Holyrood Shift

My writing group "homework" task. We had to write a creative piece in response to a news story. Read the news story here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/6234290.stm

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“Aye, as if I’ve got nothin’ better to do…”

PC Wilson stood watching the gathering crowds. The expected warmth of late June had failed to materialise and instead the heavy Edinburgh sky was porridgey and grey. The rain had mercifully stopped earlier in the morning, but the air was still damp and clingy, leading to the more sensible of the crowd members wearing those cheap yellow rain ponchos, just in case. Others were dressed optimistically in shorts and sandals, legs muddy from the park.

PC Wilson wondered again about this spot in Holyrood. How come? Where did this wind trap effect come from? He’d stood here more times than he could be arsed remembering, and each and every time – even when the sun was baking the rest of the city and folk were lolling around the park exposing milky flesh – it was bloody freezing. The wind seemed to race down the Royal Mile and stop at this exact stop, like it felt it had to concentrate on pissing off only the people there.

Which were usually police officers. Or, more specifically, junior PCs.

The crowd was beginning to thin as it reached the foot of the Mile and each person took their place behind the metal barrier. Not the large crowd that had been expected – the shitey weather had surely kept a lot of them indoors or in the pub, he reckoned – but sizeable nonetheless. PC Wilson wondered again what the attraction was: the crowds were unlikely to be rewarded with glimpses of famous faces - cos which famous person in their right mind would bother with this? People maybe expected to see big Sean, but PC Wilson wondered what Sean would rather do: come and witness the opening of another session of the Parly (albeit with a new nationalist face in charge), or continue to sun himself in his no doubt massive garden in the south of Spain, or wherever. A no brainer.

Stamping his heavily clad feet to keep the blood flowing, PC Wilson once again reflected on this job. He was used to pishy “crowd control” from this spot outside the Queen’s holiday house, but this was something else. He honestly thought the DS was taking the piss when he threw those papers at him - maybe a belated 21^st birthday prank? – but, no, practical jokes were not the DS’s forte.

He’d half heard the story on the news the night before, as he waited for his dinner at his mum’s place, and channel flicked. Some big man drowning in a big bushy beard moaning about how nobody knew how this would affect his livelihood, and how his customers were already worried and confused. PC Wilson had paid little attention, the plight of the odd teuchter holding no interest for him.

So when the DS started spraffing on this morning about an “extra watch” on the crowds at the Parly opening, PC Wilson hadn’t made the connection. Not until he heard the chuckling starting in the meeting room. The DS had told them to shuttit, that – yes – he knew it seemed stupid, but it was the law, and on occasions like this the Lothian and Borders police had to be seen to be doing their bit for the new legislation.

Blah, blah, PC Wilson had thought. Not exactly possible. What were they meant to do? Go up to every person dressed in a kilt, point at their crotch and say, “Excuse me, sir – do you have a licence for that?”

Aye, right.

The orders were barked out, where each of them were to be stationed. PC Wilson – gate A, Holyrood Palace. The fucking wind tunnel again, he had thought. Fuck sake. But if that hadn’t pissed on his biscuits enough, the next instruction – thrown down to him on a wad on papers – would.

Sporran Watch. Legislation and Procedures.

After confirming this was not the practical joke he had vainly hoped for, he had climbed into the squad van, face like a torn kipper, to the soundtrack of jeers and laughter from his fellow PCs.

“Nae Luck, Dod!”

“Can you even tell the difference between a badger and an arctic fox?”

“Just keep yir hauns tae yersel wi thae big highlanders!”

Fuds. So much for support from your team. They all got to do the usual crowd control, of standing at the metal barriers looking for any possible talent, when he had to question the origin of big hairy men’s sporrans.

The crowds had stopped passing him now, so it must be almost time for the parade to start, he thought. He turned to face the gates of the Palace, where he could just see the coach arriving. “McPhail’s of Inverness” the coach proclaimed on its signage, with a saltire and a “Black Isle Pipe Band” banner proudly positioned on the back window. The coach’s rickety door opened and one by one, 30 fully kitted up pipers emerged, clearly all in varying states of inebriation. They readied themselves to lug their sets of pipes and play for the amassed crowd, and to welcome in the new MSPs. Hats were straightened, kilts were hitched up – their furry sporrans were shifted into position.

