24th Feb 2010 - Saturday ANATOMY OF A MOVE - THE BED

24th Feb 2010 - Saturday
ANATOMY OF A MOVE – Third Blog

Subtitled: THE BED ¸.•´¸.•*¨`*. ¸.•*¨*.¸¸.•*¨`*.¸.☆

CHOICES, CHOICES, CHOICES
As you know, I’ve been sleeping on a 2 seater sofa. That was because, at the old house in the village near Oxford, the bed I used to sleep on was owned by the landlord. I couldn’t take it with me on my move to a little village near Malvern – even if I had wanted to; which I didn’t because it was a small, over-sprung single bed that a generously proportioned Diva such as myself has fallen out of on more than a couple of occasions. There I am, just turning over to get from the bad hip back to the good hip and Ploink! Sprroinng! CRASH!

It is undignified in the way that a beetle lying on its back, legs churning the air, is not filled with stately magnificence – such as I like to be.

And let me tell you that it is also most upsetting to one’s natural sleep rhythms to have to stay awake for fear of ending up on the floor yet again.

With moving to an unfurnished house I had the opportunity of buying my first ever English bed. I decided to upgrade to a larger bed. I pored over catalogues online. There was so much to take into account that I couldn’t make a snap decision on account of my mind was reeling. For days I dithered over:
- Bed base: divan or a Bed frame?
- Divan: no storage drawers, two storage drawers, four storage drawers, end storage, end-side storage (yes, that one was way beyond me) or a combination of side and end. Huh?
- Bed frame: Wood, what kind? Metal, stainless steel or brass? A combination?
- Matress:
- Springs: Open coil, Continuous spring, Zoned spring, Pocket spring.
- Covering: Memory foam, kapok, latex (Now here I was surprised because I never associated latex with peaceful sleep.)
- Size: The sizes had been re-jigged. We now have: the Small Single (previously aka Infants), Single, Three quarters (aka Small Double), Double, King (previously a Queen. What can I say, must have been hormonal), SuperKing (previously only a King. Shame!)

Finally, the jibbering indecision ended. I felt I had managed to master all the double-speak about:
* “dream-filled night’s sleep” (we all dream, so what?) and,
* “offers support where it’s needed” (tell me now, where isn’t it needed?) and
* “dust mite-free properties” (I should JOLLY well hope that a brand new product is going to be free of dust mites.)

I decided on a divan base with 4 drawer storage. A zoned spring and memory foam mattress offered the best value-for-money support for the creaking pelvis. And now it was just the size.

Obviously Small Single and Single were to be sniffed at. Been there, done that, got the dents and bruises, but thankfully not the video.

I looked at the Three-quarter bed. Mmm! 3’6” of space. I could almost feel the peace that a good night’s sleep would bring. Yes, it would have to be the Three-quarter bed (sorry, I’m trying very hard to be politically correct in my adopted country, I mean the Small Double).

But wait! Maybe, because the new bedroom is a nice size, just maybe, I might run to a double bed 4’6”. To be able to turn over several times without falling out of bed. Oooh! Wouldn’t that truly be bliss? Yes, the Double.

But the word “Double” made me think that double beds are made to be shared with another warm body. And if another warm body were to grace my pristine and virginal couch (OK! Yes, I am stretching it a bit there. OK! OK! Stretching it a whole lot then... and, that is not a pun.) What was I saying, before you distracted me?

Oh! Yes. I started to worry. If ever another warm body were to get lucky and share the nuptial couch, and if, say the warm body was hairy and sweaty, then one’s own fabulously statuesque, and almost hairless, sweat-free body might just roll over and annoyingly touch the other warm body.

Also, I regret to report that I have shared my nuptial couch with arm-flingers and leg-spasmers. In cases such as these it is important to be able to achieve physical distance from the assaulting body-parts.

So, I opted for the King-sized. I placed an order and committed a large chunk of birthday and Xmas presie savings to Argos. The order was confirmed and delivery was set for four week’s time. There was just one small little hic-cup that I could see... remember I told you about the big wardrobes when Aitch disappointed me? (See previous blog)

Well, both wardrobes had been re-assembled in the bedroom. One small hic-cup might be (I have a tape-measure, actually there was no “might be” about the hic-cup; there was a large amount of “would be” about it) that there wasn’t enough room to have a King-sized bed put into the same bedroom without one of the wardrobes having to leave. But all the commercial delivery men had always been so sweet when faced with a disabled old woman that I was confident that these chaps would be able to move the wardrobe first, no problem.

FRUIT, FLOWERS AND PATIENCE CATERPILLARS

What made the four week wait a tad easier was the hours I spent trawling through catalogues for bedding. I had been eminently sensible about it and decided on something in Raspberry El Cheapo from Argos and an elegant Aubergine Cheapa-Cheapo ex Tesco.

I was actually Ninja Stixxing towards the Argos in the Malvern Newlands Shopping Centre when I dotted past “Next” and caught their window display. From that second I was lost.

Oh! I was lost. It was love, it was desire, and it was pure passion. A surge of longing swept over me such as few mere men have ever managed to evince. There it was, lying there in the window. It whispered to me, “You know you want me. Take me home NOW.”

I nearly fell over, so quickly did I swivel into the shop that it was a second before the Ninja Stix caught up with me. I went in to “Next” and spent a sinful amount of birthday and Xmas Presie savings on the non-iron cream polycotton with the satin appliquéd scarlet poppies duvet cover, with red sheets, and several matching, toning cushions and pillow covers. Within the Poppies’ colours are all those lovely fruit and flowers: Raspberry, Red Cherry, Aubergine, Blackcurrant, Vanilla, Strawberry, Blackberry, and hints of Tomato.

I amazed myself. I seldom get that enthusiastic about mere possessions. Yet here was I, more enthusiastic about my Bedding-Set than I had been about my first husband. Now two weeks after first sleeping within those warm, glowing red sheets and gorgeous duvet cover I am even more excited than I was with my first husband after the same amount of time had elapsed.

