Time to explore

Going on a six or eight mile walk at the weekend is all very well but I need to get back into the swing of a daily - or at least every-other-daily - fast walk (with a bit of running). I felt so much better for it when I got into the habit last year, and I was noticeably fitter when we were boating last summer. I has a nice little route mapped out from where I lived before - two  miles or so would take me out of the city, albeit still on a main road. I'd even got to the point where I could run a whole mile without stopping! And I would regularly fast walk six miles in an hour and a half, before breakfast. That's what I want to start doing again. It's hard to get started, but turns into time well spent.  I'd also bought myself a basic Garmin watch, so I could keep track of my times and distances. I lent that to Sebastian though, so as a substitute I've downloaded MapMyWalk. The downside is that I'll have to take my phone with me but as long as I'm walking and not running that won't be so bad. I've set myself a goal of twenty miles a week - which might be a bit tougher this week as I'm on leave from work, and a daily walk to work and back (by the more scenic route) adds up to twelve and a half miles a week. And we're off to Alvecote at the weekend (although I could get in some decent walking there).
Anyway, tomorrow I plan to get up early and set off to see where I get to.

Walkies again

This weekend my Ramblers group offered another suitable walk - actually on the short side, at six miles, but with some interesting terrain (and lots of mud) and lovely views over Ladybower reservoir from on high - and at lunchtime, from its shore.

The morning began surprisingly chilly, but the day warmed up, and it was mostly sunny and dry.

At lunchtime a flaw in Ricky's new harness revealed itself. All the time he's straining to get away - when passing sheep for example - it does a great job of keeping him under control. However, at lunchtime as he relaxed on the grass, I noticed just in time as his head slipped under the front of it and off it came! We accidentally hit on a good system in response to this though, with one end of the lead clipped to his collar and the other to the harness. In future the old (and cheaper!) x-shaped harness - which I think it is technically impossible to get out of without unclipping - will come out again!

EE ba gum

The most stressful thing about moving is dealing with the utilities. I hate dealing with utilities. I hate using the phone, and I cannot stand dealing with call centres. I just can't do it.
I had EE broadband before I moved, and had been very happy with it. I went online and completed the requisite details for moving, which seemed pretty straightforward. OK, it took a fortnight, which I was a bit pissed off about - if I'd known that I'd have done it sooner. But still, confident that in two weeks my phone socket would magically come to life I sat back to wait, relying on Jim's mifi in the interim. Just before the two weeks was up, I got an email from EE. 'We would like to talk to you regarding your Broadband and Landline services', it said. 'Please call 0800 0790 283 as further information is required regarding your account with us.' Naturally I replied to the email, saying I don't use the phone, please can you ask your questions by email. That was five days ago, and naturally I have heard nothing since. Meanwhile, Jim's mifi data has run out (6 gb in a month; how?) until tomorrow so I am writing this at work.
That is as nothing however compared to my experience with Extra Energy, whose gas and electricity 'services' I inherited with the house. No, I had never heard of them either. I went online, set up an account, and sent them meter readings. I didn't get a bill, but I got a threatening letter saying I hadn't paid the bill. So I emailed them some more meter readings. The emailed back saying they couldn't deal with it as I had used a different email account from the one I had registered with them. OK, that sort of makes sense. But they said, could I phone them instead. So if someone pretending to be me had emailed from a different email account, that's something they are absolutely security conscious about; but anyone could phone pretending to be me and that would be fine. Also, as per my previous gripe about CRT, the only thing this imaginary imposter could do would be to pay my bill, so that doesn't seem such a massive security threat. I have now established some sort of email correspondence with them, albeit with massive time lags on their part, but that hasn't stopped them sending me another threatening letter yesterday. Now, I want to pay the bill (the sooner I can, the sooner I can find another supplier) - but I want to pay an actual bill, not their wild guesswork. I've given them the information - and updated it twice - but so far all I've had is one grossly over-estimated bill, in between the two threatening letters. Meanwhile the letter-sending-out machine seems to have no idea what the emailers are doing. 
Worst of all, the threatening letters only provide a phone number - no email; no postal address (just a tiny head office address hidden at the bottom). I told the email people that I don't use the phone because of a disability (!) and they fell over themselves to assure me how seriously they take this. Yeah, right.
On the other hand, a highly commended for Yorkshire Water, who have dealt with everything smoothly and by post, including a very nice, clear and friendly letter explaining why I couldn't pay quarterly like I did before (because I don't have a meter at the house! Baths all round!)

