So here’s today’s moment: managed to leave work early, and include a quick visit to RealFoods.  I’m about to go in, and smell the familiar health food shop smell…and think, ah that reminds me of the health food shop I briefly worked in…and then remember that I’ve already written about it…

Now admittedly, I’m not visiting the shop all the time, having that scent-memory, boring you with the recollection etc, on a regular basis.  But I do forget what I’ve said to whom, or what I’ve written.  And the more I think it’s worth passing on, probably all the more likely I am to keep telling the story.

Catching myself at it again tonight, I felt a bit like the goldfish with the 10 second memory.  I don’t want to write a string of blog posts that add up to “Nice bowl! Nice bowl! Nice…”  And I also know that I get to see plenty of new things, because my brain takes in the fact that they’re new. 

Every year I deal with applications from people who have hobbies I’ve never heard of before (underwater hockey, anyone?), health conditions I’ve never come across.  And they go off abroad and email with situations I’ve never had to come up with a solution to before.  That’s all before I spot things on buses, or open the paper to find out about the latest whatnot we’re all supposed to be interested in.  

Blogs are partly about novelty, I guess.  You don’t expect to see the same story cut and pasted in, day after day.  Perhaps what I’m aspiring to is columnist status, where you can actively get away with repeating yourself, or mentioning particular people, because your readership has got to know them too, through you, and wants the latest installment.

Probably one of the main reasons I write a blog is because I love ideas, I love the variety in the world, I love seeing whether someone else has come across the same, and what they think about it.  And some of you even tell me, too…

Some of the nicest thoughts are like the first strawberry of the year.  (Yes, I have a conscious awareness of the first strawberry of the year, and a first mince pie too, bracketing the year.) You’d never claim that it was the first ever.  But the ‘first for a while…and good!’ is worth a shout about, don’t you think? 

Rachel and David’s eldest is keen on space.  She and Dan had fun setting up her telescope while we were there, and while you or I may be struggling to think what to wear tomorrow, she is looking ahead to 2020 and the next manned mission to the Moon. 

At one point, she mentioned that she liked Neptune best as a planet.  “Why?”  “Just do.”  (This is also important when you’re eight.  And twenty eight or more.  Sometimes we just do.)  I think it helped that it was also blue.

What was interesting was that then the adults started saying which planet they like.  I liked Jupiter, because it was the biggest.  Her dad liked Saturn, because of the rings.  Dan liked Pluto, because it was also the name of a dog.

It was a great reminder that we too had our preferences, even though we might have long forgotten some of them.  Life gets a lot more complicated when we have to justify why we like something (or more often as an adult, why we are still doing something when in fact we don’t want to).

Perhaps it’s a good incentive to have a more immediate response to things.  Meanwhile, I’m off to practise a learned response - a cup of tea.

It’s now nearly 8 years since R and D decided to head to Italy, and interesting to see how friendships develop when you see people less often.  For a while, we managed to see each other nearly every 6 months.  Rising numbers of children on their side, and work commitments on ours, now stretch it to a yearly catch up.  But it’s still well worth it.

One of the features of going over less often is that we end up with a snapshot of life there that may only last a week.  Especially with the youngest at a year and a bit, change is a very rapid thing among children.  We pick up their catch phrases, identify their favourite books at that time, and see other ‘big’ changes that in fact came in over time: both older girls now reading independently in both English and Italian, for example.

Even being around for just a week, it’s terribly gratifying for you to hear one of the children saying “I want my Alison”, or for another to call you auntie by mistake.  Even the littlest went from hiding from us earlier in the week to accepting being fed by us, as well as a few games together, such as repeated shaking your head while holding a naughty grin at the same time.  (She started it, not me.)

Time also shows what has lasted since a previous visit - the eldest remembering how to play ”Sausages and chips”, where you try to make the other person laugh by asking them silly questions.  She will also set up photo opportunities for their Flat Eric, as we tend to do with ours, having seen our pictures in the past. 

Other elements that we completely forgot - interim books that went into a parcel at some time, colouring in stencils on windows - are still part of life there.  I remember hearing Rachel’s grandmother saying to me one time, with some pride, an estimate of how many English books she had sent over to Italy while Rachel and her siblings were growing up there, and I started to feel that we might be continuing a little of that trend.

Apart from the food products, there’s always things we bring back.  A growing interest in the Veggie Tales’ “Silly Songs with Larry”, which was principal CD in the car while we were there.  Photos of another year.  An even greater appreciation of R and D’s skills as parents.  A couple more pictures to go on our fridge.

Some people go on holiday for a change.  I do that too, but it’s sometimes even better to go on holiday for more of the same.   

A Goth at a bus stop with black gloves with a skeleton pattern on the backs of the hands.  As I tend to sit upstairs, I got the bird’s eye view, which included seeing a skeletal hand holding an apple…very Snow White?

Person sitting in front of me on the bus at one point, who had a fur trim to the hood of her coat, which matched the colours in her hair ie salt and pepper dark hair.  It made me feel quite positive about the greying process to come, if you can make it seem like a fashion statement…

It’s all about perspective really.  Left to my own devices, all too easy to climb inside my head, as it were, which can be a dark and not particularly cheerful place to be.  (Particularly in the mornings on the way to work, when it’s not that much lighter outside.)  But a bit of distraction is a good thing - we don’t grow out of the need once we’ve passed the stage of toddlerdom, it seems to me.

Equally, meeting with friends in cell group yesterday always brings perspective.  Even though we’d not seen each other for just a couple of weeks, there seemed to be plenty to catch up on. 

The morning papers at work fulfil a similar function.  Yesterday’s G2 main article covered the issues of organ donation through very moving interviews with various people involved with the procedure in some way, from the parent of the child who donated his liver, to the man who received it, and the nurse who put the two together etc.  However grouchy I may feel at students doing not doing what they should abroad, it’s a salutory reminder that I am not being asked to face the same level of difficulty in my life just now.

Of course, these various scenes, snapshots of others’ lives, are not just for my benefit.  But I can choose to keep my eyes open to them - and remind myself to have eyes to see, where God has something to show me. 

Driving lessons continue, and today included driving in the dark - though heading back into Edinburgh through an amazing sunset first.  Doing 50 on the old A1, not many other cars about, you get the feeling that you might just be able to do this…or so I hope.   The really scary part will be getting in a car on my own, and going from A to B.  (Not to mention actually owning a car…Perhaps I really should have done this in my teens instead, when optimism might have outweighed natural wariness a bit more.)

I now take very seriously how people talk about getting tired doing motorway driving, as I certainly was tired heading back.  But overtaking lorries seems a little more familiar now, though having a bus overtake me on the inside lane of dual carriageway on the way back into town was less helpful.  Particularly when he’d parked somewhere silly outside Haddington earlier on in the journey.

I am doing other things than driving, but when the driving goes OK, it seems a bit more noteworthy.  Maybe a different topic next time.

Still, there are some good things - building up familiarity with roads I know I will need to use locally, gradually learning I don’t have to change down gear by gear every time I approach a queue of traffic.  The sun has shone pretty much all week so far, which helps.  I have survived driving roads which I worry about, like Sir Harry Lauder Road, and my roundabouts are improving a bit.  I have even discovered what electric wing mirrors are for - only to be aware that I won’t have them in the car I’ll get to drive.

Was reading yesterday about kids’ behaviour deteriorating just before they master a big developmental change.  Maybe I can claim the same, and some smoother driving is just around the corner…

I am having refresher driving lessons.  Fifteen and a half years on from stunning my mother with my ability to pass my driving test (she took me out to lunch on the strength of it), I am actually behind the wheel again - and so far, actually quite good.

So, I can change up gears (changing down not as good), brake going into bends and accelerate coming out of them, and actually start to believe my driving instructor that I can do more in higher gears than I thought.  I can also go over speed bumps…a necessity where I live.  And I even got to practise putting fuel into a car for the first time.

