Blog Title: NotJustAHatStand

Only In Edinburgh

Nowhere else in the world do you go out for a sandwich at lunchtime and:

1. Come back with a handful of flyers for shows you'll never go and see.
2. See a dance troupe performing on a traffic island.
3. Get flyered by the star of a show.
4. See a group of people (who are presumably in a show) dressed not only as cats, but as specific kinds of cats (namely Siamese, Persian and Calico).

A Return Of Sorts

Yes, I know it's been months since I posted anything. And I know memes are the lazy blogger's answer to the need to post something (anything). But there was an open invitation at Sarah's, so start as you mean to go on I say:

1. The rules of the game get posted on the beginning.
2. Each player answers the rules about him or herself.
3. At the end of the post, the player tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they’ve been tagged and asking them to read his [or her] blog.

What I was doing ten years ago:

Probably sitting final school exams, in preparation for The Big Bad World After High School.

Five things on my To-Do list today:

1. Arranging travel insurance (I leave for Rome on Saturday).
2. Arranging for my various fuzzy bits to be waxed in preparation for my holidays.
3. Feeding my cat, who is watching me type whilst miaowing plaintively.
4. Becoming fluent in Italian.
5. Buying a new umbrella because my old one finally gave up the ghost (RIP, previously indestructible umbrella).

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:

I'd buy a nice house in the country (complete with gardener), have lots of pets, my own library and I'd give some money to charity.

Three of my bad habits:

1. Not opening my mail. Bills are boring.
2. Staying up far too late reading, then sleeping in and being late for work.
3. I don't have any others - I'm practically perfect in every way.

Five places I’ve lived:

1. A small village on the outskirts of Edinburgh
2. My first house after leaving the Parentals, with my best friend.
3. My second house after leaving the Parentals, 5 doors away from #2.
4. First flat with Hubby (previously known as the Boy). Where we got engaged.
5. Current house, that I love to bits.
(I know my answers to this are supposed to be things like 'London', 'Milan' and 'Kuala Lumpur', but I have lived a very un-exotic life)

Five jobs I’ve had:

1. General dogsbody in the food court of a shopping centre.
2. Call centre drone.
3. Temp in a mind-numbingly boring office
4. Boring Office Job #1 - adminny person
5. Boring Office Job #2 (current) - computery type person in a large HE institution

Five books I’ve recently read:

1. Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte (currently reading)
2. Animal Farm, George Orwell
3. March, Geraldine Brooks
4. Freedom in Exile: Autobiography of His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet, The Dalai Lama
5. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett

Five people or communities I’m going to tag:

No-one, because it's so long since I updated, I don't think I have any readers left.
(Except possibly Farty because he left a comment the other week asking where I was)
(I'm here! Updating!)

Death Of A Matriarch

I've been meaning to write something for a few weeks now but due to a combination of computer problems (grr), Christmas, and new distractions, I've never got round to it. And I've not been up to anything interesting anyway.

But my poor granny died yesterday. She was 91, and she was suffering, so it's kind of a blessing, but I also feel terrible for being ever so slightly relieved that she's gone. She deteriorated quite rapidly in the last year, and if I'm brutally honest with myself, I dreaded going to visit her. A series of small strokes left her unable to speak properly so it wasn't so much a case of making conversation with her as it was thinking of things to say that didn't require an answer, and yet would fill up the silence that would otherwise descend, during which she would glare at you with baleful eyes, making the occasional signal that it was about time you passed her the box of Maltesers.

But the worst thing about it was that she was still quite sharp mentally, so she was aware of the indignity of what was happening to her. It was awful to see her trapped in this frail little body that was gradually falling to pieces, but she seemed to see this as an opportunity to vent her frustration on anyone that was around. It's like she was surviving on pure bile (and Maltesers). She threw things clear across the room, with incredible strength for a frail old lady. She tripped people up by sticking her foot out as they passed. She hit people with her cane. Up until a couple of days ago, she was still giving attitude to her carers in the nursing home. She called people names, including one incident that is memorable for all the wrong reasons, when she called one of the carers in the home a 'black bitch'. This prompted the manager of the nursing home to call my aunt into her office, and ask her 'is your mother a racist?'. Needless to say we were all mortified about this particular episode. I don't think my granny really gave a shit though.

But she was also incredibly strong, and I respected her hugely. Two weeks after she and my grandad got married, he went off to fight in the second world war. Imagine watching your husband of just two weeks going off to fight in a war, not knowing if you would ever see him again? While he was away, she worked in a factory that made Lancaster bombers. My grandad survived the war, and brought home a respectable bundle of medals. He died 20 years ago so my granny was a widow for a long time but had he still been alive 3 years ago they would have celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary.

She used to take my sister and I out shopping at the weekends, and I remember many happy hours poking about the toy department in Poundstretchers with a crisp £5 note courtesy of my granny nestling in my pocket, or watching old Laurel and Hardy films with her in her big draughty old house, eating her chocolate biscuits (of which she always had copious supplies). One particular incident sticks in my mind when we got caught in the rain without an umbrella - my granny pulled three plastic shopping bags out of her handbag, put one on her own head to protect her newly permed hair, and then proceeded to put one onto my sister's head, then mine. We were both mortified (granted we were dry, but still mortified) and desperately hoping we wouldn't see anyone we knew.

So although she was ready to go it's still sad. Her final years on this earth were not happy ones. She lost her son (my dad) 2 years ago. Understandably, his death hit her particularly hard. She couldn't make sense of the fact that her eldest son died before he was 60, while she was still here, particularly given the state she was in.

But she had a pretty good innings - 91 years, 40 of those happily married. Plus three children, four grandchildren and three great grandchildren, all of whom will miss her.

Rest in peace, Granny.

Lefty

I think I've mentioned here before (but I can't find the post and can't be bothered to look for it in order to link it), that I'm a southpaw. And very proud of it I am too - who wants to be in the majority? I'd much rather be one of the 13% of people who are different. But it does have it's problems sometimes.