PC Wilson looked at the highlanders and sighed. He had a job to do. He opened the gate, and headed towards them.

Kate

Very short piece for a 15 minute writers' group exercise about my friend Kate. Believe it or not, it came from the task to write about one of a series of random words: the word I picked was "rucksack"...

Kate seems perpetually happy. She is a bit like a puppy. She is a bit like an excited, yappy, puppy. She is a bit like a hyperactive kid.

I sit opposite her every day wondering how she can be like this. Does she have an “off” button? I have known her for over 2 and a half years and I’ve seen her a bit pensive, a bit moody, a little bit disappointed or down-hearted at one time or another. But only for fleeting periods of time. Only for moments or the odd stressful work period. She just always seems delighted to be alive – always thinking about the next fun thing to do; the next fun person to join her ever-increasing social circle.

It tires me out to watch her. Her energy is unlimited – but not infectious…

Her love of life is on her terms, though not in a selfish respect. But people are there for her entertainment, for her pleasure, to listen to her, to agree with her (or to give her a good, proper argument), to be the butt of her jokes, to lose arguments to her.

I am amazed and confused a little by her energy and positivity. She gets so much happiness and pleasure from some things. Like the rucksack. You’d think she’d won the lottery when she got that thing. I could picture her putting it on and taking it off again and again and parading around her flat. She was proud to confirm that that was exactly what she had done.

She does exhaust me. Her bounciness stresses me out: my failing, certainly not hers. I do wonder what her secret is, if there is one – and I do wonder what it feels like to feel like her.

The Flat

Writing Group "homework" task: "Write about something you bought..."

I thought I would scream if I heard that comment once more:

“When you see it, you’ll just know it!”

Aye right. What hippy-dippy crap was that. I had no time for it: all I knew was that I was trying to do the virtually impossible. I was trying to find an affordable property in Edinburgh.

I’m not a naïve person generally: I tend to expect the worst and keep my feet on the ground. However, I somehow had believed (or had been led to believe by my friendly financial adviser…) that I could buy a flat in Edinburgh for 60 grand. Yup, I remember thinking: that’ll be enough to get a one bedroom flat.

I was fully aware that Edinburgh property prices were a bit mad – after all, it’s a well-known fact that at every opportunity, young professionals’ conversations meander towards this topic. It simple can’t be helped. Trust me: the next time you’re out with a group of late 20 / 30-somethings, take note of how long before the subject of property prices rears its ugly head. It’s a weird phenomenon of Edinburgh life.

Anyway, in my defence, this was back in 2002, when property prices were fairly mental, but not exactly as freakish as they are now, four years later. And I had been working as a teacher for three years and was earning what I thought to be a fair enough salary. People younger than me do it – they get mortgages – so why shouldn’t I manage it? My lovely little rented flat was being sold from under me – and my landlady was asking just too much for my budget – so I knew I’d have to move at some point: why not to a place that I had bought for myself, instead of lining the pockets of another rental company?

(A little aside here, to explain how ANNOYING it is when someone uses that argument for buying your own flat. “You know, you’re much better off buying than renting. You’re just throwing money down the drain!” The people who share this advice with you (almost without exception being older people who live in bloody Trinity or the New Town or the Grange, and have owned their flat since the year dot when it was actually possible to buy there without selling your first born son and a number of limbs; or rich young types who have a relative who’s delighted to be their mortgage guarantor…) have clearly never had to try and buy in Edinburgh with no savings, no help from relations and a job that pays 20 grand a year. Yes, of COURSE it’s “better” to buy your own flat – but it isn’t always that simple. And people who assume that it is really piss me off…)

So, with my unusual optimism in place, I had emerged from the financial adviser’s office ready to find my dream home. Well, perhaps not dream home: but a one bedroom flat in the Leith area.

The search started well. I loved the first place I saw. Yeah, sure, it was right next to a chippy and the exterior was colourfully decorated with a few patches of graffiti, but look at the kitchen! And all that storage! And I’m sure I’d get used to the bus stop right outside.