Driving is definitely in the ‘feel the fear…’ category, but as it is moving into the ‘feel the need…’ category more, I think I might finally have incentives for keeping going.  Even the fact that I am not back to complete beginner status is a boost to the ego. 

The strange thing is being able to drive through areas that feel busy, because there’s someone at my elbow to tell me what to do.  My bus journeys in the morning are a bit more interesting now, because I am even trying to read the road ahead, as though I were driving.  (The only down side is, every time I think we should be changing up a gear, we pull into a bus stop.  Obvious limitations with this form of virtual driving.)

I’m not even going to think about how many million lifts I owe in lieu of how many I’ve been given over the years.  But at least some of them have been paid in cake or other foodstuffs, I reckon.  And for those friends who live outside of the reaches of Lothian Buses, I might even be able to visit you.  Not immediately, but a lot sooner than walking over, anyway.

Dan pointed out that we missed our window of opportunity to drive when fuel was cheaper.  My inner Scot/Yorkshirewoman is going to be terrified by the cost of it all.  But little by little, we’ll get there.

Spent some pleasant time with Graeme and Shona over yesterday afternoon/evening and this morning, and discovered that one of the books in Shona’s recent acquisitions for her girls is Milly Molly Mandy.

For the uninitiated, Milly Molly Mandy is, as you can probably tell, very much a book that girls get to read at a youngish age.  It fits in quite well around the Enid Blyton type stage.  MMM (as I will now refer to her) lives in a little white cottage with a thatched roof, and has a series of shops at her disposal in the village.  For added interest, there is a map of her village in the front of the book, to help you picture it for yourself.

I enjoyed MMM when younger, though to be honest any books that came within range were devoured from c. 6 onwards. Looking back it it, I realised I had to do a bit of explaining for Janna, my story time listener.  Some of it is long changed: one of her friend wants to be a nurse, ‘with a hat with long white streamers’.  Some of it seems up to date again: MMM helps her friend’s dad repaint a garden roller and a water butt.  It won’t be so long until thatched roofs are back in, surely?

But after all, MMM speaks to all kids who want routine plus a little excitement. MMM has a group of friends, and they all talk about what they want to do when they’re grown up.  MMM gets to mind one of the shops for an hour, and decides that, although she’d like to work in that kind of shop in the future, an hour is enough for now.  

No one is talking of three day weeks just yet, as their economic strategy for surviving the recession, but perhaps an hour of work here or there, that you could happily stop when the owner came back, does sound attractive…

In these dark days, I do commend to you another childhood pastime which does well in adulthood: making up sequel titles with a given phrase.  Perhaps it’s time to write “Milly Molly Mandy goes to Hollywood”, that long undiscovered follow up… 

Is it the dark days of recession affecting us?  We know that in times of economic difficulty, food sales still do well, if not better, as a cheering up device.  Is it the onset of winter, hopeful that if we anticipate food, we will feel warmer, or at least better about the nights drawing in?

Maybe it’s more of the thirties malaise.  We start to realise that we may not climb the corporate ladder the way we might have thought (most corporate ladders looking pretty rickety, at this point in time); we will not now wow the world with our looks or various other talents if we haven’t done so already.  (I’m still holding out for a late-onset writing career - that area does seem to reward late bloomers.)

What’s left? Family, friends, TV…and of course food, which we can always anticipate, because of our need to refuel fairly often.  (I’m not limiting life to these alone, honest. But they do all allow quite a lot of ‘me too!’, which is perhaps part of why online stuff is popular.) 

So what foods are most likely to make you ‘write in’ in agreement?  So far, risotto, peanut butter, classy macaroons and hot dogs, judging by recent comments on my Facebook wall and others. 

It could be the start of a whole new ‘what’s your favourite food?’ discussion.  I would also like to suggest a ‘guess how much I paid at the Co-op for…?’ game, which allows a spot of ethical consumerism to combine with (nearly) freegan activity, and some public endorsement of thrift…

I’m actually finding it hard to come down to a favourite food, but my inner five year old is still convinced that sausages, baked beans and chips are a good place to start.  How about you?

It’s well known (or well alleged) that women end up becoming like their mothers; I think the process is accelerated if you become a mum yourself.  Facing tiredness or shock, whatever the cause, the brain seems to think the easiest option is to revert to saying what you heard when you were growing up.

Earlier on in the summer, I managed to cut one knee quite badly.  Between shock, disbelief, and a fair amount of pain, it became difficult to say what I had hurt where.  But one thing I knew: I was ’in the wars’, a family phrase which I hadn’t heard or used for some time, but that dropped back into my mind when trying to work out what had happened.

Sure enough, when I phoned my mum on our return, the first thing she said was, “Oh dear, have you been in the wars?”  I didn’t know whether to feel comforted by the reference, or confused about being returned to an 8-year old state (or equivalent), where mums need a good stock in trade of phrases to say when something goes wrong.  (This was probably better than her asking if I had ‘happened’ my knee - another phrase based on my brother saying that he had ‘happened his finger’, which then became used for other situations of minor injuries.)

The funny thing was, commenting to Dan that I was ‘in the wars’ made me look at the phrase at face value.  In comparison with soldiers coming into the line of fire, in Iraq or Afghanistan, an accident at home hardly counts.  And yet, in a child’s eyes, a big fall or something else upsetting needs a suitably big statement to go with it.

So, feel free to use it for your own mishaps.  Or send in your own equivalents.  Life has its tumbles, and if language has its comforts, one of them is having a good set of sayings to get you through a situation and back to some sense of continuity.   

Something funny seems to happen in your thirties, when it comes to letting go of what’s happening in the day.  There’s not much of the day left to disconnect from, by the time you get home.   How do you do it, without taking the evening over it?

Not being much of a drinker, alcohol got left out of the picture as a way to unwind, for a long time, but I think it’s trying to make more of an appearance on my weekends.  That sense of ‘phew, got to the end of the week’ seems to need more celebration as I go on.  (Food is clearly enough of a companion to my days, as you already know, so it’s not necessarily helping me hit the ’stop’ button in the same way.) Let’s say I appreciate the treat when it comes.

Gardening started trying to enter the race this year.  And yes, coming home from work, and saying hello to the plants (watering them too, on occasion) was a good option.  But now it’s wet, or cold, or both, and the garden is back into that phase of being left to its own survival mechanisms for the next few months.

There is blog writing - though perhaps I need a new injection of ideas.  Perhaps time to start listening into other people’s mobile phone conversations a bit more.  (As if.  I could probably write a new radio show a week on what I ‘overhead’ (without trying) on the bus each day.) 

And for points of trying to make mind and body agree to slow down in the adrenaline rush, there can be su doku.  A nice long bath is a winner in this department.

Recently, I have been feeling more and more that my earlier ambitions to make a difference in the world, to contribute, are getting worn away in the need to keep up - and then recover afterwards - day by day.  No claims of special workplace trauma - we all have it, in fairly intense ways for many. 

Is the solution to find a ‘quicker’ way to unwind, so that I can make the most of time outside of work?  I’m coming to the conclusion that letting go of one set of lists at work, only to pick up another at home, doesn’t seem that attractive.

Probably the thing that cheers me up, and therefore helps me let go of work, is finding out how other people are doing.  Ergo Facebook in general.  I might even finally put up some photos of my own, given how much I like seeing other people’s.

Perhaps it comes down to holding on, rather than just letting go - holding on to what is important to you, day by day.  And on that note, I’m off to hug the hugsband.

