Life in these British Isles

My points of reference: 1. Rosewood

2011-09-02T08:37:00.005+01:00

I anticipate this entry to be the first of a thread that I'm calling "My points of reference". It was inspired by largely by my father. When I was a kid my father, bless his soul (makes him sound like he's passed, but no: bless his soul is cos he's crazy), would make reference to some character called Hess. He'd say things to me and siblings like, "You Hess's child!" and cackle with glee at his witticism. We had absolutely no fucking idea was he was on about, though we gathered it was not a rather good thing to be related to this Hess chap. Finally I asked my amah (cos you can get no coherent chat from me da - fact) who Hess was. "Oh," my mother said, with an indifference off-handedness that can only be obtained by being married to the same nutjob for an extended amount of time, "Just some guy he went to high school with."

This "My points of reference" thread has also been inspired by what happened today, and it serves as the basis for my first point of reference, of which I shall explain to you now. So I was happily tweeting my dear high school BF ATW when we happened upon talking about music. I explained that I was trying to take in more rap and expressed my love for the new Bad Meets Evil album (can I just put out there how much I love Eminem right now? Like he gets me going big time. Which is weird cos I never thought he was attractive before. Anyway, let me get back to the point, cos I'm getting hot to trot). ATW returned that she didn't like the "overuse of the n-word". In response, I called her cliched.

Now, let me back up just one minute here and give even more background. For some reason, I have been on the Guardian website recently, making comments on stories about rap and hip-hop music. I am by no means an expert or full-on connoisseur (yet), but, as was the case from lots of other comment-makers, I can't stand when people slag off rap so vehemently (glorifies criminality and sexism) and I feel I have to defend it. OK, you don't get rap - fine. So don't listen to it, simple as. I don't listen to country much for exactly the same reason. It's violent and denigrates women, but it gets a lot more cultural respect from people. Why? Well, I'll let you figure that out on your own, my little lambs.

Anyway, when I get round people having a go at hip-hop and rap, I just kinda lose it a bit, which I was reminded of when tweeting ATW. I always refer to me losing it when it comes to thinking about race issues as having a "Rosewood moment". Rosewood is the name of a John Singleton-directed film starring Ving Rhames, described in IMDb as a "dramatization of a 1923 horrific racist lynch mob attack on an African American community". Essentially, this white community goes all klan on a black community.

When my mother went to see this film, she said she left the cinema so angry that she just wanted to bust on any white person she encountered. Which is hilarious. Don't get me wrong: violence is not funny. But my ma contemplating violence is. This is a women who would never whack me or my siblings with her hands, because "hands are for loving". Which made for interesting times when my mother did want to pop us one, for she would rush off looking for something to do it with. Her hands loved us, but that spatula certainly didn't! Still can't look a most kitchen utensils without hysteria rising within me.

So basically when I talk about having a Rosewood moment, I'm referring to my amah's very funny response. It's my way of not letting it get to me, I guess. The citing of a "Rosewood moment" labels the issue for what it is, but it also helps to de-escalate and diffuse things by reminding me of how absurd a really angry response, which I am prone to have, would be.

Maybe I should actually get round to seeing this film that serves as such a significant point of reference.

My beef with FB friends

2011-08-30T21:22:00.006+01:00

Tonight, as I was leaving volleyball training, I pass a guy who I'm friends with on the FB.

"Hello," says he.

"Hi," reply I, walking passed him.

"Oh, did you buy those shoes?" inquires him, nonchalantly.

I stop in my tracks to consider the meaning of this. Then I remember my message I'd put on the Book of Faces: Left work intending to stop at Russell & Bromley to buy that pair of brown loafers I had been coveting before going to volleyball training. But I definitely need another day to mentally prepare myself to pay THAT much for some shoes.

This is not the first time this has happened to me, people commenting to me in person about something I've written on the Facebook but not leaving a comment to the post. I recently spoke to someone who claimed to love reading my "crazy posts" but was a person least likely to write a comment back. And I find this utterly bizarre. It's like some odd voyeuristic behaviour that, if occurring outside social media, would have people arrested. It makes me feel that instead of bringing people together, the FB and other social media allows us to creepily peep on each other.

Actually, I'm being unduly harsh cos that peeping Tom behaviour doesn't really bother me so much. I will freely admit to taking in the events of other people's lives and not always giving feedback. But mostly I do. Especially if you're interesting. If you're interesting, I will defo comment. I've got a pal, DK, who talks crazy shit on the FB most of the time and he kills me and everyone he knows. He regularly has a double-digit number of comments to his postings (though, that being said, around half are his replies to what people say to him).

Though I believe in feeding back, it's sometimes clear that my two cents have absolutely no value. I'm thinking of one friend in particular, who posted a question asking who his friends believed to be the greatest DJ. I answered with a question back that he never bothered to answer. Bad form.

And that's my real beef: people not using the information that others share to really (i.e., instantaneously) engage with each other. I see this information sharing — my information sharing in my FB posts and on this darling little blog — as a service. And your feedback is currency, wages for my work. And as I see it, some of you are seriously short changing me. Y'all better pay me my money!

My dream, or People know I am a shit person

2011-08-07T12:53:00.008+01:00

So last night I had a dream, which I will tell you about! Boy says there's nothing less interesting than hearing other people retell their dreams. I think wots less interesting than that is new parents talking about how amazing their babies are. I mean, THEY ARE BABIES! They do fuck all.

I recognise that's just me.

Actually, that's a good segue into the dream: I was caring for the baby of a couple with which I am acquainted. In real life, I'm pretty sure this couple hates me. Well, for one, the dude defriended me on the FB some time ago. And I was only FB friends with him. I'm really not that gutted (actually, never ever was gutted) about it cos he was kinda boring. I mean, he never changed his profile pic, one of a person doing a pretty nice sporting action, which was clearly not him. That makes him dead suspect to me. And she got on my tits!

Anyway, throughout the entire weekend I cared for the baby, I called the kid "Killian" though that is not his name - it's nowhere near his real-life given name even. To be fair, Killian is a much cooler name than the kid's real name, though. I reckon the kid is four months old, but I fed him a diet exclusively of salty peanut butter crackers. You know, the ones that come in packs of six that you get out of American vending machines. I'm also pretty sure I left him alone several times, once for an pretty extended amount of time where he conked his head. I never changed his nappy. Yep, I was a pretty shit person.

Could this be why this couple hates me? Could they somehow (don't ask me how: I only come up with the theories, not explain them) look past the dreamscape and look directly into my soul and tell that I'm such a shit person that I would harm their little Killian (he will always be Killian to me now) and give him jailbound-worthy care for a weekend? Is this why I was defriended?

But at the same time, if they knew I was such a shit person, why did they let me care for the baby? Clearly, these people are bad parents.

My current dilemma, maaaan

2011-08-02T18:03:00.009+01:00

Basically, every North American I encounter these days makes me wonder: "Do you play softball?" (I am apparently not the only one like this). Yeh, yeh: you think I'm racist cos I assume that all NAers are good at ball. Yeh, so wot? Sue me. In my experience, I have found the greater the propensity for naturally lacing the word "man" in conversation (as in "No way maaaaan, that was soooo out."), the higher the likelihood that the person is shit-hot at softball. So the USer that I met at the Scottish Book Trust, only likely to say "maaaan" in an ironic way: an OK and improving baller.

Now the new kid I recruited - Mr Maaaan, mayor of Maaaaaan Town: confidently balling. All his convo is about balling: batting, fielding, baseball ("Maaaan, the Pirates fucking suck maaan."). So how exactly did I meet Mr Maaaan? Well, there's the dilemma.

Basically, I met Mr Maaaan when he and his child came to visit our school in the spring. After spending some time waffling about whether or not I should ask him to play our little reindeer game, I approached him and he happily agreed to take part. This is really the first time I've allowed someone who is not another teacher to see me in not Ms Teacher mode. Basically, Mr Maaaan has seen me exclusively in my rude, profane, bolshy Me mode, not the lovely Ms Teacher side I like to cultivate to parents.

But now he's asked me to be a friend on the FB. And I'm waffling over this friendship request like no other, as some of you yahoos can attest to. (I've got issues!) I don't wanna out and out ignore him, cos like I said he's an a'ight guy. But it's about the boundaries, innit, and the inappropriate crossing thereof. Isn't it just inappropriate for a parent of one of my kids to want to be my friend on the FB?

On the other hand, this isn't really his fault. In fact, this whole thing could have been prevented if I had thought a little bit more about my actions. I mean, what the fuck did I think was going to happen when I asked him to play softball on my team? That we would somehow stay in these little bubbles where I would always be Ms Teacher and he would always be Mr Maaaan and our real adult personalities of Me and Maaaan would never emerge? I asked him to engage in a social context with me and now I'm freaking out that he actually wants to do it. I'm thinking hard and getting wrinkles cos I think he's crossed a line, but in reality, wasn't it me the one who did?

Actually, I don't think I really have a problem being his friend. This little rant has been about trust and wondering if I can I trust Mr Maaaan with all my personal shit on the FB? Yeh, I've already given him a precursor to my FB self when we play, with all my cursing and inappropriate stories - so wots the difference? The difference is all that stuff I've verbally shared on the field is temporal, having only a fleeting life in one's memory.

Ok, think about it like this: when he goes home to Mrs Maaaan and she asks if anything good happened, he might say, "Ah maaaan, Ms Teacher was telling me this hilarious story about these people shagging loudly on her holiday in France!" And she would say, "What happened maaaan?" And he would reply, "Yeh maaaan, I can't really remember it all." Cos that's what face-to-face interactions are like: filled mainly with silly, inconsequential moments that somehow establish a feeling of friendliness amongst people. But pictures of my drunky bear antics on the FB, however, are permanent. And can be reviewed on the regular. With snorts and chortles.

And can I trust Mr Maaaan, or even Mrs Maaaan, not to share my shit with other parents and other folks? And what if he shows it to his kid? "Hey Lil Maaaan, look at Ms Teacher getting fucked up in this pic! Maaan, that's awesome!" Cos ultimately, even when parents are friendly to you and share a laugh with you, they are still your quasi-employers. Their bottom line is to protect their little one. Our friendship, as fun as it could be, could be thrown out the water if Mr and Mrs Maaaan are totally different when they are in Mr Dad Maaaan and Mrs Mum Maaaan mode.

Of course, I'm the one who's letting this play on my mind, on and on. Mr Maaaan thought all of two seconds about this, only thinking about how to find the 'Request friend' button on the FB . How do I know? Cos he's a man and so you know there was no girly dilemma chat in his head with his actions. I so need to maaaan up.

My singing

2011-06-07T15:41:00.003+01:00

I am, despite wot anyone says to the contrary, a fairly shit singer. I blame myself entirely. When I was a child I, apparently, had a nice singing voice. There was nothing I liked better than singing with my wee tidda. I was by no means the star of the church choir and never sang lead, but I contributed enough.

My paternal grandmother loved to hear us sing. Actually, I think she just loved to show off. She would take me and Tidda around like we were the star attraction in a carnie freak show.

"Ooooo!"

"Look at how long their hair is!"

"Ain't they just so pretty!"

Grandma: "They can sang too."

"Aw, g'on babies. Sang!"

As much as I adored my grandma, I hated singing for all those people. But it wasn't like you could beg off, or politely decline. Because this was Miss Bea, and you did what you were told with a smile. So I rebelled in a most passive-aggressive way possible: singing off-key. And I did it so much and for so long that I couldn't figure out how to get back on.

And I still have no idea how to sing on key or in tune. This is why I karaoke repertoire consists of nearly exclusively of rap songs. Specialities: Ice ice baby and Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock's It takes two. I have also been successful with Here comes the hotstepper and I wanna sex you up. Exceptions to the rule: Losing my religion and Wonderwall, particularly played by another person on guitar.

Despite my singing shititude, there is one audience that I will un-self-consciously sing for: my pupils. When I had a classroom in the States, I remember the first song I sang in front of my kids was Lift every voice and sing. Whatta song. And whatta bad song for a clueness numptie like me to sing - the lowest of low notes, quickly followed by soaring high notes. Normally, I wouldn't have done it, but I had my reasons: it was Black History Month (Lift every voice and sing is informally known as the Negro national anthem); the kids were to sing it at a whole school assembly and needed to learn the words. But mainly, I did it cos the song meant (and still means) a lot to me. I rather pathetically always bust into tears when I hear or sing it, blubbering kinda like my pal Macca does when anything Scottish happens anywhere, ever. (So, yes, when I listened to the YouTube link of Lift every voice and sing, I did start to greet.) Yet after I finished, the kids whispered eversoreverently, "You're the best singer ever." The best moment of my life. Ever. And I haven't stopped singing to and with my kids yet.

Yet my little bubble was burst yesterday when I invited another teacher in for our daily P1 singalong. She actually winced when I began to sing. "Why don't you join in with the singing?" I said to her, wearing the kinda smile on you have when you're around children and you really don't feel like smiling. "I would... if I could just figure out the tune," she replied with equal faux joviality.

My last uni day

2011-06-04T13:15:00.000+01:00

Well, that's it: my final teaching day at Stirling is over and I'm chugging my way back to the EDN. I'm gonna miss the injection of energy seeing my tutor gave me. I have a mad girl crush on my tutor, who incidentally looks like Jane Fonda in the film Monster-in-law. Nothing like the character, obvs.

I will miss the lovely Pathfoot Building, built into the side of a hill and with enough stairs to keep lawyers for people with disabilities employed for decades. So utterly 1960s. I remember going into on of my tutor's offices and seeing two Harry Bertoia diamond chairs in the corners, clearly unloved and unappreciated. I wanted to liberate the chair.

I will miss the canteen where we had our coffee breaks most days, with its double aspect of Wallace monument and Stirling Castle. The. Best. View. Ever. I had plenty of time to take it in as I spent a goodly amount of time estranged from my peers in my cohort. Of course you know my oddities and, because you're reading, you love them. Tolerate them? Hate them with a seething and silent resentment? Yeh, well at least you're subtle. In every way, their judgemental snobbishness, lack of tolerance, and silly ability not to be able to think at all critically and un-robotically brought out my differences even more. Meow! Yes, I won't miss that lot.

Anyway, see ya Stirling. Thanks for everything. Next I see you, all being well, it will November and I'll be wearing my Docs. Think I'll go for the heeled ones this time!

Desert Island Discs: the decision

2011-06-03T15:34:00.003+01:00

Voting closed suckers, but amazingly I got mine in on Wednesday. Here's what I finally choose:

Nightswimming by REM
Smells like teen spirit by Nirvana
SpottiOttiDopalicious by OutKast
Don't look back in anger by Oasis
How do you want it? by 2Pac
Set adrift on memory bliss by PM Dawn
Shadowboxer by Fiona Apple
Tramp by Otis Redding and Carla Thomas

The last one came from no where, huh? I didn't have it on my shortlist, but it's always been a favourite of mine. Just realised that three of these acts are from Georgia (REM, Otis Redding, and OutKast). Hmmmm...

Shit, now that I think about it, I really wish I included 10000 Maniacs' These are the days!

Och, well.

Sports Day... Field Day... Sporting Field Day

2011-06-02T08:25:00.005+01:00

It's Sports Day at my little school so we have an afternoon free of education. Trust me, the teachers are crowing about it just as much as the pupils. I've been teaching in Scottish schools for nearly six and a half years and I can still mistakenly refer to Sports Day by the name I called it in the US: Field Day. Sometimes, I get so muddled, I can't remember which is the right one to say.

Today I am in charge of the Egg and spoon race for the P4 and P5 pupils (third and fourth graders), and I have been for the past four years. We get the same game every year because the DHT (depute head teacher; the vice/assistant principal, USers) says some people like the routine of the same game every year. No - total lies. It's for ease of his life. Every year when Sports Day nears, he goes to his computer, clicks open the Sports Day Word document he created when time began, changes the date at the top, then sends it out to teachers - voila! Then he goes back to strumming his guitar... or woteva people do when they are months from retirement.

All these years of being in charge of the ol' E & S does have an advantage. I have my explanation of the dos and don'ts of game down to a efficient art, somehow being able to express myself thoroughly, succinctly, and amusingly. V unlike my real life. Shit, it only took me four years to figure it how to do this, so I guess there's hope for me in real life. But if only I can have the same convo for the next four years. But hey - that's what marriage is about innit? Oooo, SNAP!

Anyway, the disadvantage of years with the E & S is that I have clearly thought waaaaaay too much about it. Don't know if you know this about me, but gather round for a secret about lil ol' me. Ready?

*I have a overpowering need for justice*
Phew - it's out. I know you're wondering: how exactly does that relate to the E & S? Well, every year, the DHT puts out the equipment for us for each game, so when I reach my location, spoons from the staffroom and golf balls are already there for me. Grand. However, and here is the shocking bit: the spoons are not uniform! So some of them are better at cradling the egg than others. The clever cookies know to run to the spoons, peruse them quickly and grab the best one, thereby gaining the advantage. The not-so-bright bulbs (i.e., nearly every kid I work with in the school) gets the shitty spoons and lose.

Well not this year my friend! Ho no! For I have brought my own spoons from home. Seven spoons, exactly the same so no one has an advantage. I can't guarantee my little numpties will win now, but at least my little move has made an even playing field... day.

Weekend at Perth: Sunday's tweets explained

2011-05-31T10:39:00.006+01:00

@[autumn] Ladies, there's a lotta quality on the Dundee team. And in case you don't know wot I mean - #phwoar #sovt2011

Yeh, well that one pretty much says wot it does on the tin, innit? And they were dead yummy some of those dudes.

@[autumn] Polonia Jets 5th place match - noisy affair & fun. Now in the library for the women's final. Shhh, mustn't make noise or enjoy it. #sovt2011

I always find the crowd's response to volleyball very disheartening. Volleyball's such an exciting game, so constant with action and tension, and how people cannot be swept up in the drama of it is beyond me. The crowds here are pants: unresponsive and disinterested. And dead quiet, thus explaining my library jibe (no, they were not actually in the library playing). On the other hand, before watching this silent women's final, I was watching Polonia Jets play a German team. Now I am biased as they are a part of my club, but Polonia are really great to watch. They cheer themselves on a lot and seem like they thrive on the noise. They are probably considered pretty obnoxious for their clapping and noisemaking and I won't dismiss their obnoxiousness, but not for that reason.

@[autumn] But I obvs don't follow rules well. So I'll be the one shouting out the #shitchat #sovt2011

In the past, I have been an announcer at volleyball matches; once, I announced all day during the finals of the Scottish Cup. It's probably better to refer to me as a colour commentator, cos I actually don't do any proper announcing very well. Me as an announcer calling players on to the court is usually the auditory equivalent to the video game Pong: all over the place. But to be honest, that's my style: chaotic, full of the shit chat and exuberantly reacting to a play - basically, how I am in real life. Anyway, I was not announcing at this game, but I was using my odd announcing phrases to cheer on teams. Generally, Oh, SNAP! works in any situation, as well as a cry of Yahtzee! A great hit could also be greeted with BOOM!: simple, yet effective. For a block: Someone built a wall at the net! Slightly odd, but funny to me is As my Daddy down in Georgia way would say, "Lord have mercy!" My all-time favourite interjection is also inspired by a one-liner by my father: "He got beat like he owes somebody some money." So after a really great play, I will shout out, Just pay him back his MONEY!! Yes, I did chuckle as I typed in my own shit chat.

The worse thing is that most of the places I have "announced" in have horribly shitty sound systems. So all anyone ever hears and sees is some odd woman with frizzy hair and a mic, jumping up and down, making word-like noises, like Juhh uh-uh uh uhs JUUUHHHH!! I think I kinda need to give up the shouting and announcing, particularly in the spirit-free environs I tend to do it in. It just feels kinda like a minstrel show or something, as if I'm Sambo hyucking it up for the indifferent Man.

Hmm... leave it to me to turn a little nothing into a whole big something about race.

@[autumn] C'mon - consider moving the men's final match up a bit? FBS 1545?? You're joking! #sovt2011

There was an hour between the women's final and men's final and I found that personally ridiculous. FBS = First ball served, as in that's when the game begins.

@[autumn] I even offered Xxxxx Xxxxx a Tunnocks caramel wafer to move the men's final even 15 mins earlier. No go. #sovt2011

So I decided to take matters into my own hands regarding the game's start time. I approached a game official with the offer of every British granny's favourite biscuit. Cos no person under the age of 75 ever buys Tunnocks caramel wafers and no person under the age of 60 can resist one. And if you are under that age and in possesion of one, then you were obviously gifted one by your granny or great-auntie. Obviously, the referee was very ethical and declined my offer. Later, Tunnocks retweeted my comment on the Twitter.

@[autumn] Doing my all to fill #sovt2011 Twitter feed to the brim with inane #shitchat. How'm I doing?

Pretty successful, I'd say.

@[autumn] But Should I feel bad I'm at Perth and didn't play any volleyball? I mean, nobody is expected to go to Glasto and sing all the songs! #sovt2011

Maybe SOVT officials should rebrand the tournament as a festival like Glastonbury? I think it would bring in more people outside the insular, incestuous community that is Scottish volleyball, whether it be spectators or players. And then I'd obviously not feel bad for schlubbing around and not doing any physical activity on a weekend dedicated to it.

@[autumn] Glasgow Mets no 11 looks less like US 400m Jeremy Warrander now with longer hair but still qualifies as #doppelgängeralert #sovt2011

One of my more obscure alerts, to be sure. I'm sad about that cos if you actually knew who I was on about, you all would be going Dang, she's right! He do be looking like that boy! With the poor grammar and everything.

@[autumn] Glasgow I'm determined to leave here with no voice. It's on. #sovt2011nensindoorfinals

Last year, I completely lost my voice and could not even go into work on the Monday. I actually started to lose my voice on the Friday, the first day of the weekend, in the car on the way up to Perth. This year, sadly, only a gruff tickle was to be had.

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 1. Slow quicks can, amazingly win points. #sovt2011

Ooo, this is kinda hard to explain without some visual representation, so thank god for YouTube. It can be a pretty spectacular play, seeing the hitter throw the opposition's defense off-guard by the setter setting the ball quickly behind herself and the hitter switching her position to hit. But only if completed quickly and sharply. Which is not what I saw. And yet, the slow manoeuver variation won points and that's me learned.

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 2. A person will kiss their own biceps with enough shouting of "Kiss the guns!" #sovt2011

During Friday's drunken stupor, I bet Dyvie's boyfriend a tenner that he would not, after hitting a ball, kiss both of his arms in a kissing of the guns motion. I underestimated the lure of a few bob, for he did it. Repeatedly and without receiving any more money, only from me loudly insisting on him doing it. I also underestimated Dyvie's man's threshhold of embarrassment (level: low).

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 3. One can be completely exhausted after a weekend of *not* playing volleyball and doing bugger all. #sovt2011

Friday night broke me and I barely drank on Saturday night.

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 4. The cool box won't cool without ice in it. #sovt2011

Actually, that's something some of my compatriots learned. But the uncool box made a lovely seat for someone's bum around the BBQ.