When does an adjective become an identity?

This is a Rivetcounter post really, and I will post it there too for what that's worth. It's too early to say whether Rivetcounter will finally take off but my thoughts have been turning to autism matters aagain lately.

Since getting my assessment over eighteen months ago now I've just been quietly getting on with being Aspie, not thinking about it a lot of the time; forgetting it sometimes. After all, I haven't changed; my life hasn't changed - I just acquired a label, a description, an explanation (of sorts) for what that life feels like. It's still the only one I know, and it still feels normal to me - because it is normal for me. The most interesting thing is getting an insight into how other people are different from me, which I never really appreciated before.

One of the things I've been doing is looking into setting up an autism network at work - and I'd particularly like to have a network for autistic women - partially because our experience is often different, and partly so as not to be totally outnumbered by men from the computing service... In the course of this I met up with the author of this blog, and then I read this post, and it got me thinking.

I've dipped into a few autism blogs, but (as you may know) I don't do Twitter or Facebook, and I'm not really that au fait with the world of autism activism - perhaps I have all that to come. But I've long been quite interested in the idea of identity politics, primarily because I don't really get it. So it seems to me ironic that autistic people should be arguing whether being autistic constitutes their identity, or is seen to, and whether this is a good or a bad thing.

From the start, I felt most comfortable saying that 'I am autistic' - even better, because I think (hope) it gives a more accurate impression, 'I am Aspie' - and wishing there was a more 'official' adjective for that. I much prefer this to saying 'I have autism', or 'I have Asperger's Syndrome', or 'I am a woman with autism' - or even worse 'I have an autism spectrum condition', or worst of all, 'I have an autism spectrum disorder'. Because having someting, even something as neutral-sounding as a 'condition', still - to me at least - implies a pathology.

But when I say 'I am autistic', or 'I am Aspie', I am not asserting an identity, or defining myself. I am not an autistic; I am not an Aspie. I am applying an adjective. It describes an aspect of me (the way my brain works) in the same way that other adjectives like brunette, right-handed, or ticklish, describe other aspects of me. But when I say I am female, white, heterosexual, to me those are still just adjectives. Feminist, liberal, atheist. Even English. To me these are all just adjectives. They describe me but they do not define me. But to many people at least some of these categories of description would constitute their identity, or at least an important part of it.

And I had the feeling that it was perhaps a particularly autistic perspective to see things like this; to not be happy with - or able to - adopt any identity other than 'I am me' - and not really knowing what that is, from day to day.  Which is why the idea of autistic identity politics feels contradictory.

However, as I think about it - and I'm going to start rambling now - I begin to see how an off-the-shelf identity could actually be especially attractive to someone who has always struggled to define themself and find their place in the world, and that the perspective I've set out above is that of a mature and relatively confident woman. The me of thirty years ago might well have felt - in a way she probably couldn't have articulated - quite different.

So the answer will no doubt be different for different people for all sorts of different reasons - but it's still an interesting question. When does an adjective become an identity?

Celebrating with relish

When I moved to Sheffield in the autumn of 2012, the crew of Warrior welcomed me with a bottle of the local delicacy, Henderson's Relish. I'd already experienced it, on a meat and potato pie (with peas) that Linda brought to Langley Mill a year previously, so I knew that it was both tasty and versatile - whether on chips (or peas) or in a stew - and also vegan. The bottle they bought me was a special commemorative one, celebrating local lass Jessica Ennis' 2012 Olympic gold medal.

So... ahem... Nearly five years later, in a lentil stew last night, I finished my first bottle of Hendos. It's top of the shopping list to replenish - but it is a little embarrassing that it's taken me that long.