I was convinced this was the one. Even after the survey came back that it would cost one and a half grand to damp-proof the place. Undeterred, my offer went in, and I was quietly hopeful.

First rejection phonecall from the lawyer: “You missed it by a few thousand, hen!”

My lawyer. A peculiar woman, who wore a head set – a la Madonna on stage at Wembley Arena, but maybe not quite so apt in a small office on Leith Walk – and referred lovingly to all her clients “hen”, “darlin’” and “sweetheart”. I was hoping that her pet names hid her ruthless attention to detail and unfaltering ability to fight for any property her clients desired. After all, this was just the first set-back, and I was disappointed but undeterred.

Looking back, I know I viewed loads of properties in those three months or so, although most of them were unmemorable. I do recall the miniscule flat at Canonmills that had a small cupboard cunningly disguised as a shower-room and a bedroom in which you could barely fit a single bed if you actually wanted to be able to close the door. I also recall the beautiful top floor flat on Duke Street that had an amazing view of the city and a BOXROOM as well as the large double bedroom (!!) but already had about 14 notes of interest in place. All the others were either far too small, far too smelly, or had gone by the time I decided on asking for a survey. Not that I was being picky, you must understand: by the time I’d been flat-hunting for about 3 months, I was definitely aware that it was not going to be easy to find a flat for 60 grand. In fact, I was thinking it wouldn’t be possible at all.

And then, my hippy-dippy friend’s comment: “When you see it, you’ll just know it! You’ll find the place that’s meant for you!”

Did she have to say this every time I met her? Couldn’t she just help me forget my woes with a good bottle of shiraz? Didn’t she realise how desperate the situation was? I was now looking for ANYTHING that basically wouldn’t fall down: the idea of finding a flat that was “meant” for me, had gone right out of the window a long time back.

It must have been about the 8^th or 9^th of June 2002. I was doing the usual trawl through the ESPC website at work when I saw what looked like a possibility: Easter Road area, one bedroom, good decorative order (although I’d been fooled by that one before…), double glazing etc. The rooms looked to be a fair size. It was the area I wanted. And the clincher: fixed price for a quick sale. Worth a look, I decided.

I arrived at Albion Terrace and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Not the best stairwell I’d seen – a bit grotty and no security entrance. But I liked all the natural light coming into the close from the sky light at the top. So far, ok. The door to 3F2 was opened by a short, blonde, friendly-looking young woman, who told me to have a look around. Living room: good size. No separate kitchen – just a wee alcove thingie – but quite a big room nonetheless. Bathroom – I remember liking the shower rail and noticing again that it was quite a nice size - especially after all the cupboard-sized shower-rooms I’d seen lately. There were quite a few people looking around too: the owner had told me it had only just gone fixed price that day – she needed to sell quickly because she had found her next place. So, I had to wait until the bedroom had cleared a bit to have a look in there. Peach walls – yuck – but wow – how much storage?? And lovely bright sunshine streaming in through the (double glazed) windows. I wouldn’t have the bed there. I would have my bookcase there…

And that’s when it hit me. With all the flats I had viewed, it was the only place that I completely and utterly without a shadow of a doubt could see myself living in. I just knew it. I can’t explain it – I’m not a believer in all that “fate” nonsense - but I just knew. I just knew that this was my home.

I could see all the other people who were viewing the flat, all looking impressed too. I vaguely remember telling the owner it was exactly what I wanted and I would call my lawyer. By this time, it was twenty to six. I dug out my mobile, shaking with excitement, mentally begging her still to be at her desk. She was. I couldn’t believe my luck. I splurged out all of the details and I could picture her, complete with her head set, hammering them into her keyboard.

“I’ll get it to them right now, sweetheart – I’ll be on their desk first thing in the morning!”

When I got the phonecall the next morning – “I’m just calling to say you’ve bought a flat, darlin’!” – I was obviously delighted. More so when I was told that there had been 4 offers on the selling solicitor’s desk that morning – but because mine had been received the evening before, it was at the top of the pile. I have a lot to thank that mad lawyer for.

