Grumpy Old Technophobe

I bought the Long Suffering Husband a Fitbit for our wedding anniversary. He hadn't asked for it and wasn't even sure he wanted it but I thought it would be fine to drag him, kicking and screaming into the modern-track-your-whole-life-age. I bought it because it had a silver coloured plastic wrist strap and I thought it fitted the Silver Anniversary theme.

He seemed interested but three days later hadn't actually charged it or tried to set it up so I offered to send it back.

"No,no. I've just been too tired to do it," he said.

"Oh, right. Well, charge it up now. How hard can that be?"

We went for a long walk.

"I wonder how far we went," he asked.

"I don't know but if you'd had your Fitbit on you could have told me."

When we got home we had dinner and were just about to take the dog out when I suggested he get his new gadget on to measure at least these few 

steps. 

After about twenty minutes and some unrepeatable language I thought it was time to help. Not that I knew what I was doing, either but I thought I would just be able to read the instructions in the box. There were no instructions other than those that told you not to do stupid things with it. There was no danger of that; we couldn't even work out how to turn it on. 

I laughed. He scowled. I remembered when we used to take the mickey out of his parents for not being able to work the video player. It has come to this: we are the laughable old codgers who are baffled by technology.

I found the website with the step-by-step instructions and video tutorials and we did everything it said. Twice. 

"Is there a number? There must be someone we can talk to. The LSH likes to actually talk to people. I prefer not to just in case I get sarcastic and angry. It took a while but I found a helpline number. It was closed but there was also 'live chat' 

"Hello, I'm Stephano, what can I help you with today?" blinked on the screen.

We told him the problem and he took us through all the steps we had already done.

"Okay," blinked Stephano, "this will be really quick and simple."  After each step that didn't work Stephano typed, "Okay."

After forty okays that were anything but this started  to get a bit irritating. We had all the right flashing lights (apparently) and had now set up an account but the only thing that was sinking/syncing was our patience. Stephano remained calm, "Okay."

We turned off every Bluetooth device in the house, although the LSH phone was still registering the car and the neighbour's Internet. 

Still nothing.

"Okay."

"I'd like to try some of the troubleshooting steps, if that's okay with you?"

We did the troubleshooting steps again.

Nothing.

"Okay."

"Is it always this difficult?" I asked, feeling sorry for Stephano in his office in Guatamala, having to go through this a hundred times a day.

"I'll be honest. This is the first one like this I've had. It's usually really quick and simple," he replied.

I expect he's used to the people who e put the battery in the wrong way round or who haven't even charged it up. I think about the old story that Terry Wogan used to tell about someone who rang a computer help desk to complain that their cup holder was broken (meaning their disc holder)

An hour an a half later Stephano was keen for us to try using a computer to attempt the set up because in his mind it had to be the phone. 

The LSH wasn't too keen on his Fitbit being linked to my laptop.

"You'll be able to see everything. I don't want you tracking me. You'll see just how sedimentary I'm being."

"I think you mean sedentary unless you do actually move less than a rock."

I could see his point though, trust not tracking is the basis of any healthy relationship.

The computer said no, too.

"Okay," said Stephano "Let's try more troubleshooting steps."

We tried.

"Tell me what is happening," begged Stephano's blinking cursor.

"It says to give it two taps and you should feel a vibration but there's no vibration."

"You can put it on your wrist for that bit."

"Oh, Stephano, we worked that out. Stop rolling your eyes."

"Sorry. Jajajaja..... try hitting it harder. You need to tap it on the lights."

I told him that I was taking a sledgehammer to it and the LSH had felt enough vibration to break his wrist but nothing from the Fitbit. The LSH and I wondered how many steps we could have taken the dog for in the last two hours.

Stephano was stumped. You could tell but he didn't really want to give up.

"Time to send it back?" I asked. 

"Unfortunately, as you have been unable to link it to an account you will have to return it to us, at your own expense."

Oh, Stephano! We liked him until then.

"What?" I asked "Why wouldn't I just tell Amazon I don't want it, get my money back and let them send it out to some other poor sucker?"

"You would probably be able to get a replacement if it's faulty," typed Stephano helpfully.

If it's faulty? 

"I think we can both agree that it's faulty but I think I've lost confidence in the product."

"It would be really quick and simple."

"I feel like you might have promised me that before."

Stephano agreed and once again typed his Germanic laugh. 

"It's been a pleasure talking to you today," he said.

"I'm sure it's really made your day," I replied.

So, the Fitbit is going back and the LSH is resigned to being a grumpy old technophobe who is a bit flabby around the middle. 

