Calling London

There's nothing like a part-time job to teach you the value of money. And after spending four weekends ringing Londoners to ask them what they think of Ken Livingstone, I've been able to say no to my breakfast smoothie at the gym. It's yummy, but it costs £3.50 and that's about 40 minutes of autodialling and being told where to stick my phone.

I've spoken to some lovely sane people (and been complimented on my accent which is always nice), but I've also had some real crackpots. One guy told me that he didn't have time to answer my questions, but then spent 10 minutes telling me how much he disliked Alex Salmond. An elderly lady was so keen to give me accurate information that she started going through her filing system to tell me exactly which funds she's currently invested in. One woman answered her phone whilst apparently having sex - "bit busy at the moment love, bit busy. Call me later love, bit later". And at least 10 people complained that I'd called them during their Sunday dinner - which begs the question: Why did they answer the phone?

The people who work there are a real mixed bunch too - old, young, space cadets, skint actors, underpaid creatives and socially-inept academics. On Saturday I was sitting next to Klyne McDougal. Klyne is 17 and tackles each call like a Nazi giving orders in English. She shouts the script in monotone verbatim. "GOOD. AFTERNOON. MY. NAME. IS. KLYNE. I'M. CALLING. TO. ASK. YOU. SOME. QUESTIONS. ABOUT. YOUR. ATTITUDES. TOWARDS. KEN. LIVINGSTONE." At first I was bemused as to why she had more people agreeing to speak to her than I did, but then I realised it was because she's terrifying. If I answered the phone to that, I'd be convinced that the owner of the voice also had me in the sights of their sniper rifle!

On Friday I drove over to Fife to interview my Grandad about his life. I decided a while back that I wanted to know more about my family history and document my grandparents' thoughts and experiences. Besides being interesting, I figure it will be useful in writing my autobiography and making future appearances on Parky.

Mog cooked me dinner on Saturday night before we headed out to the cinema to see Notes on a Scandal. Sinead had gone to see it the previous evening and texted me the following review: "Notes on a Scandal is excellent. Only comment is, Judi Dench has massive nostrils and the bath scene will give me nightmares. That arm - yuk!" As always, Sinead's no nonsense review was spot on.

My long overdue cinema-fest continued on Sunday evening with a group outing to see Babel. It, unfortunately, was not excellent. I could see what it was trying to do, but it fell far short of the mark. There were moments of genius, but ultimately I felt that Crash did it much, much better.

What's in the box?

The financial review continued last week, and I got a bit over-ambitious (which is by no means a rare thing for me). Having found a suitable extra-job (thankfully, it does not involve Scorpio Leisure), I piled on the hours and totalled it all up until it looked like I could pay off my mortgage in five years. However, I decided that I did want to live after all and scaled back considerably.

After having faced the prospect of being mortgage-free at the tender age of thirty (two), I now felt slightly depressed that I'd never be able to pull it off. I needed something to lift my spirits again - quickly. So I decided to buy a tortoise. How very retro.

A tortoise would be the perfect addition to my flat. I mulled it over. (I'm sure it would be quite independent and be happy doing its own thing, no hair means less fluff on my carpet, it could eat all the fruit and veg I never get round to (a live recycling machine if you will), it would casually wander through to join me as I sit writing, I'd come home from work and it'd be wandering around, it wouldn't make any noise. It would be very much like my wooden giraffe but somewhat more mobile - perfect.)

I discovered I could buy one online for a discounted price of £99. And free delivery - even better. I'd have to get it delivered to work (as I wouldn't want it being punted about the Royal Mail depot) but I quite liked the thought of everyone asking: "What's in the box?" And my response: "A tortoise." Whereupon I would indeed reveal a tortoise.

My mum was distinctly unimpressed. "You're not getting a tortoise," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I'm an adult, with my own property, you can't tell me I'm not getting one." "You're not getting a tortoise." "But I think it'd be really cool." "Why don't you wait until you have a big house, with a big garden." "When I have a big house with a big garden I'll get a horse. The whole point of the tortoise is its lack of need for space." "Well, we'll see - maybe Santa will bring you one." "Stop implying that you have any influence on this decision." It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I can regress to my four-year old self in certain conversations with my mum. A hideous image of me dressed up like Bette Davis in 'Whatever happened to Baby Jane?' flashed into my mind, and I made a mental note not to discuss my wackier notions with my parents.

I was explaining all this to some friends on Thursday night. I don't think any of them were really getting it. Sinead looked at me like she'd heard about as much as she could take and said: "I don't think you're in a fit state to have a pet ... hearing you talk about it being like a wooden thing that moves about."

