Washday Blues

We bought this old house ten years ago. We inherited the washing machine. It has sat in the cellar since we moved in and has, for the most part, served us well without complaint or complication. Until last week. It simply died. Bereft of life and full of water, it refused to wash more. We decided it was time to let it go to the happy washing ground in the sky rather than try to repair a fifteen year old machine. The hunt was on then. Where do we get a new washing machine at a reasonable price? Timing is everything, they say, and right now, the January sales are on. Bravo. Score one for us.

Off, then, to the mall. Or the “maul” as I like to call it. Having read all the brochures and advertising that fills our post box every weekend, we knew where to go for a bargain, so that part of the search was easy. We trooped off to the local hardware merchants with a pretty good idea of what we wanted. Until we got in there. My wife suddenly decided to up the ante. There were special features she wanted and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Having seen her in action at the car sales, I decided to let her go for it. I wasn’t getting anything from the salesman so I set the wife on him, which is a bit like letting an angry bull terrier loose on a teddy bear. It’s no contest. She asked him a thousand questions. Compared just about every machine to every other machine. Argued price, finish, design, programming, washing capacity and energy usage. Yep, she’s thorough. I got bored and began pressing buttons and stuff, to no avail because none of the machines were connected to either power or water supplies. It passed the time.

Finally I heard some “OK” noises from the direction of the beleaguered salesman and so I went to see what was happening. Turns out, my wife had done it again. She bagged a brand new machine for about 60% of the asking price. It’s a beaut. Hotpoint, holds 16 pounds of laundry, energy efficient, hot and cold wash, all the programming possibilities one could ask for and it looks kind of nice too. The model has an unfortunate number. It’s called a..

“WMD 960 P”

WMD? I guess it’s a “washer of mass destruction”…!

I’m afraid of the bloody thing already.

Which will be a reasonable excuse for not touching it and thereby free myself from blame if it ever blows up.

We had to wait a week for delivery. That is to say, delivery to the store. I had to go pick it up myself. No problem with my car, it’s an estate version, but it was in the workshop so we had to wait a few days more.

I collected it yesterday. Drove it home, ripped out the old machine and installed the new. Easy. All we have to do now is catch up on fourteen days laundry.

I know what I’m going to be doing this weekend.

Wrapped Sausages

We’ve been having a real cold spell over here recently. Now that the global warming crowd have failed in Copenhagen to give us the predicted desert conditions that we expected, winter is upon us with a climatic vengeance.

I don’t normally take special consideration to the weather. It is what it is. I dress accordingly. Our dogs, can’t do this but as they are sporting the years winter coat that they normally do, I don’t worry too much about it. My wife, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the thought of the two dogs, who do sink into the snow, dragging each eight highly sensitive nipples over the icy surface. Dachshunds have remarkably short legs. The snow builds up as an ice sheet, clinging to the shorter hairs on those delicately pink bellies. That was simply unacceptable to the long haired and lovely one of us. I won’t go into detail here, but she has already tried knitting leg warmers for the dogs, but they couldn’t keep them on.

So then, it had to be. Coats for the dogs, complete with a belly binder to protect the tender bits. The dogs protested a bit at first. Getting into these things is not so easy as it appears to be. One starts by putting their heads into the appropriate holes, stretch the upper coat down the back and slip the back legs into the elasticated straps which holds the thing in place. The belly warmer goes between the front legs, stretches over the tummy and is then closed over the back of the dog at the hips.. if your dog has hips. Ours do, albeit slightly fat ones.

The dogs ran around in the house sporting these things and looked at each other in disbelief. How could we do this to them? Why?

That became apparent as we ventured out this morning. The dogs seemed to enjoy being a little warmer out there and not coming home with an icy panzer plated stomach. They still allowed themselves the luxury of laying down in front of the wood stove with two bellies up and eight legs skyward after the walk but I think they appreciate our protective efforts anyway.

Here they are. In all their fashionable glory.. And they call it a CATwalk..?

 

 

Christmas Tree 2009

Not the biggest tree we’ve ever had but one of the prettiest.

I’m a bit of a nutcase when it comes to the tree. It has to be big. Floor to ceiling and big enough round to hide all the presents that collect underneath it.

The dogs used it to hide under as well.

My wife usually takes on the foreboding task of decorating it and always does it well.

This one will stand here for the twelve days of Christmas and will be gone again by evening time on the 6th of January. Yep. Christmas lasts twelve days. I have no idea why.

I hope you all got the presents you wanted, some you didn’t expect and all of the things that you needed.

For a non-Christian, I like Christmas. We all need the break and the winter solstice deserves celebrating. The shortest day has come and gone, the days will begin to lengthen now.

Which is why Christmas is where it is on the calendar. The Christians wouldn’t have had a chance if they hadn’t replaced the pagan winter feast with something similar.

I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to Spring.

