Italian

I began the second day of my adult education programme yesterday, dear reader. At ten o'clock, Digital Imgage Editing for Apple Macintosh Computers kicked off with half the machines out of action. Of the machines that did work, half wouldn't allow a user to login. Of those that did allow a user to login, half failed to launch Photoshop elements. Meaning two people were able to take part in the class, fourteen were not. So our very impatient, joyless, stern and severe tutor sent us home.

I did not go home. I went to Henderson's for a lunch of vegetable curry with brown rice and then on to Costa opposite The Mound for a double espresso. While there, I switched on my mobile telephone and found I had a voicemail from Pat. I called her back. She'd been ill but no virus was able to squash the enthusiasm she has for her grandson's theatre career. She spoke to me about his appearance in Footloose with a vivacity rarely heard these days.

Shit. I know I'm old. Only old people say these days.

I'd have taken the opportunity to see him in Footloose while Ian and I are in London next week, though we're unable to. Our free time does not match the times he's on stage. So that's that. Traurig aber wahr.

From Costa, I walked across to the National Theatre of Scotland to begin my history of art course. I did wonder if we'd begin with cave paintings, but we did not. No, instead, our introduction was with medieval Italian art. We spent two hours looking at approximately six paintings. How, I'm not sure, but our delightful tutor had a lot to say. She was always interesting, insightful and brought a realism to the art as previously unseen. It was quite clear to me and to the other seventeen middle class ladies in my company that Agnes has a love for her work which most working people would be jealous of. Not only love but passion.

£50.00

I earned a rather tasty fifty pounds today. And for only forty five minutes work. Well, I say work, it actually wasn't.

I've been many things to many people, dear reader, but never a guinea pig to a professor. Until today. Within the confines of Edinburgh University's King's Buildings Campus, I pretended to be three people, all with a desire to interact with automated telephone based services!

One of my alter egos got to muck about with a voice recognition service, another with a push button system and a third with a combination of them both*. My telephone conversations were highly entertaining, both for myself and the operator I sometimes spoke with on the other end of the line who was barely able to stifle his hysterical laughter!

I felt like an actor, it must be said, and a bad one. In a soap opera. A daytime soap opera. I pretended to be three different people. The guy with whom I interacted pretended to be three people. Pure farce. Still, farce or no farce, I got paid for it. I never thought I could have so much fun prostituting myself.

The money almost covers the price of my Wicked ticket which I shall see on the weekend after next. I'm so excited, dear reader, I could... Yes, you know the rest.

*I know it's not strictly possible to have three alter egos, but I don't care frankly.

Education

I began two adult education classes today, dear reader, courtesy of Edinburgh City Council. They're a kind bunch of people.

The morning commenced, for me at any rate, at five minutes to eight. The radio-alarm kicked in, right on cue, with the ugly voice of a Today presenter. I was immediately flustered. I continued to be flustered while getting washed, dressed and ready for my day of erudition.

Where's my flask? Have I got a spare pen in case my favourite runs out? Which apron shall I sacrifice to clay?

I suppose I should be grateful for a hurried morning of agitation. With time on my hands, I'd have been able to think and to ponder. Thinking is no good for a stressed Minge. No. I usually end up in a right state. The best way to avoid turmoil is to be swamped; a full plate.

I could feel my heartbeat getting harder and louder once I was ready at my front door, though. For the first time in a long time, I thought of a cigarette. But it was only a brief thought after rubbing my tongue over my teeth.

I hate meeting people. I hate to be the centre of attention. I hate introductions.

Meeting people and introductions were surely the order of the day and with my camera still in the hands of its manufacturer for repair, I would surely be the centre of attention turning up to a photography class without a camera. I think Ian could see all this flooding through my tiny mind so did his best throughout the car journey to keep me chatting about our ongoing detox. Yes, I had a headache. Yes, I was hungry. Yes, I needed a coffee.

Scared, sweating like a paedophile in a schoolyard, I entered the South Bridge Resource Centre and immediately made my way for the toilets. I was desperate for a waz and to wipe my face. I managed to do both rather quickly and then returned to the main reception area to find out where to go and how, if the need came, to escape as quickly and as easily as possible.

Hurrah! Only a few metres away: Computer suite 1. And two old women and a very old man entering before me.

Old people. I'm not scared of old people. I quite like old people, actually. I suppose, in that respect, I'm ageist. I can't help it. It's just the way I am, my lamb. Old people have never been a threat to me. And in circumstances where I have been threatened, there were old people coming to the rescue. One could even argue, actually, that a very old person saved my life. Thursday. Pension day in a post office I once worked at. An armed robbery. But lets not go there. It was a long time ago.

My first class of the day. Digital photography. A daytime class, so I expected middle aged housewives and pensioners. I was right to do so. I was the youngest person there. Two other women in their forties or fifties. The rest (one man and a handful of women) were very old. The tutor, Neil, was nearer my age than any other member of the class, though the distance was still considerable.

