The sunshine came back today. After what seems like two months of continuous rain, we’ve been treated to 27C and beautiful sunshine. It won’t last, but it’s helped to dissolve the worst of the memories of the cold and rain since the end of April.

I saw this on the interweb the other week, it made me smile…Oh, this tossing iPhone is rubbish for blogging from. I can’t insert a pic without it being a real arse. In face this iPhone isn’t much good for making telephone calls from either. And receiving them depends on what mood it’s in, and whether the wind is blowing in the right direction. Pile of crap. I shall return from the fully functioning facility of my laptop – fully functioning apart the network settings being fucked by the VPN, the display driver wiping out on me every twenty minutes, and only one speaker working.

Anyway (:@), happy sunshine while it lasts.

I think it’s raining all over the world. 

Anyway (:@), things are never as simple as you’d hope, but that’s life.  I’ve learned a very interesting lesson in ‘lectrics today.   That being that shite ovens that come in modern houses are essentially plugged in to the 13 amp circuit (this is what makes them shit – no power) and when you want to change them for a decent oven, you have to have your house re-wired and part of the kitchen ripped out.

C’est la vie.

And why can’t hairdressers do as you ask?  I’ve had a really good hair cut, but “Sandy” was so horrified when I told her what I wanted, that I had to back down and go with something that she thought best, which is a really good cut, but it’s left me looking a little like Elaine Paige.

C’est la vie.

Anyway (:@), despite everything I do have access to sharp objects and I might just snip the bits off that I told her I didn’t want and suffer the consequences when I go back in six weeks’ time.  Is there supposed to be an apostrophe there?  If I was as mental as I used to be, I’d know the answer to that question, but I’m a bit more relaxed these days.  And no fucker reads this shite, so I doubt I’m going to be bundled, blindfold and gagged into the boot of a car and then beaten to within and inch of my life by the disciples of Lynn Truss for one errant bit of punctuation.

So I found myself alone early this weekend; normally I’d be with my other half until later on this evening, but I had to rush back this morning to be told I was a complete spaz for buying the wrong oven by my electrician.   But never mind, I know about 32 amp circuits and stuff now, so it’s not as bad as it could have been…. had I wired the oven in myself and burnt the house down.

Another year and we’re not going to get a summer… again – it’s pissing it down and 9°C out there, in June. Finding myself getting a little down in the dumps, I took myself off to Sainsbury’s in Bolton, which is never a treat, but I needed coffee and something for my tea.  Having decided that I wanted to watch the Kill Bills, I took myself to the DVD section where I found this:

Asda, part of the Wal*MART family.  Dear Lord.

My opinion of Asda has gone up since moving here… not the Asda in the town nearest here, which is Hell on earth, but the other one, which is bigger so the nastiness is diluted over a wider surface area.  Anyway, this has made me realise that, apart from having to be very selective about what you can actually buy in the store, the really horrible thing about Asda is the people who shop there; hideous cunts.  This contrasts to the staff, who are by and large lovely.  You tend to find that there’s a kind of skewed distribution in the pleasantness of shops staff that’s related to where the store is on the la-de-da scale.

I’ve tried to draw this here:

So my issue with Asda isn’t the staff; it’s the produce and it’s the customers.  So when the customers are allowed to have a say in the produce, you know that the outcome is going to be very, very bad.

There’s this range of products at Asda called “Chosen by you” – this from people whose general idea of cuisine ranges from a bag of Quavers to KFC.

I don’t think I’ll be buying anything that’s been chosen by People of Asda.  I’ll buy things from Asda that has been chosen by their buyers; things that I can make things from myself.

I’m forever having people call at my front door, annoying me.  Nobody I know ever comes to the front of my house, so a knock is always a sign of trouble.  It’s usually not even for me.  It’s usually somebody from a power company asking if the previous owners want to change their energy company.

The answer is always no.

These people know this too.  I tell them to make sure they know:  “I’ll just look on uSwitch and do a comparison there – there’s no way I’m taking your word for it.”

