Smashing time

In my PJ’s, bare footed as always indoors and making hot chocolate yesterday evening. Hot chocolate mixed. Nicely foamed and being decanted into fancy double walled glasses. All going well until glass insert slides out of cafetiere, pushes fancy double walled glass over, glass tips over spilling foamy brown liquid everywhere, falls onto tiled floor and smashes. As brittle materials are wont to do when they strike hard surfaces at 9.81 metres per second acceleration.

Annoyed at being so clumsy I said “Bugger!” very loudly. Hot chocolate and broken glass all over the place. I turned to go and get the mop when Mrs S arrived to see what the all fuss was. “Stay back. There’s broken glass all over the place.” I said.

“What’s all the noise about?” She asked, then; “Bill. You’re bleeding.”

“Just get the mop please. And pass the paper towels.”

“Bill. You’re bleeding all over the place. I’ll get the first aid kit.” She told me firmly. I was about to say, ‘It’s only a scratch’ when I looked down and noticed that there was a large trickle of my O rhesus positive, venous (darker) rather than arterial, coming from a neat six inch long slice across the top of my foot, skin deep, nothing worse, leaving large splotches of slippery dark red on the floor. “Oh.” I said.

Then “First aid kit’s in Decon.” I said, referring to our large downstairs bathroom. So off we trolled to Decon where I could leak blood to my heart’s content without leaving a mess that might alarm any guests. Ten minutes later, bloody paper towels discarded, butterfly sutures applied, several large dressings on top, the flow of red staunched, Mrs S disappeared to clean up the rest of the mess. Including the trail of large bloody splotches I’d left traipsing into the bathroom.

Of course it didn’t hurt, I lost less than 150ml of blood, and the whole business had me kicking myself for being so bloody clumsy. I was more upset about breaking the glass. Those were Mrs S’s favourites. Which I shall replace, as it was my fault one got smashed.

First thing the following morning I even found a couple of shards almost three metres from where the glass hit the floor. So I carefully went around and double checked the whole kitchen and dining area. No more glass shards.

Oddly enough we never found the bit that sliced my foot. Or else Mrs S threw it away with the rest. Now I’ve broken glasses many times before, but never had a piece go ballistic and slice me like that, So I will exercise a little more caution with that particular type of glass in future.

Oh well, it’s all part of life’s great tapestry. Smashing, eh?

Splitting logs

I have a three and a half metre long, metre diameter log to process. This task is necessary to clear it out of the space it has been hogging for the last year and a half. Not having access to a sawmill, I have elected to go old school with axes, steel wedges, and a ten pound sledge hammer. This has proved a learning experience worthy of note. While the privileged go a-rioting about a cause they have little understanding of, I choose to do something constructive.

Splitting a hardwood log of this size is a finicky business and is more about tapping than hammering, of gently splitting along the grain and learning by how to make that split cleanly by trial and error. It’s also frustrating, time consuming and blister forming. Not to mention being very warm work.

The log itself was cut down eighteen months ago and has been seasoning in one of my sheds for that long, so I reckoned it would be dry enough to split into two or three inch slabs around now, which after another six months seasoning followed by some forming and smoothing should yield some useful timber.

Did think about hiring an extra large chain saw, but the tree surgeon who cut the tree down for us pointed out that it had nails in the trunk which kept on ruining his chainsaw. And even if I could hire a mill, it would cost me hundreds in saw blades as they hit the bits of old nail and barbed wire embedded therein. So splitting seemed the logical way to go.

Took me a day and a couple of coin sized blisters (Despite heavy gloves) to get a third of the way through. So far this has yielded two three and a half metre slabs. The first two planks were sapwood, but the third is mostly heartwood, darker, more durable and denser. Closer grained.

No idea what I’m going to use the wood for, but at present I’m too focused on the task in hand.

I’m also sleeping much better, having worn myself out during the day. Mrs S is likewise happier as we now have oue new fridge and dishwasher in and running. The new fridge particularly looms over the kitchen like the obelisk in ‘2001 a space odyssey’.