Unlucky Break

We were looking forward to my dear wife’s birthday. All our plans were laid for the shopping trip to gather the necessary things for dinner and guests, the celebration with her parents and the last of the Christmas shopping. Before turning in for the night my wife decided the dogs needed a last walk. So, wrapped up in her winter clothes, she ventured off into the snow clad evening. Which was all OK until she arrived back at the house. Missing her footing on the way up the steps, she slipped and landed face first on the concrete. Bleeding, crying and spitting shards of broken teeth, she staggered into the house. Not surprisingly, she had suffered a little damage, breaking two upper front teeth and splitting her lip where her teeth had been forced through the skin.

And so it was, to add to all the other things that have gone wrong for us in 2009, we ended up in the hospital at a little over midnight and waited there for over an hour for a doctor. The doctor was of no help at all. “We never sew lips.” was the only response that years of medical training could come up with. Home again.

I didn’t sleep well. Nor did my wife, but she managed to fall asleep in the wee hours and I resolutely rose from my bed and waited for the dentist surgery to open. I rang them the minute they opened at eight in the morning. Explaining the accident and describing the damage to my dentist, he promptly cleared his calendar and made room for my dear lady at 10.00.

By 11.00 we were out of the surgery and on our way to the shops. My wife has a fat lip that looks like something out of a Hollywood plastic surgery. Drinking is a hit and miss affair due to the swelling but her teeth look good. The lip will heal but it puts a damper on her birthday celebrations.

Hopefully, this is the last bit of bad luck for this year. I have to believe that 2010 is going to be a whole lot better!

Laying Down With Dogs

I’m sure you all know the phrase, “Lay down with dogs and you wake up with fleas.” Said in other words, beware the company you keep. Our two Dachshunds keep us in very good company. Especially now, where the nights are getting cooler and sleeping in their beds on the floor may not offer them the comfort to which they have become accustomed. Which leads to some pretty strange nocturnal shenanigans going on at the shack in which we all abide.

It isn’t so much that we lay down with them, it’s more them laying down with us. They absolutely love sleeping in the same bed as we do. Preferably, in the middle of the bed. Between us. And they are very fond of pillows too. Which all means, that it gets crowded at the top end of the bed at night. So much so, that I sometimes have to simply do an about turn and end up sleeping with my head at the foot end of the bed.

This has nothing to do with me being sentimental with regard to the dogs. No. It is all physics. Gravity, to be precise.

I am heavier than the dogs. This means that I, being of the size I am, cause a deeper depression in the mattress than the dogs do. They, being the shape they are, then roll inexorably downhill and end up in my armpit. Or jammed solidly up against my back. They are wire haired. That itches. I move away. the dogs roll further downhill. I move again. So do they. I fall out of bed. They don’t. They now have my side of the bed to themselves. If I try to sleep in the middle of the bed, then i am eventually squashed between my good lady on the one side and dogs on the other. Yes. I’m heavier than my wife too. So she gets to roll downhill as well. My case is hopeless. I am, as they say, undone. The solution is my 180 degree flip. Isaac Newton, eat your heart out.

The good thing about all this is, that my feet stay warm. The dogs are delightfully warm. Electric blankets are no match for those two and it’s cheaper by far, electricity prices being what they are thanks to the bloody social demofarts and their bloody green taxes on everything good, modern, useful and comforting.

And the fleas? No. Between the baths, the constant combing and the flea drops, the dogs are pest free.

I’m not so sure about me though….

Waking Up in Heaven

I’m home after the operation to remove the cancer from my ear. It isn’t pleasant. I have a huge wad of gauze in my ear, soaked in gooey yellow antiseptic fluid that leaks slowly down over my neck and sloshes backward and forward in my ear canal as I move my head. The surgeon, not wishing to encumber me with bandages, has stapled a dressing to my head. It is anchored by six staples, one through my upper cheek, two in my scalp and one or two behind my ear. This is uncomfortable but acceptable. I now have body piercing that would make a youngster writhe in ecstasy. Luckily, there is no pain at the moment but my ear itches like the devil was tickling me with a feather. I have been measured, weighed, starved, stuck with needles and had catheters inserted in my arms. My blood has been harvested several times. I have had the “don’t smoke” lecture and finally, yesterday, I was hacked about by a very clever surgeon. I am told, they got it all. My upper left arm has donated skin to my ear. That wound hurts more than my ear does.

I don’t recall much about last night. The anæsthesia had it’s grip on me still. My wife was there, I was hungry and tired even though I’d been asleep for most of the day. I ate, took pills and sat on my bed. I watched TV while trying to recover some sense of consciousness and mobility. Finally, after my lady had left me, I fell asleep.

And then I saw the angel.

