little.red.boat.

Saturday, August 31, 2002

The main important differences between cows and sheep which are important to remember when having any kind of dealings whatsoever with either.

1. Sheep are bigger than you expect them to be, but cows are bigger still.
2. Both come in a range of browns, blacks, whites, off-whites, and orangey-browns, making them essentially 'autumn' animals, but they are, however, available year-round.
3. you can make more varied food out of a cow, but sheep taste nicer. Nothing, however, beats a big slab of near-raw moo-cow.
4. Both make noises, one of a more 'meeeeeeh!' nature, one of a more 'mmmmmmmmoo!'
5. Sheep wee more in public, especially when startled, which is often.
6. Cows manufacture enormous piles of poo, and leave them lying around so that you can tread in them.
7. You can make shoes out of a sheep, I think, but not high-heels.
8. Cows never wear shoes. Sheep sometimes do. Actually, I don't think that sheep wear shoes either.
9. Both sheep and cows are put in Haggis. This is neither a good nor bad thing. (unless you don't like haggis).
   It is just true.
10. Sheep run more than cows do, which is a good thing, because cows are bigger and if they ran a lot the world would fall off its axis and we would all die.
11. Sheep sometimes look resentful, but seldom menacing.
12. Cows quite often look menacing, and are just waiting for the right moment to jump out at you. They will do it when you are least expecting them to. They are big and heavy, and merciless.
13. I am not afraid of sheep.
14. But I am afraid of cows.

Saturday, August 31, 2002 |

Right. Two days of celabratory hedonism and I'm still quite excited.
Last night we held a ceididh to celebrate - oh all sorts of things, weddings and university and birthdays, and all that happy rubbish.
Which would have been fine, the people joining in were mildly enthusiastic but quite quiet. Which meant that I had to spend two hours bouncing around like a helium toad, trying to get them to be slightly more than catatonic.
It was like wrestling dead puppies, all wide eyes and limp paws.

It's taken me a long while to be awake this morning, this morning was a '19 snooze' morning, but I'm nominally awake now.
But unable to string a sentance together.
I was unable to spell sentance for a while back there, too.

Saturday, August 31, 2002 |

Friday, August 30, 2002

I feel sick.

Friday, August 30, 2002 |

Oh golly.
I am a hungover person this morning.
Or rather, on that vicious cusp of still drunk/hungoverness.

I was going to answer some of the questions that came up in comments, but I think instead I'm going to go back to bed and snore.

I'll do the other thing later.
The waking up thing.
Oh, my head.

Friday, August 30, 2002 |

Thursday, August 29, 2002

I'm going to university.
I'm going.
To university.
In six weeks time I'm going to be a post-graduate student.
Fucking hell!
I'm Going! I got in! They want me! To go there, and, like, study and all.
I'm going to the city! I'm going to Glasgow! I'm going to university!

I'm very happy.
Yay me.

I think.

No. Definitely today, 'Yay me'.
We'll think about it in more detail later.

Yay! yay yay yay yay yay!
What's that you say? Why, thank you.
I'd love a drink. make it very large.

Thursday, August 29, 2002 |

Incidentally, the race is on to see who will be the 200th person to sign the guestbook...
Well, not really a race.
More of a, a, a curiousity?
No, a competition. That's it.
200th person wins a - ahm - a lion and a, a, ahm, the chance to name the next major hurricane.
And a bottle of wine.

Thursday, August 29, 2002 |

"So, Who's that guy? You know, that guy. That one who just went to the toilet?
Oh, right. How long's he staying?
Aha?
And where is it he's come from?
Aha? I see.
Oh, nothing.
No, nothing. It's just...
Well, he's very attractrive, that's all. Very attractive. Indeed.
No, that's all. He's just very attractive. No, I don't want you to tell him, he's just...
Oh, don't worry about it, look at me - I'm blushing.
I just thought I'd like to mention it. That's all."

What am I - fourteen?
My friend fancies you.... Will you kiss her?...

Thursday, August 29, 2002 |

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

There's a book I think about, every now and again.
Every sometime.
I would guess that the thinking abut the book is a way of evaluating stuff. Anyway...

It's a book by one of my favourite writers. One of the only science fiction/ fantasy writers I like.
It's Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut.
And the reason I think about it is this. The premise, to cut it quite short and try and phrase it well, is that the earth has suffered a timequake. Like a shift in the tectonic plates of the earth, but a shift in time instead.
Time, all time on earth, has slipped back ten years.
And everyone has to live it all through again.
But the thing is this - people can do nothing to change the events they have already lived. The timequake produces, in essence, a ten year deja vu, just watching these thing happen again.

The novel begins at the end of the ten years, at the point where the timequake happened, at the point where everyone stops watching and starts living.
At the beginning of free will.
Everyone suddenly has free will.
And no-one knows what to do with it.
It's an incredible concept for a novel.

And I quite often find myself thinking about it. Not the free will part, although that's very interesting, but simply the skipping back ten years part.

Skipping back, in your life, ten years, and living it all again, not being able to change anything.
When I first read the book, when I was 21, the idea was nightmarish, going back ten years, starting at secondary school all over again, having to put my hand up and be given permission before speaking, sitting in silent rows, the bullying, the boy things, the puberty, the growing, the angst and angst and angst.
Having to go through the first dates, through the exams, the lessons, the people, the angst and the growing...

Now, when I think of it, It maybe wouldn't be so bad.
The last ten years of my life. The boyfriends, university, jobs, not jobs, flats and flats and flats.
It's not been great - although I think it's getting better all the time - but it's not been terrible.

And, bad or not, it's brought me to where I am now.
And that has to be a good thing - surely...
If I had to do it all again.

I think.
Would you?
Time flicks back ten years, all of a sudden.
Where are you? How do you feel?

Wednesday, August 28, 2002 |

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

Actually, one positive other positive thing in shamelessly revisiting last year's posts because I'm too preoccupied to harbour original thought at the moment, it reminded me of my second least favourite speech affectation.

It was a colleague, in a box office in Manchester, robustly camp, the size of a house, a shock of blond curls leaping from his head (angelic curls, which looked about as fitting as tinsel on a rhino), absolutely flaming and asolutely insistent on refering to himself in third person as 'she'.

