Secretaries, celebrations and congratulations

Sorry, it's been ages. It's been a crazy couple of weeks. I've had documents, forms and letters coming out my ears not to mention the fights with sellotape, cardboard boxes, bubblewrap and newsprint that went on in the flat. No, it wasn't a crazy, drunken stationery shop party. In fact, we've been anything but stationery (yes, I know, different spelling).
We picked up the keys to our new house two Fridays ago and haven't stopped since.
We arrived at the East Kilbride solicitors office at quarter to five on the evening of Friday 17th, after another successful scan of Baby Reid number 2 at the hospital. I, rather rudely, interupted the two secretaries sitting in the reception office, distracting them from their inane chatter, giving them a rather heavy hint to actually respond to the two new arrivals in their office. Once I had their attention, I asked for the keys to the property now owned by my wife and I. The secretary, who was obviously in possession of such keys, rather huffily went into her drawers and produced a bulky white envelope (and before you ask, I don't know how big her drawers were) and picked up the phone to inform the solicitor concerned that, "that was the keys to Robertson Drive". Ka accepted the bulky, clinking envelope from the solicitor's secretary and we hurried from the office. Normally we would have hurried off to get on with the final arrangements for a flitting that weekend but before all that we had the small matter of a sixtieth party to finalise.
Along with her brother, Colin, Ka had been making a lot of phonecalls throughout the week, rounding up a good crowd of friends and family to help celebrate her Dad, Dougie's, surprise 60th birthday party to take place in his own local, The Rowantree, the perfect location to arouse the least suspicion.
Colin arrived back at the McGarva household straight from work that Saturday evening, to entice his Dad out for a pint, and considering Dougie's big birthday was still 2 weeks away he had not suspected a thing. There was also reason for Colin to celebrate over a quiet pint with his Dad following his own proposal to his other half Jillian, the weekend before.
That shouldn't go without a mention either! (Congratulations Colin and Jillian!)
Colin got down on one knee and set Jillian the question as they had made thier way through to Edinburgh for their first visit to the Fringe festival. Jillian proved that she is indeed a nutcase of sorts, and said yes (only nutcases marry McGarvas, it's a well known fact). The two of them called Ka and myself as we sat down to dinner with Dougie and Grace in the Uddingston branch of the Hot Flame World Buffet where we enjoyed an 'eat as much as you can possibly eat' experience and, at the same time, discovered Dougie is deaf in the right ear (rather than the wrong one). Apparently there was something wrong with the phone as he could barely hear anything Colin and Jillian were saying to him before he switched to the other ear and suddenly heard them loud and clear.
He is 60 now, I suppose these things happen as you get older.
So, a week later, Dougie was taken completely by surprise as he sauntered through to one of the pub's side rooms, apparently where all the women usually sit, and everyone, including family, friends and former work colleagues from DC Thomson, all enjoyed the night. Ka and Jillian made a buffet that was too big for the table with contributions from a few others including Mum who made some delicious tuna pasta, Steven who made his parma ham sticks, and Auntie Lorna who made her caramel shortcake and I finally got a piece of it. Lorna makes a whole tray of the splendid sticky stuff up at every special occasion and I have never managed to get my hands on a whole piece yet. I've always been left raking through the buffet leftovers looking for a solitary piece of Lorna's caramel shortcake like a desperate, starving scavenger looking through the wreckage of a burning cornershop that's just been reduced to a pile or burning bricks by a rogue missile at the end of the world in a smoky, rotting street far, far away. Or even a music fan looking for a fantastic performance in an Olympics closing ceremony.
Anyway, photos were taken, the big golf themed birthday cake was cut, family members all had a chance to catch up and Dougie kept the DJ busy, hardly leaving the makeshift dancefloor in the middle of the small, but comfortable function room as the music eventually enticed a good crowd up to dance, including Aunty Lorna, who ended up on her knees again to the tune of The Killers' "Human".
It wasn't until late on the Sunday morning that I arose from my pit, ambling, zombie like, between the large piles of boxes littering the bedroom, hallway and then living room. Ka was sitting quietly, watching the tv, knackered after the organisation, excitement and then eventual end of the surprise party.
I wasn't feeling particularly energetic myself but we still managed to head out around mid afternoon to visit our new property. It was a lot dryer and sunnier that day than it had been the first day we'd visited as we pulled up outside the terraced house. The rain had been bouncing off the windscreen the first time around. We'd been struggling to see the house from the other side of the street, through the water attacking the glass of the car but it hadn't put us off and once we'd been inside we knew this was the house for us. With a clearer view of our new house now we each took a set of keys from the white envelope and walked on up the garden path with a sort of quiet, mellowed, excitement. We turned the two keys in the old front door's locks and pushed the door open. The name of McCulloch was still present on a small, aged nameplate screwed into the wood of the painted door. We'd have to get a new one of those, I thought, as we stepped inside.