I've always had the usual lefty problems like squinty writing, ink smudges all over my hand, computer mice (mouses?) being on the wrong side and problems with right-handed scissors, but I thought that was about as far as it went. Until I signed up to the Left Handers Club* website. Ever since, I've realised that many of the everyday things that I find difficult or annoying, could be a result of being a lefty.

Pillow Talk

I'm a tea jenny. I like to have a cup of mint tea in bed before I go to sleep. It's become something of a ritual, and I now cannot sleep unless I have a cup of sencha green tea with natural mint and a chapter or so of my book. Conversation between Hubby and I last night:

Me: You made my tea too strong.
Hubby: Sorry.
Me: It's the colour of wee.
Hubby: What colour should it be? The colour of a watery wee?
Me: Yes! That's absolutely the colour it should be! The kind of wee you do after you drink 2 pints of water.
Hubby: Or six pints of beer?
Me (ignoring previous comment): I find that 4 or 5 dunks of the teabag is sufficient.
Hubby (sleepily): 4 or 5 dunks, gotcha.
Me: 4 or 5 good dunks though, with the bag fully immersed in the water.
Hubby: Can I go to sleep now?
Me: And if you could give the bag a wee shake before you dunk that would be lovely, just to get rid of the tea-dust, because it all sinks to the bottom of the cup, and I can't drink the last mouthful.
Hubby: So that's Point 11 of Teeny's Guide To The Perfect Cup Of Tea. I shall make a note of it.
Me: Well, I'm just telling you this so that you know for the next time. We're married now, so you're going to be making me lots of cup of tea in the years to come.
Hubby: [snore]

Marriage. It's a riot you know.

The Bright Side

I saw a man on a bike this morning on my way to work. This in itself isn't unusual. What is unusual is that he was not appropriately dressed for the cold and heavy rain, and was soaked to the skin.

He was also cycling along at a leisurely pace (in rush hour traffic in central Edinburgh) whistling 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life'. For no obvious reason, he looked like he had his own personal little patch of sunlight, filled with rainbows and unicorns.

Maybe he just won the lottery. Maybe he got laid last night. Maybe he had just escaped from a secure unit somewhere and thought he was in the Canary Islands. Or maybe he was just enjoying his morning cycle in the rain.

Who knows, but it was a nice change from the usual grumpy commuters I see every other morning, and he brought a smile to my face. Which is an amazing feat before 9am.

Two Years

Can it really be the 12th November already? I've had half a post written for about three weeks now, but I haven't been able to find the time or, more importantly, the words, to finish it off. It should've been easy, seen as it was all about my honeymoon, but I'm going through a bit of a dry spell, blogging wise. And that's probably a good thing, as I probably would have come off sounding smug and pissed everyone off. You can click on my Flickr badge for the photos if you like, and if I get round to finishing that post without sounding like one of those people you dread sitting down next to you at a party because you just know they're going to bend your ear with stories that start 'when I was in [insert exotic location here]' I'll publish it.

But just now I do have something to say, because tomorrow is the second anniversary of my dad's death. On this day two years ago, Hubby and I had a horrible falling out about the amount of time that we were spending with each other's family (i.e. we both wanted to spend more time with our respective parentals). Him, naturally and completely rightly, because his father had passed away six months earlier. Me because seeing Hubby's father dying of cancer had made me realise how lucky I was, and want to cling onto my own family while they were all alive and healthy. The following day, before we made it out to see them, my dad had the heart attack that killed him.

Ever since then, although I miss my dad terribly, I have tried really, really hard to keep thanking god, or whatever higher power made me, that I still have an amazing husband and family, and that they're all healthy and happy(ish). It's so difficult juggling our mothers (not literally thankfully, that WOULD be difficult), and we still can't believe the situation we're now in - both our mothers widowed before they're 60 - but it is how it is, and if my dad were here he would tell me things could be worse, and that I should stay positive. And he's right - there's no point dwelling.

But I still miss him.

Wedding Bells

So. Where to start?

First of all, thanks for all the lovely comments on my last post (and over at Drama Queen's). I've become rather too used to people being nice to me and telling me how lovely I looked. It's lucky the Boy is here to keep me down to earth - he told me I looked wide the other day when I asked if a particular top looked ok or not. If he'd called me fat that would be bad enough, but WIDE? As in 'Caution, Wide Load'? I was most upset.

The wedding was ... amazing. Hard to describe without sounding overly sentimental and sickly sweet and smug-married-like. Suffice to say it went like clockwork and I enjoyed every second of it. The weather was beautiful. I managed not to fall over, or cry, or spill my dinner down my front, or any of the horrors I had imagined. I did fluff my vows slightly, but only a little bit, and the worst that happened was a bit of a stern look from the minister. It really couldn't have gone any better, and I feel very fortunate indeed that we had such a beautiful day. It was lovely seeing all our family and friends getting together for our benefit, eating and drinking and having a good time.

I wasn't nervous at all beforehand. I'm normally a bit of a worrier so this was something of a revelation. I thought the bridesmaids would have to scrape me off the ceiling come 2pm but I was calmer than they were. I got some butterflies when I realised that guests were arriving - somehow the only people I had considered were the immediate wedding party, I had completely disregarded the fact that 60 other guests were descending on the place, so when I remembered about them I got a bit nervy. But other than that, I was cool as a cucumber. Most unlike me.

The rest of the day went by in a bit of a blur. I couldn't finish my dinner (which I was gutted about), and had to go up to our room and take my dress off, as in eating nearly three courses I had lost the ability to breathe out completely. When the Boy came to find me for our big entrance into the evening reception and our first dance as husband and wife (which was to this version of 'Dream A Little Dream Of Me' if you're interested in the outcome of this argument), he was already a bit tiddly. By the LAST dance, he was completely trollied, and spent most of the song leaning on my shoulder, getting further and further down the longer the song went on. By the time all the guests had departed and we finally got back to our room, I had to undress him (and not in the good way) and put him to bed before he fell over. I, however, was sober as a judge but not for want of trying.

