Three Swallows...

...Don't make a summer -- or so a appropriation of the old saying goes.

I found this post today on the BBC's football comment page ref CFC's recent -- ehem -- run of form. It's approprite.

"Good wins against the might of Macc, Forest and Wycombe...lets not get carried away here boys."

There are two games this week -- against Blackburn and Charlton. Let's postpone celebrations of a return to true championship form until we've tackled Premiership opposition.

Oh, come on you Spurs on Sunday..!

Too Much Pressure

The main problem with living in an old house is that things tend to go wrong. They break, fuse, leak and flood -- and quite frequently.

And when these things go awry, they tend to be quite major and therefore quite expensive to fix.

Before Christmas we lost hot water so I called-out a plumber who sorted the water pressure problem (I was convinced that the low pressure was the issue and the engineer seemed to agree). He did this very quickly and easily I might add. You just turn an external knob and to release/increase pressure. A 30 second fix and a job well done and all for a mere £75 call-out! All done, or so I thought..

But no. As soon as the chap departed I tried running a bath -- and still no hot water, just an infrequently tepid flow, or at best, luke-warm. And that's how it's been since -- mainly due to the fact that we're both back at work proper with little time to wait for hours at home for a plumber. Also, it's an expensive cash-only exchange and January is a very long month between paycheques, so we're bit short of the necessary.

Now P and I are very adaptable sorts and quickly adjusted to boiling water on the stove to compensate for our cool bath. But this isn't sustainable, especially in the midst of a decidedly cold snap and with the prospect of having guests stay for a couple of nights. P are happy to share bathwater in the morning, but it won't stretch to four. Yuk for the last one in.

So again I call the engineer who promises to come over as early as possible to negate mid-week office-time disruption. Anyway, said chap arrives at nearly noon (supposed to be 8:30am!!) and does a more thorough job.

Water and heating restored and a fully-serviced boiler and only £250 cash this time. (yum, baked beans til pay-day). Surely now we're sorted. All running well. Hot tap water and toasty radiators. Well, for two days, anyway.

I arrived home last night to find that the boiler had switched itself off and wasn't sparking.

Quick diagnostic and consult the manual.

A-ha -- low water pressure again. I know how to fix that. Turn knob. Watch needle move up on the dial. Promising, but still nothing. Erm..

Refer again to manual. A-ha -- flick ignition switch. Eureka. It sparks into life. Houston, we have lift-off.

..And lift-off is what the needle did. With the system running and with the newly topped-up water in the system the needle just kept rising and rising and rising resting just beyond the red 'danger' marker. But only just beyond.

So all's running well. Kinda. Problem is that there's now too much pressure in the system which is causing dirty brown hot water to escape the pipes and run down the wall of the bathroom below. Not exactly a torrent, but enough to be alarming.

Anyway, I wiped it all up and have left the system on to run-down the pressure a bit -- which seems to be working. Fingers crossed. Actually, thanks to the space-heating lightbulb PJ and RJB insist on having in place when they stay the batroom walls are now drying nicely. (Thanks guys.)

So now our respective flats are moving rapidly toward sale we're off this afternoon to beg and plead with the bank for a re-mortgage and an infusion of funds to get this old house sorted once and for all.

I fear there will be much sobbing and pleading.

But we're used to being cold and damp, so how can a bit more flowing water hurt if we get the wonga..?

The Jackson Four

You read that right. We're The Jackson Four.

Not The Jackson Five. We bear no relation to the Gary, Illinois-originated Motown family of famously bizarre identity crises.

No, we're The Jackson Four. Well we were and for one night only. ..And just as well.

PJ and RJB (The Norfolk Dumpling) stayed with us for a couple of nights this week between house hunting in Hampshire and heading-off to Boston, Mass. So on Tuesday night we arranged dinner at The Prince -- a fine gastro-type boozer just up the road -- but had to eat early to accommodate its music pub quiz at 9pm.

Pub. Music. Quiz. Brilliant combination and PJ was like a kid at Christmas at the prospect.

You know the drill. Tables of friends, colleagues or loose acquaintances in musically-themed imaginatively-named teams -- "The Trucks Don't Work", "Devon 17" and so on. And as PJ is a 'Jackson' and there were four of us, so then we were named. Imaginitive and musically-themed.