I was immediately at ease. As much as I hate clichés, I often use them, and I wonder now what all the fuss was about.

It was a fabulous class. My worry over not having my camera soon vanished once that wee matter was aired. The tutor had enough to deal with. Many of my fellow students had never taken a single photograph with their digital cameras. One woman didn't even know how to switch it on.

What fun.

Yes, my fears were allayed with the presence of the elderly but my heart skipped a beat on realising I was surrounded by the middle classes and one or two people who thought they were or would like to be! I adore middle class people. I find them exciting and interesting. I was not disappointed. The first hour of the two hour class was basically a question and answer session; a free-for-all. Hilarious. Sentences began with my very expensive camera or my husband and I or mine is much bigger than that. In the room, I was smiling, in my mind, I was giggling.

So with no camera, I had to team up with someone else once we were invited to used the computers to experiment with editing software. This was doubly hilarious for me. The tutor, who seemed an open, honest and broad-minded man, didn't consider that a bunch of people who, in most circumstances, hadn't moved on from inserting batteries into their cameras, might know how to switch a computer on. I added naïvety to my list of Neil's attributes.

My team mate was a middle aged lady with a strong French accent though for whom, it seemed, English had become her first language. As luck would have it, the computers we were using were Apple Macs. eMacs, to be precise. We were busy uploading photographs of her very Morningside (and very beautiful) garden. On changing seats to enable my new found friend better access to the mouse, we noticed no-one else had proceeded beyond the login screen. Oops. Were we going to be branded the class swots? It seemed not. What I love about the middle classes is their observance of all things polite. They may hate you, dear reader, but they will smile at you and tell you how well you're doing. But take them too far and it will all come spilling out.

Should I worry? Will it all come spilling out? Or can these people stand me for ten hours over five weeks?

My lunch break lasted an hour, during which I ended my detox. The headache was just too much. Some people might like the feeling of having their head in a vice. I do not. At the top of Infirmary Street, I found Caffé Nero and indulged in a double espresso. Within moments, my headache was nothing but a memory.

And so to the afternoon. And pottery.

Still slightly anxious and nervous, yes, but by now I'm feeling relatively buoyed up by my matin confidence boost.

I was the second person to arrive at the pottery room. Waiting for me was a lady in her mid to late fifties. I was delighted in finding her, also to be middle class. Though my delight was short lived. She was not the stereotypical middle class person I'd come to love. She told me how she remembered coming to the building we were in when she was a child to wash for it had formerly been a public bath. No, not a swimming pool, dear reader, but a place for people to come to take a bath and wash themselves when such facilities were not present in their own homes.

Throughout the pottery class, my new friend continued to feed me more morsels from her very interesting life story as we built coil pots. She'd lived all over the world and seen many different changes to her life. Just as Ian had earlier kept me from having a panic attack, my pottery partner kept me calm with her fabulous stories.

So, I suppose she was middle class. She bought her knickers in Marks and Spencer, went to a salon to have her hair coloured and owned neither a screwdriver, spanner nor hammer. But there was no air of snootiness about her. She did not read the Daily Mail. She did not choose her friends on the basis of their age, race, religion or nationality.

Opposite me, though, once the class had begun, was a bored middle class wannabe who'd come along with her hen-pecked husband. I could tell, quite early on, that they'd bought their council house, went on holiday to Egypt and liked to be seen in Sainsbury's. Her dress jewellery was large and ostentatious. Her sulphurous perfume filled the room in seconds.

But they were harmless. And dull.

Other potters were a mentally and physically disabled man in a wheel chair with his carer, a young single woman, an older man (and a possible mary) and continuing from last year: a Japanese girl who was obsessed with the potter's wheel and an Earth Mother who was warm and talkative.

Our tutor, Sheena, reminded me of an art teacher I'd once had in senior (comprehensive) school. She was flamboyant, attentive, interesting and interested in her pupils. Her hair was tied back with a cheap clip, she wore a man's shirt and had embroidered flowers on the back pocket of her black denim jeans.

I ache for my classes to continue. Sadly, they may not. We've not crossed a threshold in either class for an acceptable number of students. Unless another photographer and three potters turn up next week, it's over for all over us.

I've my art class/gallery tours and Photograph editing for Macintosh classes starting on Thursday. The good news is that my camera is fixed and is now on it's way back to me. The bad news is that I fear my Thursday classes might be under subscribed, too and my confidence boost will be all too brief.

On my return home from the city, I met up with Ian on the bus. He told me he'd been asked to start working for yet another consultancy. To celebrate, we ordered a take-away from Rick Shaw's and drank the champagne which Robin so kindly gave us while he was here in August.

I went to bed in a drunken stupor.

The Spunk Mallet

Ian and I indulged in our three most ardent passions last night, dear reader:

Reality television
Chocolate
and
Friendship

After lunch, we made a Russian Forest Gateau. By late afternoon, it was cool enough to add the cherry jam and topping, which we did and then headed over to Armadale to watch The X Factor with Alan!

