The Rhyme* of the Ancient Cassandra *Lengthy Grumble

6.30am- Bastarding alarm goes off.  Hit snooze button.

6.47am- Finally give in and accept I have to get up and stop pressing snooze.  Glare hard at the Terror who disagrees with the concept of getting up and wishes to stay cosy and warm in my bed.

6.48am- Bang on Saffy's door, and receive assurances she is up.

6.49am- Physically drag the bastarding dog from my bed.

6.55am- Kick unwilling and protesting dog out for a piss.

7am-  Bang on Saffy's door and demand to know what the fuckety fucking fuck she is doing.  Receive assurances she is up.  Suspect assurances are but hollow and meaningless.

7.05am- Let dog in and feed it.

7.06am- Notice suspicious smell.

7.10am- Track suspicious smell to sodding dog, who has stood in his own shit, tracked it across the kitchen, up the hall and onto the sofa.  Vociferously blame Saff for not de-pooping the garden when asked.

7.12am- Have existential crisis.

7.13am- Start scrubbing dog shit, while screaming at Saff to get fucking ready and brush her teeth before she straightens her sodding hair.

7.24am- Finally chivvy children into car.  Drive to school bus like a maniac, whilst berating children for never helping round the house unless I nag like a naggy thing.  Wonder if perhaps it is my fault children do not help, as I have turned them into pampered middleclass brats.  Decide it is not my fault as I am a saintly and helpful person*, and they have clearly inherited all their lazy and selfish genes from the DC and TQ.

7.34am- Shove some unattractive porridge at the Beast.  Insist he eats it all, mainly out of general malice.

7.40am- Have tea and marmite toast.  Remember after eating the toast that I decided after the third bag of crisps last night that today would be carb free. 

7.50am- Read Daily Mail online.  Feel smug and judgemental.  Take comfort that at least I haven't sold my children's souls, like Shona Sibary. 

8am- Attempt to tidy up a bit.  Wonder if there's any point in putting away the gin.

8.30am- Remember I haven't made the Beast's packed lunch.  Open his lunchbox to find the interior smeared in yesterday's yoghurt, which has now dried on.  Confiscate the iPad in a fit of pique.

8.45am-  Finally bother to read the note that Scottish Water shoved through the door two days ago.  Realise it says they are turning off the water at 9am.  Panic fill kettles and pots and turn on the bath.

8.50am-  Blizzard starts.  Wave son off to school in it.  Grit my teeth and resolve to tackle de-crapping the garden.  Pick up shit in the blizzard, muttering darkly to myself.

9am-  Remember bath is still running, and water has not yet gone off.  Run inside and find bath overflowing. 

9.05am- Water goes off, as I attempt to mop up the flood in the bathroom.  Realise I have not actually managed to get washed, and the bath is full of ice water, that I am keeping for an unspecified 'emergency'.  Think about gin and search the sky for albatrosses.

9.30am-  Give in to the Terror's demands for a walk.  Meet fellow posh Border Terrier lady in the woods.  Spend a blissful fifteen minutes conversing with someone who understands.  Till the dogs fall out over a rabbit they are both attempting to kill and we must go our separate ways.  Cross torrential river with dog, lose balance and fall over.  Successfully save iPhone from the raging currents, but not my dignity nor poise.  Emerge dripping, to find dog has taken advantage of my distraction and scarpered.  Meet the nice retired vet neighbours, as I am standing like a drowned rat bellowing "YOU FUCKING DOG, WHERE ARE YOU?"  Confirming my suspicions that the little sod never goes far when he bolts, but just hides to annoy me, the Terror chooses this moment to appear, looking like butter wouldn't melt.  Recross the raging currents, hoping the wretched dog gets swept away.

10.30am- Return home, to find the Twat Bags neighbours have parked across the road from my drive again, inhibiting the Mighty Honda's passage.  Call police.  Speak to nice lady who agrees they are indeed twats**  Realise I have turned into the sort of person who calls the police about parking disputes, but my existential crisis is already so severe I cannot bring myself to care.  Consider not reading the Daily Mail so much, but discard this foolish notion, because otherwise how would I know what will give me cancer, then cure it; or who Katie Price is married to; or whether Suri Cruise is All Grown Up yet?

10.42am-  The glow of the Fires of Righteous Indignation fade, leaving me sodden, cold, grubby and still waterless.  With people coming for lunch at 12.  Mercy dash to M&S, where I squelch round and spend an unfeasible amount of money on quiche and salad.

11.14am- Stop off at the overpriced pretentious gym I pay £69 a month not to go to.  Spend too long in the shower, trying to get my £69's worth.  Try not to think about all the other months I've paid for and the true cost of this shower.  Think about existential crisis instead, and albatrosses.

12pm- Watch Other People's Children trash my house.  Lose the plot when one hits my Most Precious Dog, all thoughts of my wish to drown him forgotten.  Find existential crisis greatly eased by chocolate eclairs.

