I think I love potatoes more than I love chocolate. It matters not in which format they have been prepared, although for the record, mashed, roasted and baked are my favourite. We don't eat many potatoes though, not really. Maybe once a fortnight? Sometimes more, sometimes less. When I need a potato fix though, it is all consuming and difficult to satiate.
Last week, I really fancied some mash. I would have eaten it on its own, only Mike doesn't think that is dinner so I roasted some spicy, limey chicken thighs and made creamy onion mash and peas. Comfort food with some spice marinade thrown in for these modern times. It was delightful, every forkful was perfection and seemed to satisfy some deep hidden me. As always happens, we have now had some form of potato every night since. It will pass and we will go back to normal soon. Just one more night and whatever has been awoken will be restful once more.
So, the point. As I was peeling potatoes for the mash, I read the label on the bag. They were called Yukon Gold, and the labeller (at no point are they named - is it Yukon, or is that the variety, who can say? Well, me actually, as I googled it, Yukon is the variety) boldly declares they fall into the "5 a day for better health" camp. I thought that fact that a potato was not included in the 5 a day fruit and vegetable list had been known since around the time of the 'you can't get AIDS from a toilet seat public information campaign'* but perhaps not. I read on.
"Yukon Potatoes have a sweet buttery taste that compliments meats, poultry, or seafood. Preparation can be quick and easy by simply boiling, dicing, and adding olive oil and your favorite seasonings.
With their natural buttery taste they make a terrific mashed potato. Try them French Fried with skins on - your kids will love 'em. You can find various recipes on the internet".
I know what you're thinking - nice use of the oxford comma, so why did you go and spoil it all with the shortened 'them'?
Was this written by, or for, someone with a chronically short attention span? Please don't insult me, potato label, by lying about your health benefits and not even telling me how much vitamin C, fibre and complex carbohydrate, and possibly some other things you contain, and then coyly dismissing your many and varied uses by paying lip service to some chips and a bit of mash and some weird oily boiled little number, and then really putting the boot in by shooing me away to the deep dark Internet, of all places, to research recipes on my own, without any direction at all. After 3 months here, I have now grown use to more information about the stuff I purchase than I can shake a stick at, and frankly I feel weak with the lack of knowledge.
I have said my piece now and that is all.
* the most powerful campaign of my childhood, along with Charley says don't talk to strangers. As an aside, although I am aware that there is not much point to move aside from, while I was researching this blog snippet, (yes reader, for your delectation, I do research this stuff.. In fact only yesterday I resisted the urge to boldly state that Walt Disney was a fascist as some evidence claimed he was a well known fascist sympathiser and some, said it was all poppycock, plus Mike told me that if I got sued, he would promptly divorce me so that they couldn't get any of his money) I found an interesting article on toilet seat hovering, which talks about US public toilets, which I agree are bewildering and sometimes you have to be quick as the high tech-ness of it all means as well as flushing for you and dispensing soap and paper towels touchlessly, they practically extract your bodily fluids for you as well. Too crude? Apparently the British are crude, as well as being "so funny. You are all so funny". I have digressed so very badly now and possibly lost you all in the process. It's a short story, but in my hands, we would be here all night.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
And while I am on the subject
of chocolate of course, a while ago I came across a cool blog which reviews chocolate. It's called Chocablog and I get the posts delivered to my in-box every day. It is a form of self torture in a sense as they review all sorts of things that I cannot possibly lay my hands on, but they also review Australian and American confectionery, so I thought that I may discover something worth looking into over here.
I call your attention though to the recent review of Hershey's Milk Chocolate as I really couldn't put it better myself. What really peeked my interest though was the vehemence in some of the pro-Hershey comments which some people left. It seems like a very divisive subject, some taking hatred of Hershey's as synonymous with hatred of Americans themselves.
At the Scharffen Berger factory tour (the tour which keeps on giving, 3 blog posts and counting), where we were the only non-Americans, when the guide revealed that in fact, Hershey had bought the Scharffen Berger company a couple of years ago, the panto-like boos and hisses rippled through the room together with the obvious shock, and not a little abhorrence. That could have just been my own feelings coming out though.
I call your attention though to the recent review of Hershey's Milk Chocolate as I really couldn't put it better myself. What really peeked my interest though was the vehemence in some of the pro-Hershey comments which some people left. It seems like a very divisive subject, some taking hatred of Hershey's as synonymous with hatred of Americans themselves.
At the Scharffen Berger factory tour (the tour which keeps on giving, 3 blog posts and counting), where we were the only non-Americans, when the guide revealed that in fact, Hershey had bought the Scharffen Berger company a couple of years ago, the panto-like boos and hisses rippled through the room together with the obvious shock, and not a little abhorrence. That could have just been my own feelings coming out though.
