Falling Sky

The Big Payback

The Payback - James Brown

I'll keep this brief because it'll only be of interest to a few people (plus ca change?) and I'd hate it to come across as crowing about a rare instance of good fortune - BUT! If it helps inspire anybody reading to do the same and get a similar result, it's definitely worthwhile.

Now, a few years ago BC (Before Chatiry), I took out a loan from Egg to, as they say, consolidate a bunch of different debts, the amount being an eye-watering five figures. I don't regret the loan itself, it was necessary at the time, though I do regret a lot of the spending that led to that debt (It was all too easy back then to think I'd always be in debt, so what was the harm in adding a bit more? Berk!) but such is the luxury of hindsight. However, in taking the loan out I was strongly advised to take out Payment Protection Insurance (PPI), an extra cost on top of the loan and interest that theoretically covers payment if you're unable to pay due to ill health, unemployment, that sort of thing - the implication from the loan advisor was that the loan application would not be approved by Egg without me agreeing to some level of PPI, so I did. I got the loan and began the 72 monthly payments to clear it in 2012.

Time passed. I met the Missus and she introduced me to Martin Lewis' MoneySavingExpert website and weekly newsletter (which every UK-based reader should be signed up to, it's a national treasure). A year or so ago I start taking notice of part of the MSE site devoted to reclaiming - initially it was the bank charges section that caught my eye, but then I read about PPI reclaiming. Here's Mr Lewis giving a summary of the situation...

So PPI wasn't essential after all? Hrmph!

MSE's video and pieces on PPI reclaiming sounded as though it could be relevant to my own loan, but I was initially nervous about doing anything in case it somehow affected my credit score or would cause the lender to call in the debt early. However, such fears are utterly unfounded - as MSE notes, the very least that can happens is that your claim is rejected - and the MSE forums contained more and more examples of people successfully reclaiming against Egg for similar PPI. The MSE site contains straightforward form letters and leads you through the whole reclaiming process, so I figured - why not? It sounded like my case applied as an example of mis-selling, but I didn't know whether I had a successful claim or how long it would take. So, having requested a copy of the original loan agreement from Egg, a few weeks ago I sent a letter generated from the MSE template covering the circumstances of the loan and asking for a refund of the PPI on the loan.

Today I got my first full response from Egg. And it's a complete and total refund of the PPI that I've paid for over all these years, a total sum of over £2,300. Honestly, over two grand. I honestly thought I would have to fight for this, but it would seem the guilty parties have learned it's better to just 'fess up and pay out. I've ploughed it all into the loan amount itself, bringing the date it's completely paid off that much closer than before. And if I'd never seen the MSE website I wouldn't even have known I'd been mis-sold anything in the first bloody place, much less know that I could claim in back!

Martin Lewis is clearly doing his best to get this information out there on television and newspapers, but I suspect there's still a huge number of loan customers out there who were pretty much forced into taking out PPI that they didn't want or need, unaware that they're due every penny they've paid for it back. So if you, or anyone you know, has taken out a loan in the last seven years and there's PPI on it that's not wanted - take action. There's nothing to lose and a potentially huge amount to gain. All it takes is a letter.

The Finger Must Flow

Fingertips - Bill Doggett

Back from the WEMP after being congratulated for my tremendous peak flow which is back up to where it ought to be (550-610, apparently) so that's the lungs settling back to normality. A few more days winding down the steroids, then a swine flu jab next week and that should be the end of medical-related postings here for quite some time, knock-on-virtual-wood.

What does a boot drawn on MS Paint have to do with that? Well now, that there picture above wasn't drawn on MS Paint, or any other desktop app for that matter. Going through the recent feed for Urlesque I was pointed towards a post on Today In Art on artwork created on iPhones/iPod Touchs. And they're pretty bloody impressive, especially when you consider they were created on a 3.5" diagonal screen... with fingertips. Intrigued, I had a look at one of the applications listed in said post, Sketchbook Mobile from Autodesk, they of the mighty Maya. As well as the full version (priced at £1.79) there's a free version, Sketchbook MobileX, which I downloaded and installed on the touchy Spod just before heading out to the Doc this afternoon. Sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by the poorly-but-definitely-not-swine-fluey, I decide to give it a spin. The instructions and controls are simply and effectively demonstrated, allowing you to get started almost immediately.

