little.red.boat.

Thursday, August 30, 2001

excuse my quietness, i'm trying to create an incredible land/seascape in five hours out of felt, for two amazing people who are leaving tomorrow...
felt is a suprisingly restrictive medium. I may have to branch out into nylon/viscose mix.

death toll on the way home last night:
toads: none.
snails: one billion.

Thursday, August 30, 2001 |

I’ve just seen a very interesting piece of experimental theatre with enormous sculptural musical instruments and contemporary dance in the village hall. This theatre company of two had apparently come all the way from California (at least I’m guessing it was California, it could have been, say, Iowa, or something. But I doubt it) for the Edinburgh Festival, and decided to take in Iona and Findhorn (where they talk to their vegetables) on the way back. It was amazing. If anyone knows of any bands or theatre companies looking for venues for their summer tours next year, do mention Iona village hall. It’s terribly cheap to hire, and you’re pretty much guaranteed an audience of almost fifteen people. More when the pub closes…

And then I walked home with my poor Bronchial little ma, barking like a seal the whole way. Not me. Her. Because of the cough, you see. Not just for fun. It was a metaphor. She’s fine, has antibiotics and everything (this for the benefit of meg, who’ll be worried)

Last night I walked home with my friend paul, and the usual 5 minute wander took over half an hour. No, not for any kind of illicit or knee-trembling reasons, but because he has to lip read, and with one torch between us we wandered slowly, chatting, with him saying something and me having to tap him, get him to shine the torch on my face and then reply. It was a slow and lovely conversation and walk home. There’ve been no more stars these last two nights, and walking home in the pitch has been worrying, toad-wise. There’s only two streetlights, see, and both of those on the jetty, although why I’m not sure. You’d have to be pretty stupid to walk off the jetty. Or pretty drunk. But then, the jetty is next to the pub, so perhaps they have a point.

I’m very tired now and burbling. Sorry.
I’ve a day off tomorrow. Yay.
Bed and a book, I think. I’d recommend it to anyone.
Not my bed. That’s weird. And a bit saggy in the middle.
But the book. I just can’t remember what it’s called. I think I’m tired.

Thursday, August 30, 2001 |

Wednesday, August 29, 2001

how much heavier are sheep in the rain, do you think? How do they stay up? You'd think they'd reach maximum saturation point and just collapse, their little sheepy knees buckling under them, wouldn't you?...But they don't. Interesting.

Wednesday, August 29, 2001 |

one good thing about rain, mind. It allows me to use my favourite answer to a stupid question.
anna walks in looking like she's been sitting in a wet wind tunnel. If there is such a thing. Or at the bottom of a lake with wind. Not anna with wind, the lake with wind. If such a thing were possible. Anyway. Drowned rat doesn't even come close.
Stupid person: Is it raining?
Anna: Actually no. I just sweat a lot.

Wednesday, August 29, 2001 |

The weather is terrible. I am shocked and appalled. It's drizzling, for f***'s sake. Is there anything as non-committal as drizzle? It's not rain, it's not Not rain. It's not mist. And It's certainly not pleasant. Or fun. When I think of how the weather was this time last year, I could practically scream. In fact I will.

I don't feel any better.

This time last year we were out in boats everyday, and the dolphins were playing in the Sound as they do every now and again. We circumnavigated the very wee nearby island of Erraid, stopping in a couple of white sand bays, carefully steering the tiny boat into a narrow crack (or would it be crevice?) in the rock with an enormous, tonnes and tonnes weighing boulder wedged in the top, suspended above us. We got three-quarters of the way around the island before we realised that the tide wasn't high enough and we were going to have to get out and walk. It's a tidal island, see, and one that was featured in one of Robert Louis Stevenson's books, 'Kidnapped', if anyone's read it. Anyone at all. Ever. I certainly don't know anyone that has. And while at low tide it's part of the mainland and you simply walk across, that only happens for a few hours a day.

So two of us got out of the boat and we pulled up the engine and one stayed in to row and the rest of us walked in the sand with our shoes in our hands and the water lapping up above our knees. I realised - or perhaps remembered - at that point what it was like to feel happy. It's something that had escaped me for a while before that.

And now it's drizzling. oig.

I just have to tell myself, Iona is beautiful even on a piss-wet day. Incidentally, if you look at that picture and notice how beautiful the design of the site is, it's only because it's designed by my beautiful sister, as is this one.

Wednesday, August 29, 2001 |

Tuesday, August 28, 2001

During the summer we have volunteers that come and work here for anywhere between 6 weeks and 3 months. At any one time there'll be about thirty of them here. Nice people. From all over the place and everything. I've made a lot of friends so far this year. And they all leave.

Tomorrow is wednesday. Every wednesday a few people leave and a few more arrive to take their place, do their job, stay in their room. At the beginning of the season I would allow myself to get close to lots of people. be very sociable, all that business. But it's hard to invest a lot in friendship when you know that they're just going to bugger off in a few weeks and it's entirely likely you'll never see them again, and entirely improbable that you'll write.

So the people I'm close to here now are the ones who've been here all year. And the others I like, and it makes me truly sad to say goodbye, but I certainly don't know them as well as I might.

I'm sorry, another leaving party in the pub tonight, and I don't even want to go, I can't stand goodbyes.

excuse and forgive me. I'm miserable. And I'm not even drunk. Yet.

Tuesday, August 28, 2001 |

My god, but you should have seen the sky above Iona last night. That is, I’m assuming that you didn’t, which I guess is rather hasty, but I’m assuming that by nature that’s what assumptions are. Hasty. Sometimes. And anyway, I’m rather confident in stating that none of you did. Otherwise you would have been at my disco last night and already have e-mailed to congratulate my prowess on the decks, given a rather limited CD stock of 12. And besides, there were 25 people there and I knew all of them.

