Maintenance

Sorry, I am going to sound like a spoilt princess.  I know it is difficult, if not impossible to entice tradesfolk to your abodes.  I know in the real world, you pay oodles for a job, wait for the expert to arrive, call again when he (usually he?) doesn't show.  Take another day off work waiting.  Mop the floor because the tap still leaks, or whatever.  Dear Reader, I sympathise. 

I loathe having tradespeople in my house.  We live in a managed compound where all the maintenance is laid on - rubbish bags in the bins replaced daily, light bulbs installed free of charge, grass mown, air conditioning serviced etc.  A householder's paradise eh?

I loathe having tradespeople in my house.  Did I say that already?  These gentlemen are very polite, obsequious even.  Terrified of the management.  Paid poorly by our standards but fabulously by theirs.  They  are far from home, living in barracks, discriminated against by shopkeepers and the authorities.  They usually get one vacation every two years.  They send all their salary home to support family and village.  I respect them and empathise with them, and I always try to be fair and kind.  (My son says my blog is shockingly racist but I don't mean to be.)

I loathe having tradespeople in the house.  I ignore problems for as long as I can stand it.  Then I give in.  Today is the day.

I have two gentlemen in my bedroom repairing the curtains - the rod is falling off the wall and the pull cord is broken.  They are  also fixing the sliding doors on my cupboard.  They were so stiff and unmanageable, eventually Marius took them off for me.  Well, no, they had half fallen out of their tracks and Marius rescued me, on two separate occasions when they tipped onto me.

I had the electrician in to replace light bulbs.  We have a window-less room upstairs with an overhead lamp carrying five bulbs.  Four of them had blown (see, it really was time to get the maintenance in).  The electrician also looked at the light in the stairwell, shook his head and said it will need scaffolding.

Because I keep the garden door closed to keep Macc and Ming in the garden (not Ratty and Wolfe) the gardeners don't usually come in.  I had to have the door open for the a/c men to get to the roof, so also arranged to have the grass cut.  The gardener swept the patio, tidied the garden, mowed and trimmed the edges.  He is very young and I suspect that he is homesick, poor chap.  And the pride of his family, no doubt.

I had three gentlemen servicing the airconditioning. Two are currently on the roof cleaning filters.  This has to be done every six weeks or so because of the dust.  Previously the three of them were in the kitchen, servicing the separate kitchen unit.  They had to take the grill, filter and hoses outside to clean.

I am sorry, this is where my complaint comes in.  The management says water is enough to clean the kitchen units, but because of cooking, they get grease as well as dust clogging up the works.  The repairman always asks for detergent to help clean.  Fair enough, I can supply a little detergent.  When he came back in with the gleaming unit I noticed something else - he was brandishing my dish brush!

Now it occurs to me I should have given it to him, to keep with his tools.  I am not likely to use it to clean dishes with, am I?


It feels like a seige, albeit self-imposed.  The four cats are locked up inside with me, each seeking hiding places from the scary men.   They are scary in their uniforms and big boots with tools and ladders and noisy drills.  Communication is difficult as few speak more than a word or two of English and I have failed to learn Tamil, Malayalam, Hindu or Nepalese.  But they are all gentlemen, polite, shy and trying to please.

No.  I withdraw my complaint and apologise for acting like a spoilt princess.  My only excuse is that I am shy.

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Sun in November

It is a beautiful morning in London, Remembrance Sunday.  HM the Queen will be laying the first wreath at the Cenotaph in Whitehall in a few minutes.  Somehow, it seems almost irreverent for the sun to be shining; no doubt the dignitaries must be grateful that there is no howling wind, no frost and no battling umbrellas.

On Friday morning we stood in Trafalgar Square with hundreds of others as the silence descended at 11 am.  It was eerie and beautiful:  nobody moving, no traffic, no chatter.  Only the notes of the faultless trumpet drifting.  Even the pigeons were stilled. 

Yesterday we walked down to the Thames and watched the river of history surge by.  The tide was very low when we reached the Embankment and began to race in almost as we arrived.  We always try to get to the Thames when we are here.

And this poor chap was fighting the tide:

and making good progress - I suppose the current is not so strong close to the bank in a straight reach of river.

I can hear  church bells calling across the roof tops in the clear air.




