Last Tuesday we rented a tiny little car, jammed it full of three women, a heap of camping gear, and a six week old kitten named Grandpa Hamish.

I was relegated to the back seat for the trip, because I was the only one who didn't get car sick. I was also the only person who could read in the car, so I was relegated to the Reading Princess Bride Aloud.

It was easiest to keep the kitty in the back seat, so I spent most of the trip looking at this ^ view. This was the look I got just before Grandpa Hamish leapt up and bit me in the crotch.

We drove towards the Isle of Skye. We got a bit of a late start (due to Kelly and my propensity for sleeping late) and so only drove for a few hours before we decided to locate a camping spot.

We found a beautiful copse of tall, old, moss-covered trees covering a small hill, next to a river. Stags roamed the grasslands around the hills, all majestic and antler-y, which would explain the hunting tower at the top of the hill.

There is nothing quite like cresting a beautiful rise, surrounded by this beautiful grove and glossy green rhododendren bushes , looking out on a field of grazing deer and the Scottish highlands, and taking a big ole wee.

However, that being said, upon waking in the morning, I discovered my first and only nemesis.

MIDGES.

Later on that evening, I counted my midge bites. I had two hundred and thirty-two midge bites.

Let me rephrase that.

I HAD TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY TWO MIDGE BITES.

Midges are tiny insect that resemble a fruit fly in size and wing span. They get everywhere. They come in swarms. At least mosquitos are more or less solitary. And visible. Midges cover every last inch of visable flesh as soon as you expose it. There is nothing that stops midges, except apparently a very particular moisterizer that Avon sells.

Both Kelly and Amber barely got bitten, those bitches. I have the blessing of having a very nice complexion and pale skin. I am also cursed or blessed with skin that marks up very easily. Ergo, my expanse of midge bites looked precisely like I had a very terrible case of the chicken pox. When ever someone caught sight of me for the first few days there, they'd slow down, stare, and ask very quietly whether I'd gotten bitten by something. Upon hearing it was midges, they'd grimace, wince, and shake their head in wonder, and exclaim they'd rarely seen someone bitten so much.

We discovered a sale of outdoor equipment in the townhall of Glencoe, and a sweet little old lady sold me the Avon moisterizer, and a midge net that covered my head. I wore in immediately, despite being indoors.

I also saw this lovely house all covered in marigolds. The picture just doesn't do it justice.

The air here in Scotland is something else. It's very clear and bright, blue-white (as opposed to Calgary's yellow light), and sharpens all the colours something fierce. It's just beautiful. Much like Vancouver, only better, because it's Scotland.

We headed farther north, stopping at Eilean Donan, the castle that was used in the Highlander movies (which I haven't seen). It was a neat castle, and my first real castle of my trip.

We could not go inside, as it had been turned into a museum, I think, and was closed. But we did run around it, giggling like morons, and yelling things like: "THIS IS A CASTLE!" and "I'M IN FUCKING SCOTLAND!" but not in the earshot of anybody else, in accordance with ladylike behavior that my mother so dutifully taught me.

North, north, north. Shortly after that we crossed the Skye Bridge, saw another castle in the distance (but didn't stop), and careened our way up the narrow, bumpy roads of Scotland toward a hostel that Amber knew about. They allowed camping in the yard for a small fee, and had hot showers, which we were all thinking about rather longingly. I personally was hoping to boil the midge bites from my flesh.

The woman who answered the door of the hostel office was old and bent and sweetly Scottish, took our ten pounds, and stared at me in shock before asking quietly whether I'd been bitten by something.

The next morning, after the hottest shower I could stand (causing my midge bites to turn fiercely red), we hopped in the wee car and trundled toward the town of Portree.

The road, much like most roads in Scotland, was one lane, with frequent passing pulloffs. It was such a rough and tumble road, I was worried we were heading to someone's farm, which wasn't helped by this lovely herd of cows, most of whom were pregnant.

But no, we safely arrived at little Portree. It was a sweet little touristy town with boat tours and gift shops.

We puttered around, looking at things. I shopped a lot, but didn't buy anything. I kind of wish I'd bought some of the orange hand spun single ply yarn one of the shops had for sale, but I didn't, and I kind of wish I had, for naalbinding. Oh well.

We stopped at the grocery store on the way out of town and bought bacon and vegetables for dinner. (The Scottish sure love their bacon, I tell you. It's the easiest meat to find. You can buy packages of six slices in the gas stations.)

SIDE STORY TIME.

I can't remember at what point in the journey this was, so I will say it is now.

We crested the top of this hill and Kelly, in her gentile Kelly way, screams "OHMYGOD WE HAVE TO GO LOOK AT THAT!!"

So we turned around a found hundreds and hundres of stacked stones, pocked among the heather. It looked like a little slice of Nelson on a hilltop in Scotland.

We got out and poked around. It was a lovely view of the valley and I took a few shots, but I won't bore you with my scenery photos. Kelly and I stacked some stones, until Kelly, in her gentile way, screamed "OHMYGOD I HAVE TO GO LOOK AT THAT!!" and went bounding off out of the stones, towards the road.

She made some new friends.

(I think she was just using him for his car, which was the red convertable number on the left.)

His wife, who was wee and white haired and wearing a cap and goggles to match, was highly amused by the whole situation and Kelly made me take about half a dozen shots of her and the car. To hell with the guy.

END SIDE STORY.


How can I explain how beautiful Skye is? It is an olive velvet cloth, dropped into the ocean, all soft peaks and gentle folds. It is slate cliffs, black and bleak, and dustings of purple heather. It is the silence so deep you can feel it in your bones. It is rusted tin roofs and three hundred year old gardening sheds. It is fellows named Iain, out walking in gumboots with his dog, chatting up three Canadian girls on the side of the road. It's sheep humping in the middle of the road.

Except for perhaps the sheep humping part, I really like Scotland.

Oh, and I hate the midges.

Fucking midges.

(Only now is my skin starting to look normal, though I still look a bit like I'm recovering from the zombie plague.)

So we started heading back to Paisley, with the idea that we'd have a few days with the car and have beds without midges. We got about two thirds of the way home when Kelly realized she'd lost her iPhone. Now, for those of you who aren't familiar with modern technology (hi, mom), an iPhone is probably The Most Expensive Phone on the market right now. I could be wrong, but it's definitely up there.

Needless to say, Kelly was interested in going back for it, even though it meant a lot of retracing our steps and staying on Skye for another night.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

I think I replied with something like: "I'M IN FUCKING SCOTLAND! WOOOOO!!"

So back we went. We got to visit Eilean Donan just after the sun went down.

With nothing for it, we made giant shadow puppets on the castle wall. We danced like harems girls, and those plastic monkeys from barrels. We tried to make a shadow of a giant rabbit and didn't do so well.

I wonder what all the people sitting in the parking lot, watching from their cars thought...

And from there, over the bridge to Skye, round and round the rickety roads, and back to the hostel.

No phone.

Then we slept.

And I will do our magnificent return trip tomorrow, because it is almost 2am and I am very tired...

I went to the Isle of Skye. Kelly, Amber and I rented a car.

It was bloody well amazing. I am very tired now, though, so I will post pictures not tomorrow, but the next day. Tomorrow we're daytripping to Edinburgh...Edinborrough...Edinnnnnnn...fuck. You know, that city to the east what with the good Fringe.

