Wahey!
In the past hour, I have got the following two bargains.

I upgraded my mobile to one of these, which should have cost me £80, but instead came in at £9.99.

And I just bought my mate’s one of these for £120 (cheapest I could find in the UK was £200).

Now then! Anyone fancy sponsoring me for a Flickr account…?

02/09/05 EDIT! Added Croila’s requests and updated shots I’ve taken.
30/08/05 EDIT! New requests have been added, * denotes shots I’ve already taken (for my reference) Keep ‘em coming!

I’ve commandeered a colleague’s camera for a few days to see if I want to buy it, and what better way to evaluate it but to make good on my 6 month old promise to complete a photo meme?

So far we have the following requests, please give me more, I wanna take PHOTOS!

Scotsmedicman:
1) A picture of Edinburgh from Calton Hill at sunset
2) A picture of Leith Docks at sunrise
3) A picture of you…….so that I can see you every day and know how lucky I am. *

Gail:
1.Your living room *
2. Edinburgh castle
3. Scotsmedicman (so we can see how lucky you are) *

Katherine:
1) Photo of the best view out of your flat, or nearest from your flat, if that makes sense. *
2) Your favourite item from Orkney in your flat. *
3) Your bookcase.
4) A photo of you drinking latte by a gravestone. (From Axe Murderers Convention)

Mindy:
1. You in your collar and tie. (From “Hi I’m Kal“) *
2. The neighbor’s cat. (From “Dear Whiny Bitch“) *
3. What you look at all day long at your desk. *

Sewmouse:
1) A pic of you in your wee kilt *
2) A pic of Giles in your kitchen, baking *
3) A pic of you and Giles and Yeli from wayyy back that nobody ever sent me although everyone said they would.
4) A pic of your telephone for no really good reason. *
5) A pic of Giles hiding from the television license inspector man.*

Amber:
1) Inside your fridge (Don’t clean it first!!!!)*
2 A picture from your bike on the way home from work… Down that long hill. Give it some blur and motion.
3) A close up of your eye!*

LD:
1)A picture of your favorite animal
2)The view from your bedroom window
3)A picture of a nice firework and *
4) A paramedic smiling (i dont fancy your chances, in edinburgh)! *

Druss:
1) Your work. *
2) The library. *
3) The view from your office.*

Croila:
1) A set of bagpipes
2) The INSIDE of a kilt that someone actually wears (!!!!)
3) Inside the law courts
4) Embra from the top of Arthur’s Seat (Just to get you some exercise!)

And you can access them in two ways,
You can scroll down and reread my posts from Belgium, clicking on the links within which will give you not only illustration to the writing, but writing for the illustration.

Or you can go visit the sets I established on Amber’s Flickr account.
General Photos. (some of my favourites from the trip are in here).
Bruges Photos
Brussels Photos
La Hulpe Photos

Anyone got any spare invites? I think it’s time I joined the hoards.

I have, apparently, entered a new realm of the blogosphere, because I’m getting lots of comment spam, so I’ve installed the “Write the word you see” thingy to stop the BASTARDS who are currently removing my poor blog’s eyes and fucking the socket.

Hah! And Len and Amber said I wrote with such nice imagery!

So we came back from Bruges, stayed up late, crashed out and were up again at early o’clock, Len for work, Amber to deliver children to places and me to watch the two wee ones.

Shower, pain au chocolat and, taking Amber’s advice “Stick cartoons on and crash with them, you can sleep more if you want.” I sat on the sofa, pulled my legs up beside me and said to Dan “Do you want a nest?”

I learned this Northfield tradition on my second day in Belgium when Dan instructed me to “Make a nest.”
Bemused, I queried his request until it was translated by Amber, he wanted to slide into the space between my calves and the back of the couch.

It’s staggeringly comfortable and we spent a great hour watching Power Rangers (him) and uploading hunners of photos to Flickr (me).

Bizarrely (and perhaps more illustrative of Dan’s nature) is that he apparently has NOT THE FIRST CLUE that this ‘nest’ game is comfy and nice for the adult involved, as he burst out with a heartfelt “Oh thanks!” as though I’d offered him a kidney.
Sweet kid.

So, having watched cartoons, I realised I should book my bus from Glasgow to Edinburgh for my return on Thursday. I did so and sat nattering to Amber about my imminent departure the next morning.
“Bah. I don’t want to go to work on Friday.”
“You should have booked it off as well.”
“Yeah, that’s funny, it’s not like me to come into the office for one day….”
A sudden thought came over me, I raced upstairs and checked my flight time.