3pm- Survey the carnage, wonder why the police haven't come round yet.

4pm- Collect my ghastly children; dick around on Facebook instead of listening to them wittering.  Feel aggrieved that the forecast Snowmageddon is the only topic on the local FB pages, with people demanding to know the state of the roads, instead of having poorly spelt public spats about where they should leave their bins, and how dare farmers put cows in fields they might want to walk through.

5pm- Think about gin.  Wonder if it would be unseemly to be shitfaced if the police come.  Consider setting timer for six o'clock and legitimate gin. 

5.13pm-  Realise setting timer for gin was a pointless exercise. 

6pm-  Look!  S'an albatrosh.  Oh no, shorry offisher, I mishtook you for an albatrosh.  Would you like to hear my tale?  Here, have shome ginny gin gin.

*Nosy do-gooder
**Possibly not in so many words

SNOWMAGEDDON!!!!!! Or We Are All Dooooooooooomed!!!!

There is snow.  Not that much snow, but enough to cause fear and distress in the hearts of those feeble and pathetic creatures who are not as clever as me.  I, of course, possessing a Mighty Honda, a pair of Dubarry boots, and a brave and intrepid soul*, embrace the snow, for I welcome the opportunity to demonstrate to the world just how fucking clever I am, and just how stupid everyone else is. 

This time though, my snow day has been spoilt by twats.  It should be going so right.  The Beast is finally old enough to be sent out sledging in the field by himself.  The Terror is exhausted by running around in the snow, and sleeps instead of trying to kill things.  I have many ingredients for soup, and much flour to smugly make homemade bread, so I do not have to panic buy from the Local Shop, like the unprepared fools.  But I had reckoned without People, and their thwarting ways.

The day started well.  So well.  How smugly I smirked to myself as I bestrode the frozen fields, judging the other dog walkers as they slipped and slid in their inferior wellies.  No slipping for me in my insanely expensive 4x4 Dubes.  How I mocked their nasty fleeces and fluorescent water proofs, as I marched on, so cosy in my cashmere, and pitied them all their lack of pearls. 

The Terror, for once, even behaved like a normal dog and did bizarre things like coming when called, and not trying to kill packs of giant dogs singlehandedly**.  He even removed himself from a rabbit hole when admonished, saving me the ignominy of lying on my stomach in the snow, rootling around trying to grab his tail and haul him out.  This excellent behaviour left me in the unusual position of even being able to judge other people's dogs, for being pathetic, feeble creatures that needed to wear coats in the snow, not like my hardy Terror, who laughs in the face of all weather.***

Home from our walk, I had a good chuckle over the local Facebook pages, where there was much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth****, and dire warnings to drive nowhere on the snowy roads, for all was doomed, doomed.  Then I hopped in my Mighty Honda and popped off to the gym*****.  Such fun! 

I must confess I did indulge in a spot of panic buying while I was out, but only in Majestic- the idea of running out of wine fills me with horror.  I returned home, smugger than a smug thing, as I drove merrily up our hill behind a VW Passat sliding all over the place and blowing blue smoke as they over revved the engine, only to have my smug joy replaced by burning ire when I discovered the Twatting Twattish Twatty Twat neighbours had parked their shitty car across the road from my driveway.  Again. 

This has been an on-going issue for three years.  Our road is narrow.  The Twats have off road parking for at least six cars on their driveway, but they refuse to use it, even though if someone parks across the road from a driveway, it's nigh on impossible to reverse out without many complex manoeuvrings. I have explained this to the Twatting Twattish Twatty Twats many many times, including through the medium of sharply reversing into their car and shouting at them for it.  I have also tried parking across from their driveway to demonstrate the difficulties they cause me; and my personal favourite, standing in the street with the nice old ladies who live on either side of me and loudly discussing the Twats' shortcomings, both in parking and for being lazy, workshy, southern fops, who ponce around being all 'meejah' instead of having proper jobs.  Also, they once stole my hedgehog******

This time the DC assured me he had dealt with it.  He had spoken to He Twat, who had moved the car.  To a worse place. He had spoken to them again and they had promised to move it.  He went to the pub.  He came home and the car had moved four feet.  He went to 'speak' to them again.  It seems having fourteen stone of angry, swearing Irishman on your doorstep concentrates the mind wonderfully.  The car is now parked outside their own driveway, but I think it's time for us to move.   



*Some say I am just foolish and reckless, but they are stupid.  And wrong.

**I was going to say 'singlepawedly' but that seemed excessively twee.

***Except sunshine.  Sunshine makes him want to die. I suspect he may be a vampire dog. But luckily we live in Scotland, so sun is never a problem.