Mike is not an Oompa Loompa. I repeat, Mike is not an Oompa Loompa.
Mike seemed to think that the title of my last post, implied that he was, or was like, an Ooompa Loompa. As he stands at 6' 1 3/4 inches tall, the thought was no where near my mind. To appease his clearly fragile ego, I have posted a shameful photo of me in my hair net at the Chocolate Factory. I am not ashamed of the net, more the strange thing my lips and teeth have done, and my farmers-wife rosy-cheeks courtesy of the Californian sun.
In fact, I am so unashamed of my hair net, I brought it home, plus an extra one which I slipped in my bag discreetly. You never know when they may come in handy, and it pays to be prepared for all eventualities.
Augusta Gloop and her Oompa Loompa
On Saturday, we intended to go to the opening of the newly renovated California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park.
We knew it would be busy and we would have to get there early to queue, so instead of having a nice cup of cocoa and an early night on Friday, we stayed up late with a bottle of wine, singing terrible songs, karaoke style via Boogie on the Wii. You see, we challenged ourselves to sing all the songs, in turn. OK, it happened, let's speak of it no further. But, so you know, I am not ashamed.
Needless to say, we woke up late and after a seemingly endless faff of a morning, some of which involving having to get the right change for the Muni, and waiting for said Muni for an inordinate amount of time, then having to get the bus part of the way, by the time we got there (a shocking 3pm; we had to stop for lunch too, and make a slight detour via a bookshop in Haight and then get a bit lost) they weren't letting anyone else in. I found out today that they actually stopped letting people in at 1pm for a 9pm closing time. It gives you some idea of how many people showed up.
So, a day wasted* chasing a freebie later, we still had the free chocolate factory tour to look forward to. This time I wasn't disappointed. Again, we had decided to make a slight detour (1.5 mile walk) to a particular shop to look for an ice cream scoop. It always sounds so very very stupid in retrospect these wonderful ideas we have, but I assure you, it was well worth it, and it was just unfortunate that the shop had nothing even remotely ice cream scoopy inside.
We didn't have the change for the bus so we had to then walk another mile or so to the factory. Without a map of Berkeley, I had drawn something resembling directions on a piece of scrap paper. Miraculously they worked moreorless and we reached a point where we could begin to just follow our noses to get there. The sickly sweet chocolate aromas were not as bad as they are in Bournville (just outside Birmingham, UK) but they are very off putting to someone who has come all the way just to taste some chocolate. We were a tad early so got to start sampling in the cafe, in the form of a hot chocolate and a cold chocolate (mine was nicer, which I made a note of in our special food competition book**.)
The tour began by stepping outside to admire the brickwork of the factory. I will admit at this stage I was worried. The guide was an all-American guy who obviously played golf with the same friends every weekend and was well fed by his adoring wife. His terrible jokes began to grate before he even spoke and the other people on the tour terrified and mystified me. They guffawed at every joke, clapped people in union, but in seemingly random patterns, asked truly mind-blowingly stupid questions, and cooed over the chocolate samples. The chocolate was great, if you like a bitter sour after taste, an oily residue on your tongue and having to resist the urge to gag after eating it. It was though the best chocolate we have tasted so far.
I was impressed with the tour over all. It may have been because you got to sit down for 45 minutes and eat chocolate for free (however grim) and my feet were tired from walking. It was a better experience than Bournville (sorry Cadbury's) and I got to see American tourists in America which was a fascinating experience. The propaganda, sorry PR, of these places always intrigues me too and I say they have a good thing going on.
We decided not to walk back the way we came because it was a long journey and that if we walked in a random direction of my choosing, we would eventually reach a station to take us back to San Francisco. Mike was grumbling that if we could hideously lost that it would be all my fault, we didn't have a map, we would have to spend money on a cab, yadda yadda yadda... Since I have heard it all before, and trust wholeheartedly in my luck, I was undeterred. I asked a man on a bike where the nearest station was when we reached a main cross-roads, he sucked his teeth like a plumber and pointed but said it was a long walk. One cyclists long walk, is another's reasonable distance, so we walked. It was only a mile and my gamble had paid off - phew! We had passed through North Berkeley to the tip of South Berkeley without ever seeing the town centre. I liked the place. It can be a bit rough around the edges, but looks like 'proper' America - the America from the a childhood of TV; the Wonder Years, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Simpsons, Little House on the Prairie, well, not quite the last one.
We got back into the city, and realised that we had no money for the Muni home. A quick trip to the cash machine revealed that we actually had no money full stop (overdrafts in US are not a option at least on our account) so we had to walk home. It was 2.5 miles, making our total for the day 6.5 miles, at least according to Google maps. According to my feet, it was more like 8. All for a freebie. Still, it was a lovely weekend.
