What I learnt from the washing machine man

It wasn't pleasant, getting the washing machine man out. We had a call out back in July, when I realised the dryer bit of the washer dryer wasn't working. The call centre person tried hard to get M, who made the call, to take out an extended warranty. I was in the other room, and he asked me what I thought. I said no way. We paid the call out charge.

The dryer got fixed, but the insane noise the machine made during its spin cycle just got louder. We pulled the machine out, checked its 'transit bolts' were removed, balanced it with a spirit level. Still the noise endured. When it was spinning, you couldn't talk in the hall. You could hear it down the street.

So I called the washing machine company again. The guy tried to sell me an extended warranty again. I said no way again. 'I see you had a call out earlier this year,' he said. 'Are you saying you're going to pay another £80?'

Well, I said, it turns out that it would have saved me money *in this instance* to take out an extended warranty *last time*. But I didn't, and that doesn't mean it makes sense to now. So yes, I am going to pay another £80.

Every time I have a conversation like that, I feel a little bit dirty. And I hate the world, for making me deal with call centre people who know nothing and care less about the situation you and your washing machine are in, and are primed, poised and prodded like cattle into making as much money out of you as possible. You know it's not really their fault, they are just pawns in the game, but in order to not get shafted you often have to be rude to them. You hate yourself for this, because it's a real person you're being rude to, yet you know they are trained to put you in this position, so you hate them too.

You come away a bit bruised, a bit bullied and a bit beaten down. You lose a bit of faith in your ability to make consumer choices. You lose a bit of faith in the world. You don't know who to trust. And this is a fucking washing machine. I can't even *think* about pensions.

Two days later, the washing machine man came. I'd subconsciously blocked it out of my mind, so we were still in bed when the doorbell rang. I therefore had to show him what was what wearing my orange pyjamas and with a serious bed head, which was all quite embarrassing.

He found the problem immediately: one of the large blocks of concrete which stops the machine going walkabout was loose. He fixed it with a spanner and some glue. I took an interest -- I've never seen the workings of a washing machine before. He liked that. We got chatting.

As he was putting the casing back together, he spotted the bottle of Ecover lurking in the under-stair gloom. You've got to watch that stuff, he said. It'll destroy your machine, especially if you only wash at low temperatures.

How can Ecover be bad? I asked. And what about my EcoBalls?

He laughed hollowly.

The thing is, girls and boys, that Ecover doesn't contain the chemicals that are needed to kill bacteria that accumulate in the machine, creating sludge and slime on the outside of the drum, rotting the seal and causing that nasty 'in the machine too long' smell if you leave your clothes in any length of time after the cycle has finished.

Those chemicals have a purpose, he said. They're not for your clothes, they're for your washing machine. If you want to use Ecover, fine (and there are some good environmental reasons for doing so) but if you're not to end up a) shortening the life of your machine and b) re-washing smelly stuff -- neither of which can be seen as environmentally friendly things to do -- you should do a hot (at least 60 degrees) wash with 'proper' (he recommended Ariel biological) washing powder at least once a month. You should also descale once a month if you live in a hard water area.

The washing machine man was lovely. He knew his stuff and did his thing, but also told me things he thought I should know. Nobody was paying him for that. It's entirely possible, in fact, that the washing machine makers would prefer he didn't tell me those things, as that way they get to sell more washing machines.

*And* he managed to find a way to charge me less than the call out charge. He restored my faith in human ingenuity: at the call centre end, big companies pay peanuts and do their best to get human beings to behave like manipulative automatons, but at the business end, there is discretion and there is autonomy. And when decent people get their hands on that, they provide better than a decent service and they provide a warm feeling inside to go with it. More like that please.

And I also thought it was such good advice that I should pass it on, as I can't imagine anyone reading this regularly isn't also washing their clothes in Ecover. I know some of you smell funny, put it that way.

joella

Have you ever been experienced? Well, she has.

Patti Smith and her band by Pirlouiiiit 17102007
Originally uploaded by pirlouiiiit. (This was taken a couple of gigs before Oxford - visit the set for some amazing photos!)

There are gigs... and there are Gigs. I ventured to the all-new Cardiac for the first time on Monday night to see Patti Smith, wondering if they'd have fucked the venue up, wondering if she'd be any good, wondering if it might all be an expensive and not that rewarding Monday evening (never a great night for going out, face it).