Sorry, where was I? The sky. f*** me, it was incredible. There were stars in their billions from horizon to horizon. For any city-dwellers, a star is a small twinkling device at night (nb; not a streetlight) which shines above one’s head for little apparent reason but great aesthetic effect, when seen in herds. And there were herds and herds and herds of them last night. Clusters, the great big cloudy cloud of the milky way ran through the sky like a great big … cloud. Of stars. I’m sorry, I don’t seem to be very good at the whole ‘English language’ thing today. Maybe I’ll try again later. Simply, if I can speak simply, it was very, very beautiful and very very humbling to lie on the road and stare at heaven last night. I saw shooting stars, four of them. One with a tail. I couldn’t think of enough wishes to go around. If anyone has a wish they want me to make on their behalf, you just let me know.
nb; i can't do anything about headaches. Take a paracetamol.

Tuesday, August 28, 2001 |

I've come up with a solution, which, while not waterproof, should help prevent any more un-necessary death.
From now on, when talking to *those people* i shall forthwith add 'a-ha' or 'mmm' to the end of every sentence, to which they shall be forced to respond with a more usual and less annoying noise than their 'repeating the last two words of each sentence' rubbish.

them: How are you? (sympathetic head bob for no apparent reason, as if expecting the response "really bad, actually, I've just been dumped and my knee's giving me trouble again...")
Me: I'm fine thank you. A-ha.
Them: A-ha.
I've just come back from holiday actually. Mmmf.
Them: Mmmmf.
Me: Which was very enjoyable A-ha.
Them: A-ha
and so on and so on.

It should work quite well, although I come out of the conversation looking like a twat. But a Calm twat.

Tuesday, August 28, 2001 |

Sunday, August 26, 2001

do you know, it's taken me 5 hours to post this. I have cried 4 times, phoned 5 different people, none of whom were in, and threatened this computer with a large blunt implement. Given this information and the story below, i'm starting to wonder about my hormone levels.

Sunday, August 26, 2001 |

So last night I’m sitting at dinner next to that woman. You know who I’m talking about. I’m sure you’ve met her, she’s the most annoying person in the world. Ever. So we’re sitting at dinner together, and among her annoying habits, lets say for argument’s sake she has about 400 annoying habits (approx.), among those 400, somewhere in the top five, is the conversational technique I abhor above any other.

Repeating the last two words of any sentence you say.
(“you say….”)
Now I know that it’s simply a variation on an ‘I’m still listening’ noise.
(“listening noise…”)
That some people mm-hmm, and some people a-ha, and some people mmf
(“mmf…”)
But it drives me insane. I feel like I’m talking into a cave, or a canyon, it doesn’t make me think that you’re listening, it makes me think that you’re annoying.
(“I’m annoying….” - oh how I wish I could work that into a conversation…)

And it’s always accompanied by the sympathetic head-bob, as if to add gravitas to what they’re saying, which is, quite frankly, what I’ve just been saying, so doesn’t need emphasising to me, and, really, with the regularity that I make stupid statements, I don’t need to hear them twice.
(“hear them twice…”) (sympathetic head-bob)

And thus she went on
(“went on…)
and on
(“on…”)
All the way through the meal
(“the meal…”)

So I killed her.

Sunday, August 26, 2001 |

Saturday, August 25, 2001

Congratulate me, summer's here. While I realise that it's not entirely my doing and therefore not something one can really *congratulate* as such, i like to think that my tireless wingeing may have done something to improve the weather. Not sure what.

do you know, i was wandering around yahoo's lists of actors resumes just for no reason apart from the fact that i like to see how people sell themselves as products. (I particularly liked to guy who boasted "i can play both crook *and* cop!" well, is that it? is that all? that's a bit rubbish really, isn't it love?) and i found the site of the original Village People cowboy. Sorry, that's website, not burial site. So if you've been wondering what Randy's up to nowadays, and I know I have, here's the place to find out. I shall be visiting often.

Saturday, August 25, 2001 |

Please pay little heed to the below burblings. i was rather drunk and maudlin, and as often happens when i'm drunk and maudlin, I get all grumpy about my lack of love-life and weddings.

please forgive.

i'll explain later.

Saturday, August 25, 2001 |

I want to write but I'm too tired from fitting people out for weddings. I may not have brought much to Iona, but i bought my dress collection. From many antique 50's cocktail dresses to dancing dresses of a year ago, I love my dresses and never wear them. But this year, so far, 7 of them have been worn to other people's weddings....

i want a wedding.

Saturday, August 25, 2001 |

i want a wedding.

in that, i want to go to a wedding.

Saturday, August 25, 2001 |

Among the stupid things that i have said today...

small woman washing up with me, at the end of a long conversation: "it's just because I'm short, you see."
me, being pleasant and polite: "no no, being short is very good!"
small woman, using the age-old platitude: "ah yes, dynamite comes in small packages!..."
me, lost because she'd used the platitude before me...: "yes, and you can, you can... reach things in low places."

we looked at each other.

for an age.

Saturday, August 25, 2001 |

Friday, August 24, 2001

I'm still feeling bad about the toad.
I have the smell of death on me.

Friday, August 24, 2001 |

I feel terrible sitting here laughing at some-one's creative efforts. I'm covering my mouth so that no-one can see me smirk. And there's not even anyone else here.

But it has to be done.

This week, the prize for really abysmal poetry goes to one of our guests, who, in a creative writing workshop, came up with this little beauty....

"Dough cut into triangles, rolled and shaped like a waxing moon
Cherry stones grown in Africa, roasted, ground
Life giving essence from cows udders, made drinkable to humans
Dough moons coming out of the oven, smelling divine
Ground cherry stones in hot water, mixed with the Cows Offerings,
Sweetened, Smelling divine.
Dough moons and Drink served by a loved one.