Conversational struggles

On Friday night I was at a stranger's birthday party. Strangers to me, but not Ka as it was for one of the women in Ka's hairdressers. Linda was 50 and invited us along to the Tannochside Miners Welfare Club.
The Tannochside Miners’ Club was like any other Miners’ Club. One of those small, aged buildings, no way near as busy as days gone by, probably situated in a dark, slightly dodgy street, that houses various halls and bars for various different occasions and, to make up for the stickiness of the carpets, serves cheap booze and allows self catering. Perfect for private functions.
This Miners’ Welfare Club was only a short taxi journey from Ka's Mum and Dad's in Uddingston, so we had decided to save the taxi fare and stay the night there.
In all honesty, I wasn't particularly keen on going.
An invitation to a birthday party for a woman that goes to the same hairdresser as your wife is not a fantastic prospect for any husband I’m sure. A party a which you'll know no one but the wife, who'll probably chat away endlessly to the other women, leaving you sitting looking like a lemon.
Cue the awkward conversations with fellow husbands in similar situations (if there are any!).
I wouldn’t know anyone. I had visions of being surrounded by the gaggle of women that usually inhabit ‘Nutters’, Alan, the hairdresser’s, salon in Tannochside. As the women laugh and joke together, reminiscing about many a Saturday gone by in Alan’s ‘Nutters’, I’d be left sitting with a pint in the middle of a Miner’s Welfare hall, listening to ‘Grease’ from the giant speakers in the corner of the room, watching a bunch of older women line dancing or doing the slosh, whilst vaguely attempting to mingle with husbands in similar situations.
Mingling with other husbands is sometimes a bit of a struggle. At least I’ve found it a bit of a struggle at various parties or weddings in the past when I’ve been invited along as the husband of Ka.
The conversational struggles usually evolve from football. Quite often I've met other blokes for the first time and they've instantly launched into conversations about the nation’s favourite sport. Some of the guys have either hinted at or just asked straight out, "what team do you support then?", always with a suspicious glint in their eye.
It seems to be a bit of a clincher for some folk.
In fact, some husbands look at you even more suspiciously if you admit to not really giving a sh*t about any team. Sometimes you're better off just admitting to a team, any team, as you risk the suspicious looks which silently accuse you of great unmanliness (most people have never heard of The Glipton Giants).
I love movies but I don't hit out with, "what's your favourite movie?" whenever I meet someone, sneering if I don't like their answer and they reply with something starring Adam Sandler, for instance.
Well, maybe I would sneer if it eventually came out in conversation, but I wouldn't ask straight out where their movie allegiances lay, as if trying to get into some sort of conversational gang from the outset.
But then, if you are into football, like 90% of the male population seems to be, maybe it's a good thing the whole “what team you support” question? At least the other bloke would know exactly where you stand. Perhaps he’s only making a genuine attempt to strike up a conversation himself, struggling to think of anything else to talk about, and wouldn’t necessarily lynch you if you replied, admitting your support for his bitter rivals.
Anyway, as it happened, I didn’t have anything to worry about. Ka and myself met Jean and then Alison and Ben in the Windmill pub, just five minutes walk from the Miners. All three I was meeting for the first time properly, after only greeting them in passing in ‘Nutters’ before. Jean had walked from her house round the corner. She had just buried her dog (not immediately before leaving but a few days back) so was still a little down about that.
Over our first drink, Jean started talking of the burial and how this girl had passed away after only sixteen years.
‘Gawd, that’s terrible’ I said, as a photo was being passed round. It was only when I seen the photo that I realised it was a dog we were talking about.
“Oh, it’s a dog we’re talking about! That’s alright then!”, I very nearly said with a big smile and a deep sigh of relief.
Ben and Alison were nice and down to earth. Alison, a Financial Advisor with very shiny teeth’s Assistant, was chatty and outgoing and Ben, her hubby, was quieter and laid back. Ben didn’t even mention what football team he supported.
As the night went on, our conversation moved from many subjects including work, the secrets of Morrison’s ‘freshly made’ bread, shipbuilding, holidays, potato scones, Terry Pratchett, ‘Game of Thrones’ and cameras. In fact, we had more than a few things in common, which Ka and Alison both seemed quite relieved about. Ka stopped me at more than point during the night’s proceedings to make sure I was alright and that Ben was a nice guy. I nodded with a exasperated frown. It was almost as if the two wives were trying to set us up.
At some point, Alison probably asked Ben the same question except he probably replied with something along the lines of “no, he’s a weirdo, hasn’t even mentioned footie yet!”
We walked into the Miners’ Club at half past eight, immediately getting berated by the DJ for being an hour late, which turned Ka against him for the rest of the night. Whenever the DJ would hit out with a smarmy comment from behind the mike, and Ka was on the dancefloor, she’d waste no time in shouting a curt reply back at him. Alan the hairdresser waved at us from a table and bought us all a drink before disappearing off home and leaving us to the party. He was back in ‘Nutters’ early the next morning so couldn’t stay on to enjoy the dancing or the buffet.
A round of 5 drinks for £13. Where would you get that bargain other than a Miner’s Welfare Club? We also snaffled a couple of bags of onion rings for ourselves, enjoyed a magnificent buffet, drank lots of beer, finished with a Jack Daniels and headed off back down the hill to Uddingston in a taxi with a driver who was boasting about his new cable box. With a face like an old leather cloth, an earring and a voice like a emptying skip full of gravel this taxi driver glared at me as he drove. A one off payment of £180 and he was getting every channel available.
No fuss. No bills. He’d just uninstalled his Virgin package and got the new cable box from a guy he knows. Apparently I’ll know a guy too, if I’m interested.
“Ye’ll know a guy”, he said. “All yer movies and aw yer fitbaw”.
I wasn’t sure I did know a guy.

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.