What can I say? I guess some feelings are just destined to last because they are SO very satisfactory... and some are hairy, sweaty and just suffer from "physical exertion" (that's "PE", know what I mean?.

In the interim, I had to sleep somewhere for the next month, and the recent purchase of a 15th-hand two-seater sofa meant that was what I was going to sleep on until the delivery of my first (and probably only) English bed.

Using the 2 seater was not easy. It led to an almost permanent crick in my neck and the beginnings of premature dowager’s hump. I didn’t get much sleep. And I looked forward to the delivery of “The King” (as I began to think of him, I mean “it”) much like a child looks forward to Birthdays, End of Term and Christmas.

My excitement was at fever-pitch. I just managed to restrain myself from making a kid’s “Term Ends” caterpillar to put up on the ‘fridge. Each impatiently awaited day would be marked with the removal of one of the caterpillar’s segments, until finally all that was left was the last day, shaped like a gorgeous butterfly – a reward for such excruciating patience.

SUCH EXCITEMENT ENDED IN TEARS
Finally the day dawned. I was up early. Delivery could be expected any time between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. Time passed. I spent the time unwrapping the bedding, feasting my eyes on those colours.
More time passed until, after lunch, I was in a frenzy of expectation for the feel of lying on a proper, large, comfortable bed. I could almost taste the refreshing night’s sleep I was going to have.

My cell phone rang. It was an unknown number (00-44-7921-755254 or 07921 755 254 from inside the UK) It was the driver’s assistant letting me know that they were only half an hour away. I was delighted. I told him how lovely, and warned him about the GPS leading him astray to a nearby caravan park. I asked him to go to our local village and turn left at the duck-pond.

Half an hour later the same number rang. It was the same man to say that they had just gone straight past the duck pond. I explained again, battling the noise that our bad mobile signal generates. (I’ve heard of white noise, but if I had to give this noise a colour it would be an angry yellow) Finally I heard the sound of a truck rumbling down our long, single-track farm road. I Ninja-stixxed in double quick time (for me) downstairs and waited for them in the stable yard.

They arrived and I explained that there was just the little problem of the wardrobe to be moved first. As I told them, I clutched the £10 note in my pocket that I had secreted there in order to be able to tip them once they had finished. The driver was quite pleasant and said that wasn’t a problem. The assistant was a bit shirty about it, saying they were not supposed to do these things, but he was quelled by a look from the driver.

They came up and moved the cupboard out of the bedroom and across 6ft of very wide vestibule, where it is out of the way, and fits rather well. Then the assistant brought up one half of the divan base and stood it on end in the bedroom. They both brought the mattress up, and stood it up against the wall. And the assistant came up with the papers and the other half of the divan base. While I signed the papers, that half base was also stood on end in the bedroom.

I waited for the two bases to be laid flat for me to remove the wrapping so we could lay the mattress down on the base. But the assistant was disappearing down the passage towards the stairs. I called out, “Sorry, please would you just help me lay things flat?”

And, without breaking stride he shouted back, “No time – and we aren’t supposed to do that anyway.”

I stood there, clutching the £10 note in my hand. Exit Assistant stage-left, without a backward glance at the woman standing there: mouth open; leaning on her walking sticks.

I was in shock: left with two divan bases and a King-size mattress stood on end. Shattered dreams of a good night's sleep. I know from bitter experience that my twisted pelvis doesn’t do lifting – or lowering. I walked back to the bedroom and looked at everything. So near and yet so far.

Maybe if I could call the Argos Delivery centre they could send the men back to help? Feverishly I dialled their number and went through all the usual “options and presses” until I got through to the customer care line.

I explained what had happened. I asked if they could do something to help me? Without a pause the Customer Care assistant, Christine, announced that it was not Argos policy to assist customers lay out beds. It was my responsibility. I explained that because of an accident, I was disabled and couldn’t do it myself. I also had just moved to the area and knew very few people (certainly very few able-bodied people, and also I have my pride) The woman just said, “We can arrange to cancel the sale and have the bed collected. Then you can see if you can find another store who will erect it for you.”

Well, I’m ashamed to say that I burst into tears. Tears of rage and self-pity. I was beyond coherent. Salt water and slimy stuff were blossoming out of my eyes and nostrils respectively. (Yes, good thing it wasn’t the other way around, you’re thinking.) My voice had disappeared and all I could make was that horrid, “Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” sound.

I put the phone down and put my head in my hands. All the bu***r-ups over the last few weeks just overwhelmed me: the phantom tenant; the debacle of the move; Aitch’s self-serving profiteering at the expense of a friend; the weeks of that b****y 2 seater sofa with sleepless nights and the crick in my neck. All just too much. I was overwhelmed with the sheer unfairness of life. I sobbed on for a while.

I got up, went to the bedroom door and shut it. I couldn’t bear to look at the bits of my bed. It would stay shut. Forever, if need be.

MEET PATRICIA, AND BE HUMBLED

I’m pen-friends with a number of great people on Facebook, the most recent one of whom is Patricia. (I have no idea if that is grammatically correct ... and do not bother to write in to let me know.) I didn’t know much about her, but she happened to contact me during yet another sleepless night on the small sofa with the bedroom door remaining firmly shut.

She asked why I was awake at such an inhospitable hour and I just let her have the whole story. I went into auto rant. You couldn’t have stopped me if you had let fly with a bucket of cold water. I was up on the High Horse and it had run away with me. I’m not usually self-pitying, but this time there was an ocean of it and the horse was galloping straight in towards the white horses in the crashing surf. I felt I might just drown.

My fingers flew over the keyboard. I ended up with saying that I didn’t ask to be crippled by some young idiot who ran a red traffic light. How I wished that, in that nanosecond before he put his foot down and tried to race through (the light had been red for a while, so he knew what he was doing) he had thought better of it. I did an emergency brake. In the nanosecond afterwards, when half my pelvis and spine were shooting forward at speed, twisting and rebounding back, his life was saved. But mine was changed forever.

