I set off for Millport in high spirits. Not only was I by myself for five glorious days, but I privately quite enjoy spring cleaning, and that was my mission . Clean carpets, wash curtains, tidy cupboards.. I sat on the train to Largs and made myself a long list as I ate my cheese and tomato roll. I started to wonder if I’d be able to fit it all in in five days.
The weather was fantastic, clear and sunny if very cold. I wasn’t sure it was exactly good drying weather, but I was going to try. I also promised myself some long walks on the beach, at least every day.
First to do, I decided was to shampoo the carpets. Last year I bought a machine- it spits water out into the carpet and then sooks it up. Well. That’s the theory.
Several passes over the carpet revealed that while there was plenty of solution going into the carpet, it didn’t exactly seem to be sooking it up very well.After a bit I tried standing on the front of the machine. Aha! result. Lots of dirty water gurgled into the collection chamber in a satisfying way . Boy, that carpet was mucky. However, once standing on the machine at the front, I realised I couldn’t push it from the other side. Obviously. I tried jumping from the front to the back, then I tried pushing the machine down with my hands and sort of pushing it along…Sandra from next door came to watch,and brought me a well earned cup of tea. We agreed that it was basically a design fault- it just doesn’t make enough contact with the carpet to sook it up properly. Och well, I thought, it’ll dry out – I’ve got the storage heaters on at full blast..
George St also needed some attention, the kitchen was finally finished and I was beside myself with excitement at the thought of getting some tidying up in there too. While I was waiting for the carpets to dry, I thought I would trot along to George st.
Everything looked fine. It looked better than fine. At last I had a sink, a tap, a wee two ring hob, and some kitchen cupboards… Hang on, I thought to myself, something funny going on with the sink…ah. It’s not actually connected up to the waste pipe. Ah. It’s not going to fit into the waste pipe…
On the way back to Crawford st- and I have to point out that I spend a lot of time scuttling between flats, and it’s a full ten minutes walk- I can’t think why I’m still overweight..anyway. I digress. I phoned Eddie the plumber- who -is -also- a tiler. Eddie assured me that he just needed a wee thing, to make Ikea sized pipes fit onto Millport sized pipes. so I decided I’d done enough for day one, and went for my walk along to Farland Point. By the time I was nearly home, the sun was setting and the air could have sliced you in two- there was little wind, but it was going to be a bitterly cold night. Wee Cumbrae and Arran skulked on the horizon in a sort of violet blue haze, as the “last beams leaned low” and the sky looked as though a toddler had attacked it with an orange highlighter.
I’d fully intended to have a nice healthy baked potato for my tea, but lo and behold the chippie was open as I went past.. and well, you know how it is.
Then I settled down to watch Lark Rise To Candleford without any interruptions. bliss.
The next few days passed in a blur of cupboard cleaning, curtain washing, underbed tidying and chasing Eddie the plumber to finish off the sink. I also put more money on the electricity card, and tried to track down who had keys for George St- half the island seemed to have been given one, but everybody was using the electricians…
The carpet, meanwhile, remained stubbornly damp. I put all the heaters on, including the tiny fan heater in the living room, and settled down to watch the telly on Tues night, when all of a sudden my mobile rang. I only get a reception if I press myself and the phone right up to the lobby door and shout, or else go and stand outside. I’d already done just that when Mhairi had phoned earlier to discuss the structure of her essay- and ten minutes standing outside shivering and jogging gently while discussing Rennie Mackintosh and his contribution to the Arts And Crafts movement was enough for me, so I stood with my back to the living room, pressed up to the door while chatting to my friend Jane. As I hung up I realised the fan heater had stopped.
My blanket had fallen on top of the fan heater. It had apparently made a very warm pocket of air in front of the heater. It had melted the carpet a wee bit.
Oops. I went to bed wondering how I could fix that little faux pas…
In the end I decided to cut out the tiny bit of carpet and replace it with a bit of spare, and to be honest, you hardly notice it, especially if you squint a bit, take off your bifocals ,and have some wine. Or so I discovered the next evening. People have since called me a fool ,pointing out that the insurance would probably cover it, but I don’t fancy having a different carpet on the living room and hall, or having my premiums double over night. Basically I distrust insurance companies- I never seem covered for what I need…
By Wed morning the beautiful weather had gone and I had to return to Falkirk in horizontal needles of snow, which stung my face and blew my hood down every twenty seconds. I paused in Nardinis for a coffee to meet the joiner’s wife so that I could give her a key(rescued from Eddie) so the windows and joinery work can be completed.
Then I carried on home feeling damp and chilly. As I passed through Glasgow, I was persuaded to take part in a short survey on my facial moisturiser- free tea or coffee, the lady explained, and £5 for my trouble- just in this building behind me?
