The cat's just been to the vet. It's time I went on a diet.
OK, if you can't immediately link the above two statements (and if you can you're psychic), it goes like this.
I took the cat to the vet last Wednesday. She's getting old and I thought she could do with a check up. Besides which, the expression 'long in the tooth' applies to this cat - she's got an incisor that would any sabre tooth tiger proud.
So, it's ear defenders on, put Amber in the cat box and put her in the car. Glass windows break in a 100 yard radius (if you've ever heard a Siamese in full offense mode then you'll know what I mean). Travel to vet with siren (A.K.A Amber) going.
If you've got the impression that she doesn't like cars you'd be right - we took both cats up to see Mum once. The Persian went in the cat box, Amber on warren's lap. Interesting journey, possibly to feature at some future point on a TV program entitled 'Stupid Things Drivers Do'. At one point Warren let Amber explore the car. She found the spot between the brake pedal and the floor particularly interesting.
Anyway, we get to the vet. Amber shuts up. Brief wait, then in to see the vet. First thing the vet says is 'She's a bit overweight, but you knew that'. Never let it be said that you get more stupid as you get older. I suprised myself by keeping my mouth shut. I had thought she was just about right - couldn't see her ribs, still had a bit of a waist. Oh well. The vet weighed her - 5.5 kg. 'She should be 4kg', she said. A few further checks - cat's teeth need a bit of work. 'Put her on a diet, then come back and see me in a month's time', the vet said. 'You know how to weigh her, don't you?'. 'Put her on the scales?' I said. 'Nope, doesn't work', was the answer. 'You have to weigh yourself, then pick the cat up and weigh both of you.'
Having been in denial for the past 6 months I'm now going to get up in the morning, stand on the scales and go 'HOW MUCH?!!!!'
Of course I could just weigh both myself and the cat and put any excess weight down to the cat. 'OK, Amber - you're going to have to lose 2 stone'. World's first anorexic cat.
I'm starving.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
God hates classical music
Yes, I know it's hard, but I have proof.
The occasion was the Birmingham Arts Festival, held a few weekends back. On the saturday there was an open air concert in Centenery Square, with a varied program of rock, jazz, folk, ballet and orchestral music, culiminating in a live video hook-up to the Last Night of the Proms in London.
I thought I'd go - a bit of a spur of the moment thing, but it was a lovely day, the evening promised to be warm and balmy and I thought that it would be a pleasant event.
And it was free.
Now, I'm not being racist here (well, OK, I am) but do we have Scots blood in us? (I know some of us have Scotch blood, but I'm not keen on that sort of tipple). I HATE having to pay for things. It possibly comes of having an expensive boyfriend, but the idea of shelling out money to listen to music comes hard to me.
But this time it was free.
An entire evening - from 7:30 through to 11:00 - free, gratis, costs nowt.
Of course I went.
I missed the rock bit. I'd passed through Centenery square earlier that afternoon, which is why I decided to turn up later. I arrived just as the ballet started. Mixed - ranged from athletic to classical. Then we moved on to folk. Guitars - quite fun, very accomplished.
Then Jazz. The trumpeteer was good and saxaphone was heavenly.
Then the Birmingham City Orchestra came on stage. They teamed up with the Jazz players and had a bit of a jam session.
It started to drizzle. Only slightly, and stopped whenever the sax started up. No problem there then.
The jazz team left the stage. Still in non classical mode, the BCO played another piece.
It drizzled - a bit more consistently.
BCO moved into classical mode - Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Elgar.
The heavens moved into drip mode - drizzle, squalls, showers
The orchestra finished. The link up with the last night of the Proms commenced; riproaring stuff, the usual programme of Sea Shantys, Rule Brittania, Land of Hope etc (as an aside, there was one suicidal American waving the Stars and Stripes in Rule Brittania, confirming my belief that the tourists we get over here leave their brain cells behind).
The heavens opened. OK, it may have been in disgust at the guy with the Stars and Stripes, but as we moved further into the Proms, it rained harder
and harder
and harder.
The crowd in Centenary Square wilted, until at last only a few 30 die hards remained, gamely hanging on for the finale.
Then there came a break in the performance (I think the conductor gives a speech at this point, just before the final rendition of Jerusalem).
The rain stopped. Well, come on, there couldn't be much left in the sky - most of it was in my shoes.
The Arts Fest organisers, those nice dry people on the stage, decided to call it a day (still trying to work out why - we couldn't have got any wetter). They brought the Birmingham Poet Laureate on to read a rendition of her latest work, which she did, in a voice as flat as a pancake (why is it that people think that if they put on an artistic voice they can call it poetry).
We dripped, realised we had stuck it out for nothing, and went home.
The clouds cleared, the stars came out, and from the heavens I heard a giggle.
OK, I made the last bit up, but that's what it felt like.
So, there you are. My latest theological insight. I could form a church based on that. It wouldn't be any less stupid than some of the cults we get around here.
Kabballah, anyone?
The occasion was the Birmingham Arts Festival, held a few weekends back. On the saturday there was an open air concert in Centenery Square, with a varied program of rock, jazz, folk, ballet and orchestral music, culiminating in a live video hook-up to the Last Night of the Proms in London.
