Cold Weather

We had a few days of winter last week, after weeks of unseasonably mild weather (notwithstanding the wild wind and rain storms, of course). The cold days were lovely because it was sunny and not too windy so I could still enjoy my lunchtime walks. I think the daytime temperatures were only around -3 but my face had that stiffness that feels like your mouth is being pulled downwards by the cold.

It's interesting to observe the way people dress in such weather. There are the sensible elderly ladies wearing tweed skirts, thick stockings and stout shoes, topped off with the "good" woollen coat they bought at Jenners 20 years ago and a wee woolly hat. The hats are always a rose or mauve colour for some reason. These women look exactly like all the teachers I had in secondary school. (One of my teachers, Miss Ritchie, who was in her late fifties, wore the same two tweed suits during my time with her in the late 1960's - one heather-coloured, the other a blue and cream plaid - when my cousin went to the same school seven years before. She wore white blouses buttoned up to the neck, with a cameo at the throat, and her grey hair was pulled back into a braided bun at her neck. Not a trace of make-up or other adornment. She was only a few years older than I am now).

In contrast, there are the young women with jeans worn so low on their hips, you wonder how they can possibly stay up. These are always worn with scanty little tops, of course, revealing vast amounts of bare flesh. Some more vast than others, with a doughnut-like ring of pale goose-pimpled belly swelling over the waistband of the low-rise jeans. The irony of this outfit is the cropped padded jacket, barely reaching the naked waist, but well insulated at the neck with fake fur. These fashionistas can be spotted teetering along Princes Street in 5-inch stilettos, smoking, talking into their mobiles and constantly tugging at the too-short top because their bellies are freezing. You see them at bus stops shivering violently. As a young woman, I didn't learn to dress for the weather until I nearly froze to death during my first winter in Calgary because wearing a coat over my suit would have spoiled the "look". I was 18 years old and the weather that day was probably around -30.

My niece's husband, who grew up on the mild south coast of England, said that the cold wind here is the reason Scots wear a permanent scowl. This has a ring of truth when you see crowds of people rushing along the street, huddled into their coats, grimacing at the cold and wind in their faces. The light here has a coldness to it that accentuates the naturally pale skin of a lot of Scots, making them look drawn and ill, with shadows under their eyes. Of course, there's a lot of smoking and drinking going on here, which could account for that pasty-faced look.

I often see women, of all ages, trying to cover up their pale Scottish skin by using heavy tan-coloured foundation, enhanced by too much bronzer. This makeup probably looked great in the summer but it's incongruous in this cold light and freezing weather. Especially if the belly hanging over the waistband is blue with cold.

The Cats

I don't know if you're aware of this, but your bathroom is a very dangerous place. It's fraught with hidden dangers and your very life is threatened as soon as you cross the threshold. You'll be relieved to know, though, that the hazards are limited to use of the toilet or the bath tub and shower, and don't seem to affect the sink. I consider myself very lucky to be alive because, for most of my life, I recklessly stepped through the doors of countless bathrooms, oblivious to the perils awaiting me.

Now that I have cats and don't need the privacy of a closed door, I've learned that the bathroom is dangerous. I don't know exactly what the dangers are because the cats haven't learned to talk yet, but I know that going into the bathroom is a huge risk because of their reaction. If you want to live out your days without bathroom incident, then I suggest you acquire a cat or two to ensure your bathroom use is always properly supervised. I had no idea how much supervision I needed. It's just as well they moved to Edinburgh with me.

At the sound of the toilet lid going up, they gallop into the bathroom, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Panic stricken. Omigod - she's in the bathroom; HURRY! They'll awaken out of a deep and snoring cat sleep to do this. Once they've established that my bum's not wedged inside the bowl and that I'm not en route to the sewers, the pupils dilate, the eyelids relax and they start purring and rubbing against my legs. Ricky is sometimes compelled to jump onto the top of the tank to get a better vantage point for rescue purposes. He can never quite accept that I'm safe until I'm actually off the seat and the lid is once again closed, thereby protecting me from Death by Flushing.

