Quit it already!

Warning: Ill-informed rant to follow!

I have seriously had enough of reading about explosions; terrorism; bombs; suspicious packages; and other nasties. I don't want to open my newspaper websites to read about yet another attempt by wackos to destroy the way of life of Londoners. Leave the innocent people alone and give me some good news for once. Seriously, does nothing good happen in this world anymore?

Why can't these crazy people (original terrorists and the even crazier copycats) just tolerate difference and get over it? I know I'm simplifying their many issues, but that's because no-one can tell the likes of me why they do what they do. And anyway, I'm on my soapbox now so you'll have to put up with me.

Like everyone, I've had to read about the tragic aftermath of such carry-on. Given that speculation is all we're ever left with after events like London, Turkey, New York, and Bali, I want to throw out this challenge to the lunatics causing this devastation: If you've got a statement to make, stand somewhere public and make it. Don't strap a bomb to your back and go ka-boom in relative anonymity, taking innocent people out with you. Don't wait until CCTV cameras identify you (before the City morgue does) and leave us to wonder what you might have intended by your crazy antics. Be mature, grab your balls (if it helps), and tell us what you want, rather than letting itty bitty pieces of your body do the talking. I know there are thousands of people out there who, in a twisted way, would think I have a point.

Phew, rant over. We now return to your regularly scheduled program.

Eureka!

So I was less than kind this time last week about the little goblins I was sure stuffed around with Scottish street signs while we slept. After all, how else can you explain why we've been so unsuccessful in finding castles and lochs that we've been searching for on weekend road trips? Last weekend we experienced roads that led nowhere, and castles that simply couldn't be found (by us). This weekend was markedly different. I'm talking a 100% success rate!

I finished work early on Friday, because Paisley was having its Fair Day on Monday and we all got the day off work. Let me just add here that just because you have a Fair Day, doesn't mean there is a Fair to go and experience. It is just called "Fair Day". Presumably because working 9 to 5 is so unfair to begin with.

So over the weekend, as card carrying members of the Historic Scotland organisation (seriously - we get in for free now), we set off in search of the following sites:

• Dundonald Castle - spider sacs in the prison;
• Troon - because I saw a cute boy on the train once who got off there;
• Bothwell Castle - see picture above;
• Cadzow Castle - couldn't go in, so we parked in the disabled park and took pictures;
• Craignethan Castle - beautiful and green, and a very windy road to get in there;
• Cairnpapple Hill - communing with nature;
• Torpichen Preceptory - home to the St John Ambulance tradition - sort of; and
• Blackness Castle - where Mel Gibson's "Hamlet" was filmed.

So you can see it was a non-stop and action-packed weekend. My favourite was probably Bothwell Castle, because it was so well laid out, with lots of nooks and crannies to explore. The grounds were set a way back off the road and it makes a nice picnic spot.

I spent Monday just relaxing until Batreg made me go for a walk into the woodlands. Photographic evidence of all of this weekend's antics, including the bushwalk, will follow.

Holiday pottery?

A beautiful quote for a Friday, from the good people at Overheard in New York:

Woman #1:
And what about the vacation?
Woman #2:
It was great. But I'm so glad to be back on firma terra cotta.

Dangerous Curves Ahead

While I've been mulling over my job prospects this week, I have been visiting a whole range of job-related websites and recruitment agencies. Verging on desperate at times, I have been entering some rather un-Gab criteria into the search engines.

As a result, I've been browsing the ads placed by people looking for a nanny/au pair to their little darlings. I know, I was as shocked as you are. But sure enough, I was actually reading these ads with some degree of interest. And one of the ads was just priceless.

Placed by a French family, the ad was seeking a person (qualified or not) to look after their two young children. Based in the UK, for the most part, the post would also include some travel to France (mostly) for holidays.

But the best part? Applicants were warned that the family embraces nudism and predominantly vacations at nudist resorts. Anyone wishing to apply for the position was requested to be 100% comfortable with that lifestyle choice.