And it was a Gig. She is a force of nature. I was blown away. We got two hours of passion and storm and fury. She screamed at us and it was scary, but then she smiled at us, and it was all ok. She played Are You Experienced on *clarinet*, which was astonishing, she played Because The Night, which made me feel about seventeen years old (only with worse knees), she played a glorious White Rabbit, with an Oxford-themed stream of consciousness intro, and then at the end, just when I'd figured she wouldn't (though I was of course hoping beyond hope that she would), she played Gloria. And it couldn't have been better.

There is not a chance of this happening, but I want to be like Patti Smith when I grow up. She embodies something timeless, ageless, fabulous.

And the Cardiac is ok. I can live with it. The beer is worse (as in, there's only lager and it costs a fortune), but the toilets are better (as in, the doors lock and they have paper). Oxford crowds are always interesting, and this one was no exception. It was full of interesting looking women of all ages, including a surprising number of under-21s. And they were not Brookes-alikes, they were beautiful. Such hair! Such eyebrows!

So in all, I am inspired. Let's hear it for the provincial gig, where you can always get down the front.

joella

No! Sleep! Till 11.30!

This week I looked after baby Tungsten nearly on my own for nearly three hours. He'd been suffering from what my mother calls D&V, *and* he's teething, so he was extremely pissed off.

I did feel for him. I hate throwing up. I had bad D&V once when I was about eight or nine. I remember lying in my turquoise flowery nightdress in my turquoise bed in my turquoise bedroom, looking glumly at the pale blue bucket that my mum had put next to the bed. It was the middle of a school day and it was weird and quiet, and I knew that all I could do was wait, feeling sicker and sicker till I chucked up in the bucket and felt better. And then it would start again. It was one of the longest days of my life.

So when I woke up in the middle of Wednesday night with a slow growing ache in my guts, I knew it wasn't going to end well. And it didn't. I had just enough sequencing between ends to avoid major bathroom disaster, and just enough interval between episodes to reflect on the sad fact that when you're a grown up, you have to clean up after yourself. I am not blaming baby Tungsten, but I did call him a little bastard more than once.

I did get a day in bed to recover though, drinking flat Coca Cola and reading OK magazine (both allowed only when ill). And tonight I am clean and serene, listening to Bob Dylan-as-DJ playing hymns to New York on 6Music and looking forward to an early night with Georgette Heyer.

Tomorrow: sloe hunting and rugby avoidance. Bring it on.

joella

"What I saw is quite beyond my powers of description."

Oh, why am I watching The Relief of Belsen? It's not cheering me up any.

But maybe it's worse not to watch it. It's done well, I think. Better it's made than not. Better it's broadcast than not. It reminds me why I am happy to be British: you really can make the world a better place with little more than a sense of decency and good project management skills. And it reminds me of Banksy's Manifesto, which can still move me to tears.

There is evil, but there is also good. There is inhumanity, but there is also art that works for anyone with a heart.

joella

The law of halves

Half a Ribble Rouser and half a perry
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

When we got to the Beer Festival on Thursday, they were only hiring out half pint glasses. They did have pints, I guess they'd just run out.

And a bloody good job it was too, as otherwise we'd have been in all sorts of trouble. I was (relatively) sensible and designed my tasting round a Lancashire theme: brewery in Lancashire (another) or brewery in town that can be seen from Lancashire (which some would argue still *is* in Lancashire) or brewer from Lancashire (I had inside knowledge on the last). One from Yorkshire did sneak in but it was Jeremy's favourite, and her tasting notes were so beautiful that it was hard to say no.

M went for a more eclectic approach, including perry (why?!) and coconut beer in his list. Remarkably, thanks to the half pint glasses (which I found in my bag the next morning, with my beer-soaked programme) he survived to tell the tale. And I can assure you they are all better at making beer than they are at making websites. Which is as it should be.

joella

Notes on a hangover

1. If I weren't hungover, I really wouldn't be watching Con Air
2. I can well see why V walked out of this film
3. But I also worry slightly that when I get bored of power tools, I might want a gun

joella

This isn't very sisterly but it needs to come off my chest

Dear Jessica / Camilla / Charlotte / Phoebe (delete as applicable)

Congratulations on getting into Oxford Brookes! Your parents must be delighted with this return on their investment in your education.

The chances are high that you will, in later life, get away with telling people that you went to university in Oxford. But while you are here we need to make sure that you are clearly identifiable as actually quite thick.

