Single figures! I can't believe it. Time to drag my suitcase out of the cupboard, freak out at how little summer clothing I have (17C in Wellington, ice on the puddles here), stare in horror at the mothballs in my bathing suit, fret about formal wear, wonder whether it's too late to get NZ currency. I already have some, actually, Christmas presents: a $50 note and a full set of coins. The coins are especially useful, because I can practise paying for things without having to read the amounts. Added to my kiwi accent, dreary clothes and fish-belly pale skin, fumbling with money makes me look like someone on day-release.
Bertie's been particularly cheerful since his feet healed up, prancing around and enjoying life. Little does he know ... I feel almost guilty. Almost. I wish it was easy to take him with me, though - he'd love hanging out with Poppy and Sam the kiwi dogs.
I'm even looking forward to the gruesome 24-hour plane journey. I have a couple of books and some sleeping pills, so I'm all set.
Eeeeeee!!!
21 January 2005
14 January 2005
:: all done
I finally, finally, finally got the computer going properly. The new one, this is, not the old one. The old one is a husk. It wasn't easy and I learnt a lot, mainly about the benefits of not rushing in with my first idea, or even my second one.
One of these days I'll write up the whole experience, but for now here are some photos:
This is the old computer, in the process of being gutted. I've taken out its hard disk drive and its floppy drive to use in the new machine. I was going to take out one of its CD drives too, but the new computer has an odd design which means it'd be extremely difficult to squeeze it in. Which explains why, in this next picture, the CD drive is balanced on top of the new open case.
It's a smaller case than the old one, so it's more congested. And I needed the CD drive to install the operating system on the old HDD inserted in the new case - oh, it's a loooooong story.
But anyway it's finally done and all I have left to do is reinstalling my software. I started that process today. Everything so lovely and smooth and fast, it's wonderful. It's always like that with a new computer. Mmmmm. It would have been a lot easier and less traumatic to have bought a whizzy laptop - I was sorely tempted - but I need to be financially sensible ahead of the big NZ holiday.
Only 16 sleeps to go! (Seventeen if you count dozing on the plane. Or even 18 if you count crossing the dateline. I think. Maths was never my strong point.)
The other thing I've been busy doing is finding a place for Bertie to stay while I'm away. I had thought of boarding him at the Cat and Dog Home, so I went there to check it out on Monday.
It was awful.
The people are lovely, and they do good work, but there's no way I could leave poor B there for a whole month. The kennel itself was a tiled nook, with the food dishes round the corner. But in one I looked at there was a gutter full of pee between the bedding and the door, and the place was minging. "We hose it out in the mornings," said the chap. It seemed the dogs were only inside at night, the rest of the time they're locked in a bare concrete run with a chain fence. Each one separately.
The real deal-killer, though, was that they don't walk the dogs. At all. The lucky ones - the ones that won't "do their business" in the run - are let out into a grassed area for five minutes. There were two greyhounds there, both wearing their jackets because of the cold.
Bertie was freaked out being back there - it's where he was rescued to - and he was extremely pleased to get back into the car.
I had a browse through the phone book and picked a place pretty much at random, after consulting a map. It's called Barking Mews - it's a cattery as well - and not much more expensive than the dog home. The kennel arrangement is slightly better, in that the run opens off the kennel, so the dogs can be inside or outside. Most important, they're taken for walks. It's in the country, and I noticed a path going off along the property's boundary, so hopefully they'll be good walks. The ad also promised cuddles, so Bertie won't have to rely entirely on his mojo.
I'm not going to talk about work, except to say it's a lovely place full of lovely people and run by even lovelier people. Click here.
One of these days I'll write up the whole experience, but for now here are some photos:
This is the old computer, in the process of being gutted. I've taken out its hard disk drive and its floppy drive to use in the new machine. I was going to take out one of its CD drives too, but the new computer has an odd design which means it'd be extremely difficult to squeeze it in. Which explains why, in this next picture, the CD drive is balanced on top of the new open case.
It's a smaller case than the old one, so it's more congested. And I needed the CD drive to install the operating system on the old HDD inserted in the new case - oh, it's a loooooong story.
But anyway it's finally done and all I have left to do is reinstalling my software. I started that process today. Everything so lovely and smooth and fast, it's wonderful. It's always like that with a new computer. Mmmmm. It would have been a lot easier and less traumatic to have bought a whizzy laptop - I was sorely tempted - but I need to be financially sensible ahead of the big NZ holiday.
Only 16 sleeps to go! (Seventeen if you count dozing on the plane. Or even 18 if you count crossing the dateline. I think. Maths was never my strong point.)
The other thing I've been busy doing is finding a place for Bertie to stay while I'm away. I had thought of boarding him at the Cat and Dog Home, so I went there to check it out on Monday.
It was awful.
The people are lovely, and they do good work, but there's no way I could leave poor B there for a whole month. The kennel itself was a tiled nook, with the food dishes round the corner. But in one I looked at there was a gutter full of pee between the bedding and the door, and the place was minging. "We hose it out in the mornings," said the chap. It seemed the dogs were only inside at night, the rest of the time they're locked in a bare concrete run with a chain fence. Each one separately.
The real deal-killer, though, was that they don't walk the dogs. At all. The lucky ones - the ones that won't "do their business" in the run - are let out into a grassed area for five minutes. There were two greyhounds there, both wearing their jackets because of the cold.
Bertie was freaked out being back there - it's where he was rescued to - and he was extremely pleased to get back into the car.
I had a browse through the phone book and picked a place pretty much at random, after consulting a map. It's called Barking Mews - it's a cattery as well - and not much more expensive than the dog home. The kennel arrangement is slightly better, in that the run opens off the kennel, so the dogs can be inside or outside. Most important, they're taken for walks. It's in the country, and I noticed a path going off along the property's boundary, so hopefully they'll be good walks. The ad also promised cuddles, so Bertie won't have to rely entirely on his mojo.
I'm not going to talk about work, except to say it's a lovely place full of lovely people and run by even lovelier people. Click here.
5 January 2005
:: happy new year!!
I'm still offline at home, but today I ordered the solution: a bare-bones computer "box". It should be ready in a few days, after which I just have to install my modem, plug in the peripherals, install the software and tada! I'm back in computer-ville.
I did toy with the idea of getting a fabulous laptop - I've been wanting a laptop for years now, and they're coming down in price and going up in specs - but in the end (after nearly going mad trying to choose between zillions of alluring machines) I went the cheapo DIY desktop route. Besides, I would rather have a new camera than a laptop.
I'm writing this at work - I still have access to my home email here.
I did toy with the idea of getting a fabulous laptop - I've been wanting a laptop for years now, and they're coming down in price and going up in specs - but in the end (after nearly going mad trying to choose between zillions of alluring machines) I went the cheapo DIY desktop route. Besides, I would rather have a new camera than a laptop.
I'm writing this at work - I still have access to my home email here.
28 December 2004
:: meanwhile ...
I killed my computer. It's dead as a dead doornail. Apart from little green light that blinks relentlessly. It's my own fault - I was tinkering again - but it's still annoying.
I asked for help in a computer forum on the net (I'm at work) and someone suggested taking out the CMOS battery for 15 seconds before putting it back in and switching back on. Personally I think a better solution is to buy a snazzy new laptop.
I asked for help in a computer forum on the net (I'm at work) and someone suggested taking out the CMOS battery for 15 seconds before putting it back in and switching back on. Personally I think a better solution is to buy a snazzy new laptop.
:: the local angle
This is running on the wires at the moment:
Given that the death toll so far is 65,000 and is likely to be double that, it would seem mildly surprising if a six-year-old boy wasn't among those killed.
The puzzle is solved in the next paragraph:
Oh right, he's English. The story is probably the result of Devon and Cornwall Police putting out a press release, and agency journalists mindlessly typing it up. I know we're always looking for a local angle, but when the scale of the tragedy is so overwhelming it starts to look ludicrous.
SIX-YEAR-OLD BOY DIED IN TSUNAMI DISASTER – POLICE
By Lesley Richardson, PA
A six-year-old boy was amongst those killed by the Asian tidal waves, police said today.
