Cabin Porn

Thought I would write a quick blog post as I’m in the mood for writing, but I don’t want to do any of my “projects”. This seemed easier.

And more fun.

I’m in Cumbria with the GF. Romantic getaways can be quite difficult, can’t they? We’ve got a history of absolutely HORRIBLE date nights. We just put so much pressure on ourselves to have a good time that it makes having a good time absolutely impossible. The best nights we’ve had are always the spontaneous ones. Beers by the shore on a random sunny evening in Scotland, board games on the floor, a pint in a cute pub after a stressful day at work… anything we decide to do spur-of-the-moment. They’re the best ones.

Although our time in Cumbria has actually been pretty good. I think it’s because we’re getting to know ourselves now. The morning we left we declared, “We’re just nuns on a road trip!” And you know what? It’s helped take the pressure off.

So far we’ve had a (freezing cold) hot tub, played Bananagrams in a field (BEST GAME EVER HOW HAVE I NEVER PLAYED THIS BEFORE????), and walked to a waterfall. B does the driving and I navigate. I’m not very good at navigating, but I’m even worse at driving, so this suits us.

We’re staying in such a cool place. It’s made up of one little hut which is an outdoor kitchen, another tiny hut which is the (compost) toilet, and another hut which is the bedroom. I LOVE it. It’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere, surrounded by lambs. B loves it too, although the wood burner made her come out in a rash, the sheep kept her up all night, and she accidentally put her hand into a clump of nettles.

She told me about the nettle incident when I was on the toilet. Unfortunate timing, really. I was a bit nervous about doing a number two in the compost toilet and just as it was finally happening, B shouted through about her hand. It made everything shoot right back up. Will probably need to have a coffee in the morning.

That’s another thing! The kettle. I don’t know why, but it just makes me so happy.

Would you look at it!

Every time I’m in a quiet place, in the middle of nowhere, it just makes me want to leave the city for good. *sighs*

We’re going to the wee village pub for dinner. I’m excited (obviously because dinner is involved), but I always get a bit worried about being affectionate with B in public in a new place. Every time I think I’m all good with the queer thing, something will shoot out my mouth which shows me I’m still a bit nervous. Like arriving yesterday. We got it into our heads that a gay couple owned the place, but when we turned up, we realised it was a (very lovely) het couple. Before I even realised what was happening, I said, “Oh God. Should we say we’re sisters?”.

It’s not like anyone has ever really said anything to us. We’ve had one horrible comment, and while some others haven’t exactly been great, they’ve come from a good place. But yeah, still nervous.

I guess that’s one good thing about the city.

Alright. Time for another trip to the compost toilet (just a pee this time thank god), then it’s onto dinner.

Home Time

Ah, it’s so nice to be back in the country. So peaceful. So quiet. Nothing but the twittering birds and the frolicking deer; nothing but the slight breeze rustling through the trees and the sun shimmering on the surface of the pond. Ooh, if I squint I can see a wee red squirrel gracefully launch itself from one branch to another. It pirouettes through the air like a dancer, landing with such ease it’s almost as if it didn’t land at all.

God, I’m bored.

It’s only ten o’ clock in the morning and I’ve already done my washing, had my breakfast, booked some flat viewings and noted down jobs to apply for (I can’t actually apply for them until I have a printer, ok? Well, I guess I could prepare my answers, but…maybe later). It’s like that episode on Friends when Ross is not fired, but ON SABBATICAL, and he gets all his tasks on his to-do lists done before lunchtime. Joey tells him he needs to learn to spread out his tasks throughout the week so I guess, until I get a job, that’s what I’m going to have to do. Ah, Friends. It’s taught me so much in the ways of life. What would I have done without its wisdom?

Thank goodness for books. And at least reading feels slightly more productive than watching t.v. It probably isn’t any more productive at all. It just helps you feel a tad more intellectual, even if you’re reading the same, predictable crime novels over and over again. Although, actually, that’s not what I’m reading at the minute. I’m reading something about the holocaust – The Storyteller – and despite it having some questionable, uber cheesy lines such as the response to the question, “Miss, are you alright?” being “As if that were an easy answer. As if I could reply with a single word” (BLEH), it’s actually a pretty good story. It’s told from four different view-points. One is from an old man who was a nazi during the war and who worked at Auschwitz, and while you’re reading his story, you’re sort of contemplating how difficult it would be NOT to become a nazi if you were born into an antisemitic Germany. You sort of understand how something so horrific could have happened, but then the novel switches to a story from a survivor of the holocaust and you’re all like, KILL THE NAZIS, KILL THEM ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So yeah, it sort of plays with your emotions. I like it.

