Strawberries, T and Snow Patrol sleepiness

Last Wednesday, a week ago tonight, on July 4th, Ka and myself celebrated our third year Wedding anniversary. We didn’t celebrate with anything particularly special. A Chinese carry out from the Jasmine Inn and the exchange of a couple of small presents followed by a couple of bowl of strawberries.
For some reason we both went out and bought each other strawberries to celebrate. I’m not sure what the relevance of strawberries was, and even why we both intuitively thought they would make a great surprise present on a Wedding anniversary? Perhaps it was the Wimbledon influence?
A David Guetta album too. Ka liked the ‘Titanium’ single so I got her the French DJ and producer’s album.
Or David Ghetto as Ka calls him.
He was just one of the acts we missed at the weekend.
We had tickets to T in the Park this year but decided against it after Ka got pregnant. Now that she’s getting a little bigger, a little more uncomfortable and a lot more intolerant to the idea of camping, we thought best of it, but did manage to sell the tickets on to a couple of guys in Andy’s football team. Looking at the news reports and pictures from the festival over the weekend I am now very glad we made that decision. It would have been a nightmare putting up with Ka in those rivers of brown. Colin and Jillian were there and posting on facebook, mud up to their shins. Colin text me on Friday night, raving about how wonderful Florence and the Machine were but no matter how much he may want to go on about it I’d rather wait and see Florence in the SECC at a semi ludicrous price than in the mud of Balado.
I have wanted to see Florence for a long time though and I suppose I was secretly jealous. In fact, I’m not sure Pauline’s ever forgiven me for calling her a b*tch, at Christmas time, when she revealed she’d bought herself and a pal some tickets to see Florence and her band at the SECC when they played back in March.

No, instead of Balado, Ka and myself watched from the comfort of the couch on Friday night, occasionally getting up to dance when the mood took us, jumping about like loons to Olly Murs. He did ask us to dance with him so who were we to refuse?
Afterwards Snow Patrol took to the stage and so we swiftly fell asleep.
Nothing against Snow Patrol. I quite like Snow Patrol.
They do make you awfully sleepy though. Unless you’ve got a lighter, at least then you’d have something to do to keep you awake, keep your attention focused... but even that could be dangerous. You may inadvertently end up setting yourself on fire by falling asleep in mid lighter sway. The alcohol fuelled mud underfoot at T in the Park wouldn’t do you any favours either. A burning Snow Patrol fan stumbling through the mud, ablaze, screaming, confusing others into thinking they’d accidentally taken a wrong turn and dropped by the Wickerman festival. The screaming Snow Patrol fan being commended by passers by for his Edward Woodward tribute.
Anyway, on Saturday night we went out to dinner to Viva Pizzeria Ristorante, on Bothwell Street where we enjoyed a slap up meal involving meatballs, veal ravioli and chicken, washed down with a healthy glass of wine, or soda water and lime, in Ka’s case. Afterwards we walked up West Campbell Street, up on to Sauchiehall Street heading to the flicks to see Jason Segal and Emily Blunt in ‘The Five Year Engagement’, a film that’s been advertised and reviewed as a very strange, odd, occurrence. A half decent romcom.
Unfortunately, as we stood in the queue, a flash of red on screen alerted us to the fact that it was sold out so we ended up donning the 3D glasses again for the new Spiderman movie starring Britain’s very own Andrew Garfield.
Even though it’s barely been five years since the end of the last trilogy with timid Toby McGuire, it seemed a little strange for a new trilogy to start all over again and for that reason I wasn’t that fussed about seeing it. Even so, the new movie was surprisingly enjoyable with Garfield suitably impressing as the geeky, awkward Peter Parker with the spider bug and Rhys Ifans as the villain of the piece, a villain with heart and reason. There’s only one scene in particular towards the end which lets the film down a little, veering into American cheese, but, on the whole, a pretty good piece of escapism with a great moment involving Stan Lee in headphones.
Earlier that day, on the Saturday morning, Ka and myself took a trip along Calderwood to see a house. A house that’s been sitting on the market since the turn of the year.
The rain was peeing down and we arrived in the slightly crowded street early, barely able to see the property’s front door through the pellets of rain bouncing off the windscreen. Getting soaked in the short run to the front door we were greeted by one of the sisters leading the efforts to sell her parents’ home. My Aunt Anne knew the family and had been insisting that we go and view the property from as far back as February and we were only now getting round to it. With baby number two growing well, we thought we’d better start making a move, literally.
The short trip was worth it.
We liked it. It was a blank canvas and I like a blank canvas.
I like a blank canvas because it’s there for the taking. It’s empty and waiting for you to begin to create something wonderful with.
Ka likes a blank canvas because it is clean.
Plain and simple.
Clean, pristine and white. Perfect for the taking.
As soon as I got into work on Monday morning, whilst everyone mourned Andy Murray’s loss, I made sure I made a quick phonecall to the sellers’ solicitors and requested the Home Report.
By Tuesday morning, we’d made an offer.
Fingers crossed we may have a result by this time tomorrow.

On the bill

Last weekend I was a ladybird for the night. Ka and myself were picked up by Vicki, taxi driven by her dad, and transported into town for a work’s night out. The Ladybird room were going to the Stand Comedy Club after a bite to eat in the newly refurbished Strata cocktail bar and restaurant in Glasgow’s Queen Street. Vicki’s Dad, a friendly liverpudlian with a rather nice convertible Astra of some sort, dropped us off in sunny George Square where we met Gillian who had been hanging around street corners for around half an hour, waiting on us turning up. From there we walked down Queen Street, through the shoppers heading for their trains, buses or cars home and headed towards number 45, past what used to be the Rock Garden bar, the fat face shop and the weird shop with all the gothic necklaces, beads, pipes and bongs in the window.
The last time Ka and myself had passed the Strata bar it had been all shut up, the windows all coated with a messy layer of whitewash. At the time I’d assumed that it had fallen as another victim of this all consuming recession so I was rather surprised to hear that Strata was to be the Ladybird room’s meeting place to kick start the night.

I swung the door open for the three ladies, feeling a little uncomfortable in Amy’s place. Amy, one of the current Ladybirds, had been unable to attend, so Ka and Vicki immediately thought of me to take her place. A kind act of charity considering I’d been moaning at Ka for the past few weeks after discovering the Ladybirds’ plans to visit Glasgow’s West End Comedy Club. I’d been annoying Ka for years to go along with me and check the place out one night and due to reasons unknown, especially to myself, I’d never got around to it. It was even mooted as a possible location for a birthday night out, but again, that never happened (violins please!). So, hearing my woes Vicki agreed with Ka that it would be a good idea to allow myself to accompany them in Amy’s place.
A husband at the work night out.
Not every man’s idea for a night out but it wasn’t so bad as I wasn’t to be the only bloke. We were meeting David, the Ladybird room’s teacher, who had just finished for his summer break the week before and had been, as it turned out, on the sauce since his last day on the Wednesday. In fact, as Vicki, Gillian and Ka led myself upstairs to the tabled area in the lively, rather swanky, new look Strata, we found David sitting back, behind a table, smiling contentedly as he sipped from a colourful daiquiri, his first tipple following the night before.
So the girls started with a cocktail, Ka going non alcoholic, of course, and I settled with a pint whilst we ordered up our meals. The gathered workers started gabbing about work, which I happily found myself fully capable of following many insightful conversations at home with the Mrs. As surprising as it may seem to Ka, I do actually pay attention to the many wonderful, varied tales and goings on produced by the Early Learning Unit. Conversations then went on to David’s night outs since finishing for the summer, his latest puke, the dropping of his iPod from a second floor window, the John Barrowman gig of the previous week attended by Ka and myself and the one song of Tori Amos’ that we all actually remember (Cornflake Girl). A spectacularly cheap bill was then paid, just after David revealed that his choice of Strata for the night was no spur of the moment decision. All meals were half price for the month. This was the first time I’d met David properly and I liked the way he was thinking. Vicki I’d met on various, previous occasions, mostly when I’d been picking Ka up from nights out and Gillian I’d met before but hadn’t really got to know until sitting at dinner with her that night in Strata.
As time was getting on, and David and Vicki fretted about not wanting to end up in the front rows in the Stand, we decided to make a move and after gulping down another pint I followed the Ladybird’s downstairs and back out into the sunny, dry evening to grab a black cab bound for Woodlands Road.
As the cab pulled up David, and some of the others, panicked. A massive queue had already formed, snaking from the small, cellar like entrance of the comedy club. We may have lost our chance for a quiet, secluded, seated position at the back of the room, out of sight from the comedians and out of harms way. We followed the steadily moving queue through the small playground of the old secondary school, down the steps and into the cellar where we were greeted by a colourful, cosy atmosphere surrounded by posters advertising all kinds of crazy acts and comedians, some recognisable, some promising and others just plain bonkers. We already had our tickets sorted so simply handed them over and made our way through the double doors to the main room.
A large open bar filled the left corner of the dimly lit room, whilst the stage stood to the right, a small, raised platform around the centre of the wall upon which a single microphone stood tall, waiting. Facing chairs surrounded the small stage with a multitude of small, round, candlelit tables, most of which were still empty, surprisingly enough, considering the amount of people that had been moving through the entrance doors before us.
The girls picked our seats around a small table at the back of the crowd of tightly packed tables. A safe table, plenty of distance between us and the front of the audience, so we were not slagged off by whomever was to take the stage. Another plus point, the others pointed out, was that this table was also near the toilets. Unsure why this was relevant I was beginning to wonder who I was out with, the Ladybirds or the Old dears?
During the first hour the kitty was made and more drinks were ordered as the ticket holders piled in through the doors behind us, the latecomers struggling for seats. Some of the latecomers consisted of women, dressed for their night out, but obviously also late for their night out. These women hung around suggestively, giving lots of huffs, puffs and vocal complaints about the lack of seats whenever I happened to turn around. Eventually I ended up receiving many an evil look as it slowly sunk in that I wasn’t giving my seat up for anyone, no matter how glamorous they considered themselves or how often they flicked their hair or fiddled with their bra straps.
Eventually the excitable, but not unfunny, compere hit the stage, almost immediately picking out faces from the front rows, only gently slagging them off, and obviously sussing out who was with who for the comedians that were to follow. An entertaining Scots guy was first up, followed by a weird Irish guy that based his routine on Bible stories, a second irish guy was next, and the funniest of the night, followed by a Canadian.
You’d think that as the night went on, and the more drinks that were consumed, the laughs would get louder. The fourth act proved this wrong. Unfortunately myself and the gathered crowd had either drank too much and missed the Canadian’s funny points or just got bored. You’ll notice, of course, that I cannot now remember any of the featured comedians names which could well contribute to the theory of ‘I just drank too much’ and after another few rounds in Oran Mor’s brasserie bar and a slow, oddly stomach churning taxi journey home, I fulfilled that theory with the wrong end of my body down my bathroom’s toilet seat.
Personally I blame Strata’s cut price food myself.

