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.

This is Amber. She's is she whose hidabed I'm sleeping on.

We never met before I met her in the coffee shop.

YES, I PICK UP THE LADIES IN THE COFFEE SHOPS.

Not really. Our mutual friend Kelly was all 'Rosie, Amber, Amber, Rosie' only not really because she was in Oslo at the time.

Still. This was me trying out one of her memory cards because I'd stupidly left mine in this little computer here. Yes, I have two. I'm just stupid.

We were in a Starbucks, in Glasgow. Starting off the day by crying over the fact that Scottish Starbucks don't have our favorite things (mine which is shaken iced black tea and lemonade mixed together, hers which is full leaf earl grey). Still, I tried one of their 'lemon frappuccinos' which, with the inclusion of 'frappuccino' made me think it contained coffee, did not contain coffee. It tasted exactly like the thing I wanted, but in slurpee form.

Hm. There is someone yelling a drunken song on the street. By himself. On a Tuesday.

Here is where we were walking aboot:


It was spotty rain, but mostly nice. There was a woman in front of one of the galleries singing opera. She was really, really good (and Canadian!).

Amber took me down all sorts of back streets and hidaways I never would have found myself. When our bellies were getting hungry like she took me down this little winding alley filled with whitewashed little pubs with strings of lights hung up between the buildings. I wish it had been dark; it would have been beautiful all lit up.

"What kind of food do you want?" she asked.

"Derrrr," said I.

We were having a hard time selecting. The smells coming out of the places were phenominal, though that might have simply been because I was getting hungry.

I wish I'd taken a picture of the alley, but my camera was not enjoying her memory card and took a long time to boot up, and I didn't feel like whipping out my camera with so many people so close by.

However, I did take a picture of the sign you see here on the right. It was in front of a pub called 'Brel Pub'. I wondered if it was named after the French singer, Jaques Brel. (It was.)

This sign, in particular, is a good example of Scottish signs. That is to say, I understand each word as it stands on its own, but when you jam them all together, they make no sense. I looked at this sign and did not understand why it was outside a pub.

So, rather than be the donkey that starves to death between two equally delicious bales of hay, we decided to go in to this pub and ask the staff about the decline in illegal logging.

We did not get as many details as we were hoping. Apparently the fellow who generally puts those up was off today, and none of the other staff had read the article in question. Still, we decided that the sign, plus the fact they had 'extra cold' Guinness (basically it just means cold) means we stayed.

They had advertised, as one of their happy hour specials, a 'sausage casserole' and bashed potatoes.

"It's bangers and mash," says out waiter, an East Indian fellow with a thick Scottish accent.

So that's what I got. I like bangers and mash a lot.

It looked like a little turd.

A DELICIOUS LITTLE TURD.

But honestly, I gotta say, although it was very good bangers as mash, I still prefer that which you can get at the Ship and Anchor, in Calgary. Very good bangers and mash.

But really, the Guinness here can't be beat. It has the best head of any Guinness I've ever had. Amber tried to convince me that I ought to take a picture with the fellow who served it, and announce on my blog that the man had given me the best head I've ever gotten.

I considered it.

(Hi, mom.)

But then I didn't.

On to other things now.

Here is a lamppost.

It's been there a while, I think.

Or it's just being taken over by a very enthousiasic plant.

And on your left is a row of apartments, or 'flats' (if Fergus is reading this, for he will make funny sputtering noises if I don't at least try to talk Scottish) which were, apparently, used way back in the day. Remember rading the Jane Austen type novels, and everyone went to town for the season? These are some of the apartments they'd stay in. They had big bay windows looking into sitting rooms and a green place far to the left for horses. Most of them are businesses now, and the basements have been converted into residences.

And here is your archetecural porn for today:


That is all. It is sleep time now.

Whelp, I've been awake for thirty hours, eaten deep fried haggis from a hole in the wall chip shop (where I couldn't understand a bloody word they said) and drank real, honest to god Guinness. Not brewed in Creston Guinness, but real nice stuff.

I don't know if it was better, or just tasted better because I'm in Scotland, but it sure tasted good.

