Category: Glasgow

I feel as if I’ve seen just about everything, on my wanders between the University and home, or between home and work. One thing I hadn’t expected, though, was that somebody would go to all of the trouble to damage the newly-renovated fountain in Kelvingrove Park.

Here’s a closer look at the poor cherub, who’s been like this for several weeks. I guess that it’s just a bit too heavy to get out by hand, which begs the question of how somebody lifted it off of its pins to begin with.

Perhaps they were objecting to the number of toes on the cherub? I believe this one has at least 8 toes.

Given, they’re not supposed to be human, but … well, it’s either that he’s got extra digits, or he’s had a truly horrible case of athlete’s foot. Somehow, I think disease is the less likely option, here.

-D

Comic courtesy of Married to the Sea

You have now nearly made it through the week. Rejoice!

Of course, now that the weather is turning, it’s getting harder for people to GET to work. It’s wiiiiiindy right now, and the wee people of this city do not take kindly to being tossed about. Lines for the bus in the morning are quite long, and it’s standing room only, grim people cheek-by-jowl. And trying to get a cab can take forty-five minutes; the up-side is that we get to stand in the foyer of our building and chat with the neighbors while we practically press our noses against the glass and wait… and wait…

Since the bus company has hiked and hiked the fares in the three years we’ve lived here, we actually find it less expensive to take a cab when we can’t walk to our destination. To us, that seems a bit insane, as the point of public transportation, one would think, would be to get individual cars off the road, but somehow the city hasn’t quite gotten the same memo.

While riding the bus does in fact some days give one a slice of city life that one would not otherwise touch with a ten foot pole, riding in cabs has its own special… funkiness. Namely in the form of …er, occasionally throat-closing funk. And there we shall draw a veil.

Other than malodorous drivers, the second most common pitfall of riding in cabs in the city is the fractious temperament of some of the drivers.

Now, one expects a driver to be somewhat of a people person — in that one has to ferry people about all day. (T. disagrees – one does not have to be a people person to drive people; merely an individual who knows six ways to get to the same place. Case in point: T’s dad. Formerly a Muni driver – currently a cranky introvert with a good sense of direction.) However, since bus drivers in the UK are in their own wee cages, away from the general hoi polloi (and sometimes on the phone!!!!), some don’t find it necessary to even acknowledge the people in the bus. This is actually just fine, what with the rest of the sturm und drang of humanity and the mini-dramas going on in the seats, the driver is quite welcome to his lofty solitude, and the rest of us only wish at times that we could share it.

A cab driver, however, is sitting within five feet of the passengers (or much closer, if it’s a standard car and not a hansom cab), and despite usually being on the phone as well (which is illegal, yes, but it doesn’t faze anyone here as far as we can tell), or having the radio on to some extremely loud, hip hop music (or, worse, bad country), football game (or people arguing about the calls a coach made on a football game. Or rehashing the drafting of players for football — can you tell these people love their sport?) or singing in a lounge singer-y fashion (happens more often than we want to acknowledge), usually interacts with us, whether we want interaction or not. And really, it’s sort of inevitable.

When we first arrived in this country, the interactions were usually funny – nosy questions, mocking of our “Hollywood accents,” snickers when we bungled pronunciation (“It’s not Sauchie Hall, lass. It’s Socky hall! [Sauchiehall]), and the inevitable comparisons on weather – California vs. Glasgow. Sometimes the discussions were political (especially when we first arrived) and we were treated to rants on GW, or, during the election, enthusiastic support in broken English for Mr. Obama, and sometimes philosophical and interesting, and we were disappointed when the ride was over. However, there have always been the sniping remarks. Personal sneering about our clothes, about our destination, about the fact that “back in my day, we just hoofed it up to University,” (Yes, well, back in your day perhaps you weren’t carrying zucchini bread for your entire department, plus your laptop and a camera and a tripod and all your books, but whatever), etc. Just lately it’s been about the time of day we call the cab.

