So there I was, bags all packed and ready to go to Durban to do some official sand sampling.
Stop sniggering.
Really.
Honestly, it's a valid occupation for an oceanographer. And no, it wasn't collected while sipping a cocktail and lying on the beautiful warm sands of South Africa's East Coast.
Travel blues:
We arrived at the new King Shaka international airport, all bright eyed, bushy tailed and armed with the latest Googlemaps printouts to get us to our destination.
Things were going swimmingly until we entered the city area itself - MAJOR Googlemap failure. Someone should tell them that the silly people who call themselves South Africa's government had spent valuable tax money changing all major street names in Durban.
It makes it rather challenging if not bloody well impossible to 'turn right into Smith'. We could turn right into a vehicle that might be owned by a Mr Smith, or run down a pedestrian named Mr Smith, but no-sirree, no Smith street anymore.
My colleague was doing the driving, and was by this stage seriously contemplating pedestrian ten-pin knockdown. They have absolutely no regard for cars, which don't have any regard for each other, regardless of race, colour, creed or belief. Hey, maybe that's the ultimate anti-discrimination example! After dodging our umpteenth suicidal pedestrian - this one armed with a shopping trolley and pushing it against traffic in the fast lane on a 3-lane road - we found ourselves heading out of Durban again.
Whoops.
So there we were, approaching Durban port via Pinetown, which could be likened to travelling from Cape-Town to Jo'burg via Canada. Throwing out the google instructions, we relied on memory and a sense of direction. We decided to head into the centre of Durban until we hit sea-water and then keeping our left tyre in the water, circle around the port to reach our destination.
It worked!
Travel greens:
We were very fortunate and had one perfectly wind-free / low wind day during which we did the majority of our sampling offshore of the Port. With barely a wind ripple on the ocean surface, it gave me ample opportunity to sample the slow rolling swell. Up and down, up and down, sand on-board & into bucket, scientist hanging overboard studiously studying the horizon and trying to catch a hint of the breeze without the glorious diesel fumes of an outboard engine. Apparently my face changed between glorious sea-green and pasty white during our sampling spree. But we got the job done.
Travel reds:
Yes, I have had another b&b run-in. Don't get me wrong - the location, welcome and set-up is fantastic, but I have the knack for experiencing the facilities in a way never quite intended.
The bathroom is beautifully clean and equipped with a lovely little automatic air freshener; y'know the kind that goes 'psssst' at a set time interval, bathing the room in a heavenly scent of lavender, citrus or rose.
Unfortunately this wonderful application of modern science was located on a shelf above the basin, exactly at say, oh, eye-level. Yep, you guessed it - the timing was perfect, the puff of scent smoothly delivered right into my left eye. It hurt like heck, but at least I had a citrus-fresh scented eye for the rest of the evening.
Travel joys:
A big thank you to the manufacturers of my new laptop backpack. I should write them a letter praising the carrying capacity of those nifty bags.
Not only did I have a laptop & the usual assortment of cables in there, but also a handbag, two tupperware containers of left-over braai bits, a camera and a book, but also a bottle of wine! Sometimes less is definitely not more!
Friday, December 3, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
De-automation
So there I was, crawling home on a thursday afternoon after a very long year in the office (it certainly felt that way). The dog greeted my return with her usual exuberance and I looked forward to a quick stopover before heading out for the evening.
Walking away from the car I heard a rather disturbing sound.
Psssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Nope, not a deflating tyre, hissing reptile or gas leak in sight.
It came from under the hood, and with more trepidation than a scream-queen running up the stairs to open a mysterious rattlin door, I stood there, eyeing the offensive sound.
But, someone had to face the music, or at least the wind-section of the orchestra and I mosied upstairs to drop my bags.
I returned downstairs and went down on my knees - praying, of course, but also to spot any obvious cause for the overheated engine. While driving I keep an eye on the temperature gauge, and since that had not red-lined, I held out a cautious hope.
There was a growing puddle under the car.
I stretched out my fingers I screamed... the dog had taken use of my prone position to insert a quick doggie kiss into the proceedings.
Thoroughly disgusted, I whiped my ear and reached out to the puddle again. A dirty liquid stained my fingers, but a quick chemical diagnosis (I sniffed at it), revealed that it wasn't oil or petrol.
It was dirty water, which together with the hissing engine pointed at radiator problems. I reached for my keys, stepped up to the driver's door and froze.
Where the point of my key would be there was a definite absence of key. I stared at it mutely for a few moments, trying to process this absence in a logical way. The only thing that kept rising to the front of my thoughts was "please don't let it have broken off in the ignition!" Or the door lock for that reason.
I scurried upstairs again to fetch my spare key and opened the door... not there then
I stuck the key in the ignition...not there either.
Shrugging that off as a minor problem, I opened the hood and had a look.
Now I know about as much about the averag combustion engine as I do about neural surgery. I looked at the engine, it looked at me.
I dialled my nr one on-call mechanic.
"Hi dad. I have a problem."
We talked about the patient, listing the symptoms and attempting some rough diagnosis.
Leaving the car to cool down an hour or so, i started the engine again, pulled it backwards and added water to the radiator to judge how badly things had gone.
It didn't take too much water and I felt confident to drive it to the local mechanic the next day.
Of course, it took mr master mechanic 2 seconds of listening to the engine and fiddling with the pipes to come up with "it's a welsh plug"
Right! Great! Fantastic! A Welsh plug?!? But my car is made in Japan!!! :-D
It's a tiny thing to replace... if you can get to it.
In a Sentra's case, it will probably involve a procedure through the exhaust system.
So here I am, typing away after a house-bound weekend. At least I finally got to spend some time in the garden! But as much as I enjoyed the enforced house-arrest, there's pet-food to be bought tomorrow, oh, and probably some human food too.
Walking away from the car I heard a rather disturbing sound.
Psssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Nope, not a deflating tyre, hissing reptile or gas leak in sight.
It came from under the hood, and with more trepidation than a scream-queen running up the stairs to open a mysterious rattlin door, I stood there, eyeing the offensive sound.
But, someone had to face the music, or at least the wind-section of the orchestra and I mosied upstairs to drop my bags.
I returned downstairs and went down on my knees - praying, of course, but also to spot any obvious cause for the overheated engine. While driving I keep an eye on the temperature gauge, and since that had not red-lined, I held out a cautious hope.
There was a growing puddle under the car.
I stretched out my fingers I screamed... the dog had taken use of my prone position to insert a quick doggie kiss into the proceedings.
Thoroughly disgusted, I whiped my ear and reached out to the puddle again. A dirty liquid stained my fingers, but a quick chemical diagnosis (I sniffed at it), revealed that it wasn't oil or petrol.
It was dirty water, which together with the hissing engine pointed at radiator problems. I reached for my keys, stepped up to the driver's door and froze.
Where the point of my key would be there was a definite absence of key. I stared at it mutely for a few moments, trying to process this absence in a logical way. The only thing that kept rising to the front of my thoughts was "please don't let it have broken off in the ignition!" Or the door lock for that reason.
I scurried upstairs again to fetch my spare key and opened the door... not there then
I stuck the key in the ignition...not there either.
Shrugging that off as a minor problem, I opened the hood and had a look.
Now I know about as much about the averag combustion engine as I do about neural surgery. I looked at the engine, it looked at me.
I dialled my nr one on-call mechanic.