Back to my Oh!-so-eagerly-anticipated bed. Maybe I would ask friends who popped around? But that could take days because I’d wait for them to pop around, rather than ask specifically. I refuse to be a burden on my friends’ backs.

My only other option, I said, to get the bed laid flat, with the mattress atop it, was to sit on my bottom and use my feet and legs; hoping that the divans didn’t fall and crush my head or legs. (To be perfectly honest, here I was being histrionic and full of self-pity.)

Patricia replied with sympathy, saying she knew how I felt. She was cheerful and down-to-earth, and very kind. She offered to drive over to me (she lives about 100 miles away) and help me put up the bed.
She had also encountered uncaring people, and, as she was also disabled, she had had to learn to do so much for herself. She bet that she and I could sort out the bed in quick-time.

Oh? I said. Sympathies to her on being disabled, and what was Patricia’s disability, I asked?

Nothing prepared me for her reply, and the way it made me feel.

Patricia is a thalidomide victim and is missing an arm and some fingers on her other hand ... and there I was, bleating on about how I never asked to be crippled?

There is nothing to say. I know that you are feeling my shame. Pause a while, please, and feel my cheek-burning, ear-roaring shame, before reading on.

READ THE INSTRUCTIONS LAST

Patricia certainly jerked me out of that ocean of self-pity and anger. She inspired me. If Patricia sat on her bum and got the job done, then so could I jolly-well hunker down and get it sorted.

I went in to the bedroom, armed with a scissors and a clean pair of socks. I took the heavy-duty plastic wrappings off everything and I sat on my bum and wrestled those bits of divan down flat, using my arms, legs and head. Then I wrestled the mattress down flat atop the divan base. I felt very proud of myself. Triumph! Patricia was right. S*d those unfeeling Jobsworths at Argos.

I was sat on the bed, getting my breath back, when I noticed a bit of paper lying on the floor. It had been included in the mattress wrapping on the side facing the wall. It was some instructions about attaching the legs and castors for the divan bases: the hardware was sewn in to the divan bases and the base had to be carefully unpicked to retrieve them. (I didn’t even know this bed had legs and castors.)

I started to laugh. The giant Argos had got the better of me yet again. How cunning not to put a similar piece of paper attached to each divan base, why only the mattress? I hadn’t been able to read the notice because a) it had been left propped up with the notice facing the wall, and then, b) after removing the plastic, I was balancing the mattress on my head and shoulders at the time -and crawling backwards over the divan base.

So those legs and castors will remain sewn into the divan bases for all time.

And when I look at my bed, loving the sight of it, and thrilled at the sleep and succour it offers, I also remember how life simply isn’t fair, and I remember how inspiring and effective simple, cheerful courage in the face of adversity is. Thank you for adding another dimension to my life, Patricia.

Have a superdeliciously lovely day my friends, from
your Humbled and Inspired Crusty Canny Ninja Granny xxx
(¯`v´¯)
*.¸.*

copyright vested with the author 2010

* 20th Feb 2010 - Saturday NEVER DO A FRIEND OF A MENOPAUSAL FRIEND A FAVOUR

20th Feb 2010 - Saturday

ANATOMY OF A MOVE – Second Blog ¸.•´¸.•*¨`*. ¸.•*¨*.¸¸.•*¨`*.¸.☆

Subtitled: NEVER DO A FRIEND OF A MENOPAUSAL FRIEND A FAVOUR

The ghost tenant was finally laid and I could now complete the long awaited move from a house in a village near Oxford to a first floor apartment on a farm near Malvern Wells. Minimal furniture and equipment had to be moved 4 counties and 66.2 miles from east of the Thames to west of the Severn.

The man with a van has to be mentioned now. I have a girlfriend, I’ll call her Loppie, (because I don’t want anyone to recognise her real name) who has an unemployed, (credit crunch victim) boyfriend, “Aitch,” who has access to borrowing a mate’s white van.

Loppie is menopausal, and besides a downy little moustache, has developed into a drama queen and control freak of note. None of us are perfect. (I won’t even tell you about the interesting little whisper of a beard I’ve developed unless I wax fortnightly: I guess it’s the feminine version of menopausal-male hair slippage – you know, when it slips down from a man’s scalp and curls up to nest in his ears and nostrils.) Yup! None of us are perfect. Long live Depilation, I say.

But I digress...

Before she became menopausal Loppie was a nice person who was very sweet. Nowadays she’s just tolerable in a social situation, but unbearable in any team project. One day, when I’ve recovered my sense of humour, I’ll tell you about Loppie and our local Christmas Pantomime in early December last year. She appointed herself Script re-writer, Censor of smutty jokes, Director, Props-manager, Prompt, Stage-manager, Wardrobe mistress and On-stage Narrator. It is only February; so still too soon to try and write about The Panto without profanity and blasphemy involved.


When she first heard that I was moving, and I hadn’t asked Aitch, she was quite snitty and muttered something about “Aitch could have helped, and goodness knows, he could do with a bit of income.”
But I hadn’t asked Aitch to get involved because I couldn’t stand the thought of Loppie appointing herself “Obersturmbanfuhrer” of The Move.

Long story short: After the original moving van was cancelled because of us having to lay the ghost of the departed tenant, I phoned Aitch, in secret, and told him that so long as he could keep Loppie away from The Move and if he thought that he could do the job, then he was hired. He told me that he sympathised with me about Loppie and said that he couldn’t afford to give “mates rates” and quoted £200 for himself, the van and some muscle in the form of one college student. I agreed.

This was £20 more than the original, large van would have cost, but you know my motto: so long as I can be of help, I will. I throttled the nasty, little voice that was gleefully chanting Oscar Wilde’s saying, “No good deed shall go unpunished.”