What a fabulous experience. I so adore watching people make fools of themselves which X Factor would-be contestants seem to do with gay abandon. The reasonable to good singers aside, are the other wannabes mad or are there actually people out in the world telling these idiots that they can sing? I don't really care, to be frank - it does make fantastic television.

Not only did Alan furnish us with party food and copious amounts of booze, but also with a Fisher original! Yes, the most fabulous watercolour. A nautical scene, as one might expect from one so salty, executed with flair and resulting in an amazing art work which I shall treasure for the rest of my life.

Last night was so much better than the night before. My neighbour from hell, at gone one o'clock in the morning, was playing loud music, shouting and screaming. At eight minutes past the hour, after lying in bed for well over an hour, I got up, put my dressing gown on and knocked on her front door. After my third attempt, she opened the door.

"Would you mind turning the music down please? I can't sleep for the noise."
"That's your fucking problem."
"I'm sorry?"
"Ah, fuck off you English bastard."
"Listen, you! It's gone one in the morning and I can't sleep for all the noise that you're making."
"Aye, like I say. Your problem."
"It'll be your problem when I call the police, and I shall if you don't pipe down."

At which point, my lady's friend comes to the door and raises her hand to thump me! The only reason for the hand staying aloft and not landing upon my face: my vile neighbour grabbed her pal's arm, saying, "Hang on."

Indeed.

I've never lived next to such a shower of retards, anti-social chavs and inconsiderate cunts. And I've lived in a lot of places.

It was viewing time next door today. I felt like putting a CD on at full volume. I didn't, though. I'd never sink to her very low level and I want that house sold as soon as is humanly possible. The sooner they've moved to Tranent the better. There are a lot of schemies there (they once pelted a visiting Father Christmas with stones and dog shit) who will welcome the family from the sewer with open arms.

From the sublime, my lamb, to the ridiculous and welcome to The Sunday Mallet! It's a word association game played out in the comments section of this post. For the original post and instructions, please click here. Click with caution, though, my love. I say it's a link to the original instructions. It might not be. It might be hardcore porn.

Last week, Salty Sailor left us with the topic of Monica. The first word that popped into my tiny mind: spunk. It's over to you, my love.

Fringe

My pal Robin was up here in Edinburgh back in August. He dazzles Scotland with his presence every year and absorbs the absurdities of the festival fringe with gay abandon.

I try to join him in this frivolity as much as is humanly possible.

One of the first things we saw, if not the first was Choon-Hyang: True Love. A youth theatre company brought Korea's most adored traditional love story from Seoul to Edinburgh and joy to my heart. The lovers were sweet, the Mother was the epitome of campery and the teen boys adored drag. Perfect fringe!

In the same venue, a few days later, we saw Kenmac Productions' Company. My favourite piece of the 2007 season. A minimalist stage was all that was required as the actors knew how to fill it with presence, glamour and beautiful voices. Wonderful. My favourite segment? I've never had a song from musical theatre sung to me before, especially not from the stage, but after Joanne demanding not to be stared at, she stared at me as she launched herself into The ladies who lunch - and continued staring at me throughout.

A magical experience and one I long to repeat.

If Company was my favourite, Seriously was my second favourite. I've written about it before, dear reader, so click here if you'd like to know what I had to say.

Eurobeat - almost Eurovision! The talk of the fringe, apparently, and deservedly so. Indeed, it was almost Eurovision. As kitch and addictive as the real thing. How pleased was I to find my home (for the evening) country of Estonia was the winning entry with Together Again that night in the phone vote (for, yes, the audience is invited to text in their favourite entries)? Very pleased! And very pleased with Estonia myself! What a shame I couldn't have voted for them (no-one can vote for their own country). They were hot, had huge packages and their song was pure Eurovision. Bad english, sentimental and strange. Utterly fabulous.

Mel Giedroyc shone. But not as much as the sparkly costumes. And what costumes! A lycra fiesta! All the gays love lycra, especially on hot men. It all so often leaves nothing to the imagination.

Splendid.

Guilds was an original piece cut from the Gilbert and Sullivan tree and brought to us by Edinburgh University Savoy Opera Group. It was Robin's highlight, I think, though can't be sure. For me, it failed on several fronts. The humour was horribly middle class, some of the actors can only do hammy and everyone about me seemed to be a toff - which I find intimidating. It was especially marred for me by one of the actors sporting a vile and bushy beard. Like Father Christmas after buying too much Just For Men. I hate beards. I really, really do. When I'm Prime Minister, I shall ban them.

Jesus Christ superstar was performed by Marlborough school with enthusiasm, though it lacked depth. The vocals were drowned out by the band and the acting was mediocre to poor. There were some hot teens, yes, if that's your thing. One of the female leads was extremely slutty looking and could have done with a hair wash, but she had a brilliant vocal range. I just loved her voice.

