Will update/back date soon.

Right now, I just need to get this out of my system:

Everything I'm feeling right now, the being pulled by tides I thought I'd slipped, stretched ane torn along old fracture lines, all of it can be summed up in easy chords in this song.



Caledonia
by Dougie Maclean


I don't know if you can see,
The changes that have come over me.
In these last few days I've been afraid,
That I might drift away.
I've been telling stories, singing songs,
That make me think about where I come from.
That's the reason why I seem
So far away today.

(Chorus)
Let me tell you that I love you,
That I think about you all the time.
Caledonia, you're calling me,
Now I'm going home.
But if I shall become a stranger,
Know that it would make me more than sad,
Caledonia's been everything I've ever had.

Now I have moved and kept on moving,
Proved the points that I needed proving,
Lost the friends that I needed losing,
Found others on the way.
I have kissed the lads and left them crying,
Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have travelled hard sometimes with conscience flying,
Somewhere in the wind.

(Chorus)

Now I'm sitting here before the fire,
The empty room, a forest choir,
The flames have cooled. don't get any higher,
They've withered now they've gone.
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear,
And I know what I will do tomorrow,
When hands have shaken, the kisses flowed,
Then I will disappear.

(Chorus)



Now please, let's not be melodramatic. However, it's late at night, you'll have to forgive my musical penchants. And honestly, I'll explain it all later. For now, just reread the pretty song and flex your fingers to the repetitive chords.

Kelvingrove

Oh, what a fantastic place. The Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum-- everything about it is wonderful. The exterior of the building, the lavishness of it, the ornate quality of the place from paneled ceiling to marbled floors. And then there's all the stuff in it! Simply fantastic... le sigh.

Here are some of the highlights:

The aforementioned exterior of the building.


Just inside the front doors.


Giant Irish Deer... Yes, I like skeletons of dead things,

and this dead thing is nearly a full 8 feet tall, which makes it inherently nifty.

If there is a dinosaur in the place, I will find it and photograph it.

It's this neat party trick that I do.

Much like the Hunterian, this place is almost a cabinet of wonder.

Yes, that is indeed a bomber plane and an elephant. Also a giraffe.

It's fine, that's why we love places like this.

Yeah, it's John Locke. Yay, philosophy!


A Highland Funeral by one of the Glasgow Boys, James Guthrie.


Yay, car! Second version of a car built by James Anderson,

which was wildly popular with the Bertie Wooster set.

This little baby could reach speeds of up to 100 mph-- pretty zippy in 1924!

Dashboard of revolutionary zippiness.


The spotted kiwi, left in the picture, lays the egg which is to the right in the picture,

being the largest egg to body mass ratio in the animal kingdom.

Damn. Poor kiwi.

Grouse, meet the Famous Grouse.


A Haggis-- totally what every haggis I've ever seen looks like, no joke.

I love you, Scotland.

Curators have a sense of humor here.

And the peoples rejoiced.

Supposedly the key to Mary, Queen of Scots' cell in Loch Leven Castle.

You know that scene from Bedknobs and Broomsticks?

To me, the one on the far left is saying, "Hey, yeah, just hanging out with my rifle..."

The one in the middle something like "Who's called shotgun now, bitches!"

The one on the right is ignoring the other two.

Soay Sheep (Ovis aires) from St. Kilda.

I'd really like to visit St. Kilda one day...

Field mouse of St. Kilda, which are supersized compared to their mainland cousins.

It's sitting next to the bones of a cat which, after everyone evacuated from the island,

were left but then later shot. Go, mice.

The oldest spinning wheel from St. Kilda... le sigh. :)

Motherless, by Geogre Lawson.

Supposedly the wife and mother of these two has just died,

and there is an undeniably haunting quality to it.

Detail of Motherless.

Large silver thing...

Awesome detail of large silver thing.

Modesty by Giosue Argenti.

Victor Hugo by Rodin, 1883.

Masscre of Glan Coe, by James Hamilton.

The 1692 masscre of Glencoe was so shocking that it has become legendary.

THough the murders were carried out by an army at royal request,

the Campbell clan is still blamed today for this atrocity against the Macdonalds.

Detail. The girl's eyes are so compelling.

Detail.

Detail.

I found it!

The Auchendrane Portrait of Robert Burns.

Execution of mary, Queen of Scots by Robert Herdman.

Ann Pattison, Mrs. William Urquhart by Henry Raeburn.

She is what I picture when I think of Scottish beauty.

Detail of a painting by Seurat.

Detail of The Man in Armour by Rembrandt. This is totally the wallpaper on my little phone and a print of which is in my living room courtesy of the gift shop. *snifs* I love you, Rembrandt!

Yes, those are floating heads. Thanks, contemporary art.

So, these are just a sampling of the goodness and delight to be found at the Kelvingrove. I'd rate their cafe pretty well, too-- just avoid the caesar salad. They do, however, have a Fraoch lager called Heather Ale, which is delicious and delightful.

Go forth and view if you can! Glasgow wins again!

If you're in the neighborhood...

Danger Muffin and I just stumbled into the Drawing Room in Glasgow, across from the Kelvingrove which is lit beautifully in the nighttime hours, and had a ridiculously lovely dinner. She highly recommends the sticky toffee pudding. I recommend the chicken fillet with wild mushrooms. We both recommend the live music that sprung up next to our commandeered couch.

As I'm writing this, there a middle-aged man with a wicked guitar and a cabbie hat turned backwards on his head growling out a version of Lay Lady Lay while kids in skinny jeans and plaid shirts skitter in and out the door, moving between vices, outside for cigarettes and inside for half-price pints of fosters.

Earlier a pair of youngsters who look younger than I can ever remember being strummed out some inventive and original works, one on the guitar and the other on a wee, one octave argos-alumni keyboard. Pretty much adorable. I think one of their opening lines ran something like "Woke up with a headache, afraid to consult my phone." Hahahaha, oh dear. Just lovely.

I wish for all the world that I'd remembered to grab my trusty little camera out of my day purse and relocate it to the laptop bag. I guess you'll just have to take my word on this one, this place is worth the visit.

And the wireless which has enabled this posting is FREE! :)

Cinema: Quantum of Solace

Right, so the time has come for a bit of an embarrassing confession: I enjoy the Bond movies.

*sighs*

Yes, it's true. The humble and ram-shamble author of the modern feminist partakes in liberal doses of ridiculous testosterone, minimal plot, fast cars and faster women, chiseled men and stilted dialogue. From my youth, I can remember the seemingly endless marathons on cable television of View to a Kill, Octopussy, Goldfinger and Thunderball. Oh, yes. Roger Moore was my mother's favorite, until she remembered Timothy Dalton (like anyone else remembers him, let's be honest). Sean Connery seemed like the essence of everything suave and cool in the universe to me at the age of 8 (just for reference, Cary Grant was the essence of everything romantic and wonderful in the universe-- catch me on the right night and this might still be true). Dad liked the cars and the gadgets and the guns (at least, I think he did-- it's not like he spoke from his recliner in the living room, so who knows) and my brother and I would run around the yard later pretending to be assassins. Good, wholesome fun.

