DIM in Progress 03 - Advice

Much laughter echoed through the house recently when N1 (do I need a Blog Glossary?  Of course I do!) called at the back door.  W1 answered and, almost choking with amusement, let me know that Alf wanted to see me.  


“To quote Alf,” she said, with S3 already grinning despite not knowing what his mum found so hilarious, “ ‘Is he in?  My electrics have gone off and he’s much more practical than me.’ ”

That was enough for S3.  He was off and the two of them spent the next few minutes giggling like schoolchildren as I heaved my troublesome spine off the settee and Quasimodoed through the house.

“The power’s off and I’ve no lights, so I thought I’d check it wasn’t just me.”  

I confirmed that we were still connected.

“It’s my lights.  They’ve gone off, upstairs and down.”

Now, as people who know me will testify, I am no electrician (or plasterer, bricklayer, joiner, etc.) but I do have a passing knowledge of how the lethal magic works; along what it does, the dangers, etc. and I do understand the colour coding system for domestic wiring. 

In fact, I used to replace broken light switches, the occasional socket outlet and even fit light fittings up until the incident of the exploding lampshade that showered me with hot shards of glass one summer evening in 1990. 

To this day I have no idea what caused the explosion, beyond knowing something happened to overheat the metal fitting and thus the glass until the latter failed.  The great good fortune on that occasion was that W1 and the boys had only minutes earlier passed through the room on their to the garden.  Also, studying hard and bent over an Open University course book, I suffered no more than first-degree burns from the few small pieces of hot glass falling on the back of my neck.     

I had installed that fitting and since then have done nothing more ambitious with electricity than change fuses.  In plugs.  Not the really dangerous ones lurking under the stairs.  All other electrical work is carried out by John, my personal competent electrician.

Anyway, Alf has a reasonably high opinion of my practical skills for one reasons.  In December 2010 a burst pipe in the loft flooded his house and blew all the electrics.  I visited on request – nobody laughed that day.  It was the shock, I think – and managed to identify the cause.  It wasn’t hard.  Very cold weather and unlagged loft pipework were always going to end in tears and I was able to help remedy the effects.  It was a freezing day and Alf was burning wood in his fireplace, filling the house with smoke and raising the temperature of his lounge by a few degrees above zero.  I located the fusebox and saw several circuit breaker trip switches were in the off position.

“The switches have tripped”.  I let Alf know.  “They can be a bit over-sensitive so if I switch them back you may get power.”

“Go on then.”

I turned my head away (always safety conscious) in the event of explosion and, wondering why I didn’t have a pair of rubber gloves, I squeezed my eyes tight and flicked the switches.

They clicked.  Nothing more.

“Okay.”  I said, feeling a bit like James Bond might, after defusing a bomb. “Try the lights”

“Nothing.”

“The sockets.”

“Still dead.”

“Your boiler.”

Whooosh-thump.  “It came on.”

To reduce an overlong story, the circuit supplying the gas boiler in the kitchen was still good, so Alf was able to heat up the house and start the long process of drying out the wiring and contents.  The power came back by the evening, so he then had electric light.  The interior warmed up to a steamy atmosphere as water evaporated from soaked carpets.  I belatedly asked if the water was off, and Alf said it was.  He had worried about burst pipes all through the cold snap and dumped the contents of his Council compost bin on the front garden so he could drag it indoor and upstairs, filling it from the bath cold tap via a hose as an emergency toilet flushing cistern.

That was all I could do.  I asked if he was insured.  He was, but asked me if a company would pay out, as it was his fault the pipes were unlagged.  I said they probably would – for the water damage, not the pipe replacement or repairs – and he should give it a try. 

The last thing I advised was to get an electrician out as soon as possible to check over the wiring.  “Everything might be working, but might not be safe.”  

Over the next few days, carpets were dragged out and spread over the drive and the car, to freeze solid before, after another week, the air temperature crept above freezing and, ever so slowly, the carpets began to dry out. 

A month later Alf knocked at the back door to let me know the insurance company has sent a cheque for £6000.  No questions asked, no visit by a loss assessor, no need for estimates or receipts.  Just a nice fat cheque.

“The wood floor in the kitchen lifted, but I can stick the bits back down and I’ll get a fitter to stretch the carpets back to fit.  Do you know a plumber?”  I did, and told him.  Also reminded him of the electrician.  I went back indoors that day awash with good karma.

So here I was again.  About to give advice I had no place giving, but this one turned out to be a doddle.  I turned off the main power switch, reset all the circuit switches to “on” and turned the power back on.  Light flooded the house, upstairs and down.