I thought I'd go - a bit of a spur of the moment thing, but it was a lovely day, the evening promised to be warm and balmy and I thought that it would be a pleasant event.
And it was free.
Now, I'm not being racist here (well, OK, I am) but do we have Scots blood in us? (I know some of us have Scotch blood, but I'm not keen on that sort of tipple). I HATE having to pay for things. It possibly comes of having an expensive boyfriend, but the idea of shelling out money to listen to music comes hard to me.
But this time it was free.
An entire evening - from 7:30 through to 11:00 - free, gratis, costs nowt.
Of course I went.
I missed the rock bit. I'd passed through Centenery square earlier that afternoon, which is why I decided to turn up later. I arrived just as the ballet started. Mixed - ranged from athletic to classical. Then we moved on to folk. Guitars - quite fun, very accomplished.
Then Jazz. The trumpeteer was good and saxaphone was heavenly.
Then the Birmingham City Orchestra came on stage. They teamed up with the Jazz players and had a bit of a jam session.
It started to drizzle. Only slightly, and stopped whenever the sax started up. No problem there then.
The jazz team left the stage. Still in non classical mode, the BCO played another piece.
It drizzled - a bit more consistently.
BCO moved into classical mode - Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Elgar.
The heavens moved into drip mode - drizzle, squalls, showers
The orchestra finished. The link up with the last night of the Proms commenced; riproaring stuff, the usual programme of Sea Shantys, Rule Brittania, Land of Hope etc (as an aside, there was one suicidal American waving the Stars and Stripes in Rule Brittania, confirming my belief that the tourists we get over here leave their brain cells behind).
The heavens opened. OK, it may have been in disgust at the guy with the Stars and Stripes, but as we moved further into the Proms, it rained harder
and harder
and harder.
The crowd in Centenary Square wilted, until at last only a few 30 die hards remained, gamely hanging on for the finale.
Then there came a break in the performance (I think the conductor gives a speech at this point, just before the final rendition of Jerusalem).
The rain stopped. Well, come on, there couldn't be much left in the sky - most of it was in my shoes.
The Arts Fest organisers, those nice dry people on the stage, decided to call it a day (still trying to work out why - we couldn't have got any wetter). They brought the Birmingham Poet Laureate on to read a rendition of her latest work, which she did, in a voice as flat as a pancake (why is it that people think that if they put on an artistic voice they can call it poetry).
We dripped, realised we had stuck it out for nothing, and went home.
The clouds cleared, the stars came out, and from the heavens I heard a giggle.
OK, I made the last bit up, but that's what it felt like.
So, there you are. My latest theological insight. I could form a church based on that. It wouldn't be any less stupid than some of the cults we get around here.
Kabballah, anyone?
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Sardine Express
It's been a long time since I've had a gripe, so below is a letter recently sent to Virgin Trains
Dear Sir/Madam
I was unfortunate to be on the 15:03 train from Birmingham to Oxenholme on Friday 25th June.
This is likely to be a long letter, so I’d advise you to go and make yourself a cup of tea, take your shoes off and put your feet up. If you haven’t washed your feet in the last month then you can ignore the last two suggestions.
You may want to read this in installments, otherwise there’s a lot of ground to cover
Installment one – Dude, where’s my coach?
The train from Birmingham to Oxenholme was crowded. I’m not talking about ‘Oh, we’ve got a few more people than we expected’. I’m talking about human sardine time. I’m talking about a packing density that would make any decent compressed matter black hole proud. If we’d had any more people on the train then we’d have gone critical and there would be a nice radioactive hole in the middle of the Midlands countryside, and where would your West Coast Upgrade be then?
The overcrowding was puzzling.
Consider; We’re talking about a Friday. In summer. On a main holiday route. The exams have just (or nearly) finished. Establishing that a few extra coaches would be required would be, I would have thought, a reasonably easy process. I would make a bet that Virgin has the booking system connected up to a computer so they know precisely how many people would be travelling at any one time. My bets are on a sadistic computer program where the algorithm is
Number of coaches = (number people)/(number of people per coach) - (random number between 1 and 5)
I was lucky enough to be overcrowded next to the café, so although the overall business was poor (getting to the place would have been the equivalent of a horizontal climb up Everest) the girl did some business off me. It was actually quite entertaining watching people negotiate bodies and luggage (see installment 3) to get to the toilet (there are some things that have to be done, no matter what the cost). Perhaps if Virgin is to continue using their existing coach computer program they might invest in some ‘in seat’ facilities?
I normally have a sleep on this journey (I do travel Brum to Lakes quite often), but until Virgin installs some kind of ceiling harness or hammock system it looks like I’m going to forgo that pleasure. I’m minded of the old ad ‘Let The Train Take The Strain’. I assume that the only way to achieve this is to suspend myself from the ceiling
Installment two – pick a coach – any coach
You will, of course, be asking ‘Why didn’t the stupid ****** book a seat?’. Well, I did. I booked 2 weeks in advance (with difficulty, I might add – the two week advance tickets were released exactly 14 days before I wanted to travel – someone has a sense of humour). The condition of booking in advance is that you take the train specified and no other. And you get a seat allocated. Oh boy – joy and delight, a guaranteed seat.