Above you can see some footage of a highly trained team picking it out of the warehouse prior to delivery. Joking aside, it’s a serious piece of kit that does resemble a Kubrickesque portal into hyperspace, but in reality now easily holds all my ingredients and leftovers without cramming and does not emit brain tangling high pitched screaming noises at certain astronomical conjunctions. Although it does let me know what the temperature is inside in clear, easy to read digital letters.

Similarly our new dishwasher now lurks under the kitchen counter, purring quietly as it saves me getting further detergent rash. I fill it up, press the ‘eco’ button and leave it to clean all our dirty dishes without the need for excessive elbow grease. We think it will save us money overall on our LNG bill, which has been a source of domestic disharmony over the last six months.

One issue is that we’ve been using far too much hot water, and the amount of gas we’ve been using is therefore relatively high at another hundred plus a month for gas. So any saving on that front will be worth the candle. I’ve already pared the leccy back to around eighty euros a month, but with every more energy efficient device, that too will shrink.

I may even be able to stop splitting logs in an attempt to keep warm during the coming Winter.

Kitchen shenanighans

Mrs S and I are purchasing a new fridge / freezer. This is nothing startling or novel. Our old built in model, which came with the house, has failing door seals and probably keeps my electrickery bill higher than it should be, despite the Irish government giving us some of our tax money back in the form of an ‘energy rebate’ of 450 Euros through the high usage months of December January and March.

So in order to make the transition from old to new smoother, today I did a bit of rough carpentry which shifted my coffee and tea making gear into the space where the fridge / freezer used to live. Took a day to cut down the old unit on which the coffee and tea making kit used to live and fit it into the cupboard where the fridge once was. The new fridge freezer will occupy the space thus freed up.

Now this might sound like a lot of unnecessary effort. However, and this is a big ‘however’; our kitchen is in need of an upgrade. We have carcasing that was put in as fitted units back in the 20th century. Every time I go hunting for little used stuff I find odd bits of unhygienic detritus from beforthadawnatime. Well at least pre 1995, which is when our place underwent it’s last revamp. I’ve found little missives from that decade behind old wall units and under the stairs and where once was regency stripe wallpaper (Shudders-the horror, the horror).

The revamped kitchen is going to be, we have (finally) decided, an exercise in simplicity. Open shelving will replace MDF and veneer cabinets so I can take stock at a glance. Ten inch deep shelves will also give me more room to work. Shelving will be oak trimmed MDF with white painted wooden brackets. Worktops are going to be stainless steel. This will be a cooks kitchen. Work will begin on the upgrade proper sometime next year. Maybe.

The new fridge / freezer we have chosen is an American style two door with two freezer drawers below. Not a very big one as these things go, but certainly an upgrade on what we’ve got at the moment and far more energy efficient. Like our current new appliances it can be controlled by an ‘app’ but to be honest, I don’t see the need.

My current ‘smart’ phone gets used for various banking functions as a means of large transaction verification, but otherwise I use it so rarely I’m known to miss calls because I’ve left the intrusive bloody thing at home.

May I posit thusly; why I should run my life to the demands of a piece of technology whose chief function is purely communication? Sometimes I don’t feel like communicating. To be honest I’ve gotten into the habit of checking my pockets before I leave the house before deciding to leave my electronic leash behind. I’ve served my turn being at the beck and call of every eejit the Gods send my way, so the phone does what I tell it, when I tell it, and the rest of the time rests forlornly on charge. It also remains unconnected to the rest of our appliances.

You could make the argument that using an app saves time. My counter to that is; okay, you’ve saved some time, what are you going to do with it? Most people I’ve come across will choose to veg out in front of the telly, their brain cells gradually deprived of the elements of cogency. My TV is only used for playing DVD’s or streaming old TV and movies, the news channels remain unwatched, and to be candid I feel I am a better and happier person for it.