Grace's surprise and the toilet incident

The five or six cars piled up outside the Leckie/McGarva household may have given away the surprise element to Grace’s 60th birthday party on Saturday night. If it did though, Grace certainly didn’t let on, as she almost screamed with surprise upon entering Steven and Angela’s living room to find us all sitting there. We all broke in to the routine of the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, as Grace stood there, smiling over the surprise, while I darted about the floor taking some photos and Steven quietly filmed it all with his new camcorder from the corner of the room.
A good portion of Ka's family, along with Lynsey Ann, my Mum and Dad and myself gathered in the large living room to surprise my mother in law who’d come along with Dougie believing the Saturday night to be a simple dinner date with Angela, Steven, Morgan and Joshua. At least she had believed that up until five minutes before leaving her own house when Dougie had asked her to bring her new photo book, that she’d received for her 60th, in order to show Betty.
As Steven made his way up from Uddingston, after getting Grace and Dougie into the car, the rest of us had been running round the house, decorating, preparing food, nappying, fetching drinks, reintroducing ourselves to relatives not seen in months and some never met at all. As the final moments drew near the smokers were hurriedly pulled in from the front garden path, their cigarettes left spinning on the pavestones, and the kids were ordered to move into the living room, myself picking Joshua up from where her rambled around the buffet table in the second front room and planting him down in the living room, where he simply gave a slight frown of confusion at all the hustle and bustle and staggered on to the plate of cakes at the end of the room. Everyone began frantically hushing one another as Grace and Dougie’s feet were heard from behind the closed blinds which obscured the living room’s large bay windows, the small red stones of the driveway crunching underneath their feet, as Steven led them up towards the front door where Angela would meet them upon arrival.
Once the ‘Happy Birthday’ song was over and the initial surprise over with, Steven got the music on and Ka and Jillian got the food cooking whilst the rest of us started enjoying ourselves.
I had been enjoying myself up until I had to make a visit to Steven and Angela’s loo, a visit which ended up being far longer than originally planned. Unfortunately the toilet refused to flush properly and my, let’s just say, deposit, refused to be removed by this particular toilet’s flushing system. Not great in any situation, but in a house party, with a bunch of your wife’s relatives waiting patiently, not great at all.
As I stood there waiting on the cistern refilling itself for the third time the knocks at the door began. Concerned voices and questions from beyond the closed door started echoing through the hallway.
“Is somebody still in there?”
“Who is it?”
“Is the door stuck?”
“Is it the same person that’s been in there all this time?”
Various questions such as these echoed throughout the hallway until Ka’s voice finally piped up.
“Where’s Michael?” Grimacing, I gritted my teeth. “He’s not in there, and he’s not in there”. The ‘theres’ in question presumably referring the every room, other than the toilet in which I stood, swearing at a piece of excretion.
“Michael are you in there?” Ka rattled the opposite side of the door. Hesitantly I closed the lid over the toilet and allowed my dearest Judas wife entry at which I explained the situation. Ka replied by checking her make-up in the mirror and then leaving me to it. Before I got the chance to lock the door after her, Angela, the sister in law, appeared at the door, to which I again, reluctantly admitted the situation. Unfortunately Colin, Ka’s brother, overheard the situation as he walked by and almost spat out a haggis ball with laughter. Angela, determined that she would flush better, took control of the situation. She firmly grasped the toilet’s flush handle and twisted at which the usual gush of water flowed through the bowl.
“There” Angela shrugged and opened the lid of the toilet up. Unfortunately my floater was still there, bobbing around quite happily. Angela shrieked and ran from the room.
“It’s not even very big!” I yelled after her.
“It’s the size of the bowl!” Angela’s voice reverberated throughout the hall, as other passing party guests soon started mumbling about the toilet situation, the occasional laughing.
In my defense, the flush of the toilet was pretty pathetic and I cannot believe that it’s never happened to them before with such a poor plumbing system. Anyway, without going into too much detail, I eventually managed to get rid of the obstinate piece of discharge after attacking it with a good few large cups of water before Ka and Jillian had the chance to come through with a boiling kettle (a remedy Auntie Lorna bestowed upon them after, presumably, much debating in the living room with all the other family members).
Following the toilet incident I spent some time in the kitchen, plucking up the courage to face the guests in the living room again, conversing with Colin and Ryan and any of the drink seekers visiting in order to top up their glass or pull another bottle from the fridge. Uncle Bill told stories of Hawaii, Las Vegas and losing luggage at airports. Paul spoke with me about old Star Wars toys and the inability to throw any of them out. Colin talked of Torchwood, Tom Jones and T in the Park and Jean dreaded the London train at half past nine the next morning as she drank another small glass of wine from the box in the fridge.
Morgan, Sarah and Joshua played in the large rubber dinghy in the middle of the hallway, Uncle Bill occasionally jumping in to act as Captain.
Wee Joshua ate more than his usual allocation of cakes after he’d got bored of the good few pieces of Jillian’s pasta I’d fed him from my paper plate.
Grace and Dougie enjoyed a slow dance to Gerry and the Pacemakers’ ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ immediately after which Dougie demands for Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best” were largely ignored or laughed at.
It had been a successful wee night and it looked like Grace, and everyone else, pretty much enjoyed themselves. It wasn’t until half past one that people started saying their goodbyes, Ka tidying as they went, clearing most of the rubbish up and cleaning up the buffet table which, Ka and myself were pleased to see, had very little of our two lasagnes left. Must have been the Bechamel sauce…

