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Downpour

The weather late yesterday afternoon was absolutely atrocious. There was a major storm, pretty much directly overhead, with non-stop lightning flashing between the clouds and thunder rolling around the hills. The wind was so strong that the trees in the wood opposite were thrashing around alarmingly, and indeed one came down and completely blocked my neighbours’ drive. Fortunately, it missed both their house and garage, and the local land-owner (whose tree it was) sent round some men that evening with a chain saw and JCB who made relatively short work of clearing it away.

The rain at the height of the storm was biblical in its intensity. I don’t think I’ve ever seen rain like it. The drain at the back of my house got blocked by all of the vegetation being swept down the hill and off the roof, to the extent that I had to go wading to unblock a veritable pond that was several inches deep and threatening to encroach on my back door. I fetched a trowel from the garage to excavate the blocked drain, and saw that I had bigger problems. The howling gale had driven the torrential rain through the small gap underneath the garage doors, and the entire double garage was flooded to a depth of about an inch! That took a considerable amount of sweeping to get the water outside where it belonged. My gutters couldn’t cope with the sheer volume of rain, and I think that several of them got blocked with debris coming down off the roof. I’ve been round most of them this afternoon with a ladder and a bucket, clearing them out, but I think that at least one of my down-pipes is going to need pressure-washing to clear it. 

However, given the strength of yesterday’s storm, I think I got off relatively lightly. I can’t see any leaks from the roof, so that seems to have remained watertight, and the stuff in the garage will dry out eventually. I’ve never known the garage to flood like that before, but it’s clearly something I’ll have to look out for in the future. Though hopefully a storm of yesterday’s magnitude will remain rare.

Absent Friends

I generally enjoy an Alan Ayckbourn comedy, so when I saw that Malvern Theatres was showing Absent Friends, one I’ve not seen before, I decided to get myself a standby ticket to the Saturday matinée. His comedies are usually pretty dark, uncovering the unhappiness lying behind middle-class lives, and in particular middle-class marriages, and this one turned out to be no exception.

An unhappily-married couple invited some friends of theirs around for tea. The party was held in honour of a mutual friend, Colin, whose fiancée had drowned a few months ago. So there was an ongoing theme of death and loss that a few years ago I would have found a bit close to the bone. Fortunately, it didn’t bother me so much this time.

The plot was fairly standard for an Ayckbourn. The bullying, self-absorbed but very successful husband turned out to be serially unfaithful, including having a fling with one of the guests who was the wife of an incompetent business associate of his. Another invitee couldn’t make it because he was a hypochondriac (for which read needy malingerer) and ill in bed. He sent his wife instead, but then kept phoning to sound off at how unhappy and ill he was with her not there. Colin turned out to be unexpectedly cheerful, looking on the bright side of everything, but his innocent remarks and reminiscences uncovered the deep levels of unhappiness, jealousy, and resentments in everyone else’s lives, and led to the hostess having a nervous breakdown.

It was set in the mid-seventies, so there were some particularly horrendous fashion-crimes on display. Kaftans, flares, minidresses and platform heels were all there. I can’t say I particularly enjoyed the play. It was more cringeworthy than laugh-out-loud funny, and some of the people involved were quite seriously unpleasant. I did seriously consider leaving at the interval, and in fact the couple two seats along from me did so. But I persevered, with the help of a mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. 

It was only a classic Ayckbourn in the sense that it stuck strictly to his usual themes and plot development.   The blurb in the advertising material provided by the theatre claimed it as one of finest plays, but I disagreed. I’ve enjoyed many other of his plays much more than this one, though the actors involved all did the best they could with the rather thin plot and cardboard characterisation. I was very glad that I’d only bought myself a standby ticket – I’d have felt ripped off if I’d paid full price.

Traumatic Upgrade

Christopher’s iPad has finally reached the end of its usable life, after just over five years. It’s a first generation device, and I’ve not been able to upgrade the operating system or apps for a long while now. Apps and websites have gradually stopped working, so even though there’s nothing wrong with the hardware, it’s become less and less useful. The final straw came earlier this week, when BBC iPlayer removed support for the oldest devices. Now all I could do with the iPad was play solitaire and read a very limited number of websites. I was having to do a full reset on a near daily basis, as the browser kept freezing, and it crashed about every half hour. I finally faced up to the fact that I’d have to upgrade it. In a way that’s sad, as it’s a link to Christopher. But on the other hand, he was such an Apple fanboy that he’d have upgraded years ago, and I’d probably be using about his third hand-me-down by now. 

