Central heating in August

Arrived in Edinburgh despite potent combination of Spanish air traffic controllers strike and budget airline. There’s a certain type of comaraderie you get from an airline that doesn’t allocate seats (I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but there you go, there is), a particular kind of jocularity unique to such an experience. Would I exchange jocularity for an assigned seat? Well, I don’t know. You can buy a seat, but you can’t buy comaraderie.

Youse can stop being jealous of my Andalucian view now. I mean, our flat here is okay, and it does have some nice views of greenery and turret-like things. But it’s not Andalucia if you know what I mean. And August accommodation is extraordinarily expensive here. Really, for the money I’m paying I would expect a castle (with turrets), but welcome to Europe in August.

And rain. Oh, my goodness, the rain. We’re freezing and will be sick to death of the one jumper each that we brought with us. So, if nothing else, we have escaped the Abu Dhabi heat. Which is good. Very good. I’m probably the only one here who actually came for the rain.

I bought one of those USB internet sticks this morning. I asked a few dudes whether or not I could just use the one I bought in Australia and pay for a new account. They laughed in my face. I knew they would, but I didn’t expect them to laugh quite so hard. For some reason, it has installed itself in Arabic – I did buy this computer in Abu Dhabi, but nothing else has ever installed itself in Arabic. Anyhoo, I managed to negotiate my way through it, although it wasn’t without some anxious moments. Does anyone else feel edgey when they can’t get onto the internet? I’m quite concerned about myself in this respect. Also, how long will a gigabyte last? That’s how much I got with the package. One gigabyte. Could I update my podcasts, or will that chew through the bites to the giga?

My, but this is a beautiful city. Seductively so. Crags and castles on your doorstep. Boys are loving black taxis and double decker buses. Oh, and this morning, I saw a chap walking down my street and wearing a kilt. He really was. I tried to get a photo, but the camera battery was flat.

Put up your hand if you’ve been drinking too much

Last Christmas Day, by which I mean the one before the one we had the other day, while the mister was in emergency getting my grandfather’s broken ribs seen to, I dished up the home made tartufo.

My dad peered into the mister’s mother’s bowl and said, What’s that? He was pointing at a Haigh’s truffle. Cupofcino or shiraz, I can no longer be sure which. The truffle was on the side, because the day before the day before the Christmas before the one we’ve just had, tartufo still seemed like a good idea, but an idea for which I did not quite have time. So I made the ice cream and decided to serve it in scoops rather than balls, and with truffle on the side, instead of in the middle.

An excellent plan which resulted in a mighty fine dessert. Except…

My dad, removing his face from the mister’s mother’s bowl said, ‘Where’s mine?’

‘I didn’t give you one,’ said I.

‘Why not?’

At times like this, people will know when you are not telling the truth, and so I did not even try to lie.

‘I thought it was wasted on your tongue, dulled as it is by this savage chemotherapy you’ve been enduring, but nonetheless cooked Christmas lunch through.’

‘And you also thought that I wouldn’t notice that I didn’t get one?’

The mister’s mother was shocked. But my Dad and I, thinking of my mother who was once caught hiding mandarins from her own children, laughed until our tummies hurt.

And when we got into bed that night I said to the mister, It’s going to be a hard year. And so it has. Topped off with a fairly ordinary couple of weeks I have to say.

But it was pretty ace being tapped excitedly on the arm at 6.45 and woken with the words ‘mum, mum, he came, can we open one yet, please can we…mum, mum, it’s light sabres…’. And because I’m a bit ambivalent to this whole Santa Claus thing, the best presents were clearly labelled ‘Love from Mum and Dad’. mp3 players (I know, kids these days) pre-loaded with a bunch of songs I thought they might like.

Of course, it has introduced a whole new argument to our family life. ‘Youngest Boy, I know you totally love Wipeout, but you have to have the volume at fifteen or less’. But what’s life without family arguments?

I’d better go. If the mister gets home and finds me blogging, I’m in fifteen kinds of trouble. There’s a lot to do round here.,

The Rip

One of the books I took on the flight to Abu Dhabi was Robert Drewe’s The Rip.  His earlier collection The Bodysurfers is one of those books that I read whenever I need to understand how writing works. I just love it. And The Rip has not disappointed me, including as it does, the following:

“But he still looked a bit edgy. After a moment, he said, ‘Desiree has laid down some new ground rules for staying with me.’

‘Ground rules?’

‘Rules on the way things have to be arranged in future. What’s it called? Chop suey? Mah jong? You know what I mean. She’s making me do things with my shoes in Chinese.’

There was another long moment while I sipped my coffee. Eventually I had a brainwave. ‘You don’t mean feng shui?'”

It cracked me up when I read it, and it’s still cracking me up now.

The Rip. If it isn’t on your Christmas list, you have an unfinished list.

Chop suey. How funny is that?

Up and down

Yesterday, I bought new bathers. My first new pair in 13 years if you don’t count that rather disastrous effort from last year. Which I don’t.

These bathers make me look like CatWoman. A suitably matured and rounded out CatWoman. I feel so good in them, I almost took a photo to show you. But then I saw M*rced*s C*r*y on the news last night and it kind of put me off people in bathers taking photos of themselves for all the world to see.

After I bought the bathers, I went to the ABC shop, then left when I realised the main reason for going to the ABC shop was to find my Dad a present.