The joys of snow

Today is one of those days when the forecasts made by BBC Weather and my weather widget just don't match at all. The BBC predicts plain old grey cloud (and yes, there's plenty of that out there), while the widget predicts sleet. The five-day forecast is in a similar state of disagreement. The BBC claims it will start snowing on the same day as my widget says it will stop.

Regardless of what anyone predicts, I have only to look out the window to see that it's actually snowing. Again. Fat white flakes are all aflurry, lingering for a short while when they land on cars, and melting immediately on contact with the ground.

At first, walking outside this morning, I thought the flakes were my imagination. But by now, when they've expanded and increased their numbers drastically, I know that they're very real, and very definitely snow.

Back in December, I was desperate for snow, and jealous of people who had some before we did. But by New Year, driving in Scotland, I wished it would just go away. Every time I got in the car, I was certain that some vehicle or other was going to slide out of control, and we were all going to get smashed to a bloody pulp. And, indeed, there were a few scary moments when the car spun out (at very low speed) in a car park, slid, or got stuck. Even getting hit by a snowball while driving along in the dark was a scary experience.

Driving a car was only the beginning of the problems. Walking in the snow, even while wearing thick socks and thermal boot liners, was painful to my cold-sensitive Australian toes (weak! ahem, ahem). And as for pushing my daughter's buggy through the snow to nursery... well, I couldn't decide which was worse: getting bogged in fresh snow, or sliding all over the place on the compacted, icy stuff. On ice, just walking is perilous.

The consistency of snow also proved tricky for snowperson* building, though when, at last, Stacey the Snowlady was erected in the garden, she stayed with us for a couple of weeks. My daughter gazed sadly at her through the window, as she deteriorated day by day:

"Oh no, Mummy! Stacey's nose falled off! She lost her eye!"

Meanwhile, I was grateful that it was too cold for the rubbish to rot and stink, and too cold, it seemed, even for rats. There was no rubbish collected in our street for just over four weeks, and since many of my neighbours had missed that last collection, there was a lot of rubbish out there on the footpath.

I remember all too well how revolting it was when there was no rubbish collected from the suburb of Melbourne I used to live in. The whole place stank to high heaven. Rubbish spread, loose, over the footpaths and into the gutters. And I'm quite, quite certain that there was a greater than usual infestation of rodents and cockroaches (which is really saying something).

And so, perhaps I should stop complaining about the grey weather, and the cold, and even the snow, which is still a big novelty for me in any case. I should just buy a toboggan, maybe some huskies, and enjoy not being burnt to a crisp or eaten by rodents in my sleep#.

Notes:

* I'm not overly concerned about PC snow construction, no, but my daughter places great importance on the gender and characters of her snowmen, snowladies and snowgirls.

# A genuine possibility. Even very hungry mice (during a plague, say) will eat what they can of a person who doesn't kick them off after the first tentative bites during the night. And we all know that rats are worse than mice.

Extra, extra! Lazy blogger remembers password and manages to blog about nothing! Extra!

Shame on me! It's been so long since I logged into this blog that I almost managed to forget my password. Anyone would think that living in Coventry has seen me drop into a quasi-comatose state of blog-unworthy non-activity (when obviously, Coventry is actually super, super exciting... ahem).

But let's face it, blogging about nothing is probably the norm rather than the exception, so it's about time I started twisting the banal facts of my existence and attempting to make them interesting... even if only to my regular readership of a single housebound cat, who strayed onto the computer keyboard one afternoon, found its way to this blog via Visit Wales, and was too lazy to leave.

If you, like that cat, would like to see some photos of Earlsdon, my home corner of Coventry (and some photos of cats), take a peek at this slideshow. It really captures the local vibe, and I enjoyed the photos so much that I felt the urge to pass them on (in what must be the quasi-comatose blogger's equivalent of jumping up and down with excitement).

I also stumbled across user Sadieshatterly's pictures of Coventry. If only I had her energy, patience, skill... and some room on my camera's SD card, I might almost be tempted to trudge around taking pictures myself. Until then, enjoy her work!

A new home for my packing boxes, and a new mouldy dilemma

Well, it's done.

I have moved out of the maths house (though I hate to think what I left behind, stuffed down the sides of the couch, behind and under beds, and stuck inside the washing machine). And now, at last, I’m establishing myself as Coventry's newest, and possibly maddest, "Australian lady".

