I have often been asked what its like in Belgium at Christmas time and the truth be told after 8 years I am still non the wiser. They do celebrate on the 5/6th December with Sinterklaas which is something I have never been around for, but then it is for the kids really.
The real Christmas for us starts with the ordering of the food. My wife and I plan the menu, although she leads of course. I am consulted only to make me feel like I have been involved in the decision making process, a bit like choosing furniture or how the living room should look... In a way it is quite fair as she does the vast majority of the preparation of the food, I am basically a skivvy that moves things around and runs errands. It is a busy time, what with all of the social events as well as organising our own party. The family come down from Antwerp, the UK and round the corner too, it is a great day of fun, eating, drinking and generally being merry with the occasional stressful moments thrown in, nothing unusual there then!
The food we have is a kind of hybrid of UK and Belgian, so much so that, apart from the obvious differences, it is sometimes hard to explain. I suppose the first time we had our party was the most stark, there were that many side dishes that we practically ran out of space. It was interesting watching the Belgian side of the family sticking to their familiar dishes and the UK side sticking to theirs, so much for integration! As an example the Belgian tradition includes warm pear halves with freshly made cranberry sauce, steamed chicory, boiled red cabbage with bay leaves, croquettes and green beans with bacon wrapped around. Some of the evil vegetables such as Brussels sprouts are common to both. But things such as pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, sage stuffing and Yorkshire puddings are a definite UK contribution. I, lacking in style and taste, prefer cranberry sauce from a jar than the rather rich home made stuff that my wife makes. What made my day one Christmas was that my youngest niece choose the jar over the home made stuff.
For the meat we have had, turkey, duck and pheasant. To the surprise of the wife my mother said the best way to cook the turkey was very slowly, overnight at low temperature. That way it stays moist and is a rather nice aroma to wake up to in the morning. Buying pork is a bit of a snag as the thought of having crackling is somewhat repulsive to most Belgians and when you think about it eating the fatty roasted skin of a pig you can understand why! There is a local butcher who knows what to do when you want a proper bit of roast pork with apple sauce.
The meal itself, for us at least, is spread over the whole day from around 13.00 onwards. There are nibbles, soup, main, Belgian Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, Brit Christmas cake, cheese with bread and crackers, coffee and sweets throughout. It is more like grazing and the alcohol begins with champagne and then diverges off into red wine, beer and other various soft drinks and shorts. I think I have mentioned the heart attack Christmas cake before, it is a different kind of heart attack to the heavy UK fruit cake with icing and marzipan. The Belgian version is lots of cream, sponge and bits of fruit too. Some dare to take the UK Christmas pudding, which is so heavy that it will send you off for a nap if you are not careful. Crackers (the edible kind) are a UK contribution to the cheese round. Normally for the Belgians you have bread, which includes nut, raisin and sugar bread. Crackers have taken off here as readily as the properly made cup of tea! One of my favourites is the nut bread, but by this stage I am struggling to find the room for it. I didn't mention it before but we have formed a tradition by which An makes chicken liver pate every year, it is divine.
Also introduced to the Belgian table were crackers (the pulling variety), party poppers and rocket balloons, oh the fun and mess of those. The cat is non too keen on these noisy party pieces though, he is normally in a self imposed exile in the garage from quite early on, even when tempted by the aroma of turkey.
So the run up is getting all of this together and it is becoming quite a well organised affair. We order our cheese from a delicatessen in Leuven and I pick it up on Christmas Eve on my rounds. The shop is near the fish market in Leuven, in which it is notoriously difficult to find a parking space. This year I made the fatal mistake of failing to choose between the car park at the station, where there would definitely have been a space and the fish market where there was unlikely to be a space. I opted for perhaps the most tight of all multi storey car parks in the world and took on the challenge of getting my car into it. The car park was designed to house smart cars and mine is about three times longer and twice as wide. The hardest part was that of getting through the barrier, where the company had helpfully placed an additional steel shaped edge, presumably to protect the wall and not the cars going in, the effect was to narrow the gap. It felt like navigating a supertanker in the Suez Canal but with a lot less space on either side of the car... I was happy to see that I had to go to level 4 before managing to find a space big enough to accommodate the car.
The trip usually includes a visit to the local butcher or whoever is supplying the meat and a trip to the supermarket to pick up the pre-ordered food. An normally pre-orders the food so that we just have to collect, the thought of jousting with fellow shoppers just doesn't appeal.
Sometime before then I do a run to the UK to pick up the essential Brit stuff, including boxes of Quality Street, crackers (both kinds), puddings, jam and a host of other things. A trip to the brewery and on Christmas day itself I am dispatched to the bakers to collect the cake and other baked goods.
In reality things are not a lot different between UK and Belgium, I suppose each family has its own special way of doing things.
Saturday, 4 January 2014
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Old Year's Evening
In Belgium the 31 December is known as Old Year's Evening as opposed to New Year's Eve. As I write this I am braced for the tide of children and accompanying adults who will begin to call on our house to sing. A tradition here is to go out and sing on Old Year's Evening and be rewarded with sweets, it is a bit like Trick or Treat but without the Halloween costumes.
I don't know whether this is a local thing or a national thing but I am glad it doesn't happen on New Years Day otherwise the reception they get would be less than pleasant.
Anyway the kids are meant to sing a song, apparently the same one and I wish I knew what it meant. The adults accompanying them do so at a safe distance, you have to feel for them having to get up even earlier than their victims to prepare the kids for their frosty outing. One year I had forgotten they were coming and therefore had no sweets ready, we really scraped the barrel that year, they got all of the rejected sweets from Christmas. This year we have bought sweets especially for the occasion, they are candy necklaces, the ones where you can bite halfway through a candy loop and then fire the other half across the room using the elasticated necklace. It can be quite effective at close range!