"Don't worry," I said, "I'm not actually getting one. I found out that you need to buy a special tortoise table, a UV lamp and lots of 'natural' obstacles to place around your house in order to exercise the thing. That's a bit more complicated and messy than I'd originally thought. And also, I realised that it'd have to excrete all the leftover veg I fed it, so - again - more messy than I thought."

Hopefully though, my two jobs and my round-the-world trip will occupy me enough to keep me from ever actually buying livestock over the Internet.

Seasonal Accounting Defecit

January is the worst month and if I could, I would replace it with a better one. A month in Jamaica perhaps. But since I can't, I've developed my own method of coping with it. This includes booking a week's holiday in Santorini (with a moped and 5 days of scuba diving) and the planning of a 5 week round-the-world trip with stops in Las Vegas-San Francisco-The Cook Islands-New Zealand-Australia-and Kuala Lumpur. The only downside is that I'm about to start pushing drugs to school kids in order to fund this.

I drew a life map to help me discover/focus on what it is I want to achieve in the short-medium term. This is what I came up with:

• Fitter (happier) healthier - my gym sessions and seed consumption, I feel, is an excellent start.
• Get a grip on finances - desperately needed since I have no concept of budget - at all. I once queried with exasperation the price of my weekly grocery shop. The checkout assistant leaned forward and pointed out, in conspiratorial whisper, that I'd spent £16 on fruit juices. I now drink a lot more tap water and blend my own smoothies. Still, there's a long way to go.
• Travel - This is mainly why the point above is so important. I want to be able to take at least one fantastic and far-flung trip every year. This year OZ, next year South America.
• Writing - Must, must, must finish writing book. Fingers crossed this will lead to Jessica Fletcher-style life of glamour, wealth and intrigue. Though, hopefully, point 1 in this list will mean that the glamour is less mauve tapered trousers with elasticated waists, and more Nicole Fahri evening dresses. And that, facially, I won't resemble an over-stewed teabag. (Note to self: extra suncream whilst travelling.)
• Back to Uni - For a conversion course in something more useful like psychology. I've realised I quite enjoy talking to people and it would be good if I could do this for a living (if Jessica Fletcher thing doesn't come off right away). I figure if I become a psychological counsellor, I'd have a job I enjoy more and also a potentially fantastic source of information for my books.

So that's pretty much what the life map looks like. I think the financial stuff underpins it all though, so I'm currently looking at ways to boost my income. I underwent a financial review at my bank last week. I'd pre-empted the pain by doing a thorough review myself beforehand - scary stuff. At the bank, I was asked a series of questions about my aspirations. Luckily, I'd already mapped out my life and knew that "maintaining current lifestyle and travelling" was all I was really interested in. They asked how much I'd need for my holidays and I took a rough guess at about £3K - £4k. Needless to say, their little graphs came back with a shortfall in the short-, medium- and long-term. But this was obvious as all I'd done was tell them that I wanted to spend more money than I actually had - duh! So I need to get a pay rise of more than 5K (after tax) or work an extra 20 hours a week, every week, for a year. That's actually quite depressing, because the first one doesn't have a snowball's chance in Hades and the second one would involve more work. Hmm.

That said, I do feel a whole lot better for knowing what I want and what I have to do to achieve it. Which is about all there is to smile about given the utter shitness of this weather.

Ha Ha Happy New Year!

My first post of the new year comes courtesy of a giggle I had on Easter Road at 06:45 this morning. I was on my way to the gym and headed up past Iceland. A gigantic lorry was outside the shop, delivering an abundance of frozen ... stuff.

As anyone who owns a TV will know "...mums go to Iceland" is the theme of the store's branding. Perhaps less well known is its use of the little freezer symbol as an asterisk for related straplines.

The strapline emblazoned along this particular HGV was supposed to say:

"*because mums are heroes!"

I say "supposed" because some ingenious person(s) had completely obliterated the 'e' and the 'r', so that it now read:

"*because mums are h oes!"

Kerry Katona can't argue with that. And that's why I go to Sainsbury's.

Three-piece suite???

This is my last tale of 2006 and it happened today as I was on my way to have my annual boozy Hogmany lunch with Mog. The table was booked for one o'clock at Vermillion, and I was running late.

I left my flat wearing jeans, knee-high brown leather riding boots, a black velvet jacket, my grey silk scarf and my new red hat. Very smart, I thought. I walked down the street and turned on to Easter Road. A man jogged up behind me, slightly out of breath. He was Asian, about 35 years old and carrying a couple of shopping bags.

He started asking me something, I'd assumed it was for directions but I was really struggling to make anything out of it. I grasped only random words: "I saw you... my wife and I ...three-piece suite ... would you be interested?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I really didn't get any of that."

