Modem mayhem.

I frequently entertain dark thoughts of bashing my faulty modem to a pulp with my hammer. It is not uncommon for me to see, "Error 692: hardware failure in modem", five times in a row. Reinstalling it hurts my fingers. Ouch. Just in case you are wondering, secondhand dial up modems compatible with my fossilised laptop, are hard to come by.

When I mentioned my malevolent urges to a friend, he replied that he had a spare. Naturally, my first thought was, spare modem, or spare hammer? I confess I quite like the idea of pulverising the modem with two hammers. It would be hard to injure my thumbs, like I usually do, if they were both preoccupied with hammer holding.

But then, I am more than a little unco. The hammers might fly out of hands. Other objects do. For no apparent reason.The modem might not be the only one in danger. I think I would need to wear safety glasses. Maybe protective clothing as well... And a helmet... My legs seem to be particularly susceptible to injury, so maybe some shin pads would be called for. In case hammers have any boomerang-like tendencies. And I should probably administer the punishment away from the windows. And do it at a time of the day when mothers aren't walking their children to school, or home again. Wouldn't want the neighbourhood to get the wrong impression of me...

The idea seemed so simple at its inception. Kill the modem. But the plot keeps getting thicker. I have detected another problem with the twin hammer idea. My thumbs would be busy. I would therefore need someone to hold the modem still. I don't expect that it would try to run away, but my rudimentary knowledge of physics leads me to speculate that it might move when I thump it. I don't think any of my friends, being familiar as they are with my unco status, would volunteer to hold the modem... And the vices I possess--or perhaps, the ones that possess me-- would not be helpful in this situation...hmmm...

In summary, I must conclude that acts of grievous bodily harm against inanimate objects require careful planning. Guess that's where that premeditated clause comes in. I'm certain my insomniac brain will be discussing the finer details of modem murder in the wee small hours... yippee... (I blame the friend who put the idea of a two hammered approach in my head. Grr.)

It's RBP time again. Let us put our hammers down and mellow out with this tranquil image. What could be more calming than the sight of a spider hugging a flower. Everybody say, ahhhhhhh;

 

Things that go beep in the night update: A friend from out of town turned up on my doorstep the other day. With her very tall husband. And a substantial stool. Yay! I am no longer being driven insane by my smoke alarms constantly beeping. (There were 18 to 22 seconds between the beeps the other night, around 1am. I know this because, yep, I counted them.) Oh the delights of a beepless existence. Someone oughta do more research into the health effects of noise pollution. 

Things that go beep in the night...

...and all through the day too...

My new flat has lovely high ceilings. Like the ones you find in old houses. Probably because it is an old house. Trouble is, some doofus has put the smoke alarms up there, on the faraway ceiling, where I can't reach them.

Yes, I realise that they are up there so the smoke can reach them, and then they can blurt out a warning message that the house is in danger of burning down. I get that. Smoke alarms are important. Go buy yourself one, if you find yourself alarmless. But...they are beeping at me. Constantly. They have been beeping, in fact, since before Christmas. By my calculations, Christmas was a while ago now. I think they want someone to change their battery. I get that too. Battery changes are important. Otherwise they won't work. Go buy yourself one, if you find yourself batteryless.

But...I can't reach them, to change theirs. I have no furniture to stand on. At least, I have no furniture that it would be wise to stand on. Even if I did, a chair would not be sufficient. A desk to put the chair on, would also be required, along with a reasonable sense of balance. And probably longer legs. None of which I have. The job requires a ladder. Typically, the flat didn't come with one.

I have been unwisely standing on one of those flimsy fold up garden chairs so that I can poke the alarms. (Please don't try this at home.) My poking device consists of an old badminton racket with a long thin piece of metal that broke off of my clothes airer, taped to it. I have to stab the reset button thingy with this implement, while trying not to wobble over. It's a delicate procedure. Especially when wobbling over is something that I am very good at...hmmmm... And if I do this last thing at night, this action only has a limited effect. Invariably the beeping resumes in the wee small hours.

Yes, I have tried burning things. Beneath them. To exhaust the battery. But to no avail. Maybe they don't have enough battery left to read my smoke signals, only enough to complain that they can't. Sometimes they go quiet. Just for a short while. Until I get my hopes up...

They have some sort of banter thing going on too. One beeps, and the other answers. Kinda like birds, chirping to each other, but kinda not like that at all. For some reason, the one in the kitchen chirps louder. Guess it must be the mummy bird... It's quite draining, listening to that constant beeping. Not draining on the batteries though, it seems. How much longer can they last? What if I run out of juice before they do? What if I go completely mad? Maybe they aren't actually beeping at me, but laughing at me...yeah...I thought I detected a slight mocking undercurrent in that last shrill exchange...

I can see the headlines for this predicament too. "Woman's brain fried by fire safety device." Spontaneous combustion is a real phenomenon, isn't it? Surely that would set them off...

If they weren't radioactive, I think I would've smashed them into tiny pieces by now. Except of course that I can't reach them to do that...

