On the subject of Guinness...

I love beer. In its myriad forms it refreshes, compliments food, relaxes and can break the ice better than any other beverage: "fancy a pint?" has a disarming directness that eludes suggestions like "glass of chardonnay?" or "G&T?".

There are beers for every occasion and meal. Lager for curry, English bitter for a ploughmans, Scottish ale for stews, Trappist beer for cheese and cured meats and, of course, stout & porter for oysters.

Guinness is a stout, and by far the most famous in the world. It has an incredible marketing machine behind it and as a brand in the beer world it manages to do what no other beer does in its advertising: exude sophistication. Oh, style beers abound and there's all sorts of bollocks kicking about; but Guinness advertising has risen to the level of an art form, with stark, bold images and films that would not be out of place in promotional pieces for Rolex, Chanel, Dom Perignon, Mercedes or Krug. A pint itself is iconic: black and white perfection.

I find this odd. Guinness for me is the beer equivilant of comfort food and, while not ubiquitous in my beer consumption, plays a very important role. I drink it mostly when I'm in Ireland and for very good reason. All the myths, rumours and hearsay are true: Guinness simply tastes better over here. In fact, it tastes incredible. I drank a lot of it this holiday. In fact, aside from a glass of water or oj in the morning it was pretty much the only liquid that passed my lips.

It's not just the taste though, it's the place. It's possible I've collapsed at the feet of a marketing giant and been caught in the ultimate of tourist traps. But sitting in a quiet pub in the country, wood beams barely keeping the roof above your head, the peat fire blazing while locals gossip and the seafood chowder steams and bubbles with thick-cut Irish brown bread on the side, coated in creamy butter and seeing your pint arrive with that extra-thick-double-cream of a head rising unsupported above the rim of the glass it is impossible not to feel content, comforted, cozy and happy. Especially as it's probably pissing with rain outside. I defy anyone not to buy into the image when faced with the reality.

I had a tradition when I left Ireland. I would have my final pint of Guinness in the departure lounge pub, usually with a dressed crab, as I didn't eat oysters back then. It was a mock-pub that specialised in seafood and it was really nice. It bookended the holiday and gave an opportunity to reflect. Sadly I'm at a different departure gate, one with a bar to be mocked, not a mock pub, the food is dreadful and I should have been in London 45 minutes ago, still having an hour-and-a-half to wait for my long-delayed flight. Still... there's time for a pint.

Ireland in words & pics 1

I'm sitting in my sister's kitchen wondering how the last 10 days slipped by so quickly. My flight leaves Dublin in two hours. I didn't keep a diary this holiday, so words will be reflective rather than spur-of-the-moment. Well, hopefully they'll be reflective. Maybe I'll just let the photos do the talking.
Sadly, no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. In fact, I think it's a bungalow. This was taken from the 1st class carriage of the Dublin-Cork train. And when I say 1st class, it's only in the limited sense that it was separated from the rest of the car by a door. Here we are in one of the 3 locals in the remote village of Castletownsend on the South coast of Ireland. Luke P on the left, myself in the middle and the legendary Andrew Hendry on the right. Many pints had been consumed and we had started on the sambucas. I really like this pic.The morning light pours into the window of the amazing Georgian town house we were staying in. The weather was schizophrenic, bathing us in glorious sunshine and soaking us to the bone.

I am now in the airport, enjoying what I thought would be my last Guinness of the trip. But my flight's delayed. A lot. Like, 3 hours delayed. Bastards. So I think I may have a few more Guinness... but I'm running out of Euros! D'oh!!!Young Matthew Wicken chilling out on the harbour the morning after our first night in Castletownsend (he and I arrived on the Monday - everyone else got there Friday night or Saturday morning). He's the younger brother of James, who lives in Nepal and flew out with his wife for the wedding. Both are salt of the earth. And not your Tesco Value salt either, but hardcore Maldon Sea Salt. Does that make them salt of the sea? Anyway, Matt's about to emigrate to Australia to be with his woman.This is the house we stayed in Castletownsend - we had the entirety of the top two floors and it was huge! The original oak floors undulated giving the impression of one at sea. There were 8 of us: Luke P, Andrew H, James W, Suman W, Georgina W, James M & Matt W. It was cozy and provided a great base for exploring the hidden nooks of West Cork. It was €320 for the eight of us for 5 days. Ridiculously cheap. Unlike the rest of my holiday. Or life, in fact.

