Fuel Prices and Coat-hangers

It’s been all quiet on the blogging front these days. Not sure why. I’m due a rant surely. But nothing’s been bugging me sufficiently. Except for the price of fuel around these here parts. £1.30 a litre is fucking ridiculous.

Did you know 62% of this price is the tax element (according to the BBC)?

I use my car mainly for work. Any driving I do outside of that is minimal. It takes around £160 a month for me to do what I need to do in the course of my duties. This equates to an extra £99.20 in tax a month.

This is lazy politics and weak government. A budgetary black-hole? Let’s tax those sad fuckers in their cars. They always pretend there is a sub-text of trying to get people to use their cars less and public transport more. My arse. It’s ALL about the income.

Eeeesh, and that was me not having a rant.

And here’s something to counter the pissy mood of my ranting...

The Queen of Chaos (my twin sister) was over for dinner the other day. She makes me smile. Given that it was the New Year we got to talking about the old days in our old neighbourhood and how on New Year’s Eve everybody was in everybody else’s house. Given that Sis and I were teenagers the nearest we got to an alcoholic drink (and here’s where I ruin the hard-drinking label we Scots have) was Advocaat and lemonade. Anybody still drink that? Is there even any alcohol in it? QC is convinced to these days that this is where her egg intolerance comes from.

One particular family came up for discussion. There were five or six brothers and one sister. She was a wee bit of a mentaller. Our theory was that she was in constant competition with her brothers. Anywho, she took QC for a walk. To the local mental hospital. Where they wandered the wards –as you do – until a nurse spotted them and threw them out. Before this they even got as far as having a juice in the canteen among some of the patients. One of whom took a liking to the two young girls at the nearby table and thought he should show his appreciation by masturbating under his robe.

This caused the mentaller to giggle. Sis loves a giggle and can never help but join in. Eventually she had to ask, “What are we laughing at?’

You’ve got to hanker back to those simpler times, no?

That same night, after they got home with their decency still intact they decided they should go to mass. QC put on a blue dress she received in a present. (She hated this dress, but she was made to wear it.)

Half an hour later, while the priest was reading from The Gospel According to John (it might well have been one of the others, give me a little licence here people) QC got to wondering why her dress was so uncomfortable across the back and shoulders. Trying not to draw attention – and of course everyone nearby was watching – she stretched a hand up and over to her shoulders, reached inside her dress, felt something solid ... and pulled out a coat-hanger.

Cue a fresh set of giggles and QC and her mate being thrown out by in irate member of the St Vincent de Paul Society.

Now that’s what you call a wardrobe malfunction.

Do you have any similar stories? Go on, share...

Xmas Past.

..

I’ve created a monster, people. Oh, and I watched some movies.

That’s my response when folk ask the question, “What did you get up to over the holidays?”

The monster?

The Queen of Chaos was over for dinner and I showed her how many people have been reading about her in my two festive blog posts.

Oooo, she says, do you get any money for this? (with the subtext of: and if you do, what’s my cut?)

She was, it is fair to say, crestfallen when I explained how blogging works.

That’s rubbish, she says.

Then as the meal progressed, she ended every sentence with: hey, you could put that on your blog. Your readers will piss themselves laughing.

We met in town two days later. She had just taken back a bracelet I bought her (too big – who ever heard of a bracelet being too big? Or is that just a guy comment?) and somehow the shop assistant read £14.99 on the receipt as £1.

QC told her where to go. My brother is no skinflint, she told her. No way would he buy a present for me that was only £1.

Then as chance would have it, our paths crossed. She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me in the direction of the shop, like a terrier pulling its owner to save the distressed child, all the while talking about 100 miles per hour about the rip-off merchants who tried to give her £1 for “that beautiful bracelet”.

A new shop assistant tried (unsuccessfully) not to laugh as QC went into a fresh tirade about how “loaded” I was (I wish) and how generous I was and how I always spend a fortune on her and how there was no way I would only spend £1 on her and how I am not a skinflint and how I had also bought a lovely dress for her and it was nearly £40.

It was like she considered her minutes long monologue as proof of the price of the bracelet. (And was further evidence, if I ever needed it that my sister is obsessed with knowing the price of things.)

That’s all very nice, Sis, I said, but all you need to do is show the nice lady the receipt.

Oh, Right. She wrestled in her cavernous bag (one question – do women REALLY need to carry all that stuff?) for about thirty minutes. You ever tried to dig a hole in the sand as a kid? You dig down, pile up the sand on the sides of the hole and it just slips down and fills back up again? This was what was going on with QC and the Giant Bag. Eventually, after inflation rose a few notches, I grew another couple of gray hairs and the wee fella grew a giant pimple on his chin – the receipt was produced with a triumphant, Ta Da.

The first shop assistant appeared, she admitted her error and QC was given the run of the shop to pick a replacement. All’s well that ends well – especially since the shop now had its sale on and everything was half price.

You could put this on your blog, said QC as she left the shop with her new goodies.

As a wee aside – some of the movies I watched over the last few days...

Avatar – yes, again. And again the wee fella ranted about how the movie might look good, but they’d basically nicked the storyline. And it was gross to see all those giant blue butts. And now they’re kissing, he says. How gay is that? (It seems I tuned out for two minutes and the meaning of the word has changed again.)

Casablanca – I put a gag on the wee fella and watched this in peace.

As I did with It’s A Wonderful Life – and yes, I had a lump in my throat.

New Town Killers – Dougray Scott goes psycho. Cool and edge of your seat type of stuff. No comments from the wee fella as I removed the gag and sent him to bed. With bread and water.

Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis (Welcome to the Sticks) – this is a French comedy gem that you’ll sit watching with a smile stuck to your face. A man is transferred to the north of France – Nord Pas de Calais. Everybody in every other part of France would hate to go there. But our man falls in love with the place and the people and when he goes back to the south he feels he has to pretend that he is miserable or his family and friends will simply feel he has gone mad. A character in the movie summed it up when he said that everyone cries twice when they visit the region. Once when they arrive (because they hate the thought of it) and once again when they leave (because they have fallen in love with it.)

Loved it. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. Buy, beg or borrow a copy now, today.

