I ache in the places where I used to play

Sing it, Leonard.

The manboy is back after more than three weeks away. We ate spaghetti. We trimmed the fake Christmas tree (well, he did most of it. I stood in the kitchen, minding the dinner, while he, in his robe, wrestled with the branches trying to make it look less sparse).

The cold drove us to bed by 8pm. Yes, the cold.

No, not the cold. I lied.

And afterward my hair looked like Robert Smith's.

When couch potatoes attack!

I opened A Spot of Bother to chapter 24 and had to laugh at just how perfect it fits my recent emotional state:

“Jamie parked round the corner from Katie’s house and composed himself. You never did escape, of course. School might have been shit, but at least it was simple. If you could remember your nine-times table, steer clear of Greg Pattershall and draw cartoons of Mrs. Cox with fangs and batwings you pretty much had it sorted.
None of which got you very far at thirty-three.
What they failed to teach you at school was that the whole business of being human just got messier and more complicated as you got older.
You could tell the truth, be polite, take everyone’s feelings into consideration and still have to deal with other people’s shit. At nine or ninety.”

At work I have told/warned a number of people that I am trying to lose weight and that at times I may be more emotional than usual. I don’t mean that this should be an excuse for lashing out at people for no reason, but it helps me to give myself a little extra room instead of trying to force myself not to experience negative emotions. Well, two pounds down and the process seems to have started.

Today I ate really well and my blood sugars are nice and level, so I feel much calmer. But I have no doubt that intense ranting will occur occasionally, as well as slobbering bouts of solipsism. Thanks all for your thoughts and kind comments.

I have always lived on an emotional teeter-totter. It is not “bad” - I have learned this and must keep reminding myself. Despite my sporadic tales of woe, I would like to stress that I am, in fact, very happy. My job sometimes annoys me but overall I find it an exciting place to work, filled with potential and promise. And I have never ceased to feel grateful for being allowed to stay in this country.

Though I often feel very isolated and disconnected from my fellow humans, I have always felt this way. There are only a handful of people to whom I feel really connected, and I feel very blessed to have them in my life. And for the first time in my life, I have met a man who I actually believe when he tells me he adores my body. If I waltz in wearing something low cut, I swear that by the look on his face I can tell that his brain has momentarily switched off. This makes me feel wonderful beyond measure, and is a huge influence in the gradual unwrapping of my witchy goodness.

So there you have it. Overall, a happy potato.

NOW GIVE ME SOME FUCKING CHOCOLATE!!!

Heh. Just kidding. You can come out now.

Words, words, words - oh, yes please

My hardcover copy of the collected works of Shakespeare lies open next to me. I am trying to use it to draw up the feeling that I carried when we returned from England yesterday. But one day back at work has almost beaten my beautiful memories into submission, and it is with great effort that I attempt to describe one of the most fantastic experiences of my life.

I suppose I shall start at the beginning, since I am less liable to become confused. We left in the middle of the night, despite numerous flood warnings cropping up around England. JP prefers to drive when most people are asleep, and I can understand this since this is a small island with a ridiculous number of cars packed onto it. Still the drive down was less than enjoyable, as there were still plenty of lorries (trucks) to deal with and every bit of light was reflected by the rain, threatening us with sudden blindness.

We arrived in Stratford just before 8am, with the whole day ahead of us for wandering and exploring. I took an inordinate number of photos of old buildings with skewed timbers that seemed to be barely holding the structures together. Some of the best examples of these were the house thought to have been Shakespeare’s birthplace, and another house down the same street which stands beside a vacant lot where once stood another of Shakespeare’s homes from later in his life.

Roaming through some of the tourist attractions we quickly learned how little is known about the man himself, about his beginnings and his early life, or the lives of his family members. There are more maybes and informed presumptions than there are facts. But this does not stop the shops from cashing in on “Will Power”- everything from First Folio Towels and Shakespearean magnetic “swearing kits” to pop up cards and William’s chocolate head on a stick.

