The Con Trick of "Consumables"

Whilst it may have taken me a long time to cotton on to the fact that ink costs more than printers and that most things that used to be free like television (licence fee apart) now mostly have to be paid for, I realised this week that this fact of modern life has assumed ludicrous proportions. I moved house earlier this year, after painful months of major works, including a new kitchen. This week a card landed through my letterbox addressed to me by name and reminding me that it was time to buy a new cartridge for my kitchen tap. Now I already have a water softener and I have to shell out huge sums for big blocks of salt to keep that fed, so what on earth is the cartridge on my tap for?

I peered under the sink, which is a spaghetti junction of pipes (the picture above shows just one corner), and lo and behold there was a white cartridge nestling there, connected by a blue plastic tube to the underside of the kitchen tap. But why could I possibly need this when I have softened water and drinking water via an enormous American style fridge freezer?

I went online to the card-sender's website and discovered my taps are designed to filter out smells and unpleasant tastes and will save me a fortune in bottled water. Well I don't buy bottled water. In restaurants I ask for tap and apart from the occasional bottle of fizzy I have always been happy to leave my fate in the hands of the local water authority (after all they charge us enough for that privilege). It turns out that I will require a replacement cartridge every six months and this will cost me around £64 per year as well as approximately 5 minutes of my time to replace the cartridge, having first isolated the water supply to the tap. In other words, someone else has found a way to extract money from me for something I did not know I needed and certainly know I do not want. It will also require me to go out and buy the necessary spanners to make my way through Spaghetti Junction, which knowing me I will cock up and then I will have to get someone in to fix the resultant leak. I can already feel the stress coming on. If I do nothing and just leave the old filter in place, the website warns me that harmful bacteria could be building up inside it. This means I will doubtless need to get it removed and the pipes reconnected around where it was. So I am damned if I do and damned if I don't. Maybe I should just risk the salmonella? Any suggestions?

West Ham Warriors, or Why men are strange creatures

Yesterday I braved the cold and damp weather and took my usual seat in the Lower West Stand at Stamford Bridge to watch Chelsea yet again fail to win at home. I was absolutely freezing despite layers of clothing and was amazed to see across the pitch in the away supporters corner, four West Ham supporters naked to the waist. I presume they had pulled their shirts off to celebrate their team scoring the first goal (although it is possible they had been semi-naked since kick off and I had not spotted them until then). Anyway they stood there, like four neanderthal warriors, separated from their bear skins, on their feet leaning over the barrier, all through the match, seemingly oblivous to the cold.

I am still at a loss to understand what it is that persuades men (and it is always men it seems!) to do something that is so obviously against their own interests. Yes, there was doubtless a plentiful supply of alcohol coursing through their veins, but there was a pint and a half in mine and it didn't stop me shivering through my thermal vest, t shirt, sweater and heavy fleecy lined jacket. It must have been excruciating. To choose pain in that way seems so masochistic as to be borderline insane. Maybe it was one of those heat of the moment things - one whipped his jacket and shirt off, the others followed suit and then a macho 'if-you-can-do-it-then-so-can-I' standoff took place for the rest of the ninety minutes?

This would never happen with women. We'd look pityingly at whoever was mad enough to do something like this and let them get on with it from the comfort of our designer thermals. I am not including here Geordie women, whose standard Friday night midwinter outdoor attire involves bare legs, bare arms, white shoes and lots of exposed bosom - they are in a class of their own and it's definitely genetic. Whilst the majority of Manchester United supporters are renowned for coming from the home counties ("You only live round the corner!" being a favourite Chelsea chant when we host them), I was not aware that West Ham had a niche following of northern lads. I thought. like us at Chelsea,they were a bunch of southern softies! These four WestHam guys looked they were participating in a public audition for Braveheart II.

Anyway they provided the only entertainment for me to lighten the loss of another two points squandered at home. Zola, la lo lala Zola.

Breaking taboos on the Piccadilly Line

On the crowded Piccadilly Line this morning an old man got on behind me. A young woman immediately jumped to her feet to offer him her seat. In a rather posh and very loud voice the old fellow declaimed to her in the hearing of the whole crowded carriage:
'Oh no thank you. You are blonde and beautiful and I plan to make love to my wife this evening and standing up and looking at you will keep me in the mood! Where are you from?'
The entire carriage convulsed in laughter and people actually made eye contact. He had broken several taboos at once. Firstly he was an old man openly admitting to having a sex life. Secondly he was unashamedly chatting up a young attractive woman, who herself had (shock horror) offered up her seat (but she did turn out to be Dutch). But most shocking of all he was engaging a stranger in conversation on the tube.
The laughter subsided and the woman got off at the next stop so the old chap turned to a couple with a small child and again opened a conversation by enquiring where they were from. An animated discussion of the merits of Yorkshire followed until the family got off and our hero turned to a man with a large holdall.
'Where are you off to?'
It transpired the younger man was heading to Bangkok to visit his brother, who had retired out there. In the course of the next few minutes we all discovered his brother was gay, he was called Jerry, he lived in Spain, worked as a chef, was about to take up a new job in Finland, had a father who had been a prison officer, came from the North East, had parents who had been married for 46 years and he did not have a wife or girlfriend. We listened as the old man in turn told Jerry he was a physician, had served as a medical officer in Vietnam, discussed the merits of MASH and the museums of County Durham and was off to have a cheap lunch at a catering college in Hammersmith.
In the meantime, a young man got on and sat down with his girlfriend and seeing the old man, jumped to his feet to offer his seat. (My God twice on one journey - what are we Londoners coming to? - but then he turned out to be Spanish!). This offer produced another explanation from the old man that he preferred to stand, as standing had a very beneficial effect on his constitution and he intended to make love to his wife that evening. As by now most of the carriage had arrived subsequent to his previous declaration of intent, once again everyone burst out laughing and exchanged those "this is not supposed to happen on the tube" looks. The old man turned to me and suggested I rush home and make love, as it was much better exercise than jogging or cycling. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest that Jerry join me, until he added:
"You can't beat a bit of horizontal jogging. Of course only if you are married. I don't want to encourage any extra-marital sex." Again people fell about laughing.
By now we had reached Hammersmith, where he was going for his student-prepared lunch. Jerry wished him goodbye, gave him a card for his restaurant in Fuengirola and took a seat further up the carriage to continue his journey to Heathrow. I returned to reading my book. Silence engulfed the crowded carriage once again.
As I walked home from the Tube a young man came towards me and, looking the other way as we passed, whispered conspiratorially "It's Friday!"
Maybe all this talking to strangers is a by-product of the recession? Are people breaking out of their cocoons and starting to communicate with each other?
If I don't manage to do any horizontal jogging this week maybe I'll go up to Co. Durham and check out the Beamish and Bowes Museums.