Tea for the sweeping man

Sunday 30 November, 2008

The sun shone, the temperature eased up a little, and Graham decided the time had come to do a bit of sweeping and preliminary clearance in the back garden.  So he, and I, and my trusty camera, took ourselves out to tread the boundaries.

First thing, out of respect, was to take another shot of the Enchanted Forest that runs from the end of the road, just two doors away.  Most of the trees have shed their leaves now.  What we need is a good old-fashioned gale to stir them up and do some late Autumn cleaning.  It doesn’t photograph too well, but it is a truly magical place:

 

The Enchanted Forest

 Next, a token photograph of the front garden and the front of the house.  My study is the closer of the two front rooms in this view:

 

Front garden

Then I joined Graham out back, where he’d already started out on clipping cotoneaster, and sweeping paths. Well, you have to start somewhere:

 

Well, you have to start somewhere

 And, watching over us as he always does, Mr Rusty, looking handsome and reassuring:

Mr Rusty, watching the action

And then it got a little too cold for me so I came indoors to warm up again.  Pretty soon now I shall brew tea for the sweeping man.

We’re getting there

Saturday November 29, 2008

A cold, cold day, quiet and still under a blanket of soft mist.  Now and then the sun did break through, and that was joyful.  Somehow, though, it made the cold seem even more spare and brittle.  I stayed home.

Somewhere in the late morning a great clatter and banging sounded outside, disturbing the quiet under the pines.  It was the water board contractors, come at our request to update our water supply from unmetered to metered.  This required enlarging the hole in the pavement, cutting the pipe either side of the water board isolating stopcock, and replacing it with a very technical-looking hunk of meter and tap combined.  Graham took them tea.  Dolly and I watched from the window, happy to be safe indoors, and warm.

Between us, Dolly and and I have done a lot of the safe and warm life today.  I went off after lunch to snooze the middle/late afternoon away, waking to find Dolly snuffling my ear, and Graham standing in the doorway.

Seems I’d made some strange noises in my dream–one of a huge, English country house, with an endless series of interconnecting rooms, each with its own set of nice, English people–and they were both of them bothered that I was having an unpleasant nightmare. 

It was not a nightmare, though, and certainly not unpleasant.  Indeed, for a moment after waking, I felt a strong irritation to have been dragged away from it before it had finished properly.  Graham calls these my ’serial, episodic’ dreams, and is quietly envious of them.

Other than that, Graham spent the morning and early afternoon fixing new lights in the kitchen, under the wall-hung cupboards.  They’ve added a good sparkle to the room, and made the work surface easier and safer.

So.  Cold and noisy outside.  Easier, safer and warmer inside.  We’re getting there.

 

New kitchen lighting

Small comforts

Friday November 28, 2008

I need to scratch up a bit of enthusiasm for domestic paperwork before the winter sets in and I turn to my winter reading and snoozing routine.  All the bills are paid, that much I’ve managed to keep going, but the filing is getting to be embarrassing now and I couldn’t prove payment at all easily if it were necessary.  Also, utilities like British Gas have deluged me with almost identical bills, one to finish the last house, one to start this one, and another just today to terminate their supply here as the account switches to Swalec.  The last two overlap slightly, and the meter readings are peculiar, so I need to sit down and go through them carefully before determining if I need to send off a partial payment.  We’re told that, to minimise our fuel costs, we need to shop around and switch suppliers, and it’s supposed to be easy and foolproof to do so.  I’m beginning to wonder how much of a wind egg it may all turn out to be.

Whatever the outcome, it’s plain that the householder needs to keep the paperwork properly filed and up to date if he’s to make sense of it all.

Today, to the supermarket in Swansea.  It’s now fully geared up for Christmas, and the jollity is bubbling over.  We shall not start our Christmas until December 5, so as to be sure that Graham gets his birthday in before I go completely du-lally-tap [Midlands English:  mad as a hatter], singing Christmas carols and doing the ho-ho-ho thing on a more or less constant basis until the big day.

When we got home, and sat down to a late-ish lunch, our garden was visited in grand style by the local sparrow hawk, zooming in to sit on the garden bench and then swooping past the kitchen window in pursuit of a tasty bird or two.  I don’t think he succeeded, not this time, but I most certainly don’t wish him to fail.  Red in tooth and claw, he’s entitled to his tithe.  Not that the little birds think so, of course, and they retired to the centre of one of the great bushy tangles in the garden, out of reach but not out of earshot.  They let the whole world know of their annoyance, in no uncertain terms.  I don’t speak bird, but I reckon I’d have learned a good few new swear-words if I did.

