Windy Blow And A Damsel In Distress

Well what a week that was!

I don't know about everyone else, but Wednesday night's bit of a draft and dribble of rain kept me awake most of the night. The top house lost a few ridge tiles, half of which were already missing after we had our last big blow ... some people don't bother with house repairs until it's going to be enough for an insurance claim, they only go as far as asking to borrow your ladder.

My neighbour's aerial escaped its moorings and we lost a slate. Grumpy is out on the front as I write - supposedly to assess the damage. This may take some time as he's chatting to all passers by ... whether they want to or not.

The 5th of January [yesterday] is the day I set aside for de-Christmasing the house. This is because:

1. I'm never quite sure when 12th night falls.
2. If I miss the odd items - yes I did, four decorative candles - they can be found and stashed away before 12th night is definitely, definitely up.

We don't want any bad luck this year. It's not like I'm superstitious or anything, but I don't do any washing on New Year's Day either.

Anyway, my near sleepless night went like this:
[twitter follower(s), please skip this bit, as you already know].

1.30am ... One soon to be ex-cat tearing around the house, demanding to be fed and her potty emptied, this would be more acceptable had I not done all this an hour earlier.

Roughly 3.00am ... The noise of several recycling boxes - thanks Amber Valley Borough Council for the crappy light weight, hold very little, flyaway plastic boxes - skittering down the street, stopping only briefly at obstacles - cars - got us both up. Grumpy went out and fetched our recycling back from the middle of the road. I opened the blind to watch the weather and we had a cuppa.

ZZZZzzzzzz.........zzz...............zz...............z ... we sort of dozed.

4.17am ... And I'm now wearing my very grumpy head ... An Asda lorry at their gate, waiting to be let in. The engine was running constantly. That stupid metal retaining wall they put in to hold back Pottery Lane reflects all the noise back to us.

4.59am ... They let the tw***ing lorry in, it took 23 minutes to unload then the next one arrived, at least it saved them opening the gates, closing the gates, opening the gates, closing the gates ... I should be grateful, but clearly I'm not.

7.35am ... Noisy arrival of the recycling lorry, they're up, everyone should be awake ... CRASH, clatter.

ZZZZzzzz.................zz.................z

8.30am ... Phone call - damsel in distress ... 'I didn't wake you, did I?' ... 'No' was my truthful answer. The damsel in question is grumpy's number 1 daughter, she'd got no lights and wanted grumpy to talk her through checking the problem. I left them to it and went downstairs in search of coffee ... hmm, that's where we keep it now is it? I put the kettle on - oooooh, it changes colour [blue to red] - and made something vaguely coffee coloured.

Back in the boudoir/electrical repair shop we drank our, ahem, coffee which had all the qualities of sludge ... a choccie bikkie helped it down and grumpy lied to me about how nice it was; and then informed me that the electrical problem was not solved, he'd go after breakfast.

This meant that poor little old me was left to struggle downstairs with ten emptyish boxes, de-Christmas the front room - kitchen already done, that only took 5 minutes - and haul the now full [ok, I only did two] boxes back up to await their final destination to the loft ... on my own.

This IS normal grumpy father practice - I mean, on the one hand ... it's the middle of the morning and a damsel in distress has no lights, and on the other hand ... a woman with no real sense and little spatial awareness is balancing precariously on a chair taking down Christmas decorations. Which would you choose?

Yes, you're correct, a grumpy father would choose his daughter every time. This is as it's meant to be and I'd be appalled if he'd made any other choice ... even though I am the one teetering with a duster - might as well give things a bit of a waft while I'm up here - and one foot prodding fresh air in search of something solid to stand on.

I must say at this point, if number 2 daughter had phoned her dad for assistance, he'd have been out of bed and up there like a shot ... this is not because she's favourite, but that she'd already have taken the fuses out [and probably the fuse box off the wall] and would be on the verge of poking something with a screwdriver. She is very much a 'do-it-herself' type [like me, funnily enough], the sort of person who'd buy something that was never meant to fit what she wanted it for ... but it was a bargain. She'd then make it fit with ... saw, hammer, screwdriver, cable, paint, you name it, she'd utilize it, and the end result is always a masterpiece. So therefore, if she asked for help, it would be - by now - urgent.

I'm reliably informed that this isn't only fathers and daughters, it's also fathers and sons. I have one friend who - happy to help out anyway - told me that if their son phoned for anything, the answer would almost always be 'yes'. The conversation could go something like this:

Son ... 'Dad, do you think you'd be able to ...?'
Mr Grumpy ... 'Yes.'
Son ... 'Thanks.'
Mrs Grumpy ... 'But that's when we're supposed to be ...'
Mr Grumpy ... 'It doesn't matter, we'll go on that once in a lifetime holiday next year, my son needs me ...'