Using the sink is a different matter. There's apparently no need to interrupt a nap to save me from the sink. Presumably, they've done a risk assessment, little pens poised over clipboards to record possible sink perils, and decided there were none. I can safely wash my face and hands and indulge in extensive dental habits without incident.

Turning on the bath taps requires a brief reconnaissance mission to scope out the enemy and establish positions. There is great alarm once I'm installed in a tub full of soapy bubbles, although the act of lowering myself into it seems to be of no consequence. While I'm lying in the water, there is much consternation and pacing back and forth, standing on hind legs with paws on the edge and looks of indignation directed at me. Sometimes there's even a plaintive meow. This, from cats who rarely speak. A guard is often posted to the window sill, to supervise any movement in the water, ready to sound the alarm. Occasionally, if I allow the surface of the water to become still, a paw will stretch out to touch the surface. Of course, it's quickly withdrawn when the horrible reality of a wet paw is realized and the victim has to rush off to lick it dry. As soon as I'm out of the water, their job is done and they return to the warm spot beside the radiator in the living room to catch up on their sleep.

A shower, which also involves the bathtub, isn't much of a concern in the beginning and I'm usually allowed to enter unsupervised. After the water's turned off and I draw back the shower curtain, Charlie's sitting on the edge of the tub, alert to the possibility that I'll be sucked down the plug hole as the water drains out. Once I'm safely standing on the bathmat, Charlie's relieved of his duties as, at this point, Ricky trots in to take over. It seems that, while supervision of toilet use and bathing requires two cats, one cat is sufficient for the shower. Showers are evidently low-risk. Seeing that I've survived my ablutions, Ricky hops into the tub and starts the long job of licking it dry. He does this single-tonguedly because Charlie doesn't like to get his paws wet. Sometimes he'll leave the bathtub to lick my legs dry too, but he always goes back in to finish the job.

I'm so grateful to my cats for protecting me from all the water and porcelain. It's a lot of work for them because they're almost always awakened from a deep nap to run to my aid and then the work of cleaning themselves after it's all over can be a lengthy process. They have very busy lives too. There are windowsills crying out to be sat on, duvets to be tunnelled under, plants to eat, a scratching post to attack.

They deserve little medals to pin to their chests for their bravery.

Simple Pleasures

This first January Saturday was a lovely mild day, with bright sun and just enough breeze to freshen the air and blow the clouds away. This is Edinburgh putting on an innocent face, after spoiling Hogmanay for thousands of her citizens and visitors with last weekend's vicious storm. It's a day like today (and the previous two or three) that makes us forgive that kind of environmental bad behaviour.

As it's a weekend and getting out of bed is one of my least favourite things to do, I slept later than usual and, after a nice leisurely breakfast while I finished off yesterday's Scotsman, I walked along the Water of Leith to the library at the foot of Ferry Road. There's a little damage from the weekend's storm, with a few trees snapped off, but nothing to compare with the recent wreckage in Stanley Park. Otherwise, all was calm along the avenue of trees en route to the waterside. Under the Bonnington Bridge, a man was grooming two giant dogs and the usual collection of dogs of all shapes, sizes and ages were enjoying romping and sniffing their way along the path.

I stopped at the water for a little while, to watch the ducks and enjoy my music (Dixie Chicks and Tchaikovsky today) on this lovely sunny morning. Along with the mallards, there's a bird which I think is another type of duck as it has a bill like a duck, except its bill is black. The bird itself is all black except for a white flash beneath each wing and its eyes look like gemstones. It's smaller than the mallards and not unlike a loon, but with different markings. Seeing someone standing at the rail, their response was to come closer in case there was any chance of food, so I felt bad that there were no treats to offer them. I've noticed the waterfowl usually swim against the current for some reason, which is hard work for them with their little legs going like the clappers, and must expend a lot of energy. I think there must be sufficient food here for them though because the river is stocked with trout and is healthy enough to sustain vegetation and insects and whatever it is that swims below the surface, prompting the ducks to upend their little Donald Duck bums to poke their heads into the water.