I gritted my teeth, ordered a new iPad from John Lewis, and picked it up from my local Waitrose this afternoon. That was the easiest part of the whole process. Then it was a case of trying to set the damn thing up. They may be designed to be intuitive for toddlers to use, but that didn’t mean that I found it easy  – particularly things like setting up email. In the end I decided the easiest thing was to do a backup of the old iPad to my laptop, and then “restore” it to the new one, followed by updating all of the apps to the latest version. That seems to have mostly worked, though it’s taken a lot of swearing and moderately high stress levels to get there. First impressions are positive – it’s much thinner and lighter than the old one, and the screen is exceptionally clear. If I manage to post this to my blog, then that’s one app at least that I’ve successfully updated. IPlayer seems to be working again, and I’ve managed to send and receive a test email, so I seem to have at least basic functionality in place.

Hopefully, this new one will last another five years and I won’t have to upgrade again before then. I don’t think my stress levels could stand doing it too often!

Zapping the decorator

I have a regular annual booking with Rob, my trusty decorator, to keep on top of the paintwork of this house. There’s always something peeling or fading or needing attention. This year, my priority was to get the summerhouse sorted out. This is a rather lovely little Victorian shed on the topmost terrace of the garden. I’ve neglected it shamefully for years – since Christopher died I’ve barely been in there, and certainly haven’t felt in the mood for having a barbecue on the decking. But when my parents were here for a short visit a few months ago, I took them for a walk around the garden, and my father pointed out that the summerhouse and decking were looking decidedly the worse for wear. The decking was rotten in several places, and if I didn’t get something done about the peeling paintwork on the door and windows then rot would set in there too, and I might end up without a summerhouse at all!

I have to say that Rob’s done another excellent job. The decking has been power-washed, the rotten timbers replaced, and the whole lot treated with several coats of wood stain/preservative. The summerhouse too is virtually unrecognisable – the sash windows open once again, the peeling paint is no more, and the whole place looks much more inviting and cared for.

Rob did uncover something of a worrying problem though. There is an electricity supply to the summerhouse, which is run along a supporting catenary cable from the eaves of the house up to the very top of the garden. The supporting cable, which ought to be completely dead electrically-speaking, is tied off to the balustrade of the decking, making a very firm support. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as dead as it ought to be. In fact it was quite definitely live! Not enough to give anyone a nasty shock, fortunately, but quite enough to make Rob’s arm tingle and the hairs stand on end when he brushed against it!

That really wasn’t acceptable! I can’t risk electrocuting my decorator! I’ve already booked him to come back next year! Not to mention that I’d feel very uneasy sitting up on the decking, knowing that if the catenary cable was live, then so was the balustrade and by extension the decking……. Having a barbecue wearing welly-boots for insulation purposes is definitely a step too far!

So I thought I’d better call in a professional to have a look at the situation, and make it safe. Another expense that I hadn’t budgeted for, but I couldn’t in all conscience leave it as it was. Just imagine the consequences if it got worse and the gardener did himself a mischief while he was pruning the hedge! I have a very thorough electrician who spent several hours tracking down what he recognised as an earth-leakage fault. It turned out to be in the external power point which the builders use for their power tools. It had clearly overheated at some point, as the plastic had melted slightly around one of the sockets. He didn’t have a spare RCD-protected socket in his van, so for now he’s terminated the cables safely, and taken away the offending item to source a replacement. That’s not particularly urgent, nor should it be a big job, so we’ve arranged for that to be done one morning later this week. Most importantly though, he assures me that the summerhouse and decking is now safe and appropriately earthed. That’s a relief.

Christopher’s Tree

Christopher’s stepfather, Peter, goes to stay with some friends of his in mid-Wales for a week’s holiday most summers. To get there, he pretty much has to drive past the end of my road, so we try to meet up for a pub lunch either on his way there or as a stop on the drive back home again. This year, the dates worked out that he was only driving past me mid-week, on a day that I absolutely had to be in work. So that rather limited our dining options to pubs that have reasonably quick service and are extremely close to work. In the end I plumped for the Bluebell Inn, which has absolutely no pretensions to being a gastropub, but does honest food at a reasonable price, and is big enough that we could have a corner to ourselves and talk without having to shout at each other to be heard. The food was nothing to write home about, but was perfectly acceptable, and it was good to see Peter again and catch up properly.

He brought me news of Christopher’s Tree which he dedicated a few years back at his local Woodland Trust site. It’s now a decent sized young tree, and looks pretty healthy. Here’s a recent photo which Peter took of it.

