Cab Tales, Words du Jour, & etc.

The city is wide-eyed in the dark.

On dim afternoons, the lights come on, and the party goes on. Lights are strung across pedestrian thoroughfares, and white lights – fairy lights – are twisted through trees. It’s the same every autumn in every wee town we’ve visited, but it’s all the brighter in Glasgow now, for it being November. Trees are being lit this weekend in city squares, as the great Christmas/Hogmanay countdown begins. Our rehearsals are full-time Christmas revels now, and between the John Barry tributes (who knew there were four-part choral arrangements of the theme from Goldfinger??), the show tunes from Grease and the ABBA/Mamma Mia songs — (we’re “dancing queens” again!) — we are indeed hauling out the holly. Or something. How we wish you could all be there.

We, meanwhile, have had important things to do, which take us to town. T. is scouring out the last of the library’s stock for Cybils reading, as the first of the big boxes from the publishing companies come thundering in. (Though she’s used the library this year more than ever, this past week, she received twenty-eight books from publishers in a single day. Made the UPS man right curious, that did.) We are also sending donations to a few charities who have requested T’s books (it’s expensive from here, and time-consuming, and she’s glad that the last of them are done and dusted, and she hopes the Illinois Dept. of Children & Families has an amazing Christmas party), which has necessitated additional cab trips, and many chatty cab drivers. Because of this, now, Ruth, we know what your man is getting you for Christmas. And it’s even engraved! (Also, T. thinks it’s really cute how your swain refers to himself as”, “Ruth’s man.” T. thinks she ought to take it up, and call herself “D’s wumman.” However, it’s not quite as convincing when she bursts into loud guffaws afterward.)

Meanwhile, at D’s work, there were quarterly reviews – an embuggerance (a nice British military slang word) – and lots of team meetings – a further embuggerance – as they prepare to add onto their staff of four. As the interviews go on – and D. is stuck at work until almost eight at night! – we’ve decided to regale you with Drew’s Collected Wit & Wisdom once again:

Last week’s Phrase du Jour, scrawled on the white board:
“Never test the depth of a burn with both of your feet.”
(Apparently a bit of conventional Fife wisdom our Drew learned as a lad at his Mam’s knee.) For once, that’s something that’s easy enough to understand.)

How fortunate we are that Drew’s advice extends to shopping as well! Says he, “If you’re ever in an English shop and they don’t have any thingamybobs, look for duberryfirkins instead. Duberryfirkin is the London equivalent to a thingamybob, which is the Northern England equivalent to the Scottish thingummy.”

Americans are so conventional. We just look for stuff.

Friday’s Word du Jour: shufti. /shuf-ti/
n. Informal, British, military; to take a wee looksee, or reconnoiter.
Usage: “Take a wee shufti at this!”
Now, this one was amazing – it really does date from WWII. The word is of Arabic origin meaning “look!”, and was brought back to Britain by soldiers returning from Arabic lands who had learnt the word from …dudes selling nudie postcards. The peddlers used to keep the postcards hidden inside their coats and would show them to soldiers saying “Shufti, shufti!” – “Look, look!”

And now you know.

The great dial of the season spins, searching for its stations between late autumn and the year’s final cold. We remain astounded by the relative mildness of the days. The temps remain in the mid-forties Fahrenheit/ eight-seven Celsius range, and we. get. sun. Almost daily sun. Granted: a thin, weak sun which is reminiscent of a California January, a sun backed by a pale blue sky criss-crossed with high ragged streamers of nearly transparent cloud. It is such a gift, as compared to last year at this time.

Now D. has done the annoying and picky job of the first binding for his 200 + page dissertation (thesis), he continues to await a date for his oral exams (and when he gets one, you’ll probably hear the rejoicing all the way to your house). While he waits, he’s applied to a few promisingly complicated-looking positions in various fields (some of you can imagine him easily in a psychology department. T. just shakes her head in bemusement). Many and long are the discussions about where to land, and now that T’s mother has had a serious bump in her relatively healthy road, some of our plans are being reconsidered, since air travel for her will be severely curtailed (by the entire family, if not just by her good common sense). Meanwhile, as the application process progresses, D. has been seeking to get his grades from the University for the Master’s he completed here his first year… only to discover that the University’s new computer overhaul over this summer has erased his grades, and still has him enrolled. Apparently it’s a time-machine as well as a database, and has reset us to 2009. HOPEFULLY this week upcoming, the nonsense will be cleared up, but T. commented that this doesn’t bode well for getting a job in academia, as it all seems so distressingly disorganized, as compared to the business world. (To which D. replied, “HAH!”)

The wee birds have kept busy, fighting and stealing seeds from one another, and we see bolder — and bigger — squirrels streaking across the green every day. (And bolder cats following rapidly after.) As we bundle up and hunker down for the worst of The Dread Dark, we are surprisingly cheerful, hopeful, and grateful for the graces of having our families alive in one piece, for our warm blankets, books, faux haggis, and of course — you.

Thanksgiving, indeed.