Every time I visit the library, I promise myself to borrow only what I can read in two weeks, which means two thickish books. I was borrowing CD's today too and had to be conscious of how much weight I'd have to carry back (especially considering that my return home would include a stop for a few groceries and the voluminous weekend papers). I'm a bit manic about reading though, and even the limited collection in this small library is too much for me to resist. I'm always afraid a book won't be there next time.

One of the many things my friends see as just another of my eccentricities, but which I think is just being practical, is a little notebook I carry around with the names of books and authors I want to read. These are collected from book reviews in various newspapers and magazines, as well as recommendations from friends and acquaintances and when my interest has been piqued by meeting authors when I used to volunteer at the Vancouver Writers Festival. I keep a separate notebook listing the books I've read. Now, I know you're thinking this is a deranged thing to do but it's not, I can assure you. It's only sensible when you read as much as I do because I tend to forget what I've read sometimes and there's nothing more disappointing than salivating over the prospect of losing myself in a promising page-turner, only to find I read the bloody thing five years ago. Mind you, I do re-read my favourites - sometimes four or five times (with several years in between). It's also helpful in the endless quest for new reading material because I can look for more books by an author I've already sampled.

Today's catch was a modest three - Margaret Forster, Jodi Picoult (to whom I was introduced by way of a bon voyage gift from my friend Lisa) and Lesley Glaister. I haven't read Lesley Glaister before but have wanted to try something of hers since meeting her and her husband at the Writers Festival a couple of years ago. I had given them advice about where to shop in Vancouver and made them promise to show me their purchases, so Lesley came back to unveil a pair of gorgeous handmade open-toed shoes she'd bought at the little shoe shop on Granville Island. She wanted to wear them for her event the next night but couldn't decide which colour of nail polish to wear with them. Of course, I gave her advice about a colour, which she disagreed with, so I brought her my recommended colour (OPI's Vampire State Building - the colour of merlot) the next day and she had to concede because, as we already knew, my choice was the right one. I let her keep the Vampire State Building and also gave her husband some fashion advice too but haven't read any of his books yet.

I don't want to bore you by reciting my lists of books, but if I were reading this story, I'd be too distracted to read the rest of this, wondering what the three books were. I won't go into the CD's though because I borrowed nine of those.

Okay - where was I? Oh right - simple pleasures.

Walking home with my haul of books and music, I had to forego the Water of Leith because of having to shop, so my route took me up Ferry Road, past Edwardian villas, which have front gardens in varying states of cultivation or neglect. Winter-flowering jasmine is in full bloom at the moment, arching over iron railings and stone walls, with bare branches and tiny yellow flowers shaped like stars. There are a lot of broadleaf evergreens too - ivy, vinca, camellia, etc. Plenty of plant life to look at.

These walks always leave me feeling invigorated, but settling down with a cup of coffee and delving into the delights of the weekend Times and Guardian soon had me feeling lazy and, before long, I was snuggled under a blanket, flanked by cats, all of us enjoying a delicious mid-afternoon nap.

No doubt some of you are thinking you'd have to hang yourselves if you had such a dorky, uneventful and quiet life but, although I'm outgoing and noisy and enjoy the company of other people, I have a deep need for regular periods of solitude as well. Thus my appreciation of simple, ordinary things like the ducks, the jasmine, the newspapers, books and music, together with the bliss of having the time and opportunity to enjoy an afternoon nap. I enjoyed going to the pub with some of my co-workers after work last night too, but in a different way. I think I learned some of this from my mother - how to notice and appreciate the little things around you and take pleasure wherever you find it.

And there you were thinking I was mad in the heid for adoring moss. Don't even get me started.

Edinburgh Mornings (winter)

You know how things from your childhood are never quite the same when you revisit them as an adult? My experience now of Edinburgh winter mornings - the feel of the air, the smells, the colours and the quality of light - is exactly as I remember. My bus route to work is virtually the same as it was then so the visual part is largely unchanged too.

