Bottles and box sets

Saturday the 12th of January 2013 was a big day for me. There was nothing particularly exciting about it. No events. No occasions. In fact, I didn’t even leave the house. The only reason it was vaguely ‘big’ in any way was solely down to the fact I was being left in charge of my own child for the first time.
Ka was going out on the town with her girlfriends and leaving me in charge.
I was flying solo. Going it alone. Nappies, clothing, bottles, medication, entertainment, it was all down to me. Not only was Ka dragging herself away from Sophie for the first time, she was going out and drinking for the first time in approximately eight months. Vicki, Yvonne and the rest of the girls from her room in the ELU nursery (I can’t remember if it’s the Caterpillar room, the Butterfly room or the Pushmi-Pullyu room) were heading into Glasgow for the day and taking Ka out of the house with them.
“On you go!” I insisted. “It’ll be good for you!”
The words had left my mouth before I’d even seriously contemplated the consequences of my verbalizations.
As it happens, it was a bit of a walk in the park. Sophie, who was just approaching the eight week mark of existence on this miserable little rock, was great company. After Ka left with Amy and Kirsty, Sophie ate her lunch quite happily and then lay back in her deck chair to relax and take in the sights.
No, it’s not really a deck chair, but that’s what I call it. It’s like a soft padded slope on a wooden frame, not unlike a deck chair, but probably usually called some along the lines of a ‘baby rocker’. It had been Claire’s little one, Olivia’s, when she had been wee, and Claire had popped round and donated it a few weeks ago.
Sophie had been getting a little irritable in her jungle seat what with the dangling parrots, butterflies and monkey music and had not been settling. Her frustrated boxing would start within around ten minutes of sitting, but in Olivia’s deck chair, she seems far happier. Sophie will gurgle away quite happily on it until she either gets vaguely frustrated for a few minutes, has another quick boxing match with an invisible opponent and then falls asleep or, even better, simply falls asleep without the boxing match. It’s great for watching the room too. Sophie just kicks back in it and surveys her surroundings, finding constant interest in mirrors, windows and blank white spaces of wall. Sophie often prefers to watch the walls rather than the tv with it’s moving images and light.
So whilst Sophie lounged and relaxed after her latest intake of milk, I lounged and relaxed on the couch and watched a few episodes of the rather wonderful Breaking Bad.
Colin and Jillian bought me the first three series of the American, award winning, drama series for my Christmas and I’ve been watching it whenever I get the chance.
Just in case you’re not aware it’s all centred around a struggling high school chemistry teacher named Walter White played by Bryan Cranston, the Dad from Malcolm in the Middle, who, after being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer turns to a life of crime in order to ensure his families financial well being after he leaves his mortal coil. White is aided in his drug making efforts by a former student and known local bum Jesse who, with his contacts to the shady underworld, helps his former teacher make his money.

It’s brilliant, dark, funny, intelligent and well acted, particularly by the two main characters (who have some great chemistry…) and great for a Saturday afternoon’s entertainment.
In fact, throughout the day, in between breaks for feeding, changing nappies, bathtime and general baby chit chat, I managed to finish the first season of Breaking Bad off, something it would have been impossible to manage had Ka been in the house.
As it happens, Ka has now not only lost interest in the series but banned me from watching the 18/15 rated drama whilst Sophie is in the living room, which makes watching the box sets remaining seasons even more difficult. I now have to wait on a completely empty house before I can watch it, which will be virtually impossible as I can’t see Sophie heading out into town with her pals for cocktails anytime soon.
Ka probably has a point though. The last episode Ka watched with me involved someone being melted in a bathtub with hydrofluoric acid…
Anyway, before the Breaking Bad ban, I sat that Saturday night and finished season 1 whilst drinking lots of coke and gobbling mini toblerones. Just a flavour of my wild life, and my Saturday nights, getting all the more electrifyingly crazy as time goes on.
Ka eventually called informing me of her missed train and her intentions on the next, so I then bathed baby Sophie and ordered dinner for the night, a take away from the local Indian restaurant (not for Sophie, obviously). Moments before the dinner turned up, Ka tumbled through the door, surprisingly only moderately drunk, and we settled down on the couch to a bhuna whilst Sophie snored away upstairs, her snores growling out of the small baby monitor plugged in at the end of the couch. The light dial goes from blue lights to red on the small monitor, depending on the volume of the child being picked up at the other end, a larger, white, glowing dome presently situated at the side of the moses basket. A great wee device for keeping an ear on Sophie whilst she’s parked in a different room. Just maybe not so great when she’s having one of her louder half hours and you’re trying to get through season 2.

