Posts from my past
Remember, remember
I have always loved fireworks. The excitement, the novelty, the rarity, the noise, the colours. Wrapping up warm on a cold November evening, woolly socks and welly boots, sausages (inna bun) and toffee apples. The Sun has never liked them (fireworks that is, not toffee apples), fearing the booming and the sharp reports, the sudden bursts of light. The only time he saw a display through from beginning to end was the very first one of his life; he was four weeks old, strapped to his father's chest in a soft little baby carrier, and wrapped snugly with his father's coat buttoned around him. He slept from beginning to end, not stirring once in his cozy cocoon.
So, at Weevil Mansions, the firework lovers stand in the garden oohing and ahhing. The firework loathers retreat to their rooms and play music or DVDs to distract them. Poppy and any number between one and three of her boys come over, and we make an evening of it. This year we bought a selection box which had the added bonus of five huge rockets and a 'Dancing Chameleons' Cake free. Bargain.
In a stunning display of preparation and organisation, Tallboy and I ran around at the last minute, preparing food, looking for torches, filling a bucket with the contents of a used Growbag (we couldn't find any sand), dragging benches to their allotted positions and generally doing the headless chicken thing. Poppy turned up with Beyblade Boy and Thomas Fiend, both in states of high excitement. The Junior Nuts also appeared at the front door, and suddenly we had a houseful. Some of them scampered up to keep the Sun company in his room, the rest of us piled outside eagerly.
First we saw off the contents of the selection box. The Catherine Wheel was brilliant, though perhaps next year we might choose a location slightly further from the pond. The newts must have thought they were on an acid trip. The other fireworks varied from stunning to utter pants but we kept up the oohs and ahhs all the same. We then turned to the rockets. They were huge, three feet long or more, and rejoiced in the name 'Black Mamba'. Well with a name like that, we could only have high expectations of them - but they surpassed even these. They whooshed off at such a pace, and went so high, and exploded in such gorgeous coruscating stages that we were spellbound and exhilarated. The finale was the Chameleons' turn to shine, and with an echoing fusillade the display was over. For once we felt that the money that had just gone up in smoke had been well spent...
The other high point of our annual Bonfire Night celebrations was the sweepstake based on the antics next door at the Shouty Neighbours. Sadly the shouting has affected their eyesight, as they uniformly launch all their fireworks from six feet down their back path, even the ones requiring to be 25 metres away from people and houses. Last year they managed to launch a particularly vicious one onto my roof. Oh, how I laughed.
The set up is always the same - the family hide in the darkened back room, watching behind two layers of glass. Neanderthal Son-in-Law No. 1 has the job of setting off the fireworks, which he does with consummate skill by the simple expedient of having a fag burning from the corner of his mouth at all times. Selecting, handling, setting and finally lighting the firework - always with that dangling fag. Hence the sweepstake. How many fireworks will he have launched successfully before the ambulance is called?
Weevil goes to ground
Funnily enough, I did spend a fair part of today in the Cupboard of Doom. The Boss needed me to find some brackets for mounting projectors. Not too difficult, you might think. Doesn't require a degree in advanced heuristics, one might speculate. Quite.
Let me take you by the hand and lead you into the Cupboard of D. More a room, than a cupboard in fact. Chock full of racking, each shelf (of which there are 24) (I know because I labelled them today) disgorging its varied contents towards the poor new staff member standing on the tiled floor, looking up in a high state of trepidation. The shelves seem to go on for ever, and when they stop, they are still piled high with empty cardboard boxes which stretch yearningly to the ceiling.
Contents of the CofD include old printers, old PCs, mice (USB, PS/2 and serial), hubs, switches, network adapters, graphics cards, toner cartridges, shirts, laptop cases, network cables, IDE cables, power cables, serial cables, parallel cables, SATA cables, other various and unidentified cables, did I mention the cables?, shoes, masking tape, a toolbox, a towel, hard drives, optical drives, Dymo labellers, cardboard boxes, sound cards, memory sticks, nylon trousers, keyboards, software, documentation, a toner vacuum and me. Oh, and apparently somewhere there are these bloody brackets.
I rummaged. I ransacked. I grubbed. I probed. I scoured. I investigated. I excavated. I, not to put too fine a point on it, fossicked. I found one. No I didn't, it was another kind of bracket. Apart from being too small and completely the wrong colour, it was identical. Then, joy of joy, I found one. And another. Sadly the well ran dry at this point and throughout my lunch break the knowledge that I had to find a further three brackets loomed over me.
Adopting a 'watched pot never boils' stance, I sorted out the toner cartridges, tidying them onto one shelf instead of three and carrying out a quick inventory of the stock. As I stood proudly inspecting the neat array of boxes, a glint from the right caught my eye, and I bagged a third bracket. I bore it proudly through into the office just in time to meet up with the technician tasked with putting the projectors up. I waved the third bracket encouragingly. "They don't fit," was the response. A torrent of bad language, curses and imprecations toiled through my brain. "Meh," I said.
Later, I sat at my computer, blinking in the unaccustomed daylight. Unconsciously and in synchronised fashion the Boss and I sat up straighter and looked busier as our radar caught the Beak closing in swiftly. He checked what time I would be in tomorrow morning. "Briefing meeting. 8.30, Staff Room. Introduce you. Great stuff." Better stop blogging and get ironing then...