****Well, teeth were gnashed in the Enclave.  The Non-Enclavular Villages have to arrange an Annual Tooth Gnash, where they all gather by torchlight and solemnly watch each village's Tooth make a grand Procession to the Square, whence the Elder Wolf Man of each village bears The Village Tooth forth and all the Teeth are ceremonially gnashed together, to represent all frustration suffered over the preceding year.  Soup is served afterwards. 

***** Swam one length, then went in the Jacuzzi and steam room. 

****** The hedgehog theft still rankles so deeply, I may have to devote a whole separate blog post to it.  It was my hedgehog. And they stole it!  Twats!

Of Pearls and Print.

I have been chastised for my feeble and pathetic approach to blogging and have resolved to try harder.  I have also resolved to drink less gin and go to the gym though, neither of which are likely to happen, so don't hold your breath.

All the jolly, festive things I could have blogged about are no longer pertinent, as I was extremely busy over the festivities working my way through the 51 bottles of wine the DC had thoughtfully purchased to numb the pain of Christmas with the TQ. 

Suffice to say that in a break with tradition, I did not end Christmas Day crying in the garage with a bottle of Baileys for company, declaring my hatred of humanity in general and my family in particular.  This year I decided to cry in the dining room instead, due to the garage roof blowing off.  I must say the dining room proved a much better choice, having a) heating b) an armchair and c) lots of other booze as well as Baileys, and I think I shall make that my default flounce location in future.

In other news I have binned off the PTA, hurrah, such fun, joy of joys of joyous joys!  I am free as a bird to tell anyone and everyone to fucking fuck off as far as they fucking can, to my black, little heart's content.  Or I was, for about a week, when my desire to meddle, do good and annoy people all at the same time overcame me, and I signed up to help with the local newsletter ("It's not a newsletter Cassandra, it's a proper newspaper"  Despite it being only twelve pages long, six of which are obituaries, and only issued quarterly). 

This is not as dire as it sounds.  The newspaper is run by a coven of fritefly fritefly Grande Dames, who rule the village with an iron fist.  The good thing about associating with them is that I am young and sprightly by comparison, and also I don't have to explain why I talk like a BBC radio programme from 1932, because as far as they are concerned, that is how everyone should speak, and if you don't, you are a ghaaaaaastly oik, or one of the staff. 

I swathed myself in pearls upon pearls and draped many layers of cashmere about myself for the first meeting.  I drew the line at tweed, lest they thought I was taking the piss, but on reflection, I could totally have got away with it.  I perhaps overdid the pearls and cashmere slightly though, as I may have been a bit bling for the dowagers, judging by a few of the 'looks' cast through their lorgnettes.*

The meeting was blissful blissikins.  They know everything about everyone (I was slightly worried what they might know about me), and it turned out we all hate the same people.  Much of the meeting was devoted to how much they could publish about secret planning applications for the enclave, which may sound dullsville, but we do adore a good planning ding dong out here in the country.  My eyes must have grown saucer like and my jaw slack with wonder at the gossip being revealed, because eventually Clarissa felt compelled to snap "You realise all this is confidential Cassandra, and you must be extremely discreet" and I slumped disconsolately against Dorothy's divine silk cushions and resumed wondering how much her house was worth. 

I did however stun them with the revelation that I could do spreadsheets, which seemed to them a thing of wonder, and I was thus deemed worthy to be accepted into their number.  I twirled my pearls in acknowledgement of the honour bestowed upon me, and spoilt the moment rather by choking on a crisp.

*OK, maybe they didn't actually have lorgnettes, but in my head they did!

A Feat of Gin

It has alas, been rather too long since I last posted anything.  I would like to say that this is because I have been being tebbly tebbly busy and important, but actually it's mainly because I've been going out for lunch and dicking around on Facebook and buying cushions on EBay.  However, as I have now expanded to my full width and can't fit my giant arse on the sofa to look at Facebook in comfort due to all the fucking cushions, I have returned to you, my sweets!

Last weekend we ventured forth from The Enclave, to the ancient and venerable city of Stirling, there to attend a Gin Festival, no less! 

What a splendid plan, we thought!  What could possibly go wrong on a day where we would start drinking unlimited quantities of neat gin at 3pm?  Clearly, absolutely nothing at all!

Filled with joyous anticipation, we collected the Friends, and trundled northwards.  As the rain was pissing down, Mrs F and I hatched a cunning plan to give the grumpy husbands and their notions of moderation the slip, and demanded we be dropped off at the hotel where the vats of gin were, lest our hair was spoiled by the rain, while they, lacking hair as they do, went further afield to find somewhere to abandon the car for the night.

We were handed little bags as we went in, containing bumf and a tea cup.  Rather bizarre we thought, but nothing daunted, we pressed on, pausing only at a charming vintage tat stall to purchase some charming vintage tat before horrid husbands could appear and complain. 