We took a short walk along the River Avon, through the graveyard to the church to visit the famous bard’s grave. It is an intensely strange experience to take photos of someone’s grave, to idolize a person so much that you feel the need to visit the place where their bones are held. Or perhaps humans come with an inbuilt capacity for the morbid and macabre. From public hangings to ghost stories, we are often drawn to the things that remind us how close we are to oblivion.

Later that afternoon we visited a small garden which harboured (I say “harboured” rather than “boasted” for good reason) a collection of modern sculptures meant to be the creative shavings inspired by each of Shakespeare’s plays. “You may have to read the plaques,” advised the monotone guide before we headed out.

It was then that JP’s ability to deal with my love of eccentric strangers was dearly tested. On the other side of the lawn we spied an old woman dressed in a stunning dark hat and a long coat, onto which was pinned a traditional poppy (as it was Remembrance Day). She wore white gloves and was clutching a small bundle of what looked like red flowers. She moved slowly from her place on the park bench and with great care leaned her back up against the sunny side of a large tree.

At that moment the wind plucked several items from her hand and tossed them to the ground. We watched her as she used her cane to drag them closer to her and then struggled to bend down to pick them up. After one successful attempt and several subsequent failures, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I bounded across the grass with a cheery “hello” and bent down to pick up the leaves (they weren‘t flowers after all) before she lost her balance completely.

And that is how I met Lucy.
“Oh, THANK YOU my dear,” she cooed in her Lancashire accent. Thus began nearly 40 minutes of me smiling deliriously while she talked about everything from Edinburgh (“isn’t it maaarrrrvellous…It’s been 11 years since I visited and I would love to go back. Perhaps in January - that’s when the National Gallery - I’m on their mailing list, you know- that’s when they haul their Turners out of the basement. Have you seen them?”) to the Black Watch (“My uncle was in the Black Watch, and when he was captured they tortured him by plunging a bayonet through his funny bone. Can you imagine?”) and Remembrance Day (“I wanted to attend the ceremony today but I wasn’t fast enough and I missed the eleven o’clock observance. So I thought I would come here instead. Isn’t it funny - when I got up this morning I had it in my mind that to honour the day I was going to spend it entirely in silence!”).

Lucy is 84 years old, and explained to me that she is also a “tree hugger.”
“I don’t believe in the NHS (National Health Service). You see the sun shines against the bark and what I do is lean my spine up against it and let the warmth soak into me. Oh, it’s wonderful.”
She was kind enough to let me take her photo and even arranged her “poise” of leaves and fallen flowers.

All this time, JP sat patiently reading on the other side of the park, and when I finally said goodbye to Lucy, he calmly spent the next hour listening to me rattle on about this gloriously unconventional creature. She was one of the highlights of my visit to Stratford and I can only hope she manages to make it to Edinburgh and that she pops into the office to see me. I have already decided where I’m taking her - to the Sheraton for high tea.

With several hours to relax before the play, we checked into our hotel, The Mercure. (Our first hotel stay! Fantastic water pressure! Huge bed! Use your imagination!).

But the play’s the thing…A game of light, lunacy and language.
A blank stage, with a series of tall, mirrored doors at the end (no photos allowed but JP was sneaky and snapped one before things got underway). JP and I have been to see many plays now and have become completely addicted to live theatre. But we agree that this production of Hamlet causes many of the other plays we have seen to pale in comparison.

I am glad that I knew the story of Hamlet and had read the play (albeit some years ago) before going in. This allowed me to take additional enjoyment from the use of language. I am so in love with Shakespeare now. This man who can still make actors convulse in agony or ecstasy, as they speak the words that pound or skip from their mouths, creating ripples in the air that reach our ears and make us shudder in pleasure. I’m telling you it gets into your bones.

What, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murder’d,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing like a very drab,
A scullion! Fie upon’t! foh!