I’ll be going up to my dad’s later. My brother’s home as well and he, my mum, and myself might all be at dad’s for dinner. That’ll be weird. I don’t think we’ve all had dinner together in a VERY long time. Modern families, eh? The last time my mum, dad, and myself had dinner the conversation went a little like this:

Mum: How old are you now? 67?

Dad: Yep.

Mum: Hmm, you’re looking well for your age.

Dad: Oh, you should see me with my clothes off!

They laugh, while I try and bury myself in my mashed tatties.

Seriously, it’s embarrassing when married parents act like this, let alone DIVORCED parents. I really am considering therapy.

Eating Amongst Tweed Elbow Patches and Velvet Hairbands

Last night, I went to the Darroch Clearg and BY JOVE is it the best food I have ever had in my entire life. Ok, it’s maybe not the best, but it’s definitely up there with all the other top meals I have devoured. It’s perhaps on par with that glorious baked potato with beans and cheese I once had on a boat (in Scotland in November: crazy? Yes) – frozen to death and soaking wet, NOTHING had ever tasted so good as that tattie. And the dashes of splayed salt water made it even better in my opinion.

But anyway, this is about the Darroch Clearg. Look at it! ‘Ain’t it a quaint little place? When we arrived, Dad decided that we’d have a drink in the lounge first before going to our table and after one glass of wine, I must sadly admit, that I was a bit pissed. I’d been at work all day, it had been unusually busy and I was also looking after the owner’s little girl so I didn’t have any time to eat anything. I was running off one Haribo fried egg, thus the wine went straight to my head and I was in that horrendous position of trying to act sober.

It didn’t go too well.

Dad: Josie, are you a bit pissed?

Me: Nooo, you’re pisssssssed more. I’m FINE. Is there anymore of those canapés? I could eat a Kentucky fried chicken bucket of them.

Dad: You want a KFC?

Me: No! I want a KFC bucket of the canapés!!

Sadly, this conversation was doomed to fail as we were then shown to our table and it became clear that this was the sort of place where they pull the chairs out for you and then tuck you in. Now, I find this difficult enough to manoeuvre when sober, let alone drunk. I constantly get the timing wrong and sit down before they have a chance to push me in and so end up about a metre away from the table. Then I have to try and act like I want to be a metre away from the table; that this silly position was in fact, deliberate. It’s really just dreadfully awkward and I wish they would do away with the whole thing, but alas, tradition will prevail.

Then it was time for the…it wasn’t the first course. They called it a “Taster” or something? I can’t remember, but anyway, here it is:

I’m not exactly sure what this was, but I would call it a mushroom soup voulevant. It was delicious, but trying to break through the pastry tidily to get to the soup was no easy matter. I sort of squashed it into the soup and ate it all together and it was so good, that I wanted to run my finger around the tiny little pot so as to savour every last ounce, but I think the sort of place we were in would frown upon that sort of behaviour and so I restrained myself. I honestly felt like a heroin addict looking at heroin that they were not allowed to have, although I don’t know what that feels like, but I could imagine it would be pretty tough.

And then it was on to the first course:

Gosh, my photography is jolly awful. This photo should show you a plate of pan fried scallops on a bed of some sort of risotto, with a drizzle of some sort of orange…drizzle. Ok, I think it’s safe to say I can tick photographer AND food critic off my list of possible careers. But again, this dish was marvellous. The scallops melted in my mouth, the orange drizzle drizzled, and the risotto was creamy and delicious.

AND NOW. For the pièce de résistance:

A rare Aberdeen Angus fillet steak on a bed of pomme purée (mashed tatties?) and tortellini (pasta?) drizzled in jus (gravy?). I could have eaten at least ten of those bad boys (sorry Angus). The meat practically fell off my fork and melted in my mouth – have you EVER eaten meat that’s melted?! Oh, it was truly divine. And then, how’s this for a cherry on the cake, Dad gave me a leg of his lamb, which wasn’t as good as the steak – nothing COULD be as good as that steak – but was very nearly equally delicious. The meat was juicy and tender and the fat was crisp – HOW did they manage to do that?