Assorted goals and miscellany...

Wants & Never Wants... in the process of becoming Wills & Never Wills.

I want to be exhausted at least once a day from physical exertion.

I want to live in an old house. With secret passageways.

I want to write at least 2 novels, 1 screenplay, 2 stageplays, 1 musical & 1 biography. I have the titles for all of them and know already what they are about.

I want to find love again.

I want to rediscover my more random side.

I want to know more about the sheep-eating parrots from New Zealand.

I want the best for my friends and family. No, scratch that: I want happiness for my friends and family.

I want to start a successful production company.

I want to bake bread brilliantly.

I want the problems I cannot solve to be unimportant (like the last clue on a crossword).

I want to know the last clue on the crossword.

I want to be a better photographer.

I want pets again.

I want to not want pizza so frequently. Ditto curry, Thai, Thai curry & burgers.

I want to stop snoring.

I want to get upgraded whenever I fly.

I want trains to all be decked out like the Orient Express.

I want to find adventure, true adventure, not in the "all life's an adventure" bollocks sort of way but in the discovering-secret-treasure/artefacts-and-narrowly-escaping-death kind of way.

I want to be outside more often. Especially in forests.

I want to cuddle as frequently as possible.

I want to climb a tree at least once a week. I used to do it everyday but I suppose I should make allowances for age.

I want to drive, legally.

I want my nephew, Conor, to give my hat and sunglasses back.

I never want to live in a suburb.

I never want to have "take out" night. Sometimes I'll get a delivery, or a take-away. This shouldn't be considered such a remarkable or amazing event that the night is relabeled or indeed synonymous ("Sunday night is take out night!").

I never want to feel that I've missed out on part of my life, or think that a bad decision I've made has irrevocably closed doors for me.

I never want to forget adventure.

I never want an office that feels like jail.

I never want to forget how important the ingredients are.

I never want to forget what my friends and family have done for me.

I never want to be boring for the sake of being sensible.

I never want to be fat again.

I never want to hurt people.

I never want to sit next to old ladies slurping manky tuna with their hands.

I never want to miss the train again.

I never want to feel my family hold me back.

I never want my parents to sell their house.

I never want to feel I'm doing something I hate just for the money.

I never want to marry the wrong person.

I never want to smoke cigarettes again.

I never want to rely on lunacy to remain in an unbearable situation. Surely lunacy should be a means of extricating oneself from an unbearable situation.
_______________________________________

I'm going to the wilds of the South of Ireland tomorrow. I hope to find beauty, enlightenment and piece of mind while expecting to find drunkenness and much fun. I also expect a minimum of net connections, so I'll be away for a wee while. Will have lots of pics to post afterwards. This last one was taken by my nephew Oisin of myself and my nephew Conor.

Mornings, movies and scary things

My first evening in Belfast was subdued but in a very comfy way. Videos, pizza, red wine and Champagne - a different way to start a holiday, but considering the drinking yet to come I feel that clubbing until the early hours would have been a severe tactical error. As it happens, I highly recommend Napoleon Dynamite: if you've ever felt an outsider, or there's a closeted geek/dork/nerd within your soul, then this is the tonic for it. And it is very, very funny. We also watched The Cat's Meow: fantastic 20's period drama with superb performances from legends like Joanna Lumley, Eddie Izzard, Kirsten Dunst and the ever-enjoyable Edward Hermann (who I've been a fan of ever since The Lost Boys). The latter film (which we actually watched first) makes one think that there will be no success in life without the sacrifice of soul. Which I intend to disprove by being massively success but keeping my soul intact. I feel that surrounding myself with good friends not afraid to knock me down a few pegs when I need it is a good way to this.

