. . .until this weekend when our new(ish) machine sputtered and stopped mid-spin cycle.

But all was not lost. Very helpfully, on its control panel the new washing machine has a set of possible problems listed along with the different wash cycles it can perform. The ‘Clean pump’ light was flashing, so all we had to do was clean the pump and–cross fingers–the washing machine would work again. So, now to locate the pump.

Task #1: Find the instructions manual, which would hopefully clarify a) exact location of pump, and b) how to clean it. I keep all of our manuals for electrical goods in a drawer in the kitchen, but puzzlingly the one for the washing machine was not there. But no problem in this electronic age, so:

Task #2. Look it up online, which was easy. Until we were asked for a serial number for our machine.

Task#3: Find out just where on the machine was the serial number. Of course, it turned out to be in the most difficult places to actually reach. On the back  of the machine, and repeated inside (yes, inside) the machine’s door. Like most people whose machine fails, ours was currently filled with clothes and water. With a great deal of difficulty we eased the machine away from the wall and got the serial number.

And then we discovered that the manufacturer hadn’t actually bothered to produce a trouble-shooting guide in its manual for this particular make and model of machine, contrary to their practice for every single other make and model of machine they produce. Why? Why? What was the design team thinking? Something along the lines of, “I’ve got a great idea for an April Fool joke.” ???

After much teeth-gnashing and head scratching Borg Sector R decided that the only thing to do was to check Youtube for a possible solution to our problem.

Fortunately, many someone else’s had had the same problem with their machines and had helpfully posted a little explanatory video online. Success! Armed with our new-found knowledge we set off to find and clean the pump on our machine. Of course, it is located right at the bottom of the machine, so close to the bottom, and therefore close to the floor, that when opening the little hatch it is impossible to catch any of the water gushing out of the machine into a container. Even a very shallow container.

Much flooding of the floor ensued, but fortunately Borg Sector R found the problem with the pump (a bobby pin), removed the obstruction, and now the machine is working as well as ever.

On the plus side we have a very, very clean kitchen floor.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Well, I cannot tell you how many times Oh Patient One called the telephone number for the appropriate “help” desk at the airport to try to arrange to collect his missing packet. He tried repeatedly but could never get through, and in the end he gave up. He was destined never to get back his packet. The papers it contained weren’t important. It was the end of the packet story, or so we thought. . .

. . .until last weekend when the telephone rang and Borg Sector R picked up. This is what happened next:

Airport Rep (in an aggressive tone of voice): “I am calling to speak to Mr Oh Patient One Cunnah regarding a packet he left on a flight from Romania and keeps failing to come and collect from this airport.”

Borg Sector R: “Um, he’s not here right–” now, she nearly said but didn’t, on account of being rudely interrupted.

Airport Rep: “I understand that a Mr Borg Sector G Cunnah was supposed to come and collect this packet ages ago, but it is still here and it needs to be collected or else we WILL send it back to Romania.”

Borg Sector R (now more than a bit indignant at the unfairness of this:) “Ah, yes, my dad’s missing packet. Well let me tell you, Shouty Airport Rep, my brother DID try to collect the packet on behalf of my dad on his way home from univeristy for the Easter break, and what a hard time you guys gave him. You LIED to him and told him the packet had already been returned to Romania. And THEN you called us and told us the packet was still at the airport. And THEN my brother tried to collect it for my dad on his way BACK to university and AGAIN your rep LIED to him and told him it had been returned to Romania. So what have you got to say about THAT?”

Airport Rep (in a small, contrite voice): “I’m so sorry for any misunderstanding, perhaps you could pretty pretty please with bells on ask your dad to call this number and arrange for the collection of the packet? Thank you so much for your time, have a nice day now, sorry, sorry, mumble, mumble.” Click.

(For the sake of narrativium* I may have embelleshed that conversation just a bit, but that was the gist.)

Oh Patient One did call the number the rep gave to Borg Sector R. Repeatedly and at length over the course of the next few days. And guess what? Nobody ever picked up.

Oh Patient One (putting down the telephone after another failed attempt): “I’ve had enough of this. It’s just so ridiculous.”

Me: “Well, you said there was nothing important in the packet. Why not just leave the packet at the airport until they send it back to Romania?”

Oh Patient One: “Well, I could do that. But it’s the principle of it, now. And if I don’t do anything about it we’re bound to get another phone call from the airport asking us when we are going to come and get the bloody thing. I mean, you can just see this going on foreverandeverandeveradinfinitum.”

