We have a problem. Please be patient.

Dear Reader

I haven't mentioned this before, largely I think, because I'm in denial.

Tomorrow the packers come. They will wrap up our worldly possessions - including my trusty desktop - load them into a container, ship the container to Nairobi via Mombasa. Once in Nairobi our container will be opened and our goods will pass through a customs process which seems to be a bit, um, fluid. We will be leaving Scotland in early September. And then we'll all be happily reconciled at the other end. At least that's the plan.

It is possible that we will emerge from this process a little lighter in wallet and, indeed, in load. But that we will survive. The far greater question is how I will survive the next +- 6 weeks without Skype, email or (sob!) Blogger?

So dear online friends, I apologise for not being able to visit your blogs or publish posts of our final adventures in Scotland over the next several weeks. I will miss this part of my day more than you know.

See you in October.

The Good Woman

PS Any suggestions as to a new name for this blog are welcome!

Wedding bells

Expat postings can be compared to marriages.

At first there's the frisson of being in something new - finding your way around, forming early opinions, the desire to be open minded and to make it work.

Then there's the wedding - the day you find your new home, the furniture arrives and you celebrate having done it.

The honeymoon follows closely thereafter. The routine is new and, therefore, not boring. You relish the new things that are better than the old things that irked in your last posting. You begin to explore your new home. But it still feels like a long holiday.

The marriage begins when the new environment leaves the toilet seat up. The climate may start to challenge, or perhaps local customs leave you questioning your integrity. You offend without meaning to, or take offence where none is meant. For some, these are easily overcome - identified as unique and special, sometimes even embraced.

In other postings, the foibles become too much. It's time for a separation. And then, with the panic of an impending move, you fall back in love with your new home, as you squash all the outings an experiences you were hoping to get to but thought you would have time to do 'later', into a few short weeks. This is where I am now. Marveling at the beauty of Scotland's greenery, splashing in its puddles, in awe of its history. And packing...

We've been lucky so far, our separations have all been quite amicable. Along the lines of 'I think we should just be friends'... but heartfelt.

So Scotland, may I come back to visit one day? And please (please!) do you think you could let it be for a sunny fortnight?

Fun, no matter how you look at it

I am the first one to acknowledge that, when sitting inside looking in the rain, it is never a good idea to ponder what the family in Cape Town are up too. But this weekend it was irresistable. After all, they were off the coast of Gansbaai in a cage looking at 4m Great White sharks.

So, had I been in Cape Town this weekend, I can say with some confidence that I would have seen this.

I would have swum in that cage on the right.

That could even have been my arm.

But I wasn't in Cape Town. I was in Scotland.

So instead I went to the Linlithgow jousting tournament (as you do), and saw a knight in shining armour...

men wielding swords...

and men on horses wielding long pokey objects.

All great fun. And I didn't even get seasick!

As an aside, the duel re-enactment involved much hurling of period abuse. Bambi was clearly paying attention.

Mummy, what's a fornicator?

Help!

Scottish children

in their natural habitat...

The one on the left actually has a South African mother and an Irish father. But, you know what they say... If it walks, like a duck and talks like a duck....

Annoyed and confused

Yup, you're right. Another rant coming. If you're after sweetness and light, go away. Nothing for you here today.

It all started on Thursday when I bought a car on eBay. A four wheel drive which we plan to take to Kenya - cars being ridiculously expensive over there. I got an extremely good deal that would have had me quite worried were it not for the sobbing sounds emanating from the other end of the phone when I called to arrange payment. Anyway, this was not what annoyed me - although I suppose that reveals me as a heartless bitch who had the rest of the story coming to her...

Anyway, the seller would accept Paypal but would then slap an extra 4% on (which starts to negate the joy of a good deal) so we agreed that the Good Man and I would drive down to Durham today and pay him in cash. And then make a weekend of it somewhere pretty on the coast. So far, so good.

This morning I go to the bank to draw my cash over the counter (it was a good deal but still a sum over my daily ATM limit!) and... they're closed! No counter service on a Saturday. What?! I know for a fact that people shop in Scotland on Saturday. And what about people who work 9-5 jobs during the week. What are they meant to do? I'm now confused.

