Takin’ to Drrink, A Handsome Boykke, & Writing it down

Yes, indeed, this IS a whole box of full-spectrum light bulbs. With the incessant rains (and hugely gusting winds — had the first inside-out-umbrella of the season, means autumn is on its way), even having massive windows means sometimes there’s just not a lot of light. Also, high ceilings sometimes means things get pretty dim near the floor, and it feels bizarre during the day to turn on the banks of overhead halogen spotlights — it’s harsh lighting, and during the day feels like a major overkill. Much of the time, a lamp over the shoulder is what’s needed, and so, we were away to Ikea again. Unfortunately, our love affair with the store, which never started in the first place, has ended.

It’s our own fault, in a way; we should have just purchased the number of lamps we’d ultimately need the first time we found them, but have you tried lugging nine lamps on a bus? We bought three and a table lamp, and called it good. This time, we were going back for the last five and an additional table lamp, but merely a year later, Ikea doesn’t carry that kind anymore. We were ready for that, and ready to regroup. However, Ikea also doesn’t sell lamps with UK-ready bulb sockets. They’re great for the U.S. and apparently Denmark… but lightbulbs here don’t get screwed in, they’re shoved in, and the fitting is called a bayonet.

Ikea Glasgow doesn’t sell those. At all. Hello, foolish much?

It’s just an annoying little setback — but it’s bugging us a bit. Bad enough to have to admit that we truly do suffer from a seasonal affective disorder (S.A.D. What a stupid acronym. It’s bad enough that too much dark and rain make you loopy, but to call it that?! People don’t want to admit to mental challenges as it is. Why couldn’t we call it Seasonal Dyspepsia? [Wait, then it sounds like it has something to do with overeating at Thanksgiving.] Seasonal Dystopia? Dysphoria. We like that one, and hereby rechristen it Seasonal Dysphoria. Now it doesn’t sound quite so …dorky.), worse to be briefly stymied in our attempts to head it off at the pass. As one of the people we met at D.’s professor’s house said, “Don’t buy lamps. Just do like the Scots and take to drrrink!” Her vociferous r-rolling had us laughing.

We’ve found some lamps that will work, and so can avoid drowning in whiskey, for now…

Although D. might just want to take himself off somewhere for a quiet nip. For the nth time since he’s come to this country, a woman has stood no more than a foot from him and discussed his good looks while he sat and squirmed. This amuses T. no end — wickedly, she eggs on his persecutors.

Over-Sixty Strumpet in Pink Raincoat: “Lord, he’s a right handsome boykke, isn’t he?”
T, gobsmacked: “Uh, what?
O.S.S., making a chin gesture: “Himself. Handsome.”
D: *!*
T, grinning, fanning herself: “Oh, yeah, gosh, he is gorgeous, isn’t he?”
Silver-haired Siren: “Ooh, if I were forty — no, thirty-five years younger,” the woman sighed, and patted her hair.
D: *!*

Heh, heh. The boy’s still got it. Much to T’s disgust, he’ll be arthritic and completely white-haired, and will probably still be reeling ’em in.

*Eye roll*

There’s a scene in science fiction and fantasy writer Terry Pratchett’s Wee Free Men where the little blue men in question — fierce Pictish Pixies any other time — quake in terror. They meet a frog (oh, don’t ask, it’s a fairytale) who was once a lawyer. They’re terrified of lawyers. Their swords glow blue in the presence of lawyers (as do the swords of the good folk in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings; their swords glowed blue in the presence of evil.), and they’re deeply superstitious about having their names written down anywhere, in terror that just writing their name will cause it to end up in a Legal Document.

A lot of what Sir Terrence writes is satire, and his depiction of the Wee Free Men – down to the way they talk – is his version of Glasgow. And it seems that his subtle teasing about the fear of writing things down, or putting their name to things is also somewhat accurate…

Let’s say that one of the students D worked with this past year was involved in some … um … brushes with authenticity. Let’s say that D. could take a few sentences from papers of this student’s and Google them — and get results. Let’s say that a whole cabal of folks were gathering to discuss what to do. Let’s say that none of them would commit to email a WORD of what their concerns were.

Not. A. Word.

Emails even loosely referring to the allegorical student were marked with the phrase “Without Prejudice,” which is a legal statement used to protect a document from being used in legal proceedings, to make it privileged from disclosure. (“Legal term signifying that something is being done, proposed, or said without abandoning a claim, privilege, or right, and without implying an admission of liability.” [from businessdictionary.com]).

Coming from the academic world in the U.S., where there is a much trumpeted “Zero tolerance” on alleged academic dishonesty, D. is unaccustomed to such walking on eggshells. He’s also required to attend meetings, mark papers, and comment on particular cases, even those of allegorical students. It’s been an education doing so via email, let’s just say. Never have so few words had to stand in for so much meaning.

Academia: it’s sometimes a really strange world.

We leave you with a scene from the nightlife on Woodlands Road. There’s a crepe shop that has the hours of a pub — so people can get a bite to eat before going home. As of last Monday, it’s illegal to sell alcohol at petrol stations, so the gas station across the street is quieter, but the crepe dude still gets a steady stream of late-night customers. This picture was taken after midnight.

– D & T

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