Given that the death toll so far is 65,000 and is likely to be double that, it would seem mildly surprising if a six-year-old boy wasn't among those killed.
The puzzle is solved in the next paragraph:
The youngster from St Ives in Cornwall was on holiday in Thailand with his 37-year-old mother, her 44-year-old boyfriend and his eight-year-old brother when disaster struck.
Oh right, he's English. The story is probably the result of Devon and Cornwall Police putting out a press release, and agency journalists mindlessly typing it up. I know we're always looking for a local angle, but when the scale of the tragedy is so overwhelming it starts to look ludicrous.
:: flickr
I'm using this whizzy new thing now called Flickr, which I recommend to anyone who wants to share their photos over the internet. You can open an account for free, and it's fairly easy to use. It's a fun and interesting place to visit even if you don't want to use it for your own photos. Have a look at the tags page and you'll see what I mean.
27 December 2004
:: Funfair fun
Went into town with Andrew today - very slow trip in, every person and his pet was out there. We had lunch at Lucanos on George IV Bridge, one of my old favourites from when I lived near there - pasta, mmmm. Then we headed down to the funfair. There are a few hair-raising rides in Market Street that I wouldn't even consider so soon after eating: this one looked like a "wall of death" ride where they drop the floor away, but in fact it tipped on to its side, while whizzing round:
And this one just whipped people round in crazeee style:
We went to the carousel, much more my style. It was just lovely. The horses had real tails, and it played proper old-style organ music, Strauss waltzes and so on.
Then we went straight over to the big wheel - the wind was picking up and we didn't want to miss out.
I was amazed at how scared I was going up! I honestly hadn't expected to be nervous at all; I've been on it before (though I was drunk) and in general I like things like that - I've been on the Pepsi Max at Blackpool! But there I was, clinging to the pole in the middle of our wee pod, screeching like a girly girl. It was bloody windy up the top, and the whole thing was groaning and squealing and pitching around. It was much better, however, once we got going - it was the hanging suspended over Princes Street that was scary.
After that we had afternoon tea in the Palm Court at the Balmoral Hotel - teddibly civilised. It was quite a hoot - we'd waited to be seated, like the sign said, and the waitress said they were fully booked. We were swithering around in reception trying to work out where the NB Bar was when a bloke in a bow tie asked if he could help. "We were just wondering if there's somewhere we can get a cup of tea," I said. A flunky was immediately summoned and whisked us back through to the Palm Court, where he snapped a "reserved" sign off a table and sat us down. The waitress who'd turned us away didn't seem to mind at all.
After scones and jam we hoofed it up North Bridge back to the car and drove back here. Andrew phoned his mum and I had a chat to her - she's off to Germany tomorrow with her pal Mabel (?), they're going on a Rhine cruise for New Year. Then he headed home, much to Bertie's grief. He was soooo thrilled to see Andrew - often it means a trip to the farm. Not this time, sadly.
And this one just whipped people round in crazeee style:
We went to the carousel, much more my style. It was just lovely. The horses had real tails, and it played proper old-style organ music, Strauss waltzes and so on.
Then we went straight over to the big wheel - the wind was picking up and we didn't want to miss out.
I was amazed at how scared I was going up! I honestly hadn't expected to be nervous at all; I've been on it before (though I was drunk) and in general I like things like that - I've been on the Pepsi Max at Blackpool! But there I was, clinging to the pole in the middle of our wee pod, screeching like a girly girl. It was bloody windy up the top, and the whole thing was groaning and squealing and pitching around. It was much better, however, once we got going - it was the hanging suspended over Princes Street that was scary.
After that we had afternoon tea in the Palm Court at the Balmoral Hotel - teddibly civilised. It was quite a hoot - we'd waited to be seated, like the sign said, and the waitress said they were fully booked. We were swithering around in reception trying to work out where the NB Bar was when a bloke in a bow tie asked if he could help. "We were just wondering if there's somewhere we can get a cup of tea," I said. A flunky was immediately summoned and whisked us back through to the Palm Court, where he snapped a "reserved" sign off a table and sat us down. The waitress who'd turned us away didn't seem to mind at all.
After scones and jam we hoofed it up North Bridge back to the car and drove back here. Andrew phoned his mum and I had a chat to her - she's off to Germany tomorrow with her pal Mabel (?), they're going on a Rhine cruise for New Year. Then he headed home, much to Bertie's grief. He was soooo thrilled to see Andrew - often it means a trip to the farm. Not this time, sadly.
:: some pics
Shiny happy bathroom!
Don't look too closely, please.
The waiter took this photo at our Christmas lunch. I'm right at the other end of the table.
I caught the bus into town so I could indulge myself. And I did!
Gareth, who organised the do, said to bring along festive headgear. I was the only one who did, so everyone had a go at wearing the stars. (Those of you who had Christmas cards will recognise them!) They had quite an effect on Charlie, who immediately burst into song.
Don't look too closely, please.
The waiter took this photo at our Christmas lunch. I'm right at the other end of the table.
I caught the bus into town so I could indulge myself. And I did!
Gareth, who organised the do, said to bring along festive headgear. I was the only one who did, so everyone had a go at wearing the stars. (Those of you who had Christmas cards will recognise them!) They had quite an effect on Charlie, who immediately burst into song.
26 December 2004
:: momentous event
Well, you know, what passes for momentous at my place .... I had a shower today. Yes, the bathtub retiling project is finally finished. Happily the glare off the brilliant white SooperCheep tiles is such that you can't easily see how wonky the silicone seal is, or how much grout/filler/sealant is spackled about all over the show. I even managed to tidy up the paintwork: there was a tiny scraping of Spearmint matt vinyl left in the tin last used in 2000, miraculously still moist enough to stir. The tiles themselves do a kind of Mexican wave across the wall. But hey! There was no puddle in the kitchen after my shower, so I'm a very happy bunny.
Happy Christmas!
Happy Christmas!
20 December 2004
:: bangers
I took my car into the garage this morning because I noticed last week that it was making puddles. One puddle was black and the other one was blue. So I just phoned to see how they were getting on with it and it turns out to be a diesel leak. The car won't be ready until 5pm because they're busy, but apparently John the mechanic says they have to do it today because it's so dangerous. Wow. The other one is anti-freeze, so it's either the coolant or the screenwash.
We had our work do on Saturday - lunch at Giulianos. The food was good and the company better. I very determinedly refused to talk shop, so it was fun. Afterwards I had been going to a film, a documentary about surfing called Riding Giants, but when I phoned the cinema it turned out there wasn't a screening until 9pm, so I went to the pub with the chaps instead. Which was great, because otherwise I wouldn't have heard Charlie singing The Portree Kid (to the tune of Ghost Riders in the Skye).
I've done the grouting on the bathroom tiles, and the waterproof Polyfilla round the edge; just the silicone seal to go on now. I'll be able to have a shower on Boxing Day, hoorah.
We had our work do on Saturday - lunch at Giulianos. The food was good and the company better. I very determinedly refused to talk shop, so it was fun. Afterwards I had been going to a film, a documentary about surfing called Riding Giants, but when I phoned the cinema it turned out there wasn't a screening until 9pm, so I went to the pub with the chaps instead. Which was great, because otherwise I wouldn't have heard Charlie singing The Portree Kid (to the tune of Ghost Riders in the Skye).
I've done the grouting on the bathroom tiles, and the waterproof Polyfilla round the edge; just the silicone seal to go on now. I'll be able to have a shower on Boxing Day, hoorah.
17 December 2004
:: windy wonderland
Faye headed off back to England this morning after what seemed a very brief visit. I had one day off, Tuesday. Faye had said one day how she'd always wanted to ride on one of those beautiful old-fashioned carousels, and it just so happens that at the moment, in Princes Street Gardens, there are not only two of these, there is also a Christmas market, a "Bungydome", an ice rink and a giant Ferris wheel. It's the annual Winter Wonderland, a real festive overload.