And now, 4 years on, I know I did the right thing. Yes, I still haven’t redecorated and yes, it’s freezing in the winter cos I can’t afford to put central heating in yet and yes, the football crowds can be a pain in the ass. But, the hippy-dippy in me knows that this place was meant for me. And, best of all, I did it on my own.

Green

"Homework" exercise done for my writing group, in reponse to the following task:
"Choose a colour - for instance, pink - and take a fifteen minute walk. On your walk notice wherever there is pink. Come back to your notebook and write for fifteen minutes on anything you've seen or the subject pink."

I cheated. I drove for fifteen minutes, instead of walking. My excuse: it was windy and I feel fairly crap.

As I drove, I was thinking about everything that had happened today, what had been said. Or, more accurately, I was doing everything to avoid thinking.

I tried thinking about my chosen colour instead: green. I am, coincidentally, sitting in a green armchair, wearing a green top, drinking a coffee from a mug bearing a green logo. Listening to Pink Floyd – ok, that’s a different colour.

The chair is a dark, kind of khaki / olive green shade, tarnished with crumbs and a couple of small rips…

(I wish they would be quieter. Her laugh is like a weird orgasmic shriek and his voice is low and sounds sinister. She has to lean into him to hear what he says before leaning back again to let out another high pitched yelp…)

My top is a lighter green. I hardly ever wear colours, or at least I very rarely used to. But I decided fairly recently to stop just wearing denim and black. So I bought a green top and green skirt.

When I put that outfit on, with my favourite tan knee-length boots, I feel good. People who know me are surprised when they see me wearing it, because it’s so unlike me. But it’s gradually starting to feel like me.

The man clearing the tables is wearing a green apron too. There’s a bright green drinking straw lying crushed on the floor, a remnant from a busy, noisy day in the café.

I suppose we associate green with nature. With health, maybe.

(Please, please stop laughing and touching each other. I can’t bear to see that today. Go home…)

Nature. Trees, leaves, plants, grass. I love the way green leaves turn brown, orange, red in autumn. But even more, I love the way some trees stay green: a deep, dark green – almost black if they’re in a thick forest. It reminds me of Christmas trees and of winter walks with snow falling.

Green – environmentalists. The Green Party. Think Green! My best friend is an environmentalist. She works for WWF. I call her Green or a “Greener” for a laugh. She is a very intelligent, successful woman, but is still a “dappy bird” (her words, not mine!). She doesn’t like air travel. She recycles and buys “eco” washing up liquid and stuff. I feel I have to lie to her when I fly places with work, or use my car a lot, although she doesn’t get at me.

There’s a bright green notepad over there. It’s so bright, it’s standing out from the rest of the numerous notepads, diaries and stationery on sale. Too bright for my tastes.

It’s good to have greenery in your home, but I can’t look after house plants. I forget about them. Or Monkey eats them.

When he moved into a new flat, more than four years ago, we had just met. I bought him a very small, cheap ivy plant. A couple of years ago, it was dead – we were sure it was. But it started growing again. And from nothing, a tiny, almost dead stem, it grew and grew. Now, it’s enormous. It takes up his whole window sill. Its leaves are very dark green. I wonder if it’ll die again, then grow again…

Remember Me!

A fifteen minute unplanned writing response done at my writing group. It was in response to a card, which showed a cartoon picture of a computer, subtitled with the phrase "Remember Me!" It's just a "story chunk". Have no idea where it would go from here...

The screen blinked into life, cancelling the bubbling fish screen saver. His eyes scanned the screen for signs…

“Please,” he thought. “Please don’t let me have missed her.”

What the hell was he thinking answering the door anyway? Five minutes persuading a man that, no thank you, he didn’t want to change electricity providers.

“We said 7,” he hisses frantically to himself.

Messenger. JP – Offline.

“Shit.”

“You have one new message.” The reassuring box popped up at the bottom of the screen. He swiftly clicked on it:

“Where are you? Missed you. Never mind. Maybe another night.”

“Damnit. Damnit!”