You must therefore wear the following uniform at all times:

Giant sunglasses
Hip-skimming, violently patterned top of your choice, cut to display maximum cleavage and cling to puppy fat
Belt of 4" width or greater serving no discernible purpose
Flippy miniskirt just a little shorter than you have the legs to carry off
Leggings
Flip flops

If you get cold, you may add a pashmina and swap your flip flops for Uggs. If your breasts are not sufficiently wobbly (ideally they should look like a pair of orange blancmanges), proceed to Subway and eat meatball torpedos until they are.

Please note that failure to comply with this directive will result in the impounding of your Renault Clit.

Regards
Brookes Admissions

joella

Memories of west Lancashire

This week, I find myself mostly thinking of Blackpool, where I went to school. I was pupil #7 in the 80s-tastic photo above that I found on its website.

1. Watching the second part of the Stephen Fry HIV documentary reminded me of my schoolfriend J, whose little sister was born with significant disabilities, and went to an amazing school, which I visited a few times as a teenager in the mid-80s. It was my first encounter with HIV, as some of the pupils were haemophiliacs and contracted the virus via unsafe blood transfusions. I remember there was a flu outbreak one winter. I remember this already (physically) fragile girl losing friends to something that should never kill teenagers.

2. Me and housemate C were wiping tears away, topping up our Fairtrade wine and checking out the news when along came One Life: Above Enemy Lines (can't find a better link, strangely). I wasn't really watching until the central officer character - Ian Diggle - came on screen. We went to school together. He was good friends with schoolfriend J. The last time I saw him was at her little sister's 21st.

All. Very. Weird.

3. Happy birthday E. Never thought I'd be saying that, either!

I didn't make the White Stripes now-infamous Blackpool gig, but this clip from it is one of my favourite bits of music ever.



joella

Blair Witch Mystique

My newest Facebook Friend (whom I have actually known for 18 years: I am thinking that, like Eskimos and snow, or Northerners and bread rolls, we need more words for friend) told me that my profile photo made me look like I was in the Blair Witch Project. I was actually pretty chuffed.

I was wearing the same woolly hat (which used to be my mum's) last Monday night when J the plumber came to pick me up for a couple of evening jobs. I'm not sure you'll need the hat, he said, but you look very cute in it.

And it was on my head again this morning when I pitched up in Didcot feeling like shit, but not enough like shit to let the side down. I got in the door, worked out what was missing, and said to G, who was already assembling kitchen units: 'arse, I forgot my blowtorch'. The customer was still in her pyjamas, as we'd arrived surprisingly early, and she grinned from ear to ear and said 'now I've never heard a woman say *that* before'. Yeah, I said, we're normally very good at remembering them. But I was grinning too.

joella

My hey, hey my

A long time ago, when staying in on a Friday night was still the worst thing imaginable but doing a line of speed before heading out the door was no longer viable (that was only a brief phase, mum, honest), I discovered that much under-rated cocktail: vodka and Lemsip. Seriously, if you feel like shit but you need to be out there, it's the business. (If you feel like shit but it's ok to stay in, go straight for a hot toddy.)

A few years later, along came Red Bull. Someone with a cold once dubbed it Party Nurse (and indeed it does taste a bit like medicine), and ever since then I've thought of vodka and Lemsip as Party Nurse Max.

We could have done with some Party Nurse Max tonight, but instead we came home early, which on Cowley Road at this time of year makes you feel like a salmon swimming upstream. We were sitting in the Oxford Thai running low fevers and wondering what to do next, when M said 'I think we should just head back'. Well, I said, it's better to fade out than to burn away.

Vodka, we don't have. But Lemsip, we do.

joella

Shopping list on the back of a business card

Holiday shopping list
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

I wish I was still on holiday...

joella

Feelgood veg of the autumn. Oh, and HIV.

I have this theory: you cannot roast too many vegetables, and you cannot mash too many vegetables. However much you make, if you make it right, it will get eaten. There will never be enough for tomorrow's lunch.

Tonight we had sausages (veggie for me and housemate C, Freedom Food for M), and I made potato, celeriac and garlic mash and roasted carrots, courgettes and shallots. There was some celery soup left from last night, and I did something with veggie Bisto and a blender to create gravy out of it.

I made tons. I used half a big celeriac, eight potatoes, five carrots, four courgettes and a big handful of shallots. I felt sure it was enough to feed six. But no, we ate it all. And how can vegetables be bad for you? This is like intravenous V8 juice, no? We'll be winning awards if we carry on like this.