I wanted to see Orgasm - the musical, but was afraid. I had come to imagine that the whole audience might be encouraged to masturbate inside the venue. This is all very well and I might have been tempted to take part in my teens, but not now, not now that I'm old, bald and fat.

So I didn't go.

Snowflake (100 words for snow, one for sorrow) was the masterpiece I'd come to expect from Castoffs Youth Theatre Group. I thought it would be impossible to top last year's The it boy, but they did. Bringing a range of issues to the attention of the audience with a wild mix of comedy, tragedy and musical theatre could go horribly wrong, but Castoffs pulled it off. Neither silly nor pointless, the cast brought a tear to my eye with a story about anorexia, self-harm and climate change delivered with humour and original songs. The band rocked, literally - and Aisha Iqbal stole the show as Ekoomak, an Inuit Mother with a sad story to tell. Last year, Aisha stole my heart as the hijra. A crush has turned to love!

Castoffs is a theatre group put together by Rotherham Young People's Services. It's a great way of fixing society's ills in some kind of one pot cooking exercise. However, they need seasoning and this would come in the form of professional assistance from someone in the world of theatre. I hope there's someone out there with a charitable heart and the desire to help these youngsters go from strength to strength.

This year, the American High School Theatre Festival was very much a hit and miss affair for Robin and I. Sadly, far more misses than hits. Of the hits (the only one?), Urinetown came top of the pile. The narrator of the piece is a policeman. He was easily the star of the show; a great actor, a beautiful singing voice and hot to boot. Also, he shared some rather touching moments of romance and homoerotica with a fellow police officer, which, to be frank, made the show what it was for me: splendid. A four and a half star performance. I'd have given it five, but the copper kept his clothes on.

Baby with the bathwater, also part of the American High School Theatre Festival was a mockumentary about parenthood, excess and transgenderism. It failed on all three counts, mainly because the actors didn't take the piece seriously. What could have been interesting and fun came across as simply ridiculous.

Still within the AHSTF, Chicken bones for the teenage soup. A comedy without any laughs. Apart from those eminating inappropriately from the actors who, by the looks on their faeces (is that a Freudian slip?), thought themselves idiots to be appearing in this trite nonsense.

And yes, still a part of the AHSTF - Is this a test? It certaily tested my patience. A piece about daydreaming during a test. Not very entertaining and leaving nothing for an audience member to take away.

Apollo/Dionysus - Part 1: wine/water & part 2: order/chaos was a very strange piece indeed. Of the four cast members, two were nude from the start, one undressed completely halfway through and the fourth member drank wine dribbled from the mouth of one of the original nudes.

I'd like to tell you what it was all about, but I can't. This leaves me with a two fold problem. I'm either stupid and it went over my head or it was utter jibberish. Which do you suppose, dear reader, is most likely?

If this piece was a philosophical stab in the dark, the knife ended up in the heart, not in the brain. Nudity always draws a crowd on the fringe but in a piece about Greek philosophy, our eyes should have been darting all about the space and not fixed on the actors' cocks. I must add, here, that the masturbation scenes were quite disturbing.

I'm not sure what I was supposed to make of the piece or what greater understanding of life it afforded me, but it is clear that getting drunk every day is a bad thing, but just as bad as being a dull, uninterested and bland old git.

Remember: everything in moderation and shit happens. Analyze that.

The Changeling, here presented by Eyeball Theatre could have been a compelling piece about murder and sex. Ultimately, no-one in the audience seemed to have a clue as to what was going on. The worst part for me was the guy with the beard. not only did he wear a mass of loathesome facial hair but he sweated throughout and profusely. He made me feel physically sick. Be sure, if I were alone, I'd have left before the end. It was poor. It's only redeeming feature, as, sadly, was the case with many pieces, was a hot man. I can't recall, now, the characters he played, but he put me in mind of a young Peter Duncan with the voice of Matt Lucas.

Frank and Dolly, for me, was an hour of campery, fun, intrigue and heartbreak. For Rob, sadly, it was an hour of shouting. Frank and Dolly are dancing partners. They enter the stage with Dolly's ballgown covered in vomit. Frank passes through a doorway. Although the audience sees both characters throughout, Frank and Dolly do not see one another.

Is Frank a drag king? A transgendered person? Or a fake? We soon find out, along with a myriad of other things.

Dillie Keane, as ever, triumphs. I adore her.

Gay slave handbook was, sadly, a piece with promise which went on for far too long and tried to be something it never could be: poignant. Instead, it invited the audience to dive headlong into the depths of depression, sadness and suicide, all thanks to a closeted Mormon and his quest to be normal. For a gay piece, there were surprisingly few mentions of male homosexuality and far too many flashes of the lady's tits. I should have taken Dannii Minogue along. It would have been more her thing than mine.

Into the hoods. If hip-hop and hoodies make you smile, you'd have loved this modern take on Into the woods. For me, Sondheim's masterpiece was ruined by a bunch of chavs who thought they were something special.