It all seems like a looong time ago now.

I feel like I should reward anyone who's still reading for all my bleating on about the wedding, so I'm breaking with tradition and posting some pictures of me and Hubby (hee!). So long as you don't tell anyone, okay?








I've decided (or rather it was decided for me), that I'm going to take the Boy's name after all. As everyone probably knew I would. I'm keeping my maiden name as a middle name, and the Boy has agreed to do the same, which is a pretty good compromise. I do feel old being Mrs Teeny, and yes, I do still immediately think of his mother whenever someone calls me by my married name, but I'm sure that will pass.

Won't it?

T minus 1.5 days

I'm sure I should be doing something other than posting to my blog right now but all that's left on my to do list are things like 'clean bathroom' and 'wash dishes' and I've just had a spray tan so I can't get my hands wet in order to do any of those things (which I am GUTTED about). This means that the Boy will have to do them, especially because he has invited people round to the pigsty that is our flat tonight (but don't even get me started on that).

Roo's results came back from the vet on Saturday, and I am delighted to say that the lump on her leg was not cancer after all, but a mass of fatty tissue (niiice).

So. Everything is arranged, and all there is to worry about now are natural disasters, last minute changes-of-heart, or sudden and drastic weight-gain. I had a dream the other night that I weighed myself and the scales told me I was 17 stone. I had to go and try on my dress immediately to make sure it still fitted (it did).

I'm amazingly calm - I thought I'd be a gibbering mess by now. The ratio of nerves:excitement is leaning towards the latter. I'm super excited to put my dress on and see the Boy's face when I walk down the aisle. I'm looking forward to wearing my wedding ring, and going on honeymoon. I can't wait to finally, after seven and bit years, stand up, make my vows and hear the Boy make his. Because that means I can get fat and he can't escape.

I still can't believe that neither of our dads will be there to see us get married, but I'm sure they will both be looking down on us. And spluttering in horror at the wanton money-spending that has been going on in their absence.

As much as I'm looking forward to the wedding, I'm not going to miss the constant phone calls from people asking me what's happening about the cake/piper/catering/favours/flowers/minister. I'm not normally the most organised person and it's been a bit of a struggle being the person who co-ordinates everyone and everything. But I've managed it and so far there's not been any major disasters (there's still time though).

The thing I am most nervous about is the fact that, against my better judgement, I didn't get my passport renewed. I will have eight months left on my passport at the time we're returning from honeymoon - I know the rule is you have to have six months left on it at the time you're coming home, but I wish I'd got a new one, just in case. Two months doesn't seem like a very big margin of error. What if I counted wrong? What if the rules change on the day we fly out?

Ah well, it's too late now. My next post may be from a Malaysian detention centre.


See you after the jump.

T minus 15 days

Roo has a cancerous tumour in her leg.

She was looking a bit peaky the day after my hen party - I'd stayed at my mum's house that night and when I got home the following day she was curled up under the desk in our spare room, staring at the wall. She wasn't eating or drinking, and she was holding one of her back paws up off the ground when she walked (which she was avoiding as much as she could). We took her to the vet the next day, and his verdict was that he thought she'd damaged her achilles tendon. There was a swelling on her leg which he said could either be bruising from tendon damage, or 'something more sinister'.

He took a sample and it turns out it was the something more sinister. The vet says her prognosis is quite good, although typically for our cats, it's quite a rare kind of tumour. I forget now what he called it (I was too busy trying not to cry to write it down) but it's basically sending little tendrils of cancer into the surrounding area of her leg. There is some good(ish) news, which is that the tumour isn't the kind that affects the bloodstream and permeates the whole body. Which is something.

She's going in for an operation on Monday. The vet will try and remove the tumour but if it's affecting her achilles tendon or is particularly advanced, he may have to resort to amputating her back leg. The tumour is in an awkward place where there's not much surrounding tissue, and removing enough tissue to get rid of all the nasty stuff will be difficult. It may be that the only way to prevent the cancer from coming back is to amputate her leg. If that's the case, her and Coco are going to look a right pair - one three-legged cat and one gammy-legged cat. But I don't care about that, so long as she comes through it. When I was little I always had a toy hospital on the go for teddy-bears with one ear and no eyes, or dolls with no hair and biro all over their faces. So as long as Roo is ok, I'm totally fine with missing limbs.

I've had a bad feeling about this from the beginning, and I'm totally gutted that I was right. I've been a useless lump all day at work and the Boy and I have to go out tonight, which I couldn't be less enthusiastic about. Hopefully Roo will be on the mend by the time of the wedding and the honeymoon because I don't know if I'll be able to go off to the other side of the globe for two weeks if she's not.

I'm sure plenty of people will read this and think, 'Jeez it's just a cat! Get over it...' but I love my little cats - me, the Boy, Roo and Coco are like a little family (albeit with one half being slightly furrier than the other, and a different species).

I can't imagine Roo not being there, purring like a little machine when I get home from work - happy to see me no matter what. I am keeping all available appendages crossed for her.

The Blogger, The Black Cat, and The Dangerous Driver

Coco, my little black cat, crosses my path about a hundred times a day but I've never connected this to any particular episodes of good or bad luck. I'm considering revising this opinion after this morning's events, however. According to Wikipedia, black cats can be considered both bad and good omens, depending on where you live. As I live in Scotland, where 'if a black cat crosses your path it is meant to be a definite sign of good things to come'¹, I'm going for the latter, and thanking my lucky stars for my black cat, and the protective aura she cast over me before I left my house this morning.

I was a split second away from being hit by a car on my way to work this morning.

