The Trouble with DIY

I am usually thrilled, and yes even sometimes flabbergasted, when a project that I've had a hand in that has anything to do with a tool--power or manual--comes together. I am not the most adept at DIY, though I can easily tell the difference between a Phillips head and a "regular" screwdriver, and I have put up shelves and painted rooms and managed the small things around the house. There is of course the language difference now--what I commonly called a wrench is apparently a spanner and pruning shears are secateurs . . . but I digress.

The trouble with DIY is whether do it yourself is better than don't invest yourself. Time is valuable to me, and the thought of spending precious hours painting a room or some other such project is unappealing when I consider the alternative—a walk along the Thames, brunch with friends, etc. In the past I’ve found myself calculating the overall cost of hiring someone who can do the job (likely better than me and while I'm busy working): so not just the fee, but also the time I'd be able to do something I truly enjoy. And I tend to be a perfectionist when it comes to making sure my home is lovely--patching up the holes properly, not getting paint on the running boards, not showing funny streaks when you look at the wall a certain way . . . I think you get the point.

Small jobs, those simply too trivial to consider hiring a contractor for lest he or she laugh at you over the phone, demand a bit more thought to strike the right balance—how can it be done well enough, in a time frame suitable, and more recently to consider, without breaking up a marriage? 

Even if you detest DIY, you either have to just do it, live with the consequence of not doing it, or hope your brother who can do anything, literally, lives nearby. (Mine has long moved to Texas!)

Having one of those small jobs at hand, Tim and I embarked on a bit of DIY that had all the ingredients for potential disaster . . . well, perhaps I exaggerate.

Pigeons have been sleeping in a space between the actual roof and the wooden planking of the roof terrace about seven inches above--just enough wriggle room to allow the pests to duck in and keep dry and comfortable. Hearing them cooing in the early morning is less a nuisance than having to clean up after them; they also perch on the railing or the edge of the roof terrace (fortunately out of view) and, well, make a mess. 

Tim's idea was to block the space by nailing a board across the gap. All 12 feet of it, from one end of the roof to the other. Three stories up. With no easy access to the space except from the roof terrace, lying on one's stomach, with no clear view of what you're doing. With a heavy drill to tighten the screws as you hang slightly over the edge.

You can probably sense my nervousness. As a precautionary measure, Maggie was moved from her usual parking spot just below to the neighbour's space, just to the left, in case a screwdriver or some other bit of equipment slipped out of hand or rolled over the edge. There would be no danger to either of us, as we would be securely on the roof and (Tim) wouldn’t need to stick too much out over the edge (lying on his stomach) to secure the boards. Still, I was a little nervous. There is a public footpath nearby, other neighbour’s vehicles, and no safety net!

Tim returned from B&Q with two six-foot planks that needed to be stained, some screws, and a plan. The roof terrace has steel wire ropes for barriers that are used to support canvas panels from floor to railing, which provide a sense of privacy and keep you from falling off the roof. In order to do the job properly, the lowest of the two steel wire ropes--about a foot high from the roof terrace "floor"--needed to be removed so that Tim could lean over the edge to nail the planks in place. It took some time to get them loosened enough--I don't have the best DIY tools, and the nuts and bolts weren't budging. Truth be told, a part of me was slightly relieved thinking the plan would not come together, until Tim changed tactics and was able to finally loosen the wire ropes and make a gap to lean over the edge, place the boards, and secure them. First mission, accomplished. Bonus? It was a lovely, sunny day; I couldn't offer much help to Tim while he tried to disengage the ropes, so I had to settle for sitting in the springtime sun, just warm enough to be comfortable.

Next we needed to place the first six-foot plank and get the first screws in well enough to hold it in place before getting them all tight to secure the board. I was slightly tentative about getting the plank in position, but it was easier than I thought--we worked together slowly to lower it in place (three stories up), and there are several inches of space where, once we gently lowered the board in position, it could rest easily without being nailed and with little danger of it falling--though trust me, I held my end in position until the first few screws were in place!

Tim had hoped to use his power drill as a power screw driver, but alas (or in my heart of hearts, whoopee) the drill bit wasn't good enough and he had to resort to using a standard screwdriver. I held the plank in place until two of the six screws were affixed--after all, the board could fall (three stories) and knock someone out, or veer left as it sailed down toward the ground to where the Peugeot was now parked and smash the windshield!!

