I'm so tired at the moment I'm actually finding it hard to fully depress the keys. Can't ... quite ... push ... hard ... enough ...
This last weekend was a hugely entertaining affair. It kicked off on Friday night, with the arrival of Brother, Janus and Badger, and Chopper. Fortuitously, our neighbour-but-one shot a roe deer that was busy gnawing on their roses. Our neighbour Epona then butchered said roe, and gave us a big fat haunch of the most succulent looking meat ever. This we cooked for our Friday night guests. I fried it to seal it, then cooked it in the oven on a high heat for about 40 minutes. I then mixed Brussels paté with mushrooms and pink peppercorns and covered the half cooked haunch with it. I wrapped it all up in puff pastry, and cooked it for another 20 minutes so it was almost rare in the middle. Fisher roasted potatoes and carrots and fried up some asparagus to accompany, and we had some of Epona's savoury bramble jelly in lieu of gravy. It all went down a treat, with some Two Hands shiraz to accompany.
On Saturday, I'd booked us all in for some clay pigeon shooting in Dunkeld. Because there were 6 of us we got 2 instructors. I was with Brother and Badger, while Chops, Fisher and Janus all went together. It was hugely fun, even though it was pissing it down with rain all the way through, and Fisher bagged the prize for best shooting. She got 20 out of 25 - a very good score. Now, of course, she wants to join the club, buy the gun, and start shooting anything that moves, twitches, or looks at her funny.
After we'd shot all the clays available, we headed up to Loch Tay via a pub for some grub. There, we rented a (very) little boat and a couple of fishing rods and attempted to catch us some trout for supper. 2 hours later and the only thing we'd caught was each other - cue 25 minutes of me trying to unfankle the lines, failing, and having to cut and retie everything. It didn't matter a jot, though, as it was a beautiful afternoon to be out on the water, and stunning scenery. We all caught the sun a little, all enjoyed the fresh air, and all agreed that the best way of topping off the afternoon was to go and get afternoon tea at Kinnaird. This we did, and eventually rolled our way back home feeling stuffed and well exercised.
On Saturday night we were joined by Koios and - very breifly - Protagoras, who'd been working all day and had to return to Reekie the same evening as he had school commitments on Sunday, too. We fed Pro, then started laying out the cold meats and salads for general grazing throughout the evening. Remember, we'd finished afternoon tea at 6ish, and could in no way be hungry before, at the very least, 9 pm.
By 9 pm, almost everything was finished. Pro had returned home, and we'd lit the brazier and begun the 'all night vigil' to see in the start of the Longest Day. This was the (incredibly tenuous) reason behind our barbecue weekend, after all. In fact, it was rather lovely to be sat out in the warm evening air, watching the flames and chatting with a few glasses of vino. We'd provided copious amounts of food, and our lovely guests had brought more nibbles than sticks could be shaken at, but still Brother sat down, looked at the brazier burning away and said indignantly:
"What, no marshmallows?"
Naturally, this was very tongue in cheek, but it gave us the idea to heat up a big pot of hot chocolate and melt one of the bars of dark chocolate Chopper had brought with her. We then dipped fresh cherries and homemade shortbread into the chocolate and were soon feeling very sick indeed.
We managed to make it through to about 1am before flaking. We had some good tunes from Bro on his guitar (no Kum by Ah, or Michael Rowing any Goddam' Boats Ashore, thank the Lord), and a small incident with some yobbos in a car driving up and honking their horn in the road outside. Luckily, they were frightened off by the terrifying spectacle of little blonde Fisher standing in the road and staring at them. They roared off at full tilt and were never seen from again. Well ... so far, anyway. Then, having at least witnessed the arrival of the start of the Longest Day (doesn't exactly trip off the tongue, does it?), we retired to bed and slept like a collection of logs of different shapes and sizes.
Sunday - the day of the barbecue - dawned, contrary to the weather forecast, bright and sunny. And it remained so almost all day. In fact, it remained sunny and seriously hot until people started to feel quite uncomfortable. Then, as if by special delivery, some cloud cover arrived and the astonishingly hot sun (this is Scotland, remember - we never expect heat) was tempered. It remained delightfully warm, but not one of our 20 odd guests (some odder than others) burned, or fainted, or even complained in a very British way about needing rain for the garden. Instead, we ate sausages, lamb burgers, sirloin steaks, copious amounts of salad (potato salad, pasta salad, salad salad), tomatoes, bread, and - for 'afters' - Stewart Tower ice cream (fudge, raspberry and white chocolate, and blood orange flavours). Between the main course and pudding, we bashed the crap out of two piñatas - one of which so stubbornly refused to break we ended up with Lubentina and Minstrel bashing the crap out of it, without blindfolds. I can understand Lu's aggression - after all, it was filled with chocolate - but Minstrel's desire to rend the multicoloured bull limb from limb was slightly surprising. He seems so otherwise calm.
Gradually, the day wound down. People left to deal with dogs, or horses, or both, and eventually it was just me, Fisher, Janus and Badger, and Phid. I for one couldn't face the idea of cooking anything, so, at 7ish, we walked down to the local pub. It was now a grey but still warm evening, and despite the midgies being out in force it was a lovely amble. We spent a very amenable couple of hours drinking some beer, eating some good pub grub and nattering. Then we walked home in the gloaming, trying to convince ourselves that the 2.6 mile walk (in total, there and back) would somehow make a difference to our enormous calory intake.
Back home, we had some hot drinks, read the Sunday papers or watched TV, and gradually drifted off to our beds just after midnight.
And that brings me to today. Badger was the first to leave, having to go to a conference in Aberdeen. Then Brother headed off on his long drive down south. Finally, Janus, Fisher and I went for a walk at Little Glenshee with the pooches before enjoying the final meal of the holiday at Gleneagles. It was delicious, and a very fitting send off for good ol' Janus - first to arrive, last to leave, and eternally enthusiastic throughout. Definitely the sort of buddy worth keeping!
So now I'm delighting in the fact that Fisher and I really do have some time to ourselves - at least for the next few weeks, before heading off to Greece with Ceegar and Meeper. I've got a tennis match to play tomorrow, some work to do for the Blind Soc, but otherwise - it can be all about us! Not, of course, that the barbecue was for anyone else. It was a party for our own sake as well as our friends' pleasure - but it's nice to think we can be by ourselves for a while. We've caught up with everyone we wanted to, including Brave Bird and Minstrel, who'd actually called to cancel a couple of days before. We were very disappointed, but their family had arranged something for Father's Day, so we understood. Then, lo and behold, they actually rearranged it to be a brunch so they could fit us in! It was a terrific surprise and it was lovely to see them. Unfortunately, Spar and Blar haven't learnt how to function on only a few hours sleep yet, so their social life - and that of Baby Belle - remains on hold. None of us expected to see them, so it was no surprise they couldn't face coming up. It was good of Blar to send a text letting us know they weren't coming, though, so we didn't have to save food on the offchance they arrived. Good job, considering how quickly it was wolfed!
Our plans over the next few days may include: a trip to Lunan Bay to see if there's any surf; dinner with the neighbours; lots of exercise; not much food; general relaxation at home; Wimbledon watching in the garden, with the TV facing through the French windows; slow drinking of mint juleps, which I made for the barbecue and which I think we should have permanently on tap; taking the pooches for new and interesting walks; sleeping.
Sounds divine.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Monday, 15 June 2009
New Arrival
On the 6th of June, Fisher and I took an exhausted and in much need of respite Koios out for supper at Creelers. We had a lovely time, joined by Janus and Badger, but I was disappointed that Blar and Spar couldn't join us. Apparently, Blar was 'feeling a bit funny.' Pah. I sent a text saying that Sister was pulling a plough between her TEETH whilst 'feeling a bit funny' and that Blar should either sprog up or stop whining. Well, my pep talk seemed to work because at 8.20 that evening, ten minutes before we all met at Creelers, Blarney spat a small sprog out into the world. The youngest member of the Cheese Board had not only got the good sense to be born female, but arrived in good time to join us at Creelers. Unfortunately for her, Blarney and Spartan were too selfish to fork out cab fare from the hospital and failed to bring her out for a well deserved supper.
Despite their obvious lack of proper enthusiasm for our company, we were magnanimous enough to be delighted for Spar and Blar. Baby Belle was a healthy 7lbs 3oz (none of my nephews were less than 2lbs heavier) and, despite giving her parents a bit of a scare during the birthing process, seems happy enough to be a part of the SparBlar family.
Our first meeting took place on Tuesday. We had, in our company, Sister and all three sons. Sister had been to a funeral in Edinburgh, whilst Fisher and I had taken Gemmill and Wrecker to butterfly 'world' near Dalkeith - which was terrifically successful, despite looking like a run-down polytunnel from the outside. We knew it would be right up Gem's street, as he's a real insect and plant boy, but the look on his face when he walked through the door and saw all these fluttering butterflies flitting from tropical plant to tropical plant was priceless. Wrecker, too, was enchanted - particularly by two butterflies joined together. He kept dragging me back to look at them. I almost felt like apologising to them - but, hell, if they're going to be that exhibitionist about it they can hardly complain. The highlight of the visit has to have been the handling of live critters, though. I don't mind admitting that I am NOT good with creepy crawlies, and I'm afraid I only managed to touch the giant millipede - I avoided letting it crawl over my hands with its flittery fluttery legs. The handler dangled it over his top lip in a millipede moustache, which entertained the boys no end. To be honest, it was more the fact that he'd told us that, after handling, the millipede would wash every inch of its body to rid itself of human stink that put me off. If that's the case, I can't imagine being handled is much fun for the 'pede. Anyway, next up was a python called Monty (obviously) despite it being a girl. That was fine - no problem with big snakes - and she was beautifully smooth and pliable to the touch.
Last but not least came the tarantula. Being a bit of an arachnophobe, I was determined not to flake on this one. I would conquor my irrational, stupid fear. After all, spiders are harmless and do more good than bad in this world, being the consumer of dirty filthy flies that puke and poo on my food. My FOOD! Of course, I'd pushed from my mind that tarantulas aren't quite as harmless. But it turns out their poison is pretty mild, only needing to be strong enough to kill their prey, of which, thankfully, I am not one.
When the big fat hairy monster was produced, my initial reaction was a shudder and sudden feeling of nausea. I listened while the handler told us to hold our hands flat - FLAT - and not to touch her back. Apparently she has fine hairs that disengage when touched and cause a nasty reaction on skin. If you should touch her then rub your eye ... urghurghrghr ...