So, now I can't pay cash, I revert back to the Paypal idea. Except they set a limit on the amount you can pay through their system unless you register your bank account - which takes three days. ARRRGHHHH!

I phoned my bank and try to arrange a CHAPS transfer which should have the money in his account on Monday and asked them to email him a confirmation. They do the transfer but say they can only email me 'for security reasons'. Ah, what? How would emailing someone a letter, containing only their bank account details and confirmation that money is being paid into it be a security risk? I don't understand. So they email it to me but via their website and in a format that cannot be forwarded and has no letterhead or mention of the bank name. So it does not prove I've made the payment. Fortunately the seller (who by this stage is utterly sick of hearing from me every five minutes on a Saturday morning) agrees to just let it go.

But the whole experience got me thinking about other things here I don't understand.

Like 'health and safety'. Everything is more difficult because of health and safety. Public pools can sell goggles, costumes and diving hoops for children. But no floats. Health and safety. So it's okay to send them to the bottom of the pool to retrieve a hoop, but God forbid a child should float! Risky that! Children are, however, allowed to bring their own floats to the pool. Somehow having bought them elsewhere renders them 'safe'. Makes you wonder what the staff keep under the till...

We've also been told by various accommodation providers that they are unable to provide travel cots due to 'Health and Safety'. It's much safer for young children to fall out of standard beds?

And gas and electricity bills that reward you the more energy you consume. Now that's confusing! They charge on a sliding scale! You pay less per unit OVER a set threshold. And then you're told how serious energy conservation is. Surely making the first bit cheap and then charging everyone through the nose for using excessive kilowatts or - dammit, I don't know what a unit of gas is - would incentivise people to use less. Bizarre!

Anyway, the upshot is that I'm NOT in Durham. I do NOT have my new car as the seller wants the payment to clear first (fair enough - this does actually make some sense). I'm annoyed, confused and once again convinced that there is a set of rules here that I am simply not meant to understand and that are kept secret from foreigners.

Safe as houses

Before I came to Glasgow, I anticipated that our time here would feel safe. By European standards, Glasgow doesn't have the best reputation for crime, but by the standards of most places I've lived it's really secure.

We chose to live in a nice southside suburb where people may twitch their curtains, but would never look inside your unlocked car. The residents of this wee corner of the world sometimes complain that nothing ever happens here but after years of electric fences and endless petty theft that suits me just fine.

I have felt safe here. I walk back from the station after dark on my own sometimes and we have even been known to leave our back door unintentionally unlocked from time to time (please don't tell my landlord), without incident.

And then, this afternoon, two people drove a vehicle into the check in area of Glasgow airport. It ignited, they were arrested and, although significant damage was done to the building, nobody was hurt. Actually that's not quite true. The two people in the car were taken to hospital with burns - I'm finding it difficult to feel too much pity for them right now.

The police now suspect that this is an act of terror linked to the discovery of two car bombs in London yesterday. And the UK is on full security alert.

I think it is human to feel a little less safe when terror breathes down our necks like this. But is it right? A terrible thing happened today. But will I be in any greater danger tomorrow than I was yesterday, when I felt no fear at all? Perhaps, but probably not.

Sadly, the success of terrorism depends on that 'perhaps' - the human response to an unpredictable event. In absolute terms, far fewer people will be directly effected by terror attacks than will have their lives effected by the fear these incidents generate. And then terror wins.

I passed through Heathrow on my way back from South Africa in August last year. It was the last time this country was on high alert and the launch of the liquid-in-hand-luggage restrictions. What struck me was how everyone just got on with it. The queues were unreal and the rumours very frightening. But the great British public know about queuing and developed a quiet camaraderie in the face of it all. There was no panic.

So, no. I am not going to bed afraid tonight. It's something I learnt while living in Scotland.

Summer holidays

Okay, I know this is well travelled territory for me, but what the hell is up with the weather in Scotland? Where sunshine is involved, this is the country of false hope.

Through all my misery and whinging about the arctic winter conditions I was comforted by Scottish friends who reassured me that summer here was wonderful thing - warm, sunny days in beautiful landscapes. They regaled me with tales of swimming in lochs, long walks in forests and up mountains. In short, dear readers, they lied.