D., as a student, has a flexible work schedule with his office at Skypark, and spends a lot of time working from home, logging time for phone conversations and quick fixes he does on the days he’s not actually supposed to be working, and generally doing his best to appease his [insert adjectives here] boss. The days he actually goes in he’s sometimes quite early, and other times goes in a bit later than everyone else, but he puts in a certain amount of hours, and that’s that. It’s what tech guys do. Apparently it does not meet with the approval of certain cabbies.

Just the other day, D. got a dressing-down for going in to work late. Seriously. The driver acted as if he were doing this massive favor just by stopping at the house instead of driving aimlessly with no fares, and proceeded to lambaste D. about nothing in particular, and then snarl, “What time are you supposed to be in, anyway?” To which D. replied, “Whenever I get there.”

Well, that set him off all over again. “‘Tis all right for some,” he sniffed, and with much eyerolling and profanity stewed and spat the rest of the ride.

One of D’s coworkers reports being dressed down for her makeup and being driven out of her way, to a dicey part of town, and threatened with being let out there since that was where her kind lived. Which is really enough to terrify one into walking. (Hello? Sociopaths Anonymous???)

Inasmuch as it is really sort of spirit-bruising to start one’s day with criticism and sniping and traffic and horn-blowing and general boorishness from total a stranger, we both have decided that it’s not only dangerous but really foolish to respond in kind. A.) There’s no point in fighting with strangers, as it just makes you cranky, and B.) Plato’s aphorism, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle,” has never been more true, plus there’s the whole Golden Rule thing. Impersonal malice is much more easily ignored with that in mind.

There are at least three major cab companies in the city, and the drivers who are “shirty” and pugnacious aren’t from any particular company… so, we sometimes wonder if this is a.) just a city thing, b.) just a Glaswegian thing, c.) just a Scottish thing? Having lived in the ‘burbs and the States all of our lives prior to this time, we just have no idea. Any thoughts from knowledgeable urbanites very welcome!

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We might as well start a TV series called Stuff My Choir Master Bellows, because what we hear there is loads better than any nonsense either of our fathers say. This past week, Sir Nearly Knighted was at his melodramatic best – striding up the aisle, mocking the second altos (which seems to be a favorite pastime), flinging himself to his desk over the tenors (“Tenors! You’re killing me! You’re singing with such long faces!” to which they protested, “It’s a requiem man!”), and glaring at the sopranos. His best line from the whole night was when we were going over a piece in the Cherubini where the sopranos missed reading the dynamic and muffled what was meant to be a very loud entry.

He glared up at the sopranos again and bellowed, “Libera eras! Libera! That means, “save your servants!” Not, “‘Och, weel, God, and if you get a moment, could you gie us a wee hand with things down here!'”

We really wish you could have heard the thick accent he put on for that. Sometimes we’re tempted to record rehearsals, but that’s a bit intrusive and rude and beyond the pale even for us, so we’ll content ourselves with still pictures sometime soon!

Meanwhile, the Met Office has proclaimed this weekend to be the most glorious weekend of Indian summer (which truly — TRULY begs the question. There were never any Indians here, and the South Asian transplants don’t count on this one, so why is it called Indian Summer in the UK?? According to this helpful phrase site, “The English already had names for the phenomenon – St. Luke’s Summer, St. Martin’s Summer or All-Hallown Summer, but these have now all but disappeared and, like the rest of the world, the term Indian summer has been used in the UK for at least a century.” Once again, the U.S. exports popular culture…), and that we should brace ourselves for a horrific time until March. As we’re still waiting for the faithfully promised “bbq summer” the Met Office forecast for us two summers ago, we’ll cheerfully go on ignoring their advisories, but do plan to have Foraging Weekend II on Cumbrae Isle again, rain or shine. There’s been a good frost or two, and it’s time to go and get those rose hips/haws!

