Up north again...

Up to Scotland for New Years. So there may not be many posts. Or there may be. I don't know. No idea what my 'net connection's going to be like.

In other news, a friend from uni just played Princess Diana in a terrible ITV drama. She was very good though.

If I don't speak before, have a happy new year all!

And If I do... well, have a happy new year anyway.

Flakes of Death! Sun of Doom! ...and some more culture binge

As much as I embrace this island as my adopted home, there are certain things that I will never understand. For instance; the British reaction to weather confounds me. It is winter and it is snowing, and not very much for that matter (6 inches is the deepest), and it is as though the weather apocolypse is upon us. At least according to the meteorlogical media. Every news channel greets the snow as if each flake had the number of the beast on it. Which is impossible as everyone knows that no two snowflakes are the same. Unless it's in different fonts?

In any case, it seems ridiculous. It is winter. Winter is when it gets cold and snows. Remember? There's a reason that Christmas cards have snow on them. Yes, you have to be careful driving in the snow. Yes, there will be people who are not careful and their cars will flip over. Duh. The seasons just work this way. Has it gotten to the stage where any weather report that isn't either, "partly sunny with a chance of rain" or "partly cloudy with a chance of rain" is greeted as though Jack Frost himself is the new axis of evil, bent on bringing proper seasonal variation to Britain?

The proof comes not only in winter but in summer, when these self same weathermen & women hyperventilate that it's warm. Now, I know that the UK doesn't have the best weather in the world, but it's not rocket science that there will be days in the summer that it's pretty hot. And yet it's still treated as front page news. Sometimes I think everyone on this rock would be happier if it were 15°c with a shower or two and intermittent sun breaks every single day of the bloody year.
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I went with crazy aunt and slightly batty mum to the Tate Modern today to see the Henri Rousseau exhibition and came out with mixed feelings. Some of the work was very impressive and others not so much. He had a gift for light and yet rarely used it. In my humble opinion at least. Worth going to see as it is very different. As is the massive Main Hall exhibit by Rachel Whiteread, Embankment. Very cool and somewhat spooky to walk around.

On the way I saw the family of swans that hangs out on the river and while there I took some London pics... herewith (the last one is of the Whiteread thing):

The tie pic and other stories

• Ta da! The penguin tie - isn't it cool? Well, I think it's cool. So there.

• Someone's stolen a bun from a shop in Nashville that's meant to look like Mother Theresa. Check it out. I think it more looks like Nick Park's (head dude at Aardman Animations, and creator of Wallace & Gromit) version of Mother Theresa to be honest. Decide for yourself. In any case I think both having a bun that looks like Mother Theresa and stealing that bun is moronic. But that's just me.

• There's a contest to make your baby look like an iPod. Pretty speechless about that. Cute kid though.

• December 31st will technically be the longest day of the year. Weird huh? They put an extra second onto the day to compensate for variances in the earth's rotational speed. So 24 hrs and 1s. Or an extra second of New Years revelry, depending on your plans for the evening. Does this mean the countdown for the Times Square apple will be from 11, in a Spinal Tap type way? That would be cool. But pretty unlikely.

• I'm reading Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. It's a fantastic book, especially for someone who, when the fork appeared, chose the arts instead of the sciences, and occasionally wonders whether they made the right choice. Read it.

Let it snow...

It just snowed for like, 15 mintes. And now the sun's come out - no fair.

I'm resuming normal exercise today having had a 6-day hiatus. It's going to suck. Like, really.

I've got to send my iPod nano back to Apple because the screen's gone funny. And not because of pansy scratch marks but it seems to be possessed.

And speaking of possession, the belfry is kind of a weird home sometimes. You see, there are lots of trees whose branches come into contact with the roof and windows and general structure of it. And trees, well, they can make some pretty weird noises. Branches scratching on windows and all that. And they groan. That's spooky. There have been a fair few nights and early mornings that I have been officially creeped out. There have been times when I've crept down the spiral staircase, my old cane in hand for defence, convinced that someone's opened the door downstairs. It's a good thing there wasn't, for I looked ridiculous on every occasion.

The snow is now one of those microscopic flurries that, were it to continue, would provide about an inch of snow after about a million years.

Ho ho ho...

Nobody fought.

The food was amazing (I did the stuffing, the gravy for the beef and an apple, pear and plum crumble).

There was A LOT of food.

Those new to Christmas at mine were welcomed with open arms and had a blast.

I got a cool tie.

I'm serious - one of my favourite presents was an awesome tie. And no, that doesn't make me boring.

My parents danced like teenagers.