"Would you like a piece of Dairy Milk, Roger?"
the head would tip to the side, the eyelashes would go all Betty Grable on us, the whining and hard-edged voice would come...
"No thank you dear, she doesn't eat chocolate"
He also had a habit of asking if I would 'like' to do all the dullest jobs, which is fine, it's a normal turn of phrase. But he would put the emphasis on 'like', which never goes down well with me...

head on one side, slick smile, the eyelashes flutter, we begin the whine...
"Anna? Would you Like to do the filing, petal?"

"No. But thanks for asking."
He'd continue staring at me until I felt pressure to say something, anything, else.
"Why do you ask? Would you like to do the filing?" I would say. Not mature, but...

"No, oh no," He would counter. "She doesn't do filing."

Does she do slow and painful death by stapler?

I really shouldn't ever work in an office again.
Really, no.
She doesn't do offices.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002 |

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.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002 |

When built, in 1236 or something, cloisters were for;

1. reading the bible
2. meditation
3. walking around
4. walking around meditating
5. walking around reading the bible
6. bat watching.

as far as I can tell.
I mean, there are no documents to prove they were for anything else.

Although there may be. Those documents may exist.
I've not actually looked.

What ever they were once for, they're now, it seems good for;

1. bat watching
2. smoking
3. gossip
4. snogging (apparently)
5. wind (not mine)
6. bonding
7. acoustic testing. learning that if you walk along the line of a stone arch, looking into the curve and going 'shhhhhhhh....' eventually you'll hit the point of perfect acoustic and your head will be filled by 'shhhhhhhhh'
   very fun.
   the first two times.
8. an afternoon coffee and break, just as the sun starts going down and the birds start loudly singing.
9. tourism
10. meditation, sometimes.
11. a moment, just a moment of solitude, before sleep.
    Unless you get pounced on by a mad insomniac homeless tourist.
    As just happened.
    Just now.

For goodness sake.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002 |

There was disco.
anna did it.
it was good.
anna has gone to bed.
she promises stories tomorrow.
her burnt-out shell types on her behalf, and promises to return.
her feet smell.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002 |

Monday, August 26, 2002

I'm doing the disco tonight. Again.
And I'm actually quite excited. For once.
When I announced at dinner that there would be a disco, and that - what's more - I would be DJ, I was hit by a round of applause and a half a dozen people shouting "You have got ABBA, haven't you? Do you want us to bring ours?"
I love it.

Monday, August 26, 2002 |

Incidentally, thank you all those who tried to cheer me up for trying.
It's worked. That and other things.
But a few made me laugh out loud.
And I can't wait to see someone - just so I can ask them 'what goes 'Ooooo!'?....

Monday, August 26, 2002 |

I can't get into my e-mail, and though I'll have nothing, I'm still going to explode.

Monday, August 26, 2002 |

With a centre exclusively full of gay people, and me as everyone's favourite little straight girl, (really. There's one older gentleman appears to have adopted me as the daughter he never had. Or extra cat) someone walked into my craftroom today to find me happy as larry, surrounded by candles with bright rainbow designs and singing along to Doris Day at the top of my voice.

All things I'd be doing in any other week, but I realise now, in retrospect it might look as if I'm trying rather hard.
Ah well.
Larry was happy.

Monday, August 26, 2002 |

I hereby launch a brand new feature on this site.
It's a competition.

If anyone can tell me a story or a joke or say something, anything, to cheer me up in fifty words or less, they will win five billion pounds, an island in the south Pacific and a big sloppy kiss.

Answers on a comments system to the usual address. No purchase necessary. You may enter more than once. Employees of littleredboat(c2001) or its subsidiaries may not enter. If I could cheer myself up I wouldn't be here asking in the first place.

And remember - you have to be in it to win it...
Please?
Make a grumpy girl smile.
It's worth many karma points...

Monday, August 26, 2002 |

I tread, here, on thin ice.
Between the cold refreshing water of my own political beliefs, those of my friends and those of the place in which I work, and the heavy heavy footsteps of my sense of humour, the ice is very thin indeed.

Sorry.

Monday, August 26, 2002 |

Sunday, August 25, 2002

7 things I'm rather steamed up about this morning

1. toilet seats that aren't properly fixed on at the back. A strange mix of lavatory and fairground ride. Un-nerving.
2. The new burger lauched by MacBastards in Norway. Really fucking tasteless. I'm guessing.
   Everything else there is...
3. The fact that the Notting Hill Carnival is on and I am here. The fist 16 years of my life I was there. And now I'm here.
4. I'm wondering whether, at some point, we will have two minutes of silence for every child killed by abuse or neglect or violence in this country. We would have a very quiet day. But our mindfullness would be spread evenly.
   Every woman too, for that matter. We wouldn't speak for a week.
5. I haven't had a cigarrette yet today
6. or an e-mail from a friend in four days.
7. I don't know whether I'm going to university next month or not yet.
8. I'm in a grumpy mood. It's morning. That's what mornings do.

grr.

Sunday, August 25, 2002 |

Saturday, August 24, 2002

orange gentleman, clean shaven; And you can see why this is just so popular, it's just gorgeous, isn't it though Tasmin?
Orange lady; Gorgeous, Barry..
Orange gentleman, c.s.; and do you know why it's so gorgeous?
Orange Lady; Why's that, Barry?
O.G; Well, it's a limited edition, Tasmin! And all the more gorgeous for that fact!
Orange Lady; ...and they're buyng it in droves! It's simply flying out of our warehouses! People just seem to love them!
O.G; Why do people love them so much Tasmin?
Orange Lady; Well, Barry, they're very shiny.
O.G.;Very shiny! I can see my face! Well, Hello Hansome!....
(over-eager laughter from Tasmin and Barry)
Orange Lady; And of course the handle is studded with 143, (that's right - 143!) cubic zyconia!
O.G.; And What's that I see on the on/off switch Tasmin?
Orange Lady; Well, Barry, thats just a little something to give us girls a little extra pleasure!... The stop button is accented with a 2mg Authentic red gemstone - the go button by an authentic 30mg 100% genuine South African Imitation Emerald - perfect for Taurus.
O.G; That's just gorgeous. And then of course, there's the teddybear you were talking about earlier, engraved on the stainless steel shaft there - something for the girls, eh?.... Remind me Tasmin, How many speed settings are we talking about with the 'Sultan'?
Orange Lady; 7 Barry, That's two more than the last model. There's something for everyone there!..
O.G; There must be! They're just flying out of our warehouses!
Orange Lady; People simply seem to love them!
O.G.; And that's because?
Orange Lady; So many reasons, Barry. Details! So many details!... The teddy bear, the glittering handle, the shinyness...
O.G.; And it certainly is shiny...
Orange Lady; The 7 speed settings, and of course all those attachments we discussed earlier. So many gorgeous details, Barry. The ladies love details...
O.G.; They certainly do... They're simply flying out of our warehouses...