So on Tuesday afternoon we took ourselves off to town on the bus. We had a quick shop in Jenners - which has scandalised the city last year by having a fake Christmas tree instead of a proper one - before heading out into Princes St.
The Ferris wheel wasn't lit up. "It's probably shut because of the wind," I said.
Too true. It was windy, indeed. But it wasn't just the wheel. The Christmas market was shut too. And so was the Bungydome. And the ice rink. And both carousels.
Wah!
We stiffened our quivering lips and shuffled off to look for sustenance. We were too late for lunch, too early for dinner. We tried shopping, but the shop shut five minutes after we arrived. We went to a pizzeria I knew in Leith Walk. It hadn't opened yet. Finally we staggered into Valvona & Crolla, a lovely deli, and ate what was left of their lunch menu. After that we had a drink in the Slug and Lettuce (once Faye had overcome her squeamishness! slugs are to her what spiders are to an arachnaphobe) and then we went to see The Incredibles. A great little movie.
We had a bit of a struggle finding where the bus left from - they keep changing the stop and no-one seems to know which is the right one - we decided to go by train. Very pleasant, and a nice walk home.
I was really disappointed not to get a ride on the carousel, but we've vowed to try again next year.
So on Tuesday afternoon we took ourselves off to town on the bus. We had a quick shop in Jenners - which has scandalised the city last year by having a fake Christmas tree instead of a proper one - before heading out into Princes St.
The Ferris wheel wasn't lit up. "It's probably shut because of the wind," I said.
Too true. It was windy, indeed. But it wasn't just the wheel. The Christmas market was shut too. And so was the Bungydome. And the ice rink. And both carousels.
Wah!
We stiffened our quivering lips and shuffled off to look for sustenance. We were too late for lunch, too early for dinner. We tried shopping, but the shop shut five minutes after we arrived. We went to a pizzeria I knew in Leith Walk. It hadn't opened yet. Finally we staggered into Valvona & Crolla, a lovely deli, and ate what was left of their lunch menu. After that we had a drink in the Slug and Lettuce (once Faye had overcome her squeamishness! slugs are to her what spiders are to an arachnaphobe) and then we went to see The Incredibles. A great little movie.
We had a bit of a struggle finding where the bus left from - they keep changing the stop and no-one seems to know which is the right one - we decided to go by train. Very pleasant, and a nice walk home.
I was really disappointed not to get a ride on the carousel, but we've vowed to try again next year.
13 December 2004
:: deadlines
In the news:
They don't say what the risk is of having high-pressure deadlines at work every day for 15 years. I'm lucky to be alive!
In other news, Faye arrived at about 4am today, much to Bertie's astonishment. I did tell him she was coming, but you know - in one ear, out the other.
We had a Christmas-pressie fiesta this morning. Due to Faye's excellent taste I came out best, I think! Perfume, a fantastic book on cocktails and a stunning travel alarm clock in a pale blue leather case. She got a photo guide to British wildlife, a copy of Lark Rise to Candleford and a George Foreman health grill.
The cocktails book makes me want to rush out and buy stuff like tequila, curacao, grenadine and a shaker, and then throw a huge party. It not only has recipes (including non-alcoholic) but loads of information about all the different drinks. And lush photos. Yum.
"High-pressure deadlines at work can cause a six-fold increase in the risk of a heart attack in the next 24 hours, scientists in Sweden have claimed, saying that such short-term stress seems to have more impact than that built up over a year."
They don't say what the risk is of having high-pressure deadlines at work every day for 15 years. I'm lucky to be alive!
In other news, Faye arrived at about 4am today, much to Bertie's astonishment. I did tell him she was coming, but you know - in one ear, out the other.
We had a Christmas-pressie fiesta this morning. Due to Faye's excellent taste I came out best, I think! Perfume, a fantastic book on cocktails and a stunning travel alarm clock in a pale blue leather case. She got a photo guide to British wildlife, a copy of Lark Rise to Candleford and a George Foreman health grill.
The cocktails book makes me want to rush out and buy stuff like tequila, curacao, grenadine and a shaker, and then throw a huge party. It not only has recipes (including non-alcoholic) but loads of information about all the different drinks. And lush photos. Yum.
6 December 2004
:: what lies beneath
Today I finally bit the bullet and stripped the tiles off from around the bath. No wonder it had been leaking! The tiles were held on by grout and mould. Here's what it looked like:
And here's a sample of what I scraped off:
I sprayed the lot with mould-remover and scrubbed away, got it reasonably clean:
I'm not going to retile straight away because the wall was pretty damp under the tiles. Also, I've filled some great gaping holes in the walls, so that needs to dry. There was a bit of bad news in the small print on the grout packet: "Leave at least seven days before wetting." I have to leave the tiles for at least 24 hours before grouting, so that's no showers for well over a week, depending on when I get the tiling done.
Bertie is still suffering torments of boredom and pain, though he was limping less today.
He's developed a weird obsession, which might be injury-related. When he goes out into the garden he heads for the corner where he cut himself digging a hole, and tries to dig again, despite having painful, bandaged feet. After I shout at him for that, he moves on to attacking the blameless shrub next to the spot, biting its branches and tearing them off. Weird. Maybe he thinks the shrub bit him.
This is what bit him: a piece of glass and a chunk of solid wire:
Here are some pics of the wedding I went to the other weekend:
Colin in his kilt. "I'm a married man!" he kept shouting.
Colin and Jillian in the first dance. My camera's terrible for taking pictures like this, the flash isn't strong enough I think.
I got my payrise, by the way. But not the backpay. That's the one bit I never ever got in writing. I'll have to approach my old boss and see if he's willing to confirm that he promised me backpay.
And the coffee maker! That arrived this morning. It works and everything.
And here's a sample of what I scraped off:
I sprayed the lot with mould-remover and scrubbed away, got it reasonably clean:
I'm not going to retile straight away because the wall was pretty damp under the tiles. Also, I've filled some great gaping holes in the walls, so that needs to dry. There was a bit of bad news in the small print on the grout packet: "Leave at least seven days before wetting." I have to leave the tiles for at least 24 hours before grouting, so that's no showers for well over a week, depending on when I get the tiling done.
Bertie is still suffering torments of boredom and pain, though he was limping less today.
He's developed a weird obsession, which might be injury-related. When he goes out into the garden he heads for the corner where he cut himself digging a hole, and tries to dig again, despite having painful, bandaged feet. After I shout at him for that, he moves on to attacking the blameless shrub next to the spot, biting its branches and tearing them off. Weird. Maybe he thinks the shrub bit him.
This is what bit him: a piece of glass and a chunk of solid wire:
Here are some pics of the wedding I went to the other weekend:
Colin in his kilt. "I'm a married man!" he kept shouting.
Colin and Jillian in the first dance. My camera's terrible for taking pictures like this, the flash isn't strong enough I think.
I got my payrise, by the way. But not the backpay. That's the one bit I never ever got in writing. I'll have to approach my old boss and see if he's willing to confirm that he promised me backpay.
And the coffee maker! That arrived this morning. It works and everything.
2 December 2004
:: ow!
Bertie's second "op" wasn't as bad as the first - though I was alarmed when the vet said "did anyone mention we might have to amputate a toe?" just as I was leaving the surgery. Apparently when a foreign body is lodged in the pad it can go septic and leave a terrible mess - and it's easier just to whack the whole toe off. But happily in this case the arrow-tip of glass stuck in Bertie's pad came out cleanly and the wound didn't even need stitching.
At first he was hardly limping on that foot. But now, a few days later, it's apparently very painful and he's limping heavily. The bandages are both changed tomorrow morning, and I hope there are no complications. One positive thing is that he's been very good about not gnawing the bandages off, and patient about waiting to have his "boots" put on before he goes outside.
No sign of my new coffee-maker (a replacement for the broken one that was eventually collected at 4:30pm on Monday). I phoned up about it and got a dithery young woman who couldn't tell me much but wittered on at great length about how the coffee-maker that was collected went to the courier's warehouse first, then to the John Lewis warehouse, and only then was a replacement sent out. By next-day delivery, so that meant it mustn't have arrived until, let's see ... "Are you still there?" she'd ask occasionally. If doesn't arrive tomorrow I should phone again, "because that means something will definitely have gone wrong". I think if it doesn't arrive tomorrow I will cancel, because that means I'm definitely not meant to have a coffee-maker.
