7 Crawford Street

Well, another year gone, another calendar in the recycling bin, another half a stone which must be lost….. In case anybody is wondering, I did eventually get some work with the council, though it’s only seven and a half hours. Better than nothing, but I’m still hoping to pick up some extra hours next month. The seven and a half hours is at a Family Centre, and requires a thirty five minute bus journey through some of the less scenic parts of Stirlingshire. I actually quite like the bus trip: I can read, or wool gather as I look out of the window. It always seems to surprise people when you say you’ve arrived by public transport though, and certainly the staff greeted this news as though I had done something faintly exotic, like arrived by camel.

The best bit, though, about working so part time, is that I can devote many happy hours to Millport Things. We’ve decided to really try and push the George Street flat, this season, and make it a four person flat rather than two. This will require two chair beds for the living room. We’ve also reluctantly decided to put a telly in, and I do hope that my Archers listening won’t suffer as a result- I do tend to find that if there’s a telly  in a room, I’m more likely to turn that on than the radio.

We’ve also been busy with Crawford Street, painting the kitchen a rather startling shade of yellow, (it looked a lot more subtle on the paint swatch…) and I can hardly wait for the weather to improve so that I can get outside and tidy up the patio. I have already been drooling over the Thompson and Morgan seed catalogue. I’m thinking, after last year’s disaster with my plants on the George St balcony, that I’m going for something a bit more bushy, like geraniums. And some sort of trellis wind break..secured by concrete ballast, perhaps.

We have had the worst storms this month that I can remember. Hurricane Bawbag managed to blow my cast iron patio chairs into the drying green, much to my neighbour Sandra’s bemusement. The ferries have been touch and go for most of the month, and Wednesday saw Chris and I waiting patiently in the ferry queue to see if we could get across to clean the flat after my Christmas renters, and get it ready for the New Year one’s. Chris dozed, I did the crossword, but at seven o’clock the ferry chap-( the skipper? The ferryman?? The driver???) came out and said there was no way they could sail that night, so we had to turn tail and come home. We managed to get over the next day though, and got that Legend Among Plumbers, The Sainted Eddie, to come and have a look at the tiny but ever so persistant leak in the George street bathroom. This was caused by the sink becoming detatched from the wall during some rather ..wild renters, in July.

Eddie breenged into the flat, whipped the sink off the wall, tightened everything up, and refused to take a penny for his bother.  It was awesome.

Another Tale of Millport Folk: the kitchen at the Harbour Restaurant was out of order for a day or so, just before Christmas. Most people had only booked that day, so were easily contacted and apologised to, but a group of ladies had booked their Christmas Dinner several months earlier.  Helen, the owner, felt so awful at having to cancel on them ,that she took the ingredients home, and laid on their Christmas dinner at her own house. A heart warming tale indeed!  (Though I’m sure she was hoping that they wouldn’t stick around and get out the Karaoke machine and the Jaegerbombs after their meal…)

I feel pleasantly optimistic about next year, for reasons which I can’t quite fathom. I’m not usually such a cheery soul, I can’t think what’s come over me. By my next post, some hideous thing will probably have happened to restore my somewhat Eeyore like nature, but until then,

Cheery! The two faces of Millport…..

I left the creche(although I will still do any supply shifts they need) at the end of October, with the uneasy feeling of a rat, abandoning the sinking ship. Everybody was nice, and wished me well, and I didn’t hear anybody shout “traitor!” as I shut the door behind me, but still…

I’d given a month’s notice, and since I knew my references were done, there was only the PVG (Protecting Vulnerable Adults) form to come back. Every so often they have a shot at simplifying this system ,while attempting to make sure that no paedophiles slip through the net, but it’s always a lengthy and complicated business to get this check done. I personally dunno what the matter was with the old  police check- whatever replaces it always seems to cost an applicant a fortune, and require a lot of duplication. So I was delighted to find the very bit of paper I needed in the post the next morning. With a jaunty air, I phoned up Stirling Council, who are supposed to be employing me.I spoke to Jeanie. Jeanie told me they had to wait for their copy, which could take up to a week.

Could I not, I reasoned, just bring it over for them to photocopy?

Oh dear no, replied Jeanie.

So I waited about for a week, waiting for the postman every day with bated breath, because without a contract, and identification, I can’t take up any hours that are available.

I wasn’t idle- dear me no! I made soup, filled up the freezer with tasty meals, in case I got work the next week, dug the garden ,and tidied some cupboards. I met friends for coffee, started looking at Christmas presents, and tried not to endlessly scroll through Facebook, stalking people that I hardly know, and commenting on their photos.

I phoned Stirling council again, and spoke to Jeanie. Great news, said Jeanie, my PVG was through. Now she just had to check my references, and my contract should be in soon.

By now my bank balance was beginning to show the signs of strain. I scoured the internet for tasty cheap meals involving two carrots and a parsnip, made more soup, and assiduously turned off all lights and heaters that were not being used. I baked, and tried not to look at the bank balance.

