What's New, Pussycat?

SHAME JOB!

I highly recommend shacking up with a foreigner, as cultural differences help keep the magic alive. Today is my and Dr G's fifth wedding anniversary and we still manage to surprise each other. At least when it comes to words. Just when I think I've heard all his wacky phrases, he dredges up another doozy. Like STARVE.

I first fell victim to Starve when he was eating a Mars bar and I was staring longingly at it.

"Do you want a bite?"

"What do YOU think?" I said, moving in for the kill.

Just as I was about to take a bite, he yoinked the chocolate out reach and cackled, "STARVE!"

Apparently this originated at his primary school, when little kids would tease other little kids with promises of bites of lunches, only to cruelly withdraw their offers. You can just picture them in the playground all full of glee, "Hey, want a crisp?.... STARVE!"

I'm not sure if the phrase extended beyond his school but nevertheless it's brilliant, albeit incredibly frustrating when you're on the receiving end of it.

Its usefulness extended beyond food though - it makes a concise substitute for the likes of "get stuffed" or "over my dead body". Examples:

• If the boss thinks I am working overtime this weekend, he can starve.
• If you think I am going to wash your filthy socks you can starve.
• If they're going to charge £50 for that shithouse t-shirt they can starve!

Etc etc etc.

Gareth's favourite Australian phrase is SHAME JOB. Again I've not heard it used beyond the borders of my rural New South Wales home town - if anyone out there is familiar with it I'd love to hear from you!

Shame Job is a cry of mockery and scorn. In a school full of pimply teenagers there were plenty of opportunities to use it. The basic procedure is:

Hapless kid does something embarassing ==> Nearest gaggle of students point and shriek in unison: SHAME JOB!

• Kid trips over a rock and goes flying... SHAME JOB!
• Kid makes a failed chat-up attempt at the school disco... SHAME JOB!
• Kid wears their jumper inside out or gets dacked* in the playground... SHAME JOB!

* dacked is the act of some cruel bastard sneaking up behind you and pulling down your tracky dacks (sweatpants/tracksuit bottoms) so the general public gets a look at your unfortunate undies.

Shame Job works best with a broad Australian accent. You must bellow it loud and pack as many vowels as possible into the shame bit, so it becomes: SHAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYUM JOB!

Shame Job is now our default phrase for when one us does something stupid or if someone on the telly is doing something stupid. Try it on your friends next time they cock something up - I guarantee you it's fantastic fun.

MotoGP is Dead

UNTIMELY BLOG ENTRIES
A backlog of drafts published long after they were relevant.
Episode #1 — September 28, 2008

Valentino Rossi zoomed to his sixth MotoGP world title in Japan this morning while I snoozed soundly in my scratcher.

It's hard to believe that just two years ago I would set the alarm to watch the long-haul races live. I planned my social engagements around the MotoGP calendar. I actually fainted from excitement at the final 2006 race in Valencia. MotoGP was thrilling, unmissable, daring, dangerous, dramatic and addictive.

And now it just. SUCKS. BALLS.

It started last year when the 990cc machines were replaced by wimpy 800's and they also changed the tyre rules. Sure it was nice to see Australia's Casey Stoner steal the title but with a few exceptions, every week he'd just ping into the distance and finish twenty minutes before everyone else while Gareth nodded off on the couch despite me whimpering, "No! WAKE UP! It's still good! Something exciting is bound to happen soon. You can't give up on MotoGP!"

This year has been even more abysmal, with the exception of Laguna Seca where Casey and Vale fought like dogs until Casey fell off for no good reason. Gareth has stopped watching all together and even the most pathetic diehard like me cannot muster any enthusiasm. The BBC commentary team is barely disguising their boredom - today it was so desperate Steve Parrish actually did a shoutout for someone's birthday.

The situation is summarised by the brilliant MotoGPNews.com:

"Last season was terrible - a cavalcade of tedious events sparsely interjected with droplets of averageness. 2007 didn't just lower the bar - it dropped it onto the earth's crust in what we thought was the lowest point it could have reached.

But how wrong we were... 2008 has stamped the pathetic bar into the putrid quagmire whilst successfully claiming that the biggest surprise was the lack of big surprises.

Surely 2009 can't be as bad? Well we said that at the end of 2007. Expect a 2009 season of utter mediocrity that way you'll only be slightly disappointed."