There's another deadline tomorrow: the HR director has promised to sort out the pay rise I asked for politely six months ago and was promised by a boss who's since been demoted. The union rep and I went to see the HR man today to find out what's going on. He's leaving before the end of the month (the HR man this is), so I'm keen not to have to start the whole business again. He said he'd give me a definite answer by the end of the week. "This is Thursday," I pointed out. So, tomorrow it is. Definitely maybe is my guess.
The bath/shower is still leaking. The problem isn't just the seal, it's the tiles themselves. I've put up strips of masking tape as a totally temporary bodge, but will have to take all the tiles off and replace them soonest, I think. Hey ho. I wasn't planning to do anything on Sunday.
The weather's been weird - very very cold and very foggy. There is a set of temporary traffic lights on the intersection at the end of the street - we're not sure why, perhaps something to do with all the street lights having been out the week before - and today our one was showing red and green at the same time. That looked very strange in the fog.
At first he was hardly limping on that foot. But now, a few days later, it's apparently very painful and he's limping heavily. The bandages are both changed tomorrow morning, and I hope there are no complications. One positive thing is that he's been very good about not gnawing the bandages off, and patient about waiting to have his "boots" put on before he goes outside.
No sign of my new coffee-maker (a replacement for the broken one that was eventually collected at 4:30pm on Monday). I phoned up about it and got a dithery young woman who couldn't tell me much but wittered on at great length about how the coffee-maker that was collected went to the courier's warehouse first, then to the John Lewis warehouse, and only then was a replacement sent out. By next-day delivery, so that meant it mustn't have arrived until, let's see ... "Are you still there?" she'd ask occasionally. If doesn't arrive tomorrow I should phone again, "because that means something will definitely have gone wrong". I think if it doesn't arrive tomorrow I will cancel, because that means I'm definitely not meant to have a coffee-maker.
There's another deadline tomorrow: the HR director has promised to sort out the pay rise I asked for politely six months ago and was promised by a boss who's since been demoted. The union rep and I went to see the HR man today to find out what's going on. He's leaving before the end of the month (the HR man this is), so I'm keen not to have to start the whole business again. He said he'd give me a definite answer by the end of the week. "This is Thursday," I pointed out. So, tomorrow it is. Definitely maybe is my guess.
The bath/shower is still leaking. The problem isn't just the seal, it's the tiles themselves. I've put up strips of masking tape as a totally temporary bodge, but will have to take all the tiles off and replace them soonest, I think. Hey ho. I wasn't planning to do anything on Sunday.
The weather's been weird - very very cold and very foggy. There is a set of temporary traffic lights on the intersection at the end of the street - we're not sure why, perhaps something to do with all the street lights having been out the week before - and today our one was showing red and green at the same time. That looked very strange in the fog.
28 November 2004
:: poooooor bertie, part 843
He really is miserable this time. When I collected him from the vet yesterday morning he was extremely pleased to see me (and the receptionist, and the two other people in the waiting room, and their pet - "Oooo, cat-in-a-box! For me? You shouldn't have..."). I wasn't so happy to hear that they'd X-rayed his other foot and discovered that there is a "foreign body" in his pad, which will therefore have to be sliced open under a general anaesthetic. So we hobbled off home. As soon as he got in he drank about a litre of water, then rushed outside for a poo, so I gather he didn't have a great time on his sleepover.
Just after I got home, my next-door neighbour popped over with a parcel that had been delivered the night before while I was at work. It was my coffee maker! The back story to this momentous delivery is that I've been hankering for a coffee maker for some time, but have been dithering. I want one that takes paper filters, because I think paper-filtered coffee tastes better and is better for you, but they're quite hard to find. I ordered one through Tesco last month. Over the weeks I phoned a few times to see what was happening and was always told it would be with me soon. Finally, last week they admitted they didn't have any. So I ordered another one from John Lewis, my favourite department store. And here it was! At last!
But (you knew there was a but coming, I'm sure) after I'd hauled it out of its box and assembled it, there seemed to be something amiss. I consulted the manual, and sure enough, that flap at the back should have been fixed on, not sliding around loose. Sigh. I got my battered old Melitta one-cup filter holder back out of the cupboard.
Luckily John Lewis is ferociously efficient, so with one short phone call while the kettle boiled I'd organised the collection of the faulty machine and the delivery of a new one. They're coming tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow is my day off, and here's how it's shaping up so far: 10am, take Bertie to the vet. Noon-4pm: Wait for John Lewis to collect broken coffee maker. At some point, go into town to buy another "doggie boot" to protect second bandaged foot on walks. 5pm: Collect Bertie from vet.
I'd love to go out tomorrow night, but Bertie will be in a very bad way, with both front feet in bandages, both with stitches, owww, owww. So I'd better stay in and hold his paw. Greyhounds take a long time to recover from anaesthetics, so he'll probably be very groggy too. Poor old fellow.
Last night I went to a great party, my friend Colin's wedding reception. It was in Aberdour, so I got the train along with John from work and his wife Penny. I haven't seen Colin's family for ages and it was brilliant to catch up with them. His parents are great fun. Jean greeted me with a big hug, and Sandy told me blurrily how grateful he was for the sacrifice all those Kiwis and Aussies made during the Second World War (he's an ex-Marine). He also confessed that he'd made a hideous blunder in his speech, calling Colin's bride "Jenny" twice, when she's actually Jillian. Jenny is Colin's previous girlfriend. Oops. Poor Sandy. Colin's sisters are also wonderful, Tasha in particular. There were loads of kids there, the boys mostly in kilts and the girls in pretty party frocks, and they had a fab time dancing and running around. The reception featured a great little ceilidh band, and I got up and danced a few times myself. Then we had stovies, a great Scottish tradition, and after a lot more drinking and laughing and hugging, we wobbled off back to the station to catch the last train, along with another couple. Colin is very happy - Jillian has three children already (lovely kids) and they've another on the way.
In keeping with the cross-grained patch I'm going through there was a glitch, but not a major one - I managed to leave my purse behind. But the Dalmeny ticket office was closed, I wasn't asked for my fare on either train, and John loaned me £20 so I could get in my round of drinks.
Today I slept until 1am, a combination of alcohol and a sleep deficit after several days of having to get up early. I feel a bit hungover but not too bad, and work hasn't been too complicated or stressful (touch wood - still a few hours to go).
However, I was a bit disturbed to read my horoscope in today's Observer:
Sagittarius
22 Nov-21 Dec
Calibrate your computer and clear your desk. The apparent motion of Mercury, messenger of the gods, will be backwards from Tuesday, a sure cue for your keys to get lost and your cell phone to die. The mess is only for three weeks, however. Happily, your personal planet, Jupiter, is dazzlingly aspected, meaning you get to be the cheery one when things go wrong. Friends? Galore. Romance? Strictly private.
"The mess is only for three weeks" - aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggggghhhh.
Just after I got home, my next-door neighbour popped over with a parcel that had been delivered the night before while I was at work. It was my coffee maker! The back story to this momentous delivery is that I've been hankering for a coffee maker for some time, but have been dithering. I want one that takes paper filters, because I think paper-filtered coffee tastes better and is better for you, but they're quite hard to find. I ordered one through Tesco last month. Over the weeks I phoned a few times to see what was happening and was always told it would be with me soon. Finally, last week they admitted they didn't have any. So I ordered another one from John Lewis, my favourite department store. And here it was! At last!
But (you knew there was a but coming, I'm sure) after I'd hauled it out of its box and assembled it, there seemed to be something amiss. I consulted the manual, and sure enough, that flap at the back should have been fixed on, not sliding around loose. Sigh. I got my battered old Melitta one-cup filter holder back out of the cupboard.
