YELLOW

YELLOW
 
Ahead of me the corridor
yellow
windowless
and I wonder
if it will be
yellow
all the way.
 
John Bailey
July 2007, Somerset

Don’t say you weren’t warned

Friday July 27, 2007

Minor panic there. I was ok with the month, and the year, but for the life of me I couldn’t say what day and date it is. I hate that. Oh, sure, a quick glance at the calendar sorts it out, but you do wonder, don’t you.

My only consolation, once I’m over the panic, is that it’s unlikely to be an age-related thing with me. I had the same problem when I was a kid. I got whacked with the teacher’s ruler several times over that. Of course, some hidden boyhood memory of the whacks might be behind the panic but it’s best, in my view, not to go there.

I do confess, however, that if that whacking teacher were in front of me now I’d be sorely tempted to give her a good, stinging whack in return. No matter. I have the last laugh. She’s dead. I’m not.

Graham’s mobile phone was zapped into terminal silence during a major thunderstorm over at the holiday camp last week and, this morning the replacement arrived at the house. I seized the opportunity to go over to the caravan so’s we could lunch and nap together for a mid-week break.

The drive there was interesting. It’d been raining heavily, again, and the water run-off covered the road in a couple of places. I don’t have any problem with it but it’s astonishing how many drivers have absolutely no idea how to tackle driving through standing water, go at it full pelt, and lose control in the deepest part.

Graham was most alarmed when I explained the reason for my late arrival.

“You be very, very careful on the way back, and text me the minute you get home. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Just try it and find out.”

“Sounds like I ought to be more fearful of you than of the water.”

“You better believe it.”

In the event, the rain stayed away for the rest of the afternoon and, when I drove home, the roads were clear once more.

Back home, I returned to the task of researching my Windows Vista problems, and to finding a way forward. I’m reliably informed that my problems will be solved with the release of Vista SP1, due in November. So, I’ve decided to wait and, in the interim, to use the laptop to download stuff from the video camera. Graham’s using the laptop in the caravan just now so I have access to it only once a week.  Should this become a problem I’ll chance my arm with using his almost totally disassembled desktop PC here at home.

Anyone who knows me and my approach to computing will understand that I like to have a plan ‘B’.  To that end I’ve been researching Ubuntu.  Everything I come up with indicates to me that, with Ubuntu, Unix has finally come to maturity.  When I first used Unix, many years ago in the days of PDP computers, I loved it but came to the conclusion that it was not ready for serious business use.  It may still be the case that business use requires something more orthodox; I didn’t research that aspect. I’m convinced however that for home use, Ubuntu brings Unix under control and makes it perfectly suitable.

If we get to Christmas this year without a fully usable and stable Vista then I shall cut my losses and go over to Ubuntu. [Note to MS:  Don't say you weren't warned.]

Store cupboard cooking

Thursday July 26, 2007

Having stayed home in the dry yesterday when I really ought to have gone out for provisions, I was driven to searching the cupboard for my dinner. I’ve done this rather a lot recently, and all the really easy and tasty stuff seems to have disappeared.

There was pasta, of course, and several jars of sauces of different kinds, but I’m not the greatest pasta fan, and after watching another horrid rainy day, I really fancied potato. Just now potatoes are so expensive–would you believe £1.37p a kilo for potatoes against 57p for bananas?–that I don’t buy more than I plan to eat in one or two days.

Sigh.

Then, in a eureka moment, I created a cheat’s recipe for corned beef hash.  I had three slices of corned beef in the fridge and, in the cupboard, one of those long-life foil packs of partially cooked potato slices, onion and bacon mixes intended to simulate a rather posh Swiss potato dish the name of which I forget. Magic!  I slapped the potato mix in the frying pan, covered it, and set it on a low heat. Meantime I broke the corned beef slices into chunky pieces, and searched for (beef) gravy granules and Worcestershire sauce. I was much cheered to find a small can of beans in tomato sauce, too. So, I dumped the beans and a dollop of Worcestershire into a covered microwave dish and set it to heat in the microwave on top of a dinner plate. Then I stirred the potato mix, breaking up the slices, and dumped the corned beef into the mess. I added a goodly dollop of the sauce, sprinkled gravy granules over the whole, stirred gently, covered the pan again and set it to heat through.