Door locks, brake pads and hoover shocks

Well, whilst two blokes spend 2 billion dollars publicising themselves over the pond in an effort to control 50 states I've also been spending big money. Okay, maybe not 2 billion dollars, but certainly money that can’t afford to be spent.
In the past week or so I've spent hundreds and hundreds of pounds.
No, I'm not showing off.
I've spent literally hundreds. Hundreds that I don’t have.
Two weekends ago a familiar sounding grinding noise started growling up from underneath the car in transit. With little driving detective work I assumed it to be the front passenger side wheel pads, in dire need of replacement. As quickly as I could, on the Monday morning, without making the repair bill have to cover brake discs too, I took the car over the squinty bridge, sorry, the Clyde Arc road bridge, to a small, grubby looking garage on Govan Road. Within hours the little, bespectacled mechanic had called me to inform me that all four brake pads were needing replaced. The mechanic himself admitted he'd thought the noise had been coming from the front passenger side but upon investigation had discovered the noise to be coming from one of the rear wheels, and not only that but each of the car's brake pads were in need of restoration. Upon hearing me humming and hawing over the phone the mechanic must have mistook my noises for mistrust and insisted he’d keep all four of the old brake pads as proof to which I obviously insisted wasn’t necessary and sighing heavily, told him to proceed with the job.
The bad news didn't stop there though. At around 4pm that afternoon I ventured back over the squinty bridge, through the rush hour traffic. The cheery little mechanic immediately insisted on showing me the duff brake pads, (probably the oldest trick in the book – he’s probably got a drawer full of them!) and then informed me that my two front tyres were illegal.
Bald on the inside apparently. (Illegal for being bald? Surely that’s baldist?)
I had spent £130 quid on two Dunlops for the front last November and the two of them were already duff and fine worthy. So after getting back to the office I made yet another visit to tyreshopper.com, a lot sooner than I thought I'd be visiting, and sorted out another expensive pair of rubbers. On the same day, from the mild comfort of my office desk, I also paid off various bills, reminder notices and last chance saloon letters and ordered my new 6 month tax disc, successfully making it one of the most expensive days in my working history, all whilst sitting on my arse. Next up will be my car insurance, due shortly, along with the good old MOT, which, going by recent standards, will probably throw up a few surprises for me, all just in time for Christmas when you expected to spend lots of money on other people.
Days later, last Thursday, I gave a wee bloke £120 for having a large tantrum in my house.
Recently I bought new, interior doors for all the rooms leading off from the upstairs landing which all started when Dad and Colin successfully burst the bathroom door on the night of the house warming. The door was on it’s last legs, or hinges, anyway, so I don’t blame them. My Dad had went to leave the bathroom and found the door had locked him in so he ended up shouting down to Colin, who was standing out in the back garden at the time, minding his own business, smoking a cigarette. Always willing to help Colin made his way upstairs and between the two of them they managed to obliterate the bathroom door.
So while I was getting a new bathroom door I thought it’d probably be a good idea to get the rest of the doors done. Ordering them over the phone with Cornes, the local DIY store, here in EK, I asked them to book me a joiner to get them fitted. The joiner in question phoned me up a few days later and made a date to fit the doors, two and a half weeks later, at half past 8 in the morning (that was the next available date in his diary).
So, two and a half weeks later, on my way back from taking the wife to work in the morning, the joiner phoned my at 8.25am, leaving demanding messages on both my mobile, sitting alongside me in the car, and my home phone, stating he was 'supposed' to be fitting doors at my house that morning and that he had no access to the house. I dialled his number as I drove on the via the hands free speaker phone as I approached my street. Again, he informed me that he had no access to the house.
No access to the house?, I thought. I’m quite glad of that really. Is that not why they put locks in doors? A joiner of all people should know that, surely?
Immediately recognising the wee man that jumped out the van, but from where I wasn't sure, I let him into the house and he got himself set up. Through another ten minutes of conversation we eventually sussed that it was from the gym that I recognised him. I've seen him strutting about the Nuffield gym on occasion talking to folk in his loud, but not unfriendly, voice, talking to some of the bigger, muscle-bound guys on occasion who quite often are double the height of him. I wondered why this was why he spoke so loudly in normal conversation, conversation that continued as he worked at the four doors.
After an hour or so the joiner took a break to drink a protein shake, a drink which he really wanted me to know about, for whatever reason. Unfortunately I perhaps said the wrong thing by moaning something along the lines of, "you're not one of them are you?". It turns out he is (as is Andrea, my colleague in work, who models herself on Jodie Marsh) and the wee joiner has been trying to build his muscles up like some of the other guys in the gym. Refraining from stating that there probably weren't enough hours in the day, never mind the year, I got on with some paperwork and bill paying.
It wasn't until later that things really turned uncomfortable.
The joiner left the bathroom door to last. The other three doors had normal, nice silver handles bought with them, but the bathroom was slightly different in that its handle design included a lock mechanism. A perfectly normal lock mechanism which you’d find on most bathroom doors. Unfortunately it turned out to be not so normal as the wee joiner was soon swearing, shouting and jumping about in the bathroom. He's only been attempting to fit the lock handle for approximately five or ten minutes before, his face started turning a nasty shade of red and he started turning the air blue, jumping about, throwing electric screwdrivers around the bathroom whilst twisting the new handle up and down.
"F**king cheap sh**e!", he kept shouting, his voice echoing through the house. I had had no idea I was ordering cheap sh*te with my phonecall to Cornes two and a half weeks ago. At the time I'd thought £13 for a lock handle was expensive enough.
After another ten minutes of swearing and raging he disassembled the lock handle, growling furiously as he went and sped off back down to Cornes to get a second under the impression we'd been given a dodgy one.
I’ve met an awful lot of wee men who seem to have a great deal of anger built up inside them. An anger that can be quite potent and unexpected when it bursts. I’ve known a few short men in my life who’ve all had similar personalities. I’m no tall person myself but each of the guys I’m thinking off were all definitely in the shorter department and all had similar, slightly unstable characteristics. I’m certainly not saying all short people have this tendency, I’m just saying I am prone to encountering them. One minute these guys seem jovial, happy and perfectly normal in conversation until something happens. The something could be an occurrence, a statement, a joke or some kind of small, not obviously major, annoyance that makes them seem to boil up and explode.
This joiner, for instance, was highly affected by the bathroom door not working, after a mere five minutes or so of trying to fit it properly. As soon as he spent longer than five minutes working on it he just seemed to explode in a barrage of abuse and Basil Fawltyesque rage.
Needless to say, after the joiner’s return from Cornes, the second lock handle was no better and as he attempted to fit the new handle he stamped his feet, slammed his tools about some more and shouted about how he had other things to do with his time.
After some discussion with the rather irked wee joiner I decided to opt for his suggestion of replacing the lock handle with a normal handle and fitting the door with a simple sliding bolt lock. So after yet another visit to Cornes the wee, unsettled, highly flustered joiner with the anger management issues fitted the bolt and the normal handle, took his money and left.
Breathing a sigh of relief I got the hoover out and started to tidy his mess up, only to discover, upon inspecting the bathroom door, that the wee joiner had fastened the bathroom door to the wall with only one screw through each hinge rather than the usual four. As hesitant as I was to have the wee nutter back in my house, I had paid for his service and as he was too busy performing his little strops he'd obviously neglected to screw the damn door into the wall properly so I phoned him up. Huffing upon receipt of this information the wee joiner said he'd be back in ten minutes and as I waited I continued to hoover, almost managing to blow myself up in the process.
As I hoovered away, twisting and moving round the hall, trying to catch all the wood shreds and splinters, the hoover wire got sucked up the hoover's front and another highly suspicious grinding noise started from the machine’s underside. Within seconds a strange burning smell started interfering with the odour of freshly cut wood and before I knew it, the J. Edgar was firing out tiny shreds of grey and black plastic.
Flipping the power switch, I pulled the wire from under the hoover only to see a rather unhealthy looking length of bare copper wire shining up at me through a thin veil of electrical smoke.
The hoover had never done that before. I’d ran over the wire in the past and it had never been sucked up in such a plastic devouring fashion. Just as I finished tidying the hoover wire shreds up a loud knock at the door alerted to the presence of the wee joiner again and in he came once more, to finish his job.
“What happened to your hair?” the wee joiner looked up at me as he climbed the stairs. I looked in the mirror. My hair seemed to be standing a little on end.
Had I been shocked? Or was I just a little overly flustered?
At least the wee joiner had regained his composure as he quickly screwed the missing screws into the bathroom door and quickly headed off to his next poor customer. Making light of the missing screws I shrugged it off, insisting he was probably just too flustered and focused on the bathroom door lock.
“I’ll let you know after my next therapy session!” he smiled as he left the house.
I’m not even sure whether he was joking.
I certainly don’t want his therapist.