Lasagne and inadvertant flirting

This afternoon I made the perfect Bechamel sauce for one of Ka’s lasagnes. It turns out I’m a bit of a dab hand when it comes to the old Bechemel sauce, mixing the flour with the butter and then the peppered milk and bay leaf. The two of us worked perfectly together in the kitchen preparing food for a certain somebody’s birthday gathering tonight. I think we surprised even ourselves as Ka usually ends up firing me out of the kitchen when we start working together over the hobs.
It was Ka’s Mum, Grace’s 60th birthday on Wednesday and, as is traditional in the in–law McGarva household, we went to their local restaurant/pub, Angels in Uddingston for dinner. This time a few of Grace’s friends were invited along to surprise her upon entering for the usual birthday meal. Ka, Colin, Jillian and myself went on down to the restaurant early to ensure the select number of friends invited were seated at the table waiting as Grace and Dougie eventually arrived twenty minutes later. Grace had probably suspected something was afoot when we had left the house early, using the excuse of getting money out the bank, but she certainly did not let on and we all enjoyed another meal in the Uddingston restaurant.
The food was okay and the service was okay. My chicken and rice soup was way too salty and I ordered steak and got a pork chop, which didn’t go particularly well with the pepper sauce I’d ordered to share with Colin who also ordered the same steak. Colin, who had been sitting opposite me at the large corner table at which we all celebrated, and myself also ordered the meal under the mistaken impression, due to my own fault, that bubble and squeak was sausage and mash, which is usually referred to as toad in the hole. So, in effect, I thought I was ordering steak and sausage not pork and cabbage. Along with the pepper sauce we ordered we made a bit of a pigs ear of it (whatever you call a pigs ear).
Upon finishing the delicious combination one of the friendly blonde waitresses came up behind me asking if we were all content and finished with our meals. As we had all been sitting with empty plates for the past fifteen minutes we all nodded politely, myself confirming the emptiness of my plate with a firm nod and vocal ‘yes’. Just as the waitress leant over my shoulder to retrieve my plate I, moving to the side to let her over, gave another, loud, affirmative comment of ‘beautiful’. For a few seconds I carried on smiling normally, not realising at first why the waitress looked slightly taken aback at me with a smile as she meekly took my plate away. I looked up to see Colin, struggling to contain a ball of laughter behind a hand clamped over his mouth. It was then I realised that instead of complimenting the food which had just been consumed, complete with pepper sauce, to others it had possibly, just possibly, seemed that I had been complimenting the waitress, her attributes or her lovely smile, just as she leaned over my shoulder to collect the dirty dishes. Of course, for the remainder of our sitting, this particular blonde waitress was named ‘beautiful’ and Ka and Jillian, following this course of action, christened the male waiter who had been serving us, ‘handsome’, even though they were not quite as blatant as myself when it came to the flirting (which I’d just like to point out, was completely inadvertent on my part).
The night finished with a few quick games of the McGarva tradition of ridiculously unfair and fixed pass the parcel after coffees and tea in Grace and Dougie’s house. The McGarva’s own brand of ridiculously unfair and fixed pass the parcel seemed to confuse a few of Grace’s gathered friends before they even got to unwrap any of the equally confusing parcels which included the usual diverse fair such as a feather duster, an ‘Armstrong and Miller’ book, ‘Camp rock’ pencil cases and a book on Yoga, the back cover blurb describing the physical and mental discipline exactly as how Yoda would describe the Force (a far more worthwhile discipline in my opinion).
With a trip to Paris on the cards, a fantastic photo book, created by Ka and yours truly, and many other great gifts from friends, Grace done pretty well turning sixty. She’s even sorted out her bus pass already so there’s no stopping her. Happy Birthday Grace, and enjoy the lasagne!

Mature yet mellow

33. A master number. A long player or LP. Jesus’ age when he was crucified. The amount of minutes the humans had before escaping the pursuing Cylons. The atomic number of arsenic. A mixed bag of meanings for the grand old age I turn tomorrow. After Ka’s birthday at the weekend, it’s now my turn and all I can do is remind myself it could be worse, I could be 34, which my dearest wife turned on Saturday.
Birthdays, and any celebrations of, have not exactly been on our minds of late, especially after the past months, but we forced ourselves out on Saturday after a breakfast of toasted cheese.

Not just any cheese. Birthday cheese, ‘mature yet mellow’ Cathedral cheese to be precise, two packs of which Ka received as a present from her Mum and Dad the night before, the square, cold, heavy present, Ka unwrapped with suspicion. As Ka nodded knowingly on pulling the block from inside the glittery paper, I sighed heavily, quite relieved, as I thought it was going to be a block of semtex.
Following the non explosive present unwrapping, Grace and Dougie bought in a Chinese take away with the help of Morgan, the niece, and Angela, Ka’s sister. The obligatory birthday cake followed and the even more obligatory pass the parcel with Morgan losing interest halfway through the games after realising, after the third pair won, that all the parcels were going to be colourful, stripey socks (a pair of which I won – they’ll go great with my red striped shirt!).
Anyway, following toasted cheese on Saturday we were to meet Ka’s brother, Colin, and his other half, Jillian, in town, have a wee Birthday tipple with them and then go our own way and head over to the Merchant City for a nice romantic meal for two. The nice romantic meal for two didn’t quite happen.
We met Colin and Jillian just after the Grand National had started and as a result Colin was glaring at the television, high up on the wall as we entered through the darkened doorway of one of Renfield Street’s smellier pubs, the Maltman. It may be smelly but a beer is semi affordable and there was plenty of screens for Colin to shout at as he clutched his bundle of Ladbrokes slips with a look of stubborn determination. Unfortunately ten minutes later he was ripping the slips up and Jillian was smiling as her horse had crossed the finish line in second place. She won around £2.40. So after a small drink in the Maltman and Ka being given her Hello Kitty bagged birthday goodies we headed off to find a less smelly pub to socialise in.
Ka, Colin, Jillian and myself found some seats on the, mostly unsmelly, paved square of John Street, outside Committee Room No. 9 and spent the majority of the day’s remainder there, chatting, debating, laughing and joking, trying to avoid bum cracks on display on the high stools behind us and shouting at Jackie, a lady drinking at the next table, who got up before a whole troop of tourists and groped a nearby Roman statue in his nether regions. She was under the impression that this would cure her of all her ills, or something, when in fact, according to the tourist guide, she should have grabbed the statues bag of coins, draped over his left arm. Silly woman. I thought all women went for the money first.
After some pub grub, the drinks kept being bought, birthday spirits were quite high and before long it was time to go home.
But did we? No, of course not.
The four of us jumped in a taxi and went up to Ashton Lane to meet my brother, Kenny, on his last, or one of his last, night outs with his mates before he departs the country. He’s bought a one way ticket to Oz and will be spinning off to that particular far flung destination come Saturday afternoon. The adventure of a lifetime, he, and we, hope anyway. I’ll need to get him a leaving present. Better not make it Cathedral cheese… he will be spending around two or three days in an airport.