I got lots of hugs from pretty girls.

Look - it's a navy blue tie and it has all these penguins on it - half the penguins are skinny and half are fat. And next to the skinny ones it says, "A fairy hat penguin" (it's wearing a fairy hat) and next to the fat ones it says, "A hairy fat penguin" as it's furry. I love it. So there.

Nobody got too drunk.

The port was lovely. As was the stilton.

Fats Domino replaced Christmas carols just in time!

Everyone was genuinely on good form.

I think most of us were pretty shocked by how well it all went. Reading into that sort of cynism? Well, I think I'll just leave it and be happy we had a brilliant Christmas.

Some pics, taken with my brand new Canon EOS 350D digital SLR (tied with the tie as best present):This is me with Alia & Kath - old friends who were a brilliant addition to Christmas fun an not only enjoyed themselves but pitched in big style.

Looking out the window onto the river on Christmas afternoon. I like this shot. Getting used to autofocus. It's weird and makes funny noises.

One of the best gifts of the day: Freudian Slippers. Slippers with Freud's face and your toes are in the tongue. I'm sure whoever invented these was a genius. Someone gave them to my aunt (who has consumed the vast majority of my Green & Black's Butterscotch) I want a pair for myself. I would wear them with my new tie.

My aunt and my mother dancing to Fats Domino for my dad. My aunt kindly did loads of washing up (as she'd done no cooking) - hence the blue rubber gloves. My mate Ali in the background helps himself to the port while enjoying the floorshow.

They were dancing and I nearly caught them in the act but I didn't but it was still sweet and lovely.

Today has been a day of many leftovers. And a walk to the pub for a pint. In the pub were American tourists arguing over whether Leicester was pronounced "lie-sester" or "lie-chester". Fingernails on chalk would have sounded far better. The beer tasted ace though!

Where you're at and where you want to be aren't always the same...

...for instance, I am in Edinburgh Airport nursing a monster hangover. I want to be in my bed. With a cup of tea. And perhaps a hobnob. I haven't had a hobnob in a million years, maybe more. I don't think I have any hobnobs at my house. Which is a total bummer, though worse things have happened in the world. I do have some Green and Black's Butterscotch chocolate. It's sitting in a drawer in my kitchen in London. Or at least, it should be sitting in a drawer in my kitchen in London. The presence of my aunt Cynthia in that kitchen may well mean that my chocolate has been sacrificed to the cravings of a 61-year-old twice divorced artists whose lunacy is wonderful but whose appetite for chocolate is frightening.

Revelations of the last two days:

The tasting yesterday was wonderful.

Pete's puppy's gotten BIG.

I'm a terrible poker player (thankfully I wasn't using real money).

Drinking all day with good mates is silly fun, but painful (I knew that). And it's the mates that make it fun. Not the drinking. That's what makes it silly.

I will never see everyone I need to when I get up to St Andrews.

Friends with truly dreadful music taste (McFly suck - the world needs to deal with this) are still friends. But try to keep them away from the stereo.

A tiny blonde behind the wheel of a giant Range Rover is funny. And silly. Especially if it's a mate.

Lara Crawford may be the world's cutest puppy. Even if she isn't puppy-sized anymore.

Sometimes I'm so hopelessly disorganised that I shouldn't be allowed any responsibility whatsoever. I had 3 important things to sort out in Scotland and failed to accomplish all of them. Granted, they weren't life or death things, but it makes me feel stupid. And a bit useless. And my mum's ill and that's no fun at Christmas. Well, it's no fun at any time really.

In a shock to my system it looks as though my flight is going to be on time.

I'm contemplating hobnobs still. They're great. Why don't I eat them anymore? Do they sell them at the airport? I shall soon find out.

My new headphones are awesome.

Pretty girls should smile more as it makes them prettier.

I'm babbling again.

Alabama - or something like that

So, to decipher some of the nonsense I wrote last time, I went to the Cellar Restaurant in Anstruther last night. It's one of my favourite restaurants on the planet. The menu doesn't change that much and it's not the home of cutting edge culinary experimentation, but it is possibly the most beautifully cooked seafood you can ever put in your mouth. Simple, elegant, and just perfect. I ate scallops, halibut, bisque and... oh, yeah - petit fours. Petit fours? you say. Well yeah, but the kind of petit fours that taste like an entire box of chocolates in one chocolate. It's that concentrated. Except without the being sick part you get from having an entire box of chocolate. That's where the genius kicks in. So while we were eating, Peter Jukes - head chef, proprieter, owner, legend and current chairman of the master chefs of Great Britain, sits with us and not only chills and chats for the entire night, but every time we wine geeks order a bottle, he buys one as well, of equal or greater merit. We drank 2 bottles of champagne before we got to our table that we didn't pay for and the best, in retrospect, wine of the evening was one that he dragged out to compare to our main course wine. And his stories of the culinary planet would make Ramsay blush and Bourdain giggle like a schoolgirl. So cheers Peter, for making my first night back up totally brilliant.