@[autumn] I want some syrup with that pancake! Awesome pick-up, Mike Penny. #sovt2011mensindoorfinals

For you non-volleyballers, a pancake is a last resort defensive move players use. It takes pretty good timing and skill; lots of people will attempt it, but few will do it well. And the crowd was privvy to an exceptional one at the men's final in Perth. Now yeh, I said that don't do Christian names on the blog, but I made an exception with this one for a couple of reasons. One, I don't know this guy, so it's unlikely that he or anyone he knows will know that I'm be talking about him and thereby his anonymity should remain that. Two, if I managed to retrieve a ball with a pancake like this boy did and my team win a point from it like his team did, I would want my full name, social security number/National Insurance number, date of birth and parents' names published beside that achievement it so everyone could clearly identify me! Basically, the man deserves his propers - it was totally badass.

@[autumn] to @[pal-macca] You know what I'm missing here at #sovt2011? The smooth stylings of one Xxxxx X'Xxxxx. Guess his MI5 work has take him away.

The guy to which I refer is Macca's friend Bezu, probably the coolest cat in the world. He just lanks around the place, oozing coolness and genuine niceness. Then he gets on the court and goes crazy. But he travels quite a lot for work and never really talks about it, so I imagine him to be a spy. I totally can see it too cos he's so motherfucking cool! Anyway, he's another reason why I have such a girl crush on Macca: only cool people can be pals with cool kids.

@[autumn] Kisses and hugs exchanged to mark the end of #sovt2011. Two fingers pointing to the right, to the right means see you next year. So ->->

As I was going, I could see this kid I first met last year, waving at me through the window. This kid introduced by a mutual acquaintance who described the kid as a "little bit dyslexic". Our mutual friend took it back when he realised how un-PC that was for a teacher like him to say. Anyway, the kid and I met up again this year cos I brought him back his camp chair that I saved from the skip at the last minute - I kept that bloody chair for a whole year.

So the kid was waving at me through the window and I was to him, both of us not really understanding what the other person was meaning. Finally, we came to the door. "What?" I said. "See ya next year," he smiled. "Oh, so that's what all that means? Two fingers pointing to the right means see you next year?" The kid shrugged: "I guess so." I guess so indeed.

Weekend in Perth: Saturday's tweets explained

2011-05-30T22:30:00.004+01:00

@[autumn] Doors at the disco close at 2300 to accommodate football watchers, and open til 0100. So buy your bloody tickets already! #sovt2011

Each year on the Saturday night, there's a disco in the gym. Champions League final was scheduled at the same time and that (along with Grumpy Bear and his wife's absence - those two are big proponents of the disco and usually encourage people along) was keeping the people I know from going to the dance. I was hoping to push people in, but didnae work really. I also switched to the #sovt2011 hashtag when I realised that they were on the Twitter and encouraging the use of that one over #sovt.

@[autumn] Been quiet on Twitter front cos I've been trying to do more useful things, like walking upright and opening eyes to see. #sovt2011

I was told my last tweet on Friday night/Saturday morning was round 0500 and I was roused at 0930 by all the activity round my tent. Yeh, I wasn't so much as hung over when I staggered out of the tent as still drunk. I didn't graduate to hung over until at least 1400. I was so steaming, I didn't even get meself a egg and bacon roll for my breakfast from the burger van that gets parked outside the gym during the whole of the tournament. And I never not eat.

@[autumn] Too much dithering over where to watch the footie - driving me crazy. Probs cos I'm starving!

We were all a bit exhausted by the time diner rolled around and enjoying hearing each other's shit chat a bit too much that we didn't leave the campsite until after 1800 for dinner at a pub and some after-meal football watching. Wot a bunch of morons! At that time of day, we would be lucky to have room to stand in the toilets and watch the match, hip to hip with some stranger. I mean, this is the Champions League Final - biggest football event in the world! As I mentioned in End of season do, someone needed to be decisive about things. Man, did I miss Turtle and Grumps - but don't tell them I said that.

@[autumn] Patrice Evra with his facial hair: channeling Wesley Snipes #doppelgängeralert #championsleaguefinal

Sometimes I look at someone and it just hits me: that dude looks like someone else. And I can't shake it and I have to tell someone. But most of the time, my references are too obscure, odd, far-fetched, or just plain shite to be appreciated by others. So I kinda invented the hashtag #doppelgängeralert to help deal with these moments in my life. And during the game, the Manchester United defender Patrice Evra did look like action star Wesley Snipes. Which is kinda not a compliment.

@[autumn] Pep Guardiola is a bit of all right, innit? Looking particularly fine in that suit. #championsleaguefinal

Wot can I say? I heart men in a nicely cut suit. So sue me. I forgot to attach the hashtag #phwoar - another one that I use a lot on the Twitter. I just love that word. It's ridiculousness rather suits my silly behaviour and comments over these objects of my affection.

@[autumn] I'm alone at the disco. Poor me. This is when I miss Xxxxxx Xxxxxxxxx's manic dancing. #sovt2011

That blacked out name is the Grumpy Bear. When he gets shit faced, he becomes a violent dancer. That was how bad that disco was - I was wishing for Grump's thrashing manoeuvres to make the shite music bearable.

@[autumn] Yes, as I've just explained to an astonished person, I'm *not* playing at all AND I'm in a 3-man tent on my own. Indulgent! #sovt2011

For reasons I have explained previously, I don't like playing volleyball at Perth. Maybe one year I'll get a sash or a button explaining my philosophy: I'm here for the booze and the banter. That answer usually gets a response of Fair dos from any right minded Scot.

@[autumn] No longer alone at disco - the lovely Xxx saw me sitting on me own and took me into her fold. Too bad the music's still rubbish! #sovt2011

This lovely girl came up to me when she saw me sitting on my own and insisted I sit with her and her friends. She practically pulled the chair out from under me and dragged me to her table. A really lovely thing to do. So clearly, she wasnae Scottish or English. My dear, dear Scots, please don't think I'm slagging you off completely. If a Scottish person saw me sitting there, they would have probably come up to me and had a few funny words with me - definitely. But then they would have pissed off and left me there on me own. Cos asking some stranger to join your group, which would undoubtedly only be comprised of people one would know from infancy, is just a bit... forward, innit? Like that lone person's vulnerability and slight desperation might rub off and infect you. Or worse, you might actually have to have a real conversation. Cos, as much as I love Scottish banter, a real convo is pretty damn hard to come by.

@[autumn] Xxxxxxx: "I'm showing some restraint tonight. I'm going to stop drinking at 0300 or 0200." #shitchat #sovt2011

This was said by the Faroshian, who is from the Faroe Islands. Actually, people from there are called Faroese. But because I'm a dick, I obnoxiously call him Faroshian and luckily for me, he has a good sense of humour about it. There used to be a guy in the club from Monaco and I used to call him Monockan cos I'm an arse. I still don't know wot to call them though. I was right to label this shit chat cos this kid was still awake when I went to bed at 0330.

@[autumn] 'Boom shake the room' has played. Thus, the #sovt2011 disco has finally fulfilled its destiny. Every. Fucking. Year.

Yes, every year that I've been there (and even prior to that, according to Grumpy), this song is played. It's not like it's even the best song in the DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince canon - that, of course, is Summertime. Other songs that must be played: Don't stop me now by Queen; the Grease megamix; The Proclaimers' I'm gonna be (500 miles). I'm fairly use the the shitty music people prefer here, but I somehow cannot comprehend the inclusion - nay, the insistence - of Boom shake the room. Macca, who has been to her fair share of Perth discos and knew the score, retweeted this comment.

@[autumn] 'Footloose' brings out the worse in people. #sovt2011 .

Yeh, I forgot to mention this little ditty. When this song comes on, it's like a siren to all previously in-control people to lose their fucking minds. And everyone's in perfect unison, as if choreographer showed everyone all these elaborate group dance moves, with kick dancing, the doing of the Carlton, shuffling and the chicken leg dance. All of which, when put together, looks absolutely nothing like this video. There is also always a lot of people who somehow decide to do an imaginary jump rope. Wot did I miss? Was this in the film or something?!

Weekend in Perth: Friday's tweets explained

2011-05-30T15:21:00.008+01:00

Last weekend in May for many (in the UK and US) is a bank holiday: in the US, it's Memorial Day weekend. For UKers, I have no clue. I, strangely, don't get the Monday off - I get the Monday of the previously weekend off. Why? Cos Edinburgh's a bloody awkward place. But last weekend in May is always special cos that's when I'm off to the Scottish Open Volleyball Tournament (SOVT), AKA Perth. Now I have written a few times about it on the blog (here, here, and here) so I will leave it to you to read up on it.

This year, SOVT officials got their shit together and they were on the FB and Twitter (@sovt2011; trying to trend with #sovt or #sovt2011). I used the latter extensively, much to the chagrin of the people around me. "Again with the Twitter?!" was their shout. Shit, I was only on medium usage! Anyway, here's me, from Friday. (NB: real Twitter names were not used and this is indicated with square brackets)

@[autumn] Xxxxxxx, AKA Klaus is wearing leather trousers. #shitchat #sovt

#shitchat is a hashtag I'm championing, cos sometimes when you see or hear something so insane and crazy, you have to call it how you see it. (The black out is because I never write people's Christian names on the blog.)

@[autumn] Here in Perth. Tent up. Made run to the shops and burger on the grill. Have already heard some #shitchat so wknd starting about right. #sovt

And to be honest, most of the shit chat was coming from the kid wearing the leather trousers. Several times, I had to make the shhhh motion to him, like I would a child at school.

@[pal-macca] Looking forward to hearing some of the #sovt #shitchat courtesy of @[autumn]

That's my friend Macca who is now in New Zealand and we used to play volleyball together. Last year she managed, via Twitter, to introduce one of her friends to me at the Saturday night disco. Pretty awesome. She is really the inspiration of the #shitchat hashtag - she's the kinda person that would point at someone and laughingly announce that. I really miss that kid.

@[autumn] Doing the Friday night tradition: BBQ, engaging in #shitchat round the barbie and freezing our arses off. #sovt

I don't know why we just do go to the pub or summat. We just sit around in a circle, around a dying BBQ, shooting the breeze. Every year.

@[autumn] I've a quality box of red on the go. #sovt

Boy and I went camping the first weekend in May with some pals and I bought a box of wine that I barely put a dent in so I decided to bring it along. As for quality... a tangent is needed.

Some Spanish friends were the ones who first pointed out that English speakers (chiefly Americans and British) have a unique ability to make words that are strictly considered nouns into verbs. As in, you want to check a fact online, you Google it. Well, I think (and I could be wrong cos I haven't been in the US for a while and this could be something on the go) that the British are unique cos they can make words that should strictly be nouns into adjectives. Like the word quality. Ergo, my oddly phrased tweet. Later on, we'll see how my bad tweet phrasing gets me in a world of trouble, but for now, onward with the tweets...

@[autumn] Finished the bottle of tequila amongst the group in less than 10 mins. All about the drink, drink, give. Now on the quality box of wine. #sovt

In the last few years, my team has taken to selling shots of tequila round the campsite for charity. We provide salt and and lemon and often take to joining the drinkers. We even some of the bars to that song 'Tequila'. So I purchased a half litre bottle for that purpose. Why I decided to pull it out for us to drink instead, I cannae recall. Maybe it was the quality box of red...

And while on that subject, I want to defend my little box of wine. Everyone was taking the piss out of it - another reason I referred to my wine baby as 'quality'. It was rather tasty despite its humble (read: down market) packaging. And don't you know it was empty Saturday morning! I bet they were sniffing and licking their anti-bacterial wipes as they slagged off my wine. Alcoholics!

@[autumn] Xxxxxx tells a story about a lecturer who says "cunt" instead of "current". #goodchat

My tweets usually hit my FB wall and I reckon I was defriended after this comment came up.

@[autumn] Dyvie's boyfriend thinks the lyrics to Trousersnake's Sexyback is "I've got a sexy back" and apparently he has got a sexy back?!?! #goodchat?

Yeh, I think the drink was kicking in cos this comment isn't really anything, is it? Dyvie's boyfriend is German so he kinda has funny ideas about what people say in English - well, his misunderstandings tickle me. Any of my tweets and FB postings also have to be translated to them. But hell, my comments have to translated to most people, German or not.

@[autumn] I've jumped on people and tackled folks. I'm a drunky bear. #sovt

For my birthday, Boy bought me an adorable jumper with a bear hoodie on it. Most of the time when I wear it, I bounce around shrieking, "I'm a crazy bear!" No lie. I wore it to work once and shrieked that at my rather bemused boss. And yes, I was wearing this jumper on Friday night. While wearing the jumper, I tackled Dyvie and wrestled her to the ground cos she spilled my tin cup of wine (which was later kicked into the gents' loo by her boyfriend - och, the state of that poor cup on Saturday morning was pure shocking). Also while jumper-clad, I ran and jumped on this fellow I know, like I was doing the vault at a women's gymnastics competition. It was most embarrassing cos while I know the guy (he's the boyfriend of a girl I kinda know from the club and he played with the club years ago), I don't really know him like that. In fact, I don't think I really know anyone like that, save my own Boy. So that was dead mortifying and yes, the bear was drunk.

@[autumn] Xxxx: "I normally ken!" SHE'S Italian! #goodchat

Ken (see the British-to-American dictionary on the side for a definition) is properly Scottish word and I love that my Italian friend uses it. In actually, she usually doesn't ken - but don't tell her that.

@[pal-atw] so long as you're accusing them of being racist as you do so in reply to @[autumn] I've jumped on people and tackled folks. I'm a drunky bear. #sovt

I love that my high school bestest ATW was getting in on the act and knows my inane chat.

@[autumn] I can see the moon, as well as the sun coming up

At this time of year, it isn't until well after 2300 and getting on til midnight that the sun fully sets, with the sun rising around about 0300. It's always a lovely sight, even when pished.

Desert island discs

2011-05-24T07:22:00.003+01:00

Well, Desert Island Discs has finally become properly interactive for the regular man: a site has been set up that allows us public to list the eight tracks we were take with us to a desert island. This has had me thinking all night, to the determent of anything else I was meant to do.

I am still a bit fuzzy with the show, but I wonder: is this a forced exile or self-imposed? Because if it is the former, as in I was shipwrecked there, then I would want much more upbeat songs. Am I alone or with another person, cos this affects my choices too. I kinda assumed I would be by myself. The thing is, I don't like thinking about this very much. Holaminit - I'm off on an island, all by myself, possibly shipwrecked? What will I eat? How will I protect myself? Where will I sleep? Is there clean water? This whole endeavour is fraught with peril and the songs are kinda on the back burner. What will I eat?!

Anyway, I started off with a long list and that's been drawn down cos it contained songs by the same artist or the same genre or theme. The long list included three REM songs, which lost Losing my religion (for many years, my fave REM song and my go-to karaoke song) and Shiny happy people in the short list. There were three hip-hop love songs, with Killing me softly by the Fugees getting dropped. And two songs that heavily feature samples, but the one that got the ax was My 1st song by DJ Dangermouse (it's a mash-up of a song of the same name by Jay-Z and music by the Beatles - it's from the Dangermouse's Grey Album and my new fave cheer me up song). My two No Doubt choices (Don't speak and Spiderwebs) both didn't make it. Obviously I had to choose between my favoured artists: Otis, Ella, Aretha and Smokey (none made it from either one of them- sorry huns!), Jimi, the aforementioned REM, Nirvana.

I kinda made my criteria to be songs that I don't pressed fast forward when the come on the MP3 player. Here's the short list that I'm still whittling down (I've mentioned some of these songs in a previous post of this nature):

How do you want it? - 2Pac (a wretched, wretched song with absolutely zero value and I would have been better off choosing I ain't mad at cha, but there's something about it that always makes me feel better when I hear it - wrong but true)
SpottiOttiDopalicious - OutKast (it's just real: real OutKast, real Georgia, real life)
Some thing's gotta give - Ella Fitzgerald
Don't you forget about me - Simple Minds
Don't look back in anger - Oasis (I like Wonderwall to sing, but there's something about the lyrics 'Stand up beside the fireplace/take that look from off your face' and the machinations that Noel undertook just to wrench the singing of the song from Liam reminds me of every interaction with my family when I was a kid)
Can you see me - Jimi Hendrix
Nightswimming - REM
Smells like teen spirit - Nirvana (iconic and multitudinous)
Cigarettes and coffee - Otis Redding
Shadowboxer - Fiona Apple
~~I'll be there for you/You're all that I need~~ ~~- Method Man and Mary J Blige~~
~~You got me~~ ~~- The Roots and Erykah Badu~~
Set adrift on memory bliss - PM Dawn (I just love the sampling of Spandau Ballet's True - a song I already like anyway)

This is when I'll really need your help so it will be the least likely time I'll hear from anyone!

Ugh. I've had a good look back at all the songs and they are all pants. Rubbish, rubbish pants. During the night, I decided to cut out two from the short list as well. Oooo, I hate shit like this, so rather good I've not been banished to a desert island then.

What my heart wants

2011-05-23T12:32:00.003+01:00

So it's my pal's Dyvie's birthday on Wednesday and she's invited us round for a potluck dinner. I was at a loss about what to bring. I haven't been cooking that much lately, save Saturday night when some pals came round for a supper party. I say supper party as opposed to dinner party cos I can't cook dinner. Dinner is formal and shit, with warmed plates and no spills on the dishes. Supper is some stuff ya slap together that is tasty as hell and filling. So it was the latter. My stomach was in pain for several hours after dinner for all the food I ate. Boy suggested the party play a board game. "Nah!" I finally yelled, after his third try, "Man, we don't wanna move!"

I was keen on a seasonal dish for Dyvie's potluck, as I was the theme for Saturday's cooking. No heavy foods, like cassaroles or heavy meat, just spring time and light. So we had some asparagus and tomatoes in the fritatta; some spring onions and baby new potatoes in a nice light potato salad. So I settled on the potato salad for Dyvie's do, which received lovely compliments at supper (in fact, Boy and I fought over the leftovers). But I wanted to bring something else with the potato salad. I was watching a feature on Food Network's Unwrapped about Hungry Man frozen dinners and their most popular dish, chicken and mashed potatoes. It was then I realised that I wanted some fried chicken with the potato salad.

How very... urban, innit. Nevertheless, I FB'd Dyvie to tell her that I was bring fried chicken and potato salad. I don't know if she really believes me: it is rather... ehem... cliched. But the heart wants wot the heart wants. But my heart didn't remember how fucking hard it is to cook fried chicken! I've cooked it about three times in my life (once at Thanksgiving instead of a turkey - v odd, I realise) and it's a total pain. Wot do you do with the leftover oil? Is it cooked through? I'll have to cook it Tuesday night for Wednesday - will the skin stay crispy that long? ARGH - my stupid, stupid dumb heart and wot it wants.

Touch your own mug, and other muddled thoughts on race

2011-05-17T15:33:00.010+01:00

Maybe I'm saying something, but most likely it isn't anything. Proceed.

So my awesomely rad sister some years ago bought me a sloganed mug that has been a fave of mine ever since. It is now missing and I have decided to accept that it is now gone. RIP mug - you were loved and will be missed. And the slogan on the mug?

Touch your own hair.

I giggle just thinking about it, but it hasn't really been that well received. At one place I worked, a woman indignantly hissed, "What does that mean?" With that one question, it is clear that I was working in the UK when this question was asked, as I cannot imagine any American not understanding the meaning. The context is completely lost here.

Erm, how *do* I explain the often uneasy relationship in the US between Blacks and the predominant culture (i.e., white folks) that this mug satarises so succiently? Is it possible for me to express the audacity, radicalness, and sheer uppity-ness of the message? It's not that I'm unwilling or unable. I have no problem with making full use of audacity and I take particular advantage of my unique multi-cultural, multi-national personal make-up within this largely homogeneous society in which I currently live. And Scotland is a rare homogeneous society, cos there are large swathes of people here who actually like when others are a bit unusual and even provocative. In fact, it is to be expected of you. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but there is no worse insult than for someone to have bad craic. So yes, I have randomly and ironically accused people of being racist for doing unracist things.* So going back to the mug (and perhaps my weird craic), the problem is that context cannot be effectively established without a 9-hour PowerPoint presentation with diagrams and flow charts. Like Al Gore in An Inconvenient Truth, only going on about race.

So back to skewed context. It was 0330 on Sunday morning and I was in a pie shop in west end Edinburgh. To give you even more context, I was coming from a night out and was wearing a pair of red hotpants (over a pair of tights/stockings - get real thinking my thighs would have it any orher way). Not to be too up my own self, but my bodacious bum was on fine show. I have an ass that makes it clear to most Black people in America, even with my odd colouring, that I am in fact one of them.

One of the guys I knew and was with at the shop was winding up two random girls. "They're racist! They're saying you have a big black bum! Did you hear them?" The girls were dead offended and wanted to batter my pal for my sake, not realising I knew the dickhead.

Finally, I spoke. "Stop talking about my bum," I said. "I know you're all obsessed with my bum cos it's amazing. You all wanna get with it. You wanna get with it, then go back to your white women after having your black girl with a big bum!"

Some of the people in the pie shop looked back at me, dumbfounded. Most were too drunk to take notice of my tirade. I guess dropping a little bit of radical (and womanist) Alice Walker philosophy at half past three on a Sunday morning in Edinburgh, Scotland is a bit much.

* Well, I should clarify: it's ironic to me. It is probably distressing and not at all ironic to have some brown girl to go up to you and shout, "Racist!" when you're queuing in a Poundland.

Candyland

2011-05-16T15:28:00.003+01:00

Candyland, UKers, is children's game and one of the first board games that children in the US will learn to play. How to play: pick a card that features a colour and move your pawn to that colour. Yes, that is all. Yes, the game is that slack, but rightly so: the only nuance 2- to 4-year-olds can really appreciate is colour differentiation. For some overplayed parents, the mere shriek of the word 'Candyland' strikes terror in hearts for the game's soul-deadening dullness. Candyland does not have the same stranglehold on British toddlers as it does their American counterparts, so I was pretty surprised to have been able to buy one at a car boot sale here.

While I mock Candyland's completely transparent simplicity, it's a rather good game for a teacher like me to have. I work with struggling learners across the school. Struggling Primary 1 (P1; kindergarten in the US) pupils often lack skills of self-regulation. This is, in essence, a good memory, the ability to pay attention and the ability to control inhibitions. Simple board games, with their insistence on turn taking, strengthen these weak skills.

That being said, my Candyland game is currently being monopolised by a P6 child (a fifth grader). He borrows it and takes it to play with his best pal in class, every day. My Learning Assistant (LA) and I have to structure his lessons around the game: every time he gets an answer right, he gets to pick a card. After about her 800th game, my LA pulled me close to her side today.

"See if we don't play Candyland," she muttered murderously in my ear, "That's it: the day's a right-off." She glared at me and I'm awfully sure she made a throat slashing motion at me. Well, she did point right at me after she did it, just in case I wasn't sure.

Don't I know it how right she is! Perhaps this is foolishness though, but I'd rather paralyse a few million brain cells then deal with a non-Candyland lesson with his kid. I'm pretty sure I'll have to send the game up to high school with him, so I only have one more year of having to play this game. But for now, my LA said it right: we're being held hostage by *fucking* Candyland.

End of season do

2011-05-15T13:11:00.007+01:00

Last night was the end of season celebration for my volleyball club, Jets. This will be henceforth referred to as the "end of season do", do being the word that Scottish people use to refer to events of a celebratory (and of course, drunken) nature that do not occur regularly. So, what would be called a bachelor party in the US is here called a stag do. Someone at work moving? A leaving do. You get the picture. Now attempting to write the pluralisation of do is, for me, the trickiest bit. Dos? Do's? As much as I hate to see a superfluous apostrophe, I am inclined to write do's, as most Scottish are. Please don't judge me too harshly. When in Rome...