I met up with Amber without incident, despite forgetting the name of the cafe I was supposed to meet her in. Fortunately, I'd seen enough Facebook photos that I just walked around the handful of coffee shops until I found someone who looked like the right person.

She bought me a tea, because I had no cash at the time, then we went to the bank machine and I bought her a water. See how this works? Good times. She then took me to a drug store to get drugs so my nose would stop running. So far, little luck, though I do have a tummy ache now (though that could be because of the 'awake for thirty hours' or the 'haggis from a hole in the wall').
The train station in Glasgow is INSANE. Massive, indoor market sort of place. Fully tiled with white tiles, and ringed with stone and wood shops. The roof overhead is all glass, and help up with a complicated, steam-punky metal frame. I suspect they added the roof much later than the rest of it.

My ears still haven't seemed to have popped properly, but the pressure isn't so bad anymore.

This hotel seemed to be under renovations. I really wanted to break in and have a run around, but I've had that feeling pretty much since I stepped off the plane.

We stepped out briefly into Glasgow proper, because Amber told me I needed to see some of the streets. Just like out of a Dickens tale. It was very strange to see elaborate stone buildings, more elborate than the Bay or the CIBC bank building in Calgary, houseing things like pawn brokers and McDonalds. We also found this sweet guy, which Amber introduced with the line: "Are you my mommy?" which, if you're a Dr. Who fan, you should recognize immediately. I had to take a picture of him.

It may have been raining at the time. That didn't stop us from taking a quick detour becauase

"You gotta see this. It's just around the corner."

"What is it?" I ask, naively.

"It's a church," she says as we turn the corner.

HOLY CRAP IT'S A CHURCH.

13th Century, I'm told. There's some wicked gargoyles on it. I didn't get a lot of pictures because it was raining and I was worried about my camera.

Paisley is all run down, but it's awesome. There's mansions all over the place, divided into flats, and more churches you can shake a stick at. (Really. I tried.)

There was also this guy, a couple blocks away:



Crazy, isn't it? I want to go in to some of these places.

Anyway. My internal clock is saying it's four in the afternoon, when it's actually midnight. My internal clock is also gently reminding me I haven't slept in thirty hours or so, with a ball peen hammer to the brain.

So good night and be well.

Trains and trains and trains

I didn't sleep at all. The combination of screaming children, incredibly cramped quarters, and perpetual sun made up for an entirely sleepless night.

Perhaps it was for the better. It means I will sleep well tonight, solid and heavy, and get my clock in sync with the one here.

My computer says it's 2:33am. The pressure in my head says something of the same. I can't tell if the air pressure here is just different, and my body is having a hard time adjusting to it, or the combination of no sleep and lots of nerves has given me a headache. My ears definitely hurt. I was having a hard time popping them on the plane on the way in. My left one especially. When it finally popped it sounded like someone squeezing the last little bit out of a ketchup bottle.

The houses here are fantastic. All brick, with tall, white framed windows. I was so pleased at the lack of beige developments that I might have exclaimed something to that effect as we flew over Manchester, much to the amusement of the woman sitting next to me. Mind, I suspect we are in an older area of Manchester. Things might be different elsewhere.

I am currently writing this on the train. It's a beautiful system, even if they don't have enough check in booths to accommodate the number of people travelling. Still, it was pretty quick getting through.

I haven't eaten since 'breakfast', when some three hours after serving us dinner, the lights all came on abruptly and the flight attendants went around throwing muffins at our heads.

(I'm sure that is not entirely true, but I think I still have a piece of muffin up my nose. Have I ever mentioned I hate blueberry muffins? Also cranberry. Terrible stuff.)

Oh yes. And I'm sick. Just a cold, but one of those snotty, sneezing ones. I blew my nose so much during the flight that, even though I nicked a bunch of Kleenex from Tyne, got a lot of toilet paper from the bathrooms in the airport AND on the plane, and kept every napkin I was given, I am still left with a soggy pile of tissues.

Seriously. Do the English have a fetish for brick? Not that I'm complaining; it's very beautiful.

Oh! Something pointy and lovely and brick in the distance! Don't know what it was, but it was pretty. A bunch of brick churches, a brick warehouse, a low brick wall all stained with soot from the old trains. And pointed, purple flowers growing right out of the brick.

