Chutes, wine, beer and jam

Joshua wasn't too impressed at first. To be fair to him he'd only just woken up not ten minutes before and had found himself surrounded by relations.
Waking up and finding yourself surrounded by grinning relations looking directly at you can't be fun, so why should we think that it would be okay for a kid?
Can you imagine waking up on your couch from an afternoon nap to find your living room filled with various Mums, Dads, Aunties and Uncles, all sitting chatting, drinking, grinning and taking photos of you? Even if your Dad did come over and try and cajole you into being sociable it would take you at least fifteen minutes to come round to any idea of putting up with it, never mind liking the sudden invasion.
Joshua remained in his Dad's arms for around fifteen minutes, taking everything in, before being lowered to the floor in the hallway. His cousins Ross and Jack were wildly running around in circles as usual, speeding through the various rooms, Morgan not far behind them. Grace and Dougie were seated in the lounge and chatting away to Steven's cousins, his brother David and his Uncle John, whilst Jillian and Colin stood chatting in the living room's doorway, Jillian a little worse for wear after a big night out, including karaoke, the previous night.
Ka and myself were late and arrived through the heavy rain of Saturday afternoon. As a birthday gift for our wee nephew we bought a big, bright, blue and green plastic slide and came up with the idea of decorating it in balloons before we arrived to give it to him. We made a brief stop at Sainsburys to buy flowers for Angela and a bag of, what turned out to be, rather disappointing, supposedly animal shaped balloons. Ka and myself sat in the car, in the middle of the rain soaked Sainsbury's car park, blowing the balloons up to stick to the plastic slide, our inanimate third passenger, stretched across the whole of the car's back seat. Unfortunately these balloons were in no way animal shaped, not to any stretch of the imagination, but refusing to go back into the shop for more rubber we begrudgingly stuck them on to the plastic slide with sellotape. They'd have to do.
After being released on to the floor Ka and myself tried to introduce him to his birthday present, now standing in the hallway, the pathetic looking balloons bobbing around pitifully at the top of it’s mighty peak, three foot up. Joshua frowned and grumpily shook his head, waddling off in another direction.
He preferred the look of his Thomas the Tank Engine, that Colin and Jillian had bought him. A push cart version of the familiar blue steam locomotive with the big, grey, grinning face and the Liverpudlian voice. Joshua ran up to the push car, taking a hold of the back, red push rail and ran off into the living room. Colin was delighted and claimed victory in buying the best birthday present. Ka and myself laughed and joked artificially, kidding on we weren't that bothered, grumbled jealously and wandered off, heads drooping despondently.
However, after around twenty minutes of waking up time, and with a little gentle encouragement from Colin, his Granpa Dougie, and myself, Joshua was soon making his way up the short ladder and sitting himself down at the top of the smooth blue plastic slide. A little unsure at first, Joshua spun a little on his first slide down and ended up banging his head as he landed at the bottom of the blue, streamlined plastic. Joshua, being Joshua, was not put off by this minor bump though and immediately got back to his feet and made his way round the side of the chute again, giving an excited wave of the arms and a squeak of approval. Before long our wee nephew was moving in circles, running round, climbing up and sliding down, avoiding any further bumps, as his chute sliding expertise improved.
He liked it.
Ka and myself could hold our heads high, even if the balloons weren't.
Over the buffet lunch I brought up the subject of the large barrel standing in the corner of the kitchen, a third full with suspicious looking liquid. A few months ago Steven had created a large batch of plum jam from the purple fruit he had collected from the tree in the back garden. He had shared the jam out among the relatives including Ka and myself (our jar is only half empty – but still sitting in the fridge if you fancy some?) and was now branching out. He was now concocting some homemade wine in the corner of the kitchen. When I asked how the wine making was coming along Steven took a glass, unscrewed the barrel's cap and lowered his hand down into the barrels innards, a look of uncertainty almost crossing his face, like that scene in 'Flash Gordon' when Timothy Dalton put his hand down the scorpion's hole. After a little movement of the wrist Steven brought the glass back up, now half full of his alcoholic potion. His cousin John was the first to taste who almost immediately grimaced, saying something about vinegar, quickly handing the glass back. After Colin took a few drinks and nodded appreciatively, I ventured a small sip and immediately tasted Steven's jam, only laced with alcohol. With the tang of Steven's plums the wine tasted a little like a foreign brandy of some sort. After only a small taste I could feel the wine travelling down my system, leaving a, not unpleasant, burning sensation at the back of the throat like the after effects from the first taste of a strong whiskey. It was certainly nicer than some of the wines I've drank in the past.
Various members of the Reids used to create beer at home, and jam for that matter. My Gran’s jam was amazing. I could never believe that my Gran could make her own jam, although usually it was rhubard, and I hated rhubarb. Granpa used to eat it straight from the ground, a large growing patch out in his back garden. Dad ate it raw with a dab of sugar.
Dad used to make beer in our bathtub. I remember he used to buy the beer making kits from Boots and have a giant plastic barrel of his own, which would sit in the bathroom for a good few months, slowly brewing it's Lindsay ale, stinking the room out with it’s weird, pungent yeasty stenches.
I'm not sure what happened when it came to bath time?
We certainly never had a beer bath.
Apparently they’re quite big over in the Czech Republic and Austria. There are more than a few beer spas now open. Spas, baths, pools and even beer flavoured treatments are offered, such as facials. Apparently, beer is good for the skin. Good for cleansing, drying and relaxing in. Good for hair rejuvenation too. I should get over there! In the tub, the combination of water, beer, hops and yeast is warmed and bubbled around you, transforming it into a kind of mild Jacuzzi. A hot tub beer machine.
Unfortunately, back in Scotland, being the driver, I couldn’t partake in any of Steven’s homemade wine, much to my extreme disappointment, as I’m sure you can imagine, but made sure I had a glass of Pinot Grigio later, on the comfort of my own couch, where, thankfully, there was a distinct lack of grinning, chatting, relations.

