'the orphans' first gig, stonewell...

'the orphans' first gig, stonewell tavern, Lancaster. Great! - Posted from http://mobypicture.com

Odd dream

I had this dream the other night, most vivid for a long time. After mulling it over for a while I know what it means now. Do you?

I found myself in a world where something terrible had happened and I was surrounded by Zombies. They seemed to be everywhere and all the un-afflicted people would have to be constantly on guard in case of attack. It wasn't too difficult to defeat these Zombies though, a simple whack on the head with any suitable tool would do the trick. But you always had to be on your guard, lest you were bitten as you slept.

After some time living in this world, I found my way to a large group of people who were not Zombies and had a long-term plan for the future. As I chatted to them an enormous rat-like creature, larger than an elephant appeared; roaring and snarling, its huge teeth gnashing as it ran towards the group.

I grabbed a phaser-type gun from someone and opened fire. The creature was stopped, but seemed to take a long time to die. It fixed me in the eye and said, 'Don't kill me, I have something important to tell you.' But I didn't believe it, and fired on. 'Tell me quickly, so I can stop firing before you die.' I said. 'Ah,' it replied, in agony, 'it would take longer than that.' And died.

At this point two huge unearthly swords appeared shooting up into the sky, one red, one blue, stretching from the horizon to above our heads. A voice from everywhere at once boomed, 'By your act, you have chosen the to have your world ruled by men, not by gods.'

I realised then that the voice was from a race of alien-like creatures, who had caused the Zombies and the rat, and that this was all part of some vast plan, unknowable for now.

The blue sword fell from the sky towards us, it's fiery blade flashing.

As it hit us the everything changed and found myself in a new world. The Zombies were gone, and all around were people, going about their normal business. All was as it used to be, but the architecture was strange, the people odd.

I lived in this world for a while, until one day I was in a recreational building, watching a group of men drink beer and banter. A feeling of deja-vu came over me as I listened to them. I realised suddenly that I had heard this before, word-for-word, in a sitcom from a decade earlier. This was scripted, all these people were fakes, nothing was real, or as it seemed after all. This was still part of the aliens' plan.

I wandered outside and awoke.

Moby posting

- Posted from http://mobypicture.com

Jubilee tower at sunset

Jubilee tower at sunset - Posted from http://mobypicture.com

The elusive echoing bridge under the...

The elusive echoing bridge under the m6 on the lune - Posted from http://mobypicture.com

From a seaside town they forgot to...

From a seaside town they forgot to close down... - Posted from http://mobypicture.com

Ah, first fire in the new house!

Ah, first fire in the new house! - Posted from http://mobypicture.com

River lune, 5.30 pm

River lune, 5.30 pm - Posted from http://mobypicture.com

Damp, misty Lancaster.

Damp, misty Lancaster., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Behind the Priory.

Hi-grease meal of champions...

Hi-grease meal of champions..., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Yes, that's a large amount of tempura. Batter made with cider and folded-in whipped egg whites. Fillings of squash, sweet potato, aubergine, mushrooms, French beans, tofu and some chillis stuffed with cheese. Greasy but damn good.

Pint at the george

Pint at the george, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Outside the George and Dragon pub ion the Quay in Lancaster. Just out of sight is a large gang of cider-drunken, slightly rough people.

Surely not?

Surely not?, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Veg balti and egg fried rice lunch!

Veg balti and egg fried rice lunch!, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Google advert

Noticed this on a website recently. Great contextual advert!

Crocodile

IMG_0068.JPG, originally uploaded by Okko.

Great picture

Shit, is it the 80s again?

Shit, is it the 80s again?, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Top man, 2007...

Lancaster penny st at 5pm

Lancaster penny st at 5pm, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Along the river lune

Along the river lune, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

A nice Lancaster walk along then over the railway bridge, then across the back of the priory, along the railway path, over the allotments then back down the canal to town.

Outside at last...