T’s been having a brief flirtation with Greek, Turkish, and Cypriot foods and cultures, in service of her newest middle grade novel, and so we’re eating lots of “kebabs,” (aka “kabobs,”) tomatoes, olives, yogurt, cucumbers and olive oil as well as imagining some really fabulous desserts. T’s found a Turkish doughnut recipe that uses rose hip syrup and is eager to try a fairly common autumn “hedgerow recipe” of apple and rose hip jelly. Meanwhile D’s in the mood for bagels, and Axel’s parents have given us their kitchen for the weekend. Interesting photos sure to follow.

Finally, enjoy the horror that is haggis-flavored crisps. Axel complains they “weren’t even very haggis-y.” One would think he would be just a bit glad of this.

Happy Weekend.

Along with “pal,” two of the recurring phrases we hear around Glasgow are, “see yez after” and “all right?”

“Yez” is, of course, a variant of “youse,” which is that lovely Brooklyn-esque way of indicating you in the plural. It struck as so amazing to hear so many Glaswegians sound … like they were from the Bronx or something with that “youse” going on. (Choir humor struck during this week’s rehearsal as the bases caroled the last notes of Chestnuts: The Christmas Song. “Merry Christmas, to yoooouse,” they wailed, and we all broke up. It was truly dreadful.)

When one says “see yez after,” it equates roughly to one saying, “see you later,” except that in our case, it’s been said by the taxi driver, a gentleman delivering packages, by the plumber, and by the guy coming to check our gas. While it’s true that we may, indeed, see them at some other point … would we remember? Would they? Reflexively polite comments are always so strange.

When one hears “All right?” one might be tempted to answer, “Yes,” but it is in fact a greeting, roughly translated to, “how are you?” It’s occasionally heard in its variant form, “y’all right?” or “Ye aw right?” Thus, we observe the evolution of a phrase (and come to understand how it could exist).

As indicated previously, the correct answer is not to say “Yes” to that query. The correct response is to give a short nod and return the phrase. Or, if you’re us, nod and say brightly, “How are you?” and ignore the fact that you feel silly not knowing what to say.

Story of our lives, really.

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We’re already down to only 11 hours of daylight, and it’s just a week past equinox. We’ve had our first frost, and can see our breath when we’re out in the morning or evening.

We’re getting the feeling there ought to be some kind of …ritual involved in this time of year. We ought to be doing something to mark the change. T. suggested digging out the scarves and making sure there weren’t any “moth squishies” gnawing on them.

Somehow this is not what D. had in mind.

-D & T

How does one pronounce the word “dune?” We were informed by our choir conductor that it should be pronounced “dyoon” rather than “doon” … because “doon” is how Scots pronounce the word “down.” So, when singing Whitaker’s Sleep, we are to make it clear that we’re singing about “dune” … by clearly pronouncing that “y” which is so absent from the written word. Right.

The evening hangs beneath the moon,
A silver thread on darkened dune.
With closing eyes and resting head
I know that sleep is coming soon.

Upon my pillow, safe in bed,
A thousand pictures fill my head,
I cannot sleep, my mind’s a flight;
And yet my limbs seem made of lead

If there are noises in the night,
A frightened shadow, flickering light;
Then I surrender unto sleep,
Where clouds of dream give second sight.

What dreams may come, both dark and deep,
Of flying wings and soaring leap
As I surrender unto sleep,
As I surrender unto sleep,
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep
(etc.)

-D & T

Prawn Coctail	Sizzling King Prawn	Flame Grilled Steak	Roast Chicken	Smoky Bacon

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Our friend Jess mentioned how strange it was that there are such things as “Roastin Chicken” flavored potato chips. We find it strange as well, of course, but have grown accustomed to finding such strange flavors as “Ox Tail,” in addition to the other strange ones pictured. Of course, the really odd flavor in there has to be Cajun Squirrel.

D actually tried these, seeing as how they contain no animal products; nor do the Ox Tail ones, but … after the squirrel, he’s done experimenting with these abominations.

