Age

Ah dear readers, I will commence apologises...again.

I find my Sunday routine of blog writing never established itself and thus soon sweet memories of whiling away the hours at my key board soon diminished. In additional to that I also seem to have gone back in time in terms of my behaviour. For the last few weeks very Saturday night I have been propelled back to student hood, drinking till the wee hours, talking rubbish and dancing badly.

Unfortunately, I am no longer 18, but a fair 25 (stop laughing) and instead of getting up on Sunday and phoning the friends I was out with that very night to talk about events of that very night, instead I wake in a haze of outride fug, sick to my stomach, my head pounding. I manage to drag myself from my bed only to get to the sofa where I lie immobile for several hours unable to even move my head slightly. If I do manage to turn on the tv I am unable to watch it as turning my head from the position it rested when I collapsed on the sofa causes exquisite pain and agony. Once I am finally able to move, a drink of water of is attempted soon followed by profuse vomiting. This routine is repeated until the early evening when finally I drag myself to the local minimarket grab myself some irn bru and a pizza. At some stage, Cat will return home from her sojourn in Aberdeen seeing her fancy man to find the hollow wreck of her flatmate curled up on the sofa. How she must love coming home to such a sight.

So that is my excuse. I am drunken hussy, but not even a young one even more. Sigh. I’m getting too old for this sh......

Traffic

I love Edinburgh. It has been my home now for just over a year and despite spending 7 years in Aberdeen, I already feel more at home here than I ever did there. This is not to say that I disliked Aberdeen (unlike many of my counterparts who the mere mention of the Granit City causes a violent reaction) it’s just I feel the ’burgh feels more like home with it’s little coffee shops, mountains of book shops and green open spaces. Oh yeah and all the culture. However this is not to say my new home city does not have it faults. The main one being the traffic.


Driving in Edinburgh is like riding a panicky ridden horse being chased by snakes. It is nigh impossible to circumnavigate the streets due to high volume of one way streets, buses, omni-present cyclists and kamikaze taxi drivers tooting furiously at you if you even think about hesitating before launching onto a round about. However you’d think after living here for over a year, being both a driver and a regular public bus user, I would have become accustomed to the labyrinith of the city.


But no. Because of the beast know as the Tram Works. For over 2 years the tram works have like a plague upon the city. The idea of the trams pleases me. Two tram lines running from Morningside across the city centre and another from the airport to Leith, little quiet tin boxes ferrying people to and fro with large windows so to gaze upon the beauty of the surroundings. What a great way to link the parts of the city especially when driving and parking is such a bitch. Except the works were meant to be finished January past and still what do we have to show for it? Tram lines on Princes Street. Where do they go? Nowhere because there are no more tracks anywhere else! Instead there is ever present and ever changing road works and road restrictions. The changed with such speed that once quite laterally as my old landlady wife was driving round a-round-about, the lanes on the roundabout changed and she ended up in the wrong lane despite starting in the correct one! Quite recently my new wife became lost driving back from the West side of town and phoned for directions. With trepidation I gave them but with the road alternations happening so fast and furiously I was not confident in my advice and it took the poor girl almost 2 hours to get home being stuck in a loop of right only turns.


Now they say it’ll be 2015 until the single tram line is finished as now the 2nd line to Morningside is scrapped due to financial restrictions. What the hell are they doing?! There is side street just up the road from me that I have only seen open for about a week in the year I’ve lived here. Why? Because the gas company had to dig up the road and change the pipes. They then filled in the road and re-laid the tarmac. A week later the water company had to change some pipes so dug up said brand new tarmac to lay their new piping and in the midst of re-laying it. What a waste of money in these difficult times.


The air some days due all the drilling and concrete laying is thick and opaque like the mist in some Sherlock Holmes style novel except instead of a fearsome hound coming through the fog, overweight men in fluoresce end jackets plague the streets of Edinburgh.


Grumble, grumble, and grumble.


See I really am sounding like a local now. I dislike Glasgow as the roads there are far too wide and confusing (I mean a motorway running through the city?!), not to mention the exceptionally high population of Neds. I complained bitterly about the amount of tourists during the festival causing an increase in my daily commute and the parking here is just ghastly! Added to that the new students have just descended upon the city and much like the festival tourists don’t seem to realise what pavements are for (FYI they are for walking NOT for standing in large groups on).

Ah, there’s no place like home.

The Creation of Man

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not written in a while, blah, blah, blah, excuse, excuse. Still love me? Hell yes you do or otherwise why do you keep coming back? You are all my biatches, fo’ sure.


Anyway, life the last couple of weeks continued on much like the few weeks before it. Busy, busy, seeing folk, having tremendous fun and being achingly cosmopolitan at the festival. In amongst this I managed a weekend up north to see my mum’s new house with her fancy man, five large dogs and one small cat. Despite the kitchen only having 2 walls and the guest room rendered uninhabitable by a surfeit of boxes, the place was lovely. The garden is so massive it’s like a municipal park complete with babbling brook and wildlife (well, dogs and the odd worm). They even got me gardening. Come spring time next year there will a fabulous array of daffodils cursory of moi.


So with all my socialising, running up and down the country and actually going to work, I must say I found myself happy but quite exhausted. So imagine my surprise when I realised this weekend I had no plans. No even just no plans, but Cat the put-upon-wife and Andi were both away meaning I had the flat to myself (no, Andi’s not moved in, but foolishly he has been given the spare key and now I never know when he might burst through the door). I did something quite out of character for me and made no plans. I consciously avoided texting folk incase they suggested meeting up. So when it came, this weekend I found myself quite foot loose and fancy free.


I did what one can only do when finding themselves alone. I bought some naughty food, a couple of beers and a crappy movie. That was Saturday. However, today I decided to be a domestic goddess. When I was unemployed, yes those dark days, I found myself baking a lot to fill the time and despite not being a natural chef, I did enjoy baking. However once I started working and the festival exploded upon the city, I found this past time fell by the way side. So today I resurrected it. Not only that, I decided to make gingerbread men which was my speciality as a teenager (the only thing I would bake, I have no idea why).


I called mum and got the recipe and realised I had most things I the cupboard, but just needed a few bits and bobs so nipped along to the supermarket. Half way around the shop I realised I had forgotten to get the most important piece of equipment required for making gingerbread men; that is the man cutter. I thought, never fear Morag you are in a large supermarket chain they will have one. Nope they didn’t. I was in a retail park so I didn’t panic. But then Poundstretchers, Tkmaxx and some random cheap shop called BHS (not the one we all know and love, another one with the same name -is that allowed? I thought there were copyright laws about that sort of thing) all came up with nothing. Well, that’s not strictly true in Tkmaxx I could have got a train, a star or an elephant and while these were nice, I was wanting the archetypal gingerbread figure. So I drove off to yet another large chain supermarket and it too failed me (neither of these were the evil Tesco, just putting that out there. I spit in your general direct Tesco).