I doubt this was intentional. You see, the Scots had all booked their tickets to Majorca - a tradition they follow every year, and, therefore, have no clue what a Scottish summer looks like. They are Scottish. Their memories of summer are sunny. Somehow, these facts are mixed together and voila! Sun in Scotland? Lies, I tell you!

Intuitively, the combination of the warmth and good humour of the Scottish nation and it's truly appalling weather are at odds. Most countries with truly lousy climates and long periods of darkness each year have reputations for high suicide rates and depression. With all the scientific backing (cough!) of two years of living here I have developed the following theories as to how the Scots survive:

Theory One: Scots photosynthesise more efficiently than other races. They have the ability to absorb sunshine rapidly and live off it's glow for longer periods of time. They simply don't need more than two days of sunshine a year.

Theory Two: Hope and happiness are closely intertwined. All Scots need is the promise of good weather, not the actual thing. To ensure mental health in Scotland, the met office has introduced the 'catch all' icon. It depicts a sun peeking out from behind a cloud from which rain is pouring down. Anywhere else this would be called 'hedging your bets'. Here it's the daily forecast. It will rain. But the sun may peek out too. Hope.

Theory Three: Scotch whisky.

You would have thought that, by now I would have learnt to follow local wisdom when it comes to holiday planning. But no. While all sensible Scots are beginning the annual exodus to Majorca, I have just booked our summer holiday to Orkney.

If summer hasn't arrived by then.... well, we're leaving in September anyway.

Daisy chains 101

Granny has now gone back to Cape Town. But I've decided not to blog about that - it was the first of many goodbyes to come over the coming months. I will not dwell. I will not!

Instead I thought you may enjoy a short lesson on daisy chain making:

Step One: You'll need some daisies. Scotland is a good place to find them right now. This one's from Skye...

Step Two: Make small incisions in the stems and thread them together. This is tricky, especially if you're two and may require that you stick your tongue out...

Step Three: TADA! Oh dear, it fell off before Mom could take the photo. Quality control is only covered in the next module, Superior Daisy Chain Making!

The problem with Skye

To reach Skye, one drives through Dornie. It is not a big place and, were it not for the flight of fancy of a wealthy family in the early 1900s it may have little claim to fame at all. As it is, the MacRae-Gilstrap family bought a wee island there in 1911. On this island stood the ruins of a castle. And for twenty years they painstakingly restored this ruin, turning it into the glorious incarnation of Eilean Donan Castle we know today.

It is hailed by many as the most romantic castle in Scotland and may well be the most photographed. Here's one I took:


Not far beyond this sentinel one suddenly reaches the far more modern outline of Skye Bridge. And beyond that bridge the problem begins.

You see, Skye is magnificent. And breathtaking. It's breathtakingly magnificent. Each corner reveals a vista more glorious than the last. The view from the front is as good as the view from the back. And therein lies the frustration.

It cannot be captured on film. I tried. I took this photo.

Then this one...

And this... (where Lady MacLeod left her tables).

But none come close to the pictures I see when I close my eyes, imagine the warmth on my shoulders and the breeze across my face. None capture the freedom I felt and the deep sense of well being that stayed with me throughout our visit.

The photos have nothing on my memories.

I think I'll get out my paints.

A room with a view

We spent last weekend in Plockton, a beautiful village on Loch Carron. It is also a mere hop to the Isle of Skye.

It is impossible to spend any amount of time in Scotland and not be instructed to go to this island. It does, however, come with caveats and warnings. My Scottish friends, all advised the taking of appropriate rain gear and bulk purchases of midge repellant. For the uninitiated the midge is a little blood sucking insect that leaves nasty bites and is the bane of the Scottish hiker. It is also the national bird of Skye.

So armed with fleeces, macs, wellies and enough midge repellant to annihilate the entire species, we went on our merry way. Of course, there is nothing predictable about Scottish weather and generalisations are always dangerous. This time we were quite happy that the locals were proved wrong. The sun came out and it was warm. Really warm. Even I wore t-shirts! All weekend! And there was a light breeze for most of our stay. Not strong enough to make you cold - but just enough to disperse the midges.

