We live in a democratic system so of course there is inequality. Some folk are better off than others.
At the top you have the people who used to be called the Gentry, who are very rich, very mad or very both. They have had wealth for years, inheriting it, and hiding it offshore to avoid paying taxes.
Beneath them you have the working class, the people who do all the work and earn all the money fopr other people, and a little for themselves. And then you have the privildeged class, the people who don’t work but are supported by the others. These include the unemployable, the sick, lame, lazy, fat, any mentally defective folk who are clearly not Gentry, drug takers, alcoholics and those lacking social skills or morals.
The priveledged class get to live in houses rent free – the state pays for their rent, and provides block paved driveways for them to park their 4x4’s, boats and quad bikes on. They are paid a salary, called “Social Security” to stay at home, and many are given a free car every three years due to being fat, alcoholic or drug dependant. Walking is known to be an excellent treatment for obesity and to prevent diabetes, deseases many of these people claim to have, although some simply have “heavy bone syndrome.” We coul dsave a lot of money and get them fitter if we took away their free cars. They lead such hectic lives watching jeremy Kyle on the widescreen TV’s all day, smoking and drinking Carling Black Label and Stella Wifebeater that they have to go on expensive foreign holidays at the expense of the taxpayers. They are recognisable by their branded clothing, tattooes, vulgar languauge, CRO number and the number of their children which often exceeds their IQ. They drive 4x4’s because someone else pays for the diesel, usually the local haulier or bus depot where they syphon it from, and because they need a big vehicle, not only to transport their oversize family but because they themselves are oversized. Besides a 4x4 is useful for moving stolen items and making a getaway across the fields when the police arrive.
The working class, that’s me, and probably you, have what are called “jobs,” and some of them run “businesses” or in some cases are “self employed.” It doesn’t matter what they do exactly, but they do earn money, which the government then takes away from them to pay for the priviledged classes upkeep. Having earned money and paid tax on what they have earned, the working class then pay more tax on everything they buy in the form of VAT, unless they buy petrol or diesel, in which case they pay fuel taxes and then VAT on the fuel taxes. If they have any money left they are allowed to buy food, and if they still have money and save it in a bank, even though they have already paid tax when they earned it they then pay extra tax on any interest it earns. This is their fault for not spending it. Working Class people can be recognised in a crowd – their clothes are well worn with a secondhand appearance and do not have designer labels, unless GEORGE at ASDA is now a fashion label. They do not have a tan, fake or otherwise, having neither the money to go abroad or the time to waste sitting around in little booths reading magazines. Their cars are usually five or six years old or older, bought secondhand, and are sensible family models, not gas guzzling 4x4’s, as their hardworking bodies have remained supple enough to bend and stoop into a small space rather than having to climb into a big upright box. They are slim and tired looking from hard work, rather than thin and tired looking from drugs use, and not fat roly poly coach potatoes, because they can’t afford takeaways every night. If they have children at all they will have 2.4 of them, instead of a brood all aged exactly nine months apart by several different partners, possibly of different racial origins. They do not have this years mobile phone, and their TV probably requires a two man lift because it’s a CRT built in the ‘80s, the weight, rather than the size of a bus. Working class people do not smoke, even if they would like to, because smoking in the workplace is banned and because they can’t afford it. They also rarely drink because they have to be up for work next day. And because they can’t afford to. This is why they pay so much income tax – because they are not paying their fair share of tax on drink, cigarettes and expensive electrical items. Working class people can often be found on Sunday mornings desperately searching car boot sales for, for example, second hand prams being sold off by the priviledged class, who despite being heavily pregnant will be selling off last years pram in the safe and secure knowledge that “the social” will buy them another brand new one this year. The priviledged class are of course allowed to work as a Market Trader and have a succesful Ebay account without declaring any income or paying taxes, because they are “unemployed,” and a Saturday job doesn’t count.
Now the cynical amongst you may be thinking I’m having a go at the unemployed. Far from it. I have every sympathy for someone who has worked, paid taxes and then, through no fault of their own can’t find work again. My experience is they are few and far between. I remember I was unemplyed once. It was the longest weekend of my life, finishing on the Friday evening and starting again on Monday luchtime. But there are those, “the priviledged class” as I have tagged them, who see unemployment as a lifestyle choice, have never worked, have no wish to work and simply couldn’t fit a job into their life because they are so used to doing nothing of value all day.
