It’s was Friday afternoon, so there I was, catching up with my favourite newsfeeds on Google Reader. Via The Register, I ended up (oh, the humanity) at an article on the Daily Mail website about a new low-head water-powered generator. Clever, if it turns out to be viable: it’s claimed you get 70% efficiency from a very low-pressure water source. But of course, this being 2007, the site has a “comments” section. Now, Peter Beswick from Romsey has had a bit of a brainstorm. Great! I don’t have a stream near to my house, but no matter! I can just stick it on the mains water supply instead! Well, now. If that has a green motive behind it, then Peter is just a numpty. Where do you think the energy comes from to make the pressure in the water pipes? Of course, if it’s just a way of gypping the water company, then I’m all for it…

Well we went bowling just before Chrimbo, and we had a lovely time, thanks very much for asking. Only trouble was, I wore my extra-long jeans - the ones E swore made me look normal, and not a freak with short legs and a long body. Anyway, the jeans got caught under my snazzy, freshly-sanitized bowling shoe, and my delivery stride turned into a flamboyant, if unplanned, splits. Oh deary me. How I cursed as our companions laughed. A week and a half on, and I still have a lot of pain, right at the top of the hamstring. Ow.

Des the Dog has got troubles of his own, though. This morning during our walk he was being his usual eejot jumping about, when he pulled up with a yelp and refused to go any further. This is the second time this has happened, too. We went to the vets this evening and it looks like his hips are getting gimpy. Poor old sausage. Now he’s on 3 kinds of medication. Thank goodness for insurance.

It seems that the Bishop of Southwark has been dipping his toe in the water, seeing what all the fuss is about over binge drinking. There he was, toddling home after having a great time (apparently) at a function in Belgravia, when the next thing he knew he was sans wallet and mobile, with a nasty bump on the head. Naturally, for a man of the cloth, he assumed that he must have been mugged, and reported it to the Police. Now, after all, it seems he may just have had too many Bacardi Breezers…

Well, last year I predicted that Lauren would meet Vicky Pollard, and she didn’t. Oh well. In fact, neither Catherine Tate nor Lucas and Walliams made an appearance on Children in Need, as far as I can tell. It’s a good job I don’t make predictions for a living. They got my tenner, and more, so who’s counting?

With champagne and fish and chips at work this lunchtime to celebrate us moving into our new office, I’m feeling somewhat discumbobulated this evening. Eleven hours of Thanksgiving NFL games should sort that out :->

If you’re in the U.S., enjoy your turkey!

I went to pick up E’s engagement ring from Powell & Bull in town. Got some champagne and roses, went home, put it on her finger, and saw on her face… there was something wrong.

Cobblers. It’s the wrong design. The one we saw was an emerald, with a lovely round, faceted stone. What E likes, though, is aquamarine. So we ordered it, the makers (in London, apparently) said it would be ready in 2 weeks. I got the call this morning to say it was available to pick up, and off I trotted with a spring in my step. What they got sent, though, was an emerald cut stone. It’s nice, I suppose, but it looks a little bit too showy - maybe a bit too much like dress jewelry. Oh well. E’s going into town tomorrow, so back it goes and I guess we’ll have to wait another two weeks or so.

Bum.

Who would have thought it? For a change, why not go snowboarding in Iran?

An Irmine in the wild

Regular readers (ha!) might wonder why there have been few posts recently. Well, visitors to the house would twig straight away: currently the dining room and kitchen are completely gutted, ready for the shiny new ones. This includes removing the dado rail in the dining room, which some twonk decided were in need of a two inch number eight screw every three feet plus half a gallon of mastik.

I swear the gang that did the house up before I got my hands on it must have had shares in the company that made Mastik: it was everywhere. The most sweary moments of the project so far were when we started pulling up the soft as shite pine floor which was stuck to the screed in the dining room floor - I kid you not, there must have been half a tube of Mastik per plank. Two wrecking bars and a lot of brute force and ignorance pulled each one up. The only problem: it took the damn bitumen screed with it! Nasty problem. Either I have to learn about screeding in a hurry or we have yet another bill on our hands, and the worst kind at that: one we didn’t expect.

Eyes on the prize: shiny, shiny kitchen!

We met today for a memorial service for a colleague who died at 53, except that I didn’t make it in time: apparently 5 hours isn’t enough time to allow to get from Cambridge to Manchester. Damn the M6.

Still, tonight should be good, catching up with K. No doubt she’ll have words about some of the music I’ve been getting into recently…