The offer of a cuppa was too good to miss. I was sceptical about the fiver- I thought it might be a voucher- but I climbed up the stairs and lodged myself in front of a computer. Forty five minutes later, I had been served a coffee so strong I was slightly hyper ventilating, and was still wading through questions like :
“If Oil of Olay was your friend, what personality would it have?”
I ended up just randomly giving answers- the only thing I could think of was that Oil Of Olay and Ponds seem quite old lady things- but really I just wanted to go home and dry out.Finally I got out and onto the Falkirk train, clutching my £5 to my chest, wondering if the kitties had missed me.
They had, so had Jack, and so had Chris- Jamie had hardly noticed my absence I think as he is spending huge amounts of time at other people’s houses just now, but he thoughtfully put the kettle on for me on my return.
Really hope the weather improves soon. I’m totally fed up with snow and sub zero temperatures. I am fed up with eight layers of clothes, fleeces, walking boots. I long to get out my tee shirts, little cardigans, sandals….
As Kc said- Spring. When will it? 
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Now Christmas, New Year, and all the other celebrations are finally over, leaving me sluggish and half a stone heavier.. half a stone? Who am I trying to fool?- I have turned my full attention to Millport. As well as trying to finish off George St, I need to cast a critical eye over Crawford St to see what needs to be done before the next lot of renters come in and cast their critical eye over my little piece of heaven. I had a hilarious comment left in my book by the eight year old daughter of the New Year renters, by the way. She thought the bed “very comftabel..” but also announced that” Another bathfroom would be good” Yes, Maisie, that would be good, you’re absolutely right. Now, where could I put it, do you think?? Not much progress had been made on George St for quite a few weeks before Christmas, and of course no progress at all was made between Christmas and New Year. But true to their word, both electrician and plasterer/ tiler had gone in straight after the holidays and done quite a lot. We now have..(dramatic pause..) lights that switch on and off! And floor tiles in hall ,bathroom and kitchen area! Yes, we do!! We also have two nice second hand arm chairs. As we strolled down to the chippy on our arrival on Friday night, I noticed quite a large pile of furniture out on the pavement. a small hand written note, weighted down with a stone from the beach, proclaimed that it was all “Free To Good Home”. I was immediately drawn to the two chairs, and on our way back, I insisted that Chris should carry one home. I carried the fish and chips, and Chris rushed back for the second chair, as there were already a small crowd of locals eying the stuff up. Two ladies were carefully carrying a gate legged table away, but I didn’t want it anyway, which was just as well, as I’ve been known to trip old ladies up in Asda to get to the reduced pile of food.I’m not proud of it- I just can’t help myself. This weekend Chris and I decided to try and put up the kitchen units, which we had bought from Ikea after Christmas. No expense spared, I tell you. These were the cheapest units that Ikea does, cheapest handles, cheapest work top. I wanted black gleaming granite, to fulfill a fantasy which sees Phil Spencer from Location, Location, bursting into my flat, declaring he can’t resist my charms any longer, and ..well. Suffice to say that the Spaghetti Hoops which I’m cooking up on the two ring hob burn a bit. Chris however suggested that we should just go with bog standard white, and sadly I agreed. I learned recently that Phil Spencer’s wife is Australian, and I feel this gives her a slight advantage over me. I bet she’s not half a stone oh all right, a stone heavier than she was before Christmas. So, we now had a flat full of boxes marked Fluckit, or something along those lines, and some awfy nifty red wall panels to act as a splash back. As we now have power to the flat, I was able to put the radio on and a little heater, and in no time at all Chris and I had constructed the first unit. We had constructed it wrongly, as it turned out, but it was constructed. It was a moments work for Chris to rip it apart again, thereby damaging the back panel. Hurrah! Ikea furniture is a doddle once you follow some simple rules, like checking which way round the bits go, counting all the screws before you start, and possibly paying somebody else to do it for you. But adversity is my middle name, not Lucy, so I set to with my screwdriver, and while Chris ripped the old unit off the wall, I got the two base units and two wall cupboards put together, while displaying a first class builder’s bum to anybody that might have looked in the window. The plumber came in and discussed the final placing of the pipes, while politely admiring my base units, and Chris and I set off home feeling a good weekend’s work had been done. I have booked a week off work at the end of February to go down and shampoo the carpets in Crawford St, and generally tidy and clean everything for the new season of renters. Alas, I don’t think another bathfroom is on the agenda, but I can try to make the existing one look as nice as I can. I feel pleasantly excited at the thought of another season of happy holiday makers. See you next month! …Woo hoo! I’m unsure which famous artiste sang that particular song- maybe