There.

So the day AFTER I will post photos. Promise.

(I totally climbed all over a 13th century ruined castle, waded out to the castle Aaaaaaaggghghhh, terrorized a cathedral, and made giant shadow puppets on the walls of the castle from Highlander.)

SCOTLAND!

I like Scotland.

I took the night bus back, jammed in next to a six-foot-six fellow named Lou who was nigh on three hundred pounds, came from South Africa and had lived in Scotland for the last ten years with his wife and two daughters.

I slept a little. Well, I was unconscious a little, if not asleep. I remembered to bring my ear plugs on the bus, which helped, but I HATE these earplugs. They don't squish very well and make my ears hurt.

Oh! After I checked out of my hostel on Friday, I went to the Camden Market.

OH. MY. LORD. What a fantastic market! A lot of booths were really just the same thing over and over again, but about thirty percent of the booths were artisans, hawking their wares. I got some great inspiration.

There was a whole store selling rave gear. At least, that's what I thought when I first went in. The store went down a few levels, and the deeper you got, the less rave it got, and the more cyberpunk. I LOVE cyberpunk, providing it's done well. There was a whole line of handmade cyberpunk jewellry which I'm going to have to emulate when I get back to my tools. (It was good, but not as good as I could make it.)

I would have taken pictures of that store, but they were very strict on no cameras, and had people patrolling, keeping people from taking pictures.

Oh! And there was a whole room of cyberpunk erotic clothing! How hilarious is that? (Says the girl who would buy one of everything in that store if she'd had the money...)

The picture up there is from the side of the river, looking up towards the backside of the market. I had a sit down there and ate my lunch and read my terrible romance novels and made friends with pigeons.

When I got into Glasgow, I hopped on a bus and headed towards Amber's place. I dropped my junk, and we headed out to a big ole flea market. I ended up buying a tiny silver mussel fork, and a triple string of really excellent fake pearls. They were all crusted with crap, but they cleaned up really nicely. I'm tossing up whether to strip the pearls and make them into something else, or keep them as is, because it's a very nice, simple necklace.

We wandered around Glasgow for a while. Found that amazing cheese shop with the French guy with the Scottish/French accent. They were amused to see us again, and fed us a lot more cheese, and we bought a bunch of cheese.

Saw cool graffiti! Made me think of Tyne.

Anyway. Ran into Fergus, the Scot what works at the computer store, and we ate fish and chips and Indian food, though not together.

Then sleep.

Then yesterday the four of us went out walking in Paisley. Kelly and Fergus fucked off to take pictures of buildings, and Amber and I went to the grocery store to find dinner. There was a duck on sale, so we grabbed that, and some butter chicken sauce, and were heading back when we passed a little pub.

It looked like a nice pub, so I suggested we stop for a pint.

So there we are, sedately drinking our Guinness, when the four Scottish men standing at the bar (there always seems to be four Scottish men standing at the bar here) asked us whether we were American or Canadian. When we replied Canadian, there was high fiving and bets settled.

Then they bought us a round. And challenged us to a game of dominos.

Those men took their dominos seriously. It was kind of hilarious. There was a very old Scottish man with a face like a wrinkled apple who kept talking to us, but I couldn't understand a damned word her said.

Five pints later, we decided we should probably go, because we had a duck. Those guys would have kept buying us beer until we fell over, I think. (I also spotted the other cute Scottish guy, who was having beer with his mother and uncle, and I know this because AMBER IS A BASTARD WHO LIKES TO MORTIFY ROSIE).

We stumbled off down the road, taking a wee break on a nice grassy patch with trees.

We also found a church along the way that I'd never seen before. Not surprising, though, seeing as there seems to be an enormous church when ever you turn the corner.

After a while of laying on our backs, trying to make the world stop spinning (we eventually worked out that we'd had five pints in two hours, an act which I don't think I'll repeat any time soon), we pried our corpses up and tottered off down the road.

Fortunately, Amber's house was a lot closer than I'd thought, and we made it home without falling over and napping.

Then duck! I made Fergus de-bone the bird. He'd never stripped a bird before, so I was trying to teach him. He was not very willing though.

"You've never de-boned a bird before?" I asked, aghast.

"No," says Fergus, quite startled that I would think that any person in the early twenties should have by now.

"Well, how do you get the meat off the bones, then?" asked I.

Fergus looked at me as if I were daft. "We have butchers to do that."

It's true, though. There's a butcher on every corner here. Also, bakers and delis. The pre-made meals you can get here are amazing, and the packages desserts are of such incredibly variety and quality.

Anyway. Made it through the duck without stabbing myself or Fergus, and it was all cooked and very, very good.

This is Grandpa Hamish.

He is Amber's new kitten.

He is fierce.

He likes to hump stuffed animals.

(By 'hump' I mean 'attack ferociously'.)

He likes to do laps on my naked back in the morning.

Grandpa Hamish needs to stay out of the bedroom, I think.

Whelp. This is an entry of not very interesting photos, so I will have to get some better ones for youse folks tomorrow.

We're gonna road trip soon, so there will probably be long stretches where I am silent.

Just so you're warned...

Yesterday morning I had breakfast with a Polish guy named Kooba, who was a musicologist by trade. He was working on his PHD, studying the evolution of pop music. We had a really interesting conversation about the evolution of heavy metal, from it's start to what it is now.

Then I hung around the hostel until the afternoon, at which time Nick, the Canadian guy, suggested we all go to the British Beer Festival, downtown.

So we did!

There was me, Nick (Canadian, who worked in marketing), Michael (a Dutch guy), Tony (another Dutch guy, with round rosy cheeks and worked in a bakery), Mateas (German, who smoked like a chimney and rolled his own), Colin (Irish), and a French guy whose name I can't remember but won a very nice false beard in one of the pub games.

Yep. I was the only girl. I was pretty much the only girl at the beer festival, too. It was about one woman for every fifty men.

You had to rent a glass, and it had markings on it for a third, a half, and a full pint. I only drank thirds, because I wanted to try a bunch of different ones, and not get really drunk or poor. I had some good beers. There was a nice Dutch one, the name of which translated to something like 'Blood, Sweat, and Tears'. I think it was my favorite of the lot.

Then it started to get very crowded so we left and went to a pub, and had a couple more, before heading back to the hostel. Michael decided he wanted chicken, and bought SIX POUNDS of chicken, which he proceeded to cook, and then try to make everyone eat. I tried to eat it, but he slathered it in chili powder, and I'm not keen on spicy food.

It was a really fun night, though. I really needed a not-really-touristy kind of hanging out night.

This morning I was up at the crack of horrible, because one of the girls' alarms went off. It was the one with the terrible dreads. I kind of felt sorry for her, because she didn't really talk to anybody and looked really unhappy. She didn't even talk when everyone else was talking. even though we all didn't know each other. Also, she rarely smiled, and spent large parts of her day laying in her bed and staring at the wall.

But there's only so many times you can extend the olive branch before you have to accept the fact that they don't want it.

Oh well. She left this morning, hopefully to happier pastures. And hopefully to somewhere with a clipper, so she can shave off those terrible dreads. She had a really pretty face, which made it even more terrible.