"Hi dad. I have a problem."
We talked about the patient, listing the symptoms and attempting some rough diagnosis.
Leaving the car to cool down an hour or so, i started the engine again, pulled it backwards and added water to the radiator to judge how badly things had gone.
It didn't take too much water and I felt confident to drive it to the local mechanic the next day.
Of course, it took mr master mechanic 2 seconds of listening to the engine and fiddling with the pipes to come up with "it's a welsh plug"
Right! Great! Fantastic! A Welsh plug?!? But my car is made in Japan!!! :-D
It's a tiny thing to replace... if you can get to it.
In a Sentra's case, it will probably involve a procedure through the exhaust system.
So here I am, typing away after a house-bound weekend. At least I finally got to spend some time in the garden! But as much as I enjoyed the enforced house-arrest, there's pet-food to be bought tomorrow, oh, and probably some human food too.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Velvet killers
I woke up this morning with the horrible realization that I was sharing my house with 3 serial killers. Sounds like the start to a rather violent Hollywood script, but it's worse... it's reality.
Now before my friends start dialling for police assistance, let me clarify a bit.
I share my house with 3 cats and a dog - we'll chat about the pooch some other time.
You have to give it to those furry balls of killing menace, they've got humans all figured out.
Who else would manage to get free room & board, entertainment and the knowledge that you are adored? That while you are still locking the blood of your latest victim from your whiskers.
And I'm one of those human flunkies.
I've now learnt to recognise the sounds of animal / insectoid distress in the dead of night, and can go from deep sleep to fully awake and armed with towel & plastic container in under 10 seconds.
Of course, for many victims the rescue comes too late. But that doesn't stop me from trying. If the vets were to charge me for all the injured cat-toys I've brought to their offices, they would've made a fortune by now.
But we tolerate this.
Why?
Researchers could spend years on that subject, but I think the gaga-inducing "sub-vocal oscillations" (thank you Data) may be a key factor. This poorly understood vibration-sound has been known to reduce grown men to willing cat pillows. No-one is safe.
And consider the physical aspect as well: velvet fur, large eyes and the ability to softly tap their human for attention with those teddy-bear paws.
Those same paws that hide scimitar-like blades that can do as much damage as the razor sharp teeth. These perfect little killing machines remind me of a sweet smelling venus fly-trap.
'Come closer, look at me, touch me, see how beautiful I am....and die!'
Terry Pratchett seems to understand this strange duality of cats. I'll leave you with two of his quotes while I go and release the latest tail-less gecko.
“They just laughed and stabbed her. She didn’t even try to run away. It was like they were 'playing'.”
For some reason Magrat shot a glance at Greebo, who had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Pointy ears and hair you want to stroke,” she said, vaguely. “And they can fascinate you. And when they’re happy they make a pleasing noise.”
Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice."
Terry Pratchett, Sourcery
Now before my friends start dialling for police assistance, let me clarify a bit.
I share my house with 3 cats and a dog - we'll chat about the pooch some other time.
You have to give it to those furry balls of killing menace, they've got humans all figured out.
Who else would manage to get free room & board, entertainment and the knowledge that you are adored? That while you are still locking the blood of your latest victim from your whiskers.
And I'm one of those human flunkies.
I've now learnt to recognise the sounds of animal / insectoid distress in the dead of night, and can go from deep sleep to fully awake and armed with towel & plastic container in under 10 seconds.
Of course, for many victims the rescue comes too late. But that doesn't stop me from trying. If the vets were to charge me for all the injured cat-toys I've brought to their offices, they would've made a fortune by now.
But we tolerate this.
Why?
Researchers could spend years on that subject, but I think the gaga-inducing "sub-vocal oscillations" (thank you Data) may be a key factor. This poorly understood vibration-sound has been known to reduce grown men to willing cat pillows. No-one is safe.
And consider the physical aspect as well: velvet fur, large eyes and the ability to softly tap their human for attention with those teddy-bear paws.
Those same paws that hide scimitar-like blades that can do as much damage as the razor sharp teeth. These perfect little killing machines remind me of a sweet smelling venus fly-trap.
'Come closer, look at me, touch me, see how beautiful I am....and die!'
Terry Pratchett seems to understand this strange duality of cats. I'll leave you with two of his quotes while I go and release the latest tail-less gecko.
“They just laughed and stabbed her. She didn’t even try to run away. It was like they were 'playing'.”
For some reason Magrat shot a glance at Greebo, who had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Pointy ears and hair you want to stroke,” she said, vaguely. “And they can fascinate you. And when they’re happy they make a pleasing noise.”
Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice."
Terry Pratchett, Sourcery
Monday, August 30, 2010
Apocryphal architecture
Yep, so there I was, lazing in front of the tv watching one of those quest movies where the heroes inevitably end up in some deviously designed building of doom, and I just had to wonder....
Is there a special school of architecture out there?!?
I mean, your average builder of ancient temples, monuments and palaces obviously had a fairly good grip on basic arithmetic, the concept of solid foundations and so-on, but there seems to have been a very specialised branch of builders out there. Who else would design these grand and imposing buildings dotted around in hidden cracks and valleys just loaded with treasure. Can you imagine the list of building materials? And the cost of transport to these hidden nooks and crannies? No wonder only insanely rich megalomaniacs could afford them. Speaking of which, I'd love to know what polish they used: x-hundred amount of years later, and the precious metals are still gleaming like they've just been buffed!
And then of course, there are the traps. No secret structure would be complete without the obligatory pit of stakes, crushing walls or poison darts. Not only must the architecture have factored in a cunningly twisted route to the treasure room, but also line it with hair-trigger traps that will spring as effectively as the day it was set after years of accumulated dust, rust and insect infestations. You have to admire those guys! And wonder if they practise on their own humble homes. Which might explain why we know nothing about them; any visitor may be prone to disappearing down a bottomless shaft hidden by the welcome mat. That is if you can even find their humble abodes.
For some reason I have this persistent mental image of a newly completed temple, traps all set with hordes of well-trained spiders spinning webs in the passages (not on the treasure, ~not~ on the treasure...bad spider!). Just there, a small unassuming figure with a pencil behind the ear is carefully backing out of the main entrance, the last trap has been set and he can't help the pleased smile as he surveys his handiwork. And then the smile droops ever so slightly as he realizes that he left his lunchbox ~somewhere~ in there. Not sure what would be worse; having a future adventurer discover the incongruous object or having to explain to Mrs Architect why he'd come home without it, our anonymous little architect looks around furtively. Sure that no-one else is around, he scuttles around the side to a small door hidden by a cunning design, marked 'staff only'.
If only heroes would spend 5 minutes looking around before dashing in the front door, they might spare themselves a world of trap-dodging.
Is there a special school of architecture out there?!?
I mean, your average builder of ancient temples, monuments and palaces obviously had a fairly good grip on basic arithmetic, the concept of solid foundations and so-on, but there seems to have been a very specialised branch of builders out there. Who else would design these grand and imposing buildings dotted around in hidden cracks and valleys just loaded with treasure. Can you imagine the list of building materials? And the cost of transport to these hidden nooks and crannies? No wonder only insanely rich megalomaniacs could afford them. Speaking of which, I'd love to know what polish they used: x-hundred amount of years later, and the precious metals are still gleaming like they've just been buffed!