The club rented out the venue space at the Scottish Book Trust (hey, free publicity! I really should get a kick back), which we have done for the past two do's (Casino Night and Race Night). It's actually a lovely space, wasted on pissy dickheads like us. We never use the amazing mezzanine/balcony level and I have ceased trying to get people up there. You would think with the amount of fornicating/hooking up going on in the club (that will have to be another entry, my lovelies), someone would be up there, snogging.

I'm not sure who decided this - cos as I mentioned before, we are just a group of immature and drunken nobs - but we had a catered, sit down meal. It was nice enough, for a meal that had probably been cooked at 0430 and sitting in warmers all day: just only a touch dry. Prizes were given out. I didn't get one, so we will swiftly move on to what really matters: the dancing.

I decided rather early on that we would be dancing after dinner and I figured I would collate a playlist. This is not an easy job for your dear blogger. I have rather peculiar taste for the EDN, i.e., I need to hear bass in the music to dance. This eliminates all of my favourite DMX jams that I'd probably dance to. This meant also that I was moaned at about not have The Birdie Song. To be fair, I thought he was being ironic when it was suggested. Unfortunately, it was procured on someone else's MP3 player and when played, all was right in the Jets world. What can be said that I'm more reassured about a dancing situation that includes the misogynistic and homophobic 'Where da hood at?' over the flipping Birdie Song? We'll need years on that therapy bench for that.

After numerous shouts of "One more song!", we managed to get the wastoids oot the door of the SBT and on to our next destination. Now this always throws us for a loop. While we are united in our utter devotion to volleyball, we have disparate tastes, ranging to people who have to the Birdie Song on their fucking iPod to metalheads. Nothing satisfies the lot. In the past, we've gone to shitty places like Stereo where they only serve vaguely alcoholic Kool-Aid (those are alcopops to you UKers) to the masses of 12-year-olds they admit and shitty aeroplane hangars/tin cans/dead traps. Yes, I refer to the hell hole Drop Kick Murphys, where as God as my witness I will never step foot in again. Even if I could cure cancer, world poverty and get rid of my ham hock arms with one foot in the door of the place, I'd never go there. Slimming of the thighs would have to be thrown in on that deal, but God's not down, saying I'm being too greedy and all bets are off.

I've learned that if one person says "Let's go to ___!" the loudest and most fervently and walks quickly in that direction, the drunken herd follows. I know if confidently insisted on going to the bus station, a dozen Jets would herd over there, with me as their shepherd, looking for a Diet Coke and vodka and a place to sit and take their shoes off. Luckily for them, I led their sorry, gazeboed asses to Espionage.

Now the 'Naj is kinda like a date with a nice, but nerdy geography teacher your mother set you up with: it makes you wonder, "Is this the best I could do on a Saturday night?" But you're in, stuck, and there's nothing you can do and nowhere to go. When you're in the Tardis-y like maze of the 'Naj, all space and time cease to exist. We could have been there 10 minutes or 11 hours, I could not tell. There could be 4 floors or a million. It is our Matrix. Evil lurks in every corner to try to prevent us from our ultimate goal - getting out in one piece: harpy drunk girls; hen do's wanting loads of attention (yes, yes bitch - you're getting married. Get over yourself); dudes who can't dance, trying to lure your beautiful compatriots away.

May I digress from the Matrix analogy for one moment to address this very sad phenomenon of the boy that cannot dance? It is endemic here. I am not even going to entertain any arguments that it's cos I'm in Scotland, the whitest place in the world. And I'll tell you for why: 1) Some white boys can dance (I met a few in my time in NC, but only a few!) and 2) Even the brothers and other brown folks here cannot dance. Not even a shuffle. They do not even have the ability to look cool, let alone sexy, while they stand by the wall, instead just looking weirdly creepy and strung out.

I've lost some steam and there's plenty to read here. I'll get back to you about other stuff later.

The car boot sale

2011-05-15T11:22:00.000+01:00

Here's a draft that I began nearly two years ago in June 2009. Yeh, it ain't finished, but til you pay for this shit, this is what you get. Anyway, just gives you a flavour of life here, innit. It's kinda an appropriate post cos it's Sunday and the car boot sales are on in the Omni Centre on Sundays...

I miss US yard sales. There's something about it that reminds me of a Wild West shootout: you approach your opposition - you must show no fear. Who will flinch first? Who will win? Oh, I do miss it.

They don't do yard sales over here really. In Edinburgh, there are more flats and such, so ability to throw your crap on your front lawn for the whole world to see and pick over isn't a possibility. But what we do have are car boot sales and jumble sales. Car boot sales are essentially what Americans would call a flea market. You assemble in a car park (parking lot) and sell your stuff from your car's boot (car's trunk). A jumble sale is similar, sans the car, so perhaps held in a school hall or something like that.

I really liked yard sales in the US for children's books. I would have to say the majority of the books I have in my room available for my pupils to read were bought in yard sales. However, the quality of the books here are not the same. I've spent many a year trying to work out why. I used to reckon it's cos the majority of the British populace are actually illiterate thickos. This theory is still alive (just looking for more conclusive evidence), but I don't think that is the real reason. What I have found that there's a certain section of the population

Like the Terminator...

2011-05-14T08:11:00.002+01:00

I'm back. Like a Phoenix, I rise from the ashes of my own shittitude. Actually, when it comes to this damn blog, I think I'm a bit like wot Janet described in That's the way love goes: a moth to a flame. Och, well, I'm here now so let's not delve too deeply into my inconsistent writing record.

Today's my penultimate day at uni. Yup, it's my second-to-last day of classes. My second-to-last day of dragging my sleepy as through to Stirling on the train at a time even God thinks is ridiculously early. The second-to-last day that I will show up to the good old Pathfoot Building (actually, an architectural marvel, IMHO) without my suggested assignment. Don't worry, I probably won't change that for the last day — if it ain't broke...

And yet I dream of something more. The whole journey I have been alternating between tweeting my dearest ATW (topic: her awesomeness, natch) and thinking about wot's next for lil ol' me. Happily, I can report that I have that I possess some things that my father would label pipedreams, if he used such a word. And no, I will not be sharing them at this time. But wot I can promise is that I will do this a little bit more.

Now, if you detect any spelling errors, my apologies. I am usually very fastidious about that, but I'm writing on the iPhone. Fastidious is the word I'm thinking of innit? Basically, I'm saying I get fucked off when I see an error. But with the iPhone's damned predictive speller, it can't be helped.

I just re-read this entry: man, it's shit! I'm like Simon Cowell on this thing. I have a very special announcement: I will be making a special announcement shortly. V tedious. Especially when you know the announcement is that bloody Cheryl Cole is going to be judge on X Factor (Americans, all together now: Whoooooo??? Shit. I hope me coming back on the blog and ready to take my next, heretofore unannounced, step in life isn't the equivalent to the dud revealing of the former Mrs Cole. Yeh, no boos please?

Saturday night telly, AKA Jonathan Ross is losing the plot

2010-06-05T22:44:00.004+01:00

I am currently watching a TV show called "I'm in a rock n' roll band! Live" so bizarre that it makes me question über-host Jonathan Ross's sanity to take on such a dog. The whole thing seems like some thrown together by someone only remembered on Thursday afternoon they were producing a Saturday night TV show.

"Quick - an audience!"

Having none available, it seems the producers used some good ol' British ingenuity and wheeled in an entire ICU floor of a hospital - that is how unresponsive and comatose the audience is. They were even incapable of bringing forth a good "Whoo". And I heard that those are well catching on in terms of popularity.

"Content!"

The point of the show appears to be to decide THE BEST EVER rock and roll band, as well as THE BEST EVER guitarist, drummer, etc. This could be an interesting topic in a conversation, but for a 2-hour show, this is a thin premise at best. Some might even substitute the word 'thin' with 'shit'. 15 minutes, at the most! They have padded out the show by asking "celebrities" to argue in favour of a particular band or person as THE BEST EVER!

First, to really honour this endeavour, please get A-list celebs or true music talking heads. Not just someone who kept raising their hand in the back, whining, "Pick me! Pick me! Pick me to talk!" In particular, I am speaking of Loyd Grossman arguing for Keith Moon as THE BEST DRUMMER EVER. Yes, the man who makes the shite sauces sold in Tesco. Sheesh. Also, a word about Miquita Oliver: there is no way in hell you knew anything about Nirvana in their heyday! God, I cannot believe I just used the words 'heyday' and 'Nirvana' in the same sentence like some OBG. I remember seeing the 'Smells like teen spirit' when it first came out in '91 and thinking, "Music will never be the same again." I was there - and here's this broad looking at Nirvana with these nostalgic specs like people of my generation might have looked at the Stones or sumink. What. The. Fuck?!

Actually, that rant was just me trying coming to terms with my own growing old, innit?

Anyway, back to the show. The second point: these debating people should always be comedians, as hearing someone stand in front of you, earnestly fighting for a cause is too much like listening to a dull vicar of a small church. Thanks anyway Edith Bowman, but we need a professional to make us laugh to get through this without falling asleep! But also, don't just get any old nob - you need a GOOD comedian. Vic Reeves couldn't have taken on a primary school child in a debate with that amateurish, completely unfunny argument in favour of Jimi Hendrix. Rufus Hound arguing for Slash as THE BEST GUITARIST EVER had me at hello - and I love Hendrix.

"Music!"

Ah, the tribute bands. It is a bit like taking candy from a baby to dog on the bands, but me like candy! The Beatles tribute act was probably the best because they decided to take the simplest approach and sing in Liverpudlian. I know I'm making the accent sound like a language, but it is pretty much the case - have you ever spoken to a person from Liverpool? The Led Zep band was OK, but the biggest problem was the lead singer exuded exactly one ounce of the charisma and sexual energy of Zepplin's lead singer. This faux Robert Plant would have been better stationed at the front desk of the library, telling people to quiet down, then blushing. I loved the Queen tribute most of all, just for the lead singer's complete dedication to the Freddie Mercury moustache without looking one bit like him. Just imagine him dropping his dry cleaning up or doing the school run, sporting that Freddie/Tom Selleck 'tashe! Pure dead brilliant!

The British breakfast

2010-05-22T09:06:00.004+01:00

There is one thing I lament about life here - the one thing I miss truly and deeply: the breakfast eatery. God, was I spoilt in Durham with great places such as Elmo's, George's Garage (RIP, my love), and Foster's Market. But the all-day breakfast joints like IHOP and Denny's are what most Americans are used to. And there are certain nuances to all American life that have brought about the popularity of the breakfast joint to points across the good ol' U-S of A.

One of these nuances that you might not realise is that breakfast joints need to be open at all hours to cater to the States' more heterogenous population - plus, fat people demand to be fed at all hours. These breakfast places are there in the early afternoon to serve friendless gamers and smackheads. They are there in the wee hours of the morning to serve the party people leaving the clubs and pubs. They are there early in the morning to serve the families and people who were not out there on the pull the night before.

You see my European friends, in comparison, there are really only one type of people in these here British Isles: steamies on the pull. No matter what their relationship status, the people of Britain can be boiled to a classification of wastoids trying to score on Friday-Sunday nights between the hours of 2200-0400. They think if they change their FB status to 'It's complicated! :)' right before heading out for the night that will prevent their husband/wife/partner/bird/bloke from going mental when they come home with chlamydia. Actually, what's going to save them is that said husband/wife/partner/bird/bloke were out doing the exact same thing.

Anyway, what was I saying about breakfast? Despite the inferiority of the meal, the British are devoted to their idea of breakfast. In a strange mirroring of its homogenous race, the breakfast is a pretty standard affair across the country. It must be greasy. It always has a ridiculously high meat-to-egg ration: bacon and sausage and, depending on where you're from, black pudding or haggis, with only one egg? People, please! A half a tomato, grilled, is a given. You will probably get mushrooms (yick) and definitely baked beans - yes, you heard correctly. The British ascribe mystical powers to this meal: it has the power to cure a hangover and it is healthy for you.

Here's a guessing game

2010-01-25T20:12:00.002Z

For some reason, I always find M watching "Mr and Mrs" when I come in and he's been all alone (Americans: "Mr and Mrs" is like the British version of the "Newlywed Game"). I guess there's worse things he could be watching. I guess there's worse things he could be doing too.

So we decided to ask some of the questions to each other. M's now trying to guess my favourite restaurant. He's actually said quite a few ones I did like: The Kitchin; Diner 7; No 1 Sushi Bar; The Mosque diner; Cosmic Cantina/Torrero's; Blue Nile; any place I've ever had dim sum.

Now, I'd like it to be known that 1) I had to come up with my choice of favourite restaurant fairly quickly; 2) I thought about my favourite place to eat, rather than my favourite restaurant. Bottom line: my choice is pretty shite and when he heard it (cos he was never going to guess it), he was really disappointed. He could even be considering divorce.

Because we wanted to know

2010-01-21T23:40:00.002Z

I don't read books. For pleasure that is, I don't read books. The last book I read was over the Christmas holidays, Brooklyn. I was completely absorbed. I took it in the car to read, even though I get carsick when I do that. I wanted to shut out everyone and everything. I wanted to consume it and it to consume me. Instead of my feast, I had to make do with hors d'oeurves.

I don't write; I don't write for pleasure. And of all, I find writing most pleasurable. I like being able to edit my thoughts, right then and there, no one ever knowing the stupid thing I said the first time (and stupid comments are what they are most likely to receive when they speak to me). I like trying - no, testing different words. I like to weigh their impact. And when I write, all I want to think about are words and sentences and cadence and metaphors and allusions (or is it illusions - you see, I'm still learning). I want to fall into my thoughts, as if the words and letters are like leaves from a fallen tree. And I've raked them up in a big pile. I'll fall backwards into them, like they do in TV movies. And throw them in the air. But the thought-leaves and the word-leaves keep falling from my mind-tree. And I have to rake them up again. This is what I want to do with my words.

I watch TV. Reality shite like Relocation, Relocation. I'm not giving away the ending if I tell you they get the house, right? You can put all the obstacles you like, edit how you wish, but in the end, you know how it is. It's the same for the games that fill my time. Someone will win, someone will lose - maybe even me. It will end. Maybe in an hour, like a TV show, maybe in a couple of hours. And even if I get emotional about those things, soon enough, I won't remember those people, that house, that silly match. I won't become absorbed by it; it will not become absorbed in me.

Basically, I fill my time with crap, rather than the things that matter to me. Because reading and writing (learning and growing and changing and gaining and evolving and knowing) matter, I want them to know they matter, that they are real. And I can't. Because my real life won't let me make them real. Because my real life and my real job makes what really matters to me just a fantasy. I feel like if I try to let what I find to be real in to stand next to my real life, a Harry Hill style fight breaks out. I have consistently been (whether good or bad, that is to be debated another time) an all-or-nothing kind of person. My real life gets it all, what I find real gets nothing.

And I write this not only because you wanted to know. I write this because I wondered why myself.

2010: Moving on?

2010-01-01T17:38:00.003Z

Happy New Year and all, y'all. Hope it's been a good one for you. Since we've past into a new year, I thought I'd talk about a topic we'll be hearing about for a next couple of weeks: resolutions.

I have always felt sad for people who did not view making a New Year's resolution as a positive thing, or mocked those who did it. I'd like to think of myself of as a defender of the resolution and an observer of the tradition. My most successful resolution was the year that I said I wouldn't eat any red meat. And I did that very thing for nearly three years. The only exception having bacon; I couldn't turn my back on bacon. Still can't. Which probably explains my very large back. Anywho, I think my point is that making a resolution isn't always an exercise in futility.

The only time I find resolutions irritating is when it comes to the gym. In my experience, from now until the end of the month, the gym will be filled with fatties sweating it out, clogging up machines. It will peter out in the following months until British Summer Time (daylight savings time) comes, and then people get a clue and quit. It's actually led me to go for a run outsinde today. Heaven help me until the spring.

Despite my appreciation of the resolution, I had not made one this year. Why? I don't even really know. I have this feeling of contentment, I reckon. I definitely believe its never too late to change. And I would say that's a very American belief. When challenged, British people - children not excluded - give a shrug and say, "I've always been that way." And despite their attempt at matter-of-factness, really, they say these words with pride. I find it terribly irksome.

Forgive my aside, I shall get back to my point: I think I have no resolution because I don't see the need to change anything. I'm not perfect, mind. I could be much tidier: I still have wrapping paper from Christmas on the bedroom floor. I could be healthier: I will probably have a Papa John's pizza for dinner. I could be better with my work: there's lot of planning to be done. But I guess I'm learning to accept myself - I'm learning that there's a time to change things and a time to just accept who you are. The Eagles, via Ecclesiastes, said such a thing, no?

Or, maybe I'm just a lazy git who hasn't bothered with a resolution.

Sick people's chat

2009-11-26T14:51:00.004Z

I've been home sick for the past two and a half days. Being sick always makes me feel bad for myself, but on top of it, Thanksgiving might be compromised by this sickness spell. I'm working to be at 100% by Monday for work and to be at least 85% for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, as I lay miserably on the sofa, what should I spy with my little eye? Only my favourite guilty pleasure film, The Thomas Crown Affair! I can't explain why I love this film so much, but every time it's on, I must watch it. What a perfect treat for a sickie like me.

But what is on is the original TCA from the 1970s starring Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway. This is disappointing as my favourite is the remake featuring Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo. I've never really given original a chance as I totally am down with the hunkiness exhibited by PBrosnan in the film and he is the only Thomas Crown to me. However, as I am ill, I will give the McQueen/Dunaway version a go.

And actually, it's not half bad, though I am only watching half of it as I'm flipping between it and the tennis. Steve McQueen is a total hottie and Faye Dunaway is my new favourite bad ass girl (only after Katharine Hepburn in the African Queen). And when we get to the scene where she succumbs to his charms and he gets in her pants, I'm totally with it. SMcQ is so hot in his aloofness in this film I can't reckon why she didn't give in earlier - I would! That's it: there's a new Thomas Crown in town.

But - oh no, what is this? Can my eyes be deceiving me? Is my new hottie, Steve McQueen, a... bad kisser?? He looks like he is gnawing Faye's face off! He's doing as a FB friend says, "Onm nom nom." Is that how people got down in the 70s? I'm so sad and shocked at Stevie's snogging technique that I feel that it is only right to rescind my prior enthusiasm and go back to feeling ill.

All-new Featured Word!

2009-11-09T23:32:00.005Z

The very last Featured Word I had included in the blog was burl. No-one managed to tell me that it meant to spin around or to go round in circles, like My heid's been burlin' with all the choices." It can also be said as burlie, as in "Ok, it's a dead-end here, so just do a burlie and then we can drive out of here." Again, might I mention the slackness of you (all five of you) all for not working it out.

Anyway, I heard the new Featured Word just this aweekend: piece. Now Americans, and depending on which subculture of the US you come from, we have a couple of different denotations for this word piece apart from the standard one (a little bit). For example, I would say, (yes, it's a hint)

"When things kick off, some fool will definitely pull out his piece."
(definition no. 1)

OR

"He was all up in the piece." (definition no. 2).

None of these American example can be applied to the British usage of piece, as in "He made himself a piece." Another hint!

So this Featured Word is wholly interactive. Americans, can you figure out the British definition of piece, while can you work out one of the US meaning, my Scottish, English, Irish and Welshees?

I am a foreigner, you know

2009-11-09T12:52:00.003Z

Yesterday, Boy and I had a row. And I can't exactly figure out why. I certainly wasn't trying to wind him up. You see, it all started with the football...

I reckon he was a bit irritated by the Man U result. I was too, as I decided to throw my support behind the MUFC, as they were playing Chelsea, a team I hate even more than Manchester United. Well, they lost (stupid wanks - I'll never desert you again Arsenal). Anyway, on our way home, we were listening to the football commentary on the radio.

A little background knowledge: my knowledge of funny British rules of phonics has grow. For example, in place names, you drop the w with names ending with wich or wick. So Berwick is pronounced Berick.

So there's a place in east England called Norwich. So, according to the rules, it's pronounced Norich - easy enough. But the football commentator was discussing another football club that came from Northwich. First it was called Northwich (thereby not following the dropping the w rule), then Norich (dropping the w but also the th).

Upon discussion with Boy, another rule that I hadn't learned is that the th in North could be dropped; it happens in the word nor'easter. Fair enough, but if the th and the w in Northwich could be dropped, then wouldn't it just be said as Norich, just like the other place, Norwich?

So I asked Boy to explain this: how do they distinguish between the two places?

"Well, the names are different." He went on to say them, but they sounded exactly the same to me. I think he felt I was winding him up on the 13th request for him to explain it again, but I honestly wasn't. Perhaps there was a difference in pronunciation, but my little foreign ears, I ain't hear nuttin'.

Synopsis of episode "#blamediddy"

2009-11-04T21:58:00.002Z

Today's blog will be written in the style of a TV synopsis, as found in such publications as TV Times or TV Guide

Starring Autumn, Boy, Mil, Fillee, Sarah-Dogg and Samantha-Dog

Autumn learns an important lesson about hash tagging after stumbling upon a thread in Twitter called #blamediddy...

This episode sees Autumn realising that, though she has not eaten anything in the last 24 hours, she does not have swine flu and really does have to go to work. Later, she realises that the ills of the world came from one source: the rapper Diddy. She continues to play destressor for Boy during Mil and Fillee's last night of their visit. However, Boy and Mil part with a kiss after a nice meal together, with everyone realising that they should blame Diddy.

Also, Sarah-Dogg and Samantha-Dog go on the exact same walk twice in the same evening. Too bad bitches - blame Diddy!

****

I have been thoroughly enjoying the #blamediddy phenomena that hit the Twitter on Wednesday, 4 November. Basically, it is Diddy's birthday, but instead of wishing him happy birthday, the Twitter community has been naming and shaming him on all the things can be blamed on him. I categorise these tweets in five groups:

1) Legitimate, realistic Diddy blames, which include

the break up of Danity Kane (as well as other acts, including but not limited to Faith Evans, Total, 112, B2K, Day 26, Shyne, several unsigned artists) (not that I'm crying)
Shyne getting deported
Auto Tune

2) Potentially legitimate, though more surreal Diddy blames, such as

the death of the Notorious B.I.G. and/or 2Pac
inflicting Craig Mack and Dylan from Making the Band on the world
Mase becoming a preacher
JLo singing sad songs
40-year-olds doing the "Harlem Shake" (so sad, as I still do the Harlem Shake, as I only learned it two months ago)

3) Fashion Diddy blames: brothers wearing

shiny suits
thin ties
mohawks (is Diddy rockin' a mohawk these days?)
sunglasses in clubs

4) Non-legitimate, surreal Diddy blames:

global warming or world hunger
broken limbs
when the internet runs slow
somebody's cousin not learning English

5) And my favourite: Oh Snaps. These are particularly funny to me, leading to me giggle and say, "Oh SNAP!" as I read them. They include blaming Diddy for

the wearing of white linen trouser by men. In December.
the shortage of Cambodian breast milk (great reference to the dearly departed Dave Chappelle Show)
for using up Harlem's entire supply of S-Curl products from 1998-2001 (just cold to hate on folks about their hair)

You don't like this post? #blamediddy

A maths lesson

2009-10-28T22:34:00.006Z

1 smackhead decorator willing to work for peanuts found on Gumtree+ 1 crowbar + some cronies = Us - (1 brand new flat screen telly + 1 new laptop + 1 fancy watch) + big bill for door repair

While it seems

(Us - 5 hours waiting around) + 2 doughnut-eating cops + 1 indifferent fingerprinting dude ≠ our stuff recovered
thankfully

Good insurance company (can you believe that?) = new shit for us

Does no one else see it?