Now, with this out of the way, let's talk about the latest installment: Quantum of Solace. I'll confess to have been hesitant about Craig at first, just like everyone else. A blonde Bond? I wasn't sure. Casino Royale counted as a good movie in my book, but a good Bond film? There were moments of genuine tenderness, and I wasn't sure how this was going to wear in a tradition with such touchstones as Diamonds Are Forever. Still, as time trudged on, I like it more and more. And who would have guessed, slightly bloodied and sardonic men are wildly sexy regardless of follicle pigment.

A while before going to see the film, I was exposed to the theme. Now, being a good Michigander, I have great affection for the White Stripes and Jack White, but I just wasn't sure. In fact, I fairly hated it the first time I heard it. However, I listened to it again, and then I found myself wanting to listen to it yet again. Long story short, it grew on me in an astoundingly short time, and now I quite fancy it. Something about "a man on your side/ a person that you trust/ is just/ another way to die" that really appeals to me. And it's got a great beat to pump into your ears as you stride down the street. Try it, I dare you. You'll feel like a badass, I promise.

So, I went to see the film, and I'll tell you, it was worth it. Technically, it's a lovely film to watch, the production values are astronomically high. It's beautiful. And all the different locations sure as hell doesn't hurt. The scoring is fantastic. I'll go out on a limb and say it's the best score yet (specifically for this beautiful little bit they do with Tosca-- don't want to spoil it for you it you haven't yet seen it, but it's fantastically done). My tender ears make me hypersensitive to movie scores (not that you have to be, the levels they play the movies at nowadays will rattle your fillings) and this one is particularly effective. Subtle, that's not what one usually associates with Bond, but in the score, it scores.

As far as all this criticism over a loose and rolling plot, the stretches without dialogue, the departures from the original short story-- shove off. I mean, really, what did you expect? It's a Bond film. Seriously-- You Only Live Twice. 'Nuff said. What one should look for are girls (this one has two), gadgets (a bit thin on Bond, but check out the office and M's comm skills, that's madly interactive) and chase scenes. This one converts in all three mediums of chase-- car, boat and plane. Check, please.

Daniel Craig is lightly bleeding within the first minute of the movie. That's what I'm talking about.

Some of my friends in real time have said that it feels like the middle movie in a trilogy. Fair enough. I personally just think it did a fine job of tying up loose Vespa ends. Well done.

And really, this is all that I wanted:

Thank you, Mr. Bond. Shall we do this again in a few years? Oh, yes, please!

HOLY SHIT, WE WON!!!

THANK WHATEVER GODS MAY BE, BARACK OBAMA IS GOING TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! HE'S THE PRESIDENT-ELECT! IT REALLY HAPPENED!!

Oh my goodness. It's stupid o'clock in the morning, I've stayed up the entire night to watch with mu knuckles in my teeth, hoping against hope that we wouldn't screw this up. Hoping so freverently, so terrified that it would all go down in flames. That my poor, beleaguered. bleeding country wouldn't be able to overcome the years of fear and manipulation and misguidance and abuse-- but somehow, oh, somehow...

Danger Muffin and I hosted an Election Night Party at the Abode, and we had a regular grab-bag of nationalities present. The dedicated Election coverage kicked off on the BBC at 11:00 pm, and I hunkered down on one end of the leather brown loveseat and bared my poor little soul to the exit poll results. At one point, D-Muff had her laptop, I had mine and an Aussie friend had hers out as well, all of us monitoring different news-network websites, searching for different calls, calling out percentages, waiting for television to tell us how it all unfolded.

There were hot dogs and hamburgers and two delightful apple pies as made in our postage-stamp kitchen by D-Muff herself. All of this lay mostly forgotten on the table as the points finally began to break in Obama's favor, steadily rising in in the face of the once-solidly republican south. Could it really be so?

Everytime a state was called for Mr. Obama, we actually cheered. In our tiny flat in northern Scotland, we tuned in and tensed up. I watched with disbelieving eyes as the point count crossed the line of demarcation, the victory line-- but years of watching these fiascoes unfold had taught me all about concession calls and how bitter and long these things will sometimes be.

The bbc cut to McCain's speech, not a word about a phone call being made. "My friends, we have -- we have come to the end of a long journey. The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly. A little while ago, I had the honor of calling Senator Barack Obama -- (boos) -- to congratulate him -- (boos) -- please -- to congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love."

Oh. my. god.

Really? REALLY? You made the call?!?! It's true-- you've recalled that spark of fairness that first endeared you to me all those years ago when you were sensible and moderate and not shackled to the religious right and sponsored a bill against torture!! You're not going to drag this out because you can't pallate loosing after such a long fight. You really are putting the country first.

"Tonight -- tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Senator Obama -- whether they supported me or Senator Obama, I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president."

This was the first time in the night that I started to cry. I think this might have alarmed the Englishman seated on the floor to the right of the sofa, but I was pretty far past caring.

The bottom banner on the screen shifted to MCCAIN CONCEDES. The Aussie confirmed that Fox News had shat itself and was no longer reporting anything on its website. Gore Vidal made us all laugh and I waiting for what I knew was soon to be coming from Grant Park.

And then it happened. He took the stage. I gripped the pillow in my arms and stared through the shimmer I couldn't rub out of my eyes.

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer. It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference. It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.
We are, and always will be, the United States of America."

Right about there was where I began to cry in earnest.

"The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you, we as a people will get there. "

And sitting here, at 6:30 in the morning, I can tell you now, on a gush of expelled air and a sniffle I can't hide, that we as a nation have dared to hope. We can hope.

I can hope.

Thank you, Mr. President(Elect) for one of the best nights of my life.

Book Review: The Audacity of Hope

You know how people throw about that line, the one about laughing and crying and being moved? Yeah, I'm not throwing it lightly-- I mean it. I just hope this guy does as well.

Now, I know I've kept quiet on here about the presidential election. It's a devisive topic around the dinner table at the old family homestead, but I'm coming to realize in my quarter-life age that I'm trending democratic. Mostly it has to do with a belief in solid foreign policy and emphasis on higher education. So shoot me. I also don't think the government should have anything to say about specifically moral issues and that we should keep people alive who want to die, but that's an entirely seperate post.

ANYWAY, this book. Oh, this book. I've been a fan of Obama for a while now, considering I've believed for a long time that there was no way for Hilary to win. My native country might agree in theory if not in act that a black man and a white man are equal. It will be another century before they'll say the same for a woman. No way in hell would the home of the brave elect a woman as commander and chief in the midst of a foreign campaign, no matter how ill-advised and ill-executed. It just won't happen. And so I found myself taking interest in a young senator with the oratory skills of a preacher.

