not. That's something to think about.
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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