Weekend Tourists

I find myself sitting in a quaint cafe at the Scottish ski resort of Aviemore, sipping on a latte and quietly watching the tourist traffic as it literally blows through the door, along with an icy breeze. 
A family of four rub together their woollen hands and advance gratefully towards the service counter where the warmth of coffee, tea or soup awaits them. They look like something straight out of an Ikea catalogue- beautiful, toothy and blonde, conversing exotically and giggling at the empire biscuits behind the glass. I am amused too, as I know they are laughing at the glace cherry on the empire biscuit for obvious reasons. I remember laughing naughtily when I first saw one.  Once the novelty wears off the father proudly asks, in charming broken English, for a bridie (pronouncing it 'bree-dy') and three ham and cheese toasties.  The happy unit then shuffle their designer ski boots over to a table in the corner and settle themselves, making all the self-satisfied noises people make when they are on holiday and don't have a single care in the world. I smile vaguely as I watch them, realising how ironic it is to be jealous of a family who are on holiday when I have in fact been on my own 'holiday' in Scotland for about 8 years.

Having finished my latte I make my way to the gift shop, which sits in pine-lined glory across a hallway- a small area which in itself serves as a mini wildlife museum. I do some perfunctory browsing of leaflets before succumbing to the child within, opening small doors in the wall which reveal lightbox images of red squirrels and reindeer. Cool.

Finally entering the giftshop, I wonder to myself how business is doing. During these credit-crunching times do people feel they really need to shell out for that blackfaced-sheep-shaped pencil eraser, or that pair of snazzy-yet-ridiculously-overpriced pair of St. Andrews flag cufflinks? I finger these precious things nonetheless, as if I just might pluck one from its display and march up to the counter to buy it. Funny how a shopkeeper's watchful glazed gaze can do these things to your behaviour.

My other half doesn't quite feel my wry amusement: Being the better person than me that he is, he carefully selects a pretty postcard and buys some stamps so that he can post it to his mum. As he usually does. For a moment I'm ashamed that I didn't think to do the same thing, after all this is the house of I saw this and thought of you.
 
We make our way to the village and slip the postcard into the ancient red post-box. Scott pauses for a second then grins at me like a seven year-old who has just done something worthy of a reward. We take our time on the homeward journey, driving through snow-covered hills and taking in a gorgeous pink and gold sunset which make the mountains in the distance look just like Mount Fuji. I munch on Haribo and sing along to the stereo; we get caught behind slow moving tractors and horse floats; we catch glimpses of hairy highland cows as they stand in the middle of fields, quietly munching their way into the evening, just as I am.

Circumstance has made us weekend tourists. We can't go far together, lest there be an emergency with his mother. And sometimes there is. I crave Greek islands, New York, Australia. For both of us.

But not yet... So until then I will continue to sit in every cafe and browse every giftshop in almost every town in Scotland. If there's somewhere I can recommend, just let me know :)

*Actual picture taken at Lecht. Nice gift shop- you would like it.

...and so time for a poetry break

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
 

Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Yes, I believe we WILL take your freedom.

image courtesy of google

Monday nights in this crumbling grey town are usually the sleepiest of them all, as far as drunks and dramas are concerned. Then why was it that I was awoken at 2.30am last Tuesday morning by the presence of a roaring, drug-addled maniac outside my house?

His sheer vocal noise I can only describe as sounding a little like 'Braveheart': That is, if William Wallace smoked crack and worshipped the devil. This yelling went on non-stop for about 40 minutes and I realised- as I lay sweating in my jammies and poised to jump out of bed- that this nutcase wasn't going anywhere. Usually the drunken singing, swearing and smorgasboard of dole-fuelled dramas pass by our house late at night, but even if they pause for a couple of minutes nearby, they eventually walk on and fade into the darkness. So I grabbed the phone, crept downstairs into the kitchen and clapped eyes on the back of Mr Nutjob's head through the blinds. This scene seemed all the more creepy as his menacing outline was lit by the soft orange lamps lining the square outside. There he was at the side of Lily's house, facing her open bin cupboard and singing in raspy, evil gibberish. All of our wheelie bins had been kicked over and lay on their sides around him. On his mission to destroy, he staggered back past our neighbours house, put the boot into their bins too and tried the handle of their front door. All of a sudden I felt sick to my stomach...

I called the police in utter panic and waited in the darkness, peering through the blinds, shaking and praying they would hurry the fuck up. A drunk and disorderly call? In this town? Surely they would all laugh and go back to their donuts. After about 5 minutes all was quiet, so I assumed he had gone. After about 15 minutes there was a knock at the door. Well, my heart nearly stopped. The nice policeman informed me that the guy was actually still there when they arrived and that they caught him starting a small fire in said bin cupboard. Which is where Lily's central heating gas pipe is (Mr Nutbag, criminal genius). So the police had to call the fire brigade, who needed to check inside Lily's house and make sure there was no interior damage (of course being deaf, she slept soundly through the whole thing).

