touch of gas

I like a good grumble; I mean, who doesn’t? It relieves stress, clears your mind and gets everything out in the open, rather than leaving it to fester into a seething resentment that can explode at any time and with little respect to relevance. It is in this spirit that I intend to grumble about workmen. Particularly workmen who set an approximate time of arrival to ply their trade and then who don’t keep to it.

Being a perceptive person, gentle reader, you will recall that sometime over the weekend the boiler at the Athenaeum Club died. Whether or not it died of abuse or old age we are unsure, but the one thing we do know is that sometime before or during the rinse cycle on the washing machine on Sunday afternoon, we ran out of hot water and remained chill-bound thereafter. Even though it is summer and the water pressure of north London leaves something to be desired, taking a cold shower is a rather iffy thing at best and to be discouraged. It is uncomfortable, you don’t feel as clean and any feelings of refreshment it may afford are rapidly dispelled by the igniting of the body’s own internal boiler which kicks in because your nerve ends have fooled some part of your brain (not the vocal or reasoning bit) into thinking you’re cold. So shortly after you are all hot and bothered again.

Washing remains a problem, as does washing the dishes and doing the laundry: although the latter can be helped with judicious use of biological detergents which should be shunned in normal times since bios do not discriminate between dirt and fabric, digesting all with equal alacrity.

colonel_maxim bravely sacrificed a day yesterday to await the arrival of the boiler repair man¹. When, by 6.30pm he was still waiting, I got a rather panicked phone call while I was still in the office. The good Colonel had arranged to be out and I was not yet home. The electric gas plumber had revised his arrival to between seven and eight. I hurried home as fast as a malfunctioning transport system would allow me² and replaced colonel_maxim on electric gas plumber watch. I arrived home at 7.45 by which time the ETA had been revised to “between 8 and 9”.

Well, this was all fine and dandy, but it meant I couldn’t cook anything because I didn’t want to have the gas in use when the electric gas plumber arrived.

Eventual arrival was 8.50. A cursory glance revealed nothing amiss with the boiler which promptly lit when turned on, which cheered me no end. Happily, it went off again and refused to work properly thereafter. At this point our electric gas plumber took the front off and installed a new printed circuit.

So now we have hot water again, though I am not confident that the damned thing is working properly. The water was hot, but not as hot as we have had it.

I managed dinner about 10pm in the end, and over did it somewhat, having programmed in additional chips so that smokingboot could nab some without me feeling short changed. Sadly she did not steal enough and I went to bed stuffed to the gills. Much discomfort, much indigestion, much tiredness and many Remagel.

I overslept this morning.

I blame the electric gas plumber.

touch of gas

I like a good grumble; I mean, who doesn’t? It relieves stress, clears your mind and gets everything out in the open, rather than leaving it to fester into a seething resentment that can explode at any time and with little respect to relevance. It is in this spirit that I intend to grumble about workmen. Particularly workmen who set an approximate time of arrival to ply their trade and then who don’t keep to it.

Being a perceptive person, gentle reader, you will recall that sometime over the weekend the boiler at the Athenaeum Club died. Whether or not it died of abuse or old age we are unsure, but the one thing we do know is that sometime before or during the rinse cycle on the washing machine on Sunday afternoon, we ran out of hot water and remained chill-bound thereafter. Even though it is summer and the water pressure of north London leaves something to be desired, taking a cold shower is a rather iffy thing at best and to be discouraged. It is uncomfortable, you don’t feel as clean and any feelings of refreshment it may afford are rapidly dispelled by the igniting of the body’s own internal boiler which kicks in because your nerve ends have fooled some part of your brain (not the vocal or reasoning bit) into thinking you’re cold. So shortly after you are all hot and bothered again.

Washing remains a problem, as does washing the dishes and doing the laundry: although the latter can be helped with judicious use of biological detergents which should be shunned in normal times since bios do not discriminate between dirt and fabric, digesting all with equal alacrity.

colonel_maxim bravely sacrificed a day yesterday to await the arrival of the boiler repair man¹. When, by 6.30pm he was still waiting, I got a rather panicked phone call while I was still in the office. The good Colonel had arranged to be out and I was not yet home. The electric gas plumber had revised his arrival to between seven and eight. I hurried home as fast as a malfunctioning transport system would allow me² and replaced colonel_maxim on electric gas plumber watch. I arrived home at 7.45 by which time the ETA had been revised to “between 8 and 9”.

Well, this was all fine and dandy, but it meant I couldn’t cook anything because I didn’t want to have the gas in use when the electric gas plumber arrived.

