10 f.....g hours

10 Hours it took me., 10 HOURS. I'm sure my MAC/Linux owning friends will laugh, but that's the time it's taken me to restore the Windows OS on a computer ... 10 HOURS.

We had a series of power cuts one night. By the time it had finished I couldn't power up my old computer .. it would start up, and then flash a blue screen of information for half a second at me before restarting. Not being a superhero I couldn't quite catch the fault so after a few reboots and trying various things I decided to repair the system, which meant taking it back to its original XP base (it's an OLD computer) and then bringing it up to date with the latest security patches.

I started at 9pm

I finished at 7am.

The original XP base was, I think, 2001 .. that's the date on one of the files. I was doing a repair, not a rebuild, which was part of my mistake. The first attempt at repair failed as there was a corrupted database (Secedit.sdb) that needed to be rebuilt before certain dll's could be copied. Once that was done the repair worked and I was able to start up OK. No auto reboots.

So .. I had an original XP system that was about 8 years old. Slightly vulnerable to all the hacking that had gone on in those 8 years. Now I needed to patch it. MS in its wisdom does not allow home users to get a copy of the latest service patch (XP is at SP3) and apply it. They allow businesses to do this, but not home users. So, you have to connect the ***** to the internet and run windows update, which asks you if you want to apply SP2.

No. I want to apply service pack 3, but that apparently is a bridge too far so I have to apply SP2. I do so.

The computer failed to boot. The blue screen informs me I have error A0. A bit of digging suggested that there was a driver that had got problems

After some swearing I realised I had replaced the original keyboard with a USB version. Reverting to the old serial one fixed the problem.

Lucky I was still jetlagged. It was now the early hours of the morning and Windows was just getting into its stride. "Isn't it nice that we can spend some quality time together?", it asked. I swore at it.

So .. SP2 installed, now for SP3. Windows update asked me if I'd like to install SP3

I said yes

So I download it, apply it and it tells you that it wasn't able to install.

I swore very slightly. .... So I tell it to apply all patches to SP2

It gleefully tells you that there are 91 patches and would I like to apply them and it would only take 1 hour.

That is 1 hour to download

Then it installs them

Slowly.

I didn't want to leave the system because I KNEW that half way through it would maliciously have a dialogue box asking me if I wanted to do some inane and pointless exercise.

I was right ... half way through it politely asked "Would you like to install IE7 yes/no?"

*Sigh* .. YES

It installed IE7, then tried to install security patches for IE6, looked at me and decided that wouldn't be a good idea and passed up on that although it did tell me that it was sorry it hadn't been able to apply IE6 security patches .. I could almost hear it sniffing.

At 6 am it finished .. I rebooted, then was asked if i wanted to install SP3.

I said yes warily.

At 7am it announced I had a nice healthy computer, wasn't that fun and would I like to start again. (I'm making that last bit up)

I went to bed.

SF Hols - Grids

You gotta love the americans. Their strict adherence to the grid pattern for their city layout leads to some interesting situations. San Francisco is a good example of this. The city does have flat bits (for which the grid pattern works well) but they also have a few hills. These hills aren't your little pimples either. They are dirty great steep sided mounds of rock.

In England, the streets would follow a winding path up the side of the hill, keeping the gradients nice and smooth so you could get your horse and cart easily up to the top. (You do own a horse and cart, don't you? You don't? What century are you living in?)

In SF they do things differently. They have adopted the very roman approach of just taking the road up and over and to hell with the gradient*. This results in some pretty interesting climbs .. even for the modern car. What makes it more interesting is that the 45 degree slope is crossed at right angles by other roads, so the road has to flatten out to accomodate the crossover before continuing its downward plummet (sorry, descent). One road I walked (breathlessly) up must have had delusions of being the percussion section of a band, since on a regular beat you would hear what sounded like a clash of some hung over geriatric cymbals. On closer inspection I found it was a junction where any car going over the speed of 1 mph took its rear end out with an expensive sounding scrape.

At some points the road builders had taken one look at the gradient, sworn at the twon planner, resolved to bring him out and bury him under the sidewalk and just given up, replacing the road with a set of steps. Once they've managed to accomodate the necessary gradient they have then continued with the road further on as if nothing had happened. This is fine if you are on foot, but if you are in a car life must be one long series of exciting detours.