Is this about sex? was a very special play about love, romance, cross-dressing and yes, sex. A psychologist's wet dream, for sure, the piece explored sexual identity and sexual politics. I enjoyed it very much and hope Rough Magic return to the fringe next year. Professional and perfectly executed.

Jean Jacques, a piece about M Rousseau was pretentious nonsense. I left before the end, as did two others, leaving an audience of just three. After leaving, I began to wonder, if everyone had left (and they might have after I'd gone), would the piece have continued without an audience?

My filthy hunt was a piece about thrill-seekers. If any thrill-seekers were in the audience, they'd have left disappointed.

The discotivity could have been my favourite piece this year, but I felt utterly cheated as it under-ran by twenty five minutes. A piece that should have lasted an hour ended after just thirty five minutes. Still, Michelle McmAnus was there to entertain, as were the three hot boy dancers with hot bodies and full packets. Oh, what was it about? Yes, the story of the nativity set to old disco hits frm the 1970s and 1980s. It's transferring to the West End (of London) at the end of the year. If I can make it, I'll go and see it again in the hope that the piece I saw was simply an edit of what's to come.

Scarborough. We join the players, quite literally, in a hotel room, cheap and shabby, the sink falling off of the wall along with peeling wallpaper and dodgy Charles and Di memorabilia. He's fifteen. She's his teacher. They've come for a dirty weekend in Scarborough. Everything falls apart before our eyes. Wonderful, moving and ingenious.

Being in the room with the players instead of watching them perform on a stage from a seat in a theatre was a strange experience. Even stranger was having the curtains drawn over my face and James Baxter's crotch pressed up against my mouth and nose. I could actually smell his flesh.

Stonewall. Drag queens riot in 1960s New York. Below the surface, we find the stories behind the tragedies and triumphs. Rikki Beadle Blair never fails to whip his audience up into a state of euphoria. The lip-synching (in honour of the old-time drag acts, I think), the glitter and the hot men made for an hour of unforgettable theatre.

Do I have a thing about hot men?

I adore the works of Joe Orton and I especially loved About Turn's production of What the butler saw. Absolutley hilarious, the audience were in hysterics from start to end. A saucy seaside postcard made flesh by actors who seemed to be RADA trained.

The only negative thing I'd have to say about the piece was that the company were either not used to or didn't know how to handle the rapturous applause and praise given in whooping and cheering come the end. To be frank, this smacked of arrogance. Perhaps they should be shown how to seem more appreciative and gracious.

I saw other things, besides these here mentioned, though, to be frank, I've forgotten them. The reason? There was just so much and in such circumstances, one tends to remember the good and the bad but forget all that falls between, like pennies in between the cusions on the sofa.

I miss Robin endlessly. He is one of the better friends I've had the good luck to have in my life. It's just so sad that he lives hundreds of miles away in London. Still, Ian and I are heading his way in October. We're hoping to see Wicked, Avenue Q and All about my mother while we're there. Exciting! Nice to see actors in the flesh!

I wonder if any of them will be hot men?

Fireworks

Ian and I headed out into the city on the evening of Sunday last to watch the firework display accompanied by the Scottish Chamber Orchestra which officially marks the end of the International Festival and unofficially marks the end of the festival season here in Edinburgh.

In order to find the ideal spot for viewing, we arrived a good ninety minutes before the show was due to begin, but even then our choices were limited. Standing close to the barrier on Princes Street (at the foot of Frederick Street), a woman rose from her deck chair some two metres away, approached us and asked us to move.

"I've been here since four o'clock and I want to stand there," she said.

What a cheek.

She could have been there all day for all I care. Whole swathes of street are not reservable. I stayed put. Still, I was as polite and accomodating as possible and did not set about to (as she'd begun to) place personal objects about myself in some kind of demarkation exercise.

She was a very rude madam. She constantly nudged me as if I were either not there or shouldn't be. After less than twenty minutes and having been joined by a very nice woman and her Mother at the barrier, the madam made some sly comment about my presence. Both the nice woman and the Mother raisd their eyebrows at me. I took this as reassurance that disapproval of the madam's words and actions were appropriate and that some action should be taken.

Ian and I had eaten some home made vegetable soup at lunchtime. Root vegetables give me awful wind. Awful in some circumstances, fabulous in others. This, dear reader, was one of those other times. I felt a pressure in my lower bowel and hung on to it as long as I could before turning to point my bottom in the madam's direction and letting out the loudest fart of the day. And the fumes, I should say, were noxious.

"You dirty pig!" said madam.

I said nothing.

I may be a dirty pig, but I'm not a rude and selfish cunt, I thought to myself.

The fireworks were marvellous. A real spectacle. Forty five minutes of wild colours, bangs and beautiful music. I took a few photographs but most of them were terrible. I'm new to the world of DSLRs and am still learning and experimenting. I uploaded the best of the few that turned out reasonably well to Flickr. Click here if you wish to see them, my love.

News

Look what I've just seen as I glanced out of my bedroom window, dear reader!