Eventual arrival was 8.50. A cursory glance revealed nothing amiss with the boiler which promptly lit when turned on, which cheered me no end. Happily, it went off again and refused to work properly thereafter. At this point our electric gas plumber took the front off and installed a new printed circuit.

So now we have hot water again, though I am not confident that the damned thing is working properly. The water was hot, but not as hot as we have had it.

I managed dinner about 10pm in the end, and over did it somewhat, having programmed in additional chips so that smokingboot could nab some without me feeling short changed. Sadly she did not steal enough and I went to bed stuffed to the gills. Much discomfort, much indigestion, much tiredness and many Remagel.

I overslept this morning.

I blame the electric gas plumber.

Electronics

Has anyone any ideas where I could get one of these from in the UK?.


InstantMusic Cassette & Vinyl Ripper

I have a fair number of cassette tapes with deleted material on them that I'd like in MP3 format, and up in Sunny Shropshire I have a smaller number of vinyl LPs which would benefit from the same treatment.

I have only used thinkgeek once, and got hammered for import charges which meant that my bargain suddenly wasn't. I believe that everything they ship gets similarly hammered, so I don't feel the need to use them again.

Electronics

Has anyone any ideas where I could get one of these from in the UK?.


InstantMusic Cassette & Vinyl Ripper

I have a fair number of cassette tapes with deleted material on them that I'd like in MP3 format, and up in Sunny Shropshire I have a smaller number of vinyl LPs which would benefit from the same treatment.

I have only used thinkgeek once, and got hammered for import charges which meant that my bargain suddenly wasn't. I believe that everything they ship gets similarly hammered, so I don't feel the need to use them again.

Astronomy Domine

This report from Auntie tells us that scientists are meeting in Prague to reclassify certain astronomical bodies in the solar system. If they agree, and it seems likely that they will, we will no longer have 9 planets in the solar system, but 12. Pluto will be relegated to the “second division” of planets along with newcomers, Ceres, Charon and the only one with its own post code: Xena (2003 UB313).

Ceres is in orbit between Mars and Jupiter and may or may not be classified as a planet but the largest (known) asteroid although it is spherical, while Pluto, Charon and Xena, right out at the far reaches of the system are likely to be reclassified as dwarf planets, or Plutons¹, which are bodies with enough gravity to arrange themselves into a largely spherical shape. There is some dispute about Charon; some astronomers suggest it is a moon of Pluto, others call it a twin planet (or, I suppose, pluton).

I quite liked the idea of plutons exerting enough gravity to form globes until I looked in the mirror. Suddenly I’m not so sure, maybe we should stick with “icy dwarfs”, though that would just transfer body image problems from me to small people².

With all the talk of Kuiper Belts and Oort Clouds and such, I wonder why there has been no mention of the Van Halen Belt, that small area of stars that spills out Hard Rock? ³.


¹Send all jokes based around Who Killed the Plutons elsewhere, please. Unless they are really good.

²But they’re only short arses, so who cares?

³Yes, I know. And I don’t care, so nyah, nyah, nyah..

Astronomy Domine

This report from Auntie tells us that scientists are meeting in Prague to reclassify certain astronomical bodies in the solar system. If they agree, and it seems likely that they will, we will no longer have 9 planets in the solar system, but 12. Pluto will be relegated to the “second division” of planets along with newcomers, Ceres, Charon and the only one with its own post code: Xena (2003 UB313).

Ceres is in orbit between Mars and Jupiter and may or may not be classified as a planet but the largest (known) asteroid although it is spherical, while Pluto, Charon and Xena, right out at the far reaches of the system are likely to be reclassified as dwarf planets, or Plutons¹, which are bodies with enough gravity to arrange themselves into a largely spherical shape. There is some dispute about Charon; some astronomers suggest it is a moon of Pluto, others call it a twin planet (or, I suppose, pluton).

I quite liked the idea of plutons exerting enough gravity to form globes until I looked in the mirror. Suddenly I’m not so sure, maybe we should stick with “icy dwarfs”, though that would just transfer body image problems from me to small people².

With all the talk of Kuiper Belts and Oort Clouds and such, I wonder why there has been no mention of the Van Halen Belt, that small area of stars that spills out Hard Rock? ³.


¹Send all jokes based around Who Killed the Plutons elsewhere, please. Unless they are really good.

²But they’re only short arses, so who cares?

³Yes, I know. And I don’t care, so nyah, nyah, nyah..