There were a few clues that we were rather lucky. Firstly, the postcards all showed beautiful views topped with angry, dark clouds, leading me to suspect that a good day on Skye is high cloud. The other was that sunscreen was incredibly difficult to come by. It clearly isn't in high demand in this neck of the woods.

We were booked to stay on a farm just outside Plockton. The decor could best be described as 'cow and collie'. Particular attention was paid to the display of the photographs of the bulls over the years, one of which watched over the toilet. Inspirational!

Our hosts were real characters. We were treated to their tales of farming, courting in the highlands, gossip from the village and their deep suspicion of anyone from 'the south'. And the breakfasts were fantastic.

But the best part was the view from our room...

That's Skye in the distance. Tomorrow, more of our explorations on the island...

It's Nairobi!

That's right! In September we'll be moving to Nairobi, Kenya.

I've told a few friends offline and the responses have been varied. There are those whose eyes gleam in anticipation of safari trips. And there are those whose voices rise a notch and who ask tentatively how I feel about the move. The number in the latter camp has increased dramatically since the bomb blast in downtown Nairobi on Tuesday.

So how do I feel about the impending move back to Africa (but not the part I know)? On the whole, I am really happy about it. I have always wanted to explore East Africa and now I'll have my chance. Nairobi is home to good schools, game parks and an outdoor lifestyle in which, I am sure, Bambi will thrive. The weather will undoubtedly be better. And I can hang up my toilet brush - we'll have staff.

On the other hand, I am realising just how cushioned from risk I have been over the past two years. The UK is a far more controlled society than any I have encountered in Africa. This can be frustrating but does make it a relatively safe place to live.

I grew up In Cape Town in the 70s and 80s. During that time we had numerous bomb scares, incidents of politically motivated violence and high crime rates. Being cautious and sensible was simply a way of life and we got on with it. I anticipate this is how we'll be in Kenya.

And, once again, we will be faced with the stark contrast between the comfortable expat lifestyle we will lead and the desperate poverty in Africa. It has become too easy to push these issues to the back of my mind while living in such a wealthy society. I hope to be able to actually do something while we are there.

So there you have it.

PS. I will write about our amazing trip to Skye soon. With pictures. Sorry for the delay - I've been a bit distracted!

What nonsense!

I know that there are plenty of newspapers and magazines that make their bread and butter from sensational headlines. For many, that the headline may be misleading is incidental at best, if it is able to generate sales en route to the recycling bin.

Before yesterday, I would have put The Times into the other category - those who report more responsibly with usually thoughtful commentary on politics and opinion.

Front page of the Sunday Times (Scotland) carried the headline: Scots NHS and 462,000 'avoidable deaths'. The article, by Mark Macaskill, states: The deaths have been blamed on a series of failings, including GPs not recognising symptoms early enough, unacceptable delays for hospital treatment, poor access to drugs and botched operations.

The term used for 'botched operations', incidentally, is 'misadventures during surgery' which does conjure up images of the cast of Grey's Anatomy in pith helmets. But moving on...

Shock! Horror! Nearly half a million people dying for going to the doctor! However, the rest of the article actually reveals the following:
The figure represents a period of 30 years during which time millions upon millions of people would have been treated. In fact, the avoidable death rate for men is 176 for every 100,000 which translates to just 0.17%. For women it's lower, at 123 per 100,000 (0.12%). Figures are shown to be lower in Austria (129 per 100,000) and Italy (100per 100,000) but given the minute figures we're talking about when we get away from that ridiculous headline, I wonder the extent to which they're even statistically significant.

The author of the report, Dr Colin Fischbacher, is also quoted as saying, better treatment could have saved the lives of almost all the patients who died. Considering that many died of cancers and heart disease, both of which can be unpredictable, I find this quite a sweeping statement.

Then, on page 13 is a further diatribe. In an article titled 'The Killing Wards' and illustrated by a picture of a ward with each bed playing host to a coffin (nothing overly dramatic here!), Mr Macaskill reveals that, while undoubtedly the figures for Scotland are higher than other European countries, they have improved significantly over the last 20 years. Of course, this is couched in several column inches of doom and gloom so you really have to look for it. That will happen with good news.