There was also a real sense of intimacy because along with the traditional options of exiting stage left or right (and in this case, through the glass doors), there were two paths from the stage through the crowd to backstage. And so Patrick Stewart, dressed for battle as the ghost of Hamlet’s slain father, stood next to us and beckoned the bewildered Hamlet, played by David Tennant, to follow him. And as Hamlet descended into madness and Ophelia, too, each in turn ran past us, their eyes wild with fear and rage.

Hamlet is Shakespeare’s longest play and the production lasted more than three hours. However despite the uncomfortable seats that made our backs ache, we didn’t want it to end. All I wanted to do was go back, turn everything back so I could see it again. It was wondrous and shocking and heavy and furiously beautiful.
In July we are travelling down again, this time to see Julius Ceaser. I cannot wait.

So, you five (actually I think we may be up to seven!), do one thing for me today. Read something, even if it is one sentence, which moves you. Words that when spun together, stir something in your belly that is akin to arousal. Let yourselves become a little flustered. Then read it again, slower. And again.

Nay, do not think I flatter;
For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish her election,
Sh’hath seal’d thee for herself; for thou hast been
As one, in suff’ring all, that suffers nothing;
A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards
Hast at’en with equal thanks; and blest are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well comeddled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee…

Notes on a Thursday night

Hello all. I am busy busy trying to sort myself out for my podcast presentation next week. I don't quite know what is expected of me. I know I have 20 minutes and will need to make the most of it.

Today I bought a book of German short stories, in the form of "parallel text," with German on the left and English on the right. I hope this will help me to improve my German, which I've been wanting to do for some time.

I'm kind of all business minded at the moment. I even bought a book on creating business plans. It's strange because my brother was always "Mr. business," and while he still is, I am finding that my creative nature can work well within this realm known as marketing and such.

I can't think of much else. I spoke to my brother last night for the first time in ages and I am worried about him because he is very stressed and he also has bad knees. It's not good to have bad knees when you are only 35. I told him to eat salmon and do light stretching, because I don't know what one does to make bad knees feel better. Would anyone like to buy a fish and chip restaurant?

JP and I went to see Mary Rose the other night. It was just okay. The acting was wonderful and the set was lovely, but there was something about the story itself that just didn't lend itself to adaptation. It just seemed there were too many things shoved into the story for no reason.

Finally, the soundtrack for The English Patient is really excellent.
That's all my news.

How creatives measure and other adventures

Craig: "How big is your frying pan?"
Me: "I don't know."
Craig: "Could you sit in it?"
Me: "Um, no."
Craig: "Could a cat curl up in it?"
Me: "Yes."
Craig: "OK."

The exciting news of the day is that things are changing at work, at least for several months, which means I'll be learning new things and taking on more responsibility. And I'll get a raise, which is swell.
And in other news, JP loved his birthday presents, even though his vintage top hat didn't fit. We also went to see Tropic Thunder, which made me laugh several times.

The last few times he's been over we've spent some time playing video games. Now, I don't like most video games. But I like these ones, because they are slow and boring and you have to use your brain. The crux of the games is that you are a character and you have to solve a problem or a crime, so you go around and talk to people and collect stuff and then use the stuff to get other stuff and eventually you get to where you need to go. It takes days and days. But I like it because we can play it together and I can make strange demands on him as he steers us around the screen (I'm not very good at steering - I walk into walls alot). I can say things like "take the towel when the guy lifts his arm" and "try and buzz that goat." It's good fun. We laugh a lot.
JP has started a psychology course. He is only the first chapter in and already he is tossing around language like schadenfreude.

My mind is dancing around and I can't hold my thoughts in a straight line. So I'll go.

Cafe Craig, Macbeth, and lovin' the manboy

Craig will be here soon! My dear friend will be flying over from Norway and bringing with him some lovely brown cheese and NO Redhouse Painters. While he is here we will visit cafes and perhaps see a show or two. Hopefully we will get to go out to a beautiful area called The Hermitage. Worth a visit for the name alone, me thinks. Here are two photos to celebrate his imminent arrival. (Jenners!?)