Typical Scottish weather

Last Friday night, at around half past ten, in near darkness, Ka, Chris and myself jogged over the sports field in John Wrights Sports Centre. A crowd had gathered on the further side of the field at the foot of the hill which led up from the western side of the running track. A lone piper stood at the top of the hill, a silhouette against the navy blues of clouds cloaking the sky behind him as the last of the daylight faded.
We were back from Glasgow, just in time, for the Candle of Hope Ceremony, the quiet ceremonious part of the annual Relay For Life, organised for Cancer Research. Every year teams pitch their tents in the running ground of the local sports centre late on the Friday afternoon and, from seven o’clock, take part in a 24 hour walk, team members all taking turns to walk laps around the 4km running track through the entirety of the following hours, whilst various events carry on around them, keeping both team members and visitors entertained. This year was slightly different however, as the heavy rain and winds done it’s best to ruin the event.
On our way back home from Glasgow in the back of a hackney cab the rain had seemed to peter out and stop just in time for the candlelit service at 10.30pm. The candlelit event is the opportunity to remember lost relatives and friends whether through cancer or not. Candlebags are sold in aid of Cancer Research and Claire, who was taking part in the 24 hour event, alongside her family, had already taken our candle bags off us after we’d decorated them with our own little lost loved one. A picture of Lucy sat in the middle of the track before us. The gentle, flickering candlelight from within her bag, shone a pale golden light through her photograph and helped it stand bright alongside all the other candles lining the running path. Other bags were decorated with photographs, words, poems and drawings, all messages from loved ones to loved ones.
Candlebags were also placed on the slope of the hill, running up to the piper. The bags on the hill all lit in the darkness, their placement spelling out one single word. Hope.

Silence fell over the gathered crowd and the piper started to play, looking out over us from the top of the hill, his music echoing around the sports field in the silence. After a few minutes he began edging his way over the brow of the hill, his music fading, and, from somewhere close by, a girl’s voice started singing ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’. The girl’s voice was clear and haunting in the stillness, quickly drowning out the vestiges of the piper’s echoes from over the hill.
It was an emotional moment. Always ruined by someone making odd noises in their grief, snorting unpleasantly, or blowing their nose loudly in the quietness.
That was me. Seeing Lucy’s little picture and just hearing that lady’s voice singing that song brought it all back again, as it does from time to time.
Of course, there were others but my bubbling just seemed louder than anybody else at the time and made me feel like an over emotional idiot afterwards. I apologised to Ka and quickly wiped away the few tears looking up at the ‘hope’ on the hill.
I blamed the drink.
I wasn’t drunk, upon leaving Glasgow, but I had been merry.
The reason we were not able to turn up until half past ten was because we had had another prior engagement. An engagement with a certain John Barrowman.
Yes, I was once more forced along to another John Barrowman concert, this time on Glasgow Green. Colin and Jillian had bought Ka the Barrowman ticket as a birthday present and as my birthday falls three days after it, they thought it’d be a great idea to gift me with the same. I half jokingly moaned and complained for a good while afterwards but did consider it rude to refuse the gift.
Jillian’s Mum, Jean and Chris ended up being late additions to the gig getting themselves tickets, bought on the cheap after Jillian received a Groupon email. They somehow managed to pay only £15 for their tickets whilst the price on the rest of our tickets had been the princely sum of 50.
Unfortunately it had been raining near constantly for the past two days and the man himself had been on Breakfast telly the day before claiming he’d be there and be singing regardless of the Scottish weather but it didn’t stop me frequently going online, throughout the course of Friday afternoon, in the hope, sorry, to check, if Barrowman had cancelled the gig.
It wasn’t to be.
In fact, the sun came out a few times overhead and the rain stayed away for the majority of the show as we sat on the folding chairs of Glasgow Green, alongside the Peoples Palace (an ideal location for a marriage according to Jean), People hung out of windows from the surrounding tower blocks and modern flats of Greendyke Street as John sang his way through his set, taking to the stage with his sparkly lapels, shiny suit and big grin, talking to the occasional granny or mad screaming woman from the audience, whilst half the Barrowman clan watched from the front row alongside Chris and Jean. You can say a lot of things about Barrowman but he never ceases to entertain and alongside his hand jiving trumpet players and swaying guitarists.
Since having the slap up meal beforehand in Elia, George Square’s Greek Restaurant which Colin and Jillian had been highly recommending for the past two years or so, we’d had a couple of beers and I’d decided to make the best of it. Once it was clear the rain was going to hold off for a time and there was sufficient beer at the gig to keep us happy everything seemed fine. The girls got T-shirts whilst Colin and myself stocked up at the beer van, buying two drinks at a time to save the queuing.
The rain did start to fall towards the end of the show signalling home time for everyone and after a quick visit to the portaloos, during which we managed to scare the living daylights out of Ka we headed out for the taxi to take us back home to EK.
Half an hour later, Chris, Ka and myself joined Claire and her family on the sports ground and after the candle of Hope ceremony enjoyed a beer around the campfire as the hour approached midnight. Just after Ka and myself had retreated home for the night, the rain started the pour, the wind started to blow and the gazebos started to disconnect from their guy ropes and tent pegs. The determined, probably miserable, charity fund raisers were determined to carry on though and as early daylight approached Claire and cousin Scott were happily bopping away in the silent disco tent.
Unfortunately, at around 5.30 in the morning the organisers were forced to call it a day after Claire had spotted the Haunted House tent flying around the track towards her.
A great shame for all those involved, not only for the event but the fact I’d wanted a go in that Haunted House tent.