I'm not sure what I expected of Belfast, but whatever it was, Belfast kind of lives up to those expectations. Weird huh? We did some shopping in the town centre and saw the rather grandiose city hall (you can tell this was a major imperial centre - the old buildings that haven't been blown up are very impressive). The chav/ned population seems massive, and I got the idea of a city whose internal problems had led it to a sort of Dundee-like existence, trying desperately to modernise in the right ways though having serious difficulty. Even in Jo's neighbourhood, which was wicked and reminded me of Turnham Green and that part of Chiswick High Road, the Police station looked like a prison. It seemed out of place, which I'm sure is a good thing. Then we drove down the Falls Road, one of the major Catholic neighbourhoods, complete with rage-filled murals demanding the freedom of everyone from the Catalans to the Palestinians. And, of course, the Irish. Irish tricolours flew from every other building and most of the signs were in both English and Irish. Jo lamented the waste of talent - the murals are impressive street art - and she's right, it is a waste of talent. You'd think that the rage and bigotry on both sides, redirected to take a city desperate to drag itself up from the conflict and make it a groovy place. And it seems like it's happening slowly. Everyone seems to be holding their breath a bit though, hoping that nothing happens long enough that nothing will ever happen again. My own views on the conflict are unchanged in their sympathies though my personal desire for the end to be truly nigh has intensified. The people here are really nice, and they just shouldn't blow eachother up. It's retarded.

Anyway. At the moment I'm sitting at Belfast Central rail station waiting for my train to Dublin as I missed the one before due to being a total wanker. Well, actually due to not listening to my sister's recitation of the timetable closely enough. It's one of those cases of switching off to a voice of elder authority and it coming back to bite me in the arse.

Other people's eating habits are revolting. I'm sure mine are to other people as well. But the old lady next to me is scooping the tuna mayo out of her sandwich and eating it raw sans bread, dribbling flakes of fish all over the table and herself. What's up with that? Am I scooping my Guinness out of the pint glass with cupped fingers and attempting to dribble it into my mouth? No, I'm not. And now she's just upped to another table because her old one is covered in rancid tuna. Mingin'.

In fact, so mingin' that I refuse to end this post with something so unpleasant. So instead here is a photo of Jo's lovely wee street on which her lovely wee flat and her lovely wee flatmate are situated.

Clocks, schedules & adventures...

The river looked incredible this morning and it seems to be the precursor for the day, which is beautiful and unseasonably warm. I was going to take a walk along the river but remembered that my iMac's arriving today and so I am housebound for the time being.

I reset the grandfather clock in the hall today. I have fond memories of it from when it stood in the entry landing of my grandparents' home in Virginia. It symbolised what I later determined was a sense of legacy, but at the time felt like a mixture of fear and warmth. It's arbitrary, I suppose. We are who we are and the only effect the past has on that is how much we let it, but it's still nice to have that clock ticking away, chiming on every hour. And I'd never set it before. So I'm letting that have an effect on me; a good one.

So, Ireland is shaping up to be more fun than previously expected. Failing my second driving test got me down mostly because I was hoping to be driving through Ireland and having loads of adventures for a week. Sadly, this was quickly turning into the nightmare of bus-ing around Ireland and finding ways to occupy myself. It didn't have quite the adventurous overtones that driving solo did. Fortunately it turns out the best man and a few of my other mates are taking a cottage in Cork for a week to get used to the beer while they're over there. They're also getting a car to go sight-seeing. So adventures and old friends await and I'm actually pretty giddy about the whole thing. I mean, I was excited before, but having a place to ourselves for a week of revelry has made me excited again. So it's looking like this: Tomorrow I fly into Belfast to check out Jo's palatial new pad which is apparently so cool that she giggles and smiles like this whenever she talks about it. Drinks and food will no doubt be involved and I may even cook breakfast Saturday. Saturday down to Dublin, possibly early and by car, possibly late and by train. Saturday evening is my brother-in-law's 40th, so there's going to be much partying. Sunday - recover, spend time with nephews and then head down to Cork to meet up with the guys. Once in Cork, debate whether Beamish is better than Guinness, take lots of photos, work out that none of us have grown up as much as we probably should have, chat up pretty Irish girls and wander around, getting into trouble in-a-good-natured-mischievous-rather-than-awful-and-obnoxious way. Then Friday up to Co. Clare for the wedding. For which I am meant to be sorting out accomodation.