I don’t have any answer to the problem, but here’s a novel suggestion. Tax unemployment.
But until they do, maybe if I can’t beat them I should join them? So in a few years time when I retire at 52, but can’t claim state pension until I’m 66 maybe I’ll become a “Job Seeker” eat myslef silly and develop obesity and diabetes, and get a bit of depression, because then I’ll be gauranteed a reasonable income, a free car and a holiday in the sun.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Big spender - I bought a bridge
The Government has announced £30Bn pounds spending to improve the road network and transport infrastructure. This sounds impressive in these austere times, so where is our cash strapped government getting this money from? Well it turns out they are only actually spending £5bn of their own money before 2013, with the promise of another £5bn after that. The rest will come from the private sector. So essential the Government has announced it is spending £5bn plus £20bn of someone else's money, with the promise that they might spend another £5bn if they really really have to.
A rather good analogy covers this. In any group of friends there is always the one who buys the first round in the pub, publicly, loudly and generously. He will always buy the first round because everyone remembers this, because they are still sober. Subsequent rounds, which will invariable include more expensive beer, shorts, crisps and nuts are paid for by everyone else. Ideally the group is just large enough so that everyone gets a round in and goes home before it comes back to the first round again, but if it does, watch our generous friend squirm and wriggle – by then some will have had enough and gone home, others will have just a half for the road and the rest will have moved on to another pub, so his promise to buy the round remains either that –“i’ll get the next one in” but that never materialises, or it’s a very cheap round anyway.
So our government is our cheap posturing friend, who will constantly remind us that he got the first round in, and spent £30bn on a night out.
But more astonishing is where this money will come from. We are already broke, the government is trimming benefits off our pensions, we will all have to work longer for less, and now it turns out that not even our reduced remaining pensions are safe. They are actually “investing” our pensions in this scheme. That is where the cash comes from. So my pension will be spent widening the M25 (again) but because the private sector is involved and will want something back having paid for the road to be widened in the first place I will also have to pay a toll to drive on it. Except I won’t because I won’t go there.
Nearer to home, of course, they are promising to halve the debt of the Humber Bridge, allowing tolls to be reduced to £1.50, a level last achieved in 1988. This is good, but then you find out that the remaining debt gets passed to the local authority. So let me see if I understand this. The Government owes itself money, writes of half the debt, then passes the reminder on to someone else. Now I know that either way the taxpayer foots the bill, but at least it was every tax payer before, no it’s just the taxpayers of Hull, Holderness, and Lincolnshire, which is a lot less. So my personal tax burden has just increased? Because if Hull own the debt, you can be damn sure they will raise taxes to pay for it, particularly as the deal pegs the bridge tolls for several years.
This does of course mean that I now own a larger part of the bridge. I hope it’s the toll booth.
A rather good analogy covers this. In any group of friends there is always the one who buys the first round in the pub, publicly, loudly and generously. He will always buy the first round because everyone remembers this, because they are still sober. Subsequent rounds, which will invariable include more expensive beer, shorts, crisps and nuts are paid for by everyone else. Ideally the group is just large enough so that everyone gets a round in and goes home before it comes back to the first round again, but if it does, watch our generous friend squirm and wriggle – by then some will have had enough and gone home, others will have just a half for the road and the rest will have moved on to another pub, so his promise to buy the round remains either that –“i’ll get the next one in” but that never materialises, or it’s a very cheap round anyway.
So our government is our cheap posturing friend, who will constantly remind us that he got the first round in, and spent £30bn on a night out.
But more astonishing is where this money will come from. We are already broke, the government is trimming benefits off our pensions, we will all have to work longer for less, and now it turns out that not even our reduced remaining pensions are safe. They are actually “investing” our pensions in this scheme. That is where the cash comes from. So my pension will be spent widening the M25 (again) but because the private sector is involved and will want something back having paid for the road to be widened in the first place I will also have to pay a toll to drive on it. Except I won’t because I won’t go there.
Nearer to home, of course, they are promising to halve the debt of the Humber Bridge, allowing tolls to be reduced to £1.50, a level last achieved in 1988. This is good, but then you find out that the remaining debt gets passed to the local authority. So let me see if I understand this. The Government owes itself money, writes of half the debt, then passes the reminder on to someone else. Now I know that either way the taxpayer foots the bill, but at least it was every tax payer before, no it’s just the taxpayers of Hull, Holderness, and Lincolnshire, which is a lot less. So my personal tax burden has just increased? Because if Hull own the debt, you can be damn sure they will raise taxes to pay for it, particularly as the deal pegs the bridge tolls for several years.