And then of course, there are the traps. No secret structure would be complete without the obligatory pit of stakes, crushing walls or poison darts. Not only must the architecture have factored in a cunningly twisted route to the treasure room, but also line it with hair-trigger traps that will spring as effectively as the day it was set after years of accumulated dust, rust and insect infestations. You have to admire those guys! And wonder if they practise on their own humble homes. Which might explain why we know nothing about them; any visitor may be prone to disappearing down a bottomless shaft hidden by the welcome mat. That is if you can even find their humble abodes.
For some reason I have this persistent mental image of a newly completed temple, traps all set with hordes of well-trained spiders spinning webs in the passages (not on the treasure, ~not~ on the treasure...bad spider!). Just there, a small unassuming figure with a pencil behind the ear is carefully backing out of the main entrance, the last trap has been set and he can't help the pleased smile as he surveys his handiwork. And then the smile droops ever so slightly as he realizes that he left his lunchbox ~somewhere~ in there. Not sure what would be worse; having a future adventurer discover the incongruous object or having to explain to Mrs Architect why he'd come home without it, our anonymous little architect looks around furtively. Sure that no-one else is around, he scuttles around the side to a small door hidden by a cunning design, marked 'staff only'.
If only heroes would spend 5 minutes looking around before dashing in the front door, they might spare themselves a world of trap-dodging.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Gardening with a quantum cat
If anyone had told me a few years ago that I would enjoy gardening, I would've laughed in their faces. Don't get me wrong, I love nature and grew up in a family that loves gardening. The bug (ha-ha) just never bit me.
Until I became the owner of own patch of earth that is. Now I enjoy scrabbling around in the dirt on all fours, marvelling at the fantastic way in which plants never seem to grow when you watch them closely, and yet one morning you'll wake up and realise a tree is suddenly bigger by quite a few inches.
Perhaps science can explain this strange phenomenon; I certainly can't. You'll watch a clear patch of ground for days, and there'll be no sign of any weeds. Then *poof* all of a sudden a luxurious carpet of unwanted growth springs up virtually overnight. I always thought the time-lapse photography of plants growing was magic... now I believe it is!
Either that or something quantum.
Which explains the attraction my cats have to the garden. No, no, not in the 'depositing parcels' sense, but rather as a playground where they can exercise their own quantum skills.
Take Fatcat for instance (not her official name of course, but then show me any cat that is called by it's given name(s) unless it is being accused of some crime! Hieronymous Kittypuss Fluffyshanks the III, ~what~ is this decapitated mouse doing on my carpet!!! What do you mean historical re-enactment of Marie-Antoinette?!?)
Er, where was I headed? Oh yes, Fatcat...
She is the unofficial feline supervisor in charge of all landscaping activities. Which boils down to appearing in exactly the spot I want to weed. This may not sound as impressive, until you actually watch the scenario unfold.
There I'll be, intent on waging my own private war with the undesirable sprouts from hell while Fatcat loiters nearby. I'll keep an eye on her, shuffling along on my knees with a rapidly filling bucket in tow. I'll pull out a rather stubborn example of weed-dom, deposit it in the bucket and turn back to find that without apparently moving, Fatcat has now materialised on top of the very next patch of weeds.
Helpful cat, I know! Except when she has to move off the weeds so I can get to them. I've resorted to weeding around her in a threatening manner, but she just gives me a lazy yellow-eyed stare and sticks like to her spot like a burr on a blanket. Quite a daring move (or absence of) on her part considering the reputation for gardening-related injuries I've managed to inflict on myself.
I haven't tried levering her off with a spade yet, as by the time I've trekked to the garden shed and back, she will have become either a wave or a particle and vanished.
Until I work my way into another section of the garden again.
Pull weed. Watch cat behind me. Deposit weed in bucket. Look at next weed to find fluffy cat bum instead.
Pure magic I tell you! Or quantum physics.
Probably amounts to the same thing!
Until I became the owner of own patch of earth that is. Now I enjoy scrabbling around in the dirt on all fours, marvelling at the fantastic way in which plants never seem to grow when you watch them closely, and yet one morning you'll wake up and realise a tree is suddenly bigger by quite a few inches.
Perhaps science can explain this strange phenomenon; I certainly can't. You'll watch a clear patch of ground for days, and there'll be no sign of any weeds. Then *poof* all of a sudden a luxurious carpet of unwanted growth springs up virtually overnight. I always thought the time-lapse photography of plants growing was magic... now I believe it is!
Either that or something quantum.
Which explains the attraction my cats have to the garden. No, no, not in the 'depositing parcels' sense, but rather as a playground where they can exercise their own quantum skills.
Take Fatcat for instance (not her official name of course, but then show me any cat that is called by it's given name(s) unless it is being accused of some crime! Hieronymous Kittypuss Fluffyshanks the III, ~what~ is this decapitated mouse doing on my carpet!!! What do you mean historical re-enactment of Marie-Antoinette?!?)
Er, where was I headed? Oh yes, Fatcat...
She is the unofficial feline supervisor in charge of all landscaping activities. Which boils down to appearing in exactly the spot I want to weed. This may not sound as impressive, until you actually watch the scenario unfold.
There I'll be, intent on waging my own private war with the undesirable sprouts from hell while Fatcat loiters nearby. I'll keep an eye on her, shuffling along on my knees with a rapidly filling bucket in tow. I'll pull out a rather stubborn example of weed-dom, deposit it in the bucket and turn back to find that without apparently moving, Fatcat has now materialised on top of the very next patch of weeds.
Helpful cat, I know! Except when she has to move off the weeds so I can get to them. I've resorted to weeding around her in a threatening manner, but she just gives me a lazy yellow-eyed stare and sticks like to her spot like a burr on a blanket. Quite a daring move (or absence of) on her part considering the reputation for gardening-related injuries I've managed to inflict on myself.
I haven't tried levering her off with a spade yet, as by the time I've trekked to the garden shed and back, she will have become either a wave or a particle and vanished.
Until I work my way into another section of the garden again.
Pull weed. Watch cat behind me. Deposit weed in bucket. Look at next weed to find fluffy cat bum instead.
Pure magic I tell you! Or quantum physics.
Probably amounts to the same thing!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Up in the air
I recently had the rather dubious honour of enjoying a 2 hour plane trip with some young engineers. Of course there were a lot more passengers as well, but I was surrounded by these enthusiastic young people who chattered away solidly throughout the flight.
Shortly after take-off I reclined my chair and snuggled down for what I hoped would be a quiet nap, lulled to sleep by the drone of the aircraft's engines. The best I managed however, was to drift in and out of near-oblivion, punctuated by starts of wide-eyed shock.
The reason for this had nothing to do with aircraft failure, but rather the previously mentioned engineers. It soon became all too obvious that this was one of their first trips in the air.
As evidence of this, I present two golden titbits overheard while sharing cabin space.
Jewel nr 1:
"Look down there! There's no sign of anyone. How can they complain that there are too many people in the world when there's all this empty space!"
My eyes flew open when I heard this one! Not only in startlement at the comment itself, but also to glance down at the arid Karoo landscape passing far below. What scares me more is that that particular comment was followed by sounds of agreement as the spokesperson's fellow engineers glanced out the windows too.
Er... right, sure, there's plenty of space down there. Pity about the sheer lack of resources and infrastructure needed to support any kind of human habitation though. But then again, being an engineer, perhaps this person already had gloriously detailed blueprints drawn up in their mind's eye of how exactly to establish a colony in what might very well amount to a Martian landscape. One can but hope... or despair.