2009-10-26T16:38:00.008Z

I know this is slightly TMZish, but I have said this for a very long time and Boy does not believe me. So I put it before you - don't they look, like, crazy-the-same?

A young Alfonso Ribero (AKA, Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and yes, this is the cover to his album!)

Manchester United footballer Nani

PS - Ha ha to Manchester United for losing to Liverpool! They were sitting ducks, for God's sake! You could have be the death knell to Benitez. Suckers!

Here I am, desperately cheery

2009-10-25T22:01:00.004Z

Because I am a narcissist, I have re-read a tonne of my old blog entries and I am much, much cheerier. I am also very sad for my last, eversoslightly emotional blog entry. Considering my last entry was nearly a year and a half ago, that's not very nice, innit. So I've decided to play nice with your emotions. Or take them on some manic rollercoaster ride. She's low! She's high! What the fuck?

Anyway, cheery story... cheery story... have to give a cheery story... what do I say?... okay, here's one:

Last weekend, P had her birthday celebration on Sunday. She had it on Sunday cos I had mine on Saturday. I probably shouldn't have, but she was a sport about it all. She told me to show up at 2000. So that meant I was trying for 2030, but really probably getting there at 2100 or even 2115. She texts at 2035, where are you? I show up sharpish.

I didn't think you were going to be so late, she said. You're usually on time. I don't know what universe P rolls in, but I am never on time.

Uh, honey, you never heard of CP time? What? Oh, Latin time, says she (she's from Chile). I think we should agree to call it Brown People Time from now on.

I haven't been round this many Latinos since living in Durham. I didn't know enough Latinos, so I have no experience to draw upon, only stereotypes. But mama, why you gotta succumb to stereotypes? P and pals were telling me an amusing story about having 7 people in a car. You know that's how dumb white (American) Southerners think Mexicans roll, right? I am becoming alarmed by this chat.

We are going to the club in a taxi, right? Cos Autumn's booty needs space baby. I ask. Of course is the reply.

Liars! P's homeboy rolls up in his SUV, puts the back seat down at 7 of us cram in like sardines. What if we get stopped? I asked, nervously. It's cool cos Homeboy has blacked out windows (and the stereotypes keep coming).

We're at the club and I have to be pulled/rolled out of the back, though in the most dignified way possible (Latin men are very gentlemanly). And into the club. Oh, I forgot to mention: P is gorgeous. Lovely to look at, effervescent personality, skinny as hell, ridiculously tall (especially since she is wearing a pair of heels that frighten me) and can roll her hips in ways that make Shakira jealous. That night, I was playing the part of dumpy friend in clumpy heels. We all have our roles.

However, the music is R&B, hip-hop and rap. I am in my heaven. They even play How do you want it?, which is like, crazy stupid, cos I'm like the only person in the whole world that loves that song. And when the clock chimes 0300, and the lights come up, I make my way home happy. Mostly cos I know that unlike P and pals, I don't have work or any responsibilities in the morning.

See? Cheery, cheery me. Okay, not as cohesive as my past shit, but I'll get the mojo back. Just stick with me kids.

I gotta feeling...

2009-10-25T20:16:00.003Z

My volleyball team seems to have a team song: the Black Eyed Peas' "I gotta feeling". I'm such like a grandma, every time that song comes on I turn to one of them and say, "Now who sings this?" I kinda hate the song, but I like the feeling it does evoke in us: pure joy, as it was played after we won a particularly intense game.

As I was walking the dogs, the old MP3 fired off 'Return to innocence" by Enigma and Enya. OK, no judgements about my musical taste - you should all know by know by now it's pretty shite. However, it reminds me so much of Okinawa and when I was in high school. The reminiscing was so overwhelming, I wanted to cry in the street. I think it was coupled with the knowledge that I would be going back to Okinawa for my first time in 16 years. I will make no qualms about it - I was a total gaijin when I lived there, but it was my home, innit. I lived there for almost 10 years. And you put your head round that: never going back home for 16 years. That's half a lifetime ago.

Boy thinks it's weird that I'm this emotional and I've only had one Japanese lesson and we don't go until April. True dat, but my multitudes want me to feel, so I listen. I feel a great sense of trepidation. This is where I'm from and yet, what if I don't remember anything? I don't know if I can really articulate it right now as I am literally in the middle of my emotional maelstrom and I'm going down. All I can say is that I gotta feeling...

Morgantown

2008-07-18T17:22:00.004+01:00

Dandoo and Bumpy! Yay!

Vegas, again

2008-07-18T06:21:00.003+01:00

I know, I know, it's crazy. Who visits Vegas twice in three months? There was a pretty good reason why I'm back this time, though. My pal Kirby has hooked me up with admission to a four-day teaching conference that was the bomb. We don't do anything like that back in Scotland. It was big-massive and I learned a helluva lot and refreshed a bunch of things in my mind. It didn't mean that I didn't enjoy myself though.

I'm completely knackered. Yeh, I did engage with the drink, but it's more than that. Every day at the conference was intense, with the lectures, reflecting on your practice, thinking about how to modify and augment my class and teaching. All the brain work was draining for the lot of us who attended. Save Kirby. Nothing stops that Energizer Bunny.

Her new thing is that she's into the gambling. She and her pals did the slots shortly before I arrived and won, so she convinced me and her guy, Beau, to chip in $7 to play. I hate gambling, as I might have expressed previously. I'm pretty sure I'm a cooler, you know, like the William H Macy film. I ooze bad luck, so I like to avoid stuff like that. But Kirby was convinced we win cos she's an anti-cooler or sum'ink. Well, my ability to cool overrode her good luck thoroughly.

Anyway, I'm meant to be boarding my plane so I'll end this now. I'm very thankful to Boy for letting me come back. Do you think he'll let me do it again next year?

London, Brighton, Atlanta and Beaufort

2008-07-13T21:38:00.003+01:00

Friends, I have begun my US leg of my summer hols. I flew into Atlanta on the 7th and spent time with my brother. Then moved on to Beaufort, where my parents live and spent some time with them. I write to you from the airport, where they, thankfully, have internet. Going to my parents' place is like stepping back in the digital ice age. It's quaint, really.

I'm enjoying my time here and not as swept by nostalgia as I was last time I visited. It might be because I was visiting two places in the US that I would hate to live in. Beaufort is not a place for anyone except OAPs. My mother was so cute because she kept proposing endeavours, but really, there was nothing going on there. And Atlanta is much too busy for me. I think I'd rather live in London before Atlanta. And if anyone knows me, that was a major statement. London is interesting to visit, but, I would think, hell to live in.

However, I really enjoyed my time in London, the first leg of my summer hols. I went with VBP (Volleyball Best Pal -- I really should give her a better name) and we stayed in London with her pals, Vodka and Jager-Bomb. This will be their monikers because that's what they plied us with. V and J-B lived in a neighbourhood in London that an estate agent would call "up and coming". That can be translated into shitty in some spots. But I found the place really personable and within the city, so very interesting. However, I did view everything intoxicated, so I can't really talk. I avoided tourist spots in London (save Camden Town market) and ended up really enjoying myself. More evidence that philosophy of travel (not filling it choka of touristy things and engaging in more home activities) is the right one for me.

Bottom line, I've been relaxing at every stop and everyone's taking good care of me, so I feel loved and chilled. But at the same time, I miss home, Edinburgh, and my Boy and dogs. I'm a little knackered, which explains why I'm all over the place with this entry and why I didn't mention anything about Brighton.

Late this Saturday morning

2008-05-31T10:29:00.002+01:00

Last night, I fell for the hype. I fell for the nostalgia and hype cos me and Boy went to see the Sex and the City movie. Really, cos that's all it is. They spent a fortune in advertisements convincing women that we wanted this and needed this film. Man, It's getting harder and harder to realise the real necessities these days. I mean, if I needed a SATC film, then what word could I possibly use to describe what is "needed" in Darfur, Burma or China? Cos I can't use the word need! It's already being used for something much more important. Ladies, we needed this film.

And why was there so very little sex going on? Did I misread the title? They should have called this Vex in the City instead. E'r'body all mad all the time! Angry bitches! If you had a penis in this film, you were getting no loving. If you were a man who saw this film, I actually felt sorry for you. You were dragged to see this blatant, uncompromising chick flick. But consoled yourself with the idea that you would be seeing tonnes of sex. And you got none. This film was a prick tease.

Now, I did take my husband with me to see this. It felt right to tak him because he is my best friend. Maybe cos he loves me, it did not take very much convincing. I asked only once and got a very amenable affirmative. No arm-twisting, no cajoling, no negotiations... which means that he really wanted to see this shit! Nosey Parker! There were actually more men than I thought there would be, though I think this was because it was late show and there was no-one to see these guys going in with their birds.

Of course I was in the minority, as there were tonnes of groups of women coming from the show before ours and into our show. And they were always in fours -- amazing! Amazing because, firstly, I don't even know three other people! I took my husband. Secondly, they were all dressed up to the nines -- bless. Third, each one of these groups had a member that matched a SATC character. Now it isn't so hard to find a ginger (redhead) over here, so the Miranda role gets easily filled. And the Carrie role gets fought over anyhow; there's a queue of women dying to pretend to be like Carrie. And the role of Samantha the slapper: again, very easy to fill. Shit, just take a look outside any bar on a Saturday night and you'll see a Samantha clone. The girl who tended to fill was always dress inappropriately and was a bit too big to wear what she was wearing. And was very loud. No, by far the hardest role to fill was Charlotte. I've never seen anyone as proper as her over here, ever. If such a woman existed in the Lothians and Borders, she was certainly at a premium last night, filling out SATC foursomes. She was probably double-, or even triple-booked, taking in the 1920 show with some work mates, the 2100 show with the girls from the gym and the 2245 show with her uni pals. Our faux-Charlotte is now probably exhausted and has more engagements tonight, rounding out more quartets.

Now all we need is a Friends feature film and my nostalgia will be complete.

****

Can a dog have a sense of entitlement?

Cos my dog does. For some reason, she has taken to climbing onto our bed. It started off to kinda alert us now upset she was when we rowed. Boy and I used to go awwww and stop immediately. Now it's just all the time: she's hungry or it's Tuesday. Who knows a dog's logic? She also gets highly worked up about her food, all but jumping on us to let us know that she wants her meal. She was never like this before! It's because she knows she can get a reaction from us. So I'm begun to take the bad cop role. I'll ignore or tell her angrily to get off the bed. This morning, she was, again, demanding her food. I ignored her, pleased with my restraint. But then Boy fed her.

The comedy of hubris and growing old

2008-05-28T10:40:00.004+01:00

Boy and I are big fans of comedy. It's my favourite thing to see when the Festival is on. (So what then instigated my disasterous foray into Hamlet last year? Who knows?) So when I had the chance to sign us up for a free stand-up comedy taster workshop, I jumped.

The class was hosted by a likeable enough woman who worked as a professional comedian. To be honest, that was hard to believe. She looked like she worked at a funky boutique and has an involved, but totally plantonic relationship with a guy who wears graphic Ts and Converse shoes everyday to the independent record store he works in. She's obviously part of a new breed of UK comics who believe that earnestness passes as humour. Again, quite likeable in her middle class slackness, but Boy was getting increasingly put off by her mannerisms (which, I could totally understand). She was supported by a guy whose most salient features where that he arrived late and sported a blonde curly mop of ugly-sexy origins .

We all began by introducing ourselves and had to tell what we found to be funny. Then said course leader would critique it. Good, good... good one, for some, while the guy who ventured The Chuckle Brothers was less than embraced. I appeared like a total twat when I cited my family as making me laugh. C'mon, people who know my lot: they are hilarious, innit? But really I should have said Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle. Boy, who also arrived late (surprise, surprise) stammered a bit too long. I wanted to jump in and shout, "He loves Derek and Clive! He loves Derek and Clive! For god sakes, don't judge him too harshly!"

Then we had to share a funny anecdote. I shared about the Bladar and Tyreek, which brought the house down -- I'm just getting too into the comedy lingo. Nah, I got some chuckles and good feedback. Some people were just too good with their presentation and stories and made some of us feel like the plebs we were.

The funniest bit came from the youngest person in the room. Unintentionally funny, that is. I'm going to sound like a grumpy old woman as I tell this bit, but so be it. I'm just about ready to embrace the grumpiness. The Youngsta, when initially asked what made here laugh, said not much. Well, fair enough. There is enough tat out there. But then said that she did like Little Britain (who doesn't?) and Friends. Now wait a minute, I liked Friends all the same, but probably for different reasons: it is a visual definition of my generation. But it is, by no means, a comedic magnus opus. The Simpsons I get, Friends - nah. But I quibble, as everyone is entitled to her own opinions and the next bit was the funniest. Actually, what makes me laugh, she said with a lack of self-depication characteristic of young people, is me. Oh boy.

Then when we were to share our funny anecdote, she decided to do two pieces of work from her comedy cannon. I actually couldn't follow them because I have long since lost my fluency in teenage-speak. Something about MSN (I think she used MSN as a verb as well) and a boy that was kinda cute but then she stuck her head in her bag... I don't know. It was a bit of a mess and what do you say to a mess?

What we oldies have been conditioned to say to young people: that was great! But it wasn't. Sure, we gave her kudos for her confidence, but her arrogance was nothing to be proud of. I think kids are told too often how great they are. That statement might ring false, coming from a teacher, but they are. And this kid had been told one too many times that she was amazing. Kids should be treated like I was when I was young: told to shut up and that I was nothing special. And look how great I've turned out to be.

My base or, more musings about music

2008-05-26T12:58:00.004+01:00

I think yesterday's chat with Macca has opened up a can of worms in me or something. I do believe I have underestimated the significance of music in my life. This could be because I don't always seek it out, but I don't know. I finally got my mobile situation sorted. If you're not on my Twitter (which, most of you aren't), you probably won't know that I've been without a mobile for the better part of a month. It's been torture. But now that's sorted, I can be contacted at all hours. But, and more relevantly applicable to this conversation, I have music back in my life.

I loaded a few songs this morning and walked nearly half way to work, plugged in. That's when I realised that I had not rated highly enough how much I need music. My morning's Leith Walk soundtrack of rap and R&B was unorthodox (unorthodox cos I live deep in Proclaimers country) but thoroughly enjoyed. Madonna's 4 Minutes to Save the World (she's not rap nor R&B, but that genius beat is) takes on a new interpretation when you see all these people rushing for buses and women in business suits and trainers motoring on to work. They only got four minutes to save the world! 2Pac's How Do U Want It: could the guy at the sandwich shop be saying that to me? When T-Pain sang (on Kanye's song), "Welcome to the good life!", I was believing it, despite not being able to speak from the shouting on the weekend.

So when Macca asked me this question, it's thrown me into a lot of thought. What is the role of music in my life? I obviously need it, but when? And why? I've been working my thoughts out, actually in this very blog. What you see is the final, composed version, but it was kinda all over the place before. This is what my answer to those questions above would be.

I have always had be a cultural chameleon. What I mean by that is that I've always have been in situations that I had to assimilate into the predominant culture. As a result, I feel, at times, quite deficient in my own personal culture; I've even felt like a fraud. No matter how one terms it, you can end up quite lightheaded when you spend most of their time outwith your own culture. And I spend a lot of time in character. Times of emotional extremities are when it is most difficult to keep up the facade -- you'll really hear the American when I'm angry or really excited. I guess that's my base culture, what I am at my most elemental level. And black American culture, including rap, is that.

I come back, seeing this and thinking that

2008-05-25T19:10:00.003+01:00

Dandoo has sent me more pictures of Bumpy. If anyone knows my sister, you'll know that the Bumps has her nose. And if any of you know me and Boy, we both had the same response: poor little bugger. In the second pic, Bumpy is showing an incredible amount of flexibility, with his/her foot right up near the face. A future gymnast in the family?

****

This was the weekend of the Scottish Open Volleyball Tourney in Perth and, yada yada yada, a good time was had by all. I even saw Tyreek! I can't remember if I told you, but I ended up meeting this guy in the blog last year and shared my suspicions that I thought he was black. I then renamed him Tyreek -- well, I saw him and he looks well, thanks.

My team-mate (and pal, by the way) Macca ended up giving me a lift home. She's really into her music and most days, she doesn't even turn the telly on, preferring to listen to the radio or music.

She had her boyfriend The Big Ging's iPod and the chat turned to our top ten songs. This was hard for me. I'm not as musical as her and I really couldn't come up with much off the top of my head. This is what I came up with, though:

Can you see me, Hendrix
Tramp, Redding
How do u want it?, 2Pac
It's not that easy, Lemar

I've noticed my choices are all by Black artists. I also tend to prefer women, though these choices aren't showing that. Why these songs? Well, with the first, Are You Experienced? was one of my most favourite albums for a long time and I always liked the guitar in this song. The second song is cos I always wanted to sing the woman's part in this duet and my guy to be able to sing the male part (though, this hasn't yet happened).

The third song, well... that's complicated. I like to listen to this song when I'm feeling a bit down. Which is a bit of an odd, cos it's not at all a nice song. Not a love song or happy or an uplifting message. It's a typical misogynistic, sex obsessed rap song. But I've liked it more so since moving here. The thing is, I would get my fill of good, decent and God-awful hip-hop and rap on my local radio station in the States. But I don't get that here. Not in the least. But I do like rap and I miss that part of the culture I'd get. So sometimes, when I'm feeling down and alienated, I listen to this song and it reminds me of the culture that I love, though flawed it is. And I don't feel so lonely.

And the fourth song? Me and Boy dance to that love song together in the kitchen, so it's got a happy connotation. Finally.

Looking for work

2008-05-21T22:58:00.004+01:00

I like to look at the teaching job vacancies every week, for some reason. I guess it's because if I see the perfect job, then I'll be more than willing to pack this job in with a cheery "See ya, suckers!"

Unfortunately, I never see the perfect job. The perfect job is at the school 300 yards from my flat, in the same teaching position, full-time and permanent. And making more money. So really, looking is pointless, but I am an ever hopeful person.

The most recent posting only had one job in the primary (elementary) school sector. It was for a "deputising depute head teacher". To translate, a depute head teacher is a vice principal, American readers. Now a deputising depute head teacher, I'm not sure what the hell that is.

Boy suggested I apply, saying that I was the depute to a deputising depute head teacher and I was looking to make the next step. In actuality, I'm only deputising the depute to the depusting depute head teacher, so I would be very lucky to even get an interview.

My dental adventures

2008-05-12T22:16:00.003+01:00

I made it through the wilderness
Somehow I made it through...

Since coming here, I've been complimented many times on my name. I always say, "Cheers, I'll tell my mum." Cos, really, like I had anything to do with. Recently, I've been complimented on something else: my teeth. Actually, I say complimented, but I don't know if you can really call it that. For example, I'm sitting in the middle of a really heavy conference with a parent, upset that she thinks her kid has dyslexia. I'm doing my part to reassure her. "Sorry," she says, "but you have the whitest teeth I've ever seen." I don't think I was complimented so much as she was startled into blurting this out. Let me assure you, it was embarrassment, not pride I was feeling.

Frankly, it's beginning to annoy me. I can't explain the teeth. That's just how they are, people. I'd like to say it's that I've done something special, but clearly I haven't. Cos my dentist came to me a couple of months ago saying I needed seven fillings. Seven fillings? Is that actually possible? Boy was shocked. "It's so weird, cos your teeth... they look so... perfect."

She said she would fit me into two sessions. Until she realised what I drill-phobic I was and kindly suggested we split the last session into two. The thing is, I've never been drilled and filled in such a way. The drill was rattling in the worse way in my ear. I was desperate for it to stop and she just wouldn't. Maybe it was rattling some sense into me. My teeth were decayed in some serious way and that fact started to dawn on me. This was it. There was nothing I could do to stop her. If only I had just been a bit more sensible. How I had fucked things up! I mean, who even needs seven fillings at one time? And then I began to cry. The pain had something to do with it, but mostly I was overwhelmed into tears by my own hubris ("What? Brush my teeth? Why? I'll have beautiful teeth forever!") and foolishness.

My last appointment was this past Friday. She was clearly disturbed by the meltdown I had had during my last appointment, but I insisted that we finished. There was no way I was going to come back and let that woman put those drills in my mouth again. When I had arrived at my appointment, I was greeted at reception with "Oh, the one with the beautiful name." Yeh, beautiful name, but fucked-up, decayed grill.

Bumpy

2008-04-10T17:11:00.001+01:00

So my tida, Dandoo and her husband BIL are expecting. Because I am creative, I thought about using her sonogram picture on a tee-shirt to give to her when I just saw her a couple of weeks ago, saying "Foetus's first Easter". Because I am slack, this did not happen.

We have taken to calling the unborn one "Bumpy". It amuses me greatly for many reasons. One, hearing my nephew say Bumpy in his slow Georgia drawl is funny as all get out. Second, the name makes me think of Bumpy Johnson, the gangster and the contrast between our sweet, innocent pre-baby and a violent gangster leaves me rolling. Third, Dandoo did not want us to call the wee one Bumpy, which is mainly the reason why we decided to call it Bumpy. Personally, I would like it enter university with this moniker, having graduated high school as Bumpy Townes. We knew someone like that: his cousin asked his mum if they could nickname him Tidy Bowl. So they did, which was shortened to Tidy, which then morphed into Toddy and again shorted to Todd. He graduated high school as Todd Jones (or whatever the hell he's called cos I actually don't remember him very well, but the story certainly stuck), but he name was completely different.

Anyway, back to Bumpy. Reason four for Bumpy: it's a better name than It. That's what Dandoo was calling the Bumpster. And let's be clear, it has to be spelled B-U-M-P-Y, not B-U-M-P-E-E, as the Grandmother spells it. Cos Bumpee is just wrong. It's like something you buy someone that they put their nappies in.

Dandoo does not know Bumpy's gender and is considering name for both. She has just vetted Brio, saying something about Italian music and stuff like that. As I was saying to her, if names were on a scale, one side being cool (James Bond, anyone?) and one side being funny (Chikezie, anyone?), then Brio would be this side of funny. Am I not right people?

Here are some of my suggestions (I'm totally in favour of what one friend called "Old Skool Bibilical Names", the odder, the better):

Levon

Matilda (or Mathilda)

Honeybee (wrong, but cute)

Leighton

Blakely (I have a friend with that name, but I like)

Thurston

Cupcake (again, wrong, but so right)

Liam

Hosea (heard it just recently)

Ezekiel

Ezra (Better than...)

Josiah

Jocelyn

Pearl

Dexter (call him/her Dex)

Eli

Moxie

Tamryn

Apple

Rodney

Now that I think about it, maybe it was good I didn't get the Foetus's First Easter T-shirt for Dandoo, as we now have established that Foetus's name is actually Bumpy. So maybe I'm not so slack after all. Well, considering I have a mountain of work to do and I have written two blog entries in quick succession, I think I'd better wear that slack hat after all.

Cultural vertigo, plus All-new featured Scottish word

2008-04-10T16:21:00.001+01:00

Fellow blogger Hadashi introduced me to this term, cultural vertigo, of which I am digging on. This is the feeling of which I blogged about so unsuccessfully in the last few entries. I like this cos it really did feel like a dizziness. Hadashi's husband is in the same boat as me, living in a culture outwith his own. It makes me wonder if this is his choosing -- if he had a chance, would he move back home?

