We Are Family (Not)

I was prompted to write this blog post by a telephone call to our house last night. It was my partner G’s mum (or as I call her the mother-out-law!) wanting to speak to V. G’s sister (a.k.a. the rich bitch) was having a party on Bonfire Night and did V want to go? Notice anything strange? How about that G and I aren’t invited? Well that’s simple – he hasn’t spoke to her for over 18 months and me even longer. But you say, why is the invite coming second hand via their mother? Surely V’s aunt could have phoned her on her mobile phone, having got the number from her mum? Or poked her on Facebook? Or e-mailed her? Three simple methods by which normal people communicate. Or so you would think.
But not in G’s family. You see, it’s a bit like some mediaeval saga. Or Shakespeare. King Lear even. You see, G’s older sister and brother are twins. And they have certain expectations that as they are the eldest they have to be the first to know things or to be consulted. All hell would break loose if they thought they had been missed out of the chain of command! And it goes the same for family affairs.
Around this time last year, the Rich Bitch’s (RB for short) only daughter was getting married in one of the swankiest hotels in Edinburgh. At a previous family gathering, I overheard RB and her twin’s wife discussing how her other niece (twin’s daughter – keep up!) was going to get fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress. When I asked about it, I was told that, no she wasn’t going to be a “bridesmaid” but there to “assist” the little flower girl. A task which normally falls to a bridesmaid. Add to that that said niece (who is a nice lassie) being the same age as V (V is only older by 6 weeks exactly but the whys and wherefores of that are for another time!) was plastering all over her Facebook page about how she was going to be a bridesmaid! V wasn’t too chuffed at this – it would have been nice to be asked and in a family where age does seem to give one seniority, it does seem to have been the thing to do. Except it wasn’t. So when the invitation popped through the door, we declined. Politely but firmly. And yes, after the wedding, there on Facebook were pictures of our sweet niece, all very grown up in her black (interesting choice of colour but hey, ho) formal dress along with the other bridesmaids in the same dress!
One, that was a bit of a cheek. And two, it’s a bit of a cheek also to contact V via her grandmother over a year afterwards.
But there you go – families – can’t live with them, can’t shoot them and get away with it.
The bad feeling between G’s sis and I stems from the early days of our acquaintance where, for reasons best known to herself, she started referring to me after her brother and I decided to live together as his “concubine”. Now call me sensitive, but isn’t that an old-fashioned term for a woman of a lower status? And inferior to a wife? As you can imagine things did not start well. I tried to get on with her but I always had the feeling that she looked down on me. And now that she is considerably well-to-do, the gap has widened. It’s not an issue for us but definitely for them – the kind of people always telling you about their trips to New Yawk. It didn’t help that, after telling her that we had found a very minor antique (a piece of Clarice Cliff pottery) amongst items G was given when his late granny (a very lovely lady with working class roots) had to go in to a care home when she developed dementia, we had G’s brother on the phone accusing us of stealing it and intending to sell it! You can imagine that did wonders for our relationship, after I phoned her and admittedly threatened her with some old-time fisticuffs.
For some reason, I just can’t get on with G’s people at all. Mind you, I don’t get on with my own but that’s another story for another blog. Suffice to say, as Armistead Maupin wrote so wonderfully for Mrs. Madrigal in his Tales Of The City books, we have our biological family, the one we are born into (or married or co-habited into, as in our case) and your logical family, the ones you choose.
I’ll leave you with this. On a recent trip to a Glasgow museum with G’s parents, we bumped into some old friends of theirs. G’s mum reminded them of who was who – her son, her grand-daughter and then, pointing to me, “This is Jeanne. She’s our…errr. Ahh..we don’t know what to call her…”. I’ve only been living with their youngest son for 25 and a half years now and am mother to their teenage grandchild! I think it’s about time she worked that one out x
PS – V’s declined the invitation, I’m proud to say.

School Daze

Gee and I went to Vee’s parent’s afternoon yesterday. Notice I said parent afternoon and not parent evening. Whatever happened to them? I know nowadays that teachers have a lot on their plates but 4-6pm was a strange window in which to try to talk to 8 of them and there was a lot of rushing about up and downstairs and queuing with other parents and carers for a couple of minutes to discuss 2 years’ work and upcoming exams. She is in 4th year at high school (9th grade for US readers, year 10 for English, I think).
Overall, Vee got a really good report.
In German, which she has been doing now since 2nd year (7th Grade/Year 8) she is doing really well and her teacher hopes that she will continue with the language next year. She is expected to get high marks in her exams and the teacher plans to either take them to a university language department or have someone from one come in to talk to them about further study.
In Music, again Vee is doing very well. In her first choice of instrument – Voice (singing) she is making excellent progress but needs to get as confident in her musical theatre singing as her more contemporary and pop/ rock singing. In her 2nd instrument – Xylophone – again she is doing really well and has been encouraged to practice tunes and look at inventing/ composing on the keyboard that she has at home. Her teacher is really pleased with her – she is in the school choir and was successful in her audition for the talent show. The teacher is giving all students 3 CDs of music they have to be familiar with for the exams including Scottish folk music, jazz and world music. She also suggested a book that Vee could study from and spoke about good courses at college where Vee could study music and drama before going to university.
In History, another a great report. Vee has to remember that exam marks are awarded for points made not wealth of information, which although makes the points and more, could lose her time in an exam and mean she might not finish. They are going to start revising the whole course so far and will be looking at past exam papers to help with this.
In Maths, Vee is doing well but making silly mistakes so her teacher made an appointment for her to meet with her to look at her most recent essay. This young female teacher is very supportive and is also Vee’s Academic Mentor and is keen for her to do well. She offered to download past papers and work with Vee on study sessions. She gives the class an end of topic essay to do and if it is not neat or well presented she has no hesitation n making them do it again.
In Art, Vee is doing really well. This summer 75 students took the Art exam and only 5 got top marks but 4 were with this teacher. He fully expects Vee to be up there next year. He told us about the design unit they have been doing and the work using computer software. He spoke of what the pre-lim (practice exam this winter) will entail – a still-life observational drawing – and also gave us information on which artists (Georgia O’Keeffe and Samuel Peploe) that they have to do their second essay on. He also spoke of how 4th year students have to learn to deconstruct art and what elements they will be marked on.
In Chemistry, the teacher was a bit under pressure with a large queue but in a short space of time managed to convey to me how delighted she was with Vee, how Vee has been interested in Chemistry since they did “CSI” style project in 1st year and that she is very confident that she will do well in exams. She spoke about study support classes she was running in preparation for exams that Vee doesn’t need to come to as she is doing so well but would be welcome at.
Contrast this first with Physics. The teacher couldn’t find Vee’s notes despite her being the only girl in that class and her name being near the top of the register. He didn’t have a mark for her last exam but couldn’t explain why. He only seemed concerned about exam passes and didn’t volunteer any information as to what they had been doing in class. It comes as no surprise that Vee tells me they did very little practical experiments and that most of class time is spent copying down notation. She intends to drop Physics at the end of 4th year and I feel that it has turned out to be a big waste of her time and our efforts last year in fighting for her to be able to do 2 science subjects. I got the distinct feeling that this teacher was counting time until retirement.

