Wednesday, 23 January 2008

Houses and Stuff

Well, I'm stuck in a mighty rut. I can't write. I can barely string a sentence together, for crying out loud. I feel I need a change of scene, something to get the synapses firing again.

This house-hunting malarky is quite fun, in its way, but it transpires that Fisher and I have one major difference in our approach, namely: she wants the right house, I want the right place ... and the right house. But I think I'd compromise much more quickly over the house than she would. I'd dearly love to be up near Pitlochry, where the mountains rise. She wants a wonderful house, and will settle for almost anywhere to get it. We're actually off to look at a place in Moffat on Monday, which is a spa town in Dumfriesshire, but even though the place itself looks amazing (see here) it just doesn't fill me with the desire to move there. The hills are pretty and everything, but there's no wildness to it. It's all terribly tamed. I like to look out of the window and think: that world out there could kill me! And watching cars drive too fast on the A914 doesn't count!

The other place I'm keen on is this one: here.

Unfortunately, Fisher is about as enthusiastic about it as I am about Moffat, and with good reasons. The garden's not big, she's pretty sure it's right on the road, and the inside is far from ideal. In fact, it may turn out to be as big a turkey as the other one we looked at in Pitlochry. But it's the right place, for me.

It's funny. We call Fisher 'the Hermit' because she'd be quite happy living in her own cupboard counting shoes and never seeing anyone again - but when it comes to people in the general sense of the word, it's me who really needs to keep them at arms length. I hate the thought of living amongst them. I want to look out and see the wilderness, not someone else's house. It's the Thoreau in me - although Thoreau was a bit of a pansy really. Wilderness my arse! He lived about a mile from his family home - he just happened to be in amongst a bunch of trees. Sister would laugh in his face!

The planes, as I think I've mentioned, have been truly appalling for the last couple of weeks which drove me to such extents of rage I sat down and wrote a stiff email to the RAF. Yes, folks, the British spirit is strong within me - especially as I littered it with sarcasm, such as the phrase "delightful 'circuits and bumps' which so charm the local population as you fly over our houses again and again." Luckily the RAF are scrupulously polite in responding to angry locals, and I got a swift response with some good news.

First of all, they explained that their runway had been under repair which caused flying to be restricted, hence why they'd been so quiet of late. Now it's repaired, the Christmas break is over, and the squadrons have returned from stirring up an unnecessary hornet's nest in Iraq, so we're back to the usual crap. (They didn't phrase it quite like that). But the good news is: in May, we're dropping down to 2 squadrons. Huzzah! Then the Typhoons will arrive in 2010. Huzzoo! I've been told that the new Eurofighter Typhoons have a greater noise footprint than the F1s - but a smaller turning circle which means ... well, nothing, to me. I'm pretty sure it means the people of Leuchars and Guardbridge are fucked, though. It might turn out better for the folks up here as the planes turn more quickly, but I doubt that, too. They' ll still want to fly over the hill, and the sound of those enormous, twin EJ200 engines will cause some serious ear-throbbing! Although I notice it can cruise without the use of afterburners, which ... probably won't make any difference at all, actually, as I think it's the use of afterburners during take-off that's the problem round here. And even 'dry' those babies make a hell of a racket.

Basically, it means we should sell up and move by 2010, and put the house on the market in May.

Ironically, since I've complained, the planes have been really good. Naturally, this has nothing to do with my complaint and much more to do with the RAF having caught up with their backlog of hours, which means I'm sitting here writing to the uninterrupted, mellifluous tones of Lisa Miskovsky (she's much poppier than I usually enjoy, but reminds me of Elin Sigvardsson) and loving life. Could I be coming through the black patch? God help me but I've been so angry of late.

Tell ya what - going for my first 4 mile run in an age helped yesterday. I wasn't fast, but managed to keep up a steady 12 minute mile pace up to Logie and back. Quarry Road is such a bitch. I found the run extremely hard, until about the 3 mile point when I recklessly thought to myself "I could keep going at this pace all day!" Naturally, this means I should have picked up the pace - but sod that. Anyway, within about 10 seconds I was back to wishing myself dead.

It's funny, but one of the things that keeps me going on a run is the thought of Fisher's face when I tell her what I achieved. She's always so genuinely pleased, and because she's so much quicker, more dedicated and generally better at running there's never a sense of competition between us, so her approval is pure and heartfelt. I don't usually seek approval for my actions, but I have to admit, it's really wonderful to have someone patting you on the back at the end of a run.

Lisa Miskovskovskovsky has finished now, and it's on to Regina Spektor. This chick rocks my socks.

Hmm. Looking back over this post ... I promise, my musical taste doesn't just involve northern European female singers! In fact, the last album I bought was Gavin Mikhail who's an American male (from northern European stock, with a name like that! Dammit!) and is also much poppier than my usual taste.

Christ, in my old age I seem to have taken a firm grip on the wheel and driven boldly to the middle of the road.

No. Regina Spektor will save me.

And with that - I feel an urge to WRITE! How marvellous. Also, Fonda is coming round for supper tonight and she's just got herself engaged, so a chance for some serious girly chat, I think.