Unsocial Network

Posted on September 13, 2019 by Nigel Hurll

By and large, I think the internet is one of the most significant and influential innovations of the modern age. You can interface with friends and family wherever in the world they might be, via the written word or live audio/video, you can buy and sell all manner of goods and services, and it is a vast source of information on anything you care to name – even donkey porn.

A lot of the time, though, it just gets on my bloody wick.

You are – by which I mean, one is – well, at least, I am – if you’re still with me? – bombarded with emails allegedly from banks and building societies explaining that your account has been the subject of unusual activity – it would actually be unusual if I used it seeing as I don’t have an account with you – vital security checks requiring confirmation of your PIN and other account details. What can you do to put a virtual spanner in the works of these scheming bastards? It’s a great shame there isn’t an option in Outlook to “reply with 5,000 volts”; that’d make their follicles sizzle. Maybe I should reply to them all, helpfully providing my hat and willy size, inside leg measurement and full medical history, hoping they’ll eventually get fed up. Fat chance.

I have often considered walking away from Farcebook because of the relentless, intrusive and overbearing way it subjects you to an irritating barrage of invitations to take part in inane quizzes the results of which are then published to an audience of your friends who are apparently agog with eager anticipation to learn what sort of television set you are (I bet I’m a wide screen) or which member of the cast of ‘Friends’ you would most like to (a) take out to dinner, (b) shag, or (c) punch hard in the face.

I really don’t want to know that someone has just found a three-legged brown sheep wandering (limping, surely? I am a pedant, after all) around the farm – I’m a tolerant sort of person and, if they want to play that game, leave them alone to do so, without a commentary best suited to a weak plot line in The Archers. The farmer’s wife going missing and a dismembered body discovered in a grain silo would be infinitely more interesting but I still remain unconvinced that I’d want to know about it.

It seems a lifetime ago that Farcebook hoodwinked me into signing up and, just prior to taking the plunge, I didn’t fully understand how it worked but some friends persuaded me – to join, that is, not that I definitely didn’t know how it worked. Now, of course, I’m being held prisoner in its cyber basement after years of digital servitude from which it seems impossible to escape.

At least I can catch up with what my children and grandchildren are doing – so it’s not all bad.

Ringing the changes

Posted on September 13, 2019 by Nigel Hurll

I had a front doorbell once that stopped working and it was a good three or four weeks before I got round to rectifying the situation. I bought a new battery for the bell-push, having got the digital meter out and established the presence of insufficient voltage in the current one – see what I did there?

It still didn’t work.

One day, during our perambulations, we happened upon a Robert Dyas (I can never go past that damn shop) and I spotted a wireless doorbell on offer for 15 GBP instead of 30. You could even record and play your own messages or download music to the chime unit. I did toy with the idea of recording a shouted message along the lines of “open the f***ing door, someone!” but thought that might upset the Salvation Army if they ever called, so I opted for the default Big Ben chime, in my opinion somewhat pompously referred to in the manual as the Westminster. This was the least offensive of the 8 pre-loaded tones available included among which was the Lambada and the Mexican Hat Dance. I didn’t really want people dancing on my front doorstep.

Well, the bell-push already had a lovely CR2032 button battery installed but I had to nip round to the Co-op to get a couple of LR14s (aka UM2 or C) for the chime unit. Before I did that, however, I was in the kitchen fiddling with the new bell-push. When I pressed it, the old doorbell rang.

Bugger.

Take one tablet at night – and duck

Posted on September 13, 2019 by Nigel Hurll

When we moved to Cheshire, I had to register with a new medical practice and I was asked to attend recently for a diabetic review (I have Type 2). The nurse was pleased with the way I was progressing to the extent that she reduced the dosage of one of my medications.

I remember when I was first prescribed diabetic medication to add to all the others I was taking; at that time, blood sugar – slightly up; cholesterol – slightly up; kidney function – very good indeed, actually; liver function – quite acceptable (ahem); blood pressure – slightly up; weight – one at a time on the scale, please.

My old medical centre (particularly the Sister who runs the Diabetes Clinic) is most assiduous in the care of patients with the condition and I have nothing but the highest praise for everyone there (I know nearly all of them by name and they of course know and love me). After all, one of the practice nurses used to handle my bare feet, sloshing blue gel all over them and pushing a pen-like instrument around that amplifies the sound of the pulses; sadly, it drowned out the classical music being piped into the treatment room but all was OK and, although not 100% kicking, I am apparently alive. And I was able to put my socks back on all by myself.

One of the new medications was called Simvastatin – another tablet – and the label stuck on the box contains the dosage instruction: “Take ONE at night, avoid grapefruit.” Having never been attacked by anyone wielding that particular fruit, I am now on constant alert after taking one of the tablets in case some conscientious objector to statins chucks one at me.

D’you reckon I’m being over-cautious?