Jewel number 2:
"Isn't it amazing?! There's no sign of any roads, but I know one can drive from Cape Town to Johannesburg!" ... said in that breathless gasping voice I'd come to dread over the past half an hour.
Yep, you heard it here first folks: there's an actual tarred road somewhere out there connecting two of our major cities. Who'd've thought...
I resisted the urge to thump my head against the bulkhead through sheer determination. If I'd had a South African atlas handy I would have shared it with my fellow travelers in a heartbeat. Then again, perhaps a lesson in geography and map-reading would be called for at first.
I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that somehow these people had qualified in such a highly technical field as engineering, and yet appeared to fail dismally at grasping basic 'common knowledge' principles!
The darkly entertained side of me still ponders what engineering discipline these youngsters were in. I don't know whether I should hope for chemical, civil, electrical or whatever, as after due consideration, I think they could do as much harm in any of them.
And no, none of them were blond.
Heaven defend us against such skilled professionals.
Shortly after take-off I reclined my chair and snuggled down for what I hoped would be a quiet nap, lulled to sleep by the drone of the aircraft's engines. The best I managed however, was to drift in and out of near-oblivion, punctuated by starts of wide-eyed shock.
The reason for this had nothing to do with aircraft failure, but rather the previously mentioned engineers. It soon became all too obvious that this was one of their first trips in the air.
As evidence of this, I present two golden titbits overheard while sharing cabin space.
Jewel nr 1:
"Look down there! There's no sign of anyone. How can they complain that there are too many people in the world when there's all this empty space!"
My eyes flew open when I heard this one! Not only in startlement at the comment itself, but also to glance down at the arid Karoo landscape passing far below. What scares me more is that that particular comment was followed by sounds of agreement as the spokesperson's fellow engineers glanced out the windows too.
Er... right, sure, there's plenty of space down there. Pity about the sheer lack of resources and infrastructure needed to support any kind of human habitation though. But then again, being an engineer, perhaps this person already had gloriously detailed blueprints drawn up in their mind's eye of how exactly to establish a colony in what might very well amount to a Martian landscape. One can but hope... or despair.
Jewel number 2:
"Isn't it amazing?! There's no sign of any roads, but I know one can drive from Cape Town to Johannesburg!" ... said in that breathless gasping voice I'd come to dread over the past half an hour.
Yep, you heard it here first folks: there's an actual tarred road somewhere out there connecting two of our major cities. Who'd've thought...
I resisted the urge to thump my head against the bulkhead through sheer determination. If I'd had a South African atlas handy I would have shared it with my fellow travelers in a heartbeat. Then again, perhaps a lesson in geography and map-reading would be called for at first.
I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that somehow these people had qualified in such a highly technical field as engineering, and yet appeared to fail dismally at grasping basic 'common knowledge' principles!
The darkly entertained side of me still ponders what engineering discipline these youngsters were in. I don't know whether I should hope for chemical, civil, electrical or whatever, as after due consideration, I think they could do as much harm in any of them.
And no, none of them were blond.
Heaven defend us against such skilled professionals.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Yes people, the away-stay saga continues... This time it takes place in a quaint B&B in a relatively quiet suburb of PE. I use the term 'relatively quiet' quite loosely, as nowhere is vuvuzela proof at this stage. Except maybe the inside of an igloo in the North Pole. Then again, temperature wise that is exactly what PE feels like - rather chilly. Yes, it's that season when we get really close to our loved ones, and not only for purely emotional reasons. Cups of coffee and tea are made as astonishing rates; again not for drinking purposes, but just to clasp your frozen fingers around in an attempt to keep some blood flowing. So there I was, huddled under the warm blankets in my B&B room when out of the blue *plop*! Something plopped onto my head. It was around o'darn AM, when dreams blur into reality and strange things are known to happen. My confused mind constructed this bizarre scenario where one of the birds in the nearby cages outside had somehow made it's way into my room - probably to find a warm place to roost - and had oh-so-graciously just made me a very lucky person. That thought wormed it's way from my dream centre to conscious thought, shortcutting past all rationality and shot me straight outta bed, lights blazing and desperately looking for this bird prezzie. Alas, my overactive imagination had got it wrong. Yes, something had indeed dropped onto my head, and I could see the next culprits lining up on the ceiling, getting their targetting systems ready for the next attack. Water! It was pouring with rain outside, and apparently inside as well. My restful night turned into a luxury version of chinese water torture as I had to find a position to sleep in where the drops would not get me. Moving the queen size bed was out of the question, so armed with a towel to soak up the dive-bombers I tried to get some more z's. Admittedly, I have known better nights Sunrise brought a continuation of the inside showers, and I set off to inform the owner of this mild catastrophe. She admitted that apparently it was the fault of the swimming pool. Eh? Yes, indeedy. The swimming pool is built over the rooms-for-rent, and with the heavy downpours we had the pool filled up too rapidly and leaked out somewhere into the roof, along some cracks to filter through my ceiling and drop onto my snug little cocoon. Oi.... Yesterday we had some more rain, and now the intrepid little water warriors had bivouacced in a new spot; this time right over the window sill. Problematic for the clothes I'm trying to dry, but at least not on my bed. Thank goodness for small miracles!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Night-time bump and lumps
There's nothing quite like settling down between the covers after a full day. Your head rests comfortably on the pillow while frogs serenade you to.... sitting upright, wide-awake and reaching for the panic button.
No, not because of the frogs, but because of man's best friend - a border collie/alsation cross to be specific.
I have one of those; got it with the house - long story for another day. Anyhoo, said best friend of man is not known for her incessant barking (thank goodness), so when she is on alert, so am I.
Reluctantly shrugging off warm blankets I listen, running through the mental checklist of 'sounds I think a burglar might make'.
Footsteps... no
Glass smashing.... no
Baboon barks... no
Yelps from thief... no
Yet the dog carries on barking, and can now definitely be categorised not as 'there's a stranger on my yard I want to eat alive', but rather as 'help, help, i'm sure, there's something unusual outside'.
Yes, ask any dog owner; you soon learn your pooch's vocab so to speak.
Still hesitant I peak through all the windows first, trying to see the splattered entrails of a would-be trespasser. And thanks to an all too vivid imagination and too many crime-stories, I have visions of an armed assailant lurking on my steps waiting for me to throw the door open and rush out to save faithful doggy.
Yeah, right.
After more peeking, listening (a difficult task considering the dog is still giving excited yelp-barks) I edge the front door open to find the dog bouncing madly around a dark grey furball.
Concern for dog now turns into concern for poor furry and I rush downstairs to save the rabbit/kitten/bird/tribble. As I reach the bottom step the dog gives an almighty yelp and jumps away....the not-so-helpless furry has just scored a direct hit! Blood dripping form her jaw, the dog now stands cautiously to one side to watch me tackle this prime example of gremlinhood.
Turns out to be a rather large mole with a lifewish second to none.
Paralysing it in my spotlight (read tiny torch) I give it a once-over for any sign of trauma. It blinks at me in a slit-eyed yet satisfied manner, and I swore I saw it grin at me.
Mole 1, dog 0 ... I can almost hear it think.