I was at the pedestrian crossing on the main road where I live (which is a major commuter route into Edinburgh). The traffic lights were at red and the green man had just come on to signal that it was safe for pedestrians to cross. A big truck had stopped in the lane closest to the pavement, I walked in front of it and was about to step into the second lane of traffic when I looked to my right, and saw a car come flying through the red lights at a speed that suggested the driver had no idea there was even a set of traffic lights there, let alone that they were at red. I felt the breeze of the car passing about a foot in front of me. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, the car behind went through the lights as well. So if the first guy hadn't got me, the second one could have a pop too.

Both of them were going far too fast and even if they'd been paying attention to the lights there's no way they would've been able to stop. If the driver in the first car had stopped suddenly, the car behind would have smashed into him.

As I stood in the middle of the road, in shock at the close shave, the driver of the truck honked his horn at the two cars to alert them to what they had just done, but they hadn't even slowed down and they both drove off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they'd been about a foot away from hitting a pedestrian. A pedestrian who would have HUNTED THEM DOWN AND KILLED THEM if they had ruined her upcoming wedding.

If I'd been just one or two steps in front of where I was he would've hit me full on. I keep thinking about what would've happened if I had stepped out in front of that car, and it's freaking me out. Would I have walked away unscathed? Maybe a broken leg? Fractured skull? Or would I be another statistic - one of those poor bastards that die on the road every day? Road casualties in the UK may be at an all time low, but you still hear stories in the news almost every day of someone who has lost their life on the road.

I don't know why the two cars didn't stop but I hope it was just a momentary lapse, and that they got as much of a fright as I did - maybe that will make them a bit more careful next time.

T minus 27 days

It's approaching 11pm on Friday night, and I'm just back from getting my legs (and various other bits) waxed. The only appointment I could get was for 9pm. How bizarre. It was kinda nice walking about Edinburgh though, the Festival's just beginning and it's actually ok when you're not battling your way through the milling tourists to get to/from work.

The reason for this twilight waxing is that it's my hen party tomorrow. I'm having a kids party for grown ups - including hen-party bags, vodka-jelly and ice cream, and a naked butler. I wanted to get a bouncy castle but it was going to be too expensive (the butler alone is £180 for 2 hours!) so I had to abandon that plan. My sister (Chief Bridesmaid) is taking her job alarmingly seriously however, and has apparently arranged 'activities' so goodness knows what's going to happen.

I didn't want to do the whole weekend away thing that seems to be the norm these days. Maybe it's because I live in a city that's fairly popular with the hen/stag weekend market, and the thought of tripping round Newcastle wearing a hot pink sparkly stetson, or losing my passport in Prague, made my toes curl. Not that there's anything wrong with that - the Boy had his stag do in Newquay last weekend and had a ball*. But it's not for me. So I'm having the party tomorrow, and my workmates are taking me out for a night on the town at the end of August. That probably will involve some form of pink sparkly headgear but I can handle it for one night.

*With the possible exception of the hour he had to spend wearing a Borat style mankini, poor thing.

I'm nervous about tomorrow, in much the same way I used to get before birthday parties when I was little - 'what if no-one shows up', 'what if the people that do show up have a horrible time', 'what if something goes terribly wrong and my mum doesn't see the funny side of all the willy shaped ice cubes'. You know the kind of thing. But I'm sure a vodka-jelly shot will ease those worries riiight away.

Posting might be, er, sporadic for the next wee whiley. As you can see from the title it's not long till The Big Day and things are a bit hectic. I'll try and post a picture of the naked butler though.

Wish me luck.

Small Fry

I'm not a tall person. I just asked the Boy to measure me, and I am the grand old height of 5 feet and 3 inches. I'm a little upset because I've always thought I was 5'4 but you can't argue with the statistics. My hands and feet are also quite petite. I'm normally a size 3 shoe but this varies depending on the shop and the shoe - I sometimes have to wear size 4, but I also own a pair of size 2 shoes that I bought for a friend's wedding. My hands are pretty small too. Freakishly small, according to some people whose names I will not mention, Boy.

Despite all this, I don't think of myself as being particularly small - I feel like a heifer standing next to the director of my department, who is truly tiny. And I suppose I feel only slightly smaller than the average person. Today though, my modest stature was pointed out to me by two complete strangers.

I bought myself a pair of new shoes. They're little ballet pumps, in my usual size 3, and for some reason the snooty girl in the shop didn't think they merited a shoebox. She was waiting for my receipt to print and I heard her mutter: 'I can probably just fit these into a tiny wee bag'.

And so she did. She put my pretty new shoes into a bag approximately the size of a VHS videotape. I didn't mind too much as the weeny little bag will be handy for taking random bits and bobs that don't fit into my handbag to work, but still - just because the shoes are little they don't get to go in a grown up bag? As Snooty Girl was handing me the bag, I could see the Boy's mouth twitching in an effort not to laugh. This has happened many times to me in shops - some implied comment about being short or the size of my feet or my hands.

After the shoe shop, we went to a jeweller across the road to try on wedding rings. I told the camp jeweller what I was looking for and he went mincing off to bring back some for me to try on. When he came back, he asked to see my engagement ring, and I took it off and handed it to him. He squealed and said 'oh my god look at it, it's tiny!'

Then: 'I wonder if you've broken my record!'

Cue more mouth-twitching from the Boy. I asked what his previous record was but I never found out. As he sized my engagement ring he said, with the air of a zoologist who has come across a new species of beetle: 'Wow, I've never sized smaller than a G on an adult!'

So there you have it, my dimensions appear to be significantly smaller than average. I suppose this is a good thing (it's certainly preferable to being significantly larger than average), but it does make it awkward when it's only 39 days till the wedding and your perfect, meant-to-be wedding ring is going to take 6-8 weeks to be ordered in the freakishly small size you require.

Ah well, worse things happen at sea.

Tangoed

I have a typical Scottish complexion. For those of you who don't know, this means white. As in, milk bottle white. Pure incandescent white.