Another week, another phone call to Jeanie. PVG- check. References- check. Contract was on her desk, and she had put my name forward for twenty hours regular work at a primary school.

I tidied out my jumper cupboard, and earmarked outfits that could possibly be worn to school. I did a “dummy run ” trip to Stirling to check I knew where most of the schools were. More soup. I stopped turning the heating on at all during the day, and just put more jumpers on, so that I resembled a fat bag lady.

Another phone call to Jeanie, who greeted me warmly- we practically know each other’s pet’s names now. Yes, she assured me- my contract was just sitting on her desk and I should have it by the end of the next week.

At this point, I would have very much liked to say- eh? Still on your desk ,Jeanie? Is that nor exactly where it was last Friday afternoon? Has it not even progressed to somebody else’s desk, even temporarily? Is this because you have spent the entire week gassing to your pal across the desk about her forthcoming nuptials, and looking at “funny ” statuses on Facebook? Is it Jeanie? IS IT?????

But I didn’t say that, because she will eventually be the person dispensing those precious hours, so instead I pinched the bridge of my nose quite hard, and said cheerily that’s fine,  I hoped to hear from her soon, and I rang off.

Now don’t get me wrong. I know I am in a much more fortunate position than many. I have Chris’s wages still keeping us afloat , and no mortgage so nobody can make us homeless. The fact that in the last three months we have needed to replace the washing machine, two new tyres for the car, and the van insurance and the car road tax have all been due together, is just bad luck, and we’ll recover. But is it unreasonable to expect some sort of resolution to a job I applied for in late August?

It’s not as if Falkirk Council are any better. My application to get on their supply escort list has become mired in an application for an update to my PVG- the same PVG that is less than a month old- why would they need an update? Myra Hindley herself couldn’t have re offended in that short space of time.

On the other side of the coin, Ayrshire Council have fairly sped along with our application to have the two flats classed as a business ,and pay rates rather than Council tax . They have already sent the notification to us, the council tax department, and sent us a form to apply for rates relief under the Small Business Bonus scheme, which we have sent back pronto. This will save us a couple of thousand pounds a year, so is well worth it. They have been efficient, well informed and get my vote for good service.

We had to rush down to Millport this weekend, as a pipe had burst in the outside cludgie showering the walls, and spilling out to the patio. Luckily my neighbours managed to flag down that knight in shining armour, Eddie McConachie, plumber extraordinaire. He quickly fixed the problem ,my wonderfully good neighbours paid him for us, leaving us with an excitingly clean patio and a wet cludgie.

The weather was lovely though, quite mild and sunny at times, and after a good, if muddy, scramble over the hill from Fintry Bay, and a coffee in the Harbour Cafe, my normal good natured and sunny temperament was restored. Nae doot Jeanie will eventually get my contract sent out, Falkirk will get my PVG updated, and I will get some work. Meanwhile I will not slip into long lie- ins, sitting in my jammies all morning playing Miniplanet, and watching Doctors. Instead, I will read War and Peace! Garden!! Learn a language!!!

And make soup.

Yes I have a scoop, gentle readers. If I thought it was of the slightest interest to any papers, I’d be selling my story, but since it’s not a story about sleeping with a footballer, or My Living Hell At The Hands Of Pirates, or anything exciting like that, I won’t bother the national press.

No, my scoop is that the creche is finally closing. Gasp, Horror, who would have thought it? After eighteen years ,and god knows how many children through it’s doors, the axe has fallen. We’ve been losing money hand over fist for the past two years, so nobody can claim that’s it’s come as real surprise. Still, having waited for those two years for Propinvest, who own the Shopping Centre where we’re based to shut us down, we became lulled into a false sense of security.

I, however, had somewhat jumped the gun. I  resigned as Depute Manager after a long pause for thought, and I was determined to find a part time term time job, so that my summers were not spent trying to cut myself in two and do both jobs-Millport lettings and extra hours in the creche. I applied for as many part time term time jobs as I could find, including catering assistants in school, cleaners, and supply Support for Learning Assistants( what used to be called School Helpers when Lanky Boy was.. well, a boy.) Three weeks ago I was successful in the quest, and got on the supply list.

With great glee, I asked for a change in contract at work, so that I could remain on their supply list, and boy was I looking forward to telling them that I wasn’t available for work over the summer holidays.

I like to imagine that the minute Mr Propinvest got my letter of change of contract, he called up our line Managers,Glenda and Christine.

“What’s this then?I hear Jen Boyle is resigning as Depute Manager and going on the Supply List” says Mr Propinvest, eating his eggy soldiers and perusing my elegantly worded letter of resignation.

“Eh, I know, it’s shocking! ” reply Glenda/ Christine, who hove from Yorkshire.