What I hadn’t quite bargained on was that there would be quite so much emphasis on meat. Fair enough in some ways, given that there’s farms around, proper butchers and the like.  But if you were a veggie and/or had problems seeing meat, you would probably have had to avert your eyes for about a third of the stands…

Other friends have done the farm shop thing, and shared out half animals, that kind of thing.  I must admit I thought it would hard to fit e.g. half a lamb in a freezer - and which end would you get?  But then we saw what that looked like, which was certainly a lot of meat.  We’re even thinking about splitting a half lamb order with my parents to make it a bit more affordable (at least, spending money on meat rather than a second freezer).  Except I have to eat some more brambles first.  Or maybe make rather a lot of risotto to clear out some stock.  Etc.

It’s all nice and green and Guardian reading of me to want to get local produce - which I do.  And help farms in Scotland keep going - which I do.  But then I see the prices of the food  and baulk a bit.  Even the veg boxes are more than I’m prepared to spend, it seems, which is a shame for one who really likes fruit and veg.

So, as ever, we bought little things - though this does allow me to plug the Chocolate Tree, based (I think) in Gifford, East Lothian. Not only do they do the dark chocolate with interesting flavours thang, they also do a proper Nutella alternative.  They even boast that you’ll never go back to Nutella after you’ve tried it.  Now the difficulty is whether to open the jar - and fulfil their promise - or inflict that on someone else by passing it on as a present…Food for thought, one way or another, if not as much food for the plate.

Would it be a hard-hitting commentary on oil over-dependence?  Not really.  An oblique Asterix book reference? Closer territory, though as I recall, that was about oil too.  What is far more important to the world economy at the moment, is free stuff. And the black gold of the article is all about the joy of brambling.

Had a half day off, after my time on the exhibition stand, and by five o’clock or so on Friday, decided that a good use of time would be to head off to the cycle path, not far from our flat, and pick some brambles.  Usually we’re off doing this earlier in September, but one way or another (ie rain), bramble plans had been delayed.

Life along the cycle path is quite pleasant.  Cyclists were heading home from work, or on early weekend excursions.  One chap stopped me to ask where my rucksack came from - this turned out to be a lament on the fact that he couldn’t replace his current one with a similar kind, and hoped that mine (which looked like his) might be a new one.  There were a few dogs to say hello to, but mainly there was the fun of filling tubs with brambles.

When I was little, brambles tended to get used up in crumbles.  Any juice left over from stewing the fruit would be kept as a sauce to pour over ice cream - this was known as ‘blood’.  Very satisfying when you’re 8, and the attraction of it still remains.  Equally, I had a birthday book, and on the page opposite the start of September (and my granny’s birthday) was a picture of the Flopsy Bunnies out picking brambles.  (I think Beatrix Potter called them blackberries, but obviously you can’t be good at everything.)  Being a bit of an afficionado of autumn, the conjuncture of all these things on adjoining pages seemed to suggest the essential importance of brambles.

I’m sure that if I kept brambling enough, I would be able to come up with some kind of complicated metaphor for what it teaches you about life, given the twin perils of nettles and bramble thorns that you have to overcome.  It is true that the fattest brambles seem to grow behind nettles.  Equally, turning slightly around from where you’ve been picking shows further drifts of fruit that you didn’t spot first time.

Like many things in life, the ultimate bramble patch is the one just further along the path from where you are…where all fruit will be large, juicy and easy to pick without getting skewered by the nettles again.  But perhaps another, deeper appeal of all this is filling one’s storehouse with good things - and only for the cost of looking, and a few stings.  Some entertainment comes without batteries, and some food is not vacuum packed within an inch of its life. 

For both these things, and for switching off most of your brain for an hour or so, three cheers.  Next stop, elderberries - perhaps in a couple of weeks or so.

But of course there is.  A free pen.  A free cotton bag.  A free jute carbon neutral bag.  In fact, a free policy booklet that you hadn’t planned on reading in the first place.

Despite Scotland’s happy insistence on state schooling for the majority of its pupils, there’s clearly no such thing as a free education either, if you’re running an exhibition stand.  I was struck by the number of IT exhibitors whose products started at a couple of grand upwards.  Struck equally by the teachers I spoke to who were enjoying the seminars and the buzz, but had no money really available to spend on their department.

Having just come back from two days on an exhibition stand, at a Scottish schools event, one thing that struck me particularly was the waste that comes with a large exhibition.  I was heartened by seeing one company retrieve their quantities of bubble wrap, and rewrap the materials they brought, but they did seem to be an exception.

The talk, however, was free - and teachers enjoy a good talk, so there was plenty of chatting.  After two seminars with very low numbers, I was pleased to be in one where a teacher name checked half a dozen opportunities my organisation offers, AND got that response we all long for: the immediate “Wow, how can I get some of that?”  That’s the kind of response, from speaker and audience, that you can’t buy.

Thankfully, smiling is free. Encouraging teachers in celebrating their successes.  But I discovered that saying thank you to the organisers, when leaving, was in fact priceless - one person in the site office commented “No one ever stops to say thank you…”

Results: one heart at ease; one pair of feet waiting to be freed from their shoes.

At any rate, it allowed for a bit of gardening yesterday, aided by my parents.  With all the rain of late, I had pretty much given it over to snails, but lo and behold, there were some potatoes to crop, and a new plant to put in the side border.  We may even be able to gather a whole three beetroot, and perhaps the odd carrot or two…

Back in May, I had a bit of a garden breakthrough.  I got into planting vegetables from seeds, and tried lots of different types.  Perhaps not the full Good Life - still had to be in the office during the week - but a bit more sense of progress in the garden.

Sadly, the slugs and snails appeared to have eaten more than their fair share.  My pea and bean seedlings were completely nobbled.  Lettuces did OK, but sweet peas (a favourite) also got eaten, and as a result, the borders remained good on leaf, but not much on flower.

Perhaps I have to take heart on what worked.  I learned that I can raise plants from seed.  I just need to work on helping them to survive…I also discovered that the attic is pretty good as a greenhouse, as long as I can keep watering things enough.  We sat outside more than before.  I learned how to make elderflower cordial, which worked fine with elderflowers hanging over the back of the garden. These are steps forward.

It’s the creatures great and small that are needing taking in hand - both the cats which pursue any bare earth, and the smaller beasties that can clearly identify flourishing seedlings much faster than I can. 

Hopefully, my rhubarb cuttings and I can fight back a bit next year.   And perhaps there will still be some brambles left, if the sun remains, and I can manage a walk down the cycle paths near to home.

My standard preamble is that I took my test in my gap year, and later the same week, went to Poland.  I wasn’t insured to drive there, and all I could have driven, realistically, would have been a tractor or a 12 seater minibus.  Returning from Poland, I was soon off to university where a) there was no money to drive and b) not much parking either.

And so it went on.  Edinburgh is a city where you really can resist driving, given a good bus service (well I think so anyway), and lots that is walkable.  Dan hadn’t had driving lessons, which made it easier to continue driving avoidance.  I had learned in a medium sized town, I was a bit scared of city driving. And so on.

We’ve got good at arranging holidays that rely on public transport.  And far too good at cadging lifts from others.  As friends move further out of town, it is starting to get harder to see people as easily - or it takes a lot longer to do so.  My trip to Dunfermline probably took two hours, door to door, allowing for bus and train connections, when you can do that in 30 mins by car?  (I think.  Travelling by public transport means that estimations of travel time by car are not one of my strong points.)

Main shift has come from Mum offering to pass on her car to me.  I think she still wants to…and Mum and Dad in particular continue to drive to see us from Peebles, whereas we get the bus to Penicuik, and cadge a lift from there.  It’s not really fair, and despite the fuel increases, at least having the ability to do this driving thing would be a big step forward.

So, you can either run screaming from the pavements after October 13, or pray for skills, and confidence, to follow suit. 