Googling garden sheds

At half past nine last Saturday morning I was standing in a very quiet Argos. Yes, Argos. The shop for lazy people. The shop for folk who can’t be bothered going looking for something but can be bothered standing and flicking through a gargantuan catalogue, writing out a number from the big book, handing it over the till and then proceeding to a waiting area where they then go on to another desk but only after your number has been called. Surely the only shop that still operates with not only catalogues but also pencils. Short, neatly sharpened pencils.
Whatever happened to the bookie pens? They must have been too expensive. Maybe they were too old fashioned? We are now back to the lead and wood.
That Saturday morning had been dry since we awoke so I had decided, since it was the day of the grand house warming, to run up to the retail park and purchase a lawnmower and get the lawns cut, just in time for the visitors arriving at three in the afternoon.
Along with having our own staircase, we now have our own gardens. Something else that is currently a novelty.
Unfortunately we haven’t yet been gifted with good enough weather to enjoy the gardens but as the grass had needed a cut and there was a distinct lack of rain in the air for a change I zoomed straight up to the local catalogue shop after having spotted the lawnmower at a good price on one of my web meanderings during the week's lunch hours in work.
Due to the busy workload of recent weeks I've found my break times changing from day to day so have completely lost track with everyone else's tea times and have found myself eating my sandwiches at the desk, all alone. Spending my lunchbreaks googling lawnmowers is not how I'd imagined things to change after my move to the Glasgow offices.
The other day I found myself googling Garden Sheds!
Is this how it all starts? Middle age? Googling garden sheds?
Surely it's too soon for all of that... but then I do need somewhere to put a lawnmower now. The garden shed idea has been temporarily knocked on the head anyway as they seem to be far more expensive than I'd first envisioned. Even in our trusty local catalogue store.
Ka and myself had visited the same Argos the previous weekend after seeing a baby bouncer chair online for a good price. We’d went along to investigate and found the item unavailable. The helpful, slightly over enthusiastic, wee woman behind the desk that served us asked if there was any way we’d been interested in a store card. We turned the opportunity down. The Argos lady then asked if there was any particular time we could accept its delivery from another store further afield. We decided against it after finding that the bouncy chair would have to be delivered on a work day. The Argos lady wandered whether we’d consider travelling to pick the item up. We shrugged and then told her it didn’t matter that much, we would pick up another bouncy chair elsewhere.
Obviously this was the wrong thing to say. The woman asked if there was any other bouncy chair of interest to us. We said no. She asked if there was any other item of interest to us. Anything at all in the massive catalogue. Again we insisted it was fine, there was nothing else. Now with a hint of desperation in her voice, the Argos lady asked if there was anything else she could look up for us, anything else she could do.
I had no idea Argos employees were on a commission. I wonder how much she would have got for a bouncy chair.
The same lady was behind the checkout desk when I bought the lawnmower on Saturday morning. A Flymo Easimo, complete with grass trimmer.
I have no idea about lawnmowers. This one had wheels, a blade and a collection box so it looked fine to me and my Dad also confirmed it seemed like a reasonable price when he phoned me up that morning. Being the green fingered expert my Dad is the guy to ask when any gardening advice.
Thankfully the lawnmower was available to pick up, there and then so half of the wee Argos lady’s questions from the previous week were not needed making her look a little disappointed as she started the payment procedure. The lady did try and talk me into some monthly cover payments but after some quick, fraudulent, consideration from myself, involving some unconvincing humming and hawing, I was off to the pick up point in the deserted store. It was obviously too early for all the usual Argos customers so I had the pick of the plastic blue/green seats at pick up point B. Clasping my massively long receipt, for my one item, I looked up at the television screen to see at which position my number stood at.
I was second. There was literally no other customer in the store so how I was second in the queue I don't know.
Still it was only a matter of minutes until the lawnmower was delivered. One of the young employees shouted my number out, even though I, the only person standing waiting on an item, was already making my way up to the pick up point.
And it was the wrong pick up point. The girl had planted the lawnmower down blatantly under the ‘A’ sign. My receipt told me I would be picking my lawnmower up under the ‘B’ sign.
Obviously I couldn't be bothered hanging around any longer than I had to so let them off with this, grabbed the large box and ran for the car, ready to cut up some serious greenery.
After a quick unpacking of various orange and black metal pieces and a short ten minutes or so of construction, a quick cup of tea, a piece and sausage and a conversation with Dad over the phone who was now warning me of the dangers of cutting wet grass. I’d never really heard of anyone electrocuting themselves whilst mowing a wet lawn but Dad insisted it happens quite often. Surely there’d be health warning about cutting lawns then? Would lawnmowers come with safety gear or a license if they were that dangerous?
Whilst Ka prepared the food for the housewarming guests I tackled the back lawn only pausing to empty the collection box hitched on to the mower’s back and to talk to the wee neighbour whose head appeared over the hedge at one point. Betty chatted away for around five minutes, introducing herself and eventually her husband, Malcy, (not sure of the spelling there!) who ventured out into their garden when he heard his name mentioned. Ka introduced herself from the back door, still in her pyjamas and polka dot dressing gown. After the giving us the lowdown on the surrounding neighbourhood Betty and Malky disappeared back indoors and let me finish the back lawn before I headed out to the front. Dad turned up halfway through my frontal assault to either find out if I needed a hand or to make sure I wasn’t electrocuting myself.
Whilst cutting the front I met the neighbour on the other side. An smartly dressed old gent by the name of Leslie whose getting his windows replaced by the council shortly, has a son and a daughter and an alsation dog whose getting a bit long in the tooth and will have to be put down. I didn’t quite understand everything the old guy said but managed to translate most of it. Ka introduced herself from the front door, still moaning about being in her pyjamas and polka dot dressing gown.
After Leslie had gone back inside I quickly finished the front lawn, neatly strimming the edges, Dad disappeared off to get on with his various gardening jobs dotted around East Kilbride and Ka got herself ready after finishing her work in the kitchen, finally taking of her polka dot dressing gown.
Before long everybody started arriving. Cherly and Roslyn were the first to arrive, with Cherly’s two kids, Eilidh and Orla. Orla, being a small baby, was immediately dumped into my arms, for practice.
Around half an hour later the front door didn’t seem to close. Coats were taken, drinks were given out and the washing hanging out on the lines in the back garden, which included my space invader boxing shorts, quickly taken in. There were more babies and kids than predicted and soon babies were being tripped over, wiped up after, kept entertained, fed or generally watched like a hawk and all within the confines of the living room and kitchen.
Nobody went outside.
The rain was off, I kept telling everyone, it’s not rained all day, let’s go out and sit in the garden. I’d spent half the day mowing the lawns and making the gardens acceptable for guests so it was the perfect opportunity to show them off, not to mention my hard graft from behind the spinning blade.
“It’s too cold” David, the nursery teacher from Ka’s work, shook his head, to which everyone else seemed to silently agree and chat on among themselves. All the hard work had been for nothing.
Tony and Suzanne could see my plight but after Milo got his boots a little muddy from running over the grass, they decided against it.
At least Milo appreciated the freshly cut lawns.
Resigning myself to the fact that no one was going to be sitting out on the lawn anytime soon I went into the fridge and got out another beer.
Around ten or eleven hours later, and more than ten or eleven beers later, Ka and myself seen off the last of the evening guests. Chaz and Pauline sauntered out into the street to jump into their taxi and we shut the front door for the last time and got to our bed.