I know there are at least two other Sheffield residents who read this blog... How long does a bottle of Hendo's last you?

Day release

Work on the house has been pretty relentless, especially for Jim, so today we took advantage of the perfect weather for a walk in the Peak. It was an eight mile walk, with my Ramblers group, taking in Froggatt, Curbar and White Edges. I like the gritstone

of the Dark Peak a lot better than the limestone of the White - I like the dramatic and sometimes bleak scenery, and even more, I like the fact that it's not slippery! There was nothing bleak about it today though with the heather

in full flower and the distant hills all shades of purple,

and the quartz in the grit sparkling in the sun. It was a popular walk with 26 people signed up. Ricky came along and seemed to enjoy himself.

He has a new harness which we bought him yesterday, which has a sort of grab handle on the top. (Shown most clearly in the second photo.) We thought this would be useful when boating, if he were ever to fall in (perish the thought!) but it proved itself today as well for keeping him under close control when passing sheep and, especially, cows, of which there were quite a few, and some rather belligerent examples.

The weather was perfect, mainly sunny but not too hot.

Developments in the fireplace

You may recall that I was initially very pleased that the shape of the front room fireplace so neatly mirrored that of a Lily stove:

However. There's always a however, isn't there. Because the hearth isn't flat, indeed, isn't even all there - see that gap on the right?

You can see all the way down into the cellar... So Jim decided that the thing to do is to get a sheet of steel cut to fit into the fireplace and extend out to fill the space within the fender which has now come up from Sussex. But working out the angles and the measurements of the definitely asymmetrical trapezium-plus-oblong combo proved too much, so it was decided to take the wing walls (for so they appear to me) out after all. A few minutes work with the bolster and a nice clear rectangular space materialised.

To be fair, this probably does look nicer. I would like ultimately to tile the inside, to provide a light coloured but cleanable background to the purple stove. Next we're going to get someone to come and check out that the flue is as viable as it looks - if not, I'll just have the stove as an ornament, but if it is, it'll be worth going to the trouble of getting a pipe (and adapter) made and plumbing it in.

The presence of this liner protruding down the chimney (I thought I'd rotated that photo!) gives me hope...

A bit steep

When I first moved to Sheffield, I wondered why my legs ached so much. I's just spent nearly a year living on a boat, walking three miles to the shops and back most days... along the towpath. After a couple of weeks I twigged - Sheffield is very hilly. It's hard to walk any distance at all within the city without going up or down a noticeable hill - and usually both.

I fairly quickly got used to the terrain in Broomhill (clue's in the name!), where it as steadily downhill all the way to work, the city centre shops, or the station. So if I was going to the station or the shops, I'd walk down and get the 51 bus back.

It's not so simple down here in Walkley. It's actually a bit nearer work, but with a lot more hill in between. The last leg of the return journey is the most challenging bit. But just how challenging I only discovered yesterday. Apparently I live one street away from what is quite possibly the third steepest residential street in Britain, and approximately half of it is betwween me and work, and me and Tescos.

What's more, I think it's the steeper half! The BBC/OS figures are an average for the entire length of each street.

The view from the top is a pretty impressive vista of Sheffield.

Whilst that from the bottom is just somewhat daunting.

When it snows, I'll be staying indoors for the duration.

Blossom's back!

I recently weeded out my old boat blogroll, and removed anyone who hadn't posted for a year (sadly quite a high proportion, leaving just four stalwarts - all of whom are flagging a bit. One of those culled was Darley. But a chance glance down Halfie's comprehensive blogroll recently revealed that Blossom is back! His excuse for not posting is that he's been boating - pah! Someone had better catch him and train him up in the dark arts of mobile blogging (not me, I fear, as I still can't post photos from the iPad).

I really do hope you keep it up Blossom - always love reading about your exploits, past and present - here's to the future ones. And you're back on the blogroll!