Now, my wedding dress is also white (actually it's ivory but, meh). The point is that my natural colouring means I blend in so well with the dress that you barely see me. So I went for a spray tan yesterday, as a practise run to see how I would look with a bronzed glow, in preparation for tomorrow when I get to collect The Dress, and prance around my mum's living room with it on.

So. I am instructed to remove all my makeup (gargh!) and am shown into a tiny room (really more of a cupboard) with a non slip floor, and a scary looking contraption with hoses and cylinders in one corner. The drop-dead gorgeous beauty therapist (why are they always supermodel material? Just to make you feel really inadequate?) tells me to remove all my clothes, gives me a plastic shower cap and a pair of paper pants to put on, then leaves the room. Why they feel the need to give you privacy when you're getting your kit off is beyond me - they're about to see you in all your glory anyway - but I'm sure they have their reasons.

So there I am, pretty much in the altogether, peely-wally in the bright glare of the spotlight directly above me, without the usual scaffolding and cosmetic enhancements of clothes and makeup, and all my wibbly bits and imperfections in plain view. Then Gorgeous Beauty Therapist comes back in looking, if it's possible, even more supermodelly. She fires up the contraption in the corner, and begins the process of turning me from pure brilliant white to healthily bronzed. She shouts various directions to me above the noise of the contraption - raise this arm, lift that leg, turn this way, turn that way, in, out, shake it all about. I feel like a Ford Fiesta in the garage getting a re-spray.

But by the end of it, I look more tanned than I have ever been in my life. When I go on holiday, I start off my natural white, then turn pinker and pinker as the week goes on. I then go ever so slightly brown, and by the time I've been home a week I'm white again. So it was a bit of a shock to see myself looking anything other than pasty white.

I got another fright this morning when I looked in the mirror. They advise you not to shower or wash until the next morning, so the actual tan, and the brown stuff they spray on you to make you tan, combined to make me look startlingly beige. Thankfully the colour calmed down a fair bit after my shower, so I don't look like I've been tangoed (hopefully). My colleagues didn't point and laugh when I came into the office this morning, so I'm taking that as a good sign.

I do have an amusing outline of pure white where the little paper pants were - I considered taking a picture of it, purely for comedy value, but I really don't think I can (or should) stoop to posting pictures of my arse on the internet.

Harry Potter and The Birds of Death

I know it's all been about my wedding recently, and I also know that wedding arrangements are not nearly as interesting to other people so today I thought I would write about my favourite topic (which I haven't done for a while now). Reading.

It's the one thing I always make time for. No matter how tired/ill/drunk I am, I cannot go to sleep at night without reading a couple of pages. Although I am busier at the moment than I have ever been in my life, I have two books on the go.

In preparation for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows coming out on Saturday (squee!), I'm re-reading the Half Blood Prince. I don't care what anyone says about the Harry Potter books, I love them. I KNOW I'm supposed to read grown-up books, and I KNOW Harry Potter is written for children, but for a bit of escapism you can't beat it. I wish I'd gone to Hogwarts.

I've also just started 'The Birds and Other Stories' by Daphne du Maurier. I've wanted to read the short story ever since I saw the Hitchcock film, because it made a big impression on me. I'm a big girl's blouse when it comes to creepy films so it was quite brave of me to sit up late one night, on my own*, to watch The Birds and I was so glad I did. It's not a scary film, but you get a sense of creeping dread from the first few minutes, and the tension grows and grows until you almost can't stand it. It's disturbing, but in a subtle way - there are no gory death scenes, no psychotic murderers (not human ones anyway) or evil men lurking in bushes watching the pretty (but stupid) girl get undressed while they finger their axe. It's a masterpiece of tension and I loved it.

*The Boy has a bit of a problem with birds and flapping things, so he made his excuses that particular night.

So when I read the introduction to the du Maurier book, where Alfred Hitchcock is quoted as saying that he only read the book once before he made the film**, I didn't know if the short story would meet my high expectations. However, I was reading it on the bus this morning and I nearly missed my stop because I was so engrossed, and I can't wait to pick it back up again.

Suspense? Check.
Creeping dread? Check.
Flocks of murderous silent birds? Check.

And I'm only on page 20.

**The full quote is "What I do is to read a story only once and if I like the basic idea, I forget all about the book and start to create cinema. Today I would be unable to tell you the story of Daphne du Maurier's 'The Birds'. I read it only once, and very quickly at that."

It's safe to assume that any posts between now and 7/9/07 will be wedding related

Dear oh dear, is it really so long since I last posted something to this here blog? I've been (as ever) busy sorting out the details for my upcoming nuptials (I love that word, nuptials. It sounds like a tasty treat!).

The invitations that we thought about so carefully, matched with the colour scheme and agonised over, arrived the other day. They were the wrong colour. And I mean completely wrong - they were green. They were not supposed to be green. Once I regained consciousness I managed to sort it out (turns out the shop had put the wrong code on the order form, a code that meant GREEN). The new invitations in the correct colour are now on order at no cost to us and should be here just in the nick of time to send out.

We've also been sorting out our gift list. We naturally ended up going for the selfish, grasping option of just having a gift list in John Lewis. And may I say, the process of setting up a gift list is worth getting married for - they give you a little scanner that you take round the shop, beeping everything that takes your fancy! It's like being given John Lewis, wrapped up with a big red bow.

I'm also trying to decide whether I should get my hair cut into a fringe or not.

I had planned for my hair to be back off my face for the wedding and I don't want to look like I don't have any hair in the pictures (the photographer will probably want me to face the camera, right?), so I've been toying with the idea of having a sort of sideswept fringe. Sort of like this, but not so... emphatic. Or like this blonde chick, but less... blonde.

Bearing in mind that it's 8 weeks on Friday* till the big day (i.e. not long enough to grow out any rash hair experiments), should I get a fringe?