And *then* we had M's blackberry and apple crumble, in front of Stephen Fry's HIV & Me. I'd like my colleagues in South Africa, Zambia and Malawi to get the chance to see this programme. I think they think HIV is a non-issue in the UK. It's nowhere near as prevalent, but it's still having a massive impact. The young gay guy who had voluntarily had sex with five HIV+ 'gift givers', who then stuck a butt plug in him to maximise the chance of infection... now that I don't pretend to get.

But... there are lots of things I don't pretend to get about *straight* unsafe sex: I do, after all, come from the generation who saw the 1980s tombstone advert (aside: it took all my old-school, and considerable, web searching skills to track this down: you still need archives, if only for when YouTube doesn't deliver) just as we were thinking about getting down to it. I couldn't swear to the fact that I've never taken a risk, but I can definitely come closer to swearing that than most.

We had a little drink, and we shed a little tear. And we snuck into the kitchen one by one to steal the last little bits out of the roasting pan.

joella

Entente not very cordiale

Our new student neighbours moved in while we were away in the Peak District. Their landlords, who had spent most of the summer turning a dilapidated semi-wreck into a seriously nice house, told us they were postgraduates and would be well behaved. We figured they would need to be fairly rich postgraduates to be able to afford the rent that a house like that would be commanding, and we also figured that postgraduate status would not necessarily be sufficient to guarantee good behaviour.

Depressingly, we were right on both counts. They'd been in less than a week when they brought home a horde of pissed, braying idiots. It was 11.30 on a Thursday night, and we wanted to go to bed. I went out the back to try and get them to close their windows and back door, and there was a fully fledged drinks party going on. I got their attention by chucking pebbles over the wall, and a girl came flying out the back door saying 'what the fuck?'

'Hi,' I said, 'we're your neighbours'. God, she said, I'm, like, so sorry. They were all supposed to be gone by 11. Fine, I said, could you try and keep it down and close the windows? 'We're Masters students, she said, we're not Freshers or anything'. Fine, I said, could you try and keep it down and close the windows?

Ten minutes later, there were another bunch of them roaring in the garden. M went out this time. They couldn't go inside, because, like, it wasn't their house. Super posh boy emerged the third time we went out, by which point one of his charming friends was pulling branches off one of our trees. 'Yah, he said, I'm so sorry, we'll keep the noise down, I hope you can trust me on that.' I've no idea if I can trust you or not, said M, you're not doing too well so far. I'll set the hose on the next person to touch that tree, I added, you can trust me on *that*.

We went to bed, and heard them bringing people in from the garden several more times, so I guess the message sunk in at some level. They came round to apologise the next day, and assured us that they were postgraduates so would be working far too hard to make that kind of noise ever again.

We'll see. But I don't have a great feeling about it. They also don't have a bike between the four of them, so I suspect they are contributing more than their fair share to the predictable-yet-still-oppressive termtime parking chaos. Still, on the bright side, in nine months they'll be gone forever.

joella

The darkest part of the night

The pain wakes me up in the darkest part of the night. It used to do that when I was younger, but the last few years have been easier. I don't know why it's started doing it again.

I lie there for a few minutes, breathing carefully, adjusting, then slip out of bed to the bathroom. I can do this in the dark, open cupboards and wrappers, find drugs, take drugs. I slip back into bed, to wait for the codeine wave to break over me.

When this happens in the darkest part of the night it is scary. I am vulnerable and disoriented. I try to focus on the breathing, I lie on my balled fists. I try and keep still. But my mind always races. Into it this month comes Burma and Darfur, and the newly discovered photos of guards at Auschwitz. I am reading The Kite Runner (which I highly recommend, but which will not cheer you up much).

The veneer of civilisation is very thin, and these are the times I feel it might splinter at any moment. They come for you in the darkest part of the night, when you are alone and when you are already bleeding.

But I am not alone. After a few minutes M stirs. 'Would you like me to warm up your pink sack?' he says sleepily. My pink sack is a little corduroy bean bag that you can heat in the microwave. It used to smell of something comforting, like lavender, but that faded years ago. It was a gift, and I can't remember who from, but I am sure it was a man. It is the best thing in the world for this pain, but the microwave is two flights of stairs away and I can barely move.

Would you? I say, and he does. It is so hot that I need to wrap it in layers, which I unwrap gradually until it is next to my skin. The heat is bliss, it hurts, but in a sharp way, near the surface, tangible, movable. He goes back to sleep. I lie there until the light appears in the corners of the skylight, the birds are awake, and the codeine has dulled all my senses. Then I curl up round him, with the pink sack between us, and I sleep too.

I know when I wake up the world will feel more benign. And it does.

joella