Of course, the layout does have its upside. You want a car chase? Have it in San Francisco; one long series of death defying slopes, dead ends and cable cars to negotiate. Walking (puffing) around SF I expected any moment a car to emerge from a side road trailing cop cars and performing air jumps at each crossover.

Hasn't happened yet, but one can hope.

Alternatively, I could rent a car and try it myself.



*Except for Stockton where they chickened out and put in a tunnel. And Lombard, where they'd clearly had a bit too much to drink at lunchtime.

SF Hols - Ice Cream Desert

From San Francisco

Well, here I am in the city of so many films, car chases, disasters and general mayhem. Familiar though it is, it's still a bit of a culture shock. How much do you tip the bell boy, how do you use public transport and where's the bloody ice cream vans?

The latter is important. For my first day I wanted to walk to the Golden Gate Bridge. This is a 5 mile stroll through some touristy areas (fishermans wharf) but also through some pleasant parks (fort mason, beach area alongside chrissy field). And not an ice cream van in sight. In fact, the place was so devoid of any sort of van/kiosk I was wondering if I was on some private estate and was going to be escorted off by some guy with a gun and a rotweiler (I must have been watching too many films).

Distracted though I was by the total lack of Essential British Sustenance, the walk was enjoyable. At Fisherman's Wharf some nice person asked me if I'd like to donate some money to help the American Homeless (uncharitably I said I had enough problems supporting the English homeless without helping the Americans out as well). I watched some people swimming in the Bay's Aquatic Park, tested the water and realised that eccentricity isn't a completely English preserve. I took about 20 photos of the Golden Gate Bridge at various distances (subsequently honed down to about 5). My arms got totally, horribly sunburnt; so much so that the American Lighthouse Association approached me to find out if I'd be willing to stand at Fort Point and wave my arms. All this ... and I still didn't get an ice cream ... I had to settle for a fruit melon medley, which although nice and healthy, Is Not The Same.

Finally, I got to the Golden Gate Bridge, after a walk of 6 miles and 5 hours. If you think that's slow, then you have to factor in the hunt for the occasional ice cream van and fending off hoards of amorous lobstaers who thought my arms were sending out mating signals.

So .. been there, done that .. what else is there to do?

SF Hols - packing a dilemma

I've got a problem.

It's one I haven't had before.

And I think it's serious.

It's about the packing I'm doing to go on holiday.

You see, the way I do my packing is I first construct a list of things to take (2 shirts, two polos, t shirts, power cables for all the electronics I'm taking, etc etc). Then I throw the stuff on the bed. Nearer the time I might iron one or two bits .. with the emphasis on the 'might'. Then, on the day of departure I stuff 'em all in a rucksack and I'm ready.

Not this time.

You see, previously collecting the stuff on the list was easy, because it represented the contents of my wardrobe. But now ... the list says '2 shirts'. WHICH ONES????

The thing is .. I've acquired too many clothes. I've become a fashion victim. I don't have 2 shirts. I've got 6. I like them all. Which ones do I take? Decisions, decisions.

I have a friend like this. He packs not only the stuff he's going to wear, but also the stuff he might wear given the right circumstances. It must be pointed out that the 'right circumstances' includes alien abduction and attending Prince William's wedding, so basically its the entire wardrobe. He's the one travelling 20kg overweight. I'm the one trailing behind at 12 kg.

But I digress.

So, I have to make a decision. Which Shirt? When I've decided that it's Which Polo? After that, it's Which Trousers? actually, at this point we're back to normal .. trousers and shoes are easy to pack since I basically keep on growing out of one and wearing out the other (and I'm not going to tell you which is which).

So the bed is now full of clothes. I've more power cables than I've ever had in my life and will probably bring SF to its knees when I plug in the netbook, iPhone and camera charger, but I'm all set.

Now .. where's my passport?