“Well” says Mr Propinvest, wiping his moustache for any traces of egg, “We might as well pack the whole creche thing up then- no show without Punch, eh?”

“I know, we can’t carry on without Jen.  who would remember to take photographs?Buy fruit? Run the Open Day? Empty the Hoover?” reply Glenda/Christine, gloomily shaking their heads.

And so the fate of the creche was sealed.

I feel slightly peeved that I will, as a lowly supply staff, receive no redundancy payment. However Glenda/Christine have promised that they will try and do “something for me” which conjures up visions of them having a bit of a whip round in the office.( “ehh, poor Jen!”)

I am paralysed with fear at being on a supply list, with the prospect of being phoned at 8am and told to be somewhere at nine. With my legendary sense of direction, it may be that I arrive in time for lunch….. or afternoon break. I have discovered today that I am also on the supply list for escorts, which gave the kids the best laugh they have had for years,  (it’s the company they’re paying for, quipped Mhairi) until they were told it’s bus escort for ferrying children backwards and forwards to school.

Hopefully between two supply lists I will get some work each week, or else this month we will mostly be eating root veg casseroles.

I also plan to get some cheap paint and tart up the kitchen in Crawford St- my last booking of the year arrives for a wedding on Friday, and after that we can do a bit of decorating.

Wish me luck, fellow bloggers!

We’ve used the camper van quite a lot this summer, and  just for the record I think  that I now know that three days is about the limit to the length of time I can stay in close quarters with Chris. I discovered this on day four of our last trip, when his insistence on playing fast and loose with his dirty underpants finally got to me.

Anyway. Let’s start at the beginning because that’s a very good place to start, eh?

We had a fabulous week in George St in Millport, and we used the camper van mostly to motor round to Fintry Bay for picnics, barbeques etc. We also took it round to watch the Tall Ships coming past the island, but I’m ashamed to say my interest waned. They were very ,very, far away, and we’d forgotten the binoculars. I became distracted by the discovery of a cheese sandwich in the picnic, which I’d thought was a ham one, and  when I looked up again, they seemed to have mostly passed. Ah well.

We  had booked tickets on the Waverley Paddle Steamer on the Thursday, and I was very excited. I’ve wanted to go on it for years, but the price always put me off. However when I realised it was just going to be me and Chris in Millport this year, and spurred on by the news that The Waveley is in big financial trouble , I went ahead and booked the “Three Island Cruise”. Much as I’m keen to support the Waverley, I wasn’t prepared to pay premium prices for a sandwich, so quarter to one saw Chris and I  on Millport Pier,eagerly scanning the horizon for the boat, armed with a packed lunch and thermos.

A North Ayrshire van drew up and two work men jumped out.

“Anybody waiting on the Waverley? She’s no’ comin’ in today- private hire” they bellowed, and then jumped back in the van and exited sharpish, before I could vent my old lady wrath on them . A quick phone call to the booking office connected me to a smug and bored minion, who informed me snootily that all passengers had been informed by email. Aye, right, that will be why I’m standing on the pier with my thermos, son,  I told him tartly.

So we went on the wee Cumbrae boat trip instead, which ,while it wasn’t the Waverley, was lots of fun and most informative.

The weather was fabulous for most of the week, and I felt very relaxed until I returned to work, and within twenty minutes I was stressed again. My evenings were spent trying to impose some sort of order on the house, and ironing bed covers for the Millport flats, and answering emails from people asking if Country and Western weekend was still available for the flats.

Trip number two was up to Beauly, to see my dear friend Jane. She’s going through some gruelling chemo just now, and I didn’t want to be a house guest- her husband has enough on his hands without  guests, no matter how well meaning. So we decided to stay at the Lovatt Bridge Campsite, just outside the village.

The campsite was strangely quiet when we arrived, considering it was the start of the English school summer hols. We had plenty of spacious pitches to choose from, and there were only a couple of other tents, some caravans with awnings, and very little competition for the lovely benches, set right on the river bank. It was heaven. I sat on the bench and made like Bob Dylan, Watching The River Flow. I had some tea. In the morning we opened the door and sat on the step, and had breakfast. I could have stayed there for ever.

On our way home, the weather was again glorious, and we meandered gently down A roads, stopping to brew up several times at various different lochs. As I sat in the sunshine, and thought how little I wanted to return home and work, I had one of those Moments when you just know something has to change. I swear to God I cannot work another summer like this. Even with Chris on domestic duty at home, and doing as much as he could in Millport in the way of seeing in guests, it’s been really hard work.  My busiest time in Millport always coincides with the busiest time of year at work,and  I’ve had to work an additional forty hours at the creche each month for the past three months, to cover staff holidays.  Something is going to have to give.

Trip three was my second week off work, and was really worked round the Waveley Trip Attempt Two. This one was picking up from Dunoon, and we found a lovely campsite just outside the town. It looked beautiful, and I looked forward to more cups of tea sitting on benches . Chris had suggested a couple of days in Galloway first, and then a leisurely drive up to the Dunoon campsite, a night there, The Waverley Trip Attempt Two ,another night at the Dunoon campsite, and then home on the Friday.