And speaking of driving, kind of, my quest for a license has been perturbed yet again, and I'm beginning to get very frustrated. Especially as I thought I'd had it sorted. Jan, my folks' bookkeeper and all around legend found someone who sounded really nice. So I thought I was sorted. But it turns out my test is too early in the morning for him. He's got to get his kids to school. The nearest I can change my test to is 2 weeks later! So I'm still without someone to take my test with. Bugger.

So, incredible grooviness of Ireland balanced by the wind-out-of-sails ruination of driving limbo. Balance in the universe, I guess.

Settling in...

I'm beginning to get the hang of things. My books (a large chunk of my personal belongings) are unpacked with clothes and whatnot next. I've been clearing space and come across loads of things that I just have no idea why I saved. Christmas cards from 6 years ago. Memo to self is to be more brutal about the random crap I have kicking about (manuals for video games that are so old they don't run on ANY of my current computers) and never, ever accumulate so much. Unopened envelopes from my old high school asking me to donate from some non-existant pile of money. Bleah.

Anyway. What's happened?

Well, it was a lovely weekend. Saturday lunch at the neighbours next door was fun, though I'm always a bit uncomfortable. They're very nice people and I sometimes become aware of my coarser nature. So I'm ultra well-behaved, only piping up when there's a clear pause in conversation and making sure it's something worth saying. I spoke twice during lunch. Maybe three times. I don't think of this as a bad thing because I normally talk way too much and feel that these situations balance that somehow.

Saturday evening was Kate's gig at a packed Shepherd's Bush Empire. Jo came along and we had a quick bite first and got caught up. The gig was incredible - I've been watching Kate for about 8 1/2 years now and it's just amazing to see her on such excellent form and enjoying huge success. After the tunes Jo and I rocked up to the after show party and I had some illusions shattered. You see, I had built this image in my head of celebs milling about, spraying champagne, laughing jovially and patting eachother on the back. Instead it was a bunch of low-key hangers-on, most looking uncomfortable and chain-smoking like chimneys. Then I realised I was a low-key hanger-on myself, and after downing 3 pints of Grolsch and quickly texting Kate to tell her congrats on an ace gig we made tracks.

When we got back I felt midnight snacks were in order so set about making omlettes. Mmm... omlettes.

Sunday was a day of food and wine. Sausage, bacon and pancakes were breakfast fayre and consumed with gusto. One of the pancakes came out very strange, but the others were yummy. Then, sadly, Jo had to leave before being able to enjoy the epic Sunday lunch. Well, epic is an overstatement, but I was chuffed because a few pebbles in my culinary shoe were shaken out. Roast tatties and rack of lamb: simple, but I'd never got the timing quite right on either, which is annoying. This time, both turned out perfectly. Lunch (with an old friend, Alisdair) went from about 2 to midnight with champagne, claret, port, beer and brandy consumed. I took it easy yesterday and got lots of little errands done.

So. Yeah. Things at the moment seem to be centred around having friends come over and keep me company as frequently as possible. It is a bit lonely here and I'm slowly but surely getting on with the being my own boss and having to make myself get things done. I think I accidentally threw out my to-do list. And anyone who's come to visit in the last few days, thanks.

Oh, and apparently my folks house in Key West is fine. Well, fine-ish, as in not submerged under several feet of water. You see, I was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, as Wilma weakened on approach I thought, "no problems". And the first reports about tide surges seemed under-reported. Then I found out 60% of the island was under water and it was a disaster area. So I worried, having heard nothing from my folks. There were no maps of the flooding to be had or anything and I couldn't for the life of me remember where they were meant to be. They could have been swept off the 7-mile-bridge for all I knew. But they're fine. And the house, as far as we've been able to confirm, is ok. But we'll see.

Got tickets for Ireland - off on Friday. Must buy lots of film.

Observational nonsense and the mountain of boxes

As if geeks didn't jerk off over new iPods enough, now there's this news.