The chanting became louder when the phone rang at 10:00 p.m. on the night before The Move. It was Loppie asking if I minded if Aitch were a bit late on the morrow because he was still away for the weekend doing some DIY at his very elderly father’s house.

I’m a coward when it comes to Loppie.

I should have said, ”Absolutely, I mind. I’m not paying mate’s rates, and so I expect him to be professional and turn up at the agreed time of 8 a.m.”

What my chicken-heart said was, “Must he?”

Loppie replied, “Well, really, he’ll be short of sleep if he has to get up too early.”

My brain said, “Too bad. He should come home earlier then, shouldn’t he?”

But my yellow streak caused my mouth to open and close, and finally a reedy, “O.K., but not too late, please,” came out.

The chanting voice became shriller, “Wimp! Chicken! Cowardy-custard!”

Weakly I said, “Well, I have to be in Malvern by eleven, so that means I have to leave at nine, and I want to show him what he has to put in the van.”

Back came Loppie’s clear RSM tones, “Oh! It will be fine. Bye-bye”

Please repeat after me, “No good deed shall go unpunished.”

Aitch arrived at 9:30 the next morning. I was beside myself with anxiety. I had visions of not making it to Malvern in time to open the apartment up for another truck delivering an ebay dining room suite.

I rushed Aitch upstairs and showed him the two beech wardrobes that had to be dismantled and taken down as slat-packs. I pointed out the computer desk, two bookshelves and the sofa. Bring those, and my cripple-stool. (A large NHS hospital-type stool for people who have hip problems. It’s not pretty, but it is a thing of great beauty for me.)

I took care to point out two separate banks of clear plastic boxes. Bring those on the left, leave those on the right because they contain stuff for binning. I would be back in a week’s time to take their contents to the recycling centre.

Was all that clear to him?
“Yeah! Yeah! It’s not rocket-science.”

I rushed off to Malvern. I had noticed that the van wasn’t nearly as big as I thought that it ought to be. But then Aitch and Loppie had been round to my house at least a score of times over the years. I was comforted by the fact that Aitch knew what furniture there was and wouldn’t have accepted the job if he couldn’t do it.

Repeat after me, “No good deed shall go unpunished.”

When the van arrived at my new des-res and the off-loading commenced, I discovered that:
- The computer desk and the cripple-stool had not been brought. “Sorry, they just wouldn’t fit into the van.”
- Neither wardrobe had been brought. They had not even been dismantled because, “You know, once you dismantle something it never goes back together as strong as it was before. These need to be moved as they are”
- “There were a few boxes we just couldn’t get in.” That was because they brought ALL the packing boxes, including those that needed to go to the dump. The "few boxes" that just didn't fit in were only my food, groceries, crockery and kitchen-ware.

No apologies were made, no concern was shown for the fact that another van would have to be hired to complete Aitch’s good work. No shame shown for the fact that I live on a very small disability pension and the additional expenditure meant going without. I smart still.

A week later I hired the original large white van for £20 less than Aitch, and moved the rest of my belongings. They arrived on time. They took what they were supposed to. The wardrobes have been disassembled, moved and reassembled and are sturdy as anything.

I do, however, have an apartment full of boxes of junk that I now have to haul downstairs and to the car. NinjaStix and all. Then I have to find my way to the dump and drag the stuff out the boot over to the disposal areas.

And I spent a week, with the snow thick on the ground outside, eating cold foods off paper-plates.

I did a lot of repeating, “No good deed shall go unpunished, cos they come back to bite yer in the bum!” And I did a lot of wondering if juju dolls and long pins really work.

Want to know the final bit of the story? I have a lovely, but huge, solid oak shelving unit in the old garage. I have to sell it and get the garage cleared out.

Loppie heard about it and emailed to say, “Aitch could do you a favour and take those shelves off your hands. He knows a carpenter who’d like to use the oak. He'll take it away for free.”

Gee! Selfless of you, but no thanks! Not another good deed, please.

(¯`v´¯)
`*.¸.*´

Have a superdelicious lovely day, my friend
The Bum-Bitten, Good deedless Ninja Gran xxx

Copyright vested with the author 2010

17th Feb 2010 Weds

ANATOMY OF A MOVE – First Blog
✫¨´`'*°☆.
( ~Sprinkles of delight over you ~ `*•.¸_¸ . ♫✶* ه
`♥♪♫... •∕̆̃̃❀
Hi,my friends,

The relocation from east of the Thames to west of the Severn is complete. It has taken 18 days to move no white goods, very little furniture, and 30 small-ish plastic boxes a distance of 66.2 miles across 4 county borders along A roads.

EXCORCISING THE GHOST
The move was due to have taken place on 30th and 31st January. That was delayed because we had a “ghost” tenant, in my new apartment, who had done a runner but left himself still connected to British Gas, bt phones, and Sky TV. Their technicians had to visit me in an empty apartment, in order to satisfy themselves that I wasn’t a trespasser with serious mental health issues and stalker deluxe overtones. No utilities could be activated in my name until then.

Because I wasn’t going to move in to a heatless house (the memories of the SofaNest days still burning bright) I cancelled the men with the van. A menopausal friend asked me to do a friend a favour, so I arranged the next van for the first date it was available – the 8th Feb. (That’s tomorrow’s blog.)

Fine. I travelled up to my new home area, stayed with friends overnight: really lovely people, lovely home. I spent a day in the unheated apartment waiting for the utilities engineers to arrive.

I’d forgotten to take a camping chair and ended up sitting on window sills in an icy apartment, or going downstairs to sit in the warm car with a broken music system. For a person whose disability involves a twisted pelvis, this involved discomfort on a major scale... or boredom on an even greater scale; but I belong to the suck-it-up and soldier-on era. So sucking and soldiering took place.