Oh Patient One had a good point.

So that afternoon Oh Patient One drove to the airport, went to the “help” desk, got told his packet had been returned to Romania, he refused to leave the airport until someone quadruple-checked on the status of the packet, the airport rep could see he meant business and in the end went and found Oh Patient One’s packet, and Oh Patient One brought it home.

And the packet lived happily ever after.

* narrativium, creation of Sir Terry Pratchett, the elemental substance of Story.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

But first a little explanation about the Darwin Awards. The fun creation of Wendy Northcutt, the Darwin Awards are usually associated with people who take themselves out of the gene pool (i.e., die) in a stupid way before they have had a chance to procreate and pass on their stupidity genes. So they are awarded posthumously, but sometimes accidental survivors can be awarded honorary mentions if they are stupid enough. The full rules can be found here on Wendy’s website (and I totally recommend her website and books if you are in need of a laugh!)

But what on earth do the Darwin Awards have to do with you, Michelle, I hear you cry?

Well, yesterday early evening I noticed a pair of blackbirds building a nest in our camellia bush.  I immediately grabbed a garden cane and scared them off, then wrecked their nest. Not because I am a bird hater, or something, because I am not. I love birds. But I have an agile, inquisitive predator living with me, otherwise known as Kitteh Princess Pippa, and she is definitely not a bird lover. Well, she is, but only because she likes to catch and play with them, and doesn’t mind if she terrifies or kills them in the process.

This is agile, inquisitive Kitteh Princess Pippa

But I’d scared off the birds and wrecked their nest. Problem solved. Or so I thought. . .

This morning the blackbirds were back in the camellia bush rebuilding their nest. Out I went and scared them off and dismantled it, again. A few minutes later the blackbirds reappeared and started rebuilding their nest, again. Out I went and scared them off and dismantled it, again. This happened five more times during the course of the morning, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I should just leave the blackbirds to build their nest in the bloody bush and also leave them to their potential Darwin Award fate. . .

As I type this I am looking out of my French windows into the garden. And guess what? The blackbirds are back to nest-building in my camellia bush. Will they ever learn?

Michelle, off to break up the nest yet again, sigh.

Update: The blackbirds have gotten the message and have relocated. Yay!

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

The router wantonly lies to me as it shows all constant check lights are fine. Even though I recently upgraded and bought a good one in my quest not to have all these bloody connectivity problems. When I say ‘we’ I mean of course Oh Patient One selected it, because although I am fascinated by all things science, when it comes to the practical application of technology I am more than a little ashamed to say that I am inept, I am technologically challenged, even though I try for eptness, I really do.

Anyway. Then my Internet provider wrote to me and told me off for exceeding my monthly bandwidth. Was I? How could that be? The same number of people have been living in my house and using the same amount of bandwidth for quite a while. In fact, one of those people (*cough,* me) has been offline quite a bit in recent times for one reason and another. Mainly because I was sucked in by a black hole and then the cat ate my homework.

But, the letter from my provider went on to say, for only a gazillion pounds per month I could have extra bandwidth thereby solving my connectivity problems. Actually, it wasn’t a gazillion pounds per month, it was quite a reasonable amount so I decided to go with the flow.

The Internet seemed to go better for a while. Sometimes we’d have problems, but that’s to be expected whoever the provider. Then things got much worse and we weren’t even back to square one. We were into minus numbers when it came to connectivity.

My patience ran out. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone and called my provider’s Customer Torture “Help” Line to see if we could solve the connectivity issue. And after I spent an eon on the phone listening to the automated menu system (at a cost of gazillions of pounds per minute), I got disconnected. Trying not to spit too much fury I called back, and after another eon (and a gazillion more pounds) I got disconnected again. After much more teeth-gnashing and lots more gazillions of pounds I finally got put through to a real person. Needless to say, this person was about as helpful as a bikini in the North Pole.

So lovely Borg Sector R researched other providers, found one offering all the phone and Internet services we need and at a good price, and we arranged to switch to the new provider.

The next day the Customer Torture “Help” Line of my current provider called me. And after the (it has to be said very helpful) rep informed me that our conversation was being recorded for quality control purposes, and confirmed that I, the actual customer, had requested the switch rather than someone impersonating me, and thanked me for my custom, she then asked me why I was leaving her company’s service.