And English! Another pen pusher and bean counter who was only interested in getting them pass marks in exams – anyone who has seen season 4 of “The Wire” will understand what I mean! A younger man but all he seemed to care about was his marks and that he looked good for the minimum of effort. This was the one who I argued with over taking Vee to see director Ken Loach give a talk after a showing of the film “Kes” which they studied as a play, only for the teacher to tell me that was “last year” (funny – her History teacher is revising Changing Life In Scotland and WW1 which they also did “last year”!). He made no connection between me commenting on how the 3 texts they had covered (the aforementioned ”Kes”, Louis Sachurs’s “Holes” and “The Lord Of The Flies”) all focussed on teenage boys. I asked which of these texts would be examined in the pre-lim for him to tell me that he had been concentrating on them writing a one-size-fits-all “personal experience” essay to give them a pass. He mentioned that they also had the option of writing a short story but “we don’t really expect that of them” – this is the top stream 4th year English class – and was surprised to learn that Vee writes short stories and “fan-fic” at home. As a would-be writer myself I am utterly horrified at this and also that when asked what texts they might study in 5th year, he could not give me an answer.
Yes, I appreciate that subjects are not taught as they were when I was at high school 25+ years ago but if they still do calculus in Maths and WW1 in History, why not Shakespeare and creative writing in English?
I spoke to Vee’s “Pastoral care Teacher” (what we old ones used to call a Guidance teacher) with my concerns and she has promised to get back to me.
But honestly, I am regretting our decision to have let Vee go to the local “academy” where most young people come out few qualifications with her primary school friends and not pushed instead to get her into a more academic school or one where we could have had help with bursaries or scholarships. She is a very bright kid and I feel she isn’t being stretched. Fortunately we know that at college she can make up for wasted time - she is at the younger end of her year in terms of age and even doing 6th year will still leave at 17 ½ and be able to do one or two years of college before going onto university to do drama, which thanks to the classes she goes to at Platform and with the National Youth Theatre where she can study plays like “Cyrano de Bergerac”.
I’m just glad I have a daughter who has the brains and enthusiasm to do this. I really feel for the young people and parents for whom these years at school are an even bigger waste of time from which they will get no skills to help them go onto further study or work. If this is modern education, heavens help us! x

Script-tease 3 ish

I haven't submitted this yet - it's not due in or 2 weeks. In this, Blue's ex Andy meets her new lover Sam for the first time.
_______________________________________________________

INT: BLUE’S FLAT – LIVINGROOM

SAM is sitting on the couch, relaxed and comfortable. BLUE is agitated, nervously pacing back and forth, chewing on her nails.

BLUE
What time is it now?

SAM
The same time it was when you last asked. Five past eight.

BLUE
He’s no’ coming. He’s never late.

SAM
Give the guy a chance. He’ll have had a lot on his plate, what with the appeal and being paroled so quickly.

(pats the couch)
Sit down, love. He’ll be here when he’s here.

BLUE
(stops pacing but still stands)
Something’s up. I can feel it.

SAM
All that’s up is you fretting, my darling. Come here.

BLUE
How can you be so cool?

SAM
Because one of us needs to be.

BLUE
Aren’t you nervous?

SAM
What do I have to be nervous about? My lover’s ex-husband, newly released from prison, coming to meet me for the first time.
(chuckles)
I’m cool.

BLUE picks up a cushion from the back of the sofa and swats him gently with it.

BLUE
Be serious for once.

SAM
I am. It’ll be fine.

The DOORBELL rings.
BLUE rushes to answer.
BLUE opens the door.
ANDY is standing out on the landing and shuffles his feet on the doormat.

ANDY
Hi Blue.

BLUE
Hi Andy. Come away in. Here – give me your coat.

ANDY shrugs of his jacket.
BLUE takes it and hangs it on a peg next to the door with other coats and jackets.

SAM stands up, hand extended.
SAM
Hello Andy. I’m Sam. Sam Eastman.

ANDY
(ignoring the handshake)
Aye.

BLUE
Have a seat Andy.
(gestures to the armchair at right angles to the couch)

ANDY sits down on the edge of the chair.

BLUE
Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea maybe?

ANDY
Naw, lass. Ah’m fine.

BLUE sits down on the couch, next to SAM.

BLUE
So...


ANDY
So.

BLUE
Are you settled in?

ANDY
Aye.

BLUE
How is your mum? Looking after you?

ANDY
Aye. She reckons I should be with you.

BLUE
Well that’s not possible is it? Not right away, anyhow.

SAM
No.

ANDY looks at SAM, draws him a look.

BLUE
You see. That’s why we asked you over.

ANDY
We?

SAM looks to BLUE, takes her hand in his.

BLUE
Yes. We. We were wondering if...

ANDY
If what, Blue?

BLUE
Well, seeing as you and Siobhan have been getting on better recently. Her writing and phoning you. Visits and such.

ANDY
Vonnie. Aye.

BLUE
Well, she suggested that maybe you could...well...stay here. While she’s at college.

ANDY
Yeah, we’ve talked about her going tae college. And uni. Music. Aye.

BLUE
And Dad’s not an issue.

ANDY
I like Hughie. Him and me get oan.
(looks over at Sam)

BLUE
Nicky’s going to look in on him more. Got him a carer. More a home help, really.

ANDY
And this is because...

BLUE looks at SAM, then back at Andy.

BLUE
So I...I... Shit...Andy...

ANDY
So you (looks straight at BLUE) can swan off with your fancy man.
And so you pal...
(looks straight at SAM)
...so you can get your hole.

SAM lets go BLUE’s hand and stands up quickly, taking a step towards ANDY
BLUE/ SAM
(together)
Andy, for goodness sake!/ What the hell does that mean?

ANDY is struggling to keep a straight face. Fails.

ANDY
Haw haw. Ho ho.

SAM looks to BLUE, then ANDY.

ANDY
Your face is a pure picture big man.

SAM
I don’t understand.

BLUE
(to SAM)
It’s OK love.
(to ANDY)
You’re a fuckin’ comedian you are.

ANDY
Sorry. I couldnae resist.

ANDY gets up from the chair, walks round to SAM and extends his hand.

ANDY
Vonnie put me up to it. A joke, like.

SAM, still puzzled, shakes ANDY’s hand.

SAM
You’re not…

ANDY
Mad? Not at all, pal. Not at all.

ANDY claps SAM on the shoulder.

ANDY
Truth be told, I’m delighted. For you both. Vonnie says you’re a smashin’ fella.

BLUE
High praise from her.

ANDY
And you...
(reaches out to BLUE)
...it makes me glad to see you smiling again.
(to SAM)
Good work, pal.
(moves towards the kitchenette)
So, who fancies a cuppa?

SAM, still puzzled, and BLUE sit back down on the couch.
SAM goes to speak…

BLUE
Never mind, love. Never mind.

(c) Jeanne Andrew 2011

Script-tease 2

Here is a second script I wrote for my class. I didn't present it to class for reasons that will be obvious but my tutor read it. In this one, Blue is talking to her new lover about her past.
_____________________________________________________________

INT. SAM’s bedroom Sunday, early morning.