Yes, the owners of the house next door have put it up for sale!  And by the look of the particulars, the lady next door has been doing a spot of tidying up and even thought to take the washing from the line which had been outside and exposed to the elements for weeks!

I hope the place is sold quickly.  No longer will I have to hear her shouting and swearing at her poor children, her vile transistor radio-sounding hi-fi blaring out at two in the morning or the slamming of doors at breakfast time as she rows with her husband!

The lady who lives on the other side of my neighbour will be as gleeful as I am, I'm sure.

Now, If I hadn't drunk the last bottle of champagne in the house on Saturday night, I'd be popping the cork at this very moment.

If you always dreamed, dear reader, of living next door to Minge and within spitting distance of J K Rowling, clickez-vous ici.

Also in the news...

Alex Salmond has started what he's calling a big conversation.  I call it a sly move, but who am I to speculate upon the shenanigans of a rat?

His chances are remote, and he knows this.  So why press ahead?  What's his wee game?  Win or lose, the break up of the union is his end game and wants to keep the idea fresh in our minds for as long as possible.

He'll succeed in that, I'm sure, especially if we as the United Kingdom elect a conservative government next time around.  A British Tory governement would be too much for many wavering Scots to stomach and I can predict, with reasonable ease, what the result of any independence referendum might be.

But of course, Mr Salmond is an awful way off from a referendum.  With a parliament well short of a fifty per cent nationalist majority, it's probably never going to happen.  The SNP like to cheerily snort and cackle about winning the election in May.  But I can't really see it as a victory.  With a margin of a handful of seats, the electoral equation gives a very curious answer to the SNP and the voters.  The numbers of Tory, Labour and Liberal Democrat seats remained pretty static.  The SNP took their additional seats from the Greens, Solidarity and the SSP - all of whom are also nationalist parties.

O grave, where is thy victory?

Other supposed successes for Salmond include populist moves like saving A&E departments, the abolition of prescription charges for people with chronic illnesses and tolls on the Forth and Tay bridges.  Though remember, dear reader, two things:

1. The money for these measures has to come from somewhere
2. The Scottish Parliament has tax raising powers

The Scottish political scene is going to be a very lively and interesting place over the next few years.  Lots of ifs, buts and maybes, though.  Does Alex Salmond have the balls to go for legislation that may be voted down by the parliament?  Does the parliament have the balls to go for a vote of no confidence in the government/executive and First Minister if the SNP lose a vote in the chamber, prompting a Scottish parliamentary election?

Breaking up Britain would be a pointless and ridiculous leap in the dark.  Not in Scotland's interest at all.

Help!

I'm still coughing for Britain, there's a suspected case of foot and mouth in Kent and E.coli in Paisley.  Is it just me, or are we all dying?

Sun

As predictable as the waxing and waning of the moon, the tides and the knowledge that the best part of The X Factor will be the rubbish acts cast off at the beginning, yesterday was the longest day of the year.  Although we saw next to no sunshine here in Edinburgh, we were blessed with seventeen hours, thirty six minutes and thirty five seconds of Northern daylight.  Plus, of course, the strange constant twilight, melding into dawn as the globe of the sun skips briefly below the horizon.

I love the Summer and I love the longest day/shortest night.  We get a massive ten hours, thirty nine minutes and seven seconds more daylight during the Summer solstice than we do on the shortest day.

I've not had to put the heating on, nor the lights and warming foods, the comforting type such as mashed potato, soup or steamed puddings are as far from my mind as they can ever get.

But...

The six months of looking forward to ever longer days are now over. The nights are already drawing in.

So what do I do?  Should I be a pessimist, think the worst about the up-coming six months and then be pleasantly surprised when it doesn't turn out half as bad as I expected?  Will that be the key to a happy Winter?

I don't think so.  I know it's going to get colder.  I know it's going to get wetter.  I know the days will get shorter.  I know the nights will get longer.  I know I'll have to be putting the lights on at three in the afternoon.  There's no way any of that's going to change.

Unless, dear reader, if you know of anything to aid me in thinking the absolute worst about the Autumn and Winter which might not actually occur and leave me happily amazed, please let me know.

My self-diagnosed SAD is already kicking in.

Leaving

We left Japan on 6th June 2007.  From the Park Hyatt, Tokyo, to Narita airport by limousine bus. How a bus has anything to do with a limousine, I don't know, but that's not for here.

I was very sad that morning, and being tired always exaggerates emotion.  Leaving is never a delicious experience and saying cheerio to Alan and Junya the previous evening made this one of the longest good-byes in history.  Painful and not at all nice.

As the bus pulled away from the hotel, I began thinking about all the things we'd seen and done in our short stay.  And the things we hadn't done: the fish market, an oxygen bar and a visit to an onsen.  Also, I was sad to have to leave Marie (my birthday gift from Dan and Masumi) behind at the hotel.  There would be no chance of me being able to take her on the aeroplane.  But I had a plan so that she might live.  I removed the cord from her neck and let her float up to the ceiling. Surely, the cleaners wouldn't look up. And the next inhabitants of room #4909 might adopt her.

