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.

A morning by the pool

Before moving here, my impression of Scotland, was that it was a nation of deeply eccentric characters. This opinion was formed by years of watching British television and film, where, let's face it, the Scot is usually the weird uncle. Trainspotting and Billy Connolly did nothing to dispel the myth.

Well, unfortunately, Scottish eccentrics are not to be found on every corner, under every bush, or even loitering along every train line. Rather they are to be found at the Dollan Baths.

Twice a week (more if I can manage) I go to the Dollan olympic pool. There I spend about an hour covering a distance of around 2 kms. In swimming parlance, this is considered long distance. Now you may have heard of the loneliness of the long distance runner. The good man is just such a runner and he combats his loneliness by counting things - lampposts, stripes on the road, trees... you name it he'll know how many. There's not much to count in a pool so I prefer to people-watch.

For some reason people in public pools think that anything under the water is not visible. This is particularly true of those who insist on keeping their hair dry while in the pool. But most serious swimmers wear anti -mist goggles and can actually see better in the water than out. Old Mac in his 1920s full body stocking doing bunny hops across the lanes - crystal clear. And what precisely are Mr. Flarrety and Mrs Cameron doing playing footsie by the step ladder?

On a Friday there is an aqua-robics class - average age 83, entirely female A lithe young bird stands outside the pool bopping away with a pool noodle to 1960's remixes while her octogenarian charges bop away in the pool. I am now under no illusions as to where this ageing malarkey is taking me. It wobbles while it wiggles and occasionally pops out of its DD cup giving the old boys who linger on the outskirts of the class area a frisson of excitement. Men, it would appear, never change.

But the pool has also introduced me to a few real characters (name changed to preserve friendships). Madge who comes to the pool, in a swimming costume built of scaffolding, sporting a Florida tan and with a special cap with earmuffs, only to chat to all of us about how much people splash while they swim (not too sure what they're meant to be doing). Jake who either swims 3 miles or runs 10 every day - he's retired and clearly hasn't figured out what to do with his time. And the lifeguard whose hair changes colour with the seasons (in a range from red to yellow and all shades of orange in between).

And then there's Mike - trying his hardest to keep up with the triathletes - pity his physique is arriving on the next plane. And an endless supply of mums with toddlers saying things like, 'Now Angus, take that duck/whale out of your mouth' and 'No Sally, blowing bubbles underwater should not be called farting!'.

My hour's up in no time.