So, my courage well and truly in its sticking place, I stood alongside a quiveringly excited pair of boys and laid my hand out flat. The tarantula was placed upon it and sat there, deeply unimpressed with everything that was going on. And in the end, I had no qualms whatsoever. The thing is, tarantulas are furry and, well, kind of cute. They don't have hundreds of flutterly little legs. They're almost like little 8 legged pooches. With mandibles.
After the tarantula experienced the joys of my hand, it then marched onto Gem's and, lastly, Wrecker's. I was a bit concerned about Wrecker, as he'd had to be told a few times by the handler to listen - no, listen - or he wouldn't be able to have a go. Luckily, he obeyed perfectly and the 'rantula had an unmolested stint on his hand. Of course, the minute the handler removed the beast, Wrecker lurched forward and attempted to stroke its back. Fortunately the handler was wise to the ways of little boys and whisked the tarantula to safety.
With butterfly world absorbed and delighted in, we piled the boys in the car and went to pick Sister up from the funeral. We'd said we would drop in on Blar and Spar at 4pm, but were running hideously late, which I felt extremely bad about. Our plan, originally, had only been to drop some more useful baby stuff off and make ourselves scarce - but Spar and Blar had professed themselves amenable to seeing us, so we were hardly going to pass up the opportunity to make Baby Belle's aquaintance ... even if we did have two over-stimulated boys with us and a baby. On the other hand, it was a wonderfully sunny and warm day, so we were able to turf the boys out into the garden to play with Blar's birthing ball while we had a good natter and poked BB with a stick. Actually, watching the boys play with the big birthing ball was hilarious. Wrecker kicked it, then raced after it, then tripped and fell on it and promptly bounced a good foot in the air before landing in a heap on the grass. Brilliant.
I think the visit passed relatively painlessly. Spar and Blar were noticeably knackered, for some reason, but managed to hold up their ends of the conversation without too much (noticeable) effort. We were briefly interrupted by the sounds of Gem's howls from the garden, but as it transpired the only thing wrong with him was a bite from the savage jaws of his brother, it was sorted pretty quickly.
Baby Belle she is, of course, quite lovely, and there will be more on her later.
The arrival of Sister and sons actually occurred on the 8th - Monday. It should have been the night before, but owing to some shenanigins with the car losing battery power, Sister was forced to spend a night in Oban with three fractious children. Not fun. When they eventually arrived on Monday, Wrecker was fast asleep in the car - which usually means a crying fit on awakening - but Gem came rushing in and enveloped his Auntie A in a massive hug, saying "I'm so glad to be here." He then came and gave me a big hug too. Fabulous. And then, when Wrecker did actually wake, there was only a tiny bit of crying. He was far too interested in the idea of playing the Monster Game (PS2) to be really upset.
In fact, they weren't allowed to play any PS2 at all, because Fisher and I took them off to the Adventure Kids park in Stanley. There they ran themselves totally, utterly ragged and loved every swinging, jumping, pedalling minute of it. Fisher and I also had a good time, being full of energy and joy, and delighting in the charge of two extraordinarily happy boys. We were there for 3 hours, until the place shut, and then took them home without a modicum of fuss. It helped that the treat of the Monster Game was still on the table.
Next day was Edinburgh and Butterfly World - as formerly described - precluded by a massive (and I mean MASSIVE - even by my terms) Dim Sum meal at Saigon Saigon. Sister went a bit mad with the ordering, clearly attempting to force several months worth of Chinese food into her straining tum in order to store for the winter, but I can't say I wasn't delighted. There was so much to sample. A real treat.
On the boys' last day, Epona was kind enough to bring Tony Pony round to our garden for the boys to ride. Both absolutely loved it, but Gem more so because he didn't, unlike his wee brother, turn out to be wildly allergic. Poor Wrecker started rubbing his eyes on his second turn, and by the time he'd finished he had one enormously swollen eye and was feeling pretty miserable. Luckily his Auntie A was on hand to cuddle him and give him warm milk and the TV. Gem, meanwhile, was merrily following all Epona's instructions - stretching his arms out in an aeroplane, touching Tony Pony's tail, ears, his own feet ... all without any loss of balance or nervousness. Epona was great, chattering away to him, making sure he was safe while I watched from afar, taking pictures and video for future chuckles. It was kind of idyllic, actually, except for poor Wrecker's allergy and the fact their mother had to miss out on yet more fun because of a Tesco run.
Lastly, we took them all to Stewart Tower for lunch and ice cream before bidding them farewell. It was hard - very hard - to say goodbye. The boys were obviously pretty unhappy to be going, and it only made it worse that Sister then phoned Fisher 10 minutes later, who relayed to me that she'd suggested a wonderful plan that we simply couldn't manage. She wanted a night at Ardanaiseig, with adult chat and some fine food and wine, while the boys ran ragged in the grounds before bed. Unfortunately I had a meeting at the Blind Society the next morning at 10, and a 3 hour drive would have meant getting up at 6. I had to phone back and say no - but Gemmill answered, and his first words were:
"Are you coming to see us tonight?"
I had to say no to a 5 year old, who was obviously pretty upset. Not fun. Made me feel like bawling myself.
Anyway, on the plus side it was obviously a very successful trip. Always leave 'em wanting more, that's my motto.
Next up was the 'official' meeting of Baby Belle. Spar and Blar sent a text round offering the chance to peer adoringly at their new offspring, so, on Friday night, we met up with Janus and Phid and did just that. We all took turns in holding the little rugrat, who screamed unhesitatingly throughout the entire experience. Naturally, no-one ever wants to judge parenthood, but the wean was starving and her legs were freezing cold. It was almost child abuse. Clearly Spar and Blar are useless as parents and need to have someone more responsible take Baby Belle off their hands. Someone like me. She'd be much better off with me. With me, she'd be weaned onto solids in about 10 days and therefore able to sample the delights of Devonshire Gardens cuisine. I've also got 2 very fine baby sitters in the form of Baffie and Bridie, who would teach her to kill rabbits and how to tunnel under fences. What more does a girl need?
Hmm. I wonder how young is too young to start educating the alcoholic pallate?
Anyway, I'm not sure what BB thought of her Tsia Se, or of all the other odd women holding her in varying degrees of awkwardness, but we all thought her enchanting. Now, with that said, I must go and help Fisher clear out the stable. It is very important to do this now, as we may well be having a horse in it.
This winter.
Gah.
Despite their obvious lack of proper enthusiasm for our company, we were magnanimous enough to be delighted for Spar and Blar. Baby Belle was a healthy 7lbs 3oz (none of my nephews were less than 2lbs heavier) and, despite giving her parents a bit of a scare during the birthing process, seems happy enough to be a part of the SparBlar family.
Our first meeting took place on Tuesday. We had, in our company, Sister and all three sons. Sister had been to a funeral in Edinburgh, whilst Fisher and I had taken Gemmill and Wrecker to butterfly 'world' near Dalkeith - which was terrifically successful, despite looking like a run-down polytunnel from the outside. We knew it would be right up Gem's street, as he's a real insect and plant boy, but the look on his face when he walked through the door and saw all these fluttering butterflies flitting from tropical plant to tropical plant was priceless. Wrecker, too, was enchanted - particularly by two butterflies joined together. He kept dragging me back to look at them. I almost felt like apologising to them - but, hell, if they're going to be that exhibitionist about it they can hardly complain. The highlight of the visit has to have been the handling of live critters, though. I don't mind admitting that I am NOT good with creepy crawlies, and I'm afraid I only managed to touch the giant millipede - I avoided letting it crawl over my hands with its flittery fluttery legs. The handler dangled it over his top lip in a millipede moustache, which entertained the boys no end. To be honest, it was more the fact that he'd told us that, after handling, the millipede would wash every inch of its body to rid itself of human stink that put me off. If that's the case, I can't imagine being handled is much fun for the 'pede. Anyway, next up was a python called Monty (obviously) despite it being a girl. That was fine - no problem with big snakes - and she was beautifully smooth and pliable to the touch.
Last but not least came the tarantula. Being a bit of an arachnophobe, I was determined not to flake on this one. I would conquor my irrational, stupid fear. After all, spiders are harmless and do more good than bad in this world, being the consumer of dirty filthy flies that puke and poo on my food. My FOOD! Of course, I'd pushed from my mind that tarantulas aren't quite as harmless. But it turns out their poison is pretty mild, only needing to be strong enough to kill their prey, of which, thankfully, I am not one.
When the big fat hairy monster was produced, my initial reaction was a shudder and sudden feeling of nausea. I listened while the handler told us to hold our hands flat - FLAT - and not to touch her back. Apparently she has fine hairs that disengage when touched and cause a nasty reaction on skin. If you should touch her then rub your eye ... urghurghrghr ...
So, my courage well and truly in its sticking place, I stood alongside a quiveringly excited pair of boys and laid my hand out flat. The tarantula was placed upon it and sat there, deeply unimpressed with everything that was going on. And in the end, I had no qualms whatsoever. The thing is, tarantulas are furry and, well, kind of cute. They don't have hundreds of flutterly little legs. They're almost like little 8 legged pooches. With mandibles.
After the tarantula experienced the joys of my hand, it then marched onto Gem's and, lastly, Wrecker's. I was a bit concerned about Wrecker, as he'd had to be told a few times by the handler to listen - no, listen - or he wouldn't be able to have a go. Luckily, he obeyed perfectly and the 'rantula had an unmolested stint on his hand. Of course, the minute the handler removed the beast, Wrecker lurched forward and attempted to stroke its back. Fortunately the handler was wise to the ways of little boys and whisked the tarantula to safety.
With butterfly world absorbed and delighted in, we piled the boys in the car and went to pick Sister up from the funeral. We'd said we would drop in on Blar and Spar at 4pm, but were running hideously late, which I felt extremely bad about. Our plan, originally, had only been to drop some more useful baby stuff off and make ourselves scarce - but Spar and Blar had professed themselves amenable to seeing us, so we were hardly going to pass up the opportunity to make Baby Belle's aquaintance ... even if we did have two over-stimulated boys with us and a baby. On the other hand, it was a wonderfully sunny and warm day, so we were able to turf the boys out into the garden to play with Blar's birthing ball while we had a good natter and poked BB with a stick. Actually, watching the boys play with the big birthing ball was hilarious. Wrecker kicked it, then raced after it, then tripped and fell on it and promptly bounced a good foot in the air before landing in a heap on the grass. Brilliant.
I think the visit passed relatively painlessly. Spar and Blar were noticeably knackered, for some reason, but managed to hold up their ends of the conversation without too much (noticeable) effort. We were briefly interrupted by the sounds of Gem's howls from the garden, but as it transpired the only thing wrong with him was a bite from the savage jaws of his brother, it was sorted pretty quickly.