Now, drawing with my finger is something I don't think I've done since I was a toddler making shapes in sand and it's a peculiar feeling, especially after being so used to using pencils, pens, brushes, some kind of interface between me and the surface. So a bit of a mental shift is required to get into drawing on this, and to be honest I'd feel happier with a stylus or something similar. Having said that, the lack of stylus means this really is utterly portable - have finger, will draw. I first had a go at drawing a bin but immediately arsed it up, very difficult to pull off the smooth oval curves, so I erased that brief monstrosity with the briefest of clicks and surreptitiously stared around for something else to draw, settling on a bloke's boot-clad foot. The result, which must have taken about 5-10 minutes, is above.

As a sketch, it's crude compared to what I'd expect doing the same with pencil & paper, but for a first start on a new drawing medium I'm pretty happy with it and curious to see just how far I can take this app, considering the work others have already produced. The use of colour was particularly enjoyable and I do rather like the effect I got of the folds on the blue jeans. Most of all, it was pleasantly surprising how easily I slipped into that sketching mindset when drawing, despite the odd medium - made me realise how much I missed it. Something like Sketchbook Mobile could never replace a proper sketchbook, but the sheer portability of it (I'm very rarely without my touchy Spod) will hopefully encourage me to have a sketch at any opportune time, safe in the knowledge that anything particularly shit can simply be deleted. An empty touchscreen isn't half as scary as an empty page.

(MP3 taken from Funky16Corners Radio v.59 - Hammond Madness!)

It's Time To Laugh Again

Breathe Some New Life - Paul Westerberg

Hello! Just a wee yelp to assure the world that I have not come to a horrible respiratory-based ending following the previous post. Bless those mood-shifting steroids, they seemed to do their job after a few days of going nowhere and I was able to get back into work today. The morning was tricky, found it hard to focus my thoughts and couldn't figure whether this was a steroid side-effect or just a brain dusty from a week away from the staggeringly convoluted work I do. Whatever it was, my lunchtime soup seemed to make it all go away with remarkable speed - Moroccan Tomato & Chickpea soup, made from this recipe with some roasted tomato passata of our own, top notch - and I wombled through the rest of today feeling much like my normal self again, with barely a whisper of a wheeze. Doesn't feel like lung capacity is quite back up to normal levels yet, and I'll be going to the doctor tomorrow to figure out how to get over the last 7 days and any ways to lower the risk of it happening again, though I guess it's going to be with me for life one way or t'other.

Still, I feel safe in watching things that make me laugh out loud again, having been scared off them after damn near going into a coughing fit listening to Adam Buxton's impressions of life at home with Brian Blessed & Simon Callow last week. I was particularly afraid of what The Thick Of It might do to me, so we've yet to have seen the most recent episode - dare I watch it tonight? I think I do!

(Why do I feel like I've just tempted fate with a huge red flag? Inhaler at the ready, just to be sure.)

Wheezy Does It

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What's an asthmatic to do?  For the first time since May last year, I've had a serious bout of breathing trouble - not as bad as then, since I took action this time before my voice vanished, but still enough to warrant a steroid burst of mood-shifting drugs which I'll be on for the next few days. I'd probably be in a constant massive grump if not for the constant love and care of The Missus. As a result, I was off sick on Thursday and Friday and have continued to be wheezy all weekend.

So it's Monday tomorrow and here's my worry. On the one hand, I don't want to take any more time off work sick, knowing the hassle that would follow, especially as my workplace uses the 'Bradford factor' for sick leave monitoring. On t'other, I don't want to go to work and pick up H1N1 from one of my many sneezing colleagues while my lungs are weak, ending up in hospital. On t'other other hand, I'd hate to appear like some hysterical hypercondriac who's been swept up in the swine flu media frenzy. On t'other other other hand, going to the GP last week made it clear just how worried doctors et al are about people classed as 'at risk' picking up H1N1, hence the roll-out of vaccine to us risky types this month, as did Fergus Walsh's recent blog post and advisory Q&A from Asthma UK.