“Did a light bulb blow just before the power went off?”

“Yes, in the front room.”

That was the only light not working.  “There’s the problem.  These trip switches can be a bit sensitive and they click off at any provocation.  Replace the bulb and it will be okay, BUT if it blows again or your power trips off, you need to get an electrician out.”   

I then explained the workings of the electrical distribution board to him and went home, full of another dose of karma and a feeling of competence, to where W1 and S3 were just mopping the last of the tears from their eyes.  I didn’t care.  DIM can be effective even if carried out for others and, provided Alf’s house does not burn down or he ends up electrically traumatised (and four days on both are – or rather are not – still the case) I am calling that (in the argot of Saturday afternoon televised sport) a “result”. 

DIM in Progress 02

Something – perhaps memories of much of a working life spent “in” occupational health and safety – nagged away at me as I scrubbed down the boiler cupboard door with white spirit.

So I looked up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_spirit for details of flashpoint, explosive limits and other pub quiz trivia.   

Alarm bells sounded as years of learning, training, and competent practice kicked in and I thought: 

Flammable substance + oxygen + naked flame = fire triangle = BAD!    

So I switched off the boiler, capped the solvent bottle, opened windows and retired to my Writing Cellar, thus possibly avoiding a ka-boom moment.      

I have lost the natural light, so painting has ceased for the day – at the precise time Italy-England kicked off.  

The above are two examples of serendipity in one day.

And then I went and spoiled it all by doing something stupid like . . . 

Watching the last five minutes of the Italy-England first half. 

DIM in Progress 01

I am over the decorating threshold in that work has re-started over the last week or two and preparation of the dining room is now complete.  Tomorrow there will be more painting, also Monday and perhaps Tuesday and then the room is finished.  

I feel I am on a roll and this must be maintained. 

The lounge challenge presents itself after the kitchen and dining room, which are warm-ups in comparison, and I do not underestimate this mammoth task.  Nor the expense.  Last decorated in June 2002 – the date is clear, since I stopped work long enough to watch key World Cup games, including Beckham’s rehabilitatory performance for England against Argentina – some say the room is long overdue. 

A replacement carpet is being discussed, as are new sofas.  Also that probably means curtains and what D2 describes as “accessories” and I call “cushions and such”.

Gone will be the recent experiences of fifty quid for a room *sighs*, but first we have to get over the colour choice problem.  A small team of consultants has been engaged (comprising all the family member females over the age of eighteen who live in or visit our house) and the decision rests there.     

Yesterday went quite well.  I put a large tube of glue on the floor, knelt on it to hold it steady and cut the nozzle tip off with a Stanley knife.  Cue a spurt of contents across the floor until I took my weight off the tube.  Another rookie error akin to sitting on the tree branch through which one is sawing.  Still, the glue job worked and all the corners and edges of the old wallpaper, curling away from the wall like the stereotype image of a British Rail or transport caff sandwich, are stuck down. 

Next, I opened my sealed tub of ready-mixed plaster and applied it to the bare and crumbling patches of wall within the cupboard I am renovating.  

The plaster fell off. 

I re-applied to a dampened surface, but found I couldn’t smooth it down properly because of the limited space, so . . .

Most of it fell off. 

So in the end I slapped it on barehanded like Neolithic man daubing the wattle of his hut, with plenty of fingertip pressure and dabbing with damp cloth and . . . 

It stayed in place.  The surface will be rustic in appearance, but when dry will take a coat of paint and who cares that much about the interior of the boiler cupboard?

Job done, but another trade struck off the list of those I might try as I seek practical DIM competence. 

New Evidence on Use of Pop

Okay, I know I said I’d leave “pop” alone and move on to other examples of English abusage, but . . .

I was “popped” twice in HSBC today, as: 

“You’ve popped the amount in the wrong box . . .” and “after altering, just pop your initials next to it.”  Added to the minimum of six at Specsavers last week: “Pop your lenses out”; “pop your coat on there”; “pop yourself into the chair” and then “pop your lenses back in” (the four I remember) I seem to be encountering a lot more unnecessary popping.  

This is not the reason I am returning to the example.  I am back here because I think I have worked out why. 

In almost every example noted, “pop” was part of an instruction and its use took the edge off each command.  “Sit down”, “put your coat on there”; “take out your lenses” all sound peremptory, may not be to a customer’s liking and could lead to sarcastic responses such as “pretty please” or similar.  

“Pop” is a politeness.  It soothes, eases and avoids the causing of offence or tension in encounters between product/service providers and customers.