This does of course mean that I now own a larger part of the bridge. I hope it’s the toll booth.
Monday, 21 November 2011
DIY Shopping
DIY Shopping - that is shopping in a DIY store, not doing the shopping yourself, as oppose to online and getting someone else to do it for you. Lets be clear about this as if I'd gone down the online route todays encounter could never have happened and I'd have nothing to write about.
went DIY shopping today at a well known store which i will refer to as Q&B to avoid any unwarranted advertising. This is my preferred DIY store if I have to use one, as the prices are reasonable and everything is under one roof, except there aren't and it isn't, but that's the principle.
I needed sand and cement to mix up some concrete screed, and some paving blocks to finish off a small area I started last summer and never got round to completing.
Now it may seem daft to drive what is effectively a 22 mile round trip to get these things from Q&B but I had the trailer on, having done a run to the tip, which is halfway there anyway, and more importantly I had no cash, and whilst smaller retailers will take card payments some make a surcharge, and in these days of austerity I can't afford to throw brass about.
Ironically I live a stones throw (well perhaps three or four stones throws) away from a working gravel pit where sand can be purchased by weight in the trailer for about 1/2 the price Q&B charge, but it is a cash only operation, and I have no cash. I also live a matter of 2 or 3 miles from a Concrete casting company, who I'm sure would have sold me cement in a half tonne bag cheaper than Q&B, and just a mile or so further up the road is where they make blocks of all shapes and sizes. Allegedly, if you turn up before 9.30 or after say 4 pm when the boss isn't around you can buy "mishaped" rejects from the foreman for a consideration. I have seen the production process there, and the blocks that are produced are 100% out of the high tech moulds and production methods ensure there are never ever any rejects. So I reckon the foreman is earning himself a nice little drink, and good on him I say. In short, with a little time and thought and cash in my hand I could have undercut Q&B's prices and it wouldn't have taken that much longer. And I'd have been supporting smaller local businesses.
But, simply because I am cash starved Q&B it was. Now this superstore is, well, a superstore. I am not able to say how many double Decker buses, or football pitches it might be, these being the standard measure of all things large, but many would be my approximation. There is an entrance door, and an exit door. And then there is a door whcih used to be marked "Bulk Goods Entrance." This was towards one end of the building, where the really heavy stuff, and awkward unweildy lengths of timber and stuff are, so that you can park a van (or car and trailer) away from the elderly people buying energy saving potplants or whatever, and you don't have to push a fully laden trolley the full length of the store, avoiding footballers and reversing buses. It had it's own dedicated till, and a helpful member of staff woudl press the button and send the door shooting skywards as you left with your wares. This was a good idea.
The door is still there, but now has a small sign concealed behind a row of trolleys which says "Trade only" There are some other signs, saying open for traders etc, opening hours, special discounts and stuff like that, but to all intents I beleived it was still the same old bulk exit.
Arriving in the store with my hand pushed trolley I saw that sand (£1.44 a bag) was on offer cheper if you bought 10 or more. Fine I'll take ten then, at £10.70, whcih will save a few quid on the job. Still not as cheap as the quarry, but cheaper. Q&B don't say how much sand is in a bag. It is simply a large bag. Not exactly conducive to weight calculation for the job, but 10 would be ample I figured. They must be about 25 to 35 kg I reckon. So ten on the trolley, I've now got, lets say 300 KG on. Two bags of cement at £4.80 each add another 100 kg at least, and 26 blocks (34pence each) lets round it off to say 1/2 a ton now on the trolley.
Do I wish to push 1/2 a ton any further than necessary? On a trolley with wobbly wheels and a mind of it's own? I'd have destroyed half the store. So, I headed for the bulk exit.