I call it heaven.

The french call it ... Breakfast."

Oh, come on, beat that if you can....

Friday, August 24, 2001 |

Taken away for reasons of wierd.
I killed a toad. I stood on it. I didn't mean to. But then I just *did*. I killed something. A Toad. I'm a Toad-Killer. I have depleted the toad population of Iona by one. My Karma-card is forever marked, toad-wise.

Why must they tempt fate? Why can't they do their little toady business, hopping across the road and back, during the day, when we could see them and therefore live side by side in toad/person harmony. But no. They must do it at night, when we step on them and they die and we feel bad. It's all a plot.

I took a life. I killed a toad. I stood on it. I took a life. I feel horrible.

I wouldn't care but I had sandals on at the time.

eugh.



no animals were harmed in the making of this blog. well, one, one toad, but what the f***... -->

Friday, August 24, 2001 |

Thursday, August 23, 2001

For anyone who's looked at the guestbook and noticed that the first entry is from meg 'notsosoft' pickard, you'll notice that she calls me binnie. The reasons for this are manifold. Well, two. But 'the reasons for this are two' doesn't sound quite so florid. one, the obvious anna - banna - banza - bonza - binza - binnie. or something like that. The way she explains it, it sounds plausible. The other reason is that one of my first dolls was called binnie. Because I found her in a bin. She was a cute little thing with dirty blonde hair (well, the rest of her was pretty dirty too, she was in a bin) and eyes that closed when you tipped her backward. Well one of them did. She winked when you tipped her backward. this is sounding worse and worse the longer I go on. I pulled her out of a bin and wouldn't let go, she becoming at that moment my favourite doll in the world *Ever*. and my mother had to allow this, and take her home and wash her around a billion times until the 'bin' smell went away. and presumably me as well.

And her name was Binnie. I've never been that good at naming things. My bear was called 'Bear'. And the Little Red Boat this blog is named after was rather touchingly called 'Sinky'. Guess what that did?...

Thursday, August 23, 2001 |

Candles. What, exactly, is the facination with God Damned Candles? Every week, Every day, i hope for something different. "Here am I!" I say... "Use me, Utilise me. My craft room is yours! I am the resident artist, to do with whatever you choose! My resources are enormous! My Art supplies are plentiful! Work with me!" I say "together we could take over a small country. Artisically speaking."

There are many things I can do, many. I spend every bit of spare time I have (apart from drinking and being in here) learning new skills and crafts to excite and astonish the guests. And every time, given a list of ten things, twenty things, thirty things, all they want to make, all they want to do is "candles". Even if i add it to the end of the list, in parentheses. Even if I try and hide it in the middle, so that they won't notice. Quietly. In a funny accent. Still, It's "oooh. Candles!"

What the f**k is so great about f***ing candles? You make them, you light them, they go away. You make them, you light them, they go away. You make them you light them they go away, you make them you light them they go away you make them you light them they go away. et cetera et cetera ad infinitum.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am now going to go and prepare for what will be approximately my 64th candle session this year. May god have mercy on my soul. And may someone stop me from sticking a candle up the bottom of the next person who asks for a session.

Thursday, August 23, 2001 |

Incedentally, that reminds me, through my last few weeks of work with children, and with the weight of three years actor training behind me, I can now say "I've got play-dough up my nose" in fifteen different accents, on request!


small things.
Still, if you hear of anyone that could utilise this skill, don't hesitate...

Thursday, August 23, 2001 |

Wednesday, August 22, 2001

It's not really that suprising that one should have mood swings like the Pirate Galleon at Alton Towers theme park when your body is an emotional barometer, and the weather comes from Mars. Obviously not directly from Mars, if it come from Mars, we'd probably have more chance of fine sunny weather with occasional solar windstorms, or spells of meteor showers, but that may possibly be preferable to getting up in the morning and not knowing whether to climb into a bikini or a deep-sea diving suit. Although of course, the likelihood of me ever 'climbing into' a bikini is approximately this much. (here i am indicating a very small space indeed between thumb and forefinger. very small. tiny, in fact. wee. I tried to think of an amusing analogy and failed. sorry.)

Yesterday it was proper November weather. hideous. wind whipping you this way and that, rain seeping in to all the cracks in your clothing, through your pores and up your nose, a particular kind of rain that saturates every part of you, entirely, until you feel that no part of you could ever be wetter. And it probably couldn't. You can dry yourself, by towel or by blowdryer, you can stand splayed in front of a roaring fire, you can sit naked on a radiator while dry-roasting your clothes at gas mark 8, and yet - and yet, strange drips will run down your nose all day, coming from some hidden lake behind your hairline, and everywhere you sit you'll leave a damp patch. and people will look at you funny.

And today was simply gorgeous, the sun was making a determined effort to pretend that yesterday simply hadn't happened, the sky was as blue as sky-blue can be, and the sea was the colour of the virgin's vestments. with bits of green and indigo. and when the sun went down, the rocks of mull glowed as (is it glowed? or glew? I'm thinking probably glowed.) pink as a maiden's blush. Is it a sign of sexual frustration, these constant referrals to maidens and virgins? Let's hope not, I haven't the time. Or anyone to have sex with. Which helps. Usually.

I'm going now. To watch a Gwyneth Paltrow film. Oig. I wish I wasn't, but I unfortunately made promises before finding out all the details. At least the company's good. A lot of the beautiful Camas folk were over last night, talking of company. But they're all away, exploring Mull tonight, I couldn't go, what with spending tomorrow morning aiding the development of some of our future, minding several small cute but annoying childer. Or am i doing something else tommorow? I think I might be making big words. Don't ask. Sometimes it's better we don't know.