I’ll make an exception for watching Rugby internationals when I’m in the pub, but at home? No. There’s far too much to do, and apart from my increasingly reduced blog posts, there’s a nice warm fire to enjoy in the bar. The odd glass of whiskey and a good book. Or even a hot chocolate Latte (Will post the recipe- when I feel like it) with a shot of Jameson’s, which is a jolly nice way of relaxing after a full days DIY.

A septical view

The past couple of weeks we’ve been smelling something rotten in the county of Mayo. Now I put it down to spraying on local fields to fertilise the grazing and carried blithely on. If the grass is looking a bit tired and nutrient poor, a farmer will empty our the yard sewage digester and spray the resultant noisome stuff on his meadows. It’s one of those great country smells.

This morning I found out it wasn’t one of the local farmers, it was our septic tank that was blocked. The toilets wouldn’t flush properly and when Mrs S flushed the upstairs toilet, all of a sudden a stinking brown soup, about two or three litres, erupted from the Decon shower drain with an ominous gurgle. Oh. Shit. Literally.

First port of call was a drain unblocker. No Joy. Two litres of white vinegar, flush the worst away with the shower on full helped, but the drains were still running slower than a snail taking his time. A stroll outside to check the drain covers confirmed my suspicions. The full fifty feet of black water drain was blocked all the way down to the septic tank across the yard.

It has been raining a fair bit and the ground is saturated, so I wasn’t totally surprised at the gently bubbling morass that greeted me from a very full looking septic tank. Only one thing for it. Wallet in mouth, I began going through the phone book.

Three calls later I managed to get through to a local tank services company who gave me a reasonable quote, which was a relief. I was expecting a bigger sting for an emergency call out. They quoted a time in the early evening, to which I said “Fine.” but wasn’t holding up much hope of having flushing loos until the morrow. Irish workmen tend to operate in a different astral plane to the rest of us, but Ireland is a very mystical place. So I have learned to lower my expectations.

Reader, I was very pleasantly amused when a tank cleaning truck pulled into my driveway after supper just as we were losing the light. Mrs S gave me a look as I went out into the evening drizzle with the big torch. It was a look that said; “Are you okay with this?” to which I replied with a small resigned sigh and twitch of my lips. Because I knew what I was in for.

I don’t think there’s any words to describe the smell of untreated human sewage. It’s not so much a smell, more like a brick in the sinuses. Once smelled, never, ever forgotten. The fragrance is like the worst rot you can think of, the multiplied to the nth power. Rotting cabbage can’t hold a candle to it.

The truck driver, a lad barely out of his teens by the look, maybe I’m just getting old, asked me where the tank and drains were. I pointed out where the known inspection hatches were and the approximate runs of drain, before letting him get on with things, occasionally holding my torch on where he’d stuck his five inch suction pipe and holding onto the running hose.

Quite honestly I was impressed with his careful attitude, and did as he asked me to help speed the job along. He cleaned the tank, borrowed my hosepipe to clean it off, then we set to unblocking the drains. I will not describe the contents of same, just that they stunk and had backed right up to the house. Still, half an hour later he’s packing up, my drains are smelling a lot better than this morning and I’d reflushed the shower drain and given it a good hose down and mop.

“Can I flush now?” Said Mrs S as I came back in out of the drizzle. I nodded yes and she went back upstairs. There was the unmistakeable sound from the upstairs bathroom and a happy little noise from Mrs S. “Are we done?” She called down.

“All done. Driver’s been paid. He’s happy.” I said, getting ready to change into something less tainted. There was the sound of the truck pulling out of our yard. Good service. I’ll use them again.

Now I need a long hot shower followed by a very large glass of Jameson’s Crested. It might get the memory of the smell out of my nose, it may not, but in these situations you have to try.

I think I need to order some more air freshener, for some reason my reserve can has run out.