They have until 12.00 then all bets are off, so far we have not had anyone and it is 08.42. I wonder if being midweek and a working day it has had an impact on the numbers of parents able to escort the kids?
It is a bit odd but I feel I cannot go to the toilet until 12.00! I mean it is not like waiting for a delivery or a tradesman to turn up, I think I should be able to afford missing one or two renditions of the song for the sake of comfort. Sods law as soon as I get to the bog the door bell will go. I was thinking of answering the door in my underpants but then I don't want to scare the neighbours.
The cat is peacefully laid next to me on his special fur rug, he is even snoring. He was harassing me earlier, well seeking attention.
Back in the UK we never did this singing malarkey as a child, we did work. We used to go around clearing snow from paths and getting rewarded for it, sometimes well other times not so well. Child labour, you can't beat it.
I don't know whether this is a local thing or a national thing but I am glad it doesn't happen on New Years Day otherwise the reception they get would be less than pleasant.
Anyway the kids are meant to sing a song, apparently the same one and I wish I knew what it meant. The adults accompanying them do so at a safe distance, you have to feel for them having to get up even earlier than their victims to prepare the kids for their frosty outing. One year I had forgotten they were coming and therefore had no sweets ready, we really scraped the barrel that year, they got all of the rejected sweets from Christmas. This year we have bought sweets especially for the occasion, they are candy necklaces, the ones where you can bite halfway through a candy loop and then fire the other half across the room using the elasticated necklace. It can be quite effective at close range!
They have until 12.00 then all bets are off, so far we have not had anyone and it is 08.42. I wonder if being midweek and a working day it has had an impact on the numbers of parents able to escort the kids?
It is a bit odd but I feel I cannot go to the toilet until 12.00! I mean it is not like waiting for a delivery or a tradesman to turn up, I think I should be able to afford missing one or two renditions of the song for the sake of comfort. Sods law as soon as I get to the bog the door bell will go. I was thinking of answering the door in my underpants but then I don't want to scare the neighbours.
The cat is peacefully laid next to me on his special fur rug, he is even snoring. He was harassing me earlier, well seeking attention.
Back in the UK we never did this singing malarkey as a child, we did work. We used to go around clearing snow from paths and getting rewarded for it, sometimes well other times not so well. Child labour, you can't beat it.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Wasps! Quick Call The Fire Brigade!
During the Summer we noticed that there seemed to be quite a few wasps around our garden and although they did not pose a problem as such it was a concern. Towards the end of the Summer I noticed that there seemed to be a bit of a swarm above our bedroom window, the nest, it would appear, was between our roof and the insulation in the loft. At the time An and I were lying on the lawn looking up and we decided that the weather would soon bring a frost and that they did not seem to be doing any harm. That was to change.
As the weather got colder the wasps started to find a way into our house, which at first was not so obvious. We would regularly come home from work and find the odd one gazing, longingly out of the window. We eventually found out that they were coming through the light fitting in our bedroom. If you have ever seen The abominable Dr Phibes you can understand my slight concerns with them getting into our room at night. Enough was enough, An called the fire brigade.
In the UK you can call the local council or a pest control company and they will sort out your problem, but here in Belgium it is the fire brigade that sort out wasps. In fact the sister-in-law has called them out no less than 7 times, I think there is a pattern developing here...
Now before you get excited the fire brigade does not turn up en masse, no, they make an appointment and two of them (in our case) turn up with a flat bed truck, a ladder and some chemical spray in a dispenser. The two who showed up in our case were like chalk n' cheese, one had a face only a mother could love and the other, who was about 12, looked like he could have been a stripper part time. I was out when they eventually arrived leaving An to show them to our bedroom! They got right to work and I caught them after they had finished. It was awkward, I mean what do you say to a couple of firemen who walk out of your bedroom as you get home? All innocent I assure you! Anyway they sprayed a few of the wasps and the idea was that they would infect the rest when they went back into the nest and they should all die off in about 4 days. They also assured us that they would not have damaged the insulation or the roof and that they will not return the following year.
Roll on two weeks and we had no less than 20 or so wasps coming though the light fitting in dribs and drabs, in fact after the visit there were about 5 or so on day one. The poison was working but I was not keen that they were potentially falling onto my head as they escaped from Agent Orange.
This morning at around 6am I woke almost instantly to the feeling of something landing on my chest and rolling down my t-shirt. Faster than any Ninja and realising the possibility that a somewhat drowsy wasp was potentially about to attack my tits, I sprang up lifting my top and backing away from the area of the bed near the pillow. Now at this point I was not sure if I was imagining it but it was too late for that, An remained in slumber as I did what any sensible person would do and I switched on the bedside lamp, this was a mistake but then a blessing. The wasp saw the light and, forgive the pun, made a beeline for it! Now the thing had some energy from the warmth of the light as he began to play pinball in the lampshade. An was now rousing from her sleep as I alerted her to our intruder.
The wasp in the meantime was now quite active having had the equivalent of a defibrillator activated against its hairy ass. It flew out of the lampshade and smacked into the wall dropping behind the headboard. An helpfully said 'well, what now?' I was actually relieved as the chances of the wasp getting up of the floor were quite slim judging by the previous victims we had seen. That was not good enough though, we could not let this rest. We started to move the bed but on doing so to our horror we noticed the amount of dust that had gathered there and that the wasp was somewhat overwhelmed by it. Making a mental note to hoover at some point soon, I realised that I would require the arms of an orangutan in order to get to the wasp and kill it. Not having an orangutan handy I had to think of something and quick before he made a bid for freedom. At this point he went for it and got under the skirting board, to the protest and despair of An. It was not to last. I grabbed a towel and by that time he had come back out, presumably not finding the cramped conditions to his liking. I dropped the towel onto him and dragged it to the side of the bed, An then did the deed and killed him. Now we were awake at 6 am on a Sunday morning, bloody marvellous!