Aunt Maureen

My Aunt Maureen passed away on Monday night. She was 59. A few weeks ago we were discussing what we were going to do for her 60th and now, suddenly, we're discussing where her funeral is to take place.
It's feels like it has been one thing after another, this year.
Life just seems crazily unfair sometimes.
It's only been a few weeks since my last conversation with Maureen over the phone.
Recently Maureen had been living in Knowle, the small village on the outskirts of Solihull, in the West Midlands, where I started my first design/publishing job, all those years ago in March 2001. Early on in my four years living and working in the West Midlands, Maureen moved down south to Redditch, a new town to the south of Birmingham, through work, keen for a new start with different surroundings.
Before long, and once she was settled, Maureen and myself were meeting up for Sunday dinners, hooking up for the occasional drink and catch up, shopping trip or just a day out. Obviously, I wasn’t so keen on the shopping, but somehow I felt Maureen appreciated the trips in the car. Maureen was company for me too, as I struggled to settle in with only odd flatmates for company. I'd jump in the car and take a drive over to Redditch to take Maureen out for a jaunt around the countryside hitting the surrounding towns, exploring this fantastic section of England. Stratford-Upon-Avon, Great Malvern, Warwick, Leamington Spa and Kenilworth (that name’s vaguely familiar...) were all towns Maureen and myself visited on our various weekend meetings. My first car, that wee clio, also came in handy for when Maureen flitted. She flitted around three times whilst living in the West Midlands and on all occasions, bar the last, it was the wee clio that acted as the removal van.
During Maureen’s time in Redditch relations were soon dropping by to visit, jumping on trains, planes or into automobiles. Most of them primarily visiting Maureen but probably more than aware that there was always the risk of me turning up on the door, looking for company in my lonely West Midlands existence.
Scott, Maureen’s son and my older cousin, who was living in Dundee at the time, would visit, always busy with his job, which called for much travelling up and down the country.
Gran and Granpa, Great Aunt Mina, Mum and Dad, Anne and Ian, and even Donald from Australia, all visited the wonderful West Midlands. During their stay Maureen and I would give them a guided tour in the wee red clio, my Auntie acting as navigator, as we swerved around the countryside.
Great Malvern and Stratford-Upon-Avon were always popular with the visitors. Stratford-Upon-Avon being a favourite of mine too, with it’s Shakepearian themed streets, medieval architecture, barges, canal gates, eclectic mix of pubs and shops, pleasant parks, theatres and the Avon itself.
We had some good days out in Stratford, most of them in the summertime, when the skies were blue and the streets and parks were busier with families, tourist crowds and theatre goers, looking forward to the evening’s performance. During the summertime the town centre’s parks were always colourful, filled with plants and flowers around which street performers would entertain in the sunshine, the Avon sparkling in the summer light, it’s surface littered by the swans, geese, ducks, boats and barges which populated it’s waters, gliding up and down the river, under the arches of the various bridges which crossed over.
We took Aunt Mina out on to the Avon on a barge, we drove Gran and Granpa out for dinner with Frank Sinatra blaring out on the car stereo as we sped up the country roads and we took Donald out for dinner at which he tried to talk me into moving to Oz and courting his architect/scientist daughter.
When Maureen hit the big 5-0 Mum, Dad, Gran and Granpa invaded at the same time which called for another Stratford visit. After a few hours of walking around the bustling town we had lunch in a small tearoom and inadvertently left without paying, us all believing that someone else had paid. That same night we had a drunken night in at Maureen’s flat in Redditch, which I remember turned into a fairly entertaining night, considering I was sober and the allocated driver for Mum and Dad who had taken up residence at a small B&B in Solihull.
Maureen was a gentle, kind, relaxed, quiet, generous lady who shrugged at a difference of opinion, laughed at a good joke and enjoyed a party or two. Maureen was also a proud lady, not afraid to stand on her own two feet, but unwilling to admit troubles, or the lend of a helping hand, which, unfortunately led to her untimely death.
In my ‘wildnerness years’ down in the West Midlands, when I was occasionally feeling down or lonely, Maureen helped me with good advice and friendship, something I will never forget. An Auntie and a friend.
Maureen McNeill (Reid) 26.02.1952 – 10.10.2011

Great Uncle David

Saturday wasn’t a particularly good day. Ka and myself once more found ourselves standing in black in a quiet Glasgow cemetery at another funeral. Our grief from what happened at the very end of 2010 continues, although it has now been eight months, it all still feels very sad and unreal. A burden which varies in heaviness, from time to time, but is always present. We can’t seem to shake the sadness off, and we’re not sure we want to because we certainly do not want to forget. That feeling comes hand in hand with any funeral though. The sadness, coupled with the urgent need to remember.
Attending funerals certainly does not particularly help ease our troubled minds, as we still try to figure out and come to terms with what happened, but we had to attend.
Just over two years since the death of my Gran Reid, her brother, and the last Pollock of that generation, was put to rest. David Pollock, my Great Uncle, passed away a week ago on the Saturday, at the age of 78, suffering from cancer, after being diagnosed in March.
The last time Ka and myself seen old Uncle David was when he attended little Lucy’s funeral. He made us laugh that day. He was feeding Joshua Wotsits, as our nephew sat on his his Dad, Steven’s, lap. Steven hummed and hawed, unsure of what to say to the older gent who was obviously blissfully unaware of Joshua’s strict diet, as, at that point, the wee man was just over a year old. David smiled and joked with Josh, as he fed him the bright orange puffy crisps as Ka and myself looked on, unsure what to say as Joshua’s strict baby diet of healthy fruit and vegetables flew out the window.
The first time I met my Great Uncle David properly was in my Aunt Mina’s kitchen. My Great Aunt Mina had just passed away I was left work to go to her wee house in the village to see if I could help in any way. David stood in my Aunt Mina’s newly fitted kitchen, leaning against the sink, a cigarette in his left hand, his eyes, big and round behind his large spectacles, sad and thoughtful as my Gran and Granpa moved around him. My grandparents tidied, phoned and organised, carrying out all the necessary jobs that unfortunately have to be done when a close relative passes away. David introduced himself, nodding knowingly when I gave him the look of realisation when I realised who he was.
I’m sure I’d probably met David in the past, at some point in those past growing twenty eight years, but he’d always been a pretty distant relative. He had always been a bit of a mystery to me as he’d never been about when we were young.
Following my Granpa’s passing David appeared on the ‘Reid scene’ more often. Much to my Gran’s annoyance David would occasionally turn up at her door, taking her by surprise, inviting himself in to check up on his sister.
Gran, being Gran, would always act the hostess though not forgetting to complain about his unexpected arrivals later to Ka and myself when we visited. Most of the time she’d complain that David’s surprise arrival hadn’t even given her a chance to hide her whiskey before he’d sit, make himself comfortable and suggest an afternoon tipple. Not that she always had whiskey around the house in full view, I must point out, but whenever she did, it would be in the glass cabinet in the corner waiting on a Saturday night in with friends, not an afternoon drink with Uncle David.
Gran would always oblige though, and perhaps join him for a wee dram herself.
They were a typical brother and sister. Always disputing, disagreeing and jocularly shouting at one another.
From what I knew of him and what I could tell in the short time I knew him, David was a great character, always full of life, shouting, telling his stories, talking of his work, the various trades he’d worked in, his families and rolling his eyes behind his glasses at my Gran as she shouted at him, at which point he’d obediently quieten and puff on his cigarette.
Late on Saturday morning The Craigton crematorium was full, which says it all really. He will be missed.
As the supporters started to arrive up in Ibrox stadium, a few miles down the road, the curtain moved over to conceal David Pollock’s, rose covered coffin to the tune of one of his favourite songs, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s ‘You’ll never walk alone’.