Wednesday, August 22, 2001 |

Tuesday, August 21, 2001

right, now, the following entry i did write at one o'clock this morning, and then was up til half one trying everything my tiny mind could come up with to post the bastard. But it just kept refusing and refusing and refusing. Which added to my mood precicely nothing. Or rather added to my mood a lot, but not in a good way.
anyway, i did wake up bright-eyed and fluffy tailed this morning, so i was right about that, anyway.

Tuesday, August 21, 2001 |

I've been getting withdrawal symptoms from this damn thing, and made up my mind that as soon as I stopped running around like a bue-arsed fly, i'd sit down, crack knuckles and catch up. I have just stopped running around a la blue-arsed fly. It is a quarter to one in the morning. I don't understand, it isn't like i'm an ambulance driver, or anything important or urgent. I make candles, teach people the gay gordons and stop small children from gluing each other to the wall. And yet i feel like i can't stop working. It'll be that strong protestant work ethic. Not bad for an agnostic. Or rather, I read somewhere a phrase I really liked. You could call me a Jehovah's Bystander. I believe there's a supreme being - I just don't want to get involved.

I feel sad today.

Or perhaps, I feel sad yesterday. For after I've slept I'll probably wake up all bright and shiny and new, and that'll be today too. So I can't generically say that i feel sad on a day which has only been for 48 minutes. So perhaps then it's my sadness of yesterday, just carried over into today. Not that I was sad for all of yesterday. Which still feels like today, even if that's officially not the case. I was only sad from about 10.30pm til now. Which is, i suppose, the time when people traditionally might get tired. Which might go some way toward explaining things. Except I usually don't. But then, I'm usually at the pub. Well not usually. That makes me sound like an old soak. I'm not an old soak. I'm a young soak. And now I'm beginning to doubt whether 'soak' is a word at all. I love it when that happens. I'm burbling. Which is the sort of thing I do when I'm tired. The clues are all starting to add up....

But I do have reason to be sad I think. I'm having a bit of a *time* with one of my friends, who seems to be shifting between initiating dancing the dance of love, and running the run of the extremely scared and commitment-phobic. wuss. I could be wrong. I probably, and usually am. In a very strong way I want us to be friends. Just friends. in another way... Or I could be wrong. And probably am. Or it could be the weather. Or PMS. Or aliens fucking with my head. Again. I hate that.

I don't usually need a reason to be sad though. I've a natural tendency to be very up and very down. Like a very big yo-yo with a very long string. Except with sandals. The longest period of down-ness i've had was almost a year after leaving drama school, when I couldn't get out of bed for several months. Post-dramatic stress, I suppose.

I've had the bestest weekend. Having a friend to display the island to has meant that I've actually spent time wandering the length (4 miles) and breadth (1 mile) of Iona, seeing it with new eyes. It's been wonderful. Picking up stones, kicking through surf, wandering around in the gorgeous sunshine and sometime drizzle, pointing at things and being surprised how many names of people and places i knew on the way round. I even fell on my arse in a bog on the way to the marble quarry and didn't mind too much. Now that, my friends, is the mark of a good weekend, when you're so otherwise happy that you don't mind having mud all over your arse and soggy knickers.

Maybe that's the key to happiness, now that i come to think of it. Maybe that's where I've gone wrong this evening.
Or maybe I should just go to bed. Just maybe.

Tuesday, August 21, 2001 |

Friday, August 17, 2001

I'm so happy.

And so busy.

I spent all yesterday actually directing stuff. Not traffic, like, but people. I spend all my time wandering round saying - "well, one day, i think i want to direct, you know, theatre and stuff..." and it all sounds so vague...

And yesterday I got my hands on some people, and a text, and all of a sudden i was flying, actually sounding like i knew what i was doing.... and i did, too.

and now i've a film star friend up for the weekend, well, film star-ish... so i may go slightly quiet...

Friday, August 17, 2001 |

Wednesday, August 15, 2001

little things keep me amused.

for example, at the moment, I'm finding being nice to people constantly a little draining, having to work with, welcome, eat with and otherwise entertain a new set of guests every week gets on your tits after a while. So at the moment I'm trying to intersperse small confusing elements into conversations. I managed to follow three polite refusals with a pause then a quiet "I'd rather die".
It's very fun.
"would you like some tomato salad?"
" No thank you. I'd rather die."

I told one guest that before I came to Iona I made false teeth for horses, and another that i used to be a mountain goat. Actually, the quickest way to shut people up when you get asked that single annoying and always asked question
"so, what did you do before you came here?"
or worse...
"so, what do you do in the 'Real World'?"
is to tell them you were unemployed. It's a great conversation killer.

I'm sorry, I sound like I'm in a terrible mood.
I'm not really.
The sun's shining and everything.

Wednesday, August 15, 2001 |

I feel very important today. I just had a meeting with very important people - that's 'very important' on my scale, you understand, which is a very small scale, having no concept of importance or authority at all. Or money for that matter. But that's a whole other story. Or rather whole other *stories*, in a bad way. Where was I? Oh yes. - at which i managed to um and ah intelligently at all the right points, nod, smile, make reasonable, rational and workable suggestions and sound vuagely as if i knew what i was talking about. Which is all very nice. And i managed not to say anything too stupid, which is quite exciting. Sometimes when I'm trying to be serious it all suddenly goes a bit hatstand and I end up with a whole bunch of people staring at me with That Look on their faces.

My friend B has the same problem. We were in the middle of a very serious discussion once, when he reached the pinnicle of his sentence and his point, searched around for the perfect analogy to use, and eventually ended up with; "... And quite frankly that's Not My Fish To Swim."

Does one, or can one ever swim a fish? No idea.