I managed, much to the annoyance of An, to get back to sleep. I drempt of being based in a WWII airfield that was being bombed, I had to man my anti-aircraft gun with my crew and I had difficulty finding them in the dark. An did eventually get to sleep and she drempt about giant wasps chewing their way through the brickwork!!!!!!! Make of that what you will.
Anyway just remember if you need to get rid of wasps then call the fire brigade, they cost about 28 euros and will come back out if they don't manage to get them the first time round. So as well as getting rid of the wasps you can get a free show too!
As the weather got colder the wasps started to find a way into our house, which at first was not so obvious. We would regularly come home from work and find the odd one gazing, longingly out of the window. We eventually found out that they were coming through the light fitting in our bedroom. If you have ever seen The abominable Dr Phibes you can understand my slight concerns with them getting into our room at night. Enough was enough, An called the fire brigade.
In the UK you can call the local council or a pest control company and they will sort out your problem, but here in Belgium it is the fire brigade that sort out wasps. In fact the sister-in-law has called them out no less than 7 times, I think there is a pattern developing here...
Now before you get excited the fire brigade does not turn up en masse, no, they make an appointment and two of them (in our case) turn up with a flat bed truck, a ladder and some chemical spray in a dispenser. The two who showed up in our case were like chalk n' cheese, one had a face only a mother could love and the other, who was about 12, looked like he could have been a stripper part time. I was out when they eventually arrived leaving An to show them to our bedroom! They got right to work and I caught them after they had finished. It was awkward, I mean what do you say to a couple of firemen who walk out of your bedroom as you get home? All innocent I assure you! Anyway they sprayed a few of the wasps and the idea was that they would infect the rest when they went back into the nest and they should all die off in about 4 days. They also assured us that they would not have damaged the insulation or the roof and that they will not return the following year.
Roll on two weeks and we had no less than 20 or so wasps coming though the light fitting in dribs and drabs, in fact after the visit there were about 5 or so on day one. The poison was working but I was not keen that they were potentially falling onto my head as they escaped from Agent Orange.
This morning at around 6am I woke almost instantly to the feeling of something landing on my chest and rolling down my t-shirt. Faster than any Ninja and realising the possibility that a somewhat drowsy wasp was potentially about to attack my tits, I sprang up lifting my top and backing away from the area of the bed near the pillow. Now at this point I was not sure if I was imagining it but it was too late for that, An remained in slumber as I did what any sensible person would do and I switched on the bedside lamp, this was a mistake but then a blessing. The wasp saw the light and, forgive the pun, made a beeline for it! Now the thing had some energy from the warmth of the light as he began to play pinball in the lampshade. An was now rousing from her sleep as I alerted her to our intruder.
The wasp in the meantime was now quite active having had the equivalent of a defibrillator activated against its hairy ass. It flew out of the lampshade and smacked into the wall dropping behind the headboard. An helpfully said 'well, what now?' I was actually relieved as the chances of the wasp getting up of the floor were quite slim judging by the previous victims we had seen. That was not good enough though, we could not let this rest. We started to move the bed but on doing so to our horror we noticed the amount of dust that had gathered there and that the wasp was somewhat overwhelmed by it. Making a mental note to hoover at some point soon, I realised that I would require the arms of an orangutan in order to get to the wasp and kill it. Not having an orangutan handy I had to think of something and quick before he made a bid for freedom. At this point he went for it and got under the skirting board, to the protest and despair of An. It was not to last. I grabbed a towel and by that time he had come back out, presumably not finding the cramped conditions to his liking. I dropped the towel onto him and dragged it to the side of the bed, An then did the deed and killed him. Now we were awake at 6 am on a Sunday morning, bloody marvellous!
I managed, much to the annoyance of An, to get back to sleep. I drempt of being based in a WWII airfield that was being bombed, I had to man my anti-aircraft gun with my crew and I had difficulty finding them in the dark. An did eventually get to sleep and she drempt about giant wasps chewing their way through the brickwork!!!!!!! Make of that what you will.
Anyway just remember if you need to get rid of wasps then call the fire brigade, they cost about 28 euros and will come back out if they don't manage to get them the first time round. So as well as getting rid of the wasps you can get a free show too!
Saturday, 30 November 2013
Learning Dutch
It has been some time since I last wrote on the blog, work has been somewhat busy as has life in general. Anyway I am due to change career in about a years time and as such I am exploring the possibility of seeking employment in Brussels. To further this aim I have started to take Dutch evening classes.
One can argue that it is probably better to learn French, that being the language most widely spoken in Brussels, but I also wish to hold decent conversations with my family and argue effectively with my wife (only kidding)!
The course which I signed up to back in August was for 1 evening per week from 18.15 - 21.30. The course lasts an entire academic year and ranges in levels from 1 to 8. You can take up to three evenings per week but for me that would be quite unworkable. I would only need to do 1 term to complete level 1 and thus if I had the time it would be quite handy. We were left under no illusion though, homework is a must, so clearly if you can allow the study to dominate your life then you are ok, if not then it has to be at a more reasonable pace.
The course I have enrolled in is subsidised by the Flemish Government and costs only 72 Euros, which is quite outstanding value for money.
The only drawback for me is that I have to commute from work through the hellish rush hour to get to my school in Leuven in good time to begin. Most of the time it has not been a problem but it does not take much to stop the traffic dead. I have had to miss a couple of lessons so far due to work but you are allowed to miss a given percentage and still pass the course. I am quite lucky as I have been studying Dutch for around 7 years and therefore it is relatively straightforward. I must add that I am in level 1, as my grammar and writing is not good enough for level 2. The result of that is I am way ahead of most of the class and I can understand almost everything the tutor is saying (the lesson is delivered in Dutch with occasional English explanations).