The two days in Kirkcudbright site were gorgeous- sunny weather, nice meals, quiet campsite, breath taking views. Perfect. I went to school in Kirkcudbright, and last time I was there, the year after mum died, I was impressed by the number of charity shops in the town. Now, however the number of Galleries selling Arty Stuff has risen exponentially, and the number of charity shops has dropped massively. Kirkcudbright is obviously working the Artist’s Town label to the full, but I do like a good charity shop, and feel I have more than enough Arty Stuff. Some of it was quite good, and some …less so. There was a really good exhibition of The Glasgow Boys in the town hall, which I thoroughly enjoyed.

Anyway. Chris mentioned that the weather didn’t look too promising for W.A 2, but I wasn’t really listening as I was trying to spot the bus shelter where I did much flirting with Alan Morrison, when we were both at school. I do believe they’ve knocked it down, and him such a prominent Artist himself!

Overnight on Tuesday night I was awoken by the sound of torrential rain  beating on the roof of the camper van. I lazily decided not to bother with a shower in the morning, as the van was parked a fair way from the toilet block. It was one of those you had to key in a code to gain entry, and the thought of standing in my flip flops and dressing gown, in the rain trying to remember if it was C1684 or C1864 was not attractive. It’ll just be a passing shower, probably,I said to Chris.  I’ll wait till  tonight in Dunoon.

As we drove ,the rain became torrential. We crawled up the coast, past Fairlie , where traffic was at a standstill. The burn seemed to have burst it’s banks, and rain water was surging out of every drain, pouring down the hill ,and had flooded the railway track. Largs was just as wet. We stopped at the Morrisons supermarket and bought some things for tea, as it was clearly going to be later than we’d planned before we hit Dunoon.

The ferry from Greenock took about twenty minutes, and we arrived in Dunoon at about half past five. Horizontal rain lashed the town, and a grey, murky mist wreathed the shops. They were shut anyway. Everything looked shut.

We drove about for a while trying to find the camp site..(use the Satnav?? Don’t make me laugh.. ) Finally we found it ,down a bit of a hill off the main road. It looked shut too. After a bit of paddling about, we found the owner, who observed that the pitches were a wee bit damp… maybe we’d want a bit of hard standing? He then directed us to the toilet block and fresh water taps, and left us to it. The rain was ceaseless. We cooked up a very tasty meal of steak and mushrooms, with strawberries and cream to follow, and listened to the rain thundering on the van roof. I put on my hiking boots and set off to check the toilets. Bleak, dark, and a bit bloomin’ chilly, I was unable to force myself to undress and get under the shower, even if I’d had the right change for it. Instead, I went for a little walk. There was only on other motor home parked beside us, housing a very genial chap from Manchester. The rest of the park was littered with some really ancient caravans, the kind that Father Ted and Dougall stay in when they go for their hols. They were all unoccupied. In fact, they looked as if they’d been unoccupied since about 1979.

I returned to the camper van, where the puddles outside the door seemed deeper.

In the morning, we awoke to four inches of standing water. I sloshed over to the toilet block. The toilets and sinks were making some very disturbing slooshing and gurgling noises. Best not to attempt the showers, I reasoned, and just washed my face and brushed my teeth. My hair, which had got wet at least three times and dried out, looked like a bad drawing of Albert Einstein. If I’d been able to see myself properly in the fly spotted dingy mirror, I suspect I was sporting his moustache as well.

There was no chance we were staying on the camp site for a second night. We drove gently through the water, and headed for the Waverley.

There certainly wasn’t a great view from the ship. One big grey lump was Arran, another Pladda,  we were informed… and I found myself shifting uncomfortably in my wet boots and socks. I comforted myself by hanging around the engine room, which was nice and cosy, and drinking lots of hot coffee from the thermos. I tried not to catch sight of myself in any mirrors. I might book again for next summer, as I’m sure on a nice day, I would have enjoyed it a lot more. Especially if I’d had a shower, and had dry feet.

We disembarked at around eight o’clock, and sprinted to the camper van to catch the ferry back to Greenock. Chris drove, I dozed, and we were home by eleven.

By half past, I’d showered, put dry socks on and was in bed with a bottle of wine and a hot water bottle, catching up on the London riots.  I feel sure if the weather was more Scottish, i.e wet, there would be less trouble. It’s hard ,I’m sure, to feel anarchic if your feet are damp.

Well so sang the Undertones, but I’m bloomin’ doubtful to be honest. It certainly looked a bit summery in April, but that was really just wrong, and now we’re going backwards I think, and it appears to be last September.