Feeling very clever by then, we flung ourselves with joy at the first gin man, something called Boe Gin.  "Tea cups"  said the Gin Man.  We looked at him blankly and he explained the tea cups were to taste the gin in!  Gin in tea cups!  We were too delighted, and even more so when he filled our cups with a very strong G&T!  What was not to love!  Though the gin itself was unremarkable. 

We wandered on, still gulping our enormous cup of gin, to the next stand, which bizarrely was a Port stand.  I told the nice lady I didn't like port, but she disagreed and told me I did, and gave us pink port with tonic and strawberries, and white port with elderflower tonic, and tawny port with ice, and I agreed tha' akshly yesh, I liked port ver' mush.

We proceeded, hardly swaying at all, to Edinburgh Gin, where we had Rhubarb and Ginger Gin (too gingery); Elderflower Gin (meh); Raspberry Gin ( we already knew we liked that, as Mrs F and I had drunk a whole bottle a couple of weeks before) and finally their 57% proof Navy Strength Gin, which the man made us drink neat and was horrid and peppery and burnt like fuck.  I did however learn why it is called Navy Strength- because in the olden days, all the spirits given to the sailors had to be over 57%, so even if they spilled it on the gunpowder, the powder would still ignite*.  Oh damn this modern age and those pesky Health and Safety rules...

Next we wandered, possibly weaving slightly, to Strathearn Gin.  They had four gins and a very talkative whippersnapper.  We grew tired of waiting for the whippersnapper to stop chattering and pour us some gin and helped ourselves liberally to his selection, none of which we liked.  When he finally stopped yittering and turned his attention to us, he told us off for tasting them in the wrong order and spoiling our palates. 

We laughed scornfully** and tottered to a very nasty place with a burly bearded man who gave us a revolting gin made from hops.  We initially judged him for refusing our tea cups and dispensing his vile gin in little plastic shot glasses, but once we tasted how unspeakable it was, we were glad of his parsimony.  I have blocked the name of his distillery, I was so distressed by the experience.

At this point, as we squinted into the glasses, wondering if we could just hand it back and say "Yucksville", the husbands found us.  They had been sampling gin in another hall, but as they had decided to shun the tea cups as being a ridiculous foppishness, they had only had tiny taster thimbles of gin, as opposed to our large cupfuls.   However they appeared at a most opportune moment, as we were able to trick them into drinking the rank gin and run away from them again, pausing only to demand cash, in case we found more Lovely Things*** to buy.

And run we did, as fast as our inebriated little legs would carry us, straight into the arms of Rock Rose.  Mmmmmm, Rock Rose.  We liked Rock Rose.  Rock Rose Gin is made by an incredibly handsome young chap, all sort of dark and tousled and Heathcliffy, with big soulful eyes.  He forages the Caithness shores for his botanicals, doubtless striding a moor or two in a distraught fashion if he can't find the right gin making things.  Mrs F and I brandished our tea cups most coquettishly, and batted our eyelashes, while asking as many intelligent sounding questions about gin making as we could think of****, and trying not to giggle to each other like love struck school girls. 

It was unfortunate that the lady on the stand with him was his wife.  She forages too apparently, but I bet she doesn't do it in a dramatically romantic manner.  The wife revelation was rather sobering, and we drained our tea cups and fled, but not before agreeing that the gin was almost as divine as its maker- very light and crisp, with a delicate, floral flavour***** The husbands however, declared it too floral and girly, but then again they disapproved of our shameless flirting almost as much as Mrs Rock Rose.

To the next room, and Brockmans Gin.  Blackberry flavoured, or something.  We didn't feel the love, and he was not handsome and was a bit too Cock-er-ney for our refined tastes.  The husbands liked his gin though, but they were wrong.

The next stall had a most handsome young chappy, but he had a bevvy of women clustered around him; we judged them shameless hussies and did not deign to be in their desperate company and passed on to Burleigh's Gin.  The distiller was not so young, but rather debonair, and he was a jolly decent chap and for form's sake****** we asked him the ver' intelligent gin making questions we had asked hot young Rock Rose.  His gin was fucking divine.  Really, really, really amazingly good.  He had three: London Dry, Export Strength and Distiller's Cut.  They were all smooth, delicious and moreish, even neat, but by far the best one was Distiller's Cut.  It was the only one that was actually nice without tonic, without even a hint of a burn, and it had been made specifically for Martinis, a drink I always thought was a socially acceptable way of saying "I am a raging alcoholic who enjoys necking neat gin".  Made with the Distiller's Cut though, a Martini would actually be rather nice, in a shameless drunkard sort of a way.

Having sampled Burleigh's at length, we noticed the totty on the other stand had been deserted by his trollops and hot footed it over there quick smart, the husbands trailing resignedly in our 57% proof wake.  Pickering's Gin, this was.  Alas, he was yumtious, but his gin was not.  Peppery.  Bleurgh.  He makes it in a converted dog kennel in Edinburgh for some reason. 