SAM and BLUE are lying on SAM’s bed, naked under a duvet. BLUE is lying on her right side, facing away from SAM. SAM is lying spooned into BLUE’s back and legs, his left arm caressing her hair.

SAM
Your hair is lovely, you know? So soft, so beautiful like you.

BLUE
Soft like you, you mean? (laughs)

SAM pretends to take a slight at this remark and playfully swats her bottom through the duvet.

BLUE
Well, you are.

SAM
Why can’t you just take a compliment, without making a joke?

BLUE
Go on then compliment me more.

SAM
(rubs his left arm down from her shoulder and round onto her breast)
Your skin is like velvet. Your breasts are like round, ripening fruit.

BLUE
Yeah, 2 for a pound in Lidl.

SAM moves back slightly and pushes down on BLUE’s left shoulder, so that she is now lying on her back, her breasts exposed.

SAM
And you nipples (bends his head and brushes his lips over her left one)
are like the sweetest, juiciest (licks his tongue over) berries.

BLUE moans softly, then gathers up the duvet to cover her breasts to reinstate her modesty.

SAM
What did you do that for? I had more to tell you.
BLUE
I’m sure that you did.
(chuckles)
Actually, I have some things I want to tell you. About me.

SAM
That I don’t already know. That you smell like (buries his face into the side of her neck) mmm…. melting chocolate.

BLUE
You should know- you make me melt.

SAM
Let me try. (moves his left hand under the duvet)

BLUE
(shimmies her shoulder and head up onto the pillow, pulls up SAM’s hand from under the covers and places it on top of the covers over her breasts)
No. In a while, lover. I need to talk to you.

SAM
(shimmies up to join her on the pillow, pulls her to him)
OK, this sounds serious. What’s on your mind love?

BLUE
You remember I told you I was divorced?

SAM
Yes. Married once before. I have sullied goods.
(Kisses Sam on the side of her jaw).

BLUE
Hey you, focus. And less of the sullied. Well my husband Andy...

SAM
Don’t you mean “ex-husband”?

BLUE
Yes, (emphasis) EX-husband. I told you he had moved away from Glasgow. Well, he’s near Glasgow. In Greenock.

SAM
Green-ock. Sounds like something in darts. “Stand on the green-ocky”. (smiles)

BLUE
(also smiles, then makes a serious face)
What I didn’t say was, he’s in prison. Greenock Prison.

SAM
Any man foolish enough to let you go should be put in prison. For crimes against love. (moves his hand from BLUE’s breast up to gently touch her face)





BLUE
(moving her cheek away from his hand)
Don’t. He was sentenced in 2007. He got mixed up in what he thought was a “get-rich-quick” scheme and was caught. They gave him 14 years for possession and the intention to deal and supply.

SAM
Heroin was it?

BLUE
And coke. And ecstacy. Lots.

SAM
Blimey. Still, 14 years, that’s a bit steep.

BLUE
Well, he had been in prison before.

SAM
Oh.
(leans up on his left elbow, his gaze intent on BLUE)

BLUE
Yes. Just after Siobhan was born. For aggravated assault.

SAM
Like GBH?

BLUE nods.

SAM
Wow, that’s heavy. What did he do? It wasn’t against you was it?

BLUE
No, oh no. He didn’t do anything.

SAM
What? He was wrongly convicted? How could that be? Didn’t you…

BLUE
He was covering for me.

SAM
You? What do you mean? I don’t understand.

BLUE
You know how I told you I don’t drink?
(SAM nods)
Well, I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for 7 years. In the old days, I used to drink a lot. We all did. Anyway, we had these friends. Well, not friends really, more partners in drink.

SAM
Oh.

BLUE
Brian and Aileen Ferry. We used to go to the pub, get hammered, go dancing. That is, if we weren’t knocked back by the bouncers.

SAM
Haven’t we all?

BLUE
Not like this. We were stupid. Anyway, one night, we got a taxi back to ours after. We had a few more drinks. Aileen was drowsy, went to lie down in our spare room. I think at some point Andy went to bed in ours. I nodded off too.

SAM
Been there, been there.

BLUE
The next thing I knew, I was aware of a hand touching my breast. The smell of lager in my face. Heavy breathing.
(puts her hand up to her face, remembering)
I realised my skirt was pulled up. Brian was between my legs, trying to, trying to...

SAM
My god. He was…

BLUE
Yes. I sat up. Pushed him away, pulled my skirt back down. He grabbed my arms. Shoved me hard, back into the couch, forcing me knees apart again.

INT: The living room of ANDY and BLUE’s old flat. The early hours of a Sunday morning, 1995.

BRIAN is leaning hard into BLUE, grinding against her.
BLUE
Get of me Brian. Get off. Please.

BRIAN
Come on now, hen. You know you want it. You know you want me.

BLUE
Brian, please. I’m pregnant.

BRIAN
The baby’ll no’ mind. I fucked Aileen all the time when she was pregnant with our two. Lassies like it.

BLUE
Not me Brian. I don’t. Stop. Please. Andy…



BRIAN
Andy is passed out. He’ll no’ bother us. And he can have Aileen after. If he has a mind tae.

BLUE struggles under his weight.

BLUE
Brian. Stop. Now. Get off of me. You’re hurting me.

BRIAN
It’ll be OK. Nearly done. Relax.

BLUE
(louder) Brian. Get off. Stop this.

BLUE tries to push herself up and BRIAN off of her. BRIAN shoves her back, holding her down with one arm, slaps BLUE hard across the mouth, drawing blood.

BRIAN
Haud the fuck still woman.

BLUE breaks an arm free, reaches around to find something, knocking over a lamp. Her hand grabs a heavy marble ornament. She brings it crashing down on BRIAN’s head. And again. He rolls, off, looking up at her.

BRIAN
Ya fucking bitch. I’ll fucking kill you. And your baby.

BLUE pushes herself up, raises her arm, and brings the ornament crashing down into BRIAN’s face. And again. She raises her arm again. ANDY rushes in.

ANDY
Blue. Blue. For fuck’s sake…


INT: Sam’s bedroom. Sunday, early morning.

BLUE is crying.

SAM
Jesus.

BLUE
Andy decided right there. He was going to tell the cops he did it. Came in and found Brian on me. I didn’t want him to but he said no. It’d be for the best, what with the baby and my dad being ill at the time. We were so scared. I thought I was going to lose the baby.


SAM
Come here love. (pulls BLUE close, holds her in his arms)


BLUE
He went to prison. For 4 years. Did the time with no complaint. We tried to make it work after he came home. But it was there, it was always there.

SAM
It’s OK, it’s OK.

BLUE
I still care about him, Sam. I can’t stop caring. I just…I just wanted you to know.

SAM
I understand, love.

BLUE
You do?

SAM
Blue, it’s OK.

BLUE
I think..I think I could love you Sam Eastman.


SAM
Good. So love me now.

And BLUE does.