What to do? I wracked my brain then suddenly a light bulb went off and not an energy saving one. John Lewis. They would have what I required. I mean have you seen that advert? That chick clothes her entire family, furnishes her house and does all the baking just from that one shop against montage sad/happy music so I surely could get a pastry cutter in the shape of a male homosapien there?!


NOPE. John Lewis failed me. Hear that ex-wife: Sarah was addicted to JL, although she never bought 2 of anything just because it was red (yes Andi I am talking about you and your predilection for M&S). By this stage I was panicking as I am sure you would have been. I mean I’d bought all the ingredients; they were in car waiting to be mixed. The shopping centre was getting busier and busier and it was almost lunchtime and I was hungry. Hungry and no pastry cutter. In a last ditch attempt I went to the one last place I could think. Poundland.


Poundland is a source of great joy and great sorrow to me. Everything is a pound- joy. People there- sorrow. They are poor- I have nothing against that, I am poor now, but the people in Poundland can’t seem to walk and move like the rest of us. Instead they just hover like midges in little clusters around the store, their mouths usually hanging open and grunting to one another. On Sunday lunchtime, the place was packed it was almost unbearable. However, needs must and went in. Unfortunately the kitchen stuff is in the middle aisle at the back, no way of avoiding maximal exposure. So I stop-started my way to the section filled trepidation. I mean if John Lewis didn’t have pastry cutters then what was hope Poundland would? I got to the section and to great dismay I saw a packet of pastry cutter shapes- stars and the like, but no men. My heart filled with sorrow. It was the end. There was nowhere else I could think of to get a gingerbread man cutter. It was over.


But then I glanced down, at the end of the aisle, separate from the rest of the baking kitchenalia, next to the Tupperware- a small cardboard box. Unassuming, almost hidden amongst the brightly coloured lids. Could it be? I edged closer- not in fear; I was just stuck behind an obese granny who could only shuffle. Then at last I saw it. Not only a gingerbread man cutter, but a gingerbread woman cutter and two smaller gingerbreadchildren cutters! And all for a pound!!!! Joy, joy!!!!


On my return home, I was quite overcome by emotion and was forced to have a cup of tea and some crackers. And then I began. I began to create my men, women and children. I mixed, I kneaded and I baked. And they were complete, ready for the world. I hadn’t made this recipe years and I was cautious – what if they were horrible? What if I’d lost my touch what if they tasted bland and floury? I picked up my first little man and bit......

I had created man and he was good.

What did you do with your Sunday?

And finally....

The beatings of my beautiful wings continue to vibrate so incredibly fast that I have become a mere blur. Despite this I realised that I must continue with the blog or face the wrath of several readers who have expressed anguish over one of last entries regarding Bedraggled Doctor.

So before I start on the tantalising list of last time, I will just briefly say that the last two weeks have been a frantic tizzy (that’s right tizzy) of activity that has involved friends, relatives, festival goings on and a badly timed Costco trip (which has left me bankrupted- damn you bulk buying temptation!). So if I was to detail every event this would read like my rather dull diary and if you do so wish to know my very move over the last few weeks please feel free to come see me and read it. If you can decipher my hand writing you deserve to know my very (rather boring) thought.

So back to where I left last time readers. And in the spirit of keeping things fresh I am not going to follow the list sequentially. So the biggest change of the last month has been a change of personnel. Yes, indeed the first Wednesday in August heralded the passing of Landlady-wife Sarah- may she rest in peace (what is that you say? She’s not dead? But my dear, she is in Glasgow so she may as well be) and the dawning of a new age- the Year of the Cat. Or Cat as she is more commonly referred to.

And poor Pussy. Her arrival has for some reason brought out the OCD monster in me. She is the most laid back person and living with her so far alas been a delight- for me. For her however, it must be like living in an asylum. Well, not an asylum, but maybe one of those step down half-way houses for the rehabbing insane. I never knew how particular I was about things. I came home one day shortly after her arrival and she had put away the washing up. That’s nice. But she had put the cups on the wrong shelf and bowls were piled upon the smaller of the plates. I practically had a fit. Then one night she was cooking me pasta. That’s nice. But she didn’t put the lid on the boiling pasta pan of water and I actually had to do it because I couldn’t bear to see the water heat up so slowly. And just yesterday we were food shopping ‘together’. I say together but the only thing I let her choose for herself was Philadelphia spread; everything else had to be ‘on the list’. I fear next I write, I may be looking for a new flatmate. I never knew quite how neurotic I was until now. Thank-you all for being my friends.

To confound matters, one evening when I wasn’t dashing around for a change, we were watching some TV show when I noticed something dashing across the living floor. It was a mouse. However, I did not say thin. Instead in a very derogatory stereotypical fashion, I made a yelping noise (some would say scream) and jumped up upon the sofa. Cat was obviously quite astonished by my behaviour and eventually I managed to explain to her that there was in fact a mouse and it was now residing behind the television. We bravely approached the area and the creature made another mad dash for it, this time under the sofa. By this time I had calmed down and regained some of my dignity and remembered the mouse catching apparatus.

The mouse catching apparatus for those who did not grow up with cats, is a plastic bowl and a plate. With these two implements mice or other small terrified creatures can be caught and liberated from hungry cats. I dashed to kitchen whilst Cat kept watch on the sofa for signs of movement. On my return, I closed the door and we wheeched the sofa from the wall. Unfortunately, the flat is old and the floor not flush with the doors (and mice are small) and the creature dashed into the hall. We followed it into the hallway where a myriad of doors and hiding places presented themselves. We searched the cupboards an under the bookcase but to no avail. Cat then when through tot the kitchen to see our guest sitting squarely in the middle of the kitchen floor. He then scampered under the washing machine and was gone. We stood about a bit then wondering what to do in a useful fashion and realised he had won. So I obsessively put all foodstuffs in air tight mouse proof containers and on the next available evening purchased a humane mouse trap. Suffice to say, he remains at large.

Now the final two tales are linked and not in a way that many readers will enjoy. I have recently completed my probationary period at work and have now started flexi time. What is this flexi-time you say? In summary it means I can start any time before 10 and finish any time after 4 as long as my hour at the end of a 4 week period meet the minimum 150 hours. This is marvellous for me. No more rushing in the mornings, being able to leave early if the necessity requires. But something has been lost. For every silver lining there is a cloud. It means that I no longer get my regular bus to work. Tales of the 49 to Rosewell are over. But dry your tears little ones, I’m sure that the novelty will wear off soon, I will start a more regular pattern of work and I will once again have a new bus to glean great tales from. However, I leave you with this the final tale from the 49 .....