*Obligatory panic attack ensues

The 10 Commandments of Bus Travel

1. Thou shalt not skip the queue at the bus stop, unless you are old AND frail.* We are British, we are civilised, and we queue in an orderly manner.

2. Thou shalt not dither - make it clear whether or not you wish to get on an approaching bus, as soon as it comes into view.

3. Thou shalt have thy bus pass/fare to hand, not at the bottom of thy handbag. Some people need to get to work.

3. Thou shalt not sit next to me when the bus is half empty. There is Just. No. Need.

4. Thou shalt say 'excuse me' when you need me to let you out from the window seat. Do not just stand up and barge past me without so much as a by-your-leave.

5. Thou shalt not play music at such a volume that your fellow passengers can hear every word of the lyrics.

6. Thou shalt not put thy luggage in the Metro holder.

7. Thou shalt not hog the seat or bash your seat-mate (me) with your elbows while you read your paper.

8. Thou shalt not ding the bell more than once.

9. Thou shalt not attempt to read my book over my shoulder. It is rude.

10. Thou shalt NEVER pick thy nose on the bus.

*Just being old is not reason enough - there must also be a reasonable degree of frailty to allow queue skipping.

Things and Stuff

Hoo-whee. It's been a busy old week (again).

First things first. I'm out from under my covers and I'm just back from a trip to the dentist.

Austin Powers has gone, and Teeny has returned. Woot!

I walked out of the dentist with a smile on my face today, for the first time in about three years. Despite my sore, bleeding gums and numb mouth, I actually smiled. I'm sure I was a pretty sight. Perhaps that's why children were hiding behind their mothers and saying 'mummy, I'm scared' when they saw me.

As I walked back up to the road, with a spring in my step, I could have started singing Zippity Doo Dah and doing that jumpy, heel-clicky thing. I maybe would have if my dentist wasn't in such a rough area, where exuberant singing of show tunes gets you, at best, a sovvy ring in the teeth, at worst, slashed. For the last three years I've been self-conscious of my teeth to the point where most people probably think I'm a miserable cow who never cracks a smile. But the feeling today of finally looking normal again, was worth all the traipsing back and forth to the dentist, the root fillings, the root canal surgery and, yes, even the Austin Powers temporary crowns.

So I'm very happy with my new wallies (which is a good scots word for teeth, Timbo!). I feel ready to face my public now.

Another significant development, which I'm afraid is wedding related - I had my first dress fitting on Saturday. Apart from it being too long (because I am short) it fitted me perfectly. And when I say perfectly, I do mean waist-cinchingly, bust-flatteringly, perfect.

And I still love it. I was worried that I was going to have gone off it as I couldn't remember exactly what the dress was like (which, I know, what a rubbish bride I am, other girls would have every last detail etched in their memory from the moment they first saw it. But not me). So that was a relief, because my mum has already paid for it.

I did end up buying different shoes, shoes that are not evil foot-munching bear traps, so I have to go back for a second fitting tomorrow.

But that's ok cause I get to play dressing up again.

Stupid Vain Girl

Warning - this post is filled with indulgent self pity. You may wish to come back next week.

I had my first appointment yesterday to get my front two teeth crowned. My dentist had warned me what to expect - that it would be a long appointment (an hour and a half, yuck), that he'd have to file my own teeth down to stumps, then take impressions, and then fit temporary crowns while the permanent ones are being made up. And he warned me that the temporary crowns 'aren't that great'. Those were his words.

The actual appointment wasn't too bad. It wasn't exactly my idea of a fun afternoon, but still it wasn't as bad as you might think. There was lots of drilling - they don't actually use a file to reduce your teeth to stumps, as I naively thought, just a nasty old drill. He also had to screw in a steel post to strengthen the tooth that I had the root canal surgery on, using what seemed to be an unbranded Black and Decker electric screwdriver. It wasn't nearly as much fun as the root canal surgery.

Anyway, after an hour and a half I made my way home, with my mouth shut tight the entire time. I had sneaked a quick peek at my compact mirror while I was waiting for the receptionist to set up my next appointment, and wished I hadn't. My gums were all swollen and everything just looked a bit nasty. The temporary crowns looked horrendous. I figured it must be because I was literally just out the chair, and that by the time I got home it wouldn't look so bad.

I got home. I looked in the mirror. And it was just as bad. In fact, it was worse. The crowns looked worse than I remembered. They stick out like a sore thumb. They're plastic, to begin with, so they look completely different from my own teeth. They're also a different colour and shape to all my other teeth.* They just look hideous. I was prepared for them not looking great but I honestly thought they couldn't be any worse than my existing teeth. How wrong I was. I would gladly have my one slightly discoloured tooth and one slightly cracked tooth back right now.

When I looked at myself in the mirror I burst into horrified tears.

The Boy was in the loo when I got home, which I was quite glad about because I didn't want anybody looking at me before I'd got a proper look at the damage. He came in to see how I was, and found, to his bemusement, a sobbing mess. I wouldn't look at him, or even turn around to face him - I just told him to leave me alone. I shut the blinds, climbed straight into bed, burrowed under the covers, and continued crying. It was all very teenagery and silly but all I could think about was that I have to look like this for the next 10 days.

You're probably thinking what a stupid vain girl I am - it's only 10 days for pete's sake, but I'm 100 times more self conscious about them than I was this time yesterday. I was paranoid enough about my teeth anyway, and I kind of thought that they couldn't look any worse - that even temporary crowns would look better than my own teeth, and that it wouldn't matter if they did because it was for a higher purpose and would be worth it. But now, after the various problems and treatment I've had, it's a bitter pill to swallow that I should look like a female Austin Powers for the next 10 days, albeit with slightly better taste in clothes. I know it'll be worth it in the end (it fucking well better be), but at the moment it feels like 3 steps back.

Stupid, vain, and overly sensitive I may be, but I'd hide under my covers for the next 10 days if I could get away with it.