Hobbling around headstones

Just how flaky can a sausage roll get? One question that you don’t ask yourself a lot, I’m sure, but a question that occurred to Ka and myself as our wee nephew, Joshua hobbled around our living room. It was Easter Sunday and we had visitors. Angela, Steven, Morgan and Joshua, who is now just about a year and a half old, all trooped in for tea and coffees.
Joshua had not been in our flat since he was a little baby, so it was with great excitement that he looked around his new, unfamiliar surroundings as he was plonked down in the middle of the living room. Although the excitement may have had something to do with the fact that there was a coffee table covered in small plates of food and cakes before him. Joshua’s eyes and mouth opened in awe as if he’d never seen a sandwich before. He looked torn. What to have first? The sandwiches, vegetarian sausage rolls or pineapple cake? There was also a small plate of chocolate Mini Egg cakes which kept drawing his eyes, although, as he reached out towards the plate, you could see in his face the expectant look of his parents’ refusal due to the treacherous mini egg itself.
After a cheese sandwich, during which he obediently sat at the table, he went for a sausage roll. Then another. And then another. Munching away at the sausage rolls as he fell over, bumped down on to the floor, bounced off feet and hit off couches, circling the living room investigating this new territory, getting to know it’s geography and at the same time practising his ever improving walking skills.
The sweat grew on Ka’s forehead as she watched the crumbs and pastry fall over the living room rug and carpet. Angela began tidying up the crumbs after Joshua as he wandered round but Ka assured her it would be fine. Don’t worry, we told her, we’ll get it all later. We laughed, I, genuinely chuckling, Ka’s, a little more forced.
After Ka had eventually pulled the hoover out and scared Joshua into the bedroom (he lives in a house of smooth, wooden decking), we all headed out together to the cemetery to visit Lucy’s grave.
With some excitement, but great care, Morgan placed a small Winnie the Pooh plant pot at her wee cousin’s remembrance place. Lucy now lies near the top of a hill in the cemetery, looking out over the fields between the edge of EK and the beginnings of Busby and Carmunnock, and just across the road from my Gran and Granpa Reid’s resting place within the cemetery. A nice spot when it’s a warm, sunny day, perhaps not so nice, when it’s wet and stormy.
Thankfully Easter Sunday was dry and mostly sunny as Morgan decided where to put her plant pot. She had planted the small shoot in the pot with her Gran McGarva last week, especially for this reason and, as it was Easter, had also brought her wee cousin another gift in the form of a painted boiled egg. With her Mum’s help Morgan opened a cardboard egg box of six eggs, all painted in wild colours of the rainbow, carefully chose one and took it out, placing it in a small vase in the form of a pair of Ladybird patterned wellies, at the side of Lucy’s headstone.
All the while Joshua was staggering around the hill, at one point almost falling into a freshly dug rectangular hole at the head of Lucy’s neighbour’s grave, a hole presumably meant for a new headstone foundation but which almost had a very different kind of occupant.
Ka also commented on his waving. He seemed to be chatting away, waving, looking away further up the hill, around to back the way we came and also waving and conversing with Lucy’s headstone better than I ever had.
As Steven continued to keep a close eye on our little nephew, who may or may not have been seeing dead people, Morgan then went for the other eggs, informing us we had to roll them. Since Lucy is handily placed at the top of a hill we did seem to be in an ideal location.
As Joshua inadvertently ran around the slope of grass, Morgan rolled away, getting a little frustrated as her eggs refused to crack. The egg Morgan was rolling only decided to crack once Ka took a turn, almost smacking a nearby mourners’ car. Thankfully the two mourners, who were a little further into the cemetery, had not noticed, though they were visibly upset on returning to their vehicle. Joshua soon put a stop to that though. As the mourners arrived back at their car Joshua greeted them and immediately started chatting away. Before he could get an answer to the indecipherable question he had posed them, he fell over in mid hobble. Perhaps he had been asking which one of his new pals they were visiting?

Spiders, picnics and stingrays

“Don’t forget to shake your shoes before you put them on!” Mum shouted after Kenny. “The spiders..!”
Those were Mum’s last words to her youngest, as he stepped through the entrance to the Security Gate of Glasgow Airport, beginning his journey to Australia yesterday afternoon. With a smile over his shoulder, he waved goodbye and then was gone.
Ka, Mum, Dad and myself had accompanied Kenny to the airport yesterday to see him off. After checking in and obtaining some English money for the journey, as Dubai airport, Kenny’s mid journey stop off, apparently does not accept Scottish notes, we sat in the bar to have an early afternoon beer, toasting to a successful journey, trip, holiday and whatever other delights await Kenny on his adventure. With no significant ties to speak of and some redundancy money to spend, Kenny had decided to see a bit of the world, taking some time out of Scotland to explore the Aussie continent, the world’s thirteenth largest economy, seeing the wondrous sights of Canberra, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide, perhaps visiting the mainland’s the surrounding islands in the Indian and Pacific oceans, maybe popping by Australian’s various neighbours including New Zealand or Papua New Guinea and maybe even dropping by Ramsay Street to meet Doctor Karl.
Perth is his first stop where he will meet distant relatives and cousins of my Gran Reid, Donald and Pamela, off the plane. After that, the pages are blank. The adventure starts there and it’s all down to Kenny.
Scary, exciting, nerve-wracking but brilliant. If Kenny was any of the first three he certainly never let on, being his usual laid back self, as we walked up from the bar to wave him away. The experience would most probably be nerve-wracking at first, especially travelling such a distance alone, although I’ve heard it said that travelling on your lonesome can sometimes be far a more rewarding journey. Some say that you meet and encounter a whole different variety of people, and situations, when travelling alone. Look at Michael Palin and the great times he’s had travelling the world – probably not a great example, mind you, as he did have a whole film crew and a bunch of photographers following him about. I suppose he shouldn’t really count.
I know, to some extent, about travelling around on your lonesome, having moved to, and lived, in Birmingham, a loner, for three and a half years, diving around the country from my central point in the Midlands, just for a wee jaunt in the Clio, including occasional trips down to London, but Brum land, the Midlands and the big smoke is not quite the same as heading out to the Commonwealth of Australia.
“Enjoy yourself” were my last words to Kenny. “That’s the main thing”. At dinner, the night before, I tried to talk him into starting a blog about the whole trip but unfortunately he was not up for it. I’m sure he’ll be far too busy for any of that kind of ‘writing about your experiences’ nonsense. Though it would have been a good idea for keeping us up to date with his goings on and whereabouts.
What am I talking about? He’ll be fine! He’ll have a ball!
As long as he wraps his luggage around him when he falls asleep on a train… doesn’t get mugged, run over, go swimming with any stingrays, avoids sharks, gangland wars in the criminal underworld, avoids bikers on dilapidated highways, stays away from Wolf Creek, doesn’t catch a bus called Priscilla, doesn’t eat picnics around cliffs, doesn’t get stung on the neck by a bee and watches out for snakes whilst on the toilet pan.
Around the early nineties my Gran Reid went over to Australia to visit her cousins with her sister, my Great Aunt Mina. Apparently one of them was almost caught out one night by a snake in the bathroom.
Over here in Scotland, we don’t usually have to worry about that kind of thing. Our bathrooms are generally reptile free. Though there probably is a criminal underworld… not to mention muggers, hit and runners, an abundance of hills and cliffs that you could probably end up mysteriously going missing on as you settle down for a nice picnic though I’m not sure about buses called Priscilla… the number 66 on a Saturday night is bad enough.
Spiders. Now that’s another story. Over here they’re sometimes big, but not poisonous. Funnel-Web Spiders are the biggies to look out for over there. Rapid death within an hour, apparently.
As long as Kenny remembers his Mum’s last minute advise, he’ll be fine.