At the till after a wait far longer than if I'd struggled on to the self service I eventually attracted the attention of a staff member. I will hesistatingly refer to her as she, although the gravely tone of her voive suggested she might have once been a man, and possibly will be again. She had a voice like a woman who chewed tobacco, possibly whilst still in the tin. It resonated so deep that humpback whales were diverting up the Humber. She demanded my trade card. I admitted I didn't have one. "This is for trade only" she barked. I politely enquired what difference did it make - if I didn't have a trade card then I gain no advantage other than being able to shortcut to where I had parked my car strategically near the door. Aha, she explains - the prices are different, because it's trade only. Now I may be Mr Thicky at times, but it strikes me that the prices are dictated by the bar codes, the scanner must read them and then the computer the till is linked to makes an adjustment and reduces the price. So simply override the computer so it doesn't bring up the trade price. She couldn;t do that. Okay, says I, Mr Reasonable, scan the goods, cancel the purchase print the receipt, I'll walk to the main tills and pay there then walk back and push the trolley out through the trade entrance. No apparently I can't even do that. Did I mention I am still recovering from recently badly bruised ribs? I was standing my ground here. It would have been easier to go and push my car and trailer to the other doors than to move this damn trolley.
Over the years, doing the job I do, I have had thousands or people say to me "I pay your wages!" Invaiably this is said by people on the dole, therefore not paying taxes, so it's blatantly untrue. But on this occasion I found the expression on the verge of forming itself on my lips. The woman thing was unmoveable, unhelpful and uncaring towards my partially temporal disabilty. I considered being a bit gay to see if that would sway her, but I doubt if even the full race card would have had any effect.
Fortunately a woman behind me in the lengthening queue came to my aid, and suggested that I might be a customer of hers and use her trade card. A common sense solution, particualry as I was now jammed in and couldn't reverse out without the whole queue dispersing and reforming again.
As she reluctantly served me, Mrs Jobsworth told me trade card were only for people registered as a business, tradesmen or people renovating a house, that sort of thing. I pointed out that I was renovating a house. It's the house I live in, called home, and given that it takes up more than 3/4 of my income and almost all my none working hobby time I'd say it was almost a business. The look she gave me had a similar effect to the Doctor approaching with a scalpel when I was vasectomised.
And the upshot of all this? Becasue I bought 10 bags pf sand I paid the same price as trade in any case, and saved a mere £2.30 on the remainder. Hardly worth arguing about, and I will remind you I wasn't trying to swing a discount, just the bloody door.
So, if by any chance Mrs Jobsworth of Q&B should read this, and she isn't too busy making her face up by sucking lemons, maybe it will put a smile on her face to know I'll be donating the cash saved to my favourite charity.
went DIY shopping today at a well known store which i will refer to as Q&B to avoid any unwarranted advertising. This is my preferred DIY store if I have to use one, as the prices are reasonable and everything is under one roof, except there aren't and it isn't, but that's the principle.
I needed sand and cement to mix up some concrete screed, and some paving blocks to finish off a small area I started last summer and never got round to completing.
Now it may seem daft to drive what is effectively a 22 mile round trip to get these things from Q&B but I had the trailer on, having done a run to the tip, which is halfway there anyway, and more importantly I had no cash, and whilst smaller retailers will take card payments some make a surcharge, and in these days of austerity I can't afford to throw brass about.
Ironically I live a stones throw (well perhaps three or four stones throws) away from a working gravel pit where sand can be purchased by weight in the trailer for about 1/2 the price Q&B charge, but it is a cash only operation, and I have no cash. I also live a matter of 2 or 3 miles from a Concrete casting company, who I'm sure would have sold me cement in a half tonne bag cheaper than Q&B, and just a mile or so further up the road is where they make blocks of all shapes and sizes. Allegedly, if you turn up before 9.30 or after say 4 pm when the boss isn't around you can buy "mishaped" rejects from the foreman for a consideration. I have seen the production process there, and the blocks that are produced are 100% out of the high tech moulds and production methods ensure there are never ever any rejects. So I reckon the foreman is earning himself a nice little drink, and good on him I say. In short, with a little time and thought and cash in my hand I could have undercut Q&B's prices and it wouldn't have taken that much longer. And I'd have been supporting smaller local businesses.
But, simply because I am cash starved Q&B it was. Now this superstore is, well, a superstore. I am not able to say how many double Decker buses, or football pitches it might be, these being the standard measure of all things large, but many would be my approximation. There is an entrance door, and an exit door. And then there is a door whcih used to be marked "Bulk Goods Entrance." This was towards one end of the building, where the really heavy stuff, and awkward unweildy lengths of timber and stuff are, so that you can park a van (or car and trailer) away from the elderly people buying energy saving potplants or whatever, and you don't have to push a fully laden trolley the full length of the store, avoiding footballers and reversing buses. It had it's own dedicated till, and a helpful member of staff woudl press the button and send the door shooting skywards as you left with your wares. This was a good idea.