Alas, my poor little plants ,which looked so hopeful in April, as I potted them up carefully on the patio in Crawford St and balcony in George St have suffered badly with the torrential rain, high winds and chilly temperatures. They look bedraggled and sulky, and I know how they feel.  The sweet peas are brown round the edges, the nasturtiums are ripped to shreds, and the climbing geraniums are pale and sad. My plans to cover up the rusty railings on the George St balcony with a riot of  flowers before summer renters arrived has bit the dust, it is no more , it is an ex- plan.

Still. Onwards and upwards, I always say, and I may have to wait a bit and then resort to an expensive “instant fix” courtesy of the plant shop in Millport, but that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. I bought a geranium and three busy Lizzies from Asda last night for £1, but they look past saving.

Apart from plants, which seem to occupy a lot of my waking thoughts just now, all is well in Millport. I have had quite a steady stream of renters, and my first two couples in George St both gave me very positive comments on the flat and their stay. I have only a few bookings for this flat at the moment, but I’m sure it will build up. Chris and I will stay in George street for a week in July, which I hope will give us a feel for anything we need to change. The jury is out on a TV license and TV. I have very mixed feelings on this. I really enjoy listening to the radio and music, and quite relish a weekend with no goggle box, but if the weather is absolutely foul, and people are there for a week, are they going to be devastated by the lack of Coronation St, or their weekly fix of The Apprentice etc? We use I player on a lap top which is plenty for us, but would I attract more bookings with a telly?

I did have one couple who asked to book Crawford Street for a week. The dates were’t available, so I suggested that George St might be an alternative, since it was just the two of them. The chap emailed me and explained that he and his wife were not much inclined to go out in the evenings, so would prefer the large flat screen TV in Crawford St, rather than the “small portable you have in George St ” .

Small portable? There is no TV in the flat. Puzzled, I had a look at my website to see what had given him this impression. Turns out he had mistaken the microwave for a small telly….I had visions of he and his wife earnestly watching it for some minutes, perhaps remarking that Eastenders was a bit slow….

I suspect for the very first time, Chris and I will have no kids with us when we stay in Millport this summer. Jamie is still in paid employment( what an achievement!!) ,Mhairi will be in Thailand, hopefully being very very careful and not doing anything which might be construed as a Bad Idea…. I woke up in the night last night sweating over scenes from the film Midnight Express. She will be accompanied by her Significant Other, Gillian, who will hopefully not decide to pinch Mhairi’s bum or anything in the stop over at Dubai airport……the more I think of this, the more disasters I can see coming.. I’m going to have to stop thinking about the impending trip lest I hyperventilate.

Jack, for the first time, should be in paid employment in McDonalds- well, everybody has to start somewhere. Fries with that, madam?

So to treat ourselves, Chris and I have booked to go on the Waverley Paddle Steamer, since two tickets( rather than five) is almost affordable if we don’t eat that month. I also intend to take my usual suitcase groaning with books, and I might also treat myself to a facial from the delightful Angela.

I can’t wait, rain or not.