Music, Cake and Politics

Maybe you wouldn't choose to book a mini-break around an election but it can add a tiny air of excitement if you enjoy politics and percentages.

I am fascinated by politics. I wouldn't want to do it and honestly don't understand the people that do but watching politicians and how people react to them is one of my passions (along with music and cake). So, you can imagine my excitement when I arrived in the land of music and cake (Vienna) to find they were in the middle of an election.

It appeared that the Viennese (who still have a passion for lederhosen) were in a whirl and about to elect an ayrian president from the Freedom party whose political beliefs are on the far right. Every country seems to have one. Norbert Hofer is Austria's Farage or Trump: a fresh faced, blue eyed man whose posters looked like an advert for the Hitler youth (a thought that occurred to me before I spotted the graffiti moustaches)

Austria's President is mostly a ceremonial role with few powers but this candidate had promised to disband parliament if they didn't do something about immigration. This surprised me because Vienna seemed such a nice safe city. People happily gave money to the few people that were sitting on street corners and shops are able to have a display cabinet full of knives outside all night, without fear of inciting violence.

We even saw someone stop next to a woman with a dog, headscarf and sign that said, "Hunger", sit down next to her and empty Tupperware cartons of hot food onto a paper plate. When the woman had eaten she picked up her sign and belongings and went for a nice walk with her dog. 

This election was interesting to me, not only because of the right wing phenomenon that is sweeping the world but also because of the actual election system. This was a second vote, which is    usual in Austria. The first vote is for all the parties that are standing. If one candidate gets more than 50% of the vote then they are the winner. If not then the second vote is between the top two parties. This seems to be a much better system. It would stop people saying that their vote doesn't count. Austria used to have compulsory voting, of which, surprisingly (as a normally liberal person) I am in favour. I'm not sure when they stopped making people vote but they still managed a 78% turnout (uk: usually around 60%).

Norbert had won over 30% of the vote in the initial round and everyone had expected him to win the second round. He was up against a Green Party candidate, Van Der Bellen, who has a nice white bushy moustache (not the black toothbrush version drawn on the poster) and a nice looking dog.

The election closed at 5pm and they were expecting the results to be announced soon after. We walked past reporters and their man with an i-pad (BBC), practising their smiles and serious faces, and larger crews with proper cameras and fluffy things on sticks pointed at men in suited top halves and more casual below the camera wear, and we could almost taste the anticipation and excitement.

We chose a cafe in the Hofburg Palace to sit and watch.  The LSH  tried to ask about the election but the waiter just waved towards the corner of the building and mumbled something about the President living in, "that part there."  Having missed the memo about not talking to the famously grumpy waiters, he persisted and even tried talking in German.  It turns out that the waiter hadn't voted, didn't care, wasn't even Austrian and wasn't a "politicky person."

The results came in.  Or rather, they didn't come in because they were 50:50.  Not exactly but it became clear that the postal votes could change the whole situation.  The reporters did their piece to camera and packed up, resigned to coming back tomorrow morning for more of the same. At that point Hofer had 51.9% of the vote.  

The next day they were back and by late afternoon were beginning to look more than a bit fed up.  Eventually, Hofer conceded and Van der Bellen had won with 50.35% of the vote.  People in Vienna seemed happy.  

"I would ask for a recount, if I were him, That can't be statistically significant," said the LSH sounding like my son.

We both expect that this isn't the end; that there is an appetite for very right wing politics, even in lovely safe and happy places like Austria.  Even the cake and music can't stop the shift to the right.

The Opera

Everyone said, "You can't go to Vienna and not visit the state opera."

Of course you could, if opera isn't your thing then don't go but it is mine. We hadn't booked any tickets and couldn't decide if we thought it was worth the €68 ticket price the tourist office had with 'interesting seats'

"You would be in this box here. When you sit down you can't see any of the stage but if you stand up you get an excellent view of the orchestra and if you stand up and lean over a bit you can see most of the stage." 

The cheapest €134 from the box office somehow didn't appeal either.

There were young men everywhere, dressed as Mozart trying to sell tickets to 'the concert tonight', as if there was only one in the whole of Vienna. Classical music is everywhere. There are Beethoven, Strauss, Haydn, Mozart concerts and concert 'light' programmes that would be no more challenging than radio 2 on a Friday night. There are harpists, string quartets and amazing trumpeters busking on street corners. The Vienna Boys choir just casually sings mass on a Sunday (and before you ask, I did go and no, I could never get my choir to sing like that)

But to experience the opera seemed the most important to me.

