I hate Luton, even at the best of times. There’s an old saying: “If God wanted to give England an enema, he’d stick the tube in Luton”. Nothing is closer to the truth. I lived in one of Luton’s suburbs for the first three years of my independent adult life and spent the entire time trying to save so that I could leave as soon as possible and live elsewhere.

However, sometimes one must bite the bullet and do unpleasant things for the sake of expediency. Such was the case today. Billy Bailey needed his first annual service (largely to maintain the warranty) and, unfortunately, the caravan dealer is in Luton.

My unpleasant task was made even more unpleasant by the fact that the weather today was absolutely dreadful. Nonetheless, I bravely set forth to hitch-up Billy and drag him down into Mordor to see the caravan doctor for his check-up. My mood lightened a little as I realized that I had beaten the tarmac monsters to it and should be able to escape before the gauntlet had been set up. After straining the memory to remember how to hitch-up and tow a caravan, we were off. The journey was filled with traffic, much of which consisted of lorries and spray from the incessant rain.

(Just why our roads are so full at 9:45 AM is completely beyond me. They can’t all be sales people, for Heaven’s sake – we don’t make anything to sell. Why aren’t they in an office adding up columns of numbers or just making tea for other people adding up columns of numbers – anything to pay taxes and fill the government coffers? But I digress …)

Eventually we made it through the spraying, snarling traffic, Billy was delivered for his doctor’s appointment, and I returned home for a well earned coffee. At about 2:30 PM the doctor phoned and announced that Billy was ready to be discharged and could return home. So, off I went to brave Luton for the second time. I decided to go just a single junction on the M1 – the main route south towards London, albeit 40 miles north of said capital. Between junctions 12 and 11 the traffic becomes stationary no less than three times. It’s unbelievable – 2:30 in the afternoon and there’s so many people around not in offices that the father of all British motorways is constipated. Breathing a sigh of relief I eventually arrive to collect Billy and, after shelling out a princely £203 (you can get a car serviced for less) we’re off back to the field.

(Incidentally, part of the £203 was for a new set of wheel nuts. It seems that we are now so green that old ones have to be discarded in favour of new ones. How good is that for the environment? But I digress again …)

Now the tarmac monsters have finished resurfacing and gone and Billy is soon back in his field, albeit dirty from a journey in the filthy weather. I grabbed the book and checked the service book only to discover a lack of dealership stamp proclaiming that the relevant required service had, in fact, been carried out. Arghh!

In something of a foul mood, I drove back into that nightmare they call Luton yet again to get Billy’s service book stamped only to be told, “they don’t take any notice of stamps these days, it’s the invoice that counts”. Double arghh! Having made the unpleasant journey I insisted on a stamp nonetheless and now find myself in the midst of rush hour, having wasted the entire afternoon driving back and forth, fighting my way home for a well-earned dry martini. OK, I admit it, two well-earned dry martinis.

Driving into Luton twice, even when it is necessary, is bad enough but three times is totally unbearable.

No, nothing to do with flowers splashing the countryside with a new flush of colour or birds excitedly pairing up for the breeding season. The first real sign of spring is when caravans that have been stuck in Europe’s northern climes over winter come out of hibernation. (The really smart ones migrate to southern Europe or even North Africa for the winter.)

Ours, Billy Bailey, was rudely awoken yesterday when Carol and I went to his field to remove his blanket in readiness for his first year’s service booked for the following day. Getting the cover on several months ago was something of a struggle but was successful largely due to the assistance of our friends Keith and Marlene, visiting from Richmond, Virginia. This time, we were on our own and set off with some trepidation for the unveiling ceremony.

As drove into the village where Billy is stored, what do we see? Not content with blocking us in for road resurfacing work recently, now it was Billy’s turn to be cut off by the tarmac monsters; “road closed” and “diversion” signs littered the place. We were beginning to feel victimized. After a detour of a couple of miles, we got into Billy’s field and started removing the blanket straps. Then it was out with the poles to raise the blanket and unwrap him. Success! Somewhat unexpectedly, it was a doddle. Let’s hope refitting it after the service goes as smoothly. The biggest problem was folding the blanket small enough to cram into the car to remove.

The next task will be running the gauntlet of the tarmac monsters to get to the service appointment. I’d better buy a few gallons of tar remover. 🙂

Tracing family history is made a little easier by dealing with a less than common surname like “Curd”. At least, it was less than common until I traced my roots back to Buxted near Uckfield in Sussex where there was apparently a plethora of Curds. Indeed, there were so many concurrent Curd families here that I’m surprised it wasn’t renamed Curdfield, Sussex.