Wednesday, August 15, 2001 |

I was just sitting down to write and was called from the office by a rainbow. Or rather, I was drawn from the office by jana on behalf of a rainbow... I'd noticed the now normal grey above the skylight had suddenly shifted to a deep and vicious pink. An 'armageddon's just over there...' type of pink... I was waiting til it got better, until the lure of the sky meant I couldn't stay inside a second later, when the door burst open and footsteps in the corridor up to the office and "Rainbow! Rainbow!" in a big strong accent, and I was torn from the desk and down the corridor and through the door, and round the corner, and through another door and (and this is beginning to sound like a terrible shaggy dog story, but all the same, and eventually...) out into the field and the drizzle and there in front of us was the brightest full rainbow you've ever seen. and behind us the end-of the-world sky. I held my camera up but i couldn't do it justice. And whenever you do get a good picture here, people accuse you of digitally altering the colours... oy.

And the rainbow ended in Camas. It always does. Apart from in dreams, when I catch them in my hand. But, because of the angle of the land, or the sky, or something, the rainbows always seem to end in Camas, where a lot of my dearest friends live and work. And where I've been for the last couple of days. Or maybe it's just my imagination.

I mean, it's not my imagination that I was there. I *was* there, but didn't notice any pots of gold at the time, so rainbows don't end up there, but i do. Sometimes. When I really need some relaxed company and t.l.c... But I'm back early, and will explain why. Although I should probably explain what Camas is first.

Built sometime last century as a granite quarry, and deserted after a disaster, the place was used on and off as a salmon fishing station and borstal camp type place until around forty years ago when it was taken over by the community I work for and used as a place where inner-city groups, vulnerable young people, people searching for somewhere safe and spiritual in an earthy kind of way can find rest for a few days.

My God, that was terrible sentence construction. And I've no idea of dates, figures or facts. Still, the rest is true. What little else the rest may be... the point was this:

Camas, in structure alone, has remained the same for a bloody long time. There's no electricity, no hot water - what water there is comes from rainwater & springwater tanks on the hillside above - a limited supply of gas in canisters for cooking, which have to be brought in by boat as the road is a mile and a half away up a bumpy and vehicle-inaccesible track, there are no showers, and the toilet system is a compost one. In other words, they don't flush. It's basically peeing in a bucket.
And, ... Well, never mind "and", it's also heaven.

Pure heaven.

Relaxed people, a staff group of twelve, all are whom are purely lovely, at least four of whom are marriagable, several of my best friends, the sea ten steps from the door, canoeing, candle-light, roaring fires, silence, then laughter, then songs, then silence again. It's simply amazing. And I'm back a day early, because last night, I couldn't have slept if you paid me.

I've no idea why. Well, apart from the fact that i was sleeping in what is called quaintly "the haunted room", on my fellow damsel's sofa, apart from that, I've no idea.
We'd had a lovely evening, built up a glowing peat fire, talked about boys and girls, lions, tigers and slugs, and everything inbetween, had many people in; a scouser who (rather predicably, i think) sang Beatles songs to us; one american who knew all the words, and, rather painfully, all the notes to the 'Star spangly banner' ; and another who brought gifts of over-salinated popcorn (his words. ponce.) and juice. And then, when they left, we talked for only few minutes more, climbed into respective beds, read for a couple of seconds, then decided to blow the candles out, and said goodnight.

i closed my eyes and waited.

I waited, a couple of seconds more, trying not to think of the stories of the white lady or the little boy outside on the steps, told earlier, lightly.

trying not to listen for footsteps in the uninhabited upper floor.

I counted to one hundred.

I counted back again to zero.

And back then to one hundred.

and back again to zero.

On and on, back and forth, for seven hours, til dawn.

A couple of times, somewhere in the night, thinking and counting at the same time, I reached 234 and more, and then would sigh and turn back, back again to zero.

A couple of times, somewhere in the night, i must have drifted off, but I dreamt that i was lying on the same sofa, in the same room, and people came in and spoke to me, no-one I knew, and nothing terrifying, just simple conversations, and then I'd wake up, and be counting again.

In a sweat, I lay and counted and fretted and turned all night, throwing off clothes and blankets with the hours. When a grey dawnish light hit the room, I was happy, and knew that I would sleep. And so I did. For a whole big hour and a half.

For an r&r; break, it could have been disappointing, but I feel revived having simply been. I love those people. But I'm back, and late for a leaving thing. Some-one's always leaving around here. i hate that.

oh, incedentally, i promised i would mention, as we sat in the pub across the water from here earlier today, the barman having put my tape on after my complaining about the music, we sat and watched the cow chew the dropped chips in the beer-garden. I'm so happy that I live here, life really does and doesn't happen.

I know how it feels to exist sometimes. I hope everyone does. Sometimes.

Wednesday, August 15, 2001 |

Sunday, August 12, 2001

There's good reason i've given up chasing people that i take a fancy to. If you have to convince some-one to fall for you, I don't think that's a very good sign that it's going to stay that way for any length of time. If some-one's going to find me attractive, I want them to think of it first, and not have me tell them to. And if they refuse you, you'll look like a fool. and if they don't refuse you, they're probably married.

I am aware that logically, that doesn't follow. But in my experience, it's almost, sometimes, mostly, true.

I've not had a very nice history with boys. I suppose i chased jack, or rather i wasn't very 'hard to get'. Or rather, i didn't run in the opposite direction quite as fast as i should have done. He was an actor, appearing at the theatre where i worked backstage. We all would go out, and drink too much, and dance and sing and revel until the wee small hours, and i ended up snogging one of the actors - jack - with surprising regularity and being very smug and pleased with myself about it too. We'd see each other at work, in the darkened hall while the play was on, and sit and whisper and giggle on the stairs, share a cigarette, or a coffee. Generally be *cute*. You get the idea.