Donn’s specialist subject is tractors, for which he will happily count up to 10, identify colours, and whether wheels or caterpillar tracks are in evidence.  Multitasking, he will also take in trucks, cars, and trains.  Certainly he know more of the Thomas engines than I do, and is quick to see when they are being threatened by falling sandbags, rocks and the like.

It does seem to me that boys tend be conversant with a range of vehicles but like to choose a favourite too.  Thomas in Italy has a clear and easy choice for trains, conveniently having a major player named after him.  Dan started talking with ‘taxi’, and moved on to cars. 

Donn’s commitment to tractors is clear, but what of other options? Who is championing milk floats? Sit on lawnmowers?  Snow ploughs?  Fire engines, dustmen’s trucks, they get all the glamour, given the option to both drive a large vehicle and have defined activities.

I myself have a liking for trains, but more really for getting to travel through scenery that I might otherwise not get to see.  I like walking, too.  But small boys have less incentive to wave at pedestrians - short of gaining bionic legs, they’re just not dynamic enough.

Meanwhile, if anyone can trace a copy of “Cars and Trucks and Things that Go” (Richard Scarry), do let me know - someone’s birthday coming up, and all that.

I have a Useful Notebook that gets carried around, partly so I can work out which children’s book to buy for which new arrival and that kind of thing, but it’s useful for ideas about blog posts too.  Sometimes it’s as good to think about writing as it is to do it - like food in that respect.

Topping the list of items to write about is Cremola Foam.  Going to wikipedia, fount of all immediately accessible information, I discover that I have the name wrong - it is in fact Creamola Foam: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creamola_Foam

Growing up as a Mackenzie, a big part of family tradition was going on holiday to the Isle of Jura.  It’s a few generations since we had direct relatives living there, but there’s a family cottage, and a lot of shared history.  It’s where my dad spent his summer holidays too, and part of those holidays, for both of us, was creamola foam.

Part of the mystique of creamola foam was the buying it en route to Jura.  We’d drive up from the north of England or central England, according to where we were living at that point, and stay over with my great aunts in Greenock.  (Greenock is indeed the place to live if you are an aunt.)  We would then drive to Gourock, just up the coast, and get the ferry to Dunoon, to continue the journey. 

And once we arrived in Gourock, anticipating the first ferry of the journey, it was time to buy the small pot of creamola foam to induce the holiday mood.  In Dad’s day, it was mostly lemon flavour, in mine, orange.  But mainly really it allows you to have an absurdly fizzy drink and a huge amount of happiness (and no doubt sugar), combined. 

Creamola foam was also available in the shop on Islay, after the second ferry, and before the third, over to Jura itself.  Should you run out on the holiday, there would usually be a day trip to Islay, and an opportunity to stock up again. 

One year, I attempted the impossible.  I brought a full pot of it home with me.  Now I could continue the holiday feeling.  But then, it being precious, it was hard to make a move to start it.  A month or two down the line, and it was already hardening into a lump.  And somehow, it didn’t taste the same at home.

Reading wikipedia, I discover the advertising boast that creamola foam was ‘fully sweetened’.  You bet.  This is a Scottish foodstuff, after all.  Needless to say, they don’t write advertising copy like that these days - or perhaps, they just hide the fact that something is fully sweetened.

Tastes of childhood.  Perhaps sometimes it’s best for some things to remain at a distance.  Worse, perhaps, to discover now that I didn’t like it - although again, wikipedia indicates that there’s a bit of an attempt going on to bring it back.  

With rain on the menu most days at the moment, it’s good to think about summer at times, even distant summers.  Next stop, soda streams, I feel.       

But in the last flurry of writing, I did discover I had a small readership at least, so I thought I’d give an idea of what Dan and I have been up to since early April, which is when the blog fizzled.

April: time of work trips to Germany and London, combined with cold/flu.  I’d not had to do work trips while feeling ill before, and I do not want to repeat the experience.  Laptop came up trumps in occupying me while lying in my hotel room in Bonn feeling sorry for myself, but it’s not fun being unable to go home until not one but two trips are complete.  Hurrah for a bit of rest time at Dan’s mum’s between the two sets of meetings.

April also brought a halt to my knocking back the coffee quite so much.  I still love strong coffee, but sadly it doesn’t love me back any more.  I know that caffeine lovers never want to hear that life is possible without quite so much of it…and it is.  And I feel better for it.  (But I still miss it.)

May: An opportunity to change my working hours.  It took a while to kick in, but I now have a Friday off every second week, and work slightly longer hours for the remaining time, to keep the pay level the same.  I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner - makes a difference, having a long weekend every second week.

Weather improves - and I start a bit more gardening, which includes lots of planting lettuce seeds and the like.  I think there’ll be a separate post on this.

New arrivals for friends’ kids - and another colleague at work.  A great day seminar on God and money, and a little course in our regular church group, exploring money management - timely, given the growing gloom in financial circles. 

May also brings an opportunity to experience the bright lights of Dunfermline on a Friday night, for a birthday party of a friend in the same group.  If you want to add razzmatazz to a cake, I can highly recommend wrapping a pink feather boa around it!

And back to another set of departures at work.  One team had to wait until late summer to find out if they had won their contract - and some of them decided to look at pastures new.  A reminder that even in an office of only 60, staffing never seems to stay still for very long.  Meanwhile I notch up 8 years here…

June: a work trip to Switzerland!  I have a day or so in Zurich, just before Euro 2008 kicks off.  Another city I would like to live in - and which has a correspondingly high cost of living to match its high quality of life. 

I finish up by taking the train over to Geneva - and meet up with Dan and other friends for a week’s holiday in the Burgundy area.  Dan provides the contact for a free week’s stay, others provide the driving skills and the board games, others still take care of the chocolate rations.  I cook two roast chickens simultaneously, and spend a happy time mostly focused around planning the next meal.

Another trip shortly after, to London for a friend’s wedding - and I don’t even make it out the door, due to a combination of high heels, trouser turn ups and a short flight of stairs.  Lots of pain, lots of annoyance in being so near and yet so far.  I also get a trip to the Minor Injuries Unit at the Western General on return, which is a more positive experience, particularly when I get advice from a colleague who had a recent leg wound and knows exactly what to do to get it looked at.

July: the Friday day off begins, and our plans to get some home improvements get a bit further.  We spend much of the rest of July moving stuff out of sitting room, study and kitchen, and pulling really grungy woodchip off ceilings, in order to let two guys in to replaster and paint.  My parents help us pick some new carpet, and we get a new fridge freezer.  It’s all very domestic, but given that some bits of the flat really need replacing, nearly 4 years on from buying, it’s a good chance to have things as we want.

I also manage to work mornings only, for a week each in July and August, which includes time for charity shop visits, coffees out with mums, and a few practical things like finally finding a dentist near to home.

August: another trip to London for the weekend, this time to see Yasuko and Tatsuya, over from Japan.  Yasuko was in the same halls of residence as Dan in his first year at university, and she’s kept coming back over to the UK when she could. This trip brought her husband, who took to life here very well, including his first trip to the Proms…and a certain liking for hummus.

Mum had a significant birthday - and we managed our usual August Mackenzies reunion to coincide with this and two other family birthdays.  My brother John and his fiance Sarah were also up, with pics of their first home, in the town where John was born - a nice circularity there.

Dan’s mum Jen came up for her usual August holiday, and we managed a long weekend all together, including a wonderful walk to Cramond where the sun actually shone!

And we lost a staff member in our immediate team - again.  Back to hauling some additional workload.

September: the students I’ve been preparing for arrive in Scotland, and I spend a week and a half travelling hither and yon meeting them and doing my exciting talks about tax and the like.  This year’s group includes one from Senegal, for the first time.  Limited opportunities for West Coast scones (usually a highlight of these kind of trips), but plenty of local authority sandwiches.

