Grampa
I don't really remember Granny Ethel, except that at one point she was alive and at another, Grampa lived alone. There must have been a funeral and such, but either I wasn't invited or it's all blurred into insignificance.
Most of my memories of Grampa come in drips and draps, but what I do remember clearly is that whenever we visited him out in the colonies, Grampa always served us kids lime cordial and soda water from an old glass siphon as a special treat. It tasted terribly bitter but it made us feel very privileged to be waited upon like that, so we always drank it all up. I don't recall if we were ever allowed to operate the trigger on the siphon ourselves, but somehow I doubt it.
Grampa had red hair, combed back from his forehead - which, now I come to think of it, is how I wear mine, including the ever-increasing bald patch, but so far free of liver spots. I think I have Grampa to thank for my little-remaining-hair-not-turning-grey genes.
Of course the one, truly lasting memory was of the fucking enormous tigerskin rug sprawled across the floorboards in his living room. It had a fearsome snarl permanently frozen on its face, and its staring glass eyes had us absolutely terrified. Grampa would smile and pat it on the head reassuringly, but I was too scared of those long, sharp teeth.
If there were any bullet holes in it, you'd think I'd remember that, right? Nope. I guess he must have strangled it to death with his bare hands then. Grampas are awesome like that.
I'm reminded of Grampa every time I look at my mouse mat, for some reason.
Most of my memories of Grampa come in drips and draps, but what I do remember clearly is that whenever we visited him out in the colonies, Grampa always served us kids lime cordial and soda water from an old glass siphon as a special treat. It tasted terribly bitter but it made us feel very privileged to be waited upon like that, so we always drank it all up. I don't recall if we were ever allowed to operate the trigger on the siphon ourselves, but somehow I doubt it.
Grampa had red hair, combed back from his forehead - which, now I come to think of it, is how I wear mine, including the ever-increasing bald patch, but so far free of liver spots. I think I have Grampa to thank for my little-remaining-hair-not-turning-grey genes.
Of course the one, truly lasting memory was of the fucking enormous tigerskin rug sprawled across the floorboards in his living room. It had a fearsome snarl permanently frozen on its face, and its staring glass eyes had us absolutely terrified. Grampa would smile and pat it on the head reassuringly, but I was too scared of those long, sharp teeth.
If there were any bullet holes in it, you'd think I'd remember that, right? Nope. I guess he must have strangled it to death with his bare hands then. Grampas are awesome like that.
I'm reminded of Grampa every time I look at my mouse mat, for some reason.
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Another Highland Wedding
So if you've been following me on Twitter - and if not, why not? - you'll know that I've been up to Grantown-on-Spey for a wedding at the weekend. A jolly good time was had by all, although I didn't get to take quite as many photos as last year. And somehow totally failed to get a single one of my grand-daughter, despite her being a flower girl, le sigh.
The bride, groom and some parents at Abernethy Church. Now I want a biscuit.
Flower girls always look lovely, don't you think? Even when they're up to mischief.
Cutting the cake. Mmmm, cake. This one was baked by the groom's gran (see top photo) and cost over £200 to make, most of which went on booze. Must remember to ask for the recipe.
There's no point trying to get them to pose, so why not do the opposite and catch them in their natural state?
We're married now and there's nothing you can do about it!
I think she's just spotted the car. Ooer.
Already planning her own wedding. It'll be a blast!
The bride, groom and some parents at Abernethy Church. Now I want a biscuit.
Flower girls always look lovely, don't you think? Even when they're up to mischief.
Cutting the cake. Mmmm, cake. This one was baked by the groom's gran (see top photo) and cost over £200 to make, most of which went on booze. Must remember to ask for the recipe.
There's no point trying to get them to pose, so why not do the opposite and catch them in their natural state?
We're married now and there's nothing you can do about it!
I think she's just spotted the car. Ooer.
Already planning her own wedding. It'll be a blast!
Feeling the Heat
The fine city of Edinburgh hasn't always been the pristine jewel in Scotchland's crown that you see today. Situated slap bang on top of a coal seam, it's perfectly sited to take advantage of Nature's bounty with a roaring fire in every house, sometimes every room, for centuries. Not for nothing is the town still affectionately *cough* known as Auld Reekie.Well, until the Clean Air Act and all that, when coal fires were banned in the city and we were all forced onto gas or that new-fangled "electricity". Some of us got quite a shock when the sand-blasters started their decades-long clean-up program on our buildings and we discovered that the natural colour of sandstone isn't black, as we'd assumed, but sandy. So what follows must have happened sometime before the switch.
There I am, sitting by the fire in the living room reading a book that I have bought with my own money. In walks my brother. Perhaps he's just been stung by a bee, or maybe he's on his period. Whatever the reason for his bad temper, he walks up to me, snatches the book from my hands, rips out the last several pages and throws them on the fire!
Well, it was all a long time ago and I've forgotten not only what that book was called, let alone who wrote it, but it still irks me that I was prevented from finding out how it ended by a selfish, insensitive twat. However, with any luck I'll come across another copy one day so no spoilers please. I'd like to find out for myself if his Merrie Men managed to spring Jesus from jail.
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