The Tale of the Bedraggled Doctor and the Shiny SHO

So several weeks ago, I began to notice that Bedraggled Doctor (BD for short) was looking far less disappointed when alighting to the bus and inevitably not getting a seat. I realised then that she had a companion. Now if you recall, Bedraggled Doctor gets her name for the fact that she always looks positively dishevelled. Her shirts are always crumpled, her hair always unbrushed, her laces tied in knots and several moths flutter around her like in some Dickenson novel (okay I might getting a touch carried away with my prose). Well, this chap was by far the opposite. He sported a neatly cropped haircut alongside a perfectly trimmed beard. He was immaculately attired with beautifully laundered pure wool jumpers over a crisp shirt and well pressed trousers. His dark brown leather shoes gleamed with spit and polish. He also carried with him what I can only describe as man bag, a bold move even in the cosmopolitan Edinburgh. A satchel is probably the best way to describe it and its strap was a curiously short length yet he somehow managed to wedge it on without a wrinkle on his pullover so it neatly lay under his right arm.

This new companion and BD chatted the whole way and then got off at the hospital and walked together past me and beyond to the hospital at large. They must have been colleagues as they seemed to walk together into the corridors and his slightly more expensive attire and slightly advanced years lead me to the conclusion that he was her SHO i.e. her senior (as she clearly is a junior). The next day, the same happened. And then every day after that. They would get on the bus together, either standing or sitting and quite literally chat enthusiastically the entire journey. Now for those public transport commuters amongst you, does that not strike you as odd? At 8 in the morning, I can barely utter a vague grunt let along talk voraciously to a colleague day after day. Or was he......

Several days into my observation, it began to dawn on me why suddenly was this chap getting the bus with her? It was nowhere near doctor change over time so he can’t have started working on her ward. Perhaps he had recently moved house? No I decided that was not the case- I mean who is buying these days? The only explanation is that they were having a inter office romance. A Grey’s anatomy type inappropriate liaison (I am still addicted, however I must point out in real life it’s not actually a complete taboo to date your senior, in fact it’s what usually happens ). They had resisted for the most part of her rotation, but finally after several months of stolen glances and whispered nothings, finally one night after a particular wild work night out, they slipped out ‘to get some air’ and shared a gentle kiss. Since that day they have met every day, unable to be parted. Surreptitiously leaving work at separate times. Taking different staircases to the doctor’s room. Every night joining together in a forbidden love that dare not speak its name lest it be known and others at work frown upon them!

And then I noticed something. One day, the bus was as busy as always and there was only one free seat. Rather unusually (but breaking sexual stereotypes) BD let Shiny SHO have the seat. Once seated, she affectionately patted his head. He reached his hand to hers to hold it in a gentle embrace. And then I saw it. A wedding ring. I was frantic. Could it be?! Shiny SHO was married?! I looked desperately at BD’s left hand, could it be they were actually married and I’d just misread the situation. But her ring finger was bereft. Then it all slipped into place. The fact they always stayed at hers, the secret meetings, and the stolen glances. They were not only having a secret romance form the work colleagues, Shiny SHO was married- he had a wife! They were having an honest to goodness affair!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Actual affair- just like in Grey’s!!!! How would it all end? Would Shiny dump his wife? Or would he return to her and break Bedraggled Doctor’s heart? Would one day, I see him run for the bus screaming ‘BD I pick you, I choose you, I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!’

And then I got flexi-time and haven’t got that bus since so I have no idea how it played out.

The end.

Next time....

Yet again I have been too busy to write a regular blog and I remain so. Instead I will leave you all with these little teasers until I have time to write a suitable and more indepth blog.

• Adultery and scandal on the bus: a shocking and surprising turn of events involving Bedraggled Doctor
• Mouse attack in the flat
• Return of the Cat: I swap my tall blonde flatmate for a shorter version
• Flexi-freedom: I begin a life of non-conformist working hours

And so much more still to come.....

Busy Lepidoptera

Salutations dear readers. Apologises for the lapse in my timely bloggings. I’ve had a complaint (from a black pot- you know who you are) and so I would just like to defend myself. I have been a butterfly. A social butterfly and I am exhausted!

The weekend following the last blog, Up North Lori came for the weekend and coincidentally Friday night was Champagne night, a dinner party with Landlady wife Sarah, and Kiddie doc Jen (the last time we would have our semi-regular Friday night gathering as the landlady wife is Glasgow bound next week). It was called champagne night as Sarah had a been given a very expensive bottle as a gift and had not got round to drinking it. We managed. We managed to drink another couple too. Due to my rather bossy instructions to drink lots of water, Lori and I didn’t feel too rough the next day after some frivolity and meeting my with psyche Suzie (she is a psychologist, only a little crazy) that evening we went to Andi’s Beaver and had some more wine.

The following weekend was Manchester with the Amazing Aimie. Back from Dubai for a month an still browner than a nut (that’s an odd expression isn’t it? I mean how brown are nuts?) The weekend actually started on Thursday and didn’t finish till Monday. Manchester was much fun. We shopped, went on a big wheel, drank pink fizz (amongst other things) and went dancing. The Manchester night life was not as wild as I was fearfully expecting, but filled with rather confusing people. At the club, the Scottish lacrosse team were there wearing kilts, but only one of whom was actually Scottish. A long haired tall man accused me of being a catholic and then on telling him I had no particular religious affiliation, then began to rant ‘you little protestant girl with your little protestant mother and protestant father in your little protestant town’. Odd. We managed to make it back to the hotel unscathed however the next day I feel more than a little under the weather. It didn’t help that the train was inhabited by a extremely loud drunk Glaswegian man who for the whole journey screeched a torrent profanities and on our arrival in Edinburgh he seemed entirely confused about where he was a began to scream ‘I’m in Edinburgh, is this Edinburgh? Where am I!’. Surface to say the rest if the carriage’s population waited until he had safely evacuated and did not rush to his aid.

I had wisely booked the Monday and Tuesday off work and this tuned out to most fortuitous as ‘Save the Children’ Dominic came to Edinburgh for visit on return from his epic Malawi trip and this descended into a dinner party of sorts with beer. Unfortunately, I did have to return to work the next day and the day was hard. Very hard. But the torture did not stop there. During the drunken dinner party I had received a phone call from Beaver Andi (oh, for those who don’t know, he was formerly Fort Willy Andi, but he recently moved to Edinburgh into a Beaverhall road flat). He took advantage of my drunken state and persuaded me to accompany him to ‘Body Pump’ on Thursday evening.