The shopping cloud and scrambled egg

Gawd, I hate shopping. Clothes shopping. For a woman. With a woman. It’s Ka’s birthday tomorrow and I offered to take her shopping on Thursday afternoon, as a treat. As usual though, and absolutely true to form, my patience faltered, shook and then crumbled after an hour or so of obediently following, nodding and, under some stupid, ridiculous notions of helpfulness, suggesting items from the various fashion shops within the EK shopping centre.
It’s always an hour with me. Without fail. Whenever I end up clothes shopping with the wife, I always, without fail, after an hour of pretence and politeness, gain a particularly grey cloud which descends over my head, instantly transforming my mood. The shopping cloud makes me grumpy, impatient, irritable and, most of all, bored. Bored to the very core. So bored I was pestering God to end my inexcusable life whilst standing, dozing outside the New Look Fitting Rooms. The young shop assistants looking at me quizzically as they strode by in their funky tops whilst gossiping among themselves, probably wondering who the nearby guy, collapsing mumbling to himself in low, mumbling, ritual like, intensity was.
To make matters worse, I had forgotten the schools are all off at the moment so the daytime, weekday town centre was not only full of it’s usual old folk, mobility scooters and the folk in serious need of a bath but was full of noisy, irritating kids.
The younger ones wobbling around, stopping dead before you on their wee leads whilst their mothers stopped to window shop or meet their pal Janet, or Moira, a few meters off in another direction. They stand and chat, paying little head to where their little one is, knowing that they’re on the other end of the multi coloured strap. You move round to avoid the child lead just as the mother decides to move round and you end up getting half tangled in the child's rein or performing some kind of limbo routine in the middle of the shopping mall.
What is that anyway, kids on leads? Dogs go on leads, not kids. Kids go in buggys and when they start walking, should be allowed to walk free, not restrained like an unruly pet.
The older kids, otherwise known as teenagers, slouch round in packs. Maybe they should be the ones on leads. They shuffle about, communicating by making strange groaning noises under their breath, laughing like Beavis and Butthead, sexes indistinguishable under the various forms of hairstyles and hoodies.
Oh, to have the hair for a hairstyle again... I remember when I had hair, in the latter teenage years, though I never styled it. I think I went for the more natural look. I was aiming for the Bon Jovi or Jorge Cadete look but I think I ended up with something more akin to the Worzel Gummidge look.
It was my day off. It should have been great to be out the office. Out, away from the quiet, half barren workspace. A Mac scrap heap now lies at the top of the office. Piles of old macs, stacked with wires and keyboards tangled and wrapped around them like some kind of Modern Art piece depicting the continuation of the recession and the death of the busy office by Damien Hirst.
We’re now at the end of our first full week in the newly reformed and reduced production centre and it’s been a busy week. Tea breaks have been almost forgotten about, shifts have been the fastest passing in months, the property adverts seemed more of a struggle and just when I thought I was getting away from Classified planning, it’s back, rearing it’s ugly head again.
It’s Creamy Chicken John’s fault. He managed to get a week off this week, only after an half jesting argument with a doubting Felix about how he’d applied for it months ago. With only twelve people in the office producing the newspapers these days we’ll be lucky if we get any kind of holidays. We’ll just have to make the best of our days off.
Hopefully not spending them in the EK Shopping Centre. Saying that, there was a rather brilliant looking bouncy castle blown up outside HMV. When I say ‘blown up’ I mean as in set up, not actually exploded… that would have been much too exciting and may just have woken me up, bringing me out from under my shopping cloud.
Again though, too many kids. I wouldn’t have had a chance of getting a go on the massive bouncy slide with all those pesky school kids jumping about on it.
Anyway, it was all very selfish of me having that shopping cloud over me. It was my wife’s birthday, and I was out to buy her present so I shouldn’t complain. The task was successfully accomplished at the end of the day as my wife went home happy with yet another pair of new shoes and a new top. Another successful birthday present – but only with her help.
Though there is one surprise left but that one will have to wait till morning. And no, it’s not rude! And is not simply breakfast in bed. She can make breakfast herself. Ka will want scrambled egg and toast anyway, and we both know who makes the best scrambled egg…(it ain’t me).