My class is quite a mixed bunch in terms of nationality and profession. There are Spanish, British, French, German, Italian, Bosnian, Russian and Ukrainian people. All of them are quite pleasant and cheerful, despite us all being tired after working during the day. Some, like myself, are quite good others struggle a bit. There is a break at around 20.00 for a coffee, chat, toilet and smoke (if that spins your props).
The format of the lessons varies with one to one with classmates, delivery by the tutor, video, written exercises, repetition and questions from the tutor. Having taken the Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it is not quite as varied as that but it is enough. As an example we recently discussed prepositions, there were no practical exercises to demonstrate these. In one lesson I had to explain to my colleague the individual components of a sentence so that he could understand what it was that he had to say as an answer. The question was 'What was the name of your first pet?' I had to explain this without the benefit of English as he did not understand that. The tutor did not feel the need to demonstrate the difference between mine and yours (which I did with the aid of a pen), what a pet (huisdier) was, what first (eerst) meant etc. To be fair he was a complete beginner but then that was level 1! Still it helped me in developing my communications skills and ability to teach too!
The problem with knowing more than what is being taught is that I end up not giving the model answer and also I am sometimes caught out with things that I simply do not know and have not taken the time to learn. I discovered recently that asking how someone is should get a specific reply for example - Hoe gaat het met jouw? Met mij gaat het goed. Most people will respond with just one word goed, prima, slecht etc. So I have learnt how I should reply even if in reality people do not use the rest of the phrase. In fact most just say Hoe gaat het? or Alles kits achter the ritz? My spelling maybe out and that latter question is basically 'how's it hanging?' and is usually just said between men.
Anyway the company that provides the course is Groep T and I would recommend it if you are in the Leuven region.
One can argue that it is probably better to learn French, that being the language most widely spoken in Brussels, but I also wish to hold decent conversations with my family and argue effectively with my wife (only kidding)!
The course which I signed up to back in August was for 1 evening per week from 18.15 - 21.30. The course lasts an entire academic year and ranges in levels from 1 to 8. You can take up to three evenings per week but for me that would be quite unworkable. I would only need to do 1 term to complete level 1 and thus if I had the time it would be quite handy. We were left under no illusion though, homework is a must, so clearly if you can allow the study to dominate your life then you are ok, if not then it has to be at a more reasonable pace.
The course I have enrolled in is subsidised by the Flemish Government and costs only 72 Euros, which is quite outstanding value for money.
The only drawback for me is that I have to commute from work through the hellish rush hour to get to my school in Leuven in good time to begin. Most of the time it has not been a problem but it does not take much to stop the traffic dead. I have had to miss a couple of lessons so far due to work but you are allowed to miss a given percentage and still pass the course. I am quite lucky as I have been studying Dutch for around 7 years and therefore it is relatively straightforward. I must add that I am in level 1, as my grammar and writing is not good enough for level 2. The result of that is I am way ahead of most of the class and I can understand almost everything the tutor is saying (the lesson is delivered in Dutch with occasional English explanations).
My class is quite a mixed bunch in terms of nationality and profession. There are Spanish, British, French, German, Italian, Bosnian, Russian and Ukrainian people. All of them are quite pleasant and cheerful, despite us all being tired after working during the day. Some, like myself, are quite good others struggle a bit. There is a break at around 20.00 for a coffee, chat, toilet and smoke (if that spins your props).
The format of the lessons varies with one to one with classmates, delivery by the tutor, video, written exercises, repetition and questions from the tutor. Having taken the Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it is not quite as varied as that but it is enough. As an example we recently discussed prepositions, there were no practical exercises to demonstrate these. In one lesson I had to explain to my colleague the individual components of a sentence so that he could understand what it was that he had to say as an answer. The question was 'What was the name of your first pet?' I had to explain this without the benefit of English as he did not understand that. The tutor did not feel the need to demonstrate the difference between mine and yours (which I did with the aid of a pen), what a pet (huisdier) was, what first (eerst) meant etc. To be fair he was a complete beginner but then that was level 1! Still it helped me in developing my communications skills and ability to teach too!
The problem with knowing more than what is being taught is that I end up not giving the model answer and also I am sometimes caught out with things that I simply do not know and have not taken the time to learn. I discovered recently that asking how someone is should get a specific reply for example - Hoe gaat het met jouw? Met mij gaat het goed. Most people will respond with just one word goed, prima, slecht etc. So I have learnt how I should reply even if in reality people do not use the rest of the phrase. In fact most just say Hoe gaat het? or Alles kits achter the ritz? My spelling maybe out and that latter question is basically 'how's it hanging?' and is usually just said between men.
Anyway the company that provides the course is Groep T and I would recommend it if you are in the Leuven region.
Thursday, 19 September 2013
Why I Work In An Effing Office!
This is a tale of proper planning and preparation and having the right tools for the job, in this case it was rather a half arse attempt on my part born out of previous experience that almost failed. The silver lining to this tale and the moral of the story is to have the determination and perseverance to fight through when all seems hopeless.
It all started with a cursory inspection of the rear brakes on my Jaguar X-Type. I only had the car for another week before I was due to hand it over to an auction house and pick up my new car. Unfortunately I was due to cover some considerable miles in that last week and I came to the conclusion that the rear brakes were no longer safe and needed to be replaced. I have changed brakes with my step-dad many times in my childhood and more recently on a number of cars that I have had since. The basic task is as follows:
Loosen wheelnuts
Put blocks on either side of the front wheels to stop it rolling off.
Select first gear
Release the handbrake
Jack car up
Remove wheel and place under the car in case the car should fall
Loosen the two nuts holding the brake calliper in place.
Remove worn pads
Inspect brake disc for damage/wear
lever back piston in the calliper to make room for the new pads (I will come back to this)
Take the replacement pads, apply anti squeal grease and place into calliper
Put it all back together and repeat on the other side.