Very satisfying telling her all about my connectivity problems.

The switchover takes place next week. Wonder if it will all go without a hitch?

Michelle, not holding my breath.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

So here is A Tale of Two Kittehs, the story of how I acquired two elderly yet aymayzing kitties. Or rather, how they acquired me.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

He wasn’t laughing this time on Wednesday, I can tell you. Neither was I. Because this time on Wednesday we were traveling back from our Rotterdam apartment to the UK so, of course, we had Trouble With Travel. This is what happened. . .

We arrived at Rotterdam central station. Oh Patient One went to a ticket machine to get his ticket, I went to another machine to get mine. And as I was counting out my change and feeding it into the machine (these machines only take coins), Oh Patient One startled me.

Oh Patient One: “Michelle, what are you doing? I already got you a ticket with my Dutch debit card.”

Me: “You did?”

Oh Patient One: “Yes. Come on. We’re going to miss our train.”

(And this from the man who half an hour earlier had asked me why I had my coat on ready to leave our apartment, we had loads of time to catch our train.)

So I pressed the cancel key, retrieved my Euros from the machine, and when I looked around. . . Oh Patient One had disappeared. I headed for the platform from which the Amsterdam Schiphol train was departing and couldn’t see him. The fact that it was rush hour had something to do with this, I think, but I didn’t want to risk not having a ticket (Oh Patient One had both tickets) and not being able to find Oh Patient One on the train. So I headed back down the stairs from the platform to the main station area. Still no sign of Oh Patient One. And I couldn’t call him on my cell phone because my smart phone doesn’t work outside the UK. But no problem. I would hang around for a few minutes, then if I didn’t find Oh Patient One I would just buy another ticket and get the next train to Schiphol.

A few seconds later Oh Patient One appeared.

Oh Patient One: “There you are. What happened to you?”

Me: “Nothing happened to me. You forgot to look to see if I was with you and you left me.”

Oh Patient One: “Well, I assumed you’d know which platform I was heading for. Anyway, we’ve missed that train, there’s another one from this platform.”

We climbed the steps to another platform, got on the train which said ‘Amsterdam’ on the front, and found some seats. Oh Patient One rooted in his pockets for the train tickets. Now, people have a tendency to leave their receipts in the ticket machine dispensers, and the receipts look a lot like actual train tickets. And what Oh Patient One had picked out of the ticket dispenser was one ticket to Schiphol and one receipt belonging to a complete stranger.

So, basically I had no train ticket. From nearly having two tickets I had nada, and what would happen when the ticket inspector came through our carriage? Would I get arrested? Would I have to pay a huge fine? I sat and sulked for a bit.

And then I noticed that our train was stopping at places it should not stop at. Oh Patient One noticed this at about the same time, and we looked at each other.

Oh Patient One and Me (simultaneously): “We’re on the wrong bloody train, aren’t we?”

Yes, we were. I do not know how we managed this. We have made this same journey so many times, we should know which trains to climb on. Or not. Fortunately for us the next stop was Den Haag, or The Hague, home of the international criminal court (and would it feature me very soon for my lack of ticket?). When I say fortunately for us, this is because the Schiphol trains also depart from this station. Also, if I could only get down to the ticket hall without a ticket inspector acosting me I would be able to purchase a ticket and not be traveling illegally.

Got off the train, went down to the ticket hall, got a new ticket. Not a ticket inspector in sight. Whew.

And then we got a train to Schiphol no problem, got our plane from Schiphol to London Stansted no problem. Apart from the fact that the flight was full and I ended up sitting next to a guy who thought the shared arm rest was his exclusive property.

It was only as we climbed onto the bus which would transport us back to the town where we live that I realized that I didn’t have enough English money to pay for my fare. Fortunately for me Oh Patient One did.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

“So what are you referring to, Michelle,” I hear you cry?

Well, when I am in the middle of writing a book, which I am right now, let’s just say that I get more than a bit distracted and forgetful because I am spending a lot of time with the imaginary people in my head and they tend to take over just a bit. Actually, they take over quite a lot to the point where I tend to fall off email, I fall off the internet, I fall off my own blog (sorry!) and when I am not in my head with my imaginary people I am either at my day job (which requires my total concentration) or catching up on real life in the real world rather than the virtual one. Sounds a bit mad, but at least I know that the voices in my head are imaginary.

Anyway. This is a conversation I had with Oh Patient One last month.