More sad than leaving Marie, I was upset to the point of tearful at leaving Alan and Junya.  Even now, after this short time, they feel lost in the mists, not only of time, but of the Orient, like another realm, another planet, another reality.  Distance is a horrible thing.  Email, blogging and telephone calls don't make up for physical contact; a brush of ones hair, a hug, a kiss.  Or first hand vision of a beautiful smile.  They are lost.  For now.  But I do feel, honestly, someday I'll find them.

Leaving Japan was much easier than entering.  Were it not for the lack of cheering, I might have imagined they were glad to see the back of us.  On the passenger side, it was time to seek out a toilet, café/restaurant and shop - in that order.

Having tiddled, we sat and watched the Airbus A380 manoeuvre around the apron and then took our traditional yet untypical Japanese breakfast of coffee and cakes, this time, courtesy of Starbucks.  An area was set aside for the consumption of purchased goods, shared with other establishments.  I noticed a couple of menus.  Not exactly engrish, but delightful nonetheless, one asked me if vegetables were enough, another offered the dreaded curry doughnut which haunted me during 2006.

Breakfast over, we headed, with haste, to a shop selling electronics and watches.  Yes!  I was after a new watch.  Impressed with Alan's, I'd decided to bag a Japanese Fossil for myself, though had not seen any up until then.  Thankfully, all that changed in the shop and I purchased a fabulous timepiece for myself.  Every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my time in Japan, not only this year, but in 2006 and 2004.

On our way to the gate, we passed a couple of daft American women, asking a Japanese man for directions to their aeroplane and seemingly unaware of where they actually were, asked, "Do you know where we're at?"

I can be quite rude at times, hen, and, rather loudly, I tutted and commented on her poor grasp of grammar.

Where we're at?  At?

Lord, preserve us.

Our journey home was far from fabulous.  Lufthansa aeroplanes are scruffy and old.  Their cabin crew are at best, rude.  At worst, a bunch of humourless cunts.  The food is dreadful and the entertainment a disgrace.  We were cold, hungry and ignored.

Frankfurt airport is equally vile.  Dirty, scruffy, old and in dire need of a lick of paint and some smiles on the faces of the workers there.  I was keen to get away on our flight to London.

Luckily, our flight from London to Edinburgh was provided by British Airways.  How fabulous to travel with an airline with morals, who believe in new aeroplanes, cleanliness and the occasional smile!  And food, to boot!  Good food.  And copious amounts of booze!

So before long, we were back in Edinburgh, back in our wee house.  Japan, thousands of miles away.

Back!

I'm back! Back!! Back!!! Etc.

Having had the most amazing short break in Japan, I'm trying, now, to get my head around BST, when to get up, when to go to bed, when to eat and what year it is. The past seven or eight days seem a blur just now, but with every visit to Alan's blog and browsing through the photographs he took, the photographs I took, it's all coming back. Bit by bit.

Our journey to Tokyo was far from a nightmare, but neither was it a pleasant experience. Rising at a reasonable hour is hardly ever acceptable to me, dear reader, so imagine how I felt when the radio-alarm went off at a quarter to four in the morning of 30th May. I'll tell you how I felt - like a ghost ascending from a corpse after a rather nasty traffic accident.

The lady checking us in at Edinburgh airport was super. How people can be kind, helpful and friendly at five o'clock in the morning is beyond me, let alone apply flawless make-up. Unlike the last Edinburgh check-in, our lady was a constant smiler, asked us where we wanted to sit on the aeroplane and wished us a pleasant journey and a pleasant holiday.

The holiday was beyond pleasant, the journey was not.

Lufthansa flew us from Edinburgh to Frankfurt on what I think was a Boeing 737. The aircraft was old, scruffy and dirty - as were the cabin crew, and sour to boot. Our on-board breakfast consisted of stewed coffee, stale bread and greasy, cheap cheese. Vile.

On landing in Frankfurt, I made my way, rather hurridly, it must be said, to the retail areas of the naff, lifeless, grim, dated and dull Frankffurt airport. Plenty of CDs were available, but no Sandra, no Reflections, no The Art Of Love. Minge became sad, but was cheered slightly by the Pflaumkuchen und kaffee to be had in a delightful coffee shop with views of the apron.

It's been a few years since I've spoken German with a native speaker and was slightly nervous when ordering our coffee and cake, though I needn't have been. I was relieved, on ordering our snackette, to find the waitress not only understood me but paid me the compliment of responding to me in German asking me if Phyllis or I required milk, cream or sugar.

With only four hours in-between flights, the time spent on German soil, thankfully, passed quickly.