Now this job really should not take more than about an hour to complete all told. It took me two days in the end as I shall now relate! Before I begin it is worth mentioning that there was a time critical factor that would come into play. I had an appointment in Germany on the Thursday and before departing I called into the car parts shop to acquire the brake pads, this is always fraught with danger as there are thousands of parts to choose from and they must be the correct ones otherwise you are Donald ducked, so to speak. In order to ensure I had the right parts I gave them my registration document which showed the vehicle identification number. I also took the opportunity to buy a couple of ratchet spanners, which would aid my removal of the callipers. I then drove to Germany and was back at a reasonable time to begin fitting the brakes in the afternoon.
I had the rear wheel off in no time and had the calliper removed and the brake pads out, then came the moment of truth, I compared the new pads to the old ones and to no great surprise, they were completely different! So came the second trip to the car parts shop where I was informed that they would have to order the parts in, thankfully they would be there by 09.00 the next day. I was not impressed but then what can you expect? In order to speed things up I unwisely decided to remove the pads from both sides of the car and then replace the wheels. So to summarise, my car was now without rear brakes and chocked up. I planned to quickly replace the brakes the following morning and then get on with some work.
The next morning I took my wife to work so I could then use her car during the day. I left it until 09.36 before going to pick up the parts. To put things into context I would be picking up the wife at 16.00 before going to the Ardennes
Having picked up the parts the next task was to whip off the wheels in turn, lever back the pistons and fit the pads. I started on one side and it quickly became apparent that the piston was not going to lever back, in fact it seemed stuck fast. This presented problems because if it was seized then it would mean obtaining a new calliper and then would involve messing about with brake hydraulics, of which I had little or no experience of, I was not chuffed. I tried removing the cap on the brake fluid reservoir in order to allow the pressure to be relieved, this did not work. I resolved to get the other side done and thus replaced the wheel and went to work on the other side. Having removed it I then came across the same problem. Now with both pistons refusing to budge it was highly likely that they both could not be seized and that it was just a case of me not being able to move them. So I felt compelled to obtain the correct tool for the job, something that I should have had from the outset but that my previous experience had demonstrated was not really necessary. I had in fact done my wife's brakes recently without any issue and she drives a Volvo V50.
Cue a trip to a different car parts shop (I was unhappy with the other one), this was my third visit to a shop. When I got there I was told that they had sold their last specialist tool the day before and could order it in. The pressure started to tell. The price was 44 euros for a hand powered tool and 88 for a hydraulic powered tool. I asked if they could recommend a shop that may have it, you got it they recommended the one I had already been to, cue the fourth trip back to the other shop!
It is worth mentioning that my Dutch and their English was not up to the task and so I had to resort to miming a few times, but it should have been obvious. So I went to the original shop where I got the brake pads and looked for the specialist tool, they had a hydraulic one but not the hand powered one. I had to show the staff what I was talking about and I asked if that was all he had, he said yes but then I may as well have asked him in Klingon and he would have still said yes. I had very little faith in what I was being told. Two key points from this visit, firstly the tool was 108 euros (and that was after a discount) and I specifically and clearly asked him if I needed anything else to operate the tool. He said no but what he should have said is 'have you got an air compressor?' The answer of course would have been no, I would discover this critical point in the not too distant future.
Once back at the car I then whipped the wheel off again (I had lost track of how many times I had jacked the car up and removed the wheels). I then read the instructions for the tool and got to the gem which said, 'and plug your air hose into the tool' The anger and frustration at this point is best left unwritten. I was starting to boil and get rather hacked off. I tried, in vain, to use the tool without the air and I succeeded in opening up the piston and effectively jamming the tool onto the calliper, at least it was not seized!
During the whole evolution I was sweating in the heat of the sun and at different stages wearing thick knee pads, gloves, shorts, t-shirt and sandals. I looked a bit of a twat really but I was not concerned with that!
Anyway cue the fifth trip to a different shop, Freetime, to procure an air compressor. After asking advice and obtaining an air hose at a cost of 28 euros and a compressor at 114 euros. I asked the sales assistant about the fittings and he said there were two sizes of fitting, large and small. I said I thought that the tool had a small fitting and that was just as well because the air compressor and air hose were both small fittings. I was wrong. I returned to the car, carefully read the instructions for the air compressor and then went to connect up all the parts. When I got to the bit where I connected the air hose to the tool I discovered that in fact the tool had the large fitting. To say that I was swearing under my breath is an understatement. Time was marching on and I was no closer to finishing the job. I should have added that I was nervous about using the compressor as it is in essence explosive being very high pressure, in reality it was simple to use as I would eventually discover. Anyway cue the sixth visit to the shops, Freetime again, to get an adaptor to connect the small to the large fittings on the tool.
At Freetime I found out that they did not have the required fitting and could not assist, in a word, bollocks. I asked if he knew anywhere that I could get such a fitting and he pointed me to the Iron shop. Now I had passed this inconspicuous place many times, noting the name but being oblivious to the Aladdin's cave of tools and bits that lay behind this deceptively innocent façade. I duly pulled in to the parking area on my seventh visit to a shop. The shop itself is full of tools and fixtures and fittings, clothing and all sorts of male DIY and professional things. I could, on any other day, spend an hour or so looking around. Not today though. The ladies behind the counter could not understand what I was asking for and I could not explain it, not without being rude as it involved male and female connectors. Anyway the short answer was to bring the air hose and the tool into the shop (at my dismay as the tool was jammed onto the calliper).
I decided to try Hubo before heading back just in case they had the fitting (eighth fruitless visit to a shop) they did not have the part I needed. So I returned to the car and managed to free the tool from the car and take both that and the air hose to the Iron shop, visit number nine. When I got there and presented the bits the ladies confidently said that they did not have the part and would have to order it. I could have screamed out for the mercy of God but I kept my composure, realising the desperation of my predicament I tried to think of an alternative. I resolved to try one last place before considering widening the scope of my search to other towns and cities. I went back to the original car parts shop for my tenth visit of the day.