His charm is undeniable. There's no beating around the fact that he is wildly charasmatic. Not that such is a bad thing-- in fact, I think the White House desperately needs a little tact and smooth-handedness-- but what's behind it? He's preaching change, which I'll agree that we need, but what does his variety of change look like? A straight answer on this was hard to find.

Until I bought his book. Yes, I walked into Waterstone's on Union Street and bought a full-priced book. Incredibly unlike me, but I'm glad that I did. I found his writing style to be easy to read, his chapters well-defined and his points clear, and the whole experience refreshing. But more than all of that, I found out what his change for America would mean. And I couldn't be happier.

A whole chapter on education reform? The world beyond our borders? Race? Religion? REALLY?!? He thinks we should be investing in retooling our struggling work force and investing in our people rather than slashing taxes in a wild bid to keep the dying industries we should have out-moded thrity years ago. He thinks that we need to listen to the rest of the world, regardless of the frustration of sitting in meeting after meeting, consulting the non-specifically involved, asking our old allies and our new colleagues on the global scene what they feel would make the entire planet a safer, friendlier, more-sustainable nest for humankind? He thinks that racism is still a problem that we can no longer talk about in mincing, antiquidated terminology or pretend to be a war of another generation? Again, REALLY?!?!

This, my friends and invisible readers, is a book everyone voting in the election should read. EDUCATE YOURSELF. Don't take my word for it. And see if you don't choke up just a little bit on the last page. I did, I won't deny it.

Here's a man who actually respects and loves the constitution as a living and historic document, not as one or the other. A man who understands the necessity of the separation of powers, who respects the singular importance of congress. A man who isn't going to speak to me like I'm an idiot or patronise me by pretending that truly complicated situations have simple and perfect solution. Thank whatever god you like, I am.

Hell, I'm thrilled at the prospect of simply voting for someone with the chops to write a book, let alone the utterly terrifying and exhilirating prospect of respecting my president again. Lo, how things just might change...

I'm giving this the full five flying flags. Take that.

Right, bullet time!

Okay, so I'm sorry, I'm a shit blogger and have been remiss in my updating. SO MUCH TO TYPE! Ergo, the wonder of spot editing!

• I'm living with a wonderful, delightful woman named Danger Muffin-- D-Muff for short-- and she's fantastic. She moved here from MI and, despite a failure to communicate for 6 years, has clicked back into my life like she never left it. We originally met through the MSF and have a mutual unhealthy relationship with Shakespeare and Arts Organizations in general. As it is, we're living at approximately the same speed. Which is the speed of light and sound. Together. Amplified.
• My student loans still haven't come through. This makes me a sad panda.
• I'm working too many different jobs. I can't keep them straight. And I haven't been in my office in ages. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something for the Ph.D., but for the life of me I don't know what. Good sign?
• I haven't heard from DS in ages. Again, sad panda.
• I've been cast in a production of Miller's Crucible at the University. And which character is little Miss Melville portray? The "death-haunted, embittered 45 year old woman" of course. Type casting? Please say no, I only look 35.
• My crossword addiction has hit record levels. The careers office is enabling me by saving all their old copies of the Herald and the Guardian. I still buy the Times on a daily basis and hit up the Washington Post online. Sick, sick puppy.
• I've rediscovered my love of white russians. They're delicious and way kinder to my tummy-lining. For a change up, I will order a vodka and cranberry, but only because I believe in the fight against UTI. I also drink gin and tonic because malaria is a bastard. Ergo, all my cocktails serve very strategic purposes.
• I think that Scotland is currently underutilizing my generous and nurturing side. I'll expound more on this at a later date if I get the time.
• Damn facebook. Yes, I use it and I love it and it's the only way people who know me in real time can reach me on a consistent basis, but it keeps telling me all sorts of disconcerting things. What things, you ask? Apparently everyone I used to know is either getting married or spawning. No joke. Entire photo albums of engagement rings, ultrasound pictures or tiny humans fresh out of their wrappers-- they're everywhere. I used to think my being perpetually between boyfriends wasn't that unusual, but apparently I'm a piraha. Still, better than being perpetually between husbands, right? Right?!?
• I really miss playing the tuba. Unfortunately, there appear to be very few of them in Scotland, and even fewer that belong to me. That number being zero.
• The roses down near the beach ballroom are still blooming.
• I still love Scotland.
• It no longer strikes me as strange that I'm here. What does seem strange is that I was never not here. Is that odd?

Enough for now. I'll finish writing and then backdate the rest of the Wedding entry, it's just too much for my less than nimble little fingers at the moment.

One for the Ages, Part I: The Run-Up

Sorry for being so remiss in my writing. I promise, it hasn’t been for lack of thought or lack of material, but rather the presence of too much—too much to do, too many places to be, too many jobs and too few hours. All that sort of thing.

But first things first: The Wedding.

Oh yes. Articles intended.

For many reasons, CB’s wedding is THE Wedding. Mostly because she named me as a bridesmaid. Also mostly because she’s a wonderful, lovely friend. And mostly for the fact that this was, bar none, the most labor intensive bridesmaid-stint I’ve ever completed, for no other reason than The Cake. But I scamper ahead…

CB got married to her Pirate on a gloriously sunny day in Bristol. All joking aside, the weather really was lovely (about damn time, Britain!) and the whole thing was sunshine and flowers and free wine and happiness. The day before? Not so much. But it could have been a lot worse. And let me go on record as saying I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.

And with all that as a disclaimer…

I caught the train down to Bristol on the Wednesday morning, leaving my warm, warm bed for the cold, cold train station at 5:30 am, and dropped CB a text to let her know I was finally underway just after 6. I’d picked up my dress from the seamstress just the evening before, as there had been some last-minute pinning and tucking. Assuming she had her phone turned off, LIKE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE, I settled down and pillowed my head on my arms from Aberdeen to Burgh of Edin. I there changed trains for Birmingham, settling in for the longer leg of the journey with my needlework and picnic bag accessible.

I was working on a little piece of craft-mastery of my own design, though the inspiration is well documented on the internet. What was Miss Melville sewing so painstakingly, you ask? I’ll tell you later. What matters now is that I was seated next to an older woman named Evelyn, and despite my moment’s trepidation on her arrival due to her heavy scowl and less-than-bemused air, she turned out to been overwhelmingly chatty. So much so, in fact, that she talked ALL THE WAY to Birmingham. She told me about her family, that she was turning 77 the same month her granddaughter was turning 7 (an endless source of amusement for the granddaughter), that her father had been abusive and her mother emotionally distant, her grandmother manipulative but loving, and a dizzying number of aunts, uncles, cousins, great -grand relations and obscure pets. Needless to say, she was lovely. We helped each other find our next train, as she was bound for Exeter and I for Bristol Temple Meads, and said our goodbyes on the platform as we boarded different coaches.*

The final leg of the journey was standing room only and dearly uncomfortable. Let’s just be clear when I say that I was quite happy to roll into Bristol, take out £100 for upcoming expenses and drop myself into the nearest taxi. I know it doesn’t compare to scrubbing down an apartment kitchen, but the trip was its own form of special.