The Expendables – the wee fella said this was the worst movie he’d ever seen. Wasted by having all these amazing action stars and giving them like a minute on screen and that guy (Stallone) is ugly and can’t act and talks funny. His rant was fairly impressive and suggests that he might be taking over here quite soon.

And I quote – “Interesting movie having all of these action stars from the eighties and nineties, but the problem is that the story is average, half of the actors do nothing – what is the point of having Willis and Schwarzenegger and giving them 5 second roles? And then have Stone Cold Steve Austin and have him barely speak. So what do I think of it? I give it a fricken 2 out of 10. Don’t rent or buy, it is a useless piece of crap.”

I fear, I may have created another monster.

Xmas Eve Dinner with the Queen of Chaos

Remember the Queen of Chaos (QC)? My gorgeous twin sister? She's coming for dinner today. Along with her boyfriend and our Dad.

And this gives me the excuse to re-post a blog that I offered my 3 readers in September 2009.

It is fair (and truthful) to say that the last time QC attempted to make me a meal was Christmas 2005. Christmas Eve to be exact. QC and my Dad had been at mine for Sunday lunch around half a dozen times since I moved into my new place six months previously.

I foolishly decided to annoy her. So I pointed out that in the 12 years QC had been in her flat, we hadn't even been invited over once. She has a lovely wee flat, nicely decorated, wardrobe BURSTING with clothes but a kitchen as well-equipped as an abandoned warehouse - she's way too busy being fabulous to worry about things like kitchen utensils. Besides, she says, what more do you need than a plate, a knife and fork?

In any case, she reacted to my badgering, picked up the oven glove gauntlet and invited Pops and I over to hers for dinner on Xmas Eve. And whatsmore, she announced proudly, she would provide everything – food and drink.

This was great. I was going to be spending most of my Xmas with my girlfriend and given that my pet hate at this time of year is the way people stock up pre-Xmas as if for a world food shortage - this meant I could avoid the queues in the supermarket altogether.

Genius.

The week before Xmas I receive a panicked phone call from QC. She doesn't have a table. We would all have to eat off our knees in front of the telly. Dad hates eating off his lap, she says and isn't it nicer to eat at a table while not staring at a TV screen? I had to agree. And didn't I have a nice big
dining table, she helpfully pointed out? We could have the meal at yours, she said, but I will
still provide all of the goodies.

This was of course, the point of no return. The moment in time you realised while watching a movie or reading a novel where disaster could still be averted...

OK, I answered. I can see the sense of that. My place. Your food.

-What's on the menu, I ask?
-prawn cocktail, trifle and some Cava, was the reply.
-what, no main course? I ask.
-the prawn cocktail will be so big you won’t need anything else. Besides, she continued before I could question her any further, don't you think we all eat too much at Xmas time? I kinda like the idea of a lighter meal at the start – a kind of warm up for the main event.

This was of course, the point of no return 2.  The point in the movie where the handsome actor  opens the door and bravely chases the knife-wielding thug down the poorly lit street...

QC phoned the next day to arrange for me to pick her up at the train station on Xmas Eve and to let me know that Dad would be bringing the trifle.
- Wasn't that nice of him to offer, she asked? And he didn't need too much prompting either, she added.

I pick her up around 6pm on Xmas eve from the train station. She looked great as usual – long blonde hair, four feet eleven, size six – wearing a new top, if I'm not mistaken. (I’m a female shopaholic partner’s worst nightmare – I notice these things) It's only when she's in the car and belted in that I realise that she wasn't too heavily laden with goodies. In fact the one carrier bag she was carrying was decidedly on the light side. I'd seen dog walkers having just scooped the poop with busier carrier bags.

Ignoring the voice of worry in my mind I drive us both to my place. How long does it take, she asks as I park in front of my house, to defrost a bag of prawns?
-They aren't fuc - I will myself into a state of calm - what does it say on the bag? I ask with as polite a voice as I can muster. It is Xmas after all.
-Cannae read it in the dark. Let's go inside, she answers. She walks in front, I follow with growing alarm. And a growing sense of pissed-offness (Again, I`m a poet, I can make up words) as I realise that most shops will now be closed for the holidays and we are all at the mercy of whatever QC is holding in that wee bag.

Inside, I point her in the direction of the kitchen. It's all yours, I tell her, while walking to the bathroom to wash my hands Pontius Pilate stylee.

- Awww, not going to help me, QC asks.
- Nut, this is your gig, gawdhelpus – I'm now moving resolutely into asshole brother mode.

I had an open plan kitchen, living room area – so I switch on the TV and have a seat. Arms and legs crossed. This is her party. Leave her to it.

QC reads the back of the prawn packet. Shit, she says, eight hours. Eight hours, she repeats in case I haven’t heard her the first time - what are we going to do? 

- Naw, I say. You! What are you going to do? This is your fecking party.

She starts humming which is her defence mechanism. She fills the kettle and then sticks her head in my fridge – which is pretty much empty – hoping that any activity will diffuse the irritation I’m no longer bothering to hide.

-Where's your Thousand Island dressing, she asks?
- Why would I have fecking Thousand Island Dressing? I’m shouting now...It dawns on me. You don't have any dressing? Is that not what turns a prawn salad into a prawn cocktail?
- Phone Dad, maybe he'll have some, she suggests.
- He’s strictly a brown sauce man, why the feck would he have fecking thousand island dressing…I have another moment of clarification. QC's bag of goodies didn't clink on the way in – it barely even rustled.
- Where's the Cava? I ask.

QC brings her head out from behind the fridge door. It must have been nice and cool in there, she’s looking less pink.
The kettle pings. QC turns towards it.
- Where's the Cava, sis?
- I did have it, says QC as she fixes the collar of her top, in my trolley. In the supermarket. Then I saw this lovely wee shirt. Phone Dad. Do you think he'll have some Cava?
 - Awfurfuksake sis, the auld yin wouldnae know Cava from a hole in a rock face. Whisky, lemonade, tea milk and water, that's your lot.

My head is now in my hands, which is why I don’t see what happens next.

In the kitchen QC has split the prawns into three piles and has poured boiling water over them.