“14:05, Wednesday the 24th.”
EEEEEEEEP!

“Amber! My flight is in THREE HOURS!”

Frantic packing, scarf down lunch, book ANOTHER bus ticket for today, a phone call to Len to say goodbye and we’re in the car, zooming towards the airport. Jump out outside, hurried hugs and farewells and into the concourse, check in, security, onto the flight.
Where we sit.
And sit.
And sit.
For an hour, on the runway, waiting for a slot from air traffic control.

I get into Prestwick with 20 minutes to make the 50 minute journey into Glasgow city centre to catch my rebooked bus.
I didn’t make it.
So I booked ANOTHER bus to get back to Embro, where I now sit blogging away, I’ve called Belgium to let them know I’m safe, as promised and the phone call has made me feel a little better about going back to work.

As I sat in the departure lounge waiting to be allowed onto the flight, I was melancholy. An abrupt end to a wonderful trip, fast goodbyes where I’d like to have lingered, thoughts of work and this weekend’s plans filled my head, I felt as though the week of warmth, welcome and love were pouring out of me, as though someone had slipped out a bung and it was pissing out onto the carpet.

But they’ve asked me back (an offer I’m so TOTALLY calling them on) and next time I’ll try to do less lounging around and be a more interesting house guest.

I’m feeling a little mean, Heidi was, in Amber’s words, “distressed” at my sudden and unexpected departure, saying at one point “Don’t talk about JK, it makes me too sad.”

I have to go back, I owe her and Len a hug.

A day in Bruges is a day of sunshine and smiles, excitement and exploration, of acrid sugar-stink from waffle houses. A day of horse-hoof clatter, metal banded wheels on cobbles and the sticky-slick caress of saddle soaped leather. We wander, find gardens and courtyards, sit, chat, leap from high walls into waiting arms and wave fiercely at passing tour boats, exclaiming with triump when the passengers wave back. We are lifted, swung, fly through the air and pretend to throw each other into the canal.

Dinner in a pavement bistro brings steak with thick, warm mushroom sauce and two portions of spaghetti with pesto split four ways, it’s hungrily slurped up, cheese and oil spatter shirt fronts with indulgent abandon while Amber and I slurp on cherry ale and laugh and laugh.

The Maitre D’ stalks the tables with steel glare but the manager and junior waiters indulge us, bringing two short, fierce coffees and, after some very polite asking, big eyes and squirming self-consciousness, little chocolates for everyone.

Then it’s back to the car, out pint-sized entourage are hot, tired, moody and injured; we swing them onto shoulders, hips and bags, chivvy and hustle. We tire, grips slip and so to collaboration. One in arms, one on shoulders, the third on a back with a helping hand underneath. Puffing and sweating, this five headed beast galumphes through the streets til we collapse gratefully into our seats.

With Jamie Cullum on the radio we burst onto the motoray, blinking as we leave tunnels and enjoy the last of the day’s warmth. The sun is low in the sky and it’s stubborn persistence provides the ultimate argument against our suggestions to “Just close your eyes.” Far more interesting to gaze at the hot air balloons that hang in the sky, fat and ripe as swollen egos.

Within 20 minutes the only sound in the car is piano and song as I marvel once again at the breakneck cut and thrust of Belgian driving. I don’t understand the etiquette, the signs, the laws, je suis un étranger. Amber and I natter, comparing crushes, glancing backwards before swearing or breaking out the filthy jokes. Conspirators, we could be sneaking our first cigarette, a whispered bubble of giggling secrecy and guilt.

And so to home, whispered agreements and arrangements, delicate unwrapping of seatbelts and coats from tangled, leaden limbs. Hushed platitues and the sudden backward drop of a head as it’s body is lifted, the neck colt-legged with sleep.

Gather them up, rub backs and take heart in their shrugging into your chest, chin retracted, hot breath on your neck, hair plastered to a brow with warmth and sleep.

Up the stairs, not a stir as shoes and clothes are peeled off, then downstairs, coffee, mutual smiles.
Big day, sleeping house.

Let’s drink.

Replete with toast, honey and Joni Mitchell our morning starts, Good Morning Morgantown.