Personal lowlights:

• Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes feigning interest in their matching leather jackets at Laguna Seca
• The environmentally obscene floodlit race at Qatar
• The inaugural Indianapolis round with three (3) spectators and cyclonic winds

The BBC's Suzi Perry doesn't even bother showing up to half the races because she has seen into the future and the future is dull as dog shit. The only highlight of the season has been Matt Roberts getting more screen time - he writes a great column too.

I fear for the future of MotoGP. It was one of the few interests Dr G and I truly shared and if he can't be bothered with the bikes what it is to become of us? I'll have to climb more stinking hills and drink real ale so we have something to talk about, dammit. 

Carmelo Ezpeleta you have ruined my sport and my marriage, you greedy bastard.

UPDATE: Season 2009 is actually pretty good so far! The new single tyre manufacturer rule has leveled the playing field somewhat. There is hope for the future.

UPDATE UPDATE: ACTUALLY, Season 2009 ended up being equally dull. DULL DULL DULL. MotoGP is clearly doomed.

I Like Budgies

Following on from the whole Baby or Budgie debate, while in Australia I found evidence that Dr G and I were destined to be together. It seems we've both wanted the same thing all along! While pawing through a folder full of stories I'd scribbled as a five year old, we found this:

 

I like budugies. Can't spell them but I like them! FATE, I tell you.

The Gift

GARETH'S DAD: I want to give you a wee bit of spending money for your trip to Australia.

GARETH: That's okay, thanks. I don't need any money.

GARETH'S DAD: I want to give you some money!

GARETH: I don't need any money!

GARETH'S DAD: Say it's for your birthday! Take the money!

GARETH: I don't want to take the money!

GARETH'S MUM: Either you take the money now, or you take it when we die!

And that was the end of that

"Do you think we should think about having kids, at some point?"

"Could we not just get a budgie?"

Valentine's Morning

SHAUNA:  You've stolen all the blankets AGAIN!

GARETH:  What we need is separate blankets.

S:  Why not separate beds?

G:  Why not separate houses?

S:  Why not separate countries?

G:  Yeah, great idea! I grew here, you flew here! As the saying goes.

Death of a Wankerphone

2009 so far:

1. Gareth nearly burned the house down. Or as he would tell it, I nearly burned the house down. It was an unfortunate alignment of random objects:

i. My make-up mirror, the one that magnifies your advancing years in spectacular fashion, was sitting on top of a cupboard, and then along came...
ii. A giant blazing beam of sunlight coming through the window (sunlight in Scotland in January, WTF) which bounced off the mirror and bored into...
iii. Gareth's "Executive Chair", which is made of some faux-leather crap so it started to smoulder ... which Gareth discovered upon returning to a smoky office after lunch.

2. My book got translated into German, Finnish and American, so I've been pimping it to the max before it is consigned to the multilingual remainder bins of history.

3. Last night I washed my iPhone. Before you say anything Mothership, I didn't leave it in my pocket. You know I always check my pockets. Except for the 756 times I left crumpled tissues in them and you would bellow from the laundry, SHOORRRNNNAAA, and my heart would run cold.

Anyway, let me walk you through it.

i. On Sunday morning I emptied my laundry bag onto the bed and sorted the dirty clothes ready for washing.
ii. Went off to eat brekkie and forgot about clothes.
iii. 5PM and waiting for the Tesco Man to deliver the groceries. Sometimes he calls if running late, so I took iPhone into the bedroom and wedged myself up against the window. We don't get mobile reception at our new place but sometimes you can get half a bar at the window if you're lucky.
iv. By coincidence the Tesco Man arrived at that very moment so I chucked phone on bed and answered the door.
v. 6PM. Groceries were packed away and I remembered the dirty clothes. Went back into bedroom, didn't both turning light on and scooped up pile of clothes. Put the washing machine on.
vi. Can't find my phone anywhere.
vii. Four hours later, I remember that I've got clothes in the machine. I remove the clothes and there is the stupid phone. Dead, dead, dead and stinking of lavender.

I bought the iPhone last September after months of turmoil as to whether I should buy something so frivolous. It would go against the frugal farmgirl roots; I'd always been on £10 a month pay-as-you-go. But I eventually succumbed to lust and walked out of the O2 Shoppe with the goods, wobbly with fear and guilt.

It was like when I moved out of home and purchased Heinz tomato ketchup instead of Home Brand. Or when I first bought Nike trainers instead of Leisure 7s or plastic Apple Pies. I thought God would come busting through the clouds and say, "YOU. DECADENT. FOOL!" and vaporise me then and there despite my begging, "Please sir, I got them from the factory outlet."