* this isn't strictly true, we visited a lovely bookshop and had a nice walk in the sunny park. On the way back, which also contained fraught, hot, packed and slow public transport, we made a detour to get to a different line and passed 4 children selling home made pink lemonade for a dollar. It was neon pink and looked terrifying but they were so disappointed when we declined, I almost wanted to double back and buy some until I was reminded by the handy microbiologist with me that it may well be my last neon drink. Still, one for my book of firsts which grows by the day.
** this does not actually exist; however you would be forgiven for thinking it did if you had ever had the pleasure of sharing a meal with myself and my husband. Mike holds his cards to his chest until the very last minute before revealing what he intends to eat, and then sometimes, makes a quick change when actually ordering, just to confound me. It is a rule that we cannot order the same thing, unless there are special circumstances, and after a tasting of our own meal, then a tasting of each others, one of us proclaims, toddler-like, "I win". Often, we both proclaim it, and say the other is wrong. I ,of course, can be gracious, when Mike's meal is better and agree with him, that he has indeed 'won' but alas, this maturity isn't often shared ;)
We knew it would be busy and we would have to get there early to queue, so instead of having a nice cup of cocoa and an early night on Friday, we stayed up late with a bottle of wine, singing terrible songs, karaoke style via Boogie on the Wii. You see, we challenged ourselves to sing all the songs, in turn. OK, it happened, let's speak of it no further. But, so you know, I am not ashamed.
Needless to say, we woke up late and after a seemingly endless faff of a morning, some of which involving having to get the right change for the Muni, and waiting for said Muni for an inordinate amount of time, then having to get the bus part of the way, by the time we got there (a shocking 3pm; we had to stop for lunch too, and make a slight detour via a bookshop in Haight and then get a bit lost) they weren't letting anyone else in. I found out today that they actually stopped letting people in at 1pm for a 9pm closing time. It gives you some idea of how many people showed up.
So, a day wasted* chasing a freebie later, we still had the free chocolate factory tour to look forward to. This time I wasn't disappointed. Again, we had decided to make a slight detour (1.5 mile walk) to a particular shop to look for an ice cream scoop. It always sounds so very very stupid in retrospect these wonderful ideas we have, but I assure you, it was well worth it, and it was just unfortunate that the shop had nothing even remotely ice cream scoopy inside.
We didn't have the change for the bus so we had to then walk another mile or so to the factory. Without a map of Berkeley, I had drawn something resembling directions on a piece of scrap paper. Miraculously they worked moreorless and we reached a point where we could begin to just follow our noses to get there. The sickly sweet chocolate aromas were not as bad as they are in Bournville (just outside Birmingham, UK) but they are very off putting to someone who has come all the way just to taste some chocolate. We were a tad early so got to start sampling in the cafe, in the form of a hot chocolate and a cold chocolate (mine was nicer, which I made a note of in our special food competition book**.)
The tour began by stepping outside to admire the brickwork of the factory. I will admit at this stage I was worried. The guide was an all-American guy who obviously played golf with the same friends every weekend and was well fed by his adoring wife. His terrible jokes began to grate before he even spoke and the other people on the tour terrified and mystified me. They guffawed at every joke, clapped people in union, but in seemingly random patterns, asked truly mind-blowingly stupid questions, and cooed over the chocolate samples. The chocolate was great, if you like a bitter sour after taste, an oily residue on your tongue and having to resist the urge to gag after eating it. It was though the best chocolate we have tasted so far.
I was impressed with the tour over all. It may have been because you got to sit down for 45 minutes and eat chocolate for free (however grim) and my feet were tired from walking. It was a better experience than Bournville (sorry Cadbury's) and I got to see American tourists in America which was a fascinating experience. The propaganda, sorry PR, of these places always intrigues me too and I say they have a good thing going on.
We decided not to walk back the way we came because it was a long journey and that if we walked in a random direction of my choosing, we would eventually reach a station to take us back to San Francisco. Mike was grumbling that if we could hideously lost that it would be all my fault, we didn't have a map, we would have to spend money on a cab, yadda yadda yadda... Since I have heard it all before, and trust wholeheartedly in my luck, I was undeterred. I asked a man on a bike where the nearest station was when we reached a main cross-roads, he sucked his teeth like a plumber and pointed but said it was a long walk. One cyclists long walk, is another's reasonable distance, so we walked. It was only a mile and my gamble had paid off - phew! We had passed through North Berkeley to the tip of South Berkeley without ever seeing the town centre. I liked the place. It can be a bit rough around the edges, but looks like 'proper' America - the America from the a childhood of TV; the Wonder Years, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Simpsons, Little House on the Prairie, well, not quite the last one.