Anyway, back to this morning in bed - drinking properly made coffee - my grumpy informed me that we - WE - had got a day off. I told him I'd got a BIG pile of ironing to do [more than eight items is a big pile in my book].

'Oh ... have you?' ... 'You're meant to offer to do it' ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 'I'll do it if you want me to' ... 'Go on then, but you'd better start now if you want to get finished before dark.' [I've witnessed him iron one shirt] ... 'Oh, hang on. I've got the roof to repair'.

Hence one grumpy old man on the street with his binoculars ...

Poor Dean Street

I'm glad I don't live on Dean Street. Heanor Haulage's muck and grime is blowing straight down there. It's a lot worse every time a Heanor Haulage lorry whizzes up and down the yard which is fairly frequent. We can't see across to the recreation ground for dust. I'm keeping my fingers crossed the wind doesn't change direction, the air tastes bad enough here as it is.

I'm sure this can't be classed as healthy living - breathing in Heanor Haulage's diesel fumes and the contaminated dust they whip up with their lorries. Oh haven't I mentioned that it's contaminated? Well it is.

At least Dean Street isn't kept awake half the night, first by PMB pallet Express - brrm, brrm clattering - in the very early hours. Then by the wind rattling the crappy squeaky shutters across the road. At least there will be light on the bridge tonight, Bridge Street has been reduced to three street lights all week but the council has been fixing this morning ...

Our Obsession With The Weather

I often eavesdrop telephone calls, not because I'm interested in what's being said, but more because I'm surrounded by fairly deaf [as well as crumbly] people, so they tend to shout into their mobile phones. Therefore it is in fact difficult if not impossible to avoid hearing scintillating and fascinating one-sided conversations.

This morning I was treated to [from 2 rooms away at about 80 decibels] -
'Is it sunny where you are?'
'Is it cloudy?'
'Is it raining?'
'I wonder if it'll come our way?'
This to a five year old who like me, couldn't care less about the weather.

I'm wondering how much money we Brits are wasting on our mobile phones making inane enquiries about the weather of the recipients of our phone calls.
My grumpy old man asks about the weather of everyone he phones, then he'll tell them what it's like where we are even if they're only 2 miles up the road!
Of course Asda Mobile is happy about this as it makes his phone calls 3 times longer than necessary. In fact because of our obsession with the weather I'm sure all the mobile phone companies must be rubbing their collective hands.

Now me, I hardly ever talk about the weather unless it's an obvious chance to show off -
'Oh dear, is it raining there? What a shame, I'm sat in the lovely sunshine getting brown and there's a nice sea breeze so I'm not too hot'
I suppose I'm lucky, I rarely, if ever worry about what the weather is going to do, this is:

1. Because I'm waterproof - as are most of us.
2. Because I'm idle so don't need to venture out.

Take last weekend for example, I was informed by several people on Friday that it was going to be sunny on Saturday, so I did the sensible thing and Saturday was spent topping up my tan. Whilst doing that in a snoozy half-reading my book kind of way, I overheard yet another mobile phone conversation from the caravan next door that informed all that it would be dull on Sunday, so I decided that Sunday would be a good day to top up my blog - there were some menial tasks that I was going to mention that I'd done but I like to give the impression that I've got a maid for the washing and ironing, so I won't bother.

I know for a fairly small island we can have an amazing variety of weather all on the same day, often all in the same place. But why do we keep talking about it? I suppose that with our British reticence it's a great way of breaking the ice and probably without the weather to talk about we'd be struck dumb.

We can walk to the sea front and speak to at least half a dozen people and there won't be one of the conversations that doesn't include the current weather, also what it'll be like later and often what it was like this time last week or even last year: -

'Ay up me duck'
'Int it luvly?'
'Yeh, burrit it rained in t'naight.'
'Did it? Ah dint hear it'.
'Oooh yeh, there wus six raindrops abaht 'afe past three and it blew a gale. It were dark so ah switched laight on ter ay a look at t'clock.'
'Well I dint know owt abaht it and I nivver shut me eyes cos ah wo too 'ot t'sleep, yo musta been dreaming.'
'It were 'otter than this last wick, wo yo here then? It melted yer icecream afore yer could pay ferrit.'
'It's gunna be cowd next wick, ah saw it ont'weather.'
[We're a mixture of Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire if you were at all worried about the dialects]

These aren't even conversations with holiday makers, who I can quite understand worrying about our great British weather when they've saved up for a week at the seaside - only to find they've missed the brief glimpse of sunshine because they inadvertently blinked at the wrong moment [been there, done that, got the t-shirt]. No, these are fellow caravan owners gathering on the sea front for a moan - I'm in such good company ...