A long train journey and the benefits of chainmail

During the first fifteen minutes of our East Coast six hour journey down to Birmingham New Street on Saturday morning a couple of young Irish dancers, who were sitting in the seats across the carriage’s aisle from us, chatted, argued and passed crisps and juices back and forth to their Mum and their Gran who were sitting in the two seats ahead of Ka and myself. A large group of girls all sat further down the carriage decorated in various birthday attire, one girl draped in a 30th banner, squawking, laughing and howling.
“There’s no way she’s 30!” Ka scoffed under her breath, as the birthday gaggle started, Ka drinking her coffee that had been hastily purchased on the way for our soon to be departing train in Glasgow Central from a girl that asked us how to make a Mocha.
After having looked forward to a quiet journey down to Brum it looked like those chances were dashed as the tinny tunes of JLS started ringing out from one of the girls phones. It had taken four hours to go down to London in a Virgin train at the end of March with Adventure Ted but if the chatter between the family members around us along with the shrill, tinny versions of JLS songs emanating from the girls’ phones was going to last all the way down to Brum this was going to be one long journey.
As it turned out the journey wasn’t too bad. As the journey progressed Ka ascertained, with her uncanny knack or earywigging, that the family were on their way down to Newcastle for an Irish dancing competition. A girl lying over the two seats in front of the two kids, whilst comparing phones and exchanging dial tones, told the Irish dancing girls of her trip down south to see her husband who was currently spending time in Durham. When the kids got a little more wrapped up in their iPhones the girl started chatting with the Mum and Gran revealing that her husband was in fact presently residing in Durham at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He ‘had been naughty’ apparently. Whether ‘naughty’ means murder or drug dealing I’m not sure, unsurprisingly she didn’t go into that much detail.
A loud unpleasant, liquid like cough started gurgling out from the seats behind us after Edinburgh as the train coasted along on it’s journey. As we travelled over and through the fields of the East Coast on our way down to Berwick the bright sunshine glittered over the sea on the horizon, a sign of the great weather to follow on our week off. Just as we were about to start eating our lunch, a picnic, prepared earlier by the ever organised Ka, the gurgling cough was almost spat out from it’s corner of the carriage.
At one point one of the happy girls from the all female birthday party stopped to chat to the source of the gurgling throat which made the irish dancers suddenly suspect the cougher of being famous. The cougher was an elderly, tall man with an enormous grey beard, sitting quietly, observing. A lot like Gandalf, except with more of the catarrh problem. The irish dancers inquisition continued and they asked him if he was a singer. Not with that throat, I thought. Although I’m sure he could have had a go on X factor, belting out the old classic “While my catarrh gently weeps”.
Another guy then started harping on about independence to the Grannie and the Mum in front of us, ranting about what the British Government don’t want us to know and how independence will be a bed of roses. This rant as he travelled down to York for work.
Upon arrival in mid afternoon we met Colin and Heather outside the Upper Crust in Birmingham New Street Station and headed up the escalators into the darkness of the Pallasades Shopping centre.
When I left Birmingham, back in 2004, New Street station and the surrounding Pallasades shopping centre was being renovated and modernised.
Not much has changed. Unfortunately the place is still a state. Lighting and wires hang down from the dark tileless ceiling over the drab surrounding shops and cracked old floor tiles. We walked out into the light, just off New Street itself, to an old pop tune crackling out over an ancient tannoy system, which, Colin informed us, usually played Rolf Harris, and then made our way down Stephenson Street. A lot of the work in progress that had been going on when I left approximately eight years before, was now hidden by wall boards, each with their own wonderful, colourful illustration depicting what the station will look like in some far and distant future, perhaps when we’ll have hover trains and flying cars.
Other areas have shown some signs of improvement though. The Bullring Shopping Centre is now at least twice the size it was since I had last milled around the end of New Street. What was a temporary ramp made of cardboard and wood which stretched from the end of New Street down through the old St. Martin’s Square to the large indoor market and Upper Dean Street was now a large, open, curving, clean, town square surrounding the still standing St. Martin’s Church. Looking out from a viewpoint, high up on one of the balconied steps of the town square, at the foot of the statue of Lord Horatio Nelson, a good view of the south eastern side of Birmingham stretches out before you. The brown brick and spire of St. Martin’s Church looks a little ill at ease amongst the modern, pale tiles and brick of the new square unashamedly contrasting with the form of the weird, gleaming silver, bulbous architecture of Selfridges on it’s left.
Colin and Heather took us home to Yardley Wood where we had a good catch up over tea and chocolate cake before we freshened up and headed out once more to the Mailbox back in the city centre.
Another piece of Brum that was only really just kicking off when I left the Mailbox was a location I visited only once or twice. Considering it’s main attraction was a large Harvey Nichols store at the time I didn’t have much reason to go. The most expensive shop I could go to back in those days was Solihull Morrisons. Along with many designer shops and companies, including BBC Brimingham, the Mailbox now houses many restaurants and bars one of which, Bar Estilo, in which the four of us enjoyed some brilliant tapas and a bottle of red, annoying the waitress by ordering up seconds. We then went on to the lively bars outside on the canals of Gas Street, struggling to fit in to some of them through the crowds watching the Cup Final on the big screens. A little later we took a short walk up the canal eventually ending up in the Pitcher and Piano where we managed to get a seat (a very important factor when your on a night out and getting on a bit). There we settled for the majority of the night, enjoying cocktails, beers and southern comforts before heading out on to Broad Street to seek out a taxi, but only after meeting a friend of Heather’s from work who decided to take us on a wee mystery tour around the bar, apologise and leave us to get on our way again. He had been looking for their boss, I think, but neglected to mention the fact he was four hours late in meeting him.
Broad Street, the Sauchiehall Street of Brum, hadn’t changed a bit. Still full of hen nights, folk in whacky outfits and rows of police cars waiting for trouble. Just before midnight in the taxi home, Heather was interrupted by a call regarding work, and whilst the rest of us were hassling Heather to tell her colleague where to go she remained patient and polite as always trying to give reasonable, polite answers before a squeaky voice started emanating from somewhere. At first I thought Beaker, the Muppet, had popped up somewhere whilst Ka thought I was throwing my voice, presumably attempting to be the voice on the other end of heather’s phone. It turned out to be the taxi driver asking for directions. Directions which Colin gave and the driver ignored with another indecipherable squeak. After arriving back at the Main residence, and being charged double the fare we paid to go into town, we settled down for the night with a night cap, or two, not counting the large amaretto, which would be three. Which then turned into three in the morning.
Colin woke us up the next morning with a good dose of tea and rolls and sausage before we decided to head out to see some Hobbits in Sarehole, a place with an unfortunate name if said in a Scottish dialect.
The local park, The Shire Country Park, was holding a Middle Earth weekend in it’s Sarehole Mill, which I talked everyone into going along to, at least for a walk and to see some sights.
Sarehole Mill, along with Moseley Bog, were childhood hangouts for JRR Tolkien when he lived in Brum in the very late 19th century as a kid and provided the writer with his inspiration for Bilbo and Frodo’s home, Hobbiton.
Though I can’t recall seeing any blacked up Morris dancers in Lord of the Rings. We were met by this merry bunch of decorated dancers as we entered the park. Whilst the drums beat and the bells jangled, Colin, Heather, Ka and myself sauntered in and around the park among the milling crowd, in which a few folk wandered around in Wizard and Elf costumes along with one or two Hobbits. I was half expecting to hear a familiar catarrh shredded spluttering cough from somewhere.
A lot of the attending kids were dressed up in cloaks and hoods, awaiting the dragon parade at 2, running around whilst their parents chatted with neighbours. Tents were set up, some selling pottery, traditionally made food, wood works, crafts and jewellery. In one tent a lady was going over various attendees costumes in fine detail, asking one lady where she managed to produce her lovely elven cloak to which the lady replied the Bull Ring Indoor market. At one stall a man was selling and showing the benefits of wearing chainmail to a rather unconvinced audience. Other larger tents hosted face painting, stalls and stages for performances which, unfortunately, we did not manage to see. We had a train to catch.
So after another drive into Brum town centre and a ridiculous treat in a cake shop which successfully made the four of us feel ill for around an hour or so, we headed back through the Pallasades Shopping centre, Rolf Harris singing ‘Two Little Boys’ over the tannoy behind us, to get our train at 4. Thankfully there were no irish dancers, Gandalfs with throat infections or prisoner’s wives this time round although unfortunately there was a guy sitting across the aisle who liked to sit with his hand down the front of his shorts vigorously scratching himself. Unfortunately, again, I think we were halfway through our Sunday picnic dinner when Ka noticed this.

Kitchen sinks and room service

Last Saturday morning we enjoyed The Shaftesbury Premier London Paddington Hotel’s breakfast once more, the only difference being that we were sitting listening to Sally Morgan on the next table the whole time. The woman at the next couple was with another lady and her voice just seemed to ring through the dining area, the same accent and tones as Fulham born Sally Morgan, or ‘Psychic Sally’ supposedly Britain’s best loved psychic. The only difference was this woman was not pretending to be talking to dead people, only the taller, glammed up woman sitting next to her and she talked on and on about how she was content with her life, how she felt that she was quite happy without a man and how her cat had died.
“Did you not know Jeffar had died?” she asked of her friend, shocked. If she had been Sally Morgan she may not have moaned so much about her cat dying as she’d still be able to talk to him.
The breakfasts in the hotel were great though. Full English breakfasts, all laid out in big silver trays, buffet style. Sausages, eggs, hash browns, you name it. Along with the healthier options of course of fruit yoghurts, fruit juices, toast and croissants you were each given a whole pot of the caffeine preference of your choice. All fantastic. And for us still free, due to the ‘inconvenience’ of the hotel moving us.
The whole stay was pretty damn close to being the best hotel stay I’ve ever had anywhere. The only complaint I’d have would be the single glazed windows which enabled us to hear the constant drone of traffic from the busy street outside. Not that you noticed it so much after a while as you lay on the bed on top of all the quilt layers, pillows and cushions, watching all the television programmes you’d never usually watch at home, whilst drinking all the tea and coffee sitting alongside the kettle, eating all the biscuits, eating all the fruit you’d picked up from the buffet table at breakfast time, using as much toilet paper as you liked and nonchalantly throwing towels about on the bathroom floor when you were finished with them, knowing full well that everything would be back to it’s neat and tidy state by the time you got back in the evening.
Saturday afternoon was cloudier but still dry as Ka and myself made our way to the Ambassadors Theatre to see Stomp.
Stomp is a popular theatre production of dance, rhythm, noise, a little more rhythm and a lot more noise. The production is not a story but a variety of different scenes with the performers and set design all dressed giving the impression of the setting being in some sort of junkyard. The scenes all involve the participation of eight dancers who perform with no, or very little speech, using only the noises and tunes they make to create music using only various everyday objects such as bins, tubes, tins, newspapers and even kitchen sinks. Such scenes involved the clacking of a wooden brush against the ground, for example, the thumping of a trash can, the banging of a giant rubber ring or the emptying of a kitchen sink full of water, (which is not particularly good if you’re now suffering the after effects of a couple of pints).
It was a great show, admittedly not one I would have rushed to see before, but Ka had always wanted to see it, probably because it was all based around people brushing up, using dustbins and tidying rubbish away whilst making as much noise as possible. If you were to sit and close your eyes whilst in the theatre it almost reminded me to waking up on a normal morning in Kenilworth listening to Ka rattling about the kitchen. Or those moments on the couch when you’re trying to watch an episode of Spooks and Ka decides it’s a great time to clean the kitchen cupboards out.
Before hand we’d went for an afternoon tipple in The Marquis of Granby, just across the road from the big, old Palace Theatre, currently adorned in colourful, open umbrellas for the running production of Singin’ in the Rain. A cackle of older ladies sat at the window table to the side of us, all downing the wine and gabbling like geese, prime suspects for the Singin’ in the Rain show. A couple in the other corner rowed quietly. Arguing over the menu with fierce eyes and the odd comment muttered through gritted teeth.
We had had to seek out the theatre early and managed to get lost in the West End streets in the effort, after Adventure Ted made another brief appearance in Trafalger Square under Nelson, we got momentarily sidetracked in Charing Cross Station and we spotted more Faberge Easter eggs.
We eventually found the small theatre on the corner of a block in the middle of West Street just across from the Club of the Ivy, which we recognised as the restaurant that week’s winners of The Apprentice had just dined in a couple of nights before. After finding the theatre we wandered off for a stroll and got lost once more and ended up milling around the town looking for somewhere to get an afternoon drink when we eventually found the Marquis of Granby. As I ordered our drink I asked the barmaid if she had any idea where the Ambassadors Theatre was.
“Go out there and turn left” she frowned slightly at me over the taps. I quickly went back out into the narrow street outside and looked down to see the familiar white fronted theatre not sixty meters away. That was handy, I thought, considering our circular route around the West End.
If you don’t know the West End well it would be easy to get lost in, going round in circles, through the streets filled with their shops, boutiques, small galleries, coffee shops, theatres and pubs.
After the show, and a quick walk around Covent Garden, at which we seen the largest paella known to man, an abundance of silk scarves and some artwork by Bob Dylan and Billy Connelly, we enjoyed a meal in Spaghetti House, served by Sacha Baron Cohen. The tall, dark waiter with the large eyes and high forehead serving our meals grinned from ear to ear at Ka all the while gesticulating with his hands whilst shouting in his thick, almost exaggerated Italian pronunciation. He looked very much like Baron Cohen in yet another cartoon like extremist character. Ka and myself had to have a quick look around for other actors and hidden cameras but seen only the other far more stressed looking staff members, all running around the restaurant floor in the Saturday night rush all putting on the same, overly pleasant but less enthusiastic or actorly performances on for their own tables.
The next day we were back at Euston, jumping on the train back to Glasgow Central, our weekend trip coming to an end but with a whole other week off lying ahead. Unfortunately there’d be no more Shaftesbury breakfasts or room service but as I awoke on Monday morning to the sound of Ka in the kitchen and a glass of orange juice on the bedside table waiting for me I thought, there’s no place like home.