At this point, the husbands gave up their attempts to urge restraint or avoidance of sexual harassment charges upon us and left us to our own devices to sample the remaining gins, which were Darnley's View- vile and dispensed by a very bossy and angry lady; and Makar Gin, made in Glasgow's only gin distillery- unspeakably awful, tasted like it had been scooped out the Clyde, though it maybe wasn't necessary for Mrs F to say that quite so loudly in earshot of the distiller.

We took an executive decision to return to Rock Rose, to enjoy both the view and the gin.  Our hopes were raised as we passed Mrs RR, heading away from the hall, and Mrs F shouted "Quick, RUN, she's left him alone."  We dashed to Rock Rose as quick as our gin soaked little legs could carry us, and were just settling in to the eyelash batting routine again, while he, clearly taking us for serious gin afficiondos, droned on about the distilling process, when Mrs RR, clearly having heard our battle cries, reappeared to defend her husband's virtue from the gin soaked Jezebels.  At the same time the husbands appeared and ignoring our demands for more gin, bore us off to dinner.

Dinner, all things considered, was fairly uneventful.  I demanded to take all the leftover steak home for the Terror, and the waitress was slightly nonplussed when Mrs F summonsed her with a demand for limes to take home, as there were none at the farm, but they duly provided us with three.  I'm not entirely sure why we thought it would be a good idea to sing The Hounds of Love (well, I say sing, we just sort of bayed) in the bar afterwards, waiting for the taxi, but the husbands shushed us quickly and only muttered a little about us being 'a bit much'.  We repaired, complete with foraged limes, back to the farm, there to drink more gin and make salacious noises about Rock Rose Boy. 

At some point another taxi came and took the DC and I home.  Most remarkable of all, I wasn't even slightly hungover the next day, which suggests gin is actually a health drink and I should partake of a lot more of it!

*I have carefully retained this useful fact, in I ever find myself on a eighteenth century ship.  I have been reading far too many Outlander books.

** Sniggered pissedly

***Tat

**** -Do you like making gin?
         -Is it hard (snigger)?
         -Can we have your babies?

*****Yes, we could still taste, and no, our opinion was not solely based on lustful thoughts about the distiller.

****** The husbands had caught up with us and we were attempting to pretend we were only interested in gin and were not Whores of Babylon.

Cassandra's Tuppence Worth On Independence or Everyone Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't I?

So apparently, there's some sort of referendum thing happening next week?  Just joking, the news of the vote on Scottish Independence has even penetrated my self absorbed little bubble, mainly by spoiling Facebook because everyone is posting boring political links instead of amusing pictures of cats and Buzzfeed quizzes that may or may not reveal my hidden depths. 

 

So I'll hold my hands up and say straight off: I'm a No vote.  Initially, I was a No vote simply because I don't like change, and also I was very worried there might be no Waitroses in an independent Scotland.  Also, just voting No was much easier than actually having to think about things.

 

But this has been a long and nasty campaign; and one that has forced me to actually do my own research*, and think about what being Scottish, or being British really means to me, and what independence would offer- for me, for my family and friends, and for Scotland and the United Kingdom.

 

I wasn't born in Scotland.  I wasn't even born in the UK.  I only have one British parent and I hold my British nationality through him.  I didn't spend my early years in Britain, but I've lived in Scotland for the best part of 25 years.  I spent most of secondary school in Scotland and I went to a Scottish university.  My children were born here.  I made my husband move here when we got married, because I loved Scotland and this was where I wanted to be, and to bring up my children.  The Scotland that has been poking it's head above the parapet over the last few weeks though, isn't a country I want to be part of.

 

I've always thought of myself as British, rather than Scottish.  Perhaps it's a throwback to living overseas as a child.  Certainly, in those days, it was England we returned to as 'home', not Scotland.  I have one dim and distant memory of visiting Scotland when I was six, for my great grandmother's funeral and recall it as a Narnia-esque world of ice and snow.**   But when we came here to live, in my teens, I found it a generous and welcoming place, despite my posh English accent*** 

 

By and large, it's always been like that.  It's a small place- the population of the whole country is just over half of London's, and wherever you go, there's a good chance you'll meet someone who knows someone who knows someone, or is from the same place.****  It's not all shortbread and tartan love- the sectarianism is a hideous and massive problem and there are areas of dreadful poverty and depravation, as there are everywhere in the UK. 

 

Up until now though, I'd always thought of Scotland as a pretty laid back, tolerant place to live.  Where, apart from the fucking bampots who think football equates to religion and that either of them actually matter, most people were prepared to live and let live, and everyone was pretty chilled.  A country where I can step out my door and take a photo like this:

This Scotland that I know, and have come to love; a country that was reminiscent of a slightly chaotic uncle who was a bit over fond of the sauce and inclined to tactlessness, but was ultimately well meaning*****, seems to have been replaced by another, far nastier entity.  A Scotland that seems a cross between an angry petulant toddler determined to throw all its toys out the pram, and a professional victim who refuses to take any responsibility for its actions because it wants to blame everyone else.