I'm in London. And not getting off to a fast start. Still a bit deer-in-headlights at the moment. Not at being in London, mind, but more with having my life in boxes and a hint of uncertainty about unpacking. You see, my folks are showing the house to potential buyers quite a bit. Now, it's their house to sell as they wish, but I wish they'd told me it was being so actively marketed before I moved my life (in boxes) back down (with the exception of the 5 boxes left in my closet at Andy's flat). So I'm sure if I spend the hours (and I do mean hours; perhaps days) unpacking we'll sell the house within 15 minutes and I'll have to pack it all up again. Negative? Yeah, but I just ate 2 hotdogs. That's enough to make anyone testy.

Still. I've drawn up my to do list. That's always the first step to procrastination.

The conversation...

Inner Nagging Voice: So.

Me: So.

INV: So you're leaving.

Me: Well, I've left. I'm in London.

INV: No regrets?

Me: Nope.

INV: But didn't you have the best time ever during your last few weeks?

Me: Yeah.

INV: With, you know, fine wines, amazing food, endless smelly cheese, well-wishing and unerring love of your friends. Don't you think that's worth sticking around for? Oh, and the sambuca...

Me: If I recall, you're the one that started this whole fucking thing in the first place, with the whole "do you really think you belong here?" and the "what the fuck are you still doing here?" so what are you bitching about moving now for?

INV: You just ended a sentence witha preposition.

Me: Oh for fuck's sake!

INV: It's my job to question. Hence the "nagging" in "inner nagging voice". Duh.

Me: Did my mother put you there?

INV: Whatever dude - look. Are you sure you've made the right decision? Have you started writing properly? Have you even unpacked yet?

Me: Not yet...

INV: New driving instructor?

Me: No...

INV: So, you're sure you've made the right choice.

Me: Give me a chance to get settled in for Christ's sake, I've only been here two days!

INV: Sorry. Got to start nagging from the start.

Me: Do you really enjoy that?

INV: That's that not the point - it's my job to nag you. It's what I'm here for; my purpose in life.

Me: Well, I just quit a job I didn't like, and I feel great. You should try it.

INV: Dude, I'm not a disgruntled worker; I'm a facet of your conscience. You can't tempt me with liberation, dumbarse. The only way to free yourself of me is to achieve inner peace.

Me: Pizza?

INV: Peace, you dipshit. Speaking of which, how's the weight loss?

Me: Ok, Ok, I'm getting sick of this. Right. You're part of me, right?

INV:. . .yeah...

Me: Well then... fancy a pint?

INV: I'll just nag you about your drinking.

Me: I stop hearing you after the fourth.

I should leave more often

Last night was an absolute epic. Just that perfect combination of friends, booze, music, good cheer and an unexpected present of epic proportions. Kirsty D came over for dinner (delivery Marmaris pizza: ideal for lining the stomach) and we watched the X Factor (what a bunch of talentless people and what awful television) and drank beer and wine. First stop was Ma Bells where we managed to bag the head table (the one in the bay window at the front) and take it over. Loads of people arrived and many beers were consumed. Annoying golfers wearing the ugliest baseball caps ever (a screen print of a tacky Baxter painting of the Royal & Ancient) tried to cramp our style and pull our women but our inherent grooviness won out. We went through 2 bottles of sambuca and they were so impressed that they tried to buy a bottle but weren't allowed. Ha! We are so much galactically cooler than they. There is that sort of euphoria you get when you're out with your mates and everything just works. We were all on great form and it all kind of clicked - you know that sense of invincibility you get when everything is going brilliantly? It was that in Ma Bells, in spite of terrible service and poorly chapeau'd wankers. And then it got better.

Sick of waiting for the next round (the service really was dreadful), Andy made the genius decision to go Aikman's. Aikman's is a dive: dirty, poorly decorated, falling apart furniture, no AC, smokey, the lot. It's also my single most favourite pub in St Andrews, the only one I have consistently frequented my entire 11 years in St Andrews. It is a proper boozer, putting attention to the pints rather than the wallpaper, or image. It's brilliant. And it's also the best place for live music in town. My friend Kate used to play there, and she's just won a Q Award. We rocked in, pretty drunk I must say, and a totally rockin' country and western band were tearing the place down. So we got involved. Lots of beers and boogying. I have to confess to not being the biggest country fan. I view most of that entire scene like that bit in the Blues Brothers at Bob's Country Bunker ("Oh, we have both kinds of music: Country and Western!). But these guys were awesome. The lead guitarist was leaping onto tables for wild solos, the crowd were lapping it up, we were literally throwing people into the air (rugby line-out training comes in handy in the strangest places), narrowly missing the ceiling and driving Barbara's (the long-suffering pub-owner) blood pressure up mightily. She wasn't impressed with Andy's attempts to put her into orbit. She kept trying to calm the dancing down as it was knocking the light fittings out of their sockets in the Cellar Bar downstairs. It was kind of pointless on her part and she knew that she was fighting a losing battle: how can you calm the dancing down when the lead guitarist is can-can-ing on the tables? Many a yee-hah shouted. And then Kirsten wispered to the lead singer and all of a sudden "Sweet Home Alabama" is being dedicated to "a hill-billy named Rich who's moving down South". I'm grinning now remembering it.