The chief executive of the Patient's Association is quoted as saying:

It's getting to the stage where people are going to be scared of going to hospital. The NHS is supposed to be a wonderful thing but this study makes a mockery of that.

Really? The NHS is a wonderful thing. I reckon a 0.17% chance of something going wrong when you go to hospital is pretty good odds. And, that these figures are improving is impressive to me. Ultimately healthcare professionals are human and human error is always going to be a factor.

Don't get me wrong, if one of my loved ones was the victim of a 'misadventure' I would sue the suckers for all I could - and still be completely gutted. But we are not talking about a crisis here. We are talking about a very small chance of things going wrong when people require medical treatment. I'm actually surprised it's as low as it is.

Even Dr House, with the benefit of a squad of scriptwriters and Hollywood advisers gets it wrong occasionally. Probably somewhere around 0.17% of the time.

Rant over!

Three Scottish Piles

Scotland is well known for its castles. And well it should be - they are gorgeous and allow us a small glimpse into history, and a way of life which may well be gone forever. They also make an excellent backdrop for weddings and other special occasions. Every country should have a few.

Take this one for example:

This is Culzean Castle on the Ayrshire coast. On a clear day you can see Arran from its front windows and it has a 500acre garden including a deer park. A lovely place for horse riding, but, perhaps a bit tricky if you're trying to locate a lost welly. It is the former home of the Marquess of Ailsa but, as is not uncommon these days, the family couldn't find the funds to pay the necessary taxes on the property, or pay the army of cleaners/gardeners/ maintenance folk to look after the place. Having a small issue with the arctic conditions in Scotland I would also hazard a guess that the heating bills were a touch staggering.

Anyway, the castle was gifted to the National Trust for Scotland and now anyone with £12 can spend a day there. I like to pretend it's all mine. The trick is to dress down - lots of tweed and green boots - and stride confidently while wielding a riding crop. I probably don't fool anyone but I have had a few long looks.

Of course, not all lairds have handed over their homes. Take this one:

That's Blair Castle in Perthshire - ancient seat of the Dukes and Earls of Atholl. It is beautiful and also boasts some significant acreage, but it is telling that the current Earl lives in South Africa. This family's solution to the tax/staffing/utilities issue has been to open the family home to the public. I suppose if he's lapping up the sunshine in SA he probably doesn't find this too intrusive.

It is a really lovely spot - beautiful art exhibits and fantastic furnishings. Bambi quite liked it - that's her saying, 'Mine, mine, mine!'.

But the prize for Eccentric Things to do with your Scottish Pile goes to the Earl of Glasgow. His wee spot, Kelburn Castle, currently looks like this:

He has let a team of Brazilian Graffiti artists loose on it! The castle is still owned by the family but the grounds are open to the public. What makes this place particularly special is that it has been developed exclusively with whimsy in mind. It is home to the Secret Forest - glorious woodland punctuated with goblin houses, woodcutter huts, crocodile swamps, giant's castles and a maze.

Theoretically, it's targeted at children, and all the houses and tunnels are built to child scale, but who can't love a place so full of imagination and fun. Bambi certainly tired of it before Granny and I did!

And I bet you thought this post was going to be about hemorrhoids!

Oh, what a good girl am I!

I noticed that the information campaign about the smoking ban in England has started to get going. Of course, Scotland, advanced nation that it is, has had the ban enforced since March 2006.

This got me thinking of my long-lost, pack a day smoking habit and how little I miss it. I started smoking when I was in high school (didn't we all?) but really got going in Germany. I like to talk and couldn't speak the language. Smoking gave me something to do other than looking vacantly at people wandering by. By the time I learnt the language I was addicted.

I think the most bizarre thing about smoking is how it can be considered cool - admittedly only by other smokers - while being so utterly and recognisably vile. It smells bad, tastes bad, paints your teeth and fingers yellow. How anyone with a smoking habit can NOT know that it is bad for you is beyond me. Waking up every morning with a burning throat and a choking cough do not strike me as being hard to interpret. And yet I smoked for several years.

