Ikea part 2

Sofa arrived and Alan assembled it remarkably quickly and easily. It looks even better than it did at the store. I really like it now! OK, so I was wrong grumbling about it. However, that only makes it worse because as I predicted it sticks out like a horrible sore thumb.

The contrast between the beauty of the sofa and the ridiculous awkwardness of it sticking out into the room and partially blocking my desk and the general idiocy of having a big bookcase behind it quickly seeped into Alan's conciousness and after a couple of measurements he admitted that he could move the bookcase into a  corner of the bedroom so the sofa can sit directly against the wall. Problem solved. (What a surprise ;)

Alan and I are both amazed at how nice the sofa is. I never expected this from just looking at it at Ikea and sitting on it at the store. It really looks so different, so much better. Yay!

FWIW, we bought the Ektorp 2-seater sofa in white. The living room walls are painted a soft dove gray and the woodwork and shelving is white.

Ikea

We went to Ikea last night after Alan got home from work. Turns out it was the opening day of Ikea's big summer sale. You can just imagine.

So after weeks of talking about what sofa -I- wanted for the living room and how it was my choice, we agree on a specific model and color Ikea sofa from the online catalogue. We get to Ikea and trek our way to the sofa section and yes! They have my choice sofa in stock, in the colour I wanted, and on sale....and then.....Alan makes unhappy noises and says I'm not so keen on it and takes me to look at a different sofa that he now claims he prefers. It's quite different and one fast glance at it would tell anyone who knows me that Barb did NOT make that choice. But, hey, that's what being married means - compromise. Phooey!

Anyway we agreed to get the sofa Alan liked so I didn't have to spend the rest of my life with him being a thundercloud every time he looked at it. Please don't think I am a pushover about this issue because I'm not, I'm a quiet, devious passive aggressive on this. The trick here is that the sofa Alan chose is deeper than the one I picked. So when it is delivered today he will discover that in order to get it to fit in the Living Room in the only available space - he will have to remove the bookcase he snuck in there (it was part of my allocated wall space) to hold his CD collection. Ka-ching!

Anyway, we also bought 2 new dining chairs for the kitchen and a new lamp for me. They were all on sale 50% off which was delightful since I had planned on buying them anyway but the sale was an unexpected extra.

Just waiting for the sofa delivery today.

Stuffed Dormouse

While looking through my Recipe folder for a cheesy potato and bacon recipe, I just noticed I had one for "Stuffed Dormouse".

Facepalm moment! Why? Why? Perhaps in my Culture/History folder but in my active Recipe folder?

Sexual harassment in the world of video gaming

News article from the BBC website:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-18280000

I have mixed feelings about this. Partly it's the free choice of someone to walk into a game - and if it's a violent aggressive game, what did you really expect? The Politeness Pirates? If on the other hand, it's a (for example) role playing game of a non-violent sort, I totally object to sexual harassment or any sort of abusive behaviour - different deal there.

Some of the examples given are in line with my feelings ie you walk into a strip joint or a rough guys bar, it was your choice so if you don't like it, walk away.

I think the real problem is the shield of anonymity - people act amazingly better when their identity is known and they may have to face the consequences of their behaviour. No need to have IDs hanging on people's necks but verified IDs with a working good email address should be held by the company running the games. If you then choose to go into grey market non-ID games, again, you get what it says on the label.

What's with all the monkeys?

Recently my ex Tom posted (without my permission) a set of misc. old family photos including some from before we'd met. Among those were several of a squirrel monkey. One of the responses to that posting was a query from Tavie asking what's with the monkeys.

It's a long story. Ask me about it next time I am in NYC and I'll tell you the whole story, Tavie.

In the meantime, here's the quick answer - as a teen I did volunteer work for the ASPCA's Education Dept.  They sent me to professional animal care and management classes and sponsored my certification as a Lab Animal Technician. During those years I was often asked to care for/rehabilitate monkeys and other small exotic animals they'd rescued until a suitable placement was made. The monkey in the photos Tom posted was named Peter; he was very well socialised (as much as any wild animal can be.) Originally there were a lot of photos of all the various monkeys and apes I took care of over the years including squirrels, spiders, capuchins, woolly, macaques, orangutans, etc. I also cared for ferrets, kinkajoos, otters, and infant tigers. I guess only the photos of Peter survived.

How sad, how depressing, facing Easter and not a peep to be had.
How can a nation survive without peeps?
Especially stale peeps, just turning slightly crisp and crunchy.
That's what's wrong with the UK, no peeps.

Alan's accepted a job offer today and starts at the new company on Monday. Yay! Looks to be much more interesting, and even exciting, work. The daily commute will be a bit of a change, he'll be driving out of London into the suburbs rather than fighting the mobs on to Tube into Central London.

On the home front, we've finished all the unpacking and life is starting to take on a comfortable, pleasant rhythm at the new flat. We still need to buy kitchen chairs, 1 more bookcase at Ikea, and a sofa for the living room but those are all icing and just make life a bit nicer, not critical to everyday.

I really love the neighborhood - the restaurants, the little shops, the green fields our living room and bedroom overlook - and the relaxed cafe culture of the high street.

Life in Chiswick

The move is actually just about complete. Tomorrow Alan returns to the old flat to read the water meter and to pass on our old bookcases to a neighbour. Meanwhile, at the new flat in Chiswick W4, I continue to unpack boxes and attempt to  bring order out of chaos.

We bought new bookcases from Ikea; enough to fill an entire long wall in the living room and they're all assembled now, ready for us to unpack all the books tomorrow. We also bought a modular wardrobe system and its managed to swallow most of our clothes in neat and organised manner. Amazing!