Christopher's Tree - summer 2015

Christopher’s Tree – summer 2015

Mrs Warren’s Profession

I decided this morning that I’d not been to Malvern Theatre for a while, and that it was about time I had a look at what was available today as a standby seat at the matinée performance.The play turned out to be Mrs Warren’s Profession. George Bernard Shaw is not one of my favourite playwrights – I had more than enough of him at school, when an over-enthusiastic English teacher forced Pygmalion and Androcles and the Lion down my throat in successive terms. However, I thought I’d give it a go anyway.

The play was written and set in the 1890s, and was apparently considered very shocking when it was first performed. One of the main characters is a young woman who is has recognisably “modern” attitudes – she’s a Cambridge-educated mathematician, determined to earn her own living as an accountant. But then she discovers that the money she takes for granted, and that paid for her lifestyle and education, all comes from her mother’s successful business – a chain of high-class brothels across Europe. Cue lots of heartache and accusations of hypocrisy.

It was interesting, particularly seeing such a frank discussion of prostitution in a Victorian setting. I thought it came to a bit of a flat ending, but then I remember thinking much the same about Pygmalion. It was a pleasant enough way of spending the afternoon, though I’m pleased I only got a standby ticket rather than splashing out on a full-price seat. It didn’t overthrow the rather deep-seated opinion I have of GBS.

I do think, though, that it would have been much more entertaining if my Shaw-obsessed English teacher had made us study Mrs Warren’s Profession instead of the very dull Androcles and the Lion. I’d have quite enjoyed debating the limited career options for women in late-Victorian England, and the financial versus moral pressures that underpin the play. But that was never going to be an option at my rather old-fashioned girls’ school!

Sorting out another Will

My Gran died at Christmas, having surprised everyone (including herself) by living well into her nineties. She had very little to leave, and made a very simple Will, but there was one clause in it that has been causing me no end of trouble. She wanted to leave a sum of money to her great-great-nephew, of whom she was very fond. But since he is a child aged about ten, she left it to him “in trust”, and named me and my sister as trustees. That sounds sensible – the duties attached to a trustee aren’t particularly onerous, and all we have to do is to take reasonable care of the money, and hand it over once the lad reaches eighteen. It’s only a small sum, and won’t even pay for one term’s worth of tuition fees at university once he comes of age, so it’s not worth making a huge fuss about. But since I happened to be passing my bank, I thought I’d ask about how I should go about opening a Trustees Account.

I was horrified at the amount of bureaucracy that was involved in “doing things properly”. For a start, I was told I’d need a copy of the Trust Deeds (there aren’t any) or failing that a copy of Gran’s Will certified by a solicitor as a true copy. Then, in order to prove the identity of the beneficiary of the trust, I’d need to produce the child’s passport or his original Birth Certificate (not a copy) and proof of his parent’s address. I wanted to name my sister on the account as the other Trustee, so she’d also have to prove her identity and address because of money laundering legislation. And since she doesn’t bank with the same company as me, that would mean passport, driving licence and a utility bill all in her name. Moreover, because she’s changed her name on marriage since the Will was written, she’d also have to produce her marriage certificate to prove she was the same person named in the Will. And given that my sister lives in London and the child concerned comes from Liverpool, the logistics of getting all the right documentation in place would not be worth the effort for the small sum concerned!

I know that money laundering is a serious problem, and plenty of banks have had their knuckles rapped by the regulator for being too blasé about the identity of their customers. But this really was taking process and paperwork too far just for the sake of it! I told my sister I simply wasn’t prepared to go through the effort involved to jump through all the hoops. Instead we came to a compromise. She has an account at the same building society as I do, so we’re both known quantities there and should be able to open an account without having to go through all the proof-of-identity charades. I proposed to open a joint savings account with her, shove the lad’s inheritance in it, then if anything happened to me, she would still be able to operate the account and hand the accumulated pennies over to him when he reaches eighteen. The only downside I can see is that, because it’s not formally in the child’s name, we can’t register the account for interest to be paid net of tax. But with current interest rates and the small sum involved, that’s a trivial concern.

That seemed a suitable way forward, I posted a savings account application form to her, she filled it in and signed it and sent it back to me. I then completed my details and took it along to the building society on Saturday to open a deposit account. It didn’t help that the woman behind the counter was clearly new and had never opened a joint savings account before! She really couldn’t cope with opening an account without having the two principals standing in front of her. And I couldn’t escape the money laundering procedures entirely – she still wanted to verify our signatures. Well, mine was easy – I had my driving licence on me so that took care of that. But my sister was another problem. Since she’s a longstanding customer, it should have been possible to check with the signature they hold on file. But the computer system didn’t want to play ball, and the assistant couldn’t access it. She promised to “try again later” and then open the account as directed once the signature had been verified.