NEVER TRUST TECHNOLOGY

The bt man got lost. That wasn’t really his fault. This is a converted stables and barn, and is part of a farm which has been carved up. A couple of fields, a few hundred yards and a wood away, were made into a static Caravan Park for the summer tourists who come to tramp the nearby picturesque Malvern Hills. (And if only I could find the little lead between my pc and my camera I could show you the Malverns, all snow-covered, glinting in the morning winter sun – beyond picturesque!)

The Caravan Park is accessed from a different road approached from the north. We, in the farm house, stables and barns are approached using a tarred footpath from the west. It all used to be one road, but the middle part has been closed to the public. (One of those delightful Englishisms, no doubt - and one day I really must find out why.) If one punches my postcode into a GPS one will be directed to the Caravan Park.

Barring Semtex there is no way to get through the closed part of the road and a detour of 3 miles is necessary. The bt man needed to know this.

STAND ON A CHAIR, LEAN OUT OF THE WINDOW AND WAVE

Upstairs in the freezing apartment my cell phone rang. I had left it on a different windowsill to the one I was perched on. I applied the Ninjastix and hurried over. The phone promptly stopped ringing.
I tried to phone the number back. Got a “No signal” signal. I walked around the apartment until I found 2 bars and pressed redial. The bt man and I had enough of a conversation to establish who we were, and then the phone cut off.

The “No signal” signal again. Used the Ninjastix to best effect. Moved over to the kitchen and found 2 bars. Got as far as the fact that he was lost before we got “No signal” signalled. The bedroom? No bars. Back to the family room. No signal. In fact, no signal anywhere. Kept plying the Ninjastix until we found a whopping great 3 bars in the bathroom. Good, I needed a pee anyway, I could call seated, in chilly comfort – and Pooh! to the echoing, hollow-vault noises we all pretend not to know are made when calling from the bathroom.

Once ensconced I picked up the cell and saw no bars. Long story short; it turns out that this area is not well supplied with cell booster stations. Not only is the signal never more than 3 bars, but the signal is also playful. It pops up, then ducks down and disappears. It plays hide-and-seek. It never allows more than one sentence of clear speech and 2 more of, “Chost in the Grroble vans Drooble and then Shweep-shweep,” before it cuts off. I should be grateful though, because, scenic, friendly, lively Upton-upon-Severn, our nearest “town” has no signal, at all.... Just like my hillside home in Zimbabwe.

LEAN OVER THE EDGE OF THE BALCONY AND WAVE IT AROUND

Being a white African, I am not only a southern hemispherical living in the northern hemisphere, but also a Bronze-Worlder living in the Gold World. (I am being unduly influenced by the ongoing Vancouver Winter Olympics: naturally I mean that I’m a Third Worlder living in the First World. Now, if you didn’t get that, then please go make some coffee and have a stretch before coming back to your pc.)

Having my Ninja Granny “Insulting Idiots (Highly Commended) Rosette,” and a foot in each hemisphere, I often make blunt, rude, but always truthful, comparisons between aspects of life in each hemisphere. So no mobile signal in Upton and no signal at my Zimbabwe home.

In the Third World, in 2000, under Our Beloved Leader’s kind and just rule, I came under threat of death for being so misguided as to take an opposite view to Our Beloved Leader’s.

I was informed of my “death sentence” by the local Youth League leader and advised to pack up and leave my house in a secluded, wooded, hillside plot immediately, if not I was to be visited by the Youth Militia and beaten to death at 6 a.m. on the morrow.

I remember thinking that if I were a murderer I’d have a learned judge in a white wig and a black hankie deliver the news, but I had a spotty, precocious Youth Leader in dusty dreadlocks and a Bob Marley Dread-hood. Was nothing in my life ever going to be in conventional good taste? ... However, I digress.

After checking up with my down-the-hill neighbour, a bona-fide war veteran, who checked with a member of the District Party Caucus, my mind was put at rest that no “direct action” had been sanctioned by the Party Caucus.

My neighbour winked and said not to worry, she would have a word in the Youth League leader’s ear about how very ticked off the Party Caucus would be if he acted autonomously. (In the interests of accuracy what she actually said was, “Unanimously,” and she may have been right.)

I wrote letters to be given to my older children, and lovely funeral plans; just in case there was a Party Caucus Cook-up; then drove the 30km into Harare and told my coffee-morning girlfriends that I had decided not to evacuate into town.

There were protests, but I was adamant and the conversation turned to practicalities.
Did I have a First Aid Box? Yes.
Was my phone working? No, the copper wire in the overhead line had been stolen a few weeks previously and was waiting to be replaced (and so it would be - in six months.)
Did I have a cell phone? No.
Ah! Then I must borrow one. There were murmurs of agreement, and a concerned friend produced a spare phone and pushed it at me across the table.
I protested that I didn’t want one. The girls told me not to be so stupid.
I said that I couldn’t use it. She said it was very easy to use, Just press this button and then the numbers on the keypad and...
I said that wasn’t what I meant. I meant that there was only one place in my house where I could get a cell signal.
Someone else interrupted to say that then I had to leave the phone on the spot where the signal was.Then, at the first sign of the chanting, blood-crazed Youth Militia invading my plot I was to run to the phone and call the local private security company and ask them to send an armed response team for intruders.

I thought that was an excellent plan, but still wouldn’t take the phone. It was impractical. I had to speak loudly over the barrage of protests and explained that I didn’t bother with having a cell phone because the only signal on that remote, secluded, thickly wooded plot was to be found if I stood on the upstairs balcony, over the front door. And even then, the only signal was where I sat on the balcony railing, leaned out at full stretch and held my phone up high in the air.

There was silence from the girls, until one said, “But it’s better than nothing.”

There was more silence from my girlfriends as the rest of them thought that, actually, it was worse than nothing.

So, I leave the decision to you. Upton High Street or Zimbabwean hillside, is having a mobile with no phone signal better, or worse, than nothing?