Baby Belle she is, of course, quite lovely, and there will be more on her later.
The arrival of Sister and sons actually occurred on the 8th - Monday. It should have been the night before, but owing to some shenanigins with the car losing battery power, Sister was forced to spend a night in Oban with three fractious children. Not fun. When they eventually arrived on Monday, Wrecker was fast asleep in the car - which usually means a crying fit on awakening - but Gem came rushing in and enveloped his Auntie A in a massive hug, saying "I'm so glad to be here." He then came and gave me a big hug too. Fabulous. And then, when Wrecker did actually wake, there was only a tiny bit of crying. He was far too interested in the idea of playing the Monster Game (PS2) to be really upset.
In fact, they weren't allowed to play any PS2 at all, because Fisher and I took them off to the Adventure Kids park in Stanley. There they ran themselves totally, utterly ragged and loved every swinging, jumping, pedalling minute of it. Fisher and I also had a good time, being full of energy and joy, and delighting in the charge of two extraordinarily happy boys. We were there for 3 hours, until the place shut, and then took them home without a modicum of fuss. It helped that the treat of the Monster Game was still on the table.
Next day was Edinburgh and Butterfly World - as formerly described - precluded by a massive (and I mean MASSIVE - even by my terms) Dim Sum meal at Saigon Saigon. Sister went a bit mad with the ordering, clearly attempting to force several months worth of Chinese food into her straining tum in order to store for the winter, but I can't say I wasn't delighted. There was so much to sample. A real treat.
On the boys' last day, Epona was kind enough to bring Tony Pony round to our garden for the boys to ride. Both absolutely loved it, but Gem more so because he didn't, unlike his wee brother, turn out to be wildly allergic. Poor Wrecker started rubbing his eyes on his second turn, and by the time he'd finished he had one enormously swollen eye and was feeling pretty miserable. Luckily his Auntie A was on hand to cuddle him and give him warm milk and the TV. Gem, meanwhile, was merrily following all Epona's instructions - stretching his arms out in an aeroplane, touching Tony Pony's tail, ears, his own feet ... all without any loss of balance or nervousness. Epona was great, chattering away to him, making sure he was safe while I watched from afar, taking pictures and video for future chuckles. It was kind of idyllic, actually, except for poor Wrecker's allergy and the fact their mother had to miss out on yet more fun because of a Tesco run.
Lastly, we took them all to Stewart Tower for lunch and ice cream before bidding them farewell. It was hard - very hard - to say goodbye. The boys were obviously pretty unhappy to be going, and it only made it worse that Sister then phoned Fisher 10 minutes later, who relayed to me that she'd suggested a wonderful plan that we simply couldn't manage. She wanted a night at Ardanaiseig, with adult chat and some fine food and wine, while the boys ran ragged in the grounds before bed. Unfortunately I had a meeting at the Blind Society the next morning at 10, and a 3 hour drive would have meant getting up at 6. I had to phone back and say no - but Gemmill answered, and his first words were:
"Are you coming to see us tonight?"
I had to say no to a 5 year old, who was obviously pretty upset. Not fun. Made me feel like bawling myself.
Anyway, on the plus side it was obviously a very successful trip. Always leave 'em wanting more, that's my motto.
Next up was the 'official' meeting of Baby Belle. Spar and Blar sent a text round offering the chance to peer adoringly at their new offspring, so, on Friday night, we met up with Janus and Phid and did just that. We all took turns in holding the little rugrat, who screamed unhesitatingly throughout the entire experience. Naturally, no-one ever wants to judge parenthood, but the wean was starving and her legs were freezing cold. It was almost child abuse. Clearly Spar and Blar are useless as parents and need to have someone more responsible take Baby Belle off their hands. Someone like me. She'd be much better off with me. With me, she'd be weaned onto solids in about 10 days and therefore able to sample the delights of Devonshire Gardens cuisine. I've also got 2 very fine baby sitters in the form of Baffie and Bridie, who would teach her to kill rabbits and how to tunnel under fences. What more does a girl need?
Hmm. I wonder how young is too young to start educating the alcoholic pallate?
Anyway, I'm not sure what BB thought of her Tsia Se, or of all the other odd women holding her in varying degrees of awkwardness, but we all thought her enchanting. Now, with that said, I must go and help Fisher clear out the stable. It is very important to do this now, as we may well be having a horse in it.
This winter.
Gah.
Friday, 5 June 2009
So Much is Happening!
Yet again my lax behaviour ought to be punished, so I'm listening to Mariah Carey. God she's awful.
Ok, punishment over.
*Dabs away blood streaming from ears*
Right. So much to report. Perhaps I should just gloss over it all in bullet point form? Why yes, I think I shall.
"Oh fuck it," I cried, even as my feet turned and took me back up the hill again.
I ended up running all the way through the farm at the top and to the end of the dirt track before turning and going downhill again. Returning home took me to 3.6 miles, so I reasoned I might as well make it a round number. Also, I was aware that all that was waiting for me back home was a cursing Fisher, who is in the throes of cleaning out the boiler room and turning it into the world's shittiest workshop (a workshit). This is because Perth council refused her a grant, despite all but promising her one. Bastards.
So that's that. I leave you with my List of Hate. Ta ta fer noo.
List of Hate - Number 2.
Wine waiters! Even good ones always refill the glasses of those people who drink faster without considering that slower drinkers may wish to have a second glass. Before you know it the bottle's gone and you have to choose whether to buy another bottle or let the laggards be content with less. Of course, this is why they exist - to make you buy more booze - but I can't stand it! I know I'm a bit of a control freak, but my sense of justice in this is pretty understandable. If you're forking out £40 for a bottle of wine, you want everyone to share in it equally - and people are almost always greedy about wine in a way they wouldn't be about food.
I always got embarrassed because my Dad would get annoyed about wine waiters. Now I've taken the mantle from him, and get just as irked. Just give me the fucking bottle and piss off! I can pour the wine myself and make sure all who wish for a 2nd glass get one, rather than just those who drink like parched camels. (By the way - I drink faster than anyone else I know and benefit greatly from wine waiters, just in case you think this is inspired by greed).
List of Hate - number 3.
Creeping - fucking - buttercup! How can anything that delicate looking on top be so screamingly frustratingly stubbornly strong underneath? Hmm ... perhaps Creeping Buttercup should be Phidippida's new pseudonym?
Afternote: Having had a conversation with Blar, who scolded me for the list of hate thing, I've decided I ought to have a counteractive 'List of Love.' So the first thing that goes on my List of Love is:
Shady Bard. He's so dreamy and drifty. Perfect for a mellow day in the sunshine.
Ok, punishment over.
*Dabs away blood streaming from ears*
Right. So much to report. Perhaps I should just gloss over it all in bullet point form? Why yes, I think I shall.
- Had Koios's birthday. Went off roading on Saturday after Dim Sum in the morning at the very delicious Saigon Saigon in Edinburgh. Janus had chicken's feet. They are not pleasant - especially served ice cold and wibbly. Off roading is fun, but not something I find thrilling. It's machines. They're kind of fun, but I don't find them a challenge. Point them in a direction, put in gear, release clutch, press accelerator and off you go. Sometimes they go fast. Sometimes, if you press the middle pedal, they go a bit slower. If you're off-roading in a Drover, you go over very bumpy bits and only have to change between 1st and 2nd gear. It's quite fun - but, you know, it's not exactly challenging. The same is true for the quad biking, which was more fun, but only because we got to go over jumps. I was in a group with Wheeler and Chopper. Wheeler showed off by performing doughnuts on the wet, muddy grass, thereby churning up the ground to be even more slippery for us novices. He got gently told not to do it by our guide. He is a brat. Chopper, on the other hand, is a kamikazi lunatic who was constantly gunning it and ending up spinning round in circles, roaring with laughter. I took things in a more controlled (and cowardly) manner, perfectly content to sit at the back of the little group and give Chops enough space to slide backwards down hills and not run her over. Actually, looking back on it, the quad biking really was fun.
- Still for Koi's birthday, we went mountain biking on Sunday. This was hilarious, yet also quite disappointing. We (Koi, Janus, Phid, Spartan and I) were driven by Land Rover to the 'top' of a mountain and set free. Actually, for the 'top' of a mountain there were rather a lot of uphills to navigate - but firstly we had to get over the slight obstacle of the fact that Koi can't really ride a bicycle. I mean, she can balance ok, and pedal - just about - but doing those 2 things and attempting to change gear at the same time proved pretty much beyond her. However, the first fall occurred literally 20 seconds after the guide had dropped us from the Drover and set us free. Janus discovered her bike was a little too high for her and, in the process of dismounting, managed to very slowly topple onto her side, like a felled oak. She then rolled down the bank, legs a-kimbo. I'm sorry to have laughed, but really, what would you have done? Especially as she kept eye contact with me the whole way down. Anyway, she was fine apart from a graze to her hip, which she proudly displayed to me some time later. It was, in fact, about 10 minutes later, when she'd paused just before the summit of a little hill. She struggled to get up the hills because, unlike Koi, she simply refused to change gear at all, preferring to keep her bike in 4th at all times - which made it a bit tricky on the tougher climbs. So she got off and walked a few times, which was fine - but on this occasion she paused and showed me her war wound. I looked, admired, and out of the corner of my eye saw a sudden flailing movement from the summit, where Koi, Phid and Spar awaited us. "Did Koios just fall off?" I queried, trying to peer round the slight corner as the road rose away from us. Janus, still studying her seeping graze, said she didn't think so. However, on reaching the top we discovered a disconsolate Koi clambering out of the only ditch on the entire mountain that was full of water. She made a valiant effort to laugh it off, but on the whole it was a bit of a miserable experience for her. She couldn't ride the bike properly, while going downhill was too scary for any of the 3 other girls to properly enjoy. There were some lovely views, but that's not enough to make for an enjoyable experience. I enjoyed myself a lot on the downhills, although I was lucky not to come off nastily on one of the long, rubbly stretches, which cooled me off a bit! Unfortunately, Koios fell off for the 3rd and final time on that very spot, and this time gave her hand a nasty whack on a barbed wire fence. She was a grumpy and unhappy lady. We tried to cheer her up a bit by taking her back to our place and letting her have a recuperative bath while I whipped up a batch of scones. Protagoras was already at our house owing to the fact he'd drunk way too much the night before and been too hungover to join us. Unfortunately this meant that Fisher, who was supposed to be joined in a walk by Pro and Blarney, was left with 3 dogs to control on her own and had a totally miserable time of it. Blarney flaked due to pregnancy, which is sort of excusable - although, frankly, why a pregnant woman can't go for a short walk in beautiful scenery escapes me - but Pro's hangover not only left Fisher dangling, but meant that Koi didn't have her boyfriend's shoulder to cry on when she got off her bike. And I don't think anyone should have to utter the words "no, I can't come out for a fancy dinner because I need to go home and give my boyfriend some TLC" on their 30th birthday. To be fair, Pro tried his best, and would have come along - but we didn't really want to see him suffer, or throw up in any of our vehicles, so we sent him to our house to sleep it off.
