Red amaryllis

I was given a nice big plump amaryllis bulb at Christmas, by neighbour Suzy. The photo on the box indicated that it would be a rich red.

It sat quietly in its pot inside a dark cupboard for a while, contemplating its life choices, and after release, sprang into vigorous growth. Fat buds appeared.

Not red buds.

White amaryllis. Beautiful.

I much prefer it to red....

Friday miscellany

Nothing personal, dear Friends, but once again I have closed (well, 'deactivated' - it never really lets you go) my Facebook account; I only reopened it when L went to the ashram last year and used FB as her main means of staying in touch. Facebook just creeps me out. Hard to explain why, but it feels slightly stalkerish, if you know what I mean. And that's with privacy settings calibrated to what I would hope was bulletproof level. I find that I am not alone in this aversion.

I do love a good email though...(hint hint)...but only if there's an address for a reply.

I've just spent £39 in the least alluring way: on roundworms. Or, rather, the annihilation of. We've been to the vet's this morning. Flossie came along just for the ride, although I also had her weighed. She was enticed onto the scales with treats and soft words, having first tried to make a hasty backwards-shuffling escape, and to my satisfaction has regained the weight she lost when she was so sick.

She emerged with relief and a tummy full of treats from the soft-hearted nurses, and didn't leave a little puddle on the scales this time. The jolly nurses are down to their last box of Christmas chocolates from clients, but tell me that they have 12 boxes of biscuits to get through next. These may disappear quicker than the chocolates, given the number of dog patients who call round.

No, the real patient today was Millie, who had lost weight and a great deal of her former 'oomph'. The vet confirmed what I had suspected, that the recent worming pill hadn't  worked thoroughly, and after examination, an anti-emetic injection for her uncomfortable tummy, and a higher-strength worming pill, she emerged with credit. Some quiet growling and hissing, but no struggling, biting or scratching, just anxious little damp paw prints.

Poor little girl. For all that she is lively and independent, Millie tugs at my heart strings rather more than the others do, perhaps because her fearlessness makes me fearful on her account.

Since then, she has followed me around the house, seeking reassurance after her nasty morning excursion.

Flossie has shared toys with her.

She has helped me write this post.

She has kept me company.

Let's hope she's back on form soon. The Naughtiest Kitten Ever has to be in there still.....

Guests, glass and gifts

There are different kinds of visitors to my home; I'll exclude house-viewers, who are, by and large, more like tourists, simultaneously welcome and unwelcome. The usual kind of visitor lives near me, pops in for a cup of tea (sometimes bringing their own, after it dawns on them that now it's made, they might like to drink it in company) has a chat, and goes away shortly after. These visitors are also established Friends of the Dogs, to be greeted rapturously whilst trying not to spill whatever they are carrying: riveting news, mugs of tea, things to show me, political flyers to be outraged about. They tend to leave with some cat and dog hair attached to their rearwards clothing, and strangely, don't seem to mind.

They understand that they must take me as they find me, and if that's in my usual mess and muddle, so be it (although mess and muddle are rarer than they used to be, now that we live in a state of perpetual viewing-readiness). And I take them in the same spirit, in housework clothes, or slippers, or indeed tears.

Then there are those less-regular folk, who make pre-arranged visits from afar, giving me time to bake, get rid of cat hair from seats, look critically at the state of the hand towels in the bathroom, brush my hair, and pick up Flossie's trip-hazard toy collection from the hall. Or to nudge Flossie, the biggest trip hazard of all, out of the way.

Yesterday I had just such prearranged visitors, so my hair was brushed, and I was more or less ready, although I had forgotten their arrival time so hadn't preheated the oven for the promised cheese scones. Never mind; Anne (of frayed at the edge), husband Malcolm and sister in law Jennifer chatted amongst themselves while I got those scones ready and set the table for afternoon tea. No time to get out a nice little embroidered tablecloth - tablecloths cannot be put on in advance, or a certain someone (no, not Flossie! She's far too well-mannered to get up on the table! Think fluffy cat) sits on them....

I was given gifts; a jar of seasoning: salt, seeds, herbs, petals, very pretty. And little scented tea lights in a glass holder. We tucked in to scones and mocha cake, the latter from Rachel Allen's 'Bake'. Next time I shall omit the coffee butter icing and use mascarpone cheese instead, rather more grown up and not nearly so sickly and cloying. (Notice the unmourned absence of the low-fat diet?)

And then Malcolm, already twitching at the challenge, had a look at the dishwasher. I knew he would; Anne had already volunteered him. He had already repaired their own dishwasher, so his reputation went before him. He poked and prodded, and from the bowels of the machine, he withdrew this:

A piece of drinking glass. Who knows how long it's been jammed in the innards?