And then the Good Man woke up one morning and, before you could say 'hypochondria' announced he had a tight chest and was going to stop smoking. He'd been at it for the best part of twenty years by then, so I naturally thought it would last about 3 hours. I even agreed that, as long as he didn't smoke, I would only smoke outside. This kind act illustrates two things:

1. I knew that smoking was a bad idea - I wanted to support him in kicking the habit. And yet, I gave no thought to actually stopping myself...


2. I can be really stupid. It gets could outside - even in Cape Town sometimes. And you always want a cigarette when the baddies are about to be caught but can't see the TV from the garden. Outside is lonely...

Much to my surprise, he really didn't ever smoke again. And then began the conspiracy. Our office building became non-smoking and we were forced to huddle in small groups on the balcony around overstuffed ashtrays. The place was like a walking crematorium. And then they designated smoking areas in restaurants. I slowly started to realise that us smokers were becoming very uncool.

Two years later I got laryngitis and honestly didn't want to smoke for a whole day. It was quite nice being allowed in the house so, as a kind of cruel, self inflicted torture, I decided to not smoke for another day. Then, I thought, with two days down, I may as well try for a week. Just to prove that I wasn't actually addicted to cigarettes and was still in control of all aspects of my life (motherhood has now put paid to that myth, but I digress...), I went for another week. Several weeks have now passed - somewhere around 520, I think.

Today, I decided to price cigarettes, just to see how much I'm saving ten years on. Flipping heck!!! £5.30 a pack!!! That's £160 per month. While I'm tempted to look at this as a potential city break a month for being virtuous, it would actually mean having £160 less to spend on stuff each month. Like living in a dodgier neighbourhood, or never shopping at Sainsbury's. Unthinkable!

It actually means that stopping smoking can improve your lifestyle as well as your health.

Looking back I just can't remember why I bothered.

8 (more) things

I'm not very interesting really. The first time I got tagged I was flattered and had a clean slate to work from so made it through my list without revealing too much about my rather dull existence. But now I've been tagged again, by Theresa.


The first eight were tough enough, so this could get very boring. Feel free to move on.

1. My Good Man is allergic to alcohol. I loudly expound on the ills of drunk driving while he chauffeurs me home after one too many.


2. I grew up next door to a gynaecologist. When I was seven, his twelve year old son took it upon himself to educate me - in the textbook sense. His father's tomes about the female functions were explained in full. There is such a thing as too much information. However, one connection was made abundantly clear - sex means babies. I never had a problem saying 'no' and Bambi was very well planned.


3. I nearly got arrested in Germany for breaking into my High School to throw a party. It was an annual tradition that I got a bit too caught up in as I was the only one who could figure out how to remove the hinges from the doors to get us in. Fortunately, the police recognised that it was a pretty pointless thing to get too excited about and that, really, all should be more concerned about students breaking out of school. But, man were we ever considered cool the next day in class!


4. I paint, but only in oils. Watercolours require too much commitment.


5. My favourite African animal is the leopard. I've got to be pretty good at spotting them in the bush. They're easiest to spot when reclining in trees. Their tails hang down vertically - nothing else in the bush is so straight and so vertical.


6. My favourite Scottish animal is the Highland Cow. So hairy and forlorn. And they don't move very fast so are easy to spot.


7. When I was thirteen I made a cake tin full of chocolates to be distributed to guests on Christmas Day. We were celebrating in Hermanus, an hour and a half away. I left a few days early with my parents but it was scorching hot and the chocolates wouldn't have made the journey, so I left them with my older brother to bring along on Christmas day. He arrived having eaten all but six of the chocolates. My revenge has been telling this story to all mutual acquaintances since.


8. I get fairly emotional whenever I hear children sing, but the African Children's Choir reduce me to tears every time.

I need more blog friends (blogends?) as I don't know who to nominate to carry this tag on. If you'd like to nominate yourself please respond in the comments and I'll make it official.

Questions anyone?

PS Nominees (so far) are:

Gwen

Katie

Aminah (hello new friend!)