I loved that phone; I named it Basil. The whole time I was waiting to be mugged because you just know, deep down, that you're not someone who's meant to own that sort of thing. But I never thought I would ruin it by my own hand, for crying out loud.

Googling revealed that I wasn't the only donut who's washed their phone. Apparently laundered iPhones have come back to life after being left in a bag of rice for a few days.

"Arborio or basmati?" Gareth yelled from the kitchen.

"Basmati," I said, reasoning that because basmati cooks quickly, it would heal my stupid phone quickly. Yeah that makes sense. Zoe joked this morning that we should have used arborio as it absorbs more moisture, and tonight I am looking at my cloudy-screened paperweight in its ricey-Tupperware coffin and sincerely wishing I'd thought of that.

Anyway, that was a very expensive load of laundry.

I just wanted to say, yes it was a Wankerphone as Gareth called it. But I loved it and it was very useful. I will miss my Mr Plow ringtone and how a photo of Gareth flipping the bird popped up when he called. I will miss listening to podcasts, checking train timetables, obsessing over to do lists, misspelling things with the touchy keyboard, compulsively checking email and squinting at electronic books.

Most of all I will miss the alarm clock. You could select noises such as "Harp" or "Robot" or "Bark", the latter which sounded like a German Shepherd saying, GET UP OR I'LL BITE YOUR FUCKING LEGS OFF. But now I must rely on the Scottish sun to wake me up. If it can set a chair on fire surely it can get me out of bed in the morning.

Buffed

As of today I'm 31. Bloody hell. Dr G gave me a present* wrapped in sandpaper and duct tape! That charmed my pants right off.

Realising at the last minute that we were all out of paper, he was inspired by The Durutti Column's 1981 album, Return of the Durutti Column, which had come in a sandpaper sleeve. This in turn, according to Wikipedia, was "inspired by a Situationist joke, a book - Guy Debord's The Society of the Spectacle - with a sandpaper cover to destroy other books on the shelf".

The duct tape was totally his idea though.

* if you're curious, he got me the remastered Mogwai Young Team which satisfied the nerd in me and a contribution to the New Camera Fund. Woohoo! If only the compact-somewhat-manual-and-good-in-low-light camera I long for really existed :)

Nigella Returns

Draft entry from last September when I was addicted to Nigella Express and Gareth tried to contain his disdain for poncy food programmes.

Notes

• Nigella still foxy
• Has abandoned suggestive deep-throating of runner beans
• Still does "Spontaneous" Midnight Fridge Raid at the end of every episode.

SHAUNA:  I wonder where you get that garlic oil?
GARETH:  From London.

SHAUNA:  I can never find those mini chocolate chips.
GARETH:  That's because they're in London. You can only get them in London.

NIGELLA:  I love making quick and easy food for my friends after they've had a stressful, hard day's work.
GARETH:  Get down a pit!

NIGELLA'S DINING COMPANION:  What is that delicious flavour with the chickpeas?
NIGELLA:  It's a bag of rocket, darling.
GARETH:  That's preposterous. What a tosser. Everybody kens rocket. I come fae Fife and even I ken the taste of rocket!

(I love how when Gareth gets irritated about poshness his speech suddenly turns all Fifer-like, eh.)

Love

"Hey! Do you still reckon I'm alright?"

"In what sense?"

"In all the senses."

"Well... you look nice. But you're a wee bit mental!"

The Doctor Rocks Again

Back in our courting days Gareth was in a band. He'd disappear into a manky studio every Saturday with his mates, make a racket and then sit around eating pizza. That is when I discovered tuna and sweetcorn is considered a tasty topping in Scotland.

Gareth played the bass, which is a very foxy instrument. I positively swooned when I first saw him on stage and knew I had to marry him. But alas, the band disbanded not long after that gig. Gareth pursued solo projects.

Then this year he joined a new band. I was all a-quiver until I heard the band already had a bass player. Dr G would be at the keyboard. That's hardly the most sexy of instruments, is it?

Hmmm.

Not only that, he'd be doing fancy bleeps and samples and stuff, which meant he'd be nicking off with George the Powerbook all the time and leaving me stuck with the stupid PC.

But when I saw him playing a gig a few weeks ago I realised the appeal was not about the instrument but about the bloke. It is exciting to watch someone do something they love to do. The faraway expression, the intense concentration. People who are interested are interesting. Therefore I'll be taking up skydiving, stripping and sword fighting in order to keep the magic alive.

Meanwhile, Dr G's fame is spreading across the land. The other night the band were playing in a pub in deepest darkest Fife and a girl came up to him.

"Is your name Gareth?"