The machine was reassembled and switched on, as we quivered in anticipation. Would it work?

No.

Ah well. Time to plan another visit, this time with the tools required for more major surgery. Anne and Malcolm have now joined the ranks of the first type of visitor; carrying things, hopefully more used to cat hair, and now firmly established as Friends of the Dogs. And of me.

They went away with leftover cake and a plan to knit a cabled cushion cover for me; they will return for lunch and to carry out a plan of action.

This charming plan includes letting Malcolm loose on what are vaguely described as 'projects' while I teach Anne how to make scones, and she teaches me something equally useful to do with knitting or crochet.

Sounds like a deal to me.

PS It's been a wonderful week for unexpected presents: my friend Susan (of 29 Black Street) sent me this delightful Spring card and a print of her polaroid photograph of lilacs in a glass vase, because she knew I loved it.

(Yes, Susan, there's a slight crease in it; yes, I have made a strongly-worded complaint to Royal Mail whose postman saw fit to bend and force an otherwise pristine rigid card envelope through my letterbox rather than ring the bell and hand it over undamaged. Yes, I am still seething, but I'm sure that weights and time may straighten it out before framing.)

Nothing doing

Posting from Gloomsville. Misery loves company, so I'm being companionable....

I don't know about you, but this is the deadest time for me; nothing, but nothing, is happening. Life is monotonous. If I had hibernated, I couldn't have chosen a worse time to emerge from my pile of leaves, and even crocuses in huge drifts in the Dene aren't uplifting for long.

It's not just dull; it's depressing. All the news is bad; the Coalition Government of Doom and Despair has nothing promising to tell us. The television is just as bad - apart from Masterchef, my weekly tonic - and even that studenty-looking professor's riveting programme about the Universe became unbearably gloomy as the death of stars was described in lingering detail. Even if it is gazillions of centuries away, the prospect of the slow, inevitable death of our universe is deeply dispiriting. Flossie agrees.

I'm tired, and bored, winter-grey and overweight. I tried a low-fat diet programme, one which has the pounds falling off in barrowloads from people who eat chips, and pies, and pizza. Nothing happened. Oh, not quite true: my hands became papery-dry, crackling wickedly if I rubbed them together; I could have struck sparks from them. Not a pound was lost, though. I've given up dieting for Lent.

Some people came to look at the house the other day, but I knew before they did (on opening the front door to them, in fact) that it wouldn't be for them - aspiring 30-somethings, expensive glossy black car, perfectly made-up young woman with designer-clad baby, who would have stuck out a mile in our somewhat unpolished Bacteria Gardens.

The appalling mud is lessening in the parks, after several days without rain, but the river lures a certain someone in, searching for sticks caught in the banks, and she comes home as muddy as ever, and smelling rather Ouseburny, i.e. drainy.

She has taken to looking out of windows, leaving large nose marks. The sun has shone, revealing that my eco-conscious window-cleaning with white vinegar hasn't been altogether successful; streaks and nose-dabs are everywhere.

I got out some elderly knitting, and promptly made a major error that I didn't notice fast enough to remedy. I've stuffed it back in the basket again, in case Sandra, chief knitting-rescuer, sees it and sighs in despair. It's only a beginner's pattern, too.

And my right index finger, the one that got trapped in the front door years ago, and has developed a knobble on the first knuckle, is so painful..... I know I'm ageing when not only do I have a knobbly knuckle, but I can tell myself that I "shouldn't bother the doctor".

Thought: If I were a pet, my owner would probably be wondering if it was time to have me put to sleep.

....Now there's a galvanising thought! Begone, gloom, doom, self-pity and a tendency to slump on the sofa and watch deeply-depressing rolling news. Out into the fresh air! Brisk walking, a brisk talking-to (telling yourself off can be quite helpful, and allows you to say painfully-true things that you'd never forgive your friends for uttering), and a brisk stiff-upper-lip attitude might be just what's needed to get through these last days of winter and into Spring. It has to get better, doesn't it?

And thank goodness for daffodils, and that very loud blackbird who likes to get a start on the dawn chorus at 3.30 every morning; a bit too early, but oh, the experimental trills and whistles, the joyousness in every note!

I feel better already. Off to finish off the baking for this afternoon's visitors. And to wipe nose marks off the windows.

Getting the green light

I almost had a new career today. After the demise of the dishwasher that I am supposed to be selling with the house, I went onto eBay, and bought a new circuit board, the genuine article for the brand and model that I refuse to replace without a fight. It cost less than half of what I could have paid if ordered through the engineer who diagnosed the cause of death earlier in the week. This engineer was a man of few words and less charm, but seemed to know what he was doing. Except that he didn't ring me back as he promised, so he doesn't get the job.....