He slammed down his mouse and the cursor flew across the screen.

He put his head in his hands, feeling his greasy hair against his head.

“Bing!”

“Hi there!”

Another small box appeared at the foot of the screen.

“AN is not on your contact list.

Curious, he clicked on the box, opening the dialogue window.

“Hi…”, he typed.

Pause.

“How you doing?” The message appeared, followed by one of those annoying cartoon question marks which spins round, distracting the eye.

“Cool, thank you.”

“Great!”

A pause.

“Remember me?”

A smiley face. God, he hatred smilies.

He took a moment to think: AN, AN. He was usually good with names and contacts.

He typed again:

“I think so. Where are you from?”

“You know where.”

“Do I?”

“You should! Don’t you remember me?”

“OK, I’ll be honest, I don’t.”

“But we talked just last night…”

This is weird, he thought. He didn’t remember any online conversations last night, apart from the one with JP – the one when he’s told her how he felt…

“Remember me now?”

“I think you have the wrong person.”

“No. No I don’t. You said you loved her, didn’t you?”

He stopped – his hands hanging over the keys.

“What?!”

“You told her. You told her you loved her. And she told you you were pathetic.”

He felt his heart skip and his face go hot.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“You don’t remember me?”

“No! What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“I saw what you wrote. You said you loved her. She would have laughed in your face if she could have over Messenger.”

He thought quickly.

“OK, very funny. Now piss off and annoy someone else.”

A long pause.

Good. AN has given up, he thought. Just some random nutter.

At the bottom of the window: “AN is writing a message.”

“I’m watching you…”

Character Monologue

In response to this task:
"Flip through some magazines and find a picture of a person who looks interesting. Don't chose a celebrity or anyone famous cos you know stuff about them already. Cut the picture out and put it on your desk. Now write about that person, their life, her problems, his goals, background , whatever comes to mind. Move towards some conflict in which the character can be involved. Then write a scene to explore that conflict."
I found an image in a newspaper, of a stern looking older man. He has white beard and hair, though is balding. Very smartly dressed in a business suit and tie. I decided on a monologue, trying to bring out aspects of this person's character. I won't post the image here as I wouldn't want to offend anyone who knows him in real life :-)

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Does she have any idea what pressure I am under at the moment? I have that bloody young whipper snapper watching my every move at work and then I come home and have to deal with this nonsense.

What the hell is she talking about? How the hell can she just decide that, after 10 years of adult life? She’s never been good with relationships – one boyfriend after another, and there’s always some problem with them - although they’ve always been nothing but charming with me and her mother.

Her mother. Her bloody mother. Pandering to her, never off that bloody phone. It’s almost as though Karen condones this nonsense. “She’s still our daughter, Johnny”. If I hear that sentence one more time, I’ll walk out. I am not to be patronised: I am quite aware of the children I have raised. A son who wasted his education and can only make a living as a gardener and a daughter who has suddenly decided to have sex with women and become a pervert.

And all the hard work. Never away from that office, living for the company. They never wanted for anything. The best schools, the best childcare, the house, flats at university. And all for what? To find out that all the effort has led to a drop-out sexual deviant for a daughter.

And while she “finds herself” in whatever depraved way she sees fit, I’m still working all hours, having to “justify” myself. Having to “justify” the last 30 years? How dare they. How dare they suggest that they have no need for me. Who won the first overseas contract? Who turned this company around when everyone said it was over? 19 million pound turnover, from just 10 million 3 years ago. And yet, I am being asked by a business graduate - young enough to be my worthless son, who covers himself in cheap polyester suits and excessive aftershave – to “justify” my job. The bastards. They will pay.

I cannot relax. I cannot switch off at home. That bloody mousey woman who can’t see a thing wrong with her daughter’s behaviour. You know, it’s months since she threw a proper dinner party. I can’t recall the last time she cooked anything that wasn’t out of a packet. It’s not as if she has anything to do all day – pill popping, reality television and chatting to her boring friends about the latest diet fad, for God’s sake. She wants for nothing. She has her dream house, her garden full of expensive rose bushes, her cleaning lady and her new car. And all she can do is mooch and moan and worry about her perverted daughter. What about me? Does she ever worry about me? Does she ever ask about the office?