Have a Superdelicious lovely day, my friends.
The Signal-less Survivor Ninja Gran xxx

Copyright with author 2010

7th Feb 2010 - I NEED TO SLEEP, SO CHOOSE A VEGETABLE

* Sun 7Th Feb 2010 - I NEED TO SLEEP, SO CHOOSE A VEGETABLE
✫¨´`'*°☆.
( ~Sprinkles of delight over you ~ `*•.¸_¸ . ♫✶* ه
`♥♪♫... •∕̆̃̃❀
Hi,my friends,

Have been very busy, so no blog for ages. Apologies, and you are quite right to nag: how else am I going to get off my derriere if you don't?

I shall be off-line from tomorrow (Monday) thru to Tuesday.
Or Wednesday if bt haven't done their thing with broadband.
Or Thursday if bt can't find the address which is tucked away down a single track road in a farming area.

The man with a van arrives tomorrow and I relocate to Worcestershire (feeling very Saucy!). Have noticed lots and lots of birds and squills in the trees around my first floor apartment, so will have a new Wildlife family around me.

Though I'm not too sure about the massive rat I saw loping across the stable-yard.

I might have to brush up on my Ninja-Gran skills and pay more attention to "Throwing the Ninja-stix like a javelin." .. In a push, that should keep Rattus at bay.

As I'm on the first floor, will have to find a way of setting up bird feeding trays instead of window boxes. But, as I don't have any existing window boxes, and it is a Grade II listed building (historic and no dastardly drill may abuse those ancient walls) it might take some time.

You understand that winter is NOT the optimum time of year to leave the sash wondows open to feed the birds.

I'm sure that you've been along the following road before, and that is: what housewarming presies do we want? My lovely friends will no doubt come calling bearing gifts, because that's the sort of people they are. And I'm funny about gifts. I hate the thought of two things:

a) people spending their hard-earned money on something, (like wine, chocolates, tea-towels or potted plants) I don't want or need, and

b) some of my less lovely friends will bring around recycled gifts. (You know, the sort of things that you don't want for yourself, but havent got the courage to put into a large black plastic bag. So you sieze upon an excuse to rewrap them and give them to someone else. We've all done it, no? Yes, I must be honest, even me. Though I live in the sweaty no-man's land of fear that I might unwittingly gift it back to the giver.)

Anyway, I've decided to ask for silk flowers. Hydrangeas, pink and blue, and dusty pink roses. Then I can make an arrangement to go in front of the little black pressed metal fireplace (for show only, no fires) in my new drawing room.

Or, or maybe, what do you think of this... I have no objections to serving guests off odd plates, so I could ask them for an old bone china dinner plate. Then I could have a plate that reminds me of them, and the plate could be decorative or practical. Hmmm. I like that idea. What do you think?

I NEED TO SLEEP, SO CHOOSE A VEGETABLE
I have been spending evenings browsing through online catalogues. Moving from
rented fully-furnished to rented unfurnished means that I've had to buy a bed. So decided I've had enough of resting all this generous, gorgeous, curvaceously bent body on a single bed and have upgraded to a Kingsize. And so, also need new bedding.

And being refined, well-educated and of gentle birth (though I think my mother would have disagreed with that last and maintained that there was nothing gentle about 57 hours of labour, but anyhoo..)however being exiled from my homeland, and now slightly disabled, means that I am in straightened circumstances. So have had to look to the budget, which means the Argos and Tesco catalogues.

It used to be pale blue, but now I don't know. I have been in a lather of indecision over bedding. Lilac? No, maybe Blueberry? Oh! Wait - have you seen Raspberry? That's nice? Oooh! Look at that Cherry! My head is revolving like a carousel around the Fresh Produce section: Aubergine, Strawberry, Blackcurrant, Sage, Lemon, Chilli, Saffron, Tomato.

Upon which vegetable do I feel like laying me down to sleep?

Have a simply superdelicious lovely day, my friends. xxx

* 31st Jan 2010 THE MAN OF MY DREAMS WON'T COME BACK

* Sun 31st Jan 2010
☆•.¸¸THE MAN OF MY DREAMS WONT COME BACK¸.♥´´¯`•.¸¸.☆•.¸¸.☆

UPDATE
The house move has been delayed until the 8th Feb. That's because the tenant who was in the apartment before me did a runner and had not bothered to cancel his phone, heating, satellite and broadband providers.

No provider will provide to me unless the previous tenant cancels his agreements... OR, I take out longer-than-usual contracts (What a scam)and be physically present at the empty apartment when their servicemen come to disconnect the previous tenant and connect me...and I tell you this for free: the Custy Ninja Granny is jollywell NOT taking up residence in an apartment until the heating has been switched on.
I learned my lesson well from the SofaNest days in The Great 2010 Cold Snap. No heating twice in one winter? No, never, ever. Not on your Nellie.
(I must remember to Google that saying. Who was Nellie? Is Nellie another name for a bottom? How did that come about? Does anyone know? Why do I want to know anyway?)

THE GOLDEN ROSETTE FOR MOP WORK
Saturday the 30th January was an interesting day. (That's how I've started referring to days that are just plain bloody, horrible, chaotic and everything kicks off.)

It started early in the morning when I went through to the kitchen to prepare the first caffiene injection. The kitchen faces out on to the communal parking area for our quiet little close. The area is lit by an orange street lamp.
Yes, I can hear you saying, that's interesting, but not really THAT interesting.

Well, it is precisely because that light is on, shining into my kitchen, that the following "interesting" chain of events took place, so stop thinking your own thoughts, and pay attention to mine - before I'm forced to get busy with the Ninja-Stix.

Hard to admit, but sometimes I am not utterly gorgeous first thing in the morning. Just sometimes. Not often. Hardly ever. Utterly gorgeous first thing in the morning, before that first caffeine injection.

I might, for instance, have on an old and holy pair of PJs on.(Not "Holey" but "Holy" as in, "Good Heavens Above. Bless me! Her bottom's peeking though that rip in the pant's seam? Good Lord!)