Outside at last..., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

At windmill farm near Caton.

Sigh

Sigh, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Scrabble block

Lunch of champions!

Lunch of champions!, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Lunch of champions!

Bbq time

Bbq time, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Bbq time

At humphrey head

At humphrey head, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

At humphrey head

Walking near grange over sands

Walking near grange over sands, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Walking near grange over sands

Summer has arrived... A bit bloody...

Summer has arrived... A bit bloody..., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Summer has arrived... A bit bloody late...

Drinking a guinness at the bree...

Drinking a guinness at the bree..., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Drinking a guinness at the bree louise pub yesterday. Waiting for my late train to arrive.

On my way to clapham junction,...

On my way to clapham junction,..., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

On my way to clapham junction, taking an odd route back... This train speeds by as I take a picture of the view.

The millenium footbridge

The millenium footbridge, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Shit, i hate london.

Shit, i hate london., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Waiting for the london train, hot...

Waiting for the london train, hot..., originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Waiting for the london train, hot sun, cold concrete

At the foot of the old man

At the foot of the old man, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

A fine walk yesterday up the old man. Well, not *all* the way up... ;)

Breakfast time

Breakfast time, originally uploaded by Happyralph.

Waffles today...

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

New table

An ikea special!

Iron man

Your results:
You are Iron Man

Iron Man 80% Green Lantern 70% The Flash 65% Superman 60% Wonder Woman 58% Hulk 55% Supergirl 53% Robin 45% Catwoman 45% Batman 45% Spider-Man 40%

Inventor. Businessman. Genius.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

Pre-Party at Easter

And just before we left for the party:

Easter Bling

This is for a party we went to at Easter - the Golden Bling Egg, that is.

Seed tray view

I have now removed all the sprouted seedlings and moved them to a sunny windowsill. The still dormant or very young have been left in the propagator.

Black Country Rock

I was just listening to this track by David Bowie, and I just love the verse at about 2 mins 30 secs in so much that I felt compelled to blog it and encourage you to go and listen to it right now. The odd voice trick is what I like. Great... the 'ahh' is just great.

Some say the view is crazy
But you may adopt another point of view
So if it's much too hazy
You can leave my friend and me with fond adieu
Ahh

HP Officejet 6310 - Error

Damn my IT luck.

Whatever I buy, it doesn't work, or has a fault that involves me carrying it back to the bloody shop. Only this time, it was the last one, so I got my money back.

Mind you, the people at PC World didn't believe me.

'Doesn't work eh?' The PC World man raises his eyebrows. 'Ere, Dan, check and see if this works...' He smiles at me, as if to say, ha! You didn't expect that, now we'll catch you out!

But of course, it doesn't work. The lights flash and it does nothing else.

They are reluctant to hand over my money and keep on asking if I want another one.

'Yes,' I reply, in a tired way, 'but you don't have any more do you?'

Eventually they return my cash, but it took 30 or more minutes.

The previous night I wasted 2 hours of my life (I want them back, HP) with an on-line technical support person, preumably in India. It's a kind of MSN type thing, like, LOL it's fubar man.

Here's a record of my 'conversation'. Be aware, this is the future...

http://www.ralpharama.co.uk/?page=Hp+6310+chat

Wallpapering

Scary, when the paper is so expensive, but it went better than expected...

Ug! A party...

The whisky had been blessed with magical powers, this night. So I tend to shy away from it and instead stick to the three bottles of Stella Artois and two bottles of real ale that brought. I sipped at the whisky instead, and insisted the the Colonel drank the lion's share.

The theme for the omens of the night, was Turkey. No sooner had I finished murdering 'thank you' in Turkish to a girl downstairs, than I found myself repeating them to a different girl upstairs. As all Turks seem to, she looked non-impressed with my pronunciation, but begrudgingly allowed that it sounded almost correct.

I had arrived upstairs, hoping for the toilet, bursting with urgency that only beer can bring to a man.