Weird dreams and freaky flamingoes

A few nights ago I woke up in the middle of the night and moved to shuffle my pillow around. This, in turn, woke Ka up and she moved round to adjust her position in the bed. Upon turning round and seeing me, her eyes burst open and she let out a loud scream, which punched through the quietness of the night like a verbal explosion. Ka then turned around again, mumbling and whimpering under her breath and went off to sleep again as if nothing had happened.
Had she forgotten she shared a bed with someone? Was it a scream of shock? Had the shock of reality disturbed her dream of being married to Brad Pitt or Damon from Vampire Diaries?
I know the sight of me half asleep can’t always be a good thing but I didn’t think it was reason enough to scream quite so loudly.
I’d be surprised if she hadn’t woke up the singing postman upstairs with that scream.
Anyway, Ka was soon snoring once again, oblivious to what had just happened and once again needed reminding the next morning.
It reminds me of how I used to sleep walk as a kid. I used to wake up on the living room couch, sitting watching tv, late at night with my Mum and Dad. Apparently I used to just get up a few hours after having gone to bed and amble through to the living room, plonk myself down on the couch and sit there until I came to.
Ka doesn’t generally sleepwalk, though she does occasionally talk in her sleep. She even replies sometimes if I ask her what she’s talking about.
One night she awoke just as I was switching off the light and started talking. Once her mumbles finished I asked her what she meant.
“She doesn’t know how to push the cat”, she grumbled back with eyes still shut under a frown of annoyance.
I have to admit, it may not have been that line exactly, it was difficult to make out exactly what she said but it was something along those lines. I’ve no idea what cat who didn’t know how to push, but most dreams rarely make sense anyway.
My most recent dream that I can remember involved me accompanying Lynsey Ann, my sister, to church on the first anniversary of her Wedding. She wore her Wedding dress to commemorate the anniversary. The interior of the church was enormous and we sat at the side of it’s interior before the massive altar, or at least I did, where there was a cassette player. On this cassette player, a double deck, I kept pressing play, listening to the music, letting it echo throughout the church, disturbing the hymn singing and the voice of the priest, and intermittently flicking it off with the stop button. The priest on the altar, Father Pat, kept getting annoyed with me for disturbing his mass with the loud music clips and I think he asked me to leave on more than one occasion, a request I denied, rebelliously pressing down on the play and stop buttons, whilst he spoke to his congregation.
Can anyone guess what that is all about?
Apparently you can have up to 7 dreams a night. I used to be great at remembering dreams and actually wrote down what I dreamt from time to time, a vague effort at a dream diary (Yep, in those days I had more time on my hands). I would sometimes have dreams that lasted for up to a week, my sleep continuing on with a dream where I had left off the previous night like an ongoing, surreal, drama serial. When I was young I remember actually looking forward to going to bed to see what happened next after the cliffhanger ending from the previous night or morning awakening.
Then there were the nightmares.
I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was small, set in our first house, Vancouver Drive.
It was dark. The curtains were all shut, but some moonlight could still be seen shining through the fabric of the curtain. Mum and Dad had locked the doors and windows and the five of us sat in the dark living room, cowering from what was outside. I remember peeking through the gap between the two curtains covering the living room’s rear window to look out into the small, dark back garden, the old rusty second hand see saw at it’s centre, partly hidden by the old stone hut that came with those houses. I would freeze in terror at the sight of the things outside, all standing, or pacing around, moving around the house, threatening just by their presence. They were large birds with tiny, beady eyes and giant beaks, standing as tall as a man, on long feather less legs. Things that can only be described as large dark, horrific versions of flamingos.
I remember, as I looked out, looking over the gathering block in the pale moonlight, the head of one of the creatures suddenly appearing directly before my nose, on the opposite side of the glass, straight up at the window. It’s small black eyes glaring at me over its large beak.
In one particularly frightening version of the dream I remember having a little later, the giant birds actually somehow got into the house via the back door and spent the majority of the dream ascending the hall staircase. Obviously I was in my bed for the entirety of the dream but could somehow see what was going on. Some of the creatures made their way up the hall’s stairs (Vancouver Drive’s stairs featured in quite a few of my nightmares when I was wee) and after the familiar creaking on the landing directly outside my, and my brother Kenny’s, bedroom the noises stopped. I watched my closed bedroom door, pressed up against the wall behind me, eyes wide with fear. On the other side of the door, a clawed hand reached up and turned my bedroom door handle. Just as the door swung open to reveal the creature beyond, I awoke.
Thinking back that was probably the last time I seen those scary black flamingos in a dream.
In work we quite often have Radio 2 on in the background and occasionally folk come on the Steve Wright afternoon show claiming to understand dreams and know what your subconscious mind is telling or instructing you. Personally I’m inclined to believe it’s a lot of subconscious babble, your brain conjuring up stories whilst you sleep, using elements from all over your life, including family, friends, experiences, locations. In your mind, whilst you sleep, what starts out as a simple thought develops, grow, mutates and expands like a patchy watercolour with too much water soaking through the paper making the colours spread and merge.
Say that, I have had a few, weird, eerily accurate moments involving dreams.
I did have one, very different experience recently. One that came back to me in a horrific flash, like a very bad sense of déjà vu.
I dreamt that I was sitting in Angela’s, Ka’s sister’s, living room, surrounded by the McGarva family members and, what was stranger, my Mum, Dad, brother and sister, who, in real life, had never seen or been in Angela and Steven’s house. Together we watched as young Joshua played in the centre of the living room, dressed in a strange uniform with a big red object on wheels upon which he could ride. Throughout the dream Joshua played with this red object and the relatives talked but I just couldn’t escape the feeling that something horrendous had happened. A terrible aching pain echoed throughout my head which I couldn’t pinpoint in the dream. Even though I recalled the dream the next day the dream faded over time as they all do.
Around six months later, Lucy passed away on Hogmanay and Angela invited us all round for dinner on the New Years Day in an effort to help us through the remainder of the ‘festivities’. The McGarvas, and the Reids. Sure enough, following dinner, we were all sitting in Angela’s living room talking, when Joshua sauntered in to the living room pushing the new fire engine he had received from Santa for his Christmas. Previously, before Lucy had arrived on the 29th and departed the day or so later, we had enjoyed our Christmas Day with Joshua who had been playing with the new truck dressed in his Santa outfit.
It was all probably just strange coincidence but it did make me think, not for the first time, that maybe there’s more to dreams than just mere mental rambling.
I’ve still never encountered a flamingo though.