-See, she says with triumph in her voice, they've defrosted.
-Where did you learn that wee trick, I ask.
-My pal.
-Then what does she do with them?
-Cooks them – throws them in a stir fry or something. Why are you asking? She chews on the inside of her cheek and hums at the same time, wondering where the hell I'm going with this and if she should stick her head back in the fridge.
-We'll be eating them raw.
-Yes
-In a salad.
-Yes – what's your problem? They've defrosted. They're now edible.
- Edible and quite possibly poisonous, ya numpty, I answer and storm into the kitchen. Well given that it was about 7 steps, my storm was probably more like a mince.

Right, I take a deep breath. I need to retrieve this situation. AndIneedtocalmdownandIneedtostopshouting. It is Christmas after all.

-Where's the salad, I ask.
QC hands me a small bag.
-Awfurfu…that’s it? I am now roaring while holding a wee tub of pre-prepared salad from Morrisons.
-What's wrong with that, asks Una? I eat this all the time – and it sometimes lasts me for a couple of days.
- What are you, a size zero? There's three of us.
I open the wee bag and empty it on to a plate. I count four lettuce leaves, four cherry tomatoes and some shredded beetroot. Barely enough for one – nothing but a garnish for three.

Just then Pops walks in the door. We both stop what we’re doing and stare at him.

- I hope you're no hungry, Una giggles.

Then she and I collapse over the kitchen worktop laughing like a pair of drunks. Dad stands in the doorway, wearing an expression that suggests he's wondering what he brought into the world, while holding a large bowl of Morrison's raspberry trifle.

QC serves him a cup of tea while I rummage – more in hope than expectation - for something in my bare cupboards that we can eat.

I find two baking potatoes, a tin of tuna and a block of cheese (this was in my pre-grated days).

Xmas Eve Dinner menu 2005 was as follows.

Starter – Tres Petite Salade – one iceberg lettuce leaf, one cherry tomato, a sprinkling of shredded lettuce and a drizzle of olive oil.

Main – baked potato. Dad got the tuna. Sis and I shared the cheese.

Dessert – Raspberry Trifle.

Mmmm. Yum. The festive season has never been the same since. Now nothing says Christmas to me more than tuna and cheese.

The Giant Feckin' Xmas Tree

It has become something of a May Contain Nuts  - what's the word? - therapy? thing? annual thing? that on the day I put my Xmas tree, that I repeat the blog post where I describe the provenance of said tree.

Eeesh, I can come up with the word provenance but the word about the regular thing about the tree escapes me. Anywho, without further ado, here you go....

. ..as I place the tree in the middle of the floor and clear the eagle’s nest from its branches I remember the day it came into my possession. Just three short years ago...

......cue swirly music (violins and shit like that)....

....the phone rang. It was my sister. The Queen of Chaos (QC). For any newbies reading this, she’s a lovely lady. She’s four feet eleven inches, a size six, thinks tact is something you stick your posters on the wall with and enjoys a lifelong blonde moment.

 I had earlier been at the swimming pool with my son where he invented a new sport, Dad Surfing. (In case you don’t value your lungs and you’d like to try it, all you need is a swimming pool with a current and a child who is happy to stand on your back while you – and this is where it gets tricky - float) It was great fun...and this explains my uncharacteristic willingness to step in and help. I was in a good mood.

Long story even longer, QC had been offered a free second-hand Xmas tree. It was seven feet tall, cost £190 new just 2 years ago and it apparently, and with no pun intended, a cracker. Only thing is QC doesn’t have a car and is a master of the passive aggressive. I don’t have car, she says - like I don’t know this – and how am I going to get the tree home to my flat? In Troon? 

Like I’ve also forgotten where she stays.

I load the car with self and son and drive to meet her. She has a piece of paper in her hand with directions to the home of the tree. The directions to the current home of said tree were lousy. We got lost in a council estate with one road in and one road out. Several phone calls later, with shouted instructions from my backseat sister, me snapping at her and the wee fella giving me a row for being bossy with my twin, we made it.

A nice lady is standing by the door of her flat on the third floor wearing a look of relief. The look of someone who has just been told; yes it's piles but yes we can cure you. She directed us to a cupboard in the communal hall. And opened a door. The only thing I saw was a huge white box. You know those containers you see on the back of ships? Roughly the size of one of those.  

-that’s your tree, says nice lady and runs back in doors before we can say anything else.

I couldn’t lift the box off the ground, never mind lifting it out to the car, but with the wee fella pushing and me dragging and QC carrying a free box of 20,000 lights the tree owner no longer needed, we made it.

By which time my shirt was sticking to my back, my jacket was torn in three places and I was wishing I only had brothers.

I looked at the box. I looked at the boot. Not going to happen. I open up the boot (or as the wee fella calls it; the trunk) in the vain hope that Doctor Who has been working nearby. Na. Not a chance. The tree box wouldn’t fit in the boot. There was a large green skip by the side of the road and it had some space. But the thought of dumping tree lady’s gift was too much and we resolved to try harder.

 While all the pushing was going on QC was standing to the side wearing an expression of mild panic. It’s too big, she says. I don’t have big enough corners in my house, she says. You have it and I’ll take yours. It’ll be lovely for you and the wee man to have a nice big tree, she says trying to sell me the idea.

- Can we get it in the feckin’ car first, says I.

- Dad! says the wee fella.

Eventually I worked out that if I moved the front seats forward that there might be room in the back. With a lot more sweat, more pushing and some muttered curses, we made it. And bonus, we even managed to close the car doors!

 Of course we now had no room for three passengers – three passengers, two front seats. So the wee fella (who’s nearly as tall as his aunt) sits on QC’s lap and I drive to my house, which is nearer– but I have to go the long way as the short way goes past the police station. We all hold our breath and look straight ahead for the ten minutes it takes to get to my house – this is known to make you invisible to the police. Try it and see if it doesn't.

 We get home safely – no blue flashing lights. I couldn’t possibly drive to QC’s like this. I can’t leave the wee man at home on his own while I take the tree to hers. Besides, I can’t face the thought of lifting this humongous box up the three flights of stairs to QC’s flat. I face the realisation that I’m going to have to accept this bloody tree.