The door is still there, but now has a small sign concealed behind a row of trolleys which says "Trade only" There are some other signs, saying open for traders etc, opening hours, special discounts and stuff like that, but to all intents I beleived it was still the same old bulk exit.
Arriving in the store with my hand pushed trolley I saw that sand (£1.44 a bag) was on offer cheper if you bought 10 or more. Fine I'll take ten then, at £10.70, whcih will save a few quid on the job. Still not as cheap as the quarry, but cheaper. Q&B don't say how much sand is in a bag. It is simply a large bag. Not exactly conducive to weight calculation for the job, but 10 would be ample I figured. They must be about 25 to 35 kg I reckon. So ten on the trolley, I've now got, lets say 300 KG on. Two bags of cement at £4.80 each add another 100 kg at least, and 26 blocks (34pence each) lets round it off to say 1/2 a ton now on the trolley.
Do I wish to push 1/2 a ton any further than necessary? On a trolley with wobbly wheels and a mind of it's own? I'd have destroyed half the store. So, I headed for the bulk exit.
At the till after a wait far longer than if I'd struggled on to the self service I eventually attracted the attention of a staff member. I will hesistatingly refer to her as she, although the gravely tone of her voive suggested she might have once been a man, and possibly will be again. She had a voice like a woman who chewed tobacco, possibly whilst still in the tin. It resonated so deep that humpback whales were diverting up the Humber. She demanded my trade card. I admitted I didn't have one. "This is for trade only" she barked. I politely enquired what difference did it make - if I didn't have a trade card then I gain no advantage other than being able to shortcut to where I had parked my car strategically near the door. Aha, she explains - the prices are different, because it's trade only. Now I may be Mr Thicky at times, but it strikes me that the prices are dictated by the bar codes, the scanner must read them and then the computer the till is linked to makes an adjustment and reduces the price. So simply override the computer so it doesn't bring up the trade price. She couldn;t do that. Okay, says I, Mr Reasonable, scan the goods, cancel the purchase print the receipt, I'll walk to the main tills and pay there then walk back and push the trolley out through the trade entrance. No apparently I can't even do that. Did I mention I am still recovering from recently badly bruised ribs? I was standing my ground here. It would have been easier to go and push my car and trailer to the other doors than to move this damn trolley.
Over the years, doing the job I do, I have had thousands or people say to me "I pay your wages!" Invaiably this is said by people on the dole, therefore not paying taxes, so it's blatantly untrue. But on this occasion I found the expression on the verge of forming itself on my lips. The woman thing was unmoveable, unhelpful and uncaring towards my partially temporal disabilty. I considered being a bit gay to see if that would sway her, but I doubt if even the full race card would have had any effect.
Fortunately a woman behind me in the lengthening queue came to my aid, and suggested that I might be a customer of hers and use her trade card. A common sense solution, particualry as I was now jammed in and couldn't reverse out without the whole queue dispersing and reforming again.
As she reluctantly served me, Mrs Jobsworth told me trade card were only for people registered as a business, tradesmen or people renovating a house, that sort of thing. I pointed out that I was renovating a house. It's the house I live in, called home, and given that it takes up more than 3/4 of my income and almost all my none working hobby time I'd say it was almost a business. The look she gave me had a similar effect to the Doctor approaching with a scalpel when I was vasectomised.
And the upshot of all this? Becasue I bought 10 bags pf sand I paid the same price as trade in any case, and saved a mere £2.30 on the remainder. Hardly worth arguing about, and I will remind you I wasn't trying to swing a discount, just the bloody door.
So, if by any chance Mrs Jobsworth of Q&B should read this, and she isn't too busy making her face up by sucking lemons, maybe it will put a smile on her face to know I'll be donating the cash saved to my favourite charity.
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Lack of progress delays trains.
There has been much controversy in the media recently about scrap metal and cable thefts, arising from the increasing costs of various metals. Locally this caused problems for the railway, which couldn't run trains because the electric cables had been cut and stolen.
At first this confused me, and I thought it must be another typical railway excuse - we can't run the trains as we've no electricity - but of course the trains run on diesel, although the drivers run on tea, which can be made from water heated from electricity or gas, or at a pinch, diesel.