It's like a lullaby.
Soft voices, soft, affirming voices repeating the same familiar phrases over and over again.

I love shopping channels.
One day, I'm going to have digital television, the cheapest package, just so I can listen to people talking, endlessly - or for half an hour at least, until the hardware hour - about something, anything.

Something that I don't want and would never buy. Something that, until that moment, has never even existed for me.
The never-ending faith they have in their product, the safe, happy way they talk... It's like a lullaby.

God knows I'd never buy any of that shit, but still...

I only think of it because the other night I found myself in a hotel with SKy TV .
And I watched the news, scanned the comendy channels, then found, as it was the end of the evening, the shopping channel, to lure me to sleep.

Unfortunately, they were selling, that night, "nads".
A hair removal product, and one that sounds amazing, if it were not for the fact that, where I lived for the last eight years before being here, 'nads' is the usual word for testicles...

So the fact that there were testimonials from women saying 'I can't imagine how I lived without 'nads'"
or
"Having 'nads' has helped me enjoy life so much more!..."
These things weren't restful at all, they were just (in a Beavis and Butthead kind of way...) funny...

"Life is so much smoother now! Even my boyfriend loves my 'nads'"
heeheheeheeheeheeheehee...

Saturday, August 24, 2002 |

Friday, August 23, 2002

Well, if a girl's sad, there's always the wish list...
lalalalalala...

Friday, August 23, 2002 |

Can anyone cheer me up? I'm having a big smelly day.
Thank you.

Friday, August 23, 2002 |

Conversations go so much better in my head than they do in real life.
I have this thing for punchlines.
I can be listening to a conversation, or joining in on it, or damnitall, just imagining the whole thing, and after the very sensible feed-lines have been given, at any point in the conversation, my mind will just jump in with a punchline, this - 'it would have been so funny if this was said right now' - line, that leaves me sitting and smirking to myself for whole minutes and hours afterwards.

No, that's not a good way of explaining it.
Let's just leave it at the fact that conversations are much better - much funnier - in my head than in real life.
An example. And, bearing in mind you weren't inside my head at the time - at least I don't think you were - take my word on it being funny. To me.

We're sitting. At lunch. Having a conversation, in which I'm not terribly included, about Celtic Cultures, modern applications of being Gaelic or Welsh or Breton or Manx, language, dance, yadda yadda yadda blah blah baelllagh.
I'm half listening to the conversation, half giving silent commentary.

Celtic Lady; "Well, my eldest son has rejected our culture entirely.. I remember when he was a child, and he would hate it when I would dress up in my traditional costume to dance. He would be lying there, even at six months old, and as soon as he saw me emerge in my traditional dancing costume he would cry and scream and scream and scream..."
Other lady; "Gosh! What's your Traditional costume like?"
*Celtic lady in my head; "It's a large hairy body suit, fangs, horns, enormous gaping mouth to show your face... Blood dripping from the claws, scabbard, huge pointy knife, you know the kind of thing... for some reason he hated it!..."*
Celtic lady in real life; "...just a traditional fishwives outfit... for some reason he hated it"...

I couldn't explain why I was sitting there grinning at a conversation I wasn't even being involved in. In the same kind of way, at the theatre the other night, there was a scene where - in a non-naturalistic kind of fashion, the three characters were sitting around in silence and vocalising what they were thinking. More complex still, character A and character B were trying to work out what character C was thinking... The conversation, to my mind, went...,

A: "Silence... I look at him. What is he thinking? Is he thinking about the past, about his father? Is he thinking about the way things used to be between us? What is he thinking?
B: "Silence... I look at him. What is he thinking? Is he thinking about the present? About Munich? About his wife? About the particle reactor? What is he thinking?
C (in my head): Silence... Gosh, I really need a wee.
or
mmm, that pudding was lovely.
C (in the play): "Silence... I think of where I have taken the wrong turning. So many levels of blah... blah...blah..."

I like the fact that in my head, people don't always think about the deep and important things. The conversation turned out better in my head.

Just like tonight, when that one-armed bloke offered to buy me drink.

One armed man; "So I'll get you a drink, and you can offer me your body and let me run away with you..."
Me; "No, I've got work tomorrow. And my body's mine, thanks..."
Bloke missing one arm; "But I can carry on lusting after you all the same?..."
In my head I say; "Why not, you seem pretty 'armless..."
Me; "Sure, sure... pint of cider please..."

And I was very proud of myself for not taking the opportunity to make that very obvious and poor-tasting joke.
But at the same time, to be frank, I was also kicking myself.
But I realised that it was best and most tactful that I hadn't said it...
It was a shame, therefore, that he set me up with exactly the same feed line fifteen minutes later.
Fifteen minutes and a pint later.

You do that, you have to expect what's coming to you. There's a certain point where the inside of my head starts spilling out...

And it can't always be in the safety of the little red boat...

Friday, August 23, 2002 |

Consequences.
I was invited to play.
And I'm playing. I'm glad. I like to play.
I feel all warm and bloggy now.
Did I say bloggy? I meant fuzzy.

And apologies to my sister. We played the 'include this line' game, and I did. I just didn't end on it...

Friday, August 23, 2002 |

Thursday, August 22, 2002

Damn, but I forgot how much I love the theatre.
Big-over-the top-sweeping-luvvie-type statement there, but forgive me, I'm a big, over-the-top, sweeping type luvvie at heart. (Air kisses to everyone...)
I forgot about the intimacy, the wonder of being absorbed and carried and uplifted by a story, and how it feels, to sit in the dark and see lives changing, worlds moving, words flying.
I'd fogotten how much I love being in a theatre.
Although I know that's where I want to work, I'd sort of forgotten why.
And I forgot, until I came back and tried to tell everyone about it, I'd forgotten how arse-flatteningly dull I can be about theatre...