All told, I arrived at my reserved Bed and Breakfast relatively unharmed and unharried. The place itself was positively LOVELY. Quaint, charming, well-staffed, warm, clean, comfortable—all in all, all for which one might ask. I called CB to let her know that I had arrived and where would she like me to be/what would she like me to do/what should I be doing? Her response was somewhere between a laugh, a grunt and a frustrated howl. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d been asking such things. As it was, I watched a few episodes of Top Gear (Oh, Dave channel, how do I love thee…) and waited to be instructed about dinner arrangements.

Showered, napped, spot-ironed and with a pint down in the pub, I began questioning the busing schedules of Bristol. Roughly one on the hour, the barmaid told me. Turns out, they’re about as predictable as the ones here in the ‘Deen. I eventually caught one, laid down a ridiculous amount of money for a day ticket and tripped the light fantastic into town, where I met the whole maiden CB family.

Well, ‘met’ is a bit of a misnomer. I’ve met them all before, being great friends with CB’s mom and referring to her as my boss for more years than I like to remember. CB’s brother, his wife, the Aunt, the parentals… a lovely family. A lovely pub. Good food, fast talk, CB making entirely inappropriate comments about my chest, and I realized in a flash that all things with this wedding were really going to be just fine, so I ordered a stoli and tonic, crushed my lime and smiled. Good times.**

The next day saw me up and moving about with good speed, trying to get to the Chaplaincy to help bake a cake. No, I’m sorry—to help bake THE CAKE. The Cake to end all Cakes. The truly important, dear god don’t ruin this for everyone cake. Yeah, that one: the Wedding Cake.

CB had decided a while back that she was going to bake her own wedding cake. Well, g’donnah as the Aussies say, and I didn’t think a whole lot more about it until that morning. Good thing CB had, as she had all the ingredients, the recipes, the pans and pots and measuring cups aplenty. After stumbling about the top of Park Road for a bit (I’m useless with directions, sorry, CB!) another charming and nigh-on disgustingly perky bridesmaid, CW, met me and guided me into the dark heart of the University of Bristol. Somewhere between the gleaming Ivory Tower which is the Wills Building and eventually stumbling on the Chaplaincy, CW and I bonded. All things good. Once in the kitchen, I unloaded the requisite bottle of red wine from my purse and met the delightful Family Wally: Mama Wally (MW), Papy Wally (PW) and Beta Wally (BW). As CB had previously told me that MW is the only person other than myself within the circle of her acquaintance who listens voluntarily to sea chanties, I figured we'd get along just fine. In that, I was right. :) BW is actually a godzilla in a blonde, curly wig. He's utterly adorable and occasionally rampages. This mostly made for good entertainment as PW attempted to reign him in while we four womenfolk busied ourselves in the kitchen. I made a ribbon bouquet, complete with stem, out of the ribbons from the bridal shower, and all was happy and hectic but controlled.

By the time we had to break camp to leave for the rehearsal, the bottom tier and top tiers were finished baking. All the carrot (ALL THE CARROT) had been grated, lemons zested, and all that really remained was to bake the rest and frost. No problem. CW and I trucked it on back to her apartment to collect CB's dress, the delightful creation of satin and organza and embroidery which had been the subject of so many evening conversations. Once we finally got in the taxi, dress across laps, I noticed I had smudges of frosting all down my front and no time to do anything about it. So much for the yellow dress I'd purchased for the occasion, time left no time for such considerations! Dropping the dress off with the vastly capable door staff of the hotel, we hot-footed it over to the church, which was conveniently located just across the street.

At this point, I thought things would calm down and the overwhelmingly brisk pace of the day would be checked. Not so much. Apparently, they'd double-booked the church, and we had something like 15 minutes to go over the practical "You stand here, you walk over here," bits of the service. So far as I could tell, our job was to walk in ("Slowly!" hissed the mother of the bride, "You've got to make sure you leave six paces/enough space/you're going too fast/smaller steps!/feet together/don't rush!"), sit in the front pew, and then walk out. Awesome, I can handle that.

Post-rehearsal, I had a brief chat with the father of the groom, who is a lovely man with an accent which I can only describe as the one I would pull should I want to mock the ultra-posh Brits of yesteryear. But it's his actual accent. And I couldn't laugh, because that would have been terribly rude. Oh yesquiteratherhmmmm. All in all, I think I pulled it off.

As a small sidenote, apparently the rehearsal dinner isn't a tradition over here. Convenient for the parents of the groom, but less than conducive for getting we happy few fed and back to the kitchens. As it was, the parents of the bride fed me yet again at a lovely restaurant right on the waterfront where I had cheese and leafy things before legging it out of there and into a taxi to meet up with CB, who had rushed out even earlier to get back to the cake.

When we eventually got there, all things were relatively as they should have been, with the small exception of a party of observant Islamic men who had also booked the kitchen to cook for Ramadan. I feel this part of the story is best captured by CB herself: "when I got back there were 3 Muslim blokes there cooking a feast for Ramadan for about 50 people. I wasn't able to get in the door. They said they would be gone in 10 minutes. An hour later they were still there so I just started working around them as best I could.They finally left but the place was a mess. I was able to work around the mess, but when they came back to clean up it really go hairy. I needed the sink to keep washing mixing bowls and utensils as i changed back and forth between carrot and lemon cake and frosting, but they were using the sink. That killed another 45 minutes of valuable time.Then at one point one of them TURNED OFF THE OVENS!. Thank GOD the Cake noticed and we turned them straight back on so there was no damage done. If she hadn't seen that happen 2 tiers of my cake would have been ruined.And then finally one of the batches of frosting didn't turn out. For some reason it was complete soup. It wasn't usable. So we weren't able to get the whole cake frosted that night."

Confession time: I was the one who made the cream cheese frosting-flavored soup. It was me. I nearly destroyed ALL. The thing of it is, I didn't do a DAMN thing differently between the two batches. The first one set up, the second one didn't. Maybe it was that the kitchen was too hot from all the other cooking. Maybe the cream cheese was softer. Maybe the refrigerator was warmer due to being opened so much. I DON'T KNOW. All I know is that the frosting did. not. work. I felt awful. CB assured me that it would be okay, that we'd get duncan heines frosting from painsbury's in the morning and all would be well, but after going to such lengths to make this cake from scratch, I felt terrible about compromising the integrity of the homemade cake.