 

I dislike so many things about this campaign.  I am terrified by the Yeses' consistent dismissal of facts and figures as 'scaremongering' or 'bullying'.  I'm not terribly wild about the Nos' lack of passion for their cause.  Signs and banners have been defaced on both sides, which is just childish and petty. 

 

The thing that has angered and upset me most though is the sheer unfairness of it all.  This referendum is not just about Scottish independence.  It's about potentially dismantling the United Kingdom, yet England, Wales and Northern Ireland get no say in the matter.  Allowing sixteen and seventeen  year olds to vote has been decried as a dreadful idea, by both sides, and by those sixteen and seventeen year olds, who find it's causing factions and peer pressure at school. 

 

Worst of all though, is this notion that everything that is wrong with Scotland, is England's fault.  That everything that is wrong in Scotland could be fixed by breaking away from England, because England has been doing its level best to OPPRESS Scotland, for no other reason than because it can. 

 

England is 'The Auld Enemy'.  For most people, for so long, a joking and affectionate insult.  Like calling your skinny sister 'Fatty' or your strawberry blond brother 'Fanta Pants'.  Deeply insulting from anyone else, but from you, when said with love, just a family joke.  But this campaign has changed this.  England now is actually the enemy.  England is the alleged cause of all Scotland's woes.  Even, according to some total and utter fuckwitted fucktards, England is an 'invading, occupying force' in Scotland (the fact Scotland actively sought the Union, so England could bail them out of their financial straits has been somehow overlooked).  Apparently, nothing that is wrong with Scotland, is Scotland's fault.  England did it all.  Scotland wasn't even there; a big lad did it and ran away.

 

As part of this union, Scotland joined an Empire that spanned the world and shaped history.  If it had never become part of the United Kingdom, would Scotland be what it is now?  Would the Clyde have been deepened and widened, so it could become the ship building centre of Britain?  Would Glasgow be the second city of the Empire, if Scotland hadn't been part of the United Kingdom?  Clydeside may be dying, but without the Union, it would never have existed. 

 

A massive selling point of the Yeses, is that in an independent Scotland, we'll have the government we voted for.  Will we?  Given half the country is against independence, how will we all have the government they want,  if the SNP succeed?  The thing about democracy is that there's always someone who doesn't have a government they voted for.  I had thirteen years of it.   It's not that big a deal.  It's certainly not worth destroying Britain for.  

 

There's so many more things  I want to say.  So many points I want to make.  But it comes down to this.  I don't want to live in a country that can't forge independence without taking responsibility for itself.  And I don't want to live in a country that has demanded independence at all costs, because it wants it, like an angry toddler demanding its dummy, and it'll thrweam and thrweam and thrweam until its thick otherwise.  And I most of all don't want to live in a country that can only rally independence votes by insulting its closest neighbours.  I'm happy to be Scottish.  But I'd rather be British.

 

* I read the Facebook links

** And shouting and violence due to my sister locking herself in the bathroom while my parents were at the funeral and the family friend who was looking after us having to break the door down.  Totes Scottish!

*** Still have it.

**** Except Dundee.  Dundee is a bad place.  Don't go to Dundee. 

*****  I may have confused 'Scotland' with Prince Philip.

 



Perth Show

Last week, we went Proper Country!  Mrs Farmer was taking her Lovely Horse to Perth Show and suggested we accompany them. 

Now, I knew Perthshire is fritefly posh and awfully double-barrelled.  I was in halls at university with a boy from Perthshire; the first line of his address that didn't contain a part of his surname was 'Perthshire'.  He was devastatingly handsome, and Maddy and I referred to him as 'Beautiful Charlie.' 

He used to pop by my room late at night, complaining he couldn't sleep, and I would make him camomile tea and we would have deep and meaningful chats.  Until Maddy found out, and put a stop to it, by buying him his own packet of camomile tea and firmly telling him that now he wouldn't have to bother Cassandra any more.  Cow. 

It was probably for the best, my extremely egalitarian father still hasn't forgiven me for the time I brought an Old Etonian home; he insisted on loudly referring to the poor blameless boy as 'The Chinless Wonder'.  He'd have disinherited me if I'd married Proper Poshness.  But then again, I would have had a castle and an Aga, so probably wouldn't have much cared!

I digress!  Back to Perth Show!  I jumped at the idea of mingling with betweeded horsey folk all day, and dashed to TK Maxx to buy a new hamper, deeming my old one too tattered to be worthy of Perth. I packed enough food to feed most of Perthshire; donned the Dubarrys; swathed myself in every pearl I owned, and piled emergency Barbours, children, hampers and The Terror into the Mighty Honda and beetled off up the A9.