Sorry to disappoint, folks, but I did not apply. And it's not because I have anything against people in the buff. Oh no. Whatever floats your boat, I say. My reasons for not applying are far more practical than prudish.

I'd venture to suggest that seeing your boss in the nude would signal a rather unconventional employer/employee dynamic, don't you think? And I'm almost certain that once you'd seen your boss's bits on holidays, he wouldn't have any qualms about getting his kit off around the house. It's only logical. And I just don't think I could work like that. Even with the central heating.

Vive la difference!

Oh behave baby, yeah...

I have been corresponding the last few days with a very good friend, who has recently made some revelations that suggest some of her family members were mixed up in the crazy world of European wartime espionnage. And it got me thinking - do I have what it takes to be an ASIO or MI6 recruit?

Okay so we don't have to think too hard about that one.

But it's not that I don't have the requisite skills. Rather, I think it's just because the intelligence organisations are simply too picky. Consider the evidence, if you will. On the face of it, I think I look pretty good - but probing a bit deeper (and we know how the spies love to probe!), you'll find:

• I am fluent in three languages
  Granted it is a well-known fact that the initial reason Kate and I learned our foreign languages was so we could be trophy wives for rich French counts. Probably not something that ASIO would find appropriate.
  
• I am IT savvy
  Far from being able to hack into sophisticated military defence systems, I'm more interested in blogging, doing online crosswords, and working out the latest in the TomKat sham.
  
• I will take your personal secrets to the grave
  But not because I am the very soul of discretion, merely because I have a memory like a sieve and am likely to forget something you've told me the minute I hear it.
  
• I know things
  I may not be able to erect a tent, or converse with you about communism, or identify the Sultan of Burundi in a line-up, but the knowledge I do have will make your head spin. I can tell you the names of all the Beverly Hills 90210 characters, and sing the entire Bon Jovi back catalogue, and I can have the "M&Ms: Peanut versus Plain" debate until I'm hoarse.
  

I may be more of a Secret Squirrel than James Bond, but in a cute trench coat and mask (plus sparkly handbag to match), I could be pretty wily. And it's always the ones you least expect, remember.

Who the *!@$ is Alice?

Having overdosed on gangster-style violence in the last few days, courtesy of Don Corleone and his hired goons, I feel the need to immerse myself in something a little less brutal. And a little less related to jam making and other freakishly domestic pursuits.

Responsibility for that had to fall to Charlotte Bronte or Lewis Carroll and it was the latter that won out.

So I have started reading Alice In Wonderland. It's pretty hallucinogenic stuff - has anyone ever mentioned that? Talking mice, smoking caterpillars, dodo birds. The whole gang of extra-sensory lunacy is there. I don't know, maybe I'm cheapening the fantasty of it, but I'm not used to this make-believe stuff. But I will persevere. The Bronte book had too many pages.

I can't let you in here in THOSE shoes, love!

When I was back at home, getting rejected for a job felt like my life was over. Nine times out of ten, I'd put so much effort into the job application, that being told I didn't have a chance at the position (much less an interview) felt like a personal affront and took a while to recover from.

In the early days when I moved to the UK, I applied for so many jobs in such quick succession that I was perversely grateful when the rejections came through. It meant I didn't have to make a commitment about where to live, where to work. It also meant I could delay getting stuck in that 9-5 rut that I knew so well.

But now that I've semi-settled in Scotland, and in somewhat desperate need of cash, I'm starting to think differently about the replies (read: rejections) that have been filling my email inbox. I'm feeling flattened under the sheer weight of them. I'm not even being invited for an interview - despite the clear indication in my CV that I would be willing to relocate to just about anywhere in Europe for the chance to work at something substantial.

In rejecting me, the recruitment people are being polite but dismissive. I know I could seek feedback on the thinking behind each rejection, but I don't know how to ask without sounding defensive. I suspect that I'm perceived to be doing the typical Australian-on-a-working-holiday thing. I'm concerned that they're not keen to give me a job because I don't look like someone who'll stick around. But surely that's not fair? And particularly irrelevant when I've been applying for short-term stints like maternity cover placements and contract posts.