- My mother came to stay for a few days, which was lovely. We had beautiful sunshine, took her shopping, and visited some gardens - including the maze at Scone Palace, which is quite fun. She went home relaxed and cheerful, having thoroughly enjoyed her stay in the UK.
- Had Arrow round for the Champions' League Final, which was a total damp squib. I did my usual trick of betting on the team I didn't want to win, thereby allowing myself a little compensation. I won several pounds, but it was a shame Man United couldn't put in a better showing. Ronaldo showed himself to be a bit of a disappointment in a big game scenario - again. His selfishness on the ball as he strived to prove himself to be a better player than Messi was certainly a factor in why United couldn't keep possession, and not only did he fail to look like a patch on Messi, but Iniesta outshone everyone else on the field. For me, on that showing, he's the best player in the world - ghosting past everyone, showing himself in exactly the right place at the right time, unerring in his passes - a real play maker. Bit of an arse, though.
- Took Koi and Pro out for supper on the back of my winnings. We went to Dakota, which was ok, although not nearly as good as it should be. Lovely night though.
- Had an epic 'foodie' weekend with Ceegar and Meeper, and a friend of theirs from work. We started with a picnic in the blazing sunshine, by the river in Dollar. We followed this with a night at Hotel du Vin in Glasgow and supper at 1 Devonshire Gardens, which is still my favourite restaurant for food, and still lets you down pretty badly on service. They don't mean to be inept, and they're never anything other than wonderfully friendly and polite - but there's always something really shit about it. This time they managed to screw up Meeper's starter, bringing her the wrong rabbit dish. The wine waiter is also deeply uninspiring. He may know his onions, but he doesn't really give that impression, being a bit of an 'awkward teen' if you know what I mean. Oo! Oo! That reminds me of something to put on my List of Hate!
- Saturday saw us walk down to Heart Buchanan, through the streets of Glasgow. We took a bit of a detour, as one of the receptionists at Hotel du Vin sent us on a wild goosechase in search of a deli, and saw some really lovely houses. Heart Buchanan is a deli and café at the top of Byres Road, and has some truly fantastic food. We had a coffee, Meeper had a cake, and bought up a whole bunch of gorgeous looking stuff which we put in a cool bag for our evening meal. Nexy stop was supposed to be the Paisley farmers' market, but having spent so much time getting to Byres Road and perusing Heart's, we missed it. Not to worry, though - we headed off to Bridge of Allan and Clive Ramsay's deli. This wasn't quite as good as Heart's, but still invited a great deal of examination, sampling and conversation. Ceegar, his mate and I also went into a wee wine shop on the corner and had a good natter with the lady about what would go well with our evening meal of gathered bits. She had an open bottle of chenin blanc - Californian - to try, and it was surprisingly delicious, so we bought a couple. We also took a few Italian reds, which I was excited to try because I know nothing - nothing! - about Italian wine.
- Cromlix House. This deserves a bullet point all to itself, and not just because I can't quite work out how to turn the bullet points on and off in order to paragraph. (I am aware that 'paragraph' is not a verb. Leave me alone.) This is the name of a delightful hotel not far from Dunblane, set in beautiful grounds and with a very eccentric men's lavatory, that Ceegar insisted I see (just in case you think I frequent men's lavatories). It's right out of Billy Bunter. I half expected to see a fag warming the loo seat. Men's loos aside, though(!), we partook of one of the best afternoon teas I've had, ever. For the princely sum of £10 crisp pounds, we each had: 3 finger sandwiches - ham & mustard, egg, and smoked salmon; 2 biscuits - ginger, shortbread; 4 types of sweet cake, including a strawberry meringue; a big fat delicious scone with cream and jam; tea or coffee. Most importantly, the tea was leaf, not bag, and the coffee deliciously strong. All this and blazing sunshine too. We consumed all with glee, and then Ceegar's pal had to head back into Reekie for a concert that night. The rest of us returned home, and were joined - much later on - by Shah and Epona for drinks. Although invited for dinner, they were just going to stay for drinks. Just a quick drink. Only one. Maybe two. Ok, three. And a glass of champagne? Why, I don't mind if I do. And you insist we stay for dinner? Oh, well, if our arms are twisted ...
- Sunday saw us pootle our way across to the East coast and the lovely marvellous Sangsters in Elie for Sunday lunch. This, if you get the chance, is more worth it than I can express. For £25 you get 3 Michelin starred courses and coffee. The wine is priced so reasonably as to almost seem incorrect - and if you dawdle, you're quite likely to get a chat with Bruce the chef, who shared his langoustine tips with me. It was a terrific end to a marvellous weekend.
- Fisher has developed an unhealthy love of gardening, and her frantic weeding has inspired me to get the veg patch started. So, a couple of days ago I started preparing one of the beds in the 'picture' garden. I cleared it - which puts me in mind of another addition to the Hate List - and began turning it over. I dug my first trench and transported each spadeful of soil to the end of the plot, in order to use it to fill in the last trench. After spadeful number 4 I felt my back utter a sharp pang of protest. However, because it didn't protest loudly enough I continued to dig up another 5 trench-worths of soil, and only when I stopped did I realise it was probably quite a bad idea. I had to leave half the bed un-turned, and, because we were in Reekie entertaining Blarney yesterday, I only got round to finishing it off today. However, that is now done and it's ready for phase 2. Whatever phase 2 may be. I'm hoping Alan Titchmarsh ('Titch') will tell me.
"Oh fuck it," I cried, even as my feet turned and took me back up the hill again.
I ended up running all the way through the farm at the top and to the end of the dirt track before turning and going downhill again. Returning home took me to 3.6 miles, so I reasoned I might as well make it a round number. Also, I was aware that all that was waiting for me back home was a cursing Fisher, who is in the throes of cleaning out the boiler room and turning it into the world's shittiest workshop (a workshit). This is because Perth council refused her a grant, despite all but promising her one. Bastards.
So that's that. I leave you with my List of Hate. Ta ta fer noo.
List of Hate - Number 2.
Wine waiters! Even good ones always refill the glasses of those people who drink faster without considering that slower drinkers may wish to have a second glass. Before you know it the bottle's gone and you have to choose whether to buy another bottle or let the laggards be content with less. Of course, this is why they exist - to make you buy more booze - but I can't stand it! I know I'm a bit of a control freak, but my sense of justice in this is pretty understandable. If you're forking out £40 for a bottle of wine, you want everyone to share in it equally - and people are almost always greedy about wine in a way they wouldn't be about food.
I always got embarrassed because my Dad would get annoyed about wine waiters. Now I've taken the mantle from him, and get just as irked. Just give me the fucking bottle and piss off! I can pour the wine myself and make sure all who wish for a 2nd glass get one, rather than just those who drink like parched camels. (By the way - I drink faster than anyone else I know and benefit greatly from wine waiters, just in case you think this is inspired by greed).
List of Hate - number 3.
Creeping - fucking - buttercup! How can anything that delicate looking on top be so screamingly frustratingly stubbornly strong underneath? Hmm ... perhaps Creeping Buttercup should be Phidippida's new pseudonym?
Afternote: Having had a conversation with Blar, who scolded me for the list of hate thing, I've decided I ought to have a counteractive 'List of Love.' So the first thing that goes on my List of Love is:
Shady Bard. He's so dreamy and drifty. Perfect for a mellow day in the sunshine.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
List of HATE
I've been meaning to start this for some time, despite it sounding like an incredibly negative thing to do. Actually, I think this is going to be a cathartic experience and, through expressing my hates in the open they'll be highlighted in all their ridiculousness and therefore belittled.
First, a word or two about the nature of this hate list:
This isn't serious. I'm not going to be listing dark and disturbing thoughts here. Nor am I going to go into the things that make me deeply angry. There will be no ranting about my loathing of pretension, vanity, selifishness, self-absorption, blind opinion, judgement, Big Brother ... nay! This will be a list of all the things I find frustrating, distressing, irksome, in an everyday fashion. You know - traffic lights changing to red just as you get there, that sort of thing.
I'm not going to sit down in one fell swoop and list all my hates. Not only would that be emotionally exhausting and put me in the world's foulest mood for a month, but I'd be guaranteed to think of twenty five other, different and more irksome things the very next day and have to go back and change the list. No, this will be an ongoing notation of life's minor miseries, and I encourage anyone with a small, yet potent, irk to note them here and thus expend some frustrated energy.
I shall kick off proceedings with Hate Number 1.
1) Getting changed after the gym. There is simply nothing good about it. You start out hot and sweaty. You have a shower. You then spend the next 1o minutes returning to the same hot and sweaty state as you commenced the process, owing to the overheated nature of gym changing rooms, the tininess of the cubicles, or, if you're bold enough to use the open communal bit, the contortions you inevitably have to perform behind a concealing towel because some mother has brought her 6 year old boy child in and he's gawking at you like he's never seen an arse that big in his life. (To be fair, he probably hasn't). You also never - NEVER - manage to leave with dry socks. The gym floor is always wet thanks to swimmers (of which I am often one) and no matter how hard you try, you can't avoid putting your dry, cosy foot into a skanky puddle. By the time you've left the gym you wish to God you'd just gone home in a dog-sweat and showered there.
That's number 1. More - o so many more - will follow.
First, a word or two about the nature of this hate list:
This isn't serious. I'm not going to be listing dark and disturbing thoughts here. Nor am I going to go into the things that make me deeply angry. There will be no ranting about my loathing of pretension, vanity, selifishness, self-absorption, blind opinion, judgement, Big Brother ... nay! This will be a list of all the things I find frustrating, distressing, irksome, in an everyday fashion. You know - traffic lights changing to red just as you get there, that sort of thing.
I'm not going to sit down in one fell swoop and list all my hates. Not only would that be emotionally exhausting and put me in the world's foulest mood for a month, but I'd be guaranteed to think of twenty five other, different and more irksome things the very next day and have to go back and change the list. No, this will be an ongoing notation of life's minor miseries, and I encourage anyone with a small, yet potent, irk to note them here and thus expend some frustrated energy.
I shall kick off proceedings with Hate Number 1.