This morning, I was outside hanging up the washing in the backgreen. Not very many people here use clothes dryers and if you don't have a backgreen, you have to turn the heating on and hang your wet laundry inside on drying racks. Every tenement in Edinburgh has an area at the back with clothesline poles (some of them the original black-painted Victorian iron ones, with decorative finials and spokes for securing the clothesline) and this space was always called a backgreen until estate agents fancied them up in property ads as "drying greens". The backgreens are shared among the residents of each tenement but I seem to be the only one who uses ours.

Before going any further, I must clarify 'tenement' because I know you're all thinking I'm living in the projects. Tenements are a style of building found in most or all Scottish cities and towns. The first tenements in Edinburgh were built in the 16th century to accommodate a growing population. Edinburgh was a walled city then and life revolved around the castle and its environs. The geography (rocky and hilly because of previous volcanic activity) meant there wasn't enough suitable land to build single family homes, nor was the terrain conducive to that. So they built upwards and the rich lived among the poor (the less money you had, the higher up you lived). Only a couple of these originals survive (as museums) but the city is full of tenements built in the 19th century. Many of them have plaques carved into the sandstone with the date and sometimes coats of arms depicting the residents' occupations. Mine was built in 1896 and bears the arms of the sheep skinners for whom it was built (there was a tannery nearby, using power from the Water of Leith). People don't refer to their building as a tenement though. In Edinburgh, it's called a stair and in Glasgow, a close. You live "up a stair" or "up a close".

Now that the weekend winds and rain have blown through, everything looks all washed and polished and it was lovely being outside in the sunshine, hearing the birds singing and the tapping of a woodpecker nearby. My backgreen faces onto a fairly quiet lane and any traffic noises from the main road at the front of the building are muffled a bit. There was a lovely smell of woodsmoke - probably a gardener burning brush and garden debris - and a trio of pigeons all fluffed up against the chilly air. Even though it was cold and windy, I felt quite exhilarated in the fresh, clean air, watching the wind whip the wrinkles out of the wet clothes and breathing the smell of wet grass and earth. It felt like spring, really.

I leave for work at 8:30 when it's already light outside. When it's overcast or raining, Edinburgh is a grey city. The old buildings and walls are made from local sandstone and the colours vary from light biscuit to terra cotta. When I lived here before, all the old buildings were blackened by soot from the coal fires people burned to heat their homes. The smoke-filled air was the source of one of Edinburgh's nicknames, Auld Reekie (Old Smoky). Most of the buildings have been sandblasted clean and burning coal is forbidden now so the lovely soft colours of the sandstone are easier to see, but there's still a greyness to some of them and the carvings are still blackened in most places.

The part of Edinburgh I live in has always been mixed commercial and residential and my route to work takes me past a walled cemetery with red brick Victorian factories in the distance (now being converted into high-end flats), and some lovely early Victorian 2- and 3-storey terraced houses with walled front gardens, most of which are now B & B's. Where the bus turns onto Leith Walk for the journey into the city centre, the road curves upwards, with regimented rows of late 19th century tenements along both sides. These buildings are usually 5 storeys and all have shops or other businesses at street level. At the top of Leith Walk, the buildings are earlier and less utilitarian-looking. At Queen Street, the classic Georgian architecture of the New Town takes over (except for the over-the-top Victorian Scottish National Portrait Gallery, heavily carved and the pinkest sandstone I've ever seen). So in the space of less than a mile, the architecture spans three centuries, including a sprinkling of late 20th century buildings designed without sympathy for their surroundings. All the way up Leith Walk, there's hardly any greenery and most of the colour you see is that of a painted door or shopfront.

When it's raining, the greyness of the architecture melts into the grey sky and everything is softened by the mist and monotones, like an old fuzzy black and white photo. The Scottish word used to describe this is "dreich", which means gloomy and dark. Once the bus has passed through St. Andrew Square onto Princes Street though, the view, enhanced by the dreich weather, is breathtaking and I never tire of it. The same scenery I enjoyed from the top deck of the bus on my way to work (which is just up the road from where I work now) is still the same and just as spectacular. On the south side of Princes Street lie Princes Street Gardens, a valley of brilliant emerald green that stretches the length of Princes Street, except where it's interruptied by the art galleries. The grey skies and rain, whether a light drizzle or a slanting, wind-driven assault, make the green of the grass stand out as if it's been painted.