Infuriatingly, I was due to get the H1N1 vaccine this coming Wednesday, but can't whilst on these here steroids, so I need to get better before getting the jab. And my worry this evening is - if I go to work pre-vaccine, still wheezy, am I leaving myself unnecessarily vulnerable to infection, given the risk that infection carries for my feckless lungs and the apparent propensity for others in my open-plan workplace to come into work while ill? Or should I just man up, stop fretting, get on with work as normal and hope for the best? It's rather surprising to actually find myself in the position of dreading swine flu after months of basically dismissing it, but this pre-vaccine period seems to present a window of opportunity that gives me the fear. If I didn't have asthma, I wouldn't be fussed, but as it is... well, it's all a bit unsettling.

Scene From A Tollcross Bus Stop

Well, that was odd.

So there I am, waiting at a bus stop in Tollcross an hour ago, heading home after stopping off in town to get the usual saucy hit from my dealer, listening to Fuck Buttons' new album (stompingly good it is too) at a respectfully low volume. Three people in the queue - lady in (at a guess) her late 30's, old bloke around late 60's, me.  Old bloke looks at me, moves forward and gestures in a neutral way that suggests conversation.

I pop the headphones out. "Yes sir?" (respectful as always)

Waves a pointy finger in the general direction of my head. "What's that in your ears? What are you listening to?"

Quickly realise that naming the band in question would be a bad idea - "Uh, music."

Eyes get wider. "What are you doing that for?  Take them out!"

"Um, I'm just listening to some music, I've had a long day at work"

Turns away disgusted.  One minute later, turns around.  "Why've you got those things in your ears?  What are you listening to?"

"Music.  Just some music"

A minute passes.  Out of nowhere, he says: "Alright, keep calm, keep calm!"

Befuddled at what prompted this: "I am calm."

Looks increasingly exasperated.  "Why are... why are you listening to music?  Fuckin' pathetic!"

My eyebrows hit the ceiling. "I like listening to music, I've been in an office for ten hours, I think I've earned this."

He's hooked on the fuckin' pathetic meme now and jabs pointy-pointy in the direction of my right headphone. "Listening to music. Why are... och, that's fuckin' pathetic that is. Fuckin' pathetic.

(Let's be super clear here, this wasn't from having the music blaring out from the headphones - the volume was low, and even if it had been at top whack the traffic noise rumbling past would've drowned it out.)

I shrug, figure this isn't going anywhere, pop my headphones back in.  This increases his frustration and I can hear him over the bleepy scronk I'm listening to.  "That's just... och, fuckin' pathetic. Fuckin' pathetic" Keeps staring at me. I ignore him.

Receiving no further response from me, he turns to the lady, points in my general direction. "Y'see that... listening to music... fuckin' pathetic that" clearly expecting agreement.  This is not what he gets.

"No it's not, he's just listening to some music and you're picking on him, he's not hurting anyone and you're swearing like that... I don't mind him listening to his music but I do mind you swearing like that."

Oh crumbs. "Wuh... It's... listening to music..."

"He's just listening to music, stop being rude."  Thanks lady!  I'm still listening to my music to show I will not be stopped by this oppression.

Man to the lady: "Are you from 'round here?"

What?  "What? From Edinburgh? Yes I am from Edinburgh, and if you're not you should go back from where you came."

Oh lawd.  Still no bus.  It's only 20 minutes walk.  And as my very presence appears to be causing intergenerational social collapse on the streets of the capital, I turn on my heels and stride away, imagining that in some bizarre way maybe this looks like I've been victorious, rather than driven away from a bus stop by the hassle of a sweary old geezer. I wasn't upset by it or anything, it was just annoying in a bizarre, 'is this actually happening' sort of way.