In the end, we got the remaining cakes baked, the first layer frosted completely, the bottom layer assembled, and CW's boyfriend to our location (more difficult than it sounds). The poor chap had worked a full day up in York and then taken the train down for a few hours to Bristol. He as tired, road weary (or track-weary, rather?) and hungry. Still toting his luggage, he shows up to help us transport the cake, as we were a woman down. We'd sent MW and the rest of the Family to the bed and breakfast-- same one I was booked into, actually-- to get some much needed rest. The little tyke didn't know what time it was supposed to be, and his parents weren't much better. The merciful thing to do was to let them shower and sleep, but it left us a lap short to transport the boxes of cake via cab to the hotel where the reception would be held and where CB was staying. Enter CW's boyfriend, who from here on out will be referred to as Captain Cake. Once we'd cleaned out the kitchen and loaded all the boxes with their precious cargo, the real fun began.

We lined the boxes up on a low rock partition along the driveway to await the taxi driver. Captain kept trying to talk to CW about the day, how he was feeling, answering the questions she casually flung at him, but after asking she'd scuttle away to check for the cab or check on CB, leaving him with a mouthful of words which would trail off in a Walter Mitty-esque sense of resignation. Something about this struck me as absolutely hilarious, a fault I can only chalk up to exhaustion and overwrought nerves. The bit of road which led to the chaplaincy is a squidgy, and in the age that it took the cabbie to find us, we milled about and generally lied about how tired we were. CW went to pick up one of the boxes of cake to move it closer to the curb, and as I stood talking to CB, she screamed. Actually screamed. Oh god, I thought, please don't have dropped the cake. Then she screamed something about slugs. Oh NO. You see, my dear reader, it's been a very wet summer here in Britain, and there are slugs EVERYWHERE. And not the little slugs that nibble cabbage in a garden. These are big, slimey fuckers to leave visible trails all over the sidewalks. And all I could think was that one had managed to squirm its way into the box and onto the cake. The mental image of the little frosted tier over which we had labored so lovingly absolutely covered in giant, olive drab slugs glistening in the street light filled my mind. Ogodohgod, NO!

As it was, CW had gone to pick up the box and put her hand on a slug quite safely on the exterior of the box. She even had the good sense not to drop the box. She's a winner, that CW. However, she did cause me a small bout of cardiac arrest.

Once we FINALLY got into the taxi, we three girls in the back with boxes of cake and Captain in the front with the bowl of soup-frosting on his knees, we let out a collective breath and asked the cabbie to drive very, very carefully. As we went along, we quickly realized that we in the back were fine, but Captain was in serious danger of slopping the sugary sludge over the edge of the bowl and all over his lap. "I feel like I'm in the third leg of some sort of perverse triathlon," he said quietly, inducing a fit of near-hysterical giggles from the back seat. Once at the hotel, CB oversaw the unloading of the cab and put CW and Captain back into it and packed them off to CW's flat while I went to find a trolley to transport the various boxes to the commercial refrigerator in the kitchens where the hotel had has we could store it all overnight. With a vague prayer to nebulous powers that the sustained cold of the fridge would bring my soup-creation to frosting-firmness, I followed like a pup at CB's heels. We both realized at roughly the same time that the buses had finished running for the night and I was effectively stuck in Bristol unless I wanted to shell out for a taxi. Ugh. CB offered quite gallantly to just curl up next to her in the enormous yes-it's-a-honeymoon-suite-but-we-want-a-bed-so-big-we-don't-actually-have-to-touch-while-we-sleep bed, but after watching her print off the readings for the next day, I soberly considered my options and figured that it would be cheaper in the long run to take a nighttime taxi rather than wake up in town and have to fight my way back to the Inn to gather my bridesmaid dress and assorted necessities. CW and I had worked out a shopping list with nibbly-bits for the lunch the next day, useful things like band-aids and Tylenol, and the ever-necessary hair drier. Leaving all this for the night, I said goodnight for the last time to Miss CB and caught a cab.

And this is where, for me, the whole thing went pear shaped.

When the cab rolled up to the Inn, all was dark. No lights in windows, no busy downstairs pub-- nothing. Not only was the front door locked, but it was also chained and padlocked. So, on a scale of locked, it was very locked. I knocked and knocked, I tapped at windows, and shouted hello in the hopes of raising a reply, all to no avail. The cabbie, bless him, hadn't immediately driven off, and asked if I needed help. Did I have the number for the inn? Maybe I could call and someone would answer who could then come down and let me in. No, I didn't have the number. So he called his dispatch and had them track it down for me-- amazingly kind, eh? In the meanwhile, I went around back and shook the gate. Deadbolted. DAMN. Whyohwhyohwhy. It was 1:30 in the morning, I had soupy frosting in my hair, I smelled noticeably of carrots, and my friend was getting married in less than 14 hours. I went around the front again and in desperation POUNDED at the front door. By that time, the cabbie had been waiting well over 15 minutes, but had a number for me to call. I pulled out my mobile and dialed.

Only to be met by the robotic voice of a woman telling me I didn't have enough credit on my phone to complete the call. [*Mentally drops to her knees and wails wordlessly*]

"There's nothing for it," my patient cabbie sighed, "I'll take you back to the Hotel if you'd like?" For the moment, it looked like my only option. But I didn't want to wake up CB who had surely FINALLY gone to bed for some desperately needed sleep. I didn't want to bother her the NIGHT BEFORE HER WEDDING. I wanted to be competent and adult and get into the bed reserved for me, dammit! I sighed and said I'd try the back gate just one more time. Shoving my hands in my pockets in the cold, my knuckles already bruising from pounding on the door, I felt the ribbon I had stashed there, the one I hadn't looped into the bouquet. "Could I...?" I leaned all my weight against the gate, buying a few millimeters and enough to loop the ribbon through the gap, hook it onto the nub and pull it up, springing the gate. Success! Once inside the yard, I started trying the doors. The downstairs was definitely locked, complete with a yale lock. The upstairs door, however, adjacent to the iron rose trellis, had just a regular lock, and an older one at that. Right, time to put the skills to the test... I rattled the door with all my furious, mentally-exhausted might and then YANKED it open. The bolt sprung free and I was IN! I left the door open and went back to inform the cabbie, who wished me a good sleep, and I locked the gate back behind me. A good night indeed. I don't think my head hit the pillow before I switched off.

For what happened when my eyes opened again, stay tuned.




*There is something so strange about train conversations. I know the film-loving few among us can cite numerous cinematic examples of what I’m describing, but parts of it sadden me. Evelyn at several points marveled about how she was telling me all of these unpleasant but true things about people had loved, her parents and their parents, but never told her own children, much less her grandchildren who are mostly my age. I told her, in my honest opinion as a grandchild whose grandmother withheld all manner of information until it was far too late, that they would want to know. It’s far too important to just tell a stranger on a train. I hope she does, and I hope her grandkids have the decency and the sense to stop and listen.
**Good times made even better by the drinks tab being picked up by CB’s Aunt, who is a Sister (not in the “Help a sister out!” sense, but rather the “I’m sorry, Sister, I have no idea how that rosary wound up there” sense) which effectively means that the Catholic Church bought my booze. I repeat, GOOD TIMES.