Well, I was not about to trifle with such a determined survivor, so I grab the dog by the scruff intent on dragging her upstairs while giving the mole a getaway chance. I stepped forward, only to be yanked backward by a severely immobile dog. The look in her eye clearly states that she is not about to walk past that mad little killer; who knows what other tender bits it might take a bite at next.
By this time I am chilly customer; I take my night-time rest seriously, and running around outside in winter in my pyjamas is not my idea of a fun time. With more effort I manage to drag the dog around the far side of the mole; quite a site as the dog kept turning to face the mole while we moved. Finally reaching the safety of the stairs she dashes up, leaving me to firmly close the gate in the mole's still sniggering face.
And yes, I did check my pooch out as well. Bled like a champion from a facial wound, but managed to scarf down her doggy treats this morning. Somehow I think she'll live.
As the for the mole... didn't see it this morning. But next time I'm pulling at weeds I'll keep an ear out for that self-satisfied snigger.
No, not because of the frogs, but because of man's best friend - a border collie/alsation cross to be specific.
I have one of those; got it with the house - long story for another day. Anyhoo, said best friend of man is not known for her incessant barking (thank goodness), so when she is on alert, so am I.
Reluctantly shrugging off warm blankets I listen, running through the mental checklist of 'sounds I think a burglar might make'.
Footsteps... no
Glass smashing.... no
Baboon barks... no
Yelps from thief... no
Yet the dog carries on barking, and can now definitely be categorised not as 'there's a stranger on my yard I want to eat alive', but rather as 'help, help, i'm sure, there's something unusual outside'.
Yes, ask any dog owner; you soon learn your pooch's vocab so to speak.
Still hesitant I peak through all the windows first, trying to see the splattered entrails of a would-be trespasser. And thanks to an all too vivid imagination and too many crime-stories, I have visions of an armed assailant lurking on my steps waiting for me to throw the door open and rush out to save faithful doggy.
Yeah, right.
After more peeking, listening (a difficult task considering the dog is still giving excited yelp-barks) I edge the front door open to find the dog bouncing madly around a dark grey furball.
Concern for dog now turns into concern for poor furry and I rush downstairs to save the rabbit/kitten/bird/tribble. As I reach the bottom step the dog gives an almighty yelp and jumps away....the not-so-helpless furry has just scored a direct hit! Blood dripping form her jaw, the dog now stands cautiously to one side to watch me tackle this prime example of gremlinhood.
Turns out to be a rather large mole with a lifewish second to none.
Paralysing it in my spotlight (read tiny torch) I give it a once-over for any sign of trauma. It blinks at me in a slit-eyed yet satisfied manner, and I swore I saw it grin at me.
Mole 1, dog 0 ... I can almost hear it think.
Well, I was not about to trifle with such a determined survivor, so I grab the dog by the scruff intent on dragging her upstairs while giving the mole a getaway chance. I stepped forward, only to be yanked backward by a severely immobile dog. The look in her eye clearly states that she is not about to walk past that mad little killer; who knows what other tender bits it might take a bite at next.
By this time I am chilly customer; I take my night-time rest seriously, and running around outside in winter in my pyjamas is not my idea of a fun time. With more effort I manage to drag the dog around the far side of the mole; quite a site as the dog kept turning to face the mole while we moved. Finally reaching the safety of the stairs she dashes up, leaving me to firmly close the gate in the mole's still sniggering face.
And yes, I did check my pooch out as well. Bled like a champion from a facial wound, but managed to scarf down her doggy treats this morning. Somehow I think she'll live.
As the for the mole... didn't see it this morning. But next time I'm pulling at weeds I'll keep an ear out for that self-satisfied snigger.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hotel horrors
There's nothing quite like the thrill of opening your hotel door for the first time to see what exactly lies behind it. In some cases there should be the inevitable squeak of violins in staccato rhythm (shower curtain optional) as you ease open the door.
All right, so not all hotel stays can be equated to horror movies, but there is a certain element of similarity. The cheerful and bright opening scenes, the venture down long lonely corridors, the creaking of a slowly opened door... not to mention mysterious night-time thuds and bumps. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
So there I was all packed off on a business trip and checking into a hotel that would be my home for the next 5 days. All seemed bright and shiny (doesn't it always) in the foyer... and then my first clue - no lift.
No problem, only one floor to go up and I kept a determined smile on my face as I thumped my way up the stairs one at a time. This was due to the rather heavy suitcase I was dragging behind me - yes, I pack like a girl, including my heavy-duty pillow filled with buckwheat. Handy for punching into a sleep-friendly shape and as a last-ditch weapon should anyone sneak up on me. I pity the fool who challenges me to a pillow fight...snigger ::rubs hands together in villainous way::
After hiking down a loooong corridor, I reached the oh-so-innocent door of nr 34. Easing the door open is like unwrapping a gift; would it contain something I wanted or something I'd just be politely thankful for? Would there be a bath & shower? Would it be twin beds or a luxurious double? And probably most importantly... would there be a kettle?!?
Since a trip in Germany where I had to face mornings sans my 1st-thing-in-the-day cuppa, I've been pathetically grateful every time I find a hotel room equipped with basic coffee / tea making equipment. And yes, I did blubber joyfully when I spotted not only one of those cutesy half-sized kettles, but also some decent quality instant coffee, milk & tea!
But I was being lulled into a false sense of joy...
The shower curtain turned out to be just that, offering more the illusion of separation rather than actual water-proofing. I only found that when I stepped out of the bath-tub and into an ankle-deep puddle on the floor. I sincerely hoped the floor was well sealed, and that I hadn't created a water feature in the downstairs room. But my fears were for nothing, as it turned out that my room was directly above a - you'd never guess it - pub! Yes, I kid you not.
I found this out on Wednesday Live Music Night, when the items on my bedside table ever so gently bopped around to 'piano man', 'alice' and probably inevitably... 'Hotel California'. Live music was followed by live entertainment when a full-blown screaming match broke out below the window around closing time. I sure hope poor John finally got rid of Charlotte, whom he apparently just found out had been warming more than just his bed! Admittedly it was a bit hard to garner any sympathy from my side at that time of the morning.
But like all horror movies, my stay also came to an end. After the inevitably nervous scouring of the room to see whether I had somehow left behind anything, I wheeled my suitcase out into the sunrise, ready to brave the next adventure.
All right, so not all hotel stays can be equated to horror movies, but there is a certain element of similarity. The cheerful and bright opening scenes, the venture down long lonely corridors, the creaking of a slowly opened door... not to mention mysterious night-time thuds and bumps. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
So there I was all packed off on a business trip and checking into a hotel that would be my home for the next 5 days. All seemed bright and shiny (doesn't it always) in the foyer... and then my first clue - no lift.
No problem, only one floor to go up and I kept a determined smile on my face as I thumped my way up the stairs one at a time. This was due to the rather heavy suitcase I was dragging behind me - yes, I pack like a girl, including my heavy-duty pillow filled with buckwheat. Handy for punching into a sleep-friendly shape and as a last-ditch weapon should anyone sneak up on me. I pity the fool who challenges me to a pillow fight...snigger ::rubs hands together in villainous way::
After hiking down a loooong corridor, I reached the oh-so-innocent door of nr 34. Easing the door open is like unwrapping a gift; would it contain something I wanted or something I'd just be politely thankful for? Would there be a bath & shower? Would it be twin beds or a luxurious double? And probably most importantly... would there be a kettle?!?
