wendy house

I did my upmost to light family festive barneys by:

• eating a whole jar of pickled beetroot at one meal.
• Using the wrong remote-control (choice of 6) to change TV channels. 
• asking for porridge.
• Securing the largest portion of Triffle.
• mentioning that ‘run cmd’ provides access to a DOS window in XP

Radiators are the most common way of heating homes in England. They work by a stream of hot water flowing to them, radiating to the rooms they are in, supplied by a natural gas fired boiler and electric pump.

This one in the Wendy pent House features a small detachable ‘towel rack’ I’ve repurposed as an underwear drier.

Over time bubbles gradually accumulate at the top of the radiator reducing its ability to directly radiate heat from the hot water.  The action of removing this air is called ‘bleeding’ the radiator.  Twisting a valve at the top of the radiator,  listening to the hisssssssss of air leaving then re-tightening when water starts to drip out.  Oh,  the fun of rediscovering English ways…   

Before moving to the temporary Wendy House in Reading I spent all of 5 minutes looking for bloggers who confessed to a connection with Reading.  I found Reading Roars and Scary Duck.  After turning up in Reading I built a ‘feel’ for liveable-in places in Reading by riding some of the local bus routes.  Most circular routes appear to take less than 45 mins.  That’s a sizist comment: “Reading,  the size of several 45 mins circular bus routes“.   Apparantly this photograph of buses passing on Route 24 was taken very near the cardboard box that ScaryDuck claims to live in. 

How cosy is that?

Early on a chilly Friday evening afore Christmas Mr. Hegley and longtime associate Mr. Bailey jumped on a train from London Paddington to Reading Central.  Once in Reading they sought out the South Street arts centre and there joined the poets cafe.  The cafe was hosted by AFH who skillfully introduced us to the intricacies of the concept of first half,  second half and interval.  He cunningly avoided reference to the powerful football analogy that subsequently snuck its way into several of Mr. Hegley’s poems including his opener which described the emotional ebb and flow of Luton town beating Reading town.  Both almost cities missed gaining city status in the Millenium celebrations when the Queen granted 3 towns city status. John’s delivery was perfectly complimented by his companion, Andrew’s, acting skills.  Neither black bird, woman,  nor alien were beyond Andrews talented delivery.

At the poets cafe audience are also invited to be performers,  slips of paper, published and unpublished books proped newcomers and professionals alike while sharing their work about ghosts, parties, typewriters, family, and TV shows.   I slouched at the back with a pint of John Smith’s rapidly disappearing from my plastic glass wondering if I should bring a piece of paper and a little pluck to the second half…  …after the interval…  …of the next meeting.

In the quest for a new Wendy House of my own I have been visiting a variety of Estate agents,  one at a time.  They all ask: 

What’s your current address?

 The Wendy Pent-House

Can you see the theme in the replies?

#1 Romans Estate Agent:  the big white house?

#2 Carsons Estate Agent:  the big white house?  I just sold a flat there for 240,000, very nice.

#3: Prospect Estate Agent:  the big white house?  We have a flat for sale there by Mr. [name], would you like to view it?

Wendy to prospect agent: [family name]?

Agent:  Yes,  he’s…

Wendy: …a professional football player,  the other people living in the building told me about him* he’s currently on loan to [football team,  not based in Reading].

Agent:  You’ve just missed him by minutes.  He came in here,  just now,  that’s quite a coincidence…

Wendy (oozing insincerity out of every orifice and some pores too): Oh dear,  what a shame.

*an unpublishable variety of unflattering names were used by to describe the fellow and descriptions of how he engaged with them.

People who hail from Reading are (pick one option or add one of your own making):

• Readingensians
• Readonians
• Readibus
• Readifolk
• Readipop

Thanks to Adam Sowan for raising my awareness of these options. Obivously I like the Readibus option because of my prediliction for buses.  But how do you get to be a Readibus?  So far I’ve found 2 things:

1. living in close proximity to the big white house or at least being able to identify it by its address
2. Working for specific companies or at specific locations (e.g. Thames Valley Park) . 

What other things do you think it takes to hail from Reading?  When will I have been ‘localised’ (in a conmputer jaron sense of the word)?