some helpful blogger- follower will tell me. However, we have had a couple of celebration times (woo hoo!) in Boyle Bungalow lately, and I just thought I’d bore you all witless by telling you all about them. Ready? Sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.. Celebration One was Thanksgiving. I don’t usually celebrate it, but Carly(Jamie’s ex but she’s still part of the family..don’t ask.. just don’t..) usually spends Christmas with us. This year, however, she is going to see her dad in Canada for Christmas, so we decided to do a nice Thanksgiving dinner with her instead. I spent several days trying to fix a date everybody could manage (So the Thurs is good for you? But not the Friday? And I can’t do Wednesday..) and fix the menu ( Mashed potatoes AND roast? ) and another few hours trying to thread popcorn on strings to decorate… and then finally about two hours of perplexed internet searching to find out what the hell was the deal with the candied yams. Because candied yams, my leetle chums, are sweet potatoes, cooked in brown sugary water, sprinkled with more brown sugar and butter, and then you put marshmallows all over the top! I wondered for a minute whether I might have got two pages of the internet stuck together somehow, and got half of another recipe in there…but eventually I decided that I could not going to my grave without tasting candied yams, so I made ‘em anyway. We also had spicy butternut squash soup, followed by turkey, gravy, roast potatoes, cranberries, mashed potatoes, vegetables, stuffing, pigs in blankets, and bread sauce. Then apple pie (home made) and three kinds of Ben and Jerry ice cream. Jamie and Jack were two big feartie buggers, and refused the candied yams, but everybody else thought they were strangely right with a bit of turkey and cranberry. Carly has now left on a jet plane and doesn’t know when she’ll be back again, to coin a song. Hope she has a lovely snowy time. Next in the celebrations was (ahem) my fiftieth. Yes, I know I don’t look a day over forty nine. It is also my workmate Kellie’s 21st in a few weeks so we decided to go the whole hog and have a joint celebration. Kellie had her heart set on a pink limo, so off we set on, the foggiest night of the year, with our glass of bubbly in one hand and our sparkly tiaras in the other for an hour’s drive. After about five minutes of whooping we all got a bit fed up with that, and it was far too cold to open the window and whoop out to passing strangers. So we had some more bubbly, although privately I would have welcomed a nice cup of tea, and started talking about work. Then Lesley, who regular blog readers will recall is not the best of travellers, felt a bit sick. The rest of the journey was spent with Lesley gazing fixedly out of the front window assuring the rest of us that she would be fine, and the rest of us wondering quietly what the limo driver would do if she heaved up in the champagne bucket. Once back at the house, Jamie had set up a pal’s “Sing Star” game for us- a bit like Karaoke for the Playstation. Lesley had got some colour back into her cheeks by then, and she and I gamely launched into a bit of Tina Turner, followed by Nickleback. Kellie had a shot at Natalie Imbruglia, and Irene insisted she was too shy. A lot of the songs were fairly recent, and Lesley and I agreed that the maufacturers were missing a trick by not bringing out a “Cheesy Weegie Wedding” set. You could have a bit of Sidney Devine, some Jim Reeves, and Donald Where’s Your Troosers, and you would be fighting middle aged Glaswegian woman back from the shelves. Lesley also voted for “Paper Roses”as that always seemed to be a favourite at any wedding, usually preceded by her uncle getting very drunk and shouting “Wan Singer, Wan song” as he fell up the stairs of the stage. Ah, happy days indeed. My favourite at Weegie weddings was always “memories… in the corner of yer MIND…..” or I had a work mate who always let rip with “The Barmaid At the Inn At Inverarie” (Oan the twenny fifth o’ JOOOON, I’ll be oan ma hunny MOOOON…”) Another possibility for songs was a Cockerney one- but since I know all the words to “My ole man’s a dustman” I just did my best Pearly Queen impression anyway- no tape needed. I’m regretting it now though- my knees are killing me and it was either that or my Tina Turner that’s to blame. The next day, Mhairi had told me to keep free- and refused to answer any more questions. She and Jack had got something planned , and all Jack would say was that I might scream. This worried me rather- white water rafting? Abseiling?? It turned out to be tickets to see Bill Bailey’s Remarkable Guide To the Orchestra, and readers -I did scream. It was in the Usher Hall and I loved every moment of it. Our seats were quite high up which was a little scary, but the moment Bill walked out on the stage, we forgot all about that. I managed to get the last train home, and now feel a little jaded after so many days of party food, cake and copious ammounts of wine. Sparkling water tonight only- promise. Hopefully in my next blog there will be some Millport news- Happy Christmas to you all in the meantime. Well it may be the season of mists etc etc, but it’s not been my finest month. Progress at George St is painfully slow, although I must point out that this has nothing to do with the trades people we have had. They have all been fantastic, and worked away tirelessly. They have also all communicated amongst themselves about who is doing what when ,which has saved me an