Frankly I'm not quite sure where all this potential disaster thinking was coming from; all I knew was that my main objective in this project was to prevent anything like that from happening. So, when Tim placed the screw driver down, I cautiously moved it several inches from the edge, and when both boards were in place and he was leaning head and shoulders over the side to paint the board with waterproof stain, I kept nudging the can away from the edge. I always made sure that any screws or tools used were far enough away to not be accidentally knocked over as Tim moved across the roof (all 12 feet) to apply the stain.

Job well done, and the pigeons have apparently found a new perch. When Tim mentioned that should the pesky birds try to access their former home from the opposite side of the roof where we suspect there is a similar seven-inch gap that we could simply do the same, I said a silent prayer that they would live up to the reputation of being bird-brained and not figure that out!

My DIY lessons learned from this experience?  Well, as a homeowner it’s good to know that I have my own Handy Andy who can tackle those jobs too small for the no-job-too-small advertisers in the local paper. (I think Tim actually enjoys the little challenges now and again.)  And it was probably my fear of heights that made me envision potential disaster; I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, I just prefer my outdoor DIY to be gardening, where there is terra firma!  And while time is money, sometimes you have to JFDI. Y.

Simonized

You may recall my post on being Torbenated, trying to alleviate a nerve root irritation in my left leg. The five sessions left me, in the end, unhappy; while I always felt fine afterward, I didn't think I was making progress toward real recovery, and wanted to do more to help myself.

A few years back I had an elbow injury—a slightly violent clash with a rushing commuter as I was exiting a train and putting a rucksack on my back—and found myself going to a wonderful physiotherapist called Vicky who used a combination of acupuncture, massage, and exercise to help me fully recover, even while playing tennis. After my disappointing results with osteopathy, I thought to look her up again, only to find that the office she worked out had closed. I called my private health insurance to try to track her down, and they could not tell me where she was practising and only that she was still certified under my insurance plan. Sounding a bit exasperated as I did, the very helpful person on the other end offered to set me up—gratis for multiple sessions—with a physiotherapist through Nuffield Health.

And so I’ve been Simonized. I use the American spelling here because I’m not sure one uses that term at all in Europe; it refers to polishing with wax, as in polishing one’s car. And, I must admit, I am a far happier client. There’s still massage—that hurts, by the way, lest you think this is a pleasurable experience—which the osteopath used, but this time it feels more focused. And there is stretching—which doesn’t hurt, because if it does you’re not doing it right. And there is homework--the helping myself bit I was hoping for! My first two weeks I dutifully did my take-home exercises twice a day, and I must say I noticed a slight difference almost immediately. I still had occasional flashes of pain when I stepped down with my left foot, but the pain was less shocking and occurred less often. Having returned for a second session and giving Simon my update, I was issued more difficult and even more localised stretches, and once again I will dutifully carry these out in hope of further alleviating the pain.

I came to a realisation in chatting with Simon about my injury and other such diverse topics as philosophy (he’s a Buddhist) and cultural differences (he’s Australian), and he confirmed my suspicion: this treatment is not temporary;  it is part of a lifelong journey of keeping healthy, as Simon says, to optimise the quality of my life. There is no quick fix for what ails me; I will have to stay fit, keep on exercising, and yes, perhaps continue some stretching. I accept that, and honestly find that far more palatable than taking drugs—even Paracetamol or aspirin—which may mask the pain but not get to the root cause of the problem, ever. I like Simon because he is asking lots of questions to help provide me with guidance on how I can easily integrate wellness into my every day life without having to do things that I likely wouldn't enjoy, like core exercises or weight lifting, planning my longer-term path toward a healthy body. 

Are we a quick-fix culture? Sometimes I think we’re inclined to be less interested in treatment that requires even minimal effort, and then there are only a few who benefit from that—mostly large drug companies. I’d like to think that I’ll always fall on the other end of the spectrum—that I’ll be patient in treatment, and accept that steady progress and life-long vigilance will keep me enjoying  long walks along the seaside and relatively pain free. No matter how often I take that stroll along the Parade toward Gurnard, I always enjoy it—the scene is never quite the same, what with the boats and the wind and the tide and the colours of the sky from the sun, all painting a different picture each time I set off, making me smile, often softly, and always with a nod of gratitude for the chance to experience it.

And the Feast Goes On

A post or so ago it was all about satisfying my hunger for pizza, parmigiana, and proper bacon in my brief return to north Jersey, but that was only half the story. The latter half of our trip included yet more sampling of the local “cuisine.”

We headed south on the New Jersey Turnpike to visit with Tim’s family, which now includes my dear friend Karyn who is married to Tim’s cousin Danny. Karyn is in fact the person who unwittingly brought Tim and me together by asking me to help arrange a meet and greet with her then boyfriend Danny’s family when she came to visit me in London in 2008; the rest as they say is history!