Anyway, I'm in an internet cafe, printing out my bus ticket to Scotland. Tomorrow morning I will be in Scotland again, and Amber, Kelly and I will do some proper Canadian terrorizing of the poor Scottish men.

By the way, there is nothing funnier than a Dutch man who doesn't speak English very well trying to understand an Irishman whose just spent a year in Australia. That was almost as good as the French cheese seller who had a French and a Scottish accent, all in one.

This morning I went to view the Wallace Collection. It was primarily 17th and 18th century paintings (which I don't much care for), but had a very large collection of arms and armour through the ages, and, to my surprise, a fairly sizable collection of pages from books of hours (mostly Florentine; they sure liked painted jewels).

Also, second most interesting after the illumination, they had a room dedicated to how things were made. There was a very interesting display on how inlay work was done on 17th and 18th century furniture. It made me want to try it. It didn't look nearly as difficult as I thought it was.

But that means more tools, which means more money...If I ever won the lottery I know I would spend the whole damned thing on books and tools.

I thought that perhaps I could get through the whole of the Wallace Collection without running into a Picasso, a Rodin, or any artist I knew (I'm not that keen on 17th/18th century art, so I figured I'd be safe), but I failed when I spotted a couple of Rembrandts. Oh well. Rembrandts are allowed.

Ate my lunch in a nearby park. There were pigeons. I made friends with them.

Then looked at me ole map, trying to decide what else to do today. I had wanted to get over to the Horniman Museum, but it is Really Freakin' Out Of The Way. Ergo, I decided to go check out the ACTUAL portrait gallery, rather than the FAKE portrait gallery I went to the other day (it was actually the National Museum).

So I did! And it was filled with portraits. I like portraits.

But not 17th or 18th century portraits. BOOOOOOORING.

There was a lot of pieces I did like, though. I really need to get into portraiture. I enjoy that shit.

And now? I'm not sure what I'll do. I'm tossing up between taking a walk around the theatre district (though it's disgustingly busy, and I'm not sure I want to fight the crowds), or just heading back to the hostel and hanging around with the folks there. I suspect that will win out.

And just for a final cap on this entry, here is a picture of what I suspect the Horniman Museum will look like.

It apparently contains a poorly stuffed, rather elderly walrus, but really, this is all I'm thinking of.

Hot, man-mannequin window-sex.

Ooooh yeah.

And that's all, folks.

Monday morning I popped awake bright eyed and bushy tailed, ate a healthy breakfast, and traipsed off into the rising sun, ready for another adventure. (I'm lying. I dragged my poor, sorry carcass out of bed, jammed some terrible muesli into its interior, and blearily tottered off down the roat into the mid-morning sun.)

I was off to the Globe!

I checked out the performance schedule, and the only thing playing that I could have caught was Henry VIII, and I didn't particularly want to see it.

And looking at the prices, I probably would have ended up getting a standing room ticket.

So I decided to screw that noise, and just go see the exhibit they had, and do the tour.

It was quite interesting, though not quite as in depth as I was hoping for. Don't let that discourage you! If you get near the Globe, go do the tour and see the exhibit, but, well, they didn't really tell me much I didn't already know. I could have expanded on the tour guide's information about the technical elements of the shows quite a bit.

There were some technicians working on stage, setting up for that evening's show. You have no idea how much I wanted to ask them for a job. (Screw you, Steve!) (I KID, I KID. Please don't fire me...)

After the Globe, I went and ate my picnic lunch on the banks of the Thames. DELICIOUS SANDWICH. Then I started wandering around, and discovered the Tate Museum of Modern Art.

"But you hate modern art, Rosie," I argued with myself.

"Yes, but it's free, and it's close," I argued back.

"Oh, very well, suit yourself, but you'll be sorry," I said.

So I went into the Museum of Modern Art.

It was about at the point where I was standing with a few other people, quietly contemplating a pale red canvas decorated with a dark red vertical line, that I realized MODERN ART IS STILL SHIT.

BLEAGH.

I should point out that this painting was in the very first room I walked into.

Needless to say, I took a very fast walk around the Museum of Modern Art, with every room only reconfirming what I already knew.

Not to say there wasn't pieces I didn't enjoy. There was a Dali piece I quite liked. I have to say, though, I'm not a fan of Picasso's cubist period. I much prefer his blue period stuff, but even then, I'm not a big Picasso fan at all. There was a room dedicated to a particular style of art which, for the life of me, I can't remember (it surfaced briefly around WWII, I believe), involving hyperrealism and giant canvasses. I liked those paintings, and not just because they were all naked people.

I walked into a room wallpapered in neon pink cows, and I thought: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS CRAP? And I checked the label, and it told me it was Andy Warhol, and I thought: ANDY WARHOL IS CRAP.

There was a room of photographs, done by a woman who was travelling around, knocking on people's doors and asking to photograph their livingrooms. I thought that was quite interesting. It was neat to see other people's livingrooms.

Then I left the Museum of Modern Art in a dignified, incensed huff, and had a lay about on the grass, reading my book and making friends with pigeons.

The one in the back is called Louis, and the one in the front is named Louise.

They don't talk much.

Afterward, I toured a church that was nearby, because I like old churches. There were plaques everywhere, commemorating people of the parish who had died. Even the flagstones were carved with people's names. I found a flagstone commemorating one of Shakespeare's younger brothers, who apparently was an actor in the area, and died of the plague (along with his other brothers). Of course, I can't for the life of me remember the kid's first name. George? Something like that.

Then, because I felt like doing something that wasn't very touristy, I went to a nearby mall. On my map, it looked comparable to Northland Mall (or Chakko Mika Mall), but in person, it was TINY. Ten minutes to walk the whole thing.

That was boring. So I went back to the hostel. Stupid mall.

Yesterday I hooked up with Scott, and we went wandering through street markets. A man tried to sell me a hat that was Too Small, but I was having none of it.

"No, no, it fits just fine!"

"No, it's tight."

"It's just your hair, maybe if you moved you hair--"

I hate to break it to you, man, but no matter how I arrange my hair, providing it's all pointing downward, my head will always have the same circumferance. Whether it's braided or not just affects what overall shape my head has.

Silly man. He had nice hats, though, just none that were big enough for me.

Ate Indonesian for lunch. Wandered more.

There's a lot of really neat architecture in London. I'm not just talking about historical buildings, but modern ones, too.

This one on the left did not look finished when we first saw it in the distance, but coming closer, we realized it was just a style.

Very cyber-punk evil-villian. I approved heartily.

After wandering on by this place, we discovered the Tower of London.

It's not so much of a tower an a lumpy bunch of buildings.

I didn't feel like paying for a ticket and going it, so we watched the recreationists from the railing, then walked around it.

Their herald was very good. Even us, way up on the railing, could hear everything he said clearly.

The 'fights' were amusing, but got boring quickly. I couldn't help but think they needed more rehearsal and a better fight director.

Silly people.

They could have dome something really great and terrifying, for both children and adults, but instead they took some fantastic garb and information, and just made a farce.

Oh well. Can't win them all, right?

After that, we took a walk across Tower Bridge, then went looking for a tube station, because Scott had to work. I figured I'd follow him and check out the cheap ticket booths, and see if I could catch a show.

