Month: January 2012

Book Buying And Other Existential Crises

It would be more than safe to say that I like books.  I love books.  I greatly esteem books.  Sarge says I eat them. I buy clothes when I need them, or every three years, whichever rolls around first.  I buy or trade books once a week.  And then I go to the library. A few years ago, I set myself a goal to ‘visit all the bookshops in the world.’  Lofty goals are the truest ones.  I’ve been doing pretty well.  Some personal highlights have been Shakespeare and Company, The Strand, and Heffers.  No, I haven’t been to Powell’s.  Yet. I’ve even been known to read books about books and reading.  Last week, I read this, complete with a list of more bookshops for me to visit.  I’m also going to work on this list.  And because I’m not picky, this one, too. Yesterday, after our monthly book-group, Sarge and I went to Blackwell’s, Edinburgh (number 39 on this list.)  We just had to buy next month’s book.  A Steinbeck, yes!  It was Sarge’s idea to get it yesterday.  He is such an enabler.  I love him. I get short of breath with sweaty palms anytime there might be books to buy/check out anywhere. Here is the ‘reasoning’ behind this, in list form:  BOOKS! All the books I might want to read, I already have, but haven’t read....

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On The Road: Cambridge

Edinburgh — Peterborough – Cambridge — Peterborough — Edinburgh We boarded the train with two backpacks, my butterfly bag and George Bailey-Penguin, our travel mascot. I like train travel, and have come to accept the sometimes not-so-faint whiff of piss as part of the journey. This time, I ignored it by reading Three To Get Deadly and eating chocolate-covered popcorn. One hundred and fifty pages and an empty bag later, we arrived in Peterborough to catch the train to Cambridge.  The only thing possibly worthy of note is the fact that there was a wheelbarrow in the accessible toilet. After one more, much shorter train journey, we met the wonderful Emily from Emily Drinking Tea and her equally wonderful husband and went off in the direction of their local pub where I broke my self-imposed no cider rule and had some lovely ice-cream. On the way to their house afterwards, I lost count of the number of cyclists whizzing past, and we met a hedgehog not going nearly as fast.  It was all very quaint. Now, our friends have a very lovely, but very narrow  house.  After we squeezed the chair in the front door, I found myself with an actual gin and lemonade in my hand.  It must have been a strong one, because I fell asleep watching The Thick of It, only waking up to actually drag...

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Magic Coffee: What's Wrong With This Picture?

  I snapped a shot of our travel mascot, George Bailey-Penguin, ready for our most recent trip.  Next thing I knew, he’d flipped into my coffee.   How did he get there?   This photo set is not staged.  Coasters are still bad.   Stay tuned for:  On The Road: Cambridge  ...

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Bow-Ties Available at Reception

Regular readers will know that my boyfriend sometimes wears a kilt and walks around with a knife in his sock, in the name of Scottish traditional dress.  His 90 year-old Gran recently requested that he get fully decked out to attend her birthday dinner, and he obliged.  With a little help. Last April, he bought a full kilt when friends of ours got married.   He wore the  jacket and my father’s tweed waist-coat.  This caused me to get all misty-eyed and gooey, but that could be another post. A few weeks ago, we packed a bag and his kilt, and stayed at a hotel closer to the birthday dinner. The accessible room wasn’t, actually.  And the quest to find another one was like something out of Goldilocks/Fawlty Towers/The Twilight Zone.  The third key opened a door to a room that was usable for the one night we used it.  We brought my chair and Sarge’s kilt over the threshold and all was right with the world.  Sarge put on his kilt and went back into the bag for his bow-tie.  Wasn’t there.  No romantic-looking silk cravat, either.  Not in the bag, under the bag, or in his shoe. ‘How do I look without it?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘That means not fine.’ I shrugged.  Something WAS missing. ‘Should I phone my Mum?’ ‘What for?’ ‘To see if Dad has a tie?’ ‘You...

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Confessions of a Girl Scout Reject

Sharon at Hyperactive Inefficiency and Susan at LostnChina have given me the Versatile Blogger Award.  This means a, you really, really like me or b, my ramblings are truly aimless or iii, I am Waffley Versatile.  I can take all three.  Thanks a bunch. In the name of blogging community, I’m going to share yet more random factoids about myself. Here goes: I used to think that I was born in the wrong era.  I have since made peace with this one.  My favourite musicians are still old or dead.  I can name that tune in one note and it’s usually More Than A Feeling by Boston.  Don’t ask, because I don’t know.  And that ‘s OK. I get high on life, the smell of books and paint and gasoline and cigars.  But not intentionally.  It just happens.  In related news, I smoked pot at University, but I wasn’t co-ordinated enough to do it more than once. When I ‘graduated’ from the Brownies, the leader suggested I ‘might not want to move up to the Green Uniform.’  So I didn’t.  I’m a rebel from way back.  I guess she doubted my commitment to Sparkle Motion. I’ve said before that I quote my favourite movies in everyday conversation.  I’ll say now that most of the time, it makes sense. Wine gives me heartburn.  This is probably a good thing. I...

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