'Oh god, why do people wait until the last minute, to when they really need to go desperately, when at a party?' I ask the Turkish girl I haven't met yet.

'I'm a pretty nasty person,' she says to me, 'I wouldn't speak to me if I were you.'

Which is certainly an interesting conversational gambit. However, I take the bait.

'Surely, that's for other people to decide, not you?'

The door opens, and she gestures for me to go in first.

'See?' I tell her, 'You're not nasty at all.'

She gives me an icy glare of the kind only ever seen in science fiction films where the fearsome queen of the desolate ice-barrens is about to stab the hero through the heart.

Downstairs and I'm talking too much, loving the sound of my own voice -- I get cocky with alcohol, filled with the mistaken imagination that I'm pretty goddamm cool. I have advice for everyone, if they want and / or need it or not.

I find myself saying to Delia, 'Look, if your hiccup cure doesn't work it's because you're not in control of your body. Not in complete control. But look, this is your body, you should be able to decide if you hiccup or not...'

I'm surprised that people take the time to listen to me at all sometimes.

And so it continues until only a few of us remain and I'm drinking half a glass of flat cider, which is all I can find left on the house.

So we leave, in the pouring rain, at 5am.

DIY - The Loft

I’d like to say that changing the loft insulation in a 100 year old house is fun, and full of amusing stories. But so far it isn’t, and there aren’t any. It’s simply dirty, nasty work in a loft full of cobwebs, dust and other unspeakable grime.

The loft was insulated, at some time in the past, with ‘Clinker’, which is defined as:

A local term used for remains of coal that have burned and the surrounding rock that has been transformed during the burning of the coal.

In other words, the Victorians and slightly later folk thought it a good idea to throw coal dust up there every now and then for good measure.

We filled 21 bin sacks full of the stuff. Never, ever been so filthy.

Now installing some kind of space-age (ha) insulation...

People who liked Creedence Clearwater also liked...

I suspect that this is a blatant lie.

Attic #2

More attic misery.

Attic #1

The attic is a harsh beast, full of coal-dust and clinker, whatever that is...

DIY - The back door

The back door is a little shoddy, truth be known. It looks like it’s been cobbled together from bits of old firewood and ikea furniture, and then added to over the years in an attempt to make it more secure / draught-free. It doesn’t open fully, grinding on the kitchen floor, yet when closed proudly boasts a one inch gap at its bottom, through which can been seen slugs and spiders, hastening inside out of the cold and wet weather.

There is also a large gap at the top of the door, which happily lets in rainwater, which has been soaking the wall above it.

Time for action. I choose 6pm as my start time, as it is just getting dark and threatening to rain. I open the door and the spiders and slugs hesitate, and then retreat to the walls to watch and wait.

First, apply insulating ‘tape’ around the door, in theory this provides a cushion when the door closes, and stops chill air whistling in as you try and cook lasagne, or something.

The instructions reckon that you should clean the area with white spirit and then dry thoroughly before application, but, I ask you, who’s likely to do that? So I wipe the area down with a damp sponge, then with a tea-towel (don’t tell the wife).

The tape goes on fine, this is pretty easy, I think.

Next is the bit of wood I bought to hammer on the top of the door. I measure the length and saw off an appropriate bit, sanding it some to remove the sharp edges.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, it’s going on well, bang bang, ah. As the door doesn’t open fully, there’s a part where I can’t access to hammer in a nail. I start to think that I should have used that wood glue I bought here. But I’ve hammered most of it on now, and it’s starting to rain, and getting dark, so there’s no way I’m taking it off now...

Ah, it’ll be fine, I think, and try to close the door.

It won’t close.

(With hindsight, I should perhaps have tried to close the door before putting the wood on...)

With some swearing and a bruised shoulder, I manage to close it just as the wife comes in.

‘Looks good,’ she comments.

‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit stiff.’

She tries it and is unable to close the door at all, bruised shoulders and all. She walks away with an air of ‘sort it out’.

