Thursday March 31, 2005
I was astonished to find this morning, not more than three hours after I’d changed the domain name pointers to reference oldgreypoet.com’s new home, that when I clicked on the URL, I found myself looking at the new place rather than the old. And what’s more, I couldn’t FTP to the old one. I’ve always thought it took between 24 and 72 hours for these things to come into effect.
Hey ho, I chuckled, no problem. So I uploaded the new entry to the new site, plopped the notify posts out, and sat back, job done. Or so it appeared.
Then, when the notify emails turned up in my mailbox, I clicked on their links to check ’em, just as normal, and found to my great puzzlement that I was looking at the old site. And so the confusion went on throughout the day. Sitting back now and reflecting on it, I ought not to have been surprised. The pointers are propagated around the Internet to goodness knows how many DNS servers, on different schedules, and the nature of the ‘net is that there’s no telling which DNS server you’ll be routed through on any particular call. Which is the strength of the Internet, of course. And, for me today, its weakness, too.
I think the best thing to do when changing hosts is to go on a three or four day hiatus while everything settles down, and I’ll probably do that next time. If there is a next time.
Or perhaps the random fallibilities and incongruities of the system are part of what makes it such fun.
“How much longer are you going to be?” Graham asked, almost but not quite tapping his foot.
“Because I’m waiting to go off to the dump with the next load.”
“Oh. Shoot. Sorry. I’d quite forgotten.”
So, with as much of the meeks and milds as I could muster, I snapped the computer off, donned my outdoor clothes and we headed off in the direction of Skegness. The second of our three scheduled dumping operations was quickly done and I was gratified to see that we were chucking out old, unwanted electronic junk.
I think, at peak, we had seven complete medium hifi sets. At most we need three. The others we were hanging on to because they cost money to buy, might come in useful one day, and, like most such things, have little or no resale value. Now we’re down to just the one unwanted one and that is a problem. It’s our ‘real’ hifi, consisting of an Audio Innovations Series 500 valve amplifier and a matched pair of Snell Type E floorstanding speakers, complete with monstrously heavy custom-built speaker stands, and it cost a small fortune. We neither of us want to sell it even though it has a pretty hefty resale value, but we don’t want to have it in our living space either. So it sits in the attic, safe in the original boxes, waiting for an end to our indecision.
Other than that, we’ve done a pretty good job on decluttering. I’ve sold a great many items on eBay and, while I’ve not quite finished and so have missed my target date, I’m just about scraping the bottom of the barrel now.
There’s more stuff to dispose of before we move, and we’ll keep plugging at it. I’ve proposed a different approach to packing this time, one I read of in a list of moving tips. Instead of packing things up in boxes wherever they may be we shall designate a room for packing, complete with a table and supplies of packing materials. An addition of my own will be a large sack to receive stuff that we decide at the last moment we really do not need and do not want to take with us or put in storage. The idea is that you carry the stuff to be packed into the packing room, wrap it and box it, and stack the boxes along one wall, on a large blanket put down to protect the carpet. If at the last moment you decide that something really isn’t worth packing, you dump it into the sack for disposal. That way you end up with a house that’s completely empty apart from larger furniture and one large stack of boxes, making the final clean up a much easier affair.
I’ve also floated the idea that we should engage the services of a cleaning firm rather than hang on trying to do it ourselves. The idea of waving the removal van off, popping ourselves and Dolly into the car and simply driving away as the cleaners move in with their buckets and mops appeals to me greatly. There’s something profoundly depressing about that last cleaning session in an empty house, probably because you’re tired to the bone at that point and want nothing more than to turn your back on the old place and head off to the new.
I suppose we ought to be getting quite good at the house moving game. We’ve done it enough times, after all. By my count this will be the sixteenth time we’ve moved house in our twenty-six or so years together.
Time we settled down? Well, probably. But I doubt that our itchy feet will ever stop prodding us onward and upward. It’s not such a bad thing, really.