A little known fact is that they sell over 500 standing room tickets, which cost €3-4 and they go on sale about two hours before the show. You can't wear shorts (even to buy the tickets) but jeans, trainers and general scruffiness is allowed for people who are willing to stand. You have to go in the back door to buy tickets from the special box office. At the front of the opera house people are dressed in black tie suits, kilts, evening gowns, fur stoles and drip with diamonds.

The opera was Wagner's Lohengrin. If you know about opera then you will already be chuckling at the challenge we set ourselves. This opera is part of the ring cycle, like Lord of the Rings without the Awk battles, but twice as long lasting, in some cases, up to forty days. Loengrun lasts for four hours (with two short breaks).

It wasn't that difficult, though. The standing area is on steps with leaning rails. The libretto (words, in English or German) appear on a small screen in front of you and although it starts out a bit of a squash people leave as soon as they think they have done enough to say that they've been to the opera. The view is perfect. You can see everything.

The orchestra were perfect apart from one small slip from a French horn at the beginning, which resulted in frantic turning of his instrument to get the water out. We really could see everything. The LSH was particularly impressed with the harp-hole.

Wagner writes wonderful music but struggles to get to the point with the story.

I was worried that I had inadvertently tortured the LSH.

"Oh no," he said, "it was really powerful but if it were a film they'd only be able to make about 20 minutes of it." 

The story reminded me of when I was 11 and saw Grease at the cinema. Everyone wanted to be Sandy and would enviously  say, "Oh Julia, you could so be Sandy," but I preferred Rizzo. What is the point of a virtuous woman in a white dress who doesn't make any decisions for herself? Much better to be the one in the red dress who at least gets to sleep with her husband before he declares that he is a Knights Templar and gets a huge golden horn and ring before getting dragged off by a swan.

Although it could have been shorter the bargain hunter in me can't help but be excited at top-class entertainment at €1 an hour.

Vienna

Vienna: It's stripey

My first impression of Vienna, as we make our bumpy descent towards the airport is that it is a land of stripes. The fields are beautifully ploughed in long straight rows. Trees line parallel boulevards. It seems perfect; even from this distance.

The airport is amazingly clean and the Long Suffering Husband is very impressed with the hugely powered ride on machines that the workers are using. The floor is buffed to sparkling perfection (it really is sparkling as the tiles appear to be laced with glitter) by huge polishing machines driving up and down in perfect stripes. 

The train (CAT) is also spotless, with comfortable seats, legroom that Easy-jet could never comprehend and it takes you straight to the centre of town without stopping. There are two young English women next to us discussing how they will find their hotel.

"It's on the good side."

"Which is the good side? It's not labelled on the map."

"Let me see."

"Can you read a map?"

"Yeah, I'm not bad if I know where I am and where I'm going to."

The train fills up because it has two layers there is plenty of room for everyone to have a comfortable seat.

Looking out of the window we see there is something for both of us in Austria. The LSH gets excited about a pipe and tube factory and I enjoy the rows of polytunels.

Due to an excellent Hotwire deal we are staying in the Hilton, which is helpfully signposted from the station. We are upgraded to a room with a view of the park and city. The view, framed by curtains with tasteful horizontal stripes is perfect.

We remember that the last time we ate was in Gatwick Airport when we grabbed a pastry from Pret. When we read the guidebooks we were given the impression that we were in for a relaxing break. They all mentioned sitting for three hours in a cafe, taking a gentle stroll but there is loads to see and do in Vienna. Lunch, for us, was cake. You can't go to Vienna and not sample the Sachertorte, which is the least layered of all the cakes on display. The one I had tasted very much like a Jaffa cake.

The wonderful thing about Vienna is that you can have cake for breakfast dinner and tea. We had apple strudel for our evening meal in Mozart's cafe; perfect laminations (or stripes) of pastry hugging the cinnamon spiced apple: delicious.

Vienna

Vienna: It's stripey

My first impression of Vienna, as we make our bumpy descent towards the airport is that it is a land of stripes. The fields are beautifully ploughed in long straight rows. Trees line parallel boulevards. It seems perfect; even from this distance.

The airport is amazingly clean and the Long Suffering Husband is very impressed with the hugely powered ride on machines that the workers are using. The floor is buffed to sparkling perfection (it really is sparkling as the tiles appear to be laced with glitter) by huge polishing machines driving up and down in perfect stripes. 

The train (CAT) is also spotless, with comfortable seats, legroom that Easy-jet could never comprehend and it takes you straight to the centre of town without stopping. There are two young English women next to us discussing how they will find their hotel.