First time Taxiing Bros:

Bros:  are we going the usual way (voice stress indicates some concern)

Wendy: I don’t know,  you’ll have to direct me to the usual way

Bros:  it’s the other way

Wendy: 180 degrees in the other direction is going the usual way?

Bros: Yes

I turn around in the car park of a local Medical centre.  Bros. explains this is the medical centre he normally uses.  It will close for-ever when another one is completed further away from his home.  Approaching Bristol, Bros continues describing the usual way then comments that he hasn’t done this for 2 years so the Roads might have changed.  I managed to reproduce near-enough the usual way.  A way I had never taken because Uncle Vaughan set the usual way for my brother.

this post is not worth reading because its a lot of twaddle and the like.

are you finding everything ok?

is a phrase that appears to be a ubiquitous conversation opener between shop-staff and customers in the NW US.  Staff will say this to the back of your head or across over 10ft of shop-floor space.  Sometimes 3 or 4 staff in a store will ask you this as you browse their stock.  They made me feel guilty for not having a specific something to find in an ‘ok’ way.  I felt I needed to have a target, they made me want to leave the shop and apologise for browsing.  I used to reply by saying

I’m alright,  I’m just browsing

After this phrase they would let me know that I should get them if I needed anything.  Very proactively supportive.  At first it felt slightly intrusive,  but the system of making themselves known,  highlighting their intent to serve,  is very customer focused.  It also felt very predictable and fomulaic, impersonal.  Making shopping feel like the factory style process. 

The two distinct differences in the UK are that the shop staff

1. make sure they have eye-contact with you before speaking 
2. have a different, if equally predictable, opening phrase. 

When looking for a jumper in Jigsaw assistant one caught my eye and asked

‘are you alright?‘

another 2 assistants just caught my eye and smiled.  Catching my eye was providing me with the opportunity to ask them something,  letting me know they are there for me.   It has been easy to re-adjust to the UK approach.  If I need assistance I lift my head and scan the faces in the shop until I get eye-contact,  normally followed by a smile and if the shop is not busy (unlikely, Jigsaw is an exception) the staff member walks over before starting to talk rather than raising their voice to talk across several feet space.

Off to the shops.  The shopping tortutre.  Ick.  Luckily I was armed with a set of seasonal shopping lists from those short-people* that must be obeyed because of their lung, pout, and innovative-torturing-technique, capacity. 

Toddling home armed with short-people pacifiers and a book.  A book that lists Reading street names,  almost but not quite, alphabetically as it outlines the significance of the names. 

Here’s an excerpt from my current Reading, reading, material (my emphasis):

The Reading Paving Act of 1827 – a splendid document written in legalese that never uses one word where three, or better still nine, will do – talks only of ‘streets, Lanes, public passages and Places’. (It also says that occupiers have to sweep the pavement outside their houses, and specifies when they should remove Night Soil or filth from the Necessaries or Boghouses.)

Mini Wendy’s are herded by their parents into providing their Maiden Aunts with helpful lists lest they get the normal bizarre undesirable obscurities she normally offloads their way in the name of goodwill.

Lets take a moment for a thematic analysis of these lists.  The 13yr-old has covered her back against seemingly being disapointed by adding the item ’surprises’ to her clearly titled pink,  heart-bulleted, picture illustrated, word-document list.  Outstanding job,  not least the request for a hair straightner,  dropping the clearly superflous e was a stroke of pure genious.

By age 15yrs the Mini Wendy has grasped the usefulness of hyperlinks and chosen them over pictorial representations.  The top-shop and over the kee socks references are clearly fashion references that perhaps I could learn from.  Hmmm…   And the lassie has clearly dealt with my impending myopia,  excellent forward thinking there.

Good to see the mini Wendy’s are developing the Wendy trait for list construction.  Clearly the girls are growing into fully rounded capable young Wendys

Estate agent: what’s your current address?
Wendy: (the Wendy House,  address)
Estate agent: big white building?
Wendy: yes, how did you know?
Estate agent: I used to live near there

I keep meeting people that live(d) near the Wendy House.  How cosy is that?

Outside St Marys Butts,  after wandingring around the Saturday market in search of a little refreshment in Pavlov’s dog

Wendy:  do you have any dark ales?