For our South Jersey leg of the trip Tim was anticipating seeing his family, taking a trip to the Liberty Bell, having a taste of Philly known as the cheese steak, and continuing the tour of my former homes in The Garden State. Certainly the highlight was spending time with ”our” family—there was one point when we were sitting at the kitchen table in Karyn and Danny’s beautiful new home and we joked about how slightly odd it was that we were all now related, though Karyn’s brother J would have none of it! In fact J is the reason I know Karyn; years ago we all were on a trip together in Jamaica and had a wonderful time. Karyn and I stayed in touch and that has led to a wonderful friendship.

The double treat was having Aunt Ethnea and Uncle Pat—Danny’s parents, and Tim’s godmother—also staying with us. One night Uncle Pat made his famous chili—I say that because Tim still uses the same recipe he learned from Uncle Pat years ago. I must say we had a couple of lovely evenings together around the dining room table. Although Karyn and Danny had only moved a few days before, the house was in good order—I understand that Uncle Pat, having been in the US Navy and moved dozens of times, was a good part of the reason why! Poor Danny didn’t exactly know where everything was—he looked more bewildered than I did one morning as I was searching for the salt and pepper—though I suspect by now he’s opened all the cupboards and figured out where most things are.

Tim and I did take the time to go to Philadelphia so Tim could see one of the more well-known artefacts of American history. It was a lovely day, sunny and just a little cool, and there was no queue (or need for tickets) to walk through the Liberty Bell centre and take a tour of Independence Hall. I hadn’t been myself in years, and it was nice to see history from another person’s perspective—I’d not have noticed the coloured string around a bundle of legal papers in one of the rooms, but Tim picked it up instantly. To this day the barristers in England still tie case briefs in string, which I find at once quaint and slightly out of step with technology!

After our stroll through the area we headed uptown to Reading Terminal Market, with an eye toward having some lunch. We stopped by Carmen’s and watched the man behind the grill prepare a Philly cheese steak, and thought we could share one. Tim went to order while I found us a couple of stools around the square stall—the market is full of little places to buy local produce, meat, etc, and also a few places to grab a bite. Tim returned a bit overwhelmed—ordering brings so many choices (with onions, what kind of cheese, etc). The classic Philly cheese steak is made with whiz—Cheese Whiz, that bright yellow processed cheese in a jar—though Tim (wisely) opted for provolone. He also requested tomatoes, but when I wrinkled my nose at the thought of them on a cheese steak Tim asked the cook to remove them, and he did. I’m not a huge fan—it’s just one of those things you need to experience in Philadelphia “cuisine,” and it sufficed as a satisfying lunch.

We walked on en route to the Rodin Museum, one of my favourites in the area, only to find it was closed for renovation. No matter, the Philadelphia Museum of Art was just steps away and had a Van Gogh exhibit on, so it was a more than adequate second choice. Museums in the US often have a hefty entry fee—both the MoMa in NYC and the PMA asked $25—which when you’re used to simply walking in startles you (the Tates here in London by contrast are both entry-free), on top of an additional fee for special exhibits. We ponied up the cash and walked through the exhibit, which for the fee at least gave us free audio. I do enjoy Van Gogh’s work, and it was well worth the visit and the dollars.

There is one other local food favourite—the hoagie—that I’d forgotten when planning our Jersey adventure, and when  J suggested a Carmen’s Deli lunch at his new home I was delighted—Carmen’s has always been the place to go for a great sandwich, and I hadn’t had one in years.

I must say, while the hoagie was fantastic, the treat of the day was seeing J’s beautiful home, which he designed, nestled in the woods of Mullica Hill not far from where I used to live. One of the more striking features is a stone fireplace that reaches all the way up the 24-foot high ceiling, and apparently well below into the basement. It is a gorgeous place, with lots of light and air and wood and modern appliances.  I am thrilled for J that his dream house is no longer a dream, and am very impressed for his captivating, innovative design. My little twin home down the road pales in comparison, but I still took a swing by to show Tim!

Our last meal in our Jersey adventure was actually at the airport—memorable only for its price (you’re a captive audience and they know it), though the food was certainly good. While dining in the sports bar I got the chance to see a little of Jeremy Lin, all the rage in basketball at the moment owing to his Harvard pedigree and reasonably good play (apparently most people think brains and sports don’t mix), and I felt only slightly wistful at recalling my love of American sports. No matter, I’ve managed to learn enough about rugby to enjoy the game, and look forward to the remaining Six Nations matches to come!