I'm living in a packing box-piled, semi-organised terrace house, doing civilised things like walking to the shops and walking my daughter to nursery. I am, to all intents and purposes, Settling In, although sometimes I feel that confusion follows me everywhere I go. Little things shock me, too, like mail suddenly poking through the letterbox in the front door, while I'm in the front room. My daughter, hearing someone, wants to throw the door open and see who's there, while I, feeling strangely violated, want to hide behind the couch. How dare those letters and junk mail enter my house without my permission?! They could have knocked first! Or gone into a letterbox at the front gate, a respectable distance away... yes, that would be far less intrusive.

(For those of you who find this strange, I grew up in a house that Australia Post didn't even visit. All our mail went to a post office box. This slot in the door thing is quite a shock to my system.)

The house has given me some bragging rights – yes, it has a renovated bathroom, six-burner stove, huge oven, nice little garden out the back. I’m also proud to announce, to the folks back home who think attics are Rich People's luxuries, that I do have a storage loft, with cute little pull-down stairs. (My puffed-out chest must deflate slightly as I admit I haven’t actually pulled them down myself yet, let alone climbed them. But I’ve seen it done, so I know it’s possible.)

And so, thanks to the loft, all the packing boxes will have a home until the next move. They’re ready to be reused yet again. Still sturdy, I think their willingness to keep moving will outlast mine.

On the downside of the house, it is, at its narrowest (the bathroom at the rear), a mere 172 cm wide. No bathroom cupboards. No room for the little cupboard that’s come all the way from Canberra to Potsdam to Coventry. (It’s sitting in the backyard, wrapped in bubblewrap, waiting for a home in the house, and hoping it doesn’t get rained on.)

Even the lovely stove/oven has its drawbacks. Evidently somebody got a bit vigorous with cleaning it in the past, and most of the information near the dials (oven temperatures, burner settings etc) has been scrubbed clean off. The grill is also extremely difficult to get going, and almost as temperamental as I am. We came to an understanding that allowed me to grill some cheese on bread this afternoon, but I’m sure we’ll fall out again soon.

And now, of course, to the all-important question.

Is the house mouldy?

The answer, my friends, is that there are some suspicious black spots above the kitchen window. And, unfortunately, some mould in the washing machine.

At this point I’d like to open myself up to suggestions. What’s the best way to get rid of mould, and the mouldy smell, in an otherwise wonderful washing machine? Any tips will be gratefully received.

The rules: what not to do when you've been sent to Coventry

It may well be that UK house-hunting is over (for the time being). Looks like Coventry may become my new home.

I am developing a set of rules to remind myself of how I should behave, in order not to turn the whole of Coventry against me during my stay.

1. I must not imagine I am Lady Godiva. True, she's quite the local legend, but I suspect my own figure is best covered up by more than my hair. Also, I don't have access to a horse, and riding a bicycle/scooter/rollerblades/the bus naked would probably be misunderstood by both the general public and the police, and would definitely have no influence on tax rates.
2. I must learn how to respond when I approach a shop counter and receive the somewhat confusing greeting, "Arraight?".
3. I must not attempt to use the above-mentioned greeting in my own accent.
4. I must not attempt to use the local accent. Ever.
5. I must not pronounce any local place names unless I have received private coaching first, e.g. "Cheylesmore is pronounced Charlesmore" and "Stivichall is pronounced "Sty-chill". Whoever heard of a silent V?

Mould, old and new

Well, I've done it. I have fled the old flat, left Germany, and arrived within the city limits of... Coventry.

A bottle of Sagrotan, some toothbrushes and cleaning cloths saw significant reductions in mould around the window frames, skirting boards, doors, fridge, freezer and tile grouting, and a coat of paint or three soon fixed up most of the walls. (Huge thanks to those who lent a hand - I was very lucky to find such wonderful friends in Germany.)

And now it's time for a huge sigh of relief! Look at the very unmouldy bedroom left behind!

Unfortunately, since arriving at my temporary Coventry accommodation, I've discovered what English mould smells like. Very different from German mould, and just as unpleasant in its own way. Luckily, the mould in this house is mostly confined to the peculiar rear bedroom/mathematician's heaven. (It scares me, and not just because of the smell.)

Missing Germany, missing friends, and hoping life in the UK soon feels normal.