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.

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.