British Gas

Are crap.  And so are Sky.  And you know what, I think things can only get worse.

Which is why I shall be waiting until the promised final, final, final boiler fix which has been rescheduled a million times, and is booked in for tomorrow afternoon.

The good news is that a very nice man called Michael did turn up yesterday and fit a 7 day thermostat.

The bad news is that it’s a bit complicated.  I did start to work through the programming whilst following the instructions but I was saved from this tedium by my patronising husband who said “Just write down when you want the boiler on and off, every day, and I’ll programme it.”

I could be generous and assume this was a genuine offer of help or I could assume that he wanted me to steer well clear because he thought I’d screw it up.

Blog blog blog

Blah, blah, blah.

I could do a bit more ranting about British Gas. I get the feeling that this thread has legs, or maybe it would if the right engineer ever turned up at the right time with the right bits. (Because engineers have legs...Oh, never mind!)

I could rant about TV reality shows but my angle is a little unorthodox and might need a bit more thought.

I could rant about the fact that it's coming up to Christmas and I have a cold and all I seem to be doing is drinking and eating and feeling ill.

Haven't you had enough of me ranting?

Acceleration works

The e-mail to Sam Laidlaw at British Gas seems to have had an impact.

Darren (who loves his job and works in Customer Services) now phones me regularly to make sure I'm happy.

I'm not happy because they still haven't fixed the boiler and fitted the thermostat, but the thinking is that if I can vent my anger at Darren it means Mr Laidlaw doesn't get anymore annoying e-mails.

The idiot that couldn't install a new thermostat yesterday, and who had the wrong parts to fix the boiler, will return tomorrow morning. I've told Darren that I don't hold out too much hope.

A senior engineer will also turn up at some point tomorrow to fit the thermostat.

It is a measure of my lack of faith that I requested a weekend appointment so there may still be an opportunity to rectify any screw ups on Monday or Tuesday.

Old boiler

I might have mentioned a certain irritation with British Gas before, maybe here, here, here and here.

Well the boiler is up to it's old tricks.  It usually decides to let us down about seven times a day.  This is an inconvenience but I know how to fix it.  Next week when the house has guests, they might be less understanding if, mid shower, the hot water suddenly turns cold.

I've been through the usual two appointments before we get to the one where they promise to fix things and they sent an idiot.  Granted it wasn't his fault the previous guy had ordered the wrong parts but, you know what, I don't think he had the wrong parts.  I think he decided he couldn't be bothered.  Lazy git.  And I made him a decent coffee.

I'd arranged to have a different thermostat fitted today too.  Killing two birds with one stone was the plan but it's sort of turned into the Hitchcock film Birds, which is rather scary.

How can a qualified British gas technician (sorry I am beginning to resent using the word engineer) say that the wiring looked a bit confusing and he wasn't sure what to connect to what?

He started to suggest he'd leave that for the guy who would arrive with the right parts but then it transpired that they're "a bit busy 'cos it's Christmas".  (No shit Sherlock!)  That means I'll need a further two visits which of course assumes no further screw ups, which we know is ridiculous optimism.

Sam Laidlaw's minions were quick to respond to my first e-mail, but the promised speedy contact from Customer Services is still pending.  Maybe they're hoping I'll cool down.  Well without a fully functioning boiler I might do more than cool down; I might freeze!!!

This one's for Victoria

Went on Christmas lunch duty today.

Lost my scarf. Yes the one I bloody well knitted and I liked. I am gutted, but not gutted enough to about turn when I got to Moorgate and realised.

Nearly snogged a girl. Lucinda nearly got snogged. Nobody dared me to do it which is why it probably didn't happen and, to be fair to Lucinda, she might have told me to get lost.

I found out a few things about colleagues that I didn't know before, and honestly Vish and Rana I never had a clue.

Talked about sex toys for a while.

And Michelle, you have a lovely bum which should be shown off more often, and if you ever want to go bra shopping together, it's a date.

I lusted over Apple product. I want an iSomething. Phone or Touch, not sure I'm fussy but probably Phone.

I discovered that someone has a plan that involves me and that's all the detail I have.

Anyway I sit here wrapped in a towel sipping Alka Seltzer doing this for the lovely Victoria who I have always appreciated but now so even more so.

And the answer is....

Conversation between Dave and Ethan:

Ethan: Daddy, what's the third biggest country in the world?
Dave: I'm not too sure, maybe India.
Ethan: No, silly. India is the seventh biggest country.

For those who are wondering, the third biggest country is either the United States of America or the People's Republic of China. This is disputed and depends on whether territories claimed by India are included in the China figure.

No No No

Every Monday I catch the tube between Liverpool Street and Euston Square. Well not every Monday, but enough Mondays to have an opinion.

As we pull into Kings Cross there is an announcement advising us of the fact and suggesting that should be need the Royal Institute of blind people, we should alight when we reach the station.