 The next trick is to get the box out of my car. We all adopt the same activities as before – the wee fella pushes, I pull and QC stands chewing on the strap of her handbag wearing an expression of alarm. Eventually – presumably in the same time it takes a crane to lift a container from the ship on to the wharf, something gives – the car door handle- and the box is out the car and with more pushing, pulling and sweat, is in my front room.

 While my son and I catch our breath QC tears the industrial tape from the box – you know the silver duct tape kind that serial killers use in all the movies – just to see how big this tree is.

 Think Norway’s annual gift to the British nation.

            -it’ll be lovely with lights on it, says QC prompted by the fact that the room is so dark because the tree is blocking out the light from the window and who is by now desperate for me to take it off her hands. She paused, where are the lights? Did you leave the lights behind, she asks me?

-I was kinda busy with a big feckin’ box, sis, says I.

- Dad! says the wee man.

QC’s last memory of the lights was while standing watching me wrestle the tree container into the car. She must have put them down somewhere, she surmises. So we all jump back in the car and go back to the tree lady’s building …and there in a dark corner of the car park was our box of lights. Hurrah. Nobody had stolen them. No doubt any prospective thief had been put off by the thought of the increase to their electricity bill once they were switched on.

A wee man was walking his wee dog past the scene as we screeched to a halt. QC jumped out of the car before I could pull on the handbrake.

-forgot my lights, she explained to the man as if it made perfect sense, while she swooped for the box. I caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder as I circled out of the car park – his chin was resting on the back of his dachshund.

By this time we had all worked up an appetite so we decided to go to Pizza Hut. My stomach was saying, do not go home, do not pass “Go”, go straight to food. The unhealthier the better. The stomach was to be obeyed. QC generously offered to go halfers for any food.

 Relieved the worst of it was over, we had a wee laugh about our adventures on the way to the restaurant – but it was to be an illusory moment of calm for when we parked and climbed out of the car QC realised she didn’t have her handbag. I reasoned that it must be in my house and besides I was not driving another inch without throwing something down my throat. And it didn’t matter it if wasn’t a meal acceptable to polite society.

By the time we got a seat in Pizza Hut and ordered our food, QC had worked herself into a frenzy of worry. Her house keys. Her mobile phone. Her purse.

Oh my fucking god, she screeched. Maybe the handbag wasn’t in my house. It was on the backseat of the car while I was pushing the tree-box in. Maybe it got pushed out the other end. Maybe she left it in the same car park as the box of lights. Maybe it was in the tree lady’s house. Maybe the tree lady had emptied her purse, had been shopping on-line with her credit cards and was now happily phoning a porn phone line in Chile using her mobile phone.

 While QC borrowed my mobile and phoned all of her friends to try and find out the tree lady’s number, the wee fella gave me another row.

– you’re different with your sister, he says, much more bossy.

 Nobody had tree lady’s number. Cue more worry and more doomsday scenarios – her house keys were in her handbag, I would have to kick in her front door. No, I couldn’t do that as she has mental neighbours and while she was sleeping they would ransack her flat. She thought about it some more. Yes, she said, kick in my door. More thought. NO, she couldn’t do that ‘cos she’d have to stay awake all night and she was a monster if she didn’t get her sleep. Could she even get a locksmith on a Saturday night? Shame she fell out with another neighbour – the witch-  ‘cos she used to keep a spare key for her.

The food arrived and was eaten in Guinness Book of Records time. The wee man didn’t even have time to get that tomato smear on his wee cheeks.

 There was a collective holding of breath all the way from Pizza Hut to my house. The wee fella worried that QC was going to have a rubbish Xmas. I worried that I was going to have a mad woman on my couch for the rest of the weekend and QC just worried.

 We pulled up in front of my house and all of us took a deep breath and paused in prayer before we get out of the car.

I unlocked the front door to my house and QC almost knocked me into next door’s garden in her rush to get past. The wee man and I looked at each other and waited at the door, afraid to look.

We heard a squeal. She’d found it. Care to guess where?

Under the tree.

long time no speak...

It’s the end of the week, the sun is shining, Bob is darting at my feet as I walk about the house and the wee fella is up in his room shooting up some space bandits on his xbox. At least I think it was “bandit!” I heard him shout at the screen.

I have been delinquent in my blogging duties of late – like you care – so I thought I should post a quickie to say hi.

Hi.

So what’s been happening? It was my birthday this week. The Queen of Chaos who as my 3 regulars will tell you is my twin sister, gave me a card with some cash inside and explained her lack of imagination with the question, ‘What do you buy the man who has everything?’

I answered, ‘More.’

Thing is I’m a long way from having everything, but I’m not really into STUFF anyway. Give me a few gadgets, some RnB and a pile of books and I’m happy. Oh and an e-reader.

I’m continuously tempted to buy one and then I talk myself out of it. I get lots of free books and I like to hold the book in my hand, so why do I want an electronic thingummyjig? Anyone out there got one? What’s your impressions? If I buy one should I go Kindle or Sony or some other version? And why would I want 3G on one?

Anywho, the best present I received wasn’t in fact a present but a review copy of James Lee Burke’s next novel due out in November (I have very kindly provided a photo of the jacket above), and a review copy of Bateman’s next offering, Dr Yes.

Genius.

Oh and a (small indie) publisher asked to see the full book (one of my crime novels) after reading the first three chapters. They also want a marketing plan. I believe this is fairly common on the other side of the pond...is it becoming common practise over here as well? Anybody got any experience of this.

Right better go. Bob has very cleverly managed to pee on the puppy pad (a large absorbent towel thing) but get most of it on the floor.

Christmas 2009 Remembered

Oh well. The annual food/ drink/ over-indulgence fest is over for another year and it’s back to old clothes (work suit) and porridge (with honey and cinnamon) tomorrow morning.

Despite my weary attempts at cynicism in this blog I am actually a simple soul and I love the whole shenanigans. Without it the winter months would be just too miserable.

What are my highlights, I hear you ask? As usual, my twin-sister (Queen Of Chaos) provided a few “moments”.

She bought me a jumper. So did my dad.

-Did you like it, she asked.

-Yes, I replied.

