It's all looking good

After a week of wearing my specs and no eye make-up, I was ready for my laser eye surgery. I went for my pre-surgery appointment and the optometrist's assistant failed to capture the depth of my cornea. "You've got really big pupils. It makes things difficult." We might have to reschedule your surgery.

"I've already rescheduled it and I've taken a week off work to fit around the op and the subsequent check-ups."

"Well, if you go half an hour earlier for your appointment on Saturday, they can run the tests again."

"Good."

Saturday rolled around and my mum picked me up to take me through to Glasgow. My appointment was at 11am, but we got there at 09:15am. "Don't worry, we'll just take you just now." "Oh. Scary."

They ran the tests and everything was fine. I was shown into a waiting area. There was a comedy door. I say 'comedy' because it was like something from a James Bond film. It had a few signs on it saying: 'Danger. Laser surgery in operation.' 'Lasers beyond this point.' 'Flashing light indicates lasers in action.' And there was a flashing light. Absolutely hilarious. Instead of making me feel like I was going for some hi-tech op, it made me think of people running around with light sabers.

A camp guy in scrubs came to get me and took me through the comedy door. I met with the surgeon who gave the impression of being very competent. That made me feel better. The camp guy then took me through another door and told me to take a seat. It wasn't so much a room as the space between 2 doors. He ran through the instructions for taking me eye drops and anaesthetised my eyes. He told me to remove my jacket and scarf and said he'd take all these through to my mum, "except the scarf. I might steal the scarf. It's really pretty." I had to wear a stupid surgical cap and was taken through the other door to the operating 'theatre'.

It was kind of like a dentist's surgery. There were four people in the room with me: the surgeon (handy), the camp guy (a reassuring presence by this point, if only because it meant he wasn't trying on my scarf), a woman in scrubs (later deduced she was 'suction nurse') and another guy in scrubs who asked me my name and date of birth (let's call him 'question guy').

Camp guy asked me to get into the chair and put my head in the middle of the head rest. I duly obliged. The surgeon asked me to slide up a bit until I could see the flashing orange light. Done. This is what happened next:

He put some kind of clip device on to keep my right eye open. He put lots of drops in it. He put a metal looking thing in front of my eye and took it away again. He put a suction cup on my eye and asked 'suction nurse' for 'suction'. She did and said: "suction progressing well". I lost my vision for about five seconds. It came back. The surgeon said: "don't move" and my eye started going mental (this was because I knew the next part would be the slicer creating the corneal flap). This was over in milliseconds. The surgeon pulled the flap back and told me to keep watching the orange flashing light. A clicking sound started to go off (it was a bit like firing a toy gun) and I could smell my cornea burning. The surgeon then put the flap back down and kept putting drops in my eyes.

Then they did the same with the left eye. It was all over in 15 minutes. Camp guy asked me to sit up and took my hand. I could see. It was amazing! He took me through to the space between the doors and gave me my back of drops and my sexy night-time goggles. He took me through to see the surgeon again. The surgeon checked my eyes and said it was all "extremely successful". Good. A new person in scrubs came to collect me and walked/paraded me through the shop floor (look everyone, another successful laser eye patient, give us yer money). We got to the door leading into the waiting room where my mum was, but instead of going through it, she led me to another door about two metres along the same wall. We walked through this door. It was the comedy door, which I now knew to be utterly pointless and gimmicky. It leads to exactly the same places as the ordinary door. What a joke!

My mum told me that she'd been really worried about me. "Why? I was only away for about 15 minutes." "Well, the guy who came to get you in the first place came back out and spoke to the receptionist. Then he came over and asked if I was your mum. I said I was and he said 'don't worry. She's going to be fine.' I suddenly started wondering what had happened and why you wouldn't be fine. Then he went away and came back with your bag, jacket and scarf. I felt like I was being handed your possessions and that's all that was left of you. I thought you'd been completely lasered."

We got to the car and I got in and pulled down the visor so I could look at myself in the mirror. I gasped and said: "I'm beautiful!" My mum almost choked on her water. "What are you like lady!" My eyes were starting to get quite sore and it was difficult to keep them open so I dropped the seat flat, put on my shades and tied my scarf over the top of them. Every so often, I would come out with some nonsense like "I'm melting" (in the style of the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz) or, when we stopped at traffic lights I would slowly sit up like Dracula in his coffin and turn to the other cars (with the specs and scarf combo). I never run out of ways to amuse myself.