Bus-Stop Encounters

I don't know what it is. When my friend HPC first pointed it out, I didn't believe her, but I've come to accept that it's true: people just walk up and talk to me.

I can't really explain it. I've been told that I'm intimidating-- really, honestly scary at times. And yet, if I'm standing in line at the grocery store, if I'm filling my car with gasoline, riding in an elevator or on an escalator, maybe browsing books in a store, just minding my business and strolling through the park, people seem compelled to talk to me.

At first, I thought this happened to everybody. If there's somebody else waiting at a counter in the cheesemonger, don't they make polite chit chat about how they just love orkney cheddar? Or if you're standing around on the train platform, make some dig about how public transportation is so unreliable? I mean, I never actually initiated any of these conversations, but I responded cordially and went about my business.

It turns out, apparently this is not the case.

For all this, I can't really explain the phenomenon. It just happens. Take today for example: I was perched at a bus stop on Union Street, the main drag through the city centre. It was around 7pm and I sat with my two bags of groceries and played around with my new mobile, trying to figure out how to change the ringtone. I still haven't figured it out, but in the meanwhile an elderly gent shuffled up and sat next to me, and asked me the time and if i was looking forward to my tea. he was kindly enough, with his pageboy cap and tweed jacket, and he walked with a cane, which I find automatically endearing. I said I was looking forward to fixing some supper, and he told me about how he'd been out for the day in Inverurie to visit his brother-in-law, and the two together had gone to visit yet another brother-in-law who is in hospital. Now, bear in mind that all of this information was completely unsolicited.

Now, I've got a Midwest accent that you can spot at a 150 yards, there's no denying it. Frankly, it grates on my own ears nowadays, and I don't really know how anybody can stand listening to me-- my own voice annoys me, let alone anybody else. And there's no pretending I'm from 'round these parts, either: my Scottish accent is still appalling, despite my best efforts. Le sigh. So when he asked where in America I was from, I wasn't all that surprised. I told him Michigan, and he began to tell me about how he knew where that was because he'd been driven in a military convoy along the Trans-Canadian Highway for his flight training out in British Columbia during WWII. He told me about taking the ship over, how they docked next to the Queen Mary, how he saw the Statue of Liberty for the first and only time at 4 in the morning, how women had laid out the best breakfast he's ever tasted on the docks upon their arrival, the fresh fruit, eggs and meat they had only dreamed about while on the steamer from Ireland. All the while, I smiled and nodded, laughed at the appropriate moments and genuinely marvelled at what he was telling me.

Telling me, a perfect stranger.

I guess it's the same way women hand me their infants while I'm working as a photographer's assistant. I even once had a woman thrust her newborn into my arms at the local grocers so she could have both hands free to paw through her purse in search of an elusive debit card. Who does that? People have handed me dogs on leashes as well, told me about their caring husbands, cancer scares, family vacations and housing plans. Mostly I just nod and smile, half-bemused and half-bewildered.

So, is it just me, or does this happen to you as well, my dear invisible readers? Do you have bus stop encounters with charming old gents who make you wish that your bus was five minutes late like it usually is?

While You Were Out...

Big changes upon which I will expound in due time (read: not now). Best to bust out the bullet points for this one, methinks!

• Got a new job on campus, that basically means I'm on campus every day, breathing the academic atmosphere and shifting my focus back away from shift work to intellectual work, despite the fact that I basically do office work. Regardless, it pays and it's fewer and better timed hours. Baby gets her evenings back! *woot woot*
• Quit the wine shop, which was good fun and good viniculture education, but not so related to my life as I want to be living it post-phd. That, and the basement where all the wine is stored had a ceiling so low that even I couldn't stand up straight. This is shocking if you know how tall I actually am in flat shoes. That, and hauling the cases of wine about was doing my back in on a repetitive basis.
• Came to the sad realization that I have an abusive landlord. This requires a whole backstory that I really don't have time to write at the moment, so I'll just leave it at this.
• Found a new flat! I'll be letting it from the parents of a friend, and it's b-e-a-utiful! The rent is a £100 more than I'm paying now per bedroom, and it's just a two bedroom place. This is a good thing because...
• A very dear friend of mine, let's call her Jen, is moving here from the US! YAY! She's basically fleeing the country, for many reasons I'm sure. But I've just secured a two bedroom apartment for us, and she arrives towards the end of October! And since it'll just be the two of us, no more sharing a bathroom among six people!! Exclaimation points for everyone!
• On the short list for providing a new home for a lovely pup-- Bonnie. She's a bonnie wee lass, an older Scottish Terrier who really needs a new family to love and adore her, but I need to double-check that the new landlords would be cool with having a fully-trained smallish dog in their flat. I really, really, really hope they are, as I've been wanting a dog for a while now.
• Booked my train tickets down to Bristol for this woman's wedding. I've not been that far south on this lovely island yet, so seeing the countryside from the train should be nice. However, it's going to take ELEVEN HOURS to get there. No joke. Even for me, that's a lot of countryside. Here's to hoping the train has wireless-- some of them do, so stop laughing.
• On the way back from the aforementioned wedding, I'm stopping in London. There are some bride's maids committments that I've got to fulfill on Saturday morning, and that means that I can't leave Bristol early enough to get back to the 'Deen the same day. So, it'll be Miss Melville in London: One Night Only! I'll be spending Saturday night in the fully capable care of Aplha, who's living down there nowadays, and crashing on her floor if there's any crashing to be had. I have a sneeking suspicion that we'll just stay out until she pours me back onto the train at Kings Cross and then I'll have 8 hours to sober up before changing in the Burgh of Edin. I'm anticipating carnage and shinanigans.
• My welcome and orientation meeting the the Ph.D. of DOOM is slated for the 25th. Holy shit.
• I get my own office. Or, at least a desk in a cupboard somewhere. They were a little hazy with the details. Regardless, I'm putting my name on the door, even if I have to whittle it there myself, Old Red-style.

I think that's about all for now. Needs must run to the mobile store to try to get someone explain to me why the new phone I bought is doing a fantastic impression of a rock.

Dissertation = Done.

It'll go to the bindery tomorrow, and is completely and totally out of my hands. I won't say that it's perfect, or the very best that I could have done, but I kinda maybe feel like it's good enough?

Whatever, it's over.

Dark have been my [waking] dreams of late.

"Man is the indestructible. And this means there is no limit to the destruction of man."

--Maurice Blanchot, The Infinite Conversation, p. 135

This is basically my thesis. Man, in being man, cannot be destroyed, but only infinitely afflicted in the attempt to obliterate him. However, despite the endless use of force and torture which forces him into non-existence, no one can undo his existence-- you can never make him un-be, and therefore he is indestructible. However, the seas of pain and endless anguish can force a split within the mind/soul/heart/whatever you want to call it, which is the only thing that allows one to perhaps survive in some small way if indeed your body is not dismantled. In order to have some relation, some sense of being human, one must have a relation to another, literally an other, and in times of extreme and prolonged trauma, the only one available to bear witness is the afflicted themselves. And so we create our own other, remove ourselves from the explicit situation. But if we do survive, how does one go about reconciling these two selves?