1) Getting changed after the gym. There is simply nothing good about it. You start out hot and sweaty. You have a shower. You then spend the next 1o minutes returning to the same hot and sweaty state as you commenced the process, owing to the overheated nature of gym changing rooms, the tininess of the cubicles, or, if you're bold enough to use the open communal bit, the contortions you inevitably have to perform behind a concealing towel because some mother has brought her 6 year old boy child in and he's gawking at you like he's never seen an arse that big in his life. (To be fair, he probably hasn't). You also never - NEVER - manage to leave with dry socks. The gym floor is always wet thanks to swimmers (of which I am often one) and no matter how hard you try, you can't avoid putting your dry, cosy foot into a skanky puddle. By the time you've left the gym you wish to God you'd just gone home in a dog-sweat and showered there.
That's number 1. More - o so many more - will follow.
Friday, 15 May 2009
Neglect!
Good Lord, how remiss I have been. Sad that the more there is going on, the less time I have to write my blog and therefore the less interesting said blog is. And that is very poor English.
So: what's the craik, O clamouring reader? What newsworthy events have taken place in the little world of Bampot since our weekend escapade with Badge and Jan? Hmm.
*Flicks through diary*
Ok.
First of all, Fisher's Dad - Sparky - got hisself all married up an' stuff. Fisher was less than enthusiastic about the whole process, which you can understand. She's got no problem with the new wife, who seems pleasant, or with Sparky getting hitched again, but it's not something she really felt very celebratory about. But we toddled along with smiles in our hearts, all dolled up and ready to make merry. It was teeming it down as we left our neck of the woods - and things didn't look much brighter in St Andrews. Sparky and the bride greeted us in skanky old clothes, which took me aback a bit - but they did get changed before the ceremony. This took place in the back garden, so we were all eyeing the clouds, gnawing our lips in trepidation. But lo! About 30 minutes before the ceremony was due to kick off, the clouds parted, the sun shone down, and it was as beautiful as Scottish weather ever deigns to be. The ceremony kicked off, vows were said ...
Actually, scrap that. The bride said her vows, but Sparky is a Geordie and therefore cries at the sight of a flower with a broken stem. He was completely unable to get the words out, sobbing like a bairn and, eventually, having to just nod and sniffle agreement as the registrar read out what he was supposed to be promising. Now, if I were the bride, I'd not stand for that shit. Sounds like the best cop out imaginable. "I've slept with this other woman, but if you recall, I never actually managed to promise anything on our wedding day owing to being overcome with emotion, so ner ner ner." I hope she pinned him down later and made him swear on his blood - BLOOD - all the things he was supposed to promise.
Then came the exchange of rings. Was there a cute little ring bearer all dressed up in velvet? There was not (thank god). What there was, in light of Sparky's obsession with railways, was a model railway track all the way round the garden, and an alarmingly large model train that chuffed up holding a small stuffed moose which, in turn, was clutching the rings between its be-tartaned knees. Amused? Indeed we were.
It was all very charming, but I must say I was surprised at the homily. The registrar kept banging on about how "once in a lifetime" romance comes along, and "once in a lifetime" you meet someone with whom you wish to share your life. Well, apart from the fact that this is a load of old hogwash at the best of times, there was a massive elephant in the ... er ... garden, trumpeting loudly and eating all the scones. This was Sparky's second marriage, and the daughter of his deceased wife was sitting in the congregation feeling, not surprisingly, extremely furious. Once in a lifetime my arse. What was Sparky thinking? What was the registrar thinking? It's not like she didn't know he was a widower - you have to fill that in on the form.
Anyway, that aside it was a pretty ceremony thanks to the weather and the beautiful garden. Hilarity ensued afterwards when Fisher's grandmother decided to get rather pished on 2 1/2 glasses of champoo. Not only did she stand, swaying slightly, spraying scone crumbs in her determination to tell us all that she didn't drink, that she was a methodist and had therefore been sober for 82 years, but she got her hands on the model railway controls and started sending the train whizzing round the garden like the Shinkansen driven by Nino Farina. I have an image of her grinding the controls, cackling with delight as Sparky leaps through the air in slow motion crying "no-o-o-o-o" as if taking a bullet for the Queen.
That was on the Friday. The festivities continued over the weekend, but Fisher had no desire to be put under the inevitable scrutiny of 'only child watching Papa marry again" so we'd bowed out. Instead, we had a visit from Lu and Arrow which was fantastic. We packed the weekend full with many trips, including one to Clunie gardens, which are beautiful - and I now know the difference between a Primula and a Primrose, thanks to Lu. (One is a flower. The other is a type of soft cheese in a tube). We also discovered a tiny little potter* just beside Loch Tay, consisting of an old dude in a cottage throwing clay around like nobody's business and selling it for tuppence ha'penny. We bought a fantastic, fat casserole pot with 6 little bowls that dangled from its lip - all for the mighty price of under £40. We also checked out Fortingall Yew, which was - until about 24 hours ago - the oldest tree in Europe (curse those Swedes and their Old Tjikko). It was one of those situations where you think "yeah, well, we're passing, so we might as well take a peek" and is actually incredibly, surprisingly moving. There is something truly humbling yet invigorating about standing, looking at something that people have stood and looked at for nigh on 5,000 years. Little Neolithic babies probably crawled beneath it, while their mothers skinned rabbits they'd caught and their father's slept off last night's pint from the Fortingall Hotel (no dogs, tinkers or Neanderthals).
We ended the weekend with a gathering of folk for Sunday lunch. We'd told Lu and Arrow that we were inviting Epona and Shah round, but not that Spar and Blar would also be joining us. I thought it would be a nice surprise - and indeed it would have been had, five minutes before their arrival, Fisher not asked loudly whether the person who'd just rung was Blarney and if they were running late. My clever, 'throw 'em off the scent' reponse to this was to stare angrily and say "what!?"
Nevertheless, we had delicious roast beef from Howies, delectable Yorkies from Fisher's Mum's recipe, and divine lemon layer pudding from Good Housekeeping - all washed down with fine red wine (in moderation, naturally). And then, slowly, the house emptied and Fisher and I were alone. Alone at last. What romance ensued!
Yeh. Right. 6 hours of cleaning the kitchen later and the romance ensued - just like that Elton John line in I Guess That's Why They Call it the Blues: "... living like lovers, snoring like thunder, under the covers."
The following week was taken up by a saga with the drains like you would not BELIEVE. However, Fisher has documented this quite thoroughly in her blog here so I won't go into it again. It'll just make me angry. Instead I shall relate the joys of Blarney's birthday weekend. And by 'joys' I mean 'hard graft while Blar lay on a chaise longue and was fed ripe grapes.'
Hah haaaa. I've just seen, in my mind's eye, Blar's infuriated expression as she read that. Let's remember, folks, that she is 8 1/2 months pregnant and I do nothing but tell her that when Sister was that far along she was pulling a plough with her teeth, and that she should pick up a bloody scraper instead of poking dirty coffee mugs with a stick and pretending she's helping. Naturally, this is not well received, which gives me great joy.
So, we arrived in Edinburgh on the day of Blar's 31st birthday, armed with a sander - which we'd had to pick up from Dunfermline owing to Spar being given the runaround by B&Q in Bruntsfield. We were soon set to work. I was, suspiciously, given all jobs that required destruction in some way - removing a set of bannisters being my first task. This was easy enough, although there were a great many screws to be unscrewed, and most of them appeared to have been screwed in by some sort of ballistic-powered screwdriver. I was screwed. Actually, it was fine but I developed a teeny, tiny blister between my first and second fingers, which I delighted in showing everyone because it gave me the opportunity to stick an offensive V-sign up at them. Ah, maturity. Don't you love it? However, the offensive V-sign came in most useful when Spar blithely reported, after screw number 712 had finally fallen, that "oh, we have an electric screwdriver here." Blithering bastard.
Next up was stripping the walls of the sort of wallpaper your granny thinks is old fashioned. The rest of the team were doing sterling work in the 'master bedroom' so Koi and I set to work on the nursery. Without a steamer. And the wallpaper was woodchip. Anyone tried to remove woodchip? It's a bastard even with a steamer, so attempting to tackle it without was akin to storming the Bastille with a toothpick and the sudden realisation that your frères in liberté, whom you thought were at your back, have just nipped into the local bistro for a pint of vin rouge. We chipped away at it for about 20 minutes, removing approximately 3 strands of dental-floss sized woodchip, and then went and mugged next door for the steamer.
It still took the rest of Saturday to remove 2/3rds of the paper. I finished it off with Pro and Phid's help on Sunday, Gor' bless 'em. Monday also saw Fisher and me working at the place, and we were proud to strip the paper of the guest bedroom and also sand the floor with the temperamental sander (which behaved immaculately - must just have needed a woman's touch). I swear, if we don't get full membership into the Dyke's club for this then I'm cancelling my subscription.
That just about brings me up to date with newsworthy news. My Ma arrived on Tuesday but I had to take her to Connell airport so she could fly to see Sister and sons for a week. She'll be back to visit on the 20th, so we'll have a few things planned.
Today is the most miserable day you've ever seen - grey, wet, windy - but we've had such a run of unbelievable sun that I can almost forgive it. Yesterday, in fact, it was so sunny and glorious that I persuaded Fisher to come with me on a bike ride. We rode merrily to Little Glenshee ... or, at least, I started out merrily before realising that it's fucking HILLY around where we live. It was a 14 mile round trip and we took a picnic and ate it by the side of a wee burn. Idyllic, save for the chafing pain of my knickers gradually eating their way into my thighs.
Today I volunteered at the local society for the blind, where I met some cool older women and offered to ply my massage trade for them. The idea went down well, so come the beginning of June I may well be doing weekly massages there. Fisher and I then went for High Tea at the visitor centre, which is NOT on my diet, and chatted about this and that. And now I'm here. And now I'm not ...
*Tiny little pottery, that should be. Although the potter himself was pretty teeny, too.
So: what's the craik, O clamouring reader? What newsworthy events have taken place in the little world of Bampot since our weekend escapade with Badge and Jan? Hmm.
*Flicks through diary*
Ok.
First of all, Fisher's Dad - Sparky - got hisself all married up an' stuff. Fisher was less than enthusiastic about the whole process, which you can understand. She's got no problem with the new wife, who seems pleasant, or with Sparky getting hitched again, but it's not something she really felt very celebratory about. But we toddled along with smiles in our hearts, all dolled up and ready to make merry. It was teeming it down as we left our neck of the woods - and things didn't look much brighter in St Andrews. Sparky and the bride greeted us in skanky old clothes, which took me aback a bit - but they did get changed before the ceremony. This took place in the back garden, so we were all eyeing the clouds, gnawing our lips in trepidation. But lo! About 30 minutes before the ceremony was due to kick off, the clouds parted, the sun shone down, and it was as beautiful as Scottish weather ever deigns to be. The ceremony kicked off, vows were said ...
