Kate + 5 pints of cider (and two glasses of champagne) == badness.
I’m still feeling vaguely rough. Not specifically unwell. But generic mildly upset stomach blurgy drank too much (2 sodding days ago) unwell. I knew my tolerance for alcohol had dropped… but I’d not realised quite how far.
James asked me about a strip I used to have an archive of. Only he couldn’t remember the name. Sadly nor could I. Having dug through my CD-Rs of backups I discovered that I didn’t appear to have any RiscPC backups – frustrating (not that I’d’ve been able to read them properly anyway). Having discovered this, I then set to work digging in my brain.
Bad though my memory is it sometimes can be startling in what it’ll recall. After but a few minutes prodding it’d come up with the artist’s name (“eight”). Trying to find a cartoon by some bloke called ‘eight’, well that proved to be a little bit challenging. But googling the phrase ‘eight comic’ pulled up Road Waffles right away.
It appears that he’s started updating it again – which means I’m a mere 2 years behind, and since I can’t remember the entire back story I’m looking forward to starting from the beginning. Mmmm. Psychotic women.
I suspect I may have found my root.
I’m not quite sure how I didn’t notice before, staggeringly blind is a phrase that leaps to mind, but two of my papers are actually by the same person discussing the same research. Granted they’re a year apart. Granted they cover entirely different segments of the research. And they have entirely different titles. But I can’t imagine how I didn’t notice.
Reading my critique notes, they’re virtually interchangable; only one’s discussing the social aspect and the other the actual care. Feh. Never mind. I think the content is different enough to count them as different papers.
But god do I feel like a prick.
So, I did the run to Bath and back in about two hours which wasn’t too bad given the time for me to hand in my Petrol Reclaim form, hand in EU packs, my essay, and find parking.
Oh, and I stopped to buy bras. My bra collection, if you could call it that, was getting on for pathetic. 2 of my favourite bras had actually disintegrated (to the point that the straps were only held on by my re-stitching attempts). It really did look a bit sad, so I stopped and picked up new bras…oh, and a new skirt… and new combats to replace the ones that have started to hole… and a new top.
Um. That wasn’t meant to happen. But the problem is b’wise QS Select (*raises eyebrows* isn’t rebranding fun? It’s next to poundland InStore…) is ridiculously cheap. No doubt I’m supporting disgusting labour practices, but until I can afford not to (I shop loads at Charity stores too) then I don’t have a lot of choice. I can’t wander round nekkid. Or I can. but… yeah. Mmm.
Incidentally, teeny little inside pockets on bags should be banned. Why? Because I nearly had a heart attack after emptying out my bag when I got home and not finding the keys. I’d removed the carpets from my car, run my hands down the backs of the drivers and passenger seats and started to reach the stage of thinking I’d have to drive back to Bath and see if I dropped them.
And there they were, lurking in this tiny pocket of the bag. They’d fallen in there – and obviously didn’t fall back *out*. Grrr. Anyway, on with dissertation prodding.
So, yes. Last night, as some of you gathered, I was feeling more than a trifle stressed. It actually managed to keep me from sleep – the House auction, Dissertation, my mum and the Motorbike all coalescing in my head and preventing me from any of the release of sleep. Eventually I managed to put it out of my head, but touching on house or motorbike, at the moment, leaves me feeling somewhat stressed. The bike just because it’s one of those: If I’d’ve not noticed the worn brake hose then it’d’ve passed the MOT (probably) and I’d’ve noticed it later and swapped it *once* it was on the road. And doing *that* would have meant I’d’ve taken time over it. And it probably wouldn’t have been a big messy brake-fluid-everywhere shaped disaster.
The house, because I hate not knowing. That and I can’t find the bit of paper with the auction details on. Grr. I’m certain it is on my desk, but I’ve opened out the Disseratation stuff, which needs about 5 times as much desk as I’ve got. And… yeah. Mmm.
The Dissertation, which had me in tears yesterday (huge hugs and puddles of greatful to Chrissy for ringing me and listening to me whining) has retreated to it’s normal level of ‘argh’. I just need to work out how to write it, that’s the thing. I’ve got the information in my head, but every attempt I make at actually writing it, well, it’s messy and clunky and yick. I don’t entirely feel like I know the papers well enough, to be honest, the results are so similar from many of them that they kind of blur in my head.
Anyway. So. I need to get my head out my arse and sort it out, really. I gave myself a good talking to last night. “Useless” my left tit. So. Yeah. Feeling a bit better, although not enough sleep == headache. So I’ve also downed a couple of paracetamol (tylenol) and ‘brufen (it’s the only way I’ve ever found to stomp on my headaches).
And now I’ve killed sufficient time I’m off to hand in my essay. I’ve printed a second copy because, unsuprisingly, the university in their “brewery” and “unable to organise a piss up in” usual way have yet to put the submission date on the e-submission page. Given that I don’t trust them to coordinate their mouth and thoughts, the concept of trusting them to work out that i’ve submitted the paper copy before the electronic one, well, I fear that it might just be beyond them.
So, yeah, two paper copies. I’ll ‘mail them and say “it doesn’t work” when I get back. Incidentally, is it a bad sign that the only way I can find e-submission on the university website is to go to google and type it in. I can’t find it using the navigation stuff on the site (or indeed the search on the site).
And in other news, this happens tomorrow:
Defend Our Public
Services Demo
Saturday 29th April 2006
Castle Green, 11.30, march to College Green for 12.30 rally
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Join with teachers, local government workers, friends, colleagues, neighbours and family on Saturday 29th April to send a clear message to the government………
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WE DEMAND DECENT PUBLICLY OWNED SCHOOLS, COUNCIL SERVICES AND HOSPITALS!