The only option is Language. (Yes, Language with a capital L.) If one can find the place of speech, the act of speaking will engender a re-living of a trauma that was sectioned off in the radical other self, and perhaps bring about an experience in the present of the past, not necessarily healing-- you can't heal some wounds, just not going to happen-- or reconciliation with it. Things like the genocide resist to their core these obscene efforts of rationalization and contextualization, the smoothing touch of history. Instead the raw pain and unending anguish must be felt, again and again, and bleed onto the listener, the attentive receiver of the words of the other, so that the wails of that tortured, mutilated other don't fall on barren ground.

This, and all the pages recounting first-hand testimony from on the ground in Hiroshima, comprise the multitudinous hues of my nightmares.

And I'll be doing this non-stop until Monday, but it's not like the Ph.D. is going to be any more cheerful. Le sigh. Still, I think this is really, vitally, critically important to the human condition, the contemporary plight of the wounded many. So, there's nothing else I could be doing, really.

And that is a heartening thought.

Out with a bang and a whimper

So, my masters' dissertation is due on Monday. This Monday. By the close of business Monday.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Why didn't I get more of this done sooner? Why didn't I finish all the stupid books and articles months ago? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

12-15k words. Currently at 4,251 and that's all just quotes. Shouldn't take much to string them together, right? Oh, that's not even half the books and articles entered yet? Oh... dear. Well, that is a problem.

I've stocked up on black tea and the requisite frozen pizzas. Here's to no. sleep. ever. (Until Monday, then it has to be over, it just has to be.) My remaining coursemate is apparently in a similar position. This is a small and admitedly shallow comfort.

What has two thumbs and a research assistantship?

Answer: This Girl!

Needless to say, I'm absolutely over-the-moon happy about this. According to the Guru, as a direct result of my "unflagging and dogged persistence" he's decided to help me out. I will be his Johnny on the spot when he needs something researched or photocopied or whatever, and in return he'll make up the difference for half of my fees.

Check? Check.

I called home nigh-on instantly, and my mother freely admitted that she'd stop "quibbling" with me over my decision to stay, which I had only just recently made. Thank goodness.

This week has been jam-packed with Alpha staying in my flat, seeing old Geo pals, working furiously on the masters' diss (read: facebook) and a lovely little wine and cheese party that I'll tell you more about on a night when I'm not overwhelmingly exhausted from how awesome and respectable I've become.

*cue cheeky grin*

Really, I'm just relieved that future-me won't be crushed senseless by college debt. I'll still be crushed, mind you, just with a little sense to rub together. I hope.

Nairn Highland Games, 2008

... otherwise known as a highlight of my life!

Honestly, one of the best. weekends. ever. Not only was the weather on Saturday absolutely brilliant, but the company was smashing, the drinking delightful and the locale unmatched. But to tell the story...

Alpha and I drove up with Pandy on Friday afternoon as soon as I got out of work. After loading two crates of tennents (the local brew of paupers' choice) and the tent into the boot, we hit the road. A rather severe thunderstorm threatened to slow us down, but we would not be deterred. Friday night saw the construction of the tent village, some lovely homemade lasagna by our host, let's call him the Dear Scotsman (DS), and a lovely sunset over the Northern Highlands.

Saturday morning brought further arrivals as all prepped for the Games. Our little tented village, see below, added a few more neighbors and general conversation sprung up between the old friends and first-timers as we munched on various cereals and began tossing about the tins of brew. It was really quite refreshing to once again be amongst those hardy souls who do not smirk at the notion of the breakfast beer.

Due to our location, we had a lovely walk up along the shoreline, and arrived just in time to see the combined pipe and drum band march along the perimeter. Thus the games began! (To be fair, I spent a fair amount of time talking to DS's other guests in a beer garden directly adjacent to the games field, but I caught the major events.)

The atmosphere was far from lacking. While there were the requisite carnival rides and attendant riffraff, along with the requisite jokes and movie quotes pertaining to such folk, there were also stands selling highland tablet (how to describe?... if fudge and maple sugar candies had a love child? I think that's about right) and hand-knit sweaters, kids and dogs running about on leashes and free, completely unintelligible announcing, and this guy:


I know it may be hard to see, but there's an additional neck on that there guitar, and it kinda sounded like a ukulele. Translation: awesome.

There were several events that I'd never really seen before, and while I'm sure they're all part of a proud and useful tradition (as is everything in Scotland) I couldn't really tell the precise use of this giant game of tug-'o-war.



For me, the highlight of the Games themselves had to be the Caber Toss. I'd been looking forward to actually witnessing this for so incredibly long, I was giddy as a schoolgirl the entire time.

A caber mid-flight!

The action was intense, I can totally understand why DS felt the need to look away! Additionally, he looked quite dashing in his full kit, well done!

The rest of the weekend was spent drinking and laughing so hard my sides hurt, eating grilled burgers and toasting bits of bread over an open flame. Apparently there were bugs about, but they decided to pass on biting my flesh-- perhaps the gin and tonic therapy I've adopted has really and truly put them off! To be fair, I wasn't the one swilling the gin, I left that up to Clarkie. I did, however, sample several glasses of this:


The conversation ran a little something like this:
Alpha: What's that?
Miss Melville: Looks like sangria to me!
Queen of the Brew: I don't know if I'd go that far... let's call it punch and leave it at that.
Miss Melville: (takes a deep pull from her mug) Either way, works for me!

To be absolutely fair, the entire weekend came off without a hitch due mostly to the efforts of one man: our Dear Scotsman. Always moving about, seeing to things, popping in and out of conversations, finding flashlights, leading the way to the pub and back again, taking care of all the organizational pitfalls that plague large gatherings like this one-- he did it all with aplomb and skill. Hats off to you, kilted grillmaster! Please note the tankard: again, well done!



I was the last one standing come the end of Saturday Night into Sunday morning, and beyond seeing the last of the drunks to bed and tidying up a little bit, I gazed at one of the most memorable and spectacular sunrises of my young life:






We drove back to the 'Deen, slightly sunburned and very happy, later in the morning on Sunday. Le sigh. Back to the everyday worries of rent and submission deadlines, but I lived the dream for one full weekend, and that's pretty good by me. If you ever, EVER, EVER get the chance to go to the Highland Games, any of them, don't think twice. Don't even blink. Just go! And if they're in Nairn, look for me-- now that I know that they're there, I will be doing everything in my power to get back. :)

Working Girls and Girls Who Work

... There's a difference.