I don't know whether it's because I don't get excited about much else, I'm just generally calm, ish, but when I get excited about theatre, I talk and talk and talk. Nuances this, technical that, direction this, staging that, blah blah blah blah blah.
Well, everyone has to be dull about something I guess. I get theatre.

Theatre and midges. And I'm sorry to bring this up again, at risk of repeating myself, I hate them and I hate them and I hate them and if this little bitey-fucktard doesn't get away from my face I'm going to cut my own head off.

Hell, I'll have to go away and make myself repellant to filthy little tyrannical capitalist midge bastards.
There was something else I was going to post.
I'll do it later.

*Reminder to self - 'nads'.*

Thursday, August 22, 2002 |

Tuesday, August 20, 2002

Going to the theatre. Back tomorrow.
Going to see 'Copenhagen', by Michael Frayn. On Mull.
I don't know whether it'll be any good.
I heard the London production was very good, but I somehow doubt it's the same exact production.

Although you never know, they may have the Olivier-award-winning-original-London-cast,
at Dervaig Little Theatre.
On Mull.
hahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha (repeat to fade....)

Tuesday, August 20, 2002 |

Well, I wasn't axpecting to DJ at the disco tonight, but I must admit, it rocked.

Keeping 12 people happy on the dancefloor is harder than you'd think.
No, stop laughing, it is.
I mean, there were twelve people by the end dancing, 20 around the edges who refuse to dance to anything at all.
The trick is to keep at least 10 of those twelve on the dancefloor at all times, bearing in mind that none of them like the same genre of music, and keep the sulky sitters foot-tapping at the same time.
It's a skill. And stressful.

No, stop laughing at me. It is.
Enough to get a girl biting her nails. But I won't.

I don't bite my nails. I used to. I will, when I'm really worried, but not generally.
right, you're just going to have to hold with me here if I can't hold one train of thought, the office is full of midges and I'm sitting here trying to squish them, wriggling, itching and clapping to catch them, like some kind of demented seal, every time I see one in front of my face...

In fact, I will tell you every time I have to clap at one of the bitey-bastards between me and the screen, because then you will know and feel sorry for me.

Last week, (clap!) I have to admit, I went uber-girly - nailwise - on the train.

There's something about (clap), erm, about my hands. Working with them all the time, they're covered in wax, dye, paint, pen, dye, dirt and dye.
So somehow when I go on holiday I get all excited about (clap!), sorry, about having clean hands.
(ow! I could feel one on my eyelid, and I just stuck my finger in my eye. ouch.)
(clap!)

So as soon as I reached the mainland I bought hand things. And as I sat there on the train I (clap!) moisturised them, clipped the nails, filed them and buffed them.
I actually(clap!)buffed my (Clap!)nails.
For goodness sake.
I know that might not seem like much, but for me (Clap! Here, understand, I'm smacking myself on the chin...) that's extraordinarily (clap!) girly.
I must be preening.
Other wise I can't think of any reason (clap!)
why
(Clap!) (crap! there are about a million on my neck! These are evil vampire midges! clap!)
sorry, any reason why

(Clap!
Oh sod this, I'm going to bed)

Tuesday, August 20, 2002 |

Monday, August 19, 2002

The most beautiful evening I can remember in ages, the moon rising big and pale over the Paps of Jura, purple and pink and orange clouds, a blue sky fading to red over the western horizon, a flat calm sea, no wind, sheep bleating, cattle lowing, and hundreds of thousands of little bastard midgies everyfuckingwhere.
Excuse me.
I have an armful of midgie bites, a thousand midgies have a stomach full of me, I've swatted them, squished them and probably swallowed about a million.

It's a beautiful evening.
I should be in a good mood.
There is no point to a midge.
I hate them.

I'm going to the pub. Pint, anyone?

Monday, August 19, 2002 |

I seem to be preparing for the possiblility of being a student again not only mentally, but physically too.

Or at least snackwise.
Bored last night, and listless and watching a terrible movies, we found ourselves having a glass of sherry and a bowl of cornflakes. Not a mixture I've traditionally lusted after. Non, in fact, two things that I usually have any interest in whatsoever, but for some reason, it did the trick...

It just reminded me of all those meals made up from whatever cheap tat was left in the cupboard (notable example - pasta with peanut butter and sweetcorn) until I could afford something - anything - else.

Oncee I was tricked into going to one of these 'cheapest supermarket in the world' places, a 'friend' having convinced me that the answer to my prayers lay amongst the shelves of 3p Baked Beans and 19 pence pasta.

There was, of course, a reason eerything was so cheap - although I'd got overexcited and bought a trolley load of the bilge before I got it home and realised. The baked beans tasted like buttons in water, the pasta like fluffy blubber.

Worst of all I realised that yes - although it may be a great and exciting thing that one could buy a tin of Ravioli for less than ten pence, a possible answer to three years of rice and marmite, otherwise - the prospect of this making up any large part of your diet became less attractive as you turned into the next aisle.

There was the dog food. The dog food was more expensive than the ravioli.
Not the good stuff, you understand, the supermarket own-brand dog food cost more than the equivelent weight of processed meat and carbohydrate for the human being.

The pictures on the front of the tins may have looked remarkably similar, horribly, horribly similar, but there was something added - or lacking - in the tin of Ravioli that made it cheaper.
And no, although I started this conversation, I don't think I want to know what that was.

Hair, probably. Or saliva. Extra saliva to stick the ravioli pockets together...

So at least another year of being poor - not only being poor, but eating stupidly and building up more enormous debt. Why am I trying to do this again?

Monday, August 19, 2002 |

Sunday, August 18, 2002

So I'm at this funeral on wednesday, I've gone to support a good friend at his mother's funeral.
I'm glad I'm there. I've never met his mum, although she sounds like an amazing woman.