On a sunny morning, the city is so transformed that icy winds and torrential rains are forgiven and forgotten. The light sandstone is warm and honeyed where the sun hits and the darker stone wears a soft and rosy blush, in contrast to its brasher orangey colour when wet with rain. Most exterior window frames are painted white and the contrast against the stone is lovely. Bare-naked trees and church spires stand out sharply against faded, watery sky and everything is suffused with a pale golden light. The quality of light here is clean and clear and bright, but without harshness. I think it must have something to do with the northern location and moisture particles in the air.

My daily enjoyment of this paradise is enhanced, always, by music via my MP3 player, usually something by Handel or Bach so that I can fully appreciate the view. It should be noted that I stop reading my book, no matter how captivating, for the Princes Street part of the journey.

The smells in the air when I get off the bus outside St. John's Church, across from the department store where I began my working life at 15 as a window dresser, are the same now as they were in 1969. There's the mossy, fusty, mouldering smell from the old stones of St. Cuthbert's graveyard (next door to St. John's) and the warm crunchy smell of toasted hops or barley from a brewery in Fountainbridge. The best smell though - and you can smell this all the way along Princes Street in the morning - is frying bacon. Lovely salty slices of it tucked into soft, freshly baked and buttered rolls (see January 1 story) for consumption by those lucky people who don't feel an obligation to breakfast on yogurt and fruit. Sometimes the scent of it in the air is just as satisfying though.

The Perils (and fun) of the Demon Drink

New Year's Day seems appropriate for this story, given that 90% of Scotland is probably nursing a hangover from last night or working on tomorrow's hangover (January 1 and 2 are statutory holidays in Scotland). Celebrations to usher in the New Year in Edinburgh started Friday evening with a torchlight procession from Parliament Square to Calton Hill, for the ceremonial burning of a Viking longship and effigy (a nod to northern Scotland's Viking ancestry), Saturday was the Night Afore Party on George Street (a big street party) and Hogmanay (the eve) itself was to be an enormous street party in Princes Street and Princes Street gardens but had to be cancelled because of the weather (60 mph winds and rain). I'm sure the pubs and clubs were teeming with people though and, Hogmanay being the most important celebration in the Scottish calendar, the whisky and haggis would have been flowing. If you look at http://www.edinburghshogmanay.org/index.html soon, you'll get more details and some pictures.

This wee story is about pre-Christmas over-indulgence, which took place in Harry's Bar on the Wednesday before Christmas at my office lunch. Lunch began at 12:30 and lasted, for some of us, until midnight. This was just the corporate department, with about 25 people, most of them young lawyers and lawyers-to-be. The more staid, sensible middle-aged members of the group (this doesn't include me) left in the late afternoon, leaving the rest of us with a pub full of drink and no food after lunch.

The area of the office where I pretend to work is a little isolated and I had only got to know about five or six people by the time of the lunch, being more on simple nodding terms with the rest of the department staff. The big law firms in Edinburgh (as elsewhere) are extremely competitive and the young lawyers doing their articles (called traineeship here) and newly called to the Bar are very ambitious and hard-working. Some of them are so busy and industrious that I'd only ever seen them glued to their desks, typing furiously with eyes never leaving the computer screen, or doing corporate-speak on the phone.

Well - get a few drinks into these people and - you guessed it - hard partying animals come to life. There were more than a few Jekyll-and-Hyde transformations (not in the same nasty J & H way of the fictional character). The women weren't as much of a surprise to me as the men because I've shared a bit of girly gossip and shoes-and-handbag talk with them so had an inkling of their personalities. Those guys though - their short conservative hair was definitely let down. There were shooters being passed around (tasted of cough medicine) and one lawyer ended up behind the bar pulling pints (he's apparently a regular enough customer that they allow him to do this now and again). There was music provided by a DJ and, at one point, the lot of us took up the dance floor doing some form of drunken Scottish country dancing, with lots of reels and dizzy twirling and being propelled from one dancer to another. No wonder I lost an earring.