And on a totally unrelated note - it's almost 20 past eight and pitch bloody black outside. Sorry, that's an exageration - it's got that weird blue glow you get like, an hour before dawn. Y'know? How could I possibly forget how dark it gets here? Well... I dunno, but coming back around the shortest day of the year is like reminding oneself with a railroad spike. Possibly the same railroad spike that is jammed in my brain and reminding me of all the wine I drank last night. Ugh. Waitaminute... it's not too "ugh-esque". Oh... yeah... it is. Only 11 champagnes to taste today. Bring it on and read about it here.

And if you hit that link before like, 8 pm GMT, there's nothing there yet. So relax.

Sweet home...?

Introduce yourself to a chef. Right now. Interrupt them if you have to. I'm serious. You should have some interest in what they do. If you don't, stop reading. No, really, stop. Do you like food? At a deep and beautiful level? Then go for it. If you hesitated in any part of these first sentences, then shut your laptop and type "road chef and food like it" into Jeeves or Google or something. I love food. I cook food. Sometimes I get paid to cook food but never enough. And it doesn't matter. I still love it. It's like wine tastings. I'm taking part in a tasting tomorrow that I will lose hundreds of pounds on. Pounds I can afford? Fuck no. Fuck, fuck no. In fact, I should be taking my head down to the chemist and having it weighed. But it's an important tasting. Ah well.

I have no idea what I'm doing, and seldom do, but I am happy I'm doing it. So a fine restaurant is hosting my "know fuck all tasting", hosted by a friend who knows "fucking less that me" - and I guarantee that. But it's still going to happen. I'm tired though. And I hope I do a decent job.

Bottoms up...

Well - finally got the tree finished last night, with all the lights working and all of our strange decorations on show. The ugly stuff usually goes in the back, but this time I put the strange banana in a purple sombrero in plain sight.I like the purple-hatted banana. Can you spot it?

I also got a shot of my mother's very groovy oriental screen. She was given it by her godmother or great aunt or something. She may well have been both - stranger things have happened. Especially in my family.
At the moment I am sitting in the Gate 5 departure complex at Heathrow Terminal 1, waiting for my delayed flight to board. I'm going to St Andrews for a fine champagne tasting with the Naughton Dining Club. Many people have pulled out, recommitted and pulled out again and everything seems as disorganised as ever, but I'm sure it will be fun. Going to one of my favourite restaurants ever tonight for dinner and the tasting is being held at another favourite for lunch tomorrow. I sense a great hangover or two in the works.

In other news, I got all my shopping done for Christmas. Everyone I needed to get a present has one. Hope they like them. Of course, if they don't, that's just tough shit.

Breathing big sigh of relief.

Hereditary insanity?

I don't know whether it was my aunt posting her Christmas list to Father Christmas or my mother demanding I tie beef fat to the bird-feeder that tipped me off to the ultimate truth that my family are not only nuts, but indeed madder than a bag of rabid badgers. It makes for seasonal amusement, to be sure.

No shopping done.

Tree up but semi-naked.

No idea what to buy mom (beef fat tied to a bird-feeder?...she's got that already).

Culture binge (and other binges)

The National Gallery and the Royal Academy of Arts. I don't think I'd been to the main galleries at The National Gallery since I was doing my art GCSE. I only went through the 1700-1900 rooms. Being genuinely moved by art? It doesn't happen often. But I was blown away, just wanting to stare for hours. Monet's Parliament at Sunset just tugged the old heart strings, as did his studies of poplar trees. Van Gogh's farmhouses made me smile. When I was younger, I appreciated impressionists in a "they were incredibly important" kind of way. It was all academic. So, does my new-found appreciation of fine art signify some increased maturity? Dunno.