Luckily John Lewis is ferociously efficient, so with one short phone call while the kettle boiled I'd organised the collection of the faulty machine and the delivery of a new one. They're coming tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow is my day off, and here's how it's shaping up so far: 10am, take Bertie to the vet. Noon-4pm: Wait for John Lewis to collect broken coffee maker. At some point, go into town to buy another "doggie boot" to protect second bandaged foot on walks. 5pm: Collect Bertie from vet.
I'd love to go out tomorrow night, but Bertie will be in a very bad way, with both front feet in bandages, both with stitches, owww, owww. So I'd better stay in and hold his paw. Greyhounds take a long time to recover from anaesthetics, so he'll probably be very groggy too. Poor old fellow.
Last night I went to a great party, my friend Colin's wedding reception. It was in Aberdour, so I got the train along with John from work and his wife Penny. I haven't seen Colin's family for ages and it was brilliant to catch up with them. His parents are great fun. Jean greeted me with a big hug, and Sandy told me blurrily how grateful he was for the sacrifice all those Kiwis and Aussies made during the Second World War (he's an ex-Marine). He also confessed that he'd made a hideous blunder in his speech, calling Colin's bride "Jenny" twice, when she's actually Jillian. Jenny is Colin's previous girlfriend. Oops. Poor Sandy. Colin's sisters are also wonderful, Tasha in particular. There were loads of kids there, the boys mostly in kilts and the girls in pretty party frocks, and they had a fab time dancing and running around. The reception featured a great little ceilidh band, and I got up and danced a few times myself. Then we had stovies, a great Scottish tradition, and after a lot more drinking and laughing and hugging, we wobbled off back to the station to catch the last train, along with another couple. Colin is very happy - Jillian has three children already (lovely kids) and they've another on the way.
In keeping with the cross-grained patch I'm going through there was a glitch, but not a major one - I managed to leave my purse behind. But the Dalmeny ticket office was closed, I wasn't asked for my fare on either train, and John loaned me £20 so I could get in my round of drinks.
Today I slept until 1am, a combination of alcohol and a sleep deficit after several days of having to get up early. I feel a bit hungover but not too bad, and work hasn't been too complicated or stressful (touch wood - still a few hours to go).
However, I was a bit disturbed to read my horoscope in today's Observer:
Sagittarius
22 Nov-21 Dec
Calibrate your computer and clear your desk. The apparent motion of Mercury, messenger of the gods, will be backwards from Tuesday, a sure cue for your keys to get lost and your cell phone to die. The mess is only for three weeks, however. Happily, your personal planet, Jupiter, is dazzlingly aspected, meaning you get to be the cheery one when things go wrong. Friends? Galore. Romance? Strictly private.
"The mess is only for three weeks" - aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggggghhhh.
26 November 2004
:: bertie's birthday
Yesterday (my birthday) began with a trip to the vet. Bertie's still limping on his cut pad and the vet thinks there may be something in there, because it's otherwise healing up ok. After that I took him for a walk and made some phone calls and did some other stuff. Bertie went out in the garden and dug a hole under the hedge, so I yelled at him. He came mooching back in -- and shortly after that I found big bloody footprints everywhere. Uh oh. I followed the trail and found him licking a big deep gash in his "ankle". Not on his hurt leg, of course, on the other front one.
I bandaged him up, but then had to go to work not long after his double-limping afternoon walk. While at work I made an appointment for the vet for this morning. When I got home the bandage was blood-soaked, so I redid it, and again after his walk because it got wet. This morning the cut had at least stopped bleeding - but the vet says it needs stitches. Argh! He's going to be sedated for that, so while he's woozy they'll X-ray the other foot, see if that shows anything. He'd have to have a general anaesthetic if they have to cut it open. Because the surgery is in Linlithgow and I'll be at work, he has to stay overnight - so I just left him there. Poooooor Bertie. It's his favourite vet though, so perhaps he'll enjoy having some special time with her.
So - a dogless day! Guilty pleasure - normally I have to organise a good part of the day around Bertie's walks and toilet breaks, so it's quite pleasant to be able to, say, have a shopping trip or a nice lunch out. I might leave for work early and go to the gardens.
Right now though, I'm going to clean up this tip a little and try finishing the bath seal. Oh, and I'll have a look in the garden and see if I can find whatever it was Bertie cut his leg on.
I bandaged him up, but then had to go to work not long after his double-limping afternoon walk. While at work I made an appointment for the vet for this morning. When I got home the bandage was blood-soaked, so I redid it, and again after his walk because it got wet. This morning the cut had at least stopped bleeding - but the vet says it needs stitches. Argh! He's going to be sedated for that, so while he's woozy they'll X-ray the other foot, see if that shows anything. He'd have to have a general anaesthetic if they have to cut it open. Because the surgery is in Linlithgow and I'll be at work, he has to stay overnight - so I just left him there. Poooooor Bertie. It's his favourite vet though, so perhaps he'll enjoy having some special time with her.
So - a dogless day! Guilty pleasure - normally I have to organise a good part of the day around Bertie's walks and toilet breaks, so it's quite pleasant to be able to, say, have a shopping trip or a nice lunch out. I might leave for work early and go to the gardens.
Right now though, I'm going to clean up this tip a little and try finishing the bath seal. Oh, and I'll have a look in the garden and see if I can find whatever it was Bertie cut his leg on.
23 November 2004
:: diy day
I'm knackered, and I haven't finished yet. This morning (OK afternoon -- I didn't get up early) the plan was to do the sealant thing on the bath. I thought that as the washers on the taps were clearly on their last gasp (not leaking but having to be turned off tight so they wouldn't leak) I might as well change them while I was about it. These are large, elderly taps, so I didn't think it would be easy. And it wasn't.
A couple of hours after starting, I was sitting on the edge of the tub in a fog of DW40, with every single tool in my possession strewn around the floor, clutching one filthy hand in another as the blood flowed from a gash in my left thumb caused by the screwdriver I was using to try and prise the old washer out from under a very stuck nut. The nut was so firmly jammed that I had to carve the hardened washer out so I could get WD40 into the screw and loosen it. It took another hour after that point. While the WD40 was doing its magic (every joint in both taps was stuck) I rewired the light fittings in the downstairs hallway because they've been blowing bulbs too quickly. No, I'm not on drugs. I could have done with drugs, trust me.
Finally, finally, the nut came free. I jammed the new washer on, reassembled the tap and turned the water back on. Fresh water gushing into the header tank stirred up the gunk, so the first trickle through the taps was lurid orange, but still -- new washers! Fab. After a quick scrub round, rebandaging and tidy-up I started to strip off the old silicone seal around the tub, but realised that a) I was starving and b) it was after 5pm and I hadn't walked Bertie. I collected him and was just about out the door when Faye rang.
While talking to her, I realised that I could still hear the header tank filling. Surely it should be full by now ... She could hear it too, it was so loud. What the...
Then, still talking to Faye, I found the culprit. One of the low points of the day, apart from stabbing myself with the screwdriver, came when I went to the toilet midway through the whole episode. I squirted out a lot of liquid soap and (duuuuuhhhh) turned on the tap. No water, dummy! You turned it off, remember? I had to wipe the soap off with toilet paper. Second duuuhhh was that I forgot to turn the tap off. It was running now ... uhhhnnnn...
Anyhoo, I've had a nice bit of steak and am somewhat restored. I'm just going to have a quick clear-out and put the rubbish bin out and then get stuck in to resealing the bath.
Amusing suggestion on the instructions for the sealant tape: if it's for around a bath, then fill the tub to its normal level before applying sealant. But be careful not to get anything wet...
A couple of hours after starting, I was sitting on the edge of the tub in a fog of DW40, with every single tool in my possession strewn around the floor, clutching one filthy hand in another as the blood flowed from a gash in my left thumb caused by the screwdriver I was using to try and prise the old washer out from under a very stuck nut. The nut was so firmly jammed that I had to carve the hardened washer out so I could get WD40 into the screw and loosen it. It took another hour after that point. While the WD40 was doing its magic (every joint in both taps was stuck) I rewired the light fittings in the downstairs hallway because they've been blowing bulbs too quickly. No, I'm not on drugs. I could have done with drugs, trust me.
