You may remember from this earlier blog that I stormed out of my local Citroën main dealer when they proposed a fee of £235.00 for changing a headlamp bulb.

Well, I showed ‘em.

I bought two Xenon D2R bulbs off eBay for £17.95 and took the car to a little garage down the road.

Result? A bill for £397.15.

It could have been more.

The mechanic said I could wait while he changed the bulb. He reckoned 10 minutes, and it would cost £20.

As I had seen the process in this step by step photo guide on an Australian website and it involved taking the front bumper off, I declined and said I’d pick the car up later.

The garage rang later that afternoon. “We changed the bulbs but he no work. Mebbe wiring loom, we check fuse OK. We get lecrician man to check Thursday.”

The electrician man duly checked on Thursday for a nominal £23, and said that the headlamp itself had corroded, and needed to be replaced.

A massive old corroded headlamp from a Citroën C5

A new headlamp for a Citroën C5?  Certainly sair, that’ll be £701.65 from Citroën UK, please sair. Seven hundred and one pounds sixty five pence. That’s $1,080.96. That’s €854.07. For one headlamp? That’s more than the car’s worth.

How about one from a breakers’ yard, I wondered. They tracked one down very speedily, at a bargain price of £150.

So three hours labour, plus the parts, plus the lecrician man, plus the VAT (and I dare not count the time) came to £415.10.

To change one headlamp bulb. There’s progress for you.

There is a company operating out of Birmingham (although their postal address is either Lancing or Worthing in West Sussex) which used to be called Lloyds TSB Registrars.

It got itself such a bad name that they changed it to Equiniti.

Their job is to impede share dealing. A few years ago I asked them to sell some shares my mother owned. They faffed around — to put it kindly — they hesitated, dawdled, asked for more and yet more forms and finally sold the shares 24 days after I’d given them the first instruction.

By which time the shares had lost ONE THIRD of their value.

This was for me a substantial sum, and I felt this amounted to dereliction of duty, so I took my case to the Financial Services Ombudsman, who rebuffed me by return of post.

I sent them copies of every single item of my correspondence, recordings of the increasingly agitated telephone calls I had been making daily to Equiniti, and eventually they condescended to look at my case.

But you know what? The Financial Services Ombudsman isn’t staffed by ordinary punters like you and I. It’s made up of timeservers who used to work at Equiniti, or whose best mates work there. Guess whose side they came down on?

Not an iota of blame was attached to Equiniti. The Financial Services Ombudsman thought it was perfectly reasonable for Equiniti to take 24 days to sell a single block of shares.

Recently I’ve had further dealings with Equiniti. I discovered that one company for which they are the registrars had not been paying dividends into a probate building society account.

So I sent them a letter. Just one little letter. I asked if Equiniti could look into this and refund the missing dividends.

They replied on Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And Friday. And so on.

They sent me thirty-one letters in reply to my single letter. Each letter contained a dividend cheque. Each letter contained the phrase “We have charged an administration fee of £11.75 (including VAT) to cover costs. The fee has been taken away from the attached payment.”

I worked that out as £364.25. Quite a hefty admin fee to answer one letter.

So I’ve written to them to ask for it back. I wonder what sort of reply I’ll get? And I wonder if the Financial Services Ombudsman will think it is perfectly reasonable to charge 31 times over for a single task? Silly me — they probably will.

If you do a Google search for Equiniti, the second hit to come up after their own corporate site is “How can I take Equiniti to the Small Claims Court?” Oh dear, that doesn’t look good, does it?

Where did this strange name come from? Maybe they couldn’t spell Iniquity? The people who run this extraordinary company ought to be doing something to restore its battered credibility. At the very least Sir Neville Simms, the Chairman, and his non-executive directors should be standing on the boardroom table bellowing in rage, to justify their emoluments.

My newspaper sometimes runs analyses of politicians’ speeches, with the words they mention most frequently appearing in larger fonts.

They’re always intriguing to look at, but it never occurred to me that they originated from a free program on the web called Wordle.com.