So I cannot relax at home. She won’t allow me. I have to find other ways. It is not my fault. It’s hers – and that stupid girl’s. It’s their fault I need to look elsewhere for relaxation.

This is exactly what I was saying to Maria last night, just before she tightened the eye mask and gag. We always have a chat before we start and she is a good listener. I think that must be part of the job. And I know she agrees with me – although it’s all the same to her: she gets paid either way. Though she does understand why I come to her. She knows it’s not my fault: it’s the stress - of the job, of the hopeless wife, of the sexual deviant of a daughter.

So I’m able to relax. She keeps the lights off, although the eye mask is always so tight I wouldn’t know. Her voice in the dark. The vile things she says, the way she tells me I am her dirty worthless slave. Her stiletto heels digging into my back. The smell of the leather in the air…

It is the only way for me to relax. I have no other choice. It’s completely natural for someone in my position.

Cheese Pretzels

"Homework" exercise for my writing group. We had to write in any way we wanted on the subject of FOOD.


I am a bit fat. I know I am a bit fat. And to be honest most of the time it doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel too unhealthy, I try to keep fit and I also try to eat healthily. But I’m still a bit fat.

Recently, this has bothered me for a simple reason – a wedding. Not mine, I hasten to add, but my best friend’s. My best friend’s wedding. Dunkeld Cathedral. Athol Palace Hotel. Hundreds of guests. Big occasion. And I’m her bridesmaid. And I have to fit into a corset style outfit. Oh goodie.

So, as it always happens with me every couple of years, I make the commitment to get slimmer. Not slim – I’ll never be slim, and I wouldn’t want to be (I like my curves J). But I need to lose a bit.

Now, there is a simple truth about losing weight. All the books, plans, clubs in the world that try to help you with slimming – underneath it all, the truth is YOU HAVE TO EAT LESS AND EXERCISE MORE. End of story. No matter what they try to get you to believe – red days, green days, WW points, activity points, low carbs, no carbs, more fibre, less fat – you lose weight by eating less and exercising more. Sadly, there’s no quick fix – or certainly no quick fix that’s good for you.

And this is what I’m trying to do. The exercising has been surprisingly easy to get into becoming a habit. Thanks to Ms Davina McCall’s “Thirty Minute Workouts”, I am managing to actually enjoy working out at home. And I’ve started to see a bit of a difference.

The eating thing. Ah. That’s a slightly different story…

I am an utter food junkie. Eating and enjoying food is one of my major pastimes. I just love food. I love eating out. I love trying new things – and old favourites.

Now, if I cook at home, there’s no problem – I always cook healthily and never buy crap. However, I also have a tendency – a number of times a week – to just say “bugger it” and head out for a meal, or to the takeaway. Not only is this not helping the bridesmaid dress struggle, but it’s also not too good for the bank balance.

And the other struggle, of course, is snacking. I try to have only healthy snacks in the house, but who wants carrot sticks and salsa when you know – and everyone knows – that the only thing that’ll satisfy you at that 10pm-in-front-of-the-tv-with-a-glass-of-wine-in-your-hand stage of the night is a dirty big bag of Kettle Chips or a few slices of toast, thickly spread with butter and jam, or a couple of cheese and pickle toasties…

So, snacking is another downfall. But I believe I have found the answer…

Cheese pretzels.

I honestly believe I have found my ultimate munchie in the form of Penn State cheese pretzels. Now, I’m not saying these are healthy – they’re not. But the point is (and, yes, I know I may be deluding myself somewhat – but bear with me..) they are at least healthier than normal crisps – they have much less fat for a start. Let’s not discuss salt content for now.

So, I’ve found a crisp substitute that’s lower in fat and calories by quite a margin. Now, normally, we all know that the healthier option is rarely the tastier one – let’s think about low fat cheese, low fat oven chips, light mayo, “healthy choice” sandwiches (healthier simply, because they are about half the size of a normal one…). None of these are as satisfying as their full fat, high calorie cousins. Be honest.

