“If you give me any more trouble, I shall visit you in the small hours and put a bat up your nightie.”
I know, I’m sorry - it’s been madly busy at work, and by the time I finish for the day I can’t face any more typing, therefore the blog has suffered … and today’s a beautifully sunny Saturday, and what am I doing? Working again, that’s right …!
… just to keep Sparkle happy! Delighted to oblige (*wanders off muttering boobiesboobiesboobies*)
My great-niece, Matilda Grace, was born a couple of days ago.
Great-Aunt Sophie. Nope, it really doesn’t sound right!
Of course, this entailed passing some time in various card shops, making alarmed noises at the deeply sentimental new baby cards.
And what alarmed me most? The fact that the majority of the sickly pink cards referred to the joy brought by a little baby girl (and, in one particularly sick-making instance, an ‘ickle baby girl). None of the blue cards used the L-word.
Stereotyping really does kick in from the first minute, doesn’t it?!
Talking of stereotypes, R just read something out from the Grauniad about the LGBT film festival being unable to find a Muslim lesbian.
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I’m sure there are some, but I bet they’re keeping their heads down …”
[pause]
“… as it were.”
Ouch!
(BTW, if anyone finds this blog having typed the words “Muslim” and “lesbian” into a search engine, then step away right now. You are definitely in the wrong place!)
Which sums up the Caledonian Canal fairly succinctly, I think. Also - oystercatchers, buzzards, a confused guillemot who didn’t realise he wasn’t a freshwater bird, several friendly dogs and an over-friendly duck (who tried to sit on my head) and countless snow-capped mountains (including Ben Nevis). But no Loch Ness monster, irritatingly …
Our friends Richard and Helen had got their yacht, Hornpipe, out of its winter anchorage at Ardrossan and were taking her through the Caledonian Canal on their way to southern Norway, so R and I joined them at Fort William, just at the top of Neptune’s Staircase. Four days of bliss ensued, with lots of food and wine and the most remarkable views I’ve ever seen. Lots of work was done on the way, including the installation of a forward-looking sonar (not in time to do any monster-spotting, sadly) and some serious sandpapering and teak oiling. I always knew that boats involved a never-ending maintenance schedule, but it doesn’t sink in until you’ve seen it in action!
By Tuesday we were at Inverness, so R and I caught a bus back to Fort William (retracing our journey down the canal at what seemed like mad speed, compared to the leisurely five knots on the way up!), picked up the van at Banavie and I drove us back via the extremely scenic route, past Glencoe and down through Loch Lomond. Photographs here!
R had a brainwave and decided we should treat ourselves to dinner at the Creggans Inn on Loch Fyne - still drooling …
In other news - one more foster cat (who has since been reunited with his owners) spent a couple of days with us, and the gorgeous tabby cat next door has started to treat our place as her emergency back-up residence, so I can’t complain about a lack of feline company 
And - drum roll - R and I won the Observer cryptic crossword! Our names are in the paper and everything! Woo and hoo!
My BookMooch buddy, Rob, has posted a YouTube link to a vid of him doing a fiendishly clever card trick! I can’t fathom out how he does it …
It occurred to me that as my passport ran out over a year ago, and as I imagine it will soon be decreed that we should remove our own livers and send them to the Passport Agency as proof of who we are, or have a barcode tattooed on our arms, or something, I thought I’d better get it sorted.
Which, of course, means the dreaded “passport photo” ordeal.
Now, time was, a Photo-Me booth visit was pleasant and fun. You got four different poses, so at least one of them could be taken up by making silly faces/dragging six friends in with you/getting a pic of a big slobbery snog with your partner. Nowadays, you get three chances, but only one photo. And - and this is a big and - the Passport Agency now forbids smiling. Or, in my case, grinning like a fool, which is what instantly occurs when a camera lens is aimed my way.
“A neutral expression?” I wailed to R. “How the heck am I going to manage that?”
“Well”, he said, “what’s the most bland thing you can think of?”
“Porridge”, said I, confidently, and strolled into the glad bright morning.
Well, the resulting pictures emerged from the slot, and the look of abject horror on my face exactly matched that in the photos. A passer-by would have thought it a pretty good likeness, looking as I did like a woman who had just heard that a race of giant moths had been installed as our new overlords, the Civil Service having consequently been replaced by daddy-long-legs.
So I had another go. Second lot not too bad. I mean, I do look faintly shifty and a little like a woman trying very hard to suppress a daft grin and not to think about porridge, but at least I look human. Human-ish.
In other news - today is my birthday and I am not old. Oh no. Maturing like a good wine, that’s me. Yesterday was my birthday trip to Inverary, a visit to Inverary Jail and yummy food in the George - the weather was (and is) gorgeous, and I can’t think of a better life than the one I have now!
… ‘cos it’s really really really good!
(This reviewing lark - it’s a piece of piss, innit?!)
As from 1 April (hope that date is not inauspicious), R. and I will be partners in a slightly more official sense - yes, that’s the day on which we become “Clarke and Houston Language Services”! Bunting will be out across the nation, possibly …
The meeting went well yesterday, in that we managed to struggle through a snowstorm and so did our intrepid accountant. The man looks like he’s wearing a toupee (sadly, he isn’t) and has teeth which arrive in the room a good four minutes before he does, but apparently last year, on 31 January, a client of his had come sneaking into the office at 4.30pm, asking that his tax return be completed and filed. On 31 January at 4.30pm, let me repeat. Bloody hell, and I though I was dilatory on these matters …!
Not to be daunted, our fearless financial whizzkid did indeed complete his client’s tax return.
And went to the local tax office.
At 4.30am.
And climbed a wall in order to post it through their door …
So I figure that, provided we can keep a straight face about his wonky teeth, we should all get along famously.
Next week we’re seeing a lawyer to draw up the partnership agreement - watch this space!
As odd dreams go, this was one of the oddest. I was, in the most matter-of-fact way, eating R’s left eyeball. Right out of the socket (although I don’t quite know how, given that eyeballs are - quite rightly - protected from such attacks by the bony bits). Then I was sucking what I can only describe as juice - an oddly cold liquid - from his eye socket. This continued for, ooooh, six or seven eyeballs (it kept growing back, you see). I recall thinking I needed a more varied diet.
It’s testament to R’s calmness in a difficult situation that when I related this dream to him, he didn’t (a) scream (b) back away slowly (c) call for the men with straitjackets (d) change his name and go and live in Darkest Peru.
He simply started an etymological discussion about what such a practice would be called (”Oculophagy?”).
Bless him. I wouldn’t really eat his eyeballs.
Not without garlic, anyway.