Umm
The train arrives in Birminham. It’s one of your nice new trains (not the newest one, which I think is the Pendolino – it was a Voyager – which to me means that it can travel at Warp 9.9 but enough of that). These nice new trains have electronic displays on the door with the destination of the train and the coach number.
Or not
It did indicate where it was going (which was useful). But it didn’t say what number the coaches were (OK, if you’re going to be pedantic, which letter). Now I have to rather shamefacedly admit that I’m not a trainspotter. I have no idea whether you start with ‘A’ at the front or the rear or whether you number the coaches using the same program that allocates stock (‘take a letter, any letter’). And even if I did it was only when the train had stopped and I could get to the nearest door that I discovered that there wasn’t a coach number, and by then it was too late to start counting coaches.
So there I was, clutching a ticket that promised me coach D, seat 18A, and I had to find out where that seat was. I actually managed to get on the correct coach (wrong end though) along with the rest of the sardines. The impossibility of getting me and my rucksack to the seat was very apparent (see installment one). So, I just put myself down where I was. I was subsequently assured that there wasn’t any indication on your fancy new displays as to who had what seat, so establishing the ownership of my seat would have involved a certain amount of discussion.
As an aside, I did eventually fight my way through to my seat later on in the journey (perhaps you could put bars in the roof so we could swing along above people’s heads) and decided that the person in my seat was older than I was and would be better off there.
Installment three – handbags in the overhead storage, anything else on your knees
The designer of this train clearly had the philosophy ‘less is more’. Less seats, less luggage space, less storage. One of the most entertaining aspects is watching people trying to get an average sized bag (the sort that contains a pair of pants and a toothbrush for the weekend) into the overhead storage. Not a hope. The ceiling has a nice artistic curve that ensures that you can basically store your toothbrush and nothing else.
Now, I have to once again point out the bleeding obvious. Virgin provides a long distance service. It’s not one of these piddling little commuter companies, travelling all stations between Upper and Lower Sidewallop. The company does some nice beefy distances. It carries people going on holiday to the coast. Or in this case to the Lake District and Scotland.
It will come as no surprise to the reader of this letter (but will be a complete shock to the planners of the trains) but these travellers have luggage (and not just a toothbrush). They’ve possibly packed enough for at least a weekend. These bits of luggage will not fit in the overhead lockers. Not even the weekend bags. Each person in the coach has at least one such piece of luggage. There are about 56 seats in the coach (I’m sure you’ll correct me). There was enough floor based luggage space for (I reckon) 4 good sized bags per luggage bay and there were three luggage bays in the coach.
It is left as an exercise for the student to work out how much luggage can go in the luggage spaces, but just in case you use the same program that’s used to calculate coach numbers, let me assure you that it’s a lot less.
The surplus luggage goes wherever it can (knees, corridor, table, door). And just in case you’ve forgotten, there were a lot more than 56 people in the coach, and each sardine had luggage.
Now you can see why I advocate ceiling swing bars
In fairness, the Pendolino does have decent overhead lockers, so maybe someone in Virgin got a sledgehammer out and hit the Alstom designer over the head until he or she stopped thinking artistic curves and started thinking luggage volume.
Installment four – ‘This is Malcolm, your friendly train manager’
This installment is not a gripe. It is to award a medal to the most cheerful train manager I’ve ever heard. Malcolm could bring a ray of light to a conference of trainspotters (I’ve nothing against trainspotters but they don’t strike me as the happiest people in the world). Malcolm would cheerfully announce when the train was going to arrive at the next station. He’d cheerfully tell you the route. He’d cheerfully hope that a packed train of sardines ‘had had a pleasant and comfortable journey’
He’s either a comedian or suicidal.
Summary
OK, management summary in bullet points and big letters, so when your manager asks what complaints you’ve had you can tell him/her/it
Dear Sir/Madam
I was unfortunate to be on the 15:03 train from Birmingham to Oxenholme on Friday 25th June.
This is likely to be a long letter, so I’d advise you to go and make yourself a cup of tea, take your shoes off and put your feet up. If you haven’t washed your feet in the last month then you can ignore the last two suggestions.
You may want to read this in installments, otherwise there’s a lot of ground to cover
Installment one – Dude, where’s my coach?
The train from Birmingham to Oxenholme was crowded. I’m not talking about ‘Oh, we’ve got a few more people than we expected’. I’m talking about human sardine time. I’m talking about a packing density that would make any decent compressed matter black hole proud. If we’d had any more people on the train then we’d have gone critical and there would be a nice radioactive hole in the middle of the Midlands countryside, and where would your West Coast Upgrade be then?
The overcrowding was puzzling.
Consider; We’re talking about a Friday. In summer. On a main holiday route. The exams have just (or nearly) finished. Establishing that a few extra coaches would be required would be, I would have thought, a reasonably easy process. I would make a bet that Virgin has the booking system connected up to a computer so they know precisely how many people would be travelling at any one time. My bets are on a sadistic computer program where the algorithm is
Number of coaches = (number people)/(number of people per coach) - (random number between 1 and 5)
I was lucky enough to be overcrowded next to the café, so although the overall business was poor (getting to the place would have been the equivalent of a horizontal climb up Everest) the girl did some business off me. It was actually quite entertaining watching people negotiate bodies and luggage (see installment 3) to get to the toilet (there are some things that have to be done, no matter what the cost). Perhaps if Virgin is to continue using their existing coach computer program they might invest in some ‘in seat’ facilities?