#weeps#

*Thankfully. If my own teeth looked like that I'd have em all yanked out and replaced with a set of wallies.

Small Cog

I work in the Old Town of Edinburgh, and occasionally someone takes it into their head that North Bridge is as good as place as any to end it all. Or just to have a think about ending it all. One person took this course of action on Tuesday. North Bridge is a major thoroughfare in Edinburgh, and it's also unfortunately a popular spot for 'jumpers'. When this happens, the authorities close the roads to stop rubberneckers from gawping at what's going on. It all looked a bit chaotic from my office window - the traffic was diverted along Chambers Street, pedestrians were turfed out, and the emergency services were all over the place. Thankfully, they managed to persuade the woman down. The road was reopened after a couple of hours and everything returned to normal.

Until 4.30pm today, when a colleague rang to say she'd heard there was another jumper and that North Bridge was closed again.

I normally go home via North Bridge, but today I thought I'd nip to the shops before going home (as I knew the traffic would be chaos), so I walked down Fleshmarket Close to Market Street, intending to cut through Waverley Station.* When I emerged at the bottom of the Close, there was a police barrier, and a big crowd of people milling about and staring upwards. I looked casually up at the Bridge, and there was the man standing on the ledge of the parapet right in front of me (the bit in the very centre of the picture below), gazing down at the crowd of people below him.



Although I knew there was a jumper on the bridge somewhere, I wasn't expecting to see him so closely and I felt like a bit of an intruder. I heard people around me saying 'if he was gonna jump he'd have done it by now' and one girl on her mobile saying disgustedly to someone, 'no, he's not even jumped'. I didn't hang around. It felt a bit gruesome - the crowd, and this solitary man standing on a ledge above.

I was reminded of an incident back in April - the Boy and I had gone to the Scotsman Hotel (the building at the far right of the above picture) for a drink one Saturday afternoon and I looked out of the window and saw a man standing at the very edge of the parapet, staring straight down at the ground below. I got a bit of a shock and was in a bit of a tizz about what to do (I'm totally the kind of person you want around in a crisis), when I noticed lots of high-viz jackets on the bridge, and realised that the police were already there.

On that occasion the man stayed on the ledge for two whole days. Alan Sharp, of Random Burblings, wrote about this at the time and managed to take a picture of the jumper-who-didn't-jump. In the end the fire brigade managed to pluck him (the jumper, not Alan) to safety after he'd fallen asleep.** They apparently weren't sure if he ever intended to commit suicide, or if he was staging some kind of one-man protest.

Anyway call me mental, but this dude today looked familiar and I wondered if it was the same person. As I walked through Waverley Station I tried to imagine what was going through his mind as he perched up there on his parapet.*** I wondered if he really was some poor tortured soul who saw no other way out of his problems, or a bored anarchist with a penchant for clambering about on high ledges. Or just someone who enjoyed the feeling of power that inevitably comes from watching a major city thoroughfare closed off just for you and the ensuing disruption at the busiest time of day.

I don't know which he is, but I certainly hope he gets down safely, whatever his motives were for going up there in the first place.

*For those of you who don't know Edinburgh, North Bridge overlooks Market Street and Waverley Station

**How anyone could fall asleep on a tiny ledge 100 feet above an enormous glass roofed structure is beyond me, but I guess he must've been knackered after two full days on a ledge.

***I also wondered if he was going to come crashing through the glass roof above me and kill me outright too, but that's neither here nor there.

Blog Burn Out

I've kinda lost my blogging mojo recently. Real life seems to have gotten in the way slightly, and I've not had much time. The time I have had, I've been, err, having a bit of a fling with Bebo. It just happened, I'm sure you understand. It didn't mean anything.

I am also a little freaked out about the whole anonymity thing. I've not long registered on Bebo and Facebook and I found a referral in my sitemeter that scared me - someone searching for me by name, and coming across this blog. And I'm not sure I like that.

#peers over shoulder#

A Very Boring Update

Hm, the holiday pictures I promised last time may be some time. I've lost my camera. The camera that broke 2 days into my holiday. So when I eventually find it there's a good chance that there aren't actually any pictures on it. And if that's the case then I'll have to steal pictures from my mum. And she has lost HER camera.

So, yeah... Don't hold your breath waiting for the snaps.

In other news, I've been pretty much stressed out the entire time since I got back. There was the wood pigeon incident of course (I have a horrible suspicion it may be back as well, I heard cooing coming from the chimney last night), and then some wedding related stress which I can't go into (suffice to say that I'm maad).

Ack.

I've also become dangerously addicted to Bebo. I've been in contact with a few people that I've lost touch with. My productivity at work has taken a serious dent, but more importantly I've still not caught up with all the my blog reading.

It's hard you know, juggling this many balls.

Karma

Thanks for all your comments on my last post. We only got back earlier this evening (so I'm still to catch up on all your blogs) but I had a lovely holiday, and a fab birthday on Tuesday. To celebrate my being one step closer to thirty* we went to the Three Chimneys for lunch, which was A.M.A.Z.I.N.G.

*I didn't think turning 27 was necessarily something to celebrate but I wasn't given a choice in the matter.

To start I had breast of wood pigeon with crispy tattie scones, and a port and red lentil gravy. Then for my main course I had grilled loin of lamb with spring vegetables and a rosemary jus. I enjoyed my first two courses so much I had to have dessert too, so I had the Three Chimneys Famous Hot Marmalade Pudding with Drambuie Custard. It was all absolutely delicious, and I would thoroughly recommend the Three Chimneys if you're ever on Skye. It's not cheap, but the food is out of this world, the service is impeccable, and the location is unbelievable.

However.

I regret eating that starter.

