(no subject)
We have a group of the most cackly Scandinavian women in the bar - possibly Serafina Pekkala and chums - they are playing Pictionary in a scandinavian language laced with english and shrieking with laughter. It sounds hilarious; all I can hear is "smerdy berdy smerdy berdy smerdy berdy ....potatoes" followed by mass hilarity. And a HIK was called upon to translate , "What is this cufflink?" etc.
It is the most beautiful evening. It is after ten and still far from dark. There is a sliver of waxing moon over the fir trees outside my window, and the sky is streaked with pink which is glittering on the sea below. Tonight I drove to Portree to collect the ozard dude from cubs, and I noticed there are masses of bluebells and primroses growing wild in the woods.
I have just been chatting to the earwig who seems to be a bit perkier this week; she and the valley girl have plans to take Murdo out on the town of Stamford this weekend - fajitas at Panama Joes are planned for Saturday; I quite wish I could join them.
On Sunday my parents are coming to visit. My mother, who is on the most estranged of terms with the concept of spontaneity, is already packing the car. I love my mother but she needs lots of notice before she can do anything. Once, when my frail old grandfather was still alive and living by himself, she rang to say she couldn't contact him by phone so could I drive round and check all was well. At the time I was home alone with four children under the age of seven who all had to be loaded into the car, but my mother couldn't go because she was working the next day. I hope I never get like that - I always want to be like my 16 yr old self who would go anywhere at the drop of a hat with just a spare pair of knickers in my hand bag.
It is just starting to get dark now. The fir trees look like black cardboard silhouettes in the moonlight and the hills over on Braes are like a sleeping knobbly kneed giant outlined against the sky. A HIK and The Dog are outside communing with nature, and even Mr Vinegar has just gone to join them and has taken a photo on his phone. And I suspect I will be joining them shortly.
It is the most beautiful evening. It is after ten and still far from dark. There is a sliver of waxing moon over the fir trees outside my window, and the sky is streaked with pink which is glittering on the sea below. Tonight I drove to Portree to collect the ozard dude from cubs, and I noticed there are masses of bluebells and primroses growing wild in the woods.
I have just been chatting to the earwig who seems to be a bit perkier this week; she and the valley girl have plans to take Murdo out on the town of Stamford this weekend - fajitas at Panama Joes are planned for Saturday; I quite wish I could join them.
On Sunday my parents are coming to visit. My mother, who is on the most estranged of terms with the concept of spontaneity, is already packing the car. I love my mother but she needs lots of notice before she can do anything. Once, when my frail old grandfather was still alive and living by himself, she rang to say she couldn't contact him by phone so could I drive round and check all was well. At the time I was home alone with four children under the age of seven who all had to be loaded into the car, but my mother couldn't go because she was working the next day. I hope I never get like that - I always want to be like my 16 yr old self who would go anywhere at the drop of a hat with just a spare pair of knickers in my hand bag.
It is just starting to get dark now. The fir trees look like black cardboard silhouettes in the moonlight and the hills over on Braes are like a sleeping knobbly kneed giant outlined against the sky. A HIK and The Dog are outside communing with nature, and even Mr Vinegar has just gone to join them and has taken a photo on his phone. And I suspect I will be joining them shortly.