Moving House?

BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS ETC...


May '08
It has been recently brought to my attention that there exists on earth one person entirely unrelated to me by marriage who actually reads my blog. Ye gods and little fishes! (As my old chemistry teacher used to say while watching a group of twenty 15 year-olds with varying degrees of acne/Asperger's Syndrome attempt to set fire to lumps of potassium permanganate...) This life-affirming event has caused me once again to throw down my crutches and write of my ongoing struggles in Stepford-on-Haggis, the pride of Scotland, home of the evangelist, the last refuge of buttock-clenching earnestness, and enemy of frivolity - in other words, for the time being at least, home.



Since my last post, we have dragged ourselves to the conclusion that, in fact, we don't actually like living here very much, and so have put our house up for sale. Perfect timing, I'm sure you'll agree - what with the credit crunch, which sounds like breakfast cereal, but isn't - we should be able to achieve a dazzling £12.47 profit. Excellent.



But still, we haven't moved house yet, and our neighbours here at Stalag Luft 17 do not yet know of our intentions , so the annual ritual of life here continues unrelenting. May is a massive month here in Haggis, bringing as it does the breathlessly anticipated 'Children's Gala Week'. A whole seven days (the clue was in the name) of activities for the children of the parish, the highlight, for me anyway, being the superbly un-apostrophed "Willies Showcase" which, for the past three years, I have been too terrified to attend....

June '08
Since writing the above, we have agreed to sell our house to a couple of local hobbits whose sole ambition is to live somewhere as fantastic as Haggis! Thank the lord for prescription drugs and fry me in olive oil, I do believe we may be able to leave here after all... Which reminds me, permit me to share a most entertaining bit of dialogue which occurred while I was showing a prospective buyer 'roond the hoose'. What follows is true, honestly.

Act One. Scene One: the master bedroom (ah-hem)

Me: 'It's quite a large room, with, as you can see, fitted wardrobes.'

Hobbit: 'Aye, so it is. Could I ask how far they go back?'

Me: 'I beg your pardon?'

Hobbit: 'How far do they actually go back?'

Me: 'I'm sorry, what?'

Hobbit: 'How far do the wardrobes go back?'

Me: (rising panic has forced my voice up an octave) 'Er, go back?'

Hobbit: 'Yes, how far do they go back? The wardrobes?'

Me: 'Er, well, to the, er, wall?' They are fitted wardrobes, you see.'

Hobbit: 'Mmmmm, good. But do you mind if I check for myself?'

Me: 'Not at all, you can never be too careful with wardrobes.'

(The hobbit peers through my dusty garments, then stretches out a hand to touch the wall behind them.)

Hobbit: 'That's great, I hope you don't mind me checking?'

Me: 'No, not at all. In fact, it's a pity you weren't here yesterday, as on Tuesdays all the wardrobes extend as far back as fucking Narnia, you crazy inbred freak!'

I wish I'd really said that last bit.

Autumn treats

Well, the birds are throwing themselves out of their nests again, which can only mean one thing here in Stepford-on-Haggis.... Yes folks, it's time for the village school Autumn Fayre (with capital letters too!) - come one, come all, but bring your pocket money because there will be oodles of tempting products to tickle the tastebuds and... no, it's no good, I can't keep that up.


Once again I have been roped in to man the Homebaking Stall (more capitals). This is a hugely important role for me and I must report to the Obergruppenfuhrer (cakes) at 13.10 precisely ready for a 13.15 start. Golly. At least this year I won't be a trembling, whey-faced novice, and will be fully prepared for some of the trials in store. These are (in order of scariness):

1) Obergruppenfuhrer (cakes)
A gruff, stern colossus of a female with 24 children and at least 70 years' experience of freezing batches of chile con carne. With no time for humour, leg-shaving, sideburn-shaving or women who don't cook, she strides purposefully around the hall, barking orders in a manly baritone, and intimidating the headmaster.

2) Tablet frenzy
This came as a shock to me last year. Posted as I was at the far end of the trestle table, near the fire exit, I very soon became aware that I was in charge of the 'TABLET' side of operations. In front of me were an assortment of beige squares, wrapped in cling film, labelled 30 pence for a small and 50 pence for a large portion. This was the sum total of my product knowledge, and I confess to feeling a rising sense of panic as customers approached. Even more worryingly, they seemed to be approaching in steadily increasing numbers, and piling down to my end of the table aggressively, shouting things like: "is tha nae tablet?" and: "Mary! tablet's doon this end, quick woman, will ye nae use yorr crutches?" while elbowing children aside, surprisingly roughly.