My hair might not be sleek and glamourous. It might just be sticking up at every angle known to Archimedes. I might be yawning without putting a hand over my mouth, and I might be scratching my tummy and having a stretch.

I might want the pleasure of standing there, relaxed and half-awake, before I've fully come to, with my hair like Animals, scratching away. (I know, good thing I'm not a man is what you're thinking, otherwise the neighbours would be treated to the sight of me standing there, scratching my nuts.)

However, I might not want to switch on the kitchen light and have my neighbours see me like that. This is where the orange street light comes in very handy.

So, I walked in to the kitchen by the orange glow of the street lamp and got busy with the kettle. It took a little while for it to sink in that as I walked the two steps from the kettle to the sink my slippers made a noise.
Left sliiper "Splish!"
"Stonk" .. That's just my walking stick, and we will ignore it from now on.
Right slipper "Splosh!."
I stopped. Silence!
I spun around, "Sloosh!"
I wiggled my right foot around, "Sloshy-sploshles!"
No longer feeling so considerate towards my neighbours, I moved quickly over to the kitchen light, "Splish! Splosh! Splish!"
In bright kitchen light I could see the kitchen floor.
"Oh! Sh*t!"
It was a lake.

The problem with the pressure in the new, wider pipes and their old Nemesis, the smaller junction with the washing machine pipe, had happened again. The joint had popped another leak.

I decided just to make coffee, dry my feet and ignore the lake for another 10 minutes. After all, Pa'rick the Plumber, man of my dreams, 4'9", bald, owl-eyed and bow-legged would not be answering any phone calls until 11 a.m. on a Saturday. (Friday nights is, apparently, his night "off" and is spent getting hammered with his mates at some far-flung hostelry. I had been warned about this when he casually handed over his business card and said, enticingly, "Call me anytime, except Friday nights etc.etc....)

(It is now Monday, and the man of my dreams has yet to appear. He has been phoning, give him his due.He phones every time he can't make our date. He does care. It's just that he's so very busy, but he always tells me that it really matters to him. )

MOP WORK - GOLDEN MOP AWARD

After I had drunk that first cup of coffee, I put on my wellies and decided on a career change. I had previously been going for the "Crutchwork, Certificated Member" but realised that, at the moment, I would get more practical experience at "Mop Work".

The course has been difficult, with extra points to be awarded for: sopping up behind the fridge but managing to leave the Junk mail and Council circulars that-have-fallen-down-there in place; getting under the veg rack whilst not bruising the potatos; drying under the washing machine and finding all the odd socks that have hidden under there.

I have been practising for the last four days on the kitchen floor, and can now report that Ninja-Gran has just been awarded the GOLDEN MOP FOR SUPERIOR MOP-WORK.

I am so proud. I can't wait for Pa'rick to come and fix the leak. Once he's finished fixing it, I shall introduce him to the Golden Mop... Intimately.

Have a superlovely delicious day, my friends
xxx The damp, very crusty, Ninja-Granny

PS A great bed-time read. If you are ever lost for something soporific to read, I refer you to this link. (The only read better than this is Churchill's ~Volume II of his War Memoirs. I have never, ever got past page 3... thus making it my personal very best bed-time book.)
http://www-history.mcs.st-and.ac.uk/HistTopics/Trisecting_an_angle.html

* 28 Jan 2010 WHO WAS THERE, BEFORE ME?

* 28 Jan 2010 The First Housemoving Blog

subtitle : WHO WAS THERE, BEFORE ME?

This is not a "greater meaning of life" question. This should be read with the following locational emphasis:
"WHO was THERE? Before me." And not the esoteric, "Who WAS there before me?"

Someone was there before me. Someone lived in my new apartment before me. Don't be surprised - the building, is after all,a seventeenth century coaching barn and stable block, with clock-tower, that has been carved up into four apartments.

I'm not complaining about generations of legal tennants. I'm not complaining (yet) about any ghosts. I'm complaining about the tennant previous to me, who did a runner in the moonlight.

When he left he was connected on the telephone to "bt" (British telecom), and he was connected on the gas to "BritishGas." His broadband is connected, by satellite, to Skye. The elctricity and water are up to the landlord (the local farmer) and are included in the rent.

All I want to do is change the gas,broadband and satellite tv into my name, and to have a phone line installed.
When I move in, I want to know that I'll have heat and hot water (memories of the SofaNest days are still raw wounds, hardly any scabs at all). I want to know that I'll have a phone, an internet connection and satellite tv to watch.


Did you say, "Not difficult." Did you really say that?

Having spent the whole of yesterday afternoon on the phone, and most of this morning, my blood pressure is now meteoric. The casual mention of phone, gas, tv and internet has a nasty little twitch start up in my left eyelid. I expect it won't be long before I develop Tourettes and start shouting out rude words.

And the reason for this?

The reason is that everyone keeps treating me as some interloper who has invaded the mystery tennant's apartment. I can not get anything done, or installed, or transferred, into my name unless:
a) The mystery tennant advises them that he no longer needs their services, or
b) agrees to transfer the agreement into my name, or
c) I phone some ombudsman's organisation for British Gas and get various references and meter passwords,and
d) in the case of bt, I take out an 18 months contract (instead of 12 months) for line rental. (If ever there's a fat con, that's bt.)

So, my move has been delayed by 10 days because the bt and Skye workmen can not come around until the 3rd, which means that the removals van is next free on the 8th Feb.

It has taken a total of 18 phone calls to get this far. Each phone call is accompanied by the same, automated phonecall push-button syncopation that brings me one step nearer to being the dishevelled old woman who pushes a supermarket trolley around and talks to lamposts and bus-shelters.

PV = Phone voice. The disinterested, disembodied voice on the other end of the phone line.
TB = My Thought Bubble. What I am thinking.

PV "You can access your account by going to www. xxyz." Pause.
TB "No thank you, been there, no help. I'll hold."