- Did you like my jumper better than dad’s, she asked.

- No, was the reply. (QC is brutally honest, so I thought I should answer the question in the same way she might - truthfully. Don’t get me wrong, she’s never deliberately nasty. She just doesn’t possess the edit button the rest of us have.)

- Aww, she replied, I feel a wee bit offended.

- Not sorry, I said, you wouldn’t want me to lie to you, would you?



Dad also bought QC a jumper. Over Boxing Day dinner the conversation went something like this...

- Dad, see that jumper you bought me?

- Aye.

- I look like shit in it.

Cue much laughter from everyone around the table.

The wee fella was also a big presence during the holidays. As part of his Xmas gifts I bought him DJ Hero for his Xbox. He was delighted with it. Big beaming smile. The conversation went like this...

- THANKS Dad. That was really thoughtful of you.

- What age are you?

- 11 and three quarters. Why?

- You sound about 31 and three quarters.

- You’re weird.

For Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve) I said he could stay up with me. There were some strong comedic moments on BBC 1 Scotland earlier in the evening with Still Game – “enhanced” by the moments when I had to translate the following “baw bag” (scrotum) and ”baw hair” (a hair found on the aforementioned scrotum). Then BBC Scotland resorted to the tried, tested (and failed) Jackie Bird (WHY?) to bring in the New Year with some folk/ pop musicians. As soon as the first fiddle was strummed the wee fella was out of the door – give me a shout when it’s nearly midnight, he said. This stuff is rubbish.

The bells rang out. Fireworks exploded across the TV screen.

- Eesh, it’s only another year. Don’t know what all the fuss is about.

- You’re only 11...

- ...and three quarters.

- ...and three quarters. But wait until you’re my age, a new year becomes a chance to review your life and all the things you want to achieve.

- You’re not THAT old, he replied, and I don’t understand the rest of what you just said.

The Queen of Chaos and the Tree

I put my Xmas tree up last night. Then I lay down for an hour to rest. Said tree is HUGE.I should have phoned in some people to help me wrestle it from the loft. Took me three trips up and down the stairs to get it through the doors and into the living room.

It’s not so much the height, it’s the girth...this is me with my index finger resting on my bottom lip and wondering where I’ve heard that before.

As I placed the tree in the middle of the floor and cleared the eagle’s nest from its branches I remembered the day it came into my possession. Just two short years ago...

......cue swirly music (violins and shit like that)....

....the phone rang. It was my sister. The Queen of Chaos (QC). For any newbies reading this, she’s a lovely lady. She’s four feet eleven inches, a size six, thinks tact is something you stick your posters on the wall with and enjoys a lifelong blonde moment.

I had earlier been at the swimming pool with my son where he invented a new sport, Dad Surfing. (In case you don’t value your lungs and you’d like to try it, all you need is a swimming pool with a current and a child who is happy to stand on your back while you – and this is where it gets tricky - float) It was great fun...and this explains my uncharacteristic willingness to step in and help. I was in a good mood.

Long story even longer, QC had been offered a free second-hand Xmas tree. It was seven feet tall, cost £190 new just 2 years ago and it was a cracker. Only thing is QC doesn’t have a car and is a master of the passive aggressive. I don’t have car, she says - like I forgot this – and how am I going to get the tree home to my flat? In Troon? Like I’ve also forgotten her address.

I load the car with self and son and drive to meet her. She has a piece of paper in her hand with directions to the then currrent home of the tree. The directions to the then current home of said tree were lousy. We got lost in a council estate with one road in and one road out. Several phone calls later, with shouted instructions from my backseat sister, me snapping at her and the wee fella giving me a row for being bossy with my twin, we made it.

A nice lady is standing by the door of her flat on the third floor wearing a look of relief. The look of someone who has just been told; yes it piles but if you use this cream.... She directed us to a cupboard in the communal hall. And opened a door. The only thing I saw was a huge white box. You know those containers you see on the back of ships? Roughly the size of one of those.

-that’s your tree, says nice lady and showing a surprising turn of speed for someone in her condition (I'm now convinced she has piles) runs back in doors before we can say anything else.

I couldn’t lift the box off the ground, never mind lift it out to the car, but with the wee fella pushing and me dragging and QC carrying a free box of 20,000 lights the tree owner no longer needed, we made it outside.

By which time my shirt was sticking to my back, my jacket was torn in three places and I was wishing I only had brothers.

I looked at the box. I looked at the boot. Not going to happen. I open up the boot (or as the wee fella calls it; the trunk) in the vain hope that Doctor Who has been working nearby. Na. Not a chance. The tree box wouldn’t fit in the boot. There was a large green skip by the side of the road and I checked. It had some space. But I wasn't about to give in after all this work.

While all the pushing was going on QC was standing to the side wearing an expression of mild panic. It’s going to be too big, she says. I don’t have big enough corners in my house, she says. You have it and I’ll take yours. It’ll be lovely for you and the wee man to have a nice big tree, she says trying to sell me the idea.

- Can we get it in the feckin’ car first, says I.

- Dad! says the wee fella.

Eventually I worked out that if I moved the front seats forward that there might be room in the back. With a lot more sweat, more pushing and some muttered curses, we made it. And bonus, we even managed to close the car doors!

Of course we now had no room for three passengers – a driver, two passengers and one unencumbered seat. So the wee fella (who’s nearly as tall as his aunt) sits on QC’s lap and I drive to my house, which is nearer– but I have to go the long way as the short way goes past the police station. We all hold our breath and look straight ahead for the ten minutes it takes to get to my house – this is known to make you invisible to the police.

We get home safely – no blue flashing lights. I couldn’t possibly drive to QC’s like this. I can’t leave the wee man at home on his own while I take the tree to hers. Besides, I can’t face the thought of lifting this humongous box up the three flights of stairs to QC’s flat. I face the realisation that I’m going to have to accept this bloody tree.

The next trick is to get the box out of my car. We all adopt the same activities as before – the wee fella pushes, I pull and QC stands wearing an expression of alarm. Eventually – presumably in the same time it takes a crane to lift a container from the ship on to the wharf, something gives – the car door handle- and the box is out the car and with more pushing, pulling and sweat, is in my front room.