I examine the door. The rain is getting harder now, and it is quite, quite dark outside. The wind picks up.

The wood seems to be sticking a little at the top, so I get out a rasper and start worrying away at the wood, taking all the edges off and rounding the bar. This generates a lot of wood shavings and eventually starts to ease the nails from their comfy positions so the whole thing rocks about. In frustration I rip it off, nails and all and retire to the cold, dark and wet garden to hammer all the nails back out of it and then swear at the wood as I rasp it to death.

All went well, and I was applying a bit of sandpaper to the diminished rod when the wife came out to ask how I was doing. Just as she does so there is an ominous crack from the stick, as it breaks internally and forever weakens.

‘Good,’ I lie.

The wood is soon nailed back onto the door, and is firm. It doesn’t rub anymore when the door closes. In fact, there are gaps all around. I suspect that it will still let in rainwater. Just a little.

The door still won’t close though. Well, not easily.

I notice that the door is sticking on the right hand side, next to the lock, where there is a bulge. I get out the rasper and take off a mm or so. It now sticks somewhere else, so I rasp that. Then it sticks somewhere else...

It’s a while before it dawns on me that as I remove the sticking bulges, the door is slipping on its hinges and so sticking somewhere new...

It’s positively cold now and the spiders want in. I shoulder the door into place with violence and lock up for the night. After all this, I realise, it’s actually just the tape that is making the door hard to close, and sigh as I sweep up the soggy wood chips.

Teabags

So my father is here, helping fix up the house, fitting new locks, pulling off my skirting boards etc.  And he brings some tea, as I don't have any (bare cupboards).  Yorkshire Tea.  An acquired taste, he says, as I pull faces drinking it.

Mustard comes round later and I offer tea, which he pulls a face at when he sips it. 

'It's an acquired taste,' I tell him.

It tastes a bit like off-milk, as an aftertaste.  I'm not sure I'll ever acquire it.  Nor is he.  It makes my mouth go a little numb, in fact.

Knowing my father, a thought occurs.  I say, 'So, how old is that tea then, Dad?'

'Not sure,' he says, 'I found it in the back of the cupboard.'

As I get up to examine the box he shouts after me, 'Tea doesn't go off!'

There isn't a date on the box I can see, but there is a special offer on the side, to send off for a nice, limited edition teddy bear, provided that your entry arrives before the closing date of 31st August.....   1999.
 

Moving: The movers are called

Moving home is supposed to be a stressful business.

It is.

Last night I spent half an hour calling a dozen moving companies in
the local area and arranging visits for 'free quotes' – this despite
the fact that I know in exact cubic feet how much stuff we have (after
having it shipped from Canada to begin with), I get the impression
that the movers don't believe me.

'Oh, right, most people don't know that,' they say, and then add,
'I'll have to visit, just to check you understand?'

So the over-the-phone quotes so far are between £750 - £1,500...

So I'm looking forward to two days of continual muddy shoes wandering
though the flat, with burly men sucking in air between their teeth
when looking at the wardrobe, etc.

Update will follow.

Attempted Burglary

It's 5:30am and I'm not really sleeping due to this awful bug that is making me cough, sniffle and ache all over my body. My brain makes whooshing, throbbing motions and I try to drift into uneasy slumber.

I hear a kind of crashing noise in the kitchen. I suspect one of the many items of dangerously balanced, recently washed up items has thrown itself to the floor in an attempt at attention seeking. Curious, I get up and walk naked in the dark to the kitchen door and peek round it.

There is something at the window. My eyes adjust and I see a figure lurking there, with his hand through our cat flap, obviously trying to reach the window latch above.

My first thought is that it is my crazed neighbour from below, living out one of his psychotic fantasies, so I stride into the kitchen, and right up the window.

It isn't my neighbour.

He has withdrawn his hand and is squatting there in the about-to-break light on our balcony, a hundred feet up, on our fire escape.