The history here is overwhelming. If my panties hadn't already melted off at the Bon Jovi concert last week, I think they would be doing so now.

The train is the smoothest train I've ridden on since Vancouver. It really puts Calgary transit to shame, with it's rattling cars and constant hitting things.

And then bang in the middle of all that brick, a sprawling ten floor building of glass, very art deco.

I wish I had a watch. I should reset the clock on my computer, but I kind of like to be reminded what time it is at home.

My ears still hurt.

There are a lot of old brick warehouses here, with skinny, sparse windows, old company names repainted proudly even though the buildings themselves are obviously crumbling from neglect. Some of them have been repurposed, and their unbroken windows glitter as we flash past.

It feels weird to be the only one talking with a Canadian accent. Almost every man I've talked to since arriving has called me 'love' and winked, and I know it's as casual as me calling someone 'man' or 'guy', but it still leaves me flustered and a little weirded out. How will I deal with a month of it? Maybe it was just a localized phenomenon, around the Manchester airport.

I'm getting hungry, but I have no food. I have to do a change over in about half an hour, and hopefully I can find something to eat on the way between trains.

~

No luck on the food. According to the clock on my computer, it is now twelve to four in the morning. I can feel it. I mean, my body is telling me it's tired, but my brain is telling my body to shut up and stop being silly because OBVIOUSLY the sun is only in the late morning.

Stupid brain.

There is a fellow sitting opposite me with the most startlingly protruding ears, busily masticating a hard boiled egg sandwich to death with a set of the most terrifying teeth I've seen in recent years.

He keeps looking at me, too, like he wants to masticate ME to death.

He has crumbs on his shirt and I'm not sure whether I should tell him.

My brain is tired, too. I can tell because I keep forgetting what I just did. Like put away my camera, and secure my passport (it's in my money belt, don't worry).

England is, in two word, disgustingly quaint. All moist, rolling hills, verdant and abundant, with lambs capering merrily about. They don't seem to believe in fences here, unless they're made out of bricks or bushes.

Ah! More lambs! Seriously! I'm not kidding about the lambs!

Now as we're hurtling through the countryside, a brief glimpse of a village all in stone, surrounding a massive chimneyed factory, too fast for me to take pictures of. (And anyway, although I had reserved the seat by the window, some stony faced fellow is sitting there doing a crossword, and I don't want to disturb him. Ergo, I am sitting in the aisle, thinking daggers as his greying temples.)

(It does not appear to be working.)

My ears still hurt, and the fellow across from me still has crumbs on his shirt, but he's not paying attention to me anymore. He seems to have commandeered a newspaper from somewhere and is mouthing the words.

You know, he reminds me of a guy I dated in high school. I wonder what ever happened to that guy...

I think I'm going to do some other writing now and pretend there's not lambs capering alongside the train.

HOLY CRAP HERE I GO

Getting in to my gate was uneventful. I was briefly terrified that the airline I was supposedly flying on didn't exist, but my fears were unfounded. I was helped by a very nice man with a funny accent, who teased me a lot for telling him I was terrified of flying alone.

I don't travel much by myself. It's a scary thing. The fact I'm going now seems entirely unreal.

I was stopped briefly at security, who looked at me funny when they pulled my bulging change purse out of my bag, only to discover it was entirely filled with nickels.

What can I say? I like Canadian beaver.

But really, they're for the woman I am staying with, Amber (who professes that all the Scottish boys are highly amused by nickels).

Here is where my plane will be. I was all worried for a while there, because I was pretty sure I didn't have the arm power to flap my way to Manchester, but it's there now.

It's smaller than I thought it would be. I don't know what kind of plane it is, but I don't think it's a 747. Either that, or I just remember 747's as being a lot bigger, because the last time I rode one I was twelve (though, curiously, not much shorter than I am now).

Ah, there is an announcement that a storm is coming in. I really hope my flight doesn't get delayed. I have a train to catch on the other side!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaah. I'm not scared, I'm just yelling.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH.

Okay. I'll be fine. Really.

Rock on, peeps. See you on the other side.

(By the by, if you want a postcard from me, and AREN'T my parents, you should Facebook me your mailing address.)