While my son and I catch our breath QC tears the industrial tape from the box – you know the silver duct tape kind that serial killers use in all the movies – just to see how big this tree is.

Think Norway’s annual gift to the British nation.

-it’ll be lovely with lights on it, says QC prompted by the fact that the room is so dark because the tree is blocking out the light and who is by now desperate for me to take it off her hands. She paused, where are the lights? Did you leave the lights behind, she asks me?

-I was kinda busy with a big feckin’ box, sis, says I.

- Dad! says the wee man.

QC’s last memory of the lights was while standing watching me wrestle the tree container into the car. She must have put them down somewhere, she surmises. So we all jump back in the car and go back to the tree lady’s building …and there in a dark corner of the car park was our box of lights. Hurrah. Nobody had stolen them. No doubt any prospective thief had been put off by the thought of the increase to their electricity bill once they were switched on.

A wee man was walking his wee dog past the scene as we screeched to a halt. QC jumped out of the car before I could pull on the handbrake.

-forgot my lights, she explained to the man as if it made perfect sense, while she swooped for the box. I caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder as I circled out of the car park – his chin was resting on the back of his dachshund.



By this time we had all worked up an appetite so we decided to go to Pizza Hut. My stomach was saying, do not go home, do not pass “Go”, go straight to food. The unhealthier the better. The stomach was to be obeyed. QC generously offered to go halfers for any food.

Relieved the worst of it was over, we had a wee laugh about our adventures on the way to the restaurant – but it was to be an illusory moment of calm for when we parked and climbed out of the car QC realised she didn’t have her handbag. I reasoned that it must be in my house and besides I was not driving another inch without throwing something down my throat. And it didn’t matter it if wasn’t a meal acceptable to polite society.

By the time we got a seat in Pizza Hut and ordered our food, QC had worked herself into a frenzy of worry. Her house keys. Her mobile phone. Her purse.

Oh my fucking god, she screeched. Maybe the handbag wasn’t in my house. It was on the backseat of the car while I was pushing the tree-box in. Maybe it got pushed out the other end. Maybe she left it in the same car park as the box of lights. Maybe it was in the tree lady’s house. Maybe the tree lady had emptied her purse, had been shopping on-line with her credit cards and was now happily phoning a porn phone line in Chile using her mobile phone.

While QC borrowed my mobile and phoned all of her friends to try and find out the tree lady’s number, the wee fella gave me another row.

– you’re different with your sister, he says, much more bossy.

Nobody had tree lady’s number. Cue more worry and more doomsday scenarios – her house keys were in her handbag, I would have to kick in her front door. No, I couldn’t do that as she has mental neighbours and while she was sleeping they would ransack her flat. She thought about it some more. NO, she couldn’t do that ‘cos she’d have to stay awake all night and she was a monster if she didn’t get her sleep. Could she even get a locksmith on a Saturday night? Shame she fell out with another neighbour – the witch- ‘cos she used to keep a spare key for her.

The food arrived and was eaten in Guinness Book of Records time. The wee man didn’t even have time to get that tomato smear on his wee cheeks.

There was a collective holding of breath all the way from Pizza Hut to my house. The wee fella worried that QC was going to have a rubbish Xmas. I worried that I was going to have a mad woman on my couch for the rest of the weekend and QC just worried.

We pulled up in front of my house and all of us took a deep breath and paused in prayer before we get out of the car.

I unlocked the front door to my house and QC almost knocked me into next door’s garden in her rush to get past. My son and I looked at each other and waited at the door, afraid to look.

We heard a squeal. She’d found it. Care to guess where?

Under the tree.

Dinner with the Queen of Chaos

Remember the Queen of Chaos (QC)? My gorgeous twin sister? Given that I’m pretty much housebound at the moment, she has been keen to come to the rescue. I could visit and make your tea she suggested, keep you company. Her rescue attempts have been thwarted however, because...

1. She lives 10 miles away.
2. She doesn’t drive
3. Usually when she comes to see me I have to make like a taxi.
4. My ankle is not quite flexible enough yet to drive.

When I pointed this out to her she thought for a split second and said, Oh well, never mind.

Both of us are relieved, it is fair to say. The last time QC attempted to make me a meal was Christmas 2005. Christmas Eve to be exact. QC and my Dad had been at mine for Sunday lunch around half a dozen times since I moved into my new place six months previously.


I foolishly decided to annoy her. So I pointed out that in the 12 years QC had been in her flat, we hadn't even been invited over once. She has a lovely wee flat, nicely decorated, wardrobe BURSTING with clothes but a kitchen as well-equipped as an abandoned warehouse - she's way too busy being fabulous to worry about things like kitchen utensils. Besides, she says, what more do you need than a plate, a knife and fork?


In any case, she reacted to my badgering, picked up the oven glove gauntlet and invited Pops and I over to hers for dinner on Xmas Eve. And whatsmore, she announced proudly, she would provide everything – food and drink.


This was great. I was going to be spending most of my Xmas with my then special friend (we have since split – 1, 2, 3 awww) and given that my pet hate at this time of year is the way people stock up as if for a world food shortage - this meant I could avoid the queues in the supermarket altogether.


Genius.


The week before Xmas I receive a panicked phone call from QC. She doesn't have a table. We would all have to eat off our knees in front of the telly. Dad hates eating off his lap, she says and isn't it nicer to eat at a table while not staring at a TV screen? I had to agree. And didn't I have a nice big
dining table, she helpfully pointed out? We could have the meal at yours, she said, but I will still provide all of the goodies.


This was of course, the point of no return. The moment in time you realised while watching a movie or reading a novel where disaster could still be averted...


OK, I answered. I can see the sense of that. My place. Your food.
-What's on the menu, I ask?
-prawn cocktail, trifle and some Cava, was the reply.
-what, no main course? I ask.
-the prawn cocktail will be so big you won’t need anything else. Besides, she continued before I could question her any further, don't you think we all eat too much at Xmas time? I kinda like the idea of a lighter meal at the start – a kind of warm up for the main event.



This was of course, the point of no return 2. The point in the movie where the handsome actor opens the door and bravely chases the knife-wielding thug down the poorly lit street...