So, half way through the reception (is it called a reception? the sandwiches, after?) I step outside for air and space and a cigarette. Cigarettes are good for this. They give you an excuse to leave crowded and hot rooms. They give you an excuse to step outside. Anyway. Enough pro-nicotine for now...

I was standing outside. On my own, thinking about my friend inside, making polite conversation, welcoming people he'd never met and having to deal with his own grief...

he had, I must mention, just had to go through a line up, standing at the door of the crematorium, shaking the hand of every person passing saying "Thank you for coming .... Thank you for coming..." a cruel and inhuman punishment that we as a society expect of the recently bereaved. What made the whole picture though was the wasp.
He hates wasps.
and halfway through the line-up, one of them buzzed his face, and he was left running around with flappy hands shouting 'fuckfuckfuck! fuck! fuck!'. It was a truly human moment in this whole formal thing. Very him. Probably, and I wouldn't know, I never met her, Very Her...

So I'm standing outside, smoking and thinking and leaning against a wall. And in a very beautiful human interaction, I get counselled.
A woman walks out of the hotel toward her car, sees me, and comes over.
"Are you alright?..."
"Yes. Thanks." I say "I'm fine. Just needed some air."
"But?..." Her head goes to the side, her expression moves to one of deep and far-reaching concern..."Are you sure?"

"Yes, thanks." I realise she thinks I'm deeply bereaved, that I'm in shock over the death of this much-loved one. I try to nod and smile in a way that says (no, really I'm fine, I never actually met the woman, although I wish I had. Please go away now...)
"You were at the funeral..."
"Yes"I said."It was a beautiful service"
"I cried all the way through" she said.
"Yes" I said. The longer we stay in this conversation, the harder I'm finding it to admit that really I'm only out here for a cigarette, really I never met Margaret, really I'm here to support my friend, really, at the end of the day, I Never Met Her.

"You should go back in..."She says."It's what She would have wanted."
"Erm, Aye..."
"Are you sure you're going to be alright, love?" apart from the hideous guilt and embarrassment I feel right now, I wanted to say, I'm sure I'll be fine.

"Yes... I'm going to go back inside... now..." I said, stubbing out my cigarette.
"Good Girl!" She said... "It's What She Would Have Wanted!"

I didn't know what to feel.

Sunday, August 18, 2002 |

So now everything seems to be about leaving.
I go away for a week and every conversation, when I come back is about leaving.
I mean, it's not for another couple of months yet...
Well, six weeks, if I get into university.
And yet that's all anyone seems to be able to talk about... How it feels to leave, what I'll do when I leave, what I'll take away when I leave...

I've told you I'm leaving haven't I?
Leaving my job, my friends, my home, my candles, my *gasp* computer
Well I am.
Every-fucker else seems to want to know about it...
I'm a little apprehensive.
And a lot excited.

Sunday, August 18, 2002 |

What do you do when someone contacts you from a long time ago and they seem really, really dull?

Sunday, August 18, 2002 |

Saturday, August 17, 2002

Confused and disquietened by light entertainment.
I can cope with the idea of people pretending to be famous singers and things, that makes some sort of sense. Not much, but some.
Whatever makes them happy, and that.

I can cope with the idea of Chris Officemanager from Dumfries and Galway Pretending to be Jarvis Cocker. I understand that Jarvis Cocker may be Chris' idol, and that chris may be wanting to play on his passing visual or aural resemblance to the singer. I understand that. I like Pulp a lot. And can see why Chris might want to pretend to be Jarvis.

I can cope with the idea that Norman Lorrydriver from Godalming, Surrey, might want to pretend to be Rolf Harris, for the same reasons.

I cannot seem to process the idea that Jarvis Cocker from Pulp would want to pretend to be Rolf Harris, as was happening the last time I walkedd past the television.

This seems to be the point where TV starts disappearing up its own fundament.
What's next?
Members of the public pretending to be Jarvis Cocker pretending to be Rolf Harris?
Rolf Harris pretending to be a member of the public pretending to be Jarvis Cocker?
Jarvis Cocker pretending to be Chris from Dumfries pretending to be Javis Cocker?

I hate the television on a saturday night.
Roll on life.

Saturday, August 17, 2002 |

Meg was looking for hangover cures.
The best I can come up with, apart from Irn bru, obviously, was my day so far.
A hungover saturday - by Anna Pickard.
11.30 Wake up. Feel sick. Michael Palin being middle aged and winsome on the telly.
12.00 Back to sleep.
1pm Wake up.
Columbo.
Quincy.
Baked Potato.
Perry Mason.
4.30 Back to sleep.
6 something. Wake up, watch one of those programmes where famous people fall over, forget what they're meant to say or get pecked in the nads by ostriches. Nausea increases.
Start to watch one of those programmes where non-celebrities, normal people, fall over, get wet or film their children farting in the bath. Can stand it no longer. Chew my own legs off.

Check e-mail. Reassuring lack of anything at all comforts and subdues. Nausea fades.

I think the nasty camcorder show will be finished now. If not, I can always go back to sleep...
I love days like this...

Saturday, August 17, 2002 |

And yes, I now this wil have been mentioned elsewhere before, but I abhor the fact the the blogger spellcheck thing asks me to differenciate between "English" and "British English", to my mind british english, or English english is the only kind of english there is - call everything else by your own country's name...
I'm not planning, here, on getting into a fight. I just want to register my distaste.
Sew Plaese excuse mee if I dont spelcheck. The Machinne is rong.

Saturday, August 17, 2002 |

Before anyone else asks whether I had a very good time on the mainland, yes, I did.
Not a riotous time. And not, as I'd thought a very quiet time.
I'd meant to go away, on retreat almost (from a retreat centre... insert irony sirens here...) not talk to anyone, be alone with a couple of books and a pen and paper.
But my friend was up last week, the sleepless week, the good week. And he went home on friday, and on saturday his mother died.

I spent the week, pretty much, with riotous bits inbetween, going to the funeral.
I wanted to go to be with my friend, to see him, and I'm glad I did. It was important to see him.
I went, to a small church in a seaside town with a maniac driver, and we got there, and we went to the funeral.