Actually, scrap that. The bride said her vows, but Sparky is a Geordie and therefore cries at the sight of a flower with a broken stem. He was completely unable to get the words out, sobbing like a bairn and, eventually, having to just nod and sniffle agreement as the registrar read out what he was supposed to be promising. Now, if I were the bride, I'd not stand for that shit. Sounds like the best cop out imaginable. "I've slept with this other woman, but if you recall, I never actually managed to promise anything on our wedding day owing to being overcome with emotion, so ner ner ner." I hope she pinned him down later and made him swear on his blood - BLOOD - all the things he was supposed to promise.
Then came the exchange of rings. Was there a cute little ring bearer all dressed up in velvet? There was not (thank god). What there was, in light of Sparky's obsession with railways, was a model railway track all the way round the garden, and an alarmingly large model train that chuffed up holding a small stuffed moose which, in turn, was clutching the rings between its be-tartaned knees. Amused? Indeed we were.
It was all very charming, but I must say I was surprised at the homily. The registrar kept banging on about how "once in a lifetime" romance comes along, and "once in a lifetime" you meet someone with whom you wish to share your life. Well, apart from the fact that this is a load of old hogwash at the best of times, there was a massive elephant in the ... er ... garden, trumpeting loudly and eating all the scones. This was Sparky's second marriage, and the daughter of his deceased wife was sitting in the congregation feeling, not surprisingly, extremely furious. Once in a lifetime my arse. What was Sparky thinking? What was the registrar thinking? It's not like she didn't know he was a widower - you have to fill that in on the form.
Anyway, that aside it was a pretty ceremony thanks to the weather and the beautiful garden. Hilarity ensued afterwards when Fisher's grandmother decided to get rather pished on 2 1/2 glasses of champoo. Not only did she stand, swaying slightly, spraying scone crumbs in her determination to tell us all that she didn't drink, that she was a methodist and had therefore been sober for 82 years, but she got her hands on the model railway controls and started sending the train whizzing round the garden like the Shinkansen driven by Nino Farina. I have an image of her grinding the controls, cackling with delight as Sparky leaps through the air in slow motion crying "no-o-o-o-o" as if taking a bullet for the Queen.
That was on the Friday. The festivities continued over the weekend, but Fisher had no desire to be put under the inevitable scrutiny of 'only child watching Papa marry again" so we'd bowed out. Instead, we had a visit from Lu and Arrow which was fantastic. We packed the weekend full with many trips, including one to Clunie gardens, which are beautiful - and I now know the difference between a Primula and a Primrose, thanks to Lu. (One is a flower. The other is a type of soft cheese in a tube). We also discovered a tiny little potter* just beside Loch Tay, consisting of an old dude in a cottage throwing clay around like nobody's business and selling it for tuppence ha'penny. We bought a fantastic, fat casserole pot with 6 little bowls that dangled from its lip - all for the mighty price of under £40. We also checked out Fortingall Yew, which was - until about 24 hours ago - the oldest tree in Europe (curse those Swedes and their Old Tjikko). It was one of those situations where you think "yeah, well, we're passing, so we might as well take a peek" and is actually incredibly, surprisingly moving. There is something truly humbling yet invigorating about standing, looking at something that people have stood and looked at for nigh on 5,000 years. Little Neolithic babies probably crawled beneath it, while their mothers skinned rabbits they'd caught and their father's slept off last night's pint from the Fortingall Hotel (no dogs, tinkers or Neanderthals).
We ended the weekend with a gathering of folk for Sunday lunch. We'd told Lu and Arrow that we were inviting Epona and Shah round, but not that Spar and Blar would also be joining us. I thought it would be a nice surprise - and indeed it would have been had, five minutes before their arrival, Fisher not asked loudly whether the person who'd just rung was Blarney and if they were running late. My clever, 'throw 'em off the scent' reponse to this was to stare angrily and say "what!?"
Nevertheless, we had delicious roast beef from Howies, delectable Yorkies from Fisher's Mum's recipe, and divine lemon layer pudding from Good Housekeeping - all washed down with fine red wine (in moderation, naturally). And then, slowly, the house emptied and Fisher and I were alone. Alone at last. What romance ensued!
Yeh. Right. 6 hours of cleaning the kitchen later and the romance ensued - just like that Elton John line in I Guess That's Why They Call it the Blues: "... living like lovers, snoring like thunder, under the covers."
The following week was taken up by a saga with the drains like you would not BELIEVE. However, Fisher has documented this quite thoroughly in her blog here so I won't go into it again. It'll just make me angry. Instead I shall relate the joys of Blarney's birthday weekend. And by 'joys' I mean 'hard graft while Blar lay on a chaise longue and was fed ripe grapes.'
Hah haaaa. I've just seen, in my mind's eye, Blar's infuriated expression as she read that. Let's remember, folks, that she is 8 1/2 months pregnant and I do nothing but tell her that when Sister was that far along she was pulling a plough with her teeth, and that she should pick up a bloody scraper instead of poking dirty coffee mugs with a stick and pretending she's helping. Naturally, this is not well received, which gives me great joy.
So, we arrived in Edinburgh on the day of Blar's 31st birthday, armed with a sander - which we'd had to pick up from Dunfermline owing to Spar being given the runaround by B&Q in Bruntsfield. We were soon set to work. I was, suspiciously, given all jobs that required destruction in some way - removing a set of bannisters being my first task. This was easy enough, although there were a great many screws to be unscrewed, and most of them appeared to have been screwed in by some sort of ballistic-powered screwdriver. I was screwed. Actually, it was fine but I developed a teeny, tiny blister between my first and second fingers, which I delighted in showing everyone because it gave me the opportunity to stick an offensive V-sign up at them. Ah, maturity. Don't you love it? However, the offensive V-sign came in most useful when Spar blithely reported, after screw number 712 had finally fallen, that "oh, we have an electric screwdriver here." Blithering bastard.
Next up was stripping the walls of the sort of wallpaper your granny thinks is old fashioned. The rest of the team were doing sterling work in the 'master bedroom' so Koi and I set to work on the nursery. Without a steamer. And the wallpaper was woodchip. Anyone tried to remove woodchip? It's a bastard even with a steamer, so attempting to tackle it without was akin to storming the Bastille with a toothpick and the sudden realisation that your frères in liberté, whom you thought were at your back, have just nipped into the local bistro for a pint of vin rouge. We chipped away at it for about 20 minutes, removing approximately 3 strands of dental-floss sized woodchip, and then went and mugged next door for the steamer.
It still took the rest of Saturday to remove 2/3rds of the paper. I finished it off with Pro and Phid's help on Sunday, Gor' bless 'em. Monday also saw Fisher and me working at the place, and we were proud to strip the paper of the guest bedroom and also sand the floor with the temperamental sander (which behaved immaculately - must just have needed a woman's touch). I swear, if we don't get full membership into the Dyke's club for this then I'm cancelling my subscription.
That just about brings me up to date with newsworthy news. My Ma arrived on Tuesday but I had to take her to Connell airport so she could fly to see Sister and sons for a week. She'll be back to visit on the 20th, so we'll have a few things planned.
Today is the most miserable day you've ever seen - grey, wet, windy - but we've had such a run of unbelievable sun that I can almost forgive it. Yesterday, in fact, it was so sunny and glorious that I persuaded Fisher to come with me on a bike ride. We rode merrily to Little Glenshee ... or, at least, I started out merrily before realising that it's fucking HILLY around where we live. It was a 14 mile round trip and we took a picnic and ate it by the side of a wee burn. Idyllic, save for the chafing pain of my knickers gradually eating their way into my thighs.
Today I volunteered at the local society for the blind, where I met some cool older women and offered to ply my massage trade for them. The idea went down well, so come the beginning of June I may well be doing weekly massages there. Fisher and I then went for High Tea at the visitor centre, which is NOT on my diet, and chatted about this and that. And now I'm here. And now I'm not ...
*Tiny little pottery, that should be. Although the potter himself was pretty teeny, too.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Weekend Away
Just had a divine weekend with the lovely Badger and Janus, and a welcome gate-crasher in the form of Koios.
We kicked off Friday night with gin. There may also have been some tonic involved, but it wasn't quite as noticeable. After my first I was feeling the warm glow of fuzziness - so I had another. So did Koi and Fisher, but Janus and Badger were being sensible. Although, not that sensible. The course of the evening saw wine flow freely. I'd ordered a case of Two Hands shiraz, and we made some impressive headway into it.
With head a-buzzing from gin, I plonked some deliciously delicious smoked salmon down as a starter. It was caught by Shah when he fished up in Helmsdale, and smoked in Dunkeld, and it was devoured in an instant. The plate was then stared at angrily when it yielded no more.
For a main course I cooked a pigeon casserole with cider and apples, which was pleasant but I made some tactical errors. Firstly, I'd managed to get it into my head that we were 4 in number, so I only bought 4 pigeons. There were, of course, 5 of us. This wasn't a catastrophe, as 4 pigeons between 5 are a perfectly acceptable meal. Secondly, I failed to recognise that the sauce would look quite as like vomit as it did. Thirdly, and in my state of fuzziheadedness, I failed to think the plate situation through. Instead of serving the casserole and sloppy sauce in bowls, which would have contained it and made it look far less like someone had thrown up on half a pigeon, I served it on a plate. It was not attractive. Fourthly, I'd forgotten what irritatingly bony bastards pigeons are.The meat is worth the effort, but only just. I'm not sure I'll be repeating the recipe, and pigeons will be safe from my gun (when I buy it).
Pudding was Stewart Tower ice cream, in two flavours: Ferrero Roche and lemon meringue pie. There was also some lemon cake. This was lovely, but very lazy on my part.
We then went through to the sitting room, drank more, talked (there are no donkeys with hind legs in the general vicinity) and eventually retired to bed feeling ... well, drunk, frankly. At 2am Fisher asked whether I thought Koi was all right, as her light was still on in her room. I waved a hand blearily and said I was sure she'd probably just passed out with it on.
'Just' passed out?
I woke with a hangover. Not exactly a surprise. It took me a couple of hours to get myself together enough to get up and dressed, but once I did it was to be greeted with lovely sunshine and everyone else raring to get out there and go - in young, hip and energetic fashion - antiquing!!
Hurrah!
