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I got a bit tired of the tangle of USB cables under the shelf on which I place my laptop, so I decided to make myself some kind of sync station to tidy things up a bit. Being lazy, I wanted to get a container to house the USB hub and the bulk of the cables which wouldn’t require much modification. I spotted a ‘vanity box’ in one of my favourite shops — Muji — which looked as if it would be just the job. It’s a semi-translucent plastic box, with oval cut-outs at the side which act as handles, but also allowed me to route the cables through them without drilling or cutting any holes. I bought a lid to go with it, which has a handy lip on it, so that it stops my USB-connected items falling off the top.

I’ve got a Belkin USB hub inside, which I raised up on four cut up pieces of rubber (by which I mean eraser, North Americans!), as it gets very hot resting on the bottom. The semi-translucency of the box helpfully allows the LED lights on the hub to shine through, so I can tell if there’s any problems with a peripheral, but it hides the worst of the clutter. Also inside the box is the USB receiver for my Logitech S530 wireless keyboard and mouse — it seems to work fine like that. On top of the box, I placed a small USB card reader, and used bulldog clips to hold the cables in place. I’ve still got a few USB ports free on the hub, so I can always add a few more cables or peripherals in the future if I need to, but this serves my needs for now.

I’m pretty pleased with it — not bad for just over £5 for the materials. There are few notes attached to the image on Flickr if you want to know what’s what.

Yesterday, Mr. Bsag lost his wedding ring. He was working on the allotment and took the ring off because it was rubbing his finger when he was using the spade. Like the big idiot he is sometimes, he put the ring in the top pocket of his overalls which a) doesn’t fasten closed, and b) has a hole in the bottom, though to be fair, he didn’t know about b) until it was too late. The inevitable happened, and the ring must have dropped out of his pocket while he was spreading the huge load of horse manure we had delivered on to the beds. We went up to look for it, but it could be under several trailer loads of muck by now, so it was a fairly hopeless search.

I was surprised how upset I was by the loss of his ring. It’s only a piece of metal after all, and the fact that he doesn’t now have it in his possession or on his finger makes no difference to our relationship. But it still upset me. Our rings weren’t just picked off the trays of a jewellery shop, but were made to our own design by a lovely craftsman jeweller based in Birmingham. They weren’t expensive, but they were special and unique to us. At our wedding, I carried my grandmother’s wedding ring as my ‘something old’, and it had worn very thin over the years of her marriage. I wanted our rings to wear thin too, but now only mine will do so, and that makes me sad.

In folk tales and ballads, when this kind of thing happens, the years pass and the man catches a huge fish at sea, which he gets his servants to cook at a great feast. The woman then cuts open the belly of the fish, only to find the lost ring shining inside. Our allotment is a bit far from the sea for that, but my faith in the narrative imperative is such that I’m fairly confident that — some years from now — we’ll cut open a particularly prize specimen of a potato, which we have grown on our allotment, only to find the lost ring embedded in the flesh.

That, or we’ll have to make friends with someone who has a metal detector, but it doesn’t have quite the same ballady feel about it.

Some time ago, my brother lent me a spare turntable he had hanging around (a Project) so that we could play Mr. Bsag’s collection of vinyl and my rather smaller stash. However, we soon found out that at some point during its long storage, the turntable platter itself had developed a huge warp. This was so severe that it would scrape on the base of the turntable on each revolution, causing some problems with speed stability. Not to mention the fact that the warp resulted in warbling, wowing sound. I did manage to put my warped records out of phase with the warps in the platter to give an approximately level surface, but that didn’t work with flat records. Quite how a very heavy, solid cast-iron platter ended up getting warped, we couldn’t imagine, but there it was. We reckoned that our chances of unwarping it were negligible.

Still, all was not lost: in my hi-fi-mad family, there are practically always spare bits of kit hanging around in lofts or other storage spaces. My Dad happened to have an Acoustic Research EB101 turntable in his loft, which my Mum was only too happy to have removed from the loft, so I took that home from my visit this weekend.

I set it up yesterday after a bit of faffing around, so we are enjoying the sweet, analogue sound of vinyl again. The first problem was that my Dad had forgotten that he’d left a custom power plug on it (which fitted in a multi-socket he used to use), but that was an easy fix by swapping over the plug from the old turntable. The second snag was that the stylus didn’t actually reach the surface of the record. You don’t have to be a hi-fi buff to realise that you’re not going to end up with any music if the needle doesn’t touch the record. The problem was that the rest for the arm wasn’t properly height adjusted so that even when fully lowered, it didn’t release the arm. I had to call Dad to ask if there was some secret shipping screw which needed to be released, but in the end I found a little grub screw which did the job. I also couldn’t find the recommended downforce weight for the cartridge which was included (a Glanz), so I just swapped over the Ortofon OM10 I had on on the Project turntable.