So then the Royal Academy, and their 3 Emperors exhibition. As much a sensory and cultural onslaught as an exhibition. Textiles, tapestries, pottery, scrolls, calligraphy; every facet of court life in China over a period of about 150 years. Quite a bit happened in that period apparently, including the introduction of Jesuit missionaries in the imperial court, bringing the first western influences into Chinese art. It was, however, the calligraphy that took me, and not the imperial stuff, but the works of the Literati - the deposed artists with ties to the previous, Ming Dynasty. Their subversiveness expressed in the raw emotion of their writing was startling when compared to the disciplined strokes of those in the status quo. And I don't even know what it was saying. Quite a bit of it reminded me of Blake, the combinations of words and images, though without the dogma and lunacy. Remember those Smirnoff adds, where it would show a bunch of hornets flying? But looking through the Smirnoff bottle there'd be helicopter gunships? Well, with the more tame illustrated poems, usually quietly observant of nature, you could imagine holding the Smirnoff bottle over it and seeing some crazy Blake. In any case, if you're anywhere near London while this exhibition's on, go and see it. Worth every penny. I got in for free though, but if I'd had to have paid £11, I wouldn't have minded. Honest.

I then found that the best burger in London is available at The Wolseley on Piccadilly. It ain't cheap, but damn it's good.

Prior to all of these events was a night out in the ultra-fashionable Notting Hill area, where £50 for a round of 5 cocktails is the norm. I know the area fairly well as I went to school around there, though in those days the bohemians had the edge on the ultra-chic. Nowadays it seems as though the bohemians have become the ultra-chic... sell-outs. It was cool in an antropological sense. Ultra-style bars that only serve beer in half-pints (not amused), cocktail lists that seem to be taking classics and putting an exotic fruit in them and charging the earth (lychee mojitos? you've gotta be fucking kidding me), and people surrounding me that are unbelievably pretty and pretty vacuous to boot. I drank a lot to convince myself that the fat, bald, wannabe writer, American fit in (as that's what most American writers abroad do to fit in - Hemmingway? Fitzgerald?). Not too much though... didn't make an arse of oneself. Some of the cocktails were brilliant. My chat was, possibly, on form. We ate a lot of dumplings. I was with an old friend and some friends of his, and most of us appreciated some of the ridiculousness of it all. I was ultra flash and took a taxi home (the tubes were shut - what can you do?).

First book

Christmas 1983. I was 7. My sister, Kari, gave me what I thought at that precise moment was the worst present possible. In a year that should have been crowned with the holy trinity of GI Joe, Transformers & Star Wars (with St Lego making a miraculous appearance), I received books. And not books with big pictures, nor the instructions to build big Lego spaceships, but books with just words. And a couple of drawings that didn't even have speech bubbles. I think I made a brave face, and as she was my oldest sister, she gave me a lecture about how great reading was and how these were the books that she started reading with and I just fidgeted and wanted to play lego/Star Wars/GI Joe.

I didn't touch them until February of 1984. The books were C. S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia. The first book in the series was The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I started reading it to put myself to sleep and read it through until it was finished. It was a landmark moment in my life. I was too young to recognise Christian allegory or care very much about it. I was, however, the perfect age to think that talking animals would be the coolest thing ever, were it not for the idea that there were other worlds around every corner being the coolest thing ever. I wanted Narnia to be real, just like I would want to be Indiana Jones or blow up the Death Star. I read all the books and re-read them. I read other books, (including The Dark is Rising Sequence by Susan Cooper - best children's fantasy series ever) and kept seeking new worlds. I'm still seeking new worlds.

So, I went to see the movie the other day. And for the first hour or so, I was 7 again. I wanted to believe and did believe in that place through the wardrobe. It felt brilliant. I don't think I can judge its merits objectively because it achieved what for me was its only goal. Making Narnia real. So if you read the books and hoped that there really was a wardrobe that led to another world, go and see it.

Fat pigeons

The wood pigeons that nest in the tree next to the belfry are hideously fat. So much so that flight seems to almost elude them. Their efforts to get airbourne are Herculean and I'm shocked every time they succeed. Their weight surprises me, as they produce so much shit (and deposit it in front of the door to the belfry), that they should be skeletal by now. Big fat pigeons. Lots of poo. Ah well.

Unpacked and with a new name

Well, I've unpacked and am now firmly established in the loft of the wendy house/garden shed. I've decided to call it the belfry, in spite of the lack of bell. In fact, I shall purchase a bell for the sake of literary accuracy. I like the term "belfry". There is a small cupola on the roof, whose purpose is a mystery, and if that's a cupola then my loft can be a belfry. There are no bats in this belfry, though there seems to be no shortage of spider or moth. I'd have thought with all the spiders there would be few moths, but perhaps that's naïvity on my part. So, as the majority of my writing will be from this cozy belfry, this blog has been retitled. I like the title. It's got both "belfry" and "chronicles" in it; cool, huh?