Now, I’m sure you all know by now that I love Millport. It’s my favourite place in the world, but even so ,it’s good to branch out a bit. It is my 25th wedding anniversary this year in May, and I had the idea for us (Chris and me) to take the camper van to the Lake District ,because I’ve never been, and it looks lovely.
I started looking at touring camp sites , and booked a few days off work, and pored over Trip Advisor, and suggested to Chris we might start sorting out the camper van ready for a trip. Chris made hmmnn-ing noises, and uhhh huhhhnn noises, and even yup noises, but (being Chris) left it till the week before have a good look at the van. He got out the power washer, which is always entertaining, and he did a bit of welding, and a bit of bolting, and I washed all the blankets and curtains, and made it all pretty inside.( We know our strengths, Chris and I.) I advised Chris that if the elderly and arthritic van wasn’t going to be able to cope with the journey, to tell me now, and I’d book us a cheap bed and breakfast.
On the morning of out departure, we loaded everything up, and Chris fiddled a bit with the rust. I went in to say goodbye to the boys- Jamie was working this week, and although Jack could have joined us on our road trip, being on school holiday, he declined, on account of it being- he said- like, utterly shit ,and really really boring, and .shit, like.
When I’d embraced them both and told them to remember to feed the kitties, and do some washing, and not to eat chips for every meal, I went up to the camper van, where Chris was looking gloomily at the radiator. Which had sprung a Big Leak, and was cheerfully pouring water all over the drive.
So no road trip. I gave Chris a Hard Stare, and went inside to panic in comfort. Then I phoned round a couple of the camp sites and got an on site caravan booked . We then transferred everything into the car, and set off.
We had sketchy directions to the site, which was called White Cross Bay. but Chris assured me he knew the way. He’d also got Satnav, which we got him for his birthday last year.
Now when I bought Chris the Satnav, which we call Jan, because it sound spookily like Jan Leeming when it speaks, I assumed he wanted it to help him find his way.
This was completely erroneous, as it turns out. Chris sees the Satnav as a challenging adversary, some one to outwit in the battle to be on the right road.
When Jan calmly directs Chris to take the second exit at the next roundabout, Chris snorts derisively.
“Second exit?” he splutters. ” That’s mad. Far better to go via Lockerbie/Dumfries/ Timbuktu”
So saying, he ignores Jan’s instructions. Jan is silent for a moment, then suggests that at the next exit, Chris should stay left. Chris doesn’t bother replying to this, and obstinately veers off to the right. After some five minutes of this- Chris enjoying himself hugely, Jan remaining calm but firm, Jan usually gives up and goes sullenly quiet. Perhaps she goes off and does a bit of washing ,or something, or logs onto Wink Bingo.com- I dunno what Satnavs do for a bit of light relief.
So I wasn’t surprised when Chris ignored Jan’s instructions to leave at exit 36, and veered of the M6 at about junction 30. We then climbed high, high ,up in the mountains, and lord I wish I’d made him pull into one of the passing places, and taken some photos, because it was spectacular. The camper would never had made it, to be honest, so I was glad we were in the car.
Finally we found the campsite, some hour and a half after coming off the motorway, and pulled in .The site was deserted, which suited us, and we were pleased to see the pitches were large and secluded- no listening to your neighbour gargling his mouthwash in the morning, as we had to put up with one memorable holiday.
It was advertised as a luxury caravan, and if you’ve stayed in a lot of caravans, which we have, it certainly fitted that bill. it wasn’t until the next morning that Chris located the en suite toilet in the bedroom- now that’s fancy, eh?
As the rain set in and we settled down in the caravan to watch telly, we agreed that we were almost certainly better off in the caravan . I’ve never stayed in the camper van on a damp holiday, but I would imagine it wouldn’t have been half as comfortable.
The next day was still very, very wet. I can see why there’s so many bloomin’ lakes. We went on a very interesting boat trip all round Lake Windemere, and I’m quite sure that if you’d been able to see more than three feet into the dreich grey mist, the scenery would have been breathtaking. As it was there was only five of us on the cruise, and we’d obviously all done it because it was pissing down, so the skipper fellow looked a bit forlorn.
In the afternoon we had a look round Bowness on Windemere, and then visited Blackwell house which was fascinating ,and highly recommended by yours truly, if you like Arts and Crafts Architecture or furniture, but also highly recommended to any cake lovers, as it has a nice wee cafe. When it’s raining as hard as it was that day, you just need to take pleasure where you can find it.
As this was such a flying visit, we had no chance to go walking really, plus it was (I might have mentioned this..) pishing doon. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to walk into Bowness- the camp site was on a very busy A road.
But I’d love to go back to the Lake district- it was lots of fun, and there was so much we didn’t have time for. Maybe if we get the camper van fixed we can try for a longer visit- it’s hard to find a spare few days between work, Landladying, and Chris’s holidays, which have to be taken within school holiday time. But I’d dearly like to try.

Golly gosh, Gordon Bennett, and Crivvens! How did two months (and a bit..) slip by so fast? Is it because I spend my time doing worthy things, rescuing kitties from trees, helping old ladies across the road, that sort of thing? Or is because I spend so much time standing in my kitchen thinking.. ” Now why did I come in here?” and putting yet another washing on?
Well I’m not letting on , gentle readers.
It’s been busy in Millport, as we try to definitively finish George Street. This is a Sisyphean task, as we do something and then it falls down ,and we have to do it again, but with longer screws, etc etc. Also we arrive without the vital bit of equipment required to finish off a job. I write long informative lists entitled “To Take Down “, which I then put in my handbag and never look at again. This is frustrating, but recently I put all the photos together on Flickr, and realised that, while we may not be completely finished, we have come a long, long way.

