Nitty-gritty nasty!

 

 

 

DIY in my world has always been self-defence, not self-expression.  Those who can gaze upon an Allen key and dream of technical, self-made, interior design upgrades to their living environment exist in another ‘verse to the one that I inhabit.  Yes, when continuation of the status quo is put in jeopardy I can rise to the occasion and heft an implement of household artisanship not directly related to the kitchen with – maybe, not the best – but certainly with the more satisfyingly mediocre.

So, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I recently assayed the construction of a domestic tower of shelves and drawers which was supposed to replace the “cake-stand-type” fixture that you more regularly see in bathrooms which lurks by the side of my armchair in the living room.

These suspended containers were themselves a reaction to the arrangements that had to be put in place when I returned from my shock stay in hospital after the unexpected diagnosis of my thrombosis and embolisms.  I was told, strictly, and eye-to-eye by a determined doctor that I was to have a month of almost total rest and that I was furthermore to be ministered unto by Toni!

As it is quite impossible to live any sort of modern life (even in a state of “almost total rest”) without the accoutrements of electronic gadgetry about one, there had to be surfaces to hand on which computers, phones, iPads, mobile phones and cups of decaffeinated tea could be placed.

The immediate solution was to purchase a TV table, the ‘home’ form of the hospital table, and that was sufficient for the immediate problems of enforced immobility – but as soon as I could move around a little the implicit invalid associations of the teak-effect plastic began to pall and disconcertingly define as well, so it had to go.

The “cake-stand” alternative always looked as though it would be more at home in the bathroom and so it went too.

There are few things more depressing that the arrival of a heavy flatpack of potential furniture.  The acrimony started before the thing had even been unpacked and its consequent construction was completed in sullen silence and solitary strenuousness.  But it was eventually completed, it stood firm and the drawers fitted: and that, surely is the acme of technical achievement.

Though, put next to that piece of pre-cut, pre-drilled and pre-packaged purgatory, I can now place a finished piece of technical mechanical installation on the handlebars of my electric bike.

My bike is basically a good buy: sourced from one of those pre-production sites asking for seed money for a good idea, I was duly seduced and parted with a quite surprising amount of money to get a stylist, collapsible electric bike.  The one I have at present in the second iteration of the basic design with fatter wheels and a funkier colour.  But it didn’t have a throttle.

One of the disadvantages of the bike is that it is heavy.  On day last week I allowed the battery to run down and was confident that I could use the bike as an ‘ordinary’ cycle with no electric boost at all.  Wrong!  Very, very wrong!  My stylist nippy bike was transformed into one of those instruments of torture that you can find in the more severe sorts of gymnasia where a bloody huge effort is rewarded with bloody little.  I even toyed with the idea of walking the bike back home rather than peddling frantically in first and creeping along the road in a humiliating display of mismatch of effort and achievement that I had not repeated since a churningly inefficient dogpaddle from my distant youth!

So, actually getting the thing moving is sometimes a difficulty.  On my first bike the throttle attachment took care of stopping and starting on inclines, as my frantic attempts to get to first gear when I really needed to usually resulted in a clunking of cog wheels and a crazily haphazard approach to direction.  My ‘superior’ second bike did not come with a throttle as standard, but I rectified that omission by carefully selecting a throttle as an ‘extra’ when I ordered the bike.

I have had the bike for some time, but the throttle has remained stubbornly unavailable.  I have used, my not unimpressive writing skills, to little effect.  The Customer Service of MATE Bikes is notoriously and internationally awful.  The delivery of the part is over TWO YEARS LATE.  And I didn’t add an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence because a single exclamation mark would be pitifully inadequate to express my contempt for the service that I have had, and my self-respect does not allow me to use two or more in my written work.

After the Long Wait for a simple part to get to me, a sudden email informed me that it was on its way.  And they got the address wrong.  Again. 

Now I have to admit that the original mistake was mine.  When I ordered the first bike, I typed the post code number incorrectly and MATE have, in spite of my repeated explanations, failed to rectify the number.  So, my long-awaited part when to another part of Catalonia.

And do not think for a moment that it was easy to get the delivery company to cope with the mistake.  Contacting the company by email, phone and on the web all failed.  I went to the local depot of the company which is a few towns away and was told that my package was in a different ‘region’ of the company and they had no contact with that particular region and, even if they did, the only people who could change the delivery address were the people who sent the package, i.e. MATE Bikes.

The eventual solution was to accept that the package was in a different region.  Ask for it to be sent to a local shop that was used as a sort of pick-up centre and go there.

At least we sent through part of the National Park of Montserrat to get to the small town (that neither of us had heard of before) and had some spectacular views of the otherworldly rock formations to convince us that we had not wasted the best part of a morning going and coming back.

Then I had to fix the throttle to the bike.

In theory it is simple.  MATE even have a series of how-to videos, one of which is ‘Changing the throttle’ – a video that I have watched a number of times.