So away I stride. Look at me, world, I think, I'm walking! I'm healthy! And I'm listening to music! Considering the time that passed before the bus I was waiting for finally overtook me, leaving was the best move, but in retrospect I would love to know how things turned out, to have thanked the lady for sticking up for me, and delivered some of the witty, cutting remarks that only came to mind five minutes after I'd walked away. And maybe tell him exactly what I was listening to.

Fowey: In A Beautiful Place Out In The Country

Boards of Canada: In A Beautiful Place Out In The Country

Finally, after Cheltenham, St Austell, St Ives and Perranuthnoe, here's the last honeymoon post, four months after the event.

(Incidentally, this afternoon I'd typed a great long post for this that took a couple of hours to put together - only for Typepad to inexplicably lose and autosave over the top of it just now, which is immensely frustrating as I have no idea how it happened. The safest move seems to be writing the text of the entry offline on Ecto instead, but I had assumed the Typepad system was solid enough to rely upon. This suggests otherwise. Anyway...)

We'd spent a week staying two nights a time at three luxurious yet different B&B/hotels, allowing us to see different areas of Cornwall despite being reliant on public transport and our own little legs, but by this point we'd done all our touristing and just wanted to spend some time with each other, the countryside and not much else, far from the gibbering crowds, staying in the kind of place that normally we would absolutely love to go to but wouldn't be able to justify the cost. And so, Badgers Hollow.

Badgers Hollow is part of Coriander Cottages, based within walking distance of Fowey but far enough away that coach parties are but a distant memory. It's an old cider mill that's been superbly renovated into an environmentally kosher open plan holiday cottage, complete with solar panels, wood burning stove (sadly we had no excuse to light it, the weather remaining gorgeous for our whole stay there, but its presence makes the thought of a winter stay most attractive), fleece insulation (ditto on the winter stay), a jacuzzi bath big enough for two and a ultra-tech kitchen with appliances more intelligent than us, full of the sort of things that we'd have in our dream home, if only we could make it come true. But the location was the icing on an already perfect cake - the view from the front door looked like this...

And the view from bed:

Why yes, those are my feet. Not that we would often leave the curtains and patio doors open whilst in bed, but even if we did the only neighbours likely to see us were horses and ducks - oh aye, there was that pheasant that popped round one day. There are others staying in the adjoining barn and the main farm area, but it's arranged in such a way that if it's solitude you want, solitude you get, and so we did. We went for self-catering - while you can choose to have B&B rather than self-catering, it felt better to spend our time there living entirely at our own pace - besides, another week of meaty cooked breakfasts could have left me looking decidedly portly. There were some basics waiting for us when we got to Badgers Hollow - cereal, milk, tea, juice, local meat, fruit & veg - much of which lasting our whole time there, and there were a couple of lovely shops in Fowey itself where we could buy ingredients for dinner. Fortuitously, we were there slap bang in the middle of Cornish asparagus season, along with juicy strawberries and sweet little new potatoes, so my dinner usually looked something like this:

And it was absolutely delicious, as much a pleasure as eating at the Victoria Inn. The asparagus needed the barest of boils, that juicy taste well worth the peculiar smell that would follow, while the bacon and sausages from local butcher Kittows were easily a match for Puddledub and Crombies, washed down with whatever Cornish beer had taken my fancy that day:

We would have dinner (and breakfast, and lunch if we weren't elsewhere) sat outside either on the terrace or balcony with no soundtrack but birdsong, the random whinny of a horse and, now and then, highly aggrieved quacking from the female ducks as the mallards attempted their rather disturbing form of breeding, comically failing at every attempt from what we could tell, leading to their own aggrieved quacking as they walked away from the duck pond dejectedly, while an osprey would routinely arc through the sky, divebombing nests. The sun blazed down, a gentle breeze would blow across the field, multitudes of bunnies would appear in the neighbouring field at dusk, we were in our own little heaven.