Chief coat taker

Preperations are under way in our kitchen for the arrival of our dinner guests arriving tonight. Ka is once more Little Miss Organisation, striving as always to be the hostess with the mostess. As Ka cooks, I'll sit and eat pretzels until my mostly lowlier role of coat taker, barman and then dishwasher will come into play. I've pretty much had the same role in all house parties. When Mum and Dad hosted the Boxing Night parties for the extended family, for instance, I was always chief coat taker, until later, when Kenny and Lynsey were deemed worthy enough to take on the mantle. A thoroughly complex job, that involved a lot of trust, come to think of it. An untrustworthy coat taker could have easily rifled through anyones pockets!
The coat taker greeted guests upon arrival and helped take their coats and jackets off before then ferrying them to Mum and Dad's bedroom upstairs where they would be laid out in a tidy pile over the bed (the coats that is!). Then late night would arrive and relatives would be shouting at you to deliver their coat and you'd have to use your memory skills to remember who had which jacket. If your memory failed you, it would be down to your deductive skills to sort it out as in what coat would go with whose outfit. This train of thought did not always work out as I'll always remember some of the looks of incredulity when a drunk uncle was accidentally given someone elses coat to wear for their trip home. After some complaint they'd sometimes even measure it up for size. All the while my Gran watching from the the corner in too deep an arguement with someone else to interupt and ask why her coat was being passed around.
Fortunately there is only going to be five of us tonight. Maybe six, depending if Chaz turns up with his new partner. Ka and myself thought we'd better invite her in an effort to get to know her as we've only met her twice, (once in Ka's case). It would be a chance to test the water and suss out if she's good enough for the man from the Merc. What does she do for a living? Where does she come from? What films she's seen or books she's read recently? Does she have any kids? If she's thinking of a date yet? And any other questions you ask at dinner parties to folk you've don't know. If she does not seem very forthcoming a quick rifle through her coat pockets wouldn't go amiss.

Byrne in full swing

During the weekend Ka and myself took a brief and deliberate break on the Saturday night. We went through to Edinburgh to see Mr. David Byrne again. We last seen him in Glasgow at the end of March as he hit Scotland on his Everything That Happens tour and I was delighted to find he was going to be part of Edinburgh's Edge Festival and booked the tickets with a mere week to go before the gig. Unfortunately after Gran passed away I was unsure whether to still go through for the gig but after various relations told me not to be silly and what Gran would have said I agreed that it may still be a good idea and would maybe even help take our minds off the grief that was to come on Sunday and Monday.
It worked, if only for the Saturday night, and Mr Byrne and his band were great. There were a few teathing problems for the first half hour however as Byrne had to restart the third song after realising the guitar he had started using for that song was completely out of tune. Unfortunately there was also a couple of gobsh*tes in the audience who revelled especially in the guitar tuning break yelling at the musician and his band in the first half hour or so whenever they got the chance. Presumably they were shut up at some point as they went quiet after the first half hour or so once the music was back in full swing. In fact, after Byrne had tried and failed with that guitar he seemed to start up full throttle again as if in answer to the critics in the crowd and after a couple of songs more everyone in the Playhouse was on their feet and dancing. Byrne's dancers were excellent, spiralling, jumping and swaying over the stage, behind, in front and around Byrne and his band as they played a good mix of new tunes and old, mixing new material from the 'Everything that happens...' album and the Talking Heads material, mostly from the Eno produced albums. The sound in the Playhouse was not great (certainly not as good as Byrne had sounded in the Royal Concert Hall in March) but was certainly not the worst, being a hundred times better than any stadium gig I've been to in recent years.
Talking of which, U2 will be at Hampden next Tuesday with their new sci-fi looking spider stage. U2's sound at Hampden had been a major disappointment the last time on the Vertigo tour so hopefully things will have improved since then.

A fitting ceremony

Well, what a weekend. Along with the rest of the family I spent the weekend grappling with the extreme sadness of Gran Reid passing away whilst the funeral was organised and prepared for. The service was held yesterday in St. Vincent's Church, Gran's own parish with a congregation that Gran probably would not have believed. We ran out of orders of service with the church only half full as the people paying respect kept on coming. My cousin James even suggested we ask the priest if he had a photocopier handy in order to spontaneously create more leaflets. I suspected we were grasping at straws though and Kenny, James and myself had to stand at the door a little dumbstruck as more mourners filtered through the doors, some looking a little disgruntled at not receiving a leaflet. Inside the church some people ended up having to sit in the cry chapel, situated up the right hand side of the usual pews, in the bright airy building. The service was beautiful with the organ belting out the tunes to the lovely voices of the church choir as we said goodbye to Gran, making our way to the Philipshill cemetary after church to lay her to rest alongside Granpa Reid. A fitting ceremony to a great woman.
Back at work today I couldn't help but feel depressed not only at the loss of my last Grand parent but at the prospect of having to go back into work as if nothing had changed. Everybody milling about their usual business. Giving orders, moaning on the phone to sales reps, laughing and joking as if nothing had ever happened. Ignorance must be bliss.

Annie G. Reid

My Gran, Annie (Nan) Gillan Reid died on Tuesday afternoon. She was preparing for a bus trip with her pals from the surrounding complex and suffered a heart attack presumably as she went for her coat. She passed the way she lived. On the go. Forever on the go.
I'm still feeling a little numb from the news as she had seemed to be better than she had been for months battling various ailments with her usual fierce, stubborn determination. Taking unwell around a month before the Wedding she had argued with anyone that had suggested a visit to the hospital. Gran feared that they'd just keep her in and merely confine her to a bed, a treatment, she insisted, she could well put upon herself in her own bed at home thusly not risk any way of missing the Wedding. Afterwards she did seem to recover and on the day of the wedding 'looked a million dollars' as more than one person commented.
Mother, Grandmother, Great Grandmother - Gran was the rock of the family. The Matriarch, the Queen bee. A woman to be loved but also a woman to be feared! When Ka started seeing me she was not sure who to fear more, my Mum or my Gran! Happy, loving, hard-working, socialable, kind, considerate, generous, noble, faithful, principled and extraordinary are only a few words to describe my Gran. Words that don't even do her justice. She will be sorely missed. My Gran. Annie Gillon Reid (Pollock). 1928 - 2009.