We got back into the city, and realised that we had no money for the Muni home. A quick trip to the cash machine revealed that we actually had no money full stop (overdrafts in US are not a option at least on our account) so we had to walk home. It was 2.5 miles, making our total for the day 6.5 miles, at least according to Google maps. According to my feet, it was more like 8. All for a freebie. Still, it was a lovely weekend.
* this isn't strictly true, we visited a lovely bookshop and had a nice walk in the sunny park. On the way back, which also contained fraught, hot, packed and slow public transport, we made a detour to get to a different line and passed 4 children selling home made pink lemonade for a dollar. It was neon pink and looked terrifying but they were so disappointed when we declined, I almost wanted to double back and buy some until I was reminded by the handy microbiologist with me that it may well be my last neon drink. Still, one for my book of firsts which grows by the day.
** this does not actually exist; however you would be forgiven for thinking it did if you had ever had the pleasure of sharing a meal with myself and my husband. Mike holds his cards to his chest until the very last minute before revealing what he intends to eat, and then sometimes, makes a quick change when actually ordering, just to confound me. It is a rule that we cannot order the same thing, unless there are special circumstances, and after a tasting of our own meal, then a tasting of each others, one of us proclaims, toddler-like, "I win". Often, we both proclaim it, and say the other is wrong. I ,of course, can be gracious, when Mike's meal is better and agree with him, that he has indeed 'won' but alas, this maturity isn't often shared ;)
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wet Peril and Drizzle Desires
Just so my last post wouldn't go off-point (because that isn't like me at all) I felt that the plight of my poor dirty windows needed a small post all to itself.
About a week ago, I caught my first glimpse of the elusive window washers working on the building opposite. My initial impression was that they would be like sitcom stars without the canned laughter and film crews. I couldn't have been more wrong - this is America, remember.
I watched them with growing panic as I got the measure of the work. There are two men probably no more than 30; one of whom wears a rather fetching pillowcase on his head to avoid the harsh sun. The time is taken hauling their death trap trolley thing (if anyone knows what it is actually called, I would be grateful to know) up and down the side of the buildings. When they are actually in place for the cleaning, it takes very little time. They simply use a long squeegee to wipe on some water (which I am sure was clean at the top of the building, but the poor people on the lower floors just get the dirt smeared around) then another to wipe off. The terrifying bit is that they are at the mercy of the wind at all times and they have to rock simultaneously to get near enough to the window in the first place to give it that rudimentary wipe. Then one of the men practically gets out of the rocking cart to grab hold of the window ledge or something equally as perilous. Then they rocket through.
They can scale and clean 5 flights in about half an hour but because of the to-ing and fro-ing getting their metal cage into place, they actually don't achieve that much in a day. So, whilst I want cleaner windows, I also want these men to return safely to their stable ground floor homes in the evening. I have no issue with heights, but I found that I couldn't watch them without a knot forming in my stomach.
Running the risk of that old adage to be careful of what you wish for, what we need is a nice spot of rain. The kind that makes you want to go out in it to run in the street and get soaked to the skin and have to de-robe at the door. The kind of summer rain after a long period of drought that makes the grass smell wonderful and the pavements glisten and even the ugliest grey building look beautiful; you know, like in England. Not like Liverpool rain though, not the dreary hard incessant rain that never stops, makes everything dark and makes you feel like the Dementors are just around the corner, and that keeps your coat and shoes permanently damp despite the stuffing of newspapers and a night on the radiator.
I imagine people in the UK cannot understand this strange desire of mine and maybe even feel slightly resentful, and frankly before now I would have struggled, but after living in Liverpool for 3 years, 3 months without rain just doesn't feel normal.
About a week ago, I caught my first glimpse of the elusive window washers working on the building opposite. My initial impression was that they would be like sitcom stars without the canned laughter and film crews. I couldn't have been more wrong - this is America, remember.
I watched them with growing panic as I got the measure of the work. There are two men probably no more than 30; one of whom wears a rather fetching pillowcase on his head to avoid the harsh sun. The time is taken hauling their death trap trolley thing (if anyone knows what it is actually called, I would be grateful to know) up and down the side of the buildings. When they are actually in place for the cleaning, it takes very little time. They simply use a long squeegee to wipe on some water (which I am sure was clean at the top of the building, but the poor people on the lower floors just get the dirt smeared around) then another to wipe off. The terrifying bit is that they are at the mercy of the wind at all times and they have to rock simultaneously to get near enough to the window in the first place to give it that rudimentary wipe. Then one of the men practically gets out of the rocking cart to grab hold of the window ledge or something equally as perilous. Then they rocket through.
They can scale and clean 5 flights in about half an hour but because of the to-ing and fro-ing getting their metal cage into place, they actually don't achieve that much in a day. So, whilst I want cleaner windows, I also want these men to return safely to their stable ground floor homes in the evening. I have no issue with heights, but I found that I couldn't watch them without a knot forming in my stomach.