One day, at work, somewhere around Act 2, scene 3, he found me in my favourite smoking spot, the stairs near stage door, and asked if we could talk. We had, at this point, been seeing each other for about five weeks. He looked serious. I was guarded...
He: Do you want to sit down?
She: Why?....
He: I think you should.
She: I'd rather not.
He: Anna, I don't want to upset you too much...
She: You won't.
He: But I'm not sure how else to say this...
She: mhm...
He: My wife...
She: What wife?
He: My wife .... She's in labour.
She: ...
He: ... Anna?....
She: What, Now?...
He: As we speak.
She: I see. I don't think I want to talk to you any more.

and that, as they say, was that. His daughter - his second child, please note - was born ten minutes later. I've never felt so bad in all my life. But was i to blame? How could I be when i didn't know. Am I supposed to double check at the beggining of each flirtation?.... " so, tell me again, let me get this straight, You are a: not married and b: do not presently have a bun in some-one else's oven." Perhaps may sound a little paranoid, no?

The loud american boy is coming back to the island tonight, with other friends and people i shall be glad to see, and then when they leave tomorrow i shall go back with them to the outdoor centre where they work - Camas, about three miles away from here, on Mull - and hide there for a couple of days. I shan't be updating this while I'm there; they haven't any electricity, so it would be hard. But I'll try and come back tonight or tomorrow before i go.....

soup.

Sunday, August 12, 2001 |

Saturday, August 11, 2001

The weather's taken a big swing toward the poo, and i've swung with it. As if attached to an enormous barometer, my whole self has swung to 'low', and I've been wandering around indistinguishable from all the other big grey rainclouds. I was bordering on abusive to the guests all the way through dinner, hating them for not liking banana cake even though i hate it myself and being quite rude about their wanting tea rather than coffee, even though i'd offered them the choice.

and that nice man left the island today. that pretty one that i'd ignored in the pub last night because i was too shy to say anything and too bloody-minded to allow myself to chase him anyway. Because I'm an idiot.

Arse.

Saturday, August 11, 2001 |

call it half past two in the morning - you can do, it is - call it the fact the i'm tired beyond tired, call it the fact that i've been dancing like a maniac, call it the fact that no-one but no-one is listening but I feel like talking this evening. Talking and talking and talking.

i'm just home from the disco, where i did dance, oh yes i did, muchly and muchly and muchly. To everything. In the world.

So, the staring situation went badly. Not hideously hideously wrong, but badly. I did, i admit, go down to the pub with only the intention of seeing him, and when i walked in, he wasn't there. I was sad. So I sat, and talked to darling friends and drank beer and other things for a good long time. And then he arrived. I was aware, believe you me, I was aware. And do you know what I did? Do you know what I did to compensate for the fact that some-one I *really* fancy had walked into the room? I flirted outragously with every male friend in the place, i giggled, squirmed, blushed and girley-ed myself into the ground. Did, you ask, this help my cause? I think not. I mean, no. He went home. Not to the disco or anything.

I'm sitting here, and talking to one of my favorite people, the loud american with the pornographic folk songs, while I'm writing, and we're having a long and involved conversation about why all my best friends are boys and yet no-one fancies me. It's never gone well for me.

where shall i start? first kiss or first date?

Well, first kiss is easy, that was Edward, and I'd fancied him for three solid years - through thick, through thin, through the fact that he went out with two of my best mates, through the fact that, looking back on it, he wasn't really that attractive -one day, in his family's flat in a terribly posh part of London, one day when we happened to be having some kind of tickling fight and, yes, we ended up on his bed, and he kissed me. And it was *horrible*. It was like having a large cold carp in one's mouth, thrashing around for want of life. I left the flat as soon as i could. Then i was sick... The whole me being sick thing is a different story. I was always sick. It's a nerve thing.

And my first date, well, really, my only date, i've never had such a *date* date since. His name was Anthony, he was in some way American. I'd met him through my best friend, rosie, and he'd asked me out some few days later. We went to pizza hut. That day, in a rush to beautify myself, i'd used some new kind of moisturiser, or my sister's or something, and my skin had reacted to it, and my face was as red as a baboon's arse. This was only the first glitch. We went to pizza hut, and because of the afore-mentioned nervous thing, i picked at my food. Very, very slowly. And then I threw up. Then I threw up again. We moved on to a coffee bar around the corner. I threw up again. This time, on the way back to my seat, i burned my hand really badly on his cigarette, when I'd sat down, we had the following conversation, with him being terribly american and me being terribly, terribly english.
HIM: I'm quite upset, my friend was in a drive-by the other day...
ME: aha?...
HIM: Erm, yeah. My friend was in a drive-by.
Me: Aha.
HIM: My friend. In a drive-by...
ME: mmm.
HIM: Do you understand? My friend was in a drive-by
ME: Yes. Like Macdonalds. Right?...

aparently that's 'drive-in'. At the end of the evening we parted company at I waited at the bus stop and he told me that he was in lovve with my best friend. still. It's not got any better since.

My darling boy has gone to bed. Not the eye-lashse one, the loud rude one. The one who toght said he marry me....
"as my back-up?" said i " for when i'm thirty and have no-one else" " No he said " You'd never be my back-up" He said " You'll be what i'lll do forever when i've finished making mistakes..."

This is the man with whom i've had one of the most beautiful flirtatious conversations ever...

Him: So where will i find you tomorrow?
Her: Somewhere. I'm sure. Whereever you find me, that's where i'll be....
Him: I'll see you there...

And the man that is my best friend. Or one of, at any rate.

I'm so impressed. I managed to get from the village hall to the office - about one mile - with no street-lights, in the rain, without treading on a single toad.
i'm shoked, amazed and delighted.