He paused for breath and started again.

"I saw you coming out of Scorpio Leisure ..." (Scorpio Leisure being the Sauna/Massage Parlour on my street.)

Suddenly it all became clear, they weren't trying to sell me a three-piece suite at all!

"Oh no no no no," I quickly interrupted him, "I live next to Scorpio Leisure, but I certainly don't work there."

"Oh ... right. Er ... I'm sorry."

"No worries. Erm ... Happy New Year to you ... and er ... to your wife."

I arrived at The Scotsman a bit flustered. I wonder how much he'd have offered?

Oh Henri!

I spent the week before Christmas in New York. It was a gift from my parents - not that they were banishing me or anything (although, at times I'm sure that would have been preferable for them), it was a family holiday.

It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.

In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.

On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:

Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"

This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".

Oh ... my ... God!!!!

On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.

I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.

Police, camera, satisfaction

Dinner with Katie last Saturday didn't go quite to plan. I'd arranged to go through to Glasgow and stay over at hers. When I called on Saturday morning, Katie was suffering the after effects of a photographers' bash the night before. I offered to bring through some quality food and cook it. Katie sounded both pleased and relieved when she said "Thanks, Lisa."

I headed off to Real Foods to stock up on the various seeds and oils not abundant in my diet. The herbalist had recommended I swap regular tea for nettle tea. I told her there was no chance of me doing that. She laughed and agreed nettle tea was definitely an acquired taste. I left the store weighed down with bags of pumpkin seeds, linseeds, flax seed oil, and porridge oats, and went to meet my mum in John Lewis.

The plan had been to get some food from M&S and get over to Glasgow in time to watch Strictly Come Dancing. It was now an hour before the programme was to start and I still hadn't been to M&S. I told my mum I'd take the car rather than the train because I was going to be late. I stopped back at the flat to pick up a bottle of Vive Cliquot I'd bagged with 40% off at Thresher, and the car.

As I was driving out past the airport on my way to join the M8, I stopped at some traffic lights. It looked as if there was steam coming out of the bonnet. I rationalised that this was probably just due to the heat of the engine in relation to the cold air outside - like being able to see your breath on cold mornings. I drove on.

About a minute later, the car started to make a weird noise when I pushed down on the accelerator. I knew this wasn't good. I then clocked the temperature guage and noticed it was at boiling point (the temperature guage has never worked and normally sits firmly at freezing point so I never have cause to pay it any attention). Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I'd just started on the M8 so I swung my car over towards the sliproad at Hermiston Gate. I was losing power, steam was definitely rising from the bonnet and the car was crying out. Then it just died, and I drifted to the edge of the road - about half way up the slip road.

The amount of steam now had me convinced that the car was going to blow up at any second, so I got out. And I had absolutely no idea what to do next. All I knew was that I wasn't a member of the AA or the RAC.

I'd like to point out that I'm in no way a pathetic or stupid girl, and I can change a tyre in 25 minutes. But I honestly didn't know what to do. So I called my mum. She didn't answer. I phoned my Granddad. He didn't answer. I phoned my uncle Sean - no answer. I called my brother. Thankfully he did answer. He told me he was in the pub and couldn't come to get me. I explained that I wasn't expecting anyone to come across to get me, I just wasn't clued up on breakdown etiquette. He asked me a few questions and I mentioned that there hadn't been any hot air coming from the blower. "You've got no water, you muppet." Liam said he'd keep trying to call mum for me.

Then my uncle Sean phoned back. I told him my story and he said: "You've blown your enginge. You'll need to get the car towed." I was absolutely freezing so I got back in the car. I called Katie and explained the situation and told her I still planned to get there.

Just at that, the police pulled up behind me. "Have you called anyone?", the policeman asked. "I phoned my mum." "Is she a mechanic like?", he laughed. "No, but she knows ... stuff," I said, a bit sheepishly.

They explained that they had to get my car over to the hard shoulder and pushed it across the road. They asked if I wanted to wait in their car and won me over with the mention of a working heater.

Because I was a 'code 25', officers Davie & Mark waited with me until the tow truck arrived. They were really helpful and talked me through what I should do if I find myself in a similar situation in future. They were so nice and friendly that I had to forgive them for playing back the video footage of me leaving my car so they could laugh at my red wellies.

The tow truck arrived and the police drove me back to Haymarket station just in time for the 9:04pm train to Queen Street.

Katie picked me up at the other end and we sat down to dinner at 10pm. I popped the cork on the champagne, saying that life was too short not to have champagne on a Saturday night. We toasted to: "making it against the odds", "crazy flatmates and not having to live with them" and "great friendships second time around."

It was worth the hassle.