Joyeuses Pâques.
Why, hello there. I do hope you're enjoying the pageantry centred around the Easter celebrations this year. I particularly enjoy it myself. I find that I can focus more fully on the Cross when I'm hyperglycaemic. I mean, I once considered celebrating the vernal equinox, but I wasn't sure if it involved the same volume of chocolate as our more traditional festival - and I personally find pagans just a little bit fucking weird, really.
But back to the unfolding drama of my little life. Where were we? Ah yes - jaunt in Edinburgh with Davey Heitler and everything else...
It was rather nice in Edinburgh, and I was pleased to discover that I did not have respiratory problems on my return home, after the over-indulgence in somewhat illicit cigarettes on Arthur's Seat. I'm not a good smoker. I give smoking a bad name. I cough, splutter and cry: "Why couldn't you just put it into cookies?!" Before succumbing to the mellow vapours, giggling and singing: "Heartbeat... why do you miss when I'm having a cardiac arrest?"
At one point during this lengthy toke, we spotted a lone swan wandering from a pond and going towards the road. I had to ask them why they thought the swan might cross the road. They didn't know and neither did I. We can only assume at this stage that it would be to get to the other side - but perhaps that is one huge anthropomorphic error on our part.
One of Dave's pals said he liked to go down to the pond sometimes to wind the swans up because he liked their aggressive display. He explained to me how they rear up, and spread their wings and beat them. I told them I knew exactly what he was on about and didn't share his enthusiasm. I once evidently got too close for the comfort of one swan while I was doing the rounds in Alexandra Park when I was a wee lassy, it gave me its aggressive display and it scared me quite a little bit - which I suppose is the point, really. From then on I kept a little more distance between me and swans.
And for anyone at all interested - I always believed that the swans at Alexandra Park were weirdos. They grazed. They ate grass. I once turned up at the park early one morning and there was a large group of them, munching at the grass at the bottom of the golf course. And when I picked grass and threw it in the pond, they ate it. Is this orthodox swan behaviour, or had all those syringes and barrels of toxic waste hidden in the depths of said pond altered their usual eating habits?
I don't know... but I just discovered the Gorbals geese are at it too:
But anyway, enough about swans and other birds. (Sings: "Swan, Swan, Hummingbird" in spite of herself.) We had a good old time up on the Seat, smoking things and discussing life, the universe and everything - alongside some spontaneous bursting into song by myself, with some of the others joining in. It's unusual to meet people who like The Smiths, Radiohead, The Cure, The Stone Roses, Beethoven and Vivaldi. And then I spent the rest of the time bouncing to and from various student flats, discussing a little philosophy, eating big bags of peanut M&Ms and huge baguettes, jiving to eclectic music and sleeping on the floor respectively.
I daresay if I could relive it, I'd add a nice bottle of Southern Comfort and some drinking games somewhere in the proceedings - but it was still quite nice, getting out of Glasgow, getting mellow on Arthur's Seat...
David regretted to inform me that one of his furry feline friends had sadly passed away recently after being hit by a car. My deepest sympathies and condolences go out to you, mate. You know that if I were God, cats would live forever.
One of my cats has dermatitis just now, actually. None of the cats have ever been to the vet while they've been living with me, beyond getting spayed, so this felt quite serious to me at the time. I thought she was dying or something. And none of my pets have ever died. Mainly because the cats are the only pets I've had - because I never liked the idea of keeping rodents or reptiles because they have to be kept in cages/enclosures, dogs need to be taken out and kept on leads (and I never appreciated standing in dog shit), fish in tanks... etc. And one cat isn't enough. And I might have liked more (perhaps let the little girls breed), but my dad wouldn't allow it. And both cats are 12 years old this year.
Would you believe that the vet prescribed, besides some antibiotics, a nice anti-dermatitis shampoo for us to have great fun trying to lather into our little friend's fur. I don't want to embarrass these professionals too much, or sound like I'm feeling terribly smug in possessing some superior knowledge to them on these matters - but someone really has to tell them that cats really aren't all that fond of water.
I did the first one, while my dad was out - and a few days later while I was quietly reading, he strode into my room exasperated and asked: "How the hell did you manage to get her into the bath at all?"
I laughed and told him simply that I had the touch, and did the second one - and I still have my arms, too.
As an aside, I was recently looking through photos of some of my various friends' pets and a distinct pattern did begin to emerge. There was a notable absence of dogs, fish, leopard geckos, snakes, hamsters, and any other pet you care to mention - and a very distinct presence of all manner of felis cattus - which I do find quite interesting. I'd never really noted it before, and I wonder what significance it might have...