Only the third I've ever been to.
And the first at which I've felt a life so celebrated.
The church was packed, 300, 400 people, and each one had a personal connection to Margaret or her family.
I was touched to be there, I was moved by the service.
By the end of the service I was in two places, feeling I'd known her and wishing I had.
She was an incredible woman.
And one loved by her family, her friends and her community, clearly.

I'd never met her. But I was honoured to be at her funeral.
So yes, if you want to know what my week away was, and how it was, there.
I'll be funny tomorrow, or try, promise...

Saturday, August 17, 2002 |

There seems to be some debate, elsewhere, caused by an anonymous fuckwit, about the design of this site, my relationship with my sister and the state of my mental health.
1. Just for my own clarity, this site was redesigned on my insistance, with the kind help of the only designer I know. I drew the boat and lettered it. And the clouds. I drew the clouds.
The rest I hinted at, but had not the ability to do. Because to frank, I don't care what the damn thing looks like, I do the content. Content is what I do.
2. I love my sister. Very much. She's one of my longest standing friends, and one of the best to boot. My sister rocks. I have never needed for any counsel or love. She's my sister. Nothing she does hurts me.
3. If I'm depressed, which I'm not right now, that's none of anyone's God Damned business unless I choose to tell them so.

And I'm fine. Thank you for asking. Just fine.

Saturday, August 17, 2002 |

Friday, August 16, 2002

Things I wish I'd realised just that little bit sooner - Number something in an ever occuring series -
"Filling your mouth with three food groups is fun - but not if the busload of elderly Americans is looking.

I was just happy because I discovered that if you put Salami, Emmental and Ready Salted Crisps in your mouth at the same time, it tastes a little bit like pizza.

Not a Great Deal like pizza, I warrant you. But not to be sneered at.
Unless you happen to be watching.

I discovered this taste sensation on the bus over Mull. I was on my own. I like travelling on my own. In fact, I only like travelling on my own. Because I can read. And write. And think. And listen to music. And stuff things into my mouth without anyone commenting on it.

Or so I thought.
You see, I'd discovered that in order to get the balance completely right - salt, grease, meat and cheese, it was important to introduce all the ingredients simultaniously.
And had been happily doing that, lining them up in my hand (one slice salami, one slice Emmental, two large crisps or several smaller fragments) and cramming them in all at once. I got quite used to doing it. I started reading the paper while doing it. I did it while the bus was moving, and when the bus stopped. Although I did look up, when the bus stopped, I must admit.

Mid-'stuff', salami hanging out of the corner of my mouth, crisp bits all over my chest.
And there were a coachload of elderly Americans. Staring. And looking amused. Some appalled.

Apparently, stuffing a number of food groups in your mouth at the same time is never cool, or attractive.
No matter how big your mouth is.

I think I could have got away with it if the Salami hadn't fallen out again.
Dignity, Femininity, Class, let these be our bywords.
Have I mentioned recently that I'm single?

Friday, August 16, 2002 |

well, welcome back anna.
Not checked my e-mail in nearly a week.
And it's good, at least to know the spam-monkey has missed me.
So much so he's e-mailed at least three times a day.

It just makes a mockery out of 'inbox - 13 unread messages' when every single one of them is about advertising, loans, golf clubs or beans.

I hate you spam-monkey.
I hate you a lot.
And I don't think I speak too strongly to say it so.

Friday, August 16, 2002 |

Monday, August 12, 2002

So, freezeframe - for at least a few days.
Anna on the train to the big city. Cities. Anna with her paint-splattered trousers and blondish roots.
Anna who's not been off the island since...
*fuck!*
April? May?
Surely not.
I must have gone somewhere. Ah yes. Glastonbury.
Anna, who's not been off the island since june.
That's still a while ago, actually.

I've put my archives into months. I'm quite proud of that.
That I have enough archives to put into months. That's pretty cool.
So while I'm away, you could always check out awe-inspiring august, with its adolescent amateur cross-dressers, its adoration of stars and planets, and much awe and ire. Or dazzling december, with its diarhoea, and death and drinking and decorations. Or fantastic february, with its foolishness, its fish and its frolics and fucking.

Actually february had none of those things in.

Although I may have fallen over. At least once.
And that begins with an f. So do lots of other words, actually.
I have to go now. I seem to be going all sesame street.

So I'll be going.
I'll be going and living some real life, making a note on how I think that feels,
then I'll be coming back and writing about it.
And I've still not packed.

TaRa.

Monday, August 12, 2002 |

Who knew there was going to be a surpise 11th entry on the 'what shall I do this week' list?
I was going to go and be all hermitty in the middle of a green valley. But I'm not now. Or I don't think I am.
I Might, later in the week.
I have no idea. As yet.
I'm going to go and spend some time with friends.

I might be near computers. I might not.
So therefore I may, or may not, have the opportunity to post. I'm not sure.
I might, at some point in my life, become less vague about absolutely everything. Maybe.

I have not packed, everything I have that I could possily wear to an occasion such as this is still drying, and if I'm not careful I'll be wandering around all moist for the week.
But then, it's raining anyway.

Right. Get organised, lady...

Monday, August 12, 2002 |

Sunday, August 11, 2002

Full of love today.
Full of love for the concept of sleep, which, after all, rocks.
Full for the person that sent me my favourite candy [miniature Reeses Peanut Butter Cups] for seemingly no reason.
Full for the sun and the wind of the day, shining through the window as I dozed.
Full for sleep, and baked potatoes, and music.

Not full of love for Cricket.
I've tried. I really have tried. There was a time when the only way I knew how to spend time with one person in my family was to sit with him and watch the Cricket. Hours on end of "......and this is shaping up for another thrilling day of the third test... johnstone approaches... Whap... oooh, magnificent cricket... will you look at that. That bloke's caught the ball, he's chucking it elsewhere now. And the bod in the middle, still legging it up and down like a crazy man. Where's he going? who cares?"

I always could have sworn that they could say anything, anything at all, and no-one would notice. And yet, my Cricket-watching companion woul sit there, mesmerised. I could barely even talk, ask what was going on. Because it may have broken his concentration. Broken the concentration of the men, on the television, talking about how there was a pigeon on the field, over by the west stand, a small grey and white one and oh, oh no, it wasn't on the field anymore, it had now flown off towards - well it looks like - the power station near by. Will you look at that. And here's Johnstone coming out to bat...