So today was a slow start. Off to Naughton with Kirsty D to give James a belated birthday card and say goodbye. Lara Crawford has grown but is still puppy-tastic, flopping about and desperate to chew everything. And I really mean everything. Nibbling away at fingers, boots, hoodie tassles (well, ok, what the fuck do you call them, then?), tea towels, whatever. It turns out James had a late one as well and so we were all sort of subdued. Then someone I don't like turned up. His horse had thrown a shoe. Hm. In any case, we said our goodbyes to James, and headed back towards St Andrews for soup and sandwiches with Ben and Kellie. Kirsty went back to Edinburgh and Ben, Kellie and I went to see Wallace and Gromit. I know I've seen it. I saw it again and it's still fucking ace. Though I wanted a nap and had to drive afterwards.

Tonight was unexpected cool. Andy I decided to grab a bite at the Thai and wound up ordering their banquet (£15 per head for a LOT of food), then rocked over to the Byre where an amazing jazz night was going on. An incredible drummer, Paul Mills, was playing seriously groovy funk and jazz. We listened to their first set but exhaustion, excess beer, and the spectre of driving tests brought us home at the interval. Still, it was so cool to go for a pint and yet again find brilliant music and beer.

The last 2 days have been really touching. When I was writing about poison head all those months ago, and saying I know I'm blessed with great friends, well - the last few days represent what I was talking about. My leaving present was a hand-coloured original print of the harbour from the mid 19th century, and the obligatory card signed by everyone. At the table in Ma Bells, having just texted someone, I got a text from Millie saying to stop texting, because everyone I loved was there. Which was so sweet it nearly made me cry. But while I loved everyone there, not everyone I loved was there. But I didn't mind: if they were, I'd be leaving them all behind. I've felt very loved. It's all good. I'm just very happy, sad and excited. And the people in my life, here and elsewhere, St Andrews, London, the world, make all of those emotions, and quite a few others, more intense and wonderful. It seems that many amazing and lovely people love me and believe in me. So thanks. It's inspiring. It's humbling. And I hope to be worth it.

Now if I can only pass my driving test...

Curses and the like

Life is one thing to pack after another. If you find yourself in this situation then allow me to present to you the ultimate break. Go see Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. I went last night with Pete W and it was brilliant. My smile did not abate once during the whole film - ridiculous child-like joy and laughter will grab you and you should succumb. It's good for the soul and I'm certainly a happier man today than I was yesterday.

It's very peculiar to be here and not be working. And if I'd passed my first driving test, I would not be here still, so there's that bit of nagging you really shouldn't be here kicking about in the back of my mind.

Not to say it's all been hard going; my friends are incredible and that was highlighted Tuesday night when Tim & Craig opened their restaurant in St Monans just for me. Craig prepared an awesome feast and we enjoyed spectacular wines. Towards the end of the evening we were receiving XO Cognac trebuchets while lying down (this is a complex process whereby a double-magnum of fine cognac, in its decanting cradle, is poured liberally into the mouth of the fool waiting for it). Needless to say Wednesday was painful. Not just due to the hangover, but also due to how obscenely rich the food was. And I mean rich-soaked-in-goose-fat-rich.