I’ve just discovered the site, and as it’s a bank holiday I’ve allowed myself to play with it for an hour or so. What fun!

I like the attitude of the creator, Jonathan Feinberg, as well. Here’s his reply to an FAQ which I have absolutely no doubt he has genuinely received:

Could you remove or change the name of the “Sexsmith” font? I don’t want my students to see it.

Yes, with pleasure. First, please write to the musician Ron Sexsmith, after whom the font is named, and get him to change his name. You may also want to write to Sexsmith, Alberta, Canada, and see if you can get them to change their name before any of your students inadvertently consult a map. Christian rocker Paula Sexsmith ought to be in your sights as well; don’t let her feel left out.

Here’s the first one I made, using as source material the Gwynedd chapter from Follies Grottoes & Garden Buildings by hem hem Gwyn Headley and Wim Meulenkamp. I suspect if you click on it it will appear in a larger window. If it doesn’t, I’ll fix it later.

This is an empirical observation, accumulated gradually over a period of years, and I would be grateful to hear of other examples people have collected.

I have no accent at all, therefore I am the bench mark. I can distinguish a British accent (English, Welsh, Scottish, Irish) from North American or Antipodean accents. Further subdivisions are trickier, not because I have a tin ear, but because I don’t pay enough attention.  For instance I can’t distinguish between and American and a Canadian until the latter says “aboot the hoose.”

Sometimes I confuse South African and Australian accents, though they are quite different. Up till now, Australian and New Zealand accents have been indistinguishable as far as I’m concerned.

Until last Friday. I was being wheeled into an operating theatre and the cheerful anaesthetist asked me a series of questions, slapping me regularly on the shoulder. She asked “Have you got any mittle in you?”

I didn’t know what mittle was, so I was at a loss to reply. “I don’t know,” I quavered, “what’s mittle?

She slapped me on the shoulder again. “You’re the funny one, aincha? Mittle. Brass, steel, iron, gold, silver.”

I got it. (I don’t, by the way). And as I embarked on my drug-induced Lethe, I was thinking METal METal METal MET …

When I came to, 40 minutes later, it was to a revelation.

** The New Zealand accent is the British accent, only with the vowels shifted one or two places along! **

Du you andirstend? Fush end chups. Mittle.

And as the captain of the Wellington to Picton ferry shouts, much to the alarm of my brother Richard, “All hends un Dick”.

It’s easy once you realise it. Forget about diphthongs (what Kiwis wear to the beach), just move the vowel one or two places to the right.

And you’re speaking New Zealandish.

Izzy pizzy.

Just got out of hospital after a small exploratory procedure for which they knocked me out for half an hour.

They told me not to work today, and that I’d feel dopey.

So what’s new?

OK, you’ve all heard about Milo The Golden Retriever’s adventures gargling stones, and here, along with his vet’s bill, is the guilty stone.

I’ve put it next to a pound coin for a size comparison, but that’s not really accurate. Picture a pile of 934 of these pound coins and you’ll get the picture of what it’s really worth.

And here’s the vet’s bill in all its horror:

They Murmured, as they Took their Fees
“There Is No Cure for This Disease.”

A few years back I spent £130 on a DVD: “Birds of Britain and Europe”. It was astounding.

This was the future of bird books. There was text, photographs, maps — and videos of the birds doing their bird stuff, recordings of their songs, alarm calls, everything you could possibly want for browsing and species identification. I was awestruck. It was a lot of money, but money well spent.

However I don’t have Mac OS 9 any more so I can no longer use it. The publisher upgraded it to OS 10.2 and then gave up on the upgrades, suggesting I spend £150 on the new version.

So my DVD of “Birds of Britain and Europe” is now a very expensive drinks coaster, and I’m back to using the durable hardback Peterson’s guide I’ve had for years. And years. And years.

Ebooks are great if you read a lot of James Patterson. Or Dan Brown. Books you know you will never, ever want to read again.

The answer is two.