In trying to go back beyond the early 1800s just to put a bit more flesh on the family bones, I did a very generic search on Curd using a Mormon family ancestry site and what pops up? A christening:

31st May, 1711 in Leighton Buzzard, Beds – John Curd (father: John Curd, mother: Isabel).

I’ve been here before, several times, it seems. 😮

(Yes, I do know there’s an “L” apparently missing – I assure you it was intentional.)

On Tuesday this week, Carol got introduced by our neighbour, Paul, to some on-line resources for researching family trees. She had been interested in doing some family research for some time. I, on the other hand, have always felt myself to be much less interested in family history and was just happy to let her get on with it. Apart from an apparent lack of interest, I was busy walking backwards and forwards to town sorting out the car and my teeth. So, back Carol trots (eventually) and spends the remaining part of the day completely engrossed in her lap top rummaging around old family bones.

Wednesday is Carol’s Greensand Trust volunteers day and would be out most of the day doing good works but, before leaving, she gave me me a quick introduction on the use of the on-line archives, too – just in case. More importantly, she told me how to get into the subscription she had set up for searching. It seems that the old census information (ten-yearly from 1841 to 1901) is now available on-line together with a whole load of hatched, matched and dispatched records.

So, just out of interest, I searched for me and, low and behold – absolutely nothing! Disillusioned at my non-existance and after running Carol round to her meeting with “the volunteers”, I bumped into Paul on the driveway and told him the disturbing news that I didn’t exist and that he must have been talking to Scotch mist. Shortly, after a reviving Java, he was in and driving my computer running back over the male Curd line of the family (minus me, of course, ‘cos I don’t exist) and throwing up some interesting connections. Fortunately, Curd being an unusual name, this was relatively easy, if you’ll pardon the pun. It became evident that the census details are the most useful and, since 1851, interesting in showing the relationships of everyone within a household, ages and places of birth. (The 1841 was no more than a list of names, really). Here were fathers-in-law living with (presumably) sons-in-law, 18 year old folks lodging having moved away from home for work, daughters in service, and so on.

I spent the rest of the day glued to the computer putting some flesh on the bones of my family before being able to challenge my mother as to my provenance. Some years ago whilst working at an IBM installation near Portsmouth, I was confused with a “John R. Curd” who happened to be contracting at the same installation. I had soon traced the Curd line back to Sussex and began suspecting that he and I were related somewhere from the Sussex connection. That’s for the future, though.

On Thursday I was eager to return to sifting through the records and find some details about my maternal side of the family. Female lines are much more difficult owing to our bizarre habit of wives adopting their husband’s family name. Fortunately, my mother is still with us and can help with some family details. Now she’s sucked in as well wondering about connections on her side of the fence.

I really didn’t expect to have any interest in genealogy at all. I’m not feeling any particularly strong affinity with the long dead but the piecing together of a puzzle is fascinating – all the the Sherlocking around in the census records does seem to hold my attention and it’s a useful pastime when blocked in by roadworks and the weather sucks.

We’re having a little “fun” this week since the local council has our escape route, Plantation Road, closed for four days, Monday thru’ Thursday, for resurfacing work. It’s not completely closed, access is still mostly possible, but it does require some timing to get out and back in again. I had chosen Tuesday to have our Mazda MOT tested and me serviced. (For American readers: MOT = Ministry Of Transport test, a.k.a. safety inspection.) In my case, my service was to be a visit to the dentist for my first real filling since leaving university. Scary spiders!

Mazzie was booked in for 1:30 PM but I realized that I couldn’t guarantee escaping at the appointed hour so I got up early and left just before 8:00 AM, when the workmen start blocking the road. Having dropped the car off, it was about a two mile walk back home for a desperately needed coffee.

Once the coffee had circulated around my system, 9:30 was upon us and it was time to leave for another two mile walk back into town where my dentist was waiting eagerly, Black-and-Decker in hand, to reduce the amount of dentine in my mouth. We’re clearly paying dentists far too much; I had a one hour appointment but the procedure must have taken only about 30 minutes. Knock ’emselves out, they don’t. Anyhow, she was very gentle with me and I was soon off with the left hand side of my mouth numb, to buy some provisions prior to the two mile walk back home.

Sense having returned, to my mouth, at least, if not the world, the phone rang announcing that good ol’ Mazzie had passed its MOT test and we could swan around with the roof down legally for another year. So, back on with the somewhat overheated walking shoes for the now very familiar two mile wander back to town to collect the car, run the gauntlet of the roadworks and get back home.

It seemed like a busy day but it was pretty good exercise.