-D & T

Awhile back we ran across a really disturbing study out of Edinburgh’s Napier University. According to the BBC some eighty-nine Glaswegian children from five different primary schools were interviewed to talk about their views on male/female gender and behavior. The kids were eleven and twelve years old.

The question they were asked was if it was justified for a man to strike his wife or girlfriend if she’d cheated on him. Nearly all of the children polled said, “Yes.” 80% of the children felt it was okay for him to slap her if dinner wasn’t on the table on time.

The rest of the study is just as harrowing, and deals with diminished future expectations for the girls and accepted discrimination, but because T’s sister (aka Mother of Sons) has in the recent past had the addition of two gorgeous Wee Men join she and Big Man, what stuck with us is what the researcher said about her subjects, and how it reflects on boys:

“The children didn’t agree with violence, but gave reasons to try to justify it if the woman had done something ‘wrong’.

“The old saying of ‘If he pulls your pigtails it means he likes you’, translates into violence in adulthood which girls accept as normal.”

Boy, that old saw again. Sometimes, there are just no words for the lies some people tell kids, are there? T. remembers lecturing her seventeen fifth grade boys on this very topic (she somehow had only two girls in that class), and concluding with a Wrath of Teacher voice, “– and if I see any of you pulling hair, or kicking muddy water on Amanda and Sara or any of the girls, you will be RUNNING laps around the field for every recess for a solid month, so help me.” (Is it any wonder that the boys took to leaving her long worms and millipedes and not the girls on the playground?) She sometimes wonders if she scarred any of her students for life, but remembers all too well the charming boy in her sixth grade class who left fist-sized bruises all over her back — because he allegedly liked her. She wishes she had the right hook then that she does now.

Dear Mother of Sons: we sometimes worry for the Wee Men. What a world they’re coming into.

Sometimes, this town seems very wrong, and not in a quirky, funny way, either. Apparently Amnesty International has spoken out against Scotland for years for its continued violence against women. This study bodes ill for this city down the road, and here’s hoping that educators and parents are taking what they’ve reflected to their children seriously – and figuring out something to do about it all.

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That made us both very sad — so, let’s talk about some nicer Scottish news: taxidermy!

Okay, “nicer” is a state of opinion here… but we were recently torn between horror and amusement to find that Scotland – Aberdeenshire, to be specific – is once again pushing the envelope of good brewing and …good taste. The company, BrewDog, had already been roundly criticized for brewing extra strong ales and beers… now they’ve come up with a new line called End of History – 55% alcohol by volume – and the bottles are slipped into the bodies of taxidermied roadkill. Yes. Dead animals.

We won’t bother including a picture, but if you need one – you can visit here. Of course, it was a limited line – sold for between £500 – 750 a bottle — and it’s already sold out. Because if you don’t have your ridiculously strong ale poured out of a dead animal at your next party, really, how cool are you?

Did we mention that sometimes this country is just a bit off?

Meanwhile, on the homefront, the long light continues. Though it’s not exactly sunny — we’ve had maybe five days in July so far where there has been no rain — it is still very light out until well into the evening, and early morning, and it is bringing on some intriguing sleeptalking episodes. One goes to bed and is awakened by one’s spouse, crooning to them, patting the blankets around them. “What are you doing?” one asks ones spouse in a carefully, psychiatric-approved Calm Voice, knowing the danger of abruptly awakening both the sleep-talking and the probably insane. “I’m encrypting you,” is the response, as eyes remain closed. “Music is closely associated with math, which is why I have to sing.”

Spouse simply rolls eyes and sighs as the patting and crooning continues.

Yep. Some days are just odd.

Meanwhile, T. has sold another book – woot! – and is working on three at a time, and jittering from drinking too much tea. D. is spending days — between being his company’s Good Luck Developer Charm — wrestling statistics into comprehensible form, and falling asleep over piles of books. And possibly encrypting things.

And now for something completely different.

We’re grateful that NPR is something you can listen to no matter where you are – and this little animation narrated by Robert Krulwich makes us quite happy just now.