There is actually a bird nest in the roof. They make a lot of noise too. Breakfast is early in this house. But they are birds...and I like birds...so that's a racket I can live with. If my assumptions re the avian growth cycle are correct, they will leave the nest soon enough anyway. If only they would take the smoke alarms with...I reckon they would be able to reach them...

Oh well. Let's cheer ourselves up with another RBP (or Random Bug Photo, in case you missed the introduction in my last post). This is the gentle art of wooing, stick insect style;

I yelped with delight when I saw these two acrobats yesterday. I yelped in fright first though cos I nearly squished them. I went to grab the rope they are dangling from as its function is to hold the gate open so I can wheel my bike through it. Obviously they found another purpose for the rope. Ain't they sweet. And they're still there. They have now progressed beyond the hand holding stage, but I won't be posting a picture of that. Bugs have a right to privacy too. Even though they have chosen quite a public place to be private...

The Rooster Mafia

I went for a walk in my new neighbourhood the other day and met a rooster. I'm not used to seeing random roosters, out and about, all on their own, so naturally I felt the need to inquire into his well being. Our conversation went a little like this;

Me: Are you lost, Mr Rooster?

Mr Rooster: Gazed nonchalantly at me which I interpreted as,"Hey lady, do I look like I need a chaperone?"

Me: You are a terribly handsome fellow.

Mr Rooster a.k.a. Little Red: Gazed nonchalantly at me which I interpreted as, "Always have been a bit of a chick-magnet. The main rooster in the hen house. Ruffled more than a few feathers in my time, let me tell you." Gaze followed by an almost, sort of, possible wink.

Me: Do you have enough to eat out here?

Little Red: Gazed nonchalantly at me which I interpreted as, "I am a chicken of means, but I have been known to accept bribes. Whatcha got?"

Me: Oh. Um...sorry...I don't actually have any food on me. If I'd known our paths were going to cross, I would've packed some rooster friendly delicacies.

Little Red: The laid back expression persisted, conveying something along the lines of, "Hey, no harm done, just make sure you bring something tasty with, next time you're in the neighbourhood. I'll keep a look out for ya."

Apparently, Little Red is just one of many. Apparently, there is a free range colony living further up the hill. I can't wait to meet them. I am soooo intrigued by the idea of a gang of bachelor roosters. My speculations about their community dynamics have lead me to affectionately give them the title of The Rooster Mafia. I figure that a group of testosterone fueled man birds will have a well established pecking order. A mob leader, whose commands must be obeyed, at all costs. Or else. I bet he gets to crow first. Naturally, those on the bottom rung will have devious plans afoot to over throw the dictator and rule the roost. I imagine it will be kinda like Lord of the Flies, poultry style.

I bought these no doubt fabulous fellows a bag of wheat. Slightly nervous about the idea of feeding them though, truth be told. But perhaps they are used to tasty treats from random humans. They might form a polite orderly line. Or even turn up their noses, so to speak, if they're used to more upmarket offerings. Or...I might get mobbed. Trampled in the stampede. Crushed under chicken foot. Smothered. Suffocated beneath a feather blanket. Not that far fetched, given my spindly disposition, my unco tendencies, and my feather allergy.

Would be kinda funny, I think. I can see the newspaper headlines already... "Woman escapes the perils of an earthquake ravaged city, only to be pecked to death by a mob of unruly roosters." Although that's probably a little wordy for a headline...let's see if I can truncate it a bit... "Quake survivor target of Rooster Mafia hit." The idea amuses me. There are worst ways to go, I'm sure. And far more mundane ways, too.  I'd like to qualify for the Darwin Awards, when the time comes...(Did I just say that out loud...?)

I actually did take a photo of Little Red, but it didn't come out very well, so you will have to imagine how handsome he is. Don't hold back. Instead, I will introduce a new feature of this blog, from now on to be known as an RBP, or Random Bug Photo.

Check out the cuddling cicadas;

An open letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I have always been polite in my previous correspondence, and I've been good, nauseatingly so at times, but your seasonal offerings of later years have left me cold. I don't like being taken for granted. I have therefore decided to end our relationship. You are no longer on my Christmas card list.

Although, to be precise, I haven't exactly deleted you, more like transferred you, to another list.

What? You can't work it out for yourself? Okay, I'll give you a clue, if I must. It rhymes with a synonym for head lice.

Still in the dark, old man? Knocked your noggin on too many mantelpieces over the years, have we? Or perhaps all that snow has caused neuronic frostbite. But of course, all those free beers people leave out for you would've prompted some significant premature cell death, and then there's the saturated fat laced cookies that will be lining your arteries, slowing down the blood flow to your brain... I guess I may have to be a little less cryptic then. Get you up to speed. Let me spell it out for ya, Santa Pants--you're gonna go-go-go, ho-ho-ho, no-no-no longer.

Yours malevolently

Holly


 Oops...did I just threaten to kill someone? I hope no policemen are reading this...

Thumbing a ride

I don't usually pick up hitchhikers. Probably because I don't have a car. Or a driver's licence. I believe one of those is required to get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle these days. Oh well. I s'pose I could always offer someone a ride on my rusty crusty dusty old bicycle. Or maybe not. On reflection, I doubt my vintage bike could cope with someone straddling the handle bars. You should hear how loudly it creaks when there's just me on it. People turn and stare. I kid you not. I'll get around to oiling it one day. Promise. And fixing the brakes. That too. Guess I better make a list...And try not to misplace it anywhere. Again...