'What the fuck are you doing!' I scream in a slightly hysterical manner.

He considers this for a moment then mumbles something like, 'I'm trying to get in, I'm staying here.'

'But this is my flat!' I scream.

He shows me his mobile phone. I stare at it. What the hell has this got to do with anything? I lock the cat flap, which he must have somehow opened from the other side.

'I must have the wrong flat,' he tells me, 'I must be below you.' And then gets up and walks casually down the fire escape. I watch him go and then stand there in the kitchen window for a minute or two longer looking out at the empty metal stairs.

After this I find it even harder to sleep.

In the morning I examine the cat flap and it falls to bits in my hands. He has pulled bits off and smashed it up. There is now a big hole in my kitchen window and no flap to cover it. I hastily make a repair with some duct tape and then put a big wooden board over the window before we go out to look at houses (which is another long story of disappointments, or, rather, broken appointments (as opposed to broken apartments)).

When we get back from hours of fruitless walking I bang on neighbours' doors in the building and ask if they have a guest who might have broken into my flat last night. They all seem a bit worried by the whole thing and no-one has a clue.

It all seems a bit fishy to me, so I go to the police.

Ah, the police, the stories I can tell of the police, but I won't right now. This time, it seems, the police are, wait for it, nice.

Of course, the police station closes at about 6pm. I have to use a yellow phone by the door which rings forever (so it seems). As I wait I'm happy that I didn't run here with a crazed axe murderer chasing me.

'Hello, Police.'

'Hi, I'd like to report an attempted break-in at my flat last night.'

'Please hold.'

Click, whirrrrr, ring ring [etc]...

[Automated voice] 'You are through to the non-urgent police reporting centre, please hold.'

When a voice finally does answer, I fully expect it to be an Indian call centre, but it isn't and the woman is jolly and sounds quite local.

I explain what happened.

'And why,' She asks, chidingly, 'didn't you call 999 last night?'

She takes it all very seriously despite my personal suspicions that the guy was perhaps just wasted and on a psychedelic adventure. She doesn't like the sound of it though and says they'll treat it as attempted burglary.

She laughs, 'I'm sorry,' she says, 'but the image of the man with his hand through the cat flap and you charging in there naked, oh, ha ha ha ha, ho ho!'

'Indeed.' I agree.

An hour later a policeman comes by the house and takes a statement, which then took an hour. My god, I think, how long does a serious crime report take?

He finished up by saying, 'Right, forensics will be round at some point, and then we'd like you to come down to the station to do some e-fits and line-up parades.'

'Really?' I'm quite incredulous. 'If this is just a drunken idiot, I'm causing a lot of work, aren't I?' I say, feeling guilty.

He dismisses this and tells me, 'No, there's something not right about this case and we're taking it seriously.' He then calls his sarge and tells here, 'Hi Sarge, just finished taking the statement, bzzzt, yes the cat flap case, bzzzt, okay, back soon.'

And leaves.

Push my button

I don't know why, but two of the things that really get me worked up (and shouldn't) involve button pressing.

1. Pelican crossing.

For those of you not British, a pelican crossing is one where you push a button, wait a while, and then cross when the green man says it is okay (as opposed to a Zebra crossing where you can simply walk out into speeding traffic and demand that they stop).

Note the use of buttons. Now, granted, some busy junctions will automatically change and show a green man if you wait there for long enough, but on straight roads, away from junctions, you could wait until the end of time and the green man wouldn't appear.

Why then, do crowds of people stand at Peilcan crossings without pressing the button? Brighton train station is a classic example. It's often full of people standing there waiting, and no-one has pressed the button. I walk up and do so and instantly the lights change. The zombies standing around notice the effect, but not the cause.

2. Buses

On a bus, in England, if you wish to get off at the next stop, then you press a button and the driver is alerted to this fact. When you press the button a ding noise is heard quite clearly, and a sign very clearly seen througout the bus lights up, saying 'STOPPING'. In big letters like that.