So why do they keep calling?  Because they’re paid to annoy people, be given the brush off by people having their evening meal, and to be growled at by the dog that has to be held because they always stand there with the fucking gate wide open onto the main fucking road.

Fucking idiots.

I feel forced into putting one of those horrid signs up that you see in the Easy Living catalogue: “No salesmen, No takeaway menus, No, No, No.  Just whatever you want, NO!”. 

Or I could continue to take pleasure at watching them being dripped on from the guttering that seems to be leaking directly above where they stand.

Easy living
Is that what it’s called?  The little booklet that’s the official Nazi Party version of the Betterware catalogue?  It comes with the Sunday supplements every couple of months.  Google tells me it’s Easy Life (easy life if you’re a member of the Daily Mail hang ’em high collective, that is).

I think they used to be Innovations, but they were clearly taking the piss.  I’m sure some of the products are quite good if you’re retired, bored have reduced mobility, but have too much money.  However, some of the stuff is just really a bit mean spirited and designed with the intention of shooing things off, such as:

• Cats
• Spiders
• Flies
• Door-to-door salesmen
• “Foreign-looking and gypsies”

Check out their two page range of pest repellents.  The bit about signs for deterring salesmen and foreigners isn’t true.  I’m just going to stop opening the front door from now on.

Here’s to good health!
That was always the toast at Christmas and New Year.  Add love and happiness and you can”t ask for much more from life.  In fact, if you have all three, you’re pretty much laughing I reckon.

If you have a chronic problem with your hip (for “chronic” read two months) it starts to get you down after a while.  I’m starting to think that I might have done something to it while I was skiing.  Anyway, I’m going for an assessment in a couple of weeks. 

People keep recommending chiropracters and osteopaths to me.  These people swear by theirs, who they’ve been seeing for YEARS with their back problems.  I point this out to them.  They don’t get it.  I also point out that homeopathy has been shown to be buncum, yet it’s still sometimes funded from the Public purse, but the fact that osteopathy and chiropracterism (??) isn’t offered on the NHS should indicate that they’re viewed  as even crapper than homeopathy. 

Nothing is more effective than homeopathy.

Think about that one.

Anyway, I assume that the assessment will show that there’s nothing can be done for me and that I’ll have to rely on time and the correct exercises to help ease my problem.  I guess it’s also important to find out whether there’s anything I should absolutely avoid doing.

I think the days of me getting my ankles round the back of my head are way behind me.

Bed time
You know, I have no idea where time goes. 

It seems that one hour of not work time is worth three hours of work time.  I swear I’ve only been home for two hours and it’s bed time already.  Yet I get to work at 8am, send off a load of e-mails, do some spreadsheety things, have a cup of coffee, go for a poo, look at the clock and it’s 8:08.

I get home from work, prepare and eat my dinner, take the little feller out for his walk, come back, and it’s bed time.

This is where I take him:

It’s just up the road from here.  He can run along pathways, bounce through the long grass, completely missing the fact that there are fifty rabbits bouncing around him.  This evening the swallows were doing stunt flying at his height and within a metre or so of him.  He didn’t really notice because he’d found another dog’s poo to sniff at from close up.

I wish could report that my back troubles are behind me (there’s a pun in there somewhere), but there’s still quite a bit of residual pain and weakness in my lower limbs – they being my legs.

But enough of woes and worries, life is good.  Observing my parents over the years, I’ve learnt that you can’t dwell on things that are wrong; you have to appreciate the things that are great, and I’m so fortunate to so many things that are fantastic:

• My job
• The healthy state of my finances
• My lovely little dog who provides me with such joy

… hang on a minute

There, I automatically concentrate on the things that cause me anxiety.  I must stop doing this and break down the things that cause me anxiety and turn them into positives.

• My job is relatively well paid and relatively secure.  I work for a really good employer, get great holidays and have a good pension.  The work is flexible and I am privileged to work with some of the most academically brilliant people you could meet.  The fact that I am high up on the autistic spectrum makes it ideal for me in many ways, what with all the spreadsheets and that.