*No animals were harmed in the making of this weblog..."

Saturday, August 11, 2001 |

Friday, August 10, 2001

But at least i can assure myself that i'm drinking for a good cause. It's all for love.
or Lust at any rate. Well, where ever the source, heart or gonads (did you know that women have gonads? I was entirely unaware of that until yesterday. hmm. Anyway) its all led to me having a sore head today.

There's this guy, you see. the one in a billion that i served wine to the other night. He's still around, on the island, and I keep dragging myself and willing helpers down to the pub (yes, we do have a pub, just the one, but a pub all the same.) in the hope that he'll be in there and i can spend a few hours staring at him over the rim of a pint glass.

Christ, I sound like I'm 13.

Except for the pint glass thing, obviously. Although you never know. Kids these days and all that.

I managed to speak to him the other night. I was rather drunk at the time, so I don't quite remember what we said, but i had been in the pub staring at him for the previous several hours, so that will explain it. I'm not so good at getting talking to people, see. Once i know them, i'll talk and talk and talk and talk and talk, but ask me to start a conversation and i freeze.

So tonight i'll be going to the pub again, for staring purposes.
*sigh* (lovelorn)

for now, i'm off to paint faces. fabulous.

Friday, August 10, 2001 |

too. much. gin.

Friday, August 10, 2001 |

Thursday, August 09, 2001

so unbelievably busy yesterday i didn't even have time to step into the office. i was helping to lead a walk round the island with all our guests, pointing at things, reading things, trying to stop young children from falling off cliffs, the norm. and then an enormous hallowing ceremony and banquet in the evening, for which i dressed up in my very finest antique cocktail dress and fuck-me shoes and served cheap wine to around a billion people. Including one surprisingly attractive young man. that's not a very good ratio is it? one in a billion. well, welcome to my world.

the view from the high points on the island was amazing yesterday, i don't think i've seen it so clear all year. Looking north you could see Staffa and Muck and Eigg, and beyond them the Mountains of Skye, to the west, or north west, you could see the Outer Hebridies, Barra and South Uist, further round there was Coll and Tiree, Jura, Colansay and Islay. And most amazingly, looking out from Columba's Bay, far, far away, on the horizon, we could see Ireland. The funny thing is - well, funny in a 'not terribly funny unless you find 7th century saints amusing' kind of way - when Columba - sorry, Saint Columba - landed here in 563, or 653, can't remember which, he only stayed on Iona because this was the first place he found that was entirely out of sight of Ireland.

And now I, and a whole bunch of other people, have proved him wrong. I bet he feels like a complete idiot. Or would do if he hadn't have died a millennia and a half ago.

i've got to go and make palm trees.
later.

Thursday, August 09, 2001 |

Tuesday, August 07, 2001

the disco went well. no, that's ridiculously modest. it went fantastically. granted, most people left half an hour in, but they did all come up to the booth and explain that they were tired before they went, and ten minutes later the pub closed and the village hall filled up again. Well, I say "filled up". Sixteen people came in. but they danced like demons the whole night through. well, for about an hour anyway. I've no idea what they'd been drinking, or how much, or for how long, but i'd lay bets on it being approximately 'a whole lot', for they would dance to pretty much anything I laid in their path. Which was good for me, because it gave me a chance to experiment with all my Tamla Motown and Northern Soul type CD's that i've never been able to get anyone to dance to before. hurrah to that. we even got a round of applause at the end. you can't say fairer than that. or, as my sister would say "you can't say ffff... fff... no, i can't say it..."

no-one still fancies me. or is the proper English 'still no-one fancies me', it doesn't matter. whatever it is, they don't. for a couple of days i thought they did, but it turns out that they don't after all. dang. arse. it would just be nice to have a flutter for a while, you know? some-one that raises your heart-rate everytime they enter the room, or brush against you, or look your way, or say your name.

that's the lunch bell. hell. i was meaning to sit here and wax lyrical (thanks paul...) about night skies and sea crossings and toads and clouds and gin and golf and sign language and clay and staffa and stuff and lions and tigers and bears. but i'll have to do that later.

Tuesday, August 07, 2001 |

Monday, August 06, 2001

welcome. day five of my 'no day off' policy. not really a policy, more of a fuck-up really. but who's bitter?
alright, who's bitter apart from me?

i don't want to know. i'm tired of being around cynical people. or people who would call me cynical. I was told by a friend the other day that she can't wait to see me fall in love, because it would be such a novelty to see me cute and fluffy. Damn the bint, I thought i *was* cute and fluffy. just because i don't go around drooling, crooning, wimping and generally being a big wuss, it doesn't mean i don't have any feelings. At least, i think it doesn't. It's been so long i can't remember. And then, in the days when i did do the whole 'soppy' thing, i always seemed to do it about the wrong people. Just because i don't want to do that again, does that make me hard?

yes. i suppose it does.

*sigh*

I'm proud though. To be a strong, independent, outspoken and creative woman. Albeit a strong independent woman who swoons at the idea of a knight in shining armour on a dashing white steed, sweeping her off her feet and away from the roaring of dragons. Strong and independent all the same. Three weeks ago Rowenna and I formed the Emancipated Damsel Society. Three days ago she fell in love. I shall have no sense out of her now.

it's been just a gorgeous day. the sky was cloudless, bar a few wispy clouds in the afternoon that looked like candle-smoke. The stretch of sea between us and Mull, the Sound, looked like an enormous turquoise cup of tea, flat and inviting, with a few ripples further out. I've no art workshops to do this week, I'm helping with the children instead, so after a long morning on the beach building castles, wiping tears and drying shorts, i lay in the garden in the sun most of the afternoon, drinking wine, listening to CD's in preparation for tonight, and planning the children's party for thursday afternoon. And yes, that does count as work.

ish.