Still, we did leave the cottage now and then, mostly to saunter down to Fowey, once to go on an enjoyably gradient-filled walk to a wee village, Golant. Fowey itself is a pleasant enough fishing village, though it feels as though it's tourism not fishing that keeps it going. Certainly not as annoying as St Ives, the amount of traffic winding through the thin streets could still be irritating and we tried to avoid later times in the day when it got busier. A pleasant enough place to visit, but a bit too busy for our tastes, especially with Badgers Hollow waiting for us - it was a relief to know we had that to go back to. We kept coming back to the Dwelling House, an excellent cafe (not that you'd know it from the website) with a particularly good line in cakes and (naturally) cream teas:

Yum! Their fish salad platter maintained the quality, locally caught fish served up with (that word again) locally grown salad, and no doubt we'd have eaten there even more if Badgers Hollow didn't keep calling us back. Food For Thought served a perfectly fine paella, prawn eyes beadying back up at me, but felt a bit too busy and polished for our overly-discerning ways, though their ice-cream stand was a tasty blessing. Pinky Murphys, on the other hand, was much more fun, full of genuine character and good nosh to back it up, while the location meant that those who drove straight into the centre of Fowey and never left it remained oblivious to its charms - we were particularly glad for their wi-fi connection to catch up on wedding snaps and emails. The aforepictured Bird shop is full of kids stuff, the kind of thing we nod approvingly at (stripes! wood! Moomins!) and White Doll Arts featured some lovely simple pottery, which we bought, and a floofy cat, which we didn't. And I could hardly visit a coastal town like Fowey without partaking in a fish supper, courtesy of The Other Place (I commend their restraint at not going for 'Plaice' there). There were a couple of restaurants that looked delicious for lunch - most notable Restaurant Nathan Outlaw - but without vegetarian choices on the lunch menu they were no good for us. A pity, but we probably would have felt utterly out of our depth, honeymoon or not, and when the alternative was home-cooked goodness eaten overlooking rolling hills as the evening sun gradually dipped behind the trees for a tiny fraction of the price... well, I can live with that.

It really was a little slice of perfection, as much as our week in Stromness last year, a brief step into a different life. With no mobile or internet signal to intrude, we were free to enjoy our own company, sometimes reading, sometimes just soaking up the gloriousness of it all, decompressing from the hyperchaos of wedding preparation, talking about the future and getting used to having a ring rattling around on my finger. It's hard to imagine any B&B topping Ednovean Farm, so self-catering was the only way we could improve on that experience, and so it did, ending the honeymoon on a gentle high. Living up to all the expectations we'd had, we couldn't have hoped for any better and we'd gladly go back (if finances would ever allow). Cornwall may not be the distant, far-flung location that other couples go for, but for us it was ideal - train-travelled, surrounded by countryside and coastline, very well fed, with the time and the peace of our own little world - a perfect honeymoon.

Not Dead, Merely Sneezing

With barely a peep here for a month now, I thought I should pop my virtual head over the virtual parapet and say AAAHHCHOOPLABURGH. Falling Sky's not been left in the lurch or anything, it's just that September was a particularly stuffed month, including but not limited to an absolute lorryload of preparation for a climate change/agriculture job interview (which I didn't get), looking after a poorly missus (who, just as she was getting better, had a disagreeable encounter with the Magimix) and then getting all snotted up myself, starting at precisely 8pm last Sunday.  Never has a cold started so suddenly - one minute I was tip-top, the next I was bunged-up beyond all description.  Who knew colds could be so efficient?  It almost took away from the dizzying pleasure of watching a large green New Zealand parrot joyfully hump Mark Carwardine's head.

Thankfully this little rhinovirus hasn't moved into flu territory (I'll be getting the vaccine for that next week, prime blog fodder if ever there was) but even so it's something a wheezy old todger like myself has to watch out for since it can trigger off an asthma attack - nuts to that - or lead the way for something altogether more grim, such as A MAN EATING SHARK.  Still, it's bloody annoying, since I'm spending all this time at home yet with no energy to actually watch something, read something, write something beyond a Facebook status.  If it wasn't for catching up on In Our Time and This American Life podcasts over the last few days I'd have gone knee-gnawingly barmy.  Feeling a bit better today but still pretty listless, snuffly and congested in the frontal noggin, at least I can now go beyond a sentence or two and type full - gasp! - paragraphs.  Progress... but even as I type that I feel my eyelids get heavy and reckon I should go and have a little lie down.  Dearie me!  The sooner this goes, the sooner I can see Up, catch up on a whole wodge of emails and letters and generally blow the dust off this here site.  Until then, ever wondered what a sneeze looks like in slow-motion?  Wonder no more!