Anyway. Sorry, there was cricket on the television all day, and I was quite under-enamoured with that.
But everything else was quite lovely.

Everything else seemed very lovely indeed, actually.
Apart from the cricket. And the Golf. And the fact I had not one e-mail today.
Apart from that, it was all gorgeous.

I may give up smoking next week.
I may not. But I may.
Well, I'm away to stay in a place where I don't have to talk to anyone.
I may as well break 9 years of addiction there as anywhere...
Ooh. It sounds more scary when I talk of it like that.
I may not.
But I may.
Hell, I'm just rambling now. I'm going to go and put myself back to bed...

Sunday, August 11, 2002 |

Saturday, August 10, 2002

In the last 81 hours, I have had 9 hours sleep.
There is a sleep deprivation contest.
And I have just won it.

Yay me.
I'd celebrate if I weren't so very very tired.
There are some hours of sleep wandering around out there.
If you see them, send them home, I'd like them back, now.

Saturday, August 10, 2002 |

I'm full of mucus.
Very.

I just wanted to get that out of my system.

Saturday, August 10, 2002 |

If there were a list of 'The top ten things I'm generally cynical about', then relationships that started on this island would be pretty high on that list.
Not that there is such a list. What would be the point? It would be a stupid list.

But if there were, it would.

There are a lot of things in 'relationships that start on this island' (currently no.3 on non-existent cynicism hit parade)in common with holiday romances, even if it's between people that work here for years...
People, when here, show the best of themselves.
It's just that kind of place.

How could you not?
After all, this is not the 'you' that has to pay the gas bill, or commute for 2 hours into work.
This is not the 'you' kept waiting in the supermarket queue. This is not the 'you' that hates going into work each day, or hates going home. This is not the 'you' compromised by the annoying things in life, this is the you being all that you can be. In a good way.

On a beautiful island, with other calm people, doing calm things and feeling calm about it all.
Of course people are fit for falling in love. It's the place you expect to be doing that.

But what happens when you get back to the annoying little bits of your actual life?

Can you stay the amazing 'you' that being on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere allows you to be?
Well, you say so, but I don't know.
I've always been cynical about the whole thing.

But sometimes things happen to make you less cynical.

Tonight I met a couple in the pub. A couple that met when we all worked together 7 years ago.
Here.
And they're still together. And married, and all that kind of shite, with kids. Kids!
It's beautiful. They're beautiful.
And it works.
A couple that met here, in the beauty and the simplicity and easiness of this place.
Still together, and very gorgeously so.

And I'm glad.
It's a good thing to be cynical. About most things. All the time. It's healthy.
But sometimes it's nice to have to stuffing knocked out of your cynicism.
I'm glad that that can happen.
That's good.
That's number 2 on the list of 'Good things that can happen to other lists'.
Or would be. If such a list existed.

Which it doesn't.
That would be stupid.
But if it wasn't and did, it would.

Saturday, August 10, 2002 |

Friday, August 09, 2002

Like my big sister, I've a gift of time, but no idea what to do with it. BUt I've not just got a day.

I've got a week.
From tomorrow morning.
My options are - and bearing in mind that I'm short on cash and have had a total of 7 hours sleep in the last 3 days -

1. a bed.
2. a bed and breakfast, in the middle of nowhere (no computer!...) but with hills and stone circles and stuff.
3. city, a bed in edinburgh. But the festival's on. I've always wanted to go, but money...
4. other city. I could just pick one. And then worry about the where to stay bit...
5. grab a tent. go to outdoor centre on mull where most of my friends work. Lots of kids around. Quite a lot like work, but with no real responsibility.
6. lie in my bed. For a week.
7. do something sponteous. Spend money that I shouldn't going to see people I've not seen in approximately a billion years.
8. an oil rig.
9. my bed.
10. cuba.

I'm so tired I can barely think. Let alone make a decision.
Any sage words?

Friday, August 09, 2002 |

damnitall.
balls.
hell.
Tell me, because I'd like to know, are there any anti-shyness devices that don't need a corkscrew?

Friday, August 09, 2002 |

Thursday, August 08, 2002

Ooh! I have 5 children!
And a spot at the end of my nose.

Although I'm pretty sure the two aren't related.
If, however, I should find out that they are...

Thursday, August 08, 2002 |

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

Wow. I've just signed up to . I don't quite understand it, but I like it.

Now my sister is my mother and her boyfriend, my soon to be brother in law, is my brother and her son.
In fact I'm now related to vaughan, which is nice. And whole bunch of people I've never heard of. They're all my siblings. The possibilities of world-wide inbreeding are increasing by the second, it seems.
It's sick, but we like it that way...

However, sad to tell, I have no children, as yet.
If anybody would like to help with that....

Then start a blog. And call me mummy.

Tuesday, August 06, 2002 |

Just re-checking my Penicillin Infomation leaflet to say whether you're allowed to drink (Well, it doesn't say catergorically that you can't....)
and I found again the fantastic side-effect section that I was reading yesterday afternoon, just before heading into a particularly colourfully dream-filled, fever ridden, sleep.

What side effects can penicillin have?
'All degrees of hypersensitivities have been reported, the most common reactions [common, mind you] are nausea, vomiting, abdominal discomfort, diarrhoea [fine, we're with you so far, all sound like common side-effects to most...] and black hairy tongue [Excuse me? Black hairy wtf?...] '

How black, I asked myself? How hairy? Black and hairy like a gorilla is black and hairy? Black and hairy like a magnified spider?

All the other side effects I could go along with, they were fine - well, not fine, I wouldn't choose diarrhoea as a picnic companion, but they were at least things, symptoms, afflictions, Things that I'd heard of before. Not like Black Hairy Tongue.

And the cheek of the Penicillin people - (which, incidentally, sounds like a bad childrens cartoon) sneaking BHT onto the list like it was something entirely normal and expected. I have had, in my life all the other things at least, I don't know, dozens of times. I have never, conversely, in my life heard of anyone afffected by having a great big black hairy tongue.

So I scoffed at the side effects section.
I was suprised and shocked at the side effects section.
I laughed at the side effects section and yes, I admit,
I phoned up other people just so they could laugh at the side effects section too.