Since a trip in Germany where I had to face mornings sans my 1st-thing-in-the-day cuppa, I've been pathetically grateful every time I find a hotel room equipped with basic coffee / tea making equipment. And yes, I did blubber joyfully when I spotted not only one of those cutesy half-sized kettles, but also some decent quality instant coffee, milk & tea!
But I was being lulled into a false sense of joy...
The shower curtain turned out to be just that, offering more the illusion of separation rather than actual water-proofing. I only found that when I stepped out of the bath-tub and into an ankle-deep puddle on the floor. I sincerely hoped the floor was well sealed, and that I hadn't created a water feature in the downstairs room. But my fears were for nothing, as it turned out that my room was directly above a - you'd never guess it - pub! Yes, I kid you not.
I found this out on Wednesday Live Music Night, when the items on my bedside table ever so gently bopped around to 'piano man', 'alice' and probably inevitably... 'Hotel California'. Live music was followed by live entertainment when a full-blown screaming match broke out below the window around closing time. I sure hope poor John finally got rid of Charlotte, whom he apparently just found out had been warming more than just his bed! Admittedly it was a bit hard to garner any sympathy from my side at that time of the morning.
But like all horror movies, my stay also came to an end. After the inevitably nervous scouring of the room to see whether I had somehow left behind anything, I wheeled my suitcase out into the sunrise, ready to brave the next adventure.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Call to arms!
Yes, it is time to take the battle to the enemy. No longer will we sit back idly, watching willful bloodshed, suffering and itchiness.
It is time to take our offensive to fur-roots level.
You've guessed it - it's deflea-ing time!
In my household this is a monthly battle that personifies evil vs a lesser evil. In essence, once every four weeks I knowingly poison my cats. Now before you speed-dial the animal rescue institute of your choice, let me explain. Modern technology still hasn't managed to rid the world of fleas, but it has provided a solution of some sorts. No, not a solution, rather a plaster on the wound. Now every pet-owner can have their own little chemical battle with those pesky pests. The fleas, not the pets.
Between my dog and 3 cats, this takes on the scope of a minor production, including stunned looks, horrified expressions, cringing and wailing. And that's just me battling with the human-proof packaging.
Then comes the really fun part (not) of surprising the cats with flea-drops at the ready. In theory this might sound simple; I mean, how difficult could it be for the uber-primate equipped with opposable thumbs to apply a few drops of liquid to the back of your average moggie's neck.
Ha! Easier said than done.
The dog is easy: show up, pat dog, open dispenser, part fur and apply drops. Repeat pat. Walk away.
The cats are a bit more difficult, and I have to necessitate to underhanded methods, wrestling and bribery to get everyone through the exercise.
In winter it's a tad easier. Cats are the ultimate users, but at least they are honest about it. As long as you open tins, provide a warm lap and respond positively to an occasional request for scratching, peace and prosperity will reign.
So... in winter you wait until said victim, I mean beloved feline, hops onto your lap for some under-fur heating. Gently stroke cat (if requested) until a mutual state of relaxation is reached. Now comes the tricky bit; without disrupting the stroking rhythm, start parting the fur on the neck with one hand while quietly opening the little container of doom and applying contents to cat.
Cat may now either:
a. continue resting in blissful ignorance
b. take off with vertical acceleration that makes warp speed look slow
c. give you a dirty, knowing look that hints at future revenge
But, an owner's gotta do what an owner's gotta do. And I have this blissful image of the little bloodsuckers, clad in snazzy evening dress with billowing cloaks, bending over to sink their fangs into cat-flesh only to stagger away, choking, before going up in smoke. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking to imagine they would react like a vampire who has just had a fang-full of blood liberally laced with holy-water, garlic and a hint of silver-essence. But hey, if that's what gets me through the monthly confrontation, then that's what I'll do.
It is time to take our offensive to fur-roots level.
You've guessed it - it's deflea-ing time!
In my household this is a monthly battle that personifies evil vs a lesser evil. In essence, once every four weeks I knowingly poison my cats. Now before you speed-dial the animal rescue institute of your choice, let me explain. Modern technology still hasn't managed to rid the world of fleas, but it has provided a solution of some sorts. No, not a solution, rather a plaster on the wound. Now every pet-owner can have their own little chemical battle with those pesky pests. The fleas, not the pets.
Between my dog and 3 cats, this takes on the scope of a minor production, including stunned looks, horrified expressions, cringing and wailing. And that's just me battling with the human-proof packaging.
Then comes the really fun part (not) of surprising the cats with flea-drops at the ready. In theory this might sound simple; I mean, how difficult could it be for the uber-primate equipped with opposable thumbs to apply a few drops of liquid to the back of your average moggie's neck.
Ha! Easier said than done.
The dog is easy: show up, pat dog, open dispenser, part fur and apply drops. Repeat pat. Walk away.
The cats are a bit more difficult, and I have to necessitate to underhanded methods, wrestling and bribery to get everyone through the exercise.
In winter it's a tad easier. Cats are the ultimate users, but at least they are honest about it. As long as you open tins, provide a warm lap and respond positively to an occasional request for scratching, peace and prosperity will reign.
So... in winter you wait until said victim, I mean beloved feline, hops onto your lap for some under-fur heating. Gently stroke cat (if requested) until a mutual state of relaxation is reached. Now comes the tricky bit; without disrupting the stroking rhythm, start parting the fur on the neck with one hand while quietly opening the little container of doom and applying contents to cat.
Cat may now either:
a. continue resting in blissful ignorance
b. take off with vertical acceleration that makes warp speed look slow
c. give you a dirty, knowing look that hints at future revenge
But, an owner's gotta do what an owner's gotta do. And I have this blissful image of the little bloodsuckers, clad in snazzy evening dress with billowing cloaks, bending over to sink their fangs into cat-flesh only to stagger away, choking, before going up in smoke. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking to imagine they would react like a vampire who has just had a fang-full of blood liberally laced with holy-water, garlic and a hint of silver-essence. But hey, if that's what gets me through the monthly confrontation, then that's what I'll do.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Ode to Potholes
O Pothole
Thou deep and sudden drop
That seeks to draw unwary wheels
into thy depths so dark
er...
that's about all I have for now.
The fascination you ask? Well, there's a curious phenomenon a-foot, or rather, a-wheel in South Africa.
Our new national treasury seems to include a love for potholes. Yes, our public works department seems to revere these little hiccups in the road of life. Simons Town is a prime spotting area for this not-so-rare phenomenon. You may be driving down the main road in happy oblivion as to the consistency of the tar when *thunk*, you encounter one of these beauties.
But do not despair, our public works department is on the job! At all hours of the day and night they can be seen near these modern miracles, carefully stamping down ground and loose gravel into these pits of despair.
Yes, you read it... ground and loose gravel. Now I ask you, what is the typical life expectancy of such (ha-ha) stop-gap measures? Not too long, I can guarantee you that. Within a day or so the wheels of industry and private motorists have started to dig away at these little patch-works.
And then there is Tokai, where potholes are not only welcomed, nay, they are treasured. As you drive towards the arboretum there are actual permanent roadsigns warning you of the presence of... you guessed it.... potholes.
I cannot help but wonder: how much time and effort does it cost to have a sign and pole made up, a hole dug and the warning sign firmly planted, compared to actually fixing the pothole itself?!?!?
