I’ve started this on Friday. The Euro final is on Sunday. England v Germany. Groan. As someone once said. Football is a simple game of eleven v eleven, one ball, two halves and the Germans win on penalties. Above all else, please don’t let it go to penalties. I don’t think I have a constitution that can cope with another one of those depressing endings.
I spent all day with an old colleague who is a whizz with all things computerish. It wasn’t much I needed help with: a new laptop to be set up, which I could probably sort myself; a set of boosters for the Wi-Fi – our house was built in the 1930s in what is called the Surrey Tudor style. This involves, alongside the Tudor beams and red tiles, a distinctly Wi-Fi-unfriendly fenestration, involving as it does Crittal windows which are made of small triangles of glass held in place with lead. If there is one thing guaranteed to bugger up a Wi-Fi signal it’s a combination of two lines of brick walls and a lead barrier between. I’d bought the latest versions of the boosters offered by BT, two sets and we were going to try and defy the cold spots; and a new wireless colour printer – I have form with printers and the sort of relationship usually reserved for aggrieved neighbours and political foes.
Three hours, tops.
Oh sure. Six and counting. Partly that was down to us choosing a day when Virgin Media who supply my broadband deciding yesterday was a great day to drop the signal in and out without warning… no, scrap the partly; it’s all their sodding fault. Every time we managed to have three or four discs functioning, out it would drop and we’d have to start the whole rigmarole once more.
And then, just when we thought we’d got past the worst we went to do the printer. Yes, it’s official. I want to kill all printers, eradicate them from the face of the planet: reprographicoside.
As a result my confidence in setting up my laptop was put to the test today. I stumbled a little over my email but, yes, my confidence was justified. Well, so far. The day and a third let to run… I will regret writing this.
The son and heir and his lovely spouse are living chez nous pending buying their new house. Well, it’s now bought but needs work… lots. Current estimate for a move: February.
We love having them stay. The fridge is regularly emptied in ways not seen since one child returned from university. The washing machine has asked for time off in lieu. And according to my Netflix account I’m watching all kinds of crap I never realised anyone had considered it worth making.
One trial for your millennial around their 30th is the preponderance of stag/hen/wedding does. These take at least a weekend, often require flights to various parts of Europe that haven’t yet banned them as well as complicated outfitting. This weekend it’s lederhosen and Glasgow. Poor old Glasgow.
As a result, at 8am on Saturday, I’m to be found outside the new house, waiting to let in some chap… Warren, it turns out… to check for asbestos, which was mentioned in the survey. On balance, if asked to choose between Scotland and Oktoberfest on Clyde and Streatham and asbestos, it’s not as clear cut as one might imagine.
Streatham is one part of South London – there are several – which is ‘improving’. Along the High Road there are multiple charity shops and betting outlets jostling with I Love Coffee cafes and a M&S food hall. It’s my bet the former will gradually shrink, replaced with bespoke fresh pasta emporia and vajazzle while you wait boutiques. And eventually you will only be allowed to live here if you have 2 children wearing Jojo and Moron salopettes, vote green and carry a doofee on your key ring that tells you if the avocados are ripe. Are avocados the only fruit n veg that is either unripe or rotting, but never actually perfect?