"Aye."

"D'you go wi' a lassie called Shauna?"

"Aye."

"I read her book!"

"Oh."

"She wrote about her man Gareth playing in bands so I wondered if it was you! Wah-hey! I've read all about you... being romantic and that!"

"Aww man."

A technical hitch.
 

York The Elder

Dr G and I are off to the fair city of York this arvo to celebrate three years of hasty marriage. I should have thought of this weeks ago but forgot amidst the deaf and snottiness... I was wondering - you guys had so many brilliant ideas when we went to New York - has anyone been to the old one? Gareth's all geeked up for the air museum and the rail museum, but what's in it for me? Mwahaha. Signs of old age and crotchety-ness:

• We booked our train tickets in the Quiet Coach. Shush, you kids!
• Gareth is bringing a thermos of tea coz we're too stingy to pay £1 for the pissweak on-board swill.
• Although Gareth will say it's more about environmental reasons - all them nasty plastic cups.

If he shows up with a tartan rug we're doomed.

The Year of Living Dangerously

Sign in the paper shop window:

FOR SALE - ANTIQUE COMPUTER DESK.

. . .

Fun With Amazon Rankings

DR G:  Oh my god. You're NUMBER ONE!

SHAUNA:  What?!

DR G:  Number one in.... Books most likely to be pulped by April!

SHAUNA:  Books most likely to prop up wonky bookshelves!

DR G:  Books most likely to be used as emergency loo paper!

Etc etc etc.

I've weaned myself off the lunchtime pilgrimage to the wee local WH Smith, as it's just too soul-destroying seeing the same four copies there day after day and fighting the urge to scream to all the shoppers, "SOMEBODY. PLEASE!"

. . .

Call it OCD or call it being an idiot, but for the past few years I've been enslaved to a Heading Off To Work ritual of 1) kissing Dr G three times then 2) grabbing a tissue from the box on the shelf in the hallway and putting it in my right pocket.

Once you start these things it is hard to stop. I wasn't even conscious of the routine until one day I turned back halfway down the road because I'd forgotten The Tissue, convinced that without it I'd be mown down by a garbage truck or Gareth would leave his lunchtime beans on the stove and perish in flames. It's not even that dramatic, really. It's just that - my days have been okay while ever I've had three kisses and a tissue... so why mess with the formula?

We've been painting the (evil, bastard, neverending) hallway lately, so The Shelf has been moved to the living room. Today I was running late and huffed in the manner of a martyred corporate slave, I just don't have TIME to take another three steps to the living room! So I left without the tissue.

The old heart was clattering as I slinked down the street, wondering which speeding car would leap off the road and into my arms. I regarded every tree suspiciously, waiting for the falling branch. But then I arrived safely at work and I felt quite exhilarated and devil-may-care. I might try it again tomorrow.

Vale Kenco

I promise this blog isn't turning into What's New Dawg, but people often ask me about my wee pretend dog Kenco, who Gareth sponsored for a Christmas 2005 gift through the Dogs Trust. I'm sad to report that I got a letter to say that Kenco has passed away.

They say he was a boisterous hound. Loved: Football. Hated: Being disturbed while eating. I only wish I'd met him; clearly we had a lot in common.

I always imagined he'd be a real sweetie until I saw this photo of him earlier this year:

Doesn't he look like a rocket? A real little scrapper. Somehow those fangs and manic eyes made me love him even more. So it almost seemed appropriate that he died in a fight. Well, they called it "a quarrel with one his kennel mates" in the letter, but I like to think it was some kind of canine turf war. He was rushed to the vets but had suffered from internal injuries so they made the difficult decision to put him to sleep.

As you can see from the tributes on his page on DoggySnaps.com, he was a popular boy. I dare you not to get hopelessly hooked on that website, it's like a four-legged Facebook!

So Kenco will be missed, but there are other hounds in need of virtual friends. They've transferred our sponsorship to a dog called Peter Pan (Loves: Squeaky toys. Hates: Other dogs) and he looks almost as cheeky.