South Africa.... it's a curious place
Thou deep and sudden drop
That seeks to draw unwary wheels
into thy depths so dark
er...
that's about all I have for now.
The fascination you ask? Well, there's a curious phenomenon a-foot, or rather, a-wheel in South Africa.
Our new national treasury seems to include a love for potholes. Yes, our public works department seems to revere these little hiccups in the road of life. Simons Town is a prime spotting area for this not-so-rare phenomenon. You may be driving down the main road in happy oblivion as to the consistency of the tar when *thunk*, you encounter one of these beauties.
But do not despair, our public works department is on the job! At all hours of the day and night they can be seen near these modern miracles, carefully stamping down ground and loose gravel into these pits of despair.
Yes, you read it... ground and loose gravel. Now I ask you, what is the typical life expectancy of such (ha-ha) stop-gap measures? Not too long, I can guarantee you that. Within a day or so the wheels of industry and private motorists have started to dig away at these little patch-works.
And then there is Tokai, where potholes are not only welcomed, nay, they are treasured. As you drive towards the arboretum there are actual permanent roadsigns warning you of the presence of... you guessed it.... potholes.
I cannot help but wonder: how much time and effort does it cost to have a sign and pole made up, a hole dug and the warning sign firmly planted, compared to actually fixing the pothole itself?!?!?
South Africa.... it's a curious place
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Barking mad...
Last night I lay in bed reading a bit before giving myself over to the gentle knitting needles of sleep to mend that ravelled bits of me. In the background I could hear the incessant barking of some or other dog, but did not pay too much attention to it.
Let's face it, I live in an area that was a suburb close to the centre of Dog-central, where every Tom, Dick and Harry owns a Spot, Rex or Killer.
However, I do take exception when these bundles of furry and toothed joy carry on barking mindlessly for hours on end. For crumbs sake people! Why do you own a dog if you are going to let it carry on barking forever and a day without actually investigating the cause?
Anyhoo. Deciding to take the zen approach, I turned off my light and pretended it was the gentle laughter of water rushing over stones. With a pillow over my head it eventually worked, and I was off to dreamland.
But not for long... every so often I would be dragged from my sleep by the, yes, STILL persisting barking. My gosh; if it were my canine by this time I would've had the police, fire and rescue departments standing by just in case of any type of emergency that the dog was somehow insisting was happening.
Instead I ended up staring at the ceiling, composing the speech I would give at this dog's prize-giving ceremony. Trust me, for pure duration this barking was olympic medal material! And then the variation in volume, length and intensity; it was the perfect blend to pull any insistent sleeper from the brink of oblivion!
And every so often the rest of the neighbourhood dogs would join in out of what I guess must've been sheer admiration.
It's at times like these that I seriously contemplate getting a paintball gun and learning how to do urban-stalking, camouflage paint and all. If I can't get at the dog, then at least I'll be able to target whatever's causing the upset.
And then I'd go for the owner...
Let's face it, I live in an area that was a suburb close to the centre of Dog-central, where every Tom, Dick and Harry owns a Spot, Rex or Killer.
However, I do take exception when these bundles of furry and toothed joy carry on barking mindlessly for hours on end. For crumbs sake people! Why do you own a dog if you are going to let it carry on barking forever and a day without actually investigating the cause?
Anyhoo. Deciding to take the zen approach, I turned off my light and pretended it was the gentle laughter of water rushing over stones. With a pillow over my head it eventually worked, and I was off to dreamland.
But not for long... every so often I would be dragged from my sleep by the, yes, STILL persisting barking. My gosh; if it were my canine by this time I would've had the police, fire and rescue departments standing by just in case of any type of emergency that the dog was somehow insisting was happening.
Instead I ended up staring at the ceiling, composing the speech I would give at this dog's prize-giving ceremony. Trust me, for pure duration this barking was olympic medal material! And then the variation in volume, length and intensity; it was the perfect blend to pull any insistent sleeper from the brink of oblivion!
And every so often the rest of the neighbourhood dogs would join in out of what I guess must've been sheer admiration.
It's at times like these that I seriously contemplate getting a paintball gun and learning how to do urban-stalking, camouflage paint and all. If I can't get at the dog, then at least I'll be able to target whatever's causing the upset.
And then I'd go for the owner...
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Interning at all4women
I seem to have finally woken up at the age of 30+ with the awful realization that the career path I've been trudging along is the wrong one! So, with a pocket full of dreams and determination, I am slowly but surely trying to find a new path.
As part of that journey, I'm trying to grow my writing skills. Who knew that reading all those novels and having a vivid imagination would someday pay off.
May I present my first article as a part-time intern at the fabulous all42women.co.za online magazine!!!! Tadaa:
http://all4women.co.za/health/mountain-biking.html?Headline
As part of that journey, I'm trying to grow my writing skills. Who knew that reading all those novels and having a vivid imagination would someday pay off.
May I present my first article as a part-time intern at the fabulous all42women.co.za online magazine!!!! Tadaa:
http://all4women.co.za/health/mountain-biking.html?Headline
Monday, March 1, 2010
Avoiding the bull
And no, not just the bull droppings, but also tackling it by the horns. And not by choice - somehow life itself manages to interfere with my ability to make decisions that will affect said life.
My gosh, how pathetic that sounds! Very much like the teenage angst dramas I try and wade through on disc these days.
Let me rather tell you a story. Remember that email about the guy who is a deep-sea diver and ends up with the jellyfish in his suit. Yeah, well, tell him to swim a mile in my fins!
Just more than a week ago I was once again sorely disappointed in humanity. No news there, just setting the background.
So... of course I have to better that factor by adding my own stupidity. I went out on Sunday morning and like a dutiful citizen turned my car lights on while driving in misty conditions. Problem is, by the time I got home said misty conditions had dispersed, and I forgot to turn my car lights off.
Of course, it will come as no surprise that when I next rushed out of the house and got in the car, I was greeted by an eery silence - no irritating squigly radio noise, no time display, not even a immobiliser light blinking reassuringly from the dashboard. Yep, I'd managed to run the car battery down.
After thumping my head against the steering wheel for a while, I got out and contacted my neighbour to set up a jump-start appointment for the next morning.
Of course that would be the week when I have to rush in to an early-morning software course.
The day dawns, the jumper cables are hauled out and I await the arrival of my saving neighbour. But a slight complication - we have to push my car back somewhat to get it to a space where we can pull her car in next to it in such a position that the jumper cables can connect the batteries.
Not a problem - we are women, hear us groan while we push the car backwards. Just then, at that moment of strain and concentration, my dearly departed (well, she almost was after the incident) dog trots up and proceeds to sink her age-worn teeth into my neighbour's calf.
I've seen the state of her teeth - the dog, not the neighbour's, although I got a glimpse of that too while she grimaced - and that took a lot of pressure to create the damage she did.
I could've killed that dog. Easily. Right there and then. Lucky for her time was of the essence. After yelling dire threats and chasing her away, we got the cars out, jump started and ready to go.
Ah, but have I mentioned that my car was suffering a slight case of under-performance at the time? I haven't? Gosh... With an on-going carburator problem, the idling speed had been dropped so low that now any early morning drive is punctuated by frequent rest-stops at every stop-street or occassion when I press the clutch pedal in for longer than 5 seconds.