QC phoned the next day to arrange for me to pick her up at the train station on Xmas Eve and to let me know that Dad would be bringing the trifle.

- Wasn't that nice of him to offer, she asked? And he didn't need too much prompting either, she added.


I pick her up around 6pm on Xmas eve from the train station. She looked great as usual – long blonde hair, four feet eleven, size six – wearing a new top, if I'm not mistaken. (I’m a female shopaholic partner’s worst nightmare – I notice these things) It's only when she's in the car and belted in that I realise that she wasn't too heavily laden with goodies. In fact the one carrier bag she was carrying was decidedly on the light side. I'd seen dog walkers having just scooped the poop with busier carrier bags.


Ignoring the voice of worry in my mind I drive us both to my place. How long does it take, she asks as I park in front of my house, to defrost a bag of prawns?
-They aren't fu - I will myself into a state of calm - what does it say on the bag? I ask with as polite a voice as I can muster. It is Xmas after all.
-Cannae read it in the dark. Let's go inside, she answers. She walks in front, I follow with growing alarm. And a growing sense of pissed-offness (Again, I`m a poet, I can make up words)as I realise that most shops will now be closed for the holidays and we are all at the mercy of whatever QC is holding in that wee bag.


Inside, I point her in the direction of the kitchen. It's all yours, I tell her, while walking to the bathroom to wash my hands Pontius Pilate stylee.


- Awww, not going to help me, QC asks.
- Nut, this is your gig, gawdhelpus – I'm now moving resolutely into asshole brother mode.


I had an open plan kitchen, living room area – so I switch on the TV and have a seat. Arms and legs crossed. This is her party. Leave her to it.


QC reads the back of the prawn packet. Shit, she says, eight hours. Eight hours, she repeats in case I haven’t heard her the first time - what are we going to do?

- Naw, I say. You! What are you going to do? This is your fecking party.

She starts humming which is her defence mechanism. She fills the kettle and then sticks her head in my fridge – which is pretty much empty – hoping that any activity will diffuse the irritation I’m no longer bothering to hide.

-Where's your Thousand Island dressing, she asks?
- Why would I have fecking Thousand Island Dressing? I’m shouting now...It dawns on me. You don't have any dressing? Is that not what turns a prawn salad into a prawn cocktail?
- Phone Dad, maybe he'll have some, she suggests.
- He’s strictly a brown sauce man, why the feck would he have fecking thousand island dressing…I have another moment of clarification. QC's bag of goodies didn't clink on the way in – it barely even rustled.
- Where's the Cava? I ask.

QC brings her head out from behind the fridge door. It must have been nice and cool in there, she’s looking less pink.
The kettle pings. QC turns towards it.
- Where's the Cava, sis?
- I did have it, says QC as she fixes the collar of her top, in my trolley. In the supermarket. Then I saw this lovely wee shirt. Phone Dad. Do you think he'll have some Cava?
- Awfurfuksake sis, the auld yin wouldnae know Cava from a hole in a rock face. Whisky, lemonade, tea milk and water, that's your lot.

My head is now in my hands, which is why I don’t see what happens next.


In the kitchen QC has split the prawns into three piles and has poured boiling water over them.
-See, she says with triumph in her voice, they've defrosted.
-Where did you learn that wee trick, I ask.
-My pal.
-Then what does she do with them?
-Cooks them – throws them in a stir fry or something. Why are you asking? She chews on the inside of her cheek and hums at the same time, wondering where the hell I'm going with this and if she should stick her head back in the fridge.
-We'll be eating them raw.
-Yes
-In a salad.
-Yes – what's your problem? They've defrosted. They're now edible.
- Edible and quite possibly poisonous, ya numpty, I answer and storm into the kitchen. Well given that it was about 7 steps, my storm was probably more like a mince.


Right, I take a deep breath. I need to retrieve this situation. AndIneedtocalmdownandIneedtostopshouting. It is Christmas after all.

-Where's the salad, I ask.
QC hands me a small bag.
-Awfurfu…that’s it? I am now roaring while holding a wee tub of pre-prepared salad from Morrisons.
-What's wrong with that, asks Una? I eat this all the time – and it sometimes lasts me for a couple of days.
- What are you, a size zero? There's three of us.

I open the wee bag and empty it on to a plate. I count four lettuce leaves, four cherry tomatoes and some shredded beetroot. Barely enough for one – nothing but a garnish for three.

Just then Pops walks in the door. We both stop what we’re doing and stare at him.

- I hope you're no hungry, Una giggles.

Then she and I collapse over the kitchen worktop laughing like a pair of drunks. Dad stands in the doorway, wearing an expression that suggests he's wondering what he brought into the world, while holding a large bowl of Morrison's raspberry trifle.


QC serves him a cup of tea while I rummage – more in hope than expectation - for something in my bare cupboards that we can eat.


I find two baking potatoes, a tin of tuna and a block of cheese (this was in my pre-grated days).

Xmas Eve Dinner menu 2005 was as follows.

Starter – Petite Salade – one iceberg lettuce leaf, one cherry tomato, a sprinkling of shredded lettuce and a drizzle of olive oil.

Main – baked potato. Dad got the tuna. Sis and I shared the cheese.

Dessert – Raspberry Trifle.

Mmmm. Yum. The festive season has never been the same since. Now nothing says Christmas to me more than tuna and cheese.

Housework

It’s always nice to get a long weekend. Shame the sun took an attack of shyness though. So what did we do? Went to see Wolverine with the wee fella and he gave it ten out of ten, which is on the generous side. I would have given it 9.5. But what does he know, he’s only 11. Actually I would give it 7.5, but the joke wouldn’t have worked then. There’s lots of explosions, the action never lets up and the bad guy gets his comeuppance. What more can you ask for? The Hugh Jackman groupies – i.e. Sheila and Gillian will love it; he runs through the forest in the skuddy.