awful lot of long distance organising. If the electrician pops his head round the door to find the plasterer still working away, he’ll simply come in another day to do his bit. I’ve learned a lot too, about ensuring everybody is singing from the same hymn sheet, or in this case working on the same kitchen plan..nearly a bit of a mishap there if the electrician hadn’t phoned to make sure of the position of the sink. No what has really held everything up is that as we stripped the flat back to the bare bones, more problems emerged, as they do. Now the ceiling is free from paper, the plaster is revealed as being dodgy as hell, and the whole lot needs to come off. I know the alternative is to be rustling up a gourmet dinner on the two ring hob, only to have a big dod of plaster fall upon my unsuspecting head. But I so wanted to get the floor tiled and a kitchen in! And now we’ll have to wait a bit longer. The other big problem with property development in Millport is getting rid of the rubbish and masonry. Chris and I loaded up the car a few weekends ago with the rubbish from the cellar, soon to be renamed “the utility room” which will house a washing machine and a tumble drier. There were lots of tins of paint with one inch of twenty year old gloss paint in fetching shades of magenta or navy blue, and as we loaded them up I could hear, I swear, my dad tutting at the waste of it. Why, a bit of white spirit, a smidgen of parrifin and four hours of continual stirring, Jen , and you could use that paint for something! Don’t throw it out!! I ignored dad’s remonstrations from beyond the grave, and turned my attention to the bundle of canoe paddles , roller skates and frayed garden chairs.To finish off the pile in the back of the car, we added the water heater from the kitchen. I was rather sorry to see it go ,as it sounded like a bugle when you turned the tap on and Chris and I had several games of “name that tune” on it. I suspect the new Redring under sink heater won’t have the same appeal. As we drove to the tip the next day, I told Chris I could hear interesting glugging noises coming from the back of the car. Chris informed me that it would be paint glugging around in the tins. I said I didn’t think so . When we arrived at the tip and opened the tailgate, about ten gallons of very smelly water cascaded out onto my feet. I love being right, but not at the expense of my shoes.It was of course, the leaking water heater, and the car still smells like a sewer. I love going to the tip. It gives me a sense of deep satisfaction to separate my rubbish and bung it all in the correct bits, and drive off with an empty car and a smug feeling of having recyled where I can . I’d love it even more if the nearest tip to us in Millport wasn’t forty five minutes and a ferry trip away, outside Largs. Anyway, that’s where we are this month- not really a lot further forward than last month, which is disappointing but inevitable. On a personal level, and on a serious note I have spent many a sleepless night over Lanky Boy aka Jamie, worrying about his ability to cope with the terrible strain of watching his best friend die of cancer. It’s not something I ever had to do at his age, and the realisation that you are not invincible must hit hard. His friend ,of course, must be going through the worst nightmare of his life, and I can only guess what his parents and family must be feeling. Deep down I feel ashamed at the relief I feel that it’s not my son, not my baby , but at the same time I’m so sore and sick inside to see Jamie suffer. He’s been friends with the lad since the start of secondary school, and a more gentle, kinder soul you couldn’t meet. My thoughts go with him and his family. September Weekend is traditionally the end of the tourist season in Millport. There are fireworks, events including the exciting “Best Decorated Bike” , and best of all, the windows of many shops and houses are decorated with home made displays, sometimes loosely round the theme of “Millport Holdays” ,sometimes something that is dear to the household’s heart. Mhairi and I had fully intended to be in Millport and constructing our own window display by just after lunch. However the heady delights of Topshop, Gap, and the massive queue in Primark – all conspired to make our departure from Glasgow closer to teatime. I’m blaming Mhairi. She’ s all about the shopping that girl… On arriving in Largs we realised that we had no candles to light the window, so we bought four from Yankee Candles at great expense, just before the shop closed. Then we jumped onto the ferry, which was quite busy, and arrived at Crawford St at about six. What to do for the window? we pondered. With typical and admirable quick thinking, Mhairi seized my collection of tiny china cats and mounted them on a pile of books, gathered round the tiny fireplace I had brought from home. On opening the candles we were mystified to see that none of them had any wicks. They were in fact, described on the label as “wax tartlets” and if any sod knows what you’re suppposed to do with the flaming things, I would be interested to know. Wax tartlets??? Then we had something to eat, namely pizza, brought by Chris as he rushed from Glasgow to Millport to set up the lighting for not one but two venues… We had a little drink to keep out the cold. Then we meandered along the front, looking at people’s windows, and waiting for the fireworks to start. After a few moments Mhairi made an observation. Our window, she announced, was crap. Other