And then, justice of justice, it happened.
My mouth got dry, my throat tickled and I started gagging.


I had nausea.
I still do.
I wish I had black hairy tongue, I realise that has greater comic effect, but nausea's going to have to do...

my sick noise today is;
*bleurgh*

Tuesday, August 06, 2002 |

So yes. As someone so beautifully pointed out, my ill noise was "Ow! Ow! My fucking ear! Ow!".
Or, at least, it was until I woke in the morning, when my noise turned into, "Ha? What? Eh? No, I'm sorry, I can't hear you"

Because I'd lost my hearing. In my right ear. Pretty much all of it.

The point at which I realised this was upon opening my eyes, and - lying on my left ear - watching my alarm clock go off on the table beside my bed.
I have the kind of alarm clock that flashes (as well as beeps), and if it hadn't of been doing that, then I wouldn't have had a clue.

It was an odd experience.
And a good test of people's reactions. I had the full range, from sympathetic hugs and people just speaking up a bit, to people mouthing silently do me to kid on that I'd gone entirely deaf, to really terribly over helpful people making sure they were standing in front of me and enunciating clearly so I could lip-read.

It was a nice thought.
It would have been nicer if I knew how to lip read.

But I'm fine. Thanks for all the nice thoughts.
It's an infection or something. My tonsils, and my glands. My doctor said they were all scraggy. Or something.
She said it might still be shingles. But she didn't know.

I like my doctor. A lot. She's very plain-speaking. She tells you all the things it might be and all the things it definitely isn't. After listening to the symptoms;
"smile for me, close your eyes... well, it's not Bells Palsy, which it could have been. Unlikely to be mumps, we can rule out leprosy, doesn't look like a malarial strain... Let me check your throat - good - no sign of sarcoidosis, hypoglycaemia or whooping cough, it's not throat cancer, although if you don't stop smoking it will be..." (really, I'm not being facetious, she said this. well, that bit, anyway)... "You're not bleeding from anywhere particularly obvious, your heart's still beating and none of your limbs seem to have fallen off. I think it's a throat infection."

It's coming back, slowly, although I can still hear myself chewing far too much for my liking...

Tuesday, August 06, 2002 |

Sunday, August 04, 2002

Anna is not very well.

There is someone sticking a knitting needle in her right ear - or at least it feels that way. She's in bed, and will stay there until the pain goes or the computer learns to walk over to her bedside so she can type.

Until then, no updates - sorry!

- Meg, her big sister

Sunday, August 04, 2002 |

I find there being a 'regular reader' of this page here as a guest disquietening.

I like that some of my friends read this drivel.
I like that some people that know me do.
I like that some people who know me a little who I've told about this shit do

But someone I know barely, finding my boat through a random search and then, and then turning up and being vocal about knowing everything about me, every story, every indesicion, disquietens me.

But I suppose that goes with the territory, doesn't it?...
Does it?

Sunday, August 04, 2002 |

Saturday, August 03, 2002

What was that game called with the kid on the bike, with the papers?
Riding down the pavement, throwing newspapers at houses. Like a paperboy.
The computer game. What was that called? The one with the paperboy?

Saturday, August 03, 2002 |

It was said at the beginning of last week that it would be a 'week-long-party'.
And that's true. It was. With a leaving party, a birthday party and the annual banquetty thing, all with between 200 and 350 people.

It was a week-long party. Fair enough.
But someone could have mentioned the four-day hangover.

On wednesday, the day of the banquet, I wrapped 400 sets of cutlery, polished 60 platters and made punch.
Halfway through the afternoon I was sitting on the floor surrounded by cartons and bottles and spoons and fruit, like a mad professor or a child in a mud hole. But a mudhole with 47 bottles of wine, several bucketloads of fruit juice, a vat you could boiol your mule in and orders to produce something drinkable.
I've never made punch in my life.
Who could possibly have thought that letting me loose on this much stuff was a good idea?
Everything needed tasting. Twice.
By the eleventh adjustment in ingredients I couldn't taste the difference anymore.
And was giggly beyond belief, so I didn't really care.
So I made everyone else taste it.
After their third taste they couldn't tell this difference either.
And none of us cared.

It didn't actually matter. I was going to come online and find out how to actually make punch, but by that time it was far too late. The damage had been done. I had no idea what I'd put in there already, so wouldn't have known how to correct it.

It didn't matter anyway.
People only as the notice that said 'alcoholic' or 'non', what it tasted like was an incidental matter within that, as long as it got you a little bit squiffy after a glass and a bit.
And it did.
I can testify to that.

I had to serve the stuff too. People kept asking what was in it.
I wish I'd known. I told them I didn't know.
Quite often we'd have a tasting quiz, sip it and try and name for each other the likely ingredients.

You'd think I'd have known.
Ah well.

Saturday, August 03, 2002 |

Friday, August 02, 2002

Beautiful random conversation with three-year-old friend today.
Because of stuff, I ended up in the kitchen this evening, helping and cooking and makin' bacon for 50 people.
So I was wearing the blue apron that everyone in the kitchen wears.

I was setting out dessert and she came over and made small talk...
"anna? Why are you a cooker?"
I picked her up.
"anna, are you a good cooker?"
I'm cooking because they need help today. Everyone is tired and 'thingie'... " [our cook, she's not realy called thingie...] "...is sick"
She looked very serious and concerned.
"Oh! Is she sick, anna? What is her noise?"
"What?"
"What is her noise? Is hiccoughs her noise? is it sneezing? Is snuffling her noise, anna?"

Apparently every sickness has a noise.
I could have hugged her for hours for that thought.
Unfortunately I didn't know what the noise for exhaustion - the thing we're all suffering a little from - was.
(That was abysmal sentence construction. For that sorry)

I yawned, and said that was her noise. I was yawning anyway. It seemed to fit.

Friday, August 02, 2002 |

Thursday, August 01, 2002

anna pickard is still away, being, by turns, uber-busy and drunk.
We apologise for any inconvinience.
We promise that she is storing up funny stuff for when she stops.
In the meantime, there is no here.
There will be, in a couple of days. But not today.
There is lots elsewhere.
Thank you for stopping by, and reiterations of apologies.

*the management*

Thursday, August 01, 2002 |