Highstepping Holyrood

I've always wondered at the name 'political party'. Well, rather I've wondered at its application rather than the actual words themselves. You see, in my mind, a party is a gathering of diverse folk, usually imbibing alcohol, perhaps dancing and generally being nice to one another.

Political parties are, by their nature, homogeneous. With the exception of the odd little in-fight and wrangle for group supremacy, they don't seem very festive to me at all. I think they would be better named as tribes. Yes, tribes! With chiefs and elders jostling for position before taking on opposing tribes with policy as pangas and manifestos as missiles.

If you ask me, a 'party' would more accurately describe the aftermath of an election - such as the position in which Scotland now finds itself. After the mud-slinging, back-stabbing and mountains of recycling created by the election, everyone seems to be on strangely good terms. Coalitions are the talk of the town, and even where alliances are not formally forged, tacit back scratching seems to be the order of the day. Its difficult to not feel a little suspicious.

But having read the Sunday Times this week my normal levels of suspicion are slowly bubbling over with conspiracy theory lava. The top story from the newly elected SNP is that they want Scotland to field its own team at the Olympics. Now, it's not that I have particularly strong opinions about his one way or another, just that it seems a bit of a lightweight issue. But then again maybe I'm missing something. Maybe the Olympic dream sits at the heart of the Scottish psyche and I've just missed it.

I can't pretend to have ploughed through the 76 page SNP manifesto but there was certainly no mention of the Olympics in their 4 page First Steps publication.

Something's up I tell you...

Dunfermline in the news

You know how it is. You hear a new word, or someone tells you about a new place and then it keeps cropping up...

I was reading Katie's blog - she's an American currently living in Glasgow. anyway, the post was called called A Monkey Made Me Do It and starts:

A man in Dunfermline has been placed on the sex offenders register after rubbing a woman’s leg during the movie King Kong. Alistair Douglas touched Gemma Smart’s leg for approximately two minutes. He later said that his actions weren’t sexually motivated, claiming that he rubbed her leg because he thought that part of the film was funny.

As Katie, correctly points out, a chuckle, nay even a chortle, may have been a more appropriate response to a humorous scene, but not in Dunfermline.

Then I found this gem:

A Scottish funeral home has come under fire for using the ashes of cremated bodies to grit the pavement in icy conditions. Staff at Co-op Funeralcare in (you guessed it!) Dunfermline say that the ashes were also used to increase the traction on the wheelchair access ramp.

At least, I suppose, they're not trying to drum up more business.

Dunfermline is in Fife. If you're planning a visit, it's on the A907 and, I hear, the circus is in town.

However, if you're on your way to St Andrew's it can be avoided by taking the A985 if you're following the coast or the A977 north.

Just thought you should know...

A note to Hubris

I got my first critical comment yesterday. I suppose, I'm glad to get it out the way. And just to twist the knife in my already bleeding heart, here's what it said:

Whilst your blog is undoubtedly well crafted and funny, I am sad that you are having such a miserable time in Scotland. Obviously this is down to the fact that we Scots suffer from a lunacy, perhaps caused by cerebral hypothermia.

I wish I could apologise wholeheartedly on behalf of this miserable little country. Undoubtedly things are far better in SA. Unquestionably I am proud of a nation which in the last week has stood up against Trident, the War in Iraq, and environmental rape. Personally, I am more passionate about these issues than the temperature.

Please don't waste your time here being miserable and blogging about it. Go out. Meet some people. Learn some things.

Hubris

So, there I was, bracing myself to take it on the chin – I have, after all, been a bit of a moaner – when there came a twist in the tale. Hubris turned out to be a good friend. Well, I use the phrase loosely - she was a good friend yesterday and we'll work our way back there with time. I will not lie, I was really hurt that she aired her grievances on this, my soapbox.

