|Do *You* Need A Boob Job?|
Could be, of course, because I'm male.
Fantastic read, and it seems like it's updated every week (you can get an email subscription that will tell you when there's new stuff).
Woke up to Radio 4, and there were a bunch of young Scots talking about how much they'd drink. Turned out it was an interview of people at Ibiza; the presenter commented "Not everyone at Ibiza was Scottish, but those were the only ones that would talk to us."
Tells you all you need to know.
I was just ready to pour one glass for Cleodhna, one glass for me.
It's been half an hour since she went to bed.
Just got this spam:
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Now, the site is a make money fast site, and there is no email address in the headers. So far, so mundane.
But, and here's the stupid thing, the subject heading is "UK2 Net Domains can make you money", and so really he should have avoided sending it to a UK2 employee ;-).
Needless to say, the spammer has been LARTed with extreme prejudice.
First of all: I like the word "nuptials". Even though, according to www.dict.org and dictionary.com, it's a very boring definition, I like the sound of the word.
Cleodhna's mum phoned the other day; she mostly spoke to Cleodhna, but she phoned back a few minutes later, at which point Cleodhna had nipped off to the shops or something. We had a fairly nice conversation, which she ended with "I love you".
Now, I've talked to Cleodhna about this, and she thinks this is a US thing. In the US, it seems, you tell people "Have A Nice Day" if you're not related, "I love you" if you are. (I paraphrase.) Be that as it may, it still weirds me out. I have spoken to Cleodhna's mum, I think, three or four times in total. This is still, in my books, early days. I have yet to get a grasp on her, I don't know her, I suppose I owe her some sort of filial-by-proxy ("mother-in-law", you know) respect, but I don't know yet. I mean, I haven't even met her in the flesh. In fact, I have seen few enough photos that I could well not recognise her in some situations.
Not that there's any danger of that. I mean, we're going to pick her up from a London-Glasgow flight arriving in Glasgow Airport, and she's going to stand out because she's not wearing a suit, and in any case she's going to have a couple of mini-Cleodhnas with her.
(Being Jessie and Anna; Stalsze is coming separately.)
It could be far worse, for everyone. My dad, Bruce, may he rest in peace*, never really talked about his family and never had us engaged with them; Cleodhna's parents divorced and she only really knows about her mother's side. At a stroke, 50% of the potential awkwardness is banished.
And only a small proportion of the in-laws and out-laws (what *is* the term for people who are, from your bride's perspective, in-laws, but are from your perspective dear members of the family? No idea) will actually be present, I think, although I haven't been clueful enough to phone people and invite them. This will come soon.
*: I said this because it's the easiest way of saying that my father is dead (1992, as it happens, the year I started University), but I'm in two minds about it all. It strikes me to be rather superstitious; if I don't say that, will he suffer in endless torment? What if I'm wrong about the Universe, and when you die you just stop being, so my concern about a dead person's welfare is unfounded and a waste of emotive energy? Incidentally, it strikes me that this sort of phrase makes it very easy for a sceptic to paint himself as an uncaring bastard.
I am very lucky (or, possibly, my mother was very skillful): I get on very well with my mother. I have talked to enough people of my age to know how rare that is. I think one of the reasons for this (not the only one) is that I've been talking to her all my life, and I'm now 28, and we haven't argued. I say "argued" in the sense of damaging, personal, invective-laden conversations, not in the sense of philosophical discussion. (We otherwise argue a lot, and I remember fondly Margaret turning 60 and gleefully announcing that now she could be a bigot. Come Christmas, I buy Science books and dole them out to all comers.)
I came close to that with Bruce, and I like to think that, if he'd lived longer, I would have been able to patch up the differences we had developed. Bruce, I think, wanted a son who was interested in the same sorts of things as him; he was a seriously professional craftsman (and I mean this in the best possible sense), and I think he was trying to tell me, while I was a teenager, about things that were worth doing. As it happens, these were things that I wasn't interested in - tractors, bikes, building chicken coops, Christmas trees.
(Bruce was such a perfectionist that, one Christmas, when it came to getting the Christmas tree and getting a cross-piece for it, he decided that stability was really important and, therefore, he wouldn't nail the two planks of wood together, no, he would screw them together.)
Although I didn't agree with him on the details - although I agreed with him, perhaps too late, that hydraulics are, well, amazingly cool, I don't think I said that at the time - I took in what it was that he had to say; which was: Do Things Properly. Know what you're doing, know why you're doing it, be aware that there are people who are worthy of respect because they have experience in this sort of thing, and try and learn from them how to do whatever it is you're trying to do.
Something that, incidentally, Cleodhna knows, and holds true to her heart. As far as I can tell, once she decided she wanted a dog, she: 1) Did The Reading 2) Asked Around 3) Made An Informed Decision 4) Did More Reading
And hey presto, she's a dog expert in the West End of Glasgow.
Anyway, it's late (in fact, it's the day after - I've got to bed and woken up since I wrote the last paragraph), so this will have to do for now.
The World Cup's over.
I can't think of anything I want to watch on TV now.
Thank goodness we have shitloads of videos. We can watch those.