folk had clearly spent hours arranging objects, getting the lighting exactly right, and composing poems. Yes, you heard me..poems. Our favourites were as follows- the Ritz Cafe had modelled itself on a wartime theme, complete with Vera Lynn outfits and a swing band. Fantastic. “Miscellany” had done a Ann Winters(instead of Ann Summers) theme, complete with giant bloomers and real live model in the window. The Newton Bar apparently had pipers on the roof, but by the time we got that far along, after the excellent firework display, it had got quite wet and slippy and they were just climbing down. We got a lovely view of them… But the one we liked the best was private house that had made itself into a Post Office, complete with giant postcards, supposed to be from various celebrities..very amusing! We’d hoped to join in the Open Day on Little Cumbrae on Sunday. There were supposed to be regular boat convoys taking interested parties, plus of course the devotees of Swami Ramdev, over to the island, and I was really excited at the thought of visiting for the first time.Unfortunately, there was an air of chaos on the pier as we strolled down. Large groups of frustrated and exhausted visitors had been waiting since 6am to get a boat over, to no avail.The police were in attendance, trying to move people onto buses and out of the area, as it was clear that there were simply not enough boats available. The S1 community website today is full of stories of elderly, chilly people trying to board a small “rib” boat in choppy waters, and the Fire Brigade had to assist in getting people back to the pier. Disappointed but not really surprised- the arrangements for the Open Day had always seemed a bit vague and ill thought out- we went for lunch in the Garrison and then for a brisk walk. I am a great believer in a brisk walk to negate the effects of several fish suppers, pizza, full fat lattes etc. Alas my stomach has not heard of these benefits, and continues to spread out towards my knees at an alarming rate. In the chip shop that night- I just can’t think why I’m not losing any weight- I met an Indian lady who had managed to get over to Wee Cumbrae. She announced that the event was poorly organised, and the Wee Cumbrae side was even more chaotic than the Millport side. Sensibly( to my mind) she obviously took the Swami Ramdev rule of “eat only what has fallen to the ground” with a large pinch of salt and was ordering up two portions of chips and curry sauce to fortify her on the long road home to Derby. I hope she made it OK. And so the weekend was over. Millport can breathe a quiet sigh of relief as the winter ferry timetable comes into force, the holiday makers depart, and the local population shrinks back comfortably to it’s habitual 1500 residents. Cafes close their doors, summer takings are counted, and this landlady looks back over a successful season. Roll on next summer….
My main blog on this years Country and Western is over on Island Blogging, but there were so many good pictures, I thought I’d just do another one here.. Chris and Mhairi were both in attendance accompanied by a motley assortment of red Indians, cowboys, and ..well, goodness knows what some people were. Gemma and Mhairi went down on Thurs to give Gemma some time to enjoy traditional Millport delights, such as cycling round the island, posing on Crocodile Rock, and sitting in the Ritz cafe checking out the local talent. They were lucky to get a dry day on the Friday, and enjoyed themselves enormously.( Not as much as Mama and her bunch of creche ladies last weekend,though..!!) Half way round the island both girls recalled that they hadn’t been on a bike for quite a number of years. This might have helped them with an authentic Cowboy bow legged swagger, if they were being Cowboys this year, but they had opted for dressing up as Indians instead, so it didnae. Many thanks to Margaret Hughes for her kindness in ensuring that Mhairi and Gemma met the locals and were fully integrated into the community. Unable to remember Mhairi’s name ,she just hollered”BOYLE!!” till she turned round. Margaret insists she recognised Mhairi since she looks like me- now, I’m short ,buxom and dark with hairy legs, and Mhairi is tall, gorgeous and blonde, but there must be some indefinable “Boyle-ness” going on there. Anyway, Mhairi and Gemma quickly were introduced to lots of young Millportians, so thanks to everybody for making them feel so welcome. It’s one of the things I love about Millport, perhaps stemming from the long years of tourist trade, perhaps the genial nature of the community, but everybody who has visited it comments on the friendly attitude of all the people they meet. The parade, line dancing and live music seemed to all go really well, but Mhairi and Chris both felt it was quieter on the actual streets. I was surprised to hear this as I had loads of accomodation enquiries-any number of groups of (mostly) middle aged ladies seemed hell bent on getting to Millport and doing some serious stomping to” Achy Breaky Heart” . All the hotels and Guest houses seemed to be full too. So I’m guessing that the wind and rain kept most of the festivities indoors this year.It would be interesting to know if the pubs and cafes had big takings over the weekend. The marquee was full to capacity of ladies taking their line dancing very seriously, so Mhairi and Mates decided to give that a miss. Instead they got themselves into their Indaian outfits and hit the pubs, and a jolly good time was had by all.