But, as we went through the awkward tribal dance that is making peace, she did make one valid point (well, maybe more than one, but that's as much generosity as I'm prepared to show while the wound remains raw). I have not once mentioned anything of the hospitality, kindness and friendship I have experienced since moving here. So, dear Hubris, here are some of the things I love about my current home:

• I live on the best street in Glasgow. It's a row of terraces, which means that my neighbours live one wall away. In my street I am surrounded by people who are always ready with a cup of sugar or an hour of babysitting. People who take my mother sightseeing when she visits and who love my daughter. We share our wine and we share our woes. In my street live my Scottish family. They keep me in laughter. And, today, one kept me in tears.
• Glasgow is a city of parks. Beautiful parks with ponds and play areas filled with wee Scottish children who are sweeter for their sometimes unintelligible accent. The parks change with the seasons. Most of all I love Autumn and Spring, periods of transition and promise which we don't really get in South Africa.
• I secretly love that my Bambi is developing a Scottish accent all of her own. The way people speak here has a way of adding a twinkle to even the driest dialogue. If she loses the accent, I pray she keeps the twinkle.
• The arts are valued. Until now I have lived in countries dealing with such basic socio-political issues that the arts have been a very small blip on the social radar. In South Africa it is extremely hard for even the most talented artists, musicians and performers to eke out a living. Here there is a plethora of theatres and venues, galleries and exhibitions providing to an appreciative and discerning audience. Love it.
• Everything is available. Always. Except Soba noodles. I hear they can be hard to find.
• The history. Old castles, fortresses and priories, meticulously maintained and just waiting for a visit from Princess Bambi and I.
• My friends, who have also become Bambi's friends and their children who have become mine. Together we watch them play, explore and learn and get to do some playing and exploring and learning of our own. I fear the effect the loss of their presence in our lives will have, when the time comes to move on.

There is more, dear Hubris. But maybe that can be for another post.

Can I moan again now?

Culture club

In South Africa, before the first 'free and fair' elections in 1994, new customs had to be accommodated - or maybe I should say old customs. Basically, through years of apartheid, black South Africans had been allowed no freedom of expression and, as protests became legalised in the early 90s, a new code of acceptable political behaviour was written.

One of the more controversial topics at the time was that of 'cultural weapons'. Tribal Africans believe in their right to carry traditional arms as a means of demonstrating their strength when making a political point. They were not (necessarily) to be used as weapons, but rather for show. Think All Blacks doing a hakka before a rugby international and you'll get the idea.

In principle this all sounds fine. That is until you're faced with 3000 angry Zulus wielding pangas and knobkerries. But, I digress. Cultural weapons were (and are), controversially, tolerated in South Africa as long as they do not lead to violence.

So what has this to do with Scotland, you ask. Well, in yesterday's Herald an article caught my eye. A man entered a polling station and in a most unsporting fashion destroyed ballot boxes and informational posters before being dragged off to court. His cultural weapon of choice (and bear in mind he is Scottish now)... the golf club. He was being charged with, and I quote,'breach of the peace, vandalism, possession of an offensive weapon...' An offensive golf club??? In Scotland??? Did it have a Union Jack emblazoned on its grip?

Still, Holyrood had better watch out. The golfers are getting restless!

The rainbow people of Scotland

Today is election day here in Scotland and, while I know I should be providing insightful political commentary, I am feeling the urge to resist. Rather, let's talk about skin colour. Dangerous territory for a white South African, I hear you say. But I'll live on the edge this once.

The vast majority of Scots start off white. I have seen the babies, I have visited the maternity wards, I know this to be true. Then, as I mentioned in a previous post, they start to walk, are taken to a loch in winter in the buff, and they turn pale blue. For the rest of their natural lives they fluctuate between this hue and a particularly fetching shade of puce I like to call 'Scottish salmon', obtained by their insistence on removing all clothing the second the sun shines.

But in recent years some new colours have been welcomed into the summer spectrum. The first comes to you straight from a bottle. Self tan sales rocket in Scotland in early Spring, painting the town orange in preparation for the summer clothing removal session. I suppose you have to forgive the poor wee souls. They don't get to see too much sun and, therefore, can't reasonably be expected to know that nobody turns that colour naturally.

Then there are those who have visited Spain on holiday and have learnt that while burnt orange is a colour, it's not one that the human body assumes. So they frequent one of the thousands of tanning salons around the country. No high street is without one. They go in pale blue and emerge looking like members of the Jackson family. In the '80s.

And to think they call South Africa the Rainbow Nation!