In other news, JP and I went to see Macbeth at the Lyceum last night. The Lyceum is quickly becoming my favourite theatre in town. Their Christmas season features none other than the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Other season highlights include Something Wicked this Way Comes and the Mystery of Irma Vep. Coolness.

My favourite character in Macbeth was the sly, sexy Lady Macbeth, played by Allison McKenzie. The language just seemed to flow from her mouth and her intense neurosis was so believable that all I could do was stare at her. Liam Brennan played Macbeth. There was something about the performance that just didn't work for me. Like he was trying too hard to un..un..ci...ate the Shakespearean script.

Of course I loved the witches. I loved their long ragged clothes and the way they hissed and surrounded the newly dead, taking the spirits off to the underworld. I also loved the final scene between Macbeth and Macduff (Christopher Brand), as Macduff crosses two swords behind Macbeth's head and makes to cut it off with a double slice. Sweet.

Next week JP is taking me to see Noises Off in Glasgow. I don't know anything about it yet, but I shall trust the young man to make a good theatre choice. We are both pleased that so far this year we have managed spend more of our nights out at live theatre productions than at the cinema.

JP is also turning 27 on Monday. I'm excited because he'll be one step closer to 30 - hurray! I shall bake him a cake on Sunday night. Chocolate. We are so happy. I've never laughed so hard as when he is being his charming, mad self. We are becoming one of those couples who is very much in a little world unto themselves. We call it The Bubble. We like The Bubble, for The Bubble is where many adventures and follies take place. But that's enough of my goofy love talk for now.

Listening to: Dig, Lazarus, Dig by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and

I'm Gone - Seasick Steve (going to the concert 25 October!)

ps- Hi, Moe! It was so great to talk to you. xx

Horror and Beauty

Behold the charming surprise John left for me in the fridge this morning, knowing I would discover it before going to work. Ah, yes - the old severed, bloody finger on the plate gag.

In my own tale of gruesome, I had two moles removed this morning. I have added the occurrence to the list of 33 new things I have to experience or accomplish before my next birthday. Call it one more sign of getting older. My blond hair may hide signs of grey, but my fair skin has suffered a few nasty sunburns over the years (never go to Vegas in June after a sun-starved Vancouver winter). Gone now is the large dark mole on the back of my neck, about which mother has nagged me for years. And while I am not bothered by this, I am saddened by the loss of the other one. It was on my back, a small brown dot that I remember adoring even as a young woman.

At my consultation with the doctor I had mentioned it almost as an afterthought, but when she looked at it closely with her little magnifying device, she saw a small darker spot in the centre, which concerned her. This surprised me and felt a bit like a betrayal by a part of myself I had always considered a mark of beauty - a tiny island against my pale skin. I always felt there was something alluring about it, a subtlety that a lover would notice and remember, like the faint red birth mark on my left leg that I’ve always thought of as a map to an undiscovered continent. A tiny piece of my body’s magic - marks that were given to me and have stayed with me all my life. Until now. Once the stitches come out (there are five, which is quite a lot, considering I only had 12 in my head after plunging my skull through a windscreen), a small scar will line the place where my mole once was, like a pair of lips that have been sealed.

Beauty is heavy on my mind at the moment, following last night’s sojourn to the King’s Theatre to see Matthew Bourne’s production of Dorian Gray. This was both my and John’s first experience of modern dance theatre (one more for the list), and while I was at first shocked at the sexual intensity (we were in the front row - I could see the sweat drip), I was soon taken away by it.