And then, eyes drooping, off for a good snooze.  I’ll start on the paperwork tomorrow.  Or the day after.  Or the day after that.  No point letting good intentions get in the way of small comforts.

Good to be home

Thursday November 27, 2008

“I don’t like this place,” I said.  ”We were right to reject it last time we lived in Wales.”

“You don’t mean…?”

“Yes.  It’s doing my head in.”

And so we left the mega-Tesco’s in Fforestfach [the double 'f' is pronounced 'f', the single 'f' is pronounced 'v', and the 'ch' is pronounced as in the Scot's 'loch' but not so much so], trying not to get soaked in the persistent rain.  There’s no reason we should re-visit, and I suspect that we shall not.  It’s a monstrous big tin box, noisy, smelly, and poorly lit.  Not the kind of Wales we’ve come to appreciate this time round.

Earlier we’d visited Neath, to the doctors’ to pick up the remainder of my prescription package, and to the Post Office to send off an eBay package for Graham.  That visit went fine, despite the persistent chilly rain, and despite having made a wrong turn and entered the carpark via the exit, much to the consternation and amusement of other road users.  I simply didn’t see the sign among the myriad of other road signs that plaster that stretch of the town.

I was given another lesson in the Geography of Neath, though, which I gratefully received, and all went well except for having to dodge a plague of placard-wielding ‘accident lawyers’, out advertising their services in the no-risk accident and personal injury business.  I don’t quite understand this one.  I’ve always been under the impression that, although there has been some relaxation and de-regulation of professional conduct rules, it’s still not permitted for lawyers to go out touting for business.  Strange world.

We’d done Fforestfach to get Graham a winter’s supply of long-legged, long-armed pyjamas.  He’s been feeling the cold, poor soul.  While wandering around the towering racks, I was persuaded to buy myself a new wooly top.  Didn’t much like it so, while he was not watching, I swapped it for a more acceptable garment.  Same price, but more of a knitted jobbie than the other, and containing 35% wool in the yarn rather than 100% acrylic.  And a nice mottled grey rather than gothic black.

“That’s not the one we chose,” Graham said when we got to the checkout.

“No.  I know.  This one appealed to me.  Feels warmer, and more woolly.”

“Didn’t know they had sheep in China,” he said, studying the label to be sure I hadn’t picked up a fabric that couldn’t be laundered.

“Oh, I’m sure that do.  Just that they don’t say ‘baaaa’ like English sheep.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t, not really.  But it does seem reasonable, somehow, that Chinese sheep should be baaaa-less.”

As we drove home the rain really settled in, heavy and nasty with it.  I was almost expecting it to turn to ice but that was more the work of my fevered imagination than any actual temperature drop.  Turning from the Cadoxton road onto the one that leads up to Cilfrew village, Graham sighed happily.

“What’s that, chicken?” I asked.

“Oh, just that it’s good to be home.”

Great balls of polystyrene

Wednesday November 26, 2008

The nice man from the insulation company came along today, laden with government forms, tape measures, and surveying stuff of all kinds.  We were considerably impressed, not just with him and his performance, but with the government grants that reduce the cost to a really affordable level.  They use ‘black coated polystyrene balls’ with a U-value of this and a reflective value of that to fill the wall cavity from the top.  The balls are coated with PVA glue so they stick together rather than all falling out when at some future date we open a new window or whatever.  So our exterior walls will become nice and warm rather than the chilly beasts they are now.

Graham’s eyes glistened like a little boy’s, waiting to see Santa in his Grotto, and that impressed me even more.  Especially since he’s paying that particular bill.  So, after our siesta, I signed the form and wrote a covering letter of acceptance.  The job’ll be done in four to six weeks.

I’m grateful to our wonderful, dour little Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, for the goodies he’s handing out to me just now.  Apart from the insulation grants, I’ve also had £250 of winter fuel allowance this week, and the promise of a further £60 in January.  Not just that, but I understand my income tax bill is going down, too, and VAT is dropping a tad just in time for Christmas.

I’m no fool, and I know that a politician of any colour who comes along bearing gifts is going to want them back, with interest, before too long.  Hey ho.  I’m grateful for my blessings today, and I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.

So, for the moment, I’ve stopped singing ‘Gordon is a Moron’.  It’s a small contribution to the common weal, but it’s mine own:

Something else to sort out

Tuesday November 11, 2008

Having finished emptying my big bag of plastic at the dump this morning I was watching a ‘recycling advisor’ picking through a large bin of discarded clothing.  And came to a somewhat disturbing conclusion.

Many people throw away clothes in better condition than those I habitually wear.