I love our new kitchen; large enough for a proper table. As soon as we pick up a sofabed, there will be crash space for visitors.

Anyway, we finally have achieved Internet! I feel like we've rejoined the living. I'll take some photos and post them here tomorrow. And yes, we did manage to survive the move with both of us alive and still married to each other.

After a week of packing boxes and making phone calls to trace missing deliveries and organize utility transfers - we're back to packing boxes again today. Tomorrow (Sunday) we plan to make 2 trips to the new apartment with glassware and boxes of other small or delicate objects. We'll also start painting - the bedroom first in a duck egg blue. In the next few days we'll go over to Ikea for new bookcases.

I'm hoping to move the furniture and boxes over early this week and be able to hand over the old apt's keys before the end of the week.

Moving house

Moving house makes Death & Taxes look pleasant by comparison. Soul destroying and hideously expensive.

Merry Christmas to all!

The Gift Of The Magi
by O Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Going to a Catholic Mass

One day a Jewish couple decided to see what
a Catholic Mass was like.

Toward the middle of the service, the priest said,
"At this point of the service, if you are not a
Catholic, you will need to leave at this time."

No one left.

So, for clarity of his request, the priest continued,
"If you are a Protestant or a Jew, we would kindly
ask you to leave the sanctuary at this time."

All of a sudden the statues of Joseph,  and Mary with
Jesus in her arms came alive, and Mary said,

"Come on, Joseph, let's take the kid and go
home."

One of the loveliest people I've ever known and had the honour of calling my friend died yesterday. Her name was Dorothea Nissen Phillips; Dea to most of us who loved her. It happened while she was away on a cruise holiday to South America with her husband Fred; travel was one of her great passions.

Typical of the Internet age, I found out this morning when I woke up and saw a text message from my daughter on my iPhone: Aunt Dea died. I've heard people use the word shattered to describe how they felt and always thought it was an overly dramatic claim but the moment I looked at that short message, something inside me shattered.

I'd known Dea for over 40 years; since we were 19 years old. Our lives intertwined in myriad ways over those years. She loved and cared for my children as if they were her own and I in turn loved and cared for hers. We had an endless series of madcap adventures, shared secrets, and shared interests.

I've spent today remembering her, thinking about her daughters Tavie and Kirsten, thinking about Fred, and talking with my own children who are in shock at the loss, reminiscing about the good times we had.

Dea, I miss you so much already.

WTC

2000 -  viewed from Staten Island ferry

 2001 - 9/11  viewed from office

Asti at Everest Base Camp

Asti celebrates with Sword & Martini at Everest Base Camp

And so farewell Toshiba laptop. The migration to the new HP computer is complete. Nothing lost, everything moved over reasonably successfully and basically with little to no hassle. Even managed to remove most of the Bloatware/Crap HP insists on pre-loading computers with though I'm still working out how to uninstall a particularly unpleasant bit of crap called WizLink. But by and large the new computer is sheer delight.

The Toshiba laptop was gone from my desk when I woke up this morning. Alan took it to work with him having offered it to his company sys admin in a deal. The sys admin will take the laptop apart and retrieve the data stick stuck in it and then the laptop is his. I can then return the data stick to its owner and he can then reformat the laptop with Linux. He doesn't care about its laundry list of problems so it works out for us both.

Alan bought me a new computer this weekend. It took me most of Saturday & Sunday to move my files from the old laptop onto a usb drive. Tonight we finally set up the new computer, an HP desktop, and I'm now finishing up moving files. There's still a few hours work installing and migrating data, sorting out mail and passwords, etc but essentially I'm up and running on the new machine.

What a delight it is, my first brand new computer in over 6 years. It's been a nightmare reusing machines from Alan or work, etc and always having to deal with a myriad of things that just don't work right because someone set them up wrong and I inherited the problem.

Next month we'll add a 2nd hard drive as this machine has a spare slot ready for it. I'm hoping to get a 2T drive. I'll also get some more memory as that's deeply discounted at the moment. A new printer is probably going to be a must as HP seems to not be supporting 64bit drivers for the one we have.

West Middlesex University Hospital

I had surgery today at West Middlesex University Hospital in Isleworth, London, UK. This is an NHS hospital and for American readers, let me disclose that it is not a "University Hospital" in any sense we know of in the USA.
The hospital has fairly murky Victorian roots; it was opened in 1894 as the Brentford Workhouse Infirmary (shades of Charles Dickens!), but was partly refurbished/partly new rebuild about 10 years ago. While the current hospital now looks reasonably modern if hideously ugly at a glance, many departments and facilities remain shambolicly designed and run with a laundry list of serious issues. I remain convinced that the entire facility was designed by an airport architect specializing in making access between any 2 locations as distant and difficult to transit as possible; even the disabled parking was placed at a significant distance from the main entrance and at the bottom of a steep incline. Paid parking, of course.

Many of the "Consultants", "Registrars", and registered nurses are excellent, caring, dedicated physicians, surgeons, and speciality nurses. But they are a small drop in a large bucket. The Admin staff is almost unfailingly Kafkaesque in their arrogant, condescending, mean-spirited work practices, often startlingly ignorant and contemptuous of the professional staff, dismissive of patients.

I'll shortly add a post mortem review of serious issues observed at WMUH and a Lessons Learned guide which is probably applicable to any contact with a NHS hospital.

Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows: Part 2

Just watched the final Harry Potter film tonight. Wow! A worthy end to the tale.
Very satisfying, very engrossing.
A good way to end.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other peoples' gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

by Jenny Joseph