I wasn’t sure what body pump was. I knew it involved some kind of aerobics and music, but that was all. After dragging out my only passable (barely) gym outfit and fighting back the school PE flashbacks, I cautiously made my way to the gym. It was filled with lithe beauties who all seemed relaxed and like they were meant to be there. I met Andi he began to ‘reassure’ me by telling me what to expect. Imagine my surprise when he said that when we get inside we were to get a spot to set up our weights. Our weights, excuse me?! He had never mentioned weights. Yes, indeed Body Pump is weight lifting aerobics class. So not only did I ever to try and coordinate to music, but now I had to life weights as well. I was not amused. The Body Pump teacher was one of those impossibly beautiful fit people who always have a massive fixed grin and don’t sweat. I spent the entire class flailing around hopelessly trying to be coordinated and rather ineffectually lifting my weights. The actual class wasn’t entirely as hideous alas I had anticipated, but I don’t think Andi will waste his energy trying to persuade me to accompany him to the gym again.

So finally last night, I thought I might have a chilled night at home alone, but I am just a girl who can’t say no and ended up round at Andi’s beaver with my soon to be ex-wife watching the classic (i.e. cheesy) X-men 3 and a bottle of vine.

Tonight may prove to be my undoing as Cat is back! Yes she has returned from Oz (hopefully less scary wheelie creatures in her journey) and tonight we are having a party at the Beaver (of course) and then on Tuesday, she become my new wife! Yes, I have wasted no time. When Sarah leaves on Tuesday, Cat will take her place. I need to have a blonde in my life and whilst I mourn the passing of Sarah to the abyss that is Glasgow, I look forward to living with Cat and hopefully finally meeting the eponymous Lewis (the boy who has just ‘given’ her his spare car).
Amongst all this excitement, Aimie is back for another weekend, there is Karen’s leaving do to be had and I’m trying to squeeze in a cocktail night with Artist Laura and Maggie – the original girl from Oz may be making an appearance!

As I said, I am a butterfly.

Motion

This weekend has been another one of perpetual motion and general frivolity. I seriously don’t know how I have time to work. Directly after finishing on Friday, I set out in Simone to Aberdeen to stay the night with Kim and Tom. I had spent the whole day moaning and complaining to my work mates about the traffic I was bound to encounter whilst trying to cross the bridge on the eve of the popular music festival ‘T in the Park’. However, that evening I sailed across the bridge with the most minimal of delays and certainly far less than the previous week en route north.

Anyway I arrived in good time to be greeted by a lovely meal from Kim and Tom and a few glasses of fine red wine. I was an ungrateful guest though as I slept in the next morning then dashed immediately off to visit my grandfather and a very pregnant friend (hi Shona!) who also fed me well. I did return after my visitations and have a cup of tea, but I must say I wasn’t the most sociable of guests so I thank them for being such gracious hosts. Saturday evening continued my tour of the East coast when finally after almost 2 years after Louise moving into her Tayside flat (literally next to the Tay River you can see the men in the bridge and occasionally they sail by in their construction boat and spy on Louise), I finally visited her in Dundee (the first year is excusable as I was out of the country, but the 2^nd, all I can do is a apologise). The night turned into more of an event than had initially been planned as it ended up being my landlady wife, Elaine, a rather tired post baby-catching Gillian and of course the gracious hostess. We chatted, we ate and we drank. We drank 4 bottles of wine in fact. This doesn’t sound so bad until you discover that neither Gillian or Elaine were drinking and then you can appreciate that the next day the hostess, landlady wife and I ever feeling a touch delicate (we latter two were put up at the River View Hotel don’t worry we weren’t drunk driving back to Edinburgh).

So the remainder of Sunday after managing to drive Simone home in the blustery wind was spent on the sofa watching Grey’s Anatomy- yes I finally stopped resisting and have started watching it. I usually hate medical dramas as I have never got over ER killing off my favourite character Mark Greene. Oh, Mark what an end! And I’m mildly ashamed to say I find myself slightly addicted and have been sending out sneaky texts to friends who have the 2^nd series to ask them if ask if I can borrow it (thanks Lori).

Also this week my mother has made the move from her old-new house to her new-new house. I gather it has been slightly traumatic, but when I phoned her tonight to get the full report my aunt had just arrived and they searching for a bottle opener. I thought- best leave them to it. Never speak to my mother even after the merest sniff of alcohol or she’ll profess her undying love and then launch into a story about how I was planned by my father and not by her....

So that’s it, but I thought it might be time for a bus watch update. A couple of new people have arrived and our old favourites have been making their regular appearances. However we have a loss. At first I thought he must be on holiday, but I think, alas, Thin Puck is gone. We mourn his leaving the bus and alighting to the rest of the world. However, on to new and old friends alike.

Tattoo lady- a new regular on the bus. She is there already when I get on and gets off about 2/3rds of the way into my journey. She has the most striking tattoos on her neck and face. Two tiny blue cat (or maybe dog) paw prints at the corner of each eye then a trail of larger black paw prints going circumferentially around her neck. At the base of her neck there is also a heart surrounded by a pair of wings. They really are quite startling and what makes it all the more fascinating is that these are only the tattoos I can see. This woman always wears a high necked top and long sleeves, heaven knows what other dazzling displays of body art exists under the swages of cloth.

Lion Woman- whilst waiting for my bus last week a woman I suspect of Spanish origin appeared at the bus stop. Her hair is a flowing mane of browns and golds. It looks like it’s had spent hours and hours and several people making it look so absolutely perfect, but it is 8am in the morning and I don’t think this can possibly be. Imagine my delight and surprise when she got on the bus and sat directly in front of me and has continued to do so this last few days. For the first 15 minutes of my journey, lion girl has got on the bus and I have had the great joy of getting to see her hair every day. Don’t ask me if she’s pretty, I’ve not looked at her face.

Bedraggled doctor- has been on night shifts as she was away all last week. At first I thought ‘oh that's lovely, she must me on holiday’. However her appearance on Monday morning's commute makes me suspect she was on nights. Poor, poor bedraggled doctor.

The Wet Granny- the battle continues. After our last direct meeting (in which whilst wet she sat on me) I had mostly been successful in avoiding her. Unfortunately, last Thursday as the bus approached her stop, I saw her there ready and waiting to jump on the bus. I glanced around me and realised I had one of the only available seats next to me. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best, but luck was not on my side and I saw her approach. I thought that perhaps this time it would not be so bad- it was dry day and this time I was in a normal two seater so surely this time my leg would safe from her great hulking mass. Alas not, as she swung herself down, throwing her full weight upon the seat, I again got half a buttock on my outer thigh. To add insult to injury she also had a massive handbag (I suspect containing bricks) which she threw down upon my lap. She eventually manoeuvred her arse off my leg, but handbag remained on my lap for most of the journey. Any attempts to try and throw her a disgruntled look were prevented by her reading the free newspaper with the print practically touching her nose. It being pressed up so close to her face and the vast majority of the leaf in my immediate ‘personal bubble’ meant that any effort of eye contact was prohibited by her paper cocoon.

Wet Granny 2- Morag nil.

White Wedding

Despite being up north just last week, I returned to my birth home (like a birth parent to an adopted child, the birth home will always be part of you no matter how much you try to forget it and adopt a new accent) for a joyous occasion. An old school friend and her fiancé, another old Dingwall alumni were joined in holy matrimony in Strathpeffer.

The bride, the fabulous Tania, wanted a more personal wedding than the generic standard fare and whilst the wedding formed the same basic mould there were a few Tania-twists that made the whole thing even lovelier. It was held at a Strathpeffer hotel and due to the ropey weather the initially planned outside ceremony was swiftly set up in doors (well, you can dream). However the inside chapel-esk hall was very nice and in particular I thought the female (gasp- a woman!) registrar was really wonderful. The twists of the wedding included woman giving speeches at the meal (as Tania said- why do only the men get to talk?), she had no bridesmaids, there were 2 best men and the most out of mould thing was than she did not wear a white dress. No, instead, she wore a delightful pink flowing, cut to the knee number with a lovely flower pastiche at the side of one strap. It reminded me of heather and seemed very Scottish.

Now on the topic of outfits, this brings me to one part of weddings that fills me with great pleasure- seeing what everyone wears. There was one gentleman in particular that really caught my eye. I suppose no one had ever told him that it is bad etiquette to wear white at a wedding or maybe he knew that Tania was not being a tradionalist, but this chap turned up in pure white crushed linen suit. And it gets better. Not only was he wearing this dazzling beauty with a half way down unbuttoned blue Hawaiian style shirt, on his feet were white leather loafers. Actual loafers with a snazzy design. To top it off he was one spray tan away from being a mahogany chest of drawers. Whilst obviously all eyes were on the bride (and the groom, I must say Chris looked splendid in his charcoal coloured kilt) there were also a few on this fabulous chap. (I must mention at this point, whilst I was desperate to get a sneaky photo of this chap, I quickly got far too filled with let’s say ‘love and joy’ and was away ceilidh dancing for the majority of the evening and promptly forgot to take any snaps of him so anyone who was at the wedding who reads this blog, if you have any please, please, I beg you, send them to me.)

Later that night I sneaked over and asked quietly in the bride’s ear and asked who he was. How had she met such a divine creature? She replied he was one of Chris's Territorial Army buddies.

Well.

Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Ornithes

I left you last time with the tale of my bus and having a job at last. So now I will tell you about my holiday. Yes, holidays already and my birthday. It was a great delight and surprise to discover I get to choose my holidays and days off, in fact on receiving this information I looked so shocked and pleased that it caused one of my colleagues to burst out laughing. Because dear readers as many of you are doctors (and teachers etc etc) and thus aware, I have never had non rota-ed in holidays. Choice is a wondrous thing and I find myself actually struggling to decide when to take off. However, a clear winner was the period around my birthday so I booked the week. The only down side to my new found freedom is the pay packet that comes with and as such overseas adventures are denied to me so instead I went north, homeward bound once again.

Many of you hardcore fans will be aware that last year my mother got in tow with a fancy man then moved house. Well, the brazen hussy has taken it even further and is moving again and this time with the fancy man! The new house is in Tain so not too far away from Dingwall and the move is at the end of this week, so my sojourn to the fair county was still based at Gateside her old new house (it’s confusing isn't it?).

The good thing about Gateside is that it is in the centre of town and in easy walking distance to everything, but bad part of it is the parking. No, no, not the fact you have to reverse into the driveway between a railway crossing safety sensor thing and a wall and then tuck the car into the small space next to my mum’s car. No, no I have mastered that like a pro, I might even start trying to reverse park soon *laughs* , it is the birds. Next to mum’s parking area is a small triangle of land called a community garden. Hmm, yes I’m not sure a bit of grass with a few dead rose bushes constitutes a garden, but it belongs to the council and at the edge of the ‘garden’ and the driveway there is a large weed tree.

Do you know what I mean by that? It is a tree that has leaves that look like nasty maple leaves and apparently their tree spawn (seeds? Dear lord I can remember none of my higher biology, how embarrassing) spread forth and cause horticulturists many a headache. Well, it’s one of them and as such unsightly, but also uncuttable down because it belongs to the council and that would cost money *gasp*.

Apart from it over hanging into my mother’s land and looking unsightly, it also seems to the home of every bird in Dingwall. I think it might be the bird equivalent to the Mallard, the local pub as every type of bird seems to inhabit it at various times of the day, it is no one bird’s castle. I have nothing against birds, but a great issue I do take with them is their toileting habits. I mean what other animal literally craps where they stand? Cats sneak away and bury it, dogs usually go against a wall or the edge of the garden and rarely crap in their own house/bed, but birds; they just go whether it be mid air, sitting in their ‘pub’, walking along the sunny pavement or in their nests. It weird and gross.

So getting back to the point- birds crap. Birds live in the tree over hanging my mum’s driveway. Simone is parked there. By the end of a lovely few days being force fed by mum and visiting tropical gardens, Simone was completely and utterly covered in layers upon layers of bird crap. And this was no ordinary bird crap. It wasn’t that nice white powdery stuff you normally get, it was a thick disgusting browny gloop which was cemented to the car. Just before my departure I thought I should clean it off. It took almost an hour of concentrated water pouring, ice scraper offing to get it to budge. There was one particularly large, solid, stuck-on crap on the roof and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until at last it came off. However, I then took a step back and the light hit poor little Simone and it was then I realised that I had scrubbed too hard and I had scratched her! This put me in a very bad mood for about 25 minutes and required chocolate.

However, I recovered, apologised for being grumpy to my poor, long suffering mother then decided to go back to the ‘burgh. By this time of course another bird crap had appeared on the windscreen and so the fond farewell was delayed slightly by having to clean this off. Then finally we hugged and I went to depart when I heard a shriek from my mother. A bird had crapped on her! No, wait, it hadn’t- it was transfer crap from me, a bird had crapped on me! Not only that, it had managed to crap on my side under my arm. This made no sense, how could the crap get there and not on my arm? Then it dawned on me, I must have been crapped on whilst stretched over the car cleaning off the latest crap from the windscreen. Whilst a small part of me acknowledges and repects the sheer determination of the birds the poo everywhere, this was a tad aggravating and did put an end to the touching goodbye my mother and I were attempting.

I did eventually leave and had a slow journey back to my adopted home behind lots of caravans travelling to the Royal Show. I parked Simone and had a lovely evening in with the landlady wife who opened champagne, cooked me tea and gave me flowers and a handbag for my birthday- she’s such a good wife.

The next day I went to do the food shopping so popped out the flat and down the stairs to the car park where little Simone was parked. And on the windscreen there were, you guessed it, a large crap.

I hate birds.

On the Buses

Dear readers where to begin the apologises? I don’t know, so I won’t belabour it. Soz.

Right so last we spake, I was about to become employed. Well, 2 months later I am still employed- yippee! My job is perfectly pleasant, the people perfectly pleasant and the 9 to 5 (or precisely 8:45- 4:45 due to my bus) lifestyle is suiting me, well perfectly. And long may that continue. I don’t really want to dwell too much on my job for confidentially reasons- what I do is basically convert written notes to numeric code so the information can be collated by some organisation to turn into statistics to do well, something important I guess and also apparently there was a previous employee who wrote a detailed and disparaging blog about life at the office and got fired. I think there may have been other issues too, but you know I don’t want to tempt fate. 7 months people, 7 months and with the emergency budget coming out tomorrow the likelihood of anyone getting a job or benefits is going to shrink to about nothing so I’m not going to do anything that might jeopardise my nice new stress free job.

However, I can talk about my bus. Any of you who have known me for any length of time may be aware of my personal dislike of public transport or to be more honest the people on public transport. In fact as a teenager I would whole heartedly avoid going on buses if I could possibly avoid it and the event of getting my first car Evita was one filled with great joy. After 6 months of car-lessness in my new city, the begetting of my 2^nd car Simone was even more joyful despite, let’s be honest, one doesn’t really need a car in Edinburgh. This statement can be countered by the fact that in about 2 weeks time my mother is about to move to a slightly remote (certainly by public transport standards) house with her fancy man and getting to and from there without a car would be tricky.

Anyway back to the topic in hand, my bus. I work in the New Royal, but live in Leith, the top of Leith to be more precise. The great problem with this is that despite the distance from my flat to the hospital only being a little over 4 miles, it takes approximately 40 minutes to get to work every day. This is because there is only one direct bus to and from Leith to the hospital and it goes right through the centre of town. Why not drive I hear you say? You could go via Holyrood Park thus avoiding the traffic and get to work in about half the time (this is what you would say if you knew the geographical layout of Edinburgh, but not the following facts)? Well, dear hearts this is because parking costs £7 a day at the New Royal. Yes, I say again SEVEN pounds. If I work a fulltime month this would add to £140/month plus the cost of petrol. The bus however costs £42 pounds a month for limitless amount of trips. I have a special card with a particularly smug picture of me on it that makes this possible. It is truly a wonderful thing not to scrabble around looking for change in the morning and it works out as £2.10/day if I only use it for work and when you divide it by the all the additional trips I can use it for the actually daily amount reduces considerably.

Hmmm, that has turned into a bit of rant what I was actually going to talk about were the people on my bus. Right as I was saying, it is the only direct bus from Leith to the hospital and Leith being a pleasant, but affordable part of the city centre is a popular choice for commuters. As such it always rammed full. It is only a single decker bus, something which I cannot understand as I more often than not do not get a seat for about the first 15 minutes. I notice that there are a few people that get the bus everyday as I do. I have decided to describe them to you so you can get a flavour what greets me every working day.

· Thin Puck- he is a young fellow who gets on the bus the same stop as me Tues- Friday who looks just like a thin version of Puck from the popular new smash hit TV series Glee. He even has a near Mohican like hairstyle. He is rather slim and tanned and he almost never sits down. Even if there are seats he usually stands for the duration of the bus journey and most likely beyond as he does not get off at the hospital (where he does go, I do not know). Very occasionally if the individual seats at the front of the bus are free he will sit in them, but I have never seen him sit on a double seat. Does he fear someone will sit next to him? If so why? What has happened to Thin Puck to make him so afraid of sitting on the bus and instead stand for over 40 minutes every morning? Poor Thin Puck.

· Bossy baggage couple- they are young Eastern European couple who are always on the bus before me, but are not present every day. The female of the coupling is the one I refer to as bossy. As seats are few, I have noticed she always sits in a free seat before the chap; however they always seem to have an extraordinary amount of baggage with them, which he has to shoulder despite her being seated. There are usually 2 rucksacks and several filled to capacity carrier bags (with what I have not yet discerned). When they speak, she seems to be telling him to do certain things and he always looks a little sheepish. They get off at the hospital, but I do not know where they go.

· Bakery lady- this woman works in Gregg’s. I know this because she wears the uniform on the bus. She always seems in a pleasant mood. Gregg’s must be a nice place to work.

· Bedraggled doctor- one stop after I get on, a young Asian woman gets on the bus. Despite the bus being consistently busy, she always looks so disappointed when she doesn’t get a seat. I have concluded she is junior doctor as she always looks exhausted, carries a large rucksack containing books and gets off at the hospital. She must be disappointed that she doesn’t get a seat straight away as one suspects that getting a seat on the bus is the highlight of what is about to turn out to be a very exhausting day. She looks smart enough, but on closer inspection you can see her trousers are too loose for her meaning they used to fit her but the pressures of long shifts and continual stress have cause her to lose weight, her shirts are not ironed and her hair is always in disarray (I can only imagine she pulls it back with a hair band before commencing her work). I always feel sorry for bedraggled doctor. I used to be her.

· The Wet Granny- the Wet Granny gets her name from a very disturbing incident which made me first notice her presence. It was a particularly rainy day one Wednesday morning and after my usual stand I was relieved to get a seat even if it was one of a series of the pulley down seats that runs along the side of the bus. About half way through my journey an elderly woman came on the bus wearing a hugely enormous woollen poncho which due to rain was quite damp. She grabbed the free newspaper, pulled down the seat next to me and then sat on me. Now I know I am not large, but I would have thought that my presence would register, but clearly not to the Wet Granny who sat half on her own seat and half on me. I then would have thought on realising her error, she then would have shifted her mass to be fully on her seat, but no she continued to sit on me, covering me in wet woollen poncho and crushing my leg with her rather considerable weight. Eventually after what seemed to be an eternity, she shifted (mostly) on to her own seat. However she then opened the paper, but opened it practically on me, her arm flagrantly in my personal space. What made it worse was every time I moved even the slightest bit, a nod of the head, a blink, she would turn her face rapidly and stare right at me, our noses near touching like I had cause her some great affront. It was most disconcerting. That was one of the longest bus journeys of my life. The Wet Granny gets on the bus sporadically, one can never tell when she will appear, but when I see her alight, my fearful heart trembles in memory of that horrific trip.

And those are the people on my bus.

Work

I have to go to work on Monday.

Balls.

The Rough with the Smooth

Since my last entry I have fully embraced my pre-work life. I have been driving around testing out Simone, visiting folk and generally having a wonderful time. I could detail my every move, but I can’t be bothered and I don't think you'd be that interested. Instead, I am going to talk about 2 key topics- Costco and the M8

The M8

Last weekend I took Simone to Glasgow to see my cousin Esme. I was accompanied in this journey by the Glasgow savvy Karen, my cousin Malcolm’s girlfriend who since I have moved to Edinburgh has fast become a good friend. Now many of you may know that despite loving having a car, I hate parking and I hate motorways. I have only ever driven on 3 motorways in my life; one of these was the M8. Most of you will have driven on the M8 and will know it is a daunting affair to the unfamiliar. Unlike any other motorway I have encountered, the M8 appears to have little logic and is the only motorway I know of that has filter lanes blending into both sides of the road. As an unsure driver, one’s natural instinct is to go slow and get out of the fast lane. However due to the M8’s terrifying system, if you go to the far right, you end up turning off, but the middle lane frequently turned into the fast lane and you are constantly having to change lanes which I find is the most stressful part of it. However, what also confounds me about the road is that when you are in Glasgow, it seems almost impossible to get on it. On one occasion, despite correctly following all the signs, I ended up driving under and past the motorway several times exasperated that I was down below when I wanted to be up there when suddenly, for no known reason, I appeared on the road. I am convinced to this day I was beamed there by some sort of teleportation device. And am I not the only person that this has happened to. It’s definitely a conspiracy.

Going back to my original story, I was heading to my cousins with Karen as my navigator and despite a bit of tension, with her guidance we made it safely to Esme’s. However the next day I had to get back on the M8 alone to head north. I instantly missed my turn off for the motorway and ended up having to turn the car around in some stately home driveway (in Glasgow who would have thunk it?) and eventually found my way. However, I was then faced with a new problem- following the signs to Stirling. Just to mock me, the sign /road makers taunted me by constantly changing position of the lane I needed to go on to get to Stirling and I seemed to be constantly changing lanes whilst trying to ensure I didn’t miss my turn off- or worse turn off too soon and end up in some random suburbs with Glasgow ruffians. I thought as soon I got out of the main city things would improve, but alas not as there seemed to be never ending road works thereafter all the way to Stirling with a maze of cones and single lane traffic to contend with. I eventually after an accidental detour to Cumbernauld reached Stirling. I have never in my life been so happy to get onto the A9. I hate the M8 and I blame Glasgow for this hideous road. I hope to never again have to navigate this monstrosity, but know that because of the peculiar draw of people to the Weegie-land that I will have to someday. A sat-nav has been purchased.

Costco

On to happier things, my landlady wife took me to Costco on Sunday. I have once been to a similar type store called Macro (for some reason I thought was called Macroland which I think sounds far more exciting) when I was a young child. My abiding memory of the store was over sized tins of fruit and the doll ‘Pamela’ my parents bought me. Pamela was meant to be a life size child doll and even more excitingly she was supposed to walk! She was quite large and made of cheap thin, but hard plastic. The idea was you held her hand and she walked along side with you. However in practice all that would happen was poor Pamela would wobble slightly and then fall on you. Fortunately, she was not very heavy, but it was slightly alarming. Despite her not walking, I loved Pamela my life sized doll and along with Sylvia the ‘real skin’ baby doll, Esme and I would turn my bedroom into our ‘house’. The game consisted of Esme being my wife and me being the husband. I would come home from work and say ‘phew that was a hard day at work’ and then Esme would give me a fake cup of tea and fake dinner and then we would put our two children to bed. We loved this far from scintillating, gender stereotyping game until alas one day we made a grave error. We decided to give Pamela a makeover involving lipstick, eye shadow and a drawn on bikini with an eyeliner pencil (all with my mother’s make-up). She looked like a child prostitute. We tried to wash it off, but alas Pamela’s descent into the oldest profession could not be averted and our happy family game was truly ruined. You see, the sexualisation of children even affects dolls.

Anyway, the visit to Costco re-awakened strong memories in me and it was with trepidation that I entered. But what wonder greeted me- a vast warehouse of bulk buying of products you will probably never need! There were 10 of everything! The tins were comically over sized, the loo rolls were bundled together in unfathomable quantities and there were hunks of meat that looked like an elephant had procreated with a bull. It made me feel like a borrower. I got completed over excited and ended up buying a lot of things I didn’t strictly need including a box with 60 bars of fudge. The result of this is I now feel compelled to bulk buy- I mean why buy one of something when you can get 12?!

Right that completes my rambling. In summary- M8 bad, Costco good.

Variety

So I didn’t get the third job I interviewed for the week I got 2 other jobs. Shame. Well, not really, I didn’t want it. I didn’t want it because the interviewers were terrible! I have had probably over 10 interviews in that last few months and I have come to a better understanding what makes a good interviewer as well as interviewee.

For example, the job I have finally settled on (Clinical coder for those of you mot keeping up) they asked me questions like ‘why do want this job’ and ‘do you think you would enjoy working in a busy environment’ etc etc. The interviewers then went on to tell me some very important things like my wage, pension and the times and location of the job. They finished it off by telling me exactly when they would let me know and when the position would start if I got it. However the property job I went for made me fill out an ‘optimism questionnaire’ first to assess my ego and I guess, optimism. Indeed. The interviewers then asked me inane questions like ‘what is your greatest achievement at work’ and ‘how did this achievement cause a change in the workplace’. And other such wafflily beauties that have no bearing on why I would be good for their job. Also, I then asked about salary and possible progression, I got such an unintelligible answer back that I still don’t know what they meant, how much I would earn and if there was any possible growth to be had in that job. So, yes, happy with the job I took.

And on the subject of jobs, I am ever more grateful of the coder job as I very naughtily didn’t turn down the SAAS job until yesterday. Now let’s think about this. I interviewed for that job on the 22^nd December. I didn’t hear I got it till mid Feb and by early march I hadn’t yet even got an inkling of a start date. I know my references didn’t supply one for that post as I contacted them and told them not to, but no one in SAAS office chased me up and said ‘Oi references?!’ or anything. I mean in many ways, I should have continued the pretence just to see when eventually they wanted me to start. Next year perhaps?

Anyway, jobs aside now. Literally. I used to send 8 hours a day minus tea and ‘animal rescue 24:7’ aside and now I am free of that. So I did what any sensible person did and I bought a car and went home to test her out. Her name is Simone and she is a 2003 silver/blue Peugeot 106 with low mileage and a 1.2 litre engine. For such a wee car she is surprisingly nippy and my journey home was a pleasure and a delight. I then did a rather spectacular reverse park into mum’s driveway and got along side mum’s Toyota. I repeated with wonderful manoeuvre without assistance over the next few days *pride* Parking is not my strong suit so any sucessful manoeuvre is worth praise.