Anyway, as I was saying, or trying to say, this afternoon I did pick up a hitchhiker. I stuck out my thumb, and offered a baby stick insect a lift. He/she was marching, quite assertively, along the footpath. Thankfully, I was gazing at the pavement at this precise moment, and not the clouds. Clouds are one of my favourite things, so I do look at them quite a bit. I shudder to think what might've happened if the clouds had been particularly riveting ones today. Let's not even go there.

Anyway, as aforementioned, this little critter had quite a confident gait, (albeit a bit of a wobbly one, but I reckon that's inbuilt.) This caused me to wonder if he/she needed any assistance, but the footpath is rather wide, so out my thumb went. The stick insect showed no hesitation whatsoever. He/she climbed aboard! His/her tiny feet tickled my thumb. I gently relocated him/her to a slightly more stick insect friendly environment. A nearby bush. Good grief. Talk about a cutie. Stole my heart.

I would show you a photo. If I had taken one. But I left my image capturing contraption at home. Damn it. Something else to write on the list, I guess. When you leave the house, don't forget to take your camera....
 
I did stop and say hello on the way home. As I passed by the bush. It was just a brief salutation to the shrub in general as the stick impersonator was nowhere to be seen. (And I confess I was a little worried that the people who live at the house that the bush belongs to might think I'm a freak if they catch me talking to their greenery too often. I have stopped to admire/ogle their fine crop of lawn daisies once or twice. Or maybe three or four times. I haven't been counting. Hopefully they haven't been either, but one has to think about these things.)

I'm hoping the stick figure found a pleasant leaf to hang out under. Somewhere where birds, and cats and other creatures that might intend it harm, can't reach. The bush hadn't received a haircut in my absence, so that was a comforting sign. Here's hoping all is well in baby stick insect land...

Mistaken identity

There isn't a mouse in my new house. Not even two. Hard to hide my disappointment really. I got all excited the other day when I spotted what I thought were mouse droppings on my kitchen bench, but turns out the little brown parcels weren't dung after all, but beetles. Of the borer variety. I really like bugs--most bugs--and I harbour no animosity towards borer. Not as if I have any furniture for them to tuck into. But...well...they just aint quite as entertaining as Mr Maus and his band of merry maidens. I wonder what the rascals are doing now...Hmmmm...

While there aren't any head bobbing mice on the premises, I have noticed a head bobbing bug. Think he might be a parasitic wasp. I thought he was making a bee-line (or perhaps that should be wasp-line) for my ear, which was somewhat disconcerting, but he was only trying to get to his hidey hole in the outside wall by the front door. I had rather thoughtlessly placed my noggin in the middle of his flight path. An amicable resolution was reached--I ducked. He's a little camera shy, so this picky is the best I could manage.

Earthquakes...snow....and conversations with ducks...

Christchurch has been bombarded by insults over the past year. Earthquake after earthquake. More than 7000 aftershocks since September, in fact. Some more noteworthy than others. Then it was snow.

Yeah, I realize that lots of people around the world are used to dealing with the flaky stuff, but not here.  Not major dumps. Twice.  And the snow covered up the craters and rubble the quakes generated, which made moving around--what's left of--the city, even more hazardous. Interesting times.

When I was walking along the quake-mangled river recently, I stopped to ask a couple of ducks for their thoughts on Mother Nature's new urban design. They cast me a nonchalant glance and flew over to the other side of the river. Fair enough. A woman on the opposite bank had a much more interesting conversation starter--a bread bag. I didn't take it personally.

Anyway, that got me thinking. If Christchurch was still a swamp, with no buildings, what would happen in a quake? Would it just be the equivalent of a bog burp? Or, in other words, it isn't actually the tectonic rumblings we have to fear. It is our own creations. Rocks that fall off cliffs aside, it is our bricks and mortar that killed people. And as long as the quakes continue, the man-made structures will continue to tumble.

Mother Nature has come to reclaim her swamp. Let her have it, I say. Don't really think we are in a position to argue.  Maybe we should rename Christchurch "Topsy Turvy Land" and all live in bouncy castles. That might be the only way to entice the tourists back, and to keep us all safe from further harm...

PS: Since writing the above, I was forced to adopt Mr Maus's philosophy of reckless abandon. I had to leave my unsafe flat, so I dumped/gave away almost everything I own, and fled the swamp.

What happened to Mr Maus? I caught him in one of those humane traps laced with his all time favorite, peanut butter, and rehomed him. I um...I also caught his sister wives...cos um...turns out he was the harem favoring kind of mouse, after all. Talk about a busy mausmaid...talk about a busy Mr Maus...sheesh...

Hated having to disrupt their domestic bliss, but they needed a safe new home too. Here's hoping that I made a good choice in that regard, acknowledging the many perils that face wild mousies in this world...

Thank you Mr Maus, and friends, for choosing my stove to head bob about in. I shall always treasure, and miss, your company :)