if you don’t live in Scotland, you might be forgiven for not knowing that for the past month, nay five weeks, many of us have been quietly struggling on with life in sub zero temperatures, and with snow falls of two feet or more.
As any fool knows, two feet of snow is equivalent in England to about half an inch, and the moment that a flake of snow should fall on “The Sarf” -or Heaven help us! upon the capital itself it necessitates news bulletins on an hourly basis, crisis meetings, states of emergencies, and possibly Dermot Murnachan presenting a Today Special, looking grave.
But I digress.
Several weeks before Xmas, Chris and I went to Ikea with a modest budget to buy a bed settee for George St, a monitor, and a big table. We returned with a state of the art bed settee and no money. It looked jolly big to me, but as ever, I deferred to Chris’s knowledge and prowess with the tape measure and believed him when he said it would fit perfectly.
We intended to depart on the 27th December, the day the bed settee was being delivered,and put the four large boxes in the camper van. At nine o’clock, as I drew back the curtains on another grey and chilly day, I noticed several policeman slippy- sliding their way up Arnothill, the road at the back of our house. There was a car skewed across the road, with it’s front end in the wall opposite the end of our garden. The police were having a wee look at this , while also apparently carrying on a competition to see which of them could slide the furthest down the hill, accompanied by encouraging cheers from the others.
After a bit they apparently tired of this game, and cordoned off the top and bottom of the street. Which was not very helpful, because our camper van is parked up there. A quick phone call to the police station confirmed our worst fears- the road would stay closed due to the “unsafe conditions” until the council managed to get up there to grit. The council, was, of course, not doing any gritting because it was A Bank Holiday. The gritter couldn’t get up there anyway, because there was a car skewed across the…. yes, I knew that bit. I’d noticed.
Chris and I decided we would just go down anyway, minus bed settee, and get on with painting the bathroom in Crawford St. Then we’d go down again, in the camper van, WITH the bed settee after New Year. So two trips in a week. Our carbon footprint must be like Bigfoot by now.
So that’s what we did- journey one, we painted the toilet a rather fetching shade of blue with the left over paint from the cludgie in George St.
Journey two, we piled the four bits of the Ikea couch into the van, and drove to Millport, and carried it in, and put it all together and….
It’s quite large.
It really is. It’s a much bigger couch than I had realised, and bits of it stick out just where you’re most likely to hit your knee cap .
We tried it in three different positions before sinking onto it with a beer each and thinking we would just live with it as it is for the night. Position Three was wedged up against the fireplace, and I spent all evening with a faint but persistent draught round my neck.
It’s comfortable to sleep on though, even for two people who are a bit …carrying a tad extra of holiday weight.
But it’s indisputably in the wrong place. We both agree that it will have to go in the Cave room, and this entails Chris dismantling the big set of shelves in there.
I have to go back to work tomorrow, so have left Chris down there to
a)Finish the woodwork in Crawford St bathroom.
b) Dismantle said shelves
c) Eat his own body weight in Ginster’s Cornish Pasties, a delicacy which he is very much attached to, and I disapprove of most strongly, on account of the tad extra holiday weight.
Who knew being a property mogul was such hard work??

Over the summer, as previously mentioned, we rented out 18 Clyde Street, Jane’s mum’s house. But now, as all good things must come to an end, it was time to empty the house of the rest of the furniture, crockery ,towels, and the bed settee.

The bed settee was destined for our own flat in George Street, and Jane and her sister Carol had elicited a cast iron promise- we could have the settee for nothing, if we  also took the hostess trolley that had stood in the bed room for as long as any of us could recall.

It was no good trying to argue that when you live in a room and kitchen, a hostess trolley is a bit de trop-( the distance between the cooker and table can be measured in inches, rather than metres.) No, that was the deal. No hostess trolley, no bed settee.

We all- Jane, me and Chris- arrived pretty much together on the Friday night, and agreed our strategy. Our plan of action was to empty as much as we could into boxes for Jane to take home, and put the rest out on tables at the end of the alley way, with a “Please help yourself” note on it. This is a tried and tested way to get rid of unwanted items in Millport, and loyal readers will recall the acquisition of two lovely arm chairs by yours truly just last year. One man’s crap is another mans oh I’ve wanted one of them for ages…

It was a beautiful morning;the sun shone, and it was really warm. Leaving Chris to have another short doze- he’s not an early riser, is Chris, – I collected the paper, and set off to help Jane. We parceled stuff up, put other stuff on tables, and threw stuff in bags to be taken to the dump. Due to Jane’s tight schedule, we’d agreed that we’d do that part on our way home.

I can’t help thinking that Chris and I are becoming almost too good at house clearance. I’m concerned that soon we may be circling the Age concern Hall in Millport on coffee morning days, smiling wolfishly and  tenderly asking elderly people how they’re feeling.. oh dear.. bit of a cold, hmmnn? while casting an appreciative eye over their prized possessions.It could become a bad habit.

When Chris appeared, we decided to take a break in The Dancing Midge to get our strength up for the  Moving Of The Bed Settee. Anybody who has ever tried to wrestle with a bed settee will know that they are unnaturally heavy- due, Chris says, to the bed mechanism in them. I think it’s some sort of Black Magic, myself.

Full of big breakfasts and french toast- was this such a good idea?-we wrestled the settee around towards the door. It was hard work. Then we tried to get it out of the door. It was really, really heavy and despite shouting “pivot” at Chris, and trying several different exit strategies, the settee remained stubbornly on the living room side of the doorway. We tried removing the bed mechanism- but it wouldn’t come out. We attempted to pivot in mid air to stop it getting stuck onto the wall of the hall. I scuffed the wall paper. We sweated, and squeaked “ouch my fingers” and bellowed “lift it up your end!” .

But it was no good. The bed settee was staying put. I pointed out that this probably meant that the deal with the hostess trolley was off, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was going to have to do  the right thing by the trolley.( It seemed only fair, considering that Jane had insisted on paying for our trip to the Dancing Midge.)