I ended up going to see Wicked, because I always had a hard time picking up the storyline from the soundtrack alone. Plus, I heard it was a spectacle show, and I hadn't seen a spectacle show yet.

OH. MY. GOD.

Technicians wet dream.

Mechanized set pieces rolling on knife tracks, a giant dragon puppet that spanned the proscenium and spat smoke, lights and fans and smoke machines imbedded into the floor, traps and rising platforms, robotic fly system, multiple flying monkeys, gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh...

I spied on the technicians operating the dragon puppet (which was actually quite simple, but required obvious practice and coordination) and two of the followspots. I would love to have that job. I would love to work there.

Technically, it was the second best show I've ever seen (next to Ka), with the bus from Precilla coming in as third.

It was also superbly cast, which made me happy. I didn't like the casting for Avenue Q. I found their cast to be all hobbnobbed together. They didn't work well as a unit. But the Wicked cast sure did.

And damn, the voice on the woman they had as Elpheba! Wow! Goosebumps, I tell you.

Anyway. After the show, I went back to the hostel, and pretty much straight to bed.

And now? I'm gonna drag my sorry carcass off this couch and go check out the Horniman Museum, I think, and perhaps the Wallace Collection, if I have the time.

Rock on, peeps.

Here I am, waiting in a pub across the street from the theatre Wicked is playing in, waiting for the show to start.

I wasn't gonna see anything tonight. But then I was hanging out with Scott again, and he was heading back to the West End, and I thought: I haven't spent any money today. Maybe I should go see a show.

And then it seemed like a good idea. So I tossed up between Wicked and Les Mis, and Wicked won out, if only because I can't pick out the storyline very well just listening to the soundtrack. That, and Les Mis will always be in fashion. Wicked may well stop playing next season (though I doubt it).

My connection is SHITE (much like the service in this damned pub, but hey, the wifi is free), so I'll have to wait to upload photos until I get back to the hostel.

I could have gotten a ticket to Wicked for about twenty-five bucks, but the sightlines were terrible, so I took a deep breath and spent fifty. I think this will be the last show I see in London. I've seen a new musical, a lower budget off-beat musical, and now I'll see a spectacular musical, and I think that's enough for now.

I'm looking forward to it.

(The service in this pub is the second worst service I've ever had, next to the Original Joe's on 8th Ave.)

I just went out walking today. Didn't really do much. The area of town I'm in right now is a bit sketchy, so I didn't go far off the beaten path.

And oh, the path was beaten.

I found this algae covered river along the way. I think fairies live there.

Disgruntled fairies who have dirty toilets and live on welfare.

I walked and I walked and I walked. I walked entirely into a different city. Neasden? I dunno.

Most of the shops were closed, it being sunday, but it was okay. It was sunny and nice (though a little hot for my tastes; I don't like it when my eyelids sweat). I found this classy little place:

And I thought of Kelly when I saw it.

On the way back I walked past it, and it turns out it was just a pub. I was a little bit disappointed, I have to say.

Then tomorrow?

I think tomorrow I'll go down and check out the Globe, and do the tour they have in the morning. Then afterwards, well, I dunno. I'll be in the area what with interesting things in, so I'll poke around.

Then I think Scott and I talked about getting together tomorrow evening and seeing a show or something, it being his only night off.

Yay! Vacations!

Guess what I did yesterday?

NOTHING!

And it was great.

Hung around the hostel. Did laundry. Talked to other people here. The folks at this hostel are really friendly. One of them invited me to go out to a club, but I'm not big on clubs, so I declined.

I didn't even take any pictures. The only time I left the hostel was to go to the grocery store with this big Australian guy named Dave. (The food in England is stupid cheap. STUPID CHEAP. Ridiculously so.)

And then I slept.

Today? I'm not sure what I'm going to do today. Maybe head off to another museum, or maybe just walk around the neighbourhood. In any case, it'll be a good day.

So I woke up this morning at the crack of ghastly to a roomful of Australian girls waking each other up.

Lovely.

Pried myself from my bed, packed up all my crap, jammed some soggy cornflakes down my maw, and checked the hell out of there.

The plan was to change hostels, get settled, then contact Gideon Defoe, go for coffee, then contact Scott and do...what ever.

Ran a little behind. The address I was given for the hostel was not actually correct, but it apparently happens a lot, so they sent a car to get me and the Spanish guy who was also in the wrong house.

The new hostel is nice! Big, bright, the people are really friendly. The kitchen is clean and full, the laundry is reasonably priced, the security is really tight. The bathroom even has a bidet! First bidet I've ever seen. It doesn't look like it's been used in a while...

Then went down and had coffee with Gideon Defoe. I didn't take any creepy stalker pictures of him, so you're all gonna have to just believe I didn't make him up, and buy copies of his books and sign them myself. See? Here is a picture of his inscription in Pirates! An Adventure With Whaling. Could I have drawn such a terrifying squid myself?

I THINK NOT.

The walrus he drew in Pirates! In an Adventure With Napoleon is too terrifying to photograph. It has angry eyebrows, and thinks I've got it going on.

I had a vurry nice coffee. Except not coffee because I don't like the coffee. But I had a very nice various-lemon-flavoured-beverages.

Then Gideon departed to go buy tickets to Enron (yes, somebody made a play about Enron; I kind of hope it's a musical) and I went to locate Scott.

Scott and I wandered around. Poked things. Drank beer in a pub. Wrestled tourists. Found this classy little shop.

I laughed pretty hard when I saw it, actually. Nothing like advertising precisely what you're selling.

Then he had to go to work, and I went and rode the tube.

AT RUSH HOUR.

Maybe I caught it late, though, because it wasn't as cramped as Calgary gets. I don't think anyone impregnated me on my ride, which usually happens in Calgary.

And tomorrow?

Well, today I intentionally didn't do any laundry, so I wouldn't have any socks, so I can't go out. I have my trashy romance novel to finish, and a stack of fresh pirate books to re-read. And I can get my laundry fully done and tumble dried and oh, it shall be marvelous!

(Gah! The girl on the bunk below me has the most terrible dreads in the world! I've never had dreads before, but I think just from growing up in Nelson I know more about making and maintaining dreads than most dreadheads I've seen.)

And now!...I sleep.

Remember how I said I was going to have a quiet day and maybe watch a movie?

So I rolled out of the hostel at one-ish, with the vague idea I'd go take a look at Big Ben. Figured it was something I should do. So I hopped the tube and went down to the area, which was conveniently near the bookstores I saw yesterday.

Oh, and hey! The National Portrait Gallery! I like portraits, specifically Victorian and Edwardian ones, so I figured it would be a lark.

Not a lot of portraits, I gotta say.

SHITLOAD OF PICASSOS, THOUGH.

How come you can't move an inch in this country without running into a Picasso, Cezanne, Degas, Renoir, Monet, Manet, Rodin? I really liked the Cezanne's they had. Very nice. I like his style. I also like Rodin a lot. Picasso I can take or leave. Rembrant has some good shit. The one Vermeer they had was not one of my favorites, but it was nice to see an original. They also had a good exhibit on fakes and forgeries. They had some really excellent forgeries on display for it.

I DIDN'T BUY A BOOK IN THE GIFT SHOP YOU CAN'T PROVE ANYTHING I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT STOP LYINGGGG!!!1!!1!111!!