• My finances are not and will never be in a healthy state.  I don’t have any credit card debt, but my overdraft suffers as a result. I should be rolling in it, but I’m not.  I don’t know where my money goes.  I’m too scared of money to look at where it goes.  I’ve tried; every time I think I’m sorted, I try really hard to keep track, but then it gradually drifts into the red again and I get scared to look.  I’m a grown-up, for goodness’ sake – I should be able to deal with money.  At work, I deal with accounts worth more than I’ll earn in a lifetime, and I can account for every single penny in them, but at home, it just doesn’t work for me.

• My little dog has never, and will never be well behaved.  I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s just not wired right.  I can control certain aspects of his behaviour – every afternoon when I get in from work, I raise my head to the skies and start howling and he joins in – but I’ve learned that he is predictably unpredictable.  It’s just the way he is, and I love him all the same.  I love him for the way he greets me with his entire body when he’s not seen me for a while.  Even though it’s mildly irritating and painful having him rake his claws on me as he jumps all over me, I know that this type of unconditional love and joy (and relief) cannot be bought with all the money in the world. 

Even the most negative aspects of my life have huge positives.  The simplest things that most take for granted bring me so much pleasure.  And the most wonderful parts of my life make me feel like I’m the wealthiest person on this planet.

And I love cocodamol and diclofenac.

Vegone
My flirtation with the vegan diet is very much on the wane.  It’s one of those things that’s observed with so many things, but especially things like taking medicines: compliance is so much better when there’s an obvious benefit.

• I take diclofenac for pain relief – my pain is relieved – diclofenac is effective for pain relief
• I take cocodamol as a recreational drug because I don’t drink or take other drugs – cocodamol makes me a bit squiffy – cocodamol is OK if you fancy getting off your tits
• I tried a vegan diet to lose weight, it meant changing my entire eating habits and depriving me of pasta and sausages – I stuck to it and didn’t lose weight – a vegan diet makes you depressed

I need to come up with a healthy eating plan that’s easier for me to stick to (or get depressed and start smoking again).  I’m sure the vegan thing would have been more effective had I given up sugar and reduced my portion sizes to just half a kilo of rice a day, but I don’t have the patience to stick to something like that unless the results are better.

Stairway to the top of my stairs
Here’s a thing.  I take photos… LOTS of photos.  I’m not quite as bad as Rainman, or in need of a memento of all my movements (“remember Sammy Jenkis”), but I do document my life on camera.  I rarely show my photos to anybody;  I think they’re shit.  I have on my computer thousands of images, amounting to nearly 60GB disk space, that I’ve captured over the years, yet I’ve struggled to find sufficient to do this:

I wanted to have a display that journals some events and travels with my girlfriend.  My life before her can go shit off for all I care – well, my life with the other one can, that’s for sure.  Anyway, I think they look pretty cool (with varying degrees of help from photoshop… and cocodamol).  I must learn to be less self-critical, to see the photograph within the image.  Out of all of them, my favourites are:

So, that’s two photos out of thousands.

I am awesome.

I’ll be back again soon with some venomous ranting.  I’m storing quite a few subjects up and top of my hitlist are Salford City Council and car headlamps.  Oh, and students, motorcyclists, supermarkets… and Scottish Power meter readers… idiot colleagues.

CAAAAAALM

Crikey, I’ve been crap at this.  Have we had winter and Christmas yet? 

Yes, well, anyway (:@) I only popped in to check on things, but it might be nice to regale you all (two of you) with stories of skiing exploits (twice) and other stuff that hasn’t really happened.

Sniffy, what are you doing?
The words echoed around my head for weeks after my first encounter with alpine skiing in France in January.  Poor Noel, my instructor.  Poor, poor Noel.  I’d be taking a rest, or being unsuccessful at what I was trying to make my skis do, or falling over and his words would ring out through the crisp January air: “What are you dooeeeeng?”

I never really had an answer for him, so I just smiled, hoping that the pain would go away at some point.  Because it hurts, you see, skiing.  Everything really, really hurts.  Mainly shins and knees, but also arms (from using poles), feet, head (from concentrating), lungs (through lack of oxygen), stomach (from overeating).