The carpet is down, and we begin the slow task of moving everything back.  Despite a big clear out before all the furniture moving, we come to put things back, and I find myself wondering why we have some of it…   

That’s quite enough overview - on to some of the quirky things, in other posts.

Or maybe they’re seasonal creatures, like birds.  Come the spring, blog words need to go to warmer climes (warmer than Scotland anyway), and desert me.  Maybe they lie on beaches and actually go quiet.  Maybe they take a vow of silence and sit in a secluded monastery for a few months.

At any rate, words, ideas for the blog have been clustering about me again.  It’s the inverse of that quote I’m sure I’ve used before - words vs digging ditches.  In the spring, I did actually dig some ditches for a change - or at least, put seed into pots, and attempted some gardening. 

Now the writer says to hell with digging ditches (too wet, too cold) and longs to write words.  And perhaps you, who are her friends, write back…

Except I’m in Bonn, the town where it was said, by one of the diplomats in residence at the time, that ‘every day was a little like Sunday’.

It’s certainly felt like it - although I’m told that this is more so because students are still currently on holiday.  But this is still a small town, and even though it was the capital for several decades, you could argue it has settled back into its Sunday feel fairly happily.

I have connections with Bonn, so I try not to judge it too harshly.  My grandparents were here for several years when it was still the capital, and my last visit here included looking up the house where they’d lived - which I’d also visited as a toddler.  Needless to say, it wasn’t recognisable to me, although other family members were able to comment on what had changed.

Not to worry.  Bonn’s other main claim to fame - being the home of Haribo sweeties - is secure.  And these days, it’s still about the economy, eh?

We had been away three years.  I couldn’t quite believe it was that long, but we added it up.  However, Jura has been ‘abandoned’ by me before - but there’s always the opportunity to pick up again.

Jura is now one of two places that I have known and returned to since early childhood.  The other is my granny’s house in Edinburgh.  As people and places move on, and as I do too, being somewhere that is so familiar can be a great relief.  Going there on holiday is continuity - not just with my past, but with my family.

We have family connections with Jura going back several generations.  Although it’s about 4 generations back that direct family actually lived there, I become part of the subsequent story - the families who retained the link, who went there in their holiday time, and so on.

When I was a child, there was a lot of effort involved in going there - driving up from whichever part of England or Scotland we were in, breaking the journey with our aunts in Greenock who own the cottage.  From there on, every part of the journey is mapped - enough of the excitement is in passing the places along the route that also have their own connections, or maybe just attraction. 

As a child, driving up a hill called the Rest and Be Thankful had a huge impact on the imagination.  Passing Inverary, where we had had separate visits - and where I could see the remains of a little tower on the hill that Dad had climbed up to.  Driving alongside the Crinan Canal, sometimes seeing sailing ships passing along, above the height of the car.  Coming into the painted enclosure of the harbour at Tarbert - and remembering the one overnight drive to Jura, where we woke up in Tarbert, and had sandwiches for breakfast, overlooking the pier.

For a child mostly living fairly far inland, access to a beach was a big attraction.  But also to ferries - the big one and the small one.  To seals.  To red deer.  To a coastline where each little part had its own name - and a story that, if it didn’t belong to me, belonged to another family member.

There is a point on the big ferry, heading out from Kennacraig, where you pass the opening of the headland, and come out to run alongside the Mull of Kintyre.  Behind you is green, fairly flat - and ahead of you, an island - your island!  With its distinctive three main hills, the Paps, it is a key moment.

Why take so long to tell all this?  Normally I would get to that view and cry.  This year, for the first time, it didn’t happen.  I had returned to Jura more as an adult - somehow thinking more about others’ responses to the island than my own recollections. 

Going on holiday allows you to keep an idealised view of a place.  Not everyone gets to go to an island on holiday - even with Britain as it is - and to a cottage that ‘belongs’ to them.  This time I saw the life on Jura perhaps more as it really is - hard work at times for the locals, what with rough seas cutting off ferries, pot holes that the council seems to avoid filling, new attempts to fill the main additional ’shop’ with a business venture that will last.

And in this era of being seen to be holidaying in Britain, spending to support the (local) economy, and so on, returning to Jura feels not just a logical choice, but one that contributes to more people’s future than my own.

Blame spring cleaning, early summer cleaning, oh there’s another cold snap cleaning and general furniture shifting.  But, for a change, blame holiday…where we deliberately kept off-line. 

Actually, this gets easier if you go somewhere which doesn’t have internet access.  Scottish island, family cottage owned by great aunt (who is also a great-aunt) who isn’t online but keeps very busy in other ways, thankyou.  Even though the island has a public access internet point, we managed to keep away.

This isn’t so hard: holidays are about doing things you don’t get time to do (or don’t get round to): watching films, reading books, eating porridge.  Even playing Scrabble and drinking tea from pots (not directly, you understand, mugs were still involved). 

It’s also about doing things that you don’t get access to at home: watching red deer from the back window of the cottage, watching storms (and strong moonlight) from the front.  Going to the beach when it isn’t really spring yet, and having the place to yourself.  Leaning out of the front door (which is conveniently a stable door that you open the top half of), surveying the morning’s activities - of other people.

There was even drama surrounding getting home yesterday - a call before 8am to say that we would need to make a 10.30 ferry if we wanted to get off the island that day.  A wait to see if the second ferry would divert to the other side of island 2 because of rough seas, as it had the previous day - which would have meant quick moves to a bus across to the other port. Harder to achieve when you’re foot passengers, and the bus doesn’t go that often.

Thankfully going home by coach, though time-consuming, also meant we avoided having to drive in slushy conditions.  Say what you want about Scottish summers, these factors are not part of our more usual visits to this island home from home.

Yes, we missed out on a genuine opportunity to be stranded away from work.  It was quite tempting, actually.  But we gained a story to tell, and some further kindness from those based on islands, who understand how easily plans, including travel plans, may have to change if the weather does.

This time next week, I’ll be preparing for travel with work.  But for now, I’m holding on to the sophistications of cooking my breakfast, looking out of the window…and rejoining our book collection at home. 

The comfy apartment
The next meeting was in a client’s home.  Big chairs, roaring fire, good coffee and chocolate hobnobs.  It was good job this was comfortable as we talked about their project for four hours.  A huge amount of work was done, but it was also great to get to know them better, particularly having only talked to them on the phone.  I left feeling confident of the business relationship that had been established and enthusiastic to get on with the work.

The home office
This was more of a training session - showing someone how to update their website in their own office in their home.  It was very relaxed.  Classic FM was on in the background and I knew that my presence was appreciated.

The dining room table
Same house, different client.  Laptop on the table, set up email, play with big fluffy dogs, discuss blogs (including this one and the prolific blogger) and a bit of inspiring consultancy (two way).  More intense this time, mainly due to intellectual curiosity and looking at how it might be to consult at a higher level than I thought possible.  Watch this space.

The allegedly wifi-enabled swish cafe
If the chorizo soup and pear juice hadn’t been so good Apostrophe on Lower Regent Street would have been a real let down.  Long high beech tables up front and comfy suede chairs at the back should have made working during a lunch a pleasure.  Buying lunch in a wifi cafe so that I could get access to emails would have been useful, but it didn’t work.

The Institute of Directors, Pall Mall
Well, talk about seeing how the other half work.  I’d never been in a ‘gentleman’s club’ and some would say that I still haven’t.  The IOD on Pall Mall has a dress code and I had broken two of them (jeans and trainers) by joining a client for a meeting.  Fortunately I was her guest and my offenses weren’t too obvious.  The laptop rucksack was perhaps more of an issue, but it was only the reception staff that looked down their noses at me, everyone else was too busy making money.