I normally have a sleep on this journey (I do travel Brum to Lakes quite often), but until Virgin installs some kind of ceiling harness or hammock system it looks like I’m going to forgo that pleasure. I’m minded of the old ad ‘Let The Train Take The Strain’. I assume that the only way to achieve this is to suspend myself from the ceiling
Installment two – pick a coach – any coach
You will, of course, be asking ‘Why didn’t the stupid ****** book a seat?’. Well, I did. I booked 2 weeks in advance (with difficulty, I might add – the two week advance tickets were released exactly 14 days before I wanted to travel – someone has a sense of humour). The condition of booking in advance is that you take the train specified and no other. And you get a seat allocated. Oh boy – joy and delight, a guaranteed seat.
Umm
The train arrives in Birminham. It’s one of your nice new trains (not the newest one, which I think is the Pendolino – it was a Voyager – which to me means that it can travel at Warp 9.9 but enough of that). These nice new trains have electronic displays on the door with the destination of the train and the coach number.
Or not
It did indicate where it was going (which was useful). But it didn’t say what number the coaches were (OK, if you’re going to be pedantic, which letter). Now I have to rather shamefacedly admit that I’m not a trainspotter. I have no idea whether you start with ‘A’ at the front or the rear or whether you number the coaches using the same program that allocates stock (‘take a letter, any letter’). And even if I did it was only when the train had stopped and I could get to the nearest door that I discovered that there wasn’t a coach number, and by then it was too late to start counting coaches.
So there I was, clutching a ticket that promised me coach D, seat 18A, and I had to find out where that seat was. I actually managed to get on the correct coach (wrong end though) along with the rest of the sardines. The impossibility of getting me and my rucksack to the seat was very apparent (see installment one). So, I just put myself down where I was. I was subsequently assured that there wasn’t any indication on your fancy new displays as to who had what seat, so establishing the ownership of my seat would have involved a certain amount of discussion.
As an aside, I did eventually fight my way through to my seat later on in the journey (perhaps you could put bars in the roof so we could swing along above people’s heads) and decided that the person in my seat was older than I was and would be better off there.
Installment three – handbags in the overhead storage, anything else on your knees
The designer of this train clearly had the philosophy ‘less is more’. Less seats, less luggage space, less storage. One of the most entertaining aspects is watching people trying to get an average sized bag (the sort that contains a pair of pants and a toothbrush for the weekend) into the overhead storage. Not a hope. The ceiling has a nice artistic curve that ensures that you can basically store your toothbrush and nothing else.
Now, I have to once again point out the bleeding obvious. Virgin provides a long distance service. It’s not one of these piddling little commuter companies, travelling all stations between Upper and Lower Sidewallop. The company does some nice beefy distances. It carries people going on holiday to the coast. Or in this case to the Lake District and Scotland.
It will come as no surprise to the reader of this letter (but will be a complete shock to the planners of the trains) but these travellers have luggage (and not just a toothbrush). They’ve possibly packed enough for at least a weekend. These bits of luggage will not fit in the overhead lockers. Not even the weekend bags. Each person in the coach has at least one such piece of luggage. There are about 56 seats in the coach (I’m sure you’ll correct me). There was enough floor based luggage space for (I reckon) 4 good sized bags per luggage bay and there were three luggage bays in the coach.
It is left as an exercise for the student to work out how much luggage can go in the luggage spaces, but just in case you use the same program that’s used to calculate coach numbers, let me assure you that it’s a lot less.
The surplus luggage goes wherever it can (knees, corridor, table, door). And just in case you’ve forgotten, there were a lot more than 56 people in the coach, and each sardine had luggage.
Now you can see why I advocate ceiling swing bars
In fairness, the Pendolino does have decent overhead lockers, so maybe someone in Virgin got a sledgehammer out and hit the Alstom designer over the head until he or she stopped thinking artistic curves and started thinking luggage volume.
Installment four – ‘This is Malcolm, your friendly train manager’
This installment is not a gripe. It is to award a medal to the most cheerful train manager I’ve ever heard. Malcolm could bring a ray of light to a conference of trainspotters (I’ve nothing against trainspotters but they don’t strike me as the happiest people in the world). Malcolm would cheerfully announce when the train was going to arrive at the next station. He’d cheerfully tell you the route. He’d cheerfully hope that a packed train of sardines ‘had had a pleasant and comfortable journey’
He’s either a comedian or suicidal.
Summary
OK, management summary in bullet points and big letters, so when your manager asks what complaints you’ve had you can tell him/her/it
- Need enough carriages to seat the passengers. If God (or Richard Branson) had intended us to be sardines he would have sold a pint of oil with every seat..
- The reservation system doesn’t work. Pretending you have a booking system one and then abandoning it doesn’t half wind customers up.