A handy household tip

We had a bath in one of the downstairs bathrooms at our new Irish domicile. Somewhere previous tenants used to wash their dogs and also two year olds bearing permanent markers as well by the look of things.

The dog thing was easy. Drains were unclogged by removing the circular grid from the plughole and depositing the foetid mass recovered from the U-bend down the toilet. Scuff marks were removed with ordinary bathroom cleaner and lots of elbow grease. The other part proved more difficult. Bleach didn’t even touch the permanent marker artistry, nor did three kinds of disinfectant type cleaner.

Which left only one obvious choice; acetone, like that found in nail polish remover. But I was loathe to use it because acetone does horrible things to resin and many plastics. Fortunately Mrs S suggested her cheap acetone free nail varnish remover in conjunction with make up remover pads, although I’m sure that cotton wool or even paper towels of any kind would have sufficed.

So I applied the acetone-free nail varnish remover with a series of cotton face pads. Fifteen minutes and a lot of squeaking (With the occasional muted sound of amazement) later, the bath was blemish free and ready for use.

Now I don’t know if it was the ethyl acetate or nethyl ethyl keytone ingredient that cut the mustard, but the end result was a bath fit for human use; gleaming and clean. So afterwards I allowed myself the luxury of a good old soak in a solution of scented Epsom salts with a big mug of tea at hand.

End result; now a pale cloud of oil of Eucalyptus and white willow follows my every motion and I am relaxed and clear headed. A once barely useable bathroom is scented with something other than Domestos and more in keeping with our nasal preferences. Domestic equilibrium is restored.

Sometimes I think we could all do with a good old soak in scented water every so often. It’s so very relaxing. So much more so than just a shower. Perhaps that’s why the world seems to be so up it’s own arse all the time. The protagonists don’t spend enough time soaking all their cares away.

By way of an afterthought, candles and wine are permissible, and for Mrs S essential. She has been promised some of the same to help forget about all the self-important drama queens who abrade our sensitivities on a daily basis. I’m just about up to my back teeth with all the hand waving over climate, some virus that has passed it’s worst and who gets to be king of the castle over the water. The markets may dip, but they will recover. It’ll all be the same in a decade or so.

Pass the bath oil.

Enter title here…

Me and my big mouth. Mrs S was complaining about mosquito bites last week. I made the cardinal error of saying; “They seem to be leaving me alone this year.” Ouch, ouch. Itch. One (Two? Three?) of the little sods got into my office and now I’m paying for my Hubris. Socks and long sleeves are now order of the day. Bugger. I have fumigated twice, and the little bastard(s) is (are?) still treating me like an all you can eat buffet. Where’s the Raid?

Meanwhile, other annoyances over on the other side of the Atlantic.

Watch (again?). Digest. Consider.

The UK’s reasons for leaving the EU should be economic, not emotional, and the economics are screaming “Get out!”. The cost benefit analysis is clear. A similarly honest SWOT analysis also comes out in favour of leaving. Too many rules and regulations, too many protectionist tariffs, few real benefits for the working man / woman / whatever. Not to mention the economic threat of mass migration from a hostile culture via Turkey and it’s attendant cost of 3billion GBP per year extra on the poor bloody British taxpayer. Never mind helping the third world, if it stays in the EU, Britain will become third world. Like Hmm, let me see, Rotherham for example.

Although I have a strong suspicion that actually implementing any British exit from the bureaucratic morass that is the EU will be strongly resisted. Will the unelected bureaucrats and has-been politicians of the EU Commission let Britain leave, even if there is a landslide vote in favour of doing so? Other referendums have been dismissed for not voting the right way, so what do the British do if Brussels and Strasbourg don’t like the vote result and say “Non, no, you can’t go”? To which there is only one answer; “Hey, hey, we won’t pay.” Off with their contributions, say I.

Last word: Britain has tried ‘reform the EU from the inside’ – didn’t work then, won’t work now.

Which begs the question; Is there a can of Raid big enough to get rid of the bloodsucking bureaucrats of the EU?