Irately I explained to the lady in that shop (being watched by the bloke who had sold me the tool) that they said I did not need anything else but that in fact I needed an air compressor and that I had subsequently bought one. I now explained the issue with the adaptor and asked if they had anything that could help me. They duly produced a smaller male connector that could be screwed into the tool when you remove the other one and it cost 2.20 euros. At last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. By the time I left the shop it was around 14.40 and I was now getting concerned about having to pick up my wife.
When I got to the car it had just started to rain, I laughed and thought bloody typical. I have worked on cars in some awful conditions so this rain was not going to prevent me from completing the job. I managed to complete the task in about 20 minutes after that and in my haste had forgotten to add the anti-squeal grease, which was to annoy fellow motorists and pedestrians as I drove by later on.
In the end I had spent approximately 350 euros on all tools and materials for the replacement of the rear brake pads. To do the front and rear plus discs and labour would have cost me 600 euros. Looking on the bright side, I now definitely have all of the tools required to do the job and I am now seeking to expand my collection of pneumatic tools!
The moral, stick with it and make sure you have the right gear before you start! The car has now been sold and is squealing its way around Peterborough now.
It all started with a cursory inspection of the rear brakes on my Jaguar X-Type. I only had the car for another week before I was due to hand it over to an auction house and pick up my new car. Unfortunately I was due to cover some considerable miles in that last week and I came to the conclusion that the rear brakes were no longer safe and needed to be replaced. I have changed brakes with my step-dad many times in my childhood and more recently on a number of cars that I have had since. The basic task is as follows:
Loosen wheelnuts
Put blocks on either side of the front wheels to stop it rolling off.
Select first gear
Release the handbrake
Jack car up
Remove wheel and place under the car in case the car should fall
Loosen the two nuts holding the brake calliper in place.
Remove worn pads
Inspect brake disc for damage/wear
lever back piston in the calliper to make room for the new pads (I will come back to this)
Take the replacement pads, apply anti squeal grease and place into calliper
Put it all back together and repeat on the other side.
Now this job really should not take more than about an hour to complete all told. It took me two days in the end as I shall now relate! Before I begin it is worth mentioning that there was a time critical factor that would come into play. I had an appointment in Germany on the Thursday and before departing I called into the car parts shop to acquire the brake pads, this is always fraught with danger as there are thousands of parts to choose from and they must be the correct ones otherwise you are Donald ducked, so to speak. In order to ensure I had the right parts I gave them my registration document which showed the vehicle identification number. I also took the opportunity to buy a couple of ratchet spanners, which would aid my removal of the callipers. I then drove to Germany and was back at a reasonable time to begin fitting the brakes in the afternoon.
I had the rear wheel off in no time and had the calliper removed and the brake pads out, then came the moment of truth, I compared the new pads to the old ones and to no great surprise, they were completely different! So came the second trip to the car parts shop where I was informed that they would have to order the parts in, thankfully they would be there by 09.00 the next day. I was not impressed but then what can you expect? In order to speed things up I unwisely decided to remove the pads from both sides of the car and then replace the wheels. So to summarise, my car was now without rear brakes and chocked up. I planned to quickly replace the brakes the following morning and then get on with some work.
The next morning I took my wife to work so I could then use her car during the day. I left it until 09.36 before going to pick up the parts. To put things into context I would be picking up the wife at 16.00 before going to the Ardennes
Having picked up the parts the next task was to whip off the wheels in turn, lever back the pistons and fit the pads. I started on one side and it quickly became apparent that the piston was not going to lever back, in fact it seemed stuck fast. This presented problems because if it was seized then it would mean obtaining a new calliper and then would involve messing about with brake hydraulics, of which I had little or no experience of, I was not chuffed. I tried removing the cap on the brake fluid reservoir in order to allow the pressure to be relieved, this did not work. I resolved to get the other side done and thus replaced the wheel and went to work on the other side. Having removed it I then came across the same problem. Now with both pistons refusing to budge it was highly likely that they both could not be seized and that it was just a case of me not being able to move them. So I felt compelled to obtain the correct tool for the job, something that I should have had from the outset but that my previous experience had demonstrated was not really necessary. I had in fact done my wife's brakes recently without any issue and she drives a Volvo V50.
Cue a trip to a different car parts shop (I was unhappy with the other one), this was my third visit to a shop. When I got there I was told that they had sold their last specialist tool the day before and could order it in. The pressure started to tell. The price was 44 euros for a hand powered tool and 88 for a hydraulic powered tool. I asked if they could recommend a shop that may have it, you got it they recommended the one I had already been to, cue the fourth trip back to the other shop!
It is worth mentioning that my Dutch and their English was not up to the task and so I had to resort to miming a few times, but it should have been obvious. So I went to the original shop where I got the brake pads and looked for the specialist tool, they had a hydraulic one but not the hand powered one. I had to show the staff what I was talking about and I asked if that was all he had, he said yes but then I may as well have asked him in Klingon and he would have still said yes. I had very little faith in what I was being told. Two key points from this visit, firstly the tool was 108 euros (and that was after a discount) and I specifically and clearly asked him if I needed anything else to operate the tool. He said no but what he should have said is 'have you got an air compressor?' The answer of course would have been no, I would discover this critical point in the not too distant future.
Once back at the car I then whipped the wheel off again (I had lost track of how many times I had jacked the car up and removed the wheels). I then read the instructions for the tool and got to the gem which said, 'and plug your air hose into the tool' The anger and frustration at this point is best left unwritten. I was starting to boil and get rather hacked off. I tried, in vain, to use the tool without the air and I succeeded in opening up the piston and effectively jamming the tool onto the calliper, at least it was not seized!
During the whole evolution I was sweating in the heat of the sun and at different stages wearing thick knee pads, gloves, shorts, t-shirt and sandals. I looked a bit of a twat really but I was not concerned with that!