Going Underground with Adventure Ted

5 minutes to midday late on a Thursday morning and I’m standing at the bar ordering a pint. Possibly the earliest pint for a long while.
Ka and myself were in the Arrol Bar in Glasgow Central awaiting our train, due to leave at 12.40. It was the start of our holiday weekend in London so we thought we’d while away the half hour awaiting the arrival of our Virgin train with a pint and a glass of wine. Adventure Ted came out of the handbag for a tipple too. She came out for a sip of Ka’s wine as we sat in the pub’s front window watching the early afternoon world go by.
Yep, I did say ‘she’ as Adventure Ted is a girl. Her usual abode is, of course, the ELU Nursery, Ka’s work, but as one of the current projects for the kids involves London, the Queen and all things Jubilee, Adventure Ted thought she’d make the trip to London with us, her weekend goal to get her picture taken outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.
We perched Adventure Ted on the stool at the side of the table, moving Ka’s glass of wine to within her grasp, and snapped a photo of her with the phone, texting it to Vicki, who was hard at work back in dreary old Hamilton in the Early Learning Unit. There were a few fellow early drinkers in the bar around us but none seemed to even bat an eyelid at the appearance of a medium sized teddy in an all in one red polka dot outfit and sunhat perched, smiling on the barstool close by. Then again, perhaps the appearance of a bear in polka dots drinking at the next table is not a particularly strange sight for some of the folks that drink around midday in the middle of town.

As the announcement was made over the Central Station tannoy, we made out way out and up to Platform 1 where Adventure Ted obediently posed with our luggage, sitting before another of Richard Branson’s wonderful machines, one of the 390 Pendolino’s, which would deliver us successfully, in around 4 and a half hours, to our destination of the country’s capital.
Once we arrived in London Euston it was around half 4 and by the time we got down into the Underground to make our way to our hotel in Notting Hill it was the height of rush hour as we shuffled our way through the London crowds with our two cases.
Tuts, sighs, conversations, murmurings, all in various different languages, circled us as we made our way through the claustrophobic tunnels and trains of the London Underground, all with their own fantastic fashions, faces and furrowed brows. Singing and guitars echoed along a few of the more acoustic tunnels with the occasional announcements from the tannoys overhead as escalators struggled to ascend to the various different warm station levels carrying the massive crowds piled on top.
It always takes a few wee trips to get back into the London Underground mode when you visit the capital but nothing much has changed.
Spinning adverts and movie trailers on digital screens have now replaced some of the Underground’s escalator posters which follow your ascending or descending to the next level which I thought was quite a cool change though a pretty pricey one, I would have thought.
Never mind the aged track and train replacement, let’s get some 50 odd flashy digital display screens installed on this one escalator.
That can’t be very cost effective surely?
Anyway, after finally arriving at the Shaftesbury Premier Notting Hill Hotel we were helped up into the reception with our cases by a concierge and greeted by a friendly receptionist who got us to fill out our accommodation form and then informed us that we could not stay.
Ka and myself had been ready for a spanner in the works. We had been gearing up for it. Something had to go wrong.
Apparently there was a problem with the air conditioning in our room and, as a result, we would have to be moved to a sister hotel. The receptionist swiftly called a taxi.
A large merc soon pulled up and swept us along to the Shaftesbury Premier Paddingstion Hotel and after a short ten minute drive, in which we seen a biker get his moped trashed after braking too heavily at a corner infront of a car following it from the rear, we were dropped off in the middle of the far busier Westbourne Terrace, five minutes walk from the Paddington Underground station and it’s surrounding shops and restaurants.
The room, and hotel in general, was very nice and we had been promoted to a higher bedroom and would now be welcomed to breakfast on the three mornings of our stay, for our inconvenience.
After quickly unpacking and getting ourselves settled, we hit the streets of Paddington for dinner, ending our walk in the Villa Rosa restaurant on Craven Road, greeted by a pair of stinking armpits and salads with no lettuce. The cannelloni was good though. Ka, however, was put off by the mince being a suspicious grey colour. In retrospect, perhaps not one of our best choices of restaurants.
After our wonderfully average meal we jumped on the tube and headed into town, aiming for Covent Garden. Unfortunately I mistook the Victoria line for the Piccadilly line and we ended up disembarking at Oxford Circus surrounded by shoppers heading home. Moving onwards we ended up in Carnaby Street eventually finding a small bar and a couple of seats for an after dinner beverage.
Another short walk later, we ended up in the bustling Piccadilly Circus where we were to return on our first stop the next morning on our trip to the Royal Academy where we would meet Ann in the sunshine filled courtyard, see some David Hockney, whilst battling pensioners, go out on a tourist quest to see as many sights as possible with Adventure Ted, annoy many a policeman, watch battling ducks, argue over whether it was a pelican or a stork, stand in red telephone boxes and come across more than a few Easter eggs on our way.

Good day sunshine

The sky is a brilliant blue over East Kilbride today. Who would have thought that driving around the streets of EK on my first week off could be so wonderful?
With the job still up in the air, Friday was my last shift for two weeks. I’ll have to pop by the office at some point during the next two weeks to attend an interview, but I’m free from the office during all the time in between so I finished my shift on Friday with a spring in my step.
Not only that but Ka was going out on the Saturday to her pal, Louisa’s, 30th birthday night out so I was free to do what I liked.
Watch what I liked. Eat what I liked. Drink what I liked. Go where I liked.
Until I remembered it was Mum’s birthday and something had been said about dinner on the Saturday night. So I gave up my chance at the remote control (it’s overrated anyway) and went out for dinner with Mum, Dad and sis, Lynsey Ann, to the local Steak house where we enjoyed a slap up meal and a few glasses of house red. Afterwards we enjoyed a few drinks in the lively Monty across the road where we took what looked like the last empty table, which just happened to be situated next to a table occupied by Mum and Dad’s old neighbours, from their first flat in the Greenhills, who were out with their daughter. Apparently I used to go to playgroup or nursery with their son. Memories obviously long fizzled out by alcohol abuse or age, or both. I did recognise a few faces as I sat in the bar though. Faces from school, long forgotten about, mostly deliberately.
All this while Ka was out on the town for Louisa’s cocktail filled birthday for which they’d managed to book themselves a booth in Mansion House and a couple of nice rooms in a central hotel by the name of the Alexander Thomson Hotel. There was a little uncertainty regarding the location after suspicions were aroused when some local ladies of the night were spotted in and around the hotel’s vicinity, perhaps attempting some arousing of their own. Not the kind of neighbours you wanted staying in the hotel room next to you.
I clambered out from my taxi, happy with red wine, and downed a cup of tea at around one in the morning with a slice of toast not forgetting to put the clocks forward by an hour and thus eventually begin the British summertime.

Since then it’s been blue skies all the way. Temperatures of 22 and 23 degrees. The green emerging slowly from the trees. The tops and t-shirts starting to get taken off at the first sight of the sun. Bikinis making appearances on the pavements again. The slamming on of the brakes as you turn to realise the driver infront has actually stopped.
With the car heater on ‘cold’ and the electric windows fully down to let some air circulate, it’s almost like driving around in a foreign country. The streets feel different.
Sitting in the flat with the windows open I can actually hear footsteps in the street outside.
Not rain. Not wind. Footsteps.
Neighbours walking by. The occasional conversation echoing up as they pass, their voices seeming to travel further in the warm, quiet street. Blue skies must be good for echoes too.
Bikes cycle past, their tyres whirring and ticking. The cars going up and down the road seem louder as if they’ve all souped-up their exhausts with those ridiculously stupid sized versions you see on cars roaring by with before breaking at the lights along with everyone else.
The kids are slowly emerging from the surrounding houses, out playing for the first time in months, like animals coming out of hibernation. Shouts and yelps echo around the street as they once more start to hang out, kicking balls about and hanging around the large hill of uncut grass directly opposite us which stands alongside the ruins of the old college that was demolished to make way for flats at least three years ago (needless to say the flats never turned up). This long grassed hill is particularly popular for sledging down. Not when there’s snow about though, no, that would just be silly. When the sun’s out and they slide down the grass on their hind ends, straight into the large, mangled, rusty old fence which stands at the grassy slope’s end. Hours of entertainment. Their Mum’s must have a great time with the Vanish.
The daffodils are out in force too. The front garden of our block as an abundance of green and yellow climbing up out of the usually weed filled soil.
Where did they all come from? Who planted them? It wasn’t me. Daffodils just jump up out of nowhere when spring comes around. Those pesky phantom daffodil planters must have been round again.
I’m sure the grey clouds will roll back in at some point though, casting doom and gloom over the days to come. I’d better just enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.