Outside the french windows shrugging Flemish workmen wrestle with jackhammers and JCBs, a supporting cast of sleepy-haired kids flow through the house, strutting and fretting over cereal and milk.

Rosie widens her eyes, peeks up through her fringe and makes wild proclamational menu choices, narrowing to slits and thrusting her lip forth when they’re refused.

Dan sits at the window and gazes in rapture at the workers outside, his soul trembling with delight at the engine’s rumble and the sea-lion honk of digger’s bucket scraped over paving stones.

Heidi runs in and out, updating us on the fly as to the current situation in her virtual home, they’re on fire, they’re broke, she has a maid but had to fire her because she stole her bin.

Amber floats serenely through the middle of it all, the nucleus of this whirling oscillation of a family, she dries spills with one hand and tears with the other, a phone tucked under her chin.

She laughs at me with the camera, “You print any pictures of my ass and you’re toast.”

We spent a glorious evening last night, the two of us crashed on the settees, singing along with James Blunt, struggling with Photoshop, drinking tea, munching toast and duelling with each other with the most vile and offensive jokes in our collective repertoire.

‘Scuse me, must dash, I’m being attacked by a Tazmanian Devil in cut-off jeans and a Ninja-Robot t-shirt.

And my blog is here for my memories.

Ample sunshine, stately home, ivy covered corner towers, topiary windows with peeking views, Rapunzel, mermaid in a pond, iron grate under, sticks and stones in reflected faces. Wakes to find he’s in rolling parkland, stunt bike riding, sense of foreboding, watch me, watch me, age and experience, warning words but too far off, disregarded either way, wobble, wobble, distant crash. Wounded pride, shaken confidence, moment’s quiet.

Apples, juice and chocolate, drooping eyelids, stretching spines, bench pressed bodies, rag-doll limbs with shaking giggles.

Deciduous avenues, gravel path, crisp crunch, apple munch, leaves with sunshine glimmer shadows.

That’s where I went today, it was brilliant, though it left me feeling very stupid.

My two moments of glaring idiocy?
Thinking to myself “My God, this city’s like a mixture of France and Holland, how weird.” and actually declaring out loud “Cor, the houses look very Colonial New England, don’t they?”

The architecture was incredible, tiny winding alleyways packed full of bars and cafes, vast pillared facades on public buildings. The Grand Place was gorgeous, surrounded by buildings with the most ornate decorative masonry I’ve ever seen, gargoyles and statues sat in alcoves and EVERYTHING was gilded.

A temporary stage had been erected in the middle where an intense young woman was barking fiercely into a microphone, dragging wails out of an accordion. Behind her stood the French-est guitar player I’ve ever seen, tall and dressed in black, he sucked on a skinny little cigarette and lazily strummed out Gallic chords. The whole thing had a feeling of “I’m only playing here because I want to, I have no desire to please you.”

Len, Heidi, Dan and I explored an antiques fair, where nippy wee women glared at us as we pawed their wares, shooing away our money with their over foundationed foreheads and scraped back hair.

Lunch in a wee side-street restaurant, kebabs and salad while an old man wandered down the alley behind us, slaughter La Bamba on a knackered acoustic guitar, Heidi gave him a Euro and he broke off his playing to thank her, then leaped back into his performance.

A swift visit to the Mannequin Pis (The American Pis, as Dan insists it’s pronounced) who was pissing beer as some sort of promotional programme, it was quite bizarre to watch a crowd of excited old man clamouring to get closer and drink foaming glasses of golden liquid excreted by a small stone boy. Belgians, eh? Who’d have ‘em?

They’re conspiring against me, these Belgians,with their multipile languages. I was feeling awfy smug about how much French I was understanding, signs made sense!
But see these Belgians? They stick Dutch in everything, it’s terrible, it totally undermines my smugness.

This all came to a head when we went for ice-cream, I was merrily ordering away, one strawberry and one pistachio, please,no, not together, seperately. Excellent, thankyou, and also two lemon, also seperate.
Every French transaction I’ve ever had has been largely gruff, I order, they provide, I pay, they glare at my back as I leave.
This bastard decided to chat away to me.
Smugness?
Gone.

So, conclusions on Brussels? The traffic’s terrifying, I couldn’t drive here, ever. Also, if you’re ever designing buildings for the city and people want guidelines as to how it should be constructed, just tell them to make it huge and elaborate.

Brussels - They don’t fuck about.