I'm DJing at the disco at the hall in a couple of hours. I must go, dress, drink, make myself beautiful and find my good mood. i think it's probably under my bed.

wake up, anna! for God's sake, wake up girl!

Monday, August 06, 2001 |

Sunday, August 05, 2001

oh, everything's just fine.
fine and dandy.
i've not got a day off til a week on wednesday, i've run out of tobacco, the island 'spar' is closed until tomorrow morning, which doesn't matter because i'm broke anyway, it's raining, i've ripped my trousers, have period pains and the only person that fancies me is my best mate. and he's gay.
and this morning a small child hit me with a stick.

I was sitting in the small breath between a terrible meeting and lunch, and the small breath between rain and rain, in the peace garden outside the 15th century Abbey where I work, watching the clouds and enjoying the last of my tobacco with a strong cup of coffee and a section of yesterday's newspaper. When approached by the cutest little button of a child you ever saw, I sensibly hid my cigarette in the grass behind me, folded my newspaper and crouched down by my bench to engage with the toddler. Barely two, he must have been, with tousled blonde hair, dinky little overallls and clear, bright blue eyes. I asked him his name, and he told me (unfortunately undisclosable for legal reasons. That is, I may sue). I asked him what it was he hid behind his back, for his sweet little arms were held behind him, clutching something i could not see. As if verbal communication were somehow insufficient, he pulled from behind his back a stick - or perhaps a club. or bat. it doesn't really matter - and with the broadest of smiles on the cute little button of a face, he whapped me with it. Then ran away. Gurgling and gasping and giggling. In a really cute way.

Bless.

Lessons learned so far this week.
1: 2-year-old boys like hitting people with big sticks when they're not expecting it.
2: 14-year-old boys like playing with breasts, other people's or their own.
3: 25-year-old boys don't seem to know what they want.
But the above things also seem to make them quite happy in the meantime.

Sunday, August 05, 2001 |

Saturday, August 04, 2001

i don't understand boys today.
not the little ones with rolled up socks for breasts.
the big ones with rolled up socks for brains.
argh.

Saturday, August 04, 2001 |

can someone tell me why these damned 14-year-old girls look as they do? i mean, were we to go out to a club together, it's almost certain they'd get served before me, some form of bottled watermelon construction... and certain for sure that they'd pull before me. well, it wouldn't be hard, wearing, as they were last night, an elastoplast. or two. in khaki.
with any luck they'll get to 20 and swell... :o)

believe it or not, tonight i'm home early, missing the iona village hall disco. mock if you will, (go on, resist if you can) but i'll have you know that iona village hall was rated among the top 10 unmissable nights out in Britain, by Sky magazine, or Wallpaper, or some other holy scripture. and it is. unmissable that is. obviously not literally. that would be stupid. you weren't there for a start. and i'm here instead. but metaphorically unmissable.
Some fridays 12 people, some perhaps 80. oh, alright, more like 50. still, i would consider that night heaving. an enormous dancefloor. comparitively. the rest of the island's quite wee, only one mile by four, so any dance-floor would seem relatively big. and if there are twelve people on the floor, then you're free to dance as wildly as you wish. hell, if there are 50 you can too... anything goes.
it depends who the dj is really - some weeks it's solidly ska, others heavily northern soul, and the next week will be entirely s-club 7. the bar is provided by the spar bags clustered within every knot of people - the hotel staff, the abbey staff, the seasonal workers, the islanders, the back-packers, the Sky-magazine-readers - and the dance floor is chaos as people lindy-hop to limp bizkit, mosh to madonna and do the gay gordons to, well, anything at all, really. fat boy slim last time i was there. and those who just dance.

apparently paul macartney was on the island today, with his new fiancee. island hopping, we assume.

i'm away to listen to the loud american, currently seranading me with self-penned pornographic folksongs. it's beyond beautiful. apparently folk-songs don't have to rhyme. i may just excuse myself and go to bad. i mean to bed.
it's time, i think.

Saturday, August 04, 2001 |

Thursday, August 02, 2001

sitting in the office, quietly and sneakily drinking a glass of wine before rushing out to amuse the children again. sorry, young people. 14 - 18. i don't remember it well, but i'm sure it wasn't like this. it's not that it was a long time ago, it wasn't, i'm still comparitively wee, it's just that i have the memory of a thingy. i think i wore more. perhaps i did, i was always kind of square, younger. not literally of course. that would be weird.

i've just been rearranging a 14 year-old's breasts.

for some reason, all the wee men have decided to dress up in drag for the big last night disco. which is fine, and not in itself odd at all. What's odd is their attitude toward it.

when the idea first came up earlier in the week it was all jokes and teases and silliness. now, oh now - now it's serious.

for the last three hours, all over the centre, there've been boys, boys in girl's clothes, discussing skirt-length and hair-do's, revlon or maybelline, black cherries or raging red, the rolled hiking socks or the balloons.

and if the balloons, then what size? it's an important question... Jordan? or, or, or some celebrity with small breasts? i can't think of one just now. But it's an important question. what's en vogue in breast size for the average 14-year-old first-time transvestite these days? one dear little thing couldn't decide either way, got me to blow up two of entirely different sizes so that he could walk around with them for awhile - to see which felt better...

he strutted, swayed and sashayed, squeezed, shook and shuggled. he decided on the smaller. i fiddled with them. adjusted them. they're small, firm and round. i actually haven't seen him look so happy all week. i hate to say it, but it may actually come down to the fact that this is the closest he's going to get to a female body all week. poor lamb. plural. or is it lambs? sheep - sheep. lamb -lamb?

going to admire false breasts now. *sigh*

Thursday, August 02, 2001 |