So I’m currently waiting to hear back from the building society one way or the other. I hope I’ve successfully opened a deposit account, and can now largely forget about the matter for the next eight years. But I have a niggling doubt that I may have fallen at the last hurdle and will have to go through all this rigmarole again. It’s already taken up far too much of my time!

Back to reality

It was overall a thoroughly interesting and enjoyable holiday, but it was then back to earth with a bump. I got back from the airport to a phone call from my neighbour, saying that my burglar alarm had gone off while I was away. She’d had a good look around, and couldn’t see anything suspicious, so had just reset it – but thought I ought to know. It’s really helpful having her keep an eye on the house in my absence, and the last thing I want is to be annoying her with false alarms.

As far as I could tell from the alarm log, the alert coincided with a power cut, which made me think it might be the same fault as a few years ago when the battery needed replacing. But the new battery really should last more than two years, even with the regular power cuts I get. So I called out the alarm company to give it a service. Unfortunately, it wasn’t good news. The battery was indeed flat, but that was because the main alarm panel had developed a fault and wasn’t supplying enough current to it to keep it trickle-charged. The alarm panel was so old it was obsolete, and I was advised that the whole thing needed to be upgraded – new panel, control box, bell and battery. Only the motion sensors in the rooms and the door sensors could remain unchanged.

I had that done last week, and the new system is much more user-friendly and easier to use. Except that it keeps triggering an alarm on bedroom 2 – I’m uncertain as to whether a mouse or similar has got in, or what is going on there! And the control panel is slightly smaller than the previous one, which means that there’s a small but annoying gap in the wallpaper where the old panel used to be. I have some spare wallpaper left over from when the hall was last redecorated, so I may have a go at bodging it myself. If not, I’ll have to call Rob the decorator in for a Friday afternoon job.

The Windmills of Mykonos

Even Mykonos wasn’t all bars and tourist traps. If you looked hard enough, there were faint signs of the small sleepy fishing village that it must have been before the cosmopolitan jet-set and the party-goers discovered it.

The Windmills of Mykonos

The Windmills of Mykonos

This row of windmills is the iconic “picture postcard” view of Mykonos, and was between the harbour and our hotel. It’s a reminder that it must have been a lovely place once, before all the unfettered development.

Visiting Delos

As I mentioned, the open-air museum island of Delos is only reachable by ferry from the neighboring island of Mykonos. It really is the archaeological highlight of the Cyclades, and even some of the cruise-ship passengers were persuaded to forgo the hedonistic delights of Mykonos Town, Paradise Beach, and the allegedly even better Super Paradise Beach for a visit to the ruins. Mind you, they were marched around the site in super-quick time, in groups of about 40, and then were shepherded onto the first available ferry back to Mykonos. So they only got about an hour and a half on the island, which was barely enough in my view to walk from the harbour through the main temple area to see the iconic Lions of Delos.

The Avenue of Lions

The Avenue of Lions

Unfortunately, these aren’t even the real thing – they’re very good replicas. The originals are now in the little museum at the far edge of the site, which none of the cruise ship tours actually reached. And even if you did get that far, the original lions were in a room that was closed off due to lack of staff, so you couldn’t actually get up close to them anyway!

There were also quite a lot of people making independent day-trips to the island. Their ticket allowed them three hours on Delos, before they had to be on the return ferry back to Mykonos. There was one extremely annoying chap on our trip who had read this in his Lonely Planet guide book, and went on and on at great length about how we’d get kicked off the island before we’d finished exploring it. Our very patient tour manager kept explaining to him that no, we had a group ticket with different terms and conditions, but he clearly didn’t believe her! If it’s written in Lonely Planet it must be gospel!

In fact, we had two visits of 4.5 hours on Delos, catching the last boat back each day. That was plenty of time to see the island slowly and thoroughly – slowly was necessary because of the heat and lack of shade; thoroughly because there was just so much to see.

The main street in Delos after all the cruise ship tours had left

The main street in Delos after all the cruise ship tours had left

I absolutely loved it. It was definitely a major highlight of the trip. And it was great to be there just before closing time, with hardly any other visitors around, wandering through the ruins without any noise or distraction – apart of course from the ferry sounding its foghorn to tell us to get on board as it was preparing to leave!