Running the risk of that old adage to be careful of what you wish for, what we need is a nice spot of rain. The kind that makes you want to go out in it to run in the street and get soaked to the skin and have to de-robe at the door. The kind of summer rain after a long period of drought that makes the grass smell wonderful and the pavements glisten and even the ugliest grey building look beautiful; you know, like in England. Not like Liverpool rain though, not the dreary hard incessant rain that never stops, makes everything dark and makes you feel like the Dementors are just around the corner, and that keeps your coat and shoes permanently damp despite the stuffing of newspapers and a night on the radiator.
I imagine people in the UK cannot understand this strange desire of mine and maybe even feel slightly resentful, and frankly before now I would have struggled, but after living in Liverpool for 3 years, 3 months without rain just doesn't feel normal.
No Photos and a Cut Finger
I have experienced a wealth of emotions today, but overall I am feeling splendiferous.
I have a bit of a cold coming and a sore throat which is making me feel nauseous. I watched an old lady fall over while I was on the bus and felt bad as I couldn't get off to help her out. I watched the window cleaners finally make an appearance at my building, only to find out that they will be circling the block anti-clockwise, which means that my windows will be cleaned last. I met an extraordinary man on the shuttle with enormous shoes and crazy big shades to cover normal glasses, who, when he asked me the time, could not understand me when I said that it was about ten past two. He understood two-o-seven though so I knew it wasn't my accent that threw him.
But, all of this meant nothing when I received the news; my younger brother 'passed' his embassy interview and is coming to America. More specifically, Santa Cruz, California, which is about 60 miles away. The best neighbour I could hope for.
To celebrate, I have booked a free tour of the Scharffen Berger chocolate factory for Sunday. It's not Cadbury's but it might be nice, and you get to wear a deli-counter net hat which we didn't get to do at the Bournville factory...
I have a bit of a cold coming and a sore throat which is making me feel nauseous. I watched an old lady fall over while I was on the bus and felt bad as I couldn't get off to help her out. I watched the window cleaners finally make an appearance at my building, only to find out that they will be circling the block anti-clockwise, which means that my windows will be cleaned last. I met an extraordinary man on the shuttle with enormous shoes and crazy big shades to cover normal glasses, who, when he asked me the time, could not understand me when I said that it was about ten past two. He understood two-o-seven though so I knew it wasn't my accent that threw him.
But, all of this meant nothing when I received the news; my younger brother 'passed' his embassy interview and is coming to America. More specifically, Santa Cruz, California, which is about 60 miles away. The best neighbour I could hope for.
To celebrate, I have booked a free tour of the Scharffen Berger chocolate factory for Sunday. It's not Cadbury's but it might be nice, and you get to wear a deli-counter net hat which we didn't get to do at the Bournville factory...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Updates
We now have clean floors and a vacuum cleaner held together by sticky tape which cost us $10, an afternoon, a stone of sweat and some further development of calf muscle. Quite a bargain, and we got to get lost in a scary neighbourhood where people were joyriding and staring at us out of windows. The posters failed utterly in all but making scrap paper.
We still have dirty windows but I have actually spotted some cleaning action on other buildings. I am confident that we will sparkle in time for Christmas.
We are in the throes of our first family visit, hence my lack of blogging this week. It has been a great opportunity to see how much we have adjusted so far with the aid of fresh eyes, and also to reaffirm how very very lucky we are to live in this city. It is easy to get bogged down with the daily difficulties, but at the same time, I have felt the kind of pride I experienced Liverpudlians exhibit for their hometown. It doesn't matter so much over here where you were born; San Francisco is full to the brim of people who hail from somewhere else. The only trouble is there isn't enough time on any visitors itinerary to show them even the briefest glimpse of everything there is to offer.
My arm has been twisted to plug a charitable game, so here goes. I have just signed up to Operation: Sleeper Cell, a fundraising initiative for Cancer Research UK. You get to play games for a good cause, which can't be bad. Tell your friends. Plug over.
I may well do a full review at some point in the future but more San Francisco highlights to add to my list are; the Exploratorium ( a science museum for kids, and I liked it - it must be amazing); the Japanese Tea Garden, a haven of peace and tea; and Cliff House, an art deco styled restaurant and tea room nestled on the edge of a cliff by Ocean Beach looking out over the sea. I like these places irrespective of the fact that two involve tea explicitly, but I think tea is served in the Exploratorium too. You will have to buy my forthcoming book, 'A Nice Cup of Tea, San Francisco Style' to find out more. It will be available in all good bookshops.
We still have dirty windows but I have actually spotted some cleaning action on other buildings. I am confident that we will sparkle in time for Christmas.