El Residente

My visa arrived in the mail today. You'll never get rid of me now, Britain! In the end there was no need for immigration lawyers or angry letters to MPs or copulation on the steps of the Home Office to prove our devotion. I simply sent them 58 new pieces of evidence. And one lovely letter of hearty endorsement from Rory. You may ask why I didn't just send 58 pieces of evidence in the first place. But when the form requested "a minimum of 10 and ideally 20", somehow I missed the invisible sentence that followed, "and another 38 would be quite handy." My advice to anyone planning to apply for permanent residency: start saving everything. Every bank statement, insurance policy, phone bill, Post-it note, parking ticket, Durex wrapper, milk carton, flat tyre and soggy teabag. Put it all in a big box and send it to the government. Recorded delivery, of course. Gareth has already skipped off to see his solicitor. I personally wanted to go to Reno so we could end this charade in sunny Nevada where it all began. But now that I'm a permanent resident of Scotland I'm far too tight to fork out for airfares. Seriously comrades, I'm happy. I love this wee country. Thank you for your kindness and tolerance during my moments of madness. You rule the school.

Bungle Bungled

GARETH:  So when you get deported back to Australia do you think they'll put you in one of those detention camps? SHAUNA: They don't put you in a camp for going back to your own country! G: Yeah they do! I bet there's a special Detention Camp for Ejected Spouses. Somewhere remote like Broome. Or the Bungle Bungles! S:  Did you learn all your Australian geography from Neighbours? G:  They'll make you eat grubs and berries! But I'm sure they'll let you out now and then to paint some landscapes. S:  Will you visit me? G:  Hmmm... maybe once a year. Until the novelty wears off. Then we'll slowly drift apart. Thanks, dear comrades, for tolerating my Entry o' Insanity last week. The situation is so stupid that we can almost laugh about it now. What else can you do? The fact remains we're genuinely married, so this is just an extremely annoying blip along the road to proving it. I have put in four years of wholehearted law-abiding tax-paying residency so slinking back to Australia is not an option. So we shall deal with things as calmly as possible and/or bombard them with more evidence until they surrender. If they don't, there's lawyers and appeal processes. And if it comes down to some sort of Green Card-ish interview, I say BRING IT ON. I'm a far more convincing actress than Andie stinking MacDowell.

The Bungle Bungles of Western Australia

Ball and Chain

Still on the train. Gareth just called me to say a letter from the Home Office arrived. Ooh, my permanent resident visa, yay! BUT NO YAY. Application DENIIIIIED! They're saying I did not include enough documentary evidence to indicate we're still living together in the married way. They asked for 10-20 pieces of evidence from at least 5 different sources, I sent 20 from 13 different sources. I spent weeks making sure I had the right blend of documents, checking 1000 times they were all there, even including a cover letter with everything carefully numbered. It is completely baffling. I have 28 days to resubmit my application with more evidence, otherwise it's ball and chain and PJs with arrows and back to New Holland for me. I honestly have no idea what else I could possibly send! It's all there! They only want sensible documents like bank statements and tax letters, a 10000 word declaration of my undying committment to Dr G and bonny Scotland wouldn't help my case. I'm trying to get through to the HO on the phone to find out exactly where I went wrong but anyone who's ever gone through this process knows that's near impossible. I know this is all beaurocracy and I'm trying to stay calm and rational, but it makes me feel kind of ill that someone could possibly think we're not the real deal. Why would I shove my fat arse into that wedding dress three times unless I really loved the guy? Why would I endure soggy Scottish chips and soggy Scottish winters IF NOT FOR LOVE?!

Where The Atmosphere Is Great

Three years ago today, love was shiny and new and I could still barely make eye contact without blushing. I'd cleverly ranted and raved in advance about crappy overpriced Valentines flowers that only last a day, so I was chuffed when Gareth showed up on my doorstep with a plant. I christened him Duncan!

I've destroyed every other plant I've ever owned, including a trio of Unkillable Cactii. But Duncan has marched on and on, strong and unruly and rather primeval looking in his dinky pot that looks like it was crafted from the walls of a Swedish sauna. I like to think his flourishing is some sort of symbol of our relationship, but to be honest it's more likely because Gareth remembers to water the poor bastard.

Happy V-Day, Doc!

2006: Top Three Phrases Used To Preface A Big Fart

3.   Pull My Finger (timeless classic)

2.   I Give You The Gift Of Fragrance

1.   For Your Consideration

Gone Thredbo

Gareth thinks it's a hoot how in Australia we call the shop at which you purchase alcohol, "the bottle-o".

I don't this is any less ridiculous than the way Brits call their equivalent Off-Licence, "the offie", but then again the fella is generally a big fan of Australian lingo. He picked up the word sook (crybaby) from MotoGP rider Casey Stoner and he recently learned bogan (think Aussie Chav) from Momo's blog, although he quaintly mispronounced it boogan.

Most of all he enjoys how we abbreviate words and stick an O at the end of them. Like rego for car registration, metho for methylated spirits, milko for milkman, and the perennial favourite, ambo for an ambulance driver.