(It's a book on manuscript creation, from untanned animal hide out. It also has a study on variations of various gothic hands. It's really big and heavy and was really expensive, but I couldn't help myself. I'm an addict. DON'T JUDGE ME.)

Then I wandered out, took a look at Trafalgar Square, was suitably inpressed with its giant erection, and tottered off to find a real bookstore. I bought a trashy Harlequin called 'The Billionaire and his Virgin Mistress'. I mean, how can you resist a book like that?

Then I ate yogurt in Trafalgar Square with my terrible book.

Somewhere along the way I passed a cheap ticket booth, so I stopped.

"What tickets you got?"

"What do you wanna see?"

"Avenue Q?"

"For tonight?"

"Sure, what the hell."

"Thirty pounds."

It was significantly less than I was expecting her to say, so I said yes, bought the ticket, and dicked around Big Ben and the Parliment buildings until showtime. There's a nice little park behind the Parliment Building with, oh my god! A RODIN IN IT! Big surprise (not).

The show was good. I liked it. I found it technically less impressive than Prescilla, and I was already very familiar with the score, so the music didn't draw a lot of laughs from me, but it was nice to be in an unsuspecting audience, and the theatre was beautiful. I was amused to see that some of their lighting instruments were of the older variety, and yet, they were still in use.

It's funny. I'm used to budgeting myself pretty tightly. I have to keep reminding myself that I HAVE the money, and I kept the money precisely for this specific trip. That being said, I'm still eating grocery store sandwiches and filling my water bottle from the tap. I think the only sit down meal I've had on this trip so far is the one I had with Amber at the pub. Maybe I'll have another one next week.

Anyway, I just booked myself a hostel for tomorrow night. I'm moving to a quieter area. This hostel, though cheap, is noisy and hot and there's a Douche With a Guitar playing in the other room.

How come no matter how far you travel, there's always a Douche With a Guitar?

Anyway, I better go to bed. I have to get up early and get the hell out of this dump. My next hostel, I'm paying a few dollars more for a night, but it's an all-female dorm of ten, I believe (I'm in a six at the moment), and we've got our own bathroom.

Tomorrow, tomorrow I promise I'll slow down and maybe find a park to do some writing in.

Rock on.

For some reason, the hostel decided to move me to another room, so I got up nice and early this morning (after a relatively uninterrupted sleep, thanks to some better earplugs), ate the biggest breakfast I could stomach (wooo! Whole milk!), and checked out. You have to check out by 10am, or you forfeit your deposit, so I decided to beat the rush by checkout out at nine.

Of course, then I have to go back and check in at ten. Silly hostel. I think I'm going to stick around here a little longer. I enjoy London, providing I avoid the really touristy areas.

So yesterday I woke up hellish early, though not quite as hellish early as the first night. Breakfast, email. Gideon Defoe emailed me back! How about that. Positively tickled pink. Didn't think my email actually went through.

Got a late start (like, 9am, but still), and hopped a tube towards Madame Tussaud's. I have no particular interest in the museum, beyond an artistic standpoint, but I figured it was one of those things that You Should Do In London.

HOLY CRAP. The crush of people was intense, and that was just outside the door. I'm not claustrophobic, but being thoughtlessly jostled and nudged and pushed and brushed and bumped gets me unhappy and angry, and I don't like being unhappy and angry, so I decided to skip Madame Tussaud's. Maybe if I wasn't by myself, and had someone to distract me from my frustration, I'd give it a go, but the allure of wax celebrities was not enough to entice me in.

That, and the British Museum was so close by!

I could have hopped the tube, but the walk wasn't far. I did manage to stub my little toe really badly the other day, and walking kind of hurts, but it was better than trying to elbow my way back to the tube station I'd come out of.

The walk was nice. Brief. I only got a little bit lost, and then I pulled out my map and realized I wasn't lost at all.

The British Museum was very nice. Not as in depth as the Victoria Albert, and definitely geared towards a teenage crowd. I found the plaques by the exhibits did not supply as much information as I wanted. The V&A museum tended to supply as much as they could. Country, region, time period, creator, patron, materials, technique, etc. The British Museum tended only to supply a country of origin, maybe creator, and rough year. The V&A was also better organized with their labelling system. In the British Museum, I was often confusing which plaque went with which item.

It was still a good museum, though. No illuminated manuscripts at all, for which I was disappointed, but a lot of viking and early British artifacts. Them chessmen are there, and I got to see them. It made me want to try to make them. Also, the helmet from Sutton Hoo, and the most recent hoard that was dug up (two years ago? The one with all the amazing gold jewelry).

I decided to skip most of the Chinese exhibit. I wasn't feeling up to the jostling, and a bunch of school groups had arrived. Plus, one of the little streets I'd passed was filled with little shops, so I decided to go shopping!

By shopping, I mean I walked around and window shopped for a while, before deciding the neighbourhood I was in was too rich for my budget. I kept walking and walking and walking. Walked around in a circle a couple of times before I realized what the hell I was doing.

Ended up getting lost in Soho. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T GET LOST IN SOHO.

Found an alley filled with peep-shows and prostitutes. It was...an experience.

When I came out the other side I discovered I was in the theatre district! How appropriate!
I had twenty pounds left in my pocket, and nothing to do. And look, all sorts of lovely theatre things! I passed a window selling discount tickets, so I popped in.

“What do you want to see?” she says.

“Oh, I dunno,” says I. “Anything. What's cheap?”

“Well,” she says. “The only thing you'll get at this time tonight--” It was about 7pm. “--is Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; The Musical. You can get a ticket for twenty pounds.”

“Done!” says I.

“Er,” says she. “You have to go to the theatre to buy your ticket. I only sell tickets until six.”

“Oh,” says I.

So off I traipse down the street, and bought a ticket to Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, for twenty pounds.

Sitting down to the show, it was a three balconied theatre, a bit shabby around the curtains but still very beautiful. They had little thingies on the backs of the chairs in front of you, that if you inserted 50p, you could use a pair of binoculars for the show. And considering my ticket was only twenty pounds, I needed binoculars.

“Do you have a 50p piece?” I asked the usher.

“No,” says he. “Go out and ask the bartender. He'll have change.”

So I go out to the bar, opened my mouth, and instead said: “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

The bartender nods and says, “Yep. My group was not cool enough to hang out with your group.”

I blink. “Huh?”

He grins. “Red Deer College.”

I remember now! He was one of the first year technicians when I was a second year. I remembered him now. I don't remember excluding him. In fact, I remember little beyond hanging out with Tyne. Two people don't make much of a group. Anyway, we chatted a bit, and I promised to come back at the intermission. (I also got my 50p piece.)

The show was great! The binoculars were a big help for the intimate scenes. There weren't many, because most of the show is just one giant, wonderful drag number. I spent half the time studying their technical elements, though.

Like for times when they had to change really fast between men and women. You can't to the necessary eye make-up fast enough, so they had fitted, naturally coloured half-masks that had the giant eyelashes and glittery eye shadow already done. It was simply a matter of turning away from the audience, slipping the mask over your eyes, popping on a wig, and voila! It was really slick.

The most amazing part of the show (technically speaking, of course) was the bus.