Does anyone have any ideas about how I get to the root of this problem without sounding like I have sour grapes, or accusing them of Antipodean discrimination?

Don't be a goose, it's berry nice

I stood in the kitchen last night and chatted to Betty as she readied herself to produce what looks to become a zany quantity of homemade gooseberry jam. The many pounds of fruit required for this operation came from the vines/bushes/plants at old Davey’s house, further down the lane. Davey is the same kindly gent who supplied us with the delicious rhubarb for our pie the other week. We like Davey.

I can’t recall ever having seen a gooseberry before I arrived in Scotland. I think that if I had encountered it ‘in the wild’ I never would have thought you could eat it. To me, a gooseberry looks like a cross between an eyeball and a hairy green grape. Something you’d throw at someone you didn’t like much, not necessarily something you’d choose to eat.

Needless to say, I was not inclined to sample one last night. And it’s weird, because normally I’m quite courageous with my diet. In truth, I think it’s the fact that the berries were green that turned me off. Did that mean they were unripe? I didn’t think to ask Betty at the time. Maybe you make gooseberry jam with unripe berries, I don’t know. Maybe gooseberries go green when they ripen - oh there are so many things I clearly have to learn.

In any case, I didn’t try a berry last night while supervising Jam Production Stage One. Instead I left that to Armand, who crept into the kitchen like the wee sneak he is, and slyly gobbled some of the berries we’d so carefully measured into ice-cream containers. After some yelling and exasperated fist-shaking at the sky, all much to Armand’s amusement of course, we re-measured the berries and were back in business. I think I was promoted from Passive Observer to Gooseberry Guard from that point onwards.

So now we’re at the stage where the jam production begins in earnest. I’m talking about a massive saucepan on the stove, and so much sugar to pour into it that my teeth hurt at the mere thought. Still, while I was too cowardly to try the gooseberry in its ‘natural’ state, something tells me I’ll slap the gooey, jammy goodness on some toast no worries at all!

We're on the road to nowhere, come on inside

Talking Heads were onto something when they warbled this song. And I bet you two poonds they were singing it about Scotland. Because if you've ever tried to get anywhere in this country, along the highways, byways, waterways, and motorways, you'll quickly realise that street signs are just a guide. They're not prescriptive, and they're certainly not helpful.

Now I don't profess to having the world's best sense of direction, but I can read a map when under pressure and I can certainly tell the difference between the M8 to Edinburgh and the A77 to Dumfries. So when AB and I set off on our weekend tourist drive on Saturday morning, we honestly felt sure we'd find the monuments we were seeking. W-R-O-N-G.

But it wasn't a complete waste of our time. In fact, we had a really lovely weekend. We swapped cameras so we could take pics of each other hamming it up in front of Paisley Abbey and the local Town Hall, Newark Castle, Dunoon Ferry, Balloch Castle, and Loch Lomond. We played 'tourist' in our own town and its surrounds, and it was lovely. Photos to follow, of course.

Next weekend we're getting ourselves organised to take the ferry over to Rothesay in the Isle of Bute, to see the 13th century castle there. And we know where we're going, so it'll be a straight run there - just how the locals do it.

Drama on the High Street

What with all the crap that London has been going through over the last 48 hours, the Paisley Police Force is out in full today. The High Street is therefore more congested than usual. But do you think the residents are on high alert? Hell no. They are certainly not alarmed by the increased police presence. The same old aimless wandering is going on, as usual.

I'd like to think that this is a silent en masse thumb-nosing at the terrorists, a mass show of support for the We're Not Afraid campaign. But alas, I fear that would be giving credit where it is definitely not due. I'd be surprised if these locals had even heard of the anti-terrorism initiative taking their country, if not the world, by storm.

Case in point. Walking behind Mr & Mrs McOld-Fart down the High Street is always a nightmare, particularly so in today's good weather. She stops to chat, he stops to...well, God only knows why he stops. He just does. Right in front of me. Jerk.