The jolly Reids' outing

It was a bit of a jolly Reids' outing over the weekend as 12 of us jumped on an easyjet flight to Gatwick, early Friday morning. As snow started falling once more over Scotland Ka, Lynsey Ann, Kenny, Dad, Mum, Aunt Anne, Uncle Ian, Aunt Tricia, Uncle Tommy and myself along with Dougie and Grace, Ka's Mum and Dad, all headed to Glasgow airport early on Friday morning.
It was Uncle Jim's 50th birthday and we were all heading down south to Banstead in order to attend his surprise 50th Birthday Party in his local Cricket Club, organised by our cousin, James, among others.
Aunt Ann came over from Fulham on the Friday to stay with Tommy and Tricia who had the run of Tommy's sister's house while she was on holiday, somewhere around the same area.
Colin and Jillian travelled over from another part of London in their glow in the dark car, on Friday afternoon, where they had been visiting Jillian's sister Claire and enjoying a bit of theatre in the city centre and to complete the family gathering, Uncles Tom and Laurence jumped in the car on Friday evening and drove down to Birmingham to hook up with Aunt Maureen on the friday night before heading on further down to Surrey, from her flat in Knowle, on Saturday morning.
For the whole of the friday afternoon we were unsure how we were going to make our presence known to Jim. James was on the other end of our text messages, no doubt stressing as he desperately tried to keep our travelling down a secret. He had planned for us all to surprise Jim on the Friday night, perhaps having us all sitting in his living room as he came home from work that evening. However, James explained that earlier in the week Jim had took the notion to start doing a bit of DIY, taking off the kitchen cupboard doors for instance, getting rid of some wobbly furniture legs, replacing them with piles of books and pulling carpets up. Plans also went a little astray for James when Jim contacted him during the day informing him that he'd be staying in London with business pals. Some blatant lying ensued and James sorted it out with the help of the business pals, who I assume cancelled their plans with rubbish excuses.
So on Friday night we made sure we were all in his local, the Woolpack, for his after work drinks. The Woolpack was a cosey, friendly pub on the Banstead High Street and turned out to be a rather busy meeting point to surprise someone.
After the women, perhaps inadvertently, intimidated some chatting couples away from the largest table in the bar, we all took our seats to wait, at first unaware that we'd picked the chairs closest to one of the pub's larger windows which looked directly out on to the car park. At around twenty to eight, cousin James rushed into the bar, breathless and a little stressed, blurted something about being back in half an hour with Jim and rushed back out again. It was his job to deliver his Dad round to the pub for his first surprise of the weekend. The Reids, Symingtons and McGarvas all waited patiently for another half hour, keeping ourselves busy with some beers, most of us not noticing the incredulous face of Jim appearing in the window at our side a little later as James tried and failed to rush him through the door without seeing us. Our first rendition of 'Happy Birthday' rang through the pub as he entered, laughing, embarrassed and confused. Tricia, Tommy and Ann turned up an hour or so later to join in the Birthday fun, the rest of us greeting them with a more general shout of "Whay-hey!" which turned heads around the pub once more. It certainly must have been one of the Woolpack's more livelier of recent nights.
After the surprise of finding a reasonable fraction of his family in the Woolpack, Jim had immediately started worrying about the contents of his cupboards and the state of his flat unaware that he had bigger surprises to follow.
After a short wander around town on the Saturday afternoon, we finally managed to settle Jim down in a small social bar on the Banstead High Street whilst James nipped home to await the arrival of Tom, Laurence and Maureen in the big Volvo. After Jim getting us all signed in for 50p a head we got the drinks in, Jim being made to sit with his back to the front door, thusly unaware of Maureen, Tom and Laurence nonchalantly strolling up behind and wandering up to our table to greet us. Once more I had the camcorder out and captured the moment as Jim laughed. James, standing at the side enjoying his Dad's reaction, rubbed his hands with a conniving smile. 2 surprises down, 1 to go.
On the Saturday afternoon, Mum, Grace and Lynsey Ann worked on the cold half of the buffet for a good few hours whilst James had organised Cindy and her Mum to work on the cooked half. Apparently Mum had a great wee sandwich making production line going on in her room whilst the rest of us where, you guessed it, in the pub. The Kingswood Arms to be precise, a short walk through the forest and down a posh street from our Inn. Another nice looking, traditional english pub, with timber frames around stone and wooden walls, burning log fires, nooks and crannies in which to hide and big club sandwiches. the kind of pub you always seen Inspector Morse supping an ale in.
The Banstead Cricket Club, although less attractive on the inside, was the main reason for the visit, of course. The Club lies just across the road from Jim's house, along a dark path, unlit at night until you hit the Club's steps, at which point a spotlight beams down on you as you arrive. This location made arriving at the party in secret slightly problematic.
Tom, Laurence, Maureen, James and James' girlfriend, Sophie, were all in the house getting ready to head round to the restaurant James and Ka had supposedly booked earlier on. Our taxis all pulled up outside his house, making us all have to disembark with trays of sandwiches and salmon crackers and then run across the playing field in the darkness as quietly as we could, avoiding the light shining out from the windows behind, in which familiar Reid shaped shadows moved.
At around quarter to eight in the evening, Jim finally wandered into a darkened Cricket Club behind Laurence and James only to find a large gathering of friends and family waiting for him. Cue another rendition of 'Happy Birthday', more laughing followed by the shaking of head and shaking of hands. Needless to say, everyone had a great time. More drinking, a bit of dancing, (mostly from the Scottish contingent I might add), a few speeches, heckling, the great buffet, photo opportunities (taken and lost), shots of sambuca and old man's vodka, wine spilling, Scottish translating, bear hugging, first aid, slagging, introductions and small talk. Everything a good party needs. All the while I darted round with a camcorder trying to take in some of the atmosphere, recording a few birthday messages, whilst getting a lot of dirty looks and mutterings from the less camera friendly.
Even after the main event, back at Jim's flat, the birthday boy himself was moaning at me to put the camera down and my Aunt Maureen growled for me to get 'outta her face'.
I've got some great memories for him on that camcorder, though I doubt he'll need the help to remember it all. As my Dad said to Jim in the Social Club on the Saturday afternoon, he'll never trust James again.

Mental missions and marathon running

At around 11.15pm last night Ka and myself found ourselves singing Happy Birthday at my Mac. Not becuase it is my beloved Mac's birthday though. We were making a recording for Jillian, Colin McG's other half, whose birthday was yesterday. At the moment she's limbering up, readying herself for the Glasgow Half Marathon on Sunday and, as if one was not enough, the Great North Run next weekend. A great way to run off the birthday cake.
After rediscovering the small, funky application 'Garageband' on my Mac yesterday evening, Ka and myself thought we'd put together a rather original birthday greeting for her. We'd then send it over by email which she could then listen to, in her own time, with great delight, in awe at our wonderful singing voices and originality. That was the idea anyway.
We sat at the computer desk singing, rather reminiscent of the family gathering round the piano at parties in old movies, smiling up at the ceiling and at each other as they sang their merry hearts out. As it turned out Ka had to stop the recording at least three times, claiming I was out of tune.
Out of tune? Me? Ridiculous. More like she was threatened by my superior singing voice In the final recording that was eventually sent, my voice had went from the towering falsetto that John Barrowman would have been proud of in the first recording, to a dull mumbling that Dustin Hoffman would have been produced as he was being questioned by Warren Beatty.
The singing Postman upstairs was probably lying in bed listening to us through the floorboards, swearing under his breath, wondering what the hell we were up to.
With the exception of a small lunch break yesterday and a visitor from Your Move, I was on the computer all day yesterday messing around with some animation and website designs. Actionscript, the scripting language for interactive websites, animation and related software, is proving to be a bit of a nemesis for me and one that's fairly difficult to master. It's turning into a bit of an ongoing mission in order to upgrade my webskills. I've managed a few minor projects so far but it's proving to be more of a frustration than anything. Perhaps I'm better off in Garageband, rehearsing the old singing voice.
Moments ago I just received a text from Jillian thanking us for the message and accusing us of being mental. Hmmm, it's not us competing in two half marathons in the space of two weeks.
Good luck Jillian!