So that is what we did. We went off to Abernyte, where Janus and Badger found a new dining table. We had lunch there in leisurely fashion, then moved on to Rait where Koi found an old egg box which will serve her well for storage purposes. I think there's an issue with Protagoras's papers. Anyway, after that it was time to speed back to Perth and put Koi on a train back to Reekie before the rest of us headed north.
Our destination was Kingussie and The Cross restaurant. It's what people are now calling a 'restaurant with rooms' which may, or may not, just be a way of saying 'good restaurant, sub-standard hotel.' When we arrived in Kingussie my heart sank a little as the website does try and make it look very much like The Cross is in deepest countryside. It's actually right in the midst of Kingussie - but surrounded by trees and down in a little dell, which gives it a sense of privacy.
The hotel itself was very basic - all pine wood and white bedding - but perfectly comfortable. We settled in, gave the dogs a quick wander beside the burn, and then went down for supper. The food was good. Very good. The choice is limited, with only two options per course, but there was something there for everyone. I made the mistake of ordering fish when there was wild boar as the second option, but in fact the hake was light, fragrant with spices and truly delicious. I just coveted Janus's and Badger's crackling - a lot.
After our meal we retired upstairs to the lounge and played a game of Scruples. This is a bad idea. There's little more irritating than you telling people how you'd react in a given situation and then being told you wouldn't - unless it's educating someone in the way they actually would react and not being believed. Ptcha! People. What do they know of me, or themselves?
We went to bed at the pathetic hour of midnight, but I was still reeling from the effects of the night before (owing to my aged crapness) and needed to sleeeeep. The pooches weren't allowed in the hotel, so Fisher had to go out and walk them, then tuck them up for a night in the car. This she did while the hotel proprietoress stood and waited. I thought this was so she could lock up after, but Fisher suggested it was actually to make sure we didn't sneak the pooches in behind her back. It never entered my head. I did, however, drop massive hints about how 'cooooold' they would be and how wet and adorable they were, but to no avail. The fact that Janus laughed in my face at my blatantness suggests the proprietoress also saw right through me and found me irksome.
Next day, we partook of a deeply unhealthy breakfast (haggis, good - sausage, good - poached egg, gooood - home made baked beans, booooo! Why bother? Baked beans aren't worth the trouble, especially when everyone just wants Heinz anyway) and headed out to find a suitable walk. This we did in nearby Loch Insh, where there was a sculpture trail.
The sculptures were ... well, outdated is what springs to mind. They were all very worthy an' everything, but we live in a post Band-Aid world and the issues they raised were pretty tired. Also, I was amused by "Inner Man" - which reminded me of Total Recall, and caused me to growl "open your miiiiind" to Badger, who smiled tolerantly. He was more amused by my comment that "Two Patriots" was actually a man doing a charade of "Bangkok".
*Pause for audience applause. Not a sausage.*
At the end of it, Janus turned and said:
"So, what did we learn from this?"
I'd like to point out at this point that she'd been having a real run on Mumsiness, and this was only one in a long line of Mummish phrases - but it raised the question. We thought about it. There really wasn't anything new to bring to the table, but it did make me realise that, since the 1950s when these sculptures were made, the issues remain exactly the same. We've had 50 years of public awareness and nothing has changed.
It was a melancholy start to our walk - but we shook it off admirably, ably helped by the vast breakfast still warming our tums, our warm clothing, our on-hand transport, our physical health and general well-being.
We then embarked on one of the trial walks which claimed to be 4km long. We were advised to leave 2 hours. 2 hours?? For 4km?? An average speed of 2kph????? Look, I'm a fat biffa and everything, but even I can gird my loins to a greater pace than that!
2 hours later, we returned to our car.
Ok, I'd like to point out that we actually went a bit off-piste (as usual), having become confused by the blue posts we were following suddenly appearing in 3 directions at once. We, naturally, chose the wrong ones and ended up taking a detour which put a good couple of miles on the total. We reckon we walked around 4.5 miles, which is still an incredibly slow pace - but it wasn't as if we were on a route march or anything. We breathed the fresh air, nattered and let Baffie wander free (which annoyed Bridie no end). We also got a bit lost, which slows the pace a little. Anyway, it was a lovely walk and left us feeling less guilty about our breakfast.
Next stop was the Highland Chocolatier in Grandtully, where we had lunch in the scarily eccentric coffee shop. It's got a witch's theme, and there are dolls. Need I say more? But we ate pleasant panninis and stuff, then Badge and Janus went and poked the chocolates next door before deciding on a little bag of 6. I'm off chocolate for 3 months so I couldn't have any.
Oh - yes, the chocolate fast. I'm not eating chocolate for 3 months. Or sweets. But there are exceptions. If I go out for a fancy, expensive meal I can have pudding if I have fish for a main course. This stops my dietary restrictions being annoyingly party-pooperish for others. And I'm NOT allowed cheese as a substitute. Cheese is NOT the 'low fat' option. Cheese is fat. Fat is cheese. I love cheese. I am fat. As our American cousins would say: "Go figure."
After the chocolate interlude, there was nothing left to do but return homeward. Janus and Badger wended their weary way back to Edinburgh so they'd have a decent amount of collapse time on a Sunday evening, and we just collapsed. We were tired, but well pleased with a sociable, delightful weekend. We'd consumed much, but also been quite active, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been - and the craik was grand.
I was going to go on a long bike ride yesterday, to further keep the weekend's excesses in check, but to my annoyance I remembered I had a tennis match. This involved a 45 minute drive to Duffus, followed by 2.5 hours on a tennis court. This sounds like good exercise, but it's really not. It's mostly just standing around. It is hugely tiring, but it's not really very beneficial. It doesn't work the muscles, or require any cardiovascualar effort, but it does take up a day's exercise allocation. I can't do exercise before it, otherwise I'm just too tired to play at all, and afterwards I'm zonked so I don't really fancy doing anything the next day. Plus, I get back home after 10pm. Yesterday I was back by 10, but that's the first time it's ever happened. Usually it's closer to 11, sometimes 12. It just wipes me out. And that's playing for the 2nd team! Next Monday I'm with the 1sts, which means a better standard of tennis and therefore more exercise over just as long a time.
I'd also like to point out that I'm 32 years old. The next youngest person in my team last night was 42ish. The other 4 were in their 50s. They bounce around like mountain goats at the end of the night, making vast vats of tea, cutting cake and doling out sandwiches - and then doing all the washing up at the very end. They are all, also, half my size. I mean, literally. If that's not an example of the benefits of staying slim and light, I don't know what is. Those chicas are going to live forever.
And so the diet begins.
Again.
We kicked off Friday night with gin. There may also have been some tonic involved, but it wasn't quite as noticeable. After my first I was feeling the warm glow of fuzziness - so I had another. So did Koi and Fisher, but Janus and Badger were being sensible. Although, not that sensible. The course of the evening saw wine flow freely. I'd ordered a case of Two Hands shiraz, and we made some impressive headway into it.
With head a-buzzing from gin, I plonked some deliciously delicious smoked salmon down as a starter. It was caught by Shah when he fished up in Helmsdale, and smoked in Dunkeld, and it was devoured in an instant. The plate was then stared at angrily when it yielded no more.
For a main course I cooked a pigeon casserole with cider and apples, which was pleasant but I made some tactical errors. Firstly, I'd managed to get it into my head that we were 4 in number, so I only bought 4 pigeons. There were, of course, 5 of us. This wasn't a catastrophe, as 4 pigeons between 5 are a perfectly acceptable meal. Secondly, I failed to recognise that the sauce would look quite as like vomit as it did. Thirdly, and in my state of fuzziheadedness, I failed to think the plate situation through. Instead of serving the casserole and sloppy sauce in bowls, which would have contained it and made it look far less like someone had thrown up on half a pigeon, I served it on a plate. It was not attractive. Fourthly, I'd forgotten what irritatingly bony bastards pigeons are.The meat is worth the effort, but only just. I'm not sure I'll be repeating the recipe, and pigeons will be safe from my gun (when I buy it).
Pudding was Stewart Tower ice cream, in two flavours: Ferrero Roche and lemon meringue pie. There was also some lemon cake. This was lovely, but very lazy on my part.
We then went through to the sitting room, drank more, talked (there are no donkeys with hind legs in the general vicinity) and eventually retired to bed feeling ... well, drunk, frankly. At 2am Fisher asked whether I thought Koi was all right, as her light was still on in her room. I waved a hand blearily and said I was sure she'd probably just passed out with it on.
'Just' passed out?
I woke with a hangover. Not exactly a surprise. It took me a couple of hours to get myself together enough to get up and dressed, but once I did it was to be greeted with lovely sunshine and everyone else raring to get out there and go - in young, hip and energetic fashion - antiquing!!
Hurrah!
So that is what we did. We went off to Abernyte, where Janus and Badger found a new dining table. We had lunch there in leisurely fashion, then moved on to Rait where Koi found an old egg box which will serve her well for storage purposes. I think there's an issue with Protagoras's papers. Anyway, after that it was time to speed back to Perth and put Koi on a train back to Reekie before the rest of us headed north.
Our destination was Kingussie and The Cross restaurant. It's what people are now calling a 'restaurant with rooms' which may, or may not, just be a way of saying 'good restaurant, sub-standard hotel.' When we arrived in Kingussie my heart sank a little as the website does try and make it look very much like The Cross is in deepest countryside. It's actually right in the midst of Kingussie - but surrounded by trees and down in a little dell, which gives it a sense of privacy.
The hotel itself was very basic - all pine wood and white bedding - but perfectly comfortable. We settled in, gave the dogs a quick wander beside the burn, and then went down for supper. The food was good. Very good. The choice is limited, with only two options per course, but there was something there for everyone. I made the mistake of ordering fish when there was wild boar as the second option, but in fact the hake was light, fragrant with spices and truly delicious. I just coveted Janus's and Badger's crackling - a lot.
After our meal we retired upstairs to the lounge and played a game of Scruples. This is a bad idea. There's little more irritating than you telling people how you'd react in a given situation and then being told you wouldn't - unless it's educating someone in the way they actually would react and not being believed. Ptcha! People. What do they know of me, or themselves?
We went to bed at the pathetic hour of midnight, but I was still reeling from the effects of the night before (owing to my aged crapness) and needed to sleeeeep. The pooches weren't allowed in the hotel, so Fisher had to go out and walk them, then tuck them up for a night in the car. This she did while the hotel proprietoress stood and waited. I thought this was so she could lock up after, but Fisher suggested it was actually to make sure we didn't sneak the pooches in behind her back. It never entered my head. I did, however, drop massive hints about how 'cooooold' they would be and how wet and adorable they were, but to no avail. The fact that Janus laughed in my face at my blatantness suggests the proprietoress also saw right through me and found me irksome.