Why, oh why, oh why then do people continue to press the button when it has already been done? When approaching a bus stop it can sound like a pinball machine, the amount of pinging that is going on.


Really, I think I'm upset that so many people don't seem to be aware of their surroundings. Going through life oblivious of the details.

Badly-designed disabled toilets

The only seat left on the train was the one next to the badly-designed disabled toilets. Badly designed? Yes, very. The door opens and closes electronically at a pace that tears at the soul. So you step in side and press the close button. And wait, whilst people stare at you, as the door creaks and creeps shut. Most people at this point get frustrated and foolishly try to press the lock button before the door has fully closed. This is a mistake. If you do this then the door finally closes and then starts to open again. Then you must then wait for it to fully open, and press close again and repeat the process.

Damn thing.

Anyway, this particular toilet was obviously out of order (all too common, that) and had been flashing as occupied since I got on about 30 minutes ago.

Now arrives the tall, lanky drunken man. He jabs at the button several times. Nothing happens. He goes to the other button round the side and jabs that too. Nothing.

He starts to hop from foot to foot. 'Shit, shit shit.' He mutters, and jabs the button again.

'I think it's out of order,' I say, causing him to whirl around and stare at me madly, jiggling.

After staring at me for a while he starts to jab the button again. He is making sobbing noises now and holding his penis like a little boy. He stood in full view, cursing, sobbing, jiggling and massaging his packet for some minutes. The door didn't open.

Eventually, he limped off to the next carriage.

Croydon Knife Crimes?

On my way home last night I passed through Croydon train station where the police had blocked off all the platform exits and erected large scanning devices of the kind more normally (for now) seen in airports. A sign nearby proclaimed that they were making my journey safer by checking that people travelling on the train with me aren't carrying anything nasty. Like knives.

I passed by without being hassled, but on an impulse turned around and approached two police nearby.

'What's the law concerning carrying penknives then?' I ask.

They squint at me, obviously thinking, he's got a knife!

'Two point, what is it?' Says one.

'Two point seven, I think?' Says cop number two.

I assume they are talking size of blade, and inches. But they don't know for sure, which is worrying.

'Unless it locks.' Says cop 1.

'Yes, unless it locks.' Parrots cop 2.

'Ah, I say,' pulling out my small locking penknife. They stare at it, as if it is a bomb.

'This is small,' I continue, '...but locks. So I can't carry it then?'

'No.' Says cop 1.

'You shouldn't have it.' Says cop 2. Cop 2 looks like she wants to take my knife away.

'So,' I say, putting it back in my pocket, 'I'll just take it home and not carry it again, eh?'

They stare at me as I walk backwards and escape.

The Joy of Power Tools

"Press the trigger switch, and your circular saw will start"
User Manual

'Well,' says Dave, thoughtfully chewing his lip, 'if you're going to be cutting up roofing timber all day, then I'd go for the Bosch, but if you're just going to use it once or twice a year to cut up bits of pine, then you might as well go for the PB1200CS.'

He eyes me, waiting for me to admit that I wouldn't be cutting up acres of timber daily with my circular saw. What he is, in fact, saying is 'Are you sure you need a circular saw at all?'

It's a good question, and quite frankly, no, I don't. I'm building a spice rack from soft pine for the kitchen, not renovating a 17th century farmhouse.

But I've always wanted a circular saw, and this was my big excuse. Even the wife seemed keen, mistakenly believing that a circular saw was essential to the act of building a spice rack (even though just a few weeks before I built a seven foot bookshelf with a hand saw).

Back in HomeBase I stare at Dave's bloody and bandaged thumb. I wonder if he sustained the injury at work, or at home trying out a discounted circular saw.

'Well,' I say, 'I won't exactly be using it every day, so I suppose I'll take the PB1200CS.'

The name alone, full of letters and numbers, is exciting.

'But is it any good?' Asks the wife.