(c) Jeanne Andrew 2011

Script-tease 1

I may be overstepping the mark here but I want to share the scripts I am writing for my class. To give you a bit of background - Blue is the type of woman who does for others, looking after her teenage daughter and her elderly father. Her ex-husband is in jail for a second time. Then she meets someone who might care for her. Here, she discusses the new relationship with her best friend.
_______________________________________________________
INT COFFEE SHOP, FRIDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

BLUE is sitting at a table, cup of coffee going cold in her hand but not drinking it, staring off into space.
Her friend LEE enters the café laden with shopping bags, walks straight up to the table where BLUE is sitting, pulls out the chair opposite, places her bags on an empty chair and plonks herself down.

LEE (out of breath)
So, what’s so urgent that it can’t wait til us meeting up tomorrow? And that you couldn’t discuss over the phone?

BLUE
Sorry love. I just had to talk to you face to face. Ask your opinion about something.

LEE (concerned)
Is it Hughie? What’s that daft old sod gone and done now? Oh my god.

BLUE
No, no nothing like that. Dad’s fine. And so is Siobhan. I just needed to ask your (pauses) advice…

LEE (laughs)
What on earth can the world’s most organised and grounded woman possibly need advice from me on?

LEE waves over a WAITRESS.
LEE
A double expresso and some cold milk for me. In a wee jug. A refill, Blue?

BLUE
No nothing for me thanks. I just need to ask you something. I went to see Andy…

LEE snorts.

LEE
Don’t tell me you’re still carrying a torch for him. What’s he said? I swear…

BLUE
No, no. It’s not like that. It’s just (pause) when I went to see him last time, I felt so…guilty.

LEE
What have you got to feel guilty about? The way you still run after that scunner. After what he did, the stupid fucker, leaving you and Siobhan in the lurch. Again.

BLUE
Lee, I still care about him. You know that. What he did, it doesn’t change that. And he’s a good friend to me still.

LEE harrumphs.
BLUE (cont.)
He cares about Siobhan. And me. In his own way.

The WAITRESS brings over Lee’s coffee and milk on a tray.

LEE (to WAITRESS)
Thanks pet.
(to BLUE)
If he had given a damn about you two, he’d have…

BLUE lets out a sigh – she’s heard it all before.

BLUE
Listen to me Lee. I don’t know what to do. I’ve sort of…met someone else.

LEE
What do you mean”sort of?” (leans forward) Do tell. (salacious wink)

BLUE
You remember the guy from Head Office I told you about?

LEE
Sam, wasn’t it? You said he was a pain in the arse.

BLUE
Yes. I mean no. I mean, I though he would be but he was really helpful. Anyway, some of the girls had a wee going away do for him.

LEE
I thought you never went out with people from work. Bunch of boozebags you said. And you being sober for 7 years…

BLUE
I wanted to go. He was really nice. And we got talking. And…
(LEE leans closer in, almost right across the table to BLUE, pushing her expresso cup to one side.

LEE
And…

BLUE
He came back to the flat with me afterwards. Siobhan was staying over at Dad’s.

LEE
And…?


BLUE
And…

LEE (loudly)
Never! You never did!

BLUE
Shush. Shush. Yes, I did. (laughs) Three times.

LEE
Three times? Bloody hell Blue.

BLUE
(quietly) So, what do I tell Andy?

LEE
Nothing. That’s what you tell him. Not a damn thing.

BLUE
But he has to know. It’s only fair.

LEE
Look, the divorce was his idea. You both decided it was for the best. Especially with him going back to the garage like that, so soon after last time.

BLUE
But I owe him Lee. What he did for me…

LEE
..was only right. You sticking up for him all that time. He did what any man would have. It was easier for him. You couldn’t have taken the rap for that. Not with you still pregnant. And Hughie being ill. What would it have done to him?
(pauses)
Andy stepped up. He did the time.
BLUE
I know. I know. I feel, I just feel…

LEE
What you feel is only natural. After what that bastard Ferry did to you. Andy said himself, if he’s got to him first, he’d have killed him.

BLUE
I suppose…

LEE
He did the time for you. And you looked after him. Still do. That he’s back in now is his own stupid fault. Getting mixed up in drugs. He knew the risks.

BLUE
How do I tell him? What do I say?


LEE
What is there to tell? You’ve been with this guy…

BLUE
Sam.

LEE
Sam. What, once?

BLUE
Twice. He came back up last weekend. He’s asked me to go down next week.

LEE
Down where? If you’ve done it four times, I thought you’d have done THAT by now.

BLUE
(smiles) No. I mean down to where he lives. Leeds.

LEE
So what’s the problem?

BLUE
It’s Dad. He has been acting funny. Being really forgetful

LEE
So get that useless twat of a sister of yours to pull her finger out. High time she did her bit. Instead of leaving it all to you.


BLUE
I suppose so. (Takes a sip of her now cold coffee). Yuck. I’m going up for another. Want anything?

LEE Sure, get me one. And a bit of chocolate cake. I need cake.

BLUE gets up and walks to the counter.

LEE (to herself)
Bloody good for you love. About fucking time.

(c) Jeanne Andrew 2011

Scots Wa Hae Over Scots Wa-Hey.

I’m Scottish. I was born in a seaside town and raised for the most part in another close by on the banks of the River Clyde and known for its shipbuilding. My parents and their families are all from Scotland, most from the west coast but some from the Borders and great grandparents who hail from Yorkshire and Spain. My partner is from Glasgow and our daughter was born here. I have always lived in either Clydebank or Glasgow, apart from 3 years spent in a wee village in the Lothians (I can still hear the banjos a-strummin’!)
I feel that there is a lot to be proud of in being Scottish. I think that the hard-bitten, weather beaten and doggedly determined character that we Scots have makes us a very specific kind of people – hard-working, innovative, darkly humorous and with a grace in defeat which certainly comes handy for our sportsmen and women.
Sure, there are some very bad things about us. We have a terrible tendency towards excess especially where there is alcohol involved and we also veer towards unforgivable fighting and violence, most often towards those we should be protecting i.e. our families and friends but also historically at the forefront of colonialism. Grinding other cultures under our heels and enslaving and trading other human beings made the fortunes of our great cities. We can sometimes be a bit too subservient and “fore-lock tugging” towards others we see as our “betters” while at the polar opposite being fierce defenders of justice and the cause of the individual. We can sometimes be a wee bit smart for our own good, doggedly pursuing pointless endeavours rather than admitting we are wrong. And sadly we have atrocious records in terms of health, deprivation, illness, early death and other societal ills.
At the moment however and certainly in political terms there is a great deal in our favour. We have always been a people with a strong working class ethic who certainly lean far more left than centre and solidly reject the Conservatism that has its hold again down south. We have a system that allows free prescriptions to all, free tuition to all young people (and not the so young) heading into further and higher education and we provide free care to our elderly in their declining years. As an Anarchist, I see no country and cannot support independence but can weigh its attractions in making us more locally centred and less of a part of the bigger hole that Cameron and his ilk have the united “kingdoms” racing toward.
It’s a land of great beauty in its rolling hills and glens, it’s stark and majestic mountains, fast flowing rivers and rugged coastline. Where else can you move from driving rain and howling wind to rainbows and sunshine in the space of a few hours?
We have a heritage of and are home to great artists, innovators, scientists, musicians, actors, writers and comedians who are loved and celebrated the world over.
So why oh why oh why is the image of one particular kind of Scot endemic? I am talking about a man in a kilt. This was prompted by yet another discussion between myself in one corner and others who find such an image so very, very sexy. Sexy? Are you kidding? The modern kilt as worn by the likes of Ewan “Paedo Polanski Pal” McGregor
and just about every bloody husband-to-be and his gaggle of groomsmen (and pretty much every other man in the wedding party it seems) who think that donning what is little more than a woman’s skirt suddenly makes you attractive. No, it makes you look like a man in a dress, more Moira Anderson than Connor MacLeod (of the Clan MacLeod). Our forebears didn’t wear anything like this over-romanticised Victorian invention – they may have wrapped themselves up in a length of woven plaid, dyed with the plants that grew on the wild mountainsides but this would have been over leggings or trews to keep warm like a cape or portable sleeping bag. Is a man in a tartan slanket or a picnic blanket sexy? No!
This is made worse when coupled with those flouncy “Jacobean” shirts and the romantic image of the “Highlander” as seen on the covers of American romance novels. Don’t make me laugh – chiselled jawed Adonises (Adoni-i?) with streams of flowing Titian locks and sapphire blue eyes staring out from tanned faces? More likely a big baw-faced farmer type in wellies, the cauliflower eared, broken nosed, large-thighed rugby “hunk” or the more common wee whippet faced man-child in a white tracksuit, walking and grimacing as if perpetually holding in a shite.
Name me a famously good-looking Scot? Apart from Sean Connery.
Yes? Yes? Okay, maybe Kevin McKidd
. Or at a push Gerry Butler or Jim McAvoy. But that’s about it. So get rid of your fancy notions of being swept up by a charming chieftain. You’re less likely to have Rabbie B and more Rab C.
Now, Scottish women on the other hand…x