By the time I’d fixed a place for myself at the table my dinner was cooked.  It was totally delicious. In all, from inspiration to the heated dinner plate, it took less than ten minutes. I know that. I counted.

I shall need to run my store cupboard down over the next few weeks of course, but I’m going to be sure to have the makings of a cheat’s corned beef hash at all times. Sometimes, store cupboard cooking beats the real thing hands down and it’s impossible to miserable, or lonely, when you’re patting a comfortably full tummy after corned beef hash.

Oxford’ll get it tonight

Wednesday July 25, 2007

When I got back from the holiday camp yesterday evening the house was quiet. Dolly was sound asleep in her armchair. The sun shone as it had all day, the first without rain for well over a week.

I made myself coffee and stood in the open doorway to the back garden, a steaming mug in my hand. Three good gulps and I was fit to trot.

“Right,” I said. “Here I come, ready or not.”

And out I went to cut the grass. Didn’t take long, just right to get me puffing and my heart thumping healthily. It’s a nice patch of grass. A bit scruffy around the edges because I can’t get down to clip them properly and Graham simply hasn’t had the time. Does look good, though, thick, lush, and healthy. If I were the kind of person who calls the living room ‘the lounge’, I’d probably call it a lawn rather than ‘the grass’.

Pretentious, moi?

So, I came back in, washed up, finished my coffee, and toddled upstairs with a glass of ice-cold Guinness to spend an hour watching the news of floods on TV as they seep across the country.  For no sensible reason I was reminded of my infancy, laying snug and safe in my bed under the Morrison shelter and listening to the German bombers flying overhead like heavy-laden bumblebees. “London’ll get it tonight,” my mother would say. She was right, often enough.

I shook the memory off and stirred myself to go down to get a second Guinness. “Oxford’ll get it tonight, Dolly,” I said. She opened an eye. I didn’t really expect any more.

Hard

Tuesday July 24, 2007

It’s rather lovely to have a slightly longer weekend than normal. Today we don’t have to get to the holiday camp until five or six o’clock this evening. Might seem a tad feeble to be rejoicing over what amounts to no more than a handful of extra hours but there you go.

Besides, it meant we could spend the whole day yesterday with feet up and lots of doze.  And that was just Graham. Dolly and I did much the same, in part from a spirit of solidarity but also because we’ve had a hard week, doing nothing.

There have been no great in depth discussions and debates, which is fine by me. Graham’s come to his decision and that’s all I can reasonably ask.

The ‘why’ of our case is obvious.  No-one can work a 14-hour day indefinitely, especially when you get paid for only seven of them.

The ‘where’ and ‘how’ are differerent. Graham’s been poring over house details from Lincolnshire, and that’s his business. We have agreed that, this time, I shall have no part in the decision-making. I’ll handle the business side, because I’m still good at that. But it’s Graham’s job to decide ‘where’ we’re going to live, and the ‘how’, too, so far as it goes. It has to be up to him to determine what he’s going to do for a living. We can discuss it, of course, but the actual decision is for Graham to take.

Dolly and I are going to have to buck our ideas up, though. We’ve both of us become fat and lazy, and we’ve spent far too much of our time this year sleeping and lazing.

Don’t you hate it when the young ‘uns exhibit more wisdom than we do? I overheard a young man t’other day, stating that “the more you sleep, the more you want to sleep.” I’m glad he didn’t say it to me. I have this almost irresistable urge when faced with wisdom on young shoulders. I pinch one of their more sensitive protuberances. Hard. Pinching is good when you’re old enough to be harmless but young enough to do it with vigour.