Palm

Palm
Originally uploaded by Lee Carson

A busy few days at Carson Crescent recently.

I pulled a Valentine coup on Saturday night by springing a surprise overnight stay on Lorna, at the Cringletie House Hotel. One of my readers will remember this as the wedding night hotel. She knew nothing about where we were going, or that I had secured Gill and Gary's early evening babysitting as well as Muriel's overnight services. As we were heading through Penicuik she did fear the worst, a chip supper at the bus stop for old time's sake, but all was reveled and as the guy at the hotel began to explain about rooms and breakfast arrangements her surprise was worth all the backroom plotting. Yay.

Saturday also saw us off to Dundee to celebrate Nana's 90th - a family spectacular, and she even gave a speech thanking us all though included the sentiment, with a laugh, "I never wanted to live this long..."

And today we spent time with Mum and Don at the Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh feeding squirrels and looking for snowdrops. The squirrel feeding was not helped by squawking children running about wondering why the squirrels were hard to find...

Another Hogmanay

Having enjoyed reading Jon's teary, nostalgic stories of Christmas past, I decided some reminiscing of my own wouldn't be out of place.

Christmas for us was usually spent in Dundee where your enjoyment of the festive season was generally measured by how much food you could consume between dawn and dusk - not eating meant not enjoying and that would simply not be tolerated. From the bacon stuffed rolls which left your dressing gown smeared with butter grease and tomato sauce to the industrial vats of prawn cocktail, it was heaven for a 9 year old with an appetite. Indeed there is a well worn family story where Gillian, who could be relied upon to work herself up into a vomitus over-excited wreck on Christmas Eve, was only cured of her boke by the ingestion of two cheese and tomato pizzas.

Another lasting memory is of the organisation involved when squeezing four or five adults and up to six children, plus guests, in a cottage originally built to house a crofter and possibly his wife. Place mats were laid each meal time in the livingroom on every available horizontal surface. A middle spot on a table was nice as there was less chance of things ending up on the floor, or of one of the dogs helping you to finish. Seats near the fire were at a premium earlier in the day when the house had yet to heat up, but by evening the furnace blast meant that only the cat and dogs could get within a few feet of it. This gave them the best view of the (off) TV and a perfect vantage point from which to let off casual farts in the direction of your Vienetta and Ice Magic. Feeding aside, the sleeping and washing arrangements alone were impressive enough. Bunk beds and inflatable beds were frequent friends as you were given your place in the sleeping hierarchy.

We were a family who still did "turns" - I did a mean Margaret Thatcher impression, and once an optimal amount of alcohol had been consumed the various uncles and aunts from many generations would indulge in some music hall classics to pass the time. One advantage that we had over the Broons was a "television", but this was in the days when the war for children's minds was still being optimistically fought by parents who believed two things - 1) that family derived entertainment was more fun than Tiswas and 2) this was a fight which could still be won. We could debate if either, both or none of these is true but it won't help me in 1982.

Anyway. Hogmanay as a child was perhaps less exciting, barring the thrill of being allowed up late. Once or twice we were taken along to parties then put to bed before being "gently awoken" at early o'clock when it was time to go home. I would not wish this torture on any child and will try to avoid it with my own. Jon's blog reminded me of those first few "allowed out" New Years when the rules of social etiquette were still being learned, then ignored. Hogmanay evening would be spent touring the houses of...people we knew. Calling them all "friends" would be a bit false considering many of them I have never, and will never see again, but we knew enough "friendly people" to organise or instigate quite the tour of Tain. Traps would be laid for us, though; on arrival at Tower Gardens for example I would be presented with a generous basin of neat whisky from my host or hostess which would then be refilled at a pace Oliver Reed might have called "a bit much". It was all my teen male ego could do to drink them as fast as they were presented. But then later in the evening any of my visits to the toilet would be accompanied by sharp intakes of breath and some tut-tutting as I weaved my wibbly wobbly way past vases and display dinner services before engaging other guests in inappropriate conversation. These truly were "the good old days". As time went on Jon and I became less of the social butterfly type and concentrated more on becoming connoisseurs of witty stories, droll recollections and the contents of other people's drinks cabinets.