Books I read in July

Sophie Hannah The Carrier (Gongoozler Cafe bookswap/sale)
There was a whole collection of Sophie Hannah here but I'd read all the others. I find her always gripping and readable, but sometimes a little far fetched - this one was even better for being reasonably credible. I always forget the strange and complex detective pairing who get to grips with Hannah's mysteries, and it's a treat to rediscover them.

John Grindrod Outskirts: Living Life on the Edge of the Green Belt (new, Amazon)
Bought this on the recommendation of Diamond Geezer, and because I really enjoyed Grindrod's Concretopia. This was disappointing; the combination of history and memoir seemed disjointed and it never really gelled into a single whole.

Kate McCabe The Love of Her Life (local library random pick)
An everyday saga of love and loss, conveyed with all the drama, passion and humanity of a shopping list. Less, probably.

Edward Marston Steps to the Gallows (local library random pick)
Plodding early nineteenth century police procedural. I had only a few pages left to read when I went away last week, but never bothered picking it up on my return.

Peter Robinson When the Music's Over (WH Smith, New Street station)
Robinson's Alan Banks is one of those policemen who definitely ages at about a third the rate of the rest of us. Robinson however seems to have acquired more than a touch of the PD James in his latter years - this story is didactic and laden with heavy handed contemporary relevance.

Helen Fielding Bridget Jones's Baby (local library random pick)
It doesn't matter what the genre is, quality is quality. Good stuff.

Lisa Scottoline Most Wanted (local library random pick)
American, surprisingly gripping thriller let down by a predictably saccharine ending.

Nicholas Searle The Good Liar (local library random pick)
Intriguing and apparently (but only apparently) rambling emotional thriller with twist upon twist.

Grahan Masterton White Bones (local library)
Police detectives in Cork this time. Decent characters, slightly far fetched plot, and enjoyably fluent - only marred in this edition by being translated into American. It turned out I'd read this one before, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't full of Travelers and cellphones then.

Graham Masterton  Blood Sisters (local library)
Not in American this time, thank goodness. All the above still holds.

Still here

Yes, I am still here, albeit in a slightly different part of Sheffield. Thanks to young Andy Halfie I made the final move from the flat on Thursday and have been busily unpacking ever since. The house isn't finished yet, but I have a fully operational kitchen, bedroom and study, with the bathroom not far behind. Just got the computer set up today (although apparently EE can't even think about transferring the broadband for a fortnight, so I'm reliant on Jim's mifi) and back to work tomorrow. Hopefully back into the swing of blogging too.

A light rant

I have been looking at light fittings a lot recently, and something that first struck me as odd when low energy bulbs first came on the market now seems to have developed into full blown lunacy, and it makes me very cross. 

Back in the good old days of incandescent bulbs, lampshades and light fittings were rated at 40, 60 or 100 watts, depending on how heatproof/flammable they were. This is because those old fashioned bulbs, as well as producing light, also produced a lot of heat. That's why they were so energy-inefficient.

Energy saving bulbs, from the twists of fluorescent tube to the latest LEDs, save energy by producing more light for less wattage, and in turn considerably less heat. An 11 watt energy saving bulb supposedly gives as much light as a 60 watt incandescent bulb, and much less heat. And LEDs produce hardly any heat at all. 

So why oh why oh why do lampshades now say things like 'Max. 60 watt incandescent/11 watt fluorescent/5 (or whatever) watt LED'?  Surely the whole limit thing was always about the heat the bulb produced - which was indeed a safety concern - but they've created these equivalancies as it if was the light that was potentially dangerous.

The upshot of all this of course is that the recommendations on the lampshades are meaningless and there is no proper or useful guidance on what wattage of low energy bulbs is actually suitable or even safe.

So, in short, why oh why oh why?

Curious curiosity

I forgot to upload one of the photos from the cabinet of curiosities. This could be a slightly mystery object... My sister brought them back from her holidays one year (if I were to say which it would be obvious)...

Cooking with gas

I cooked the first meal in the new house today, and what a delight it was to be cooking with gas again. With turnips in the veg box again I decided to make a lentil shepherds pie with a turnip topping. Never having done this before, I had no idea how it would turn out. The last lot of turnips went into a turnip and lentil stew, which was ok... but any further ideas about what to do with turnips (no, not that Baldrick) would be most welcome. They still feel to me like the sort of thing only slightly desperate people would eat.