I hate lunch hour shopping with a passion. Hated it at home, and hate it here. But it's the only time that office workers really have to get things done. But do you think that the old farts, young mums with prams, and snotty brats, realise this? No. Or perhaps they do, and they're trying to tell me not to work in an office on such a beautiful day, and instead get out in the sunshine and amble, at a snail's pace, down the High Street all day? Smug bastards.

I'm not a pheasant plucker

Over the past few days, a culinary idea has been taking shape in the house and has had us all in varying degrees of anticipation. It's an old family favourite of Betty's and its preparation takes a lot longer than 90 seconds on high in the microwave. Yes friends, I'm talking about game pie. Its preparation is a labour of love; a time-honoured tradition in Betty's family dating back to the time of Christ. Okay maybe not that far, but at least one or two generations. And she is a brilliant cook, manufacturing everything from the pastry to the filling. No store-bought dinner here, folks.

Back in Australia, my experience of game was limited to venison, which I love. Nothing better than the venison pies at the Mount Compass bakery on the way to Victor Harbor, as many Adelaideans would agree. So when game pie was first mentioned as a menu item, I was quite pleased. Little did I realise that local game pie is exactly that - stuffed to the crust with whatever game is local to the area.

In a few days time we'll be feasting on a pie containing rich meaty chunks of pheasant, pig, AND chicken. There may be some vegetables in there to fend off complete arterial shutdown, but there has been no confirmation of this.

I've been going out to hang my washing on the line, and walking past the deep freezer, ontop of which has been defrosting a scraggly looking pheasant. I don't believe it was the same pheasant that flew into the backyard the other week and then ogled Batreg and I from outside the kitchen window. All the same, I couldn't resist giving it a little prod with my finger the other day. Nothing happened. The next time I see it, will be under mountains o'meat and rich, lip-smacking gravy.

Score check: Me 1; Pheasant 0. It's only a game, after all.

What's up, Don?

My library made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

The copy of "The Godfather" was on the shelf when I called in to return some books the other day. I've never read the book, and I've never seen the films (sorry, Adam - I know they're a favourite of yours). But I'm redressing that now. I've jumped headlong into it, and am so far really enjoying the seedy criminal underworld of 1940s America. I love it so far.

My holiday reading has been really diverse. AB's about to get stuck into the latest Harry Potter instalment, but that's not really my thing. Instead I've been reading those good-for-a-weekend-but-won't-change-your-life romance novels and books that would make good 'chick movies'. Nothing high brow need apply.

And so Don Corleone and his ragtag family of fun loving criminals makes a nice change. Easy to see that I'm only about 5 chapters in, huh? I hear this book gets pretty nasty in parts and I can't wait.

Popculture's Weasel

Thanks to an 11pm epiphany, I feel I need to make an unreserved intergalactic apology for yesterday's posted gaff.

To Buzz Lightyear, I say SORRY for attributing the "Never Give Up - Never Surrender" motto. Because, as we all know, it was the crew of the Galaxy Quest, captained by Jason Whats-his-name who bellowed the catchry in the movie of the same name.

But you can understand the mistake - both characters are voiced by Tim Allen; both are spacemen (of sorts); both are in the movies (okay now I'm clutching).

Clearly, by the power of Panadol, my brain went to infinity and beyond yesterday. I believe it's back now.

Fear, Surprise, and a Ruthless (In)efficiency

I think I have run the entire gamut of my emotions already today.

Through some spirit of karmic retribution, my earlier post about feeling idle at work has resulted in a torrent of paperwork flooding my desk. As a result, I have never typed so much work-related crap in my life. Coupled with that, I had a meeting at the bank today, in a last-ditch attempt to secure a bank account, while simulteanously preserving my sanity, and not harming the bank staff.

All I can say is, the money launderers and bank robbers have ruined it for the rest of us. I mean, nobody trusts anybody anymore. AB and I turned up at the bank, requisite identification documents in hand (well, in bag), ready to sign any forms and answer any questions.

Being the chicken-shit institution that they are, the bank sent out its Employee Just Out Of Puberty award-winner, whom I shall call Stephen (because that was his name).