A Dings birthday

We had another family gathering at the McGarva household to celebrate Ka’s big sister’s birthday. Angela celebrated another birthday an evening early last Friday night with Grace, Dougie, Jillian, Colin, Kelly Ann and myself along with Steven, Morgan and Joshua.
Even though it’s not her birthday Ka was given a present too. Colin gifted Ka with a book called ‘Hollow Earth’ written, and signed by, none other than John Barrowman (and his sister). Colin and Jillian had made the trip to Waterstones in Glasgow one Monday, not too long ago, to meet the man himself. Photographic evidence on facebook shows Jillian leaning over the desk before the television and theatre star, grinning up at Colin’s shaky camera.
“Grannie, help me hide the cake!” Morgan shouted as she ran through the front door before her Mum had even got out on their car.
The Leckie’s had arrived and Joshua ran straight into the centre of the living room and spun around on the spot excitedly and almost immediately started throwing Iggle Piggle repeatedly up into the air. As everyone shouted and chatted with one another Dougie brought out the Ding’s take away menu.
Ding’s is a small Chinese takeaway on Uddingston’s Main Street, which is now traditionally called upon on a McGarva birthday. The shop itself houses a large open kitchen in the centre of the room in which various cooks shuffle their woks, toss their onions and boil their their noodles over the gas hobs, the large extractor fans hanging from the ceiling humming with exertion. Ding’s serves up some great takeaway grub including a rather brilliant szechuan. This time round I went for the Hong Kong style Sweet and Sour Chicken, another favourite. A favourite introduced to me by Chaz, who always used to order it on Sauchiehall Street at the end of a night out.
As the menu was passed from person to person Joshua jumped, spun and flung himself around the room, occasionally tickling peoples’ feet, looking up at you expectantly with a big toothy smile on his face whilst. He did look at little uncomfortable at one point though as he walked over to the coffee table with his plastic cup of water and stopped. A look of mild worry came over his face as he realised all the coasters were taken by all of our various cups of tea, coffee and water. He’s obviously been well housetrained. Morgan, who was feeling, and looking, a little peaky, chilled out taking a break from the games for a change settling instead for her colouring book.
After dinner the traditional cake and sing-a-long was carried out and a few photos were taken, Angela giving Morgan and Joshua big, birthday hugs. Recovering from her slightly peaky self briefly for a piece of the birthday chocolate cake, Morgan then went back to her colouring book at the dining table and Joshua went back to his toy cars, which he’d won in the all too brief game of pass the parcel.
Perhaps even the best game of pass the parcel as I managed to win a parcel without even passing!
I was sitting in the other room, at the dining table, suffering a slight headache from the strange whistling, squealing noise the living room tv had been making (a noise that caused a minor debate earlier in the night), chatting to Steven about Angela’s still secret Birthday present (an iPad!!!) as Morgan feverishly worked at her colouring book and Joshua delivered my freshly unwrapped present.
A DVD. ‘Hitch’ starring Will Smith. A little sceptical at first I soon realised Eva Mendes is in it so I accepted my prize more than gratefully before being admonished by Dougie who had been listening from the kitchen behind me.
After Steven took the two kids home to bed the McGarva siblings whiled away the remaining hours with glasses of wine, reminiscing about old times. After talking of the various drunken exploits of youth the conversation went on to Colin and Ka’s employment in Poundstretchers through their early working lives. They talked of the old Pounstretchers boss who found herself being attacked by a shutter one night, the life size dolls, Ka chasing the shoplifters, the old man that bought the condoms, and Colin entertaining the passing Hamilton shoppers in the street with his microphone and speakers.
Grace and myself listened intently as Dougie quietly tried to watch Lee Westwood play golf on the whistling television from the depths of his armchair and didn’t show much concern when Grace confessed her love for Patrick Swayze. Unfortunately she doesn’t have much of a chance now. Not a chance in hell.
Heaven, now that may be a different matter. Grace nodded excitedly when it was suggested the two of them could hook up in heaven.
“You better make sure you go first Dougie” I told Ka’s Dad. “She’s having ideas over there!”
Before long it was time to go home again and Ka and myself drove Angela up the road to her bed, well, her doorstep anyway.
Angela got out the car and sauntered up the garden path to the front door, swinging her birthday bottle of Halcyon wine (one of our favourites) at her side and pressed the doorbell. Ka and myself politely waited in the car for the front door opening, just in case there was somebody waiting in the bushes to jump out on her. After a few minutes of waiting politely Steven eventually opened the door and with a quick wave we were off home.

The Iron Horse, the Grey and the Hammer

Dad and myself sat in The Iron Horse as West Bromwich Albion hammered Wolverhampton 5-1 on the tv's hanging from the ceiling over our heads. We had just dropped Ka and the Mums off, among the traffic, piled up outside the SECC, for the Strictly Come Dancing afternoon show and had struggled to find a space for the car in the busy Glasgow streets on Sunday afternoon. I usually park up at The Station Bar, up next to the father in law’s old work, D. C. Thomson the printers, but since we were heading into town from the other direction we ended up just of Blythswood Square, where the ladies of the night used to hang out (I believe they’re all now based further down the hill, or over it). A swanky new Hotel has just opened up there and the street prices (for parking!) have doubled but thankfully, it was Sunday. Wonderful, free, Sunday street parking.
We headed up to the cinema and bought two tickets for 'The Grey' at half three, so, finding ourselves with at least two hours to spare we decided to while away the time over a few pints and a chat in the closest drinking establishment. We didn't fancy a coffee at the Starbucks or Pret a Manger though, both of which are almost, more or less, next door to the cinema. Instead we opted for The Iron Horse on West Nile Street. I thought it'd be a good opportunity to take my Dad for a pint for a change as we very rarely get the chance. While the women were watching the likes of Nancy Dell Olio and Robbie Savage trying to dance, Dad and myself were sitting relaxing by the window of the Iron Horse, over a pint of Caledonian Best, catching up, whilst the surrounding older clientele were served large Sunday lunches brimming with chips and onion rings.
So, for the first time in many years, I went to the cinema with my Dad. We could have repeated one of my very first cinema trips, from many moons ago, of which I, unfortunately, have no memory, in which he took me to see The Muppets, but I didn't think he'd be too interested in that these days. Instead we chose 'The Grey', a survivor thriller starring the ever dependable Liam Neeson.
Neeson plays a depressed oil-rigger, working out in the Alaskan wastes, defending the camp, the factories and the workers (a ragged bunch of characters from ex-cons and thugs to disgruntled family men) from the wild wolves which prowl the surrounding desert of snow. On a trip home, not long after take off, the plane crashes in the snow covered wastelands and leaves a small bunch of survivors struggling in the low temperatures and barren lands, Neeson taking the role of leader as the wolves start closing in around them.

As the small band of survivors try to make their way through the snow to some kind of safety, the weather and the wolves attack, picking them off one by one making each of the men face not only a struggle for survival but a struggle of friendship, cooperation and faith.
There were more than a few God debates and a few desperate calls for the almighty throughout the movie, especially once things started getting more than a little tough for Neeson, a man with a dwindling faith, struggling to come to terms with recent events in his life. The circumstances were different but it was something I identified with, having revisited similar big questions quite frequently in the past year or so and still coming up with no significant answers.
'The Grey' was the second visit to the cinema this weekend. The first being on Saturday afternoon on an unexpected family outing with the McGarva clan to see 'The Woman in Black', Hammer's new adaptation of the Susan Hill novel, which Ka and myself had previously seen in the theatre last year.
After attending a birthday party in East Kilbride on Friday evening, Jillian and Colin had stayed the night and together we were to go into town to see a movie on Saturday afternoon. That was only if the chaos in Glasgow had been sorted out by then.
At around half past three on Friday afternoon a man ran into the Italian restaurant Amarone on Glasgow's Nelson Mandela Square, demanding drink. Nothing particularly unusual there but when the waiters refused to serve him the guy claimed to have a bomb under his jacket.
The Police were called. Streets were closed. The nearby underground was closed. Trained negotiators were called in with shield bearing officers. Police cars and helicopters swooped into the area. Fire engines, ambulances, the Royal Navy bomb disposal team. All were called in before the nutter was quietly taken away in the back of a van at around midnight.
During the ruckus people were either diverted or forcibly kept in surrounding streets and shops whilst others, including all members of the restaurant staff, were all evacuated. A local student complained when the police told him to remain in a nearby branch of Subway, the sandwich shop. Surely any students dream come true?
I was in Subway for the first time in years yesterday. I met Ka for a Valentines lunch and bought her the £3 lunch special, a half baguette with whatever filling she could possibly wish for(as long as it was in the glass cabinet), plus a drink for a mere £3.
Not bad at all.
I text Ka from the office, wondering when her lunch break was, and asked her when she’d be “on the street”? Apparently this made her sound like one of those Blythswood Square ladies.

Anyway, as we sat on the high stools in Subway I realised the last time I had been in a Subway restaurant had been in New York, just off Times Square, in December 2003. The quality of that baguette was nowhere near as good as Hamilton's, but then I was probably slightly hungover back then and I may have been in a better mood yesterday as it was Valentines Day.
It’s a lot of nonsense. Another commercial card factory created piece of money making tomfoolery.
Valentines Day is supposed to be the day to celebrate your love for your significant other, shower her, or him, with love, affection and appreciation.
What’s wrong with any other day then? Do we slap them about for the other 365 days of the year? (it’s a leap year!)
Ka got a bunch of flowers, a card and half a chicken tikka baguette. I know how to treat my woman (none of your Greggs sausage rolls here, thank you very much!).
Anyway, back to Saturday’s cinema trip. As it turned out, the McGarva seniors were also invited to the flicks, so Jillian drove the four of us over to Uddingston to pick up Dougie and Grace and from there we headed into town, parking in possibly the most excpensive car park in town.
Jillian was driving her Mum's car, a large Scooby van like Volkswagen, with an abnormal number of seats, which housed us all among the bags, heavily wrinkled books, wrappers, abandoned crisp packets, long empty juice bottles and an almost full bottle of Absolut Vodka that was rolling around the floor at our feet. As the journey went on that vodka became more and more attractive.
It had been a rough morning.
The cinema was packed. With a 12A certificate I didn't expect too much from this new supposed horror starring the slowly maturing Daniel Radcliffe. In fact, I suspected a lot of the younger members of the audience to be there because of the mere presence of Harry Potter.
After taking our seats, we relaxed, sitting back to watch everyone else pile in after us, people soon struggling for places together as seating became more and more limited. Upon sitting, Grace quickly produced Cadbury's Fudges, brunch bars, trebor mints and tin foil parcels full of sandwiches from her handbag. All were passed up and down our line of six as we awaited the lights going down and the usual onslaught of adverts.