But, the thing about my cheese pretzel friends is that they are simply bloody delicious. I love them. I love everything about them. I love the smell as you open the pack; I love the crunchy, biscuity texture and the way they go gooey as you munch and stick in between your teeth; I love the tangy, salty taste as you lick the coating off each tiny, perfectly formed pretzel one by one; I love the fact that the cheesy salty coating covers your fingers and you can lick it all off. As I said, I am close to being obsessed with my new snack love.

There is, however, one downside. And it’s a significant one. The main supermarkets have stopped selling them.

No, this is not a joke. I used to go to Asda’s as usual and drop a couple of the joyous yellow packets into my trolley without a care in the world. Then, one day about 2 months ago, I turned into the crisps and snack aisle to be faced with a shelf full of Penn State pretzels – but only the basic salted flavour. No cheesy ones in site. No “Sorry we’re out of stock” stickers. Nothing. Gone.

The next time I went shopping, it was Morrison’s. They at least had the Sour Cream and Chive flavour – which are pretty good, kind of a poor but almost-acceptable-if-needs be substitute. Still no cheesy ones.

Tesco’s. Only the salted ones.

Sainsbury’s. Even worse. They only stock their own make pretzels! Pah!

After weeks of this disappointment, I had to resign myself to the fact that my love affair with my little cheesy friends was over. The search would have to continue to find a healthy(ish) snack to fulfil my cravings and not seriously put my weight loss plan in jeopardy.

Saturday night. A few gins on. Nothing in the fridge for dinner. Takeaway? No – too unhealthy and expensive. I suggested I popped round to Scotmid (horrid little supermarket on Easter Road that depresses me as soon as I enter it…) to get something to slam in the oven.

I wandered round the small and sorry-looking aisles (it was after 9pm on a Saturday night and most of the stock had been decimated) looking for inspiration for dinner. Remembering I had a tub of salsa in the fridge I though I’d treat myself to some tortilla chips. I looked at the varieties. Nothing was exciting me looking at those shelves. Since the end of the cheesy pretzel pleasure, snack shelves just didn’t excite me much anymore.

For some reason, I looked up to the top shelf.

If I was a religious person, I would almost have said there was an angelic glow coming from that top shelf. Although maybe it was the gin.

But, sure enough, my eyes were not deceiving me. Penn State Cheese Pretzels. In Scotmid. On Easter Road. The pleasure I felt was immeasurable and I was glad that the shop was quiet and noone was around to witness my inane grin.

Is it pathetic that such a simple thing as finding a variety of heavily salted snack food in your local supermarket makes your weekend?

The answer, of course, is yes. But pathetic or not, my little bundles of cheesy joy are now nestling safely in my cupboard, ready for the next snack attack.

I only hope I can ration them a bit this time…

"I Like Getting Older"

(Short story in response to the pic - a 15 minute unplanned writing piece from my writers' group)

I sit in the dingy staff kitchen waiting for the inevitable morning rush of those less organised with time-keeping than I am. I hate people who aren't on time. Lack of care for others. Lack of respect. Lack of discipline. I always get to the office by 8.30am at the latest - then there's time for coffee and my morning sudoku. What these others don't realise is that 9am is when you are contracted to start working - not when you are contracted to start making a morning drink.

And here they come...

"Aw, fuck man - Ah wis pure wasted! Ah'm tellin ye!"

"Aye man. Ah saw ye chattin up that burd. Ye wir all over her!"

"She wis pure gaggin fir it..."

The obnoxious voices growing gradually louder as they reach the kitchen door...

"Aye, fuck man... Oh, morning Miss Clarke."

The two men who have just ruined my silent sudoku solitude with their cheap-suited, loud-tied entrance stifle giggles as they remove their cotas and head for the kettle.

I just nod a refined greeting and go back to my sudoku...

But I can still hear them, yapping like excited gibbons as they make their coffee...

Booze - "pure cheap, man!"

Burds - "hot as fuck!"

Parents - "Ma maw wis ragin, man!"

Friends - "He's been pure doin ma heid in."