License to .. drive

I've recently renewed my driving licence. No, I haven't done anything wrong, but the thing is at least 16 years old and is so yellowed and frayed that one scholar mistook it for a lost copy of the dead sea scrolls. Besides which, it has an endorsement on it that ran out years ago so I thought I'd start off with a clean licence ready for the next speeding ticket. The other reason for replacing it is that I'm going to the States soon, and I have been told not to wind the traffic cops up ... handing them a piece of paper that looks like it's been stolen out a museum doesn't strike me as being too tactful.

So, in these days of the Internet it is possible to do the entire thing online, provided you are on the government database. As far as I can tell you're on this if you have a passport or a license, which probably covers most of the population. So much for privacy.... They Know Who You Are.

The first step is to get your number. I now know that my number is 9051 4567 6724* and they have carefully informed me that this is not case sensitive.

Once you have your number you can then get onto the license application page. Give them some details, there is some whirring and clicking and they tell you that they've retrieved your photo, your biometric details and the fact that you were picking your nose in the Birmingham town centre on Monday at 6 pm. So that's alright then.

And that's it. All your information is online (including your signature) and no paperwork has to be sent through. Marvellous (or terrifying, depending on your point of view).

A week later I received official notification of my government ID (which is when I learnt it wasn't case sensitive, much to my relief) and my license. I've carefully read the notes and learnt how to use the thing:

• For a start I can't put any stickers on it so the 'cops is pigs' one has to go.
• The license is in two parts .. a credit card sized bit of plastic and an A4 bit of paper. Both have to be carried with you. At this point I asked why. Why the bit of plastic? The whole point of me getting this is to get the bit of plastic that can fit nicely into my wallet without having to fold the paper license into a shape an origami expert would be proud of. If the government database is so good why can't they just keep all my endorsements on file and allow it to be looked up?. Oh well. Just hoping the 'merican traffic cops don't want both.
• The plastic license is 'more secure' than the old one. Why is this more secure? Well, it's because the photo is in black and white rather than colour. Yup .. you read it right .. apparently black and white is more secure than colour. Go figure.
• I am entitled to drive a tractor but not a road roller. This is a big disappointment. Many times I've walked down the road and watched the tarmac being spread and thought "I'd like to drive one of those things", and now I find I can't. Sob
• I can drive a car (category B) qualified by information code 01 (eyesight correction). Put this together and it means that I can only drive cars with eyesight correction, which is a bit unfair, because I don't know where to get one of those.
• I can drive a minibus with a trailer up to 750kg (category D), but I can also drive a minibus + trailer category D1+E, information code 119 .. code 119 means 'weight limit does not apply'. So I can only drive the Japanese Sumo Wrestling Team around if I'm in category D1+E (119) mode.
• I am not allowed to drive a tracked vehicle. Dreams of raiding the local Army Depot, stealing a tank and legally driving it the wrong way round the M25 are out. (Note to foreigners .. the M25 is a 'freeway' and is Britains biggest car park).
• The license is sent to you with the plastic bit stuck to the paper bit. You can carefully peel it off but you are left with a sticky wedge on the back of the plastic. This is difficult to get off. Now I know why you're not allowed to put any stickers on the license. It's because they've already got a double sided one there.

Anyway, I've carefully put the plastic part into my wallet (sticky side down) and filed the paper part somewhere in the black hole called my filing system.

Now I need to find a traffic cop to try it out on. Do you think I can get away with a sticker saying 'CIP'?


* Nope. This is not my number. You can give it a go but don't blame me when the cops smash down the front door of your house at 3am.

L Space

Literature has many examples of places that are bigger on the inside than the outside. The Tardis, Narnia, the Unseen University Library, for example. What people don't realise is that these are all based on our loft.

We've lived in this house for 17 years now. In that time we've never thrown anything out. We've bought plenty of stuff, but we've never thrown anything out. All this has to go somewhere, so for a few years the rooms get fuller and fuller and then we go into a Spartan phase. This is usually triggered by redecorating or by the fact that we can't open the door to a particular room because of all the clutter in it or because we've just seen one of these house programs where they tell you declutter the house, but whatever the reason, the house gets cleaned up. We must have been through about 7 of these phases, and each time we don't do any throwing out.

At this point I must admit I am indulging on hyperbole. Of course we throw some things out. We have replaced the fridge, dishwasher, oven and settee, and I must admit that these have found their way to the tip. But the rest of the stuff, the ornaments, vases, pictures, statues, plates, old games machines, fish stuff, excercise bikes .... These all go onto the loft.