It wasn’t the most conducive place for a bit of blog training and web discussion and the pot of tea for two cost my client £6.50, but it was impressive.  I’m thinking of joining the Scottish Malt Whiskey Society in Edinburgh so that I can use The Vaults in Leith as an escape from the office, but the IOD is a proper business club.  Scary.  Was I taken there instead of Starbucks to be intimidated?  Probably.

Benugo, St Pancras International
It wasn’t the plan to go to Benugo, but the food looked so fresh, the staff slightly manic but friendly and everything so spotless and contemporary that it was obviously the place to be.  We could have gone to the longest champagne bar in Europe (where’s the longest in the world then?), but we struck lucky with Benugo.  Meeting a friend who happens to be a client is a bit different, but this was a special time.  We ranged in discussion from world politics to charities and from theology to how cool a MacBook is.  I’ll go back.  It was special (oh, I said that already).

National Express First Class, Edinburgh to London return
I don’t want to appear snobbish (well, perhaps a bit), but I have to recommend First Class on National Express to you.  They’ve taken over the GNER East Coast Mainline franchise and I have to say that they’re fabulous.  Not just fab, but fabulous.  The whole experience was great.  I managed to work all the way down and all the way back, and not just a hassled, baby puke and rowdy football supporters type work-on-the-train, but a sophisticated I-got-lots-done type work.  I’m not going to travel standard for work to London again.  Forget easyJet.  This is the real deal.

So to sum up. Keep the IOD, I want First Class travel to friendly, inspiring meetings with clients in their homes, drink nice coffee and play with their dog / cat / MacBook.

When it’s a sabre tooth tiger, fair enough - and a straight forward choice.  But what of the colleague at work who sets us on edge, but who we have to keep working with?  What about the sudden crisis or the email that demands immediate action?  And what happens when, like it or not, we have to stay, for reasons of income, prestige, and so on?

Fight is not an option sanctioned by HR - at least, not the blow to the jaw type.  All flint-topped spears to be checked in at reception before proceeding into the main building.  While there’s various little fights going on with our environment, whether in our heads, our emails and so on, I suspect that flight is the main alternative for many of us.

And what is flight?  I thought to call this post ‘Escape’, and often that’s part of the fantasy, whether through holidays, through weekends away, or even just the late-night gig.  I guess I’m interested in thinking about the level to which we’re aware of our flight away from stresses, and the way in which it becomes hidden under other motives.

We have to eat.  No quibble there.  We have a nice range of foodstuffs available, lots of shops and eateries prepared to cater to us round the clock.  But the chocolate bar on the Friday afternoon to keep going, the swift drink on arrival home, how many of these are treats, and how many are little escape mechanisms for us?

Stone-age man had perhaps some difficulties staying in one place - what with needing to seek out food, protect himself from others who might take this from him, and so on.  Flight was probably forced on him more, but there were some advantages to it to.

Mortgage holders will know that flight becomes a more limited option when you have a reason to stay put year after year.  Marriage, families, all of these are built to benefit from you sticking around.  Hopefully, these things also mean you have less reason to flee, or even to fight so much to secure what you need.

But what happens when these responsibilities and different ‘threats’ seem to co-exist?  How, equally, do we keep the threats from spilling over into the other areas of our lives?

You can see from the length of this that I’m musing, rather than offering solutions.  The more I go on, the more I discover how many little escape hatches I use - and how, in various ways, they seem to become more necessary as life goes on. 

Given that the blog offers its own means of escape, at times, I’ll reengage for now…for a bit, at least.  Sunday evening TV is all about escape.  Perhaps it’s time to do some more research.

The next issue to focus on is gambling, as mentioned by the coin machine shop by my bus stop.  Hanging about, waiting for the bus home, I have plenty of time to admire not just their pictures of Elvis on repeat on the screens by the shop window, but also the injunction: “Always gamble responsible”.

This one could of course be a trap by the grammar police - adjective or adverb, punk? - but it could equally be an opportunity for the punctuation secret service.  Just one comma, and it becomes the kind of suggestion you expect to come up in an arty film. 

The screen flips to show “Always gamble, responsible”.  I should take this as my cue to hurl my work badge into the path of an oncoming bus, before diving into a nearby charity shop for a cocktail dress, as the scene shifts to the nearest speakeasy.

Perhaps I should go back to my roots as an English teacher.  Does it get any better if I substitute “Occasionally gamble responsible”? Sometimes I know when to fold, but mostly I push the chips forward with the air of a James Bond villain?

However these things get written, I can’t help but think they look more like an encouragement to go ahead with the problem behaviour, rather than to rein it in.  Maybe the ad men need some people to lose at gambling, so that they can further increase their earnings on a slogan that doesn’t actually work.

Well then.  That’s my “eats shoots” moment done.  Next week: stray apostrophes, which I have recently learned are known as the ‘grocer’s apostrophe’.  I’m sure there’s a link between fruit, and fruit machines, that I can work on.

Why Walentynki?  I don’t really subscribe to the common concept of what Valentine’s Day is about in the UK. 

As a teenager, you just kind of sulk about it (though there are so many things to sulk about as a teenager, I’m not sure how much others perceive the difference on this occasion).

As a young adult, the pang increases a little.  Now people possibly have some money to spend on the day.  But as much as anything, it’s just a reminder that others have someone in their lives and you don’t.  Which is not always a good thing to dwell on.  (At this stage you dwell on things, rather than sulking, possibly because you only have one main room to hang out in, so you can’t exactly run off to your room when it gets too much.)

In this stage of life, I happened to be in Poland during Valentine’s Day.  Both times were memorable, for different reasons.  The first time, I received a Valentine’s fax from a family friend. 

Firstly, receiving a fax made quite an impact in the boarding school/convent where I was staying, and secondly, it reminded me that a world existed beyond the one in Poland I had joined just a week before.  (My family didn’t hear from me for a fortnight, the length of time it took to me first to remember and then to work out how to post my first letter from Poland.  Life pre-mobile eh?)

The second time, a sudden change in circumstances.  I had someone, I hadn’t been together with them the previous Valentine’s Day, and all of a sudden, this year, I was engaged.  And he was in a different country.  But I learned to be upbeat - particularly aided by seeing the enthusiasm with which Poles had taken to Valentine’s Day.

This was a holiday adopted after the end of Communism.  The flashy thing to do was take your true love out to McDonalds.  In fact, the drive-through McDonalds round the corner from where I lived had a photo montage of happy couples in McDonalds over Valentine’s Day.

From a UK perspective, it doesn’t seem very romantic.  But I liked the enthusiasm, the sense of rising to the occasion.  Rather than a slushfest, Valentine’s Day had become fun, cheerful even.

I didn’t take myself out for a McDonald’s that year, you may be pleased to hear.  I did buy myself flowers.  But I developed a liking for a sense of what a particular day could mean in a new context.

Walentynki.  You can’t just buy it in the shops.  But it’s what every relationship needs from time to time.

(Footnote: despite telling my colleagues that Dan and I don’t really ‘do’ Valentine’s, I returned home to a little parcel of Italian deli goodies that he had happily selected.  There’s another good aspect of Walentynki - having your expectations changed.  It’s a wise man that knows that a woman also appreciates the ‘way to one’s heart is through one’s stomach’.)

So, I salute Valentine perspectives with Peroni beer - and will save mention of the outcome of the other ingredients for another day.

Part of the grand plan is to get more storage inside our wardrobes, and thankfully, the powers that be at IKEA foresaw that people would want to shift things around at different times, and created lots of nice holes to move new shelves into.

I wouldn’t put us as IKEA frequent flyers - it’s more like a once a year military operation, once we have secured someone’s car to make it worth our while.  But I do love a good kit to put together.  I do obviously let Dan have a go too, but I will even volunteer to put other people’s IKEA units together.

Why the appeal?  Kits are good news for those of us who aren’t so hot on drawing, or cutting things terribly accurately, but still want to make things.  It’s also quite fun to see things assemble gradually, particularly if they are a) big and b) handy for moving stuff off the floor/bottom of other wardrobes etc.