I don't know if I'll really ever have that chance. Boy has let me know that he hates living in the US. I wish he wouldn't say that, cos that's my culture he's dissing, but honestly, I do get it. I think I touched a little bit on the idea of how disgusting I found some aspects of life there. It's all... bloated. Big and puffy. Big and puffy towns, bursting from their seams and eroding whatever else is there previously. Yeh, people are like that too, but it was the lack of regard for the environment and the land that I found shocking. Callously mowing down trees and woodland for houses that won't be sold, can't be sold. The whole-hearted acceptance of the "paved paradise and put up a parking lot"-ness of life there. That sounds slightly extreme, the use of the word "whole-hearted" for no-one's out there picketing for more subdivisions. However, though days of adroit Biblical references have long sense past, didn't Jesus say something like there is no lukewarm? If you're lukewarm, you're just cold, so by that definition, we are all whole-heartedly accepting this.

Ah, if you could just visit my Edinburgh, you'd know why I like it. It's compact and navigable. The bus service is comprehensive and walking is a joy. We have no car but we don't need one. The architecture is lovely, oozing with character, charm and history. It can envelope you in warmth like a granny. But along with it's compactness comes a conservatism. The people and ideas are reserved and limited, as if because the city can't grow, one's thoughts are unable to. That is what I miss about the States. Like its cities, the thoughts, ideas, affection of its people bubbles up and spills over. So there it is: Edinburgh would be nice, if it weren't for the people. Hmm... don't think I'm getting to the bottom of this cultural vertigo anytime soon.

*****

I've been asked a few times to bring back the "Featured British word" section I had on the right-side margin. I had to shut that down cos 1) the tag board I had set up for people to answer in was getting mad spammed by these utter weirdos (said in a right Scottish accent -- it is said absolutely brilliantly, with the r rolled so deliciously) with Greek names; and 2) no-one was answering it anyway! But I'll do it again since my pregnant sister asked after it a couple of times. She's pregnant! My family's decided that's her excuse for all the crap she'll be doing and talking for the next few months -- love you kid!

So here's your Scottish word: burl. It is a verb and it is burlie in it's noun form. If you have a scooby, then answer in the comment section of this blog. Some of you might have already had the good fortune of hearing use this word and I might have even used it in one of my previous posts (hint, hint). Good luck. (PS - please get this one cos my next one is really good! It's another Scottish, rather than British word -- I think Scottish words are properly good.)

Things missing from our recent US trip

2008-04-07T10:46:00.001+01:00

One backpack containing a running top, a waterproof jacket and house keys (value: £150)
One mobile phone with additional memory (value: £60 - for the memory; I was planning on getting a new mobile anyway)
One Lothian regional bus card (value: £5)
Three single train journeys, 2 London-York and 1 York-Edinburgh (value: £120)
One book, Tools of the Mind (value: £20)
One bottle of hair oil (value: £3)

Sometimes I wonder why we bother.

I'm here, but where am I?

2008-04-06T20:46:00.003+01:00

I type, friends, sitting in the kitchen of my own wee flat. It's very quiet as Boy is not back yet with the dogs. While I am pleased to be in my own wee kingdom-flat, the strangeness of the environment is accute. The countryside seen as I came up on the train, of gridded pastures dotted with sheep and hills, seemed confusing rather than charming after my last week in North Carolina. My head is burling and I'm glad I'm alone cos I don't like to see people when I'm like this.

Thing is, I don't know if North Carolina could really ever be my home again despite missing living in the US. I've made a life here in Edinburgh, but it is certainly not my home. I will always be a foreigner. Part of me thinks that if I find a place or a city like Edinburgh but in the US then maybe I'd move back. However, this is a rather simplistic thought.

Home

2008-04-06T14:56:00.002+01:00

Well, we are nearing the end of our trip. I'm currently on a train, hurling toward Edinburgh. I should be in round 2000 GMT but I wish it were now.

Boy and I had a bit of a recap in RDU yesterday, mulling over the highs and lows and what, if anything, had we learned. As we are now based between two train cars with our luggage rather than sitting in a seat within a car, what we have learned is to never fly in and out of London, particularly Heathrow. No, I did not get trapped in the evil Terminal 5 that you Americans keep hearing about as that terminal is for poshos (or at least richies) only. No, our tale is much more mundane and typical of average people like me and Boy. The tale of the forces of nature (fate?) colluding against our dreams: plane departs late, must circle over London for half an hour, miss our train back up to Edinburgh, drop my mobile, have to pay out the arse for another ticket to get home.

This was, for me, a good holiday. It involved eating (and drinking) and spending time with folk, things which I love to do the most. It was horrible cos Boy was sick most of the journey and cos he didn't get a chance to enjoy himself in a way he really likes. So this holiday was for me and he was pretty terrific about letting me have just about what I wanted -- including a "bon voyage" meal at IHOP which subsequently gave me the runs. (Ooooo, never again. Well, I say that now but I'm highly forgetful.)

I called this rambling little entry "Home" mostly because this trip brought up so many thoughts about what I consider home. This was my first trip back to the East Coast, to where I used to call home, Durham, North Carolina, in two years. Some things were great about being back -- time with friends, the familiarity of some favourite places/haunts (Whole Foods! Cosmic Cantina! The Cave!). But I found the aggressive and sprawling expansion there distasteful and wanton.

Of course there is expansion in Edinburgh and Durham (and its surrounding cities) are not the only American cities that are expanding rapidly (Las Vegas is crazy). But the expansion in Edinburgh is a bit different. We tend to build up and not so much out. I doubt many Edinburgh expats would be confused and lost in their city due to the high number of new roads but I certainly was when I went back to Durham and Raleigh.

I don't know. I have a lot to say but tiredness/jet lag is nipping at me. Will you all be patient with me? I come back and conclude my thoughts soon.

Krystal's has wi-fi!

2008-03-22T04:37:00.002Z

So right now I'm in Krystal's, the home of the teeny burger. They have wi-fi so now I don't feel like I'm in a primative, third world country. Ah, the American dream -- to log on in a fast food restaurant.

What I learned in Ireland

2008-03-20T21:52:00.001Z

I like making realisations about myself. I hate that I make these realisations at the age of 31. My latest realisation: I am a poor traveller. I won't say I hate traveling cos I don't think that's true. But I am a nervous traveller -- not nervous like scared of flying. What I'm nervous about is that things will go wrong, like that I won't have a comb or I'll forget my mobile charger or passport. My propensity for worrying eventually and often translates itself into fear.

Two weeks ago, when I actually started this blog, I was in Limerick, Ireland for a work's conference. I had been really excited about going for ages and I wanted this to be an opportunity not only to learn more for my work, but a chance to practice a better way to travel. I really wanted it to be a chance to let go -- not worry about things and to really enjoy it.

So I decided to CouchSurf: hook up with people in the locale I was visiting, people who would be willing to play tour guide and potentially provide accommodation. Obviously you try to get to know a person before you set off and you can choose who you stay with. I met these absolutely fantastic women when I had a layover in Dublin. I provided the whisky and they provided the couch. I was actually supposed to do this in Limerick as well, but I ended up getting a very good deal at the hotel and stayed there; I ended up meeting the people willing to host me for breakfast instead.

I felt really chuffed with my efforts but felt let down when so many people at the conference were flabbergasted by my actions. Obviously they didn't know me very well because they probably would have then congratulated me on my risk-taking. In the end, I decided not to accept their judgements as any sort of truth. I met some lovely people, had a great experience and began to learn to trust again. Trust myself and my instincts.

My Dublin hosts with my whisky contribution

Where I slept. Comfy! But then again, whisky makes everything nice...

I'm the only person who hates Juno

2008-02-17T23:43:00.002Z

I'm on my annual kick to see as many Oscar films as possible. Right now, best picture has to be There Will Be Blood, followed closely by No Country for Old Men. Two exceptional films. However, I've been left wondering how the hell a film like Juno made it into nominations for best film.

I felt very hard done by the press for this film. I was told it would be funny and edgy, but it fell far short of both hurdles. In reality, the film was pointless. I've got a few issues with the film. First, the central protagonist -- a teenager who is pregnant. That happens to thousands of girls every year, so why is this story being championed in such a way? If this film was about a black girl who lived in inner-city Chicago or the backwaters of Louisiana, would anyone give a shit? Despite all of Juno's "edginess", she's mainstream enough to appeal to our whitewashed culture.

Second, the moral. Actually, there was no moral. This film worked desperately hard appeal to all audiences that it had no aim. What was being said, really? Let's say it was trying to show that adoption was a viable option rather than teenage motherhood or abortion. This film, however, unintentionally and ironically makes adoption and abortion two sides of the same coin. At one point, she says, "If I could just have the thing and give it to you now, I totally would". She wants a closed adoption (no contact with the child). She wants rid of the baby and not have to think about it again. The only difference between her adoption and abortion is when she is able to be rid of it.

Third, the plot. To me, having the baby seems like a blip on her calendar, as after she delivers, she has a little cry and then gets on with her life. Actually, her pregnancy shouldn't even be seen as blip, as it doesn't seem to affect her. Did her grades fall because of it? Did she lose friends cos she coudn't hang out anymore? Wait, she does gain weight... Juno encounters very few hurdles in her pregnancy -- completely unrealistic of any type of pregnancy I've ever noticed, let alone teenage pregnancy. And the obstacles she does actually encounter are so ridiculous that they are devoid of meaning. Does love her baby daddy? Are her baby's adopted parents going to stay together? This character is going through a life-changing event and these are the things that tax her?

I find it appalling that such a meagre film could be considered one of the best of the year; the strength of the other films, however, should put this little thing out of serious contention. But the people who vote on Oscars seem to have liking for PC films with "messages". Shee-it, if Crash can win best film over one of the greatest love stories ever told, Brokeback Mountain, then anything is possible for Juno.

Maybe I'm a hippy

2008-02-15T10:35:00.003Z

I think Boy thinks I'm losing my mind...

I don't know if it was my years of living in Okinawa (Japan, that is), but I have a thing for small spaces. I love small, quirky spaces -- spaces that force you to use your imagination in order to live there. Thing is, I hate the thought of it initially, but then I grow to love the space. Right now, we are the (proud?) owners of a flat that measures around 55-60 square meters (approximately 600 square feet). This place is half the size of the last place we lived in the US and trust me, when I first moved in, I felt it. But I have grown accustomed to it and now I am loathed to leave.

Boy and I are being adults now and "moving up the property ladder". We have the money to do so and we'll need to remortgage anyway in the summer, so the time is right. But I really don't want to go. It's kinda like my friend Roomie said, "I don't feel like I've accomplished what I set out to do. I don't know that I set out to do, but..." Boy and I keep getting in these arguments because I get my mind set on something and it's hard to get me to see the merits of anything else. But I don't want to see the merits of a house that's too big for me. I know that I am easily swayed by the moods of others (it's mostly a curse) so I know that if we eventually move to a place that's 1800 square feet, then I'd eventually grow to feel that is an appropriate amount of space for two people and two dogs.

However, ethically, it's not. What is our modern obsession with having a lot of shit? My amah's like that -- she's got oversized furniture in the house, a lot of trinkets and stuff around. There are reasons why she likes to live like that, but there is no need to live like that. I'm not saying, though, that we all should live off the land or what we can get like this guy, but there should be a balance and an awareness of when we are letting our possessions and our fear of others rule our lives.

I just joined website where you can leave your books for others to find, read and pass on to others. I also joined a site where you can share your skills, tools and even space with others. Next month, I'm off to Ireland for a conference and I'm staying with some people that I met online. All these things scare the shit of me. I've not been taught to be this way, only been given messages by our society to hoard and distrustful of others because they will exploit your holdings. I'm putting myself out there -- some ways more vulnerable than others -- because I just don't want to live our conventional life in such a straightforward way anymore. I don't want to be scared and I want to let go.

Websites

Book Crossing - leave (or release, as they call it) your books for others to read and pass on, keeping track of the book on this website: www.bookcrossing.com

The Freeconomy Community - "is about sharing the skills you've learnt throughout your life and learning those you haven't. It's about helping others and providing an opportunity for others to help you. Freeconomy allows people to make the transition from a money based communityless society to more of a community based moneyless society, and to share the land they don't need or can't use to facilitate a local food community": justfortheloveofit.org/

CouchSurfing - "a worldwide network for making connections between travelers and the local communities they visit"; you can provide travellers with a place to stay or they can offer you a place to stay (we usually just call that family): www.couchsurfing.com

Hospitality Club - similar to CouchSurfing: www.hospitalityclub.org

Regional Britannia

2008-02-10T10:22:00.000Z

I read this very interesting article in the Guardian a couple of days ago and thought of you. The reason being is that it highlights a home truth about living here in the UK: it's very regionally based. I would say even more so than living in the US. Accents are hugely different from region to region and so, apparently, is musical taste. Even after more than 4 years of living here, there are some genres mentioned I have never heard of, such as euro disco. But that might be because I live in Scotland and apparently we only tend to favour country and western (not). I guess that's the problem about reading an English newspaper -- they positively regard their regions but ignore regions in the lump of country above them. Edinburgh is much more cosmopolitan and I hear very little country and western over here, though that might be more commonplace up north. Anyway, the link to that article is here.

Speaking of cosmopolitan, my volleyball team is quite so. There's me, the loud American, then three Scottish lassies (one from the east, one from the west and one from up north -- big differences people), two who are English, a German and a German-speaking Austrian, a Spaniard, two French people, and a Crotian-Slovokian Italian. The non-English speakers speak English so readily that I forget sometimes that it is their second language and I forget that sometimes my chat can go over their heads. But it is interesting how the chat between the English speakers varies.

I'm in the car with one of the English women and one of the Scottish women from my team. Macca, the Scottish one, talking about someone, says, "What age is she?" I wondered aloud about how odd this phraseology was or if I was losing my mind, and Turtle, the English one, confirmed that it was a very Scottish thing to say. Turtle and I would say, "How old is she?" whereas Macca would say, "What age is she?"

Turtle also pointed out that in Edinburgh we are more likely to hear 'Where do you stay?' than 'Where do you live?' I'm getting more and more into this life that I can't distinguish anymore what I would say and what they (i.e., the Scottish) would say. Also, southern American roots (of which are mine) is seeped in Scottish and Irish tradition (which explains the American country and western connection with Scotland: Scottish and Irish folk music has influenced country music and is, nowadays, being influenced it). So I don't know if I am saying something that's just Georgia country or Scottish. Like if I were trying to meet someone, I would ask, "Whereabouts are you?" Now is that Scottish or American-country?

Christmas puddings

2007-12-26T20:21:00.000Z

I don't mind Christmas in Britain compared to Christmas in the US. Really, I don't. I wrote, maybe last year, about how I loved Christmas pantos they have over here. Christmas crackers are a super tradition too. UK Christmases rock compared to American ones. I don't know, but I think that Americans give everything in celebration of Thanksgiving that they're knackered the time Christmas rolls around and have nothing to give. I spent every Christmas since moving here with my in-laws in Yorkshire, never with my family. But we don't have Christmas traditions. We don't have a set day we get a tree -- some years, no tree at all. And we wouldn't even bat an eyelash at that. My fam doesn't have Christmas food traditions either.

One Christmas thing I do despise over here are the puddings -- desserts, I'm talking about. They are awful. Really foul. It's the love the dried fruit that kills me. Firstly, I abhor dried fruit and I do include raisins and the sort. Pointless, I find them. Well EVERY Christmas dessert is filled with the shit. Mince pies, Christmas cake, fruit cake, yuk. Secondly, they don't put proper frosting on cakes. That's not just Christmas cake either. I'm talking all cakes. They use this hard sugar coating for frosting. I just miss a Betty Crocker frosting in a can sometimes. I'm a simple girl. Thirdly, they put cream in and on everything. MIL made a beautiful fruit salad, which everyone ruined by putting whipped cream on it. Yesterday, I had a chocolate cake with double cream poured over it. I wanted to gag. Can't we just have an extra-large scoop of ice cream like civilised people, hm?

Obsession with travel

2007-12-02T12:17:00.001Z

I've been Twittering now instead of doing the blog. Whenever a thought
comes to me, I whip out my moby and text away. It's easy-peasy
lemon-squeezy and frankly if you're not doing it you are in the Dark
Ages. But I digress. Currently I'm on a coach heading toward
Newcastle, of which, if you were down with Twitter, you might of read
about earlier. I've noticed though that my many of my previous tweets
have been documenting my travel plans in an almost Rain Man-ish way.
Truthfully, it is a bit odd. But then again, the only time I have any
chance to share my reflections is either waiting for a bus or on said
bus, to my next destination. Like now. I'm so trapped on this stupid
coach I felt compelled not only to Twitter but to blog as well, a
desire I hadn't had in two months. Since I'm writing this blog entry
via email, 1) this message will appear as one, long block of text and
2) a wee message will pop up at the end cos mobile emailing is pretty
basic, really only allowing you to write. Anyway, ignore it please,
especially the little message. After all if you are reading this, then
you're doing it, innit?

--
Don't forget about the blog, people -- britishisleslife.blogspot.com

It's all for you... it's all... for... you...

Just horrible

2007-09-25T16:37:00.000+01:00

"Let's write about your family!" I told one of my pupils today, "Mummy or Daddy?"

"What about my brothers?" he said.

He doesn't have any brothers. He's an only child "Okay... " I said, "Uh, how many brothers do you have?"

"I have thousands of brothers," he said, sounding slightly like some civil rights leader.

"What are their names?"

"Logan... "

"Any others?"

"Uh..."

I chose a name at random. "Brian? Is one of your brothers called Brian?"

"Yeh."

"Really? Brian?"

"Yes."

"What about... Chester?"

"No."

"Oh... how about Arthur? Do you have a brother called Arthur?"

"Yes! You know all my brothers, don't you?"

"Why yes, I do."

Metcheck's weather assessment

2007-09-13T06:32:00.000+01:00

Metcheck.com is where I go to check the weather cos I think it's the best, most accurate source. Here's their assessmet of the next week's weather. I love the professionalism of the first part contrasted with the last paragraph.

Sorry to say it, but this week does in fact signal a large shift in weather patterns from a blocking high, to a transient system with unsettled weather pushing in for the end of the week.

The difference this year with the placement of the high, compared to previous years, is that it's stubbornly stayed out to the West of the UK. This has allowed a somewhat cooler airstream to push in around the top of the high.

During this week, so weather fronts continue to slip down from the North-west. They will weaken as they push South-east bringing nothing more than cloud and patchy drizzle to Western and Central areas from midweek onwards.

It's from Thursday, where a deep area of low pressure pushes its front South-east across all areas which breaks the back of the high. A much cooler airmass will spread South across the UK in time for the weekend. After this, we look out West to see further unsettled weather pushing in for the remainder of next week.

So, as Summer 2007 draws to a close, there is only one word to sum it up really... pants.

The final straw

2007-09-12T21:16:00.000+01:00

My Ikea futon is very confused. It thinks it is supposed to permanently be a bed as we leave it in its outstretched state whether or not we have visitors. So it was giving me a very hard time as I was trying to take it out of its position akimbo and back in sofa mode. Then I realised the mattress wasn't attached and it was upside down -- bottom side up. Although my futon never leaves its recline, it can't make itself do that. But SIL, who visited last, can.

SIL, Zebedee, Dougal and Dylan were here last month for the festival. Three years running they come for the festival. Each time SIL makes out like she's coming to catch up with us. No, you want free lodging in a city where prices rise ridiculously in the month of August. This year she didn't even ask, that's how it's become.

First thing Dylan said when he arrived was that it smelled. Thanks, you bastard, I guess I didn't really need to tidy up then. I forgave that as he's the youngest, but if that were me, I would have gotten pulled into the other room, spanked until I screamed bloody murder, then emerged to given a heartfelt, though sniffly apology under the watchful eye of the manners police that was my father.

When I arrived home the next day, Dougal greeted me with, "You have mice." Perplexed with his little game, I echoed, "Mice?" to only be told of their location: "Mice behind your refrigerator." Anyone else, that might of hurt their feelings. Me, I thought, so fucking what? Who doesn't have mice? Z, Doog and Dyl live in an idyll without mice, a figment of their mother's imagination. Everywhere has mice! No-one is immune. In a world of 6 billion people, there are probably 7 times that number of mice. In Scotland. The sooner those kids, and all of you, learn this, the less stress you will have about mice in your house. It's not a case of whether mice are in your house but if they want you to meet them or not. Personally, I'm happy for those buggers to be behind the fridge and not out with their bubonic plague-having selves hanging round in the open, having a ham sandwich and watching 'Tribe' with Bruce Parry with me on Tuesday nights.

Boy says SIL puts the kids up to all this. Maybe, but I was able to let it go, forgetting all about it. But then she turned the fucking mattress over on my futon. Well, if my smelly, vermin-ridden house, with its dirty-cos-my-convelescening-dog-slept-on-it mattress isn't good enough for Mrs Clean, then feel free to find another place. I think Martin (that is Lawrence) said it best in his "seminal" television show of the same name, "Get to steppin'."

An echo

2007-09-10T07:10:00.000+01:00

So I get a message. I have one missed call on my moby from my sister. She never calls me. I am worried, all sorts of ideas running through my head. Though having trouble getting through to her as I am travelling by train, I do talk to her. "Your last blog... " she doesn't use the word pathetic, but she does say this: So middle school.

Oooo, I don't know what hit me my friends. Mostly a crisis of confidence. Like my pal "dumping" me. Like starting my masters and feeling completely overwhelmed and incompetent. Like feeling scared and nervous about doing this all on my own, with none of my peeps. I am a very good worrier, I am.

I have a few responses from the last blog. Right now, I can't bear to read them. I can't bear to have a reflection of my silliness and hysteria in your words. I deeply love and appreciate people responding, especially as it seems that I haven't given a toss about you and your activities in ages. I will read your answers soon, I promise.

Nonetheless, I'm still thinking of packing the blog in. I can't be concise! I'm thinking of only doing Twitter and the moblog. What do you think?

A clearing

2007-09-08T00:20:00.000+01:00

More and more I get the feeling that no-one gives a toss and that I'm alone, save my hudsbands and my duggies. I know I don't blog that often and that guilt trips get me nowhere, but why the fuck does no-one respond? I mean, would you do that in a fucking conversation.

My pal Shish has dumped me. Like properly "It's not you, it's me" breaking up. She called me into her room for the talk. She has a lot on this session -- can't sit in the staff room and talk. But you can with her? I feel 15 years old again, except when I was 15, I was getting no play, so let's say I feel 25 again. But then I was getting play. What about 22? I don't know, I relied a lot on her. Life here can be crazy for a wild American girl having to keep it under wraps and she was a good friend to have. But maybe she didn't think I was.

It makes me think more and more that I'm a shit friend. LIke I got a letter in the post from my friend May. She's written me twice and I've not yet written once! So I sat down as soon as I finished reading her letter and typed up a letter. Still haven't printed that shit!

I moan at you for being shit friends, but what the fuck about me? How am I keeping in your life? Not very well. So forgive me friends -- after all, I've just dumped.