Let me just say that we liked Stephen, so we kept our cool and didn't hurt him when he delivered the bad news that our pristine collection of ID-proving documents were insufficient to get us a bank account at this time. Ever the optimist, Stephen jollied us along with his we'll-get-that-bank-account-for-you-soon Mouseketeer spirit, and I got sucked in. The headache that was threatening to engulf my head must have been distracting me.

In any case, we left the bank, somewhat dejected but not defeated, resolving to get the last piece of paper we need before the bank will give us the Holy Grail we have been so desperately seeking - the savings account.

So while this whole banking debacle has been more Python than Lightyear, I'd like to pause and reflect on a Buzz-ism when I say, Never Give Up - Never Surrender.

Seeing how far the rabbit hole goes

Forgive me for stating the obvious here, but I'm not overworked right now. I'm not even under any sort of pressure. The biggest decision I have to make each day is what to wear to work. And even then, I know that the consequences of my decision are not what you'd call dire. So my attention has turned to dressing up my blog, uploading my photos (maxing out my Flickr account in the process), and surfing the World Wide Web.

You may have noticed that my list of links on the right hand side of this page has got a bit longer in recent weeks. I've found it a mind-boggling and eye-crossing wonder world out there. So many creative people writing so many varied blogs. I read one and just when I've learned something about that author, I want to know what blogs they're reading, so I click on their links. And so it goes. It is really easy to get lost in the 'matrix' that is Blogland, but I love it.

My online reading tastes are as diverse as my 'real' ones. I am currently devouring anything from sexual politics, workplace scenarioes, and socio-commentaries, to the trials of living abroad in France and Scotland, and the challenges presented by first-time fatherhood. I find the comments section on these sites as entertaining as the blog posts themselves. There are some clever, evocative people out there. With as much time on their hands as me right now, or so it would seem.

There's lots of fodder out there to keep a distracted girl like me amused for hours. Staying in Wonderland and getting lost down this Internet rabbithole is fun, educational, and (most importantly for me right now), time-consuming.

Hey Jude, don't be afraid

So Jude Law is having a hard time keeping his pecker in his pants, eh? He has admitted to cheating on Sienna Miller (the 23-year old fashion 'icon'), and having an affair with his children's nanny. Perhaps it's something about the smell of Clag and baby vomit. Yummy.

And I join the chorus of voices around the world when I bellow: WHO CARES?!

Let me kiss you, Mr Bureaucrat

Last week ended rather abruptly for me, with a quick trip to the supermarket. I don't know why I think these trips are going to go smoothly, because they never do.

Invariably I am left a shuddering and wimpering mess in the frozen food section, while scores of children and old people jostle past me for discounted cod fillets and 2 for 1 mini-pizzas. And all of this after a day at the office, 10 minutes before my bus (the last bus of the day) is due to take off from its stop. So it's a mad rush through the shop, to the check-out, to marvel at just how slow a 16 year old boy can move. I bet he can operate Playstation like a demon, but can he bleep my shopping?! The pensioner I knocked over in the cereal aisle could move faster than he can.

Why is it that you can be doing so well to get through the store, that you end up choosing the slowest cash register lane EVER. Or just when you get to the front, the register roll runs out, or there are no more 20p pieces bla bla? It's a killer.

If you've been reading these posts over the last few weeks, you know I have had no luck mastering the Scottish bureaucracy. Getting myself registered, working, paid etc has proven to be a big hassle and my mental fortitude is fast running out. So imagine my elation when Saturday's postman brought me a little brown envelope containing (wait for it) my NATIONAL INSURANCE NUMBER woohoo yay way to go! My little plastic insurance card is still being laminated in some bureaucratic black hole in south-western Wales or somewhere, but at least I've got my number. AND inside of the 12-week timeline the lady gave me! This is the public service alive and well in Scotland, people. Marvel if you will, but for God's sake don't get used to it.

So do you know what this means, now that I am a card-carrying (almost) nationally-insured person? It means I can pay taxes to the wonderful Government of this fabulous nation, this is so great! Yes, I've gone nuts. Thank you for not pointing.

