Thursday, September 06, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Iron man
Your results:
You are Iron Man
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You are Iron Man
| Inventor. Businessman. Genius. |
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Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
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.
Monday, March 05, 2007
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
Friday, February 09, 2007
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
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
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Monday, December 04, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
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:
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...
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...
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
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.
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.
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