In the recokning we did OK, but not great coming ninth from a field of 12. But then, many of the folk do do this every week. They train and revise The Encyclopaedia of British Hit Singles and other such muso minutiae constantly.

Who in their right mind would possibly know what the current #1 in the singles charts is? (I haven't known who's #1 since the mid- 80s!) Who cares who played lead guitar for Chicago, what a Beyonce album cover looks like or the surnames of the brothers in Oasis? (Oh, I do know that one..) Anyway, I wouldn't recognise a Sugarbabes intro if it knocked on my door and tried to sell me a mop head.

Clearly there are gaps in the collective muscial knowledge and tastes of this ramshakled line-up. We need to rethink the strategy, broaden out and get a new team together and a new name. RJB and PJ are out -- they live abroad anyway. We need folk from Stokie.

So it's definitely me (punk, post-punk, indie and rock), P (good with ABBA, easy listening and fromage in general), Alex (Smiths, Morrissey, Smiths, Madchester and indie), Katie, Vince (rockabilly) and Katie. Maybe Mark and Lady P can join in too or be super-subs..?

And the name? 'iPod, Therefore I Am.'

Never Say Never...

Never thought I'd be cheering an Arsenal victory or a Terry Henry goal, but a 93rd minute beautie keeps (a currently woeful) CFC within six points and striking distance of 'manure.'

Gooner. Gooner. Gooner.

Designer Living 25 Floors Up

Another day, another sunless room. This time at my laptop in the underground 'workspace' bunker beavering against a copy deadline for a feature in a major UK daily newspaper next week. After ten hours of this I'm pooped and soon to beat a retreat to my marvellous room and forgo the final afternoon session ahead of the compulsory big end-of-event-party tonight (buses depart to return to the hotel at 2am… ugh, welcome to Spain).

So about the room...

It's soooo Euro-designer-chic -- straight outta the pages of Wallpaper magazine and palatial in size.

More to the point it has a load of top toys -- a B&O wall-mounted plasma, DVD player, iPod connection to surround-sound wharfdales and Nespresso coffee machine. All mod cons for the early 21st century as well as the standard (well, for five star biz-lux anyway) secure Wi-Fi and/or Ethernet broadband connection. The bed is huge and very comfy and the bathroom is great too. But I'm a bloke and only perform my ablutions long enough to get wet and come out clean.

Of course, compared to our own miniscule, dingy and freezing bathing facilities at home -- to which I return to tomorrow -- I really should be taking advantage of such luxury while I can.

…Which reminds me. I need to put that special space-heating light bulb in place ahead of PJ and RJB's visit next week.

PPT In Paradise

I'm in a wonderful city -- Barcelona. I'm in a beautuful hotel -- Arts. And my eyes are decidely sore. Not from the overwhelming splendour of Gaudi or Camp Nou, but from three days of 'death by Powerpoint.'

I'm spending a week in the jewel of the Spain's hip, cultural and fashionable crown and all I get to see is slide decks in a darkened room devoid of natural light.

..But hey, it beats working -- which it what it (kinda) is afterall.

We're having a week-long European Leadership Forum of planning and strategy meetings. And actually, it's hard, hard work.

But this afternoon was free' and I did get to leave the hotel compound, get some fresh warm(ish) Med air and see something of this remarkable place and signed-up for the Gaudi tour.

Anyway, the sun is shining and as a northern European it's 'shirt-sleeve order' for me (I can't understand why the locals are wrapped-up in overcoats and scarves.

Ho hum -- another evening of Catalan cusine and more variations on the fermented Tempranillo grape. It's a hard life, n'est pas?

And with a storm brewing over Old Blightly, I might have to find reason to stay-on a bit longer. There are many...

How Apt ;-)

Looking this morning at my annual budget and seriously thinking about appointing a PR agency I 'Googled' for the PRCA -- the UK's Public Relations Consultancy Association.

While I know a lot of PRs in London, I'd like to have some 'independent' advice about which firms have particularly strong business services credentials.

So my Google throws-up two options -- one mundane and one, erm, totally insipired.

Numer one: the initially sought London-based 'bunny' org.
Number two: the Professional Rodeo Cowboy's Association.

Is someone having a laugh..?

Surely they are one and the same.

Brilliant.

Yee-haw!