Fortunately for me (because I'm not much of a drinker and get drunk easily), I switched from wine to water early enough to prevent me from publicly disgracing myself. There was nonetheless a bit of a stagger as I made my way to the bus stop on Princes Street, chewing on a wad of gum as I negotiated the step onto the bus, trying not to trip or fall over on the way to my seat and hoping no-one would notice my drunkenness. After replying to Meredith's three e-mails (where are you mummy?), I drank water, took some Tylenol and fell into bed just after midnight, no doubt rattling these old walls with my snores.

Imagine my shock and horror when the alarm clock insisted I wake up a bare seven hours later. The illness of a hangover makes me wonder how people can repeatedly and wilfully poison their livers like this. Oh wait - it's because the act of the poisoning is so much fun. Shower, coffee and exposure to a raw Edinburgh morning didn't clear my head and I was ravenous by the time I got to work (nothing to eat since lunch the previous day) so I bought a Cornish pasty still warm from the oven and devoured it at my desk. Everyone showed up for work (one without a coat - she'd lost it the night before and had to take a taxi to work because she didn't have any other coats) and one of the hangovers had brought in a big bag of bacon rolls (lovely Scottish bacon on a soft roll with lots of butter) for us. The Cornish pasty had only filled one of my stomachs so, of course, more devouring had to be done. No dinner the night before remember - packing food in was imperative to prevent me from keeling over in a state of malnutrition. I hate it when that happens. I inhaled a couple of chocolate biscuits from the huge tin at the coffee machine, just in case I started feeling faint from low blood sugar. You know how it is.

Now here's the moral of this long-winded tale of bacchanalia and the consumption of [delicious and so worth the calories] food that isn't as good for you as your usual yogurt and fruit: I had a job interview at 11:30 that morning. With the City Council, for a job as a debt advisor, which I really wanted. Head thumping despite drugs, combined with a brain made of porridge, all I could think of was lying down for a nap. Instead of planning my interview strategy while on the bus to the Council offices, I fantasized about how lovely it would be to sink into my bed and fall into a deep sleep. I could taste that nap. I was past caring about the fact that I'd been too drunk the night before to iron a white blouse so that I could look crisp and efficient.

I was useless at that interview. To start with, I didn't much like the two women who interviewed me (this always affects my interview performance) and my befuddled brain made it impossible for me to try and baffle them with bullshit and charm, which is one of my usual tactics. The two of them were also very hard to read, but I was feeling too ill to care very much. Although they'd told me ahead of time what the key question would be and I'd come up with what I'd thought was a brilliant answer, I blew it by being inarticulate and scattered. Usually pretty good on my feet, the disappearance of grey matter just made me fumble for answers to questions I knew the answers to but which I was somehow unable to grasp. I was all over the place (yes I KNOW I'm always all over the place - just shut up) and simply couldn't stay focused long enough to answer a question without rambling on and on. The more distracted I became by the longing for food and sleep, the more rubbish I spewed forth. Jaysus - what a bloody nightmare. And I was starving the whole time.

Luckily, the corporate secretaries lunch planned for 12:30 that day had been postponed to accommodate me so I was able to drown my sorrows with a Chinese buffet (they pronounce it "boofie" here) and two bottles of mineral water. I was informed when ordering a glass of water that tap water could only be served if I was having something other than the boofie and I'd have to buy bottled water. If I'd been in my right mind, I would never have let them away with such cheek.

So it didn't come as a surprise to receive a letter on Friday from the woman I liked the least, pretending she was regretful that my application was unsuccessful. Don't worry lady - I'm OVER it.

I sent out 12 letters last week, selling myself to accounting firms as the fiercely efficient insolvency administrator they didn't know they needed until reading my CV. And when interviews are scheduled, I will not be imbibing beforehand. In the interim, though, I've got another two weeks to terrorize the guy I'm currently working for, followed by further secretarial slavery until someone finally recognizes the need for me to go in and whip them into shape.

Happy new year!