Due to being run by an English company, we creche ladies get the Bank Holiday Monday at the end of August. For the last three years, we have had a” Team Building Exercise” where we all descend on an unsuspecting Millport, and give it laldy. As you might imagine, this is looked forward to immensely. For several weeks prior to the event, all conversations at work revolve around the forth coming trip.Flavours of Pringles to be brought are hotly debated, Diet Coke versus full fat, vodka versus wine- all these important issues are chewed over, ensuring that we have enough crisp related snacks to feed half of Millport, nay, half of Largs.. Another subject which has to be decided is, of course, the bed allocation. This year it was obvious that somebody would have to share, and it was also obvious that it would have to be me that gave up half the bed, on account of it being the largest one. As Kellie is the weest member of staff, she was, er.. “volunteered” to be the sharer. I sternly reminded her that no wind was to be passed, and left it at that. Saturday morning dawned fair and bright, and we set off for Largs in high spirits. The train journey was unevetful and passed in a twinkle of an eye, as we caught up with Lesley’s news- the only lady to have escaped, er.. left the creche for a nursery job. We stood on the deck of the ferry on the trip over, to keep Lesley company – she’s not the best traveller and not ideally suited to a life on the ocean waves, but no heave ho-ing over the side ensued, and we all arrived in Millport with only windblown hair to contend with. After a yummy lunch in the Harbour restaurant, we set off for George St so that I could show the ladies my newest rung on the property ladder, as it were, and to see how the renovations were going, and pay the builders. The ladies were very impressed, the renovations are progressing well, considering the ammount of rain we’ve had, so I handed over my share of the dosh with only a small sigh at all those lovely big red notes leaving my pocket.. The weather by this time was showery, but we put on our waterproof jackets and set out to walk to Farland Point. This year Irene had remembered both a jacket and flat shoes, with only the minimum of nagging on my part, so I reckoned she would manage it without having to get a coal carry half way home. She did manage it, and after yet another tea break in the Dancing Midge ( “What time is it Lesley? ” “coffee o’clock, Jen”) we went back to the flat to unpack and get the beds sorted out. Kellie was much taken by the Aero bed, but Irene pointed out fairly forcibly that that was her bed, and Kel was sharing with me, remember? Kellie whined a bit and bounced on the bed, prompting Lesley to tell her to button up- she was Dad for the weekend, and as such she was having no nonsense. Then she sat in the chair and read a Daily Record that she’d found on the train, as befits the role of Dad. We enjoyed a meal in Minstrels- Lesley particularly enjoyed eavesdropping on the acrimonious conversation at the table behind her. After that we mooched along the front for a post dinner stroll, calling in at George St so that I could have a wee- it’s awfully handy have a flat at each end of the front, don’t you know.. Then it was back to the flat for the real entertainment of the evening- getting in our jim jams, opening the alcohol and doing a jigsaw. To make it even more exciting, we decided to divide into two teams and do a jigsaw each. Lesley and I clearly had the harder one- a fluffy kitten surrounded by out of focus daisies. Irene and Kel had the lighthouse – a peice of p**h, Lesley and I agreed under our breath. We hoped to get it nearly finished before Linda arrived on the Sunday, as she is much more skilled and puts us all to shame. But copious quantities of alcohol, singing and telling rude stories does not sit well with Extreme Jigsawing, as we had named our sport- you may well see it in the next Olympics, you know. Eventually Lesley and I realised that we had been trying to find the right place for a bit for several hours , and were now just randomly slapping it into any old slot. We also realised it was a quarter to three. We rolled out the bed settees, and fell into them, asleep before our heads hit our pillows. Sunday morning was fairly dry, but heavy rain was forecast for the afternoon, so as soon as Linda arrived at midday, she and Kellie got bikes and started their cycle round the island. Irene and I can’t ride bikes, and Lesley remembered only too well how sore she’d been last year after her cycle, so the three of us opted to walk along the road to Fintry Bay, and meet them for a coffee. I toyed with the “over the hill” route- this is not a statement of our status in life, by the way, but a fairly scrambly path from the golf course to Fintry Bay, but I thought it could be a bit muddy, so we stuck to the road . By a happy coincidence, we arrived almost exactly at the same time as Linda and Kellie, so we were all able to eat cakes and drink coffee together. Lesley was really keen to see how to get back via the hill path, so we set off in fairly persistent drizzle to show her the way. By the time we’d reached the top of the hill, it was unrelenting, cold, wet , rain. I explained to Lesley that one barely visible grey lump was Arran , and another was ..och well who really cares, you couldn’t see the flaming thing anyway. There was a large herd of cows in the field, and Lesley chose this moment to helpfully tell us the news report she’s seen on rampaging cows.. but frankly they couldn’t have shown less interest in us. They glanced in our direction, agreed with eachother that we were insane, and went back to doing cow things, like munching grass and leaving giant cow pats for us to stumble into. By the time we’d got back to the flat, we were soaking wet, and had to strip off and get into jim jams again. A fish supper was decided on, and Linda and I were voted the purchasers of this as we were the only one who had something dry to fit into- in my case, Kellie’s trainers, a bit like Cinderella.