It was something that got me thinking after George did his weird "cat trick" on me in a club after a couple of drinks. Apparently at right about the stage in life that I was exploring the interior of my classmate's Y-fronts, George was watching cats, dogs, snakes and leopard geckos shag - and has built up a very interesting repertoire of Derren-Brown-meets-Desmond-Morris-meets-the-Kama-Sutra party tricks, which he will either ask politely if he can demonstrate for you, or will do on request. One of which box of tricks he used on me was one for the feline-inclined, which I refuse to describe lest anyone thinks they can use it to tap into this personal soft-spot.
The security guy at the club was almost as intrigued as I was when my eyes started rolling to the back of my head and my knees buckled. I felt somewhat duped by it, but it was also rather pleasant and I was so fascinated that I just had to ask him to do it again, and again. And George thereafter took to calling me "tiny" less, preferring the new "moggy", instead. Because apparently I can't escape the fact that I'm just a big human-shaped cat. I mean, what is particularly odd about all this is that, as you know, I happen to loathe, detest, despise all manner of feline whose paws walk this earth...
Moving on to other matters: the journalist I spoke of earlier sent me an email after reading what I wrote about him. He said he felt like a chump for having said the thing regarding my blog, on reflection. Said he believed in freedom of expression and the liberty even to be downright insulting - and that he was now curious as hell as to my thoughts regarding his hairdo and all the rest. So I told him, and told him that though freedom of expression is a wonderful thing - so can discretion be; and I respect it if people don't wish to have their names splashed liberally over the blogs of free spirits such as myself. He seemed to agree overall, and approved of my use of the term "geek-chic" in describing his appearance.
So in light of him feeling chumpish, and since he gave me a nice little write-up on his own blog, I hereby announce that his good name is Paul Stokes. His old weekly column for Scotland on Sunday can be found here - should you wish to read and ponder on why they wanted to take his column off him, and subsequently showed him the door when he took exception. And my little mention on his blog can be found here.
He looks about 50 in that photo. He really doesn't look that old in real life.
As if all this flattery hasn't been enough already to pump even the most faint ego up to cosmic proportions - I have one last gesture to show.
A newspaper cutting from 2006. From when I was a student at Langside, and the college library had free copies of The Scotsman for students, and I clearly felt I had nothing better to do than sit in the library reading The Scotsman or surfing the net. I loved that article so much that it's still in one piece in my room. I bet that brings a tear to your eye, Paul.
Above and beyond this - in haste as it's approaching my dad's bedtime again - I'm planning to be down in Liverpool for this years Climate Camp. I am also planning sticking a weekly-paid job for a few weeks to prop up my finances a little, then shooting on down to England to meet various folk. Perhaps straight after the Liverpool venture. Not all is clearly planned. Mainly since, for all that I can scheme - at the best of times I couldn't organise my way out of a wet paper bag. We are working on this...
Let ye know how things begin to pan out.
But back to the unfolding drama of my little life. Where were we? Ah yes - jaunt in Edinburgh with Davey Heitler and everything else...
It was rather nice in Edinburgh, and I was pleased to discover that I did not have respiratory problems on my return home, after the over-indulgence in somewhat illicit cigarettes on Arthur's Seat. I'm not a good smoker. I give smoking a bad name. I cough, splutter and cry: "Why couldn't you just put it into cookies?!" Before succumbing to the mellow vapours, giggling and singing: "Heartbeat... why do you miss when I'm having a cardiac arrest?"
At one point during this lengthy toke, we spotted a lone swan wandering from a pond and going towards the road. I had to ask them why they thought the swan might cross the road. They didn't know and neither did I. We can only assume at this stage that it would be to get to the other side - but perhaps that is one huge anthropomorphic error on our part.
One of Dave's pals said he liked to go down to the pond sometimes to wind the swans up because he liked their aggressive display. He explained to me how they rear up, and spread their wings and beat them. I told them I knew exactly what he was on about and didn't share his enthusiasm. I once evidently got too close for the comfort of one swan while I was doing the rounds in Alexandra Park when I was a wee lassy, it gave me its aggressive display and it scared me quite a little bit - which I suppose is the point, really. From then on I kept a little more distance between me and swans.
And for anyone at all interested - I always believed that the swans at Alexandra Park were weirdos. They grazed. They ate grass. I once turned up at the park early one morning and there was a large group of them, munching at the grass at the bottom of the golf course. And when I picked grass and threw it in the pond, they ate it. Is this orthodox swan behaviour, or had all those syringes and barrels of toxic waste hidden in the depths of said pond altered their usual eating habits?
I don't know... but I just discovered the Gorbals geese are at it too:
But anyway, enough about swans and other birds. (Sings: "Swan, Swan, Hummingbird" in spite of herself.) We had a good old time up on the Seat, smoking things and discussing life, the universe and everything - alongside some spontaneous bursting into song by myself, with some of the others joining in. It's unusual to meet people who like The Smiths, Radiohead, The Cure, The Stone Roses, Beethoven and Vivaldi. And then I spent the rest of the time bouncing to and from various student flats, discussing a little philosophy, eating big bags of peanut M&Ms and huge baguettes, jiving to eclectic music and sleeping on the floor respectively.