So anyway, I boiled some green lentils, and was able to adjust the heat precisely so they didn't boil over, which was a great novelty after five years of a primitive electric hotplate. Then I gently fried some onions and carrots, then simmered them in a little water until the carrots were just done, when I added some stock powder, Hendersons Relish and finally some Bisto mixed with cold water, brfore stirring in the drained lentils. That's the filling. For the topping I peeled, chopped, and boiled the turnips, then mashed them with some leftover soft cheese with onion and garlic, spread them over the filling, and topped with grated cheese. It turned out quite nice, by which I mean it didn't taste discernably of turnip at all. I am also loving my deep china sink:

Cabinet of curiosities

The flat that I shall shortly be leaving is one of six, in a large Victorian house that has been in the same family since the 1940s. A few years ago, in the basement, I came across a mahogany cabinet, with a mirrored back and glass fronted sides and doors. It was in poor condition, but I fell in love with it (I do love a bevelled mirror, especially if it's surrounded by mahohogany). So I asked the landlord if I could have it in my (nominally furnished) flat. He readily agreed, and I believe it had belonged to his mother.

So I gave it a good clean and recovered the shelves, which were dressed with faded and worn green velvet, and set it up in my living room, to display my nice glass and small collection of curiosities (and not so curious things - and not the rivet collection, that's different).

Here are just a few of them.

A souvenir of Vienna, brought home by my parents in the early 1960s. This lived in their cabinet when I was a child, and was one of the things I was allowed to get out only when ill. I was fascinated by it.

It may well have been on the same trip that they bought Wolfgang the polar bear in Salzberg. Handling him was another rare and treasured priviledge.

This was my father's lighter, which lived on the table next to his chair (my mother likewise had a table by her chair, but a pocket rather than a table lighter). He smoked Woodbines, heavily; she Players No 6. He started smoking in the army, when he was told, on being promoted, that he should grow a moustache and take up smoking in order to look sufficiently mature for his new rank.

Finally something else which tickled my fancy as a child - and as a rare treat I was permitted to use this glass, which was also my father's. I don't know what drink it's intended to measure, but it has gradations up the side which are labelled in increasing order of size: Ladies, Gentlemen, then a small pig, and finally a large pig at the top.

Fortunately these treasures will not be rendered homeless when I laeve the flat, as I have done a deal with my lovely landlord to buy the cabinet, so it will shortly grace the front parlour of my new house.

Paper chase

This morning's task was sorting out the pile of paperwork that has been accumulating while I've been preoccupied with the house, filing it, and dealing with numerous changes of address. Then I moseyed over to the house and met Jim and Ricky taking a stroll in the park.

Jim asked me, did you measure the height before you ordered that new toilet?
Me: Yes, most definitely.
Jim: Did you measure it with the top on the cistern?
Me: Yes... why, is it fouling the window sill?
Jim: Yes.
Me: I took the measurements from the website. I was so careful because I knew it would be a close thing... Oh, hang on, that was before we raised the floor.....

It'll come out in the wash

I've started packing up at the flat and as of yesterday it was in a state of chaos - packed bags of clothes, boxed of books and collapsed empty cardboard boxes everywhere - when I got a text from the letting agents saying was it OK for them to come and take some new pictures of it today. I said yes - as long as it was the afternoon - and spent the morning giving the place a long overdue tidy and a superficial clean (I can't be bothered doing that properly until I do the final big clean now). I must say I do feel much better with it tidy again, but it was achieved by the simple expedient of shoving everything into the tiny utility room. Which meant that I couldn't get to the washing machine.

Never mind, there is a spanking new shiny washing machine freshly installed in the house, and one thing I have really missed these past five years is hanging washing on a proper outside line. I'd also found a hank of washing line (bought years ago to repair the garden chair, aka the crap (sic) bed, but that's another story), so once young Will from the agency had done his snapping I loaded up my rucksack with a load of washing, the line, a tub of Persil and a bag of pegs, and set off for the house.