It's getting to the point where he thinks we do this for every single word in existence. I was chatting to The Mothership on the phone recently and debriefed Gareth afterward, telling him that she'd just been in Thredbo.

"In Thredbo? What's a thredbo?"

"Thredbo! The town. In the Snowy Mountains."

"Thredbo," he snorted. "That's not a real place."

"It is. It's Australia's premier alpine resort!"

"Sure!"

"I'm telling you, it's true!"

"Ohhh. I thought that's what you'd say if your clothes were all old and threadbare. CRIKEY mate, me pants've gone thredbo!"

Three Years

Yesterday was the 3rd Annual You Rawk Day. Forget all those weddings, this is the one I consider to be our proper anniversary.

Standing on the platform in the chilly night air, my breath shot out in anxious, near-hysterical puffs... five long months since we'd met at a pub quiz, the time was ripe to make my move! With the train rattling towards us there was potential for a dramatic and memorable moment, like Anna Karenina or something. But an ill-timed lunge, my kiss landing somewhere up his left nostril, was hardly something to tell the grandkiddies. Neither was me blurting, "You rawk!" before fleeing onto the train.

I was so mortified that when the conductor came round I bought a ticket to the wrong destination. I still lug it round in my wallet every day and take it out now and then, remembering the chill of his nose and the unbearable agony of eye contact.

There's no problem meeting each others gaze these days. You never know what you will see there - teasing, patience, laughter, understanding, comfort, or the evil glint before one executes a triumphant fart. I was getting overly sentimental the other day, telling him about the rush of relief and anticipation I get each time I trudge home, knowing he'll be there working away on some engineery shite, wearing his finest tracky-dacks and smelling of soap and coffee. He smiled and patted my needing-a-wash hair and said, "Mmm, feels like bacon." This week he wrote To moi woife on my birthday card. Taking the piss out of the Aussie accent as usual, but it melted me to see that down on paper. Happy anniversary, Doctor G. I loike being your woife.

The Magic Hoodies

I have this hoodie. It is navy blue, old and grotty. I bought it for ten pounds back in 2004. That was the Year of Voluntary Poverty, when Rhiannon and I worked seven days a week and ate Tesco Value beans to fund our travels. I had never worn a hoodie before and at first I marvelled at its mid-season practicality. If I was walking to the bus stop and suddenly attacked by a Spring shower, I could just flip the hood and prevent my hair from exploding into its usual revolting orange cloud. Later on that year we went to Russia and despite being summer it was bloody chilly so I had to get the hoodie out. While our fellow Contiki tourers were also backpacker types, they'd had the good sense to be accountants or computer programmers in London instead of administrative losers in Edinburgh, so they had posh, stylish jackets. Worse still, Rhiannon had accidentally brought the exact same hoodie as me. We'd meant to get different jackets before the trip but we'd run out of time and dosh. So we felt like right dickheads sitting on that tour bus for three weeks, all matched up. "Are youse two twins?" an Aussie girl shouted from the back seat, the first of twenty-five people to ask this question. "NO WE ARE NOT," we said in unison. "It was an unfortunate purchasing coincidence!" "How thick are these people?" Rhiannon hissed, "Twins, just because we have the same stupid jacket." "Idiots."