Next day, we partook of a deeply unhealthy breakfast (haggis, good - sausage, good - poached egg, gooood - home made baked beans, booooo! Why bother? Baked beans aren't worth the trouble, especially when everyone just wants Heinz anyway) and headed out to find a suitable walk. This we did in nearby Loch Insh, where there was a sculpture trail.
The sculptures were ... well, outdated is what springs to mind. They were all very worthy an' everything, but we live in a post Band-Aid world and the issues they raised were pretty tired. Also, I was amused by "Inner Man" - which reminded me of Total Recall, and caused me to growl "open your miiiiind" to Badger, who smiled tolerantly. He was more amused by my comment that "Two Patriots" was actually a man doing a charade of "Bangkok".
*Pause for audience applause. Not a sausage.*
At the end of it, Janus turned and said:
"So, what did we learn from this?"
I'd like to point out at this point that she'd been having a real run on Mumsiness, and this was only one in a long line of Mummish phrases - but it raised the question. We thought about it. There really wasn't anything new to bring to the table, but it did make me realise that, since the 1950s when these sculptures were made, the issues remain exactly the same. We've had 50 years of public awareness and nothing has changed.
It was a melancholy start to our walk - but we shook it off admirably, ably helped by the vast breakfast still warming our tums, our warm clothing, our on-hand transport, our physical health and general well-being.
We then embarked on one of the trial walks which claimed to be 4km long. We were advised to leave 2 hours. 2 hours?? For 4km?? An average speed of 2kph????? Look, I'm a fat biffa and everything, but even I can gird my loins to a greater pace than that!
2 hours later, we returned to our car.
Ok, I'd like to point out that we actually went a bit off-piste (as usual), having become confused by the blue posts we were following suddenly appearing in 3 directions at once. We, naturally, chose the wrong ones and ended up taking a detour which put a good couple of miles on the total. We reckon we walked around 4.5 miles, which is still an incredibly slow pace - but it wasn't as if we were on a route march or anything. We breathed the fresh air, nattered and let Baffie wander free (which annoyed Bridie no end). We also got a bit lost, which slows the pace a little. Anyway, it was a lovely walk and left us feeling less guilty about our breakfast.
Next stop was the Highland Chocolatier in Grandtully, where we had lunch in the scarily eccentric coffee shop. It's got a witch's theme, and there are dolls. Need I say more? But we ate pleasant panninis and stuff, then Badge and Janus went and poked the chocolates next door before deciding on a little bag of 6. I'm off chocolate for 3 months so I couldn't have any.
Oh - yes, the chocolate fast. I'm not eating chocolate for 3 months. Or sweets. But there are exceptions. If I go out for a fancy, expensive meal I can have pudding if I have fish for a main course. This stops my dietary restrictions being annoyingly party-pooperish for others. And I'm NOT allowed cheese as a substitute. Cheese is NOT the 'low fat' option. Cheese is fat. Fat is cheese. I love cheese. I am fat. As our American cousins would say: "Go figure."
After the chocolate interlude, there was nothing left to do but return homeward. Janus and Badger wended their weary way back to Edinburgh so they'd have a decent amount of collapse time on a Sunday evening, and we just collapsed. We were tired, but well pleased with a sociable, delightful weekend. We'd consumed much, but also been quite active, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been - and the craik was grand.
I was going to go on a long bike ride yesterday, to further keep the weekend's excesses in check, but to my annoyance I remembered I had a tennis match. This involved a 45 minute drive to Duffus, followed by 2.5 hours on a tennis court. This sounds like good exercise, but it's really not. It's mostly just standing around. It is hugely tiring, but it's not really very beneficial. It doesn't work the muscles, or require any cardiovascualar effort, but it does take up a day's exercise allocation. I can't do exercise before it, otherwise I'm just too tired to play at all, and afterwards I'm zonked so I don't really fancy doing anything the next day. Plus, I get back home after 10pm. Yesterday I was back by 10, but that's the first time it's ever happened. Usually it's closer to 11, sometimes 12. It just wipes me out. And that's playing for the 2nd team! Next Monday I'm with the 1sts, which means a better standard of tennis and therefore more exercise over just as long a time.
I'd also like to point out that I'm 32 years old. The next youngest person in my team last night was 42ish. The other 4 were in their 50s. They bounce around like mountain goats at the end of the night, making vast vats of tea, cutting cake and doling out sandwiches - and then doing all the washing up at the very end. They are all, also, half my size. I mean, literally. If that's not an example of the benefits of staying slim and light, I don't know what is. Those chicas are going to live forever.
And so the diet begins.
Again.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
The Question of Good
I was having a thought the other day, about what it means to be a 'good' person. For someone of religious conviction it's quite a simple matter to be able to follow the rules laid out and be able to call yourself a 'good Christian/Muslim/Jew/Insert Faith. Yes, there are some tricky moments as society moves on from the times in which your religious tenets were created, but on the whole there's a useful guidebook to help formulate your definition of what it is to be 'good'.
For those of us without religious faith, or at least with more questions than answers regarding belief in a deity, 'goodness' is a little more difficult to quantify. We all follow a basic Christian set of ideals, which are pretty much identical to most other faiths, but I actually don't think most people stop and think about it. We know that 'good' people don't lie, cheat or steal, hurt others physically or mentally, or generally behave in a way that upsets the delicate structure of society. We all have to live together, so we have to get along - or at least ignore each other as much as possible.
But is adhering to the basics really 'good'? Is it enough to not steal? To not start a punch-up with a guy in the pub? To not lie to your partner about where you've been and who you've been shagging? Surely not doing bad is not the same as doing good?
If I had been asked, at the moment all this was going through my head: "Are you a good person?" I would have had to stop and think. I'd always presumed that, while I do some bad things, I am a good person on the whole. Don't most people think that? But actually - am I 'good', or am I just 'not particularly bad'?
I thought about it. I realised the only way to try and figure out whether I'm good or not is to think about the good things - if any - I'd done in a single day, and weigh them against the bad. So, today I'm looking back over yesterday and making a list.
1. Got up and discovered a parcel had been left at our house. It should have been delivered to our neighbour. I took it straight round. - This isn't really good. This is just what a person should do. I suppose it may edge towards good because I took it straight away.
2. Got cross because Fisher fielded a call which confused the issue of my mother coming to stay. She'd said she was coming to stay with us, going away for a weekend. Then heard she was coming over only to go stay elsewhere for the whole time. Felt we were being used as a B&B, and that we were being bypassed - especially when a flight was booked meaning we weren't being given any time with her at all. Felt world was revolving solely around others. Felt fed up. - All can be filed under 'not good.' Bad? Not sure. I think it's understandably disappointing to be told your mother's coming to visit you, and then be told she's actually using you as a stop over on her way to see others. Bad is feeling angry, though.
3. Went to Gloagburn for brunch. Felt grumpy and sad owing to above. Was not much fun to be with. - Not good. Probably bad.
4. Went to Tesco and bought weekly shop. Fisher feeling slightly ropy so told her to go back to the car and unpacked, packed and paid for shopping myself. - Again, this is how human beings should behave. Don't think it deserves the accolade 'good.'
5. Helped an old lady with her shopping. - No big deal. I only helped her pack it into her trolly, so it was hardly any skin off my nose. Still, I suppose I noticed she was struggling a bit, which is good. Others might not have cared. But does this deserve to be considered 'good'?
6. Cooked supper for Epona and Shah - teriyaki sea bass and pavlova. - I think this is good. Shared food and broke bread with neighbours. Took bother of cooking away from Epona, who is very busy at the moment.
7. Went to bed without doing the washing up. - Bad because Fisher was left to do it.
So that's a list of my actions yesterday. Hardly inspiring, is it? And yet I would consider myself a 'good' person? I think not.
I'm not a good person. I'm just a person.
For those of us without religious faith, or at least with more questions than answers regarding belief in a deity, 'goodness' is a little more difficult to quantify. We all follow a basic Christian set of ideals, which are pretty much identical to most other faiths, but I actually don't think most people stop and think about it. We know that 'good' people don't lie, cheat or steal, hurt others physically or mentally, or generally behave in a way that upsets the delicate structure of society. We all have to live together, so we have to get along - or at least ignore each other as much as possible.
But is adhering to the basics really 'good'? Is it enough to not steal? To not start a punch-up with a guy in the pub? To not lie to your partner about where you've been and who you've been shagging? Surely not doing bad is not the same as doing good?
If I had been asked, at the moment all this was going through my head: "Are you a good person?" I would have had to stop and think. I'd always presumed that, while I do some bad things, I am a good person on the whole. Don't most people think that? But actually - am I 'good', or am I just 'not particularly bad'?
I thought about it. I realised the only way to try and figure out whether I'm good or not is to think about the good things - if any - I'd done in a single day, and weigh them against the bad. So, today I'm looking back over yesterday and making a list.
1. Got up and discovered a parcel had been left at our house. It should have been delivered to our neighbour. I took it straight round. - This isn't really good. This is just what a person should do. I suppose it may edge towards good because I took it straight away.
2. Got cross because Fisher fielded a call which confused the issue of my mother coming to stay. She'd said she was coming to stay with us, going away for a weekend. Then heard she was coming over only to go stay elsewhere for the whole time. Felt we were being used as a B&B, and that we were being bypassed - especially when a flight was booked meaning we weren't being given any time with her at all. Felt world was revolving solely around others. Felt fed up. - All can be filed under 'not good.' Bad? Not sure. I think it's understandably disappointing to be told your mother's coming to visit you, and then be told she's actually using you as a stop over on her way to see others. Bad is feeling angry, though.
3. Went to Gloagburn for brunch. Felt grumpy and sad owing to above. Was not much fun to be with. - Not good. Probably bad.
4. Went to Tesco and bought weekly shop. Fisher feeling slightly ropy so told her to go back to the car and unpacked, packed and paid for shopping myself. - Again, this is how human beings should behave. Don't think it deserves the accolade 'good.'
5. Helped an old lady with her shopping. - No big deal. I only helped her pack it into her trolly, so it was hardly any skin off my nose. Still, I suppose I noticed she was struggling a bit, which is good. Others might not have cared. But does this deserve to be considered 'good'?
6. Cooked supper for Epona and Shah - teriyaki sea bass and pavlova. - I think this is good. Shared food and broke bread with neighbours. Took bother of cooking away from Epona, who is very busy at the moment.
7. Went to bed without doing the washing up. - Bad because Fisher was left to do it.
So that's a list of my actions yesterday. Hardly inspiring, is it? And yet I would consider myself a 'good' person? I think not.
I'm not a good person. I'm just a person.
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