That is all well and good, but what on earth is wrong with a simple “please”?

I suggest that the rise of “pop” has taken place at the expense of “please”, one of the two words I was brought up to use more than any other.  For those who don’t know, the second – almost always used soon after “please” – was “thank you”.

Now I have a theory to test, I am encouraged to apply for a research grant.  

At last, a proper, measurable goal.   

          

Chicken Soup for the Wallet

The title is a nod in the direction of Canfield and Hansen, but the style is different.

You can’t beat leftovers in my opinion.  Re-heating food adds an extra something to the fresh-cooked experience and although food doesn’t all react well to repeat cookings, my life would be emptier without it.

For example.

Take a small, pre-used chicken carcase and strip off all the meat.  In doing this, there is no substitute for a clean pair of hands since getting the delicious little mouthfuls from those two hollows in the lower back and the recessed parts of the keel requires a deft thumb.   

Put the good meat (chunks and strips) into a bowl for, say, a pasta sauce or a decent sandwich.  Drop the scratty bits and scrapings into another bowl.  Boil carcase in three pints of water to which a good quality vegetable stock cube is added.  “Good quality” can be determined from the ingredients list.  Only go for those containing food items, not the products of laboratories. 

Three hours later, strain bones and other debris from the stock.  Pick over the bits for extra shreds of meat that have dropped off and add to the pickens bowl.  Discard the bones, cartilage, skin, etc. unless you have access to a wormery.

Let the stock cool and, if desired, skim off excess fat.   

Add leftover roast potatoes and parsnips and a quarter of a chopped cabbage.  Include the hard bits from the cabbage core, since these cook down nicely. 

Macerate using a hand blender or liquidiser, but don’t make it too smooth.  Add half a pint of leftover white sauce.  Season.  Simmer for ten minutes.

Add two handfuls of sweetcorn and the chicken pickens.  Simmer for ten minutes.  Check seasoning.  (It will need more salt.  Everything always does)

Serve with Swiss Fitness Loaf, fresh from the bread maker courtesy of a Betty’s

recipe.

I got nine servings of delicious soup from a recipe including only two bought items: a stock cube and a few leaves and core of cabbage, since leftovers don’t count for budgetary purposes.  

Cost for nine portions = ninety pence.

Cost per person = ten pence.

Okay, I’ll add a quid for the bread ingredients making dinner per person a shade over twenty pence.  All the necessary food groups are present including (possibly, if you use enough veg.) three of the
five-a-day insisted on by the Food Fascisti.

Beat that, ye frugal cooks out there. 

Comment from Star Teacher: "Too much salt.  Must try harder."

Straw Bear

Should be here, but isn't yet.

DIM: Another New Word

“DIM”.  = Do (or Doing, Done, Damaging and/or Destroying) It Myself.

Okay it’s an acronym, but still counts as word generation.  

“DIM” is my own version of “DIY” and its derivatives.  A similar but different term for a common and popular set of activities, describing to others how much my efforts differ from those with a normal level of practical skill and competency.

I must be careful not to slip into self-parody and turn self-deprecation into an art form.  Nor do I seek sympathy – although my family need it at times – since I am still smiling.

Why now, you may ask?
 
Well, I had a day of DIM on Monday and thought I had done so well.  I took ages, but removed and re-fitted a couple of kitchen cupboards and worktops. This involved drilling the right number of holes, so everything could be screwed in place to be secure and reasonably level.

Then I went to start making parsnip soup and found the cooker was dead.  I looked at my screw holes.  Several tracked vertically down from from beneath the cooker supply socket, pretty much along the line I would follow if I was an electric cable buried in plaster.  

I then remembered one particular hole where there was a bit more resistance to the drill than I expected.  I could have pulled the drill out, chipped out the surrounding plaster and exposed the metal cable duct with its minor surface damage, but I didn't.  Instead I leaned harder on the drill and through it went.     

John Spark got me out of trouble again, with an evening visit to confirm my diagnosis.    

It helped a great deal that the repairs needed after Monday's Kitchen Drilling Incident were inexpensive and minimal in terms of mess.  Of my ten randomly placed holes in the walls, only one had struck a wire. Just.  A whisker to the left and I would have been safe and my ignorance would have continued. 

Instead, I see this incident as a positive one.  I have learned something (blindingly obvious, it has to be said) and view the time spent on repeating the work I did on Monday not as wasted, but invested. 

In addition, I have supported two small businesses (John's and the electrical suppliers) and given Stella another story to tell after the camera-in-the-toilet one has run its course.