But yes, skiing: it’s actually fun.  I never thought I’d find myself admitting it, or even trying it in the first place, but it’s great fun.  And nothing can beat the fresh air, the wonderful views, the feeling of achievement in actually being able to do something physical rather than intellectual.  And that feeling of cruising along, with only the sound of crisp snow shooshing beneath you (because you’re on a spaz slope that accomplished skiers wouldn’t be seen dead on apart from the end of the day on their last run into the village).  But you find yourself at peace…. until you inexplicably lose it and have to figure out how to get up.

So that’s skiing for you.  Painful, but fun, and every ache and pain is worth it when you consider the boutique catered chalet life that you enjoy for the week.  My word.  Spoilt.

Falling apart at the seams
Life is blissfully dull, although my 41st year has brought with it the onset, or aggravation, of a number of persistent niggles that are achy and annoying and ridiculous.  I recently gave myself a stomach ulcer from prolonged use of ibuprofen (back); I can’t walk more than a couple of miles without my feet giving me crippling pain; I’m having blood tests “for my glands”.

But life’s great.  The sun, it shines, and with it I am filled with happiness.  I still detest people  (hateful, selfish morons), but my shouty episodes are soon forgotten and I find it very easy to appreciate that I’m very wealthy and terms of love, contentment, and shiny things that make it all better. 

Hot water
One thing that I really appreciate is hot water.  Nothing is more soothing than being able to take a hot shower whenever I like; washing my hands under hot water with nice soap – an absolute luxury.  Just think about it, washing your hands in cold water, or not being able to at all.  *shudders*

And people are whinging because they have to wait for a bit until they can have their next gadget or a new car.  Get a fucking grip.

Vegan
I’ll come back to this one.

Or whatever…

A couple of years and a bit ago, there was a song in the charts by the Irish group The Script called The man who can’t be moved.  The singer told the sorry tale of breaking up with his girlfriend and, hoping that one day she’d change her mind and want to find him, he’d be there on the corner where they used to meet.

Awwww, what a sentiment.

Shortly after, they followed this sorry tale up with Break even; a song about a bloke being dumped by his girlfriend “I’m still alive, but I’m barely breathing…. I got time while she’s got freedom… when a heart breaks, it don’t break even”. 

Well, he was still hurting, obviously.  As I was at the time – things were still terribly painful for me after my own horrible break up and no, when a heart breaks, it don’t break even.  Not when your ex other half is a complete twat who dumps you for somebody else then rubs your face in it while you’re still sharing a house. 

But two years on, during which time I eventually got myself back on track and met somebody wonderful and found myself happier than I’ve ever been, Mr The Script is STILL going on about breaking up with his girlfriend… for fuck’s sake.

Talk you down (2009) – yep, she’s breaking up with him still

Before the worst (2009) – still trying to persuade her not to break up with him

For the first time (2010) – now they’re drunk, and wondering whether they can make it work

Nothing (2010) – his mates take him for a drink because he’s broken up with his girlfriend, he gets pissed and starts shouting around the streets, trying to persuade her to take him back

Now, Mr Script, can I suggest something to you?  She doesn’t want you.  I could’ve told you this in 2008 because, after a few weeks of begging somebody to change their mind, you actually know in your heart of hearts that you lost them as soon as they took somebody else’s phone number.  Just move on.  Get some counselling.  Have a rebound shag.  But move on, she doesn’t want you.

I think Mr The Script should listen to some B52s, turn his hand to writing songs about out of control parties, shopping malls, sea creatures and the like.

Misery
I wouldn’t say that I’m feeling miserable as such, just a little fed up.  There’s nothing to make you feel quite so alone as when you’re left to wonder why there’s a tree in your dining room; we got the Christmas tree at the weekend and Ali decorated it beautifully.  I recalled crushing one of the LED Christmas lights last year after noticing that a few of the diodes remained unlit.  But with just me being here, with me being on my own here for the next few weeks, I can’t help think it’s a bit odd to have a tree where Deirdre the sideboard should be.

Winter isn’t treating me well this year.  The darkness that descended in September has had an usually adverse effect on my mood; I am constantly tired and achy.  And it’s fucking freezing. But at least I have an electric blanket.  And the love of a wonderful woman and a smelly little dog.