Auldhouse folk

Off work this week and have just finished another spot of DIY home improvement. Tim Allen would be proud. Yep, you guessed it. More painting - but not of the canvas variety.
Apart from that I've been spending most of my time suffering from a cold. Olbused to the hilt and drinking hot drinks regularly while the skin of my red nose crumbles away. Very attractive. Yesterday I very much lazed about after the weekend which included a visit to Troon on Sunday, visiting Tom and Linda with Gran and a meal out in East Kilbride on Saturday night in Chows, a great little Chinese restaurant in the old village.
We decided to roll out the barrel and go down to the Village in a cab just so we could both partake in a little glass of wine with dinner. The taxi pulled up outside and as Ka and myself clambered into the car's backseat I realised I recognised the driver. It was Raymond, or Big Raymondo, as he was sometimes known, from the Auldhouse. He is not literally from Auldhouse, he was a regular in the Auldhouse Bar, in the pub I used to work in through my student days and a little beyond. Auldhouse is a very small village just north of EK and has a pub, a school and a small assortment of cottages and houses. So little houses and cottages in fact that the only people who came to the Auldhouse for a drink were all from down the road in EK. Anyway, both pleasantly surprised to see one another, we had a quick ten minute catch up as he drove us down to the Village. You know the kind. How are you doing? Where are you working now? You'll never believe who is dead? etc. Whenever I meet these kind of people with Ka and chat away, I sometimes forget to introduce her leaving her to guess who the hell they are. She quite often gets it right and before I can say anything on departing from the meeting she'd nod and say 'Auldhouse folk'. The majority of the folk up there were all regulars and mostly a good bunch and a good laugh, making the shifts pass a little easier after days full of uni. Wallace Cameron the mandolin player with his cigars and Bunnahabhain, On eyed Alan, Wee Raymond the pipe smoker, Statler and Waldorf (can't remember their real names), Scott and his crazy wife, Nigel the mustachioed teacher from across the road and loads more. A lot of characters which I could sit and writie about till the Auldhouse cows came home.
After yet another promise to one day visit Auldhouse again and show Ka the wonders of the old pub we jumped out the taxi and into the sunny evening in the Village. I've always known it as the Village but these days there are more and more people calling it the Old Village as if there is a new one somewhere else in EK. It is the oldest part of East Kilbride, where it all started around eighty years ago. From then the Village grew and mutated, spreading out over the surrounding lands and in 1947 become one of the official 'new towns' of Scotland with the growth in Industrial development and the town's divisions into seperate residential areas (Westwood, Calderwood, etc). One of the oldest buildings in the whole town is one of my Dad's haunts. The Montgomerie Arms. We popped into it after the chinese for a wee drink on our way up the road for the bus and were pleasantly surprised by the friendly, lively atmosphere. There are three main sections in the 'Monte', the main downstairs bar, the side lounge bar and the upstairs cocktail bar. My Dad occasionally drops by on a Saturday evening, drinking in the downstairs lounge area with his mates and I made sure I had a quick scout about just incase he was around. Recognising a few of his mates I nodded in greeting but moved on upstairs. The upstairs is called a cocktail bar but I'm not sure why. The only difference I can see between the upstairs and downstairs is that it has a carpet and a few more cushioned benches. With no cushioned benches left we sat at the bar and as I stood, looking around I spotted more than a few familiar faces from who knows where. Folk I knew to see but could not remember from where. Probably folk from the Auldhouse days.

The cheese salad roll and the resurrection

An enjoyable Easter weekend with more birthdays. Ka celebrating on Thursday followed by my own on Sunday. So not only was there plenty of Easter eggs but there was plenty of cake to go round. Certainly not good for the diets.
On Saturday night Ka treated me to dinner in Toni's, a small, cosy little Italian restaurant on Renfield Street that generally serves great food with cheery service. We first went there for dinner around three years ago and have been meanings to revisit it ever since. The birthdays seemed like the perfect opportunity. Although the italian gent serving us was slightly loud and brash, throwing parmesan and pepper around rather haphazardly, he was friendly and efficient up until the third and final course. On the menu this course simply consisted of tea, coffee, chocolates and biscuits. We got our tea. We got our coffee. We did not get our chocolates or biscuits. Although disappointed, we let it go though considering we had had so much cake to eat over the weekend. The waiter then neglected to give us our change, presumably assuming it to be a tip or service charge, leaving us sitting, twiddling our thumbs at the empty table. We had intended to leave more than the meagre amount left over from the bill and eventually managed to get our change back in order to leave a more substantial tip. Anyway, niggles aside, it was a nice meal, and as we dusted the parmesan from our hair we proceeded on to Amber, underneath St. Vincent Street's Bar Buddha. Another small and cosy place with a late bar playing great music which had a special on of £2 a drink. Not too bad in these credit crunching times. As a result we both ended up quite merry and headed off for a bus home. For a change the bus journey was pretty pain free with no unpleasant, slobbering drunkards onboard, except from me.
On Sunday I entered my early thirties and rose from the dead, hungover, and still feeling more than a little zombie like. After making myself feel vaguely human again we left for Uddingston. Ka was driving and succeeded in being very patient with my moaning and mumbling from the passenger seat. After a quick visit to the McGarva household we then headed up to the Leckie household to visit Angela, Steven and Morgan who gifted us with special personalised Thorntons Easter eggs complete with our names in icing across their front. In this instance my name being 'Uncle Michael'. For them, we had a bunch of tulips and a couple of creme eggs. Maybe not a completely fair transaction but they did forget my birthday so I considered that to be fair enough. We sat and watched Morgan paint her boiled eggs, the kitchen table, and the majority of her hands while Steven cut dresses and shirts from sheets of felt and inserted arms into each of the small, card, toilet roll holders which were acting as the eggs' bodies. We suspect Steven was enjoying this egg painting more than Morgan was. While all this was going on, Angela created, possibly, the greatest cheese salad roll I have ever tasted. After eating I was back on the trampoline in the Leckie's back garden thanks to Morgan's persistence. Strangely enough, the trampoline coupled with that amazing salad roll made me feel a hell of a lot better - not the results you would expect with a hangover.
After a quick visit from the globetrotting Tricia and Tommy, who are just back from a Caribbean cruise and were now on their way to see Dougie MacLean in Dunkeld, we headed up to Chapelton for dinner with the family. Kenny picking Gran, Ka and myself up from EK. Mum had made another feast including smoked salmon for starters, a sunday stew for mains and a lemon meringue for dessert. Gran drank a giant Brandy, Dad fed me with a fair amount of his Jack Daniels, Kenny sat and watched the golf on the big screen and we reminisced, chatted and gossiped before heading home after nine to collapse and fall asleep on the couch watching Damages.
Back in work today, missing all the Bank Holiday Monday movies. Maybe a good thing. Looking forward to going home tonight and relaxing, there's a choclate egg with my name on it.

Pierce Brosnan singing and Italian arse pinchers

Friday again and the week has sped by in time for another weekend. Forgot to mention my mother's birthday on the blog which was on Tuesday. Working late I was unable to get up to Chapelton to see her but we all had dinner together on the Sunday night with Gran, which also encompassed the commercial Mothers Day, so we hit two birds with the one stone there (the phrase - we were not literally throwing stones at the elder women around the dining table). Ka and myself bought her that dreadful looking Mamma Mia film on DVD and the new DVD/CD collection from the great Annie Lennox. I'm sure the Mamma Mia film is not that dreadful - it just looks it. When it was originally released last year I suspect ever woman in Britain trooped out to see it as it had to be in the cinema for months. There was even a sing-a-long version released a month after the original, enticing the same women to go back out and see it all over again, filling cinemas all over the land with screeching housewives. The Reid women themselves all went for my Aunt Linda's birthday which is when my mother first seen it. Ka was invited but opted to go with her Mum and neice instead. Not a fan of Abba or Pierce Brosnan, Ka had not been keen up until then. What's worse than Pierce Brosnan? Pierce Brosnan singing! To Abba?! No thank you very much. Maybe it was the whole Colin Firth thing too? Women seem to have a thing for Colin Firth? Still insisting on calling him Mr Darcy and talking suddenly like they're out of breath? The swedish actor, Stellan Skarsgard was the third possible Dad in the film. The third Dad? As far as I know the plot revolves around Meryl Streep's daughter getting married and three Dads being at the wedding. The Meryl Streep Mum was obviously a bit of a tart in her younger days and she does not know which one is her daughter's father and invited all three former lovers along to be safe (being safe obviously not something she was used to 20 years ago). Anyway, all this takes place on some wonderful looking greek island. The beautiful shots of the idyllic Greek town ruined only by the processions of women waving their washing around their heads.
Talking of foreign destinations Ka and myself still have to sort out our honeymoon. We've got some vague ideas about Italy but nothing wholly decided yet. We did quite fancy Venice with romantic notions of journeys on candle lit godolas passing under the many beautiful buildings and bridges, singing about ice cream. As long as we avoid any dwarves in red raincoats we should be alright. Rome is also a place we'd be keen to visit with it's spectacular architecture. Apparently there's more to do in Rome too so we may end up visiting the two of them. On the phone to my Aunt Ann, down in London, the other week she did warn us of the Italian men. Apparently they have a habit of arse pinching. She told us her bottom was red raw by the time she got home from Italy. Not sure what areas of Rome she was staying in or when she was over there but I'm sure the arse pinching is probably no longer accepted as etiquette. I suspect I would be safe from the arse pinchers anyway. Florence, in the Tuscany region, has also been recommended to us, again with it's rich assets in architecture, art and its history with the Renaissance. My other Aunt Anne (or Mad Auntie Anne, as she was known to my mates - not that the other Aunt Ann is not mad but for some reason this particular Aunt Anne has been labelled for life!) and Uncle Ian are continuously raving about Florence as they have spent more than one new year there. Both Ka and myself have never been to Italy at all so it should be great wherever we end up.