This new version of 'The Woman in Black' was pretty good and a decent enough adaptation of the ghost story with plenty of freaky effects and jumpy moments. Radcliffe was even passable alongside the excellent Julius Ceasar, sorry, Ciaran Hinds.
Unfortunately some of the viewing experience was marred due to the younger elements in the crowd who apparently found it hilarious whenever they jumped with fright. Quite often they'd be laughing, giggling or talking among themselves long after their initial jump of fright, enough to put you off what was going on in the movie long after the jump.
On one occasion, moments after one of the film's jumpier moments, a voice echoed from one of the seats behind me.
"A pure shat maself there, by the way!"
The young guy's voice echoed throughout the cinema as the film's dialogue went on. As entertaining as this ned shitting himself may have been, I was rather more interested in what the following effects of the sudden blur, moving shadow or face in the window was on the big screen before me.
After the film we made our way home, getting lost in the car park across the road, unable to find the Scooby van. We got the elevator up and then back down again after realising the payment machine was at ground level. After waiting in a short queue, behind a snobby woman that sniffed in our general direction (I’m not sure who she was sniffing) we were then charged a grand total of £6.60 for the two and a half hours we’d been parked there (it may have been an NCP, robbing gits). Following this we then hit two different floors before finally arriving at the correct floor to find Jillian’s Mum’s car patiently waiting.
We should have just parked at the Station Bar.

Swinging with the women

Bow ties. Beers. Red wine. Turkey dinners with small amounts of vegetables. Christmas tree table decor. Frank Sinatra soundalikes. Slagging. Dancing. Laughing and drinking.
Last Friday night was the S&UN Chrimbo night out and nine of us gathered in EK’s The Byre for drinks and dinner. Since the depletion of our office work force we hadn't been out so it was good to have everyone out and socialising somewhere that wasn't a Hamilton newspaper office.
Dave and myself were the first to arrive with the help of a local taxi service run by his Mrs, Tracey, not forgetting his two wee boys. The two boys pestered Dave as he drove, demanding sweets and pizza, before we escaped into the warmth of the Byre, Dave immediately ordering up the first drinks while we awaited the arrival of our other work colleagues.
DVD Andy and Creamy Chicken John were next in the door, looking around the subdued golden colours on the bar for any recognisable faces, whilst me and Dave shouted repeatedly from the corner of the room, behind them.
Before Friday, Andy had been speculating as to what I was going to wear to my Chrimbo night out as, much to the amusement of my work colleagues, I always wear a tie to work. He was jesting that I'd probably turn up in my shell suit and trainers or some such. With all this in mind, and since it was a special occasion, I thought I’d roll out the barrel.
While everyone else was probably enjoying a small tipple, beer or wine to kick off their night, before leaving the house, I was struggling with a bow tie. I knew I had to raise the stakes and thought it would be good for a laugh, so had dug it out before leaving the house. Mum and Dad had bought me the red tie last year after I purchased a tuxedo for some sort of, now forgotten, event. After a year of owning it you’d have thought it would have been a little easier to fit but with the complication of resizing it to the right neck width, which, thankfully, hasn't quite started expanding yet, I was somehow standing at the hall mirror for around ten to fifteen minutes.
As John and Andy greeted us at our chosen pew I pulled my scarf down from around my neck to reveal my glorious red bow tie. Andy laughed, shook his head and walked off to the bar to sort out his first pint. Anyway, my toil and effort at the hall mirror paid off as mostly everyone had a good laugh at the tie had a good laugh with me, or at me, whichever. Christine and Lorna were next to turn up, followed by Kathleen and then, eventually, Andy Noble and Andrea who'd taxi'd it over from Hamilton.
Dinner was average. A bread crumb covered Goats cheese as starter followed by a pretty minimal Christmas dinner. A grand total of two pieces of carrot were arranged with my turkey alongside a whole 2 baby potatoes. As always with Christmas dinner there did seem to be an abundance of sprouts rolling around the thin layer of gravy over the plate. Photos were taken, wine was drank, people were slagged, handbrakes dissected and vajazzles were discussed, perhaps a little too loudly. We did get a few looks and comments from a glamorous bunch of women at the next table, out for a Christmas night out themselves, who started chatting John and Andy up as we neared the end of dinner.
After a few glasses of red, the Chrimbo pudding turned up, a small circle of brown in the centre of a large plate. There wasn't even any sign of blue flame flickering over it.
The meal was sufficient. Another overpriced Christmas meal. But it's okay. What do you expect? It's Christmas? Restaurant meals always seem to shrink with the arrival of the chrimbo period. At least on this work chrimbo night out we weren't paying for any surprise wine bills.
After dinner we all descended to the lower levels of the Byre to enjoy the Swing night. A voice had been heard earlier in the night, emanating from the downstairs area so we all took our drinks down to check it out. Unfortunately, when we walked into the darker, louder bar, we realised there wasn't much in the way of swing going on. The 'voice' was no where to be seen. We chose a table anyway and all took a seat as Dave, who'd been silently elected as kitty man, went to the bar once more to sort us all out for drinks. Moments later the bunch of women, from the adjacent table in the dining room, filtered down the stairs and took a table in the corner of the room before the singer eventually crept out from the shadows, from his place at the bar and switched on his music machine. Before long he was swinging away on the small, slightly raised stage at the front of the bar, belting out a few Rat Pack tunes mixed with a couple of Christmas songs and a smattering of more modern numbers from the likes of The Killers and Robbie Williams. As the lower bar started to liven up with our presence we all started to get overly loud, and overly happy, myself especially, it would seem, as I've ended up on camera using a table Christmas tree decoration as some kind of phallic object, DVD Andy was caught in an odd moment of pleasure and John was caught letching the women from the other table.
As we all continued to enjoy the festive spirits, John was suddenly pulled up on to the dancefloor by a couple of the desperate housewives from the corner of the bar, after he'd been asked to do the honours and take a couple of photos. DVD Andy almost spat out his drink as John accepted and swung his way up to the dancefloor surrounded by an excited gaggle of the dancing ladies.
It was then that the wife turned up.
No, not John's wife. My wife.
Ka had been out for dinner in Glasgow with friends, Lynsey and Michelle. They'd enjoyed dinner at an Italian restaurant and then some spiced mulled wine at the German market in St. Enoch's Square. Since both Ka and Lynsey were heading back to East Kilbride on the train, they decided to crash our work night out, disembarking at Hairmyres and then pulling a chair up at our table as the Byre's singer crooned away. Unable to keep the pace, or just unwilling to be manhandled on to the dancefloor, Andy Noble and Andrea escaped early into a taxi leaving the rest of us to drink, dance and shout the rest of the night away.
Lorna, Christine and Kathleen were soon enticed up for a dance and making moves along with Andy and John, and even I was pulled up by one of the dancing women in the female gang of Christmas jivers. Lynsey and Ka made themselves welcome and even got a free glass of wine from the barman for their trouble and my cousin Chris dropped by the table for a quick chat, having just finished his shift in the kitchens.
As always, time seemed to travel faster with the alcohol consumption and before we knew it the Byre's crooner had left the stage, the music had deteriorated into unidentifiable noises and everyone started making their way home, or at least, to the bar upstairs, for a night cap, until our taxis turned up. The taxis waited, waited, and then drove off, replaced shortly afterwards with a short call from Dave on the mobile.
Needless to say the next morning was non existent.
It was afternoon before I managed to open my eyes, enough to watch the first half of 'The Mummy Returns' in bed. Couldn't quite manage the whole movie.