First I had to work out all the potential settings on the machine, so that I could decide on the one which will be the only one I ever use (not quite true, I do do woollies specially), and they were a trifle too electronic for my taste. Having decided that, I loaded it up, switched it on... and nothing happened.  It is plumbed in, isn't it, I mused? But if it is, where is the hiss and rush of water? We'd both assumed that the plumber had plumbed it in along with completing the rest of the kitchen plumbing, but quickly realised that this was based on a rather flimsy foundation - i.e. that he'd pushed it back into place.  So Jim discovered that it is possible, just, to pull out and manoeuvre behind the machine in the very narrow corridor of kitchen, confirmed that it had not in fact been plumbed in, and rectified the situation.

So then off it went. We were sitting out in the garden enjoying a cup of tea when it first started to empty, and watched the suds well up through and overflow the drain and run along the side of the kitchen... ok, we thought, there's yet another possible cause of the damp, and Jim put his drain rods on the list of things to bring up from Sussex. He tried sticking his arm down (try stopping him) but couldn't reach anything.

Nonetheless, the machine finished its cycle with a very satisfactory 1600 spin, and I did get to hang the washing on the line - probably just in time for a thunderstorm.

First bit of gardening

A workmate came to see the house today, and brought me a lavender plant.

Which I have planted at the top of the steps, opposite the rosemary bush.

Kitchen continues...

I kno0w this is rather dull, and I'm sorry I'm not boating - but if nothing else, this will be a record for me to look back on. The kitchen is coming along very nicely - in fact, the tiling is the last major job outstanding, and then there will be the shelves to fit. This is what it looked like this afternoon.

I have a new oven, hob and washing machine, but the firdge and freezer are from my mother's. The units are from Travis Perkins' Benchmarx range, and the worktops and sink from Worktop Express in Chesterfield. The worktops are iroko, which I really liked on Warrior. It feels very grown up having solid wood worktops. I'll try to remember to fcus in on some details tomorrow.

Meanwhile, back at the flat, I am sorting and packing. Yesterday it was clothes - and I have already transferred all my hanging clothes to the house's built in wardrobes. Today I did books and have filled five of my smaller boxes - but that's without my canal books collection. I do tend to be quite unsentimental about books, and it's a very rare novel I'll keep once having read it. I've got quite a big pile to be divided between Oxfam and the Alvecote book swap, and a couple of bags of clothes went to Oxfam yesterday, so I'm taking the opportunity for a bit of a clear out as I pack. Tomorrow... paperwork. Plus I need to go and pay for the bedroom carpet - once that's fitted, that will be the first room finished (apart from picture rail), and buy some tiles for the bathroom. Possibly a new piece of vinyl for the floor too - a design rethink means getting rid of a fitted cupboard, meaning the original piece won't be big enough for the new floor area. It's an exciting development though, all inspired by a fortuitous find at Braunston.

Working in the West Midlands

I'm back in the West Midlands but for once I'm not boating. I've spent the last two days at a conference at the University of Warwick, which as most people know, is not in Warwick, nor really anywhere in the immediate vicinity. It's not really in Coventry either, but rather on the outskirts of Kenilworth. I guess Universities didn't have to worry about what the Competition and Markets Authority checking to see whether they were mis-selling themselves back in the sixties. I have to say though that they laid on the best conference I think the Foundation Year Network (for that is us) have ever had - and we rose to the occasion it's some really good papers and presentations. It's always good too to catch up with other people from across the country who are labouring away in that much overlooked and oft misunderstood corner of HE. It was quite exhausting though as well.

Then tomorrow - this is exciting - I've been invited to act as the external 'expert' on the panel validating a new Foundation Year at a university in Birmingham. I've been booked into a lovely hotel, where I've just had a lovely dinner in a lovely old fashioned hotel restaurant, and they're sending a taxi for me in the morning. I must be careful not to let it go to my head.

When I get back to Sheffield I've got two weeks off work which will be consumed by extensive house-work.