Dave sucks air in between his teeth. 'Well, it's a new line, you see, so we only know if they're good if they get returned.'

'And have many been returned?' She asks.

'No, and we've had them for eight months, so I reckon they're okay.' He tells us.

Good enough for me. But before we leave, we pick up a Bosch PEX220A 'Random Orbit Sander', reduced by £60 or something so outrageous that it would have been lunacy not to buy it. Oh, and a workbench. I blamed my dodgy angles on the bookshelf on the fact that I was sawing on two rickety old chairs.

Ker-ching! £60 please. Not bad for a hoard of powerful and dangerous machinery.

I've never used a circular saw before, though I've used an angle grinder, and I figure that the operation will be similar. It's big, and heavy. It feels marvellously macho and ready to cause grievous injury at the slightest mistake, so, unlike me, I read the manual before plugging it in and merrily chopping off any fingers.

It's full of useful advice:

- Do not force the tool.

- Look after the tool.

- Protect the cable.

- Maintain with care.

Makes it sound like a pet. The bit of advice that caught my eye though was:

- Do not use tool when tired.

Ah. So I decide to start sawing on Sunday instead - the traditional day for making outrageous amounts of DIY noise.

So I read the rest of the manual. It's full of new words and I go to bed with riving knives, mitre cutting locks, tct blades and parallel fences churning round my mind.

The joy of power tools must be hard to understand, if you're not excited by them. Buying one is like Christmas day, using it makes your day vibrant and real. Sound sad, but it's true. When you can't hear and your arms throb into the evening, you know you've had a worthwhile afternoon.

Anyway, it is fun, and it is clever, let's just leave it at that.

I convert the spare room into a workshop - tarp, dust sheets, move the extra bedding and towels to another room (you know how picky wives can be), and set up the bench, which occupies a mildly frustrating half hour (self assembly, some blisters required).

Luckily though I now own a 'pistol driver' (a purchase made for the shelves a few weeks ago), which is just bloody marvellous.

It's a 'Pro4.8V' and I recommend everyone to go out an buy one now. Not only does it look like a gun, so you can do cowboy / gangster mime with it, it also pushes screws into things with a satisfying noise.

So, bench is up and a long plank of pine is secured in it, with a line drawn down the middle. The PB1200CS circular saw doesn't come with a laser sight (like the more expensive Black and Decker model), so I'm going to be doing it by eye.

Christ, the saw is heavy. I plug it in and gingerly press the trigger.

'Gggggggggggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaawwwwww!' It screams.

It's deafeningly loud and I'm grinning as I plough forward across the plank. Masses of sawdust and wood-chips fly across the room. I supress 'woo-hoos' though.

Half way across I'm stuck. My bits of wood used to clamp the plank in place are catching on the base plate. There's a burning smell now. Ah, probably not good that, I think.

My solution is to angle the saw slightly to get around the obstacle, and plough onwards. I notice a slight wobble, gouge, and burn in the area that I just passed...

Stop again, another obstacle. More burning smells. Cursing I work my way backwards along the whole plank to get the saw out of the end, and then take my finger off the trigger, before realising that I could have just lifted it out of the wood instead. Doh.

As the saw slowly dies, with a high screaming noise, I realise that I can't hear much any more. There was part of the manual that recommended ear protectors, but I figured they were just for the all-day-sawing-roofing-timber types. Apparantly not.

Well, I've started, I reason, so turn the bench around and go for it from the other end. All goes well and my plank is now divided in two. It's a bit black and wobbly in places, but it's actually quite a nice cut. I measure the two and they're improbably accurate too.

The rest of the spice rack went without a hitch apart from a sketchy moment when I managed to assemble some of the shelves in such a way that they couldn't be removed from the workbench by mortal means. Some smart unscrewing was done whilst hoping that the wife didn't come in and see...

And, lo, and behold, the finished product:

(picture later)
As you can plainly see, something not possible without a circular saw.