On a more positive note, I've started my first class towards my masters. Negative point: a week has past and I haven't done any reading. I was very busy this week with Boy out of toon at a conference and having to do all the walking for the dogs. When I arrived from work on Wednesday, Sarah and Samantha had broken out of the living room, the latter having shat and puked all about the house. Cleaning up the mess answered a question for me: No, I do not want kids! Work has been hectic. I took Bob's boyfriend to see Rush Hour 3. I should tell you about him another time -- an absolutely fascinating cat.

And for fhese reasons, I think I might be packing in this blog for a while. I just don't have the capacity for short entries -- I've tried, I really have. I'm just too... conscientious. But I won't give up blogging, just this blogging format. Twittering will still go on, as will the moblog. I think I might start posting video blogs of me on the moblog. A little easier than typing these tomes of which I have a strong propensity.

The weird life on the train

2007-08-08T11:00:00.000+01:00

I'm taking a little break from the festivals and not a moment too soon. I am knackered. Right down to the bone -- shattered. Too many shows, too many late nights. I'm beginning to look forward to going back to work. Yikes! I'm slacking on the reviews I promised myself that I would write(and no-one else, cos, really, no-one else knows anything of the review writing, the review tweets, etc.). I do this when life gets too overwhelming: I become the ostrich. So even though I had to wake up at 5.30 am, I am pleased to have this break.

So yes, I am on a train. Writing this blog, listening to a podcast of Fresh Air I downloaded half an hour ago, riding to London. I know! LIfe these days -- it's absolutely amazing. I feel like hot shit -- for no reason, at all.

I don't know how they get this internet connection on a moving train, but I don't think it is linked within the UK. As it was when I was in Amsterdam, the peripheral text surrounding the window in which I currently type is written in a different language. And I don't know the language. I thought it was Polish, but after having a second look, I think it might be a Scandinavian language of some sort. I'm leaning toward Finnish.

I'm starving. I haven't been able to stop anywhere cos 1) I started on this journey in Edinburgh so early that I wasn't hungry and 2) I'm too scared to be late for the train because if I did something wrong, Boy, with his amazing talent of ubiquity when it comes to the dogs, would call me and scold me. So hunger is better.

The manager of the train (Edinburgh to York) got on the tannoy (intercom) to announce to us:

If you are using the toilets, the flush button is located behind the lid. If you push the panic button, I will speak to you in the toilet. And if I speak to you, please answer back.

FRINGE: So crap, you're bad

2007-08-04T11:10:00.000+01:00

Two bad shows in one day? It ain't right.

Yesterday saw the first (of many, it seems) of my "double days" -- a day that I would take in more than one Fringe show. At 20 to five, I saw Bouncy Castle Macbeth (BCM); later, at 10.30 pm, I took in Simon Amstell. The good thing about these shows is that it gave me plenty of time to take in dinner at a fantastic eastern African place called Magda. And that was the only thing. Both shows -- how can I put this nicely -- were crap. Honestly, I tried to find some nice phraseology, but nothing, nothing worked other than a good ol' Scottish crrrrrap.

And I feel back for saying this about BCM, for the average age of the performers was no more than 8. This might have been the thinking behind its staging: "This bouncy castle is really cool! How can we keep using it for the whole of the summer? I know, let's put on a performance of that bloody awful story our middle class Mummy's reading us -- Macbeth!" Okay, that's crap cos everyone knows that the reason why there are six different performances of Macbeth happening is that we are in Edinburgh. Which is in Scotland. And the play is about a Scottish dude -- people do I have to lay everything out for you? You know, because of all these performances, there will be a drought of tartan in material shops for months to come. A black market of Estonian tartan will be created, resulting in inferior material flooding the country. Oh, the horror.

Back to BCM: of all the Macbeth stagings I booked in on, and without seeing any, this was the one I was most fond of, the one I was most proud to go to see. I knew the acting wouldn't be up to scratch, set not very good -- I had lowered expectations. But it would make up for its shortcomings by being full of irreverence, irony and silliness, the Fringe ethos. Which is why I was so disappointed. There wasn't enough of the triumverate (irreverence, irony and silliness, in case you didn't follow). One problem: I think they should have given the original dialogue a rest. It's nearly impossible to enunciate, project or emote anywhere near appropriate on a bouncy -- who thought this up? It is completely in conflict to what theatre is supposed to be, innit? The precise Shakespearean language, its use should have been ironic, ironically dragged this show down. And if you are a Macbeth virgin, let me tell you, then BCM is not where to start. Only because I perused the play's synopsis in the Macbeth entry in Wikipedia that I even stood a chance of understanding the plot -- what? I tried to read the play, but couldn't make it out of the introduction.

I feel, again like BCM, a strange sense of disloyalty for saying this. It won't stop, though: Simon Amstell is an awful stand-up comedian. He's just so gosh-darn funny in the other things I've seen him in, but the stage and the mic is no place for him. He had no command of the audience and looked perpetually surprised to see himself faced with a group of people expecting him to be funny. Continually he moaned about how well he did at previews, only to crash in flames like a plane in a dogfight (that was my simile, not his) last night. What? He was killing with those jokes? About clown rape? About how he was embracing Buddhist teachings? Yes, because Richard Gere is the most hilarious person ever. The gig was so boring that the guy next to me fell asleep for twenty minutes and I entertained myself by pushing him over on to the next guy (who was, no doubt, doing the same).

The thing that amazed me was that Simon Amstell was never heckled! Not really, that is. Never once challenged. Do not misunderstand -- there were loads of times he could have been jeered. So why was he never, in his self-admittedly "worst show ever" (I would have probably despaired for him more though if it hadn't been his third show, ever), ever heckled? I thought it was because he was famous, on the telly, well-liked. But I think it went past that. I think it was out of pity. And people, he was pitiable, up there in his skinny jeans so inappropriate for a man his age, talking about the loneliness one feels after a break up. He learned from Buddhism that there is individual, but only a collective and that we are one together. And we were that night, one, in our joint boredom of Simon Amstell.

FRINGE: How to keep your show tight

2007-08-03T10:04:00.000+01:00

Is it actually possible for a comedian to sustain a comedy gig with no lags?

Boy and I have always been big fans of comedy. So the Edinburgh Fringe is right up our alley, as it features many top, UK comedians for nearly the entire month of August, right in my back garden. I have practically memorised the programme. VBP was impressed with my system of circling favourites (the old systems are the best systems), as well as highlighting. She was also amazed at my know-how, in terms of getting round the venues and finding the hidden Fringe Box Office. As they say on the softball diamond, I ain't playin'!

I choose to see Fringe shows of performers we have seen before. They might have been on telly -- such as Simon Amstell and Frankie Boyle, of Never Mind the Buzzcocks and Mock the Week, respectively. Or in a comedy club -- like Reginald D Hunter. Or might have caught them in a comedy revue of sorts, been blown away by their part in an otherwise bad group of comedians -- like Henning Wehn and Glenn Wool. For whatever reason chosen, there is one similarity: whenever we have seen these people in the past, they have only been performing for a short time, say half an hour, but for some as little as five minutes.

Now if you have your own Fringe comedy show, your show will run an hour, unless you're at one of those behemoth venues (like any of the thousands of Under/Udder/Babybelly places that spring like the plague in August) that like to make people queue for ages because you know you can under the claim of clearing the room betwen gigs. Then your show will be 55 minutes. Or, if you're particularly unlucky and the venue/performer is particularly cheeky (Janey Godley, could I be talking about your chat show?), then it can be 50 minutes.

So this performer -- whom we might have caught initially on telly, there buoyed by fellow performers; or in a club, though headlining, no doubt, only had a 30-minute set, innit?; or in a revue, where the expectations of having to carry the whole of the set is very limited -- has to entertain for the better part of an hour. Is it really possible? I know comedians continue to come to the Fringe, performing at that length of time, one even going as far as to have a 24-hour show, but is 60 minutes realistic? Can anyone hold an hour's worth of material in their head -- keep it straight, with perfect delivery, while holding off fiendish and dreaded hecklers? In my mind, I don't know if it is achieveable to keep a gig going for that long.

Let's take last night, for example. We first saw Glenn Wool in an one-off comedy revue at last year's Fringe. He was the best comedian of the bunch, hands down. His political humour and observations about culture, religion and society held us. Yesterday, the beginning was good, the end was alright, but there was a definite lag of at least 20 minutes in the middle when he went on about his drug and alcohol abuse. I'm no prude, and I think the audience will back me up on the fact that it wasn't engaging material. So what was the different between the shows? There will have been loads of variables, which can not make my theory by any means able to be scientifically proven. So this will just a guesstimation. (Luckily, that's nearly as scientific.) The first time we saw him, he was on for no more than 10 minutes. The revue also had important ramifications: the person who did the best would be considered for a slot on the US chat show hosted by David Letterman. Obviously, he practised. A lot. In essence, the first set was tight, which made it so very good.

Those of you who aren't familiar with seeing comedians in comedy clubs won't have an idea of what I mean about being tight -- and seeing comedy on tube don't count. They edit the hell out of that shit. Don't you know you can't trust anything you see on TV? I mean, nothing. (What, Shark Week is faked? People, is nothing sacred!) If you happen to see a comedian in a particularly long set at a comedy club (or trying out new material, or unprepared), you'll see what I mean. The comedian has got a big laugh and, perhaps distracted by that, tries to ride that laugh a little too long in order to get their thoughts together. S/he hmmms a bit, and, if you look carefully, they are rolling through their mental roladex, trying to find the next joke, all the while trying not to let on. The transition from one joke to another will be poorly made, the flow lost. This process can be unfortunately transparent, as with Glenn Wool last night going back to his A4 size sheets of jokes on his stool to have a little looky-lu. Reginald D Hunter was similiar when we saw his Fringe show last year, save the exclusions of handwritten jokes, letting the audience know how unsettled he was. You in the audience can also feel when a set isn't tight. You might be a bit bored, suddenly notice how hard the seat it and your eyes won't be on the performer as much.

Both of the above examples (of Wool and Hunter) were based on preview shows -- in fact, they were the first gigs those performers did in the Fringe. Of course they would be ironing out the show, testing out material, looking the joke or story that would make the kill. But other shows I saw last year had this so-called lag, shows that were not previews: Karen Dunbar (fo' so') and Rich Hall, to name two I can remember. I don't think the hour set does any of our comedians any justice because it can never be tight. But there's no way anyone would leave their flats for anything less than (near-ish) an hour of entertainment. No punters, no money. And as long as we let the paper drive things, we continue to be given comedy that does not quite meet the potential of many of these talented performers.

Festival fun

2007-08-02T19:52:00.000+01:00

What was wrong with me? I looked back all of my posts from last summer and never did I blog about the festivals. What the hell? August is the absolute best time to come to Edinburgh because we are inundated with festivals. We have an art festival, film festival, book festival, jazz festival, military tattoo, the Fringe (the irreverent stuff) and the International Festival (the high brow stuff). The toon is heaving with people looking for great stuff to do and they are never disappointed in August.

We are booked into see just as many, if not more, shows as last year; all gigs are from the Fringe. We prefer comedy shows and the Fringe is where to go for something like that. The Fringe programme came out the first Friday in June and when the box office opened on the Monday, I was probably the first person online, booking tickets. As a result, I pulled a coup d'etat on some of the bookings, as they are top-name UK performers and their shows have been sold out.

~~2 Aug: Glenn Wool~~
~~3 Aug: Simon Amstell, the host of Never Mind the Buzzcocks~~
~~4 Aug: Frankie Boyle, very deadpan and very Scottish comedian from Mock the Week~~
~~5 Aug: Russell Kane, a recommendation from VBP and double date with her and Nile~~
~~6 Aug: Tony Woods, a former writer for Chappelle Show~~
11 Aug: Paul Merton, from, mostly famously,Have I Got News For You (he's the one in the blue sweatshirt)
16 Aug: Kanye West
17 Aug: Reginald D. Hunter; I love seeing him cos he's a Black guy from Georgia and I don't get to hear to many of them over here
18 Aug: Gamarjobat, booked mostly for my friend Bob's boyfriend, who doesn't speak any English
23 Aug: Henning Wehn, very funny German comedian, a fave of mine
26 Aug: if.com comedy awards, where the best comedic performers of the Fringe perform

I also have a personal goal. The Fringe programme listed six different performances of Macbeth -- and I'm going to see all of them, all being well. Some have cool angles: Macbeth on stilts, Macbeth set in the Caribbean. Tomorrow, I see Macbeth set in a bouncy castle. Problem is, I've never even read Macbeth.

Finding joy in the pain

2007-07-30T20:04:00.000+01:00

Softball is killing me. It wants me to die.

This past weekend I was in Birmingham for a 2-day softball tournament, terrifically fun. I played third base for the tourney, not my normal position, but played my usual aggressive game. My first slide into second saw me called safe and a bit of a burn on my left leg. The second slide (called out) got more of the skin so that I've got some really nice scabby bits now.

Fielding did me no better. When going for a particularly well-hit grounder, it thwacked my so hard on the leg that it not only left me with a bump and a bruise, but also imprinted the pattern of my sock onto my shin. Another grounder bounced up and knocked me on my bicep, leaving another bruise.

I did everything to keep my old body together in order to be able to play two days of softball. I took some paracetamol (acetaminophen) to lessen the stiffness and pain, and went to the treatment tent to get some massage on my troublesome left hamstring and both Achilles tendons. I drank an alternating programme of water and sports drink, like Serena Williams did at Wimbledon, to keep hydrated -- drank so much that I peed about nine times on Saturday. I ate cashews between the second and third games and at the end of the games on Saturday after reading that the Olympic 400m gold medalist Dame Kelly Holmes ate them between training sessions to help her recover more quickly. I chewed mint gum cos I also read that it made people not think of the pain as much. And as everyone took up the bevvie after dinner, me and Roomie took to our beds early. And I needed all of it and more.

The pain didn't stop at the weekend, though. Today at training, my knee ached as I crouched, as the catcher behind home plate, where I was hit to the throat by a ball. I don't think that there's any part of my body that hasn't been bruised, battered, crunched or left creaking by softball.

I haven't played since leaving high school and when I stopped, I mourned the loss of playing team sports. For it meant that I would never again be able to experience the best of what it means to play with a group of people: the camaraderie. In the past, I believe I stated that volleyball is my favourite ever sport. But I might need to take that back, and substitute it for softball, the first sport I ever played. This past season of softball -- nay, this past weekend of softball -- has reminded me of the highs, the lows and, ultimately, the joys of playing as a team. A joy which I don't think, truthfully, I've fully experienced while in my volleyball renaissance.

I had never played with the vast majority of the women on my team, but they welcomed me like an old friend. Game by game we began to gel, and with it, our confidence as a team grew, which became a bud of respect, blossoming into a flower of true fondness. Without Zizzy, Roomie (aka Shifty, aka Canuck, aka Wheat Free, aka WiFi), the Captain, Lil Evil and the rest of the ragtag group, I would have easily succumb to the tiredness and pain I felt. Yes, softball was killing me this weekend, but because of them, I (aka the Fortress), was loving it.

Stupid Bebo or, Am I always indignant?

2007-07-27T12:41:00.000+01:00

I really am getting tired of this "networking" sites. Okay, there was a time when I was ab-solutely obsessed with MySpace and was on it every other second. But as it is no longer novel to speak to some kid that I was in 2nd grade with (you can only ask, "So, what are you up to?", so many times before it becomes boring), I'm done. Strangely, I then joined Bebo. Well, most of my Scottish peeps have shunned MySpace for Bebo, compelling me to join. The initial irritating thing was my usual username, the one I use for everything, everywhere, my middle name that my mother created, was taken. By some 16-year-old besom. So it's pretty hard to find me.

I try to keep some presence on both sites, as I am "networking" and I want to show my "friends" that I "care". I decided to post a video on Bebo. Actually, it is the fourth video from my last blog entry. On the site, I named the video My niece having fun with my very mixed up bitch -- which, if you've seen the video, pretty much explains it all.

The next day, I got this email, saying Bebo had taken the video down!

A video with the name 'My niece having fun with my very mixed-up bitch' has been deleted from your Bebo account.

IMPORTANT: Your Bebo membership is at risk of being cancelled, please read on:

Bebo staff now review ALL videos uploaded to Bebo to ensure they comply with our terms of service, if further videos are found that are deemed inappropriate then your membership may be cancelled automatically.

We will be going back over all videos you have uploaded in the past and review these too. Bebo needs to be a safe place for all to use.

How's that for an explanation? No telling why it was taken down and it obviously didn't violate the "no porn" mandate. So then, my response to those idiots:

My video "My niece having fun with my very mixed up bitch" has recently been deleted from my account, reason unknown to me. I can only assume it is because you have deemed it "inappropriate", as you later mention in my warning email that "if further videos are found that are deemed inappropriate then your membership may be cancelled automatically", but never actually said that the video was inappropriate.

Well, if you actually watched the video, which you claimed you did in the email, then you would have known how wide an assumption you made. You would have seen a 5-year-old girl dragging a blanket around a room, with my dog Samantha jumping on it and humping the blanket. Hardly sexually titilating, and very, very innocent stuff.

So this leads me to assume that your staff have not watched the video. You either have a computer monitoring the sites or a person who looks for "buzz" words and eliminating content on that basis, thereby deleting my video for its title. Like my video, the use of word "bitch"; was not inappropriate. It was even purposeful. The dog featured in the video is a female, correct term of identification being bitch -- I used the word to explain her surprising behaviour in the video.

I will not reload the video on my site while we are in discussion about this. However, I do not see anything unsightly about the clip and ultimately will look to reinstate it once we have clarified the matter.

Their response?

Thank you!

We hope you enjoy using Bebo as much as we do :D

Kindest Regards,
Tomek Sudol

So then me, 5 minutes ago:

Tomek,

I hope I am going to get a better response that 1-minute, computer generated fluff that you so cheekily sent me.

Kindest Regards.

Videos to enjoy

2007-07-25T14:11:00.000+01:00

Just a few videos that I might not have shown before. This first silent one is from our last year's summer holiday in Corsica. It was just so beautiful there and kinda reminded me of Okinawa.

This next video is of my nephews (sons of BIL2). Nothing major going on, rather normal family interaction. But doesn't the youngest have the biggest head you've ever seen?

The following video starring my ever obedient pup, Samantha, is silent one, but you'll get the point quick enough.

And this last one is the most recent, again featuring Samantha, this time with my niece A, having a bit of fun. Samantha shows that she's a bit mixed up in how she behaves.

It's my own fault anyway

2007-07-24T22:33:00.000+01:00

So I've gotten back in touch with Yukiko, a friend from high school, via Twitter. It was crazy, cos I like never talked to this bird but then when I sent out my Twitter invite, she joined immediately. It's actually been really nice in a way. I don't know 'bout you, but when I get back in touch with people from the past, I feel the need to catch them back up on the mindless minutiae of my life, year by year. The thing with Yuki is that since we were only communicating via Twitter -- with their 140 character limit -- there was no way to recount our missed past in great detail. You just have to move on, talk about what's going on.

I'm not sure how it came about -- whether it was my idea or her's -- but Yuki decided to create a blog. I only remember advising her that she should have a good angle with her blog -- a reason that others would want to read. So she up and did, which I was very pleased for her. The blog, Yumi's Medical Adventures, chronicles her experiences with her daughter's illness.

But then I realised she was getting a huge amount of comments from friends of her's and her daughters. Am I awful for feeling a bit green? But then, she's written everyday of the nearly three weeks she's had the blog. And I've written... bugger all. Anyway, please, do read it.

Day at the beach, twittered

2007-07-12T09:19:00.000+01:00

Yesterday we were able to have one whole, (mostly) sun-filled day at the beach, our fourth day on the holiday. Ah. life at the British seaside. We chose to holiday in Britain this year cos last year was such a nice summer and we thought this year would be just as good -- how wrong were we. We also fancied the idea bringing the dogs on holiday with us. Boy was convinced the girl we got to pet-sit last year wasn't attentive enough and I couldn't be bothered to try and find another person who would just be as aggravating to him. Just a clue if you're dog-sitting for people: evidence of care goes over big, like stories and pictures, like my friend Shish did when we were in Amsterdam.

If I had taken my mobile phone to the beach, I would have twittered all day. But a sand-filled, stolen mobile phone wasn't for me. So here are, what would have been my tweets.

I am the only person wearing a one-piece swimsuit. Oh, wait -- me and this 8-year-old girl.

***

My dogs are like little prima donnas. They have a parasol to keep them cool and a bowl of water. Pretty funny.

***

Boogie-boarding was brilliant but only when the tide came in. Nearly drowned when the surf dropped 4-ft abruptly into the sand.

***

Even when the sun is out, it's not that warm.

***

The water is so breathtakingly cold that I feel like I'm a surrendering a little bit of my life each time I enter it.

***

Wish I had brought a better book with me.

isn't exactly a page turner.

***

Why are games of toss, otherwise boring in 'real-life', suddenly so charged with interest and glee at the beach?

***

White chocolate ice cream pop is a good way to end the day at the beach.

Oldie but Goodie, number 1

2007-06-30T16:28:00.000+01:00

This is the first of several entries that came from my pre-blog emails, documenting my very beginning days in Edinburgh. I'm choosing to republish these (as Oldie, but Goodie) for two reasons: I want all my Life in these British Isles writings to be compiled in one place and sometimes when I can't think of anything new to say, I'll pull out one of these bad boys. It's a bit odd to republish this one in particular, as it's about the winter weather and winter clothing. But since it's cold as fuck here now, pissing it down every other hour, you might see some sort of connection and forgive my seasonal discrepency. This was first published on the 5th of December, 2004. Enjoy.

Ok, look. I want to debunk this myth once and for all, so please read the following very carefully people: It really isn't very cold here in Edinburgh. No, I am not lying to you to ensure your visit; it's true. According to the BBC website, in Edinburgh it was 11° C (51° F) and sunny on Thanksgiving. In Raleigh/Durham, the National Weather Service website says it was going to be 58° F. Not that big of a difference, so stop the madness people!

But I shall admit this: it is windy. Or, as said in the American south, windy as all get out. It's because Edinburgh is very close to the sea. Go to Wilmington, NC, or any other coastal town, and you'll know what I'm talking about. The wind can be biting here, but I am not as affected by it as I was my first winter. That is all down to my new layering techniques.

Last winter's layering techniques, in a word: primitive. It was all about warmth and not about fashion. I was the Michelin man, and I didn't care. But I'm rectifying that this year.

The first two layers are new to this winter season, but essential. The first: hair. Yes, I have not shaved my legs in the past eight weeks, and will probably not do so until June. The question has to be addressed about the effect on one's bedroom life. There might be repercussions, but think of the all-day warmth provided by hair, whereas the other warmth has a limited span. The second essential layer is a bra. Yes, the girl that didn't even wear a bra to her own wedding actually wears one EVERY DAY. The cold, sadly, will make you reconsider your principles.

Next layers are all about your legs. After a good furry growth, consider wool tights, which are much better than thermals on a normal windy day. Here, I can only find woollen tights at John Lewis and they are ₤11! That's a lot of knicker, but well worth it. The thinness of the tights mean you can wear them underneath clothing without appearing strangely bulky. On abnormally windy days, thermals and wool tights might be an option for the faint-hearted. On lightly windy days, I suggest the leg warmer. The leg warmer, that delightfully naff 80s memorabilia, is actually a quite useful object of warmth -- they can be easily shed if too warm (carefully, however, since you don't want startle others with the sight of leg fur). Shyer wearers can hide them under trousers, while the bolder and more experimental of us can attempt them as a bit of ironic outerwear. Obviously, sans the Flashdance-off-the-shoulder top, which is just OTT in this day and age (over the top – get with the lingo chickies!). Finish with thermal or wool socks, or just two pairs of regular socks.