I tend to think that liking kits is also part of learned behaviour.  Dad was very into model making when I was little, and I graduated to this myself in various forms: plaster of Paris moulds for various things you could then paint, peg dolls, soft toys. 

Best of all was a model theatre - first you made the theatre from card, then you had a full opera and ballet with backdrops, bits to move on from the sides, fiddly characters to cut round, the works.  I even learned the story of ’La Boheme’ from the synopsis they included with the kit, which comes in handy for watching ‘Moonstruck’ in later life.

Recently, makers of kits have been staging a comeback.  Makers of Airfix kits - model aeroplanes and so on - decided to run an ‘experiment’ where one group of kids got to make a model, and the others got to play on their Playstations, or something similar.  At the end of the time, those making models were asked if they would do it again, and if they liked it more than their usual computer game type hobbies. 

I’m never too sure with tests like this how representative the findings are, but evidently a good number of the kids said yes, they’d give it another go.  Besides, there are still kit cars you can make (and get a Q at the start of your number plate - a definite incentive), and even kit houses for those who want to build their own but fancy a bit of help.  Onwards and upwards, see.

Little by little, the Frydman decorating project moves on, and the next stage is to get some rooms replastered.  This gives us the opportunity to move furniture from room to room in order to clear the rooms that need plastered…Thank goodness for a spare room at the moment, otherwise we would be struggling a bit to find space to put things into.

So far, it’s mostly the bookcases that are getting moved. I’m quite pleased to see that the study walls stay up without their usual counterweight of books.  With the annual bookfair in Peebles next month, it’s also a good time to do our usual book cull, and decide what can be donated for the fair.

The biggest excitement will be getting the kitchen replastered, which should mean we can finally paint it white, and banish the last trace of terracotta paint.  (Apologies if you are of a burnt umber persuasion.  It’s nice and warm, sure, but in small dark spaces lit by a still pretty dark Scottish winter, the desire for more light is going to win out.)  But it seemed like a good opportunity to tidy up the sitting room and the study at the same time, so we’re hoping to get all three done around the same time.

But the final aim is an even better one - get the plaster and paint done, then finally replace the carpet.  If terracotta walls get me down, don’t get me started on the sitting room carpet.  Hopefully we can now get something we’d like.  It was good enough getting Mum to make us curtains of our choice - carpet as well will be tremendous.  (You’ll be pleased to hear we aren’t forcing Mum to make the carpets as well.  Talk about nose to the grindstone.)

Is it all needed? Less than the leaky bathroom project.  But learning from the enjoyment we have of a bathroom that we actually chose, I think it’s well worth it, particularly for the sitting room which we spend a lot of time in.

You never know.  I may even learn to upload some photos, finally, to show off the finished product.  A few more bookcases to move first, though.

Recently I read a music journalist talking about converting his prized collection into digital format.  Having it all neatly amassed, and no longer vinyl, or CD, to hold in his hands, he suddenly felt like the process of collecting was no longer what it had been.

What happens when it’s suddenly easy to find the items you want - even the obscure ones?  Does the thrill of the chase diminish?  What does it mean to collect when you just find and pay for tracks in a bundle, separated from their original ‘packaging’ as part of an album?

Others have written about the loss of the homemade tape as an initial sign of intent from a boy to a girl.  We may not put together a ‘mix’ in our own way, but on the other hand, we can keep mixing and remixing our sets of favoured songs.  And we can avoid buying the whole album for the sake of the one track we’re actually bothered about.

Another shift is removal of the need to do your own cataloguing.  A feature of my childhood was my dad’s homemade logs of music, films and so on - the indication of careful collecting.  Now the programmes for buying and assembling collections do that for you. 

It does save the writings and transcribings, the noting down of tracks and times and even dates you made the recording.  Perhaps some of the ’romance’ is lost, setting out and staking down your own musical territory.  But the gains of arranging and rearranging playlists, and above all, listening again to treasures that were forgotten, seem to outweigh the changes.

Nor have I been frequenting 80s revival discos to get a fix of high energy pop.  Truth be told, I haven’t been frequenting any discos.  I don’t think I was very frequent about them in the first place. 

But in the comfort of your own home, it’s quite fun to look up some music from your school days.  You can still have that whole ‘do you remember where you were when you heard…?’.  (And then, if you’re so inclined, you can email your 80s friends on Facebook, and see if they do too.)

Part of the fun of it is also who different songs evoke.  For whatever reasons, you’ll have a particular friend who liked track X, and someone else who liked something completely different.  It’s like a school roll call in musical form, moving from person to person.

But another part of the fun comes from that devilishly clever Amazon-style ‘if you liked this, you’ll like…’ Or equally, ‘people who listened to the track you just picked also listened to…’

I am back onto eMusic, a service a friend told me about around Christmas time.  I have already used up my free credits in a big rush, and now I am paying for my musical indulgences.  They operate in this ‘recommending’ way, and so as soon as you select one thing, you get to see a few more options that are seen to be similar.

I guess it’s the online equivalent of flipping through albums in a bargain section, and suddenly having a ‘gosh I’d forgotten all about them!’ moment.  In terms of the musical roll call, it’s a bit like having the class surround you, turning round in a circle blindfolded, and suddenly pointing at one of them.  Then doing it again a few more times.  (No, thankfully my school discos, while scary, were not that scary.)

Kindly, the service will also tell you which are the popular tracks.  So if you only want the one-hit wonder, you don’t have to remember which album they are on.  And of course, it helps you spend your credits that bit faster.

Never mind fog (although many do, of course, particularly those driving).  What we want at the weekend is fug.

Fug is one of those words that suggests it’s a bit hot and stuffy, but we like it that way.  It’s just what we need indoors when outdoors, we and our possessions are likely to be blown away in all directions.

Now that smoking is banned in public places all across the UK, fug is less of an option for pubs, which used to be a potential locator when there was lots of smoke.  You can tell that those who described it as fug in pubs rather liked it after all.

Next option is cafes that fill up when it’s raining.  A great example of a cafe that had the right level of fug is one a little below Snowdon.  I once attempted to climb Snowdon with someone I knew from my gap year, plus a couple of friends of hers.  We didn’t get very far up when really driving rain set in, and by the time we were back down, we were all completely soaked.

Thankfully, the cafe was just the place for having a huge pot of tea and full fry ups all round. No doubt we added to the fug by steaming gently as we dried out.  By the time we had drained the tea pot, we were even mostly dry. A very happy outcome - I might even suggest happier than having reached the summit, although I’m sure that’s not really the spirit. 

Meanwhile, the home fug is settling in nicely - probably my favourite sort.  A little light soup making (though the soup itself will probably be reasonably ribsticking), a batch of sauce, some veg to add to the oven in a sec.  In a while, I can add to the fug by bringing out a roast chicken, making gravy, that kind of thing.

You could describe it as steam.  Even condensation.  But that defeats the point.  It’s happy steam.  It suggests that the world is, for a little while at least, set at rights.

It probably doesn’t sound terribly healthy.  But the Facebook option - aka Petrolhead - does mean that you have a few big advantages to trying to do these things in real life:

a) no cost of car - in any way

b) change your mind and switch to another car in the same kind of group - apparently at whim, but certainly with no car dealer involved

c) no petrol, no pollution, no driver tiredness either, as you’re only allowed ten races every day

d) you can’t cut out road rage and general obnoxiousness in driving, but at least you are not personally directing it at others.  Perhaps the fact that many people race their peers makes it easier to be good.  (Or maybe not.  Competition can be sweeter when you know who you’re beating.)

e) yes, your car choice still says something about you.  But it can be a more interesting car, or one you would never hope to own, but like the look of.  I was quite chuffed to ‘drive’ the Morgan Aero, new car in the Morgan range, having previously lived up the road from the Morgan factory.