(“you will go the the chip shop, Cinders!”) A visit to the pub was quickly abandoned-the rain was torrential , and the flat was cosy. Linda was given the job of Jigsaw Helper, and she was to assist strictly for ten minutes each side. We wondered if she could sit crossed legged and throw the bits in ambidextrously, but even Linda thought that was a bit unlikely. Lesley and I went back to our kitten, who we hated with a vengeance by now, while Irene asked Kellie every ten seconds where she thought this piece went. Kellie had developed a streaming cold and sniffed dolefully as she informed Irene that she didnae know. Even with Linda’s able assistance, we still were last to complete the fuzzy wee f****r, as Lesley had christened him, but to Kellie and Irene’s credit they didn’t rub our noses in it too much. By Monday morning the rain had turned Millport into a giant puddle. Linda headed off first, as she had her daughter to fetch from school ,and Kellie and Lesley followed after another all day breakfast in the Midge. Irene and I went along to George Street to collect the rest of the bedding- the flat is so damp, I’m afraid that it goes mouldy, and anyway, all the contents will have to be removed while the plaster is hacked off. For reasons best known to herself, Irene was convinced we could manage a bag of bedding, a washing basket, my old dressing gown, a sleeping bag, the duvet and pillows from the blow up bed in one journey. Even more oddly, I agreed that this was so. By the time we’d reached the Garrison, we’d dropped everything at least twice, the rain was torrential, and Irene was wearing my dressing gown. A lady with a dog, alerted by our hysterical laughter, suggested that we pile everything in the basket and take a handle each, but it didn’t help much. I stuck everything in the close, which we use as a store, and Irene and I cleaned up for my poor hapless renters this week- I do hope they get at least one dry day. Then we had some lunch in the Ritz, and headed for home. By the time we reached Falkirk we had sorted out everybody’s love life to our satisfaction, discussed strategies for my new flat, and were so soggy you could have rung us out. Roll on next Bank Holiday… The photos above are taken on my New Fancy Camera, which Mhairi thinks looks like something the paparazzi might carry. Over ‘ere Miss Katona… Despite it being slightly a busman’s holiday this year, with so much still to do in George St, we still had a lovely week’s break in Crawford st. The weather was fine, and I exposed my lily white limbs to the sea air for the first time this year. Chris being himself, had forgotten to bring any shorts with him, so he showed that resourceful nature I love so well, and cut the bottoms off his old jeans to make a pair. He clearly imagined this lent him a rakish Robinson Crusoe look ,and who was I to tell him he was wrong? Jack arrived on Tuesday, having safely made the journey by train himself for the first time- I was rather relieved to see him though as I had imagined him stumbling round the city centre , I-Pod clamped to his ears, narrowly escaping being run over .. Plans to renovate the building in George St are going ahead nicely. The stone is extremely badly weathered, and the hole in the gable end is simply a result of this erosion on a thinner piece of sandstone. Although I would prefer to see it in it’s natural state, it would appear that rough casting the building is in fact the best option, particularly as it’s so close to the sea. So we have been getting quotes, working out dates for beginning the work, and getting all the neighbours to agree to the work- and price- and contractor! No easy task when so many flats in Millport are holiday lets, with absentee landlords.. The inside of the flat is still a mess, with unblocked fireplaces, half stripped wallpaper- yes I’m still at it! Every time I think I’ve got down to plaster I discover another layer of paper. In the alcove, where the kitchen is going, there is some really groovy stuff- pale blue shiny stuff, marbled with brown. Or is that just more mould, I wondered as I scraped away. The other problem we have had is getting the bags of masonry dust, paper, bits of wood etc ,out of the flat and away, as there is no dump on the island. We don’t really want to fill up all the bins either, as we’re not always there on bin day! The man from upstairs kindly offered to wheel them out on Wed and back in for us, as the pavement is much too narrow to leave them out. So we’ve got about half the rubbish out, I reckon. He and and his wife also treated us to a freshly caught, barbecued mackerel one day, with salad leaves cut fresh from the garden- it was a meal made in heaven. We never got much paper stripping done that day.. Mhairi appeared on Friday morning, still hoarse from her activities at T in the Park.. I guess two days of drinking, smoking(oh yes you do Mhairi..) and wild screaming at bands takes it’s toll on a girl. She had a brilliant time though, and particularly enjoyed The Specials. ( I told her I’d seen The Specials once in Glasgow, and she croaked I know Mum, you told me that, like, a hundred times.) Once she arrived, Jack decided to venture outside for almost the first time that week, and we had our annual game of Crazy Golf. I’m still as rubbish at it as I was twenty years ago- you’d think I would have mastered the trick one with the three bits of pipe by now, wouldn’t you? This weeks holiday makers for the flat arrived on Sunday afternoon, and we debated whether to stick around in George St and do some more work. In the end though ,we decided to head for home late Sunday afternoon. There’s not really much else we can do to the inside till the outside work is done, as it will be very dusty I think. Chris will have to do the ceiling paper stripping as I am such a short arse- I am not known as Toulouse “Boyle” Lautrec for nothing , you know.