"It's on the good side."

"Which is the good side? It's not labelled on the map."

"Let me see."

"Can you read a map?"

"Yeah, I'm not bad if I know where I am and where I'm going to."

The train fills up because it has two layers there is plenty of room for everyone to have a comfortable seat.

Looking out of the window we see there is something for both of us in Austria. The LSH gets excited about a pipe and tube factory and I enjoy the rows of polytunels.

Due to an excellent Hotwire deal we are staying in the Hilton, which is helpfully signposted from the station. We are upgraded to a room with a view of the park and city. The view, framed by curtains with tasteful horizontal stripes is perfect.

We remember that the last time we ate was in Gatwick Airport when we grabbed a pastry from Pret. When we read the guidebooks we were given the impression that we were in for a relaxing break. They all mentioned sitting for three hours in a cafe, taking a gentle stroll but there is loads to see and do in Vienna. Lunch, for us, was cake. You can't go to Vienna and not sample the Sachertorte, which is the least layered of all the cakes on display. The one I had tasted very much like a Jaffa cake.

The wonderful thing about Vienna is that you can have cake for breakfast dinner and tea. We had apple strudel for our evening meal in Mozart's cafe; perfect laminations (or stripes) of pastry hugging the cinnamon spiced apple: delicious.

The joys of flying Easy-jet

The joys of flying Easy-jet 

You make a reservation. The tickets appear super good value until you add tax, a fuel charge, a charge for a seat, a premium for being allowed to take anything with you, an extra charge to allow the flight crew to smile at you, and you still convince yourself you've still got a good deal.

From that moment on you get a daily email: "Your Flight to Vienna," it states in capital letters before going on to sell you anything from a hotel to bicycle hire to a sandwich. If you are not extra vigilant then you could accidentally swipe away the one email that tells you your flight times have changed. Luckily, I'm Mrs Read-Everything, so I spotted the important change in details. "Your flight time on EZ4564£ has changed: Old time 6.25. New time 6.20."

"Our flight time has changed," I told the Long Suffering Husband. 

"Oh, 6.20. That's early. Shall we book a hotel at Gatwick the night before?"

Any sane person would treat themselves, right? So we pushed the boat out and booked a Premier Inn Summer Special parking package. 

You won't get a better night's sleep, anywhere. Lenny Henry recommends the beds. The LSH does a Princess and the Pea impression, complaining about how high and hard the mattress is. The hotel has thought about the aircraft noise and hired a troupe of Tyrollean clog dancers to stay in the room above you and drown out the engine noises.

The alarm goes off at 4am and you sit up and say, "Thank goodness for that. It's finally morning."

You both swear that the other did get some sleep because you heard snoring, although that could have been the clog dancers. 

Luckily, the half hour bus journey from the car park to the airport gives the LSH a chance for a good sleep.

The bus arrives at the North Terminal. You get off and check your boarding passes that you printed off yourself for a small extra cost. South Terminal!  Phew! There's a shuttle train! What luxury! You don't even have to sit down.

A small queue (how we love to queue) at security. People are complaining about having to give the contents of their hip flasks to the security guards and saying things like, "I can't go to France without my deodorant. What do you mean by saying I can buy some? Do they even have deodorant in France?" The man behind me walks through the metal detector with his hands in the air and his trousers slip to his thighs. He's not quite sure if he's allowed to hoik them up again and so he clamps his knees together and waddles through. The female security guard rolls her eyes and I laugh. The man behind me (who isn't the LSH because he is still struggling to get his belt off) is arguing about removing his coat.

"Why do I have to take it off?"

"It's a good idea,sir."

"It's weird, though. I'd rather just keep it on."

"You can if you want, Sir but the metal studs on it will set off the metal detector."

He decides to leave it on. Lights flash and he has to take it off, go through again and he still gets a friendly pat down.

"I don't get it ," says the LSH 

"Maybe he longed for human contact."

"I don't see why people have to argue; belts, coats shoes, what does it matter?. Just take it all off."

That would certainly make security more interesting. Strip naked. Walk through with your hands in the air shouting, "Nothing to declare."

Included in the extra charges for an Easy-jet flight is a health premium. Their boarding gates are always the furthest away and you have paid for the privilege of that extra walking time. You wave to the North Terminal as you walk past. 

Due to good planning we arrive at gate 2448 ten minutes before 6.20 and sit, watching the parents placing their children in the baggage check cages to make sure that they will fit into the overhead lockers. At 6.45 they call our flight and people run to get into the queue.