Leaks, fridges and electric hob knobs

After dinner last night I was busy carrying out my husbandly duties when there was a large crash and a horrendous scream from behind. I had to quickly abandon the pot which I had been busy scrubbing with my bubble covered hands in the sink, and turned to see what the commotion was.
The fridge door had fallen off it's hinges. Unfortunately Ka had been trying to close the large, upper door over at the time. Something had been preventing Ka from closing the door over so she looked into the fridge to make sure everything was tidied away properly and just as she moved to take her head back out from the fridge's innards, the door, complete with the weight of all it's interior shelf innards, including the milk and my Branston Pickle, collapsed into her face, banging her across the forehead.
Just as I was about to start moaning at Ka’s volume I turned to find my wife crouched over in pain, holding the fridge door up on one bottom hinge. After shoving the door temporarily back into place I got a bag of ice together from the freezer and told Ka to put it to her head as I seen the red mark now throbbing on Ka's forehead grow into a potential lump.
The washing machine has been leaking. Two of the electric cooker’s hob’s knobs have broke off (and no, they don’t taste great with a cup of tea!). A bit of the front door’s frame even fell off when I closed the door the other night. I had to superglue it back on. What else is going to fall apart? The place is turning into The Money Pit! I’m half expecting Tom Hanks to crash through the front window one night while I’m turning the hobs on with my pliers.
As Ka sat and relaxed on the couch with the bag of ice pressed to her head, giving her brain freeze, I attempted to fix the fridge door with a blob of blu-tac before deciding that the Currys website would probably be a better idea.
A quick, unexpected, credit card payment later and there is now a brand new fridge being delivered on Wednesday morning. Mum will pop by after her pilates and sit in for the delivery which I paid £15 for the pleasure of having delivered between the hours of 1 and 5 for. The one good thing about buying anything on the Currys website is you’re not hounded for guarantees and insurances when you get to the checkout.
No other time would suit unless we waited until the weekend but on returning home tonight I nonchalantly swung the fridge door forgetting all about the worn out hinge and almost suffered the same lumpy head as Ka did.
Everybody seems to be settling in to the new office in Glasgow Central Quay for the time being. Sly Bailey, the Trinity Mirror Empress herself visited Central Quay last week, moving around the various floors accompanied by her entourage. As I have my back to the always open Studio door I missed the whole procession but was informed by the ever watchful Andrea, who sits opposite me, that she had a very nice pair of shoes on. Always one to spot the important details, she said that the pair of shoes in question would be enough to make Andrea’s family go without food for a week. If Andrea’s family are anything like her that what probably be doing them a favour as all she seems to eat are protein shakes, those disgusting looking mushy substances which, apparently, you simply must base your diet on if you intend to build muscle, losing weight or keep fit in anyway, shape or form. I’m not sure what’s wrong with a good healthy diet but maybe some people just like sitting in their office theatrically shaking plastic bottles and flasks around kidding on their working at the Copacabana.
The new colleagues in our office are Graeme, Andrew, Ewan and Yvonne.
Yvonne has a liking to karaoke, singing along to most of the ditties that are played on Radio 2 in the duration of the day. Graeme dances around the office, finds nothing a problem, and occasionally picks up the phone and pretends he’s an answering machine for Andrew, beeping and even singing whilst the caller waits. The Bette Midler classic, “The Wind Beneath my Wings” was the last song a caller enjoyed whilst waiting to be passed over to Andrew, who is forever shaking his head at his colleague, as he types away frantically on his mac. Ewan is the line manager of the three who spends all his time keeping sales people at bay and a lot of his money on Peanut M&M’s which Yvonne hands out willy nilly, without his permission.
I’m enjoying the new surroundings although I do occasionally miss the rest of the S&UN gang who are out in the open plan office with the rest of the production and sales staff. Some of the sales staff I’ve known for years over the phone and only just met face to face. Some people you meet for the first time not even realising you’ve been talking to them for five years. You go out and happily start talking to someone as if you’re only just meeting them for the first time only to realise afterwards that that was the woman that shouted at you over the phone a year or so ago for not understanding her copy instructions.
Mum managed to get a wee job in the town centre last week. Mum’s been looking for a job, on and off, (mostly off) for around four years now so this is quite big news. Kenny emailed me today from Oz, rejoicing the fact (“it’s about time too”, I believe were the words he used).
Mum arrived back from a holiday abroad on Friday. She’d been away for a week with my Auntie Tricia with Aunt Ann for her 60th birthday retreat along with a bunch of pals from both Scotland and London.
Unfortunately Adventure Ted never got an invite, but did send photos of her London trip along in Auntie Ann's card which she would have opened on her birthday on the Sunday.
Mum and Tricia arrived home on Friday at the airport expecting Tommy, Tricia’s other half, to be there waiting to pick them up.
Tommy was indeed sitting waiting to pick them up. Unfortunately he was sitting in Glasgow Airport whilst Mum and Tricia had arrived home at Prestwick.
Grace and Dougie, Ka’s Mum and Dad, arrived home from their week in Turkey the same day. We popped round to see them on Saturday afternoon after seeing ‘The Cabin in the Woods’ in Glasgow.
A bunch of teenagers take a break to a holiday home beside, the river, in the middle of nowhere and unexpectedly enter a game of life and death, involving zombies, ghosts, werewolves and scarecrows. Ridiculous and crazy but surprisingly entertaining stuff if you like a good dose of the ridiculous and the crazy in your horror. By the way, this is the movie we’re talking about, not Grace and Dougie’s holiday.
No, they were living it up in 5 star accommodation, full board. All the sun, food, drink and entertainment they could possibly want. They brought us back a tea towel.
Only kidding, they also brought us back chocolates, socks and a large bag of suspicious looking white powder.
Yes, apple tea. To go with the tea towels, currently soaking up the water splashed over the floor by the misbehaving washing machine.