Oh Patient One (who spends a large chunk of the week commuting to west London for his day job): “It’s Nephew #1 and Nephew #2′s birthdays soon. Will you be able to get cards for them, or shall I?”

Me (because I know that Oh Patient One doesn’t have much free time): “Don’t worry, I’ll sort out the card situation.”

Oh Patient One: “Are you sure? Because I know how busy you are with the people in your head. You get a bit, um, distracted. But only a very little bit,” he added diplomatically.

Me (with just a bit of indignance): “Of course I’m sure. I won’t forget. I am a multitasker, you know.”

Oh Patient One (with a wry grin on his face because he knows me so well): “Okay. The sorting out of the cards is totally in your hands.”

So, the very next day I went off to the card store and got two lovely cards. One with, “Happy Birthday, Now You Are 2,” on it, and one with, “Happy Birthday, Now You Are 4,” on it. And then I filled them in with a birthday message and love from Auntie Distracted Michelle and Uncle Oh Patient One, got stamps for Australia, and posted them.

Mission accomplished! Or so I thought. . .

A week or so later we got an email from my dear brother-in-law. This is the gist of what he said:

“We received the boys birthday cards today. Even Nephew #2 thought it was funny that the cards were for 2 and 4 year olds when they are now 3 and 5. Time does fly I suppose.”

Sigh. Is it just me, or what?

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

You see, poor Borg Sector G has inherited my bad luck with travel, as we discovered when he traveled home from university last week for the Easter break. This is what happened. . .

Fail #1. His alarm didn’t go off, which meant that he had to take a cab to the airport instead of having time to take the bus.

Fail #2. His cab got stuck in traffic so instead of costing 7 quid ($11) it cost him 17 quid ($27).

Fail #3. The person sitting next to him on his flight was a total greedy pig about armrests and personal space.

And then Borg Sector G landed safely at London Luton airport and went off to buy his coach ticket for the journey home. All he needed to do before getting on his coach was to pick up a package for Oh Patient One. You see, a couple weeks ago Oh Patient One was on a business trip to Romania and he left a package on the plane. The airline contacted him and Oh Patient One confirmed that Borg Sector G would pick up said package on his way back home for the Easter Break last week. Easy Peasy? Of course not. Because the package leads us into. . .

Fail #4. Borg Sector G was led a merry dance around London Luton airport before he finally got to the place where he had to pick up Oh Patient One’s package. The airline representative would not release the package to Borg Sector G without a reference number, oh no they would not. More than their job was worth. You positively had to have the reference number. Which Borg Sector G didn’t have because, of course, he was running late that morning and hadn’t had time to check his email and make a note of the bloody reference number. Not a person to be easily thwarted, Borg Sector G enquired about free wifi in the airport. There wasn’t any (?in this day and age?), so he had to go to the internet cafe and spend 6 more quid ($9) to log onto email and get said reference number, which he duly did, and then he went back to get the package for Oh Patient One. And then. . .

Fail #5. When Borg Sector G produced his reference number (to an entirely different airline representative) he was told that the package had been sent back to Romania. It hadn’t been reclaimed within 5 days of  being left behind, and company policy was to fly packages back to the origin country of the aircraft they’d been mislaid on. Sigh. The package was back in Romania. . .

Fail #6. Because of all this messing around Borg Sector G missed his coach by about 30 seconds. So he went back to the coach ticket office and asked if he could change his ticket for the next one in an hour’s time. He was told no, he could not, he would have to buy another ticket for the next coach. Another 13 quid ($20) flew out of his already diminished pockets. . .

Let’s just say that by the time he arrived home poor Borg Sector G was well pissed off. And, of course, his coach journey had involved another greedy-pig arm-rest-hog traveler with no respect for personal space. The Borg Mother Ship (i.e., me) upon arriving home from my day job immediately administered TLC.

But that is not the end of the story.

I kid you not, the following night an airline rep from London Luton airport called Oh Patient One to inquire when his packet was going to be collected, finally, from said airport, because Oh Patient One had said that his son was going to collect it on his way back from university and that hadn’t happened when Oh Patient One had said it was going to happen.

Can we say ‘sheer bloody incompetence’ people?

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

For my non-British readers, this is how this system works. Let’s take my electricity company. It can assess roughly how much energy I am going to use over the next year based on what I used last year, and can set a monthly amount for me to pay. It deducts this amount from my bank account each month and I don’t have to worry about paperwork or writing checks.  Over the course of the year the meter is read at three-month intervals, and if I have used a lot more power than expected then my monthly fee will be increased. If I have used less, it will be decreased. You get the picture.