PV "Press 1 if you have a pre-paid account. Press 2 if you wish to give us a meter reading. Press 3 if you wish to hear more of our delightful muzak."
TB "None of the above, any other options?"

PV "Use the phone keypad to put in your account number"
TB "Thanks, but I don't have an account number. I am trying to get one though, so I'll keep holding. Maybe I'll get lucky, cos I really don't know what else to do."

The slight tic in the left eyelid turns to a definite twitch

TB "I wish they'd play a new song."

PV "If you do not have an account number, please press the star key twice."
TB "And then I shall pluck a blue duck's egg at the start of the new moon, turn it around twice and sing the first verse of Land of Hope and Glory. And then maybe I'll get a real live, person to talk to."

An eternity of the same muzak (WHO chooses the muzak. How are they qualified to choose? Do they really hear muzak or just voices inside their heads? That, in itself would be grist for another whole blog.)

PV "We are currently experiencing high call volumes. Your call IS important to us. Please keep holding and you will be transferred to our first available operator."
TB "Oh! Fie! But do I have any choice? Nope. So I WILL keep holding."

Repeat that at least five times.

Finally having whittled out the impatient callers, the easily-discouraged, the faint-of-heart, and those whose pace-makers needed a service, one gets to talk to a real live person.

WHO chooses the people at the call centres? And are they chosen by most difficult to understand accent?
I can just imagine Call Centre job interviews. Picture it:
Interviewee chats away rapidly, in a thick regional accent, for 5 minutes to the two interviewers.
The two interviewers look at each other. One says to the other,
"Nigel, did you understand a word of that?"
And Nigel beams back, "Not a word, Chauncey, not a single word. I'd say this one gets the job."

And so, that's how far (twitch) we've got with getting a bt line (twitch,twitch)and broadband (twitch, head-toss) and satellite (head-toss, head-toss) and gas connections (twitch, head-toss, squint, squint).

The Ninja-granny is going off to meditate on her navel. (Twitch, head-toss, squint, involuntary cuss word.)

Have a superlovely delicious day my friends xx

Copyright author 2010

* 25 Jan 2010 MINIMALISM MEANS NO EXCESS BAGGAGE

* 25 Jan 2010 ☆ The First CrustyCrannyNinjaGranny Blog ☆

subtitle: MINIMALISM MEANS NO EXCESS BAGGAGE

UPDATE: I have been away visiting my new accommodations west of the Severn. I am now returned to east of the Thames to pack up all the wordly goods.
This should take a morning.

MINIMALISM MEANS NO EXCESS BAGGAGE
Having to leave my homeland (Zimbabwe) in short order, I locked up my Zimbo house and left within three days to travel to a strange land - England.

Arriving at Heathrow, with 3 bags of largely useless tropical clothing, (and one totally useless tropical husband - but that's another story for a warmer day) I went in to WH Smiths, bought a map, spread it over my bags, closed my eyes and jabbed my finger down. Where it landed is where we came to.
That was six years, and a different lifetime ago.

Since then I have refused to collect anything other than what is necessary to live reasonably:
A cup, a plate, knife, fork and spoon – and a couple more for friends.
A bed, a sheet, a pillow, a duvet – and a couple more for friends
A sofa – and a couple more chairs for friends
Everything is cheap and cheerful; got for nothing at charity shops.

I refuse to possess anything, ever again, that I will weep for if I lose it.
And I refuse to spend money on anything that won’t cry for me if I die.
Spare money is spent on making memories and friends.

THE BIRD TABLE BLOG

I like animals, I really do. Everything in Nature has a place in my world – even the mosquito who’s bite nearly killed me with malaria; but the five (yes, 5) cats that are having a turf war in my garden I could do without.

“The Minge” at No 26 is a large ginger tom who has treated our garden as his own for the last 6 years. His owners put a bell on his collar because they, too, have a bird table.

I see The Minge’s hunting expeditions as more like the birds having their own Personal Trainer. He keeps the birds keen of eye and acute of ear, with well exercised reactions and strengthened wing muscles. I have never known him to catch a bird, but I have known the MacPyes to play “possum” with him.

“Sooty” is a fluffy white cat who lives with her humorous owners at No 28. I think that Sooty was once a lady for she has a diamantee collar. The Minge tolerates her presence in our garden, but doesn’t welcome it, and she tends to stay away if he’s here. Sooty also has a bell, but is far lazier (or better fed at home) and hardly ever bestirs herself to such feline pursuits as stalking the bird table.

And so, for a last few years our garden, No 24, has been orderly and peaceful. The cats are belled. The birds are safe and very tame; small mice and hedgehogs are happy, as are the Ffoxe family who regularly visit the garden to eat said mice and hedgehogs.

And then, at the beginning of December a family moved in to No 22. Not only do they have two or three, (or maybe four - it’s hard to tell because they are all blonde, have cute crew-cuts and are all much the same size) noisy, shouting, squalling boys, but they also have three noisy, shouting, squalling cats.

These cats wear no bells. Two are very athletic (one a black and white cat, and the other is a white and black cat. Yes! There’s a difference) and the third is a rather elderly, mostly black cat.

As their garden is next to ours, and we don’t have a cat, they looked over at our garden much as the 1890’s Brits looked over at the gold-rich South African Transvaal – easy pickings, desirable territory; just there to be invaded and colonised.

And now our garden is a place of war. The peace is broken by hisses and howls, darting figures, shadowy guerrillas between the bushes, snarls and scowls. And that’s only me; you ought to hear those jolly cats.

I feel for The Minge and Sooty, but at the same time I don’t feel too bad, because so long as the cats are pre-occupied with fighting each other, our small critters are fairly safe and I won’t feel obliged to ask a harassed young mum if she could please bell her cats.

Have a superlovely, delicious day my friends ☆
The Crusty Canny Ninja-Granny xxx

Copyright author 2010