When life gives you lemons...

ask for tequila and salt (or so 'they' say).

Well at lunch time today, I didn't slam tequilas, or even slam any bankteller heads into plexiglass - as I'm sure you feared I would (judging by my last post anyway) - oh no. At lunch time today I cut Batreg's lunch. And it felt sooo good.

I'm not actually advocating lunch-cutting as a standard practice between friends, but I couldn't help it. Gregg and I are simply meant to be together. To suggest that today's liaison was all Gregg's fault isn't really fair. As it was, I approached him. And it's not like they have an agreement or anything (a la not seeing other people bla bla). Because believe me, Gregg sees a LOT of people. Many of them women, but he's not actually fussy about that, now that I think about it.

And I'll admit, like other people no doubt, today I used Gregg for his fudge donuts. No, that isn't a euphemism, you dirty-minded scoundrels. Gregg makes the best (and only) fudge donuts I've ever tasted in Scotland or anywhere else. Caramel icing, custard-filled berliner-style gooiness.

I love Gregg. And I'm not sharing (the donuts OR Gregg).

You are the weakest link! Goodbye.

If you've been keeping up with my exploits in Scotland, you will be well aware of the hoops I've jumped through, and the red tape I've cut through, just to start existing here. And while I'm sure it's the same way for any international student or visitor coming to a new land, I am starting to get a severe case of the irrites with the whole thing.

Batreg broke the news to you yesterday about her lack of success in charming the bank staff sufficiently to issue her a bank account. Well I had no luck there either. Actually I was advised of my failure before her, but kept it quiet on the account of acute depression. I've been in such disbelief about the reluctance of Scotland's bureaucracy to welcome us, as fellow Commonwealth citizens, that I simply couldn't mention it.

Now I'm alternating between incredulity and insanity. One minute I'm shocked, the next I'm angry, the minute after that I'm (to steal and Aussie-ism from Kath & Kim), gropable.

And it's not like we're the first people from overseas to want UK bank accounts, so I was expecting some degree of rigmarole, but come on people! Cut us some slack. Either that, or help us out. But don't you dare just stand there on the other side of your bullet-proof (or tourist proof?) plexiglass screen and try and empathise with my situation. Because really, you have no idea how frustrating this is.

Read all about it

In a desperate attempt to flee the stuffy environment of my Office at lunch time, I escaped into the fresh air, and found myself at the library. Not having any money in my purse the day before payday, it was probably my subconscious guiding me into this cash-saving haven. Yay me.

And I'm not sure whether it is a hangover from my last post about Disney movies, but I left the book emporium carrying a copy of Lewis Carroll's The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. I realised that despite being a fan of Walt's take on the work, I have never actually read the book.

I am one of those people for whom classical literature was not completely ruined by studying English at school and University. In fact, "To Kill A Mockingbird" (read for the first time in Year 10) is my hands-down favourite book, closely followed by "Pride and Prejudice", that I discovered in Year 12 and then gratefully revisited courtesy of Colin Firth and the BBC. [Editor's Note: Full marks to the Beeb for the just-out-the-water-in-a-wet-shirt scene, a personal fave]

By way of observation, the number of light, frothy books in libraries and bookshops these days never ceases to amaze me. I know you're not always looking for a movie (or a film for that matter) that will 'change your life', but there's only so much of the Bridget Jones genre that I can take. Boy meets girl; boy shags girl; boy shags girl's best friend; girl drinks countless vodkas with real friends to get over it; boy meets untimely demise masterminded by slighted girl and pissed posse; girl finally feels vindicated and receives unrelated job promotion. Bo-ring, but undeniably just the thing for a rainy afternoon.

But just before you think I'm getting a bit self-righteous and book-snobby, I am also keen to get stuck into the second book I borrowed today, one about a bunch of horny 20-somethings who respond to a newspaper ad and then wake up on a desert island and the anthropological experiment begins. WA-HEY. Perhaps a modern homage to The Lord of the Flies? Nah, more likely it will be Big Brother in speedos. Bring it on.