Hallow'een Costume Sorted

Tonight Matthew I'm mostly going to be Bennett Halverson.
My attempts at modern dance have left me with what seems to be an injury to my bicep tendon in my right arm.
So I have a Tubigrip bandage from shoulder to lower arm and a sexy sling so that I can rest my arm and not twist it.
I am also off my tits on NSAIDS.
Sadly, no writing and this is it for the blog for now xxx

Eyes

I saw some patterns on the window of a bus yesterday and with those in mind I drew this.

Mother Said I Was A Dancer Before I Could Walk…

Any of you who have followed this blog will know that isn’t strictly true. However, one of the things I remember from early on in my childhood was my mum meeting me once a week after school and taking me to dancing lessons in an old hall on the former site of the Singer sewing machine factory in the town I grew up in, Clydebank. I recall having a wee blue vanity case – a round bag with rigid sides and a mirror in the lid – wherein I carried my leotard, wrap-around cardigan, ballet pumps and tap shoes. I did ballet and tap (no surprises there) and also modern dance, which I seem to remember culminated in one show where, dressed in football kit, we dribbled footballs around the stage to the tune of “Fitba’ Crazy” and I got so caught up in the moment that at the end I kicked my ball right out into the audience. I don’t have many other strong memories but I do recall being extremely nonplussed at being moved from the class of girls of my own age (six or seven I think) to a class of older girls because I was much taller than the petite little fairies in mine. I remember making the emphatic decision from which I would not be swayed that my dancing days were over when, after an end-of term-show, I stood backstage in my tutu holding the roll of fruit sweets we had been given as a prize, watching my former classmates being given a small bouquet of flowers on stage for their darling little performance. My mother realised then that I would never be the “little girl” she seemed to crave.
Although I loved watching all the musicals shown on what always seemed to be rainy Saturday afternoons, marvelling at the likes of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Gene Kelly with Cyd Charisse,
I didn’t dance again until I was in primary 7 (aged 11) when we were taught “Scottish Country Dancing” for our end of year dance (a tradition that strangely enough seemed to last, as Vee did the same in her final year before going to high school). I really got into it – dances with names like The Military Two-Step, The Dashing White Sergeant, the Canadian Barn Dance, Strip The Willow (which sounds like something from The Wicker Man) and my own favourite, mostly for the name – The Gay Gordons (named I believe, as so many dances were, for the Regiment of Gordon Highlanders). We had our dance but again my hopes were dashed when, during an “elimination dance” after getting down to the final 3 couples, my partner and then “boyfriend” in as much as you can have one at that young age, one Scott Riddell (and “Ridd-ell” mind, not “Riddle”) and his recent detention caused us to have to leave the floor. You won’t be surprised to learn that he was given the elbow shortly after. I fared better at the disco, which my teacher, the wonderful Mrs. Farmer, had organised as an additional treat for us in the upstairs function suite of a local pub (imagine the excitement of a group of 30 pre-teens going into a PUB!) where I remember having no shortage of dance-partners including a lad called Kevin who shimmied close to me in his shirt, by then somehow open to his navel. I think this had more to do with the fact that I was wearing an off the shoulder white gypsy-style top WITH NO BRA and not my dancing skills. I also remember one poor girl called Aileen Keys (known as Concorde Keys, on account of her large pointy nose) turning up wearing a lovely blue glittery blouse, only for it to turn almost transparent under the disco lights, showing her white sensible vest underneath.
The 1980s weren’t much of a time for dancing – the only important one you had to know was how to do that slow march forward, arms raised, first left, then right to cross at the wrists as demonstrated by Diana Dors (her 2nd mention in my blogging) to Adam and the Ants’ “Prince Charming”.
By the middle of the decade, dancing was something you did almost self-consciously, shuffling your feet from side to side while looking nonchalantly around like the girls from The Human League. I do remember being slightly more animated on the night met my first proper boyfriend, one Andrew Graham Hussey when we danced to “Perfect Skin” by Lloyd Cole and the Commotions.
My partner Gee has never been much of a dancer – our most recent turn about the dance floor was at a wedding reception last year where we jigged about to “our song” – “Fairytale Of New York” by Kirsty MacColl and the Pogues (a strange choice maybe but it means a lot to us!) and, for some strange reason, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham! But that will probably be him for another 20-odd years.
So, in the 1990s it was down to our mate Graeme Nelson (from the exotic town of St. Helens, near Liverpool) to be my dance partner at several ska/ reggae nights in the Maryhill Community Halls in aid of Anti-Apartheid. Gee was more than happy to sit sipping Red Stripe lager (which you couldn’t buy as the venue didn’t have a license but came free with the purchase of a leaflet about the African National Congress) while Graeme and I did what we jokingly called our “dirty dancing” to the likes of Jimmy Cliff or Prince Buster. One of my colleagues from the vegan café where I worked at the time, Isobel, asked me if Gee minded us dancing like that, to which I sent her off with a flea in her ear. Graeme was a close mate (we did have a snog once though when we were rather tiddly outside the Halt on Woodlands Road for a laugh) but we were just happy to have someone else who liked to dance.
So why the history of my life in dance? Well, tonight I’m off to a second workshop with choreographer Christine Devaney from performance group Curious Seed who is trying to get a group of 3 teenager, a drama teacher in her 20s, 3 over 40’s and a woman in her 60s to perform a companion piece to her company’s show “Push” which will be on next year. I only hope I don’t fall like I did last time. Just don’t tell me to break a leg x