The dancers were incredible, my favourite being Aaron Sillis who played the doomed Basil, struck down by his beloved. I loved the confidence with which the dancers moved their bodies - I loved the flex and curve of their limbs as they jumped and rolled. They seemed to swim with each other, each becoming the water for the other’s strokes. My favourite scene was right after Dorian (played by the stunning Richard Winsor) kills Basil in the bath and in his shock at what he has done, begins a tortured dance as he struggles to distance himself from the blood that smears his hands, his clothes, his face. John and I also agreed that the giant disco skull during the club scene was the coolest thing ever.

I was going to write more - about rhythm, beauty, movement, desire. But instead I’m going to take some pain killers and drag the ice pack into bed.

This short news bulletin

-John has managed to be stung by a dead bee.

-Through the power of Google, I have found my old friend Simon. I have always remembered that Simon means "he has heard." Even though I have not spoken to him for years, he has always been a calm presence in my life. He hangs around in my mind sometimes. Not really saying anything. Just...being there. Which is usually enough.

-I should have been asleep an hour ago.

-At work it seems we are all taking turns experiencing "the fury."

-Yesterday a man from Amarillo, Texas, gave me a pin badge with black cowboy boots on it.

-I miss just being at home for more than just when I'm going to bed or getting up.

-Today I met two people who were so excited to have gotten Tattoo tickets that they could barely speak

-There is always something I have forgotten.

Place your bets

The man-boy slumbers. He sleeps tucked into the corner, half curled into a ball, the blankets drawn up almost over his head. This subconscious cocoon-building developed through years of living as an introvert in an urban environment with four siblings, two parents and various pets. When the world is closing in, you create techniques to block it out.

This evening we will make pizza from scratch. He is determined to craft a pizza that has never been attempted before. Peanut butter pizza or pizza with dinosaur eggs and baby toes (his words, not mine). I am making my own - something nice with basil. I know he will mock my lack of bravado but at least we may having something to eat at the end.

I should be working on my web site course but the wind has gone out of my sails. No doubt I will lunge over the finish line next week with a patch work web site and attached rambling essay. I’ll finish, but I no longer care. Spatial awareness is not my strongpoint. I accept that.

On Thursday we had a staff day out to the horse races in Perth. I had never been to any races before and found it both fascinating and disturbing. The range of punters was the best thing: old couples clinging on to each other as they walked over the uneven grass; desperate men with huge guts clutching their betting slips so that the sweat from their palms seeped into the paper; young yuppies pretending to be aristocrats, the women dressed in cocktail dresses and stilettos, their jutting shoulder blades spelling out their bodies’ desire for a decent feed.

The horses were smaller than I thought they would be, but they were beautiful. We saw one horse fall and I was gripped with a sick feeling, wondering what on earth I was doing there. At the end of each race the winner was brought through to a special area, his body glistening with sweat and his skin shuddering to keep off the flies.

The work clan had been split into teams to see which one could boast the most success with their choices. A series of poor £2 bets left our contingent with 50 pence. I placed two bets of my own and won nothing. The second time the horse I chose came second. I chose him because he was called Named At Dinner, and as a rule I like dinner very much. Overall it was a hot day and I was feeling a little out of sorts. I wished I could have gone with John because his enthusiasm for the atmosphere and the people watching would have given my spirit a lift (although he admits he likely would have behaved like a madman, making wild bets and kicking at the ground when the horse failed to come in).

I work in a strange place. Where else would your boss walk past and, on his way out the door, call to you, “I’m off to have lunch with the Queen; I’ll be sure to remind her that it’s Canada Day.” Our show starts 1 August but I’ll be getting Sundays off this season so I’m hoping to get lots of festival photos and attend a few shows. I’ve already decided that after this show I need to re-evaluate my priorities and figure out in what direction I want to wander. At the moment at work I am constantly frustrated because there is so much I could do but my day-to-day duties get in the way of me achieving what I feel is some greater, untapped potential. I cannot move forward and this leaves me feeling vacant and listless. Like the fight just goes out of me.