3) Tablet
After the tumult had subsided and the ambulances had left the car park, I made a start on my important research into the cause of such an extraordinary outburst of emotion from my usually taciturn neighbours. Tablet, to the uninitiated, is a slab of beige confectionery which looks like Kendal mint cake with a cup of tea tipped over it. It is made, I believe, by blending sugar, condensed milk and something else. This delightful mixture, left to set, can then be cut into portions like fudge. At this stage, most people would scoop up the lot and chuck it in the bin, but as we have seen, our kilt-wearing brethren positively froth at the mouth at the thought of it.
Packed with vitamin C, it was a firm favourite of tudor monarch Elizabeth I who, unencumbered by teeth, was able to gorge herself daily and then collapse on a pile of silk cushions, twitching becomingly. Its Scots Gaelic name: "Tagh u Linh" roughly translates as "scourge of diabetics" but the first recorded mention of its medicinal properties came during the Battle of Culloden in 1746 when it was used to anaesthetise Bonny Prince Charlie's horse. The Jacobites lost the battle, but the horse lived for several hours afterwards.

4) The Headmaster's Speech
This softly spoken, dapper, elderly gentleman is the pride of the school. A solitary man with an impressive collection of vintage teapots, he potters around these hallowed halls exuding an air of eccentric authority and cigar smoke. Keen to see all sides of an argument, he only raises his voice in defence of the work of his favourite actress, Sue Pollard. Idolised by teachers and pupils alike, he is said to chair PTA meetings like a benevolent King Arthur at his round table of knights.... yes, well you get the idea anyway.
Yet come Autumn Fayre day and he's a changed man. Gone is the mild pacifist, replaced by a chest-beating orator who makes Alexander the Great look like a Kleeneze representative. He mounts the stage grimly and then berates us for our complacency in the light of such a successful Fayre. "We must nae rest on oor laurels, we must gather oor strength and fight the heathen where a'er we may find' im."
"Dinnae rest, till we root him oot - for there is nae place for heathen swine in Stepford-on-Haggis, be Christ!"
Most embarrassing, you'll agree. Eventually, after a final fist brandishing, he falls unconscious into the waiting arms of his deputy, and the room falls quiet, except for a polite cough from someone choking on a crumb of tablet.....

Well, that was last year, and frankly I can't wait for Saturday. Be sure to catch up with our latest adventures next time won't you?
Pip-pip!

What a load of old bollocks.

Shopping channels

I love shopping channels. One, more than others but really they're all brilliant. Not only are they the last refuge for the glamorous but water retentive among us, but their presenters are truly funny.
My favourite bits are the jewellery shows, when women with pipe-fitters' hands model reasonably priced un-precious gemstone rings. These 'gems' are wonderful - many were discovered just last week while a woman in Goole was having foundations dug for a new conservatory. This means they have not been allocated proper gem names, and instead go by their chemical names such as "chromium diopside" and "monogazatoid distillate".

"I love your necklace, what is that?"

"It's chromium diopside set in 8 carat gold."

"How lovely! Where can I get one?"

"I bought this on the shopping channel, but you could have a go at making one yourself by freezing Fairy liquid in ice-cube trays, then threading tinsel through the chunks. They could melt eventually, but you'll agree it's a stunning look."

"I might try that!"

"Excellent!"

(The above conversation may not, in fact, have ever taken place. I can't be sure.)

But there's something for everyone on this channel, If you're not into jewels, there are vast ranges of clothing for ladies of all sizes (except mine, as people just don't have the time, apparently.) Most of the clothes feature a combination of diamante and gold lame usually only seen in Las Vegas theatres, but -as the presenters emphasise - there's a lot more to them than that:

"There's only one word I can use to describe this - style! The way the embossed owl seems to take flight as the shimmering fabric moves, I don't know if the camera is picking this up, but its eyes almost follow you round the room. And the sequins! Wow. You won't see many of these in the High Street, I can assure you! What do you think, Denise?"

"Well it's fabulous - in fact, I'm in the offing for Widow Twanky in Jack and the Beanstalk next month and I have to say I'm tempted!"

"Oh yes, it would be perfect for that, but don't you agree that the beauty of a garment like this is its adaptableness? This would work just as well in an important business meeting, wouldn't it?."

"Definitely, Cheryl. In fact, I think I'll order two of them, in case I lose the first one."

"Well be quick, because it's approaching limited stock - my producer is telling me that only 50,000 remain - pick up those phones, ladies!"

Of course, I just made all that up, but here are a few examples of genuine statements as uttered by the best value performers on telly - an un-tapped resource of jollity, all of whom deserve knighthoods, in my opinion.

"This ring has a real 3-d quality!"
"chromium diopside is the colour emeralds want to be."
"This definitely looks more expensive than £47.25."

Superb.