I think Rhiannon ceremoniously burned her hoodie after that trip, but since I am lazy and not half as stylish I clung on to mine. And on and on. It makes me look like a bum, about to shuffle off to place a bet on some greyhounds. But my commute involves so much walking and this is Scotland, there's hair-wrecking downpour lurking round every corner. What sucks is Gareth has a hoodie too, and seems surgically attached to it. He was wearing one the fateful day we met, and he would have worn it down the aisle had it not been so hot in Vegas. But as previously reported, the good Doctor has nae hair, so a hoodie is handy when there's a sudden chill in the air. He recently replaced a hood he'd had for about twenty years, and what do you know, it's navy fucking blue. If we go for a walk we have to argue over who gets to wear theirs, because I was scarred by Russia and refuse to walk around all Mrs and Mrs Hoodie. What's next, matching white trainers and bum bags? So it's a fierce battle between the Baldy Head and the Risk-Of -Frizz Ginger. I fantasise that one day we'll just wake up and simultaneously declare, "Let's stop dressing like middle aged students and go out and buy some proper jackets!". But it never happens. Recently I was behooded and half-asleep on the train, heading home from work. A young lad got on, juggling an armful of books, a guitar, and a huge bunch of flowers. He was dressed in black and smiling, a sharp contrast to us dour corporate slaves. He reminded me of one of those guys at high school that chicks would obsess over, assuming he was Deep and Mysterious because he had long hair and a faraway expression. He arranged his goods on the luggage rack then plopped down beside me. As the train pulled away he started scrawling funny squiggles on a piece of paper. "I'm learning Arabic," he said after a few minutes, catching me looking. I sat up straight, shocked. This was the first time a stranger had spoken to me on the train. Normally it's just grim silence, everyone absorbed in their iPods and Dan Browns. "Nice!" I croaked. "I'm really loving it." His voice was soft and dreamy, "It looks like art, don't you think?" "Sure!" I decided to have a stab at conversation, since this was such a rare event. "You know, I remember when I did Japanese, I always liked drawing the squiggles more than I did learning how to say anything." "Japanese! That is so cool!" We started chatting about the two languages and it was such a hoot because he was so earnest and completely uncynical, his lust for life not yet destroyed by working in a call centre. "I have this big bag of henna at home," he said suddenly, "Someday I'm going to invite round a whole bunch of naked girls and paint poems all over them in Arabic. Yeah. Love poems!" "Oh... brilliant! This is my stop." "It's mine too. That's cool." As the doors opened he gestured for me to go first and said the magic words, "So you're a student too, then?" A student! A student! Have you ever heard anything sweeter, a decade after you'd last set foot in a place of learning? We parted company and I walked home in the warm glow of the mildly flattered. It was a good ten minutes before I figured why he'd thought I was a student. It wasn't my youthful complexion or quality banter. It was because I was dressed like a slob. That bloody hoodie! "You wouldn't believe what happened to me and my hoodie today," I told Gareth later. "It's going in the bin." "No!" Gareth yelped, "You can't put a hoodie in the bin! Wait til you hear what happened to me and my hoodie today!" He had spent the day canoeing down the River Spey today with two pals. They got caught in a crazy current and hit a huge log. The canoe capsized. The other two were flung out but Gareth got trapped underneath! He almost died! Well, he was certainly under there long enough to start thinking of the tragic headline, Fife Lad Drooned In The Spey. Luckily his mate swooped in ... and hauled him out by his hoodie. "You see, hoodies are magic," he declared, "They keep you looking youthful AND they save your life." "Right on." "I am never taking this off again!"

Drookit

LAST FRIDAY, 5PM
Gareth collects hire car for the big camping trip. We'd booked a Vauxhall Corsa Or Similiar on the internet, it turned out to be a Nissan Micra in an embarassing pastel shade, designed to appeal to old ladies who want their motor to match their blue rinse.

SATURDAY, 11AM
Check weather forecast on the BBC. Here is an approximation:

SHAUNA:   Hmmm.

GARETH:   Do you think we should still go camping?

S:   Looks a little bit cloudy.

G:   Looks a little bit Scotland.

S:   Well... I'm sure we can handle a bit of water!

G:   Of course we can!

12PM
Quick trip to supermarket to pick up a disposable barbeque.

1PM Finally leave supermarket after wading through aisles full of mothers screaming, "JORDAN! I'LL NO TELL YA AGAIN! YER NO GETTIN' SWEETIES!".

We head north.

3.15PM
Essential ice cream stop at Tyndrum. It's the last place to get ice cream for bazillions of miles. THE LAST!

3.30PM
S:   Ooh. Ominous.

4PM

Arrive at Glen Etive. We unimaginatively decamp at the same spot as last year. It's a nice big flat bit surrounded by a stream with no other people in sight. There's a chunky stepping stone path over the water that seperates the camp from the car.

G:   Right, we've got exactly one hour to get everything over and put the tent up before the forecasted rain.

S:   Allez!

4.05PM
Rain arrives early.

4.30PM
Tent erected after much swearing. Our fingers are red and numb. Our jeans are drenched and cling unpleasantly to our thighs like icy toddlers.

4.31PM
Retire to tent to sulk.

5.15PM
Legend has it that Avon Skin-So-Soft moisturiser spray is used by Royal Marines to ward off Scotland's notorious midges, the teeny tiny biting insects that are on a perpetual mission to destroy any human enjoyment of the brief summer. There's a sudden break in the rain, so we slather ourselves in the stuff and seize our chance to crank up the disposable barbeque. A cloud of midges descends immediately.

G:   ARRGH! This Avon stuff is BULLSHIT!

S:   But they're not biting us! Sure there's millions of them in your face and up your nose but they're not biting! It's a miracle!