- We need more luggage space. Passengers take more than a toothbrush on holiday.
- Your new trains are worse than the old ones. In the things that matter (number of seats, luggage space) they’re smaller and you seem to have less of them. What were you thinking?
I look forward to the day when a visit to the Lake district doesn’t involve imitating an oily fish.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
North sea fireworks
Continuing the account of our offshore training course.
You've arrived at the oil rig, the helicopter hasn't done its impression of a duck, and everything's all right with the world.
Well, not quite.
There's a lot that can go wrong with oil rigs, and there's no friendly fire engine nearby. OK, there's a supply vessel that stands by at all times, but it's not exactly fire fighting material.
And fire isn't the only problem.
Our training instructor gleefully went through the list
You've arrived at the oil rig, the helicopter hasn't done its impression of a duck, and everything's all right with the world.
Well, not quite.
There's a lot that can go wrong with oil rigs, and there's no friendly fire engine nearby. OK, there's a supply vessel that stands by at all times, but it's not exactly fire fighting material.
And fire isn't the only problem.
Our training instructor gleefully went through the list
- blow-outs. this is where the drill hits a pocket of compressed gas.
- gas explosians
- fires
- nuclear war
OK, OK, I made the last one up. however, the first three were enough to be going on with
Oh, and drifting. Not all oil rigs are built into the sea floor. Some are anchoured, others are 'dynamic', where they use engines to keep on station (which is where our company makes a bit of money with our 'dynamic positioning kit' - a snip at half a million guv, fresh of the back of the lorry. We haven't had an oil rig equipped with one of our systems drift but we did ram the back of a cable layer with a supply vessel once.
And the Queen Mary 2 is supplied with our engines and the DP kit, so if you find it moors itself at the top of the Empire State Building you know it's our fault.
Anyways - back to the fire.
Apparently there's lots of ways to cause a fire on an oil rig, other than the obvious one of 'light match and throw in tank' (they don't allow you lighters on rigs for some reason).
Apparently one classic way is to dump a set of oily overalls in a laundry basket, stir thoroughly and leave for half and hour, after which - 'whooomp' - bells, whistles, runnning back and forth, panic and evacuation.
The worst disaster in UK drilling occurred on the Piper Alpha rig in 1988, which killed 167 peoplewas caused by a whole chain of events but mainly it was beacuse they started maintenance on a valve, didn't finish it by the end of the shift, and operators who didn't know of the maintenance started pumping gas through the pipe.
less of a woof, more of a boom.
So we are trained in work permits, safe working, and of course, what to do in the case of a fire.
Apparently, it's not 'run'
The fun thing about these courses is that your company pays about 800 squids to go on what effectively is a theme park with attitude. I've already described the helicopter training.
Fire fighting training and evacuation is almost as fun.
First - fire fighting. Haven't you ever wanted to let one of those extinguishers off? I have.
You all troop off to a large burnt out looking area. The instructor lines up the various types of extinguisher (gas, foam, dry foam, water) and lights a large pan of oil. Then he tells you to put it out.
'What happens if you use water' you ask. 'Try it' he says. So you do. And you never ever ever do it ever again.
You then try out the foam (can evaporate on big fires), CO2,(get it too close and you blow burning oil all over the place) and dry foam (poisonous, don't spray people).
Lastly, you are given a demonstration of how not to put out a chip pan fire. They heat up a pan of boiling fat. They then light it. Then they dump (using a LONG pole) a cup of water into the pan.
Sigh
A pyromaniacs dream come true.
So that's how to put out a fire. What happens if you're in the middle of one?
I said before you don't run (not if you're in the middle of one). All the heat and the poisonous fumes gather at the top of the room. To run you have to be upright. To keep alive you have to be on the floor.
And it's probably dark.
Actually, it's probably pitch black.
so you have to feel your way along the floor, crawling along to the nearest exit.
Just so you know how to do it they have a maze. They put a large amount of artificial smoke in it, a small fire, give you some breathing apparatus, kick you into the maze as a team, shut the door and tell you to find your way out without losing anyone.
Great.
So we crawl along, one hand on the heel of the person in front, feeling our way and shouting intructions and thinking
'if there's a fire i would be burnt to death by now'.
We all made it out, covered in soot, wishing we were allowed cameras.
So, if you ever have a fire in your house, give me a ring and I'll tell you how to get out.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
North sea nasties
I've mentioned previously that my job may send me off to the North Sea.
This is just one of the many inhospitable places that we could get sent to - the other one being the States (if there's anyone in the Department of the Homeland reading this, that was another English joke. Please don't send me to jail).
Unlike the states, however, they train you on how to get there.
Or rather, what to do if you don't get there.
Many of the UK's oil rigs are in the North Sea. This is cold, wet (obviously) and windy. You get there by helicopter, which by all accounts is an accident waiting to happen.
In order to prepare you for this accident they send you on a training course on what to do if your helicopter crashes in the North Sea.
No, it isn't 'scream'.
And according to them, it isn't 'drown'.
The normal survival time in the North Sea is about 2 minutes - if you're lucky. So you're given thermal overalls and a dry suit, hood, boots and gloves. This is to keep you warm(er) and dry if you get dunked.