David and his watermelons

“Michael, we’re not selling the buses!” Ka informed me, after our viewer left, her Mum and Dad in tow.
“What do you mean?” I frowned, as Ka moved to finally put dinner on. Apparently during my “flat selling” speech I started rabbiting on about how handy we were for the Number 20 and the number 66 buses, perfect for those bus trips further into East Kilbride or a day out in the city.
It’s a good selling point, I pointed out to Ka. Being close to a decent bus stop would be a great advantage to some people. The viewer may have a tight monetary situation and may not be able to afford the luxury of cars and taxis everywhere. The bus could be their one form of transport, for all we know. The bus is always handy for us when we fancy going into town for a wee pint, so why not to a potential buyer?
The rather unimpressed, bored looking viewer had brought her Mum and Dad along and left after only five minutes in our humble abode. She walked in through the hallway into the living room and commenced her long tour of the flat from there, seeing the kitchen, the living room again, back out into the hallway to the bathroom, out into the hallway before hitting the bedroom, back to the hallway where she took a quick look into the utility cupboard, the hallway again and then the living room again. On her way out she walked through the hallway again. Our home of six years overviewed within the space of five minutes.
The girl who was the main viewer was one of these girls not happy in the skin they're in.
Her big eyes stared, white in a face of browny orange. One of these strange people that, not being happy about the skin they are born with, like to artificially colour their skin by lying in plastic beds of luminous tubes or stand in those plastic portaloos that have no loos but have spray guns in their walls instead. The people that use these devices actually pay for that weird orange/brown colour with which they use to go out on a special occasions. What possesses these people to believe that a special occasion of any kind requires you to colour your almost naked self up in a strange sh**ty brown colour. I’ll never understand that.
Yes, okay, I understand a slight tan. Something to enhance the complexion or contrasts of the skin, get away, be it momentarily, from the Scottish peely wally tones. But that weird overly orange/browny colour? Why?
If it was some kind of camouflage, then yes, I would understand. If these girls, and blokes (yep, blokes do do it as well don’t they) were going paintballing or something then yes, the reasons for painting yourself browny orange would be fairly understandable. You could dive about the forest and probably have some success in hiding out in the foliage. In fact, judging by some of the spray tans I’ve seen in the past, you might be better off simply walking about a paintball site naked to get a bit of colour about you.
I just don’t get it. Why would you want to go out on the town or walk down the aisle with the skin colour of an Oompa lumpa?
The three visitors were pretty hard going. Ka and myself done our best to chat and inform, but the three of them didn’t say too much.
The Mum did seem to like it whereas the Dad looked bored, as if he’d been forced to attend by a firm look from the wife or an arm twisted up his back.
It’s always so difficult to tell whether these potential buyers like what they see. We’ve always had positive feedback from the estate agency after the viewers have reported back but it’s never been so positive that they’ve bothered to put an offer in for our wee home.
We’ve only had a grand total of four viewers the whole time we’ve been on the market. The estate agents, that seem to have only recently really started doing anything for us, (let’s call them ‘Your Maneuver’), gave us a quick phone today to tell us the viewer was taking her interest no further for the not wholly unreasonable excuse of a lack of gas central heating in our flat. Apparently somebody had told her that the underfloor heating that was built into these flats is expensive to run. Someone had also told her that a flat further down the street had sold for a slightly lower price and that that particular property had been recently refaced. All the while, I sat on the other end of the phone, listening to what the someone had told this girl, wondering who this ‘someone’ was. I bet it was her Dad.
Either him or her boss, Willy Wonka.
I thought she may have been informed of the lack of central heating before attending a viewing, by our wonderful estate agents. Ka and myself have survived without gas central heating for six years, using only the old, underfloor heating in the deepest, darkest depths of winter and we’ve comfortably survived. We’ve certainly never had to sit and watch X-Factor with frosted glasses and icicles hanging from our nostrils. Our flat’s always seemed pretty cosy in actual fact, and rarely feels cold in anyway (even in X-Factor conditions).
We’ve certainly never had any complaints from any visitors. It’s probably all the hot air.
Saying that, I did notice, the last time they were here, that some of Ka’s pals’ kept their jackets on. In fact, Ka and her pals’ teeth were also chittering in between talk (between talk is very brief, wondrous moment and you have to be very quick of the eye to notice such an instant. We once got a phonecall from David Attenborough at the BBC to film such behaviour. Women with their mouths closed. Amazing. Unfortunately Mr Attenborough couldn’t find a camera with a high enough shutter speed).
Still, at least I was allowed in the flat last night.
Everyone in work was having great delight in making me feel extremely paranoid and slightly guilty yesterday after I rushed Ka off the phone when she called on the mobile mid morning.
“I really can’t talk just now. I’m busy. I’ll call you later!” or something of the kind, I said rather urgently down the phone, before wishing her a hurried goodbye.
Apparently Ka thought she’d upset me by the tone of one of my texts five or ten minutes before when she hadn’t at all. I’d sent an abrupt text back to her in response to one of her messages which she’d sent at one of the busiest periods of the week, when all our Ayrshire property adverts were being sent to print. I had been, in fact, winding her up about the excited babble she was producing the night before about David and his watermelons.

Ka had arrived home from the theatre on Tuesday night, chatting away excitedly about this David and his watermelons. It was ten past eleven, I was tired and, as a result, couldn’t be bothered with her. The excitable chat was something to do with ‘Dirty Dancing’, the stage production she’d just been to see with Pauline at the Kings theatre. As it was late I wasn’t really in the mood for watermelon talk and left it for the morning, at which point I text her asking about David and his fruit.
As it turned out, it wasn’t David at all anyway. It was Johnny. Johnny and his watermelons. I’m still no clearer and suspect I’d have to watch ‘Dirty Dancing’ in all it’s musical glory to understand, but that’ll not happen any time soon. I’ll just have to struggle on through life in blissful ignorance regarding Johnny’s watermelons.
Anyway, as a result of Ka’s call at work, I was sure I’d upset her and everyone in the work, led by DVD Andy and Dave, were sure I was sleeping on the couch that night, if Ka allowed me into the flat at all.
Sitting in work I was pretty confident though. There was no way Ka could give the sales pitch all by herself. We done our best, for the fourth time, but to no avail. I may need to consider re-evaluating the sales pitch.
I don’t know. Perhaps try not to look nervous when the neighbours are mentioned, attempt to draw my eyes away from any inflamed skinwork and maybe even reduce the amount of the No. 20 mentions. Either that or just install some gas central heating.
That viewer obviously likes heat.
And the sun. Be it the artificial spray gun version.
There’s a professional tanning salon in the Village. You could easily jump on a No. 66 from here to get there. It’s just five minutes down the road. Hmmm, I’ll maybe write that into my next sales pitch.