Anyway, so there was one thing I hadn’t switched to this monthly scheme because it is a bill I only receive once a year, which makes it easy to forget about. It is the TV license fee. Everyone who watches TV in the UK has to have one of these by law.  It funds the BBC. It’s kind  of like a PBS but it is mandatory for everyone to pay for it. And I approve of this 100 per cent for many reasons.

We get such great TV shows courtesty of the beeb (as the BBC is fondly referred to).  Shows like Dr Who, or Torchwood, or Sherlock. We also get marvelous factual programmes like Sir David Attenborough’s Frozen Planet, and rock-star physicist Brian Cox’s Wonders of the Universe.

We get a whole host of other services, too.

But what I really love about the BBC is that the public owns it, therefore the BBC has to remain neutral when it comes to politics and reporting the news.  It is not allowed to twist the day’s events with a right-wing or left-wing agenda. This is the kind of news I like.

What it also means is that we have several great news and politcs shows like Newsnight or The Andrew Marr Show, where giants of journalist like Jeremy Paxman, Kirsty Wark and Andrew Marr get to play devil’s advocate and grill politicians of ALL stripes. And politicians of all stripes come on these shows regularly to get their grillings, up to and including our current prime minister.

Yes, Michelle, I hear you cry. But what on earth does this have to do with Red Tape?

Well. . . So I got a letter reminding me that my licence fee was due. I duly went online to the TV Licence website and I selected the option to pay for my license on a monthly basis. The annual fee is £145.50, which means that my monthly payments would be £12.12 or thereabouts, because £145.50 doesn’t divide into 12 neatly round payments.

And. . . success! That was it. No more annual fees for me, all my finances were sorted and I would know excactly where I was on a month-by-month basis. Or so I thought. . . And then I got my first bank statement after setting this up. £24 had been deducted by the TV licence people for the first month. I was confused, because that was roughly double the amount I was expecting. Surely this was a clerical error?

So I went online to the TV licence site and logged on and checked my personal account. There it was, in black and white. I would be paying £24 per month for the first six months, and then would switch to a payment of £12.12. But why? Why? Wouldn’t that mean I was paying a whole third more for the convenience of paying monthly?

By now I was feeling  more than a bit indignant. I would call those TV licence people and sort this out. Stoked by the rememberance of this experience with Dutch Tape Red, and this one with British Red Tape,  the more indignant I got. I found the appropriate telephone number, called it, and totally expected to get an automated voice system, because any time I need to do anything I always get an automated voice system and get left hanging on the phone for hours and hours and hours waiting to speak to an actual, you know, person. And then. . .

. . . After a few rings an actual person answered me. A very nice, friendly representative. And then I explained the situation to him–namely that I was paying too much money per month for my TV licence fee. This is what happened.

Nice Rep: “Madam, the reason we charge £24 per month for the first six months is because if you were to pay the full fee in one payment you would be paying that full fee at the beginning of the six months. So in effect you are paying for the whole year of your TV viewing in a six-month period. When that comes to an end, from then onwards you will pay £12.13 per month, which means that you will pay for six months of next year’s licence before it is due, then six months of licence after it is due. It’s to make the system fair for everyone.”

I could see the logic and fairness of that.

Me: “Thank you, that makes sense. But I certainly think you should make it clearer on your website so that people understand what’s going to happen.”

Nice Rep: “We certainly do state this on our website, Madam, but I will pass on your concerns and we’ll ensure that we make it more prominent. Thank you for your comments. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Me: “No, but thank you for your help.”

Meanwhile, Borg Sector R had listened in to this conversation and, being the curious Borg Sector R that she is, she loaded the TV licence website onto her laptop.

Borg Sector R: “Borg Mothership, I have something to show you,” she said, pointing at the screen with a wry grin on her face.

There, most prominently on the TV licence website, was a very clear explanation of how monthly payments would be calculated. Right next to the button to select the option for monthly payments.

Many thanks to the BBC for all your wonderful TV and radio shows. And especially for being nice to morons like me who fail spectacularly to read such clear, prominent information.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Michelle, with a resolution to be blogging regularly about red tape, Kitteh Princess Pippa, Trouble with Travel, and many more little quirks in life that thwart or delight . . .

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.