We are in the throes of our first family visit, hence my lack of blogging this week. It has been a great opportunity to see how much we have adjusted so far with the aid of fresh eyes, and also to reaffirm how very very lucky we are to live in this city. It is easy to get bogged down with the daily difficulties, but at the same time, I have felt the kind of pride I experienced Liverpudlians exhibit for their hometown. It doesn't matter so much over here where you were born; San Francisco is full to the brim of people who hail from somewhere else. The only trouble is there isn't enough time on any visitors itinerary to show them even the briefest glimpse of everything there is to offer.
My arm has been twisted to plug a charitable game, so here goes. I have just signed up to Operation: Sleeper Cell, a fundraising initiative for Cancer Research UK. You get to play games for a good cause, which can't be bad. Tell your friends. Plug over.
I may well do a full review at some point in the future but more San Francisco highlights to add to my list are; the Exploratorium ( a science museum for kids, and I liked it - it must be amazing); the Japanese Tea Garden, a haven of peace and tea; and Cliff House, an art deco styled restaurant and tea room nestled on the edge of a cliff by Ocean Beach looking out over the sea. I like these places irrespective of the fact that two involve tea explicitly, but I think tea is served in the Exploratorium too. You will have to buy my forthcoming book, 'A Nice Cup of Tea, San Francisco Style' to find out more. It will be available in all good bookshops.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Marin Headlands
It is about time I uploaded a photo. So, this is a shot of the Marin Headlands. Unfortunately, you can't see San Francisco from here as there is a bit of land in the way. You will just have to trust me that it is just round that corner.
Wishing for Clean Floors
Apart from the furniture we acquired via Ikea (boo, hiss) we have managed to get the majority of our flat together through ads people have placed in the lifts of the buildings we live in. Like Craigslist, it is cut and thrust and you have to be quick. When we first moved in there was many an ad, most of which we didn't respond quickly enough to. Now the ads seem to have dried up.
We were badly let down by someone in our 'community'. I would like to present you with the sorry tale, in order to give the context to my latest mission.
At the beginning of August, I saw an advert in the lift for many wondrous things, including a TV and a vacuum cleaner. I raced home and emailed to see if they were both still available. Joy of joys, they were, but pain of impatience, the owners were not moving out until the end of August. Still, we could last a few more weeks without it. A date was set for collection. Then, a couple of days before I received an email from the sellers to say that the TV was ready for collection - this tale is documented elsewhere on this blog. At the time, they said that they needed the vacuum cleaner in order to clean up before they left - fair enough - and we made plans to collect it in a few days.
A few days came and I eagerly emailed to arrange a time to collect (never have I been so excited and then so bitterly disappointed about an electrical device). No response. Never mind, we knew where they lived - aha hahahahahaahah - so we went round.
The sellers were a man and a woman - because I am still sore about it all, I am going to break my usual code and name and shame - Sae and Julio. Julio was, I think, Spanish and Sae was Japanese. She didn't speak a lot of English. I'm telling you this to explain what happened. Julio was still at work when we arrived and Sae stood standing in moving-detritus (clearly this flat had not been hoovered). I said we were there to pick up the vacuum cleaner. There was evidently a problem, but Sae was unable to explain what it was so she asked whether she could get her husband to email me. I said OK and left.
The next day, I hadn't had Julio's profuse apologies, or in fact any word at all, so I emailed to check if everything was still going ahead with the sale. It clearly wasn't but I still had hope. I didn't get a response.
Sae and Julio have now moved out and someone else has the vacuum cleaner which was so rightfully ours. This is supposition of course. I mean, it could have broken and they decided that they could not in good faith sell it after all. There could have been a genuine mistake and they sold it to someone else, due to poor communication. There are many possibilities, but not responding to my ultra polite email is rude, and therefore bad form in my book. As the colour of the carpet becomes more and more indistinguishable by the day, I have decided to take action.
My daily trail of Craigslist is proving fruitless - either they have sold out before I email, or I do not get a response at all. So today I set up a new email address with a clean floors theme, made some posters and have stuck them in prominent places in every building. Now, they can come to me.
Do I think it will work? Or do I think the carpet situation will get so bad that we will have to go out an spend full price on a hoover (only to find the day after that the second hand vacuum cleaner market is swamped.) I'll leave that for you to decide.
We were badly let down by someone in our 'community'. I would like to present you with the sorry tale, in order to give the context to my latest mission.
At the beginning of August, I saw an advert in the lift for many wondrous things, including a TV and a vacuum cleaner. I raced home and emailed to see if they were both still available. Joy of joys, they were, but pain of impatience, the owners were not moving out until the end of August. Still, we could last a few more weeks without it. A date was set for collection. Then, a couple of days before I received an email from the sellers to say that the TV was ready for collection - this tale is documented elsewhere on this blog. At the time, they said that they needed the vacuum cleaner in order to clean up before they left - fair enough - and we made plans to collect it in a few days.