Barboy: we don’t have any ales,  we’re a student pub

I moved on without buying anything and turned-up in Zero Degree’s Microbrewery.

Wendy:  do you have any dark ales?

Barboy:  we’re a Microbrewery,  we brew our own

Wendy:  do you have any dark ales?

Barboy:  We have Pilsners

Wendy:  No.  Pilsner a light beer, a lager, do you have any dark ales?

Barboy:  We have India Pale Ales.. its like a Bitter…

Wendy (getting desperate):  Yes,  Bitter,  I love Bitter,  what Bitters do you have?

Barboy:  We have a special Apple and Cinnamon Bitter.

Wendy:  I’ll have a pint of your apple and cinnamon bitter please

  ….when it eventually arrived the Apple and cinnamon bitter was unfiltered,  sickly sweet tasting as if it had been brewed yesterday by a pre-teen for a school technology project which may well appeal to some people.  Not fussy, grumpy, me.  

The 7 Waitstaff that I counted were pleasant enough when they stopped talking to each other and checked-in on their 5 customers,  a table of 4 and myself.  It had the feel of a large chain outlet targetting high turnover rather than quality service,  there was no obvious evidence of employees pride in their skills or the establishment.   My pasta dish was extremely good soft pasta with fresh herbs and creamy sauce…  yummy

So, I need to complete a form to get one of those?

Where can I get the form?
Counter-signed by who?
Submitted where
Wait for a reply
Then will I have one of those?

Oh, I need equipment?
how do I know what equipment will work?
Will the reply tell me?
Do I have to get the reply from somewhere or will it come to me?
After I’ve picked up the equipment will I have one of those?

Another form, how many forms?
How will I find the forms?
I need approval?
Approval from who?
Approval given to who?
Approval before, after or on the form?
Another form?

I should just wait… …it will all happen after I’ve submitted the first form, things will just happen, I should just trust that submitting the first form will start the ball rolling and it will roll smoothly to my getting one of those…

But I can’t submit the first form until I’ve got one of those,
How do I get one of those,
So, I need to complete a form to get one of those…

what does a girl do of an evening after work?

No kitties at home to pamper me? 

Can you guess? 

Despite living in the Thames Valley down-stream from Tewkesbury my evening activities do not, yet, involve the dodging the local floods,  which appears to be a necessary skill in both the NW US and locally.

Perhaps I should buy some wellies now?

 Things just get water logged when I’m not around to take care of things.  I hope the kitties didn’t get too soggy without me.

Text-messaging is probably popular here because its a way of having fun with friends without using too much cell phone battery while you’re in a queue.  In  just one one day I queued for a cumulative total of 2 years, 3 months, 1 week,  8 hours,  24 minutes and 7 seconds at:

1. after-party London fancy hotel, because I’m worth it, check-out
2. London Underground ticket-issuing machine,  because I’m really Joe Public
3. British Rail Ticket office, because I haven’t yet queued enough today
4. Letting agency office, because I was just a would-be renter.
5. NatWest counter who cashed my cheque to pay my first months rent but they directed me to another queue to take my a standing order
6. NatWest information to set-up a standing so that it pays automatically in future
7. Marks & Spencers public loos, ladies,  restrooms, toilets, washrooms,  because I really can’t decide what to call them and have lost the ability to say TOILET in public or LOO,  really,  I go all pink and start inspecting the top of my shoes.
8. Bar.  Apparantly this bar staff found out that a 3 foot bar can render me invisible.  Sigh.  Luckily,  fellows on the customer side of the bar noticed my little queue-bashed-face and pointed the bar-staff over to sort me out before a I subjected everyone to a wreckless outbreak of public blubbing.

It feels like UK systems maximise having people stand in queues awaiting their service distribution.  This is very economical for the service provider in terms of cost,  they under-staff and turnover remains high.  British consumers appear very patient with this approach to providing them with service.  I’d much rather the services provided adequate staffing to ensure that, as a customer, I do not have to plan for standing in a queue…..  

During a rather unrare planningy moment:

Spanish person:  you’ll need your passport number to complete this form

Wendy:  will an out of date passport number work?

