chickens and the weekend.

Collin, the cockerel, does not care whether it's morning or afternoon. He screeches whenever. Having said that, he likes his beauty sleep and the sun is already up by the time he starts his rant. When he will finish is anyone's guess. He's still going now, and it's lunch time. He's a stunning bird, and struts around knowing it. Trixie, his long suffering mate, tolerates his babbling, strutting arrogance with an air of patient resignation.

The weekend beckons, work and play to come. Far more of the latter, I hope.

Some words

Don't eat crisps that are five months out of date, even if you are really hungry (and can't afford anything else). Honest. Take that advice home and cherish it. You'll thank me.

Old friends, good food and a couple of glasses of wine. Banter around the table while the puppy begs for love at your feet. Going onto the roof to watch the waning sun set behind the bridges over the Forth, the city spread out, silhouetted, still, just for you.

Everything is alive right now.

It's going to be an amazing summer. And it's only May.

weekend whirlwind

There was driving.
And then there was sand, and sun, and horses. And many many pictures.
Then there were old friends, still smiling and laughing. Some new friends too; more laughs and smiles.
After that came the stage, massive and inviting. A loud audience hollered and howled and clapped and whooped and wailed.
We made them laugh. We made ourselves laugh.
Heart raced, blood rushed, head buzzed.
I'd forgotten.
We took our bow and went to the bar.
The beer flowed afterwards, then the wine, then the whisky.
There were pretty blue eyes, perfect lips, a beautiful smile.
The morning hurt. An hour or so sleep and a short drive.
Shower. Almost human.
Green fields, blue skies, picnics, horses and a headache.
Food, wine.
Home (someone else's) and a comfy couch.
Awake again and dazed.
Dinner, wine and more friends.
Bed. Six whole hours. Bliss.
Wake-up call.
Bumbled. Charged camera batteries. Ate a bowl of cornflakes.
Green field, grey skies, lots of horses. More picnics, stressed friends.
380 photos. Some of them don't suck.
Pub. Beer, burgers, drunken rugby boys.
Car. More driving.
Home again.

first of the season

This afternoon I wandered in the Edinburgh sunshine and supped upon my first frappé latté of the season. Cool, creamy caffeine goodness put a spring in my step and a slight buzz in my veins. I smiled at pretty girls in summer dresses. All was right with the world.

I refuse to check any news websites in order to maintain this illusion.

Wednesday miscellany

The kitchen's a mess and I have a lot of laundry to do. My manuscript is screaming at me, and one particular piece of editing that I've been avoiding for months... well, its time has finally come. The new belfry has survived its first pause, and should be getting a few more bits and pieces in the near future. I survived a last-minute, hectic photo job on Monday night, which may lead to new things. Over the last week I've received two job rejections and no word from agents.

The highlight of the weekend was a loud, mirthful argument with an incredibly sexy lesbian over which one of us loved vaginas more. I think it was a tie.

on air

For those who would rather hear the dulcet sounds of my voice instead of strain your eyes reading the screen, I'm guesting tonight on Old Jock Radio. Should be a good show - former Beta Band guru and current Black Affair ninja Steve Mason will be there with Les, Dod and myself. Be warned, we swear. A lot. And just because they're a bunch of miserable grumpy bastards doesn't mean I am. I am the shining voice of common sense and optimism.

showtime: 9pm-11pm BST.

solved mystery

The utility room in the cottage has two windows: one that opens and one that does not. The one that opens sits above the one that does not. It's usually left open for ventilation while the washing machine is on. Outside the cottage, beneath the open window, there's a large utility sink. It's about four feet below the window, possibly four-and-a-half. Trailer Trash uses this as a step and then somehow manages the vertical leap to the window. It's quite impressive, even for a cat.

It was only yesterday evening we figured it out. We came back from the supermarket to find TT waiting for us. None of us could have let him in, and the small, awkwardly placed window was the only possible entrance. It turned out we'd all suspected one another. I secretly suspected there was a hitherto undiscovered entrance to the cottage - a secret passageway that the cat was using. Well, maybe hoped more than suspected. I've always wanted a house with secret passageways.

Part of me will miss the uncertainty of the last few days, wondering whether there'd be an uninvited feline making a racket and hiding behind the couch when I woke up. But not the part that likes to sleep late.

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I've added a greatest hits section in the right hand column. Feel free to have a look when you get over the irony.

tt redux and other matters

Meowing fractured my slumber at quarter to six this morning. It was so loud I expected to see him sitting at the end of the bed. He wasn't, so I got up, nearly falling down the ladder in half-sleep. A peek out the window found him at the front door, meowing like a machine gun. I'm tempted record it and post it online - people would think I'd looped it. Cats don't meow in rapid fire. Well, Trailer Trash does, and can't seem to stop. I opened the door and yelled at him and then checked the Sox score.

We lost.

Back in bed and a fitful nap later and there's a clamour in the hall and the squeak of a door and from my perch in the Belfry I see TT creep behind the futon couch. I shooed him out the front door and checked the Sox score again, hoping it was different.

It wasn't.

In other news, I've jotted a note and a rant on the wine blog, which had been woefully neglected, and the new belfry is proceeding apace.

tt tom

The history of mankind is littered with sayings, words of wisdom that play with language and state the obvious in a cute, quirky way that can all be collected in a cute, pocket-sized book and placed next to the toilet where they will be read by the bored.

I would like to make the following contribution to that lexicon:

"Never let anything whose name begins with Trailer Trash into your house in the early hours of the morning."

It's not quite as catchy as catching the tiger by the tail or sleeping dogs, but it's apt. I descended the ladder of the new treehouse/belfry/bed this morning to find the local stray sitting on the couch. He stared at me as though I'd interrupted something important. Then he meowed, piercing, like the alarm clock that won't snooze. Which, incidentally, is what my alarm clock was refusing to do. Perhaps the cat was trying to talk to the alarm, tell it in meows to shut the fuck up.

The alarm off, I pondered the cat. He pondered me. I like cats, I really do. Someday, in the reasonably distant future, I will have a cottage in the country with cats, dogs, a big family and a mahogany/leather clad writing room where I will create great literature. What I won't do, ever, is get wrecked on fine champagne and think its a good idea to bring the local stray in to the house and then dump him in the guest room at two in the morning.

It seems I don't have to do that, as my housemate's doing it instead.

The stray's name? Trailer Trash Tom.

Pondering over, I threw the cat out and checked the Red Sox score.

They won, but I didn't go for my run.

new beginnings

I've started a new blog. It's going to be different from this one. It's going to have stories and snippets and possibly even poetry, should the mood take me. It's also an excuse to try different blogging software. I'm a geek, what can I say?

It's here. There will be stuff on it tonight.

I have a hangover and am pretty sure I acted a total wanker at one point last night. I'm at work and wishing I was in the sun.