Anyway cue the fifth trip to a different shop, Freetime, to procure an air compressor. After asking advice and obtaining an air hose at a cost of 28 euros and a compressor at 114 euros. I asked the sales assistant about the fittings and he said there were two sizes of fitting, large and small. I said I thought that the tool had a small fitting and that was just as well because the air compressor and air hose were both small fittings. I was wrong. I returned to the car, carefully read the instructions for the air compressor and then went to connect up all the parts. When I got to the bit where I connected the air hose to the tool I discovered that in fact the tool had the large fitting. To say that I was swearing under my breath is an understatement. Time was marching on and I was no closer to finishing the job. I should have added that I was nervous about using the compressor as it is in essence explosive being very high pressure, in reality it was simple to use as I would eventually discover. Anyway cue the sixth visit to the shops, Freetime again, to get an adaptor to connect the small to the large fittings on the tool.
At Freetime I found out that they did not have the required fitting and could not assist, in a word, bollocks. I asked if he knew anywhere that I could get such a fitting and he pointed me to the Iron shop. Now I had passed this inconspicuous place many times, noting the name but being oblivious to the Aladdin's cave of tools and bits that lay behind this deceptively innocent façade. I duly pulled in to the parking area on my seventh visit to a shop. The shop itself is full of tools and fixtures and fittings, clothing and all sorts of male DIY and professional things. I could, on any other day, spend an hour or so looking around. Not today though. The ladies behind the counter could not understand what I was asking for and I could not explain it, not without being rude as it involved male and female connectors. Anyway the short answer was to bring the air hose and the tool into the shop (at my dismay as the tool was jammed onto the calliper).
I decided to try Hubo before heading back just in case they had the fitting (eighth fruitless visit to a shop) they did not have the part I needed. So I returned to the car and managed to free the tool from the car and take both that and the air hose to the Iron shop, visit number nine. When I got there and presented the bits the ladies confidently said that they did not have the part and would have to order it. I could have screamed out for the mercy of God but I kept my composure, realising the desperation of my predicament I tried to think of an alternative. I resolved to try one last place before considering widening the scope of my search to other towns and cities. I went back to the original car parts shop for my tenth visit of the day.
Irately I explained to the lady in that shop (being watched by the bloke who had sold me the tool) that they said I did not need anything else but that in fact I needed an air compressor and that I had subsequently bought one. I now explained the issue with the adaptor and asked if they had anything that could help me. They duly produced a smaller male connector that could be screwed into the tool when you remove the other one and it cost 2.20 euros. At last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. By the time I left the shop it was around 14.40 and I was now getting concerned about having to pick up my wife.
When I got to the car it had just started to rain, I laughed and thought bloody typical. I have worked on cars in some awful conditions so this rain was not going to prevent me from completing the job. I managed to complete the task in about 20 minutes after that and in my haste had forgotten to add the anti-squeal grease, which was to annoy fellow motorists and pedestrians as I drove by later on.
In the end I had spent approximately 350 euros on all tools and materials for the replacement of the rear brake pads. To do the front and rear plus discs and labour would have cost me 600 euros. Looking on the bright side, I now definitely have all of the tools required to do the job and I am now seeking to expand my collection of pneumatic tools!
The moral, stick with it and make sure you have the right gear before you start! The car has now been sold and is squealing its way around Peterborough now.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Running
I am not the the fittest person jogging about the place but I have become accustomed to going for a jog in a bid to keep some kind of fitness level and to continue the struggle against middle aged spread. The home town affords quite a few varied routes ranging from a full 16km to a rather brisk 3km, depending upon the mood.
When I am out and about, and my breathing has stabilised, I often take the time to think things through, often going through the latest bollocks going on at work, just thinking about future plans or reflecting on the past. Sometimes, but not always, I pay attention to my surroundings and notice things that I had not on previous runs.
My runs take me along both urban and rural scenes, past rivers and through woods, I sometimes wonder what has happened here in the past, thinking about the two world wars and the bad things that happened back then. One of the longer runs follows the course of the Demer river, I run along one side and then cross a bridge and run down the other side, a giant loop.
There are hazards, for a start pedestrians are the lowest of the low, there are cycle lanes and roads and not many footpaths. Sometimes there are no cycle lanes either. I have to have my wits about me to avoid being run over by cars and more especially by bicycles. There is no quarter given and as I like to listen to music it is a bit more risky when I cannot here them coming. I do dress in brightly coloured gear, this is so that they can clearly see me when they hit me!
My pace is hardly quick, I often get myself into a breathing rhythm of four beats with the right foot hitting the ground every other beat. I try not to match the music otherwise the pace would be too much. In fact I deliberately shorten my stride if I am on a long run just to keep my endurance. There is no method in my madness, just determination to keep going. Although interval training yields better results, so I am told, I have this psychological object of not breaking out of my jog, no matter how tired I feel.
I have now run the Antwerp 10 mile run 4 times and the last was particularly difficult, I think my training plan was all wrong. I was doing a single 10 mile run each week up until the day. In previous years I had done up to three short and one long distance run per week. Part of the problem is having the time to do the work, it is so easy to break out of the habit, especially with work commitments.
I have not yet enter the run this year, but I will get it done, it has become a bit of a habit now and gives me something to motivate me. It will begin to get colder soon, with winter approaching I need to dig that bit deeper to keep going.
Monday, 19 August 2013
Counting Skidmarks
Not one of the most appealing of titles to this entry but truthful none the less. On my regular commute I decided it would help pass the time a little if I was a little more observant when driving to work. I have to stress that I do keep my eyes open and pay attention to the other traffic, I mean to do otherwise is to invite disaster.
