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

The winner this week is Bertie whose two picks were so obscure, but also so profoundly weird, that he deserves the post-card solely because he played a risky card. Robert Liston and James Syme were two of the great surgeons of their day - that day being the first half of the 19th century. Liston's skills with the knife have become the stuff of rumor and legend. What would have completed the trifecta of great early 19th century Scottish surgeons would be the inclusion of Sir James Young Simpson, who among other things, was the first man to introduce the medical properties of chloroform anesthesia. Not to mention Bertie's pick of Field Marshal Douglas Haig - Bertie, you get the postcard and are in the running for the special gift at the end of the year.

I am awarding a runner-up postcard this week for Carey Love who complemented my long dead, but beloved dog Bonnie. I literally grew up with Bonnie and when she died, 15 October 1995, it felt like I lost a dear friend. Carey you get a postcard for making me tear up, just a little, thinking of my beloved Scottish terrier. Please e-mail me your address.

However, I would be remiss if I didn’t applaud all of the entries for this week. James Boswell, mentioned by that famed author Anon., plays to a literary quirk of mine, a penchant for 18th century long-windedness. For those of you who have never read Life of Johnson you simply must dedicate two or three months of your life to reading it.

I was surprised and pleased with the inclusion of Mr. Lee, who’s rifle when handled by British troops at the Mons, made the opposing Germans think that they were being fired upon by machine guns and not by well-trained infantry carrying rifles. Good show Lucy!

Norah and Daniel gave pleasing answers in Ramsay MacDonald and David Livingston. In fact, Norah upstaged her father, though I will say in Daniel’s defense that political figures from the interwar period will ALWAYS be rewarded in my book. Rod Stewart was close but his smarminess was just too much to be rewarded. James Barrie is a classic Scot, but was outshone by Peter-The-Great, whose pick of Groundskeeper Willie was creative and especially funny because he doesn’t exist. Or does he . . . this is the postmodern question of our day.

Good work everyone. This week, we’re doing Questions to the Wee Minister: whoever asks the best question, gets the postcard, and the best answer.

Peace Out Homies,

Ian

There is only slight exaggeration when I say that registration nearly killed me. I lost sleep, my heartbeat was like that of a jackrabbit, and I ground my teeth to next to nothing nightly, gnashing away at my mouthguard like it was chewing gum. The end result is that I am registered, finally, and have moved into my palatial postgrad office at 1 University Gardens. This here is a photo of my new workspace.

The best part of registration was the queuing. I actually looked forward to it because I enjoy writing the word “queue” so much and I knew that if I had to suffer through a long queue, I would get to write the word queue, at least several times on my blog. Mission accomplished. Go team.

My first step was to go to the registry office, which is the British term for Registrar, to see if I could register in advance of my registration time. I waited in the information queue, marked “enquiries”, for about twenty minutes. This seemed to be the logical place to wait if you have an inquiry. Those around me had an emaciated pallor indicating that they were either zombies or students trying to navigate the Scottish bureaucracy. After a while I found out that the “enquiries” window on Thursday was only dealing with obscure tax issues. A nice lady told Jansport and I to take our form to the queue across the quad.

There were multiple queues’ to choose from. I picked one that looked friendly enough and I asked a strapping fellow “is this the queue for registration?” He nodded his head. Jansport and I settled in for a nice long wait.

Like the American Nazi in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, I chose poorly. About thirteen of us realized that we’d been waiting in the wrong queue for a half hour. The queue’s aren’t posted with any signs or the like so it’s sort of a trial and error thing to see if you’re in the right one – it’s like a game – but one where you always lose. So my new compatriots and I moseyed across the quad to what looked like, and was, the correct queue. You see we were in the pre-registration queue when we actually needed to be in the registration queue.

After twenty minutes of waiting outside in our new queue, we were allowed into the main registration facility, which is an open room with a line of chairs stretching as far as the eye can see. After I took my seat I got to participate in what can only been called “registration chair hopping.” Every one minute and fifteen seconds you get to get up from your chair, and shuffle down the line, and then sit back down in a new chair. Most of the time you only advanced a single chair or two. Once, I got to skip ahead six full seats. I loved that moment. At the end of the registration queue you are met by a friendly bureaucrat who stamps your form and directs you to the next queue for payment of fees, only to be followed by another queue, this one to get your ID Card.

I arrived at the registration office at 1:40. I left with my ID card at 4:10. It was fantastic. I never thought I would say this but I’ve had more efficient dealings with Penn Dot.

One more day until the end of this week’s postcard content. Submit your awesome Scot!

Ian

In June, I was told by my university to expect a “welcome pack” in coming weeks. What was in this pack? Who knows. What you may not know, dear reader, is that “coming weeks” is code in the UK for three to four months.

Long story short, when I left on 6 September, my welcome packet hadn’t arrived. Sam got it in Vermont last week. I should have known things would be like this, but one likes to be the optimist, even when dealing with ancient bureaucratic institutions. In said packet was my registration letter. Sam scanned and sent a copy to me here so I’m able to go to registration this week.

In the States it is much the same: universities create a bureaucracy so impenetrable it becomes discouraging, if not downright depressing, for the humble and idealistic student (such as Self, the martyr) who is just trying to get registered for class. There are layers and hoops and all of it designed to make things as difficult as possible. On top of this, my bank in the states still does personal banking with an abacus, so the five international calls I have made to their customer service helpline has led to me wallowing in the corner of my shower, shivering and crying.

It’s a mess – but we Isherwoods know how to stiff upper lip these things. Our coal-black Welsh blood gives us a higher tolerance for foibles than the average stock. Instead of getting riled up on a bureaucrat, we usually take our frustrations out on those whom we love and who just so happen to be around. Jansport is not a happy backpack.

However, I am coping as best I can and soothing my clerical frustrations with countless cups of Cadburys drinking chocolate and old episodes of Friends. The British LOVE friends. When I was last a student in the UK, way back in the 90s in the days of poor personal hygiene and crappy alt. bands, way back then, the British LOVED friends. Now they love Friends in syndication – the same episodes from 1998. It’s like I never left. Ross and Rachel, Chandler and Monica, and Phoebe, don’t even get me started on her. What will they get up to next!

On the upside, when I get my ID card (Thursday – well, hopefully) I can go to the library, and more importantly, join the Research Club, an establishment similar to the Drones Club, only with brighter people as members and without all the roll throwing. Or at least I hope this is the case.

Remember – post your Scot of Distinction! Only four days left!

Pip pip,

Ian