There were two problems.  The first was that the horn and rear light indicator (I told you it was a more sophisticated version of the original bike) was perched on the handlebar where the throttle should have fitted.  And the second problem was that the truly astonishing writhing mass of leads and wires that are part of the bike are hidden from view in a zipped sleeve which, once unzipped is entirely disinclined to zip up again.

I do not intend to explain how the problems were (and were not) dealt with.  Suffice to say, the throttle is fitted and, the more extraordinary part, it works.  For the moment – and I am OK with short term gains - it is done!

And the technical elements of my engineering were accomplished with four different types of Allen key.  And what an appropriate verb to use!

 

Practical problems

The changing of the shower hose has now assumed crisis proportions.

What should have been a simple case of unscrewing the end of the hose from the tap attachment and putting the new one on has filled parts of three long days with increasing frustration and hopelessness.

The trouble is that the bit that should have stayed in the tap, didn’t and I cannot (no matter how I try) get the bit that didn’t stay to leave the bit that has to be replaced.  If you see what I mean.

I have tried brute force and liberal applications of penetrating oil.  Well, I say that, but I don’t really know about the ‘penetrating’ bit, its just oil from a spray can – but I do remember hearing about the ‘penetrating’ bit applied to recalcitrant un-screwable things, so I’m hoping for the best.  Wrong tense there, I have tried to separate the two parts and there was absolutely no movement whatsoever, so perhaps I should have said something like, “I had hoped that the oil would have done the trick, but, alas, I was to be unhappy with the lack of outcome” – that seems complicated enough to mirror the problem!

I have used spanners and wrenches and nothing works.  I went to our local Chinese supermarket and bought things.  And they didn’t work either, so I now have yet more tools that will rest unused in a big plastic toolbox for years to come.

There was a moment’s hope when it appeared that the use of an allen key might be able to be inserted into the tap bit and the purchase gained with a set of pliers might do the trick.  None of the allen keys that I possess was bulky enough so, foolishly I bought a hefty set - and not one of those works either.  The two largest are just too big and just too small to be of any use.

I am beginning to despair.  And I’ve probably paid too much for the completely useless tools that I have bought to try and do the job.

As I live in a rented house and as this is Spain - where no landlord appears to pay for anything, no matter what reason or reasonableness is involved, I am determined not to replace the taps to benefit the rapacious landlords’ future tenants. 

 

The concept of things wearing out and needing to be replaced by the people who actually own the house and who, after all, are getting a substantial rent on a monthly basis, does not apply here.  If it breaks, it appears to be the responsibility of the renter – even if such things are usually covered by the insurance of the house owner e.g. fitments like sinks, baths, toilets.  But what I assumed from the UK does not apply here.  Apparently.

So, a fully justified attempt to deny the landlord a lasting benefit is, it appears, going to cost me more than if I had shelled out the cash for a new set of taps in the first place.

I have not given up entirely.  There must be a shop open (even though this is August and NOTHING HAPPENS in August) with a sympathetic person who has more technical nous than I posses who is willing to take pity on me and use some as yet untired tool and achieve separation.

Saturday is probably not the best day to go around with a woefully winsome expression asking for help.  At this time of the year you are far more likely to get some startled student wondering what the hell you are talking about rather than a competent workperson.  But, as always, I live in hope.

And my failure with the bike spokes is just as complete.

My bike seems to have a penchant for snapping back-wheel spokes.  I have never previously owned a bike where the spokes have broken.  But this one has made up for all of those spoke-solid years by ones breaking on a regular basis.  As I have had to take the bike to the shop to have them replaced, it seemed like a sensible idea to have the raw material (as it were) and do the job myself.  After all, how difficult a job can it be?

The answer, as you will have guessed, is impossible.  At least for me.  

I seem to remember my bike person telling me that he had had to cut them to fit.  So I tried cutting them.  I prefer not to think too closely on the ineptitude of my attempts; I am telling myself that the fret saw I used was the wrong sort – it certainly seemed to blunt its teeth almost instantly.  Disturbingly, the broken one appeared to be the same size as the uncut spokes.  But then there is the problem of fitting them inside the rims. 

 

There is at least a workable solution to this problem and that involves swallowing my pride and taking the bike back to shop, tail between my legs and spokes in my hot little hand and pleading for professionalism.

With both my technical problems, I suspect that there must be a simple solution, but I am buggered if I know what it is.  And part of me doesn’t want to know.

I spent the morning in the library of MNAC in Barcelona looking at the books that they have on Elsheimer.  At least one of them looks ideal for what I want to use in my writing, while most of the others are, not unreasonably, in German - but there are some useful illustrations in them, and there is always Google Translate in extremis!

It was odd getting back into an academic library.  And there is that musty smell that comes with opening old books that you are certain have not been consulted for years!  Heady and depressing at the same time.

I am still in the area of ‘finding out’ about my subject matter and I have not settled on the topic that I want to develop.  But, I’m getting there.  Or at least I’m kidding myself that I am becoming clearer about where I am going.

To go from a life in books in the morning, to one in which I get my hands dirty in the afternoon, is not something that I appreciate. 

 

Perhaps I should.