Now its time to get ready for the rest of the week and I’ve got an ironing that would choke my pal’s chocolate Labrador. Sweartogod, this dog could eat towels for Scotland. I should have enlisted the help of my sister; the Queen of Chaos (QoC) when she was over. As she doesn’t have a P.C. of her own (she’s too busy spending her cash on looking glamorous to join the digital age) I took the opportunity to introduce her to her online alter ego. She loved it. Realises it is all done with affection and besides the comparison with Kylie appealed to her vanity. After reading a few postings she paused and pursed her lips – will I make any money from this, she asked? Only if you get the puppies out and we set me up as your online pimp, was the answer. Her response to this suggestion was in the negative, no matter how much I told her Kylie lookalikes could make on the web.

Whenever we meet up again after a few days of absence her capacity for speech astonishes me afresh each time. I mean, how could I possibly forget how much she talks? She even chased me into the kitchen at one point when I made a move to put on the kettle, just to make absolutely sure I didn’t miss a word. An hour later I had to stop her following me up to the loo. It truly is a wonder of the world. And quite exhausting. Also quite fatal, when combined with her inability to edit the words that stream from her mouth.
For example...

...we enter the living room. We sit down. She looks around herself still talking about whatever she was yakking about in the car. I expected some kind of comment, because me and housework is like me and watching TV while celebrities dance/ skate/ drive/ date/catch swine flu. It just ain’t going to happen. Now your relative might run a finger along the fireplace and look pointedly at the dust that is now masking their fingerprint. Not, QoC. Without pausing for breath she seamlessly changes the conversation.
- I’m so jealous, she says.
- How’s that, I ask.
- The way you can leave your house in the morning when it’s like a hovel.
- Was...hovel... really the word you were looking for, I ask while looking round at the melee that is my living room, trying not to be offended.
- Yeah. Hovel, she answers while watching some boy bland on MTV.
I’m now thinking that this could be the blueprint for future interactions with people. It can only be easy being totally honest when the reaction of the person you are speaking so bluntly to doesn’t reach you.

Chocolate and other stuff

Looking at this picture,its a shame this isn't scratch n' sniff, innit? Or scratch, scrape from your fingernails and eat.

I was sniffed at in the office this morning. A woman pressed her nose against the flesh of my neck and made appreciative noises. What’s more she had all her own teeth and everything.

I want chocolate.

I’m cheesed off because the Manchester United v Arsenal semi-final is on sat TV and I only have council house sports on my telly. Mind you, the Barcelona/ Chelsea game didn’t live up to the hype. So maybe I’m wasting energy.
A thought, after listening to the commentators the other night crowing about how the EPL was the best league in the world and how 3 English teams had made it –yet again- to the semi-finals of the world’s greatest football team competition. ..there was a total of 6 Englishmen in the starting line-up for all 3 teams. Let me put that another way; that’s 6 out of a possible 33. Man Utd also had a Scot and an Irishman if we want to generously beef up the numbers, but it surely doesn’t make good reading for the caretakers of the English game. Fabio Capello, the Engurland manage was spotted in the crowd at the Nou Camp the other night. Should have saved your cash, Fabio.

Just read Kris Boyd on the beeb website saying he doesn’t regret giving up playing football for Scotland. For those who don’t know/ care he “retired” from international football at the grand old age of 25 after the Scotland manager left him on the bench during a high profile game. Now I don’t care what side of the Old Firm he plays for but I would just like to say one thing to “100 goals for ‘gers” Boydie; grow up, son. It should be an honour to play sport for your country. Take a look at David Beckham. He was ridiculed; effigies of him were burnt in public, he was used as pawn in a crap manager’s power games (Steve McLaren anyone? No, didn’t think so)and still he came back for more. He’s an example to every professional sports person out there. Whether or not you like the hype that seems to surround him, he works hard at his game, at pleasing his fans and at fulfilling his responsibilities as a prominent person in the public eye (Rebecca Loos aside). However, we could do without the adverts with him in his scanties. Nothing to do with feelings of inadequacy, I have to add. I too could stuff a pair of socks down the front of my y-fronts.

I want chocolate. Deliberately didn’t buy any during the weekly shop. 'Cos I would just eat it all.

Back to the sniffing, I can’t say I’m all that effective in an olfactory way. I’ve had the one bottle of aftershave since my 40th birthday (not yesterday, I might add. Nooooo, I hear you cry) and I often read work from female writers and admire their ability to bring their sense of smell into their writing. Is the varying effectiveness of this particular sense part of the whole male/female difference?

Thinking in terms of members of my family I have one sister who could double as a sniffer dog at airports. I swear she can smell a fart before it hits the air. My argument is that particular skill has developed because she expects it to be one of her own. Readers of earlier postings will have already been introduced to my sister, the Queen of Chaos. She’s a size six, four feet eleven with long blonde hair and looks about 15 years younger than her birth certificate states. She is also it is fair to say and without bias, very, very pretty and obsessed with bowel movements. Think Kylie with IBS.

And thinking about this issue from an evolutionary point of view. ..men were the disposable gender sent out to fight big beasties and bad men who came to rape and pillage. An acute sense of smell would have just gotten in the way. I can just see a group of men charging into battle...and pulling up shouting, whoa...get a load of that. Or. You can’t make me fight, sarge, that battle ground is absolutely minging.

The chocolate craving has passed. I should be congratulated. Tomorrow I celebrate by scratching, sniffing then eating a bar of Cadbury’s.

Introducing...the Queen of Chaos.

My sister was born on the 7th of September 1962 at 3am. I popped out 7 minutes later. There are several differences between us (most notably our gender) Sis is a slender 4ft 11ins to my chunky 5ft 8ins; she has a full head of long, blonde hair and I follow the “moss doesn’t grow on a busy street” styling.

So when we met people and they ask us if we are identical, the answer - what part of the word “identical” are you struggling with – is replaced with a polite smile and a simple no.

One of my favourite occasions when someone questioned the nature of our twin-ness (I’m a writer, I’m allowed to make words up) was when Sis introduced me to a new neighbour.

‘Hi’, says Sis, this is my twin brother. The neighbour and I exchange smiles and shake hands. Her hand hangs from her wrist like a limp fish. At least its dry I think as I shake it.

‘You don’t look much alike for twins,’ says the neighbour, displaying her finely tuned powers of observation.

‘We used to,’ answers Sis totally unmindful that I am standing beside her, ‘before Michael lost his hair and put on all that weight.’