The new (to me) turntable sounds pretty good. I listened to a album of Mr. Bsag’s that I hadn’t heard before — ‘Psychedelic Shack’ by The Temptations. It’s a terrific album, and absolutely the right thing to listen to on vinyl. I think I’m going to have to hit the second-hand vinyl shops again…

When we went away this weekend, we had to leave Cleo at a cattery for the first time. It would have been better if we could have asked our neighbours to come in and feed her for a couple of days, but for one reason or another, that wasn’t possible. Luckily, we have a wonderful cattery not far from us, run by very caring people, so we knew that she would be in excellent hands.

When we opened her carrying box in her new lodgings, she really didn’t want to come out. When she did, she walked into the run and immediately started hissing and growling at the cats in the neighbouring runs. One very portly black and white cat in the next run wandered over to her in a friendly way in response to this hostile greeting, which only made things worse. Cleo was not at all happy, and it was clear that she would have to be moved to calm her down, and also so that she didn’t kick off a huge riot among the other cats being boarded. This caused a huge amount of hassle as other cats had to be moved, runs cleaned and so on, but eventually she was housed in a run with opaque walls so that she couldn’t see any other cats.

She still wouldn’t come out of the travel box, but looked out of the window of the inner room at the peacocks and peahens strutting around outside and trembled like a leaf. I think she thought that these huge birds were going to kill her, and looked up at us with big, ‘take me home now, please’ eyes. We felt truly dreadful leaving her there, but we had no choice, and it was only for a couple of days. The problem is that you can’t explain to cats (or dogs) that they will be perfectly safe and comfortable and you’ll be back to collect them in two days. When the cat in question is rescued and has had a lot of traumatic upheaval in her life, you feel even worse.

She did eventually settle down, but was still lying on her bed inside her travel box when we came to pick her up — probably for maximum guilt-inducing effect. She seems pretty happy to be back on her own territory, and has been sniffing everything, rubbing up against every available surface (including us) rapturously, and purring like a mad thing.

Mr. Bsag and I spent the weekend with my parents and my brother to celebrate my parents’ Ruby Wedding Anniversary on Sunday (40 years, for those not fluent in the gemstone to years-married conversion). It was a quiet family do, but great fun, despite the weather doing its best to scupper carefully laid plans with bitter winds and snow.

My brother and I hatched a plot to make them a photo book (using iPhoto) of photographs from their wedding day and a selection of other shots from the 40 years since. Unfortunately, we had to let Dad in on the secret because he is the keeper of the family slide collection, and had to do an enormous amount of scanning and sorting before we put it together. But we made sure that the final selection and layout was a surprise.

It was a roaring success, and both my parents thought it was a lovely idea. Since some of the wedding photos were on slides, they hadn’t seen them for years, so it was wonderful to look at them again, and I’m really impressed with the quality of the book. All the images came out really well, and it looks very classy.

I might even order a copy for myself, but I’m definitely going to get enlargements of a wonderful shot from their wedding. It’s a colour shot of Mum and Dad in the back of the wedding car, looking gloriously happy and covered in confetti. I suspect that they were also pretty glad to be out of the cold, because their wedding day was also bitterly cold and windy, just like this Sunday.

One of the main benefits of cycling on a car-free path over driving on a car-jammed road is that your mind is free to wander from one pointless, weird topic to the next, without worrying that you’ll crash into someone or something. Sometimes when I actually think about what I’ve been thinking about on these occasions (if you see what I mean), it amazes me that people trust me with a responsible job.

To give an example, this is a rough transcript of my thoughts on last night’s commute. Bear in mind that the parts in quotes were ‘said’ in the privacy of my own head, rather than out loud, because that would make me Crazy Bike Lady, and I’m not her. Yet.

[I pass a gaggle of West Highland terriers and a small, brown, unidentifiable mongrel. I could hear a scrabble of paws behind me, and looked back to see them tearing along, trying to chase me.]