Along the way, I passed many signs advertising the horse trials at the end of the summer, at Beautiful Charlie's ancestral pile, and wondered if perhaps our eyes should meet today, across a ringful of prancing horses?  Of course, the fiendish children, the Terror and my wedding ring would rather put a dampener on any Jilly Cooper style frolics.  Then the sat nav beeped a warning of impending speed cameras, and the Beast farted and the Terror bit him, and I wrenched my mind from impure thoughts to concentrate on the road and shouting at the children again.

Arriving at Perth Show was bliss.  Admittedly the hamper was very fucking heavy and we had to carry it for miles, and the Beast moaned and the Terror was actually foaming at the mouth with excitement, but once we located the Farmers and their splendid trailer and stood around beside the horse, being horsey, it was divine! 

Dubarrys and breeches and tweed and girls galloping around on great big horses with their hair in shiny buns as far as the eye could see!  It was just like Riders!  I was almost foaming at the mouth with excitement too! 

Saff put the years and years of riding lessons I have forked out for in the secret hope she will one day marry Poshness to good use, and did horsey things with Mrs Farmer, while I stood a goodly distance away and said helpful things like "Nice horsey" and hoped no one would ask anything equine related of me, at which point I would have to admit I am scared shitless of the big fucking bastards and know nothing about them.

Eventually we had to leave the safety of the trailer and make our way to the ring (eyes peeled for Beautiful Charlie all the while).  Ringside, I forgot all about His Beauteousness, as firstly the horses here were very bloody big and scary and charging around with their enormous sodding great bollocks bouncing in the breeze, towing craggy faced, tweedy women, who were actually laying about them with a whip shouting "Clear the way."  I edged closer to Mr Farmer, whimpering slightly.  He attempted to comfort me by explaining it was a stallion class coming out.  I was not comforted.  Jilly had said nothing on the subject of insane stallions and their uncontrollable bollocks (apart from Rupert, obviously). 

It got worse!  Mr F wandered away to talk to someone, probably about cows, and Mrs F's class was delayed.  She thrust the rope at me and breezily said "Hold her, will you, while I ask the steward what's happening."  Saff, my only hope of salvation, had taken the Terror for a walk in a futile effort to calm him down, and I was alone, holding the Lovely Horse, responsible not only for her, but also for the Beast and Farmer Boy, who were intent on getting kicked by some or other mad horse, and still surrounded by enormous great stallions dashing around like something from the Charge of The Light Brigade.

Wailing to the boys to stop standing behind giant horses, I gingerly patted the Lovely Horse, and mumbled my stock phrase of "Nice horsey, good horsey".  She bit me.  I did not drop the rope, though I considered crying.  She then set off in one direction, while the boys went in another.  I hoped against hope to be rescued, ideally by Beautiful Charlie, but Mr or Mrs Farmer would do.  No rescue, either romantic or prosaic happened.  I tried to pretend I was Tory at the first show, when Jake asks her to hold a horse, and she does it, even though she is scared.  It didn't really help with my two pronged issue of boys heading in one direction and horse heading in another, and all of them ignoring my futile pleas for them to stop and come back.  Finally the fucking horse found its friend, and I pretended we had meant to go over there all along.  Mrs Farmer returned and I flung the rope at her, then nobly volunteered to take the boys round the show to see what there was.

What there was, was mini quad bikes.  It cost me £40 to entertain them there for the next hour, but we were far from the horses, so it was totally worth it.  Hunger drove us back to the trailer, and the vast picnic, where we found a jubilant Mrs Farmer, insisting on pinning a plethora of rosettes about her person.  Mr Farmer made a rude comment about where she should pin them, adding if she could get the ribbons to twirl in different directions, he would be very impressed.  For shame, such smut amidst the tweed!

Picnic over, disaster struck!  I was left in charge of the horse again!  Farmers wandered off to look round the show, and Saff, who had found a horsey friend, volunteered to take the boys off to the amusements again.  NO!  No, don't leave me with that devil beast! 

But I was left.  The Lovely Horse was at least tied up this time, and I stayed well away from its bitey teeth.  I arranged myself elegantly on the ramp of the horsebox, draped my pearls more becomingly, bribed the Terror with sausage rolls and waited for Beautiful Charlie to appear, stop with a start and say "Cassandra?  Is it really you?  My God, you're even lovelier than you were when you were 18!  I've never stopped thinking about you, come away with me now to my enormous great castle and vast acreage and many Agas, I cannot live without you!"  At which point I would tragically renounce him, explaining I must return to my husband and children, and alas, his acres and Agas would have to find someone else.  "Don't be sad Charlie, you must think of me no more.  Find another, Charlie.  Adieu."  Probably.   Or maybe I'd just abandon the horse, who was having a terrifyingly copious piss by now, and the children, and gather up the Terror and ride off into the sunset.  Anyway, Charlie failed to appear and declare himself, so I just dicked about on Facebook till the others returned.