A few days came and I eagerly emailed to arrange a time to collect (never have I been so excited and then so bitterly disappointed about an electrical device). No response. Never mind, we knew where they lived - aha hahahahahaahah - so we went round.
The sellers were a man and a woman - because I am still sore about it all, I am going to break my usual code and name and shame - Sae and Julio. Julio was, I think, Spanish and Sae was Japanese. She didn't speak a lot of English. I'm telling you this to explain what happened. Julio was still at work when we arrived and Sae stood standing in moving-detritus (clearly this flat had not been hoovered). I said we were there to pick up the vacuum cleaner. There was evidently a problem, but Sae was unable to explain what it was so she asked whether she could get her husband to email me. I said OK and left.
The next day, I hadn't had Julio's profuse apologies, or in fact any word at all, so I emailed to check if everything was still going ahead with the sale. It clearly wasn't but I still had hope. I didn't get a response.
Sae and Julio have now moved out and someone else has the vacuum cleaner which was so rightfully ours. This is supposition of course. I mean, it could have broken and they decided that they could not in good faith sell it after all. There could have been a genuine mistake and they sold it to someone else, due to poor communication. There are many possibilities, but not responding to my ultra polite email is rude, and therefore bad form in my book. As the colour of the carpet becomes more and more indistinguishable by the day, I have decided to take action.
My daily trail of Craigslist is proving fruitless - either they have sold out before I email, or I do not get a response at all. So today I set up a new email address with a clean floors theme, made some posters and have stuck them in prominent places in every building. Now, they can come to me.
Do I think it will work? Or do I think the carpet situation will get so bad that we will have to go out an spend full price on a hoover (only to find the day after that the second hand vacuum cleaner market is swamped.) I'll leave that for you to decide.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
I 'ate you Butler
I have a love hate relationship with public transport. It has been a major part of my life, but it can be tiresome and threatening.
On Monday, a bank holiday (or federal holiday as I should say now) to celebrate Labour Day, we went to the Marin Headlands. This is a park in the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and houses military forts, a lighthouse, hiking trails, a beach and the most amazing views of the city and the coast. We travelled on the number 76 bus, which runs hourly every Sunday across the city, out over the Golden Gate Bridge and up to the Headlands, and all for $1.50 (75p) each.
Our driver was a speed demon. Once out of the city, her desire to race around winding country corners at breakneck speed was unleashed. I am not sure whether the scenery was among the most beautiful I have ever seen, or whether it became more picturesque because at any moment, it might have become the last thing we ever saw.
Eschewing the beach, we tramped up coastal paths in city shoes finding hidden beaches, hearing only the sound of the sea and ringing buoys with the sun beating down on our backs. It was the perfect Monday afternoon, even with the daredevil bus driver. Best of all, our ticket was valid for the return journey too as our swift driver had given us a 4 hour transfer (rather than the more customary 75 minutes).
A two hour round trip and a stomp in utopia for less than a pound is frankly miraculous, and worth putting up with the fear of being hurled off a cliff in anyone's book.
On Monday, a bank holiday (or federal holiday as I should say now) to celebrate Labour Day, we went to the Marin Headlands. This is a park in the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and houses military forts, a lighthouse, hiking trails, a beach and the most amazing views of the city and the coast. We travelled on the number 76 bus, which runs hourly every Sunday across the city, out over the Golden Gate Bridge and up to the Headlands, and all for $1.50 (75p) each.
Our driver was a speed demon. Once out of the city, her desire to race around winding country corners at breakneck speed was unleashed. I am not sure whether the scenery was among the most beautiful I have ever seen, or whether it became more picturesque because at any moment, it might have become the last thing we ever saw.
Eschewing the beach, we tramped up coastal paths in city shoes finding hidden beaches, hearing only the sound of the sea and ringing buoys with the sun beating down on our backs. It was the perfect Monday afternoon, even with the daredevil bus driver. Best of all, our ticket was valid for the return journey too as our swift driver had given us a 4 hour transfer (rather than the more customary 75 minutes).
A two hour round trip and a stomp in utopia for less than a pound is frankly miraculous, and worth putting up with the fear of being hurled off a cliff in anyone's book.
This is a Test
Every Tuesday at noon, a siren which sounds like an old wartime air-raid siren goes off. This is then followed by some incomprehensible but official-sounding talking.
The first time I heard it, I jumped up and looked out of the window to see if people were ducking in cover, running or just quietly sobbing. Much to my surprise, people were doing nothing. Phone conversations continued, no one evacuated buildings; no one blinked an eye. Life continued, and so did I, hesitantly.
