What does one say about British Television? Sorry, Scottish television - my bad. Sam and I have been shopping for a “traditional” television for the last few days. Now one would think that a traditional TV means one that was made in the 50s. This is not the case over here: traditional means, instead, a television that is more than about 2 or 3 years old. They are all LCD mad over here and if you own a traditional TV, you are the most extreme form of loser. We are that extreme form of l.

We popped down the local electronics store and bought one for a reasonable price today from a nice chap in a cardigan named Philip. He did us proud and only slightly ripped us off. This is good because we were growing mighty tired of watching DVD’s on my 12-inch laptop screen every night.

So we have a TV and when the weather’s good, which never happens here, we can get 5 channels. When the weather is bad, we get maybe two. Right now we’re watching a program on obscure island life in Northern Scotland. Though some of you were probably wondering how “curry night” goes over in the only pub on a lonely northern wind swept island, we are not really that interested. Trust me, we’re huge fans of the obscure and boring British TV, so if we don’t like it, it isn’t interesting. Surely, it beats a program on cheese, but not by much. Penny is asleep with the occasional low grumble to let us know that she misses animal planet and her higher standard of living in the States.

Sam and I are ecstatically grateful, even for our show on Curry Night, to have a TV because the flat was getting a little quiet. There’s only so many hands of gin you can play before you want to consume your cards, on the rocks and nightly, to avoid the monotony of life without technological mind-numbery. We got our interweb hookup today so we’re officially back in business and able to post things. Thanks for being patient. We’ll be up with photos soon.

Sweeet - there’s now a program on Kenyan Elephants. I gotta go.

Cheers,

Ian

Love (or something) for Sale

I really don’t know how to feel about the fact that a prostitute solicited me last night. At least I think she was a prostitute, though come to think of it there was no discussion of the matter, so I can’t definitively say whether the label I am attaching to her employment is accurate. It isn’t like prostitutes wear a uniform or nametag or something. She might not have even been a full-time prostitute. Who knows.

Let me describe the situation and you can judge.

So self and doggie were out for a walk last night around 10 pm. I am usually afraid of going out after dark but Penny was being a fussy, so we decided to go for a stroll, to work out some aggression. Now, we don’t live in a bad neighborhood at all, but there is a commercial district nearby on the Great Western Road, a major thoroughfare here in the West End, that is full of mini-markets and small boutique shops.

So Penny and I rounded the corner, me in my Barbour jacket, scarf, and tweed cap, and Penny in her harness. As we approached the local Spar mini-market, I noticed a rather hardened woman dancing outside of the doorway with an eight pack of Super Tennants, and singing, quite literally, her own song to the beat of, I think, Madonna.

Penny paused and gave a snort indicating moral condemnation. I pulled her along and we began to walk around the woman giving her a wide berth. It was as we were passing, she said, “Fancy a honeymoon, Love,” to me and I scowled my scowl, the one I have reserved for these situations. Sam says that this is a look of absolute abhorrence. I don’t mean to scowl this way – it just happens – it’s my nature.

The woman then began to berate me in thick Glaswegian, words I didn’t understand except for the many powerful expletives, as I continued walking, rather briskly, up the street. Not running, mind you, but briskly shuffling. She didn’t follow me but I think she got the impression that whatever wares she was selling, I wasn’t buying. I sashayed home.

When I got home Sam asked me about my walk. I said, “Penny was a little fussy, she barked at a bicyclist, she peed, I got solicited by a prostitute, or at least I think she was a prostitute.” Sam thinks that yes, she probably was.

So I got that going for me.

Ian

The Romance of It All

So this whole no interweb thing is completely unacceptable! It means that I have to compose blogs the “old fashioned” way, the same way that works of literature were composed in the glorious 90s, in Microsoft word, at home, before walking to the library in the rain to post them on my blog. It makes one think how we all survived before home interweb access. Those who think we haven’t passed into a new completely different age, think again.

Actually, our existence is not dissimilar to when Sam and I first moved in together, in a small and ridiculously cleap flat in Shadyside, with our friend Adrian in 2000 after we graduated from college. We didn’t have the interweb then at home and we had to scrounge for furniture and homewares. Groceries always seemed like a luxury and I am convinced that I lived off grilled cheese for a year. However, I always found a way to drink single malt scotch, something that in Scotland I can’t afford to do. Oh, the irony!