One to remove the front bumper, the second to unbolt the headlamp unit, take it out and remove the old bulb. Then replacing the new bulb is a doddle. All you have to do then is rebolt the headlamp, ensuring it is accurately aligned, and replace the front bumper. Oh — I forgot, you have to take the front wheel off to do this.

Total labour time: 1 hour 30 minutes.
Labour cost: £105.00
D2R Headlamp bulb: £95.00
Total: £200.00
VAT @ 17.5%: £35.00
TOTAL £235.00

to change one lightbulb.

Pay up!

Here’s a status update on my last post, Quite A Day.

I came up to London from Harlech last night to check on the progress of my invalids. Yvonne has a small avulsion fracture of the calcaneum bone near to the articulating surface with the cuboid bone. She will be in plaster for four to six weeks, and gets a new, all solid cast on Monday. This is the temporary (expandable, to allow the bruise to swell) cast:

Milo swallowed a large pebble, which lodged in his intestinal tract. He was operated on within hours, and later made such a fuss that he was sent home the same evening. He thinks he’s back to normal. He goes back to the vet on Tuesday to have his staples removed. Here’s what a Brazilian Golden Retriever looks like, together with his staples (and also unfortunately his pintle, of which he’s inordinately fond):

So they’re both on the mend. What a relief. The NHS has covered everything for Yvonne, but Milo chose to go private. Luckily we took out insurance for him and they have just confirmed they will cover our vets’ bill. Phew.

First of all, we must welcome Benjamin Robert Lloyd Ellis, who arrived here on July 13th at 22:02. Congratulations to Jane, David and big brother Nathaniel!

All seemed pretty good yesterday. Von had made an interesting shopping list for goodies for my birthday today. Milo was subdued and a little off colour, but seemed relatively OK. Von ran downstairs to let the electricity man in to read the meter, spun round at the bottom of the stairs and collapsed in agony. The loud crack from her foot did not herald good news. I was piling ice onto her ankle when my sister Jo rang. “Get her to an X-ray at once,” ordered Jo. She’s a physio and she knows these things.

We drove to the Whittington and she was admitted into A&E, together with a felon handcuffed to a police officer and a madman staring at his tattoos and constantly shouting at himself. It’s a gritty city.

I’d gone home to await her call. Four hours later, by 7pm, I was getting anxious. I checked my phone — and found I’d switched it off in the morning to stop it downloading another 200 emails, and forgotten to turn it on again. And I’d switched the office phones over to Moneypenny, our secretarial service. Von had been calling me since 5:15, when she was let out. I got her voicemail message and rang her immediately, but she was already in the taxi coming home. She was angry and upset but she didn’t want to spoil my birthday.

Plaster up to the knee (left leg) and two crutches. She was not a happy bunny. I prepared a fish soup following instructions shouted through the kitchen hatch. It was delicious.

We wrapped the plaster in clingfilm so she could turn over in bed more easily, and to stop it messing the sheets as it’s a hard/soft plaster (because she has a bruise like a balloon) and it was still slightly damp.

I got up to make tea in the morning and the hall floor was awash with Milo’s vomit. He looked terrible, my effervescent pup who usually does somersaults at the sight of food. A Bonio held no interest for him. He would not eat. Off to the vet.

The vet has just called. Milo had an X-ray, and a blockage was found in his intestine. General anaesthetic, on to the slab, cut him open and inside the intestine was a large stone, too big to be passed. Stone removed, dog sewn back up, coming round from anaesthetic, all seems OK, job done. We get him back on Monday. I shudder to think of what the bill will be, although we do have some limited form of pet insurance.

Whereas I dropped Von off at the hospital at 3:00 and if I’d had my phone on (doh!) I could have picked her up at 5:15, fully X-rayed, diagnosed, painkilled, plastered, given a pair of new crutches and a pile of drugs. All paid for by the NHS. Quick, efficient and polite. Don’t knock it too much. The alternative is not worth considering.

So here we are. Von lying on a sofa with plastered foot in the air, dog lying on marble slab in alien vet office, and me celebrating my birthday with an Apple  Inc product. Happy Birthday To Me!

Milo and Von in fitter days on Harlech Beach: