Useless Lemon

Age

2010-11-13T01:40:00.000-08:00

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

2010-09-26T05:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

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....

2010-08-17T13:40:00.000-07:00

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....

2010-08-11T12:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-31T05:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-14T11:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-06T11:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-29T11:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-17T02:54:00.001-07:00

I have to go to work on Monday.

Balls.

The Rough with the Smooth

2010-03-30T04:13:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-11T08:22:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-23T13:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Job

2010-02-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

It’s happened. After 5 months/ 149 days/3576 hours (approx) of official unemployment; Morag Christie has a job.

Now, don’t get too excited. It is not my dream job by any means and technically until I prove I’m not a serial killing paedophile and get my disclosure Scotland certificate, I can’t start. But it’s an offer, it’s a job and I now can pay my rent (after March this was going o become an issue as on March 18^th my JSA i.e. dole money was going to run out).

Phew, phew, phew.

Thank-you Student Awards Agency Scotland (my new almost-employer) for taking a chance on me and allowing me to give advice to young poor impressionable students and deny them funding. I relish the opportunity to ‘advise’ them to get weekend jobs because its recession and the government spent all their parents’ tax money on duck houses thus decreasing funding dramatically and the 25% increase in post-graduates leading to an altogether strain on the financial stability of the organisation. Sounds like great fun eh?

Phew.

Sorry that is just how it feels. I had anticipated when I got the news I had managed to secure employment that I would feel elated and want it party, get drunk and dance on tables. But what I actually felt was like there was a mill stone around my neck that had been finally lifted from my shoulders and thunk loudly on the ground at my feet, sending mill stone dust whooshing around me. I had a sit down, phoned my mum in disbelief and then did what is fast becoming one of my favourites past times of late- I cleaned. Favourite is not the word. Compulsion in fact. Yes, on hearing the news I had got a job a felt the compulsion to clean. I polished the window sills and mantle piece then cleaned the kitchen. I even moved the cooker and mopped the floor. I would have moved the fridge too, but it began to topple in my attempt and I could just visualize the scene that would greet Sarah on her return form work of my rather attractive pink love heart slippers poking out from under the horizontal fridge freezer and decided to leave it be.

I’m now having a sit down and a cup of tea out of my new mug. Who says I don’t know how to have fun?

I must back track slightly to events prior to today. The last I wrote I was getting very philosophical and this was mainly because I was waiting the results of a job interview that I thought I’d get. And then of course didn’t. Fortunately, I got the news whilst visiting my mother in Killin, the home of her fancy man. Yes, my poor mother is still waiting for her house to be finished and had gone to dog sit whilst her hard working fancy man completes the work. We had decided to go to Calander for the day, a nice wee town near Richard’s house and were just looking round a nice 2^nd hand book shop- (but mainly just talking to the resident book shop cat) when I heard the news that I still didn’t have a job. So I decided that the best way to deal with this news was to buy an extortionate amount of sweets. I got vanilla fudge, honey roasted cashews, milk chocolate jazzies, sherbet pips and mixed fruit creams. I spent the next 2 days in the country eating these whilst drinking left over wine from Christmas and watching truly appalling true life movies and crime shows. By the end of it I felt much better, spiritually, but not physically.

The Borg also were there of course, the full complement of five. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned before, but of the 5, 3 are young siblings, the other 2 are slightly older mum and (honouree) auntie. Jet is the mum dog and is a bit stiff around the back legs, but still as enthusiastic as her brood. When giving them their afternoon constitutional, I play the game commonly known to many as fetch. When playing this with five dogs, the game talks a slightly different format that I would describe as manic dash. This comprises of me wresting the ball from Tom, having the dogs running around me in ecstatic pleasure, jumping with an insane amount of anticipation then the ball been thrown, the Borg tearing after it. The ball lands and is usually initially caught by Megan, the small (but most devious) yellow lab before it us wrestled from her by one of her siblings the black ones Tom and Sally. Pip the auntie has by this stage realised it’s all over and given up, ran back to me to see if I have another ball just for her to throw (I don’t). A then a curious event occurs. After all the excitement, all the jumping and scrabbling, barking and near death leaping off the garden embankment, which ever child dog has it, they drop it. They drop it and run off. Then Jet the mum dog picks it up and returns it to me. It’s a curious thing that I’m sure if I was in my philosophical mood of last week, I would reflect on.

Anyway, since then it has just been the grind of job hunting (mercilessly over- I’m not going to stop job hunting, but just take it down a gear, maybe 2) and of course socialising.

The pub quiz was missed last week as my cousin was ill (don’t worry, just a cold) and grave news was also received. I mentioned back in the beginning of the blog my aunt Moira’s cat Asti. A magnificent beast of white and tabby, a stalwart of the family and not totally in love with his cousin cat Edgar when he was staying. Well, alas after 16 years of bravely defending his home from interlopers, the occasional spider and the more frequent mouse, he sadly passed away last week. It’s hard to describe the sadness of losing a pet to those who have not had a beloved pet die, but certainly form experience, when Linford, the equally magnificent black fluff monster died several years ago I felt quite bereft. It was an unexpected grief, one I felt a bit ridiculous about. I’m meaning he was only a cat, was he not? But I think a family pet, especially one you have had for years can leave you quite profoundly sad because of the associations they carry. Linford had been in my life from an early age, he had been there during school, university, holidays, illness and death. When I would come home from school before mum got home from work, he would greet me with great enthusiasm at the door and accompany around the house as I completed my daily ritual of ripping off my school uniform and purging myself of the school day (school was not my favourite time). He was there where when I was studying at university- even when I didn’t want him to be. I recall on one occasion his persistence was so over whelming I had to eventually lock him outside of the house and close the curtains. So when my cousins and aunt expressed their great sadness on the loss of Asti, I could easily comprehend their emotions. RIP Asti, king of the Forsyth cats, you shall be missed.

Gosh this blog is getting long and I’m hungry. More socialising has occurred, but I’ll talk about that next time.

To end on a happy note, as mentioned, the quiz was missed 2 Mondays’ past. However last night, we made the quiz (without Niall who was until this morning in Ghana and missed the last few quizzes) and I am happy to report that after finishing last, then finishing 2^nd last that yesterday we finished 3^rd last. So a definite improvement.

Things are looking up.

Waiting

2010-01-26T07:41:00.000-08:00

Sorry, you have been waiting for this blog. I did promise I’d write weekly and I’ve kept you all well, waiting. To be honest if you are a regular blog reader you’ll be aware that my life hasn’t been scintillating recently, the last Buffy themed entry being a testament to that. Plus, I’ve been a bit melancholy with the whole jobless thing neither of which is contusive to cheerful blog writing.

So today, the theme is waiting. I’m writing this as I wait for Andi’s bed to be delivered. For those of you unaware, Andi had just bought a flat in Edinburgh, but lives in Fort William. Fortunately for him he has an unemployed friend who has the time to sit about his house waiting for things to be delivered. Last Friday I also did this and was actually a little disappointed that by 1030 all the people had come, delivered their wears and were off again. It meant I had to go do something productive with my day and not just hole up in a corner of Andi’s unfurnished flat watching the extra features of my heroes season 3 DVD boxset like I had planned (don’t get me started on Heroes, while a silly programme with massive plot holes, it has become my new obsession, a mere pale comparison to Buffy of course, but nothing could ever fill that gaping hole in my heart).

Anyway, so waiting has become a major part of life recently and it dawned on me that waiting had been a major feature of most of my life in its entirety. I hated school, and spent my entire day waiting for the school day to be over. I then hated work and spent the day wishing my life away for the few precious moments I had at home before going in for another shift. And finally since moving to Edinburgh, I have been waiting to get a job. Now of course during my wait, I have been doing stuff. Seeing friends, decorating houses, moving a lot of other people’s furniture, but essentially in the back ground, waiting.

This concerns me. Should waiting define my life? But then looking around me and I notice a lot of my friends and family are doing the same thing. A lot of my medic friends are going through the hideous interview process again and waiting to hear if they have got the jobs they so want (and deserve). My mother is still waiting for her house to be finished! And it occurs to me that perhaps waiting isn’t a bad thing, perhaps in fact it us what it is all about.

Hmm how to explain what I’m getting at. I’ll use the medium of film as it’s the one I am most familiar with. When you are watching a good film or a TV series, you are desperately waiting to find out what happens next and how things will end. But when you do, it’s done, finished and even if you’ve enjoyed it, there is part of you that wishes you could go back and watch it all again with no memory of seeing it in the first place; to get that feeling back, the excitement of waiting to see what happens next. Will the goodies prevail? How will things turn out? Seeing things you weren’t expecting, surprises, delights, expectation. It’s all part of the process of enjoying the production.

And this is how I have decided to try and view my life. Everyone knows that the best part of a film is watching the protagonist going through a hard time and then in the end emerge triumphant. So I am nominating myself as the hero of my own life film. This is my difficult time, my cross roads, my period of transition. I will eventually get a job, things will change and for good or ill, I will and find out the outcome of this chapter of my story.

But until then, I just have to wait.

The Plan

2010-01-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

So last week I told you about the list and not putting things off till tomorrow. This week I give mention to the plan. The plan has emerged directly from the list. The list was just the stepping stone.

The first few days of the list filled me with a great passion and I did things that I had been putting off for ages. Andi was still hanging about like annoying step-child and kept dragging me along to buy paint and mirrors and the like (I secretly enjoy this but don’t tell him, I might need favours in the future) so I put him to good use. I decided finally after all this time, it was time to get rid of Buffy. Yes, my Buffy VHS collection was going to dust. I must state here, I did buy Buffy the complete series on DVD box set some months ago so, never fear, I am not Buffy-less, but it was time I got rid of my mixture of taped off TV Buffy videos and bought VHS box sets.

For those of you who don’t know, Buffy was a popular teen fantasy drama that lasted for 7 seasons starring Sarah Michelle Geller. It was pivotal in re-starting the popular media interest in vampire lore and was also the first main stream TV series to have a strong female main character and mainly female supporting cast. It was shown very late on BBC2 and my passion for it could not wait for this to happen. Also BBC2 edited the crap out of it too; I mean sentences just cut off mid way through- intolerable. Now fortunately for me, I had two lovely neighbours the Crombies in my old (now sold) family home. They had Sky television and every Thursday/Friday night for over 5 years they either allowed me to come over and watch Buffy; if they were out they set the tape up for me or gave me the keys to their house so I could watch it in their absence. I know, amazing kindness to a desperate teen. However it didn’t stop there. When I finally went to university, they continued to tape it for until finally series 7 finished and they were released of their obligation to me. What lovely people, shout out to them.

Anyway, so the point of that little homage was that I had kept all these tapes for all these years, but as we know VHS is dead, long live DVD, so I have upgraded. Thus the Buffy tapes had to go. My landlady wife was on nights last week and was trying my darnedest to be quiet during the day so she could sleep in peace. I keep my Buffy videos on top of my wardrobe in a plastic box. It’s a high wardrobe that required me to stand on a chair and hand the box to an expectant Andi. Unfortunately, as I passed it to him the box completely disintegrated on his head and Buffy videos went flying everywhere crashing to the ground in a most alarming manner. I froze- had we woken my wife?! No. Phew. And fortunately, Andi was still conscious. I like to think of this as the Buffy videos final hoorah, a silent, but spectacular assault on an oppressive male (well, sometimes he tells me I look like I’ve not got any make-up on when I do just to annoy me; so not oppressive, but a bit annoying). Goodbye Buffy VHS, I loved you so.

Wow, that was far too much about Buffy. I think have a Buffy problem. I need to go to Buffy-holics anonymous. Oh, dear lord stop!

So the plan. Yes, the plan emerged from the list. The list was working well, but soon it began to take a life of its own requiring appendages and notes all over the edges. This was not orderly, so I came up with the plan. The plan is a list of ultimate goals and things I’m working toward. I cannot do all the things in the plan straight away so I write a daily list from the plan using it as a reference to keep me on track. Clear now?

I could tell you about the plan, but I think I’ve bored you enough with the Buffy story so suffice to say there is a plan and hopefully something will come of it.

Hmm, I feel this a particularly boring blog entry, but I’ve written it now and feel it would be wasteful to delete it so like it or lump it that’s what you are getting this week. It’s finally happened. The unemployment has won, I now officially have nothing to say, dullness has enveloped me entirely, the ‘fun’ part of day is watching an amusing clip on YouTube, getting a bargain in pound stretcher or seeing a minor celebrity in John Lewis – that was on Sunday last; Angus Purden famed for being the face of the Postcode lottery on STV and also one of the hosts of Cash in the Attic. He was wearing a blue puffa jacket and was looking at kitchen appliances.

Oh, heaven help me why do I know that?! Please, someone, give me a job!

Tomorrow

2010-01-06T13:26:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow. I’d do it tomorrow. That is today’s blog theme. Firstly however, I must do the necessary and talk about the festive period. I last left you with the knowledge that I had an interview on the 22^nd. ‘How did it go’ I hear you ask, well let me tell you...

The interview was scheduled for 330pm. I had calculated that I would leave the house a bit after 2pm to ensure I got a bus in plenty of time and found the place (it was a 40 minute bus trip away at least). As many of you know, I am messy so I had decided not to dress in my interview clothes or do my hair until the last minute. At 1pm I got a phone call from he interview people that went as follows

‘Oh, hello is that Morag Christie’

Yes

‘This *Blank Blank* from Blankety Blank’

Yes

‘I know it’s an inconvenience, but do you think you could come in an hour early, it would be great for us as we’ve had a cancellation’

I then had two choices.

1: To say yes to please them and run around madly to get ready

2: Say no and risk losing their favour.

I said

Yes, that’s no problem.

The next ten minutes I can only describe to you as a frenzy of unadulterated action. When they had called I’d just made cheese on toast (with Wooster sauce) and hadn’t had a bite. I crammed a few bits in my mouth, dashed to get changed, tore through my hair with a pair of (Sarah’s) hair straighteners and ran out the door, briefcase flapping (yes, briefcase, I’m a professional). I then faced an unexpected problem. I was wearing high heels. Many of you may have noticed, it’s been a wee bit snowy and icy lately and I then had to navigate my much ungritted icy road to get to the bus stop. I eventually arrived at my destination and quite soon my bus appeared. Hoorah, I thought, it’s going to get better now. But no. The bus was going very slowly, it was busy and snowy so I didn’t pay much heed. Then it got slower and slower and slower. Then it stopped. A wee voice came over the tannoy ‘Would everyone leave the bus please’ so we did and fortunately another bus was waiting. Now whether this was a scheduled bus swap (why though?) or the bus was in genuine trouble, I do not know, however the next bus seemed to whiz along and eventually I got to my stop. I then faced the high heel snow/ice dilemma again, but managed with little incident to get to the office. On my arrival the place seemed deathly quiet apart from the sound of sobbing, off putting to say the least. I checked in (albeit a very smiley man at desk, not sobbing) and sat down. It was then I located the sobbing- it was the TV showing the funeral procession of fallen soldiers. Moving, but not the soundtrack one needs before an interview. I had, I must mentioned, despite everything arrived 20 minutes early. It was then I noticed a sign asking you to use the hand gel to kill the naughty swine flues germs so being a good girl I put it on. This stuff was curious, it came out bright green and foamy and wouldn’t blend in to my hands. Rub as I might, I was left with a curious sticky residue. It was then of course, my interviewer arrived and I had to shake her hand. Cripes. As you imagine, by this stage I was beyond reason and I have no idea how the interview went. I still don’t know as they said they’d let me know at the of January.

Anyway, moving swiftly on to more pleasant things, Christmas. Now, I’m not going into go into too much detail here, as to be honest that would be dull. Basically, the 23^rd saw a new wave of snow descend on Edinburgh and on arriving at the bus station I discovered my bus would be leaving at least 3 hours late. Much dismay. In the mature way of all children I phoned my mum to whine, like she could do anything about it. Well, she could! She knew that my step-cousin was driving through from Edinburgh that very morning and after a series of phone calls I got hold of her and hey presto a mere 15 minutes later, I was dashing up north with tenuously linked family member. The Dingwall network saves the day!

I arrived home only to leave again. Not until I was reunited with my best girl Aimie the exotic teacher (she’s lives in Dubai= exotic, no dancing as far as I know) and did the Dingwall pub quiz which was controversially moved to the Picture house from the Mallard (Dingwall readers ‘gasp’, all else go ‘what?’). My team didn’t win, but more importantly my team beat Niall’s team. Grin. Niall did however win marshmallows and white lightening cider in the amazing pub Christmas raffle, so one wonders who the real winner was.

Anyway, after a flurry of hellos and goodbyes, on Christmas Eve, mum and I made the brave drive down to Richard’s in Killin. Yes, we decided to spend Christmas with the Borg and despite having to stop every so often to physically wash the crap off the windscreen as the washers were frozen despite near 100% screen wash, it was an uneventful journey. Christmas day was nice, food presents, dogs and wonderfully watching LOTR; Fellowship of the Ring in the evening. Due to the worrying forecast, we headed back early on Boxing Day and the next few days were spent with the rest of family, eating and drinking and the like. The journey back to the burgh was not nice, over 5 hours on a bus fearing for my life as the snow pummelled down on the 30^th, but I arrived safely, eventually.

Hogmanay saw a new set of plans arise. It was my intention for many weeks hence to go to a ceilidh in Glasgow with assorted cousins. But on wakening, I found myself shattered and feeling reluctant to go. Added to this was the knowledge kiddie doc Jen was having a small soirée to which a few friends including Karen from the Borders (whom I had not seen in quite some time) were attending. The previous night, my eldest brother had been lamenting his lack of plans and it was then I stumbled upon an idea. Why not give him the ticket, he’ll dance and be gay and I’ll stay in Edinburgh, see my friends and have a reasonable night’s sleep (any night out with my Glasgow cousins never results in a good night’s sleep). And this is what I did. Niall did indeed dance and have a splendid time and I went to Jen’s who fed us a huge amount of food, drank champagne and watched the fireworks at the bells. So it all worked out just beautifully.

Since then it’s been back to the grindstone of job hunting intermittently dispersed with having Andi of the Fort come round and pester me to get things and plan the decoration of his flat (which he’s yet to get keys for) as he’s on holiday in the burgh. I enjoy planning house decoration and sorting out; all those mornings watching ‘Homes under the hammer’ were not wasted.

Now we come to the title of today’s blog ‘Tomorrow’. Last night as I was watching BBC iplayer in bed (my landlady wife at work on nights again) and I was feeling a touch melancholy. Upsetting thoughts running through my mind like ‘I’ll never get a job’ and ‘what if when I get a job I don’t like it’ and ‘what if I get a job and don’t like it, but can’t afford to leave it so instead of living the dream I’ll end working in an endless 9 to 5 existence with no meaning or pleasure.’ That sort of thing. Then I began to think about all the things I keep meaning to do like take stuff to the charity shop, make a doctor’s appointment, work on my eportfolio in case I get a pathology interview and I was thinking that everything was just getting all on top of me, all these little things on top of all the big things and BLAH!!!!!!!!!!!

I keep saying ‘tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll deal with it tomorrow’ and then at midnight I have irrational panic. So I decided. No more ‘tomorrow’, it’s time for ‘today’ to start. So I made a list of things I need to do. Just a few little things, but today I did 5 out of 6 of them. And it felt good just to start getting the things I can control under control. Okay it probably won’t change my life or the world, but it makes me feel more in charge of my own life and as such tonight instead of ‘tomorrow, tomorrow’, I’m thinking ‘hoorah today!’ So my advice is to you, however small or big the worries are-

No more tomorrows, today is here!

Ask a busy person

2009-12-21T08:31:00.000-08:00

They say the best way to get things done is to ask a busy person. I have to agree with that statement. I mean this blog is the perfect example. I have no job and little else to do and yet I seem to be neglecting it greatly. I haven’t much to say really, but I feel guilty and thought I best write before the annual festive period about that special baby’s birthday occurs.

Some moderately exciting events have happened over the last few weeks which I should have written about, but didn’t. The unemployment is really beginning to make me lazy (ier). My eldest brother for example held two consecutive Saturday night dinner parties for each side of the family’s cousins’ at the end of November/beginning of December. Niall cooked for I think the 2^nd and 3rd time ever in his life and the latter occasion was a full roast turkey dinner. Both were very pleasurable and inevitably drunken occasions, but I feel rather that I have missed the boat to write about then, pity. Fortunately, my far less lazy brother has written about them on his blog so if you do wish to hear about the festivities then please click on my face and then the Nev 360 link. His last two entries concern the dinner parties.

My lovely landlady wife also held a Christmas dinner about a week ago, I can’t possible say ‘we’ as all I did was buy the table cloth. Jenny the kiddie doctor and Sarah’s brother attended as well as their two Labrador’s Megan and Katie, who I must say, are much better behaved than the Borg, but that may just be because there are 3 fewer of them. They did make a terrible hairy mess on the floor though which slightly OCDly of me, I hovered up and cleaned on Monday once my landlady wife had gone to work. On occasion, when I clean I get carried away and do odd things like hoover the window sills.

This weekend past was host to another festive party when my landlady wife and I hosted an evening of Christmas cheer which consisted of playing trivial pursuit, watching ‘Love Actually’ and eating a tremendous amount of Marks and Spencers finger food. We were joined in this by the aforementioned kiddie doc, Karen of Stirling (not Karen of the Borders, she as far as I know is still there) and running Louise. My brother also made a brief appearance so he could change into a builders outfit, but again I refer to you to his blog as I am sure he will explain that in due course in far more detail.

Talking of my eldest brother, he made his move to Edinburgh a few short weeks ago and then instantly went to Ghana. However, he did finally spend a few nights in his new flat last week and one night joined my newly married Simon (name check) and Devil Mike (so mentioned as the first time I met him he was painted red and dressed like the devil, he is personality wise, very lovely) went on a pub crawl of his new area i.e. the royal mile. This resulted in me being very very ill the next day and glad that all I had to do that day was wait in for the new TV to be delivered. And speaking of hangover, I had another after Esme’s birthday night in Glasgow a week last Saturday. It was merry affair indeed that was ended up in our exclusion from a rather peculiar night club in which they served free toast after Esme’s boyfriend ‘accidently’ stole some beer. The three of us after bidding goodnight to our comapanions had to wait for over an hour for a taxi home in the freezing cold and ended up ‘rescuing’ a rather silly young girl who had gone out wearing nothing but a pair of high heels and dress which in my opinion was barely a belt and she had no jacket or tights. We let her in our taxi and I berated her for this and also for getting into a taxi with 3 strangers- I mean we could have been serial killers (I am not, I don’t think Esme is and I’m pretty certain Stephen isn’t either, but that is not the point).

Gosh this blog is fast turning into a rambling list of drunken nights in the wrong order. I’ll do you a time line

28^th November- Niall’s first Forsythian Christmas Party

5^th December – Niall’s Christie Cousin Christmas Party

I spent the next few days in Aberdeen helping him pack, clean and move. We got a van down to Edinburgh and moved into his new flat which almost killed us both (4^th floor flat to 3^rd floor flat- you try it)

11^th December- I go to Glasgow for Esme’s birthday. I get very drunk and feel very ill the next day. In the evening after my return to Edinburgh my landlady wife and I get a Christmas tree named Trevor.

13^th December- fake Christmas in the Christie-Marshall household. There is no mulled wine to be found on Princes Street. Dogs attend the event and leave hair as a Christmas gift for Dyson the hoover.

17^th December- the first of what I suspect to be many of pub crawls with Niall

19^th December- joined by some friends, we hold another festive evening in which some mulled wine was available.

So soon it will be Christmas. My plans are changing at fast pace, I don’t know where I will be (weather dependent, don’t snow please), I hope to be attending the annual Dingwall Christmas pub quiz on Wednesday evening. If I win I have to declare my winnings to the job centre people. No, really. After that I assume the festive period will contain the usual eating of turkey and consumption of wine just as long as it doesn’t snow too much resulting in that mum and I can’t get down to her fancy man’s or her house explodes. It's something to do with too much pressure on the central heating, if she doesn’t bleed it frequently then it’ll blow the street up or something. The plumber said he come sometime between now and Thursday. No, really.

So a well planned and organised period ahead.

Oh, and did I mention, I have a job interview tomorrow?

Rejection and Recuperation

2009-12-09T07:29:00.000-08:00

Ah, another moderate gap between entries. This can only mean one of two things, either I have been busy or I have been avoiding writing. It is the latter. The reason for this is my failure. Yes, my dreams of becoming Scotland’s next poisons expert were shattered on Friday when yet again I received another rejection letter. I have applied for 42 jobs in the last 12 weeks and while you may think that is a small number, you must realise that each job application can take from up to 1-3 hours (sometimes more) so complex are some of today’s application forms. Also you have to factor in the time searching for appropriate jobs added in the bimonthly pop into the jobcentre which takes up an entire morning due to its location far away from my flat. Plus there’s the ever important tea breaks.

Tea breaks are important to me. Apart from my last job in the hospice in which I would say, in 50% of days there would be a communal staff tea break, regular tea breaks were unknown to me. In my first job in the hideous GI ward I barely had time to take my coat off let alone leisurely drink a cup of tea. My second job in the Belford was a strange beast in which I always managed to get myself busy (Andi who works there presently seems to do nothing but have tea breaks, I can’t decided whether this is due to a recent lack of patients or my inability to manage time). My 3^rd job in Sick kids was variable beast in which my role rotated round the various areas. Whilst on the ward it was tea a-plenty, but on the acute unit or day case- the insanely busy centre where you see what seems like hundreds of patients all with minor ailments all demanding far too much attention in my opinion- you never even got the whiff of a biscuit. I then move onto my FY2 year which heralded a new kind of frantic activity first in A&E then the surgical ward. A&E was supposed to have regular breaks, but all I managed was a lunch stop and tea is not a speedy lunch beverage. Also I sweated so much in my shiny plastic suit that adding a steaming hot cup to tea to the mix would have only have increased my malodour. We then come to ward 33, surgical ward from hell. If hadn’t already decided to quit before this job, I definitely would have stormed out in a triumphant and spectacularly melodramatic style whilst working in this post. I did at one stage actually stamp my foot on the ground with sheer anger and frustration (then promptly burst into tears with one of the lovely secretaries), but worst of all in this job if there was a tea break, well, there was no tea. Instead a monstrous coffee machine that demanded feeding and not a tea bag in sight. It was quite horrific. And now full circle back to the afore mentioned hospice and now my current state of affairs- unemployment.

It has now been 3 months since I moved to Edinburgh and tried to get a job. In my head, I had predicted I would have a job by Christmas. That predication seems unlikely to be fulfilled. I have had interviews for 3 separate jobs (and 3 interviews for one of them) with 3 rejections and countless rejection letters from positions that I never even got interviewed for. There have also been the non-informers- the jobs to which you apply for and you hear nothing, not even a letter to say ‘NO WAY YOU UNDER-EXPERIENCED PILLOCK’ which I personally feel is the least they could do. Even a wee email, not even the cost of a postage stamp. I despise them most of all.

I was in the jobcentre today in fact and sitting, waiting for the man to sign me off and I looked around me at all the other people sitting and waiting for the same thing. Literally dozens of people all looking and applying for the same jobs as me and I thought ‘dear lord what chance do I have?’. Now I know many of them won’t have degrees, but scarily a lot of them looked perfectly respectable. I wondered what had brought them to this ghastly place and were they thinking the same about me? If they knew what I had given up, would they beat me over the head with their sign-in clip boards?

But then I remind myself that my flatmate who is meant to finish at 5 never gets home til nearer or past 7. My recently married friend isn’t getting have Christmas with her husband because someone screwed him over in the rota. My friend in the Borders has been forced to be rota master and having to work her holidays to cover for 2 absent colleagues. Another friend in Perth is working 2 jobs and is about to eat her juniors they are so incompetent. And Andi, well, he lives on friggin’ Fort William for crying out loud.

And then I remember, at least now I can have as much tea as I want.

We Need To Talk About Morag

2009-11-26T06:56:00.000-08:00

Yes, it’s finally time. After all when I started this blog I promised it to follow the trials and tribulations of a job seeker and all I’ve really discussed on these pages has been my rather pleasant social life. Well, despite appearances, I have actually been trying to get a job, quite ardently in fact and so I will describe an average in the life of a dead beat job seeker.

830am The buzzer goes off. I get up in the vain hope it’s the postman with a surprise parcel, but its always the junk mail man pretending to be the postman. I go back to bed disappointed.

9-930am I wake up properly, have shower and make myself presentable.

10am I watch ‘Homes under the Hammer’ onn BBC1 and have my breakfast .

11am I switch on the computer and start my search. This consists of searching some pre-selected websites. I write down any possible jobs, BUT I do not apply for them yet. Instead I complete my search so I have a nice list.

12pm Go down the list and decided which ones I want to apply for and read the job description in more detail.

1230pm Stop for lunch. It is hungry work. This usually consists of some sort of beans/cheese combination. However, if I’ve had to run any errands earlier in the day, I often treat myself to Gregg’s pastry. Oh the fatty delight! I watch Scrubs and wonder why being a doctor wasn’t like that and wonder why anyone would stay with Carla- I mean she is the most annoying, unpredictable, self-obsessed twit. Plus she’s a nurse.

130pm Back to work. Of the fated list of jobs that I have got more information on, I apply for the ones that seem suitable and that I am qualified for.

330pm I furiously scream at the computer when after spending 2 hours filling in an application form, it inexplicably presses the back button and I lose all my work/an error message comes up on the last page not allowing me to send my application.

430pm I think about what to make my good wife for tea and if I have nothing, I nip out to the Tesco metro and curse it’s lack of range and high prices.

445pm on return from Tesco metro I have a well deserved cup of tea and a sly biscuit (my current biscuit of choice are the delightful Christmas cookies from the firm of IKEA).

530pm I start making tea even though I know Sarah won’t be home for another hour and instead I’ll have to keep turning down the oven/stirring whatever I have cooked to ensure it doesn’t burn.

630-7pm Sarah arrives home and tells me about her day. On asking what I did, I tell her about an amusing story I heard on the radio like it was my own life.

730-10pm Sarah and I watch TV whilst playing on our laptops. Occasionally we go out and see the world. Last night we went to her ex’s house (ex-flatmate that is) to play Cranium. FYI we won very convincingly- we destroyed the opposition and just because most of the other teams had a non-English speaker on each one, it in no way diminishes our superiority.

10-11pm Sarah says she has to go to bed, I agree but take some time doing so.

1130pm I write my diary and scrape the day off my face with some apparently non-toxic chemicals from Clearasil (but it’s blue so that can’t be natural- right?)

12- 830am I sleep until awoken by the fake postman. The day begins a-new.

So that’s about it. Obviously there is some variation. I mean very 2^nd Wednesday I have to go sign on at 11 and I miss ‘Homes under the Hammer’. Also, I mentioned last time I had an interview that went badly. I was right it did. I remain unemployed. I have another interview tomorrow which I’m convinced I won’t get either. I mean I got a rejection from Boots the chemist last week. I mean come on, I’ve got a friggin' MD. Yes, so anyway I’m not bitter that a certain charity with their offices a 5-minute walk from my flat didn’t decided to employ me after giving me 3 interviews and raising my fragile hopes. I’m completely over it and in no way hope that every one of their 19 employees and associates get the hideous ailment that they are campaigning about. In no way.

So that’s my life laid bare, a whirly gig of excitement isn’t it? I think it would make for a scintillating docu-drama. It could be shown on channel 4 at 8pm between the news and Embarrassing Illnesses. It could be called

Morag: The Perils of the Over-Educated Unemployed (a waste of her time and your money).

Wedding Days and Dancing Frenzies

2009-11-11T08:52:00.000-08:00

I’m going to veer away from my usual mild cynicism to tell you about the joyful occasion at the weekend. Despite being unemployed, my old friends from uni haven’t disowned me (yet) and I had cordially been invited to my dear friend Lori's wedding to another Aberdeen medical school 2006 alumni, Dave. The happy event was held firstly at Lori’s home town church followed by a rather decadent reception at the splendiferous Dunblane hydro hotel.

My seemly constant companion Andi picked me in Edinburgh and we travelled upward to Stirling to our B&B where we changed in a frenzy and got to the church in (plenty of) time. There was a reunion with a vast majority of my uni friends with the notable presence of Katy May and Laura Armstrong who are doctoring it down in England-shire and Suzie, a halls friend unfortunately seldom seen. Unfortunately, there were a few notable absences including Anthony and Cat both gadding about in Oz (‘working’ is their excuse). The church was a grand affair and I could barely contain my excitement waiting for the bride arrive. Typically when she did, I was so overwhelmed my photography suffered, however my vision was not and what a vision she was. Lori looked absolutely wonderful, I can’t gush enough about her delightful strapless dress with a lovely splash of diamantes and she also had a really wonderful veil which sparkled like frost on a spring morning! Yes, I was slightly overcome with emotion, but I did not cry, go me!

The reception followed afterwards, as is the custom and despite a bizarre sat-nav incident where it tried to take us on to the railway track, we successfully got there. Suzie had a room and kindly allowed to check my hair and make-up where I discovered my hair was still perfectly in place (in fact I put so much hairspray into my improvised ‘up-do’ that it remained that way overnight and for a large part of the next day). However my tights had ripped in the most spectacularly bizarre fashion, where the leg on the left side had met the crotch there was a massive hole! What to do? My dress was long and it could not be seen, but what if the ladders spread?! Fortunately Suzie had clear nail varnish and I generously applied it to the hole and the underlying leg. This would become a problem later on that I will return to.

The reception was lovely. Gush gush gush. I was a table with my two wives (as they became to be known that night), Andi and Sarah and several other delightful friends. We laughed, we ate, we drank and we whoop whooped at the speeches (or was that just me). I’m not saying we had the funnest table, but on discovering we had two surname place settings with ‘cock’ in them and with Andi surname of Ma, we did arrange them in rather amusing fashion- hohoho. You can see the rather hilarious outcome of this high jinks on my facebook photos album cunningly labelled ‘Lori’s wedding’.

And then the best part of the wedding began- the ceilidh. Just like Nicole Kidman says in her rather sickening advert for Chanel no5 ‘I love to dance!’ and I do, especially ceilidh dancing. On moving through to the hall area, a few uni friends gathered at a small table were instantly, seemly with powerful psychic powers of observation, inundated by the waiters bringing through all the left over wine from the meal and placed it on our table- the joy. In fact by the end of the evening, our small take contained about 8 bottles of rather fine vino that kept us all in merry spirits. There is something to be said about being a layman at a Christian wedding....

Anyway soon the band started, my shoes came off and the dancing began. And it went on. And on. Even when the band took a break and put a cd on, me and my two wives could not be persuaded from the dance floor and some rather amusing dancing with small children occurred. In retrospect, Sarah and I grabbing the ankles and wrists on Lori’s cousin, Amy the flower girl and hurling her around, whilst amusing, was perhaps not the safest procedure for any involved. Fortunately, no serious injuries were incurred. After a very vigorous Arcadian Strip the Willow followed by a enthusiastic Old Lang Syne, the wedding was finally over. Andi and I had opted to stay at B&B as mentioned and had to get on the free bus to get to our beds. We were joined on this by several of the guests including Karen (currently in Dumfries) and her rather delightful boyfriend Michael whom I had just that night for the first time. Karen and Michael were both enthusiastic ceilidhers during the wedding and the four of us sat on the bus rather loudly discussing what fun we had and singing various songs. Curiously their destination was the first the bus stopped at, followed by our own and I have to suspect that the bus driver in fear for his ear drums ensured our abodes were the first arrived at. Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid. On retiring to our room, it was then I discovered the error of using half a bottle of nail varnish to affix your tights- it sticks to the skin. I near gave myself a free wax getting my hosiery off.

Lots more happened at the wedding than I was aware of. The down side of dancing near every dance at a ceilidh is that you lose the opportunity to talk to people, so I send my apologises to all my friends that I barely spoke to during the happy occasion. But you should all know, I just do love to dance! A major thing that was missed during my dancing frenzy was the presence of some of the Celtic football team in the adjacent bar. To be honest if I had seen them, I wouldn’t have been aware of it, such is my lack of interest in football. However by all accounts, many of my fellow guests were greatly excited by this. One of those similarly unclued up by footballers was my landlady wife Sarah, who on looking for her jacket in the cloakroom inadvertently asked one of the Celtic players to fetch her coat only to be informed the man she had asked assistance was not on staff. One thinks the Celtic strip he was wearing was a clue, but may I just remind you there were 8 bottles of free wine on our table.

The next day I felt surprisingly clear headed, but my body ached. My legs, my calves epically told me in no uncertain terms that in future I should stretch before embarking on a 5 hour ceilidh dance marathon. But it was worth it.

The rest of this week has been fairly standard. Looking for jobs, an interview (which I did not feel went well, but I’m yet to hear), eating crisps with Sarah and watching Buffy. I did go see a Eddie Izzard gig in Glasgow with my landlady wife and her brother last night which was funny and makes a change from the usual. However, despite this respite from the norm, the seemly unending days of unemployment are beginning to take their toll. Mainly on my shoulders as hours hunched over my laptop scouring for jobs is playing havoc with my upper back and that combined with the uncomfortable seating at the Eddie Izzard gig and the mad dancing of the weekend, I’m beginning to feel rather stiff and crippled.

Perhaps its time for a holiday?

The Witching Hour

2009-11-03T04:33:00.000-08:00

Now not to give you a false idea of unemployment, but I find myself continually writing about going to parties on this blog. Being on the dole isn’t all fun and games you know; it can be quite hard work.

In fact just yesterday I ripped my favourite jeans and had to go out and buy new ones. As most girls know, finding the perfect fitting pair of jeans can be an troublesome and lengthy process, but I had set myself to task and was not to be thwarted. I even had to face the terror of shopping on Princes Street as, as much as I enjoy adventuring to the small boutiques of Cockburn Street and the like, affordable denim is not really their forte. So I bravely marched up and down the ghastly congested hell and tried on about every pair of jeans in the city.

I find it odd when in one shop leg length 32 is too short, then the next too long. Same goes for the waist. In New Look I tried on a size eight that was too big and in H&M a size 12 that I couldn’t do up. Now I know a little variation is to be expected, but this seems like madness to me. I thought the whole idea of standardisation of sizes was for the that very idea- to be standard. When buying jeans are you meant to to take three sizes of waists along with three sizes of leg length? This would result in approximately (to get all the waist and leg combinations) 9 pairs of jeans per shop multiplied by each shop say 10, meaning that to buy one pair of jeans, you have to try on 90 pairs. Pure madness. I didn’t quite try on that many pairs, however it did begin to feel that way. You’ll be glad to know, that yes I was indeed eventually successful in my quest and yes, I did go back and buy the first pair I tried on. I now have the unenviable task of wearing them in- it is a hard life!

Anyway back to parties! It was Halloween on Saturday- what a fortunate day for this holiday to occur. It’s always rather disappointing (unless you are a lazy student) when this occasion falls on a Tuesday or the like as often the opportunity of having a party to attend is reduced or the length of time/effort of the costume is reduced by work/time/getting the blasted make-up off in time for work constraints. Not that these things currently affect me.

So the lovely kiddie doc Jenny and I attended a party of one of her colleagues which unsurprisingly was me and a bunch of doctors and curiously a stop motion animation producer. Her friend who had thrown the party had put a terrific amount of effort in to the affair. Her entire (rather spacious and delightful Morningside abode) flat was transformed into a terrible cocoughany of fake blood oozing from the walls, famous art work given a Halloween make-over and an array of ghoulish sweets and nibbles including punch with eyeballs floating in it. I was very impressed.

Also impressive were the costumes of her attendees. I was concerned, it being a house party that people wouldn’t make the same effort. I was wrong. There was some real blood and sweat put in to these costumes, of particular note were the Ghostbusters who came complete with Slimer and Janine the secretary. Their ghostbuster backpacks were spectacular. On the other hand while some people put effort into their physical costuming, others put their effort into the idea behind their outfits. Without question the two men who came dressed as Joseph and Elizabeth Fritzl certainly made the biggest impact on me for inventiveness, but that is not to say I shared their taste in this rather interestingly themed costume.

Personally, I use Halloween to dress like I never normally would- a harlot. This year I dressed as the iconic Sally Bowels from Cabaret (I just love Liza) and enthusiastically attempted to recreate her costume from the show stopper Mein Heir. I thought I’d done a pretty good job, when my mother and fancy man came to visit the night before Halloween and suggested I should get a cheap wig as my hair is brown and long whilst Sally’s was short and black. I wasn’t sure I would be very successful in this mission, but I found one I thought looked appropriate and on Halloween I brought it round to Jenny’s to ask for her help in affixing it.

On looking in the mirror, I got quite a shock. Below I have put some photos (I’m getting the hang of it now, well almost). You can decide whom I looked more like- Sally Bowles or my mother.

Parties and Progress (attempt 3)

2009-10-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

Oh my dear, I just wrote the most amusing and entertaining blog of my career to date and it somehow deleted itself without reason or explanation. I feel so dismayed. And then as if to add insult to injury, I then re-wrote it and it again deleted itself. I feel as if the universe is trying to thwart me at every turn.

As such this blog entry will be a mere mockery of the splendour that was the lost two blogs, a shadow, a hollow imprint. But we must not bend to the trickery of the computerised era, we must never give up!

So again, I will begin. Apologises dear reader for the gap in my blogging. My reasons are many, my excuses few. I would blame the postal strike if I could. I hate a postal strike, it unnerves me to the very core. Perhaps this has been exacerbated by the fact I have recently won the complete set of Buffy DVDs from eBay and I am anxious to its safe arrival. Perhaps.

Anyway let’s move on from Buffy, though it’s hard I know. The hen night was the next big thing in my social calendar and it began with a road trip. Jenny, the kiddie doc , Sarah the splendid landlady and I embarked upon this great task two Saturdays ago. It was piloted by the fair Jenny in her rather nice new corsa and on our trip we made a brief sojourn to Perth to her see equally fair sister for lunch. The last time I was Perth was many years ago and for a funeral, a sad affair by definition. This visit to Perth was by far mush more cheery and I was surprised and delighted by the town. Jenny’s sister lives in a delightful little flat with curiously, two windows in her rather oddly, but sweetly shaped living room fully furnished with a very cute little fabric upholstered chair. I was also pleasantly surprised by the main shopping district of Perth, a compact and functional street populated with the high street worthies and a few independent boutiques. As a country girl (ish) at heart, I often find larger towns and cities a bit daunting. I’m finding in particular that Princes Street in Edinburgh is a rather monstrous place not helped by the streamlining of pedestrians to only one side of the road due to the never ending tramworks. Whenever I find myself on Princes Street, it enrages me to no end the length of time it takes you to go from one end to the other partly due to its length, but also the unremitting amount of incredibly slow window shoppers who go about their business in an alarmingly foot dragging fashion. Not only do they seem to walk slower than humanly possible, they also seem to expand and completely disallow passage past them. It fills me with great frustration to the point I avoid it all costs and instead, if shopping I frequent the St James shopping centre. This slightly drab centre is medium sized with medium sized shops and medium sized people. They neither walk slowly nor fast, neither fat nor thin. Nothing exciting will ever happen there, but conversely nothing truly awful will occur either. A bearable shopping experience can be had by all. They also employ the youngest shop assistant ever in the history of the world in the home section of the John Lewis. He looked about 10, I almost called the CPA, but then like all uninvolved Britons, I thought it wasn’t my problem and it was somebody else’s responsibility. It’s nothing to do with me.

Anyway after the adventure in Perth we sallied forth to Aberdeen where the festivities were to take place, depositing Sarah at her sister’s and collecting Karen (sadly stuck in Dumfries) and heading to my brother’s. In fact it seems siblings were the theme to the weekend providing food and shelter for all. After making ourselves appropriately attired for the evening - shiny shoes check, shiny hair check, unshinied face check, we were on our way. To her great surprise, Sarah the splendid landlady found herself arriving first at the pub, a fact she and we all found rather surprising and to be honest I’m still not sure any of us are over the shock. Fortunately the troops were not far away for Sarah and soon the pub was filled with the hen, old uni friends and about 72 of the hen’s aunts. I was introduced to every one of the hen’s aunts, but by the time I was told their names, I instantly forgot them due to the sheer volume of information coming my way. It was very kind of them to travel north for the occasion and made the party more buoyant and interesting for their presence. Also in the party were Lori’s sister and mother whom I was most pleased to see again and it occurred on me after the fact the last I had met Jeanette (the hen mum) was at graduation. How time flies when you abandon your responsibilities and go swanning off around the world. Once we were so gathered, we moved on the restaurant where fortunately for the other diners, we had a our own room. It was then the hen’s mum handed out some rather splendid head attire for all, Lori’s being a top hat with veil and the rest of the party having a rather nice headband adorned with a feather and plastic flower. I was most taken with mine and it provided useful for keeping my hair out of my food.

After foolishly ordering a bottle of house red for the table, I then discovered that me and one other were the only ones wanting red so I forced myself to drink this as well as some white I had already ordered. This led me to believe I was a truly talented photographer and designated myself the evening’s official paparazzi. If I can work out to do so I will post some of the photos for your delectation and judgement. After the meal was over some of the 72 aunts retired whilst the rest of the party continued on to a pub. After this however, the majority voted that bed was the next option. This included the hen. Despite the general lack of enthusiasm for drunken dancing I would not be thwarted and I was joined by Sarah (the splendid flatmate) and Karen (currently in Dumfries). We decided to relive our youth and go ‘the Nage’ or Espionage as it is properly known. Espionage is a free club that sits at the end of Belmont street and is known for its cheesy music, crowded dance floor and broken glass. The management in their wisdom made the floor an incredibly hard stone and made the dance floor adored with pillars with ledges just ever so slightly too small to accommodate the glasses they provide the various alcoholic drinks in. This results in an inevitable shattering of many receptacles and glass in many the poor innocent toes of young ladies- and I am no exception. After one particularly fateful night, rarely have I worn open toes shoes again.

Anyway we brave three, we merry three, we band of bladdered, made our way to the mecca of our past and danced the night away. Or at least we tried. The Nage has a peculiar habit of being perfectly fine and pleasant to dance in and then suddenly without warning becomes full beyond capacity and causes major crushing upon the dance floor. However this did not stop us and we danced very compactly until the music became too unbearable and we left. Karen and I waved Sarah off in a taxi – all of us still wearing our lovely hen bands and then decided despite the mountains of food we had earlier that evening that we needed more food. Fortunately, my brother’s flat is situated upon a 24-hour shop and there we purchased seemingly unending mountain of crisps. Now I mentioned earlier that Jenny was also staying at my brother’s but there was only one set of keys so when she had retired earlier we were left with only option but to ring her to be let in. Now, as she been in bed for some time of course we were gentle and quiet when we rang her demanding the gatekeeper release the drawbridge. Or as quiet as we could be until once arriving in the flat and deciding to eat our crisps enthusiastically in the other room. Fortunately, Jenny informed me the next day she been so sleepy that she barely remembered our squawking and to my further relief my brother himself had been gadding about until a good while after our return and as such was not disturbed.

The next day I was surprisingly fresh and Jenny and I met Lori for lunch before we all went our separate ways. I being the unemployed waster that I am had decided to stay on a while in Aberdeen before going north to see my mother. This gave my brother and me a chance to take my grandfather out for lunch which is always a pleasurable affair. I may have mentioned that he recently turned ninety and had a huge party not too long ago. I had not seen him since then, but it appears that since that event he has gone from strength to strength. It’s like the party filled him with a new lease of life and our lunch soon turned into coffee and a chat around the fire for some hours as he told us some fantastic stories about how our great grandparents forbade him to marry their daughter (later to became our grandmother) and the like. It was a most pleasant afternoon.

Because I stayed on in the 'deen this meant I also had the opportunity to play poker with my brother and his friends the following evening. When I lived in Aberdeen I would infrequently attend my brother’s poker nights whenever my rota allowed. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I never improved at all during my multiple attendances and that I am a terrible bluffer. Every week Niall records the players’ rankings and whenever I play I am almost without an exception last or 2^nd last. However , that night was to be my night. In some freak of nature and in defiance of god’s law not only did I win poker, but actually won so convincingly there was almost no doubt of the outcome at any stage . I consistently bet and bluffed well and drew good cards. It was quite astonishing and I don’t truly know how I accomplished it. It was just a shame that it wasn’t for money.

After my triumph at the card hall, I then went north to see my mum and to inspect the progress of her house. I am happy to report that the bathroom is finished and the kitchen is underway. The cat is surviving despite having a rivalry with one of my aunt’s cat and is getting fatter by the minute and the Borg, sorry I mean the dogs, are as troublesome as ever. I was informed on my arrival that Tom (three of five is his Borg name) had not only eaten Richard’s breakfast that morning, but also my mother’s hard back library book. He was quite literally in the dog house (or the van which is standing in it's place).

The next few days mostly consisted of eating and being amused by the Borg. The Wednesday was mum’s birthday and in the evening joined by two brothers, one fiancé, one aunt and partner and of course mum and Richard, we went through to Fortrose to a very nice hotel/bar and had a most delightful meal. In an unusual bout of generosity I offered to drive for some reason and as a result got the pleasure of watching my family get more progressively drunk and most amusingly see my mother after 2 glasses of champagne. For most, 2 glasses of champagne would be nothing, but in my mother’s case this resulted in her near stupefaction and some rather school girl antics around the dinner table.

After all that excitement, more was to be had when I checked my email to discover that I had not one, but two job interviews. This turn of events came at just the right moment as I was beginning to lament that I would never find a job and become a productive part of society again. I don’t want to say too much about the jobs, not because I’m superstitious, but mostly because as this is the third time writing this blasted blog, I am now tired.

I returned to Edinburgh after my mother’s party and since then have been preparing for these interviews whilst of course finding the time to visit the chocolate shop, buy Buffy from eBay and start selling my old DVDs eBay myself. You see I am becoming very enterprising in my unemployment. First winning poker, now an eBay seller. The status.

Right I’m off to see if I can get some of these photos on the page. If they do not appear below, well then, I’ve not managed and as such won’t be adding photo-shop extraordinaire to my CV.

Oh, I seem to have manged it, but they have become before the blog and are sequentially backwards. And I could only seem to download 5. Ah well, you can't have everything. Oh and sorry Sarah, but I couldn't resist putting your alternative hen band positon pic up.

Dismay

2009-10-27T05:48:00.001-07:00

I have twice written my blog today and it has twice inexplicably deleted itself. I feel dismayed and blogged out. I will prevail eventually and you shall have your pound of flesh soon, I just need a cup of tea first.

Alcohol

2009-10-12T07:31:00.000-07:00

Since my last entry, I have descended rapidly into a downward spiral of acute alcohol intoxication. However, may I just say (as most alcoholics do) that it is not entirely all my fault, but that of society and some enablers posing as friends.

I left you last with a tantalizing tit-bit about a curry stained woman so now I’ll regale you with the true details of that fateful night.

My dear friend Andi came to visit last week as he was holiday from the joyess (optional l) Belford Hospital in Fort William. On the Tuesday night we decided to go to a pub quiz to flex our general knowledge know how. Many of you know I am keen pub quizzer and on several occasions have actually done quite well. However, our feeble attempt in the Regent pub in Edinburgh was so shaming that I feel I may finally have to accept the fact that on the occasions I did perform well in quizzes, my eldest brother was there and it was in fact his general knowledge genius that got us through. Andi and I scored a dismal 23% questions right , but I must also inform you this was a gay pub quiz and the vast majority of the questions were homosexually inclined. No, not a round on cock rings, but several questions of ‘name that tune’ for Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. Now, despite being a gay man, Andi was useless at this round apart from the one song from Evita that he knew form the opening two notes. For the rest of the questions we put 'Cats’. We knew one of the answers must have been ‘Cats’ and we were right, one was. However, after that round we did descend in to mild silliness and whenever we didn’t know the answer the then put ‘Cats’.

Question: What won the Nobel Prize in 1901?
Our Answer: Cats
Real Answer: The Red Cross

Question: Who hosted the Winter Olympics in 1998?
Our Answer: Cats
Real Answer: Japan

And so on. The team next to us who marked our answers were literally falling about laughing at our utter stupidity. Oh well.
After the quiz was over, we decided to drown our sorrows with one more cider and moved to a delightful little table with wing back chairs. We were just finishing off when a woman in late fifties, pulled a chair up next to us. This in itself would have been slightly unusual, but the lady was also hideously inebriated and covered in what I can only guess was curry. I mean covered. This peculiar textured yellowish material was covering her entire white t-shirt and black trousers, it was very off-putting. She was so intoxicated that after sitting down next to us, she didn’t speak, instead she gently picked up my hand, kissed it, and then did the same to Andi. It was all rather disturbing. We looked around to see who this lady could have possibly been frequenting the bar with, but we couldn’t see anyone desperately trying to locate a drunken curry stained woman. She then began to ‘sing’ along with the background music and we were at a loss about what to do. Andi in a brave and masculine move, went to the toilet and left me alone with her, just because he found it amusing. I did not. I tried a basic conversation with the lady ‘are you here yourself’ and ‘yes, it’s a nice song isn’t it’, but to no end. When Andi returned from his fake errand to the loo, I stood up and we left, leaving the curry stained pensioner to her beautiful rendition of Sex is on Fire by the Kings of Leon.

To conclude my alcohol miss-judgements, I went out for dinner last night with Gordon and Laura who were visiting for the night. In usual Gordon style, we had copious amounts of wine with a rather splendid meal. On my return, I got a phone call from a friend and decided it would be a marvellous idea to cook dinner for him on Thursday. I can’t cook. I’m most concerned it could be end of a promising friendship.

I should swear off booze I think for a while, but alas it’s Lori’s hen party on Saturday and I feel it’s my duty to indulge. So you see its society and my friends and families fault.
It’s absolutely nothing to do with me.

Easy Money

2009-10-02T03:34:00.000-07:00

After last week’s lamentation of the fruitless job search things have taken a decidedly upward turn. Not because I have a job- oh no! But because I am now officially on job seekers allowance! Yes, I had to brave the Leith Jobcentre to be assessed and assisted. It was a curious experience that had me quite nervous. I dressed up in smart clothing and tentatively made my way there. Initial impressions were good, a barrage of ‘welcomers’ met me at the door and directed me where to sit and what to do. I was quickly seen by a very enthusiastic chap who went over the job seekers allowance form and processed my request. He was very chatty and proceeded to give me his entire life story about how he had 2 degrees and was living in Canada on some big oil job when his father and brother died and being the eldest son, he returned to tend to the family ad had never returned. It was sorrowful tale full of regret and lost potential.

Anyway, after that I was taken upstairs for my motivational job seeking advice and guidance thingy. The chap there was not nearly so warm and helpful. In fact had the distinct impression was he had clinical depression. But then who can blame him as undoubtedly most of the people he had to advise are not, let’s say, motivated like me. For an example, as I walked up the stairs, following the directions of ‘go through that door, go upstairs’; directions I felt were pretty self explanatory. However a fellow jobseeker did not obviously feel this way. As he barged past ne he screamed in my face 'IS THIS LEFT’ and once entering the room full of chairs he again bellowed ‘ WHERE DO I SIT DOWN?’ I felt the rows of chairs were a clue.

Anyway, back to the job advisor chap. Well, his attempts of advice where immediately limited by the fact his response to my request to seek a career as an Allied Health Professional was a blank empty stare. I repeated myself and after a second blank stare I explained it as ‘not a doctor or a nurse but health related’. Then when I said I would also look at other jobs as well he got ever more confused and said ’but you are a doctor?’ despite me already explaining about the whole quitting thing. Eventually he stopped talking to me and started fiddling with his computer and brought up a list of recent jobs listed on the jobcentre website. I explained to him that I had already looked at all the relevant jobs and applied for them, but he didn’t seem to understand that and insisted on printing off a couple of jobs that I had already applied for. Then he said ‘you’re better at doing this on your own, aren’t you?’. I nodded.

After that sojourn into the joyful and pleasant land of the poor (despite having no money myself I am not one of the poor as I have fond memories of having money that enriches me) the weekend came to pass and with brought much fun and excitement. Andi came across from Fort William and I duly showed him the sites of Edinburgh- the pork roll stand at the Saturday market and the vintage clothing store- before descending into an alcohol fuelled afternoon having cocktails with my old flatmate and his friend who also happened to be visiting the fair city. Things proceeded on that same vein that evening when more revellers joined our little party and we ended up dancing in a rather sweaty club with poor music.
If you would like to see how I was dancing on the dance floor that night and want a laugh, look up Shakira’s She-Wolf video on Youtube and imagine me in very tight jeans, a bad back and slightly alcohol fuelled, attempting to imitate the bendy Columbian’s moves. Not a pretty sight.

The beginning of the week began quite productive again with a brief journey back north to attend an education forum thingy my aunt Moira organised. During that time I also saw my mother and her house which now excitingly has a toilet! On my return to Edinburgh, my descent into being a slovenly unemployed alcoholic continued as I attended a pub quiz and was chatted up by a 60 year old drunk woman covered in curry stains. However, I think I’ll leave that tale for another time and keep you in suspense, because who can resist tuning in next time to hear how that story panned out.

Bored to the Bone

2009-09-22T08:40:00.000-07:00

59 weeks, 414 days, 9936 hours, 596160 seconds (give a take a few). That’s how long I have been unemployed for. And for 59 weeks, 413 days, 9912 hours and 594720 seconds I have been content, delighted in fact, by this. Last week in my new Edinburgh excitemen,t I enthusiastically searched and applied for several jobs. At the weekend, my eldest brother came to stay and we painted the town red by searching for house coats in all the charity shops (for more information on housecoats see his blog at http://nev360.blogspot.com/ and see the posting entitled ‘Updates’). We met a variety of cousins and their partners (well 2 cousins and 2 partners) for a drink and generally frivolity. I educated my youngest cousin on the delights of Tanqueray gin, my own personal favourite. I also met up with an old school friend, Laura the Artist and felt very liberal and sophisticated.

Yes, perfectly happy until yesterday when I spent yet another Monday (okay a 2nd Monday) glued to my laptop scrolling through countless jobs and applying for things I don’t particular want to do. But worse than that, after completing my fill of that for the day, I then realised I have nothing to do. I’m trying to save money so I can’t purchase books or DVDs, go to the cinema. All my friends here have jobs so I can’t play with them until the weekend. My room for the first time in my life is actually already tidy, the dishes were already done and there was nothing good on TV. So I went food shopping. Not that exciting and came home. Unpacked, rearranged a shelf. Sarah the flatmate is on nights and thus untalkable to as she is either out or sleeping.

Yes for the first time since my unemployment began, I am bored. Bored, bored, bored! Mind numbingly, finger strummingly, eye-ball grindingly bored. I mean how can there be joy in watching 3 episodes back to back of a TV series recently purchased if you could do that all day and in fact watch 4 or 5 or 6! How can there be joy in reading a book in the evening when in theory you can read all day? How can there be joy in going for a walk in the afternoon if you can walk all you bloody like to because you can’t afford a car.

Yes, dear readers, boredom and for the first ever, a true desire to get a job.

Unfortunately, job seeking is also very boring. At first I was intrigued. How do these websites work? How do I fill in an application form? Yes, the first time is interesting, but subsequent times is quite, quite dull, I assure you. Constantly re-editing and sending off your CV and having to continually remember and articulate how wonderful you are is quite tedious. So to allieve the unremitting repetition, I went to the Careers Scotland website and filled out this achingly long questionnaire to try and match me up to the prefect profession. It consists of a series of monotonous questions about whether or not you like kittens, children and fluffy bunnies. Whether or not you like filing or photocopying and laminating (I mean who doesn’t enjoy laminating, that should be a given). Questions, questions, questions. And you’ll never guess what my prefect job was?

Yep, you got it. A doctor.

Moving in, on and up.

2009-09-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have finally made it. After 18 years in Dingwall, 7 in Aberdeen and 1 generally galavanting, I have finally moved to Edinburgh. And then instantly went to Glasgow. But lets not get ahead of ourselves.

My last few days at home (or more accurately living with my aunt like a refugee) were spent much like the last few weeks. Getting up, going to mum's new house, standing on and occasionally hammering nails into bits of wood. What did bring a little excitement into proceedings was the socialisation of Edgar.

Edgar is my mother's cat. He a surprisingly short legged 10-year-old black and white rescue cat with the slightly unusual feature of being unable to jump. He has lived with my mother for about 2 years and during this time he has been indulged. Prior to Edgar's arrival, in my family home there were a myriad of cats and children of various ages and behaviour. However, as time goes by, children left, cats die until Nellie the final family cat died of old age. On this day, my mother swore she would wait until she got another cat and in fact prehaps not even get one. After three days she became so unbearable, my brother Ian drove her to the cat rescue centre where she acquired 'Minstrel'. Yes, that was Edgar's name before she renamed him and I can't quite decide if the previous family were stupid or racist, but prehaps both as they gave up the family pet after 8 years for no apparent reason (unless of course they were trying to train him to jump and finally became exasperated).

A curious thing then happened. My mother is quite relaxed woman who has occasional episodes of hysteria, but in the whole is relatively sensible. When I travelled around the world, a lone defenceless female- no problem. When my eldest brother (oil engineer) goes to far flung places with kidnap warnings- no worries. However, Edgar seems have stirred up some primal emotions in her and from the instant she got him she has been wildly over protective and paranoid. When I met the cat for the first time, I had come for my grandfather's funeral. We said hello and I felt a general sense of animosity from him. I went out one evening only to return to find my small floral suitcase missing from my room and a strange odour replacing it. It was then my mother appeared, quite distressed, to tell me the cat had had profuse diarrhoea in my suitcase and that 'it wasn't his fault', 'he didn't mean it' and 'oh he's not well'. I was displeased, but understanding. The cat by was all accounts, not well. Then I saw the cat. He was fine. He gave me a look of great satisfaction and I realised the intent of his action. Profuse diarrhoea in my suitcase. On my funeral clothes. On my season 7 Buffy boxset. And all done the malice afore-thought.

So as you can guess, our relationship since then has been strained so you can forgive me for not being particularly concerned about what effect the move would have on Edgar. Mum, however has been quite beside herself with worry about his welfare. This only increased when the house was not ready to move into and she then had to move in with her sister. Moira already has 3 cats. Asti- a 15 year old stunning looking long haired tabby and alpha male. Mika- a colossal black cat with an eating disorder and finally Jango a ginger neurotic wimp of a cat who rarely ventures inside. As you can tell, peculiar cats seem to be collected by my family.

So when mum moved in with my aunt, they were both concerned about socialising him. Would the other cats accept him? Would he get bullied? Initally it seemed to go well. Edgar gave a bit of hiss and a shaky tail to Mika and Asti, while Jango ran away at the sight of him. We thought fine, they won't be best friends, but they won't tear each other limb from limb. Especially there was a general consensus of joy at Asti's reaction to him. As the alpha male, there was concern he would be very reluctant to accept another male cat, but he completely ignored Edgar's presence. Or that was at first. As the days went by, Asti seemed to realise that this peculiar non-jumping cat wasn't going anywhere and decided enough was enough. When I left on Saturday, the battle has progressed to Asti sitting outside by the cat flap not allowing Edgar to pass resulting in another suitcase type episode. However, things have escalated since my departure and I have since learnt there was an all mightly cat rammie on Saturday night that resulted in my aunt having to place hersel in great personal danger to seperate the fighting males and end the battle. Oh, the torment and distress of war, will the suffering never cease? I'll keep you updated on how things progress and of Edgar (nee Minstral) ever makes it to mum's new house.

Anyway back to human affairs and moving. I caught the train on Saturday was met at station by Sarah, my new landlord and flatmate. I had every intention of unpacking that afternoon, but of course the best laid plans are always broken and instead we had cups of tea and chatted before another friend (but not flatmate, there can be only one) Jenny arrived and we chatted some more and had more tea. I then realised that Glasgow is actually quite far away from Edinburgh so I best start getting ready to go there as I was attending an evening to farewell a dear friend, Dominic, before he set off for Malawi to do the unthinkable- charity work. Yes, work without pay, quite unfathomable. I caught the train for the second time that day and was somewhat alarmed when it appeared to go the wrong direction , but then learned due to engineering works, we were having to go a peculiar route to reach the destination. On my arrival I was met by Elaine (another uni friend, they all seem to have migrated to the central belt, how I have conformed!) and we promptly got lost looking for Dominic's house, taking an impressive near hour to go on an apparently 15 minute journey. We did eventually arrive and were met by Dominic's mother who had laid on the most magnificant feast of food and drink that I must confess I did indulge in to quite an alarming degree. I spent the night along with some other uni friends and we were quite delighted by the weather on Sunday morning. We sat outside in the garden gently sunning ourselves and trying to drink copious amounts of tea to lessen out hangovers, thinking how lovely Scotland is. Then I bade farewell to Dominic wishing him luck and telling him to beware all Americans on public transportation (see my other blog- Morag's Year in the Sun and go to April/May to read about my adventures with a yank in New Zealand).

I then returned to Edinburgh to try and sort out my belongings and do the dreaded task of getting a job. But as you can probably guess from the lenght of this blog, that I am procrastinating somewhat. I haven't had a job in 14 months and before that it was all bascially done for me by the NHS. Striking out on my own seems terribly complicated and hard. I actually have to show initiative. It's all very distressing. Fortunately, to abate my increasing concerns, I can now after so many months of being a dirty traveller (and refugee latterly), I can lean back on my bed and look around me, seeing for a change, not a mass of bunk beds or storage boxes, but my things in the place that I put then without any conern of them getting stolen or going missing. And that is an encouraging thought.

A New Dawn

2009-09-08T04:31:00.000-07:00

Welcome faithful bloggers and new readers alike to the beginning of a new journey. A story as old as time, but the classic tales are never grow tiresome and are worth retelling.

My tale is a simple one of girl gets good grades. Girl gets to university and becomes a doctor. Girl decides being a doctor is far too difficult and not anything like ER. Girl jacks in good job, all future financial security and respect of society and goes travelling. Girl runs out of money and has to come home. Girl now has to get a job.

This is where my tale begins.

Now some back story. For ye faithful few who followed my previous blog, you will know I returned a few weeks ago, but why I hear you ask haven't you got a job yet? Well, since my return I have been living at home with my dear mother helping her move out of the family home and into a new smaller cottage. The move sounds simple on paper- she has gone from the top of the hill to the bottom, however there have been snags. Her fancy man, who I affectionally call Roger Home for reasons not that interesting in the telling, but I assure you were hilarous at the time, is renovating the new house, but it has been dogged with delays- literally. He has 5 dogs and that combined with the appalling weather and unexpected problems have set the project back somewhat. So much in fact that when the keys were finally handed over a few days ago and the era of 25 years in the family dwelling place came to an end, mum (and myself by default) had to move in with her sister. However, delays aside the house is coming along and should be inhabitable in the next 10-15 years (if she's lucky).

So due to all this drama and seemingly unending amount of work, I kept delaying my move until I finally realised, I had to leave, house be damned! And so I am. In 4 days, I move to Edinburgh to the flat of a uni friend, Sarah, who foolishly whilst having a dinner party shortly before I left on my trip (and one suspects mildly intoxicated from a few glasses of genache) offered me a room to rent. It's all terribly exciting, the flat is very close to Princes (apostrophy or not?) Street and thus being the impoverished person that I am, my lack of car shouldn't be too much of an issue.

With the move date imminent, it occured to me that I should prehaps start thinking about getting a job. This may sound ridiculous, but I haven't a clue. I left school, went to uni, was told to fill a form out and was given a job for two years. Prior to that the only other employment I had was at the local cake shop and the applicaton process for that was a brief chat with the mangeress and hey presto at the tender age of 14 (yes, a child worker, a slave of society's growing pressure on the young to suceed) I had a job.

So the question is now, where to start? How to get a job? What to do? Why? (Well, the latter question is easy- MONEY). This is the quest, this is the challenge, this is the future. Join me friends, family, countrymen and random people who accidently click on the site. Join me in the telling of this epic tale, one that has yet to be written!
Join me for the most thrilling journey of all- the journey of life!!!!!!!

(too much?)