Spanish person:  I don’t know. They accept other documents

Wendy:  My Birth certificate?

Spanish person:  No,   it has to be a UK Birth Certificate

Wendy:  It is,  I’m born and bred in England!

Over a lunch of chicken and chips with lashings of vinegar:

Someone from the Colonies (don’t know which):  Are you Australian?  I can hear an accent

Wendy:  I’m English

SFTC(DKW): but you’ve lived abroad for sometime?

Wendy:  Yes,  8 years in the US,  but its probably my regional English accent that you’re hearing

Over a disturbingly small cup of tea:

New Zealander:  I can hear your American intonation

Wendy:   that’s actually my English regional accent intonation

New Zealander:  (immitates raising voice-pitch towards end of sentence)

Wendy:  That’s right,  Bristolians raise their voice towards the end of a sentence,  well spotted!  (I squeaked the last bit in a higher pitch)

I don’t think I convinced anyone.  Maybe I’ve been colonyised?

This moving malarky is intense, unrelenting and exhausting:  decision,  decision, decision,  pack, pack, pack,  sell, sell, sell, donate, donate, donate, comma, comma, comma….

I will be treating myself to a long ride on the top of double-decker bus as relaxation one Sunday in Reading. 

I like the look of the N26 and the N11. 

The bus service in Reading is of award winning European standard!  Hoorah!  The Reading “PLUSBUS‘ service won the International Road Transport Union Eurochallenge Award 2007 judged by an independent panel of European senior transport experts.  Oh, OH, OHHHHH,  I feel a bout of bus-geeky over-excitement about to break out….  If I get one friend to come with me we can be a ‘group’ and buy a  bargain group ticket for all day Sunday travel for only 5 GBP.   I may take Flat Eric.  It’s oh too exciting,  don’t you just wish you could sit up there with us and make bus-appropriate sound effects and faces at the pedestrians we pass?  Simply hours of good clean fun to be had.

A section on ‘dress’ in this document outlining how MP’s should behaive in the house of commons provides handy information for boy-hat-wearers:

Alfred Kinnear MP, in 1900, summed up the hat-wearing rules as follows:-

 “At all times remove your hat on entering the House, and put it on upon taking your seat; and remove it again on rising for whatever purpose. If the MP asks a question he will stand, and with his hat off; and he may receive the answer of the Minister seated and with his hat on. If on a division he should have to challenge the ruling of the chair, he will sit and put his hat on. If he wishes to address the Speaker ona point of order not connected with a division, he will do so standing with his hat off. When he leaves the House to participate in a division he will take his hat off, but will vote with it on. If the Queen sends a message to be read from the chair, the Member will uncover. In short, how to take his seat, how to behave at prayers, and what to do with his hat, form between them the ABC of the parliamentary scholar.”

 In order to avoid the appearance of debate and to be seen easily, a Member wishing to raise a point of order during a division was, until 1998, required to speak with his hat on. Collapsible top hats were kept for the purpose. This requirement was abolished following recommendations from the Modernisation Select Committee, which also recommended that Members raising such a point of order should do so by standing in the normal way but from a position on the second bench as close to the Chair as possible, so they could be heard by both the Speaker and the Official Report. Male MPs may still not address the House whilst wearing a hat: women Members are exempt from this rule, though the different rules in society generally relating to female hat-wearing may well have caused a few problems when women first sat in the House in the 1920s.

The Evil Swede’s guide to proper hat etiquette provides an insight into gender-based hat etiquette variations:

women are and were allowed to wear a hat in a church, a courtroom or at a funeral.. prettty much anywhere a man would not wear a hat, even today. Naturally, if a woman is dressed in men’s style clothing (jeans, slacks, etc..) and is wearing a man’s style hat or cap, it would be considered good manners for them to remove their hat.

The different rules are often attributed to gender-based differences in hat design and hairstyles.  The design of womens hats often does not take ease of use into account and therefor requires the use of ‘pins’ to keep them on making removal a dangerous and tricky activity.  Carefully constructed hairstyles for girls may not be worthy of public viewing after being squished by a hat.

Since I aspire to a simple robust hairstyle and a hat that is easy to place and remove then I have failed in my feminity and should doff to follow the complicated hat wearing guidelines traditionally directed at men.