So I went for an amazing 3 course lunch with Harry on Wednesday to prevent any withdrawal issues. Which was foolish. Champagne, Chablis and yet more XO Cognac later and we found ourselves in the pub downing pints. I'd forgotten that there was a 40th birthday party I was meant to be at that night. So I thought I'd take a nap but was awakened by the birthday boy and his lovely lady mere moments after putting my head down. Exhaustion took hold of me shortly after I'd finished dinner and I went home to bed. The 20 people that arrived at 230 in morning to sing happy birthday and drink loads of booze did not stir me from my slumber.

Lots of weird questions in my head at the moment. Exciting-weird though, sort of like a "where is my life taking me" thing. And some logistical stuff, like how am I going to get all of my crap down south if I don't pass my test and buy a car? Hmmm.

Baby steps

Well. I'm unemployed. I picked up my last wage packet this morning. The last week was intense, hectic and long. The annual Luvians Wine Fair was a blast, with almost 160 wines, some of which I even got to taste. Epic quantities of beer afterwards meant that Sunday, my last shift, was sleepy.

My inability to say no to nice girls meant that I spent my first day of unemployment designing a website. Ah well.

Today I went to a luxury hotel on the West Coast of Scotland for a wine tasting lunch. Copious quantities of lobster and roast beef were served with fine claret. One must take time to change lifestyle. Going cold turkey may well kill me.

My driving test is Monday. I'm very nervous.

End of an era...

Well, I'm sitting at the desk in the shop in the office and I have 1hr 45mins left in my shift at Luvians. It has been a fun 4 1/2 years. I'm so exhausted I don't really have much else to say. The new volume of my life is opening. I'm at the prologue. Which is sometimes a recap of what's gone before.

And my twitch is gone. Coincidence?

Breakfast and evolution

The twitch is driving me slowly crazy. I think it is a failing of human evolution that a reaction/symptom to/of stress is something so inherently nerve-wracking that it winds up stressing you out more. Surely when faced with stress my body should start kicking out loads of endorphines to chill me out. Or simply knock my uptight arse out with some sort of protective bout of unconsiousness. But no. It manifests itself in creepy eyelid behaviour. The sort that makes people wonder if I'm repressing some sort of serial killer attitude. If it has be be a twitch of some description, why the eye? Why not my pinky? Sure, typing would be more difficult but it wouldn't be quite so "don't mention the war; horrible things happened to him in the war - that's why he has a twitch", it would be more a "your pinky twitches? so what?" issue.

And, apparently, the duck-billed platypus is poisonous. Why?

Evolution must be the answer, because that isn't exactly intelligent design, really, now is it? It's stupid. Twitches and poisonous, egg-laying mammals with bird-mouths. That's why I like evolution. Because sometimes, like with everything else in the world, it's just that little bit retarded.

Had a fun breakfast this morning. Good food and good chat. As the rest of the day is going to be spent working (or at least at the shop), I fear that it will have been the high point. But that's not so bad.

Wasps, gigs, stock and stags

I started writing this post 4 days ago, but shit keeps happening.

Where to begin? The bad first; I got stung by a wasp. It hurt, a lot. That was yesterday and now I have a massive red rash on my left arm that I immediately thought was blood poisoning but was assured that it was merely a bad reaction to the wasp venom. Can't say that I'm a big fan of venom. It's something I associate with asps, cobras, rattlesnakes - not really with wasps. I mean, it's just a sting, right? Venom seems melodramatic. In any case, it hurt more when I started writing this, now it just itches.

Stock taking and its aftermath was and is hell. All of our hardwork seems to be slowly undone by one small (and now corrected) accident by myself and by the aggressive stupidity of another who shall remain nameless, though their place in hell for the incompetent is assured. I want to cry, not wake up in the morning and quit my job. I've already done the latter, but feel the need to do it again. It's my last week coming up, the first 3 days of which look to be hellish as we're doing a "system audit". This will be just as fun as it sounds.

I was in London for a couple of days - Thursday and Friday to be exact. Signal failure at Haymarket led to all trains being cancelled and me needing to share a cab with a neurotic traveller. Traffic was hellish and she nearly missed her flight. Which made me giggle a bit. My flight, however, was delayed for an hour and a half. Which sucked. I intended to take advantage of that delay and write this post, but was not in a creative mood. Drinks the night before had not been the best plan with a 615 start in the morning.