Sleep suits and snow suits

Excuse my ignorance here but, how do you know you're leaving hospital with the right baby? This has been troubling me for around four days now. How do you know your baby hasn't been mixed up with somebody else's after it has popped out? There is no way of telling! All babies look the same for around three months after their birth. How do you know your going home with the right one? It'll be three months till you know for sure! This is concerning me.
Also, what's with the buying of snow suits? Apparently we need to buy the expected Baby Reid snow suits. Snow suits? I wasn't aware we were eskimos? Will we be travelling home from Wishaw General in a sledge pulled by huskies? Me, standing at the back of the sledge cracking the whip, whilst Ka and baby cower from the cold in furry suits at my feet, our huskies racing forward, pulling us, their breath puffing out in swirling clouds before their frozen maws as they pant their way through the white, frozen wastelands of Wishaw and Craigneuk.
Sleep suits too. Sleep suits, sleep suits, we don't have enough sleep suits, and apparently we never will. This baby is going to have more suits than Hugo Boss.
Hats, bibs, boots and scratch mittens. Scratch mittens? Apparently babies have a habit of trying to scratch their face off? First I'd heard. Surely they can't be that fully aware to look in the mirror and hate their god given mug at that age? I thought that all didn't kick off till the teens and forever after? (Certainly didn't with me anyway). Then again maybe that's a good way of knowing it is indeed my child - if it sees itself in the mirror and immediately goes for it's own face screaming horribly.
Nesting. The suit buying is all part of the nesting process apparently. A word for what an expectant mother does in and around the home to prepare. Moving things around. Throwing things out. Making way for piles of sleep suits. Buying baby lotions, talcum powder and cotton wool.
Spending money when it's not yet quite needed to be spent, that's what I call it. I've had to empty two of my bookshelves already and the poor wee tyke is not even here yet. All in the name of sleep suits. Who would have thought such tiny garments could take up so much space?
We need a house and quick. Anything bigger than a one bedroom anyway.
I'm sure some of those eskimos must have more room in those igloos than we've got. They always have loads of kids running about. You never seen eskimos on the Michael Palin programmes shouting about how little room they've got in their igloos because of all the sleep suits. Bet the huskies have even got their own room!

Manic meandering

On my day off yesterday, I relaxed. I was sitting around the house doing nothing in particular. Eating soup, listening to The Black Keys, surfing and watching tv was the majority of my daytime.
Among my tv highlights was David Cameron sitting on the couch, on 'This Morning', harping on about the economy, the coalition and what a great family man he is, standing by his decision to let his newborn baby sleep in a cardboard box. Tearing myself away from 'This Morning', I flicked the channel over to the BBC news where I ended up gawping at the half car, half jet, Jaguar C-X75 supercar, the surprise star of the Paris Motor Show, capable of reaching speeds of 205mph. So Jaguar claims anyway. Cars moving at 200mph is all well and good but personally I'd rather wait till 2015 when they'll be flying.
The news then went on to mourn the death of Tony Curtis, who died yesterday at the age of 85. This was to be expected really. After a life of alcohol, sex, drugs, and movie making you can't expect to live forever.
A noise from the hallway disturbed my televisual viewing as a small package dropped through the letterbox.
It turned out Ka had been browsing amazon on Monday and bought me a surprise present. Monday had been another one of those pesky bank holidays which everyone in the country seems to get, except from us in S&UN. There should be some kind of press holidays in the year for those unfortunate souls that work in the newspaper industry. Something to make up for the needless Bank Holidays that everyone else seems to get and end up giving everyone else that does work, more work for the rest of the week.
Anyway, the small package had dropped through the letterbox among a flutter of the usual promotional leaflets and bank statements.
"What's she been ordering now?", were my immediate thoughts, as I left the small package in the hall for Ka coming home. It turned out to be the Manic Street Preachers latest disc 'Postcards From a Young Man' especially for me. When I asked a reason for this surprise purchase, Ka simply said it was 'for being you'.
I'm not sure what that means. People don't usually give me presents for being me. In fact, this may be the first present I've ever received simply for being me, I usually need a better excuse like a birthday or the birth of Christ. It's certainly not often your wife buys you random, unexpected presents so you've got to lap those moments up when you can, no matter how bewildering they are.
My eyes narrowed after the inital surprise. I couldn't help wonder what she was up to? Why is she buttering me up? What's she after? Don't tell me she's wanting to go shopping, in search of a dress for Gillian's Wedding at the weekend? Does she want another foot massage? Better not tell her I'm referring to her as 'she' either...
The new Manics album is great. I missed out on last years 'Journal for Plague Lovers' so approached this album with some enthusiasm and was not disappointed. It's probably leaning towards the more rock/pop side of the Manic's repertoire rather than the downbeat melodic or screaming frustration sides. More 'This is My Truth...' than 'Holy Bible'. Saying that, it's by no means a sign of regression for them as a band and that's saying something considering this is their tenth studio album. Brilliant riffs, hummable tunes and some cracking lyrics, and I've only just started listening to it. Great for a drive in a supercar... or maybe just sitting in the house doing nothing in particular. As long as I'm not shopping for dresses, I'm happy.

Who needs an alarm clock?

Woken up by the Singing Postman again at 5.50am this morning. Flushing his loo, washing his hands with noisey, squealing taps and then banging and plodding around his flat. With the amount of shuffling and banging about he was making I thought he was perhaps going about his morning business with a blindfold on, maybe some Crystal Maze like mission set by his new girlfriend. Standing over the bathroom sink, flinching under the shaving blade with his blindfold on as his girlfriend frantically directs from the doorway. Stumbling through the living room, banging into his couch, chairs or his treasured karaoke machine, making his way to the kitchen where his morning coffee sits waiting on a worktop, his girlfriend directing from behind.
Ah, the girlfriend, now does she exist? A question that has confounded Ka and myself for at least a few weeks now. Something's certainly quietened him down in the past few months, yet we still hear him talking up in his flat. We can never make out what he's saying, of course, his voice muffled and dulled down through his floorboards making him sound like an adult from the Charlie Brown cartoons. We've never seen or heard anyone else entering or leaving his flat though, and surely he can't be on a phonecall for that long? All very mysterious. Perhaps he's just sitting talking to himself? Nothing wrong with that. Everyone talks to themselves occasionally. Nothing beats giving yourself a good talking to. I don't do it so much now that I have a wife... what were we talking about again?
Anyway, hopefully Ka and myself won't be bothering, or being bothered, by upstairs neighbours for much longer as our plans for moving somewhere bigger move up a gear. We had a jolly 'Home Report' man round yesterday, walking round, knocking on walls, opening and closing doors, flushing the toilet, measuring walls and slurping coffee. Presumably all things which have to be done to assess the value of your home. I'm not sure why he had to slurp the coffee mind you. Maybe he was testing the water quality in his caffeine or something... who knows. All well worth it's £300, I'm sure...