"Quick, we're already late, we might miss it."

Every woman who gets to the front of the queue panics and tries to shove her handbag into her luggage. 

The wife of the actor from New Tricks tries to argue the toss. 

"Forty five pounds for a handbag."

We suspect she is an actor too. The woman would be great in The Importance of Being Ernest. I was planning to do my coat up over my bag and suffer the indignation of the cabin crew asking when my menopause-baby was due but when we heard the reply I decided to shove it in my backpack.

"We don't agree with it either madam but we don't make the rules. No, I can't pretend I haven't seen it if you hide it under your coat."

It was a bit of a squeeze but in it went  and we smugly passed through the gate with only one sideways look at my passport photo. I could tell she was thinking, "Are you sure this I your passport? This photo looks like the babysitter bandit from the Simpsons," but she was only programmed to challenge handbags. 

Being in the back of the airplane gives another added bonus for Easy-jet customers: that wonderful smell of engine fuel, as you have to step onto the Tarmac and climb the steps. No tunnel entrance to the plane for you. When your backpack is full to bursting the zip will work its way loose and you will leave a trail of those extra large sanitary towels (that you carry everywhere when you reach that unpredictable age) until a nice Polish man politely taps you on the shoulder and tells you that your bag is open. Before we are on the plane all the women have taken their handbags out of their other luggage and retrieved their lost items from the runway.

Flying can be a trauma for the anxious (which I'm not) and for people who think too much (which I am). The improbability of getting that great metal thing full of people into the sky never fails to cross my mind. The toilet at the back is out of order and I fear that the queue of people for the front one will cause the plane to tip forward. The flap on the wing gives me a little wave of reassurance. 

Why is there writing on the wing warning you not to walk on that part?

Then there's the noise of the electric screwdriver and although you 'know' that they are removing the staircase you can't help wondering, as it's Easy-jet, if something has fallen off that they must hastily fix. The Captain comes on the tannoy to tell us that he's sorry that we boarded late but he's certain that he can make the time up if he "doesn't spare the horses." Binty, behind us, (yes, really - Binty) frets that she doesn't want him speeding. Parents, who haven't managed to stow their babies safely in the overhead lockers spend the whole flight doing the two foot shuffle, moving further back in the plane to avoid the toilet queue.

Someone opens the overhead locker to remove their baby and can't get the bag back in. The LSH comments on how to manoeuvre the bags for a perfect fit but the stewardess comes to the rescue.

"You could be a flight attendant with those skills," I suggest.

"Yes. Except I couldn't wear the heels," he agrees

"Or put your hair in a bun."

You finally arrive in Vienna and can't wait to do it all again, in reverse in two days time.

EU make me laugh

Next week I will have been married to the Long Suffering Husband for 25 years. We are planning a trip to Vienna and neither of us can get excited about it because we are both too old and tired.  We thought a trip to a place whose history resonates with Nazi occupation would be the perfect celebration of 25 years of marriage. We did consider Berlin but we didn't want to join the politicians making topical Hitler references.

The plan was to go in half term but I checked my diary and we are going next weekend. I'm not sure how this happened and although I have tried blaming the LSH, he helpfully reminded me that I booked the flights and hotel. This is what happens. To quote Victoria Wood on menopause, "there's only 17 minutes in any month when anyone can get any sense out of me."

So here we are, neither of us looking forward to a trip away; me, with my hot flushes, other unmentionable menopause symptoms and a tendency to wet myself when I laugh or sneeze; him, with his back, general tiredness and the wrong glasses for any occasion; about to go to another European Country when the rest of England is talking about cutting ourselves off from Europe, hoping to take themselves back to a 1950's style utopian bubble.

Our local pub has suddenly decorated itself with a flag, which could have been placed there by it's current unhappy customers as a message to the unpopular owner but I am taking as a personal message to drink somewhere else.

Watching the EU referendum campaign play out on social media is funny and terrifying in equal measures. The LSH keeps reminding me that the politicians only promised a vote and they don't have  act in the outcome and I remember that Greece voted to leave but still seem to be very much part of the EU.

There is something about the campaign that is bringing out the nutters. #BorisisBananas has been trending on Twitter for two days and my Facebook feed is filled with pictures like this:

"Oh dear people who want to leave the EU really are silly, aren't they?" I said waving my phone in the LSH's direction.

He sighed. "Wait a minuite, I've got the wrong glasses."

"Because Indian trains  so run in Europe," I persisted, not bothering to wait for him to find the right pair.

"Mmmmm. Probably the wrong 

gauge."

He is quite funny.