No, no and thrice no!

It's the Royal National Institute for the Blind. The omission of the word National isn't the thing that irks me, it's the use of the words "of blind people." The Institute, I'm sure, does not comprise entirely of blind people. I understood it existed to make life better for the blind and partially sighted, i.e. it was for the benefit of those who were blind.

Anyway it winds me up every Monday, so I thought I'd share it with you to see whether anyone else might find it irksome.

Tim is my idol, sort of

We were having a chat in the office about entertaining the other day.

Whenever I know people are coming over to the house (e.g. this weekend) I start to worry.

I just try to plan and re-plan and think through when the preparation will happen, when any cooking will happen, what to cook, where to serve it, when to serve it. You know what I mean. You might think I'm mad and you'd be agreeing with Tim who didn't understand this at all.

Tim's view was that one doesn't need to worry about any of this until the day and even then a couple of hours prior to guests arriving.

Tim obviously has an immaculate and very well organised house. He obviously has a kitchen of unlimited possibilities and a chef-like ability akin to Gordon Ramsey.

My ambitions run more along the lines of sausage rolls or chicken goujons (which are just posh long nuggets), Pringles or tortillas, pizza slices or vol-au-vent. OK, I'm exaggerating for effect (the goujons are way beyond me) but there are things to consider: the fussiness of children, the ease of eating without having to sit at a table, food that can be eaten by children without it ending up all over the walls, how much to cook, how to accommodate everyone's likes and dislikes, and this is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of considerations.

I'd love to be like Tim and not worry about everything until the day, but my house is a picture of disorganisation which matches my mind. Stress and worry are my bedfellows.

How blonde?

I checked in for a flight at Stansted with Tracey, a seasoned traveller.

We checked our bags and headed over to the security section. Just before we went through I had a horrible realisation. In my handbag I had two penknives.

I know, one penknife is a mistake and two is criminal. Well actually, if David Cameron had his way I'd be arrested.

I realised it was too late to put the knives in the checked luggage because it had been checked and had disappeared into baggage handling hell. So we approached a gang of three men wearing fluorescent jackets with the word security emblazoned. This was a risky strategy, as we realised when they threatened to lock me up.

We explained my problem and the lovely men had a solution. They explained that I could leave them in lost property but I'd be charged £5 per day and a better solution was to buy a jiffy bag and stamps and post the knives to myself.

We started to edge away from the lovely fluorescent men towards WH Smiths when they caught us to ask a question. "Have you got a car?"

Of course. The car. How blonde were we? It never occurred to either of us that we could nip out to the car parked in the short term car park right next to the terminal and drop them back in the car.

Very blonde.

Little donkey

It's that time of year again - nativity preparation.

I'm sure most of you will remember the song Little Donkey...you know, "Little donkey, little donkey on the dusty road. Got to keep on plodding onwards with your precious load..."

Hannah's been learning this, but she and a couple of friends have come up with an alternative:

Little donkey, little donkey on the M25.
Got run over, by a Land Rover.
And then, he died.

Ah bless, how sweet.

Fat swimmer

I've taken up swimming. Well I say taken up swimming but that makes it sound as though I can't swim. And actually I can't swim very well, and that's my point.

I swim once a week now because it's an exercise that I can fit into a relatively short period of time. On Thursdays I have two hours to myself. If I were to go to the gym I'd have enough time to get to the gym, work out and get home, but no time to shower and feel human again. A swim, on the other hand, takes less time and allows me to get to the pool, change, swim, shower, change back, get home and have a swift cuppa and magazine read. This is a more efficient use of time and therefore the preferred course of action.

Going back to my first point....I can't swim very well. I can manage breast stroke but not the professional looking breast stroke with goggles, nose clips and head under the water. Mine's more of the old lady breast stroke where someone doesn't want to ruin their perm or shampoo and set. (I hope it's not necessary to point out I have neither perm or set.) The head is definitely above the water but only just because my technique is so awful that it takes a fair amount of effort not to sink.

Breast stroke is a fat swimming stroke and I take up a lot of space when I'm swimming.

The swimming lanes that are available at the pool are the width of a racing swimming lane which, in my defence, I consider to have been designed for one swimmer. If one tries to cram more than one swimmer into one of these lanes, then things get a little crowded. This isn't generally a problem if swimmers are doing the crawl because crawl is a skinny swimming stroke. When two breast strokers meet then arms and legs are likely to come into contact. Even if I'm swimming and encounter a crawler in the other direction, a collision is possible.

The thing is, that it doesn't matter how much swimming I do, I'll still be a fat swimmer.

Balance

Remember when companies used to talk about downsizing? Everyone knew this meant job losses.

Then companies started to talk about right sizing. Everyone knew this meant job losses too.

Some companies are currently talking about rebalancing the business.

Do they think we're stupid?

Negative effects

Marketing departments make some poor decisions.