Holiday's over... and other episodes.

I've moved. This time from my parents' house to the garden shed out back. They call it the Wendy House. Highly emasculating, nes pas? This wouldn't be so bad if I'd unpacked. But I didn't. Well, not really. There are boxes from 6 years ago with stuff that I forgot I owned. And most of my stuff from St Andrews - well, unpacked in that it's no longer in boxes or bags... sadly it's not tidily put away either.

It's been a voyage of discovery. For instance, a pair of shoes I hadn't worn in ages? Well, went to slip them on and found the spare battery for my digital camera in one of them. I thought I'd lost it. Always the last place you look. Or, in this case, somewhere you just wouldn't look for it, like, ever. So the mysteries that await fill the mind with a mixture of wonder and the mundane. Such is life.

So yeah, I'm living in a bomb site that I've detonated. But my folks are home and we haven't fallen out yet, which is a good thing. Building the energy to tidy the bomb site while balancing that with writing? Well, that's quite hard. And apparently there's some holiday coming up that I need to be ready for - something about a tree and a baby.

Last weekend was interesting. Friday night was spent in the exciting company of "tour operators". I drank a lot and, to my shame, ate a McDonald's.

Saturday was a day off.

Sunday was an epic Christmas lunch party that ran from 1pm to 1am and involved lovely ladies and old friends as well as a couple of new faces. I felt atrocious yesterday and deserved to, as I consumed a vast amount of red wine. That said the day did have its perks.

Last evening found yet another pub in London that is brilliant. The Horse & Groom in Belgravia (ultra-high-rent-district), a pub that boasts free sandwiches, great beer, lunatic scando bar managers and nice wood paneling. Caught up with the lovely Clair and the nice but not all that lovely Ru & Marcus. I didn't need to catch up that much with the latter 2 as the aforementioned Sunday lunch boasted their presence, but Clair I hadn't seen in ages and was in brilliant form.

This evening cultural enlightenment took centre stage and I went to a talk by Saba Douglas-Hamilton, of Big Cat Diaries fame, about her mother's family planning clinic in Kenya. It turns out she was a St Andrews alum as well. It was a great talk, and she struck me as one of those people who just manages to be very talented and lovely enough so as not to inspire cynical jealousy. It turns out her mum worked with my aunt many years ago. And I'm pretty sure she's related to an old friend. So it's a pretty small world, really.

So feeling informed and enlightened the folks and I went over to the table where the native crafts were sold to raise money for the clinic and I got the coolest bathrobe ever. And if you don't believe me, just check it out:See? I love it. I'm wearing it as I type this, I kid you not. In any case, I'm looking forward to a good quiet night's rest.

Detox. And 2 pics.

I've not had a drink since 1am Sunday.
I've not had red meat since 10am Sunday (and that was only a tiny bit of sausage).
I've been eating falafel, hummus, salad, cous cous, egg noodles, wild rice and wild mushrooms. All organic.
I've been drinking water, Innocent smoothies (though I miss Get Juiced), fresh squeezed OJ and quite a lot of tea.
I work out every morning. I stretch before I do this.

The food thing is hard. I cannot believe that there are people, vegetarians and vegans, that willingly do this, claiming they actually enjoy it. Have they not tasted bacon? Do they not know how tasty a good steak is? Buttered toast & Marmite? Food should be fun and make you happy - if it were just about being healthy then comfort food wouldn't exist and we'd all be living on protein pills. And people who don't care about what they eat? Don't trust those people. The flavour of good food is the flavour of life, and the enjoyment of one leads to the enjoyment of the other. Food should first and foremost be a statement about what you love in life, not some socio-political commentary through fucking tofu. Now granted, I love wild mushrooms and cous cous. And hummus even. In fact - if I didn't like these things I wouldn't be eating them, regardless of detox. But there's something missing; egg noodles are brilliant when fried in sesame oil and served with strips of pan-fried sirloin laid on top, wild mushrooms thrive in risottos (or served on toast having been fried in butter), salads - well, salads are fun when they're on the side of something. So that's my petulant rant about food.

All that said, I feel a lot better for taking a break. I feel good in the mornings (until I do my nordic-track nonsense) and my sleep seems pretty healthy. I still want a burger. Like, right now. I've got some great looking organic mince in the freezer as well. hmmmm. I mean to stay off booze for the week, but I never really made a conscious decision regarding meat.

Chiswick Mall during a very high tide. The River Thames has totally submerged the road. It's quite cool and happens a couple of times a month.

It's not often you see a street lamp in the middle of a river.