I daresay if I could relive it, I'd add a nice bottle of Southern Comfort and some drinking games somewhere in the proceedings - but it was still quite nice, getting out of Glasgow, getting mellow on Arthur's Seat...
David regretted to inform me that one of his furry feline friends had sadly passed away recently after being hit by a car. My deepest sympathies and condolences go out to you, mate. You know that if I were God, cats would live forever.
One of my cats has dermatitis just now, actually. None of the cats have ever been to the vet while they've been living with me, beyond getting spayed, so this felt quite serious to me at the time. I thought she was dying or something. And none of my pets have ever died. Mainly because the cats are the only pets I've had - because I never liked the idea of keeping rodents or reptiles because they have to be kept in cages/enclosures, dogs need to be taken out and kept on leads (and I never appreciated standing in dog shit), fish in tanks... etc. And one cat isn't enough. And I might have liked more (perhaps let the little girls breed), but my dad wouldn't allow it. And both cats are 12 years old this year.
Would you believe that the vet prescribed, besides some antibiotics, a nice anti-dermatitis shampoo for us to have great fun trying to lather into our little friend's fur. I don't want to embarrass these professionals too much, or sound like I'm feeling terribly smug in possessing some superior knowledge to them on these matters - but someone really has to tell them that cats really aren't all that fond of water.
I did the first one, while my dad was out - and a few days later while I was quietly reading, he strode into my room exasperated and asked: "How the hell did you manage to get her into the bath at all?"
I laughed and told him simply that I had the touch, and did the second one - and I still have my arms, too.
As an aside, I was recently looking through photos of some of my various friends' pets and a distinct pattern did begin to emerge. There was a notable absence of dogs, fish, leopard geckos, snakes, hamsters, and any other pet you care to mention - and a very distinct presence of all manner of felis cattus - which I do find quite interesting. I'd never really noted it before, and I wonder what significance it might have...
It was something that got me thinking after George did his weird "cat trick" on me in a club after a couple of drinks. Apparently at right about the stage in life that I was exploring the interior of my classmate's Y-fronts, George was watching cats, dogs, snakes and leopard geckos shag - and has built up a very interesting repertoire of Derren-Brown-meets-Desmond-Morris-meets-the-Kama-Sutra party tricks, which he will either ask politely if he can demonstrate for you, or will do on request. One of which box of tricks he used on me was one for the feline-inclined, which I refuse to describe lest anyone thinks they can use it to tap into this personal soft-spot.
The security guy at the club was almost as intrigued as I was when my eyes started rolling to the back of my head and my knees buckled. I felt somewhat duped by it, but it was also rather pleasant and I was so fascinated that I just had to ask him to do it again, and again. And George thereafter took to calling me "tiny" less, preferring the new "moggy", instead. Because apparently I can't escape the fact that I'm just a big human-shaped cat. I mean, what is particularly odd about all this is that, as you know, I happen to loathe, detest, despise all manner of feline whose paws walk this earth...
Moving on to other matters: the journalist I spoke of earlier sent me an email after reading what I wrote about him. He said he felt like a chump for having said the thing regarding my blog, on reflection. Said he believed in freedom of expression and the liberty even to be downright insulting - and that he was now curious as hell as to my thoughts regarding his hairdo and all the rest. So I told him, and told him that though freedom of expression is a wonderful thing - so can discretion be; and I respect it if people don't wish to have their names splashed liberally over the blogs of free spirits such as myself. He seemed to agree overall, and approved of my use of the term "geek-chic" in describing his appearance.
So in light of him feeling chumpish, and since he gave me a nice little write-up on his own blog, I hereby announce that his good name is Paul Stokes. His old weekly column for Scotland on Sunday can be found here - should you wish to read and ponder on why they wanted to take his column off him, and subsequently showed him the door when he took exception. And my little mention on his blog can be found here.
He looks about 50 in that photo. He really doesn't look that old in real life.
As if all this flattery hasn't been enough already to pump even the most faint ego up to cosmic proportions - I have one last gesture to show.
A newspaper cutting from 2006. From when I was a student at Langside, and the college library had free copies of The Scotsman for students, and I clearly felt I had nothing better to do than sit in the library reading The Scotsman or surfing the net. I loved that article so much that it's still in one piece in my room. I bet that brings a tear to your eye, Paul.
Above and beyond this - in haste as it's approaching my dad's bedtime again - I'm planning to be down in Liverpool for this years Climate Camp. I am also planning sticking a weekly-paid job for a few weeks to prop up my finances a little, then shooting on down to England to meet various folk. Perhaps straight after the Liverpool venture. Not all is clearly planned. Mainly since, for all that I can scheme - at the best of times I couldn't organise my way out of a wet paper bag. We are working on this...
Let ye know how things begin to pan out.