The visit was mainly focused around my little-big brother (i.e. older than me, but not as old as my eldest brother) Ian the murse. He will be ‘28 again again’ on Sunday (i.e. 30) but as he is going to a wedding that weekend, we decided to go something this weekend just passed. I say we, but actually biggest brother was in fact the organiser, only to be unfortunately pinged off-shore to Nigeria at the last minute and was actually not present. The evening was thwarted once again when the restaurant we wanted to go to was closed just for that week for renovation. Sigh. What to do. Well, fortunately my brother’s fiancé is a wonderful cook and instead she put on a feast of curry. And I mean feast. There must have over 10 dishes, maybe even as many as 20. All cooked from scratch and made just beautifully, along with my mother and my maternal cousins plus partners, we had a delightful evening of total and utter curry indulgent and beer (mine noon-alcoholic as designator driver, sigh). It was lovely night even though most of we felt full to burst and the next day let’s just say a breeze was needed throughout his house to keep it fresh....

I returned from this jaunt back to Edinburgh via Pitlochery as because due to a series of events Cat the Australian wanderer and Andi the remote Fort Willy doc were both residing there for the afternoon. We went on a jaunty walk to find the mystical frozen pond Cat was keen for us to see – we didn’t find it, but I did locate a frozen puddle. We almost became duck killers when a flock refused to move out of the way of Simone and Andi was despatched to chase them away whilst been laughed at hysterically by Cat and I plus 2 grannies sitting on a bench who were also amused by this sight.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention, I also went to my friend Simon’s book launch in Blackwell’s last week. Simon has written a book about his travels with the aim of going to visit every place in the world with the word ‘mullet’ in the title. No seriously. He gave a reading of the book and then along with my brother and landlady wife went for tea. Niall is actually Simon’s primary friend and is mentioned in the first 5 or so chapters of the book which pleases him tremendously. The book is called ‘Up the Creek Without a Mullet’ by Simon Varwell and is available on Amazon. If you Google the author’s name, you’ll also get info about him and his blog. Interesting there are only 8 people with the surname Varwell in the world (fact) so this means ensuring you have the right Varwell is particularly easy. Right, plug over.

Since then I have been enjoying lazy days in the flat with no obligation to spend hours on the computer trawling for jobs. So what have I been doing? Well, I’ve being playing on the internet for hours trawling through Wikipedia. Variety is the spice of life.

Buses

Jobs are like buses. No sooner did I receive word that I got that SAAS job, I got word of 2 further interviews. I had one of these yesterday. It was to be a clinical coder for the NHS (Google it) and if I’m being brutally honest I only applied for the sake of it and thought no more of it. I was then surprised when I received notification that I had an interview. I then forgot all about that as well as after my SAAS job victory I totally relaxed and left the list to one side. I went home and spent a weekend with my mother basically eating and doing lovely things such as meeting up with an old school friend (who by coincidence happens to be a clinical coder). I returned after this indulgent weekend and then spent the week doing, well, not very much at all. In fact I can honestly say last week was particularly uneventful, I did the pub quiz, met up with friends, went to the cinema during the day etc etc I also went to see The Sound of Music at the Playhouse and it was very good. On Saturday the majority of the Forsythian cousins and I went out for a meal and drank far far too much wine and in amongst all this I actually bought a car.

Aside- yes I know I don’t need a car in Edinburgh. Yes, I know they are expensive, I know they are a bitch to park, yes I know because of this, and my personal green house gas emissions will cause the world to implode. But you know what? I don’t care. I want one, I want one, I want one!!!! So I am in the process of purchasing a 2003 blue/silver 5 door Peugeot 106 with only 23,000 miles on the clock. This means all you people I keep saying I would visit; well now you can’t hide, I coming to see you.

Back to the man story. So after the cousin dinner party I was very unwell. I mean seriously unwell. I was unable to emerge from my slumber and filth until the mid afternoon and was unable to keep down solid food till the early evening. However, fortunately I recovered enough of that evening’s festivities –Andi’s birthday. Yes, my gay ex-hubby (we had painful and public face book divorce 2 weeks ago) was yet again on holiday from the Fort (does he ever work?) and along with kiddie doc Jen and my wife- whose birthday was on the Saturday (she went out with her family, I didn’t abandon her for mine, dinnae yea worry and I got her a lovely, but unfortunately broken present) ate lots of pizza and watched the wonderful ‘Up’. If you have not seen this film, do it. Do it now. The first ten minutes contain some of the most moving scenes in film history. And Up is a cartoon.

And then all of a sudden, it was Monday and I had an interview. For all my other interviews, I have been meticulously prepared, checked out the job, the company, spent ages getting ready etc etc. But for this one, I barely remembered I had to go for it. I almost cancelled going because I hadn’t slept well. I finally got my act in gear and spent a whole ten minutes googling the job online and then got the bus to the hospital. On my arrival I was stupendously early as always and had a leisurely cup of tea. I was uncharacteristically chilled out, maybe this was because I realised I didn’t need this one and I entered the interview arena with confidence, oozing charm if I do say so myself. The 3 interview panellists were all delightful people, it was more like a chat than an interview. They laughed at my jokes, didn’t seem to mind my wildly gesticulating arms and seemed to think I knew what I was talking about. I was then told that the job would pay more than I thought, there were casual Fridays and flexi time on offer. Also my pension from my years as an FY doctor would be carried forward and slot into this one. And I do love a good pension. It was over and I left the room where it dawned on me- gosh I want this job. It sounds more interesting and generally just better than the other one. I was told I had a 1/5 chance and they would phone me Thursday/Friday.

So it was to my great surprise whilst buying flour in Tesco today (I am a good housewife) that I got a phone call from one of the panellists to tell me the they had completed the interviews a day early and that they wanted to offer me the job. I was stunned and delighted. I was so happy in fact I ended up buying the most ridiculous things in the shop, far too heavily burdening myself, resulting in a spilt bag incident at a pedestrian crossing and being aiding by a passing stranger. However, this supermarket related incident could not curb my enthusiasm and I have been on cloud nine since returning back to my home. My wife is on nights this week so I was unable to whip myself into a cleaning frenzy so instead I sat in my sofa eating cherry tomatoes and hummus on crackers feeling generally smug.

And here I remain, my wife is up and left for work and I am now watching the Olympics feeling restless, but contented. I won’t be starting the job till April so intend to pack in a lot of visiting with my wee car (getting it on Friday!) so watch out people.

Oh, and did I mention I have another job interview tomorrow afternoon.

Buses.