Scotland for I (or me, as it should more correctly be)
Severeal weeks ago I took a Friday off work and bravely boarded a ferociously early train out of Kings Cross to go and visit Samantha. No, the trains aren't suddenly offering a trans-Atlantic service - she was temporarily in the country and staying at her parents' house about an hour out of Edinburgh.
By the time I arrived up there her parents had very sensibly fled to London, leaving us in sole possession of their lovely, large Georgian house for the weekend. And I have to say that we were extremely grown up about it all.
Do you remember being at junior school, and looking forward longingly to the rosy days or being "grown up"? After all, with no one to tell you to go to bed, tidy your room or do your homework the world would be your lobster. You'd stay up really late, do exactly what you wanted all the time, and eat what you fancied. It'd be one long party.
Radiator keys, direct debits, income tax and frustrating phonecalls to ntl significantly didn't feature in my imaginings of adult life. The working week somehow got missed out too, despite the assumption that I'd have a beautifully appointed house to live in. All in all, I have to say that being of voting age has been one long disappointment so far.
But for one weekend, we managed to be grown ups as my five your old self intended. Which is why we ended up boiling eggs, making toast, and watching Labyrinth at two o'clock in the morning.
The house provided an ideal backdrop. It's spacious, and looks out onto suitably wild and picturesque hills. You could have a decent game of hide and seek in it (though actually we didn't), and it retains a working set of servants' bells which ring in the kitchen. Waking on Saturday morning and hearing Samantha downstairs in the kitchen, I briefly considered pressing the bell by my bed to order a cup of tea; deciding it would be delivered in a rather projectile manner, I gave in and went to interview the Aga myself.
The house is also fairly isolated. A complaint from the neighbours comes in the form of a strongly worded letter from the local owl, so we cranked the volume up. On Saturday night I was building up the log fire, singing along at the top of my voice to Safety Dance. And, er, waiting for Samantha to put her word on the Scrabble board.
We played quite a lot of Scrabble (I lost overall; I always do). We nattered a lot, we ate meals at odd times and did nothing more sensible than the odd bit of necessary washing up. I played the piano, strumming snatches of songs since I play badly without music. I browsed around in bookshelves and read when I should have been asleep. I stood with my hands by the Aga's hotplates (OK, warmplates) and did nothing.
We went on a jaunt to a nearby town, with the salacious-sounding "Peebles For Pleasure!" on its welcome signs. The town itself is grey and dour-looking, but the people seemed incredibly friendly. In the bizarrely busy handbag and greetings card shop even my very English accent didn't seem to put people off chatting to me. We wound up eating an inexpensive and rather superior afternoon tea in a local hotel, taking our sandwiches, scones and meringues from a triple decker cake-plate (always a winner) as we reclined on squashy sofas.
On Monday, of course, I went back to work and spent the evening sorting out some bits of paperwork. However, this is clearly not what being grown up's all about and I'm pleased to have got in touch with my inner adult for a weekend.
By the time I arrived up there her parents had very sensibly fled to London, leaving us in sole possession of their lovely, large Georgian house for the weekend. And I have to say that we were extremely grown up about it all.
Do you remember being at junior school, and looking forward longingly to the rosy days or being "grown up"? After all, with no one to tell you to go to bed, tidy your room or do your homework the world would be your lobster. You'd stay up really late, do exactly what you wanted all the time, and eat what you fancied. It'd be one long party.
Radiator keys, direct debits, income tax and frustrating phonecalls to ntl significantly didn't feature in my imaginings of adult life. The working week somehow got missed out too, despite the assumption that I'd have a beautifully appointed house to live in. All in all, I have to say that being of voting age has been one long disappointment so far.
But for one weekend, we managed to be grown ups as my five your old self intended. Which is why we ended up boiling eggs, making toast, and watching Labyrinth at two o'clock in the morning.
The house provided an ideal backdrop. It's spacious, and looks out onto suitably wild and picturesque hills. You could have a decent game of hide and seek in it (though actually we didn't), and it retains a working set of servants' bells which ring in the kitchen. Waking on Saturday morning and hearing Samantha downstairs in the kitchen, I briefly considered pressing the bell by my bed to order a cup of tea; deciding it would be delivered in a rather projectile manner, I gave in and went to interview the Aga myself.
The house is also fairly isolated. A complaint from the neighbours comes in the form of a strongly worded letter from the local owl, so we cranked the volume up. On Saturday night I was building up the log fire, singing along at the top of my voice to Safety Dance. And, er, waiting for Samantha to put her word on the Scrabble board.
We played quite a lot of Scrabble (I lost overall; I always do). We nattered a lot, we ate meals at odd times and did nothing more sensible than the odd bit of necessary washing up. I played the piano, strumming snatches of songs since I play badly without music. I browsed around in bookshelves and read when I should have been asleep. I stood with my hands by the Aga's hotplates (OK, warmplates) and did nothing.
We went on a jaunt to a nearby town, with the salacious-sounding "Peebles For Pleasure!" on its welcome signs. The town itself is grey and dour-looking, but the people seemed incredibly friendly. In the bizarrely busy handbag and greetings card shop even my very English accent didn't seem to put people off chatting to me. We wound up eating an inexpensive and rather superior afternoon tea in a local hotel, taking our sandwiches, scones and meringues from a triple decker cake-plate (always a winner) as we reclined on squashy sofas.
On Monday, of course, I went back to work and spent the evening sorting out some bits of paperwork. However, this is clearly not what being grown up's all about and I'm pleased to have got in touch with my inner adult for a weekend.