And then I didn’t have a pudding as I was very stuffed and am trying to get my bikini bod on for the rest of the summer (as you can probably gather, it isn’t going too well). But yes, I would highly, highly, highly recommend this restaurant if you ever find yourself in the Ballater area.

Just remember your tweed elbow patches and velvet hairband.

Plan? I Don’t Even Have a “Pl-“

Isn’t that just the best goddam episode of Friends? It’s The One with George Stephanopoulos, where they all freak out about what they’re doing with their lives, but then Rachel looks at them playing Twister and she’s like, “I’m fine, I’ve got my magic beans!” I feel like my friends are my magic beans, but if I told them that, I would definitely be excluded from the group.

FOREVER.

Anyway, enough about where lives are going; where is this blog going? Well, you’ll be excited to hear that on Thursday I shall be returning to the bright lights of Glasgow (oh dear, think I’ve forgotten how to put on makeup), then I’m off to Ireland on Friday for a week, then London for two weeks,  and then Italy for two weeks so hopefully I should have a lot of interesting things to write about and hopefully you’ll enjoy these a bit more because I don’t think many of you have enjoyed my Spar tales. I would have thought a blog that centres around a wee village shop tremendously exciting, but WHATEVER. I’m over it. I really enjoyed writing my Spar tales, a lot more than anything I’ve written about before. I don’t know, it just seems writing about other places can be a bit boasty and Oh my god, totally just climbed up a mountain and saw such a beautiful sunset and then a camel kissed me. Although, I suppose you won’t get that from me. It’ll be more: Oh my god, totally just climbed up a mountain and I thought I was going to die – mountains are so friggin’ HIGH! Then I saw a sunset that blinded me and I started freaking out because I thought we would have to descend the mountain in darkness and then a camel kissed me and I’ve spent the rest of the evening googling “Camel Diseases”, “Camel Aids”, “Rabies from Camel?” Yes, that’s more like it.

So if you fancy reading tales from a nervous traveller who pretty much has constant diarrhea then stay tuned!

Viva Las Vegas? Nah, Viva Glesga!

A few years ago, the dad of a friend said to me that he can’t understand these people who have seen so much of the world, yet very little of their home country.

GUILTY AS CHARGED.

I have been living in Glasgow for two and half years, yet when someone asks me what there is to do here, I freeze, spout something about museums (which I have never been to), and change the subject. Utterly SHAMEFUL.

It’s stupid. If I went to Paris, I would see the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame (and hopefully Quasimodo), the Louvre, I would walk along the Seine, maybe get a river boat, eat some snails, yet because I’ve lived in Scotland my whole life and been to Glasgow quite a few times, I somehow don’t even think about visiting the famous (and less famous) attractions that help make it such a great city. And so I’m going to change this – I’m going to be a tourist in my own city and I’m going to blog about it. Like a travel writer, but without the travel.

And the first stop? Glasgow School of Art – Balkanarama. A ‘Hot Balkan Instrumental Orgy’, apparently.

This should be interesting…

The Anti-Bucket List

 

I used to write lists about things I wanted to achieve in life allll the time and I don’t think I ever managed to tick one thing off them. Seriously, like New Years resolutions, these lists are depressing. You feel like you’re not doing enough so you write a list and yeah, this makes you feel better for a wee while, but then when nothing is achieved on that list, you feel even worse about yourself. This is what happens with me anyway. Therefore, I’m going to write an Anti-Bucket List, things I Don’t want to achieve and so if I’m in the lucky position of dying of old age, I can look back over my life and be thankful for all those things that didn’t happen. And so here goes…

1) I do not want to give birth to a murderer.

Let’s Talk About Kevin reeeeeally freaked me out. I’ve always thought I’d quite like kids when I’m older, but this book has made me think twice. I mean, how on earth do the mothers of murderers cope?! What happens to their unconditional love? Do they blame themselves and the way they brought their child up? Everyone expects to love their child and feel that bond, but what if you don’t? What if your child is EVIL? Luckily for me, I haven’t had to deal with this as of yet.

2) I do not want to climb Mount Everest. 

I feel dizzy enough at big heights when I see them on the telly so I don’t think I could handle Mount Everest. I also don’t like being cold. And hill walking boots have never agreed with me. And I don’t care that the only thing people will remember me by, “is the ass print in this chair!”