But it was obviously signal cabling that had been stolen. Repairs would take hours as engineers struggled to replace the cable. And they have to use Health & Safety, which means it takes about 20 men with cranes, testing equipment, scaffolding etc etc instead of two men with a flat bed transit doing it in fifteen minutes, like when the travellers borrow the cable.
But hold on, lets think this through. Why replace the cable only to risk it being stolen again? If you must replace it use fibre optic, which, so far as I can work out, is worthless second hand. But why replace it at all? Why are we using a system developed by Victorians with big cast iron levers to operate flashing lights, bells and whistles, and men waving flags, when we have digital technology at our disposal? Move with the times fellas. Put a tracker on each engine, with a transponder that tells a central computer how many carriages it has and exactly where it is, use wifi to control signals and barriers, and have digitally encrypted radios so that staff can talk to each other to tell each other about the latest crashes and faults. Not that you would need any staff, as the trains could then drive themselves.
At first this confused me, and I thought it must be another typical railway excuse - we can't run the trains as we've no electricity - but of course the trains run on diesel, although the drivers run on tea, which can be made from water heated from electricity or gas, or at a pinch, diesel.
But it was obviously signal cabling that had been stolen. Repairs would take hours as engineers struggled to replace the cable. And they have to use Health & Safety, which means it takes about 20 men with cranes, testing equipment, scaffolding etc etc instead of two men with a flat bed transit doing it in fifteen minutes, like when the travellers borrow the cable.
But hold on, lets think this through. Why replace the cable only to risk it being stolen again? If you must replace it use fibre optic, which, so far as I can work out, is worthless second hand. But why replace it at all? Why are we using a system developed by Victorians with big cast iron levers to operate flashing lights, bells and whistles, and men waving flags, when we have digital technology at our disposal? Move with the times fellas. Put a tracker on each engine, with a transponder that tells a central computer how many carriages it has and exactly where it is, use wifi to control signals and barriers, and have digitally encrypted radios so that staff can talk to each other to tell each other about the latest crashes and faults. Not that you would need any staff, as the trains could then drive themselves.
Friday, 11 November 2011
We will remember them.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
In remembrance of all those who gave their lives in conflicts around the world. We salute you.
With respect to those who served and lived to tell the tale. We salute you.
To those serving in conflicts even today. We salute you.
To our brave men and women who keep us safe from the threats of terrorism, persecution and unrest. We salute you.
Remember them today especially, but every day, be thankful.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
In remembrance of all those who gave their lives in conflicts around the world. We salute you.
With respect to those who served and lived to tell the tale. We salute you.
To those serving in conflicts even today. We salute you.
To our brave men and women who keep us safe from the threats of terrorism, persecution and unrest. We salute you.
Remember them today especially, but every day, be thankful.
Solar Power
Of course whilst I had my ladder and window cleaning stuff out it was time for my annual solar panel maintenance too. A wipe over with a moist cloth. Done.
My little solar panel sits on the roof of my office, facing roughly west, where it has provided most of my office lighting needs for the last three or four years. Even at 3pm on the overcast dull November afternoon we suffered yesterday it was happily pushing out 9 Volts into my battery bank. However, the extension roof has a more southerly aspect, sort of South South West or something so I took the time to rearrange the panel onto that roof and rerun the wires. At 3.30 pm with the sun beginning to go down the panel was putting out 10.5 volts in it's new position. I look forward to even more free electric, and the possibility of running my Internet router for free from this supply.
Apologies to my regular reader who will have been expecting some sort of amusing anecdote here. This entry is purely factual and informative, but normal service will resume as soon as possible.
My little solar panel sits on the roof of my office, facing roughly west, where it has provided most of my office lighting needs for the last three or four years. Even at 3pm on the overcast dull November afternoon we suffered yesterday it was happily pushing out 9 Volts into my battery bank. However, the extension roof has a more southerly aspect, sort of South South West or something so I took the time to rearrange the panel onto that roof and rerun the wires. At 3.30 pm with the sun beginning to go down the panel was putting out 10.5 volts in it's new position. I look forward to even more free electric, and the possibility of running my Internet router for free from this supply.
Apologies to my regular reader who will have been expecting some sort of amusing anecdote here. This entry is purely factual and informative, but normal service will resume as soon as possible.