The people pictured on this sign on a bridge over the river Kennet do not look altogether happy about Reading gas company.  I wonder who they are meant to be?   Maybe it is King Henry I who founded the Reading Abbey in 1121 and was subsequently buried there before its completion.  The Abbey was built with stone from France and staffed by French monks from Cluny.  Maybe the chap in the crown is king Henry VIII who was responsibly for dissolving the Abbey and martyring the last Abbot by the gruesomely messy method of ‘hung drawn and quartered’ for failing to swear an oath of allegiance to Henry VIII as the supreme leader of the church in England.  Four of Henry VIII wives died (and 2 more a little later)*,  maybe that’s who the four other people are and why they look so sad.  Does anyone out there know?

*edited after AFH’s insightful comment

Reading reolcation specialist (rrs).

rrs: I remember the 90’s market depression,  houses being repossesed,  very sad

rrs: its going to happen again,  best to buy a house after January because the prices will have dropped due to all the repossessions and the difficulties in securing a mortgage.

I sold a home in 1993 and was thrilled to get the 1990 purchase price.

Apparantly US English is classed as an ethnic minority version of English. 

Raymond’s Birthday Poem

If a fellow knits stuff and does it quite quick
and never once tangles the wool on his stick
would you say of the clatter and say of the click,
‘Well, he’s not knitting knots at a fair old lick’?

And if he trained head-lice to help with the job,
gave them little needles, paid them a few bob,
explained how to cast on and then later cast off,
would you believe in the nits now not knitting knots or would you just scoff?

But the smaller the fingers the finer the weave,
and employing such workers is great, I believe,
for creating new woollens with panache and far
greater strength than is found in the cheaper Kevlar.

Some folk find this mixture of factors spot on,
more crafty than denim, warmer than cotton,
a wide choice of sizes for men and for women,
but not really clothing one should try to swim in,

‘cause wool absorbs water and clogs and weighs down
and encourages wearers to submerge and drown
which isn’t the greatest of hobbies to take up:
it ruffles your hair and smudges your make-up,

and no one really wants to be looking their worst
when they’re dragged from the river and offered bratwurst
(which is how in Bavaria they check you’re alive
(or so I was told by a fellow called Clive)).

But this super-tough knitted material’s handy
away from the rivers, where it’s dry and dandy,
for protecting the wearer from bruises and bumps
and contusions and grazes and fractures and lumps,

say out on a bicycle, whizzing downhill,
with the wind in your hair, no trace of the chill
thanks to the weave that covers you up
as you weave around litter and pooh of the pup

that’s been left in the gutter along with road-kill
and yesterday’s paper and one espadrille
and cartons and bollards and packets of krill
split open and slimy and a rickety grill

that covers the sewer, well almost, not quite,
and in England the cars are all on your right,
hooting and braking and fucking about,
opening doors and letting kids out,

so thank God you’re in wool that’s been knitted by nits
and is doubly-woven on your private bits
‘cause a million things are waiting to do
harm to a person as lovely as you,

watch out for the stick that gets stuck in your spokes,
watch out for those tumbling stray artichokes,
watch out for the kid who runs after his ball,
watch out for the dog who runs after his ball too,

watch out for the dangers that you least expect,
the unlikely ones that will make you eject,
the uncanny, perverse, bizarre things that disturb
for instance, who’d think?, a guest starring kerb.

Thank goodness for wool, thank goodness for knitting,
thank goodness for not having grazes with grit in,
thank goodness for bikes that keep us all healthy,
and poets with patrons who are quietly wealthy.

A.F.Harrold

(PS publication of this poem does not in anyway coincide with Raymonds actual birthday,  which is,  one of natures mysteries)

Midweek I’m doing the laundry and making other homesy stuff which is not half as much fun as when the kitties are trying to make things not run smoothly.  So I toddled off to check-out one of the local pubs

Wendy:  do you have and dark ales?

Barboy:  Just Newcastle brown and that comes in a bottle.

I’m disturbed.  Every self-respecting British beer drinker knows that Newcastle brown comes in a bottle.  The barboy felt he had to tell me.  Is this because my not quite English accent shows with just the one phrase above?