Soft white light emanating from somewhere above and behind her illuminated a shock of short, wild, wavy white-blond hair that perfectly framed her face. I gazed into the greenest eyes I have ever seen. A button of a nose above the most perfect mouth one could imagine. She was dressed in brilliant white.
Something had obviously gone very wrong during the night. I felt a bitter sweet regret and was glad that I had spoken with my wife the night before and told her I loved her. I felt relief, knowing that I had lived a good life and that now I was being welcomed into heaven by this vision of loveliness before me. It appeared that we atheists are right after all. I closed my eyes for a second. Opening them, she was still there. As I looked upon her, she spoke the three words a man loves to hear. She spoke softly in a language that I understand, but with an accent that was slightly foreign to me.

“Here’s your breakfast.” said the angel. I thought, “Are all angels Norwegian?” and then, suddenly, I was wide awake.
Wow! Quick reality check. Yep. I still had all my vital parts and no pain to speak of. Oh, happy day!

“Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.” 

Six o’ clock and all’s well.

Man, it’s good to be alive!

Old Jim Crow

I realise that title might be a little offensive to some, but here are a couple of pictures of the two birds that follow my dogs around as they rummage around in the leaf litter of Autumn. They show no fear of the dogs or me, realising that they can fly off at the drop of a shutter. A lot of people don’t like these big black birds. I find them magnificent and fascinating.

These two are fast becoming friends of ours. The dogs have given up chasing them and they follow us through the park picking through anything that the dogs have disturbed. The one with the sun burst markings on the chest is by far the least wary. He was about five yards from me when I photographed him. Enjoy!

 

Out on My Ass Again

I knew today wasn’t going to go well. I got up early, the sky was black with clouds and one of the dogs had thrown up. On the bed. There was nothing but a bill in the post.

Being my cheery self, I put all this aside and headed for the kitchen to get a cup of tea. There is nothing that tea won’t cure. My dear lady wife went out with the dogs and I sat down to enjoy my tea and read the news on the text TV. After this, the morning went as it usually does and at one thirty, I set off for work.

I got to work OK and we all got ourselves organised for the evening shift. There was a lot to get done. We started. My boss appeared out of his office and called me in.

The company is restructuring, he said, he had made a tough decision. Not lightly, he assured me and with deep regret, he fired me. The evening shift is no more. I am allowed to take the next three months off with pay and then I need to find a new job.

I’ve been here before. I’ve worked at several places during the last ten years, all with about two years between start and stop. Two places closed down while I was there, one I quit because it sucked, and one place fired me, but wrongly. I sued the guy and won.

But this one is a bit different. I was happy there. I liked the place and I had a good team working for me.

Ever the optimist, I’m sure something will turn up. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m going to sort my garden out, explore a few possibilities and generally relax for a month or so. Life has taught me that when you’re at the bottom there’s only one way it can go. Up.

I daresay the dogs will enjoy having me home. I could always become a full time dog walker!

I Pity The Fool..

.. who says the Blues is dead, or all one number. This is a piece of modern Blues that will blow most people’s socks off.

Robert Cray and Shemekia Copeland. Cop this, break down over your coffee and believe. The Blues lives.

 

Now Ear This..

I was off to see my doctor the other day. I have been suffering with a minor irritation in my ear for a while now and decided he should have another look at it. I know it’s a form of eczema and I think I have infected myself around my eyes, having been sticking a finger in my ear to scratch the itch and then using the same digit to rub my eyelids and so on. That appears to be true, but while he was peering into my ear hole, the doc said something along the lines of, “I don’t like the look of that…”. “What?” I asked. “That sore.” he replied. I knew it was not going to be good news.

I was sent to a skin specialist yesterday. He peered into my ear hole too and said pretty much the same as my doctor. I have a skin cancer in my left ear lobe. It isn’t going to be any fun getting that removed. He took a biopsy sample of it. That hurts.

I’ll have to wait fourteen days for a result. The “result” being a confirmation of the type of cancer. I don’t really care what type it is, I just want it removed. The specialist is convinced that I will have to go to an ear hole expert, who will then recommend a plastic surgeon who will finally do the operation. I asked if I couldn’t be sent to a real surgeon instead of a plastic one, but the joke didn’t seem to work on him. This is serious stuff, apparently.

I’m having mixed feelings about this. After the scare we had a couple of months ago with my wife and the possibility of her having cancer in her throat, which luckily it wasn’t, it now appears to be my turn. At least I can see this little bugger. I can see it with the help of a webcam. It isn’t large, but it’s there. I can visually direct my hatred at it. I couldn’t do that in my dear lady wife’s case. Luckily, I suppose, this is external and get-at-able. I have had small skin cancers before. I have had one removed from my left cheek and one from my arm. Both were of the non-aggressive type, small and fairly common by all accounts. I hope this is the same. We shall see.

I suppose now, I will have to give up smoking through my ear.

Oh well. It could be worse. This is only my ear hole.

I could think of far worse holes to have this happen to!