5.30PM
The sky starts to spit again, just as the vegetarian sausages hit the grill. We huddle around, trying to figure if it's better to keep your head down and get a faceful of charcoal fumes, or heads up for a mouthful of midges.

5.45PM
I rearrange the sausages with a fork. They look juicy and brown, which is remarkable for pretend meat cooked on a cardboard box filled with charcoal. You can hear the raindrops sizzle on the plate.

S:   Almost done! Fetch the sauce and rolls. We're going to eat our meal outside if it kills us!

5.50PM
Rain.

S:   This tent is going to stink of pretend meat all night long.

6PM
Wild, crazy, tent-rattling rain.

G:   Got any jokes?

S:   Nup. Do you?

G:   No.

S:   I could tell the Stevie Wonder one again. What did Stevie Wonder say when he got a cheese grater for his birthday?

G & S:   It was the best book he'd ever read!

6.20PM

G:   So this was all your idea, wasn't it?

S:   Oh YES. I had the brilliant idea that after sleeping on a crappy futon on the loungeroom floor for the past week while the Mothership visited, we should go camping and sleep a night ON THE GROUND.

G:   Ahh, you're always having great ideas!

S:   Even better, I thought we should go camping on the day of the women's Wimbledon final, the World Cup play-off AND the season finale of Doctor Who!

G:   Genius!

6.30PM

S:   I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute.

G:   Me too.

9.30PM
We awake from a surprisingly deep sleep.

S:   It's stopped raining!

G:   Quick! Let's go outside and make a cuppa.

10.15 PM
The kettle boils just as the last of the sun is sucked from the sky. Stupid camp stove that unlights itself. We barely have time to add the milk before it starts to rain aaagain. We retreat to our quarters.

10.30PM

S:   Know any ghost stories?

G: No.

S: Oh.

10.35PM
Zzzzzzzz.

[Then it rains all bloody night.]

SUNDAY, 8AM
Arise to find our dainty wee creek has swollen considerably. As in, completely drowning the stepping stone path. We are now stranded on an island.

S:  Camping RULES!

8.10AM
Midges swoop as we dismantle the tent.

G:   Why are those little bastards up so early?

S:   We forgot the Skin So Soft!

G:   Arrgh! My eyes!

S:   Arrgh! My ears!

8.30AM
I volunteer to carry our stuff across the water. My shoes were best sacrificed as they were old and crap and Gareth was driving home, which would be most unpleasant in wet boots. The water is knee-deep and icy cold. Right on cue, the rain cranks up again.

8.50AM

S:   Righto! I'm going to chuck my shoes over to you! Put them on and keep your Docs dry!

G:   Okay!

S:   Are you ready? I'm going to throw them now!

G:   Yes!

S:   Are you sure you're ready? I'm chucking them now! Get ready! Here they come!

[PLOP!]

S:   D'oh.

10.30AM
We drive through Glen Coe then down the coast to Oban where we stop for a traditional Scottish breakfast of chips and brown sauce. Which seemed nutritionally sound compared to the gigantor deep-fried haggi.

MONDAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, FRIDAY:
My midge bites swell into giant, festering, itchy sores so I spend the week surreptitiously rubbing my flaming limbs against furniture until I fork out for some antihistamine cream. Remember kids, Avon WORKS!

...

drookit (droo·kit) Dialect, chiefly Scot ~adj. 1. drenched, soaked through.

One Year of Marital Bliss

Domestic Harmony at the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens, 4 March 2006.
Portrait by Rory Ewins.

Incidentally that's a backpack on my back, not some sort of quasi-Quasimodo growth. What happened next? The snowball connected with my head and I screamed, "YOU HIT ME, YOU FUCKER!". Despite the violence, we are still happy together one year on. I might just even renew my ring insurance policy.

Hair Today

GARETH'S DAD:  Do you know what I paid for a haircut the other day? Eight pounds! Eight pounds for a haircut. What do you pay for a haircut, Gareth? GARETH:  I haven't paid for a haircut for about ten years. I wish I could pay eight pounds for a haircut. D:  Well if you grew your hair back you could go get it cut! G:  Dad, I don't have any hair to grow back. D:  Yes you have! If you just stopped shaving it all the time, you could get a proper haircut! G:  But I haven't got any hair left! GARETH'S MUM:  He hasn't got any hair left! D:  Yes he has! He's got plenty of hair. M:  He doesn't have any hair on top! D:  Yes he does, he just shaves it all off! M:  You're dreaming. I'm telling you, he hasn't had hair on top for years! G:  Yeah, thanks Mum.