Just Married!

Well, something rather good happened yesterday - actually, it was the happiest day of my life, without question (and I hope you enjoyed the tunes). There's sooooooooo much to be told about it all, about the wonderful people who helped it all come together, the awesome drink & food (catch a peek at the cake here), the locations, the music, the words... but, as The Missus notes, today we are both exceedingly tired and on the verge of honeymoonyness. So it'll all be pretty quiet here for the next fortnight, but expect photos and posts a-plenty when we're back. Until then, thank you very very very very very much to everyone who came along and helped make it such an absolutely brilliant day that ended up exceeding all my hopes. And, more than anything, thanks to my beautiful wife for becoming my beautiful wife. YEAH!

Walk, Run, Jog - It's All Good

A little heads-up to point you in the direction of my sister's sponsorship page for the Race for Life in Glasgow, raising money for Cancer Research UK.  There's no finer cause you could support and Kath is well on her way to meeting a target of raising £200 - pop on over and send a few more quid towards the leading funder of cancer research in the UK.  Go sister!  Go sister!

Walk, Don't Walk

Oh good grief. Who do you think would be hapless - nay, stupid - enough to strain a calf muscle by running across a busy street with his wedding just round the corner? Arrrgh! Idiot boy here did just such a thing on Monday while en route to the train station for an afternoon walk along the North Berwick coast with The Lass, darting out stupidly close to a moving bus outside Waverley station. Wasn't hit, despite my carelessness, but in my startled rush to reach the other side of the road I came down hard and wonky on my left leg, partially buckling right there. Adrenaline and a desire not to decorate the front of a bus got me across the road quickly enough, at which point the panic vanished, revealing the stabby pain beneath. Down to the station I hobbled - and since Burd already had the tickets we still went out to the seaside, when in retrospect a quick taxi home would've been the wiser move. Having said that, the help I got from the sympathetic lady at Boots in North Berwick was much better than you'd ever hope to get in a hurried city centre shop, particularly in deciding whether asthma cancelled out using 400g ibuprofen as an anti-inflammatory (conclusion: the benefit outweighs the risk, but to keep inhaler with me constantly just in case). And since I couldn't walk much, we had cake by the seaside. Twice! Toffee cake at the Seabird Centre, carrot cake at Westgate Gallery. For medicinal purposes, you understand.

When we finally got home, judicious Internet searching identified my leg owwie as a calf muscle sprain, somewhere in the middle of the damage range. A prime candidate for RICE, but not so serious I could take sick leave from work, I've been using annual leave instead to put my foot up, apply frozen peas and fumble about with tubigrip in the hope of getting this nobbled toot bloody sweet. Annoyingly, it doesn't seem to be improving thus far, so no chance of me cutting a jig at Croila's wedding reception tomorrow, no doubt to the relief of all present.

I'm hoping that a very easy-going weekend over the next two days will give things a chance to recover and I can return to normal locomotion next week, since the prospect of hobbling down the aisle really doesn't appeal. It's the fact this was basically self-inflicted from being an impatient knob that really rankles, plus the extreme frustration at having my walking speed slowed to a crawl - not so noticeable in a gentle little seaside town, exceedingly obvious in the hustling bustling centre of Edinburgh. Four days since the initial OW! the pain seems to have focused on a smaller but more intense area halfway down the lower leg. A hot bath earlier today helped for a time but right now I'm at a loss to figure out what else I can do this weekend to heal this gammy peg. Any ideas?

Anyway, lesson learned - no more rushing out in traffic. The fact it's taken thirty-odd years for this most elementary of lessons to sink in doesn't say much for my common sense reserves, so I'll blame it on growing up in the countryside. Yeah, that works. Poor little country mouse!