“Can’t catch me, lil doggies! Hmm. Where do you put the apostrophes in lil? The apostrophes are indicating missing letters in this case, so they should come both before and after the last ‘l’. Li’l’. That’s crazy! Apostrophe city. Hehe, Apostrophe City, what a cool place. The kind of place that David Bowie would sing a song about: ‘I’m back on Apostrophe City, Oh Yeah, I’m back on Apostrophe City…’”

[Now I’ve got this fake David Bowie song going round in my head, and it’s driving me mad because I can’t remember the words or title of the original song. Repeat two lines of fake song on loop for another 5 miles…]

For the benefit of those also wondering what the original song was, it’s ‘Suffragette City’. And no — apostrophe doesn’t actually scan terribly well in the original context, but what the heck. Bowie would have made it work.

Several months ago I watched both Pan’s Labyrinth and Tideland within a few weeks of each other. They have some notable parallels, and are both quite disturbing explorations of the imaginative worlds of children. I meant to write a piece about this, but for various reasons it ended up on the back burner for a long time until I saw an interview with Guillermo del Toro (the director of Pan’s Labyrinth) in a documentary about fantasy writing and films, and it reminded me that I’d never got around to it.

I suspect that one of the reasons I dragged my heels a bit was because I found both films deeply disturbing (in different ways), and rather harrowing to watch. Don’t get me wrong — I think they’re both great films, but they aren’t easy viewing by any means.

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At night, we shut our cat Cleo into the downstairs rooms (living room, dining room and kitchen) so that she has access to a comfy sofa, her food and water dishes and her litter box. Normally, by the time we’re ready to go to bed she’s happy to have a last bit of food while we’re locking up, then she toddles off to her bed. However, she occasionally gets very playful when we’re going to bed, and refuses to be shut in.

This is obviously no big deal: we can leave the door open to the downstairs rooms, and she’s free to wander as she likes, so when this happens, we just go to bed ourselves. Inevitably, what happens about 20 minutes later (just as we’re falling asleep, inevitably) is that we hear her little chirrups, which gradually become more strident. In the darkness, we see the fluffy tip of a tail moving around the end of the bed, and then a clunking noise as she tries to open the wardrobe doors. She never does this during the day, so quite why it’s necessary late at night I don’t know. Perhaps she can hear Mr. Tumnus calling to her from Narnia? Or perhaps it’s just a convenient way of generating enough noise to get us out of bed. Either way, it works, and one or other of us will get out of bed.

At this point she’ll rub around our legs (the way cats do), and trot obediently down the stairs ahead of us to go into the kitchen. She has some more food while we’re there, then settles down on her bed.

Cats are weird sometimes. Her food (she has a complete dried food) and water is available all the time, her bed is there, and she’s free to roam around the house. So I have no idea why she needs us to supervise her when she feeds (she won’t eat unless we’re there and stroking her), or to put her to bed.

I’ve started a tumblelog at Tumblr, called slipstream. I’m mostly intending to use it a as way of collecting together snippets of things posted in other places (like flickr, Twitter and ma.gnolia), but it’s also somewhere I can post things which are too short and inconsequential to post here. You might be wondering — given the general level of inconsequentiality of stuff on but she’s a girl — what would count as too inconsequential, but still… Eventually, I hope to find some way of incorporating slipstream here as a kind of side-blog, so removing the need for the separate listings of twitters and ma.gnolia postings, but I haven’t quite sorted out the best way to do it yet. Anyway, if you’re interested, enjoy!

I’ve finally signed up at last.fm. I don’t know why I resisted for so long, but the increase in the numbers of full tracks that they feature was certainly an encouragement . I do sometimes listen to the radio stations at work when I’m away from my main iTunes library, but I’m mainly interested in it as a way of discovering new artists. A ‘similar artists’ station turned up ‘Iron & Wine’, who I had never heard of before. I liked him (yes, it is just a ‘him’ rather than a ‘they’) so much that I bought ‘The Shepherd’s Dog’ recently, as you can see from my recently scrobbled tracks.

It’s also interesting to look back at your listening habits. It isn’t completely characteristic of all my music listening, because I also listen to CDs on the stereo downstairs, but I seem to oscillate between fairly random playlists of a wide range of my collection and intensively listening to a few albums straight through. I’m in the latter mode right now, it seems.

I haven’t really done anything with the social side of last.fm yet (if you’re on there and think you might enjoy my musical tastes, do point me to your username), and I wish that the player integrated with iTunes rather than using a standalone player, but otherwise I’m liking it a lot.