3) I do not want to swim with sharks.

Some people think that conditioning doesn’t affect the way you grow up, but I’m pretty sure that my dad letting me watch Jaws when I was five has been the cause of my dreaded fear of sharks. The only positive thing I can see about swimming with sharks is the thrill you get afterwards, but I don’t think I would get to experience that thrill because I would have probably already died of fright. 

4) I don’t want to sleep under the stars in a dessert.

Nuh uh, no way. First of all, sleeping in a dessert would mean I would have to wake up in a dessert and I’ve heard those places can be quite hot during the day. I’ve also heard they have snakes and so I’d have to keep one eye open all night and that doesn’t sound very refreshing. Camels look dodgy as well.

5) I do not want to move to a foreign country by myself.

I could do this with someone else, I think, but by myself, I would just be completely lost. I would miss my friends and family too much, be lonely, and would die without irn bru when I’m hungover.

6) I do not want to meditate.

I would literally just sit there and worry about accidentally farting. And I don’t think that would help me achieve inner peace.

7) I do not want to run for parliament.

HA! Imagine me in parliament.

8) I do not want to sky dive.

I’ve heard great reviews about sky diving and seen great videos, but it just sounds like pretending you’re in a plane crash to me. 

9) I do not want to dance on a stage, drunk.

This is actually something I’ve attempted twice and both times I ended up crying because the bouncers told me off. I always was a sissy.

10) I do not want to enter an all you can eat hot dog contest.

Wait, yes I do, that would be AWESOME!

And so there’s some of the things on my Anti-Bucket list and phew, it’s refreshing admitting the things you’re just never going to do. I do realise that this might be a bit pessimistic, but you know what? My Bucket’s a little lighter now and there’s more room for things that there’s actually a chance of me doing.

(Oh holy hell, there’s still a chance that I could give birth to a murderer.)

 

Bottoms Up

 

Yesterday was the annual highland games in my village – something that was described by a close friend as being “better than christmas” and, while another close friend said that that was by far the saddest thing he had ever heard, I had to agree. Oh how I remember the days when I was younger, waking up to the sound of distant bag pipes, jumping out of bed, and running down the track in my pyjamas to catch a glimpse of the mighty pipe band strutting their stuff. The games, what we’d been waiting for all year, had finally ARRIVED!

Ok, maybe we’re a little sad. But you have to understand that there’s not much in our village. Our park consisted of a dodgy rope swing, a climbing frame no one understood, and some sort of special turf thing that seemed to inflict more injuries than it prevented. To our younger selves, the highland games meant the bright lights of waltzers, three-legged races, eating burgers and candy floss until we were sick and our parents being too drunk to remember our bedtimes.

And then we grew up and it became about us getting too drunk to remember our bedtimes.

And then we grew up some more and I got a job in the local shop and so was there during the games, serving the dizzy, sugar high kids and the dizzy, liquored up adults.  

I was working there yesterday, enduring a questionable version of the song, Jolene.

“Josie, Josie, Josie, Josieeeeeeeeeeee, I’m beggin’ of you please don’t keep my changeee…”

And all I could think about was how I couldn’t wait to get as drunk and embarrassing as them.

I don’t drink all that often, but really bloody enjoy it when I do. Everything is dandy, everything is funny, and everyone is lovely. Even that bitch you always hated. You just misunderstood her. But then you wake up, feeling sick from that entire roast chicken you devoured at six in the morning and wondering whether those flash backs of pulling a dog are from an alcohol fuelled dream or if it actually happened.</p>

It did.

Then come the hangover blues. Aren’t they a treat. What the hell do I think I’m doing with my life? I’m such a waster. Ugh, look at me. Lying here, stewing in my own filth, eating my weight in Wispa Mini Bites, watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch, thinking Salem’s done more things than me. I mean, at least he tried to take over the world, that’s something, and now he’s a cat, who wouldn’t want to be a cat? I may as well be a cat, for all I do. Eat and Sleep. God, I’m so fat and lazy. Why don’t you get out on that bike, you big, fat, waster. Everyone else is cooler than you. They’re out doing interesting things while you’re just lying here. That’s right, just go ahead and click another episode. You’ve probably forgotten how to ride a bike anyway.

But ah, fuck it. Those drunken nights are worth it. And the dog wasn’t half bad.