GADZOOKS! 

There’s me thinking I’d maintained my Englishness through and through and now people are telling me that Newcastle brown comes in a bottle.  I scan the electric taps and pick an ale over a larger

Wendy:  John Smith’s please

Barboy:  that will be two pounds thirty.

I wander off to read my book,  drink my pint,  wonder if I’m geographically unplaceable.

Barboy:  Same again?

Wendy:  I’ll have an Abbots Ale (yummy, I don’t know why he didnt sell this to me first time around)

Barboy:  how did you find us?

Wendy:  I’ve just moved in nearby

Barboy:  where do you live?

Is my luck in?  What’s this all about?  Is knowing that Abbots Ale is the right beer to drink the key to conversational success?

Wendy: Number 13 (blah) road

Barboy:  I live at number 26,  welcome…  …don’t go into the (blah)

BLOODY BLASPHEMY a boy all of half my age just told me his home address,  smiled at me and is being downright friendly.  Gosh,  I remember that happening when I was in my 20’s and 30’s but not in my 40’s.  I think I need to calm down or have a reality check or something.

Wendy:  Oh yeah,  I looked through the windows, it looked rough

Barboy:  I worked there for 2 evenings,  it was EMBARRESSING

at this point I’ll censor the conversation.  Surfice to say it did continue and I do know a little more about my neighborhoood and will be going back to that pub… …which pressumably was the barboys intention…  Should I take flat-eric?  What do you think?

An End User Licence Agreement (EULA) is the long legal agreement presented to you before you can use a specific software service.  Wikipedia says:

“The enforceability of an EULA depends on several factors, one of them being the court in which the case is heard. Some courts that have addressed the validity of the shrinkwrap license agreements have found some EULAs to be invalid…   … No Court has ruled on the validity of EULAs generally; decisions are limited to particular provisions and terms

I suspect that end users rarely read or,  and even more rarely, understand the implications of the EULA.  This undermines a EULAs validity beyond merely establishing a common-sensical understanding of software use.  I have no idea what a common-sensical understanding might be except perhaps privacy of the individuals’ information and the service providers intellectual property. I would value seeing an introduction of readable, understandable, short EULA’s.  Eulas that are actually designed to communicate to potential users rather than covering the legal-butt of the service providers. 

Given that the software providers MUST know that their users DO NOT READ and most likely DO NOT UNDERSTAND the provided EULA,  merely providing a requirement to accept before progressing is INSUFFICIENT safeguard for either the service provider of the user.  

A google search on the phrase “guidelines for producing understandable EULAs” did not find any such guidelines.  In my opinion the software and legal industries are morally obliged to produce short, succinct, clear EULAs otherwise a Nation’s court systems wealthy users will have to pay,  through expensive disputes,  to establish the precedents that may be limited to nation,  state, laws rather than developed for the general good of people who I suspect behaive in a consistent way when dealing with EULAs.  Less empowered people will pay through loosing their privacy and rights through lack of awareness of what the service is actually costing them.  Recently a friend on facebook invited me to join a group called ”Against Facebook integrity rape“.  The group’s point appeared more generic to EULA’s generically,  treating facebook as a specific case.  The group description says:

Automatically people who join facebook accept a 13-page legalcontract. This contract in short makes ALL your info, pictures and EVERYTHING you do on Facebook their property.
You don’t have to accept this. If enough people empty their photoalbums and only have a protest or nothing as profile photo, then perhaps they will react. Also if enough people join this group and mail Facebook that this slave contract isn’t OK that would help to keep pressure on them.

I chose not to join this group because I object to the groups unwise choise to use of the terms slave and rape to describe Facebook’s EULA agreement.  This choice under-emphasizes the extreme negative experience of slavery and rape, the absolute lack of free choice available to slaves,  in a EULA people have CHOSEN to publish information that could be used in (EULA detailed) ways that are more akin to the experience of THEFT than RAPE where there is no consent. Understanding how your information, writings, pictures, held by a service will or wont be subject to proliferation,  republishing etc is a fundamental civil rights issue that deserves the attention of people equipped to make good decisions on behalf of normal , click and explore rather than read essays, software users.