Moving over here is similar in that we’re in the “Shadyside” part of Glasgow and are scrounging together a proper home as cheaply as we can. I suppose it is romantic to be price shopping for frozen peas. Romantic is what I keep telling myself. “Isn’t it romantic that we have to ration coffee” or “isn’t it romantic to not have a bathroom fan” or “boy, it is so romantic drying ones boxers with an iron.” Life’s what you make of it.

Saturday we ventured to Ikea, the universal cheap good store, for people who are putting together their lives. Not that our life is put together by any means: Ikea doesn’t come with group therapy but it is a nice play to find some throw rugs. Before we came to Scotland I thought that we were just approaching the “real” furniture phase of our relationship. My academic ambitions have unfortunately made us put off real furniture for another half a decade - at least.

Now to get to Ikea, without a car, is like making it to Mordor if you’re a ring bearing Hobbit. It simply can’t be done without hardship. From our flat, Ikea is almost exactly five miles away. To get there, and this is where it gets to be ridiculous, you can either take a taxi for about fifteen pounds (which amounts to about nine-hundred US dollars at the present rate of exchange), or you can take the Subway followed by the Bus.

When we looked at this process on the map, we thought it might take about forty-five minutes. Boy were we wrong. It took us two freaking hours to get to Ikea, which of course means, it took us two hours to get home. We spent three times as long traveling to Ikea as we did in Ikea itself. We also got to experience a long Glaswegian bus ride full of hooligans and some rather rough looking fourteen-year-old girls. It was a cultural experience. Sam thought it was great – I thought I was going to get stabbed. This is why “we” work.

The good news from all of this is that Sam has made a modest home out of what was originally a rather sad looking flat. We even have groceries and the means to make food, which simply amazes me at my wife’s resourcefulness. Penny is happy with her daily walks to the Botanic Gardens: she even likes the weather.

Oh, and Penny got a rather nice little compliment from a lady in Kelvingrove Park. She said that Penny was “one of those well-bred northern Westies – not like the manky southern Westies you see around here.” This is the kind of compliment every parent hopes for their dog.

Tootles,

Ian

Ps. Please pardon if I spelled the word “manky” wrong – it may very well be “mankey” but I am simply not sure of the spellings of some Scottish slang.

Jansport and I have been neglecting our duties on the Interweb! Truth to be told, I was composing a message for you all last Friday night, when my computer blew up. I haven’t the interweb to keep me company since. I am writing this, now, from the campus library, on a public keyboard, which makes me wince. Those who know me know of my great aversion to the public and their social diseases. Not those kind of social diseases – more like influenza and scabies. Those are the kind that make me scared of public computers.

So Jansport and I have been roughing it for a few days. On Saturday, I moved into our new flat, which is located in the heart of the West End of Glasgow. That means it is close to campus. It is a garden apartment, which means basement, but it has three large windows and a pretty back garden.

Living here reminds me of wartime Britain. Here me out. We haven’t a TV, internet, or a radio. Those who know me know I write in fountain pen. We have a washer but no dryer – this is the custom in the UK – laundry is aired instead. The heating system, like all British heating systems, is set up to provide heat during specific hours of the day, and not necessarily according to need. There is an old coal fireplace in the main room.

So picture me, sitting at the table, taking notes on a book written in the 1930s in fountain pen, drinking tea from a mug, teapot at my side, my socks on the radiator drying, and my clothes on the line out back. Throw in a ration book and an air-raid siren and I’d be all set. Truth to be told, I don’t mind the 40s, and I get some kind of strange satisfaction in having to iron my sheets dry. I told the Sam that our iron, from now on, should just be referred to as our dryer.

I’ve been collecting the whatnots that make a house a home. Like a kettle, set of pots and pans, and plates. For a couple of days, before my cook set arrived by post, I only had a single plastic spoon. I discovered that, although difficult, you could butter toast with the handle of a plastic spoon. Unfortunately, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was too much, and Spoon buckled under the strain of spreading chunky peanut butter over wholemeal bread. I was a bit upset – it meant I had to stir my tea with a pen – but Jansport wasn’t. He didn’t like all the attention Spoon was getting.

In other news, my girls arrive on Thursday. This is extremely exciting and it will finally feel like we can all get started with our life over here. Also, for you all it will mean an additional voice on this post, making sure than I don’t go on about spoons and my backpack.

Cheers,

Ian