That evening, we were going out in town, to meet friends.  As I handed the DC my empty glass for the umpteenth time, and slurred "Gin me" and he trotted off to the bar, I decided I hadn't done too badly.  I may even have mumbled "I luff you, thingy" as he steadied me to the taxi.

On The Bonny Bonny Banks!

So the original day out, that I had spent two blog posts leading up to, was now so long ago that I can't really remember what happened, except that I burnt the sausages on the retro mini-barbecue and was declared 'A bit much' for hanging bunting around the cove where we had settled for the day.

Instead, we have the joy of today's happy trip- warning:  it has blood; it has mild racism; it has the attempted murder of more ducks.

The summer holidays have been passing in a blur of swim camp, outings, barbecues and general japes and frolics ahoy!  Not all the blur has been caused by Pimms and Sauv Blanc, but a fair amount has.

Today we betook ourselves up to the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond (I don't know if we took the High Road or the Low Road, as far as I know, there is only one).

Parking was a joy as ever, with me swearing profusely at the children to "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" and terrorising foreign tourists out of the way in my Mighty Honda, gesticulating rudely and shouting "J'ai un quatre par quatre" at them.  Normally it's only the Great Unwashed and old people I need to terrorise out of the way, but these bloody Games going on in the Big Town have filled the entire country with foreigners who don't understand the Fucking 4x4 rules*- Mad Ann in the Shop confided in me loudly this morning "Between you and me Alice, we've been run off our feet with strangers.  And I mean strange."

Car park subdued to my rule; Mighty Honda abandoned parked under a tree; many hoards of children chivvied to the fucking adorable deserted cove Maddy and I found many years ago; vintage deckchair erected for maximum pretentiousness; sandwiches dispensed; dog lost; dog found; dog lost and found several more times, I settled back to enjoy the sun.  I had even brought a book.  As soon as I opened it, all hell broke loose.

The Beast, who had been wading out towards the island off my Cove, along with Saff and the Hellion, somehow 'bashed his knee on a sharp rock' and started screaming about BLOOD!!!!  I had not anticipated entering the water and was therefore delightfully clad in an array of floaty florals, and had to hurtle from my deckchair and plunge into the water to rescue him. I realised as I tucked my skirt into my knickers that my phone was still in my pocket, so dashed back to shore and threw it at Farmer Boy who had declined to go into the water yet.  I flung myself back in, retucking skirt in knickers,  the fucking piece of shit £1.50 Primark flip flops broke when I attempted to wade in them, and all whilst bellowing at the fucking Terror, who thought it was a super game.

This then was the scene that awaited the jolly French family, who decided to colonise MY FUCKING COVE!  Really, if you need any more proof of Uncle Matthew's conviction that all foreigners are fiends, it is surely that they decided a good place for a picnic would be beside an insane screaming woman, flashing her pants, four vile children and a delinquent dog.

As I patched up the Beast, who continued to scream until I slapped a plaster on and the offending blood was hidden, at which point he was miraculously cured, Saff yelled "Mummy, the Terror has finally learnt to swim."

He had!  I was so proud, he had previously never gone deeper than his ankles, skipping around the shallows like a skittish maiden aunt, but he had finally taken the plunge.  He swims with determination, but little grace, uttering an unattractive snorting noise as he does, which just adds to the theory of dogs being like their owners!

None of this dissuaded the French though, so I must confess we embarked on a ruthless campaign the Duke of Wellington would've been impressed by.  The Terror was a most excellent weapon in our guerrilla warfare, as were the small and unpleasant boys, and even the morose teens.  I commend the French on their staying power in the face of our onslaught, but eventually they broke. 

They withstood the marauding dog and my loud, constant and futile attempts to call the marauding dog back.  They were stoic in the face of the bellowing small boys playing cricket very badly and noisily.  They endured the morose teenagers deciding to join the game of cricket by shouting abuse at the small boys.  But the Terror cracked them in the end.

Obviously disappointed his marauding had not been better appreciated and keen to show off his new found swimming skills, he plunged into the depths of the loch in pursuit of a large duck and her brood of ducklings.  Eventually the angry quacks roused me from my book (I had obviously tuned out the children screaming and shouting about this, as I tune out most of their bloody racket).  Feeling that letting the dog chase her with the ducklings in tow was rather unsporting, I called him off.  Remarkably, he obeyed, which makes me suspect he had literally got himself into deep water and was wondering how to get out of it without losing face. 

This did for the Frenchies, resignedly they packed up their goods and chattels and trudged off.  Le Pere Francais gave a half hearted "Au revoir" as they passed.  Five minutes later, victory secure, we decided we'd had enough and went home too.


*Rule 1- I have a fucking 4x4, so you can all just fuck off out of my way.
  Rule 2- Yes, I am fucking parking here actually.
  Rule 3- Fucking 4x4s only give way to bigger fucking 4x4s.  And tractors.