We got home about 8.15 this evening, intending to get straight into our jammies, and eat pizza in front of the TV. The cats were pleased(ish) to see us - Coco sulked and wouldn't cuddle me until I gave her a KitBit - and the house was fine. We unpacked the car, and I went into the living room to make sure everything was ok. I noticed that our fireguard had been moved. I then saw something white in the fireplace. I went to have a closer look and saw a pile of soot, debris and feathers sitting on the coals of the fire, and more of the same all over the fireplace, and the floor just in front. I then looked a bit further up, to the beginning of the chimney, and saw a pair of feet.

A pair of birdy-looking feet. Attached to something that looked distinctly bird-like.

I nearly crapped my pants of course, and I shouted for the Boy to come and have a look. He agreed that it looked a bit birdy, but was of the opinion that it was dead (he was unable to explain how on earth a dead bird would manage to perch in our chimney however). He went for something with which to poke the bird, for that is what it was. Now I should be precise here, it wasn't just a bird, it was a pigeon.

A WOOD PIGEON. One of these. One of THESE. In MY LIVING ROOM.

The Boy poked the pigeon with the end of a broom. It was most definitely NOT dead. The poor thing got a terrible fright - it squawked and flapped its wings so hard trying to escape from the nasty poking man that it dislodged yet more of the crap that was in our chimney, and did another enormous shit on our lovely living flame gas fire.

The Boy agreed that the bird was not dead and suggested, most unhelpfully, that we turn the fire on. It was at this moment, when he suggested roast wood pigeon instead of pizza for dinner, that I realised this was karma. I ate one of this bird's cousins. Possibly even more than one (I don't know how much meat you get on a pigeon, but I'm guessing not much).

I was in a bit of a state. I didn't know what to do - I kept saying to the Boy 'but what do we DO?', while he stood with his hands in his pockets looking at the fireplace, much like a plumber who looks at your boiler whilst trying to figure out how to break the bad news. In the end, we did what we always do - we phoned our mums ('But what do we DO?!').

However, neither of them were any help, so I phoned the SSPCA. We were lucky that the only animal inspector in Edinburgh and the Lothians was able to pop in on her way to another job - she dove straight in without a moment's hesitation, and after much flapping and flying of sooty feathers, the inspector pulled Priscilla the Pigeon from our chimney. She looked a bit bedraggled and indignant, and her tail feathers were in a sorry state, but she was otherwise ok (hurrah!). The SSPCA lady said she'd take Priscilla into the wildlife centre for a few days, to let her recover from her ordeal, and make sure her missing tail feathers would grow back ok, and off she went.

I took some pictures before I cleaned away all the mess the damned pigeon made, you can look at them here. It's nearly midnight and only now am I starting to calm down and relax after a long journey home from Skye, and an unexpected welcome from a wild creature in my living room. I think I need another glass of wine.

I'll put some of my holiday pictures up in the next couple of days.

Intermission

Tomorrow morning me, the Boy, both our Mums, and Boris The Dog are leaving for the bonny Isle of Skye. I'm praying for sunshine, or at the very least an absence of driving rain and howling wind, which is what I remember from my last trip to the island about 13 years ago. However, this being Scotland, I'm packing my waterproofs. And remembering that at least it looks atmospheric when the mist comes down:

Coco and Roo are staying here to hold the fort, and our friendly catsitter is coming every day to make sure they're not having any wild parties in my absence (also to water my carrots, which are going great guns by the way).

I'll be back next Saturday, hopefully tanned and relaxed, but more than likely knackered and midge-bitten.

Keep an eye on the place, won't you.

Abnormally Funny People

I got on the bus today, a bit weary and headachey after a busy day, and realised with dismay that I'd sat down in the middle of a telephone exchange. The posh girl in the seat next to me, the drunk girl behind me, and the woman in the seat across the way who was clearly still working, were all talking on their mobiles. Loudly. I attempted to read my book (The Three Musketeers, if anyone's interested - it's great!), but after half a page I realised it was pointless trying to read with the din they were making, and just as entertaining to listen to the three conversations going on around me:

Posh Girl: 'So Bunny's moving in with Avril, and Tibbs told me that Miranda is going to be HOMELESS after term finishes because she can't find a flatmate and her parents can't even afford to buy her a flat' Oh, shut up.

Drunk Girl: 'I've just necked five pints but I'm cone-stold sober' Riiight.

Working Girl: 'I think you and I need to get together to hash this out, because the project timescale is slipping and we need to refocus' Isn't this what offices are for? The whole bus doesn't need to hear abour your slippage. Also, your perfume is rank.

Then a young mother of about 18 got on the (already packed) bus with her buggy. Now, Lothian Buses have a space for one buggy/pram/wheelchair, and a sign saying that other passengers must vacate the space for people that need it. There was someone sitting in the space, so this girl approached him and asked him if he would mind moving to another seat, so that she could get on with her buggy.

There's nothing noteworthy about that really, and you're probably thinking 'what a polite young woman', except that the man in the disabled space was blind.

He had a guide dog. He gets on the bus regularly, and always sits in the same seat, and even without his cute canine assistant, it's immediately clear that he's blind. He obviously didn't want to move, because he took ages answering the girl (I suspect he was trying to think of a more polite way to get rid of her than telling her to piss off, which I was hoping he would do). She asked if he'd prefer to stay where he was (well, durr!), and he said that actually, yes it would be easier for him. She then made a big show of saying 'well, ok, I'll just get off then', and starting to turn her pram round. So of course the poor man had no choice but to say that he would move.

Another passenger then had to help him move to another seat (with the whole bus watching by now of course), where he and his dog looked very uncomfortable and squished. The girl made herself comfy in his seat, eyeballed all the people that were staring at her incredulously, and didn't bat an eyelid.

I was horrified. So was Posh Girl next to me, as she gave a running commentary of what was going on to Bunny ('Oh my god, some awful girl is forcing a blind man out of his seat on the bus').

Of course people with buggies and prams should be able to use public transport, and it's good that it's made as easy as possible for them, but surely disabled people should take priority over able bodied people, even those with children?

Shouldn't they?