I was eager to see the inside of the 747 taking us to Narita. Like a child at Christmas, having asked Father Christmas for a bike, I was disappointed to receive only a roller-skate. Our second Lufthansa aeroplane of the day was just as old and scruffy as the first. The cabin crew were kurt, rude and as miserable as sin. The food was inedible and the entertainment poor. Every other long haul flight I've taken has been fabulous with video screens in the headrest of the seat in front of me; a choice of amazing movies and telelvision programmes; a moving map; games. Lufthansa provide a drop down 1970s television from the ceiling of the cabin and show the most appalling films. Anyone foolish enough to watch said movies is soon rewarded with a stiff neck.

Unable to take much more, I popped a pill and was soon fast asleep.

I couldn't wait for the eleven hour flight to end. And it surely did.

Passport control at Narita was not a fun experience, though with typical Japanese efficiency, the massive queue of three or four hundred people was dealt with in less than an hour. Customs was fun. The guy questioning me was the first to assume I was in Japan either on business or studying. My holiday revelation was greeted with raised eyebrows.

Although my mind and body thought it was still Wednesday 30th May, everything around and about me was shouting Thursday! Dazed and confused, I visited an airport shop for a bottle of chilled green tea, not only for its reassuring Japanese taste, but for the caffeine. A brief wait for the airport limosine bus and we were on our way to the Park Hyatt, Tokyo. All the green tea in Japan wasn't going to keep me awake, though, and I must confess to having dozed on the bus.

Jardin

Some photographs, dear reader, from a very recent trip to the Royal Botanic Garden here in Edinburgh. I love looking up into the canopies of trees. I feel like a squirrel in doing so. Not the common grey, I could never be common, no, but a red! Dandy! Elusive!! Enigmatic!!! And with a passion for nuts.

Christmas

I remember Christmas 2000. We spent it in St Boswells with Ian's parents and his brother. It was a wonderful day. So different from the Christmases I was used to in Bournemouth: shouting, screaming, rows.

How lovely to spend the day in a calm way with a feeling of serenity, though a gentle sense of excitement bubbling up within me.

The next day, Boxing Day, we jetted off to St Lucia, escaping the snow in Edinburgh for a fortnight in the sun.

Gestern

Gestern, im bilder...

I went into the city for my monthly oral check-up. I have to go back to the hospital today or tomorrow. The Doctor who treats me would like me to have a second opinion. So I'm nervous, fractious and scared for the next forty eight hours.

On arriving, I saw a woman waiting for a bus. She wore training shoes with gold detail. Seeing a ninety year old woman wearing trainers is one thing, but ones with gold detail is another! The rest of her outfit was extremely well coordinated, including a baby blue bag for contrast.

From the hospital, I took a walk along Princes Street, finding a bin on fire.

A couple of CDs were purchased in Virgin. Hailing from the westcountry, I was unashamedly drawn to a Wurzels single. The first track features Tony Blackburn, so I'll ignore it, but track two, Combine Harvester, is a delightful reminder of my boyhood. I've played it a few times since yesterday and sung along.

I bought a funky egg timer in Frasers, then popped to the top floor for a coffee and a slice of trashy lemon meringue pie. J'adored it.

Then it was time to take the bus home, enjoying the blossom in the city as I made my way to Lothian Road.

I'd only been home for a couple of hours when Ian returned home from work. We didn't hang around the house, but went immediately for a walk with the dogs across The Meadows and Bruntsfield Links, stopping for chips on the way. Mine came with white pudding, Ian had breaded scampi.

When in a state of melancholy, the filling of the mind with anything but the matters at hand is a good idea, dear reader, at least until one has mustered the strength to cope.

Holyrood

Push the button, don't push the button, trip the station, change the channel.

Sunday was a proper scorcher, dear reader! At a guess, it was 25ºc at lunchtime. A picnic in Holyrood Park was in order. En route, we stopped off at Marks and Spencer to pick up some delicious items for a lazy lunch. I say lazy because some woman (or man, you sexist pig) made everything for me in a factory somewhere in the United Kingdom. And what a good job they did, too. One can't really go wrong with Marks and Spencer. Actually, that's a lie. Once, things went decidedly wrong. I bought a packet of salt and vinegar crisps from their store in Glasgow. Not a drop of vinegar nor a grain of salt were in sight. Have you ever eaten crisps with no flavour at all, my little maid? They're absolutely awful.

Our few hours in the park were splendid, sat atop Haggis Knowe, though short-lived. The clouds came rolling by at around 14:00 and the midges began to gather. And horse-flies. Which I can't stand. I don't think they'd ever hurt you, but the way they hover in groups of one hundred and more, above your head, well, it's very frightening, my lamb!

We said goodbye to our splendid 360º view; the city skyline, the Palace, St Margaret's Loch, Arthur's Seat and took a short walk, across the road, to The Scottish Parliament. It's a very ugly building, in my opinion, and lacks any distinguishing feature. It's not iconic at all, sadly. It's just a mess. My disdain for it grows with every visit. Really, I shouldn't go, hen. I'll get high blood pressure.

Everybody comes to Holyrood. They want to make it in the neighbourhood. They like the smell of it in Holyrood. How could it hurt you when it looks so good, dear reader?