Well, it’s been an eventful week for us, one way and another. I had Monday off, so I trundled off to Millport to meet the architect. I was particularly looking forward to seeing what he thought of our various architectural anomalies. There is the odd recess in the kitchen. The floor level “hatch” between hall and kitchen pantry, and the four inch gap between wall and skirting boards in the living room, cleverly disguised by a bit of panelling… When I arrived, I met the man from upstairs, Andy, and borrowed his steam stripper again. it was a lovely day, and after an hour of scraping brown paper from faded flowery paper, I let myself get a wee coffee break outside. I noticed a text from Mhairi, and it went like this; “Mum!! jamie has Bebod me tell you to check your emails. Want me to?” “yes please” I texted back. Two minutes later the phone rang- it was Chris.”We’ve checked your emails- Jamie wants to come home from Ibiza( where he was working for the summer). will I just buy him a ticket?” I said yes, of course, and sat in the sun with my coffee, wondering what was afoot. The last email I’d had from my eldest son had talked about getting an apartment with some guys from Edinburgh. They were known to me only as.. er… “the Edinburgh Boys” What had gone wrong, I pondered? He hadn’t managed to get a full time job, but had managed surprisingly well to make enough money from odd bar work, flyer distribution, and ticket selling, to keep a place at various hostels. Well there’s no messing around in the basecamps of worrying for me, no, I go right to the summit,and I decided that he had become addicted to heroin whilst hanging about with the Edinburgh Boys, and had possibly contracted a venereal disease- from the pimping required to keep up with his habit-and was coming home for treatment.Yes, that must be it, I decided, as I took my coffee cup in to wait for the architect. The architect arrived , looked at our sketches, and told us the good news. No planning permission was required, but a building warrant might be needed, depending on what walls we knocked into. His idea of putting a kitchen into the pantry is tempting, but I still feel that a kitchen off a bedroom is not ideal, and suspect prospective buyers might agree. We have no plans to sell within five years, but when we do, I want it to be as attractive space as we can offer, given that it’s a modest room and kitchen! Still , he gave us the number of a good builder on the island, which is worth it’s weight in gold. After steam stripping for another hour, I headed back to Falkirk, still pondering room layouts, and Jamie’s drug addiction.. When he finally appeared home on Wednesday, Jamie looked tanned and healthy. No drug addiction, he assured me, laughing, just ran out of money and options. The plan to get an apartment with the Edinburgh Boys had been on target till Sunday night, when the two hundred and odds euros they had been saving for the deposit and rent had been blown in a massive bender.. Jamie awoke, hung over and broke, and decided it was time to Go Home To Mumsy. Ah, to be young again…. I had people in the flat till Wednesday, then a two day break, and a late booking for two weeks from Saturday. I was working on Saturday, so it was going to be up to Chris to welcome them in. This necessitated several lectures on my part on “what Duvets Match Which Pillowcases”, “Laying a Tea tray” and “Not Falling Asleep On The Couch”- most vital in my mind, as Chris was doing his Visual thing in a Glasgow club on Friday night. What a lot of capitals the week required! In the end I decided to return to Millport on Thurs night, check everything was OK for Saturday’s renters so all Chris had to do was be there to welcome them in on Sat. Another bit of steam stripping was on the agenda, and I was determined to get the back broken of this job. We had a busy Thursday at work. I left the lovely and efficient Kellie to cash up and lock up, and hurtled off to Falkirk High to get my train. When I walked down to Central station in Glasgow, I realised there was actually a train at 5.20pm to Largs and with a fairly (land)lady like jog up to platform 15, I made it by the skin of my teeth. It was very busy, and I had to stand until Paisley,but the clouds had cleared to a lovely evening. I arrived at Largs and trotted down to the pier- there are now two ferries on, and I caught the wee one- my favourite!- also by the skin of my teeth. I love the wee ferry, it’s the oldest and has wood panneling, and rusty windows, and a tiny wee deck and passenger room. Think Para Handy, and you’re nearly there… I got off the bus a stop early for the sheer joy of walking across Kames Bay in the evening sunshine. The broad sweep of sand was golden in the sunlight, and Little Cumbrae- my ancestral home!- glowed like an emerald . It was the perfect antidote to a day of trying to persuade two year olds not to launch embittered attacks on each other with plastic hammers(” no, no darling, that’s not very friendly is it? well, I know, but I tell you what, you hold the blue hammer for five minutes and then you can swop over, can’t you? You think Kyle is a poo poo? Oh dear...that’s not awfully friendly either…”) Several small boys were peacefully guddling around in the sand, with no adult in sight. I smiled kindly at them. They looked suspiciously at me. It’s not a good week to be a Nursery worker.. I stopped off firstly at George st, and dutifully did an hours steam stripping. As I did, I was struck by the texture of the weird gluey, brown gunk that seemed to be at the bottom of the many Layers Of The Wallpaper.(.I feel an album title coming over me…) Actually, do you remember Evostick? Brown, gloopy, glue? Well, that’s what it’s like.Various mouldy wallpapers have gone on over the top of this gunk, and even the steam stripper is having trouble with this final(oh, I hope, final!) layer. After an hour, in which time I’d cleared a patch about the size of a A4 paper, I headed off for Crawford St. And it was lovely.It was clean and tidy, and I sat on my sitooterie with some beer and smiled to myself. Life is good. The paper will come off. The beer is cold, and the evening balmy. And Jamie is home.  towards Arran  looking over the hills  on the way to the glaidstone |
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