The dunked bit is because to make matters more interesting, helicopters are built with their engines at the top. The normal floating configuration (yes, they should float) for a helicopter is upside down. (This assumes a lot of things, such as the heliocopter settled like a feather onto the surface, that it isn't on fire, wrecked, exploded or any of the 101 things that can happen to helicopters).
So when the helicopter lands it turns upside down
With you in it.
Screaming.
So, you're trained how to exit from an upside down helicopter in the dark in a storm in the freezing north sea.
In order to do this they take you to a nice warm indoor pool with the lights on and put you in a plastic box with big windows that they dunk and then turn upside down.
So it's not exactly realistic but gives you an idea. (as an aside, they used to do this with no heating, lights out and high pressure hose playing onto the surface of the water, but they had a few heart attacks so had to give it up on the basis that they're not supposed to kill people before they get into the helicopter).
Now, the fun bit is that they say it takes at least one minute to escape, and that the water is so cold that everyone takes an involuntary gasp when they hit the water (provided they're not screaming). This gives you about 17 seconds of air. They therefore provide you with a rebreather bag that provides you with enough air for about 4 minutes. So, that's Ok then. They also give you a nose clip to stop water going up your nose. The clip is made of steel, it's slippy, it's well sprung and impossible to get on if you have to use your left hand.
'I'm going to drown', I thought
They also let you pull the cord on your lifejacket.
I ALWAYS wanted to do that. Hey - size 50" bust in 5 seconds. Incidentally, I now know why they say 'don't inflate it in the aircraft'
Got that?
OK, you didn't get that, we'll do it again.
(this is the exercise. If you don't get it on the real thing you lose it)
Don't panic
Helicopter turns upside down. Stay calm. When helicopter finishes turning use hand on buckle to release buckle, use hand on or pointing to exit to pull you through or towards exit, don't need any light because your hand will guide you. Kick out to surface, inflate lifejacket, hooray, alls well, lets go and have a cup of tea.
Actually, the guys who've done this before say 'forget waiting for the thing to finish turning. Pop the f....g exit and get the f..k out of there'
So; gently turn over. Lah de dah de da. Isn't this fun. Normally you have to pay for this sort of entertainment. Nice warm water, nice and light, can see the exit, this is going to be easy. Ok, the helicopter (or it's plastic clone) has finished turning over, lah de dah, pull buckle and let's get out of here
Hah. I got stuck. No, not because I'm fat. The dry suit I was wearing had long cuffs, the belt had an aircraft type buckle and the fabric of the sleeve got caught in the release mechanism, jamming it.
So there I was pulling at the release thinking 'I'm sure I've seen a film about this. The guy drowned at the end of it'. All very calm like. Luckily the belt unjammed otherwise I'd have looked a right pillock being pulled from a plastic helicopter.
OK, you've left the helicopter, now get into the lifeboat. This is the second killer - figuratively speaking I hope.
They're impossible to get into on your own, especially if you're doing your pamela anderson impression. you get your chest on the rim, you pull, and your boobs get stuck. You kick your legs but they're out the water, you pull again, bloody plastic surgery, eventually you die of exhaustion
'The best thing', the trainer said, 'is to let someone else get in first'.
Umm.
As long as you get out of the helicopter and get into the lifeboat then your chances of survival is going to be high. To make life easier (so to speak) all North Sea helicopters are fitted with flotation bags so they don't turn upside down
So that's alright then
At least things are better nowdays. The rebreathers only came into force April last year. Before that you were stuck with the 17 seconds air, 1 minute to escape. I asked our instructors what they told trainees before that time. They didn't answer, but the reply of one of our employees to the end-of-course survey is significant
Q. 'What is the most important thing you learnt on the course?'
A. 'We're all going to die'
Next installment. Guy Fawke's night on an oil rig.
This is just one of the many inhospitable places that we could get sent to - the other one being the States (if there's anyone in the Department of the Homeland reading this, that was another English joke. Please don't send me to jail).
Unlike the states, however, they train you on how to get there.
Or rather, what to do if you don't get there.
Many of the UK's oil rigs are in the North Sea. This is cold, wet (obviously) and windy. You get there by helicopter, which by all accounts is an accident waiting to happen.
In order to prepare you for this accident they send you on a training course on what to do if your helicopter crashes in the North Sea.
No, it isn't 'scream'.
And according to them, it isn't 'drown'.
The normal survival time in the North Sea is about 2 minutes - if you're lucky. So you're given thermal overalls and a dry suit, hood, boots and gloves. This is to keep you warm(er) and dry if you get dunked.
The dunked bit is because to make matters more interesting, helicopters are built with their engines at the top. The normal floating configuration (yes, they should float) for a helicopter is upside down. (This assumes a lot of things, such as the heliocopter settled like a feather onto the surface, that it isn't on fire, wrecked, exploded or any of the 101 things that can happen to helicopters).
So when the helicopter lands it turns upside down
With you in it.
Screaming.
So, you're trained how to exit from an upside down helicopter in the dark in a storm in the freezing north sea.
In order to do this they take you to a nice warm indoor pool with the lights on and put you in a plastic box with big windows that they dunk and then turn upside down.