The finest tea available to humanity

The rain continued to fall outside, soaking the surrounding Bothwell, whilst Ka and myself took our seats in the Silverwells restaurant for our Afternoon tea. We had planned to get a bus to our posh afternoon appointment at the swanky Bothwell restaurant but, thankfully, my Dad had come to the rescue over the phone and offered us a lift, earlier in the morning. After I'd come off the phone to him I looked out the window to see the rain sweeping through our street in sheets making travelling by bus an extremely unpleasant and unlikely prospect.
I’d never had Afternoon Tea before. Angela had bought Ka and myself it, as a gift for our Wedding Anniversary, back in July. I’d always thought Afternoon tea was for either little old ladies or snobby rich and privileged housewives. Miss Marple used to attend Afternoon tea quite a lot from what I remember. It also reminds me of that great scene in ‘Withnail and I’ where Richard E. Grant and Paul McGann stote into a small English countryside tea shop, in the middle of the afternoon, and demand “the finest wines available to humanity” from Mrs Blennerhassett, the frightened little lady who was dishing out the tea and scones to the surrounding, glaring, old ladies.
Thankfully there were no old ladies in Silverwells on Saturday afternoon. We stepped into the large elegant restaurant to find it empty, each table immaculately set for the coming Saturday night.
The Spanish Maitre D’ welcomed us and sat us down at a small table for two near the front of the dining room, where the old building’s large bay window looked out into the restaurant’s car park and surrounding Bothwell streets, still suffering under the gloom of the grey clouds rumbling overhead.
We started with a glass of prosecco, delivered to us by the small Spaniard (at least I think he was Spanish, Ka and myself had a slight debate about that over our wine) who immediately started up conversation by asking where we were from and what the occasion was. We told him where and the Maitre D’ revealed himself to be a native of East Kilbride, himself, at least for the past forty years anyway. Specifically Tasman Drive, just off Rockhampton, in the Westwood. At least I think that’s what he said, his Spanish accent (or French) was still quite thick, even after 40 years. I then told him we were celebrating our first wedding anniversary. Ka didn’t seem to bat an eyelid until halfway through the Maitre D’s following conversation, at which point she must have realised what I’d said. Once the waiter had beetled off to talk to the kitchen, (I’m not sure if it was a specific appliance), Ka was not slow in pointing my mistake out to which I frowned and slowly nodded with realisation. I almost used the old, ‘how times flies when your having fun’, phrase, but stopped myself.
Not that I haven’t enjoyed married life so far, just that it hasn’t all exactly been a barrel of laughs, a feeling which, I’m sure, most husbands would admit to at the best of times and that’s without the tragedy of a losing a child.
Shortly after, our tea and coffee was delivered with a silver, two-tier, stand full of sandwiches and cakes. Sandwiches of tuna, ham salad, cheese and pickle. Scones with jam and clotted cream. Flap jacks. Meringues. Caramel shortcake. All were mounted on the cake stand before us, making us feel overweight, just by looking at them. There was even good old Scottish Dumpling. The teas and coffees also arrived with large round piece of shortbread biscuit, sitting tilted on the edge of their porcelain saucers. There was no way we were going to get through this lot.
Soon after making our way through the sandwiches the Maitre D’ was back and talked of his work in EK’s Bruce Hotel, his experience as a sales rep in a whiskey company, his wife whom he’d immigrated for, his family, his friends and the fact he knew Mr. Kennedy, the Spanish and R.E. teacher from St. Brides High, who was now living it up in a Spanish villa, just outside Alicante.
In fact, the Head waiter told probably us a good portion of his life story.
He would talk for a short time and then say he was leaving us to our tea, before coming back another ten minutes later and starting up another conversation.
At one point he asked us if we had kids. To which we hesitantly and uncertainly shook our heads but then told him about Lucy. You’d think this would shut most folk up, but no. After a short apology he was off again, talking about his son and his family and how they were off to Spain.
He was a lovely man though, even though he made our teas and coffees go cold on more than one occasion. He may have realised this though as he organised more than one tea and coffee refill for us, each coming with yet another large shortbread biscuit, to join the previous other two, moved to the cake stand.
Halfway through the afternoon, after I’d finished my share of the sandwiches and cakes, the Maitre D’ beckoned us away from our table, just as I was biting into Ka’s flapjack, to give us a guided tour of the large old Victorian house which Silverwells now occupies. The large, colourful stained glass window, standing halfway up the large staircase in the hallway, shone in what light it could muster from the skies overhead creating a calm, ambient atmosphere in the welcoming hallway, now decorated by lines of small sparkling Christmas lights. The Maitre D’ led us up the stairs and around the large function rooms upstairs, showing us the large, private dining room and the three remaining rooms which, when connected by way of the large opening double doors in adjoining walls, made up Silverwells’ largest function suite and bar, for parties of up to 80 people.
All very interesting, I thought, but my tea was getting cold.
The Maitre D’ done a good job in selling the place anyway, and my interest in the function rooms was apparently so believable that it led Ka to become a little uncomfortable, half expecting me to bring out my debit card and book one of the function suites, there and then for something, anything. Sign the dotted line for some strange, mystical party night in the future. Any event would do.
Upon returning to our table we ordered a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio just as a few more customers started arriving for lunch and afternoon tea and we soon found ourselves thankfully being neglected by the over eager Head Waiter.
As the two of us sat chatting over a fine glass of wine, and the rain continued to pour down outside, it seemed like a long time since Ka and myself had enjoyed such a lazy, calorie filled, afternoon.
A nice way to celebrate our first Wedding anniversary. Seventeen months late.

Feeling guilty?

Another night of Children In Need. Upsetting, uncomfortable and difficult to watch. Three ways to describe Alan Sugar’s attempts at humorous acting and Ian Beale in a tight pink jumper and skirt, pushing a hoover around his living room to the tune of Queen’s “I want to break free”. All this uncomfortable viewing between the many short sad films about the kids of the UK that need the help and the money.
DVD Andy has always suspected me of being guilty of spending my weekly Thursday’s off just like Freddie, with the hoover, as Thursday is usually housework day. This week, however, I was waiting on plumbers coming round to give us a quotation for the installation of Gas central heating. Unfortunately, after being given the quote, we’re not sure we’ll bother. Two and a half grand they want for putting central heating into our wee one bedroom flat. A normal house costs between three and four so I think we may just stick with what we’ve got.
The good old electric.
We’d only be installing the gas heating to help sell as it seems to be the only complaint from possible buyers who’ve come round to view. Look’s like we’ll just have to wait on a non energy biased buyer.
We barely use the electric anyway. The guys in work, asked me how we usually keep warm if we don’t use it. We never need it, though with the winter just around the corner Ka and myself could, quite soon, be finding ourselves walking around with double helpings of dressing gowns. At the moment it would seem all Ka needs is Michael Buble. The wife was up dancing around the living room in her pyjamas on Thursday night as the singer started his contribution to the Children In Need Rocks Manchester concert.
Last night we had a little heat from one large solitary candle standing lit in the middle of our coffee table. We had just finished a curry for dinner though so I suspect that was lit by Ka merely to try and get rid of the stench of Indian food which was now lingering throughout the living room and kitchen. Our second curry in a week.
The first was last Saturday when we went through to Tom and Linda’s in Barassie, Troon. As my Uncle Tom is in the middle of rebuilding his kitchen, we had hit upon the idea, a while back, at my cousin’s son’s baptism, of a curry night. So after arriving early evening on Saturday, just after the sun had set on the cold, Firth of Clyde horizon, Tom and Linda informed us that they were taking us along to their favourite curry house, the Maharani. The maharani was a small, but cosy, Indian restaurant just a short walk from the front on West Portland Street where we ate some fantastic food, mine being a giant portion of Chicken Tikka Tandoori, which arrived sizzling on a long black plate perched on a pile of hot, flavoured onions. Tom had also ordered a Tandoori, a ginger chicken, but refrained from eating all of his massive portion, instead opting to keep some for Sally and Jake, the dogs back home. For a brief few moments I also considered politely putting some of my chicken aside for the dogs’ supper but only for a brief few moments. I then thought better of it and demolished the rest of my plate. Feeling rather full afterwards, and slightly guilty about the hungry dogs back at the house, we then ambled over to the Lido bar where we joined Troon’s Saturday night elite for a few drinks.
Lido is a stylish café like bar, owned by the same bar and restaurant outfit that runs the harbour restaurant in the same town, Scott’s and Elliots in Prestwick. The brasserie sits on the quiet street, among the other, older bars and seaside shops, it’s modern face a little out of place. With polished dark wood furniture and decorated cushion seats and walls inside, circling a decorative bar and open kitchen, it’s obviously drawing inspiration from some of the swankier places in town making it a great alternative for the folks of Troon, to some of the other, more traditional settings. It was busy, lively and comfortable and just as we were leaving to head back to the house the DJ was setting up his decks on the large, rectangular table alongside us, casting some smokers’ drinks and scarves to the side. These smokers had thought it acceptable to keep their interior seats whilst they sat out at the tables in the outside front, framed by neatly trimmed hedges. As long at their scarves were still slung over their inside chairs and their glasses of water were still in place on the table they considered themselves able to come back and forth whenever they pleased. They left their inside table to head outside for a cigarette and made themselves comfortable on one of the round tables outside, safe in the knowledge their table inside was guarded by the scarves and water. For at least forty minutes, they lounged around outside, before frowning through the window as the DJ turned up with his various laptops and control panels, quickly casting their scarves aside after asking if they had belonged to us.
Why should smokers’ unattended tables be kept for them in a busy bar area? If they decide to leave their table empty, in order to feed their nicotine cravings then giving up the comfy indoors table should be a sacrafice they should be willing to take. Why should others, in a busy bar, be made to stand, by a scarf slung over the back of a chair?
Ka and myself have actually nicked smokers’ tables before. One of the last times being in the Theatre Royal Bar in Edinburgh when we innocently nabbed what we thought was an empty table, considering the one jacket left over one of the chairs to have been long abandoned, and made ourselves comfortable with a few glasses of wine before the david Byrne gig next door. After a good half an hour of sitting enjoying ourselves the smoking couple (they weren’t that good looking) turned up looking for their place. As it turned out they were actually very nice about it and pulled up another chair on the opposite side of the table and started chatting away. They were an older couple, the bearded bloke perhaps around forty odd in age, the woman looking a bit older. Before we knew it they were spitting at the ground with the sheer mention of trams, telling us where they lived, how they’d met and about when they’d last seen the Talking heads in concert. When the time came to go and take our places in the theatre next door, Ka and myself apologised once more for taking up half of their table uninvited and left them in the lively bar.
Upon entering the Playhouse, Ka and myself split up for a quick toilet visit and as I was standing at the male trough doing my business somebody ambled up and took the place next to me.
“Oh, hello again!” the bearded man smiled from my side. After another short conversation, very short, as conversation over urinals are always a bit awkward, I headed out and found Ka through the busy throng of the Edinburgh Playhouse. Upon meeting each other we decided to get a wee drink from the bar, rolling out the barrel, as it were, as it’s not every week you go to the theatre or a gig. So as I joined the bustling crowd at the ridiculously small theatre bar I slowly made my way to the front of the crowd as slowly but surely the people before me obtained their various beverages from the choice of two bottles beers at triple the usual price or three kinds of wine, white, red, or rose. Upon finally reaching the bar I planted my elbows down on to the bar and turned to find the bearded smoker standing at my side again. I think he gave me the same look I gave him. The ‘not you again’ look. The pleasant surprise and nod of the ‘how are you’ look followed by the ‘look away at something, anything, that’ll enable me to not make conversation’ look. After getting my drinks I half expected Ka and myself to get into the theatre and find the two smokers sitting in the next seats along from us.
I get the ‘look away at something, anything, that’ll enable me to not make conversation’ look quite a lot. There was a girl in high school that I used to fancy who used to find lamp posts or brick walls extraordinarily interesting to look at whenever I approached.
During the week I was wondering up Cadzow Street in the morning, on my way to work, when the Head honcho woman from our Estate Agents, (let’s call them ‘Your Maneuver’ again), seen me walking up towards her as she made her way to the ‘Your Maneuver’ office. I’d spoke to her for around an hour, not more than four or five weeks ago, and I know she recognised me, but, for whatever reason, decided to suddenly give the passing shop windows at her side and the passing pavestones under her feet, her full, uninterrupted, attention.
Guilt at having failed to sell our beautiful flat. That's what I reckon it was.
Guilt. Terrible thing.
That’s probably what makes Children in Need such uncomfortable viewing. If you don’t donate you must, and should, feel guilty.
It doesn’t take a lot to make me feel guilty.
Hopefully Sally and Jake will forgive me for eating all my Tandoori.