Why hasn’t it happened already?

Has it happened and I missed it?

senior colleague:

“Wendy is one of our best.  She’s the sort of girl that, when she says she’s leaving you think,  Wow that’s a great new job but boy are we f**ked“

junior colleague:

“blub-blub-blub,  blub-blub,  blub-blub-blub” (or noises to that effect)

someone in the corridor:

“f-off back to blighty then you old trout” (no-one was plucky-enough to actually say this,  I made it up)

senior colleague

“once you’ve learned how to spell,  stop wearing velvet, and start talking properly rather than your geeky research stuff then the world will be your oyester” (Mushroom implied,  this wasn’t Raymond)

friend

“would you like a lift to the airport?”

colleague:

“how many days vacation will you get?”

friend

“they have Anne Klien in the UK” (me – who’s Ann Klien?)

anonymous

“do they have mountains in England?”

sadly deluded commenter on theoldnewthing blog ’shipper’

“disappointed that Raymond and Wendy didn’t end up together”

The New York Times

“    “

Disclaimers:

• this blog is fictional.

• any offense caused to any friend or colleague is purely intentional.

• all spelling mistakes are deliberate.

• I reserve the right to relocate again if someone makes me the right offer.

• are you still reading? You get brownie points for perseverence, ability to scroll or possession of a huge monitor or dense screen resolution (take your pick).

• I like lists

Contrast.  Less than 20 yards apart,  an empty Hotel foyer with ample seating and the busy street across the road where the pavement provides seating.  Shuffling through the  slowly revolving, silent, automatic Hotel doors onto Friary street the chilly night air, scent, and sounds of Reading nightlife slap you sharply on the cheek.  Especially if you sit down suddenly. On the pavement (US = sidewalk) as I am wont to do occassionally.

Oddly enough I didn’t fall-over on my recent trip to Reading.  Is this portentous? 

According to the world clock on November 9th sunset started in Reading UK (16.24hrs) only 16 mins before Seattle WA (16.40hrs).  This small difference was noticable.  Winter feels more announced by the Reading daylight in the UK.  Summer days are longer too,  Hoorah!

Snow is not part of the regular winter menu in Reading.  It’s only lightly part of the Seattle diet but they do like to make a fuss about it.  I gather there was some snow recently as this photograph by Jenn suggests.

Now please excuse me while I do some laundry in an Electrolux front-loading washing machine with 700 different settings and the capacity of a large hankerchief….

After one week in Abadair house The Wendy House is temporarily relocating to one of the 4 top floor flats (US = apartment) in this classy Reading townhouse.  It’s an extremely cute minature penthouse that has furniture to match.   The landlady reliably informs me that all walls and floors are decidedly uneven so I have to take precautions against sea-sickness.  Not to worry about the pigeons living in the wall cavity,  their coo-ing can be quite cute in the morning.  The chap who lives below is called ‘cannabis man’ so I don’t have to worry about disturbing him because he is extremely well chilled.  The people in the flat next door are called the little people,  and indeed they are,  but not pre-adolescent little.  Evidently I can see directly into the flats opposite and below,  more of that fun nightime activity in a later post…

A multifamily garage sale on the Wendy House street.  I sold stuff that would be unnecessary for living in a smaller UK style Wendy House.  We wisely picked a cold, rainy, November day for the sale, advertised on craigslist, expo live, and with street-signs.  People arrived an hour before the start.  We made good value sales in the first 2hrs then dropped prices radically to end with effectively shifting quantity, nearly everything. 

Several friends helped make the sale a fun, pleasant, and effective experience by displaying stuff attractively,  being nice to the customers and making sure everyone had tea, Thai hot soup, and donuts as needed. 

In the US car ownership is established with a Title.  When you sell your car you transfer the title to the new owner.  Loosea’s title has gone AWOL.  I looked everywhere,  honest.   Luckily a swift check online produced a form for declaring her title lost and releasing it to a new owner.  My signature on the slightly confusing form had to be notarised.  The Notary had to ask for a second opinion about what should be filled-in.  All turned out well in the end.  Hoorah,  despite my relocation induced scattiness Loosea will get to go to a new home,  across the road,  the house opposite,  she’s a bit of a home-body