So it's not exactly realistic but gives you an idea. (as an aside, they used to do this with no heating, lights out and high pressure hose playing onto the surface of the water, but they had a few heart attacks so had to give it up on the basis that they're not supposed to kill people before they get into the helicopter).
Now, the fun bit is that they say it takes at least one minute to escape, and that the water is so cold that everyone takes an involuntary gasp when they hit the water (provided they're not screaming). This gives you about 17 seconds of air. They therefore provide you with a rebreather bag that provides you with enough air for about 4 minutes. So, that's Ok then. They also give you a nose clip to stop water going up your nose. The clip is made of steel, it's slippy, it's well sprung and impossible to get on if you have to use your left hand.
'I'm going to drown', I thought
They also let you pull the cord on your lifejacket.
I ALWAYS wanted to do that. Hey - size 50" bust in 5 seconds. Incidentally, I now know why they say 'don't inflate it in the aircraft'
- You're walking around with a chest like Pamela Anderson (and probably made of the same material)
- It floats. If you go underwater in the aircraft with an inflated lifejacket you stay in the aircraft. Or at least in the ceiling (or floor, whichever way is 'up').
Got that?
OK, you didn't get that, we'll do it again.
(this is the exercise. If you don't get it on the real thing you lose it)
Don't panic
Helicopter turns upside down. Stay calm. When helicopter finishes turning use hand on buckle to release buckle, use hand on or pointing to exit to pull you through or towards exit, don't need any light because your hand will guide you. Kick out to surface, inflate lifejacket, hooray, alls well, lets go and have a cup of tea.
Actually, the guys who've done this before say 'forget waiting for the thing to finish turning. Pop the f....g exit and get the f..k out of there'
So; gently turn over. Lah de dah de da. Isn't this fun. Normally you have to pay for this sort of entertainment. Nice warm water, nice and light, can see the exit, this is going to be easy. Ok, the helicopter (or it's plastic clone) has finished turning over, lah de dah, pull buckle and let's get out of here
Hah. I got stuck. No, not because I'm fat. The dry suit I was wearing had long cuffs, the belt had an aircraft type buckle and the fabric of the sleeve got caught in the release mechanism, jamming it.
So there I was pulling at the release thinking 'I'm sure I've seen a film about this. The guy drowned at the end of it'. All very calm like. Luckily the belt unjammed otherwise I'd have looked a right pillock being pulled from a plastic helicopter.
OK, you've left the helicopter, now get into the lifeboat. This is the second killer - figuratively speaking I hope.
They're impossible to get into on your own, especially if you're doing your pamela anderson impression. you get your chest on the rim, you pull, and your boobs get stuck. You kick your legs but they're out the water, you pull again, bloody plastic surgery, eventually you die of exhaustion
'The best thing', the trainer said, 'is to let someone else get in first'.
Umm.
As long as you get out of the helicopter and get into the lifeboat then your chances of survival is going to be high. To make life easier (so to speak) all North Sea helicopters are fitted with flotation bags so they don't turn upside down
So that's alright then
At least things are better nowdays. The rebreathers only came into force April last year. Before that you were stuck with the 17 seconds air, 1 minute to escape. I asked our instructors what they told trainees before that time. They didn't answer, but the reply of one of our employees to the end-of-course survey is significant
Q. 'What is the most important thing you learnt on the course?'
A. 'We're all going to die'
Next installment. Guy Fawke's night on an oil rig.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
I've had the medical and...
So, I've had the medical, and it appears that I'm deaf, blind, overweight and susceptible to heart disease.
Other than that, I'm in good health.
The job I'm in may, perhaps, if all goes wrong, the brown stuff has hit the rotating object and the vessel is loose and drifting in the North Sea, require me to visit an offshore vessel. (and for those pedants amongst you, an onshore vessel could be regarded as one that has finished drifting)
For this I need a medical to pronounce me fit. I assume this is so I don't scramble up the netting, salute the captain and fall dead at his feet.
Actually, it's a bit more than that, since as part of the medical I need my dentist to pronounce me dentally fit. I assume that this is so i can bite the captain's ankle before dropping down dead. My dentist duely provided the required note along the lines of 'When he last visited me in November he had all his teeth, and these were of sufficient good order to bite captains'.
Well, words to that effect
(and while we're at it, can you solve the great debate in the office and explain what the difference is between affect and effect and when either of them become effective and what effect or affect they have within a sentence. Remember we're engineers. Write slowly. And loudly)
Anyway, I've been measured, weighed, jabbed, and had the doctor carefully inspect me (but not thoroughly inspect me - as he said when he asked me to remove my clothes '..but not your pants because I'm not going to do anything intimate'. I bet he says that to all the men).
I've had a hearing test that put me in a booth and fed me tones that I couldn't hear over the permanent ringing in my ears.
I had an eye test WITHOUT my glasses where the answer was 'Blob. Blob, blob. Blob-blob-blob-blob-blob. Blob a blob r (at this point I was guessing). The near sight test demonstrated that I was well on the way to varifocals but didn't have them.
