Joe Bloggs, Concessions , and the Good Life

Another strange week in Glasgow, as we try and wait out the tumultuous ebbs and flows in the schedule, and hope that it all settles down soon. The social calendar is filling — much to the hermetic T’s dismay — as dinners and gatherings are scheduled with “partners” and peers. This and things like invitations to Whoniversal Appeal: An Interdisciplinary Postgraduate Conference on Doctor Who, and its Spin-Offs at Cardiff University (seriously) are all part of the delightful academic whirl.

As always, however, we can’t simply settle into life without, well, questioning everything. And a few things have reappeared to make us laugh — first of all, the word “concessions.” Northern Harmony, a world music choir from Vermont, will be in Glasgow as part of their UK tour — and we’ll be buying tickets at the door with everyone else (And boy, this might be tricky — they’ve sold out absolutely everywhere, and we may have to arm wrestle people for a seat. Stay tuned). We can buy regular tickets, or tickets with concessions.

T. remembers the first time she read the word concessions in this setting, and thinking there would be …snacks. (She blames this on her obsession with food.) Once again, “concessions” are a different rate for a different group of people — i.e., differently-abled or elderly or student persons — which allow them to pay less. In the United States this is simply listed as “Student rate” or something comparable. So, please — banish the images of tortilla chips and salsa. Accept that no one is bringing you guacamole…or a burrito… (sigh. Our dear Van’s twenty-five pounds of pintos are within six cups of running out. Is it sad that we could eat that many pintos in only nine months!?!? Well — in our defense, we ate them to avoid the cabbage and turnips we could have eaten…)

Another phrase that’s popped up lately is… Joe Bloggs. The first time we heard it, we said, in all seriousness, “Who?” — and broke up everyone around us in gales of laughter. We couldn’t figure it out — Joe Bloggs sounded like a perfectly reasonable name, but it is, in fact, the UK version of the bland everyman, Joe Blow, the subtly less desirable Joe Schmoe, or the recently popularized Joe Six-Pack, of whom we are heartily sick of hearing. John Q. Public (or John Q. Citizen) is apparently also known here as Tommy Atkins (!?), thus the phrase, “any Tom, Dick or Harry.” (We’ll have to get back to you on the identities of Dick or Harry.)

T’s had a very nice lady interview her, and is looking forward to appearing in both her alma maters’ alumnae magazines with book reviews later in the fall. Meanwhile, D. dips a toe into the scary world of peer reviewing — and ponders the difficulties to be had in trying to critique a dissertation that is not your own. Fortunately, this week, his boss had mercy on him and delivered a computer to the house, so that D. only need show up to the office in person once a week. This is indeed a relief — though strangely, while convenient, actually not the best idea.

Last weekend was spent mostly working — D. frantically finishing a project for work, and T., always ready to enter into panic, working the weekend through as well. As a result, both of us are confused as to what day it is; Tuesday T. had an appointment which she thought was on Wednesday; by Wednesday, she was convinced that it was Friday and she had to meet the driver from the organic farm for the week’s produce. Working at home means we once again need to draw boundaries between work time and home time, and yes — actually leave the hobbit hole periodically. One more dinner in Newton Mearns (which is, in all seriousness, near another East Renfrewshire village called Netherplace!) is required of us this next weekend, but after that, we plan to get on a train and just — go — the landscape unspooling before us, nameless inns and coffee houses ahead of us. (EDIT: From the silliness of this post thus far, and the number of asides, it should be obvious that) We definitely need a break.

Being run off of our feet has had the side effect of slouching down on the couch to watch five or ten minutes of mindless (well, Twiggy’s Frock Swap is on BBC, so it’s only marginally mindless, in theory) television every once in awhile. T&D have noticed, and have had it confirmed by a friend, that dish washing commercials here in Glasgow are… odd. There’s the same chipper music and stupid fields of flowers erupting around the hapless woman doing the stereotypically feminine job, but what Jane…Bloggs washes? She doesn’t rinse.

Our friend A. has confirmed this from his own observations at D’s office — the model is that people dip and scrub dishes in soapy water, and then …put them in the drainer. The End. This is… baffling to us, as in the U.S., people are so hyped to have things absolutely rinsed and free of the chemical stew that is dish soap that they invent special non-soap soaps with which to wash produce, so one needn’t ingest chemicals. As always, we are reminded that though we (mostly) speak the same language as people here in Glasgow, we still don’t quite understand …most things.

Still — the sun’s been shining in the past three weeks more than it’s shone all summer long. The darkness doesn’t seem quite so daunting just now. Life is, if somewhat confusing, still good.

– D & T

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