So I now hope that the only buzz ole Braveheart can look forward to in the near future is the one he'll get from the forthcoming charge of culpable and reckless conduct. Then maybe we can all get some sleep.

Wheels on fire...

Lily and I were due at the doctor's at 9.15am this morning. As I was due to push the "old yin" in the wheelchair I calculated a 15 minute or so walk (some of it uphill) from her house to the doctors. I arrived at Lily's at 8.45 as planned, to find Mrs. Faff still in her nightie, on her way to the bathroom following her morning fag. And I wonder where her son gets it from. Anyway I called the surgery to say we were running late due to "technical difficulties" and they just laughed and said it was fine.

Finally arriving 10 minutes late for our appointment, the receptionist (obviously a different one) glared at me when I checked in. Luckily "nice receptionist" came to my rescue and we were called into the nurses room straight away. There are about three "nurses rooms," so of course I wheeled Lily into the wrong one, inside which two fat ugly nurses were deep in conversation about, I don't know, what they were having for lunch. They turned to me with utter disdain and fat ugly nurse no.1 barked, "sorry but I think you're in the wrong room." I said nothing, but with great difficulty attempted to back the chair (twice) out of the room, trying not to knock over silver trays and urine samples as I went. These two individuals sat on their arses and watched me and Lily struggle, my hands on the wheelchair and Lily's frail hands pushing the swinging door with all of her 79 year-old might. Finally back in the hallway I barked "thanks for your help, ladies" and slammed the door. Why is it I often feel like Erin Brokovich on a bad day with these people?

So we found our way to the right nurse, who was lovely. She took Lily's blood pressure and blood sample and after about 5 minues we were finished. Would you believe we even had the door held for us on the way out?

Oh, wheelchair life... We took our time on the way back, as my palms were red and sore from the frantic walk up. It's funny how pushing a mere 8-stone person up a slight incline can knacker you. Oh, and you have to beware of dogs too - my poor charge almost got pounced on by a black woolly mammoth on the way home. No doubt the pup had nothing but love in it's heart, but what seemed cute to me must have been terrifying to someone strapped to a moving vehicle saying 'hello' at eye level.

Cold

It's 7.10am on a cold winter's morning and I am standing at the bottom of my stairs, staring intently into the hallway mirror. The wind sounds like a speeding train as it tries to force its way around the edges of each window with a malevolent low hum, and I shudder with dread at the thought of going to work in this weather yet again.

A burning smell enters my nostrils. I continue to stare into the mirror whilst at the same time picking up the hot tool that lies ready on the carpet. As I put the GHD's to my head, the satisfying aroma of unruly hair burning into submission fills the air in the hallway- no doubt it also wafts up the stairs and into the nostrils of my sleeping partner as he still tosses and turns in bed.

I happily continue my silent early morning ritual, when an almighty crash comes from the neighbours' kitchen next door. And not for the first time, I think wearily, running a comb through my fringe and waiting for the show to start.

His voice is a low growl that shoots down the stairs with heavy footsteps, into the kitchen where she slams the door again, obviously trying to keep him out. All I want to do is bang my fist hard on the wall at them, but the walls between us are hard plaster so I would only break my hand. She yelps, squeals and bangs some more, I spritz some glossing spray into my palm and smooth it over my crown. I'm totally unconvinced this hairstyle is even going to last the walk to the bus stop this morning. As they continue, it crosses my mind that they have a small child, a toddler and another on the way.

I exhale heavily, switch off my straightening irons and check the time on my mobile. Suddenly both voices through the wall change pitch, and I hear her whiney wail as it weaves through the downstairs rooms, away from me then closer again, followed by his intent growl as they stomp back into the kitchen. She lets out a screech and I hear a baby start to cry. Not upstairs but in the kitchen, through the wall, in her arms.

I adjust my coat, my scarf, I grab my keys, I shake my head. I tell myself that in 12 hours time they will be back to normal, as they always are. As I open the front door the howling wind greets me like an over-excited friend, relieved to finally find it's way inside. Walking past the neighbours kitchen window I can't hear anything over the noise of the wind. Besides, my hair is now all over my face, so I can't see a thing.

Memories... like the corners of my pc

I have just come across a whole disc worth of photos my brother kindly downloaded onto my pc nearly 2 years ago. He was here on holiday and I was so excited at the prospect of having all these pictures and short videos to look at once he left, but somehow I didn’t get around to looking at all of them. 

It has just taken me half an hour to take a trip through my nephews 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th birthdays, my late grandma’s funeral, funny random nights out and various other family events I missed out on. My brother also assembled a collage of photos of my nephew that I never even new existed until a few moments ago. 

What a teary half hour I have spent, seeing him in outfits I bought for him, watching the weight of various family members (my own included) go up and down, seeing the smiles of cousins who to this day I haven’t seen in my adult life and just missing the ‘old country’ so very dearly. 

So I want to thank my brother for being so thoughtful, I don’t think I thanked him properly at the time. Some of the photos I have seen already (and my sister has sent me heaps over the years too) but as for those elusive portraits I have only just discovered- you have made my day Kristian, 2 years on.