With your legs good and warm, time to think of upper wear. I highly recommend camisoles. My mother is, without a doubt, giving herself congratulatory pats on the back with this bit of my advice. I was first introduced to the camisole by my mother, along with the pettipants, as a required piece of underclothing. Depending on the day and my level of obedience, I wore up to five pieces of underclothing as a child! (That is a bra, camisole, panties, slip and pettipants.) Despite my mother's attempts at reviving Victorian dress, she is right about a camisole. However, the modern and sassy girl might wear a cotton version over her long-sleeved or three-quarter length shirt, just to add a bit of interest. Another way to add interest and warmth is to wear two shirts. If you don't want to look like a mad foreign exchange student, just two rules: 1) Let it seen that you have two shirts on, which will explain the bulk to people. Some examples: outer shirt has a three-quarter length sleeve, while the inner has a longer sleeve; outer shirt is a button up with rolled up sleeves and a longer sleeved inner shirt; outer shirt has a scoop neckline, while the other has a higher neckline; 2) the inner shirt must be thinner than the outer shirt. Trust me, it will be trés chic. Additional chic upper wear to be considered are the cardigan and the neckerchief, though the latter is not for anything but a very lightly windy day.

Of course you will end your ensemble with your coat, scarf, hat (truly optional, since it can lead to the despaired hat-hair) and gloves. Remember those aforementioned leg warmers? Can be used has arm and hand warmers, worn over the forearms. I bet Jennifer Beals never did that, but then again, she probably never lived in Edinburgh either.

Dilemma sorted, morals not

2007-06-26T18:11:00.000+01:00

Last night in the news I saw a large group of journalists paying tribute to fellow reporter Alan Johnston kidnapped 100 days ago by releasing 100 white balloons. It reminded me of a balloon release we had at my school in second grade, I think, to commemorate the end of a fête of some sort. The balloons floated away, becoming colourful dots in the sky to the jubilant cheers of hundreds of children, messages of peace and hope attached. It is my lasting memory of that school year. But we weren't to have it the following year. When I questioned why, my teacher replied that it was environmentally damaging, littering our planet and harmful to animals. This was 1984.

Last week, as you know I had a bit of a moral and ethical dilemma going on. The advice, given via the comments section and email replies, seemed to fall along nationality lines. My American people were telling me to get in there, stand up for this injustice and not to tolerate it. As one friend put it, "YOU are not British and you DO care." The Brits, on the other hand, mostly advocated softly, softly approach, mostly expected.

After talking to the union representative and, more importantly, Boy, I realised my position was terribly flawed. My stance, though I didn't think so, was based on hearsay. And despite my esteemed opinion of Sam, my HT does have the right to hire who he likes. Shit, he hired me and, as I found later, I wasn't the most experienced person for the job. So then why did he hire me? I like to think that he saw something in me, and maybe that's what he saw in Terry, whether that's true or not. That's the hirer's prerogative.

I'm at peace with my revised position about this situation -- I do believe its right. But what I still feel unease about is the idea that many of my peers felt, like me, that injustice was occurring, and that no-one was willing to do more than murmur about it. The status quo and a blind eye lives too comfortably in British society, at times.

I don't mean to criticise a touching tribute when I related the story of the balloon release for the held reporter, but I led this entry with it as it, to me, illustrates something about British society and culture. An action so environmentally unfriendly that my 80s American primary school banned it has just gone on. Brits would probably be irritated by my words, as this is supposed to be a nice gesture and nice gestures, no matter how ridiculous, do not get criticised. Well, they might as well have thrown some old styrofoam takeaway containers, plastic drinks cups and carrier bags from their cars to honour their colleague. But if you saw the streets of Edinburgh, knew that the UK had the lowest rate of recycling in Europe, then you would realise that that wasn't such an extreme comment.

There are so many progressive things happening in the UK, things that are foundational of British culture: some aspects of the political system; the healthcare system; the high standard of (most of the) journalism and news reporting. But then this bedrock gets strewn with our litter of injustice, which we accept. Most gratefully.

Dandoo

2007-06-22T19:18:00.000+01:00

While I'm online, minding my own business, my sister calls me on Skype. She insists on talking to me as she's minding her husband's niece. Though amusing, she annoyingly chooses to read an Elmo story while I'm on the Skype phone. So I recorded it. I guess this is good practice for her as she actually wants to do that crazy spawning thing.

The very first bit is the funniest. I promise.

powered by ODEO

If you can't hear it, which is inevitable with Odeo, then try clicking this link.

Moral dilemma

2007-06-20T21:37:00.000+01:00

If you had bother to join twitter when you got your invitation, you might be up on the happenings. You would have seen the following entry:

There is some absolutely heinous
and unethical shit going down at work.

So let me tell you the story.

This year at my school, we had two teachers in their first, probationary year. To be completely truthful, there was one I liked more than another. I've gone into Sam's classroom and seen a thoughtful, empathetic, earnest teacher -- in a few years, Sam was going to be a very good teacher. I can't say the same of Terry, who's class I worked in as well. Terry is "very by the book", organised, but doesn't have any passion for teaching. Let's just say I know who I'd want my children to be taught by: Sam.

Well, a temporary teaching position came up, which could be filled by either Sam or Terry. Under the Scottish probationers scheme, Sam and Terry would be out of a job at the end of the school year, their positions to be given to other NQTs (nearly qualified teachers). So how would it be decided whom to hire? Our headteacher (HT) was keeping his cards close to his chest. And the memo detailing assignments for next year were handed out; Terry had the position.

I was gutted for Sam. I, and some of my colleagues, felt Sam deserved more as Sam was clearly the better teacher. But why hadn't Sam been hired? Rumours were swirling: Terry only obtained the position due to luck. Luck? The luck of Terry's name being pulled from a hat. This can't be true, I thought. But it wasn't a rumour: the name pulling had been confirmed by another teacher, who had been in on it.

Right now, I want to report my HT to the union, who would definitely take up the case. I do think it is the right thing to do. But I have reservations. One, I don't think I'm ready to deal with the repercussions on my career, short- and long-term, if it came out that I did this. And two, why should I do this? This isn't my problem and it has bugger all to do with me. There's a definite British attitude that you "keep yourself to yourself" and that you don't butt into business that has nothing to do with you. If he was to be reported, it should be by the union representative from our school, not me. Plus -- a big plus that I have to face, even if I don't want to -- would I be this indignant, this self-righteous, if the one hired had been Sam, the "right man" for the job? Honestly, I'd probably not thought any more than, Oh, that's a shame for Terry, and I wouldn't have gone to my union, lest to ruin it for Sam. So this is not entirely not out of moral outrage, but out of outrage for an injured friend.

But on the other hand... I'm ashamed and angry at my HT. He took advantage of his position of authority and trust. Shit, he might as well had been some sort of paedophile, as these people looked up to him and they were in vulnerable positions, needing a job and being completely inexperienced with employment situations like this. They wouldn't have dared to question the pulling of names from a hat; it probably wouldn't have even crossed their minds to question the situation. I know it wouldn't have if it were me, and it's been nine years since I started teaching. In a way, this part of the argument for reporting him has little to do with the action, but the attitude of my HT. He took advantage of his position and lied about it when confronted by others. Oh yes, did I mention that he was confronted by my school's union rep?

I have other reasons for wanting this to be reported. It's unethical and, I think, illegal what the HT did. All positions have to be advertised, even if the interview process is a formality as someone who has worked in the school is been promised the position. That's the way it is, the policy of my district. And he said that Terry's name was pulled from a hat, but who was there to witness this? Was there some sort of independent adjudicator?

Let me share this aside, which I promise as a point. On the very last day of school one year (early in my teaching career), a fellow teacher wanted to observe me teaching a lesson, an observation that she should have conducted earlier in the school year, something she hadn't gotten around to. I was shocked and felt cornered, but somehow came up with a lesson for this woman to see. When I told my friend Helene this story, she went absolutely crazy. That's completely inappropriate, she roared, and marched me down to the principal's office and made me tell my story. And was I ever grateful she did that. I didn't have the experience to know to do that. And I certainly didn't have the cajones to do it on my own. I tell this story because it reminds me of the Terry and Sam's situation, and I feel that it's my turn to take the Helene role: to take Sam and Terry's hands, march them down and demand justice and to be heard. But I don't want to do this just for their sake; I want to do it for all sorts of injustice going on at my school. I want it to be known that this -- and things like this -- will not be tolerated. To let it be known that I won't let him do anything like that to me.

So I'm sorry for the long entry, but I don't know what to do . I really need to hear from you -- now, more than ever. Please let me know how you think I should proceed.

Updates

2007-06-17T17:11:00.000+01:00

In my blog, Turning over a new leaf, I documented my first ever vegetables grown. Well, we did eat the argula (rocket) in a salad, along with some chives, mint and sage that we are growing. The spring onions (aka, scallions, green onions, salad onions) were incorporated into an egg casserole and was damn tasty. Unfortunately, I am finding the gardending bit of it tedious and boring and snails seem to like my shit. I'm considering collecting up all the snails and eating them, like escargo, much to the disgust of the Boy.

****

I told you the tale of a young Dundonian man in Bladar who, at least to me, looked Black. My team-mates completely disagreed with me. I explained that I recognised that he wasn't Black Black, that he wasn't -- which has now become infamous in its phraseology -- FOB, fresh off the boat.

While I was in Perth for the volleyball tournament, I saw this guy, looking as Black as ever. I took my chance and moseyed on over to him to have a chat. Suffice to say that after our positive conversation (in which he himself admitted that he had been thought of as Black as well), I asked him to join the Brotherhood and renamed him Tyreek. The brother formally known as Graeme thanked me and is looking forward to his Black Brotherhood membership card any day now.

If I can't see it...

2007-06-06T13:56:00.001+01:00

At one point, my uni room-mate had a hair-do that looked as if some had attached one of those fans geishas carry. Though adventurous, on a good day the best description would have been "absurd". When I pointed out that the style created an unfortunate bald spot, Renaye replied, to my disbelief, "If I can't see it, it don't exist."

Well, today, I'm a believer. A variety of factors -- the warm weather, losing a few pounds, not really having much more to wear -- has led me to pull outand wear my city shorts. A staple of summer 2006, wearing last season isn't necessarily my huge crime. What it is is that I have not shaved my legs. I insist to myself that no-one notices the stubble. But then why did my 6-year-old pupil, Steed, continually rub his leg against mine today during our lesson?

Turning over a new leaf

2007-06-03T11:55:00.000+01:00

I am a bit sad to say that, despite my grandparents' work as farmers, I never have grown anything in my life. There is a big "back to the Earth" movement going on with kids my age and I, as a follower, am embracing it. This movement includes trying to buy locally to reduce the "air miles" of food; buying fresh; composting your waste;and even growing your own food.

Boy and I pretty much have embraced the first two on the list, even though it means having to do without some foods and guiltily eating others (like citrus -- the air miles on citrus are horrible). After a disastrous spell with vermicomposting (composting, but with worms -- poor buggers bit the dust), I doubted my ability to grow anything. Boy's father, FIL, has grown his own fruit and vegetables for probably more than 30 years. His advice -- to bung some seeds in the ground -- was too bold for a novice like me.

It was my friend Shish who finally gave me a leg up. She runs the school garden and has the loveliest garden round the side of her flat. One weekend when Boy was away, she showed up at mine with a shovel, a fork, a spade and two rubbish bins and said that we were going to make a bed. It was exactly what I needed. I was such a beginner that I came out to the garden with my overalls and Wellington boots (a bit of overkill). We worked for an hour and cleared away the overgrowth of clover and grass.

At the garden centre, Shish tried to steer me to the flowers and plants, her speciality. There was no way I was going to put out all that effort for some stupid flowers! Quickly, she realised my aim (my stomach) and we decided on cauliflower, rocket (arugula), strawberries, and green onions (scallions). Every night for more than two weeks, in my wellies (which wasn't necessary but made me feel more like a proper gardener) I dutifully took the water can Shish gave me down the two flights of steps to the back garden to water my plant-lets.

When FIL came for a visit this weekend, I proudly took him down to my little patch to show it off. Like a father, he told me that practically everything I was wrong (cauliflower too close together, rocket and green onions too far apart) -- well, that's what it felt like! But... the rocket and onions were ready -- and weren't too shabby. He had the first of the crop for a sandwich.

And we'll be eating the rest in an baked Polish omelet and salad with some creamy lemon vinaigrette.

Omelet:
1 bunch scallions, sliced
1 clove minced garlic
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 tablespoons rye flour (I just use whole wheat flour)
1 1/2 ounces milk
2/3 cup sour cream
4 eggs beaten
1 tablespoon chopped cilantro
1 tablespoon chopped flat leaf parsley
2 tablespoons melted butter
Salt and pepper, to taste
1 cup cooked chopped spinach
2 red peppers, small dice
6 ounces crumbled feta cheese
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Saute scallions and garlic in oil and place on the bottom of an oiled 8-inch casserole. Mix flour, milk, sour cream and eggs and herbs, butter and seasoning. Place vegetables in casserole. Pour egg mixture on top and cover with crumbled feta. Bake 40 to 45 minutes

Vinaigrette
1 handful fresh mint
1 tablespoon grainy mustard
1 tablespoon hot water
1 lemon, juiced
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 heaping tablespoon creme fraiche (you can use soured cream)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Wash and dry the shoots and mint, place in a large bowl.
In a mason jar, combine the mustard, water, lemon juice, oil, creme fraiche, sugar, salt, and pepper. Put the cap on and shake vigorously to emulsify. Drizzle the vinaigrette over the greens and toss well to coat. Serve immediately. Store any remaining vinaigrette in the jar in the refrigerator.

Allowance

2007-06-01T07:37:00.000+01:00

If you believe relationship experts, the top five things couples argue over are money; sex; work; children and; housework. Thankfully, as Boy and I have no children, we are not arguing over the bairns. And for us, we can score housework off the list of potential arguments. I have found my soul-mate, in terms of housework: we both avoid as much as possible.

But we more than make up for it with our (figurative) knock-down, drag-out rows over money. He thinks I'm a spendthrift; I think he's too tight at times. Great combo, eh? What probably has made the situation worse is the way we handle money. Despite our attitudes to money, we combine our income in a joint pool. Our money happened quite from the beginning and we believe in it so much that scoff at other couples that don't do it: obviously we are committed to each other -- properly -- because we share everything, including the money. Ah, the logic of the self-righteous.

However, this leads to rows when Boy, although concerned about what is being spent, is inattentive about outgoings. Then at the end of the month wants to know where all the ducats are, particularly what I spent. I always object to the line-item retelling as insulting, as he should been paying attention before. He insists on knowing, while I rage, insulted. And the hilarious circle begins.

But after only four years of marriage people, we are combating this issue. We are giving each other an allowance to spend on what we like. There -- no more arguments. Or so we thought. What about Boy's driving lessons? They will benefit me, so the joint account should pay for it, he reasons. (We won't get into the fact that he failed his first test, facilitating a £150+ bill for additional lessons and testing) And my Master's work will benefit the house, as I will, by the time I get my degree, be making thousands more a year.

And this issue hadn't been considered: I bought some resources for work out of my own allowance, spending at least five-eighths of my monthly money. I knew it was dear, but I had been wanting these books and so I purchased them. "You reaslise this money has to last you to the end of the month." Aye. "And you get no more money." Yes. "What could you possibly have spent all that money on?" It was the first time I didn't have to give a line-item account and it felt good.

Weekend hijinks

2007-05-29T07:15:00.001+01:00

So this was the weekend of the Scottish Open Volleyball Tournament in Perth. It's always just referred to as Perth by those in the know. Which excludes me, obviously. Perth has indoor and outdoor volleyball on offer, but you have to be shit hot to be "invited" to play indoors in the "Division of Honour". If you knew who I knew playing indoors, you would realise that there was very little honour about.

So little ol' righteous me was relegated outside, which I hate. Outdoor play is always billed as being "fun!" and "just a muck about". Er, no, -- it's just sloppy and lazy. There's nothing fun about a volleyball dropping because people's defensive skills have evaporated. And I am not going to laugh after that 19th dropped ball, two inches in front of you. I am a true comedy connoisseur and three is the number of humour and therefore, my limit. Yes, yes, yes, I know that you had 10 drinks the night before, barely able to make it on to the court that morning. I was with you, had 8 drinks to your 10 (I'm a lightweight) and am still moving my ass like a crazy woman. And I'm old enough to be your mother! (Okay, only if it was a very, very, very special virgin conception, but the point is I'm old and you're not!)

We just had the six needed to play by recruiting a friend of one of the team-mates who hadn't played in two years. She promptly tore a ligament when went for a short ball and slid. Poor thing... thank God she gave me her money before she injured herself though. So we were down to four players, as her friend and our team-mate who gave her a lift had to go back as well. And there was my situation: outdoor volleyball, camping in the cold, not even able to play decent volleyball or volleyball at all, watching proper volleyball in the Division of Integrity with loads of envy and disgust. What's a girl to do, other than drink her 11 pear ciders that she bought with her? A true Scottish weekend.

PS -- I did twitter about it. Why don't you read it?

Little joys

2007-05-25T08:36:00.001+01:00

I've just discovered twitter, which some of you more technically
minded peeps might have already known of. Okay, think of this blog -
here for you to get your fill of what's going on - but condensed to
140 characters. Intrigued? You can get these messages sent to your
mobile which may not be a good thing if you ask my friend Cris, my
first 'follower' (as twitter calls them). But then you get these
so-called mini-blogs in real time with the mobile service. Or just get
it via email. But it's all free. If you got an email invite, please
sign up and give it a chance. And if you didn't get an invite, feel
free to send me a disgruntled email, questioning the level of our
friendship.

--
Don't forget about the blog, people -- britishisleslife.blogspot.com

It's all for you... it's all... for... you...

A travelling philosophy

2007-05-21T07:42:00.000+01:00

We leave Amsterdam this afternoon. it is always nice to get back to your own bed, but I will miss this city and I'm already making plans of what to do on my next break here.

Don't ask me what I did here -- not because I'd be embarrassed to tell you. So no "coffeeshops", prostitutes, sex shops, porn shops or theatres, smart drug shops or sex museums (yeh, there's a lot of that crap here). Don't ask me what I did because, frankly, I did bugger all. Okay, went to the Van Gogh museum, albeit a bit hesitantly. Walked by the Anne Frank house. Think I saw the royal residence. Wanted to ride a canal boat, but couldn't be bothered to wait for it.

I know that sounds really sad -- I, the tragic hero in some Greek myth, thwarted by the gods -- but it wasn't like that at all. I didn't really care if I did any of those touristy things and, in fact, I was pleased that I hadn't done some. I think, after visiting my third European capital city (first Rome, then Paris, and now Amsterdam), I've developed some philosophy about travel and I'm in favour a much more authentic experience.

So, on our trip here we went to a market, window shopping, had lots of nice snacks and dinners (and not so nice), played pool in a little bar, went to a department store and contemplated buying some sheets, had a fantastic Ethopian meal, saw a comedy show... these are things that are, in my life anyway, unremarkable. Unremarkable, yet authentic. These are activities that many Amsterdammers would do as they went about their daily life -- I would do these things in Edinburgh. But the poignancy that these activities take on, the specialness, the schwarmerei, in a way, makes a person appreciate a city for what it really is. And what have I seen? Beautiful architecture, obnoxious tourists, mad cyclists, efficient trams, slums, bright and tatty markets, houseboats in which people make their life in the smallest of spaces, bicycles with buggies attached for children, racial divisions, clean street and dirty, Dutch fast food shops... a slice of life.

The text on my blog homepage, save my own writing, has been transformed into Dutch. Unfortunately, it won't let me voorbeeld, preview, my entry, so bericht publiceren -- I'm publishing now, mistakes and all.

Amsterdam

2007-05-20T10:15:00.000+01:00

I'm writing you from my hotel's wi-fi. Thankfully, we were not so stupid in our hotel choice, despite being a very last minute option. It is on the outskirts of all the debauchery, very peaceful and quiet on the banks of the Amstel river. It's not too long of a walk to places and really lovely. The huge windows of our face out onto a tree-lined canal that flow into the river in a way that just screams, "I am Amsterdam and don't you think I'm just charming!"

I'm finding Amsterdam better than I thought it would be. I really loved Rome but the difference is that I could see myself living here in Amsterdam. It's got all the characteristics of my childhood home, Okinawa -- safety, friendliness, peacefulness -- but in a quirky, urban setting. True, the bits near the central and the Red Light district are tatty (actually, the phrase "dirty as fuck" would be more appropriate), but the further out you move, the nicer it gets.

So what have we done here? Surprisingly few touristy things. The Van Gogh museum was a revelation, but packed. In my heart I knew it would be this way, but Boy was really excited about it, so I went. I love art, desperately, in fact. But being sardined among ill-mannered people, I felt the despair of a herded cow set for a unknown fate (can I be both a sardine and cattle?). This is why we resisted the Mona Lisa on our Paris trip. But I guess you can't miss all of the tourist stuff.

I'm still waiting on getting some authentic Dutch food, like raw herring or smoked eel. Maybe today...

Recent amusings

2007-05-18T11:30:00.001+01:00

Yesterday, I went to my volleyball club's AGM -- the first one they've
had in nearly 6 years. There were 13 points on the agenda, most of
them having numerous subpoints and the subpoints having subpoints. Do
you think we got through it all in two and a half (!) hours? In the
end, I walked out because the whole thing was frankly ridiculous.

One of the more ridiculous bits was the treasurer's part. He reported
that we had a £3000 shortfall. His solution to making up the money:
to ask us to continue paying dues, even when the season and training
was over.

However, what should have really been raised was this: why was there
such a financial discrepancy? Most obviously, it was that people were
not being responsible enough to pay their £25 a month on time. Less
obviously, but, to me, more of a causation, is the attitude and
culture of the club oligarchs that values quantity (the biggest mass
of people possible) over quality (nurturing and retaining the existing
players). But really, it came down to an admission by the treasurer:
he didn't like to ask people for the money. So really, the club had a
£3000 debt because he was embarrassed to ask people to pony up? But
he sure as hell wasn't embarrassed to ask me and all the other mugs
paying their fees pay more money.

Let's see: inequality (my big pet peeve) + money = the appearance of
ghetto Autumn. This side of Autumn doesn't usually show herself to
these nice little British people, but it was just so absurd that she
wouldn't stay down. I mean, really people, it's fairly simple: you
don't pay, you don't play. See, Johnny Cochrane isn't the only one
who can come up with the rhymes.

A decree of 40 days mourning

2007-05-14T23:20:00.001+01:00

In my devastated state I cannot even wait to make it home to write this: my father, my dear, dear father, has sold my beloved softball glove. My own beautiful golden brown glove - cast away like some cheap tat. It did not deserve its fate, sold on some paltry 50-cent table of a yard sale, no doubt. I'm the one who wore it in by putting it under my pillow at night so it would cradle caught balls just so. I chewed on the leather straps just as some kid does today, oblivious to the former glory we shared. Would that little bugger who owns it now even care? I'm truly grieving - does anyone care? Goodbye esteemed glove - I very much loved you.

The Stupids

2007-05-11T22:50:00.000+01:00

I have a children's book called The Stupids Die. It's about a family of very dense people. Well, we here at Team CG, we are the Stupids.