The scale of it

Age milestones are often reason for moments of reflection and sometimes moments of realisation. Sometimes these moments also strike when you least expect them.
Ka's brother hit the big 3 - 0 yesterday and we celebrated over a slap up meal in Angels, the local hotel/restaurant. Colin, with two birthday badges pinned to his shirt at each nipple region, done his best to avoid the cameras after, what must have been, the thirtieth pose under his big helium balloon. Back at the McGarva house afterwards, for cake and coffee, we all participated in the usual game of pass the parcel, presided over, as ever, by Morgan.
When I say 'usual', no game in the McGarva house is ever usual. This one in particular was no exception. Instead of passing the usual layered up present it was decided that in this game we were to pass a near deflated balloon, the size of a disected kidney, around the room, to the gawd awful sounds of the latest 'Glee' album. Whenever the music stopped, a moment that was all too brief in my meagre opinion, the person with the balloon was out and whoever was left at the end of the game was named winner with a present. The presents varied in quality from a can of deoderant to the more substantial clothing or candles bought in the recent Next sale.
Ka, for instance, won a small sleep suit. Grace quickly pointed out the prize was not specifically for her, which was just as well as the label read for a size of 3 to 6 months. Ka, with her sister, Angela, immediately started awing over the suit.
Letting me view her win, I held it up before me, holding it by the shoulders. A small, pale brown felt giraffe looked back at me from the front of the suit's chest and the scale of it hit me. Not the scale of the giraffe, although it was very small, this wasn't the scale factor hitting me. This small suit was for a small person, the same small person growing inside KA as we passed a stupid little balloon around the room. That small instant turned into another of those worryingly giant, earth spinning moments in which you give an internal shout in the great David Byrne tradition, "My god, what have I done?!"
As Byrne's crazed, panic stricken hollers faded in my head it once more gave way to quiet, curiousity and excitement. Just as I started to relax again and the world settled back into normality around me I was sure the small giraffe winked at me knowingly from the sleep suit. Blinking hard, I hurriedly returned the small piece of clothing to Ka and ran off to the kitchen, for a strong cup of tea. I would have loved to had something a tad stronger, like the Glenmorangie Colin was dishing out, but I was driving home. Behind the wheel of a large automobile, to my beautiful house, with my beautiful wife.

Ongoing birthdays

Off to London tomorrow to see the Queen. Well, not really to see the Queen but hey, you never know. Ka and myself are catching an early train and heading down to Kings Cross, staying two nights on Primrose Hill and heading to the theatre on Tuesday night to see a bunch of singing Witches in the West End musical, Wicked. All part of Ka's ongoing birthday. Let's hope they're no problems with the seating on the train journey considering the continuing travel chaos caused by the clouds of volcanic ash disturbing the European skies.
The family were at Brian's 40th last night in the Crowwood Hotel just outside Stepps. The birthday boy himself almost never made his own party as when the Greenland volcano decided to erupt, Brian was in Munich on a business trip. With at least two trains, a ferry, a cab and finishing with a lift from his Dad he managed to arrive home just in time, much to the relief of his wife, and my cousin, Sarah. One things for sure he would have slept last night. While Brian managed to stay awake the family all had a good time catching up over some drinks, talking houses, walks, photos, dating agencies and how many helium balloons it would take to make a stuffed cat fly. As it turned out, Kenny, in an effort to entertain the younger cousins, Lauren and Megan, didn't quite manage to collect enough balloons to help the cat fly but at least it still had more chance than a British Airways plane.

All tomorrow's parties

Just getting everything ready for Ka's birthday tomorrow. I'll get up and make Ka breakfast in bed before work (I hate working on birthdays!) and then there'll be the usual family party at the McGarvas in the evening with a big slap up meal, either a carry out from the local Chinese or a nice home cooked meal from Grace.
The first pile of cards has just been popped through the door by the postie as I write, which is good because Ka has just been on the phone asking if any cards had arrived yet. None had, I told her, to which she gave a slight mumble of disappointment. But that's all changed now as, surprisingly enough, the postie has now delivered so hopefully that'll put a wee smile on her face when she gets home tonight (I wonder if there'll be money in any of them..?).
I'm just back from the town centre where I picked up a rather splendid present and a big card for her (bloody fortune birthday cards these days!) so I can pretty much relax now... hopefully she doesn't read this and spoil the surprise of me getting a card! The splendid present also involved me making a rather desperate phonecall and unexpectedly giving myself a very unconvincing alias with a JR Hartley style voice. I'll maybe divulge more of that story later... Don't worry though I haven't got Ka an ancient book on Fly Fishing or anything...
I've just realised - the only thing I forgot was birthday paper. I forgot the piece de resistance! A nice bit of sparkly stuff to finish it all off. I'd better go and raid the hall cupboard. Hopefully it's not all just Christmas paper and holographic gift bags. It's amazing how many of those things you inadvertantly collect. There's probably about thirty quids worth of sparkly, holographic or patterned bottle bags in there. All kept for visiting other folk. Which means two things. We have loads of visitors but we don't go to enough parties ourselves!