Finally, finally, the nut came free. I jammed the new washer on, reassembled the tap and turned the water back on. Fresh water gushing into the header tank stirred up the gunk, so the first trickle through the taps was lurid orange, but still -- new washers! Fab. After a quick scrub round, rebandaging and tidy-up I started to strip off the old silicone seal around the tub, but realised that a) I was starving and b) it was after 5pm and I hadn't walked Bertie. I collected him and was just about out the door when Faye rang.
While talking to her, I realised that I could still hear the header tank filling. Surely it should be full by now ... She could hear it too, it was so loud. What the...
Then, still talking to Faye, I found the culprit. One of the low points of the day, apart from stabbing myself with the screwdriver, came when I went to the toilet midway through the whole episode. I squirted out a lot of liquid soap and (duuuuuhhhh) turned on the tap. No water, dummy! You turned it off, remember? I had to wipe the soap off with toilet paper. Second duuuhhh was that I forgot to turn the tap off. It was running now ... uhhhnnnn...
Anyhoo, I've had a nice bit of steak and am somewhat restored. I'm just going to have a quick clear-out and put the rubbish bin out and then get stuck in to resealing the bath.
Amusing suggestion on the instructions for the sealant tape: if it's for around a bath, then fill the tub to its normal level before applying sealant. But be careful not to get anything wet...
22 November 2004
:: new view
Off to IKEA today for ... what? I can't even remember what I had in mind when I went. With IKEA it doesn't matter what you go there for, you end up with dozens of things you never intended to buy, because it's all so cheap and cleverly designed. So, what I got was a pair of curtains, a curtain rail & fittings, a computer desk, some skirt hangers, a bottle of mineral oil for the chopping boards and a new dishwashing brush. I wanted to get some doors for one of my existing bookcases but they didn't have them in stock. Then I went to the DIY shop for some sealant to fix the shower leak.
Since I got back I've put up the curtain rail and hung the curtains (though I'll have to take them down again because they're about two feet too long) and moved my computer downstairs. The new table is actually called a Journalist, heh. It's smaller than the one upstairs (which becomes the sewing table) but big enough for everything. I want to try having my computer downstairs to see if I use it more -- I think I will.
This morning I got up early and took Bertie to the vet. He's been limping really badly and looking so morose I felt guilty. But the vet prodded and poked and said it looks fine. She didn't bother putting a bandage on it, just gave him some antibiotics, just in case. So he must be swinging the lead. She did suggest soaking his foot in salty water ... yeah right. I can just imagine him standing patiently with his foot in a bucket for ten minutes. He's still limping as if his leg is broken.
Right now I'm going to have a nice cup of tea! I'm knackered.
Since I got back I've put up the curtain rail and hung the curtains (though I'll have to take them down again because they're about two feet too long) and moved my computer downstairs. The new table is actually called a Journalist, heh. It's smaller than the one upstairs (which becomes the sewing table) but big enough for everything. I want to try having my computer downstairs to see if I use it more -- I think I will.
This morning I got up early and took Bertie to the vet. He's been limping really badly and looking so morose I felt guilty. But the vet prodded and poked and said it looks fine. She didn't bother putting a bandage on it, just gave him some antibiotics, just in case. So he must be swinging the lead. She did suggest soaking his foot in salty water ... yeah right. I can just imagine him standing patiently with his foot in a bucket for ten minutes. He's still limping as if his leg is broken.
Right now I'm going to have a nice cup of tea! I'm knackered.
19 November 2004
:: meanwhile ...
... back in the real world (as opposed to holiday world), I'm going through a slightly frustrating bumpy patch.
First there was the mysterious puddle that appeared on the kitchen floor every time I had a shower (gap between bath and wall identified as culprit); then one of the car's tyre's sprang a slow leak (new shoes for one lucky car!). The annoying-breakdown rate seems to have speeded up this past week though: Bertie cut his foot on some broken glass the other day, and today as I was tending to him, I caught the cord of the headphones of my radio on the doorknob and ripped them apart. Wah! The car's engine coolant is emptying out at a rapid rate, which no doubt means a cracked pipe or something. And while buying a book and a CD on Amazon to cheer myself up, I managed to have them delivered to Norway. I noticed the mistake right away, but due to various gremlins couldn't put it right. Amazon couldn't put it right either, not even when the parcel was still in the building, as it were. I even emailed the Norwegian post office, but they can't put it right. So I just have to rely on the people who now live in Anthea's old flat to be honest and return the parcel to sender.
My philosophy has been Stoical: to just slog through the practicalities of putting things right and not get dragged down into negativity. Reasons to be cheerful! Etc.
Poor Bertie is not cheerful, however. He's miz. I decided to try and get his paw healed up at home, thus avoiding the horror of trying to keep an expensive bandage dry and clean in the wet and mire of late autumn. The cut was doing pretty well until this morning, when he took off in a giddy sprint and it broke open again. Limp, limp, limp. We might have to limp along to the vet after all. I'll try putting a sock on it for walks, see how that goes.
First there was the mysterious puddle that appeared on the kitchen floor every time I had a shower (gap between bath and wall identified as culprit); then one of the car's tyre's sprang a slow leak (new shoes for one lucky car!). The annoying-breakdown rate seems to have speeded up this past week though: Bertie cut his foot on some broken glass the other day, and today as I was tending to him, I caught the cord of the headphones of my radio on the doorknob and ripped them apart. Wah! The car's engine coolant is emptying out at a rapid rate, which no doubt means a cracked pipe or something. And while buying a book and a CD on Amazon to cheer myself up, I managed to have them delivered to Norway. I noticed the mistake right away, but due to various gremlins couldn't put it right. Amazon couldn't put it right either, not even when the parcel was still in the building, as it were. I even emailed the Norwegian post office, but they can't put it right. So I just have to rely on the people who now live in Anthea's old flat to be honest and return the parcel to sender.
My philosophy has been Stoical: to just slog through the practicalities of putting things right and not get dragged down into negativity. Reasons to be cheerful! Etc.
Poor Bertie is not cheerful, however. He's miz. I decided to try and get his paw healed up at home, thus avoiding the horror of trying to keep an expensive bandage dry and clean in the wet and mire of late autumn. The cut was doing pretty well until this morning, when he took off in a giddy sprint and it broke open again. Limp, limp, limp. We might have to limp along to the vet after all. I'll try putting a sock on it for walks, see how that goes.
29 October 2004
:: To Bilbao and Back Again
The Basque name for Bilbao is Bilbo; and at times we did feel like plucky hobbits, battling seemingly insurmountable odds to reach our glittering goal: the Guggenheim.
Once upon a time (7 October, 2004, to be exact) Pinky and I decided it would be a jolly good idea to go to Bilbao by train. We had arrived in Biarritz the day before, after a long and stressful journey from Lourdes. We'd found a cheap, comfortable hotel and were put off the idea of driving in Spain by the grim warnings of our guide books. So we thought we'd go to San Sebastian by train in the morning, and to Bilbao -- and the Guggenheim -- the following day.
So we set off to the railway station, where we discovered that our dilatory ways meant we had missed the connection for San Sebastian -- there wouldn't be another train until the afternoon. We decided to go the next day, and the kind man wrote down the times for us.
I'll digress here to explain that although Biarritz and Bilbao are not a million miles apart (72 miles/116km, to be exact) and San Sebastian is even closer, they are, as the man in the Biarritz railway station emphasised, in another country. You can't just get on a train in Biarritz and go to San Sebastian. You have to get off the French train at Hendaye and get on a Spanish train. So we had quite a complicated little list of train times.
After a pleasant day spent doing laundry, e-mailing and eating (a sensational dinner in particular), we were rested and ready for Spain. We set out for the station at 9am, giving ourselves plenty of time for timetable queries: we were going to Bilbao now, skipping San Sebastian.
The ticket office was closed. The ticket office staff were on strike. Uh oh.