Imagine my surprise when a new entry turned up in our Guestb00k from Michael Borse, a former San Francisco office Walker colleague of more years ago than I care to remember – probably about 10 years. Imagine my surprise turn to amazement when his entry told me he was working this week in glorious (?) downtown Milton Keynes, a mere 10 miles from our house. We had lost contact but Mike had spotted a signpost to Leighton Buzzard (not a name readily forgotten), Googled us, discovered our web site and signed the Guestb00k. (Aside: I can’t help but think it a little sad that an American gets to visit England on a business trip only to get stationed in Milton Keynes, possible the least British, most American town in the country.)

We were soon back in contact and I quickly arranged to collect Mike from his hotel so we could catch up over dinner chez nous on Thursday evening. It can be difficult talking to some folks in something of a reunion situation, especially as life has moved on quite a way for both parties, but not so with Mike. The years since we last met seemed to dissolve and disappear; it was as though we’d never lost touch (for my part, anyway). ‘T was a grand evening. Mike lucked out because Carol was on kitchen duty since I’d been decorating at mater’s flat for the week. He timed his trip to perfection. We must maintain the contact now that we have a second chance.

I’m really glad I invested the time and effort developing our Guestb00k. It’s paid terrific dividends. 🙂

As a part of my previously reported Novamura Nightmare, I found it necessary to drain and remove the radiator in the bedroom I was decorating chez mother. Not only had the previous occupant used the accursed, unstrippable Novamura, but it had been put up, correctly – behind the radiator and its brackets.

Today was reassembly day and, surprisingly, the radiator went back much more readily than I at first expected. Having tightened the plumbing attachments it was soon time to refill it, heart-in-mouth as is traditionally the case, praying for a leak-free assembly. Opening the bleed valve and the expected gurgling began as water started filling the radiator – and stopped. Make sure all the taps are fully open. They were, but more water steadfastly refused to flow into the radiator.

Maybe there’s an air-lock in the system. Since it’s a combination boiler (provides instant hot water and the heating), I opened the hot water taps to see if that might help. Not only did this not help but I didn’t get any hot water from the boiler which was refusing to ignite. Great! Mater’s returning on Friday to a cold flat with no hot water. Whoops!

She had recently had this newfangled combination boiler fitted so I called the plumber who had put it in. It seems that combination boilers are a sealed system and draining even a part of it down stops it working in a failsafe kind of way. There’s no traditional header tank. There is a procedure to follow which opens a valve to the mains water supply to refill it, pressurize it to 1.5 – 2 bar (indicated by a gauge on the front of the boiler), then shut it back off from the mains again. Since I had no idea where mater had hidden the instructions, the nice plumber man agreed to meet me there at about 4:30 PM and do it for me.

Joy, all was well and heating returned. Maybe now the wallpaper will actually dry out properly.

The combination boiler is actually terrific and ideal for a flat since no precious space is wasted by tanks etc., What a palaver, though, not to mention cardiac-arrest inducing panic as sons think they’ve broken their mother’s expensive new heating system.

Do you remember it? Novamura – the wall covering where you paste the wall not the “paper”. I used it once in my very first house (£9,705.00, if I remember correctly – the house, that is, not the Novamura). It felt a little like extremely fine polystyrene and was quite fragile so care was needed when brushing it onto the wall to exclude air bubbles. The point was that “normal” wallpaper expands when pasted; the drops get wider by about ½ inch, hence the need for pasting and soaking. (Aside: I’ve never been able to work out why the paper doesn’t shrink back to its original size when it dries out but …) Novamura was “inert” and didn”t change size, so the wall could be pasted instead of the “paper”. I haven’t seen it at all recently and had completely forgotten about it.

Yesterday, since my mother is away this week, I started decorating her second bedroom. First day: strip the existing wallpaper. What a rude awakening. The walls were covered with Novamura. I’d hung it once, many years ago, but never stripped it. It is very light and quite fragile and, apparently, sticks like a limpet. It is also completely impervious to water so you can’t dissolve the paste beneath by soaking. Neither is there a backing paper from which the surface can be peeled like modern vinyl wall coverings. A phoned request for internet support to my buddy, Carol, revealed that other poor unfortunate folks had been having problems stripping the accursed stuff also. Reports included one poor fellow using a steam stripper which, “just melted the Novamura to the wall”. Yikes! At least I don’t use a steam stripper.

I did discover, by trial and error, that there did seem to be something of a grain and, if I pulled from the correct corner (top right, as it turned out) , I could get reasonable strips of the damn stuff off dry. It was, however, a deeply unpleasant and tedious experience. Hopefully, Novamura has gone the same way as crimplene suits.

Capital punishment should be re-instated for the folks who developed a wall covering that so steadfastly resists being stripped. 😐