In other news Omi is feeling much better. She is back at home and slowly gaining back her strength. Family and guests from Germany have been visiting and my parents took them to the WORLD FAMOUS WILLIAMS LAKE STAMPEDE (I like Capitals). I have also been given a thorough description of just how hot it is. “It was thirty----seven---degrees,” said my mother, drawing out the sentence to churn up the heat. Does this mean all the Saskatoon berries are going to shrivel up? I do like saskatoons. When I was living at Chimney Lake I stored a small amount of them in the freezer so that in the winter I could smell them and be transported back to summer.

I have resorted to talking about the weather so that means I should go.
Song of the Day: Wonderful Life by The Felice Brothers

Trundle Street- a Metaphor for Life

My eye twitch has stopped. Or at the very least, paused. Maybe it was the 16 mile walk on Saturday morning that wrung it out of me, or perhaps I'm just relaxed enough for the first time in awhile. I've been trying not to look at the computer for so long - printing out my course work when possible and reading it hard copy, in good light.

When on Saturday evening (jaunting out to buy toilet paper and milk) I managed to lock myself out of my flat, I panicked. It was one of those terrible, slow-motion moments when I realized just a split second too late that I had taken the wrong keys (I had removed my house keys for my walk that morning, and had neglected to loop them back onto the big ring). I lunged at the door just in time to hear it click shut.

Heart thumping, I borrowed the phone from the Internet cafe place next door. I managed to get a hold of one of the folks from the rental place, who told me it would be £100 for them to come out. Options swum through my head. I didn't have my phone but I knew if I could get to the World bar, someone there would have Paula or Susan's number and then they would save me. But that would have still left me without keys, so I decided to take the adventurous route and head to Port Glasgow to surprise John and get the extra set. I didn't have my phone but I had my wallet, and I didn't have a lot of money but I had my visa card. I was lucky that it was still early enough, and as it was, after two trains and a taxi, I ended up knocking on their door at 11 pm that night. John was at work but his twin brother Robert let me in and wasn't annoyed at me for me showing up so late out of the blue (I had emailed John but he hadn't received it, otherwise he would have contacted Robert to let him know I was on my way). Harley the Rottweiler was particularly happy to see me and kept walking around and between my legs and leaping up on me, licking my hands and shedding profusely all over the place.

I was safe. I was with friends and I was safe. But the best part of the experience was realizing all the options I had to be safe. Even if I couldn't get to John and got stuck half way, I knew I always had the option (thanks to Madame Visa) of spending the night in a hostel or even a hotel, where I imagined myself lazing through the evening eating sandwiches and watching telly and feeling like I was on holiday (I don't have a television so it's a treat (and a shock) when I do get to watch). There I would have stayed, found a place to email John with the address, and waited for him to come and get me, which I know he would have done as soon as he got the email when he got off work in the morning. Easy.

The experience allowed me to see my support network appear in my mind like a web. Work friends who would have come to my rescue and let me stay with them. Perhaps shaking their heads at what a dimwit I can be, but mostly glad that I was okay. Even if I had managed to lock myself out without my wallet, removing the option of going to Glasgow, I still would have been okay. Isn't it marvelous?! But as it was, Sunday morning came, bright and shining, and I got to spend a couple of giddy, cheery hours with John before coming home on the train. I smiled all the way into Glasgow Central, watching the new leaves bounce in front of an endless blue canvas. I bought myself a coffee and an apple cinnamon muffin and a newspaper and enjoyed the slow ride back to Edinburgh. I felt as if I had been gone for days.

Maybe I've been writing about adventure, accidental or planned. I was just going to write about breakfast, but it didn't turn out that way. I realize I am tossing John into the narrative quite seriously now. I've never been good at linear story telling anyway. The truth is, and I say it now in the knowledge that many will think me a complete flake: I am goofy, rubbery, quite helplessly in love. It's even better than the best breakfast - shocking, but true. But another time, another time.