Over iced and overpriced

Ka and myself were back in Glasgow, late on Saturday afternoon. With the intention of dinner and drinks we headed for the Merchant Square in Candleriggs. It felt like we hadn’t been out for ages, as we’ve had a few quiet weekends recently, and now that George Square was free of zombies, crowds running amok screaming and breaking their arms and detoured Number 20 bus routes, we thought it would be a pleasant change and get us out the house.
The city’s old fruit market and surrounds, in which much of Glasgow’s old Victorian architecture still proudly stand in cobbled streets, has been a bit of a favourite for Ka and myself when it comes to going for a wee tipple at the weekend. Although a little pricey, the atmosphere is always relaxed, comfortable and enjoyable as you can sit in one of the Square’s bars inside the roofed courtyard with it’s high ceiling of curving, twinkling lights which shine down over the cobbles of the people filled square below.
On Saturday the Merchant Square’s Craft and Design Fair was taking place. It turns out that it’s more of a permanent fixture these days, and there were various traders attempting to sell the product of their various hobbies and pastimes.
Paintings, drawings, photographs and jewellery were all on sale around the various stalls in the Square along with two stalls selling fairy cakes… sorry, cup cakes.
Ridiculously overpriced and ridiculously over iced cup cakes sold by large grinning ladies in silk scarves. These small sponge creations sit there on the silver plates, innocently looking up at you with their colourful décor, probably containing enough icing on top to easily feed you double the amount of your daily sugar allowance by just eating one. Enough to send you off in a wild eyed buzz to buy a horrendously overpriced print of a photograph at one of the surrounding stalls before going off into one of the bars and ordering yourself ten Mae West cocktails.
Don’t get me wrong some of the photographs at the fair’s stalls are great. There are some really nice shots of various Glasgow locations and beyond. But selling small A5 prints straight from the computer’s inkjet computer, in small card frames bought in large packs from stationery websites and charging silly amounts of money for them, is a bit much.
The painters, illustrators and jewellery makers are the one’s that really interested Ka and myself.
The work of Glaswegian artist and designer, Adrian B. McMurchie, for instance, really grabbed my attention, with his fantastic architectural line drawings and watercolours. In fact, my own style of sketchbook and watercolour work is very much like McMurchie’s, only a lot less detailed and not half as good. His eye for catching the details, perspectives and structure of his chosen, architectural subjects is brilliant and well worth a look.
Another stall that took Ka’s eye was the jewellery of Moon on the Loch. This is the work of Scottish jewellery designer, and fellow East Kilbridian, Stephen Dickie. Dickie works with silver, gold, copper and glass to create fantastic and stylish jewellery in elegant, often simple, smooth, minimal shapes. Using nature and reflection as inspiration, Dickie creates ear rings, necklaces, bangles and cufflinks all to a beautiful, polished finish.
Ka’s eyes lit up when we looked over the jewellery laid out over the ‘Moon of the Loch’ stall but with just under 100 days to go, I simply took a business card and moved onwards to Arisaig for lunch, after which we spent the rest of the evening on the big, black, comfortable cushions of Bar Square.
Bar Square’s Vodka based Mae West cocktail was particularly good. That was our pudding. The Cup Cake stalls had closed by then.

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!

Restaurants, rehearsals and running

We’ve not heard back from Chaz yet. Both Ka and myself text him a message yesterday to ask him how he got on with his casting audition to be in the next big Brad Pitt movie being filmed in Glasgow.
Chaz and myself ordered dinner in the Crooked Lum on Thursday night, two three course meals, taking full advantage of a 25% off voucher Chaz had procured from a taxi driver. I ordered a fillet for my main but Chaz had to do better. He challenged himself by ordering the steak platter, a massive square plate of food which included a large sirloin, fillet and ribeye along with a mountain of chips, a massive mushroom and a giant half tomato that looked like it had been grown in some kind of mutant vault in a local Nuclear facility.
Over dinner Chaz informed me that he was to go along on Saturday in a suit and tie for a movie audition to be an extra in a forthcoming Brad Pitt movie production which apparently involves zombies, being zombies or being attacked by zombies. I’d always thought Glasgow was the perfect setting for a zombie movie – although I’m not sure we need more of them diving about Glasgow than there is already.
By trade, Chaz is a car salesman but I’d also always thought he’d have made a rather good actor. Chaz lamented the end of his drama days over dinner. His best part to date being the role of Lead Pharisee in the school Easter play in the late eighties. Chaz managed to turn the part of the Chief Pharisee into a sort of flamboyant Police Informant type Government spy character. His biggest scene, pivotal to the capturing of Jesus, included Chaz skidding on to the stage and informing the gathered characters that:
“It’s alright, he’ll do it, at ten o’clock tonight!”
Unfortunately his adventures in drama ended during the final rehearsals for that particular scene with the skid on to the stage not quite ending where it should have, resulting in a continuous skid off the stage and the bashing of an eye off the end of a gym bench below.
Let’s hope he gets on better with his zombie audition. I hope he’d done his homework and watched Sean of the Dead, Land of the Dead or has just simply walked up Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.
Or the Hamilton town centre on a weekday, for that matter, a strange, destitute place into which my work has just moved and is taking some getting used to. Ka and myself met for lunch last week, my first week in the Hamilton office, and we sat on a bench in the middle of the local shopping precinct to eat our lunch. Strange, smelly, lonely looking characters soon began to circle us like vultures, eyeing either the bench, our lunch or the very flesh which clings to our bones. I wasn’t sure which, but it was enough to put me off my ham sandwich and Irn Bru.
Thankfully, Ka and myself ate in far nicer surroundings yesterday. Once again, we found ourselves dining out, once more in a restaurant, Grace and Dougie treating us to a meal for our anniversary, which was then followed up with a few coffees and shandies at a local pub.
With all this eating in mind we woke this morning finding our usual trip to the gym a bit of a stretch, so instead opted for a run round Calderwood and St. Leonards, circling around the neighbourhood, one lap being just over 5km. It went well considering it was our first jog in months, since before Ka fell pregnant. So Ka and myself are feeling rather pleased with ourselves. Next time we’ll make it two laps. Mum, Dad and Lynsey were popping round for a cuppa though so we had an excuse today to make it a single lap. We’ve promised ourselves to go running more often, especially in the run up to Ka’s run for charity in October (details of which can be found here http://www.justgiving.com/Kelly-Ann-Reid).
There is a turn off, halfway round, where you can trim a good half a mile off the whole lap. Ka was tempted to take this route as she was knackered, struggling for breath and generally getting grumpy after fifteen minutes running and stressed that she may have to ease herself back into the running by taking a shorter route round. When I refused to go this way and told her she would be fine with various other words of encouragement she swiftly replied with a barrage of abuse, just as we passed a row of quiet houses. The occupants of these houses had probably been enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon up until that moment when they spilt their teas, woke from their naps or jumped from behind their Sunday papers to the loud, shouting couple jogging by their front window.
No pain, no gain, they say. Although I didn’t believe it was the pain of the hurling abuse from your stressed wife as she runs around the block after you. So with little argument after this I reluctantly agreed to take the shorter route only for Ka, not more than 5 minutes later, to agree to carry on with the full lap, missing the halfway point turn off. Typical Ka. She was either fiercely determined to complete the planned route, or was simply refusing to go along with anything I agreed to.
It’s all well and good running for miles on a treadmill in a gym but when it comes to real outdoor running it’s very different. Hills appear on your route spontaneously before you, inclines that you did not even realise were inclines when you usually drive along them in the car. Midges and bugs are everywhere too. On passing various clusters of bushes and foliage various sizes of insects would instantly decide to aim for you face, particularly the eyes, nostrils, or even worse, the mouth. You’ll be chatting away to your fellow jogger, or arguing, as you tackle the latest incline when all of a sudden a passing midge that had previously been buzzing about a local bush, would take a notion for a kamikaze mission with your tongue, stopping and firing itself straight into your oral cavity.
Something a little more pleasant is the nodding to and greeting of fellow joggers. You notice this when you’re out walking on the hills too. You’re all complete strangers but you follow some sort of unspoken code with which you nod or greet passing joggers, as if acknowledging each others’ athletic prowess and sportsmanship tackling the dangerous pavements and grass verges.
A greeting of a different kind I received today was a wolf whistle. I’ve never been wolf whistled before but managed not to get too excited about it as it was from a trio of giggling 12-13 year olds who passed by me giggling. A few moments later their giggling was interrupted by the jogger they’d failed to notice behind me, elbowing them off the pavement. Ka mumbled some more abuse as she caught up, running up behind me just as the rain started to fall and a jeep carrying our former neighbour Kay, passed by. The horn tooted as the neighbour waved at us, grinning smugly over her phone from behind her windscreen in her nice, warm, dry 4x4.
With the exception of the interfering insects, the threatening rain and the teenagers, the 5km was a bit of a breeze to be honest and I was pretty surprised at how easily I managed it.
Well, when I say easily we did finish the run with faces the colour of tomatoes. I was suffering with weird blurred vision after coming to a stop outside outside our front door, wiping the dead midges from my face as the old legs began to quiver a little with exertion. The walk I performed going up the stairs to our front door wouldn’t have looked out of place in Chaz’s zombie movie.