For the first ten years I was very careful on where I put things. Then I started to get blase and just throw stuff up there and this is where I discovered the secret ... Our loft has Infinite Space! Things just go in there. You have a tidy up of the house, you throw the items up into the loft and it fits!

I must confess I am making an assumption here. I am assuming that the stuff I put up there stays there. I am assuming that we have infinite space. The other alternative is that we have a wormhole at the other end of the loft and there is some alien civilisation out there that is based on the throw outs that we put into the loft. I can imagine some green skinned, eight tentacled monster is trying to work out how to operate the controls of the original playstation, or a greasy blob-like entity is oozing all over the high chairs. We are probably maintaining some early civilisation in its entire yearly requirement of ceramics.

However, I am fantasising here and the idea of a wormhole is clearly ridiculous. The alternative is much more believable.

In fact it occurs to me that this solves our landfill problems. For the benefit of foreigners reading this (yes I mean my american relatives here) the UK is having severe landfill problems, where we don't have enough space to put all our rubbish. I therefore think I'm onto a bit of a moneyspinner here. I am proposing to rent out our loft space to the local council. Of course, I'm not going to take any old rubbish. Garden waste, rotten potato peelings and last week's kitty litter is out. But old microwaves, chairs, household ornaments ... Yup, can find space for these. They can keep the other stuff company.

I could make a fortune.

The New Ice Age

If you were to rely exclusively on the news you would have got the impression that a New Ice Age had hit the UK.

So, let's clear up a few things.

There are no polar bears roaming the streets of London. A sabre tooth tiger was not seen in Hyde Park. Reports of woolly mammoths invading the House of Parliament are unfounded and Tower Bridge did not have to be raised to let an iceberg through.

The above paragraph will give you a clue as to why the news was so panic stricken. It's because it's generated and edited in London by a bunch of chelsea tractor driving (4x4s to the rest of you) champers swilling brain dead idiots who like to call themselves journalists. The rest of the country have become so dependant on the pap these people feed us that they've started to believe it.

So, when the news talked about severe snow conditions on Monday morning the train drivers, bus drivers and school believed it and immediately closed everything down. No-one thought to look out their window and actually see what the conditions were until it was too late to do anything about it. As a result, trains stopped running, buses didn't emerge from their depots and schools were closed down.

Birmingham had its fair share of idiots. For the record, we probably had about 2 inches of snow and I'm being generous. They still apparently closed the schools (one excuse was 'dangerous conditions on the play ground'. What dangerous conditions?? The ground had snow on it. Just enough to make a snowball. I suppose little Johnny getting hit in the face by a snowball probably counts as assault nowadays but I wish that we would get some idea of proportionate damage). The local train was shut down although somehow the long distance trains managed to battle their way through the 6 inch snow drifts. I got to work on time. I only had a half hour wait going back home. The only neaderthals I saw were the ones emerging from the Square Peg pub but that happens at any time of the year.

The only thing I'm likely to die of this winter is embarrassment. Britain collapsed under the weight of grams of snow. Even the websites failed under the horrendous weight of people wanting to know if their trains were running (I do what I always do .. walk to the station, read a book and wait for the next train). I'm embarrassed because my friends and family are widespread and in many cases live in far more arctic climes. I have one picture from a friend who tried to bury his daughter in 18 inches of snow after she exceeded his credit card limit. My brother sends pictures of him standing in front of what at first glance is an igloo and turns out to be his car. They somehow survive in what to a Londoner would be horrendous conditions. How do they manage this? Possibly the answer is that they're used to it. We usually get one day of snow a year. London usually doesn't get any because the amount of hot air rising above Westminster turns anything threatening to be sub zero into rain. So when a Londoner sees snow they go into headless quail mode. London probably has the highest incidence of 4x4 drivers that don't know how to use the bloody traction control. They panic. Journalists, fighting their way through 3 inch snow drifts and heavy dustings of snow on their way back from the pub shakily sit down at their computers and prepare Britain for The End Of The World.

And the rest of us, bemused by this, go 'Oh, OK' and go and get our boots on.