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NO MORE PRIVATISATION – PATIENTS NOT PROFITS!
I’d like to go but I’ve arranged to be in Nottingham, so I’m still a bit undecided. Part of me says ‘ring, do this, then go’ but then I’d not get there until at 4pm – at the earliest. Which would suck (considering I’ve not seen the people I’m going to see for *years*). But… I love the NHS. Meh. We’ll see. Anyway, if you’re in Bristol, and like publically owned schools, council services and hospitals (like me, being a big red commie) then go. Of course the fact I’m planning to bugger off to another country, well… it interferes in my head too. Rat? Sinking ship? Uh hu.
So I’m staring at my dissertation. All… let’s check now… all 343 words of it and I feel completely fucking lost. I know what the research says. It says being a Gay or Lesbian patient in the healthcare environment sucks. It says you’re likely to feel insulted, abused, have insufficient pain relief, it says you’ll be ignored, not connect with your healthcare workers, will present later because the chances are you’ll have had an unpleasant healthcare experience in your life. One of the bigger studies had 44% of GLB people avoiding healthcare interactions. 44%.
I just don’t seem to be able to find any words. I keep thinking what my supervisor said – that you’re trying to say what the research says and critique it. But it’s so hard, because there’s very little disagreement. And after today’s bike incident I’m just feeling a bit crap. A bit useless. And I know I’m not. And I know this is just a temporary glitch. But having a phonecall from my mum who’s getting grief from the kids in near her house again and not being able to do anything about it, and the bike, and being completely stuck with my dissertation, it’s all adding up to sensitive and unhappy Kate.
I could do with a shoulder to cry on today and perhaps the curling up with someone on a cofa would be good. It’s times like this that being single is less fun.
So I was all ready. I popped Cherry outside to bask in the sunlight while I checked her over. Tighted up the seat bolts, which I’d not noticed were loose yesterday. Popped her out on the paving… and noticed a drip. Hrm, I went in to get the spanners – perhaps that brake hose was a touch loose. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I looked at the calliper closely before tightening it up. No brake fluid visible at all.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.
Shit, the seal has gone on the brake caliper. Still, with an hour and 15 minutes I can probably change back to the incredibly grotty grimeca calliper that came with the bike. Sprinting in, I switch into my bike gear, lock up the back of the house for a quick getaway and grab tools and the folding workbench. Clamping the calliper in the vice I manage to free the (obviously never been touched) bleed nipple and I (amazingly) detach the severed brake hose and chuck it unceremonioulsy in the bin. Grabbing the bike I run it back round next to the bench. I whip the calliper off the bike and jam it, still attached, in the vice and… with some force, manage to get the (already somewhat rounded off) hose off it. Pausing to drop the leaky caliper from Claire into the bucket of brake bits I attach the hose to the grimeca calliper. Because it lost it’s copper washers when it was originally fitted it’s always had to be done up tight. I get it done up and whack it unceremoniously back on the bike. It’s still oozing fluid. Off it comes, tighter still. I stick it back on the bike.
One squeeze of the lever and it becomes apparent that something is ‘very wrong’. The fluid gushes from the joint above the caliper (there’s two between the hose and the calliper). I go to tighten it and realise that it’s cracking. It’s not *meant* to be taken apart and done up so many times.
Fuck.
I run to the (thankfully) emptied (this morning) dustbin and tip it up. Out rolls the severed end of the old brake hose. I manage to jam it in the work bench with a spanner, and separate the two sections of the old hose. Amazingly, despite 10 years of neglect they come apart without snapping. I grab the new hose… and… it’s a different fucking connector.
At this point, up to my elbows in highly toxic dot 4 brake fluid, it becomes abundantly clear that without a new brake hose my bike is going absolutely no-where. And given the condition of the two callipers I have, even then the likelyhood of a quick departure is slim.
Almost ready to cry I ring the MOT station and cancel the MOT. So, the MOT, it didn’t happen.
And y’know what? New brake seal kits, not cheap. So now I have to rejoin the MZRC, because it gives an insanely good discount on parts. Not that I don’t want to rejoin the MZRC, I love the MZRC, but the fact that I’m having to spend the money on that… so that it makes getting the rest of the bike sorted… that’s bad. *sighs*.
Damnit. I was just about getting into the work. Just about. Words weren’t exactly ‘flowing’, but they were kind of plodding. It wasn’t great, but it was okay. And then I looked at the time. I looked at the time and thought, ‘ack, I wonder if all my bike gear’s still around’. So I went, and I looked, and yes, there it was. But since I’d stopped working I thought I’d go and check the ‘zeds brake. Still okay. Okay, but while I’m the garage I should get together stuff to take… that’ll be… uh, a spark plug spanner then.
Oh, and a spare plug.
Oh, and the D-Lock. Crap though it is.
Oh, and where’s my bike helmet?
Riiiight. That’s everything all together in the one place.
Hrm. But now it’s only half an hour ’til I’m intending to leave. Balls. Too late to really get any work in. I’d forgotten how much I loved riding the bike. And it’s all coming back to me. I’m ridiculously over excited. At the same time I need to be really careful. First up, the bike’s equiped with delightful Chen Shin tyres. Not the Chin Hung that nearly killed me. Some people say these tyres are ‘okay’. I’m willing to give them a test, since they’re on there. First sign of teflon’d mahogany like grip and they’re gone (potentially so am I. But we’ll see). And second up – coming to bat now is Kate hasn’t ridden a bike for months. Lots of months. More than 6. Again. I’d only just started to get back into the swing of things with the last bike.
So, excited though I am, I must take care, oh, and go and have a second quick look at the iffy fork and check it’s not leaking.
Wish me luck, I need this bike to pass.