Jelly good fellows

March, and springtime in general, is birthday time with the Reids. Both my brother, Kenny, and Mum have their birthdays in March almost within the same week. As a result there have bee a few present buying expeditions recently and, in true Mad Hatter traditions, a few tea parties.
The first was Kenny's last week where Lynsey Ann, Dad, Mum, Ka and myself descended upon his new abode inadvertantly cancelling his five-a-sides for a family tea party gaining him another slagging from mates over the phone. Mum had been working hard through the day making one of her fantastic buffets complete with fish fingers and sticky pork kebabs all topped off with a birthday carrot cake and a couple of games of Fifa on the PS3. This was the first time I'd ever played a PS3 before so I got a little excited expecting it to be the opening of a whole new world. It turned out to just be another playstation with slightly clearer graphics but maybe that's my ignorance to the whole games console world showing. I've still got a mere PS2 and very rarely play it. I only ever owned about eight games for it and only completed three of them. Lord of the Rings - The Two Towers, (a belter) King Kong (okay, but the scorpians in the grass were right little b**tar*s) and The Sims (addictive... very addictive). Don't get me wrong these games and consoles are great for the finger muscles but not much else other than frustration and the swear box.
Unfortunately, I got beaten in both my Fifa matches but I blame the fact I was still coming to terms with the fact the joysticks (or controllers as Kenny corrected me) had no wire attached to the console. Amazing...
On Wednesday night it was Mum's turn and we trooped up to Chapelton with her various pressies. Unfortunately one of those pressies, thanks to Kenny, was the ever popular John Barrowman's latest album which Mum immediately placed into her CD player. Kenny said it was his most embarassing purchase since buying the Westlife album for Lynsey Ann a while back. Let's hope it wasn't the same shop assistant that served him. So as John started belting out a Barbara Streisand hit from the Cats musical I helped myself to doritos as we awaited a mexican meal from Dad, working feverishly in the kitchen. When he finally announced that dinner was served and that we could now move through to the dining room our feet barely touched the ground as John started Copacabanaing behind us.
For pudding Dad had made some trademark fruit filled jelly with ice cream, a true birthday dish of old. As far as I can remember Dad's jelly has been present at every birthday through the years. As traditional as the birthday cake itself or Aunt Linda's trifle at the Christmas buffet. The jelly was followed by the usual rundown of Happy Birthday. It's always sung with some embarassment these days in pretend bored, monotone voices, espeically now that most of us are 30 and over so I always try and urge the vocals up a bit, unembarrassed to sing happily and loudly and show my wholehearted best wishes for the birthday person in question. And why not? What's so embarrassing about singing Happy Birthday? And you've got to go on and sing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" . Though that's not done so much these days. I remember going on and singing a loud 'Jolly Good Fellow' alone at an office birthday party once. Everyone stopped and looked at me as if I'd just stepped from a flying saucer. Of course, the birthday person in question was a woman but I didn't think people would mind the obvious inaccuracy. Perhaps my over eagerness was due to the E's in the jelly. E's being the food colourings of course. I didn't work with The Shamen.

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.

Fantastic fruititious delights

After a weird Cylon influenced dream I awoke this morning with a hangover. Particularly strange as I had not had one drop of alcohol last night. It was Ka's birthday and we had been in her Mum and Dad's house till half past eleven shouting at one another, throwing shoddily wrapped presents around the living room and eating small pieces of cake.
Before this we had been out for a McGarva family meal in the local restaurant/pub, Angels, in Uddingston, for which Ka and myself had arrived late, rushing up from Hamilton after seeing 'The Boat That Rocked' at the cinema. Another Richard Curtis movie, with his usual blend of comedy, slight drama, over the top characters and cheesiness. Easy going, fun, viewing. The music was great too. Perfect for a birthday flick.
At the house afterwards, our niece, Morgan was very much in control as always. Ka, Ka's Mum, Grace, and Colin, her brother, had prepared around ten presents for numerous games of pass the parcel, initially for the amusement of Morgan. However, as always with these things the, supposed, adults ended up getting rather involved in it all too. Angela, Ka's sister and Jillian, Colin's poor girlfriend, were all playing too. (When I say poor I am, of course, talking of her lack of experience in handling these McGarva family parties, nothing to do with her financial situation). After a particularly tough round which ended up with Ka's Dad, Dougie, and myself back to back in the middle of the living room floor, I walked away with a stunning plastic guitar thermometer. No expense spared for this game. Apparently the pound shop they got these gifts from had some great deals. Since Ka is staying off the cake and chocolate at the moment, Grace presented her with the biggest basket of fruit I've ever seen. Never before had I seen such a veritable feast of fantastic fruititious delights! A large basket wrapped up in paper and ribbons filled with strawberries, oranges, pears, melon, pineapple, plums and bananas to mention but a few. There were even fruits in it that I had previously suspected only to exist in science fiction tv. The Man from Delmonte himself may have even stepped back in amazement if he'd seen this particular birthday basket of colourful roughage. What was not accepted so well was my cutting and sharing out of the clown birthday cake. My slices were too small according to the McGarvas who mumbled complaints as I toiled in the kitchen. Dougie claimed it was just so I could take a bigger portion home. Not true, of course, as I may even have my own birthday cake once Sunday is upon us.

A good sniff

Friday night. The weekend and I'm knackered. Don't think I've recovered from T in the Park last weekend?! Glad it was last weekend though as the rain has just starting pouring here, makes you appreciate the weather we did get. There was also good news during the week that the stab victim that was attacked at the festival going to the aid of a girlfriend is making good progress now in hospital in Dundee so a big 'Get Well Soon' should go to him.
Whilst writing I'd like to say a big Happy Birthday to Sharon Colman who hits the big 3-0 this weekend. A great mate from Art School and one of the finest nutters I know (funnily enough from Balloch). Also the fantastical Colin McGarva. Ka's bro who is out and about touring the land at the moment with his theatre show but who'll be back home at the end of July. If any of you are reading 'Happy Birthday'! Get you both a pint next time I see you...or maybe just a coke for you Sharon...
Personally, at the moment, I prefer a good old sniff of the Olbus Oil. I'm loaded with a b**ta*d of a cold and its playing havoc with my throat, nose, sleep, brain...Headaches - the kind that seemingly pulsate your brain and keep you awake at night making you growl and swear at your partner because they're sleeping happily having a great time in dreamland. Which is exactly the reason why I'm knackered. So tonight I'm also sniffing a fine Stowells wine in the hope that that has more of an effect than the Olbus Oil.