Panic over

Quiet Saturday morning. My mother came to the rescue in the bridemaid dresses scenario with her best mate, Morag, who just happens to have a daughter who owns a dress shop, for Wedding like occasions. Very handy. So Ka, the two Mums and Lynsey Ann went along on Saturday morning and picked some new dresses while I lounged infront of the tv watching the new Battlestar Galactica. Panic over. Thank the maker, as it will certainly make my life a bit quieter and bring the Wedding Stressometer back down to bearable.
On Saturday evening it was a quick bus trip into Glasgow for a great meal in Arta in Glasgow's Merchant City. A brilliant meal of 2 courses for only £7.99 each. An email offer I received last Thursday, probably through having booked on the brilliant 5pm.co.uk before. A brilliant website which offers great deals on all your local restaurants, bars and clubs regularly. However, I'm not sure the Polish staff knew about half the offers going on as they attempted to charge me £12.99 each for the meals after having delivered us with the wrong starters. Needless to say, I pointed out their error and they were all very nice about it. Ka read it as me chatting them up but I was only trying to get the deal I had been offered. We followed the meal with the traditional Arta cocktails downstairs in the lounge bar area at a candlelit table, surrounded by large staring statues and Narnia wardrobes. Arta is a very mixed bar with people of all ages enjoying a Saturday night tipple from teenagers and students to desperate housewives and David Brents. Some of which looked as if they had indeed escaped from one of the Narnia wardrobes. As time progressed the bar soon went from empty to jammed at which point we escaped to the club downstairs to a last drink before heading home for the bus.
Up, and straight to the gym on Sunday after Ka completed another dose of her beloved housework. A quick swim and a swelter in the sauna later, I then proceeded on to the hospital to see Gran Reid only to find the Symingtons and Millers already round the bed. Looking better and hopeful of an escape, Gran was sitting up in bed and patiently waiting for the Monday and the Doctor's visit which she was hoping would send her home. As the visitor numbers were already too many, I stayed only for fifteen minutes and headed off to the supermarket in order to buys eggs for the meatballs and spaghetti Ka was making for dinner that evening. Sharon, a friend from Art school, now living in LA and working for Dreamworks, was over on holiday visiting her Dad who has just turned sixty. While she was over, she made time to come over to EK and visit us. Sharon said it gave the the opportunity to show her new man definite proof that she is not alone in being a Scottish nutter. Another Michael. Mike the skydiver. Thankfully he turned out to be a top bloke and was very complimentary of Ka's meatballs. Sharon looked happy and gave the impression of having a far better time in LA now than she had been having on her last visit over here. We promised to visit LA and California soon. Ka, impressed with Sharon's new man, gave her the quiet thumbs up and nod as they left. Their next stop, Glen Coe and a trip to visit Claire up in Dundee.
While Sharon was away from LA and over here in Bonnie Scotland the usual glitz and glam of the red carpet in Hollywood was going on in the Oscars. Great to see Slumdog Millionaire get recognised to such a brilliant extent. The lovely Kate Winslet also got her oscar finally - not sure if she should have won against Angelina Jolie's great performance in 'Changeling' though but I've not even seen 'The Reader' so I don't really have the right to comment on that yet.

The Chapelton moors and Mike Baldwin

Things all seem a a bit hectic at the moment. We were pretty relaxed for a while there. Unfortunately, however, Ka received a letter the other day informing her that the company providing her bridesmaids' dresses had suddenly folded, or in this case creased, leaving the bridesmaids to be, without dresses. This has obviously caused some anxiety as there is a mere four months to get new ones sorted. This is proving harder than at first expected with neither of the bridesmaids being able to help till mid March. As a bloke I was dismissing Ka's concerns with a blase wave of the hand and a relaxed 'plenty of time'. However, it would seem these dress shops take at least three months to turn a bridesmaid dress around. Gawd only knows why it takes so long (what's wrong with a swiveling stand?). My sister managed to get a day off in March today to try and rescue the situation later in the month. Lynsey Ann works in McDonalds and, for some reason, her manager finds it extremely difficult to allow his staff some time off. Members of the family have often toyed with the idea of going into McD's ourselves and smashing one of those fast food trays over his head but we've always given in to reason in the end.
My Mum offered her dressmaking services at Gran's bedside in the hospital tonight. My Mum is an expert seamstress, or at least was, before she went to work for Motorola. Now that that factory's current incarnation is closing down at the end of February, however, she is now being made redundant. In my opinion she should start up her own wee business making curtains, dresses, and any other manner of clothing. I could design and control her website and before we know it she could have her very own Underworld factory going on from Chapelton. Underworld being the factory on Coronation Street not the dark horror film starring Kate Beckinsale and a bunch of werewolves. It is Chapelton though, a bunch of werewolves making knickers would not surprise me, stranger things have happened up there. We used to hear strange noises coming from the surrounding fields at night, and they did not sound like the cows mooing or the sheep bleating. And don't even ask me how I know the name of Mike Baldwin's Coronation Street factory! Saying that, I think Mike Baldwin is dead now... and I doubt my Mum would make knickers for a living anyway. She will not stay redundant for long though, I know that much.
Gran is looking a little better by the day, but it will take a while before she's releasing herself from hospital and jumping on the No. 265 home. If you knew my Gran, you'd know that to be no idle threat. It does not matter how many sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters and friends she has with cars, she would still either run out the hospital and jump on a bus or go out onto the Hairmyres road and try and flag a taxi. Here's hoping she will be able to do that soon enough anyway. She did not even get to meet Princess Anne yesterday. I'm not sure she was bothered about that particular visit though. Ka and myself were even kicked out tonight when we turned up after the gym. Cousin Craig, Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann all turned up to visit and we were obviously considered expendable. It was fair enough I suppose since Craig had travelled all the way from Pollockshaws and the other three from Chapelton. It can be a treacherous journey coming down through those moors remember. You never know what's round the next corner. Especially on those, dark, twisting roads to Chapelton. The full moon shining in the blackness above... the sound of a sewing machine echoing over the fields...