To breakfast! Before I head out again for a shorter 7-mile trek (with keys!) I shall write a note about El Vergel. This was the wee restaurant Nif and I had read about in a newspaper pull-out of the best places to eat breakfasts in Britain. I find that seeking out a specific eatery just adds something special to a trip. El Vergel - "Latin American and Mediterranean Caterers." Known for their Spanish breakfast and now open on Saturdays!

And so we read our maps and took the bus and two tubes and read our maps some more and finally found it, this tiny place on Lant Street (which is near Trundle Street, a great street name if you ask me. A street where everyone just takes it easy. Sees the great web of life around them. No rushing.).

And we ordered:
Special Latin breakfast - free range scrambled eggs served in a mild piquant ‘salsa’ sauce, bacon or Spanish chorizo, beans, village bread plus tea or coffee. And I had guacamole as well and thought of Jacqui who loves guacamole.

Here is a photo:

I know it looks a bit nasty, but it was absolutely grand. It was such a small space, with one large wooden table around which strangers can become neighbours. But this was full so we took to the high stools on the sides. The food was homely and comforting and filling and glorious. I want to do more traveling like this. Even just in Edinburgh. To seek out a place that is renowned for something and then go and experience it. To allow my senses to be plunged into another world by someone with expert knowledge and understanding of that foreign place.

Now I walk. Here's to a long, lingering stroll on Trundle Street, with friends who invite you in for tea and others who help you when you get lost. And love at the beginning of it, love at the end. Love weaving like a drunk man and laughing in spite of everything.

Trip to Skye

With my writing bones aching, I'm just posting photos for awhile. And making the most wonderful chicken masala you can imagine. Yesterday I took a trip to the Isle of Skye with JP. It was a long day, punctuated by sudden snow storms and showers. At one point hail pounded down, tiny ice stones bouncing off the road like riderless space hoppers, before being swept by the wind's invisible palms into a great, swirling dance.
Before we got to Skye we drove past Eilean Donan Castle, which I think must create one of the best views I've ever seen. It just stands stoically, a beacon to romantic hearts everywhere.
A trip to Skye wouldn't be the same without going for Fish and Chips at the chip shop in Portree. It's down there in one of those colourful buildings.
I had wanted to see the Old Man of Stor, the famous remains of a volcanic plug. With the weather closing in, hiking up to the "erection rock" (as I affectionately called it) was not an option, and the one time I did attempt a jaunt through a "field" to get the best photo angle I could, I ended up with soaked feet. There are no fields in Scotland. Just bogs that look like fields.



A long day, a cold day, but a good day.

Success!!

Let it be known that I am among the chosen ones!
My recent application to share in the five-pound chocolate bar won by my nephew Ashton was successful! Just today I arrived home to find that I had received THREE squares of the infamous bar of goodness.
"Due to the high shipping costs to Edinburgh we were only able to send a small portion," read part of the letter from the panel of judges. I believe this eludes to the possibility that my application was actually worth MORE than three squares.
I was cautioned to consume only one square at a time due to high calorie content. Of course, I ignored this advice. One does not acquire the name Sophia von RitterSportAlpenMilch following such guidance.
In other news, last night I saw the wonderful, glorious play that is Peter Shaffer's Equus. Prior to going into the theatre, fellow play-lover JP and I lingered on the sidewalk, watching the people wandering into the building. And WHO should walk by? WHO? Simon Callow, no less. I pinched John's arm and we gawked. Openly gawked at the great man, also known as "the guy who died in Four Weddings and a Funeral." He was fantastic as psychiatrist Martin Dysart. Magnificent. So was Alfie Allen, who played the passionate, horse-obsessed Alan Strang.
I loved the way the intensity built, I loved the way it pulled me into a different world, but also how it made this one somehow more...vivid. I just loved it.
Tonight it's another play, in which six characters search for an author. I am going to eat the last square of chocolate before I go. (Cue witchy cackle, complete with chocolate-smeared teeth).