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It is raining in Dust-land

We are having our first rain since ?April, ?May ...  not only rain, but thunder too.  Naturally, I didn't cover the cushions last night or bring any in, so they are soggy and coated with the cement-like muck that results from months of dust and no rain.

It is nearly 8 o'clock and I have the light on (we are not far north, so this is unheard of).  It is coolish - about 23 - and my hair has curled up like a brillo pad.

It is Eid al Adha - a blessed time of Haj, prayer, charity, thanksgiving and feasting for our Muslim brothers.  All the shops are closed for the holiday and we have no milk.  No milk: no tea: on a morning that calls for cosiness.

The cats are disgusted and lurking inside, staring balefully, as only cats can, at the wet.

Marius went off to work this morning - he will pick up the days next week - and we managed our walk to the bus between showers. The compound is deserted. 

The rain means the roads will flood as there is no proper drainage and there will be more car crashes due to a combination of inexperience driving in wet conditions, fatal speed and the lubricating effect of dust and rain on greasy pavement.

 Tomorrow we are off to London to visit my Professor (the reason) and to have a break in civilisation (the real reason).

My shopping list consists of the usual suspects:  b*con, s*us*ges, PG Tips, Hovis Biscuits, cat litter tray liners, and a few surprises, including a super 'Animal' vacuum cleaner and a wheel for a suitcase.  Oh, and a haircut - I will cease looking like a poodle in need of grooming and regain my human form.

I am looking forward to exchanging the grey soggy skies of Exile with those of London.

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This morning on the way to the pool ...

Shadows and the familiar ...

That is 'Black Tom' who is LG's boyfriend.  A fine and muscular chap, surprisingly friendly ...  no no NO!


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The Cats at Number 4

Life has got complicated since we returned to Exile in mid-September.  As you may recall, our long term resident cats, Macc and Ming were disturbed in their naps by the change in circumstances of Miss Beowulf, who moved from months of doorstep sitting to 'resident' status.

Ming has always been a shy retiring sort of Princess, but latterly she has taken to lurking upstairs in cupboards:

and under beds.  Mr Macc is also displeased with the new arrangements:

The pair of them have ruled the upstairs is out of bounds to interloper-cats and Macc defends his new border fiercely.  They slink downstairs for meals and then retreat.  At night they are cuddlesome - Ming always ends up under the blankets in my armpit and Macc in the crook of my knees on top of the blanket.   I feel guilty that this is the main bonding time we have together.  I miss their company too.

I was hoping to report that peace has returned to the household, sadly I cannot.  Even this morning there was another fur-pulling encounter that ended with the watering can being tipped on the antagonists.  The fight - for that is what it was - was instigated by Wolfe, who snuck up on Macc as he was going out into the garden.  There was a great tumble of fur and growls and screams inside, and when I opened the door further they tumbled outside to continue.  I kept pushing the 'nulla-nulla' (Aboriginal hunting stick) between them to no avail.  That was when the watering can came into play.  It is very tiresome this constant quarrelling.

And it is usually Miss Wolfe who starts it.  She is a delightful cat, loving, friendly, clever, and a domineering bossy-boots.  She seems to have a plan to eradicate the former owners of the humans.  I think she tries to eat all the food, all the time, in the hopes they will starve and leave ...  it is not working.   She loves playing, pats, being brushed, and sitting on my lap.  She doesn't believe in sharing. 

Ratty is tolerated, mostly because he ignores her and keeps out of her way, while Ming and Macc are threatened on sight. 

Apart from my lap, Wolfe rather likes the wooden fruit bowl:

Of course the week after Wolfe changed status from visiting permit to resident permit, we brought Ratty home for intensive care.  He is now nearly himself again.  He has been neutered and is recovering from that assault, and is allowed, nay, encouraged to visit the great outdoors beyond the safety of the garden.  He comes with us on our evening walk and then slopes off.  We always find him in the garden in the morning and at the breakfast bowls.  He is becoming less clingy and dependent.  For a previously never-domesticated cat, he has taken to residential life in the manner born.  He is actually much less trouble than the grand Wolfe, and although he has raised a snarl from Macc, there have been no physical encounters.

Just one happy cat.

If Wolfe would settle down and stop trying to tyrannise the household, all would be well.


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