Full sized bus (or close enough), that could spin on a centre point, move front to back AND side to side, all while spinning it's 'wheels' in tandem. One entire side wall of the bus lifted up so we could watch the action inside. The interior was entirely decorated and lit (I'm still not sure if it was battery packs or a cable running down underneath the stage).

And even more amazingly, the entire bus was panelled with video screens!

Yes. I'm not kidding. There's one point in the show they decide to paint their silver bus pink, and I was thinking to myself: How could they do this? Lights? Tear-away fabric? Clip on panels?

Nope! It was all covered in video screens, which you couldn't see until it lit up! Blow my little technician mind. No wonder there was virtually no other scenery. All their budget went towards the bus, and the amazing costumes.

Anyway, my verdict is, if you come to London, go see Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. It's a really sweet show, with amazing dance numbers.

After the show I met up with Scott and he took me to the theatre bar. You have to be a member, or a guest of the member, in order to get in. I know I'd drink there forever if I lived here. It was great. The walls all covered in head shots of former patrons, design sketches, and old props.

“Do you want to split a jug of pimm's?” asks Scott.

“What's pimm's?” I ask.

“Pimm's!” says the old man near us who fixes me with the kind of cheeky eye that only old men are allowed to get away with. “Make sure you eat all the fruit!” And then he got up and wandered behind the bar, where the bartenders ignored him entirely.

Scott murmurs the old man's name to me, and mentions, “He runs this place.” That would explain why he's cheerfully pouring himself drinks and the bartenders aren't even paying attention.

We get our jug of pimm's and sit at a booth, neatly upholstered with shabby red velvet. These seats have seen a lot of bums.

“So what IS pimm's?” I ask, eyeing the jug. It resembles iced tea, but has lots of chopped fruit floating in it.

“It's a gin drink,” Scott tells me, pouring two glasses. “If you don't like it, you can order a beer or something.”

“You had me at gin,” says I. And truly, it's delicious. We made pretty short work of it.

By then it was about midnight, and I had to head back to the hostel. The tube stops running at about midnight, and sure enough, I caught the last train (thank goodness!).

Today, today I think I will take it a little easier. I keep saying that, and then I don't. But today I will. I'll check back into the hostel, play on the internet a little bit, maybe catch a cheap matinee movie here (though the movie prices are astronomical, so perhaps I won't). Or maybe I'll swing back to the area I was in yesterday, for we passed any number of vintage book stores.

That reminds me! I ended up picking up a book at the British Museum. It was a comprehensive book on runes. It's going to be really helpful, considering I'm sure I'll have to do more viking scrolls. And it'll sure be nice to specialize my runes by time period AND location.

And that is all.

So I bought ear plugs last night. I couldn't find the compression ones so I had to buy the wax ones.

TERRIBLE. Not only did they not block out sound, they didn't stay in no matter how I insterted, jammed, or squeezed them. I decided they were better than nothing, though, and wore them. I was rewarded by waking up with one of them tangled in my hair.

One of my grossest childhood memories is seeing my dad's old wax earplugs, yellowed with age and ear wax, filled with bits of ear hair. SUPER DUPER GROSS.

I keep seeing dopplegangers of my friends here, and it makes me lonely. I wish I had had someone to travel with here, but oh well. Next time. Unless I'm really stupid, I won't use up all of my travelling monies, so there will be another trip in my future.

Today I woke up early, though not quite as bright and early as yesterday. Fortunately, self-talking, spray-deoderant Greek guy seems to have vacated the building, which is a-okay by me.

Breakfast is free with my room, which is okay, but they only have cornflakes (with homo milk), white toast, tea, and instant coffee.

I actually haven't reacted to the milk yet, for which I am surprised. On the other hand, I only put enough in my corn flakes to wet them. I haven't been brave enough to elbow my way to the toaster yet, and I doubt I will. It's always really crowded, and seems like a lot of effort for some white toast and cheap jam, so I think I'll stick with my corn flakes.

So. Breakfast. Swallowed that fast. Went out walking, headed to the Museum of Natural Science. I didn't make the same mistake as yesterday, and stopped at a grocery store along the way and stocked up on foodstuffs. (Yesterday I got into an area with no grocery stores and had to buy a cheap, albeit delicious, bowl of soup from the V&A). They have great plain yogurts here, for about 50p (75 cents), and really cheap sandwich deals. If you shop right, you can get a sandwich, a bag of chips or chocolate bar (or sometimes a salad, if you're lucky!), and a bottle of water for two pounds (about three bucks). And with the new push to get English people eating better, you can get a lot of healthy insta food.

Then! The Museum of Natural Science! I hit it right as it opened. Make yourself a note here, if you ever go there: get there as soon as it opens (10am) and check out the dinosaurs first, then the whales, then move on to everything else. I hit the dinosaurs and the whales later in the day, and it was oppressively packed. I skimmed most of those parts because I couldn't stand the press of bodies. Some of the dinosaurs were animated, and animated really well (though lighted poorly, for shame!).

It was a really good museum. It's mostly for kids, though. I forked out a little money to see an extra part of the exhibit, on deep water creatures, and I'm glad I did. It was really interesting. All about the first discoveries of deep sea life, and the modern exploration. They even had pickled specimens of them fish what with the lights on.

I decided to duck early, instead of closing out the museum, like I did at the V&A. Mind, there was a lot more that I was interested in at the V&A. My hip needed a bit of a rest, so I sat in Hyde park and finished the leftovers from my lunch, then tottered on back to my hostel.

Now I am here! I am drinking a couple of Strongbow (super cheap here!) and deciding what I want to do tonight. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed again, so I might go catch a movie, but they're pretty expensive here, so I may just sit in the common room and watch television. Oh, the options!

Adieu for now.

I almost got distracted by the Museum of Natural Science, but pressed on to the Victoria Albert museum.

Did I mention everything is really close together in England? There's a HUGE PARK between my hostel and the museums, only it's not really. Nose Hill Park would stomp on it and laugh.

Right now I'm sitting against a wall in the Victoria Albert Museum, trying to find some more space in my brain to fit things. My legs hurt from miles of walking on concrete floors, and my bum hip is starting to act up. I really need to give it a full day of rest, but there's NO TIME. At least Treycee (Traycee? Traisee? Tracey? Crap, I can never remember how to spell her name!) worked the hell out of it just before I left. Since my last massage it's only started to get sore about fifteen minutes before the other one starts to get tired. That is a vast improvement over February when I would wake up and it would be sore.

I am very glad the VA Museum has left cushions about on these steps for the sitting on. Either that, or I'm sitting on an exhibit right now...

Anyway, I should probably describe the Victoria Albert Museum. It's kind of like this:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

But with more A's. I'm so glad they allow picture taking. I am taking so many photos. I also have my spare memory card in my pocket, just in case.

Reminder to self: buy sleeping mask and ear plugs for tonight.

Rock on, homies. It's time for me to carry on through the Islamic Middle East.

I haven't been able to find an internet connection that's fast enough to upload photos, so youse gets an entry without 'em.

Friday I woke up feeling more or less complete, but Amber was feeling worse, so we ended up having a really low key day just wandering around. We took a tour through a really amazing church from the late 19th century. I took a lot of pictures, which I will post at some point.