Angry Old Woman

I apologise for not having blogged these past days.
I have had a stinking head cold where I have been coughing like an asthmatic donkey, my voice had made me croak like a emphysemic past her sell by date hooker and I was producing snot and mucus with the consistency and volume of a day’s run in a PVA glue factory.
Add to that my certainty that my T4 cells are back over-producing. Sadly this does not mean I can morph into a sexy Terminator and cause my hands and arms to melt into large metallic knives to help me chop carrots into batons. Or into blades that I can sever limbs with, as you'll see later!
No, the symptoms are things like despite me having been fitted with a Mirena coil a few years ago, I have had severe cramps and bleeding. Add to that my already weakened bladder which went into overdrive every time I had a coughing fit that would have had John Hurt as Caligula calling for my head (do you know that that particular episode of “I, Claudius” where the Roman guard takes the extreme route of cough management haunted my nightmares for years and to this day makes me shudder?) and you can imagine by the weekend there I had gone through most of my knickers, leaving me in the washed out Granny pants that most women keep at the back of the drawer.
I also have an unquenchable and yes, I admit it, I do chug juice from the carton on the fridge door. My appetite has been OK – before diagnosis I was like some refugee from a stoner movie, eating packet after packet of crisps and biscuits. Luckily back then I was also losing weight so that wasn’t a problem and this time forearmed with the knowledge I’m just eating maybe a second helping of the more nutritious dinners I now make.
The very worst symptom for me and unfortunately for those around me is that I develop a really short fuse, brought on by the frustration not only of my brain racing and not being able to speak coherently (and having a low tolerance threshold for certain family members who call it my Porky Pig moments where I stumble and stutter) but then my normally mild-mannered self who if I were to drop something would sigh and perhaps say “Oh dear” instead launches a tirade of such verbal vulgarity it would have Brian Blessed sobbing like a girl (if you haven’t seen him swearing on Stephen Fry’s new series “Fry’s Planet World – the Uses and Abuses 3rd episode http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b01614w9/Frys_Planet_Word_Uses_and_Abuses/). I hate feeling like this and it isn’t helped buy the lack of co-ordination I feel.
It also seems to exacerbate my ME and Fibromyalgia symptoms, meaning that even the shortest amount of typing like now has my fingers aching and throbbing. If I try to use the miniscule keyboard on my iPod it’s even worse – anyone reading my Tweets over the weekend will have been subject to my outpourings of “live” – why are the 2 most commonly used vowels so close together on a Qwerty set-up?
Thankfully I know what is wrong with me and so in anticipation of a visit to the hospital on Wednesday of this week and an emergency appointment with my own GP last week to try upping my meds to try to alleviate symptoms.
The worst thing of course has been me not being able to write – not only physically but my brain is so full of pus and bile that I haven’t even given thought to writing. I’m off to my class tonight so hopefully that will help me get back into the swing of it. And blogging this disgusting diatribe has helped I think. So please forgive me dear reader for neglecting my blogging and also for perhaps making you wish you’d had breakfast first before reading this xxx

Pre-marital Sex Is Dangerous

That sounds like the title of a 1950s public information film. But on our walk through the park this morning, V told me this was actually the essay title given to her class by their RE teacher which they have to write in class today.
As you can imagine I was shocked and outraged, as was she. Thankfully, I have raised a confident and strident young woman and she told me she fully intended to begin her essay with the words” No it isn’t”. She told me that she believes that you should be able to have sex if you aren’t married at any age over 16 and it’s OK to decide not to ever get married. She said “What if a person didn’t want to get married until they were say, 25? Does that mean they don’t have sex until then?” I could see that she was perturbed and certainly righteously peeved. And so was I.
As a parent to a 14 year old I hope that I have given her enough of the right information at the right time. I believe that young people should not only be able to discuss sex and sexuality with their parents but that it should also be taught in schools and I fully support sex education being taught appropriately from an early age. I believe that at 14 going on 15 (and in the case of some of her classmates, 15 going on 16 – cue for a song) they should by now have been taught the risks of under-age sex – not only pregnancy and emotional and physical immaturity but also sexually transmitted diseases including HIV but also pertinently chlamydia and gonorrhoea, which is according to reports today on the rise and growing resistant to current treatments. I certainly don’t think that it’s the place of an RE teacher (don’t get me started on whether children and young people should even be taught Religious Education in the first place) to be stamping his morals onto my daughter and her peers.
So when I got home I phoned the school and asked to speak to what they now call her Pastoral Support teacher (in my day it was Guidance – Pastoral Support sounds to me like they should be frolicking in milkmaids’ costumes and yokels’ smocks, chewing on a piece of straw and going “ooh-aar”!). To her credit, the teacher was taken aback when I told her the title of the essay. Not that she disagreed with me but so that she could speak to the RE teacher, she asked why I was questioning it and I told her that as an unmarried mother (I do live with V’s dad G and we have been together for 25 years – we made a conscious decision not to get married as neither of us believe that a piece of paper makes our relationship any more valid) I strongly disagree with the notion of “pre-marital sex” and the implication that sex should be confined to marriage and also that I thought there are far more important topics that should be being discussed with this class.
The PS teacher did remark that this RE teacher has been known to make provocative remarks to get a reaction and start a debate but I told her I was worried that although my V is aware of that, some of her peers may not be. She assure me that she would speak to the RE teacher and then to V so I will wait til V’s home to see what happened.
During the same conversation it V told me that she didn’t see the point of girls having to learn to put on a condom and I replied that it is most certainly your responsibility as a woman to see that it is done and done properly. When I started talking about how it can be incorporated into lovemaking I could see her getting a tad uncomfortable – I don’t think she has contemplated the idea that her pin-ups Taylor Lautner and Alex Pettyfer even have penises. So I’m now planning to head up to the Sandyford East clinic and nab a few free condoms before heading into Asda to pick up a banana, a courgette and a cucumber. Unlike my mother, whose response to my questions was to buy me a copy of Playgirl (where I was more shocked that John Travolta said “fuck” in an interview than the flaccid penises on display) and to ask me on the top deck of a bus if I masturbated. Not on the top deck of a bus, I replied. She also gave me Linda Lovelace’s “autobiography” (written for her by her exploitative management) and books by that great writer of erotic fiction, Jackie Collins. It’s amazing that I wasn’t put off for life, never mind managed to have a teenager of my own. Oh the joys x