Now... picture this ((with dramatic background music a-la task explanation during an bomb-defusing scene of a movie))
The car has just been jump-started, i.e. the alternator has not had enough time to charge the battery.
Having the car die at a stopstreet would be problematic to say the least, as I wouldn't be able to start it again.
Right - advanced driving skills here we come!
When approaching a stop street, I quickly switched the car into neutral before using my left foot to ease on the breaks while keeping the right on the gas. Sounds easy, right? Wrong! The left foot has been trained to go either full throttle / nothing on the clutch pedal, and mistakenly tries to do the same with the break pedal. Result: nose squashed against windshield BUT the right foot is steady on the gas, meaning the car still runs! And oh, what joy, 4 more stops before I reach a long stretch without any obstacles.
I'm proud to announce, I got to work! I also managed to get the car to the garage by lunch to re-set the idling speed. And yes, I am in the process of settling my neighbour's doctors bill for a tetanus shot.
Am I speaking to my dog yet? Not so much.
My gosh, how pathetic that sounds! Very much like the teenage angst dramas I try and wade through on disc these days.
Let me rather tell you a story. Remember that email about the guy who is a deep-sea diver and ends up with the jellyfish in his suit. Yeah, well, tell him to swim a mile in my fins!
Just more than a week ago I was once again sorely disappointed in humanity. No news there, just setting the background.
So... of course I have to better that factor by adding my own stupidity. I went out on Sunday morning and like a dutiful citizen turned my car lights on while driving in misty conditions. Problem is, by the time I got home said misty conditions had dispersed, and I forgot to turn my car lights off.
Of course, it will come as no surprise that when I next rushed out of the house and got in the car, I was greeted by an eery silence - no irritating squigly radio noise, no time display, not even a immobiliser light blinking reassuringly from the dashboard. Yep, I'd managed to run the car battery down.
After thumping my head against the steering wheel for a while, I got out and contacted my neighbour to set up a jump-start appointment for the next morning.
Of course that would be the week when I have to rush in to an early-morning software course.
The day dawns, the jumper cables are hauled out and I await the arrival of my saving neighbour. But a slight complication - we have to push my car back somewhat to get it to a space where we can pull her car in next to it in such a position that the jumper cables can connect the batteries.
Not a problem - we are women, hear us groan while we push the car backwards. Just then, at that moment of strain and concentration, my dearly departed (well, she almost was after the incident) dog trots up and proceeds to sink her age-worn teeth into my neighbour's calf.
I've seen the state of her teeth - the dog, not the neighbour's, although I got a glimpse of that too while she grimaced - and that took a lot of pressure to create the damage she did.
I could've killed that dog. Easily. Right there and then. Lucky for her time was of the essence. After yelling dire threats and chasing her away, we got the cars out, jump started and ready to go.
Ah, but have I mentioned that my car was suffering a slight case of under-performance at the time? I haven't? Gosh... With an on-going carburator problem, the idling speed had been dropped so low that now any early morning drive is punctuated by frequent rest-stops at every stop-street or occassion when I press the clutch pedal in for longer than 5 seconds.
Now... picture this ((with dramatic background music a-la task explanation during an bomb-defusing scene of a movie))
The car has just been jump-started, i.e. the alternator has not had enough time to charge the battery.
Having the car die at a stopstreet would be problematic to say the least, as I wouldn't be able to start it again.
Right - advanced driving skills here we come!
When approaching a stop street, I quickly switched the car into neutral before using my left foot to ease on the breaks while keeping the right on the gas. Sounds easy, right? Wrong! The left foot has been trained to go either full throttle / nothing on the clutch pedal, and mistakenly tries to do the same with the break pedal. Result: nose squashed against windshield BUT the right foot is steady on the gas, meaning the car still runs! And oh, what joy, 4 more stops before I reach a long stretch without any obstacles.
I'm proud to announce, I got to work! I also managed to get the car to the garage by lunch to re-set the idling speed. And yes, I am in the process of settling my neighbour's doctors bill for a tetanus shot.
Am I speaking to my dog yet? Not so much.
Friday, February 12, 2010
One of those days
Few words in the English language are imbued with that particular brand of terror and dread as "general failure reading boot drive".
Yep, it's going to be one of those days then.
It started all innocently, birds chirping while the sun played hide and seek among the scattered clouds overhead. I took the dog for an early-morning walk while the air was still cool and the day filled with potential for all things bright and beautiful.
But, like the start to a horror movie... all was not as it seemed.
Chirping birdsong was to be replaced by the straining groans of a tin-can desperately trying to find some mysterious code that would turn 1's and 0's into intelligent pictures.
But, trying to stay optimistic I shut the machine down, sent out a message requesting help, and sat down in front of my other pc to start writing a report on work that's been done.
Step 1 - find template for report
Step 2 - look for template in other than usual network folders where the only thing I can find is its glaring absence
Step 3 - call office support staff to inquire about missing file
Step 4 - Try to smile through clenched teeth as none of support personnel provide, well, support. The template document is.... unavailable.
While rolling my eyes to the heavens above, I put the phone down and stare morosely at my blank pc screen, wondering if anyone has ever succeeded in building a time machine.
No, I don't have any aspirations to go back and change history by eliminating a soon-to-be tyrant or saving the life of a might-be genius - I have no such grandiose plans for bettering humanity.
Instead I simply want to go back to this morning, place two industrial-strength aspirins next to my bedside table with a friendly note that says :
"Drink this, today is going to be a pain in the...."
Yep, it's going to be one of those days then.
It started all innocently, birds chirping while the sun played hide and seek among the scattered clouds overhead. I took the dog for an early-morning walk while the air was still cool and the day filled with potential for all things bright and beautiful.
But, like the start to a horror movie... all was not as it seemed.
Chirping birdsong was to be replaced by the straining groans of a tin-can desperately trying to find some mysterious code that would turn 1's and 0's into intelligent pictures.
But, trying to stay optimistic I shut the machine down, sent out a message requesting help, and sat down in front of my other pc to start writing a report on work that's been done.
Step 1 - find template for report
Step 2 - look for template in other than usual network folders where the only thing I can find is its glaring absence
Step 3 - call office support staff to inquire about missing file
Step 4 - Try to smile through clenched teeth as none of support personnel provide, well, support. The template document is.... unavailable.
While rolling my eyes to the heavens above, I put the phone down and stare morosely at my blank pc screen, wondering if anyone has ever succeeded in building a time machine.
No, I don't have any aspirations to go back and change history by eliminating a soon-to-be tyrant or saving the life of a might-be genius - I have no such grandiose plans for bettering humanity.
Instead I simply want to go back to this morning, place two industrial-strength aspirins next to my bedside table with a friendly note that says :
"Drink this, today is going to be a pain in the...."
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Brave new steps
I have just come out of a meeting that left me more confused afterward than I was before. This leads me to once again wonder how productive meetings actually are. Are there some meetings whose end result actually amounts to a negative value? You leave it not only knowing less than you thought you did, but also lost as to how to proceed from there. At least, this is the case for my experience today.
If Columbus or Livingston had to deal with the bureaucratic red-tape, endless discussions and reams and reams of 'reporting back', would they have ever taken those first steps that lead to great discovery? Hmmmm.....
If Columbus or Livingston had to deal with the bureaucratic red-tape, endless discussions and reams and reams of 'reporting back', would they have ever taken those first steps that lead to great discovery? Hmmmm.....
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