Perhaps I could install the new circuit board myself, I wondered, if I was very careful to copy exactly where every plug-in bit went as I dismantled the dead one.

It was fiddly, partly because there were lots of tiny plastic lugs that I feared snapping if treated too enthusiastically, and there was a bit of tutting and walking away taking deep breaths, but I did it eventually, and reassembled the control panel with just a touch of conceit panache. I counted all the screws out, and I counted them all back in again. Maybe I could retrain as an appliance repairwoman.

And then I switched the machine on, flinching slightly as though setting off a rather dodgy-looking firework.

And it worked! It showed a green light!

For a while. It drains, it hums to itself, it now shows another light for the programme delay button where no light has shown before. I feel proud; I installed a circuit board without breaking any plasticky bits or electrocuting myself, the delay indicator light is now working, and I got the crucial green light.

But it won't fill. Nothing is kinked, or trapped, or blocked. The machine is heaved in and out of its slot under the worktop, taking care not to rip the vinyl flooring where there is already a little bit of duct tape from a similar manoeuvre years ago. My, duct tape lasts and lasts! No built-in obsolescence there!

I fiddle and check, mutter and wonder. And all the time the green light stays on, but now it's flashing, which indicates a fault. A Fault, that's it; not Which Fault, which would be more helpful.

Back to consult Google. I find lots of sites complaining bitterly about this model of dishwasher, although I suspect that every dishwasher - well, any domestic appliance, really - has similar vituperative sites for sweary and frustrated people to vent their spleen and warn other hapless folk never ever to buy what they themselves were lured into buying.

Lots of problems are described on those sites, along with lots of the worst spelling and grammar I have ever seen, and a scattering of proposed solutions, all assuming a degree of knowledge (you need to dismantle the motor and take off the spray arm, minding the membrane in the sump and daringly blow through the drain hose, then, perhaps with an air of rapture, verify the pump, and then there's the float assembly throat which of course you mustn't throttle, but you must note which lights are blinking from left to right if it were the 3rd and the 5th it would mean 001010 Main Motor Pressure Switch Blocked Filter and please make sure you send Auntie Ethel a postcard to thank her for that picture of the Town Hall she sent you for your birthday, and then perhaps you feel the need to stomp off into the next room with steam coming out of your ears.

But, breathing slowly and deeply, you go back again, and take out the filter - not lovely, a bit gunked-up, benefits from a little rinse, but is not gruesomely blocked with dead mice or mangled plastic forks; gamely, you try to remove the lower washer arm - easier to remove my own arm, I thought - and optimistically hold the start button in for a little while, hoping that it works for longer than 2 minutes this time. It doesn't.

Decide that this will all wait until tomorrow. Or until I can afford to have a repairman out again. It would appear that a career in appliance repairs isn't for me. I'm off to verify a cup of tea now.

Try this!

My sister (or my brother-in-law - who knows, when two people have about 50 email addresses between them?) sent me this.

Seriously humiliating....

http://www.rethinkingschools.org/just_fun/games/mapgame.html

Go on, tell us how you got on!

Teamwork

We had a busy day yesterday. Everyone had to pitch in.

The staircase was ready. It looks as though there has been linoleum here once, maybe a hundred years ago. I would love to know what it looked like; I can clearly recall the patterned lino of my childhood, in particular its distinctive smell that, when encountered nowadays, takes me right back in a trice to my first little school .

Eddie the carpet fitter arrived, bringing the wherewithal to keep a keen workforce of dogs and cats absorbed and productive for the day.

Inspection was thorough.  Hamish hid for the entire day, but everyone else took the job very seriously.

The thick under-felt went down first, and was tested for density.

Precision measuring and cutting followed. Millie's pedigree of speed-learning a range of trade skills stood her in good stead as technical supervisor.

Eddie was grateful for her advice.

The important Bottom Test was applied at every stage.

And then another job came in, also requiring assistants. The dishwasher repair man had arrived to assess the cause of this essential appliance's untimely death.

Cats inspected the dark spaces behind the machine. A labrador was needed closer to hand, ready to help with tools and encouragement.

The news was not good. The usual dilemma - is it worth spending a lot of money on an appliance that cost me less when bought second-hand from a friend, than the replacement circuit board that is now needed? I shall consult eBay before I decide....

We returned to the carpet, ready to sweep up the larger debris. Labradors are tidy creatures.

The final Bottom Tests were carried out, and we pronounced ourselves satisfied with the results.

There's nothing like teamwork to get the job done well.

Today Margery is coming; oddly, the team's union rules do not allow them to assist with hoovering, so they can have a day off. They've earned it.