Fannying About

On my way to uni the other night, I picked up a copy of the Metro free newspaper and saw an article entitled “Sexual Healing” by Vicki-Marie Cossar about a man called Mike Lousada (or was it Mike Litoris?) who offers “hope to women who are pre-orgasmic and those who want to overcome sexual abuse issues”. Now alarm bells went off right away – “pre-orgasmic” I thought just means prior to an orgasm and anyone who has suffered sexual abuse needs a great deal of support and counselling.
Basically the article described how Mike, described as a sex therapist, Tantric practitioner and “orgasm guru” jills you off under the guise of “healing”. For £100 an hour in multiple sessions lasting up to 3 hours he will massage your ladybits into waves of ecstasy.
He claims to have trained in “body psychotherapy” which fair enough is a recognised branch of Freudian therapy but also “sexual healing” (under the tutelage of a Dr. M. Gaye no doubt) and “bio-energetics” which is a scientific branch of biochemistry that deals with the making and breaking of chemical bonds at a molecular level – pretty impressive if he can do that to you by fingering your bush.
Which is what he does. Either in a sarong or naked (both of you) he carries out “inter-vaginal massage” in his “home-cum-massage parlour” (with the emphasis firmly on “cum”) where he asks permission of your “yoni” if he may enter!
I read another 3 articles by another 3 female journalists including the feminist author Naomi Wolf who refused Mike’s welcome of an offer of the full Monty and got him to admit “I suppose you could say I’m a prostitute” – no shit! He also says “I don’t generally have intercourse with my clients unless it’s extremely therapeutic” – for whom I may ask?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no issue with this. If women want to pay a guy to bring them to climax in a relaxing and unrushed manner in a safe environment, that’s their business – some studies show that 1% of women have done exactly that. Just don’t dress it up in psychobabble and mumbo-jumbo and try to make it sound all New Age and mystical by “connecting with your inner goddess”.
As I have said before I have dabbled in paganism and alternative therapies. I do use herbs and aromatherapy. I just have a problem with vulnerable people parting with cash for snake oil. I’m also mightily concerned that Mike is apparently trying to negotiate with the NHS to offer his “services” to patients. First of all, I’m totally against any unproved therapies such as homeopathy or chiropractics being recommended to people in place of scientifically proven methods. As part of my ME treatment route I was given a referral to the Glasgow Homoeopathic Hospital (yes, there is one – I’m having to wait months for a referral to the eye hospital for my Grave’s Disease but got an appointment there almost right away) where a man who looked like the Doctor Snuggles spent an hour asking me about my family then concluded my problems stemmed from a chest infection (which I had told him about so it reminded me of cold reading) and sent me away with not only 3 wee packets of powders that I promptly binned but a link to his website. To further add bio-chemical salt to the wound, when contacted by the Department of Work and Pensions regarding my visit to him (I was naively honest in my application for Disability Living Allowance about who I had seen) instead of saying that he had seen me 4 months ago so couldn’t comment on my then current health, he as far as he was concerned on the basis of one consultation told them that I was fine!
I used to work with a woman who made no mention of any special skills during my time with her (where I foolishly covered her ass on a couple of occasions only to have her shaft mine to further her ambitions) but after doing a business-start up course is now marketing herself as a healer and psychic medium via her website. I respect people’s beliefs but in my travels I have come across so many people who are out make a buck from genuinely damaged people. I also believe that if you can truly help people by harnessing the powers of the universe, surely you should offer this in kindness and free of charge or in exchange as it comes freely to you? Why do you never meet a poor mystic? I mean, those crystals and tie-dyes don’t buy themselves.
But back to our guru who funnily enough used to be an investment banker. This shaman (with the emphasis firmly on “sham”) has seen a way to exploit our already thinly stretched and woefully under funded health service at a time while our govern-mentals are trying to sell it off. This will mean that vital resources and funding that should go into the research and treatment of devastating diseases and conditions not only such as cancer and mental illness but ME and Fibromyalgia instead may line the pockets of bullshit shovelers.
Now, excuse me. I’m feeling a wee bit stressed after all this and have an appointment with my Rampant Rabbit, a Barry White CD and a Dominic West poster x

Resources
“ Sexual Healing” by Vickie Marie Cossar (Metro 3/10/11)
“Reclaiming my yoni with the guru of Chalk Farm” by Naomi Wolf (Sunday Times 29/8/10)
“Doctor Feelgood” by Rosie Rouse (Natural Healing magazine May 2011)
“He tickles me and feeds me strawberries but all I can think of is my children - so could a Tantric sex guru really rekindle my middle-aged libido?” by Lucy Cavendish (Daily Mail 13/9/10)

My Darling Daughter Of A Weekday Morning

A Touch Of Class

So on Monday I headed out to my third attempt at doing an evening class. Don’t get me wrong, my first attempt was pretty successful and I completed that course (in Stand-Up Comedy if you don’t know) but the fact that I had to give up my last one (also in Stand-up Comedy but more advanced) only to be thwarted halfway through by (unknown to me at the time) the fun ride into depression and bodyshock that is Grave’s Disease (more brackets – hyperthyroidism) and have to give it up because although I was “on fire” in class (not in actuality but in my wit and mind) when it came to trying to write and remember my routines, it all went tits up.
Therefore it was with some trepidation that I set out on Monday evening after a hearty bowl of my own homemade Green Split Pea and Potato Soup to the first class in Writing For Stage And Screen at Strathclyde University.
Of course, I hadn’t realised that the new and improved me that has her Diseases Under Control was not the same happy wee bunny who trudged her way to class earlier in the year so having set out in what I thought would be ample time to get there, ended up arriving 40 minutes early. I sat in the foyer and read my book until it was time to go up to class.
I had also not checked where in the building my class would be, forgetting that this part of the university, the Graham Hills Building (named for the physical chemist and former Principal and not the racing car driver and father of Damon, which is Hill, no “s”) is Immense! So whereas I had previously entered from North Portland Street and got the lift up, I should have come in from George Street and not ended up wandering corridors seeking directions from the woman in Law Studies who seemed surprised to see me meandering aimlessly through her department. I eventually found the classroom where the tutor and one other student were trying to work the SmartBoard. I took a seat at the front – it always amazes me how grown adults put into a situation where there are rows of desks and chairs will always gravitate towards the back. However, I’m no shrinking violet and have learned over the years that to sit down the front and volunteer to go first get you brownie points (plus mean you can see and hear and can have a wee sleep while others have a turn).
Other students trickled in and we ended up with 5 women and 7 men (I think – I guesstimated the guys) all keen to learn.
Our tutor told us a wee bit about himself including his work on BAFTA nominated short films, his devising of a TV soap and his current project in adapting a book for the big screen and then outlined the course. We are to be given homework assignments each week and by the end should have if not a draft then the seed of a script for a short film or a one act play.
We did some work on character and characterisation, looking at Georges Simenon (father of Paul from the Clash – not really) taking his cue from the sketchbooks of Leonardo Da Vinci and examining the 3 dimensions of character. We then looked at a short film that our tutor had worked on as an example of characters – a funny wee documentary about men who catch and fly (and dye!) feral pigeons.
I left the class with one of the other women and we had a great wee chat about the class and our expectations (she was in media) and a few laughs while getting lost again and expecting to be wandering the halls until next week, before finding the way out and heading our separate ways.
I got a lot out of it and have been inspired to really develop what I had already started writing by doing my homework – a character biography – on my main character. I’ve just submitted it so we’ll see. Once again I feel inspired and feel like I am really being productive again - can’t wait til next week x