Blackpool- THE Place for heat exhaustion

I finally make it to Blackpool and the heat makes me ill. It was so hot. Despite the breeze from the ocean, the air felt like it had been suspended in a toaster oven. John did all the driving, and I responded by becoming sunburned and crying uncontrollably outside the log ride. We only went on one ride - the haunted house. I can still remember the gross feeling of the soft patches of rubber floor in the darkness, meant to throw you off and make you more susceptible to the flicker of strobe lights around dust-covered mannequins. At the end they made us all sit on a giant round bench and then they spun us around while a plastic gargoyle spit water on us. The first time I opened my eyes I saw his grey gaping grin; the second time I saw the table in the middle of the ride - decked out in Gothic candle holders and white linen flapping under the dishes.

I did have a hot dog, even after being disturbed by this billboard. Also I loved the games rooms that were filled with the deafening mania of coins and individual video theme tunes. Giant skeleton pirates loomed from above, always one stab away from victory against their opponents.

And I love this beach photo, because off all the small pieces of life present in it. I especially like the couple passed out in their chairs, facing the afternoon sun. Bake Us, Oh Holy Orb Of Fire.

Feeling so ill kind of took a lot of the joy out of the day, but looking at the photos now, I am surprised that I would want to go back, if only to go on some more of the rides. But it would have to be a cool day. That much I have learned.

How To Not Play Golf At St Andrews

With my application for permanent residency heading toward the Home Office, let us speak of more cheerful things than the long wait for an important answer.

St Andrews is difficult to get to if you don't have a car. Sure you can take a coach or two trains and a bus, but that is fairly inconvenient. So lucky me I got to go last week with JP, who not only has a car but who also ensured we wouldn't get lost by drawing a detailed map that included stick figures, a scribble of the Forth Road Bridge, and a curvy dotted line that represented the "possible road."

"Consult the map," he said sternly on several occasions when I questioned whether we were going in the right direction. Sure enough, the map was correct and we arrived safely at the town known as the "home of golf."

St Andrews reminded me a little of Oxford, with little wonder since it's Scotland's oldest university town. The young and wealthy study there in the sturdy assumption that soon they will be young and even more wealthy. We looked through the bars of a metal gate at some students playing football on the well-groomed lawn and attempted not to feel jealous.

We didn't bother visiting the Old Course and instead wandered around the ruins of the castle and cathedral. I had seen photos of the cathedral ruins and was eager to visit because I always sensed something otherworldly about the place.

The legend goes that a custodian of the bones of St Andrew had a vision that he should leave southern Greece and take five of the saint's bones to the western edge of the world in order to build a city in his honour. The poor man was shipwrecked on the rocks of what became St Andrews' harbour. Dragging himself onto land, he chose a spot and built a shrine to the saint on what later became the site of the cathedral.

Unfortunately, a crowd of people goes a long way in numbing the onset of a spiritual experience and I quickly became distracted by wondering where all the other tourists were getting those delicious looking ice cream cones. I did have a glorious time at the top of St. Rule's Tower, standing with my eyes closed while the wild wind danced with my hair and made me feel like Medusa. John had a lovely time waiting down below with the graveyard folk, his coin for the turnstile having been eaten by the machine.

After standing in a long line for sandwiches and coffee, we made our way to the beach so we could eat our food with sand in it. And so we did. Afterwards I frolicked in the water - oh how I love the cold cold sea. Later we even had ice cream. Two scoops. On a warm day, ice cream in a cone requires constant licking to keep it from melting all over the place. Somehow unfamiliar with this important concept, John was soon outmatched by the softening mounds of mint and chocolate and had to abandon his cone in the rubbish. Using her tried-and-true ice cream cone strategy of "less talking, more licking," curvy girl polished off her chocolate/strawberry combination with not one drop spilt.

And that was our day. On the way back we listened to the Buena Vista Social Club while following the map in reverse. The light slowly faded, the shadows grew. We counted the exits of the roundabouts as we went around them. We told ourselves it could be summer. We thought it again and again until we believed it completely.