We decided we would to take our long dreamed-of city trip to Barcelona. We have the perfect time, an upcoming three-day weekend. We found the perfect trip -- price perfect, departure time perfect. And we sat on it. Didn't book it. And guess what? The price doubled. Isn't that amazing and strange? Well, after my tantrum, the Stupids decided on going to Amsterdam. Well, we couldn't have been that stupid because we immediately booked the flight. However, we did wait two days before looking for accommodation.

Finally we started to look for a hotel. The past two days has been spent looking, not finding a thing. It seems like an exaggeration to say that there was nothing available, but it there wasn't. And actually, we weren't far wrong. On the weekend of our visit, I learned that not only is Amsterdam hosting a literary festival, it is also a national Dutch holiday. If we were going to find a hotel, it would be requiring a minimum 4-night booking. Remember I mentioned it was only a 3-day weekend booked? Well, at least we'll enjoy Amsterdam. It shouldn't be too hard for such stupid people.

the hassle of an easy life

2007-05-08T15:54:00.001+01:00

my lovely new mobile allows me to email, thus allowing me to blog and
be able to leave a message for you whilst strolling down our fair
princes street. actually, classifying my speed, while ridiculously
trying to squeeze a trip to the bus office to get a new card before my
eye exam, as a stroll is very generous. and i've got no capital
letters. don't no why and i can't change it. convenience, a wonderful
thing.

PS -- You're now reading entry number 200. Congratulations for sticking it out with me. (This bit was added later in a wi-fi cafe.)

Which the what?

2007-05-02T18:19:00.000+01:00

The Scottish don't say the phrase "all the way". As in, "Go all the way around the block to get to the park." And they don't have the measuring unit of a block either, but that's not why I've assembled you. It's about "all the way". What they say instead is "right the way".

Every time I hear it, it makes me smile at it's silliness: "Go right the way around." It sounds a bit like a spoonerism. It sounds quaint. It sounds... foreign. But I still say it.

A or lazy?

2007-04-29T09:33:00.000+01:00

I have always said that me and Boy have the innate (perhaps God-given?) ability to be able to tolerate our own untidiness -- filth -- for a level that is highly socially unacceptable and just "not right". We're soul mates that way. That being said, I have someone coming over at 2 PM to help with the garden. Inevitably, she will want to come into the flat, to have a cuppa or wash her hands. Am I a) moving away from my uber-Type A ways to accept the laws of the universe (that one cannot control everything) and am maturing in accepting this, or b) just sheer lazy?

Getting my priorities straight

2007-04-23T22:12:00.000+01:00

Just in case something major happened and someone tried to ring me at the house, the phone has been down. And internet. It is back up now, but it was down starting on Thursday. Boy noticed that morning. I had managed to log on successfully at 7 AM, but at 8.30, he couldn't. And the phone was down.

This really got Boy's goat; me, I was laying low cos I thought it was all my fault. Maybe I hadn't paid the bill and they cut us off. Plus, you know what time it is people -- end of the month. If our bank account was the petrol tank of a car, then we were riding on fumes. Soon enough, someone was going to have to get out and push the damn car. So I was shutting up and putting up.

But Boy wasn't having it. He was especially indignant about the lack of broadband. In a tone that was more camp than he intended, he shrieked, "You don't care about anything, do you?!" Uh, let's get this straight. This broadband, for fuck's sake. Not starving children in Africa nor dogs getting beaten nor global warming nor even people putting incorrect items in recycling bins. It's just the stupid internet.

And anyway, I had internet service on my mobile.

My hols

2007-04-11T09:36:00.000+01:00

With friends from the US here, I'm spending my Easter break visiting some of Scotland's finest tat. Let's see, we've been to the National William Wallace Monument, Stirling Castle, the Parliament, Blackford Hill and loads of restaurants and countless and nameless pubs, particularly to the early hours of the morn. However, my favourite place visited, by far, has to be the Britannia.

The Britannia was the Queen's royal yacht. It was decommissioned in 1997 and it has been said repeatedly that the Queen was incredibly emotional at the ceremony. She likes her boat better than others. Anyway, the boat is totally in a time warp and it killed me.

It still kills me. The things that killed me in particular:

The pictures of the Queen and family all over the boat, even in the mess of the sailors. Delightful.

The guy in the fudge shop who scoffed distainfully when this silly tourist, me, said I wanted to buy a wee piece of fudge. "How long have you been here?" he said, sniffing. "Four years." Bitch.

There was only single beds in the whole of the yacht, even in her and Prince Phillip's room, and the only double bed was placed in there by sexed-up Prince Charles.

Would the royals have to pay to look out this viewing telescope on the deck? Or would some servant arrive with the money?

The tiny accommodations were crazy! The bunks with the curtains were for the higher ranks. So only the officers could have a wank in peace.

Hopefully the rest of the pictures will be up later on Shutterfly.

Knackered

2007-04-07T11:31:00.000+01:00

Well, my American friends are here and despite all of my attempts otherwise, we tired them out. One of them, after brekkie, had a wee lie-down. Very little is getting accomplised today. I had other friends come years ago and, amist the excitement of their arrival, I walked them about 5 miles around the city. They didn't say a word, but the next day, they didn't leave their hotel room. Why don't people stop us!?

Yippee!

2007-04-04T09:42:00.000+01:00

I have friends coming from the States to visit me over the holidays! I'm so excited. I'm pissing myself with glee. They arrive in two days. Nothing is cleaned, no food purchased, their bed not prepared. But I'm on Cloud Nine cos I know SOMEBODY cares enough to visit ME! Me, me, me!!

Take note people.

My earliest foray in irony

2007-03-31T10:36:00.000+01:00

At school currrently, we have been doing loads of different events that's been eating into instruction time -- kids preparing for the Spring Fayre, "Red Nose Day" (a national fundraiser they do over here), and Easter celebrations. As a teacher, I tend to look down upon these things, which the colleagues that I'm close with always tease me about. She's the miser. Didn't you ever do stuff like this at school? they asked. So then I told this story:

Back when I was in high school, my school was very much into "spirit". Essentially, in every situation, we had bonding activities. We went to camp together, had competition pitting the classes against each other, initiations of the first-year students by the fourth-years -- all sorts of stuff. Actually, it was brilliant, and most kids thought so.

On major holidays, like Christmas and Thanksgiving, we would have a special lunch and each of the four classes in the high school would perform a skit of some sort. The worst thing about those plays was that the accoustics in our gym were rubbish and no-one spoke loudly enough. And I went to school with loads of little Japanese girls and they never spoke loudly enough.

For two years, I was the writer of the plays. I tended to write creatively a lot in those days, plus I was really loud and bolshie and made them do it. I had an great idea of how to combat the accoustic problem: we would pre-record our voices onto tape and while we were acting, our voices would be dubbed. Plus, it would be funny that we were out of time with our voices. It would be like one of those dubbed kung-fu films. Well, for various reasons, but mostly because it was too subtle, no-one got it and we lost. It didn't stop me from doing it the next year and us losing again.

You know, that was you being really ironic, one of my pals said, referring to the dubbing. She continued to say that it was funny and it was just proof that I was meant to come and live here in Britain. Just maybe she's right.

Out on the piss

2007-03-30T18:08:00.000+01:00

So the term is over and I'm out with my colleagues celebrating making it through. We have a 2-week holiday ahead of us and we are tipsily happy and loving the world. Ah, life is good.

Anthropomorphisation

2007-03-27T07:50:00.000+01:00

Today's weather forcast, according to the BBC (I'm not kidding): dull. And that was it. Dull. Warm? Cloudy? Showers? Naw, just dull. No other desciptors.

When did we decide to start employing personality characterisations as the sole forecast the weather? What's next? Today's weather will be irritating with crankiness rolling in from the west tonight?

We havin' church in here

2007-03-26T19:38:00.000+01:00

I've been placed on a moratorium from my fave place in Edinburgh, the saleroom. This is because I am obsessed with the place. Me and Nils (formally known as Nile), VBP's boyfriend, have been banned by our other halves, tired of us dragging home shit every Saturday. Nils's weakness is pictures; mine, quirky furniture. For us, the saleroom is a sacred place, a place that we stop in every week, quietly hushed as we look at the treasures.

Anyway, have a look at my last three purchases. Actually, the last one was a prezzie from Boy. It did cost a bit... but then he didn't even get me a birthday present! Somehow, an expensive piece of furniture doesn't compare to the books I got him for his birthday. Actually, the cost might have been the real reason for the moratorium.

That's a prayer chair. When the back bit is lowered, you can kneel on it, resting your arms on the back of the chair. The mirror will go above the mantel in the living room, once I've altered the frame somehow, through painting or decoupage. (I'm decoupage happy!)

Prices (Cos I know you nosey)
Prayer chair: £6 ($11/1400 yen)
Mirror: £18 ($35/4200 yen)
Pew: £200 ($390/46,500 yen)

Sorting myself out

2007-03-25T21:51:00.000+01:00

Sorry, again, for the lengthy break. I've been trying to sort my life out, in so many ways. Boy and I are trying to find each other again. It's weird having a modern relationship. We don't like to put demands on each other. We appreciate each person's individuality and their rights. But at the same time where does that leave a person when the other isn't there for them in the way they want?

Have I gone on to you about wanting to do my Master's? Well, I do, probably much to my parents' pleasure. When my eldest brother earned his -- just as he was walking at graduation -- just as he was reaching for the diploma -- the 'rents, particularly Father, turned to me and said, "So when are you getting your Master's?" The answer, dear sire, is very soon, all being well. The thing is, in ten years time, I don't want to be a teacher. As lovely and as noble a profession it is, my heart lies elsewhere: staff development, aka teacher education. Although I'm secure and confident in my practice and I'm already engaging in teacher development, I need credentials to really feel like I can act like the hot shit I really am. (And just in case you weren't sure, that wasn't irony)

I've got a new mobile, finally. It's an updated version of my last one. But this one as a 3.2 megapixel camera and it's 3G. And the provider gives a lot more than what I had. Really, though, it's nearly the same as my last phone. I've got the same ringtone -- "Ching Ching" -- and the same message alert. You might have remembered me cackling over its superb find. It's from the episode of "Chappelle's Show" with Wayne Brady. My message alert is taken straight from the show, with the latter funny-man saying, "Is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch?" It's wrong, but that little bit of Americana gets me through the dreary and dreich Scottish days.

Parents' Evenings were the week before last and I'm still recovering. We were only allocated 8 minutes for each meeting. I can't think of one person that I have that little to say to. A ridiculously minute amount of time, so teachers were naturally running late. This had huge knock-on effects and I left my first day -- the late day, meetings 6-8 PM -- at 9.15. I was dying the next day.

Sorry to always do these recapping blogs when I get behind. The ideal thing to do would be to blog a little bit each day. I just can't! I'm prolix, people! I'm verbose and talkative. I'm a yammerer and bletherer. I haver and go on. I can try this crazy "little bit everyday" thing, but I won't be successful. Truth is, I miss you. And I miss talking to you very much.

My current...
Book I'm reading: A million little pieces -- just to see what all the hype was about. Plus, I got it for 50p in a car boot sale. It's shit. Even if I had read it thinking it was a memoir, I would have thought it was shit. Cos it is.
Nemesis: Fiona
Project: Using decoupage to recover the tops of a nest of three tables that look pretty shabby. I'm using images from National Geographic magazines as my cut-outs. I scored a major coup by picking up nearly 200 NGs today!

Friends

2007-03-01T21:57:00.000Z

So my friend Turtle is going off for a life-affirming trip to South America for the next two months. Life-affirming or whatever. Anyway, we arranged to meet for coffee before she left. When I look back on it, I think she was trying to blow me off in a lovely middle-England way that Turtle possesses. She sent me this email earlier this evening:

Turtle to me
... i really dont think i'll be able to meet you tonight i've got so much stuff to sort for my friends leaving do tomorrow, do you mind?

i'll ring you for a chat though x

So I replied:

Autumn to Turtle
Right. I love how you've got to sort things with your friends. What the hell am I? LOL

But as I write, I realise what she's written -- not that Turtle has to sort things out with her friends before she leaves, but that she has to sort out a leaving-do for a friend. So my reply looks all crazy resentful and jealous -- not really my intended response. I think she'll be rescheduling that coffee outing with me very soon, don't you?

Second story of cultural differences

2007-03-01T15:43:00.000Z

Two weeks ago was Boy's birthday. I'm a big birthday person, love them. I believe in celebrating them. But for some convoluted reason that has to remain unsaid, Boy does not celebrate them with others. Only me. This puts a lot of pressure on one. It has to be perfect, everything I do. Boy had friend Roofer to help him with my birthday party; I had no-one.

But there was no party anyway. We went to David Bann, a very up-market vegetarian restaurant. I booked that months ago. I also had decided just after Christmas what to get him for his birthday: some Laurel and Hardy DVDs.

I should have known that things were going to go wrong, a week before his birthday. Let's see, what happened? I lost my purse (wallet), so I was without any sort of means to easily access money. And exactly a week before Boy's birthday is Valentine's Day. It's never easy to celebrate both of them as you would do the same activities for each: a nice dinner, present, closeness with the one you love. We usually let one go, as we can't really do both. Usually, it's Valentine's Day. Last year, I even went to volleyball training. This year, I decided to at least make a nice meal and maybe Boy would get me some flowers and that would be all good.

Valentine's Day morning, Boy threw the bedroom door open and handed me a present. "What's this?" I said. "Your Valentine's Day present," he answered. I smiled wanly. I would have probably been more pleased if 1) I had made the equal effort to get a present for him, and 2) my present wasn't 2 Laurel and Hardy DVDs.

The following week was spent making a new list of presents in my mind, then mentally ripping that list up and stamping on it in frustration. Everything was shit and I just kept putting off, trying to ignore that I had been gazumped. The day before his birthday and volleyball training night, I caught the bus into town and frantically looked in the shops for 35 minutes to try to find something. Nothing. I figured I could shop the next day -- his birthday -- as long as I had something for his birthday dinner.

The morning of his birthday, Boy woke up to a very chirpy 'Happy Birthday' from me and a kiss. But something was very amiss and by the time I left, we were having a full-blown row. At the time, I couldn't even begin to tell you why. I was right cross, and remained that way when I got home from shopping. In my morning huff, I had left the flat without my keys. I sat on the stairs, trying to be patient, cos I knew Boy was going to be home shortly -- after all, we had 7 PM reservations. At 6.45, he arrived and the frostiness between us had not melted. And I didn't have any time to prepare his birthday present in order to take it with us to dinner. Plus, I had figured out why he was so angry which made me think, "Fuck it if I'm going to bring a present for this prima donna!" In an angry silence, we changed and went to the restaurant, sans present.

But, as we do, we made up over dinner. And I was right about what had angered him: I hadn't given him his birthday present yet. "But you get that at your birthday dinner!" I protested. "Well, in my family, we gave it first thing in the morning," he said. I apologised but told him that I hadn't been able to get a prezzie, since I didn't have a debit card, I had no money. I told that little fib so that I could get his present ready at home after dinner and was able to surprise him. What surprised me, though, was that after nearly 4 years of marriage that we only figured out this birthday thing now!

(Convoluted story, but we got there!)

The best of British telly

2007-02-28T19:50:00.000Z

I watch very little British telly. Mostly cos it's really shit. The drama is rubbish and the comedy is no better. My current favourite shows are Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy. If I watch British telly, often it's reality television. Not the shit stuff, mind. I don't do Big Brother and crap like that. Stuff like Dragon's Den.

Through the magic of digital TV and the internet, you can now experience some of my favourite shows for the first time ever. I'll tell you about two now. First up: Harry Hill's TV Burp. It's a comedy show that's a bit like the old Talk Soup when it was hosted by Greg Kinnear (anyone remember that?): he takes the piss out of (British) TV programmes. However, Greg Kinnear's droll woe-is-us presentation is bypassed in favour of Harry Hill's sillier and ironic (obviously) take. The jokes will obviously be cultural, but hope you get the gist.

QI is a quiz show hosted by the actor Stephen Fry (the inspector in Gosford Park; part of the comedy double act Fry and Laurie of which Hugh Laurie was the other member). The point of the show is to say something "quite interesting". The more interesting, the more points. Anything dull and predictable gets points taken away. So the show's got that lovely penchant that British comedy quiz shows have of having an irregular scoring system.

NB: If these videos do not show up, then go to YouTube and search Harry Hill, QI or Dragon's Den there.

The chat

2007-02-25T13:53:00.000Z

I'm not sure how to describe the chat, but I feel that I must. Especially if you're coming to visit, you have to understand this concept of 'the chat'. See this as a lesson in how to get by in Scotland.

'The chat' is banter, witticism, the like. If you're told by a Scotsperson that you have 'good chat', that's very good. As well, if something you said has produced a guffaw of laughter and a "That's good chat," then you're in. It's awful to be known as a person with 'nae chat' -- it's the ultimate insult. 'Nae chat' means that you're boring -- never a good thing.

So chat is a big thing. My friend Turtle was told by her guy that the reason why he hooked up with another girl was because the girl had "better chat". No joke. I was talking to a guy in a club last night. He said he had met this girl and her first words to him was "What's your chat?" Which meant, "Say something to amuse me." I mean, no pressure there. Thankfully, not only am I a bletherer, I'm inclined to say silly things, mostly to amuse myself. My chat is always good.

****

Here are my predictions about the Oscars:

Okay, now watch this space.

First story about cultural differences

2007-02-24T09:17:00.000Z

This past week saw me back at school, which can explain why my sudden surge of blogs went dry. Also, again, feeling a bit rubbish. I think I'm paying the price for an early proclamation of having the healthiest school year ever. I've not been feeling very well since Christmas, as regulars might know.

This very feeling led me to miss striking The Pursuit of Happyness off of my Oscar-seen list. Actually, I went to the cinema for a matinee, only to be told that the film was only showing in the 'Gold Class'. This Gold Class is a total con. You have to pay £2 more for a seat for the privilege of leather chairs and the ability to purchase booze while drinking. Shit, I can buy booze at the Cameo and the tickets are about £2.50 cheaper! I left, not seeing the film.

I would not, on the other hand, be detered from seeing Half Nelson last night. The only place in Scotland that I could find showing this film on my Oscar-seen list was in Glasgow. Tickets were £7 and the train fare was nearly £10 return. Okay, seems a bit hypocritical, but there was a principle involved in the first instance. I think.

It was an odd little film, Half Nelson. The first, purely superficial, thing I enjoyed about it was seeing and hearing Black culture. It's a beautiful thing to a parched man in a desert. But it made me wonder how much did these British audiences understand -- get -- of what was going on. Did they even understand what that dude said? Did they understand the motivations of the characters? The subtle race questions that arose from the film?

Many, many months ago, I saw the Penelope Cruz film, Volver. Maybe you know this, but I thought very little of it, to the point where Boy and I wanted to pretty much write-off Spanish cinema. The actions of the characters were so bizarre and silly as to make them unpalatable. So I asked my team-mate Timi, who is Spanish, what she thought of the film. She didn't like Penelope Cruz, as she thought of her as silly (at least I'm not the only one). But she thought it was a good film.

She said that, until recently, Spain was a very repressed country and the 80s were a very repressive time for the Spanish cinema. Fluff movies starring buxom blondes from Sweden were mostly being made. To her, Volver was a big signal that it was time for Spain to face their past.

The grandmother was truly repressed character (expertly shown, by the way) -- from her denial of her husband's behaviour with her daughter, to hiding in her sister's house, to even hiding from her daughter under the bed. The daughter, growing up closed off, had the hard task of trying break free from the past. The granddaughter, though not having the same restricted life, had to live with the effect of the inhibited lives before her. Now, as I see it, Volver is hardly the silly, easily dismissed film I thought previously. It is a metaphor for the history of Spain, especially in the 20th century. It could be a metaphor to the history of the world. How powerful and what amazing storytelling.

But does that mean Penelope Cruz should win the Oscar? Not on your life.

The joys of doing nothing

2007-02-16T13:09:00.000Z

It's nine minutes past one. I'm in my living room, writing this blog whilst trying to enter a contest on a TV gameshow. Behind my block of flats, the warehouses are being torn down to build new flats. I feel the tremors when the big crane drops things.

I bought this mirror in the saleroom yesterday for £18. I'd been looking for mirror for over the mantel for ages. Isn't the shape cool? Now I remove the rug that I hung over the fireplace to have something in the space, which you can see in the picture.

Life is good, innit? She's got no complaints.

My husband, and other videos

2007-02-14T09:23:00.000Z

For the day, my husband surprised me with a present before going off to work: 2 Laurel and Hardy DVDs (our fave) and a card with a lovely, and what will stay private, message. Not naughty, but you know Boy: a lot more discreet than me! So, as I tribute to him, I made this video. I call it, Why I still love my husband.

NB: if you can't see this video (and for some reason, I can't either), then try this link.

I made this video ages ago after taking a course for school. I jazzed it up with some captions, blah blah. I wanted to show it to you cos, if you're anything like me, you might be a wee bit nosy about what my life is like here. Unfortunately, it's not my house, or even me, but it's my neighbourhood, about one block from the flat.

NB: again, try this

Life in these British Isles

My points of reference: 1. Rosewood

My beef with FB friends

My dream, or People know I am a shit person

My current dilemma, maaaan

My singing

My last uni day

Desert Island Discs: the decision

Sports Day... Field Day... Sporting Field Day

Weekend at Perth: Sunday's tweets explained

Weekend in Perth: Saturday's tweets explained

Weekend in Perth: Friday's tweets explained

Desert island discs

What my heart wants

Touch your own mug, and other muddled thoughts on race

Candyland

End of season do

The car boot sale

Like the Terminator...

Saturday night telly, AKA Jonathan Ross is losing the plot

The British breakfast

Here's a guessing game

Because we wanted to know

2010: Moving on?

Sick people's chat

All-new Featured Word!

I *am* a foreigner, you know

Synopsis of episode "#blamediddy"

A maths lesson

Does no one else see it?

Here I am, desperately cheery

I gotta feeling...

Morgantown

Vegas, again

London, Brighton, Atlanta and Beaufort

Late this Saturday morning

The comedy of hubris and growing old

My base or, more musings about music

I come back, seeing this and thinking that

Looking for work

My dental adventures

Bumpy

Cultural vertigo, plus All-new featured Scottish word

Things missing from our recent US trip

I'm here, but where am I?

Home

Krystal's has wi-fi!

What I learned in Ireland

I'm the only person who hates Juno

Maybe I'm a hippy

Regional Britannia

Christmas puddings

Obsession with travel

Just horrible

Metcheck's weather assessment

The final straw

An echo

A clearing

The weird life on the train

FRINGE: So crap, you're bad

FRINGE: How to keep your show tight

Festival fun

Finding joy in the pain

Stupid Bebo or, Am I always indignant?

Videos to enjoy

It's my own fault anyway

Day at the beach, twittered

Oldie but Goodie, number 1

Dilemma sorted, morals not

Dandoo

Moral dilemma

Updates

If I can't see it...

Turning over a new leaf

Allowance

Weekend hijinks

Little joys

A travelling philosophy

Amsterdam

Recent amusings

I am a foreigner, you know

Turtle to me
... i really dont think i'll be able to meet you tonight i've got so much stuff to sort for my friends leaving do tomorrow, do you mind?

i'll ring you for a chat though x

Autumn to Turtle
Right. I love how you've got to sort things with your friends. What the hell am I? LOL