The reason for this is I'm not stupid and I'm parsimonious (big word - it either means I'm partial to parsnips or I don't spend money). 2 years ago my optician said that my eyes were sliding into senility - or in other words, I was going to need long distance and a reading prescription. He also said 'The good news is that your eyes will stop changing after 5 years'. So I did the maths. 'I buy a pair of varifocals at 200 squids now. Then the next year I throw them away and get another pair and continue doing this for the next five years. Do I look that stupid? - or rich?'
So I get a pair this year (half way through senility) and then in 2.5 years time.
That is providing I don't have a heart attack first. You see, not only do they take your medical history, but that of your family...
'What did your father die of?' - 'Cancer of the bile duct but he actually had a heart attack. He also had angina'
'and your mother?' - 'Heart attack, but she was diabetic'
'anyone else in your family? - 'My uncle - heart attack. Oh, and my brother who's still here and has had several heart attacks and a triple bypass'
'I see', the doctor says. And 'you're a bit overweight', he says. 'Do you smoke? he asks. 'No', I reply; 'I just steam quietly when someone says I'm overweight'.
The trouble is, he's right. I've gone from slim and lovely - OK, slim - to porky (100kg, work it out in medieval units). My blood pressure is up, my pulse rate has gone from 60 6 years ago to 80 now and I haven't a clue what my cholesterol level is like but I noticed the doctor cancelling his order for a year's supply of butter after taking my blood for a test. I suggested that I could go on the Atkins diet and he smiled. OK, I was joking - even I'm not stupid enough to go on a diet that seems to consist of dropping everything in favour of protein and fat. Mind you, it seems to work - one of the guys at work has tried it and has gone from a 50 inch waist to a 38.
I think I'll just cut out the chocolates. And the crisps. and the cider at lunch time; and cream cakes on Saturday. and start walking into and out of town - in winter - when it's raining
Joy.
Other than that, I'm in good health.
The job I'm in may, perhaps, if all goes wrong, the brown stuff has hit the rotating object and the vessel is loose and drifting in the North Sea, require me to visit an offshore vessel. (and for those pedants amongst you, an onshore vessel could be regarded as one that has finished drifting)
For this I need a medical to pronounce me fit. I assume this is so I don't scramble up the netting, salute the captain and fall dead at his feet.
Actually, it's a bit more than that, since as part of the medical I need my dentist to pronounce me dentally fit. I assume that this is so i can bite the captain's ankle before dropping down dead. My dentist duely provided the required note along the lines of 'When he last visited me in November he had all his teeth, and these were of sufficient good order to bite captains'.
Well, words to that effect
(and while we're at it, can you solve the great debate in the office and explain what the difference is between affect and effect and when either of them become effective and what effect or affect they have within a sentence. Remember we're engineers. Write slowly. And loudly)
Anyway, I've been measured, weighed, jabbed, and had the doctor carefully inspect me (but not thoroughly inspect me - as he said when he asked me to remove my clothes '..but not your pants because I'm not going to do anything intimate'. I bet he says that to all the men).
I've had a hearing test that put me in a booth and fed me tones that I couldn't hear over the permanent ringing in my ears.
I had an eye test WITHOUT my glasses where the answer was 'Blob. Blob, blob. Blob-blob-blob-blob-blob. Blob a blob r (at this point I was guessing). The near sight test demonstrated that I was well on the way to varifocals but didn't have them.
The reason for this is I'm not stupid and I'm parsimonious (big word - it either means I'm partial to parsnips or I don't spend money). 2 years ago my optician said that my eyes were sliding into senility - or in other words, I was going to need long distance and a reading prescription. He also said 'The good news is that your eyes will stop changing after 5 years'. So I did the maths. 'I buy a pair of varifocals at 200 squids now. Then the next year I throw them away and get another pair and continue doing this for the next five years. Do I look that stupid? - or rich?'
So I get a pair this year (half way through senility) and then in 2.5 years time.
That is providing I don't have a heart attack first. You see, not only do they take your medical history, but that of your family...
'What did your father die of?' - 'Cancer of the bile duct but he actually had a heart attack. He also had angina'
'and your mother?' - 'Heart attack, but she was diabetic'
'anyone else in your family? - 'My uncle - heart attack. Oh, and my brother who's still here and has had several heart attacks and a triple bypass'
'I see', the doctor says. And 'you're a bit overweight', he says. 'Do you smoke? he asks. 'No', I reply; 'I just steam quietly when someone says I'm overweight'.
The trouble is, he's right. I've gone from slim and lovely - OK, slim - to porky (100kg, work it out in medieval units). My blood pressure is up, my pulse rate has gone from 60 6 years ago to 80 now and I haven't a clue what my cholesterol level is like but I noticed the doctor cancelling his order for a year's supply of butter after taking my blood for a test. I suggested that I could go on the Atkins diet and he smiled. OK, I was joking - even I'm not stupid enough to go on a diet that seems to consist of dropping everything in favour of protein and fat. Mind you, it seems to work - one of the guys at work has tried it and has gone from a 50 inch waist to a 38.
I think I'll just cut out the chocolates. And the crisps. and the cider at lunch time; and cream cakes on Saturday. and start walking into and out of town - in winter - when it's raining
Joy.
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