I noticed on my drive in that there are an exceptionally large number of skid marks on the route into work and I was hypothesising as to why this was the case. I noticed that most of them tended to be leading from the fast to the middle lane as they approached junctions. I surmised that these were drivers that had failed to anticipate their exit at a reasonable time and decided to make a crazy death manoeuvre across the traffic in a bid to avoid driving an extra 3km to the next junction. Some of the more worrying ones led into the trees and indeed the central reservation, one can only imagine the face of the driver when they work up and dropped their bottle of Jupiler.
The other favourite pastime is removing aggressive drivers from my arse when they decide that the 128km/h is just not fast enough for them and that a safe distance is really not required behind other cars. I mean after all my brakes must work as well as theirs because all cars have the same characteristics and maintenance levels eh? I have enjoyed many a happy hour banging on the brakes as the umpteenth emergency stop has been carried out by the driver in front of me, this ripples its way down the traffic jam until it either catches someone unawares or it gets to the end. It is a bit like a Mexican wave but without standing up.
I am sure my car has a pothole magnet fitted, no matter how often I drive the route I always seem to hit the same damn places each time, cursing loudly and gritting my teeth as my suspension takes another jarring. It is like flying a spaceship in a computer game and wondering how much longer my shields will last after the next asteroid hits it. It is much the same when I get smacked by rocks thrown up by other traffic.
Something else that is a tad annoying is when the Flemish radio stations die off as I cross into the forbidden territory that is Wallonia. Do you know that I can receive the signal well into France if I am on the coast road? No not in the case of traversing the demilitarised zone entering Wallonia. I just turn it off as to be honest I cannot be bothered to listen to the Syrupy French language.
Today I was witness to some early morning entertainment as I left the E40 to join the R0 ring road. This is a particular pinch point as there are four lanes, two going ahead and then two exiting to the right, the two exiting change to one going left and two going right. Now, the majority of the traffic usually wants to go to the right (the airport direction), but they often leave it far too late and then dive in at the last moment. What is more, they then go down the lane meant for left bound traffic to try and squeeze another place on those going right. They do this at increasing speed as to go slow is to lose out completely. I go left and so often find myself behind some monkey trying cut the traffic up.
Today was special, I got to the junction at about 6.15 ish, I was lined up for my exit with a lane to my right and two to my left, we got to the bit where the solid white line came into play (meaning it is illegal to cross it and results in a severe fine if caught). To my horror, if not surprise, a rather large lorry carrying a heavy load of concrete decided to switch to my lane at the last moment, causing me to brake heavily. Now, that was not all, there were two other cars in front of me, one of which decided he wanted to go straight on and therefore swung across the solid white line, very near to the point of no return (they made it). The second car as expected wanted to go right and duly swung right. It would have impressed the Red Arrows display team and more so in that they were all within a cars' length of each other when they made their moves. Throughout all of this I was keeping a safe distance, having re-assessed my gap between the chopper in the lorry and myself.
I think it was the adrenaline but I suddenly became that much more aware of what was going on from that point onwards.
I noticed on my drive in that there are an exceptionally large number of skid marks on the route into work and I was hypothesising as to why this was the case. I noticed that most of them tended to be leading from the fast to the middle lane as they approached junctions. I surmised that these were drivers that had failed to anticipate their exit at a reasonable time and decided to make a crazy death manoeuvre across the traffic in a bid to avoid driving an extra 3km to the next junction. Some of the more worrying ones led into the trees and indeed the central reservation, one can only imagine the face of the driver when they work up and dropped their bottle of Jupiler.
The other favourite pastime is removing aggressive drivers from my arse when they decide that the 128km/h is just not fast enough for them and that a safe distance is really not required behind other cars. I mean after all my brakes must work as well as theirs because all cars have the same characteristics and maintenance levels eh? I have enjoyed many a happy hour banging on the brakes as the umpteenth emergency stop has been carried out by the driver in front of me, this ripples its way down the traffic jam until it either catches someone unawares or it gets to the end. It is a bit like a Mexican wave but without standing up.
I am sure my car has a pothole magnet fitted, no matter how often I drive the route I always seem to hit the same damn places each time, cursing loudly and gritting my teeth as my suspension takes another jarring. It is like flying a spaceship in a computer game and wondering how much longer my shields will last after the next asteroid hits it. It is much the same when I get smacked by rocks thrown up by other traffic.
Something else that is a tad annoying is when the Flemish radio stations die off as I cross into the forbidden territory that is Wallonia. Do you know that I can receive the signal well into France if I am on the coast road? No not in the case of traversing the demilitarised zone entering Wallonia. I just turn it off as to be honest I cannot be bothered to listen to the Syrupy French language.
Today I was witness to some early morning entertainment as I left the E40 to join the R0 ring road. This is a particular pinch point as there are four lanes, two going ahead and then two exiting to the right, the two exiting change to one going left and two going right. Now, the majority of the traffic usually wants to go to the right (the airport direction), but they often leave it far too late and then dive in at the last moment. What is more, they then go down the lane meant for left bound traffic to try and squeeze another place on those going right. They do this at increasing speed as to go slow is to lose out completely. I go left and so often find myself behind some monkey trying cut the traffic up.
Today was special, I got to the junction at about 6.15 ish, I was lined up for my exit with a lane to my right and two to my left, we got to the bit where the solid white line came into play (meaning it is illegal to cross it and results in a severe fine if caught). To my horror, if not surprise, a rather large lorry carrying a heavy load of concrete decided to switch to my lane at the last moment, causing me to brake heavily. Now, that was not all, there were two other cars in front of me, one of which decided he wanted to go straight on and therefore swung across the solid white line, very near to the point of no return (they made it). The second car as expected wanted to go right and duly swung right. It would have impressed the Red Arrows display team and more so in that they were all within a cars' length of each other when they made their moves. Throughout all of this I was keeping a safe distance, having re-assessed my gap between the chopper in the lorry and myself.
I think it was the adrenaline but I suddenly became that much more aware of what was going on from that point onwards.
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