We also frequently set out to prove that the right amount of alcohol prevented hypothermia. When it's 2 in the morning, and snowing, and you've been drinking whisky since midday, and someone says to you, "Let's go down to the beach" you really should say "No." But the memories of running my hands through my hair to dislodge the ice only serve to celebrate the anti-freeze properties of The Famous Grouse.

So, tonight Lorna and I will hit Tain town centre again after all these years. We are attending the Hogmanay street party organised, I think, by the Tain Gala Association Ceilidh band, fireworks (one assumes) and home by 00:10 if all goes to plan...

Jo Jingles

Kit's first experience of a festival show was Jo Jingles Goes To The Farm, this morning. Essentially a sing-along, he sat through it with look of entertained bemusement.

Let a smile be your umbrella, and you'll end up with a face full of rain.

So it hasn't been the kindest of summers, as far as the weather goes. It feels a little churlish to gripe about showers and puddles when mother nature is slowly washing England into the sea one blocked drain at a time, but I reserve the right to expect more good days in six weeks than we've had. However maybe that just makes the sunny spells all the more valued.

My last post announced Jon and my plans to head north and visit the beautiful Sandwood Bay...so we did. A splendid time was had by both: the weather held up for us until late into the evening. The bay has little in the way of firewood but we found what appeared to be part of a wooden crate to burn - turned out it was made of solid, woodlike plastic which burnt very well, though perhaps was not the nicest thing to sit beside and inhale from. After family packs of Supernoodles, a couple of beers and a snifter of Laphroig we turned in, and next day were lucky enough to get a dry walk out and a most pleasant all day breakfast at Kinlochbervie's Fisherman's Mission - all the anus and eyelid you can eat for a fiver!

Our family week to Mull was everything we'd hoped it might be. The race from Tain to Oban via the Co-Op (then trying to stuff a week's worth of food into an already obscenely overpacked car) was a challenge, but once in the queue for the ferry I could relax and inspect the quality of the Oban port authority's seagull poo sweeping. Not bad, actually, but I could have done better.

Once on Mull we found our cottage and despite being a bit damp and smelling a bit like a wet dog we were pleased to call it home for the week. Walks, cycles, a visit to Iona and Tobermory kept us busy and Kit loved sticking his head into sandy puddles on the beach. Well, what are wellies for if not to fill with water? We lit the fire a few nights for no other good reason than it's fun to light fires and Lorna somehow took the Mull Scrabble title at three games to two. I managed to get lots of school stuff reading done - the benefit of no TV or internet cannot be over stressed here - and we wended our way home a week later feeling holidayed and happy.

Now back home my assignment is submitted, Kit is walking and babbling like never before and Lorna is...wait for this...getting a bicycle tomorrow! She ventured out three times on my mountain bike while on holiday. (Lorna is not the most experienced, or confident of cyclists. She can't change gear if there is a car near - well, if she can even see a car, actually - and only recently has been able to move her hand over to ring the bell. Before that she relied on a firm clearing of the throat to warn walkers to dive out of the way.) The first time, in Tain, it poured with rain so much that we hid under a tree until, realising it was never going to stop, limping home 20 minutes later in defeat. Our second run took us from Tain to Inver and all was going well until two low flying jets knocked Lorna into a ditch. You see...knowing how much she likes low flying jets, after the first one buzzed us I spotted the second one and shouted, "Lorna, stop". I knew she couldn't cycle and look at the same time, but unfortunately she thought I shouted, "Lorna, look" and proved I was right. One bruised shin later (it started off as a broken leg, but then got better) and I was off to get the car to ferry her back safely on four wheels. The third go was much more successful, on Iona, but we both agreed the mountain bike was not ideal for her so she's chosen one of these instead. Ding ding!

More on the bike front - Mike and I have been testing ourselves at the Glentress and Innerleithen trails. The Glentress red route was enough for me, but still we dared the black route at Innerleithen and lived to tell the tale.

So what now? Well, cramming as much as I can into the last week of the holidays, trying to get out on the motorbike (new rear tyre, woohoo!) and avoiding "back to school dreams", I guess.

An engagement!

We just had a visit from Gillian and Gary who got engaged last week while in Mallorca. Congratulations to them!