Saturday was travelling, travelling. Took a train into Glasgow Prestwick airport, then took a plane to London Stansted (which is about halfway between London and Cambridge). Took a train up to Cambridge, took a bus to the B&B where I was staying.

The woman running the B&B was a proper sort which I didn't approve of at all. She had all sorts of semi-religious, inner power sort of books on her shelves, like 'The Secret' and 'Unlocking Your Inner Angel' and shit like that. I almost rather she'd've had one fuck-off big bible. At least then I'd know how to behave.

The 'continental breakfast' she served was all days old goods. When I reached for a banana to cut into my cereal, a cloud of fruit flies flew up. (I politely ignored them.)

Cambridge was so much more than I ever expected. I mean, somewhere in the back of my skull I was aware that Cambridge was an amazing place steeped in history. However, much like Hollywood, it had been described and described and described so often that it was akin to a mythical place in my head, right next to Narnia.

After breakfast I decided to walk back into town. Things are so much closer to each other here than I ever expected. When you see a 'city block' on a map in Calgary, you'll be walking a long time . A 'city block' here is barely noticeable. I'll have passed four without even realizing I crossed a street.

So I walked into Cambridge. The road I was on took me right through the main drag, through all the colleges.

HOLY CRAP.

If pomp and circumstance was masturbation, I'd have drowned.

The Fitzwilliam Museum (the only reason I went to Cambridge) did not open until noon, and I have left the B&B precisely at ten (read: fled), and since everything was so bloody close together, I hit the downtown no later than half past ten. So I just wandered.

A lot of the colleges had open doors, and for a small fee you could go in and wander around. I passed one attached to a really amazing church, and if it's one thing I cannot resist, it's seeing the lengths man will go to for an invisible man. (Plus, I like the stained glass.)

Needless to say, it was bloody well amazing. The grounds and the buildings and the chapel. The stained glass was absolutly glorious. They had some sort of saint, perhaps, tombed up in the middle of the room. You weren't supposed to take pictures, but I snuck one picture of some of the stained glass because it was so amazing.

And there were Canada geese on the grass behind the college! I said hello. They said WAAAAAAANNGHK.

Even though it was a sunday, the streets were solid with people. I do not like the press of so many people, especially when I'm unfamiliar with the area, it's hot, and I'm wearing a large backpack. Ergo, after a brief detour into a smaller college to take a look at the archetecture, I pressed on to the Fitzwilliam museum.

I ate an early lunch on the benches in front of the museum and searched in vain for an unprotected internet connection. Alas, no luck.

The Fitzwilliam Museum was bloody well fantastic. I heartily suggest it. It contained many pieces which I was familiar with, but had no idea they owned. I mainly went to see their collection of illuminated manuscripts, and was a little disappointed.

I mean, I had heard they had the second largest collection of manuscripts outside the Vatican. The Vatican musn't have many, or the museum just didn't display much of their collection. I suppose it is rather a specialized interest, but still, there was only ten, at the most. They were still beautiful.

They also had an enormous collection of 17th and 18th century china and silver, a really extensive collection of Chinese and Japanese pottery, and an impressive collection of rennaissance paintings (lots of French and Italian). They had a whole room of Victorian portraits, and I gotta say, I just love the style of Victorian portraits. I wish I could paint that realistically.

Anyway. After the museum I hopped a train down to London, staggered around lost for a while, and found my hostel. Everything went pretty smoothly.

It's very hot in my room, though, and there's a Greek (maybe?) guy on the bunk below and across from me who must think there's no one else in the room, because he turned on the light at midnight last night to make his bed, and talked to himself the whole time. Then this morning, woke up at the crack of dawn and started applying spray-deoderant.

Bleagh.

Anyway, it's stifflingly hot in my room. Getting to sleep was no biggy, as I just wetted my towel and laid it on my back, but this morning it was dry and I was hot and the garbage truck and self-talking-Greek-guy woke me up.

Ergo, I am awake at hell-o-clock, and gonna go out where it's cool.

Rock on, peeps. Today is my first full day in London.

I woke up this morning with absolutly no voice. My cold has been moving very distinctly from orafice to orafice.

(Cue Groucho Marx voice: "When I said I wanted a vacation that satisfied all orifices, this is not quite what I had in mind!")

Unfortunately, Amber also woke up feeling under the weather, and displaying distinct symptoms of catching my illness (I'M SORRY).

Ergo, we decided NOT to go camping today, as originally planned. (We were going to go see the Castle Anthrax, and camp in the area.) Between that and the incredible soaking we got yesterday after getting lost looking for the Burrell Collection meant that we were less than enthused about staying out in the weather.

And really, my idea of an excellent vacation is a fluid one. So instead we decided to catch the bus and head off to the seaside town of Largs, have a little fish and chips, and generally be tourists for the day.

The bus ride down was absolutly gorgeous. It took about an hour to get down and back, but for a three buck bus pass, I wasn't complaining. (We could have taken the train, which would have been significantly faster, but also significantly less pretty.)

We saw this bad boy on a hill pretty close to Paisley. I suspect it is a lot larger in person, as the door is less than two thirds the size of those windows. I wonder what it was? I suspect a church. Neat buildings usuall are. Or banks.

Also, these were the first non hairy coos I saw. It was quite startling to see regular cows amongst all the hairy beasts. I have yet to get a good picture of a hairy coo, but I'm trying, I promise.

I saw this little girl on the bus. She amused me, so I tried to sneak a picture of her, but it turned out mostly blurry.

The busses are all very tall and straight on the sides, I suspect so that they can whip by each other on the narrow roads without worrying so much about scraping each other. This also means they wobble madly as they go careening down the country roads, and vibrate the hell out of my camera.

Still. Funny sulky little girl.

This is Largs:


That little dog on the edge of the seawall there was playing catch with his master, who was walking along the beach below him. The guy would throw the ball up over the wall, and the dog would chase it, but the ball was almost as big as the dog itself, so the dog would kick the ball back over the wall and wait until his master threw it again.

Amber and I walked around the shops for a little, buying 'tablet' (which is basically butter and sugar cooked together into deliciousness), and finding dinner. But first we went to this place:

Which was an arcade and casino mixed into one. There was a little fence inside that separated that adult games from the kids games, but no one around to keep kids from going over.

However, they did have those coin push games that carnivals always have that I like so well. I don't usually gamble, because I like spending my money on other things, but the coin push games only required two pence (two cent!) pieces, so I spent a whole pound playing the games. I think I got my money's worth.

I am still a little disappointed that there was no pillaging or raping at a place called Viking Amusements. So I compensated by brushing up on my viking research.

Unfortunately, I just ended up looking a little constipated.

C'est la vie. I suppose.

After our viking adventures, we went to the chippy (you're apparently not supposed to say 'the chippy shop', it's just 'the chippy') and got fish and chips and haggis and chips.

I also ordered scampi, because I'd never had it before.

"Can I get a fish supper and a single scampee, please?" asked I to the Scottish fellow behind the counter.

"Wha?" says he, eloquently.

"Fish supper and single scamee?"

"Wha?"

"She wants a scawmpeh," says his co-worker.

"Oh! Scawmpeh!"

So far he's the first and only person who hasn't been able to understand my accent. As Amber pointed out, they still get a lot of north american movies and stuff, so they understand our accent quite easily.