We asked around the many other fretting passengers and figured out which platform our hoped-for train would arrive at. And so it did, only a little late. Hurrah! We climbed aboard and got off at Hendaye.
No, no, said Jojo at the Hendaye information desk. You can't get a train to Bilbao from Hendaye. For that you need to go to Irun. We recognised the name Irun from the train we'd just left. That's where it was going after Hendaye. OK, so when is the next train to Irun? Not until the afternoon. Why aren't there trains to Bilbao? You guessed it ... "It's in another country." But the man gave us these train times - we pulled out the nice Biarritz man's list - see, you can go to San Sebastian from here ... Well yes, said Jojo, there is a little train over there ... he waved dismissively ... but it's Spanish.
We went out the door he'd indicated and sure enough, there was a little ticket window marked Tren Vasco. We inquired. Yes, there was a train going soon to San Sebastian. From there we could get a bus to Bilbao, it was quicker than the train. We bought tickets and boarded the Tren. It was a very cute little Tren. It stopped at every single station. It took a very long time to go a very short distance. But eventually we got to San Sebastian. There was a moment of confusion among the foreigners because the station was called something else (it wasn't the main station), but we all got out all right.
Now we just had to find the bus station. We asked at the information counter and were pointed down the road. It wasn't far. We spotted a bus with Bilbao on it and tried to board, but were flapped away by the driver, who directed us to the bus office, back down the road to the station. So we plodded back down, stood in a queue for a while and bought tickets. We had some time in hand, so shot off to a nearby cafe for sustenance - coffee and a bocadilla, or filled roll - for the journey.
Back at the bus station confusion reigned. There wasn't just one bus to Bilbao, there were two. Which one to get on? We handed our tickets to a driver, who checked them, tore off the stubs and waved us on board. We fell gratefully into seats near the front. But what's this? A large Spanish woman laden with bags waved her ticket at us and pointed above our heads. Oh. We were in her seat. The tickets were numbered. We hauled ourselves out and back up the bus to the right seats. Whew. No sooner were we settled than another large Spaniard was standing there, waving and pointing. Eh? We were on the wrong bus! Argh. We climbed down and got the driver to go through his stubs to retrieve ours (all in sign language), then clambered back on the right bus and finally, seconds before departure, sat down in our appointed seats.
It was quite sad to see nothing of San Sebastian but the bus station and a quick glimpse from the highway; everyone I've talked to who's been there has raved about it. Oh well. Another time.
Pinky, in the window seat, said very firmly that we'd made the right decision to go by bus - judging by the speed at which we were overtaking everything. The scenery was dramatic and strange: steep, wooded hills, rising on our left to the Pyranees, with seemingly every valley filled densely with factories and high-rise blocks of flats. Now and then we caught flashes of the sea.
After a couple of hours we arrived in Bilbao. Entering the city was quite dramatic: the motorway off-ramp curves around past tall blocks of flats, many of which had banners hanging from their balconies. Consulting our dictionaries we think it was a complaint about the noise. No wonder, with three lanes of traffic speeding past their livingrooms.
Bilbao bus station is a work in progress - bulldozers, potholes, chaos. We could see a gleaming tram stop and we'd read about the state-of-the-art system, but we hurried for the taxi rank, tired beyond belief of public transport. Take us to the Guggenheim, and step on it! It was wonderful to be whisked straight there with no hassle.
And there it was, the wonderful gallery, glistening like a spaceship that's just stopped off to refuel. And there was Jeff Koons' Puppy, huge and blooming lovely. We had a happy few hours wandering the place, marvelling at every single thing. The huge exhibition spaces, the vast canvases (Jim Rosenquist, Bill Viola - fantastic), the monumental sculptures. We had a late lunch in the gallery cafe and sat around outside for a while enjoying watching the children playing in the fountain. Then it was time to go back to Biarritz.
We took the tram back to the bus station and yes, it is state of the art, clean and quick. We had decided to be clever and get the bus all the way back to Irun. We couldn't get a bus to Hendaye, of course, because - all together now - "it's in another country". So Irun it was. Each destination had its own ticket office and its own queue. The queue for Irun was so loooooooooooong it had two ticket offices. Both with looooooooooong queues. We queued. For a very loooooong time. Finally we had tickets. Now, where was the bus? The station was boiling with people, all either queuing for tickets or outside a bus, or rushing around looking confused and panicky. We were in the latter category. Finally we found the right stand and went back to queuing. At last, at looooooong last we got on the bus and were off.
After a couple of hours, we arrived in Irun. I had been slightly fearful of finding that the Irun bus station was miles from the Irun railway station, but in fact they were right next to each other. Phew! Now all we had to do was get on a train and we'd be in Biarritz.
Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!
No, said the man in the ticket office. There's no train to Biarritz. And there's nothing to Hendaye, either. "It's another country," he explained. This is where things got a bit murky. There was a mini-bus that could take us to Hendaye, but it would cost us 100 euros, 50 euros each. If we were going somewhere in Spain, obviously it wouldn't cost as much, but to cross the border - well, it's another country. While we were arguing with him ("100 euros? are you insane?") another man was waiting who spoke both English and Spanish. "I might be able to help you, I don't know," he said. I don't know if he actually said anything harsh to Senor Ticket, but at the very least he let it be known that he was bilingual. And when we started yelling at Senor Ticket again, he'd changed his tune. There was a taxi stand, we could try getting a taxi to Hendaye. He waved us off. There was no mention of a mini-bus.
Hmmm.
So we went to the taxi stand and asked how much to go to Hendaye. "Eleven euros."
Five minutes later we were there. No border guards, no border at all, as far as we could see. "Oh, the railway station," said the taxi driver. "In that case it's only ten euros. See?" He showed us his laminated list of fares. Bargain!
We headed in to the station, finally in France, and finally on the last leg. There was a looooooong queue at the ticket office. The time showing on the departure board for the Paris train matched that of the last train from Hendaye to Biarritz, on the piece of paper given to us the day before. We had ten minutes, obviously not long enough to join that queue. We turned to the automatic ticketing machine. It wouldn't take our cards. We didn't have quite enough change. We raced around begging people to change notes. At last we had enough coins. The machine spat out tickets. We hurried along to the platform and presented the tickets to the guard. He glanced at them and said to a colleague (in French, naturellement): "This train doesn't stop at Biarritz, does it?"
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Yes, it does," said the colleague calmly, not realising how close we were to going postal on her ass.
It was a sleeper, and the seats-only carriage was right up the front of the train, a very long walk. We climbed on. We found seats. We sat down. And wouldn't you know it, here came a Spanish woman, waving her ticket and pointing. We were in their seats. Wearily, we dragged ourselves up. There was a sudden flurry, a thump, and I turned to see Pinky slumped in her seat, apparently unconscious. In front of me another woman stood frozen, a large case in her hands. She'd been putting it in the overhead rack and it had slipped and hit Pinky on the head! Everyone except the perp rushed to the pink one's aid. She came round and was thankfully unharmed. I gave the offender a very harsh look, and she said "perdon" in a grudging manner.
We shuffled down the other end of the carriage and found other seats and the rest of the trip was hassle-free. We got to Biarritz station at about 11pm and I phoned a taxi.
The driver was surly and uncommunicative, but we didn't care. He drove at about 150kph through city streets but we didn't care about that either (as Pinky said, it saved us putting seatbelts on; the g-force kept us pinned to our seats). We were back at the hotel in a flash.
The ordeal was over.
Once upon a time (7 October, 2004, to be exact) Pinky and I decided it would be a jolly good idea to go to Bilbao by train. We had arrived in Biarritz the day before, after a long and stressful journey from Lourdes. We'd found a cheap, comfortable hotel and were put off the idea of driving in Spain by the grim warnings of our guide books. So we thought we'd go to San Sebastian by train in the morning, and to Bilbao -- and the Guggenheim -- the following day.
So we set off to the railway station, where we discovered that our dilatory ways meant we had missed the connection for San Sebastian -- there wouldn't be another train until the afternoon. We decided to go the next day, and the kind man wrote down the times for us.