How to make Cider the Methane Boy way
1. Look longingly at Nice Neighbours' cooking apple tree which overhangs our garden.
2. Ponder the potential for turning the fruit into an alcoholic substance.
3. Realise that at some point on the apple <-----> cider continuum the solid apples need to turn into juice.
4. Look up apple presses on the internet.
5. Recoil in horror at the cost.
6. Resolve to improvise.
7. Email the Alchemist and bombard him with questions about fermentation, yeast levels, etc.
8. Declare that you are aiming to produce a low-alcohol brew - nothing above 10%.
9. Receive lecture on evils of drink and acceptable levels of alcohol from stepmother.
10. Blag some M16 threaded rods from father and an Ikea chopping board and pillowcase from stepmother, then assemble same into a Heath-Robinson apple press.
11. Sterilise equipment.
12. Rinse equipment.
13. Blag bag of apples from Brazil Nut, and use equipment to gather Nice Neighbours' apples in garden.
14. Realise that equipment is no longer sterile.
15. Discover that there is no more sterilising powder.
16. Shrug.
17. Attempt to use press to extract juice from first batch of apples.
18. Trap finger, causing minor bruising and much pain.
19. Wait for father and stepmother to stop laughing.
20. Tighten press as far as you dare.
21. Mournfully inspect teaspoonful of juice in the bottom of overoptimistically large juice receptacle.
22. Accept with alacrity stepmother's offer of the use of her juicer in the knowledge that the next half hour will probably kill it.
23. Chop apples into almost juicer-sized chunks while stepmother juices.
24. Let stepmother chop apples at ten times the speed while you juice like a maniac to produce about two gallons of a vile, dysentery looking liquid.
25. Ensure that the worktop and lino get splattered liberally with juice, pulp and skin.
26. Endure further lecture from stepmother who had mopped the kitchen floor not two hours ago.
27. Clean the juicer, worktop, floor and equipment.
28. The next morning, endure lecture from stepmother about what clean actually means.
29. Clean the juicer, worktop, and floor.
30. Ask stepmother how much sugar you should add to the juice.
31. Go and look it up in the Alchemist's book, as instructed.
32. Determine that you require 7 and a half kilos of sugar.
33. Walk to Lidl to buy the same.
34. Persuade the staff that you are neither a sugar addict nor a bomb-maker.
35. Realise at the checkout that you haven't brought any carrier bags and have to buy them in the store.
36. Carry the sugar home.
37. Look in the hall mirror as you pass and try to assess whether your arms really are two inches longer.
38. Try to decide the best place for the fermenting brew.
39. Then try to decide the best way to keep it at a constant optimum temperature.
40. Settle on using an old fish tank heater.
41. Argue with stepmother when she disapproves of using it in contact with brew.
42. Find a large plastic box, fill with water, sit the brew inside it, and heat the water with the fish tank heater.
43. Find a second fish tank heater, and disappear off to bedroom with a manic laugh and a gleam in your eye.
44. Add the sugar.
45. Come downstairs and ask for a 1m long wooden stirrer.
46. Put on crestfallen face.
47. Search the kitchen and garage for a suitable item.
48. Argue with stepmother about why using the handle of her broom isn't a good idea.
49. Accept her suggestion that you stir it with your hand.
50. Come downstairs T-shirtless and smelling your arm happily.
Weevil, in the kitchen, with the breadknife
I don't know what it is about mornings, but as soon as I get through the doorway into the kitchen, I assume a mantle of irritability which renders me ultra-sensitive to the little niggles which invade all our lives from time to time.
Argh! Look at the crumbs all over the worktop. Is it too much to ask for them to use a plate for their toast? Apparently, yes. Pan right slightly. Look at the discarded knives still laden with margarine and peanut butter. Are their slices of toast so heaped that it's impossible fully to divest the knife of its load? Also, apparently, yes.
Meh. Open the cereal cupboard door, will you? Carefully, mind... Ah. Don't worry, it was nearly finished anyway. I'll just get the dustpan and brush. I think I'll have bran flakes this morning. No I won't, some moron didn't fold the bag back down and now they're all limp.
OK then, toast. Our evil toaster of doom lurks in the corner, glinting invitingly. In goes the bread, down goes the bread, up comes the bread. Down goes the bread, a little firmer this time and with the handle held down. OK, that should do it. I'll just go and boil the kettle. *chang* Funny how it always waits for me to turn my back before prematurely popping up again. Hang on, I'll just hold the handle down myself for two minutes.
Great, so now it's doing a carbon impression. At least it'll be crunchy. Gah! There are crumbs in the margarine tub. I hate that! I excise them carefully then butter my toast. Ack, there is a huge glob of margarine in the Marmite. How is this possible? It's like finding a chunk of steak in a salt pot. IT SHOULDN'T BE THERE! *breathes*
The kettle's boiled now, so the first caffeine intake of the day isn't far away. *splish* Why is there milk spilled all over this surface? And why did I put my mug straight into the middle of it? Hmm empty coffee jar. Thank you, whoever used the last of the old one and didn't get a new one down. The only other two who drink coffee in this house are both hugely taller than me and can reach the coffee reserve on top of the larder. I can't. Swine.
*Sssssh* of hot water in the cup. *plink* of milk, from high up, with style. *dink* of teaspoon lobbed casually but accurately over shoulder into sink, and aaaaaahhhhhhhh that first cup of coffee. Human again :)