Dialect

Blogging is rubbish isn't it? Like a one-armed man trying to attach a tarpaulin in a Force-9 gale. "Attach it to where?" you cry. "Who cares?" I reply. It was a poor analogy in the first place...



Due to technical difficulties caused in part by my inability to operate a keyboard, nothing has been said on this page which gives you any idea of the daily horrors I face daily, sometimes as often as every day. Incredible. Let's remedy this immediately with a run-down of some of the interesting discoveries I have made during my (failed) attempts to make myself understood in this bloody god-forsaken shithole.



1. Who is Ken?

This took months to get to grips with. Every single sentence uttered in my presence since the moment I arrived has ended with the immortal words: "D'ye Ken?" Obviously, being a pompous English pedant with an inferiority complex, I would assume this was my fault for not having enunciated clearly on introducing myself. I would therefore smile, wait for my conversing partner to pause for breath, and then interject, gently "It's Alison, actually."

This had no effect other than convincing whomever I was speaking to that I was a certifiable meglomaniac with no social graces, so I would repeat it until, embarrassed and starting to sweat slightly my latest, newest friend would start to back away, muttering other unintelligibles, sometimes into moving traffic, and out of my life forever.

To cut a long story short, I eventually discovered (by consulting a dictionary, of all things! I know, it's extraordinary what lengths I'll go to) that "ken" means "know". So an average sentence might go something like: "Och, I cannae stannit when the wains are greeting, d'ye ken?", which now makes perfect sense.



2. Greeting

Of course, to any right-minded person the above sentence makes no sense whatsoever. This is because it contains several words whose meaning is entirely distorted by the inability of Scottish people to speak English properly. They like to call this a "dialect", but surely the the idea of a dialect is to substitute entirely new words which have a local meaning: lug for ear, cotters for tangles, lop for flea, and so on. (Pompous bitch)
The dialect where I live takes English words which already have a perfectly clear meaning and pretends they mean something else altogether. "Greeting" then means "crying". It is therefore impossible, I presume, to post a Christmas card saying: "Season's Greetings" unless you want to send someone you don't like sincere hopes for a miserable, tear-soaked Christmas. Which is what I am in fact doing this year.
Of course, I am probably incorrectly assuming that the word "season" has not also been tampered with, and will instead be giving people the impression that I am offering espadrilles in an assortment of colours at the amazing price of only £21.95 plus p&p.

3. Wains

This is not spelled correctly I'm certain. I don't mind this one so much, as it obviously originally had something to do with "weaning" and so you can work out that it in fact means "kids".
Unless of course it doesn't, but I can't be expected to know everything. Look it up yourselves for Christ's sake!

4. Playpiece

My five-year old daughter has just started school and takes a book bag with her which is full of the obvious things: pencil case, homework, bomb-making equipment, etc.
One day she came home and said: "Mam, can I take a playpiece tomorrow?" In fact - this is the conversation as my official note-taker remembers it:
"Mam, can I take a playpiece tomorrow?"

" A what?"

"A playpiece"

"A what?"

"Playpiece"

"What?"

Three minutes passed, featuring the same sort of snappy dialogue.

"A PLAYPIECE!"

"A what?"

I could feel myself ageing so decided to take matters in hand.
"What exactly is a playpiece?" I asked, concisely.

"For playtime," she replied.

"Do you play with it?"

"No."

"But you use it at playtime?"

"Yes, you bring it in your bag."

"But what is it exactly?"

"It can be anything - the mummies decide."

What the hell was she talking about? I opted for a more direct line of questioning.

"So what did Ollie bring yesterday?"

"Crisps."

Ah, yes. Of course. It's obvious. A playpiece is a snack. That you eat at playtime. "Playpiece" is a perfectly logical name for it. FREAKS!

5. Skin complaints

How would you respond to this statement?

"Ach, I saw two wee laddies with terrible eck-zeema all aver their wee faeces."

My instinct was to throw a custard pie and run away, but, not having one with me, I had to stand still and pray that I wasn't expected to reply. I think I may have tutted, believing the old lady speaking was describing some gross act of vandalism, and that seemed to satisfy her. This meant I was able to walk home without feeling as though she was trying to memorise my face in case she saw me on Crimewatch. Usually I'm not so lucky.

This is why I have no Scottish friends.

Hello

Welcome to my blog thing. Isn't this a thrill? When I get the right undergarments on, I will be filling these pages with millions of bon mots about my gripping adventures here in the land that time forgot.

In the meantime, tell me if this works, let me know if you are interested particularly in any aspect of my "life", or pass on details of library pics of Roald/Lentil Dahl that I can use to illuminate the work which will surely become a gospel in no time at all.

Toodle-pip!