Buffets make a good party

Unfortunately it looks like Gran Reid may be in hospital for another while yet. We were over in Hairmyres once again this evening. I took her raisins this time, but they were rejected. Lemon cakes - nope. But she did take the yakult. Never tried it yet. Considered nicking a bottle before I gave her the pack of twelve but I thought that may look slightly dodgy. She'd probably have had something to say about that. Apparently Princess Anne is visiting the hospital on Wednesday so she may get a royal visit. I'm pretty sure the Princess is not just visiting Gran Reid. She must have a ribbon to cut somewhere... but you never know. It's amazing the amount of people Gran Reid knows. A royal engagement.
Talking of engagements, Ka and myself spent our Valentines evening on Saturday at Stuart and Michelle's great wee engagement party in Blantyre. It turned out to be quite a fun wee night as Ka and myself sat and hummed and hawed over the different tunes that were played from the over enthusiastic DJ who, like the rest of his kin, had a strange inability to speak clearly into a microphone without sounding like a garbled Scottish version of Westwood (the DJ, not the East Kilbride neighbourhood where I grew up). Plus the party had a great buffet. It was especially welcome on Saturday as Ka and myself had not eaten since breakfast so as soon as the DJ gave the announcement (from which we just about made the word open out) Ka just managed to refrain me from jumping from my seat. As it happened I wouldn't have had a chance anyway as we were seated at the other end of the hall and, as we discovered, Stuart and Michelle have some very hungry relatives. As the queue shrank I did manage to venture up though a get two plates full for our table. The pakora and marshmallows were great. The buffet makes a good party. After the obligatory Loch Lomond Ka and myself headed out for the taxi home, leaving the party to the chaos that had erupted between two groups of friends and a girl collapsing from 'exhaustion' on the dancefloor.
Much to the annoyance of Ka's pal Tracey, Mr Russell Brand cancelled his scottish dates over the weekend, leaving the girls without a horribly loud, comedian to ogle over on sunday night so had to make do with a night on the tiles leaving me, alone, in blissful quiet. A quiet night infront of the box watching Lost and the first episode in the new series of Damages. Not sure if Damages needed a second series yet but time will tell...

Lactobacillus casei shirota!

The curtains. The tables on wheels. The tv that you can barely see. The visitors' bell. The blue aprons with no backs. I don't like hospitals much. Hospitals are one of those things that make me feel very uneasy. Gran Reid has been in hospital since last friday and Ka and myself have visited three times since then, taking in the traditional gift of grapes. Not sure why it is grapes that are THE fruit to take in to a hospital. The second time we went in we took plums and Gran quickly rejected them. Maybe she has been warned by some sort of hospital fruit adjudicator, that goes round the beds inspecting their edible gifts. That hospital smell is another factor of immediate recognition and dread. Perhaps I'm being too pessimistic with it all though? Hospitals ,generally, are places where you go to get better after all, usually, hopefully. The only experience I've had as a hospital patient (touch wood) was to get some fangs removed from the top section of my mouth that were growing in. These oddly formed incisors were threatening to replace my front teeth with a rather neat pair of fangs that the Count himself would have been proud of. The main memory I have of that is of lying helpless in the surgery as I slowly fell unconscious. It was a horrible feeling, being deliberately knocked unconscious by drugs, and those memories still occasionally bob to the surface in my mind.
My Gran was in Ward two and as Ka and myself sat down at her bedside all the usual hospital features brought me the usual sense of unease. However, after a while I began to wonder whether my Gran was being kept in the correct part of the hospital. We were surrounded by slightly odd, elderly patients. One, directly across from Gran, was an elderly lady, with manic grey hair framing her head lying lop sided on her massive pillow. She seemed to be reading the ingredients of her Yakult through a terrible frown and would occasionally yell out an additive vehemently.
'Skimmed milk!'
'Sugar!!'
'Lactobacillus casei shirota!!!'
Like some health conscious Father Jack, she sat there mumbling quietly to herself, then interupting our own conversations with her sudden yells, causing us to jump in our seats. The other poor lady opposite us, beside the first shouting woman, I don;t think even knew where she was really. At one point she started pulling the drip tubes from her arms and started shouting in alarm when the blood started squirting out of them. As a nurse moved to help the woman made it clear she needed the toilet rather desperately and we tried to carry on with our conversation as the lady's curtain was pulled over. We were then almost immediately interupted by an enormous 'OH NO!', a moment of silence, and then a loud sigh from one of the nurses. From behind the curtain the lady then went on to go on about how her mattress was now soaking. It was all distinctly depressing.
My Gran was taking it all in her stride though and is, as always, determined to fight on. Since then she has been moved into another ward thankfully, which we visited on Wednesday. A slightly more comfortable ward. Again, not without its characters. Ka and myself were there with my Dad and sister, Lynsey Ann, sitting at Gran's bedside chatting away, when suddenly I felt eyes on me. I froze. A shadow loomed over my shoulder. Very slowly I looked round, only to find another wee old lady standing over me... staring at us. She had silently hobbled up behind me and, as we sat conversing, was now standing, leaning over my shoulder. Staring. We made polite conversation with her only to get some barely audible mumbled responses and then tried to go back to our own conversation. She then hobbled round to my Gran's table and started shuffling her fruit and books about. Unsure what to do we hesitantly continued our conversation. As this continued and I came perilously close to losing my patience and chasing the crazy old bat away we all breathed a sigh of relief when a nurse finally came in and quietly ushered the mumbling lady away. Surely some of these poor ladies should be in another ward. One that has more nurses and better care. One with the word psychiatric before it maybe? Is this what happens when we become old and ill? We get thrown into any old hospital ward and left to wander about aimlessly? Thankfully my Gran has no such mental problems and was voicing her frustration with her staring friend on our next and most recent visit. Thankfully the mumbling lady had visitors of her own to which she barely spoke. Quite right though as they didn't even bring her any grapes.

Let them eat cake

Ka and myself took a trip to the cinema on Friday night to see 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'. The main character being born as an old man, or an old baby at the very beginning, and growing younger as the years go on, living his life in reverse. A great idea which is handled brilliantly and realistically. Pitt and Blanchett are great in the main roles and the effects are awesome. For the first hour of the movie you forget that it is actually Brad Pitt playing the lead role, the effects and make-up are so natural looking. A brilliant but weird film which left me thinking about life, death and the short goings on inbetween. The people, the relationships, the places, the chances, the opportunities and events of ones life. All very short, fleeting but vastly different. Some being extraordinary, massive or life changing and others being whether you have milk in your tea.
We arrived home from the cinema only to find a message waiting for us on the phone. My Gran had been taken into hospital for treatment after an investigative X-ray. Apparently the Doctors had looked over the X-ray taken and told her she would not be going home. So she has been in hospital ever since. Hopefully not for too long.
The next day we were in Troon choosing a wedding cake with the help of my Aunt Linda and Uncle Tom. Another job ticked off the to-do list for THE BIG DAY. Ka and myself were not particularly fussed about a Wedding Cake but as always with these things, it's traditional, (plus, I rather like a bit of cake late on, at a Wedding reception, when your veering towards drunkeness). Aunt Linda had told us of this fantastic wee cake shop in Troon which specialises in Wedding Cakes. After a pasta lunch in Barassie at Tom and Linda's, we set off for the Troon town centre. It was a bright but cold day and Sally and Jake, the two border collies, moved around impatiantly in the Volvo's back boot, eager for the Troon streets and for a short run across the beach. On arrival Tom left us to head for the front while Linda led us round to Sugar and Spice. A small white door in a back alley, just off Troon High Street, squashed between a printers and a garage, it was a small little opening, the smells of sweet ingredients, icing and sponge hitting us as we stepped inside.
A flurry of activity greeted us as the white aproned bakers, icers, or general cake makers, scuttled about in the large kitchen behind the compact front counter before us. The small standing area before the front counter was walled by glass cabinets containing giant cakes of varying shapes and sizes and catalogues of photographs from cakes constructed for weddings of the past and various other occasions. Little couples made from icing, animals, cars, bathtubs, seemingly anything can be made out of icing. The whole room like a very white, very claustrophobic mini version of a room in Charlie's Chocolate Factory. After flicking through a large catalogue, admiring, and slagging, many of the cakes, we made our decision, a rather nice octagonal number, and left to allow another three people and a buggy entry into the tightly packed little shop. Another job done and another of life's little moments taken care of. The picking of the Wedding cake. It was just unfortunate we did not get the opportunity to taste any.