So, as most know, it's hella expensive to live in Aberdeen, as opposed to the States. On the surface, it looks like things cost the same, but then one must take into account the exchange rate, and if you happen to consider this while grocery shopping, your joints will grind to a halt and you'll find yourself completely unable to move, much less place that wedge of cheese in your basket.

Ergo, I work at just about every random job you can imagine, dear reader-- not because I like playing with cats or shepherding drunks, but because I need the money. Rent, groceries, the occasional pint: it all takes funding. Right now, I've got four basic part-time jobs, one of which is primarily seasonal. Firstly, (and most infrequently) I'm a house-sitter/child-minder/dog-walker/cat-feeder extraordinaire. No joke. However, it's only recently that I've been paid to house-sit, and that was a welcome improvement. I mostly provide these services for my faculty and related members of academia, and it provides a little pocket cash every once in a while, but it's hardly possible to depend on it. Secondly, I work with a photography firm that does graduation services around the north of England and Scotland. Again, this is all dependent upon when the services are and which contracts the company snaps up and all that. There will be another spate of them in the fall, but we're pretty quiet at the moment, which is too bad because it really is a good daily wage. Thirdly, we have the club. Now, there are two different establishments in this particular building, four bars in total with two seperate cash desks. I was originally hired to work the upstairs desk, the one leading to the 80s music review which allows teens and 40-somethings alike to dress ridiculously and groove to Prince and other vintage tunes. It's only open on Friday and Saturdays, and I only worked Saturdays-- this left Friday for general carousal and debauchery when I could afford it. More on this turn of events later. My fourth soucre of employment is at a wine shop. It's a nice little place, about 50 paces from the door of where I'm currently living, and all in all a good fit. I get on decently well with my co-workers and apart from once issue haven't had any problems with the manager (who is wound so tight, I think he irons his socks). The best part of the job is that it's close to the house and there's a staff discount. No joke.

But back to the club. Now, your friend Miss Melville has never denied being a bit of a prude. I like to think of it as being classy, but whatever. And I've been known to toss a few back in my day, I won't deny it. However, the number of drunk, lerching folk I've seen tumble in and out of the door of the club has been enough to really put me off the cheap booze recently. And then they went one better: I got transferred to the other cash desk. You see, children, the downstairs of this building, all owned by the same to men, is a strip club.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.

I know take a 6-pound cover from men who want to enjoy the poffered goods of what claims to be the premiere lapdance club in Scotland. Ah, goooooo, good sir. On the up side, I'm learning an awful lot about the industry and how it functions and a new subculture of foreign girls who barely speak english trying to make it here in the UK and sending money back to their families. As a sidenote, apparent the sharks to do send the money to Romania won't accept Scottish bank notes, and this is a perpetual issue. Inga is constantly asking me if I have English notes, and at first I was simply annoyed because it disrupted my counting system. I finally asked the assistant manager/bouncer about it, and he told me the deal. Now, I set them aside.

I've worked pleanty of scummy jobs in my young life-- most noteably, the third shift at the gas station in Michigan's Prison City. I chatted with hookers, brewed awful coffee, swept the lot, gave away day old hot dogs to bums and generally held down the fort through the long dark hours. But this is a whole new level of sleeze. I sorta understand the young bucks who come in for a stag do or with a bunch of buddies. It's the ones who come in by themselves, collar up and sober, who creep me out the most. Then there's the older guys who are in by themselves every day of the week. I was told yesterday that this place is open every night of the week, 365 days a year. Which means that good old Donna from Down Undah is bending herself around the pole on Christmas Eve, New Years Day and Easter Sunday. There's something that I find cripplingly sad in that.

Now, I just sit behind the desk and take money. I don't dress like one of the girls-- in fact, I pull my hair back and wear a fleece because it's cold by the open door. Yet, I still get harrassed. On Saturday night, the best man in one of the stag parties leaned over the desk, clasped my face and full-out laid one on me, and before I had time to react was out the door. Stunned. Who does that? Then there's the older guys to persist in asking if I'll walk them home. Usually the bouncers shuffle them along, but they usually have more dangerous things to see to, and I can normally take care of myself. But if they harrass mousey old me this much, what are they saying to the poor dancers? The manager, who is a proper hard nose, asked me how I felt about working behind the bar. Now, while I think it would be a useful thing to have some bar experience on my resume, I'm not sure that I want it at a strip club. And it would mean different hours AGAIN, and I'm sure the level of harrassment would only increase... I don't know.

And on top of all this hourly work, I'm supposed to be writing my masters thesis/dissertation. I'm not even done reading for it. Fortunately, I was talking to a fellow coursemate this past week and she's in pretty much the same spot, but anyways... Yeah. Let me tell you just how impossible it is to read Blanchot while listening to Back in Black by AC/DC and telling Veronicka once again that she has to have her commission money to Craig by 2 am. I finally finished the essay in response to Hersey's Heroshima Saturday night, but the combination of depravity in the club and the image of trying to pull washerwomen from a rising tide and having their skin come off like gloves in your hands was too much for me. I don't know how I'm going to balance this. Normally I'd have a drink and walk it off, but I don't have the time...

The work at the club desk is now both Friday and Saturday, and while the additional money is nice, I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. But I have a feeling my rent is about to jump, and I'm barely making it as it is. Le sigh... dammit.

She sings for her supper...

... but baby's got to work for her rent!

I worked 4-10 at the wine shop yesterday, then literally RAN home, threw on a different shirt and ran back out the door with narry a second to spare to catch the bus into town so I could work 10-4 at this club where I hold down the cash desk. Lovely. More on that in a later post.

As it is, I'm now back on to work the weekend wine tasting at the shop from 2:45-7:15, leaving me 45 minutes to get maybe a quick shower and grab a bite before having to be back at the club to work 8-4 once again. Then Sunday it's back at the wine shop to work 5-10, our closing time.

Not a happy panda. If you don't hear from me, this is probably why.

Happy Birthday, Ms. Potter!

Thanks to Google and their lovely vaguely-pastel logo art for alerting the vast internet population to this delightful day!

Here's to a hip hip for the creator of the iconic gluttonous bunny and shovel-weilding, heartless farmers!

Here's the woman of the hour, walking her beloved pet rabbit, Benjamin Bouncer

No, honestly-- who didn't love her tales as a child? Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Jemima Paddle-Duck are still household favorites around here. Mutie has a miniture boxed set of selected Beatrix Potter works that I coveted as a child, and upon my most recent homecoming read to my youngest sister, the esteemed Badger.

I didn't know that she had visited Scotland on family holidays, though thinking back on her illustrations, I can't say that I'm surprised. Likewise, I was unaware of her work on lichens and status as an expert on mycology. Crazy.

To celebrate this lovely lady, I suggest we all dust off your old childhood companions and be alright with a moment of literary softness, so much like rabbit fur, and smile blissfully-- it'll make a delightful change of pace!

No worries, Benjamin, you're right on time!