It’s All Gone River Song…

It all started so well. I woke up just after 6 and for the first time in a while I actually felt awake and energised. I got up, made myself presentable, had breakfast and got the rest of the tribe sorted. G and I took Rox and walked V through the park on her way to school. While G was out I managed to sort out my folder from my evening class and got the 4 pages of handwritten I had taken typed up and printed off. I had loads of ideas for my homework assignment and found a story in the previous day’s paper that I planned to write about for my blog later that day.
The plan when G got back from his job (he had built of all things a vivarium cabinet for a woman to keep her snake and bearded dragon tanks in and was taking photos and making a few adjustments) was for me to go with him on the bike to his physiotherapist appointment then go together into town for a few things. He was a wee while in with the physio – it turns out his pain is due to his neck and back and not his shoulder – but I had a good book to read and by the time we got out the drizzle had stopped and we headed into the city centre. We parked up in the motorcycle bay in George Square and set off for our messages. First stop was the bank, then G went into the tobacconist to see if they had any cigar boxes (they didn’t so he’s going back later in the week – he picks them up to refurbish) and then to the art supplies store where he got a drawing pad and I picked up some fabric dye to colour a few things I have been meaning to brighten up for a while.
We then went to the piercing studio so that G could get a new earring and I could pick up some new nose studs (I have lost 2 recently – one I dropped while trying to put it in and the other flew across the room when my hand had one of my seratonin spasms). I managed to get a nice one with a small jewel and a ring-style one. We then headed back to the bike (stopping off for a couple if yummy maple and pecan doughnuts) intending to stop off at the supermarket on the way home to pick up a few things.
And the bloody bike wouldn’t start.
The headlights came on and the indicators and panel were working so it wasn’t the battery. We pushed it out onto the road and tried to give it a running push start with G on it and me pushing (not the best combination as I was already feeling a bit sore and tired by then. And the running and pushing made me, let us say delicately, have a bit of exertion weakness – ladies, you know what I mean). It almost started a couple of times but then puttered to a stop. We got it off of the road, had another look and surmised that it must be the starter as everything else is OK. We decided that, in town with no tools, the best bet was to phone the AA (no we hadn’t been driven to drink – yet! I mean the Automobile Association – roadside assistance). We were told it would be about an hour before they could get someone out.
Around this time V phoned to say she was leaving school to head home. I explained we were stranded and she’d have to make her own way (I usually meet her in the park with the dog or at the library). I then discovered she didn’t have her keys (why do we have 4 sets of door keys in our house when I’m the only one who ever uses them?) and by this time, joy oh joy, it had started to rain, so I told her to wait in the greenhouse in our back garden until we got home. G and I decided that, as I was feeling a bit ropey (pushing the bike had just about done me in) we’d both wait for the AA man. The time he was due to arrive came and went so G phoned again and found out the guy had been delayed but was on his way. We thought it best if I went home for V so Gee went to get some change for the bus (he had already gone to get us a sandwich as we had missed lunch, leaving me to fend off a drunk but very well dressed man who was insisting our 1995 Kawasaki was in fact “a classic” from 1976 – G had forgotten to get change then) leaving me with the bike in the rain.
I then headed for the nearest bus stop only to find it fenced off and the sign removed. So I headed for the next one, which had changed since the last time I used it and our buses no longer stopped there. I struggled womanfully on to yet another one, which was quite a walk away. I had on my bike jacket and boot and had my lid in my hand so was ready to fend off any smart-assed comments (did you fall off?) but I must have looked so scunnered that thankfully no one did. I was dying for a seat but all 4 seats were taken up by what I can only describe as the female equivalent of Tweedledum and Tweedledee – two rather portly young women dressed in matching white t-shirts, blue cardis and leggings (it should be illegal for women of a larger build to wear leggings – I’m not being a body fascist, large as I am myself – it just looks like someone has stuffed potatoes into a condom!) with identical rust coloured complexions (think Irn Bru) and tight black hair dragged up into topknot buns and expressions that can only be described in the old Glasgow vernacular as bulldogs chewin’ a wasp. Too tired to argue, I leaned against the shelter and they got the next bus so I grabbed a seat. The bus after that would have taken me home but flew past without stopping as it was full. I managed to get on the next one and headed home.
Tired and sore, I retrieved V from a kindly neighbour who had taken her in and even managed to make a pretty decent lentil lasagne from scratch before G arrived with the bike on a transporter before collapsing into a haze of a cocktail of cider and co-codamol.
Today can only be a better one x

Singin’ In The Rain

This is not only one of my all-time favourite films, evocative of sitting curled up on the settee of a Sunday afternoon and also with one of the cleverest dance routines on film (although I do have a soft spot for the Morecambe and Wise parody where Eric is the poor cop who gets soaked while Ernie as Gene stays dry) it pretty much sums up my attitude to the weather.
I’ve lived in Scotland all of my life and to be honest given the choice, freedom and means I don’t think I’d live anywhere else. I love the fact that we have an island and maritime climate, which means we have all the flavours and hues of weather. And I do admit, I’m not a big fan of persistent hot and sunny weather – I’d much rather be able to dry off and feel all cosy than be sweltering.
Obviously as a gardener I welcome the rain. It makes my vegetables grow (and the grass if the jungle out the back is anything to go by). I have one large rain barrel set up and I’m planning another. I like to be able to go out in my garden or the local park and smell the lushness and greenery around.
I’m also a nutter who likes walking in the rain. I am one of those deranged people who claim that there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing. I like to put on my green flowery wellies and Drizabone drover’s coat, grab my see-through plastic brolly with the goldfish on it and head out to stomp in puddles. Yes, I’m 44 and I still like to have a skiddle like a big kid.
Some of my happiest memories involve rain. A few years ago when I dabbled in druidry and pondered paganism rain used to be a big part of my celebrations. A friend and I (sadly we have now parted company) would go out in the rainy dark and wander through acres of trees to greet the sunrise only to have the rain magically (for us anyway) stop and for birds to sing just at the right moment. We would set up camp in the hills overlooking my old hometown and dance barefoot in the wet grass without a care in the world. I remember one occasion when we were with a group of druids in their grove of trees having a ritual and during the ceremony the heavens opened. My friend and I plus my daughter, already barefoot as we always were, raised our arms and faces to the downpour and drank it in laughing and joking as the rest of the folks there, some of whom were in now rapidly soaking heavy robes and boots as opposed to our less reverential tees and jeans looked on po-faced and it was probably then that I decided that their brand of belief was not for me. I still feel a connection to the earth and the skies but don’t feel the need to wrap it up in superstition and manufactured fables to experience its touch on my skin.
While England basks in a heatwave, we in the land of Northern and Indecent Exposure are being pelted with fat raindrops falling from spongey clouds. Clothes washed and hung out optimistically yesterday hang sodden now from drooping lines. People hunch and hurry, pulling hoods over their hair and muttering about how they hate the weather. Me, I’ll be heading out soon to the library with my wee dog in tow and enjoying the peace and stillness that has others running for cover. And I will splash in some puddles for you x