A flat full of women

"Is it not about time you had y'er flat invaded by that bunch of women again?" DVD Andy asked me this over lunch yesterday and I groaned inwardly. He'd been looking in his crystal ball again. Most men would be excited by the prospect of a flat full of women.
Ka's friends from work were all coming round for dinner last night and by the time I got home they'd all be in full swing, talking to each other, over one another and probably around one another. Not really the best thing to greet you after coming home from a twelve hour shift but I suppose I shouldn't be so miserable. Ka has to have her life too and it certainly doesn't stop when I go to work.
The only member of the group that seemed to look in my direction upon entering my living room was Claire's wee one, Olivia, from behind her Mum's legs to which she'd retreated after I managed to frighten the living daylights out of her in the hallway.
As I had shut the front door behind me I'd heard Ka asking the youngster "who was at the door?". Who could it be, was it Michael and telling Olivia to help her go and see (at least I presumed it was Olivia and not one of her pals being overly curious). So as Ka entered the hallway with wee Olivia, I playfully gave them a big "boo!". The tot nearly collapsed in fright, all wide eyes and quivering mouth. Fortunately for me she stopped herself from bursting into tears as Ka was there to ease the sheer terror of seeing me.
Children, and babies in general, never seem to like me anyway and I've now grown accustomed to it. They either spontaneously burst into tears upon seeing me or regard me with deep suspicion in their eyes, hiding behind the leg of a passing adult - an adult with a prosthetic leg would be particularly helpful as the child could then freely move around the room, though the one legged adult would presumably have some difficulty getting back up off the floor.
Joshua, the latest addition to the Leckie family, for instance, starts crying as soon as I pick him up. He has probably spent the past hour or so happy, smiling, laughing and gurgling away pleasantly to himself but as soon as Uncle Michael picks him up for a chat he suddenly gets very uncomfortable, looking around wildly for help (or maybe a leg?) and eventually objects rather loudly.
Still, at least Olivia noticed me. As I entered the living room the women barely looked up with a hello as they gabbed on. I'm only the man of the house afterall. Saying hello would interupt the conversational flow and the vastly important things they have to say to one another. Things probably too vast and important for me to even comprehend. The ability for these women to talk is incomprehensible in itself. A nuclear bomb could have went off in Long Calderwood outside. A cloud and blast of fire, wind and orange dust sweeping through our large living room window, powering through exploding cracks in the wall, as the room is showered in shards of glass, brick and mortar. I'd be clinging on to a metal fence, watching the city collapse around me, screaming as my flesh turned to dust. Yet they'd still be sitting, going on about transitions, mismanagement and how big 'wee Jake' is now.

The cupboard under the stairs

At approximately half past seven on Wednesday night our lights went out. The washing machine stopped. The shower switched off. The news reader blinked into blackness on the television screen. It was Scotland Today and as I was watching it in my usual engrossed state it took me at least a few moments to register there was no longer an image on my screen. It wasn't all bad then. Fortunately the cooker hobs being electric continued to cook but only till the hobs cooled. The food was just about cooked with only a mild chance of poisoning, thusly edible, so we were not going to starve.
Raking through our cupboards we brought out the artillery. These were to last the night. Four tealight candles, one long dusty candle from a previous flat owner (which burnt down rather quickly - Wee Willie Winky would have had no chance!) and one big fancy, thick candle complete with vanilla scent and twig decor. This was no ordinary candle, however, as it was an M&S candle. A tenner M&S voucher from a Wedding present well spent. A stinky candle, it's wax embedded with twigs. I don't know - women...
Anyway, immediate thoughts had it all down to another pesky power cut but on going out into the close and inspecting the neighbours front windows I realised it was no power cut. Only our flat was out. Denying the fact that we had been cut off I immediately phoned ScottishPower and politely enquired as to who had turned out all the lights.
The ScottishPower lady on the other end of the phone hummed, and then hawed and then asked if I had flicked any switches in any of the power boxes. The answer was, of course, no. A very deliberate no. Why would I do this, I thought? And if I had done, would the shrieks from the bathroom and the sudden lack of light not spur me to hurriedly reflick the said switch?
It was during this call that I realised I had no idea where our fuse box is. Every household has one. Every household owner knows where it is. Except me. As I frowned down the phone at the call centre lady, trying to fathom up an image of the flat's fuse box in my head, trying to think where it could be she then asked the question that really made me feel stupid.
"Your Dad should know where it is. Is your Dad home?".
Sighing and rolling my eyes, I again gave her a negative response. The reason I have no idea where the fuse box is, is not down to youth but only stupidity and ignorance. I must have a young voice over the phone. I wasn't aware of this. I did not know whether to be flattered or insulted. The call centre then helpfully informed us a maintenance man would be round between eight and eleven, sounded almost as exasperated as I was.
As it turned out the fuse box is situated in a cupboard under the stairs out in the close. This cupboard was locked by the council many years ago and the key seemingly swallowed by the lock fitter that did it. The ScottishPower maintenance man arrived at ten to eleven, realised he couldn't get in and left me with a number for the Council, whose services we would need to call on. The Council emergency hotline was decidedly cool as we got a bloke, audibly shrugging. He did, however, send a joiner out to help us open the door. It just so happened that this joiner arrived as the Scottish Power man was leaving our street to go on to his next call so our little problem was swiftly sorted out by the Council joiner breaking the door open with a crowbar. Disappointingly there were no zombie like people under the stairs, cellars of gold or little boy wizards hiding out from ugly relatives. Only a large fuse box. So the Scottish Power maintenance man pulled on his giant rubber gloves and our power was back on by five to midnight.
Before this, whilst we were still in darkness, my Dad had phoned up asking how we were doing. He tried to help over the phone whilst watching the footie in his power lit house. He then asked if we had enough candles. We had blown out the M&S candle considering it too good to waste, (I think I was getting high on the vanilla goodness) so I told him we had four tealight candles to last the night. He seemed to pause, took a moment and then repeated.
"Fork handles? For-k handles?"
Yes, Dad. The old ones are the best.