By this time, quite a lot of the items on the “Please help yourself” table had gone. I noticed it worked best if you left folk to quietly browse, rather than adopt my best Cockerney Sparrow  Market Stall accent and try and tempt people to take home assorted candles and jugs.

Jane had to dash off home on Saturday night, after a lovely farewell snowball ice in the Ritz. We took our spoils along to George Street- several saucepans, some cooking utensils, etc etc, and started to put together various bits of Ikea furniture. The stupid plastic boxes were a nightmare, and took me far longer than the unit which was to house them.

Then we strolled back to Crawford Street, and had some wine.

Sunday was another beautiful day- so warm that we sat outside for our breakfast at the Midge. We piled all the rubbish into the car- including the Hostess trolley. It’s amazing what you can get in the back of that car….

I said a silent farewell to Pam’s house- there has been a good bit of interest in it ,and I have no doubt that it will sell soon. This is probably my last visit to it, and I felt quite nostalgic- all my kids have had  holidays in it, and it’s been an integral part of my memories of Millport. I hope the next owners will enjoy it too.

I’ve taken a few photos of George Street, although I fear you don’t quite see how cute it is. I need to tidy up a bit and wait for a good sunny day ,so that you can fully appreciate the wonderfullness of it. My throw is pictured here- can you recognise your own bits of wool, kindly donated? It was much harder than anticipated- squares are jolly hard to keep ..er.. square. I’ll not be attempting that again, thanks very much, although I do like the finished item. I donated £20 to a local cancer charity(Strathcarron Hospice) as requested by my wool donators.

Cheery! As Tws would say.

well it rained, and it rained, and it rained, until the kids went back to school, and then -Hey Presto!- sunshine came back to Millport.

While it was doing the raining and raining bit, I was doing the painting and painting bit. Chris came to help me, but was so  depressed at the thought of returning to work when he feels as if he’s not had a Proper Summer Holiday, that I tactfully suggested he might want to pop back to Falkirk and keep an eye on The Three Stooges aka the kids. Chris likes his summer hols to consist of getting up late, computer noodling in his dressing gown with kitty stretched out on knee, a little light housework and then make something tasty for tea, while listening to Radio Four.

These summer hols have consisted of car fixing, painting and wallpapering, and clearing up after The Three Stooges who took the opportunity to use up all the bath towels, leave dishes in odd places, and generally make life tricky for a dad on holiday.

Once I got Chris out of the way, painting progressed a little easier, and I’m delighted to tell you all that George St is pretty much done. Photos to follow.

My brother Olly and his wife Mary came to Millport for a few days, which was lots of fun. They had never been before, and after the first day ,which was pretty wet, the sun obligingly came out, the sea sparkled prettily, and we were able to walk over the hill to Fintry Bay, and up to the Glaidstone in blazing sunshine. It was great to see Olly, who is a Top Bro, and finally get out in some sunshine. Mary was a little disappointed not to see any basking sharks- next time, Mary. I promise I’ll lay ‘em on for you.

The flat has been very busy with renters, which has been jolly hard work. I seem to spend a lot of time in Pam’s shed, where the washing machine is located, and every Saturday of the summer has been a mad whirl of cleaning and bed making, followed by hanging about waiting for guests to arrive. Having the two flats to clean and make up beds in has been trickier than I imagined- luckily nobody has appeared at exactly the same time, but it’s been a near thing! Last Saturday both the televisions seemed mysteriously to be broken, but after a frantic phone call to Chris I realised that they had both been turned to DVD … more than my tenuous grasp on technology could cope with, apparently. I’ve also had some quite mucky renters this year, -no names no pack drill!! It’s a struggle to get everything pristine and tidy if the cooker has been left thick with grease, or there are big tomato sauce stains on the couch……

Finally though, it was Creche Ladies weekend. Due to unforeseen circumstances, only Irene and Lesley were able to attend this year, but we still had a hilarious two days, and enjoyed some serious jigsawing. This year I’d chosen a delightful jigsaw depicting Charles And Diana’s wedding, purchased from the charity shop for £1.50. and cheap at the price we thought… until we realised there was one bit missing. Charles and Di were bloomin’ hard to put together- in jigsaw form as in life, eh? Lesley quickly became frustrated with our lack of progress, and started calling them the Flouncy F****r and the Big Eared B******d. They seemed immune to her threats, and smiled demurely at her.

Eventually though we got them pieced together- thank god, we could never have looked Linda in the eye if we’d failed- and celebrated by some coffee and cake in the Dancing Midge. Then Lesley kindly offered to do some ironing, bless her cotton socks, and finally we headed for home in more blazing sunshine…

Country and Western Weekend is this weekend, so I’m off again, to let two lots of renters in . I’m sure they will enjoy all the shootin’, gun totin’ and Yee Ha- ing, though I suspect most of the residents groan a little to themselves and look forward to a bit of peace and quiet!