(If you don’t know about Morgans, look them up.  You may need to get on the waiting list now.  There’s another six years to wait meanwhile, but that’s plenty of time to get your Facebook rankings up.) 

Sensible mid-life crisis is in fact one of the categories of car, as you make your way up.  I’ve moved on from sensible, but am not in the flagrant ‘couldn’t care less’ category of the Millionaires Club, which Daniel has reached. 

Meanwhile Eric is racing happily too - in as yellow a vehicle as he can find each time.  Happy days.

Continue enjoying high quality bread made by friend: olive, seed, walnut etc.  Yum!

Leave book boxes and toy boxes accessible for a while longer.

Enjoy sitting room in new format; lack energy to put things back as they were.

Sit at dining table and admire birthday tulips - and feel that spring might even be somewhere at hand.

Has anyone got an extra weekend I could tack on to the start of this week??

Charity shops have long been on our high streets, and certainly within my sights for second hand books.  Now they seem to be getting bigger business, or perhaps rather, understanding how to make things easier for people to donate.

This week saw two different bags put through the door to encourage us to donate items.  Usually it’s clothes, shoes, linen.  You can safely watch any amount of clothes shows that encourage you to have a good sort-out of your wardrobe, smug in the knowledge that you didn’t need prompting.

The second was one of a newer type - they are open to you putting in other items, and even include the fateful words ‘bric-a-brac’, just in case you were in doubt as to how much in the way of household junk you could include.  They also included a useful bag design so you could a) get lots in and b) tie the handles at the top. all for the good in encouraging you to put in lots.

I’m starting to think that, for all of local councils encouraging recycling, charity shops are filling many of the remaining gaps.  I’m not saying that we should give them our dross - we shouldn’t - but there are always items that are not quite packaging for regular recycling, but that could find a new life somewhere else.

However, the key touch today, when I came home from work, was finding a card through the letterbox from the charity which did today’s collection.  They said thank you for the items, and they indicated just what a local charity shop could hope to achieve in a day, week, month, year, through our contributions.

Importantly, they encouraged me to keep going.  I’m sure I could choose to sell some of my stuff on eBay, but I’m now all the more excited to find out how much of a PhD I am indirectly funding to help with cancer research.  That’s better than a quality seller’s record - and much easier than all those trips to the post office to send off the items.

On the principle of awarding merit where it’s due, support Cancer Research, folks.  They know what they want, they declutter you better than an article in a woman’s magazine will do - and they remember to tell you why it matters.  

Now Broughton Street may be known for various things, but I’d suggest, increasingly, food.  It has the long-established RealFoods at the top, which does health food and much more, but also some brand new places that have opened up in the last few months.

So, started with RealFoods.  They are doing all the Gillian McKeith type stuff - lots of alternative grains and so on - but the shop must be a godsend to anyone with food allergies.  You name it as an alternative flour, they have it, plus masses of oriental ingredients, along with all the dried fruit, muesli to scoop out of a sack, and so on.  I came away with linseeds, and ful medames beans - the latter are very popular in Egypt, so I’ve read, and there’s a recipe I’ve been meaning to try with them.

Broughton Street also has Crombie’s, the high class butcher, well known for its sausages.  I decided to play fairly safe, and came away with some very smart beefburgers, which should be good to try. 

I missed out the fishmonger at the top of the street, also long established - Something Fishy.  I thought it might take too long to finish my shopping and head home, by which point the fish might be complaining a bit.  But it is an aim of mine to try proper butchers and fishmongers this year, so I can see what the difference is between supermarket stuff and the specialists.

So, now, to the two new arrivals.  Artisanal coffee, chocolate and honey can be had in a fairly new shop that also sells takeaway coffee.  Their owner only sells the coffee beans that he likes, but will happily recommend and let you sniff them to see which you like.  I made off with some Sumatran coffee which I think is meant to be his favourite.  My bag certainly smelt wonderful all the way home.

The other newcomer is a shop selling all the things you might need for cocktails.  Again, its owner is chatty, and knowledgeable.  He didn’t seem put off by me saying I wasn’t too good with drinking spirits, but told me more about fruit syrups, and so on.  He also has glasses and all the other kit for making cocktails.  I am hoping he will stock some fruit purees so I can finally try a Bellini (prosecco and white peach pulp). 

I didn’t go around explaining it was my birthday - thought that might be a bit obvious - but it was nice to have time to browse, and equally to chat with the shopowners.  Certainly RealFoods has so many different lines of stock that you need a good forty minutes just to look round and see what they have.

I should add that it’s been a happily foody morning too - my colleague who does her own bean sprouts, and has been coaching me with my first attempts, gave me some mung beans to try sprouting.  My manager found a couple of mini bars of dark chocolate to slip inside my birthday card.  And the piece de resistance was battenburg cake, brought in or for another newer colleague who shares the same birthday. (Can’t resist marzipan and cake combined.)

Meanwhile, it’s now about time for a cup of tea.  Nice thing about birthdays - the everyday pleasures as well as the special treats.  

January saw the return of both “Primeval” and “Torchwood”.  As each was new last year, their return is meant to offer both more of the same, and better…

Generally, so far, so good.  There are still plenty of dinosaurs in “Primeval”, and this time they are getting to roam around larger venues: shopping centres, office complexes.  I think there’s a theme park next week.  As a holiday company is supporting the programme through advertising - “holidays for you and your little monsters” - Dan and I are speculating whether the theme park is belongs to the holiday company and is therefore a further version of advertising…

Meanwhile, “Torchwood” seems to be aiming to be both darker and, well, lighter.  Doing an adapted version for children so that it can be shown before the watershed, as well as the original after 9pm, it’ll be interesting to see what is offered in each version. I anticipate that the violence will stay, in most, but I don’t know quite how much of the relationship jumping between the characters will get to stay.

However, there is also monster-lite.  Digital channels allow you to see ever increasing amounts of Star Trek, and all its variants.  At the time of writing, you can watch Deep Space Nine at 8pm every day.  With a repeated version at 9pm in case you got distracted the first time.  Clearly you can tell I know whereof I speak, but we try not to base too much of our lives around this.  Honest.

Why bother with monsters?  There’s other sci-fi that refuses to use them - “Firefly” has just humans, and the only monster-like characters are gradually revealed to be humans that have gone bad at the edge of space.  But there again, surely we have enough humans gone bad in real life?

It can be suggested (which really means I’m parroting a certain amount of writing about sci-fi in the newspapers) that when we have more ‘monsters’ around us in the world, we invent more in fiction or entertainment as a way of dealing with our feelings about the real-world ones.  In this current climate, where working out who is a ‘monster’, and who is not, is getting harder to do, having more ’rounded’ monsters in film etc may be a way of dealing with the difficulties of this situation.

Perhaps the one certainty is our monstrous appetite for scaring ourselves - in a safe setting…Contradictory.  But then, these days, so are the monsters.  “Battlestar Galactica” has made a reputation out of developing the characters of sensitive ‘baddies’ and ’goodies’ who are none too moral in their dealings with others. 

And if monsters show us what we are capable of, with all our own contradictions, then perhaps we need to remind ourselves occasionally what that is.  If only to fly our spaceships in the opposite direction.  

I like a spot of bulk catering, but I’ve not made soup for 25 before.  I’m quite looking forward to the challenge, which is really only making double a normal quantity, times three pots of soup.  I can make use of my enormous ladle (a wedding present which doesn’t get much use for quantities under 6 people), large cooking pots, etc.

We are probably feeding 30 at the cake stage, but as both of us are making cake, that’s only 15 each.  3 cakes a-piece should do the trick.  Mine all seem to be fruit related, but it’s also a case of s