Stuck in the Middle

I’m generally not one to attend posh dinners where most of the guests are either sailors or lawyers as I can’t speak intelligently on most related matters, but I made an exception this year to attend the Bar Yacht Club’s annual dinner. Having dined at Middle Temple Hall before, I knew what to expect of the food and wine, and having had most of Tim’s crew come through our home in Cowes during the sailing season, I was looking forward to seeing them in something other than waterproofs  and chatting about life off the water!

This year is the 75^th anniversary of the Bar Yacht Club, and the club's Admiral happens to be one of the royals, who was asked to and graciously accepted the invitation. Brush with royalty? I was happy to rush out to Debenham’s for evening dress and practise a curtsy, just in case.  In fact, I would venture to guess that most of the ~ 300 guests were not there to hear Commodore Sir Michael Briggs talk about the many different trophies he had before him, but because it was made known that a special guest would be in attendance that evening.

And what a superb evening it was—a black-tie / evening dress affair for all of us, and most of the regular crew of Coh Karek in attendance—either at Tim’s end of the table, which (ahem) happened to be at the front of the room, or down the bench just a bit with the crew of XtoSea, the boat owned by the Vice Commodore and the vessel on which Tim did most of his sailing before acquiring his Contessa.

Picture me in this:

After a quick change from work attire into my purple evening dress, Tim (looking resplendent in black tie after his own quick change at chambers) escorted me from my office reception to Pegasus, a bar just steps away from Middle Temple Hall. The bar  is usually filled with barristers and solicitors; this evening it was complimented by a bevy of lovely ladies in posh frocks and men looking very smart in black, sipping champagne and chatting away on what we’d been doing since the last time we were together. It was the first time in a long while we’d seen some of our friends, and certainly the first time we’d all been in the same room in ages—we were 17 in all, though one couple closely related to Tim were stuck in a taxicab on Oxford Street whilst the champagne poured for the rest of us!

I am always a bit in awe, a bit thrilled by the ceremony of events held at Middle Temple—the grand pronouncements, the rapping on the floor with a tall rod several times to call us to order, the toast “to the Queen”, etc. I might also add that I am and also quite fond of the food and wine selection at Middle Temple; I’ve come to understand that the Inns of Court spare little expense on certain pleasures.

The hall, dating back to the 16^th century, is laid out bench style, with long rows down the length of the hall; the main table at the front of the hall stands across them. Behind the main table the wall is filled with portraits of many royals including Queen Elizabeth I, who is said to have dined there many times during her reign (which ended in 1603). The hall itself is 101 feet long and 41 feet wide; to say it is impressive is an understatement.

Shakespeare fans will know that Twelfth Night was first performed there in 1602.As an American I simply love England for its history, reaching back longer than America has existed.

 I’ll temporarily bore you with a few details from the menu—gravalax with a seafood timbale followed by filet of beef with a confit of oxtail, mango and passion fruit brulee (just one of three desserts), petit fours, cheese, and more. It was all delicious, and as expected the wines perfectly complemented each course. I was most impressed with the Chateau Lafitte Premiers Cotes de Bordeaux 2009—that year being one of the greatest in Bordeaux history, it worked a treat with the beef and was in fact the only wine that I gratefully accepted a second pour; while the others were equally lovely, including the Louis Latour 2009 Macon Lugny Les Genievres, I have always sided with the reds.

The piece de resistance was neither food nor wine; it was the speech by The Admiral, His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, that stayed with us long after the plates and glasses were cleared. I truly felt privileged to be inches away from Prince Philip as he was escorted past our table—all of us standing at attention as he smiled at as many of us as he could. During his speech he joked about how he is generally invited to such events only when things are going horribly wrong, and how he was happy to forgo golfing outings to his second son (Andrew, former husband of Sarah). He looked well, though a bit shorter than I’d imagined—he is said to be six foot tall (to the Queen’s five feet four inches); perhaps with my own heels and standing tall I was merely appearing taller than my usual five feet five!

Tim, as a member of the Bar Yacht Club committee, had the honour of greeting HRH and escorting him through the rooms within Middle Temple before dinner. He said the Duke seemed in fine form, and while Tim talked rather nonchalantly about it, I suspect he was chuffed as cheeseballs to have had the opportunity to get up close and personal with HRH.

Cowes on the 25^th of July as part of the celebration of her Diamond Jubilee. My calendar is already marked as out of office for that day when I hope for another glimpse at royalty. How lucky can you get?