Nescafe have made the poor decision to sponsor Disney. This means that the Nescafe logo can be seen anywhere that refreshments are available.

This, I could live with. The lack of any decent tasting real proper coffee made from real coffee beans in any of the dining establishments on the whole of the Disney site, I can't.

The exclusivity clause that must have been a key part of the sponsorship deal has succeeded in alienating this potential customer.

I resented forking out three euros for an instant coffee. I then understood why I was in that situation; I needed a decent coffee and Nescafe were restricting my choices because they believed, in their ignorance, that my Nescafe drinking experience would convert me once and for all time and that forevermore I would only buy and consume Nescafe.

Wrong. I had neutral feelings towards the brand that are now twisted and negative and it's all their fault.

Found

It's rare that I found something but today, it happened.

Ethan had lost a watch. It's been lost for months. It's been so lost that we bought a replacement.

It's been so, so lost that Ethan wanted an exact replacement for Christmas.

It's been so, so, so lost that I called the company that made it and who have discontinued the product and begged them to look in the marketing department cupboards to see if there was a sample or something that could provide my little boy with the watch he misses so much. They couldn't help. But I don't need their help anymore.

I found it.

I just need to find Hannah's DS case, my binoculars and the little pendant amethyst heart surrounded by silver that used to belong to my mother. If I find those I will be content.

Normal children

So there I lie on the bed in the doctor's surgery. The door's locked, I'm naked from the waist down, I've assumed the position and have been told to relax. Ladies will realise I'm prepared for a smear test.

I know that many women complain about the smear test process but to be honest I think they should just put up and shut up. I've never found it painful although some claim it is. And as for the indignity, frankly I think it might be just as awkward for the nurse. In my case though I can't remember when this encounter was awkward. My last test was six months ago and I was back for a retest because I'm not normal. I'm not quite sure what that means but I'm not worried; I've never been normal.

Anyway, it's perhaps not an everyday experience but I've had so many examinations "down there" (do I need to clarify here that I mean medical examinations?) that it's really no big deal.

The nurse looking after me was one that has been at the surgery for a while and, at the risk of sounding patronising, she is the lovely little Chinese nurse. (She is lovely, little and Chinese). She has seen me through pregnancies and also administered MMR and other immunisations to the children.

As she was warming the implements she was about to use, we were chatting about how the children have grown, and then she asked "Normal children?"

I thought about this, taken aback such a strange question. I thought that they were fairly normal. I mean they both have their moments, but don't all children? I know Hannah's doing well at school and I assume Ethan will too but it's too early to tell. Is Hannah doing abnormally well? I didn't think so. Just as I was about to reply, she repeated the question; "No more children?"

"No" I replied, somewhat relieved, and the conversation moved onto cervices and how easily, or not, they can be found.

Blog Action Day - Poverty

Today is Blog Action Day. The subject is poverty.

That seems quite apt with the credit crunch crunching right now.

At lunchtime I was listening to the radio and someone was suggesting that China could help us out of this mess.

This evening I found this:



Somehow I don't think China can help.

Makes you feel very sorry for those bankers who won't be getting a bonus this year doesn't it?

Politics

Hannah's school has a school council and pupils are elected to represent their classmates.

Last week all pupils in Hannah's year were asked if they want to stand for election. All of the children in her class, bar one, decided they wanted a chance at power. All interested children were told about elections and were told to think about three questions:

• Why do they want to be a school councillor?
• What would they do?
• Why do they think they would make a good school councillor?

In addition to considering her policies and campaign speeches, Hannah was tasked with preparing a rosette and was given a paper plate as starting block. The instruction was to make a rosette with the candidate's name clearly visible.

Hannah and Dave got busy with a stapler and sellotape, some ribbon, a safety pin and the paper plate. This is what they produced:





I have a feeling Dave was more involved than Hannah.

Scam

Generally, I hate the warnings that get sent around, but I have to admit that this one is important. Please protect everyone you know by sending this to your entire email list.

If a man comes to your front door and says he is conducting a survey and asks you to show him your bum, do NOT show him your bum. This is a scam - he only wants to see your bum.

I wish I'd got this yesterday. I feel so stupid and cheap.

Proof of the pudding

Well I definitely didn't eat it, but I did take a picture of the burnt pasta.

Voice of the future consumer

Me: My next car is probably going to be a bright green Fiesta.
Ethan: I thought it was going to be pink.

Me: Well I don't think the pink is bright enough, but I think the green might be.
Ethan: Why not blue?

Me: Well I think the blue might be a bit boring.
Ethan: When I have my first car....

Me: ...your first new car?
Ethan: ...yes, my first new car. It will be a multi-coloured Fiesta.

Me: That sounds really exciting. How old do you think you'll be when you have your first car?
Ethan: 111. No, 40.

Me: And will you have a second hand car before that do you think?
Ethan: Yes.

Me: And what do you think that car might be?
Ethan: An S-MAX.