At least I don’t make a wanky Christmas card out of these shots

Fuck, my dining room has turned into Narnia!

I might be a bit miserable because of weekly separation from the person I want to be with, but at least I have her.  I count myself very lucky every day.

Now, I wonder if I can attack the little dog’s dew claw while he’s sleeping….

I bought a washing mashine in the middle of October 2009.  It wasn’t the one I wanted, the one I wanted couldn’t be sourced for weeks, so I was offered a Whirlpool one for the same price – brilliant! It’s quite fancy, it has a big drum, lots of cycles, it’s sleek, it’s black, it’s sexy …. it’s broken.  Twelve months and three weeks after buying it (ok, thirteen months), the digital display died on me, so without being able to see what settings I’m using, doing my laundry has become a game of Russian Roulette (some might say they’d assumed this had been the case all my adult life).

Did I take out the extended warranty at £xx per year?  For a £500 washing machine?  Surely with an expected lifetime for a washing machine of 7 years, you’d expect it to last more than four years before anything went wrong on it?  So no, I didn’t, the robbing fuckers.  Are they domestic appliance manufacturers or insurance agents?  Or just twats?

I e-mailed them last week:

Message: I purchased this washing machine in mid October 2009. I ran a load earlier, and when the cycle had finished, the digital display was showing in green, but the numbers were not showing properly. On further investigation, there is no temperature display at all, the time display is very distorted and the spin speed indicator is barely legible. While I realise that this machine is possibly a whopping 2 or so weeks out of warranty, after just a year of low to moderate use (I live on my own), I wouldn’t expect a well-maintained, £450 appliance to start showing signs of malfunction after this period of time and nor would anybody else. This is clearly a fault with the machine and I would like it to be repaired, can this be arranged please? Many thanks. Sniffy.

Their response today: 

Dear Dr Sniffy,

Thank you for your email.

Whirlpool is the number one white goods manufacturer in Europe and our appliances are made to the highest standards. They enjoy a world-wide reputation for reliability and durability but of course any appliance that has functional parts or electronic components can fail at any given point resulting in repairs being required.

As a safeguard against unexpected and sometimes expensive repairs after the initial warranty period has expired Whirlpool offer both extended service and parts cover at prices that are competitive with other major manufacturers. These contracts are considered a wise investment by many of our customers.

Whilst I can sympathise with your disappointment that this repair is required unfortunately in the absence of any warranty this would be fully chargeable. I understand this may not be the response for which you had hoped but I apologise nevertheless for any inconvenience caused.

Kind regards

Whirlpool UK, C.U.N.T.Y.

And my response to them: 

Dear Whirlpool Cuntstomer Service,

Thanks for your response.  Disappointngly, it was as expected, which is quite frankly disgraceful and an admission that Whirlpool doesn’t expect its products to last for any decent length of time or care when they don’t (in this case, three weeks out of its warranty period – THREE weeks).  Consequently, it effectively blackmails its consumers with overpriced insurance policies to cover for its products’ shortcomings.

I can confirm that I will not be buying any Whirlpool products in the future and I will make strong recommendations to anybody I have contact with that they avoid Whirlpool like the plague. I will be starting with the shop I bought the machine from so they can inform their customers about the fault with these machines and Whirlpool’s attitude when alerted to them.  In fact, the only reason I ended up with a Whirlpool was because there was a pan-European delay on the Hotpoint (how I wish I’d have waited). 

With all due respect,

Sniffy

So to all you people thinking of buying an appliance – don’t bother with Whirlpool

And this is just the start.  I shall soon be waving the Sale of Goods Act at them, with reference to the section on durability.

Why can’t these idiots realise how word of mouth from satisfied customers is their most effective way of advertising?

Contrast my sister, Bomb’s experience with Bosch when her lawnmower blew up, way out of warranty.  They were so embarrassed that they were really apologetic and gave her a replacement free of charge.  That’s the Germans for you.

And do you know that Bosch tumbledryers have a light inside the drum?  They do.  Fabulous.