I'll digress here to explain that although Biarritz and Bilbao are not a million miles apart (72 miles/116km, to be exact) and San Sebastian is even closer, they are, as the man in the Biarritz railway station emphasised, in another country. You can't just get on a train in Biarritz and go to San Sebastian. You have to get off the French train at Hendaye and get on a Spanish train. So we had quite a complicated little list of train times.
After a pleasant day spent doing laundry, e-mailing and eating (a sensational dinner in particular), we were rested and ready for Spain. We set out for the station at 9am, giving ourselves plenty of time for timetable queries: we were going to Bilbao now, skipping San Sebastian.
The ticket office was closed. The ticket office staff were on strike. Uh oh.
We asked around the many other fretting passengers and figured out which platform our hoped-for train would arrive at. And so it did, only a little late. Hurrah! We climbed aboard and got off at Hendaye.
No, no, said Jojo at the Hendaye information desk. You can't get a train to Bilbao from Hendaye. For that you need to go to Irun. We recognised the name Irun from the train we'd just left. That's where it was going after Hendaye. OK, so when is the next train to Irun? Not until the afternoon. Why aren't there trains to Bilbao? You guessed it ... "It's in another country." But the man gave us these train times - we pulled out the nice Biarritz man's list - see, you can go to San Sebastian from here ... Well yes, said Jojo, there is a little train over there ... he waved dismissively ... but it's Spanish.
We went out the door he'd indicated and sure enough, there was a little ticket window marked Tren Vasco. We inquired. Yes, there was a train going soon to San Sebastian. From there we could get a bus to Bilbao, it was quicker than the train. We bought tickets and boarded the Tren. It was a very cute little Tren. It stopped at every single station. It took a very long time to go a very short distance. But eventually we got to San Sebastian. There was a moment of confusion among the foreigners because the station was called something else (it wasn't the main station), but we all got out all right.
Now we just had to find the bus station. We asked at the information counter and were pointed down the road. It wasn't far. We spotted a bus with Bilbao on it and tried to board, but were flapped away by the driver, who directed us to the bus office, back down the road to the station. So we plodded back down, stood in a queue for a while and bought tickets. We had some time in hand, so shot off to a nearby cafe for sustenance - coffee and a bocadilla, or filled roll - for the journey.
Back at the bus station confusion reigned. There wasn't just one bus to Bilbao, there were two. Which one to get on? We handed our tickets to a driver, who checked them, tore off the stubs and waved us on board. We fell gratefully into seats near the front. But what's this? A large Spanish woman laden with bags waved her ticket at us and pointed above our heads. Oh. We were in her seat. The tickets were numbered. We hauled ourselves out and back up the bus to the right seats. Whew. No sooner were we settled than another large Spaniard was standing there, waving and pointing. Eh? We were on the wrong bus! Argh. We climbed down and got the driver to go through his stubs to retrieve ours (all in sign language), then clambered back on the right bus and finally, seconds before departure, sat down in our appointed seats.
It was quite sad to see nothing of San Sebastian but the bus station and a quick glimpse from the highway; everyone I've talked to who's been there has raved about it. Oh well. Another time.
Pinky, in the window seat, said very firmly that we'd made the right decision to go by bus - judging by the speed at which we were overtaking everything. The scenery was dramatic and strange: steep, wooded hills, rising on our left to the Pyranees, with seemingly every valley filled densely with factories and high-rise blocks of flats. Now and then we caught flashes of the sea.
After a couple of hours we arrived in Bilbao. Entering the city was quite dramatic: the motorway off-ramp curves around past tall blocks of flats, many of which had banners hanging from their balconies. Consulting our dictionaries we think it was a complaint about the noise. No wonder, with three lanes of traffic speeding past their livingrooms.
Bilbao bus station is a work in progress - bulldozers, potholes, chaos. We could see a gleaming tram stop and we'd read about the state-of-the-art system, but we hurried for the taxi rank, tired beyond belief of public transport. Take us to the Guggenheim, and step on it! It was wonderful to be whisked straight there with no hassle.
And there it was, the wonderful gallery, glistening like a spaceship that's just stopped off to refuel. And there was Jeff Koons' Puppy, huge and blooming lovely. We had a happy few hours wandering the place, marvelling at every single thing. The huge exhibition spaces, the vast canvases (Jim Rosenquist, Bill Viola - fantastic), the monumental sculptures. We had a late lunch in the gallery cafe and sat around outside for a while enjoying watching the children playing in the fountain. Then it was time to go back to Biarritz.
We took the tram back to the bus station and yes, it is state of the art, clean and quick. We had decided to be clever and get the bus all the way back to Irun. We couldn't get a bus to Hendaye, of course, because - all together now - "it's in another country". So Irun it was. Each destination had its own ticket office and its own queue. The queue for Irun was so loooooooooooong it had two ticket offices. Both with looooooooooong queues. We queued. For a very loooooong time. Finally we had tickets. Now, where was the bus? The station was boiling with people, all either queuing for tickets or outside a bus, or rushing around looking confused and panicky. We were in the latter category. Finally we found the right stand and went back to queuing. At last, at looooooong last we got on the bus and were off.
After a couple of hours, we arrived in Irun. I had been slightly fearful of finding that the Irun bus station was miles from the Irun railway station, but in fact they were right next to each other. Phew! Now all we had to do was get on a train and we'd be in Biarritz.
Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!
No, said the man in the ticket office. There's no train to Biarritz. And there's nothing to Hendaye, either. "It's another country," he explained. This is where things got a bit murky. There was a mini-bus that could take us to Hendaye, but it would cost us 100 euros, 50 euros each. If we were going somewhere in Spain, obviously it wouldn't cost as much, but to cross the border - well, it's another country. While we were arguing with him ("100 euros? are you insane?") another man was waiting who spoke both English and Spanish. "I might be able to help you, I don't know," he said. I don't know if he actually said anything harsh to Senor Ticket, but at the very least he let it be known that he was bilingual. And when we started yelling at Senor Ticket again, he'd changed his tune. There was a taxi stand, we could try getting a taxi to Hendaye. He waved us off. There was no mention of a mini-bus.
Hmmm.
So we went to the taxi stand and asked how much to go to Hendaye. "Eleven euros."
Five minutes later we were there. No border guards, no border at all, as far as we could see. "Oh, the railway station," said the taxi driver. "In that case it's only ten euros. See?" He showed us his laminated list of fares. Bargain!
We headed in to the station, finally in France, and finally on the last leg. There was a looooooong queue at the ticket office. The time showing on the departure board for the Paris train matched that of the last train from Hendaye to Biarritz, on the piece of paper given to us the day before. We had ten minutes, obviously not long enough to join that queue. We turned to the automatic ticketing machine. It wouldn't take our cards. We didn't have quite enough change. We raced around begging people to change notes. At last we had enough coins. The machine spat out tickets. We hurried along to the platform and presented the tickets to the guard. He glanced at them and said to a colleague (in French, naturellement): "This train doesn't stop at Biarritz, does it?"
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Yes, it does," said the colleague calmly, not realising how close we were to going postal on her ass.
It was a sleeper, and the seats-only carriage was right up the front of the train, a very long walk. We climbed on. We found seats. We sat down. And wouldn't you know it, here came a Spanish woman, waving her ticket and pointing. We were in their seats. Wearily, we dragged ourselves up. There was a sudden flurry, a thump, and I turned to see Pinky slumped in her seat, apparently unconscious. In front of me another woman stood frozen, a large case in her hands. She'd been putting it in the overhead rack and it had slipped and hit Pinky on the head! Everyone except the perp rushed to the pink one's aid. She came round and was thankfully unharmed. I gave the offender a very harsh look, and she said "perdon" in a grudging manner.
We shuffled down the other end of the carriage and found other seats and the rest of the trip was hassle-free. We got to Biarritz station at about 11pm and I phoned a taxi.
The driver was surly and uncommunicative, but we didn't care. He drove at about 150kph through city streets but we didn't care about that either (as Pinky said, it saved us putting seatbelts on; the g-force kept us pinned to our seats). We were back at the hotel in a flash.
The ordeal was over.
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