I told Graham about my discovery.  He stood back and regarded me. Critically.

“Right,” he said.  ”That’s something else we have to sort out.”

Humbly and meekly

Monday November 24, 2008

First encounter with the new doctors’ prescription service entirely satisfactory and I walked away clutching a paper bag stuffed with the goodies that keep me ticking.  The only downside was the great fat slug of a man sitting in a giant Volvo parked across two disabled parking bays, watching me and laughing as I struggled to turn the car round in the roadway he was obstructing.  I tellya, there’s never a constable around when you need one.

Then, to Neath, where I managed to get lost, twice, while trying to get to the bank on foot.  It was cold.  I’d forgotten to wear a hat.  I got chilled and despondent and disoriented.  Not a happy outing.

Back home, where I found Graham deep in the process of fitting an extractor fan in the ceiling of the bathroom.  Flashy affair, all chrome and heavy-weight white plastic.  And, if the amount of cursing was a guide, a pig of a thing to fit.

Then, the phone rang, and it was a really pleasant young lady from the government-appointed company that surveys and advises on the requirements for and installation of insulation, including grants and allowances.  Apparently the guy calls, does his survey, takes you through a questionnaire, and leaves you with all the information you need to make your decision, departing without trying to sell anything.  I agreed to see him on Wednesday.  How could I not?

Then, after a late lunch, a short session to watch the Chancellor giving details of his pre-apocalypse financial budget.  Apparently they’re going to give me some money, hoping I shall spend it to help the economy shift back into high gear.  I lost track of the thing after ten minutes and dozed off, to be woken by a cross Graham, telling me to go to bed for a proper nap, why don’t I?

Which, humbly and meekly, I did.

Planet X

Sunday November 23, 2008

A nasty, cold, rainy day.  No snow, or ice, thank goodness, but even so it wasn’t a day to tempt me outdoors.  Instead I sat in my kitchen chair over coffee and watched the garden birds who seem unmoved by a bit of inclement weather.  Mind you, our next door neighbour is a fanatical feeder of wild birds and has a goodly collection of feeding stations that he keeps well-stocked with seed and nuts and all things good and fatty.

Quite unreasonably, a large number of the birds visit his garden to pick up the goodies and then fly over to us to consume them in peace.  So far all they get from us is a few crumbs and scraps from our table, thrown onto a clear patch of path where the local cats would have difficulty reaching them.  Soon as I can I’ll put up a seed box and a peanut feeder to do my bit towards keeping the population fed and safe over winter.

So it’s been a ‘room with a view’ kind of day, keeping warm and happy, and snoozing over a dreadful black and white SF movie on the horror channel.  Something about Planet X, so far as I recall.  You know where you are with Planet X.

There’s cozy

Saturday November 22, 2008

Graham’s main task of the day was to replace the ceiling lighting in the kitchen.  This was a major re-wiring job, and included the installation of our favourite 1972 designer classic Falcon shade by Fog & Morup.  All of which is much better than the five-foot fluorescent tube we inherited.

 

Beginning to look cozy

“It’s all beginning to look very cozy,” I said, with heartfelt approval.

“Not bad.  It’ll do us until I do a complete kitchen make-over.  Now, have a look at this sample card and tell me what colour you think I should paint the walls.”

The ginger biscuits were lovely

Friday November 21, 2008

“Only a month to go and we’ll be at the shortest day in the year,” I said.

“Well that crept up on us without us noticing,” said Graham.

“Oh, I’ve noticed.  You wouldn’t believe how I’ve noticed.”

And I have, too.  We’re in the midst of a classic Autumn, all soft rain, mists, and mellow unpicked fruit on the trees.  People are so wasteful with garden fruit these days.

All that’s needed now is a good, stiff frost, all sharp and crackly underfoot, and the job will be done, Old Lady Autumn’ll be able to rest on her laurels, and Old Man Winter will be ready to stir his icy bones.

And you don’t get much more airy-fairy poetic than that, now, do you?

Driving over to the river side of Swansea, to the supermarket, we pass through some lovely countryside, interspersed with post-industrial waste lands, and, on the way home, it’s as though you’re travelling into the wild blue mountains of the North.

Simply can’t escape the poetics today, it seems.  Except that I haven’t found much of them in my head yet.

“I desperately, desperately need to write a poem,” I said, after I’d waffled on about the wild blue mountains of the North.

“Never mind.  You can have two ginger biscuits with your coffee when we get home and then perhaps you’ll feel better.”

The ginger biscuits were lovely.  They’d have been even better iced with a good stiff poetic frost but,– give me time.