Lies, Dates and Vacuums!

 

It was just as well that I got my Conspiracy Theory about the Trumpian Virus in quickly as the newspapers and the internet are awash with the assumption that there is more to this than meets the eye.  Trump of course (of course, naturally) fuels uncertainty by doing things like having pictures staged in his hospital presidential suite where he is signing bank pieces of paper: The King of Lies Lying Again!

     The fact that there is even the remotest chance of that vile anthesis getting anywhere near a chance of staying on in the White House is beyond astonishing. 

     After a series of inappropriate sexual liaisons between staff and students coming to light in my university and nothing being done about it, I asked one of my lecturers what someone would have to do to be sacked.  “Well,” he replied, “I think buggering the Dean in the Quad might do the trick!” 

     What would Trump have to do?  The mind cringes at the grotesque extent of depravity that he would have to show before his ‘base’ Base would turn on him.  Though, thinking about it, I would like to hear some of the terminally deluded MAGA supporters try and explain away Trump doing what my lecturer suggested might be a terminal sexual escapade!

     But, enough of such trivial problems when there is the tragedy of my Significant Birthday Party being cancelled.  United Nations Day will now be just one day among many – though at least the two of us can go out and celebrate.

 

I will have reached the age at which, I have been told, getting travel insurance becomes a little more problematical.  As travel is not on the cards at the moment and is unlikely to be for the next six months, or nine months, or?  It is not a pressing problem, but it is one of those niggling tasks that you set yourself and then forget about until you are about to travel and you suddenly discover that the cost of immediate insurance is more than the cost of your holiday.

     Writing about it makes it Something To Be Done and, in my world, the word makes things more real so it is now lodged in my mind as a concept that must be dealt with.  Like the vacuum cleaner.

     I have recently become the proud possessor of a new cordless vacuum cleaner – it’s the three flights of stairs that make a cordless machine essential and I am therefore faced with the problem of what to do with the old one.

     To be fair the old one works intermittently, which in many ways is the worst form of fault.  If the thing is dead it can be thrown out.  But if it sort-of works then there is something deeply uncomfortable with jettisoning a machine that is sort-of useable.

     The problem could be a connection in the floor cleaning (i.e. the most important part) of the hoover.  The thing still has suction, but unless the little blue light comes on you can push the machine around but the brushes are not turning and the efficiency of the thing is low.

     So, I am going to take it to a repair shop.  God alone knows how I am going to eke out my Spanish to explain what I think is wrong; but it is an exciting prospect!  I have passed even more difficult linguistic challenges with the aid of handy Spanish nouns and hysteria with a dash of Marcel Marceau thrown into the exciting performance that comprises my attempt at communicating in a foreign language.

     Unfortunately, my past dealings with the repair shop have not been of the most fruitful, as the last time I brought something in for repair they dismissed my concerns and told me to buy new.  I called (via email and telephone) on the ‘authorities’ of two countries to refute their claims and they had, ignominiously, to admit defeat and replace the defective item.

     I suspect that the fault in the hoover is a simple mechanical or electrical one, but one constantly has to deal with the grasping tendrils of planned obsolescence, the lack of technical ability and a built-in disinclination to repair rather than replace that frustrate a desire to make do and mend.

     You might be asking, “But, you have already bought a new replacement for your ‘broken’ machine, so why not simply get rid of it and make full use of the new?”  A good question, but one that doesn’t really work with the way that I buy things.  My logic is not the sort that says that I have to use a brush and pan while the old machine is repaired.  Buying is an end in itself.  And “argue not the need” (or “reason not the need” as Shakespeare might insist he actually wrote) as sufficient unto the day is the purchase thereof.  So, to speak.

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 59 – Wednesday, 13th May

Though the wind is brisk, the sun is out and I am typing on the terrace of the third floor al fresco. The screen brightness is set at maximum and the type size is 16 point, so I can actually see the screen. What I type is somewhat irrelevant at the moment, because the real joy is being outside and, stripped to the half (a description I have always found unsettlingly erotic) pretending to myself that I am actually doing some work.

      It also makes a change to get away, if only for a sun-drenched moment, from the pressing concerns of the virus ridden world!

     My view from where I am sitting takes in the tops of the pine trees for which my neighbourhood is famous, the pool of a neighbouring collection of houses and a part of the street. I can hear the sea but alas, I cannot see it unless I crouch down and look through the top branches of the trees (see above) and I get a small triangle of what could be water. If I stand, then I get another triangular view of distant water with he third side being the horizon. If the trees that surround the neighbours’ pool were cut down, l would have an uninterrupted view of the sea, or at least part of it – though I do not expect to gain much sympathy from my moans.

     I am typing outdoors because Toni is (hopefully) working his technological magic on my non-starting Apple, and past experience dictates that my helpful hovering does not lead to a productive working environment. It is, after all, a wise couple that knows their mutual working limitations.

     Though, having said that, we have survived the constructivist horrors of mantling various pieces in the IKEA “Broken Relationships” range (i.e. anything) and a couple who survive building a bed with built-in drawers with instructions that looked more like a cheaply printed Mayan calendar gets to sleep in it. Literally.  So, Toni is doing his ‘thing’ while I do mine: writing.

     Toni has just appeared and asked me about a ‘restore’ date to which I have agreed and will now type with my fingers firmly crossed, so please forgive any typing errors.

     I remember on earlier Mac machines I would, from time to time, get a pixelated drawing of a round black bomb with a fizzing fuse with the alarming information that a ‘Fatal System Error’ was about to take place. I invariably panicked and then ignored it because there was always nothing that I could do about it, so I just soldiered on and hoped that a few random key presses would placate whatever anarchistic longings were inside the machine and that it would return to jocosity and placidity ‘because I wanted it to.’ And to be fair, it usually did.

     As opposed, for example, for the numerous Windows machines into contact with which I came.  In the early days when I had acquired a ‘real’ computer that used floppy discs of the smaller variety, my predilection for Mac computers was at odds with the educational establishment’s slavish following of the false gods of Microsoft.  The incompatibility problems (and there were always incompatibility problems) were constantly frustrating, with programs distributed by the school or the local education authority only working convincingly in Microsoft Windows environments and causing pain and anger for people like myself with a Mac.  On the other hand, I constantly found my Mac environment to be much more user friendly than Windows!

Toni has been successful in repairing my computer and it is working properly.  Though Netflix said that it could not load up and advised me to check that I had the latest version of Firefox.  I checked, I did, and Netflix worked.  Why?  The ways of electronic acceptance are strange.

     As far as I can see all my files are in place and they are all backed up in theory anyway.  In theory.

I have decided that this day’s blog is not going to even mention you-know-what for a single glorious day.

     Tomorrow normal sarcasm and bitterness will be resumed!

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.