I listen to their inane ramblings. The ramblings of youth. Of ignorance and short sightedness.

I remember it.

I do.

I was once the drinker, the flirter, the shagger, the trouble-making daughter, the unreliable friend. The youngster.

I like getting older.

L Stokes 1st August 2006

The Greek Sailors

(In response to my writers' group's task of writing about a person you met while travelling who made an impression on you...)

I found myself in a dark, noisy bar, surrounded by smoking shadows and speakers pumping euro-pop into the atmosphere. I remember staring at my pint, feeling very peculiar. And then starting to feel a bit panicky. And slightly sick. “Whitie”.

This trip to Amsterdam was a statement. Well, a statement to myself. Planned as a romantic weekend; scuppered by the fact that the relationship had ended before we’d had a chance to book it (just as well, really…). I went anyway. Alone. That was my statement to myself: I’ve been dumped, I’m alone again, but I don’t care – I can fend for myself in my favourite city.

By night two, I had walked miles: miles of streets and miles of aisles in galleries. I had smoked too much, drunk too much and eaten too much fast food – the inevitable “body-abuse-without-the-guilt” which is likely to occur when you are the dumpee. By that night, though, I was feeling low. I was enjoying my own company, but I felt like I hadn’t spoken to anyone in days (in truth, I hadn’t, really…) - I wanted a blether.

So, already feeling rather low, the unmistakable feeling of the oncoming whitie was far from welcome. Just as I was about to admit defeat and seek out the fresh air of the Spuistraat (well, as fresh as it gets there…), I suddenly realised the two other seats at my table had become occupied.

Dodgy pub, in an often dodgy city, wasted young female – the fact that two men of large stature had sat down at my table could easily have been a slight cause for alarm, or at least a slight cause of discomfort. However, as one of them said “We can sit here?” and I said “Sure”, I felt my threatened whitie ease.

I can’t remember the names of these two guys: although I remember clearly they were Greek sailors, on leave in Amsterdam for a few days. And they were partners. I remember a great conversation, which lasted well into the next morning – although the Amstel and hash was flowing, so perhaps the conversation was not as high brow as I choose to recall it. I remember talking about politics: me explaining about the opening of the new Scottish Parliament - which I was ecstatic about at the time - and them telling me all about the Greek government, and their life together.

The most memorable thing, however, was their view on homophobia.

My two companions for the evening told me about their relationship, how they had met many years before, living in the same small village. How they had always known they were gay – no doubt about it – and how they had always known they could not be open.

I remember being perturbed by this. Why should anyone not be open about their sexuality? Surely, in the early 2000s, all (legal) forms of sexual expression were much more celebrated and accepted. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t naïve: I wouldn’t have argued that it was a good idea for two gay men to walk into the Sarrie Heid in Possil holding hands. But that was just pockets of ignorance and cruelty on the part of people who were ignorant and cruel about a lot of things, surely. But the idea of two gay men, who had been in love with each other since their teens, not being able to “come out” – that did surprise me.

But they explained. Greece was, they said, still rife with homophobia. Greek society – especially where they came from – just didn’t acknowledge that being gay was a way of life for some men. “Why do you think we come to Amsterdam whenever we can? It’s not just for the hash.” They told me their families knew - or had guessed - but it was never spoken about, and certainly never “accepted”. One of them had even been married for a few years in his early twenties. That’s just the way it was.

But didn’t it drive them crazy? Didn’t they feel that it wasn’t fair? Didn’t they think they should be allowed to be open and honest about their lives? I remember asking them these questions, and more, as the night went on, and the smoke got thicker. They just shrugged most of the time, and laughed – it wasn’t even an option, they said. Just would never happen. They lived the way they lived and that was that. For the foreseeable future, at least.

So that was why they had chosen to work together on ships. Their employers and workmates didn’t know about their relationship – but, as they explained to me, THEY knew, and they were together every day, and that was the only thing that really mattered to them.

We were sitting in a bar in one of the most sexually liberated cities in Europe, where unconventional, as well as conventional, sexual behaviour was the norm…

And these people I met were a reminder that there’s still a long way to go…

L Stokes 1st August 2006