I mentioned it to Mike later that evening, but as is often the case, my powers of description did nothing to convey the strangeness and alarming nature of the siren, and he didn't pay much attention. It took me a while to work out the pattern of the siren being weekly at the same time, and I had begun to think that perhaps my downward spiral of insanity had been accelerated. When I was skyping my friend and she heard it too (her fear was equal to my glee - it wasn't my strange imagination after all) so I made a plan to get to the bottom of this.
Sometimes my brain lets me down badly. My investigations were to take this pattern; email Mike and get him to ask his work colleagues what the siren is and for; then at a few minutes to noon the following week, find the source of the noise, and if possible write down the words. Genius ne'st pas? Or the reason why I am not in fact a detective.
So, phase one; the email yielded some alarming results. No one had a clue what Mike was talking about. My initial hypothesis was that it is was a test siren which would tell us we were at war, or there was an earthquake coming. Suggestions included a tornado siren and a siren which indicated that the bridge near us was being raised / lowered (every week at noon? er, no) but scarily, no one had heard it. So now I believed that it might have something to do with the nearby workmen.
Tuesday came and I set out just before noon, hanging round near the site entrance, skulking in the shade waiting for noon. Even though I was expecting it, the siren was still terrifying, but it was coming from a different direction and further away so I still couldn't make out the words. Still no one reacted in any way. Disappointed I return home thinking I would have to wait another week to make out the words. Then, my brain finally clicked into gear. Google knows everything.
So, every Tuesday at noon, a siren which sounds like an old wartime air-raid siren goes off for 15 seconds. This is then followed by the words "This is a test. This is a test of the outdoor warning system. This is only a test." If you want to hear it, you can do so here. In a real emergency, the siren will go off for 5 minutes and according to the official website, the idea of a weekly test is to remind the residents of San Francisco to be ready; well, the ones who can hear it that is. Mike works over the other side of the city from where we live and has never heard it. Nor did we when we stayed for two weeks in the centre of the city when we first moved here.
The sirens, as predicted were left over from World War 2, then the Cold War. Now they are used to alert for any natural disaster or possible danger. After the events of September 11th 2001, the sirens, which were previously monthly, became weekly. I read the website's many pages on how to be prepared, a little bit more scared than I was this morning.
The first time I heard it, I jumped up and looked out of the window to see if people were ducking in cover, running or just quietly sobbing. Much to my surprise, people were doing nothing. Phone conversations continued, no one evacuated buildings; no one blinked an eye. Life continued, and so did I, hesitantly.
I mentioned it to Mike later that evening, but as is often the case, my powers of description did nothing to convey the strangeness and alarming nature of the siren, and he didn't pay much attention. It took me a while to work out the pattern of the siren being weekly at the same time, and I had begun to think that perhaps my downward spiral of insanity had been accelerated. When I was skyping my friend and she heard it too (her fear was equal to my glee - it wasn't my strange imagination after all) so I made a plan to get to the bottom of this.
Sometimes my brain lets me down badly. My investigations were to take this pattern; email Mike and get him to ask his work colleagues what the siren is and for; then at a few minutes to noon the following week, find the source of the noise, and if possible write down the words. Genius ne'st pas? Or the reason why I am not in fact a detective.
So, phase one; the email yielded some alarming results. No one had a clue what Mike was talking about. My initial hypothesis was that it is was a test siren which would tell us we were at war, or there was an earthquake coming. Suggestions included a tornado siren and a siren which indicated that the bridge near us was being raised / lowered (every week at noon? er, no) but scarily, no one had heard it. So now I believed that it might have something to do with the nearby workmen.
Tuesday came and I set out just before noon, hanging round near the site entrance, skulking in the shade waiting for noon. Even though I was expecting it, the siren was still terrifying, but it was coming from a different direction and further away so I still couldn't make out the words. Still no one reacted in any way. Disappointed I return home thinking I would have to wait another week to make out the words. Then, my brain finally clicked into gear. Google knows everything.
So, every Tuesday at noon, a siren which sounds like an old wartime air-raid siren goes off for 15 seconds. This is then followed by the words "This is a test. This is a test of the outdoor warning system. This is only a test." If you want to hear it, you can do so here. In a real emergency, the siren will go off for 5 minutes and according to the official website, the idea of a weekly test is to remind the residents of San Francisco to be ready; well, the ones who can hear it that is. Mike works over the other side of the city from where we live and has never heard it. Nor did we when we stayed for two weeks in the centre of the city when we first moved here.
The sirens, as predicted were left over from World War 2, then the Cold War. Now they are used to alert for any natural disaster or possible danger. After the events of September 11th 2001, the sirens, which were previously monthly, became weekly. I read the website's many pages on how to be prepared, a little bit more scared than I was this morning.
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