Ridiculous language

I let myself down over the weekend. I swore at a Royal Bank of Scotland telephone operator. On the Saturday morning we got a statement through our door informing us the bank were billing us for a grand total of £58. We had inadvertantly fallen beyond our overdraft at the turn of the year. Our first time, and they are billing us now for this ridiculous amount of cash. Our money was one day late in going into the bill bank account. So, angry and frustrated, I told a Bank call centre lady that it was a 'bloody ridiculous' amount to charge. She responded in a haughty "I advise you to stop swearing at me". The best I could come up with in response was "bloody is not a swear word!" before hanging up. It's not good to blame these innocent call centre types for their employing company's corrupt methods but sometimes you just cannot help but lose the rag, and sometimes even the will to live. "I think you just need to control your finances a little better" the woman had said to me in the most patronising tone she could possibly muster. I would say the lady got off lightly with a mere 'bloody', wouldn't you? Banks are not to be trusted anyway. Especially the Royal Bank as it's certainly not the first time they've swiped money from my account through no fault of my own. These problems occur because of dates falling on bank holidays, weekends and such like, messing your financial schedule right up. Previous problems have also occured due to salaries being paid with rubber cheques, but that's another story. As it happens I have since discovered that for the same financial accident which befell us in January, Clydesdale Bank would have charged us £8 less and, best of all, Barclays bank would have only billed us £22. A good reason to leave the Royal Bank. Should we go through the hassle of changing the whole account though? It would involve at least ten different phonecalls to ten other different call centres to sort out the changes which could involve getting creative again with my insolent grammar. These call centre employees must be used to it though. It must be the worst job for putting up with disgruntled customers. Some, like the Royal Bank lady, are just asking for trouble though.
Around Christmas i phoned the Vigin tv line as our Digi box had suddenly decided to refrain from operating for longer than one minute at a time. After restarting the box, with the classic switch it off and back on again routine, I decided that we needed a technician so I picked up the phone. By the sound of her accent the lady on the other end of the line, with the distorted volume in conversation, sounded like she was also at the other end of the world. The background noises giving the impression she was up in one of Richard Branson's own hot air balloons. As she fired her gaseous flame up into her balloon and her basket struggled in the wind, the virgin lady warned me she was going to go through some steps with me. Rolling my eyes i informed her I had already restarted the box in an effort to remedy the problem but she insisted on taking me through these steps. After following her instructions running back and forth from the phone to the tv for around ten minutes I realised that she was basically taking me through the exact same steps I had put myself through. I was switching the box off and back on again. The only difference this time was that is was in an overly long, over complicated fashion whilst at the same time trying to understand each others words, through our different accents over the distorted phone line. Afterwards the call centre operative came to the same conclusion I had done fifteen minutes previously. We needed a technician. I kept my cool though and after the call had finished, rather shakily, placed the phone receiver back down on it's perch with only a loud sigh. Which is the calm, collected self that was missing on Saturday morning with the Bank.
Telling my family about the whole bank episode over dinner last night, my Gran nodded and agreed that my language had been getting worse. She noticed last week when I'd been in her house spouting about something that I'd "no idea where the hell it had come from?!" Again, I'm not sure if 'hell' is a swear word, but it was obviously enough to earn disapproval from my Gran. Something no one in the family enjoys.
Around ten minutes after the phonecall on Saturday morning I was racked with guilt and felt like phoning the lady up again and apologising for my 'bloody' language. Needless to say, I decided against it. I'll live with the guilt. That is until the next statement slides through the postbox, billing me for offensive phonecalls.

Fighting the humbug

Gran is in the Christmas mood. Whether she likes it or not. Early afternoon, after posting the last of our Christmas cards, I visited my Gran. Poor Gran is not in the best of shape at the moment but I did manage to talk her into helping her put her Christmas decorations up around the wee house. After a bit of a huff and a puff she grudgingly agreed and before I knew it I was up a shoogily ladder pulling the small, artificial electric tree down from the cold darkness of the loft. She had also bought a funky plastic Christmas star recently which eerily glows different colours as it hangs. It looked more like something that had fallen from Krypton and would be more likely to guide Superman home rather than three kings. I want one. After Christmasising (okay, there's no such word!) the place I left happy in the knowledge that my Gran would no longer be sitting in a humbug state as she had been before. Saying all this, of course, Ka and myself do not even have a tree to speak of yet. Tomorrow I'll no doubt be dropping round the old B & Q for a nice fresh Norwegian Fir as soon as I get out of work. Nothing beats a nice real tree sitting in your living room stinking the place up with it's nice pine odour. Gives you that Christmas high... I'm just getting carried away now.

Eat more cake

More job losses in BT now? Will this ever end? Things seem to be getting more and more depressing with all the redundancies and recession talk.
On a happier note it was my wee cousin, little Lauren's, birthday today. She was three. Ka and myself popped round to Laurence and Maria's after the usual Thursday night gym workout to deliver her present. We walked in to discover my Dad, Mum and Gran already there, lounging on the couch eating pizza and drinking Laurence's very own brewed beer while kids ran about the living room, followed by the two cats and the dog, Taz. Named Taz presumably because of his Tazmanian Devil tendencies of which I seen no sign of. He seemed perfectly at ease and calm, except from getting a bit 'excited' when Megan, Lauren's bigger sister, started having a tickling competition with Ka. Megan fell to the ground at one point only to be jumped on by a, let's say, over enthusiastic, Taz. Needless to say Megan made sure she quickly escaped. Lauren had her birthday cake presentation after Maria eventually had the lights put out for the full candle effect and everyone helped themselves to cake. Even though I was driving I did have a brief swig of Laurence's self brewed beer. 40 pints for a tenner, apparently, and not bad at all. Will maybe consider that for our tightened purse strings Reid Christmas (damn, said the 'C' word again). The other, younger, Michael, Laurence and Maria's eldest, disappointingly had not made another chocolate cake for us all and was annoyed that his mother had went out and bought one. Got to say, so were we all. At Megan's birthday a few months back, her big brother had made two giant, gorgeous cakes that Nigella Lawson would have been proud of. My mum used to be great at making cakes, especially of the birthday variety. She used to make us themed cakes of whatever we were into at the time. Lynsey Ann always got chocolate cake extravaganzas. Kenny, my brother, I remember, got specially constructed Thomas the Tank Engine cakes, castle cakes and a football pitch complete with players. Or maybe the castle was mine... anyway, she was an expert. Mum must have had a lot of time on her hands in those days as she doesn't bother so much anymore. Maybe it's more because of the fact the three of us are, or are approaching, thirty years of age though.