Saturday night I went to see Aberfeldy play at the student's union - really cool gig and really cool band. They've got a great live sound and it was fun to groove about. Danced a bit with the ladies and drank a LOT of beer. Harry snogged 'Ronica and then we went to his and drank scrumpy and brandy (though not mixed) until 3 in the morning, which was huge fun. Though stock-taking at 830 the next morning was not. To deal with it, and as I was without a stock-taking buddy, I turned my nano on loud and boogied away while counting booze. I was quite funny to watch apparently.

Sunday night I met up with a stag party that I had originally meant to be more of a part of, though due to my stock hell had to bow out. They were so far gone and the stag was so incapable of speech that it was almost a total washout. It was still good to see my old mates though, and they were in pretty spectacular, though indecipherable, form.

London was brief. I spent Thursday with my folks where they attempted to sooth my work-shattered nerves. I cooked dinner - roast lamb with a pomegranate gravy and veg. I wasn't happy with it as during the cooking I'd a dreadfully depressing conversation with IT Dave, which distracted me from doing as good a job as I felt I could. Mom and dad assured me the food was fine. And it was, but it wasn't as good as it could have been. The gravy was awesome though, and the wines were good.

I bumped into a lot of St Andrews people in London, excluding the ones I was meant to be meeting in the first place. It was strange but cool - nice to catch up, but really, in a city that big, to see so many people I knew was pretty strange. I think I'll take it as a good omen.

I'm back, I'm tired. I'm working until late tonight. I'm still kind of sad about things. But, on the plus side, someone cool is coming over for breakfast tomorrow, and there's a good feeling that comes with cooking breakfast for the cool of the world.

Twitches and Switches

My right eyelid started twitching a couple of weeks ago. This had never happened before, so I did what most guys do when their body starts acting peculiar: I ignored it and hoped it would go away. Oh, and hoped no one else would notice. I looked in the mirror when it started to see if it was noticeable. It kind of was. That knowledge, along with the fact that it's nigh impossible to ignore anything going wrong with your eye, made it hard to ignore. Nightmare images of tumors behind the eye and nesting insects popped into my head everytime my eyelid flickered. Not pleasant. So I finally asked a doctor, but not without trepidation. He said I was exhausted, stressed, and that there were no burrowing, nesting insects and no ocular tumor. This morning, my left eye started to twitch. Does that mean I'm twice as exhausted and stressed as when it was just my right eye?

I opened up the shop this morning and was nearly electrocuted when turning on the light. The occasional spark when flicking a switch is nothing to be concerned about. Crackling? Hissing? The wiff of ozone? That's scary shit man. I made the executive decision to leave that half of the shop in darkness. I've been electrocuted once in this shop (a vengeful refrigerator) and vowed never to have it happen again.

The light switch is fixed now. My light twitch is not.

A puppy is for life, not just for Thursday

I've recovered from my Sunday rant. I had Thai for lunch, to answer the cliffhanger on the last post. My nano has arrived, small and svelt. Gadget euphoria is different this time. It's an amazing bit of kit and I'm really pleased with sound quality, screen quality, size and all that guff. But there are some things that gadgets just don't stand up against. Like puppies.

My mate Pete and his dad bought a puppy today. I was chilling out up at Naughton for the day and tagged along as the better things I had to do were boring. And not better at all, in fact. The litter was up north in Aberdeenshire, just outside of Stonehaven. A long way to go for a puppy. But worth it. It was a litter of ten highly enthusiastic pups, falling all over each other as though they weren't quite sure which foot went where, or indeed, whether it was their foot or not. Puppies like this lead to a rapid age reduction in all around them. We got back to Naughton and spent a huge amount of time introducing the newly-named Lara to her new surround-ings. Which meant two guys in their late twenties leaping around with a tiny black labradour acting as though they were eleven. Maybe ten. She was a bit sad, slightly confused and wondering where she was, where her mum was, and where her nine brothers and sisters were. Belly rubs would distract her from these questions, as did the introduction to Tiny, the family cat, and some of the horses. So she leapt about, hugely curious, scared, excited, sad, eager and hungry. I know the feeling.

I have a stock take this weekend. I fucking hate stock taking. This will be the last time I ever do it.