When I'm cleaning windows .....
George Formby has a lot to answer for. Why do the British have this obsession with cleaning windows?
Okay, when I was growing up on a council estate in a "north eastern coastal town" almost every house on the estate had a coal fire, with chimneys belching smoke and little bits of smut all day and all of the night. This resulted in washing getting dirty on the line, lungs filling up with grit and dirty windows. I love a roaring coal fire myself and I sincerely believe we should have stuck with it. Nobody seemed to suffer from Asthma in those good old days. And economically we would be better off too, because instead of paying arabs for oil we could still be digging up the coal that Britain is built on. Despite popular belief the mines are far from spent we are literally sitting on a coal mine. Bizarrely it is currently cheaper to buy in foreign coal for our limited modern usage than to dig it up ourselves. As ever I digress.
The absence of smutty bits on the windows means that barring the odd nose print from nosey neighbours and the occasional splat of pigeon poop there is no good reason to wash our windows as regularly as we do. It seems to be a bit of snobbish one upmanship in most cases, with neighbours paying a man once a week to wash their windows for them for no readily apparent benefit. The prime purpose of the windows in my house is to let light in, with a secondary benefit being that I can see who is coming towards my house so I can decide whether to hide behind the sofa or not. Were it not for the former requirement a CCTV camera would suffice. I accept that some folks get a third benefit, that of a stunning view, or at least a view of some sort, but all I really get is a view of my garden, and that of my neighbour, which serves only to remind me that his garden always looks better than mine except when it snows, which is a great leveller, or when it's very dark, although by then I have usually drawn the curtains. In effect, clean windows only serve to remind me it's time to mow the lawn.
But those who have their windows cleaned weekly, or monthly - what benefit do they derive from this? Surely the increased light transmission acquired from the removal of a microscopic amount of perceived dirt thus removed is immeasurable? If a pigeon plops on the glass it is unsightly and I will aim to wash it off quickly, say three or four days after the event, but that doesn't mean I get the ladders and bucket out and spend half a day scraping, washing and polishing. A simply wipe of the afflicted area is all that is required. I do the full bucket wash and ladder thing maybe twice a year, and that is more than enough. It's not easy balancing up there with a shammy, squeegee and a banjo.
Okay, when I was growing up on a council estate in a "north eastern coastal town" almost every house on the estate had a coal fire, with chimneys belching smoke and little bits of smut all day and all of the night. This resulted in washing getting dirty on the line, lungs filling up with grit and dirty windows. I love a roaring coal fire myself and I sincerely believe we should have stuck with it. Nobody seemed to suffer from Asthma in those good old days. And economically we would be better off too, because instead of paying arabs for oil we could still be digging up the coal that Britain is built on. Despite popular belief the mines are far from spent we are literally sitting on a coal mine. Bizarrely it is currently cheaper to buy in foreign coal for our limited modern usage than to dig it up ourselves. As ever I digress.
The absence of smutty bits on the windows means that barring the odd nose print from nosey neighbours and the occasional splat of pigeon poop there is no good reason to wash our windows as regularly as we do. It seems to be a bit of snobbish one upmanship in most cases, with neighbours paying a man once a week to wash their windows for them for no readily apparent benefit. The prime purpose of the windows in my house is to let light in, with a secondary benefit being that I can see who is coming towards my house so I can decide whether to hide behind the sofa or not. Were it not for the former requirement a CCTV camera would suffice. I accept that some folks get a third benefit, that of a stunning view, or at least a view of some sort, but all I really get is a view of my garden, and that of my neighbour, which serves only to remind me that his garden always looks better than mine except when it snows, which is a great leveller, or when it's very dark, although by then I have usually drawn the curtains. In effect, clean windows only serve to remind me it's time to mow the lawn.
But those who have their windows cleaned weekly, or monthly - what benefit do they derive from this? Surely the increased light transmission acquired from the removal of a microscopic amount of perceived dirt thus removed is immeasurable? If a pigeon plops on the glass it is unsightly and I will aim to wash it off quickly, say three or four days after the event, but that doesn't mean I get the ladders and bucket out and spend half a day scraping, washing and polishing. A simply wipe of the afflicted area is all that is required. I do the full bucket wash and ladder thing maybe twice a year, and that is more than enough. It's not easy balancing up there with a shammy, squeegee and a banjo.