That above is the haggis.

Now, seagulls were something else in Largs. They were huge, and vicious, and begged.

This is how they start.

As soon as one discovered you have food, it will sit at your feet, making small, plaintive noises, in hopes that you will give it food.

You really shouldn't. Really, really shouldn't.

After aquiring our food, Amber and I found a nice spot on the sea wall to sit and eat. We also found company.

He was very well behaved, this bird. Just stood (relatively quietly) at our feet and tried to control us with his mind power.











He controlled me with his mind power.

I fed him the deep fried bits I peeled off my scampi.

Amber tried to feed him part of her haggis, but he wouldn't eat it.

(Later, another bird came and SWALLOWED IT WHOLE. It was so fast, and so grotesque, I wish I'd gotten a picture of it.)











And then he called friends.



















And some more friends.
















They were vicious. If we weren't paying attention, they'd dive for our chip boxes.

They were also HUGE. This one here is pretty small, but there were some that were larger than cats I've owned.

Beady yellow eyes, vicious pointy beaks...

It was a lot of fun.


After giving the birds all the rest of our chips, we walked back along the beach towards the bus stop to catch the last bus. On the way, we considered getting ice cream, so we wandered towards the ice cream shop to check our options.

Near the ice cream shop, we found this cannibalistic fellow.

He did bad things to us.

He made us lick his ice creams.

If we didn't...well, I don't know what would have happened, but there was a look in his eye I distinctly didn't like.

Once we distracted him with some small children, we escaped to the bus stop.

On the way home, we stopped at the grocery store and bought Guinness and ice cream to make Guinness floats with (which Amber had never had), and a selection of cheese, because I still cannot get over how cheap cheese is here.

Then we watched Exit to Eden.

THAT MOVIE SHOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN MADE.

I cried as it ravaged a perfectly good book (even if it was a book by Anne Rice), and put Rosie O'Donnel and Dan Ackroyd in a fetish club.

THIS IS SOMETHING THAT SHOULD NEVER HAPPEN.

Then I went to bed and slept for twelve hours.

I woke up bright and early the morning, at the crack of 5:30am. All the clocks in Amber's house are all set to different times, and I couldn't figure out what time it was.

Ergo, I decided I should probably be awake. So I was.

Of course, then I discovered it was five thirty in the morning, and was less pleased about being awake.

So I puttered about on my computer for a while. Got to see the milk delivered to the little grocery store downstairs. It amused me, though I'm not sure why. Possibly because I was awake at five thirty in the morning.

Just as I was getting ready to recklessly and enviously abandon Amber to her glorious sleeping, she awoke! Stumbling forth from her bower, she gazed upon me blearily, muttered something about headaches, and dissappeared into the bathroom.

Anyway, long story short, I did go to the shop. Discovered that there are no laws about which direction the doors ought to go (I always pull outside doors, because in Canada you have to have fire exits swinging in the direction people will run). Poked around a bit. Discovered that Hindu and Scottish accents mixed together are harder to understand than French and Scottish together.

Bought mango juice.

Back at the flat, Amber was significantly more coherant, and we discussed the day over not burnt bagels (her toaster is temeramental). We decided we were going to go see the Burrell Collection. It's a collection of art gathered by a millionaire (now dead, I'm sure) who bequeathed the lot to the city of Glasgow upon his death. He collected a SHIT TON of stuff. I read somewhere it was upwards of 20,000 pieces.

But first! Tottering through the back lanes to look at a well filled with water and garbage (no pic, because it was raining too much for me to pull out the camera). It was a well originally belonging to some poet, whose birth house was across the street. I don't know which poet (NO, it wasn't Robbie Burns), and I didn't much care. I don't like poetry, and have little interest in learning about it.

Next to the plaque commemorating the apparent exact point where this poet was born (Amber and I speculated it must have been a barn), was this lovely sign here. We were very good. Neither of us played with our balls in that particular parking lot.

ROSEMART. OBEYING THE LAW SINCE THE LAST TIME IT WAS CONVENIENT.

Anyhoo. After getting off out turquoise bus (we can only ride the turquoise ones!) on our way to the Burrell Collection, we saw these fine ladies. The horses weren't bothered by the crazy traffic.

Oh! That's another peculiar thing about Scotland, which I rather enjoy.

That is, traffic doesn't wait for pedestrians, and pedestrians don't wait for traffic.

If you want to cross the street, you wait until there's a break on your side of the street, then you scurry to the center line and wait until there's a break on the other side.

In Canada, I've found, drivers get really nervous when you do that and will often stop and wave you across, no matter how busy the road. (I hate that.) Here, they just barrel along and assume you know how to take care of yourself.

Also, NOBODY waits for cross signals. Everyone pushes the button for them, but nobody waits. It's a little bit hilarious.

After seeing these fine ladies, we got a little lost. And it started raining REALLY hard. Hard enough that my lightweight rain jacket (which is perfect for that delicate misting rain that seems to be purpetual in Scotland) was entirely useless. We darted from store to store, trying to find rain cover, and finally located a plastic poncho and an umbrella with cat paw prints on it at a second hand shop. There's a lot of tiny second hand shops here.

Of course, by this time we're both dripping wet. Amber has discovered the water proofing liquid she used on her hands was, in fact, not. I was merely pleased I wore my knee high socks. Of course, I forgot about the dry sweater in my backpack.

Anyway. We asked the nice old lady at the shop if she knew where Titwood Road was, and she said something like:

"Ach ya ye joost goo aboot thar oond turrn lift un yell be raht tharrr," and so we assumed she didn't know where we were talking about and kept walking in the direction we were going.

Got reeeeeeeeeeeeal lost. The time was pushing 4pm, and the place closed and five, and yet, we persevered. Finally, down a long lane lined with trees clipped like cubes, we found the damned place, in the middle of a bloody forest.

I'm not even kidding.

We had half an hour to spare, so we skimmed the map for what we wanted to see. I got to see this fellow right off the bat:

Whom I'm sure you recognize. He was a lot smaller than I had expected, and so I showed my distinct displeasure.

See what I mean? I always thought The Thinker was roughly man sized.

He was not a man.

In fact, I checked. I suspect he was thinking so strongly about his mutilated androginous genitalia.

Poor thing.

We skimmed through Medieval Europe and I tried to take as many pictures of the tapestries and needlework as I could before the security guards chased us out. I'll upload all the pictures to Flickr when I get back home, but here's a little teaser. It's an embroidered skirt panel, they think was made for Anne of Denmark, around 1610-1620.


Unfortunately I did not get a whole lot of great photos. It was very dark in the textiles room, for obvious reasons, and my camera does not like the dark. These photos turned out quite sharp because I put my camera face down on the glass.

I gotta sleep, though. I've been feeling like crap, and this cold has moved into my chest (though out of my sinuses, hooray!) and I've taken a lot of drugs and drank the witches brew Amber so kindly made for me (ginger, honey, lemon, lime, and garlic). I actually tasted quite nice. It just needed a handful of salt to make a good chicken basting. I feel better for having drunk it, though. I may make myself one tomorrow.

So I leave you with the archetectual porn of the day:


It was stuck to the side of a very normal looking, older building. We called it the Albino Tower.

That is all. I am very sore from walking so much. It is sleep time now.