When I got home, I put my drops in, popped some pills, slapped the goggles on and went for a nice long snooze.

Two days later I went for my post-op. My vision is better than 20/20 apparently (which I think, technically, means I can see your soul). My eyes definitely aren't as dry, sore and tired as they were with the contact lenses, so it's all looking good.

Family history

My week off has been productive, enjoyable and relaxing.

I did fear that it might get off to a bad start when my mum told me she was meeting up with my mother-in-law for lunch on the Monday. I feared for the worst when she suggested I come along too. That's the thing, in-laws can be enough of a hassle when you're married, but when the marriage ends you don't necessarily get rid of them.

I did feel kind of bad since my in-laws always send me birthday, Christmas and Easter cards and the occasional 'thought of you' card in between, whilst I have tended to avoid any sort of contact at all. Not because I'm being rude or nasty, but just because it's for the best.

Anyway, as my mum pointed out to me, I'm in a completely different place now, and so much happier with my life that it couldn't really do me any harm. So I agreed to go along. I was glad I did. My mother-in-law was so thrilled to see me, I felt like I'd made her year. And I must admit, I rather enjoyed casually dropping into conversation all the things I'd managed to do in the last 3 years:

• buy my own flat
• earn almost £20,000 more
• write a book
• get a whole new set of friends
• compile my family history
• travel to Mexico, New York (twice), Hong Kong, Thailand, Cambodia, Santorini, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Cook Islands, New Zealand and Australia
• start enjoying my life

Somewhat annoyingly, she's still looking for a nice neat explanation for why it all ended. She seems to like the idea that it was a 'youthful romance that just went on too long'. It's nice, but it's nonsense. Unfortunately, she's asking the wrong person. Like her, I don't have any answers. Unlike her, I gave up on looking for them a while back. The only thing I could tell her for sure is that I am happier than I've ever been before, and for the first time since my childhood I actually feel like I'm living the life I wanted to. That seemed to comfort her.

On Wednesday, I went off to the National Registrar's Office in pursuit of my ancestors. I got there at 0915 and was assigned a desk. I had a computer in front of me and access to pretty much any records I wanted to look at. So what did I do when faced with the possibility of looking up anything I wanted to? I searched for myself. I was berating myself even whilst I was doing it. You know all about you. And you actually have a copy of your birth certificate in the flat. What the hell are you doing? Ooh, ooh, ooh, look, I'm there. I exist. After indulging myself with myself, I proceeded to do some general research and then get to the bottom of some irksome points.

Previously I'd thought my ancestors all came from Fife and Ireland, but it's a bit more varied than that - thankfully. My mum's dad's mum's family all come from Clackmannanshire. My dad's mum's mum's side all come from places like Banff, Buchan and Inverallochy. And my dad's dad's mum's side come from East Lothian. My great great great grandparents actually got married in Constitution Street in Leith, which is a street I used to walk down every day on my way to work. I think that's quite cool.

Remember I told you about the rumoured suicide of my great great grandad? Well, I found it. He did commit suicide by coal gas poisoning. He was 70 years old. I thought that was quite unusual. The only old person I know who committed suicide was Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption and that was because he'd been on the inside for over 40 years and couldn't handle modern life. On closer inspection of the certificate, it appeared my great great grandad had malignant prostititis. I've reasoned that he was in so much agony there was no hope of relief other than death itself. It's very sad though.

The other interesting bit of information/gossip was that I found a correction entry for my great great great grandad's birth. I'd already tracked down his birth certificate and noted there was no father listed. Written under his name was the word ILLEGITIMATE. Anyway, this correction entry is like a little book all in itself. Apparently, about a year after he was born, his mum actioned a case in the Cupar Sheriff Court to have an 'Alexander Gilmour' named as his father. The court sided with her. I want to know how you go about proving something like that in 1862. I mean, there's no Jerry Springer DNA test. There's no cameras or mobile phones to record any kind of contact. How did they do it? Also, the Gilmours are the family that owned (and still own) the 'big hoose' in Largoward. High society scandal.

I imagined that if I were famous and taking part in that BBC programme about tracing your relatives that this would be the bit where I would excuse myself and wander off. The camera would zoom in on me and I'd be wiping away a tear and trying to compose myself.

The elephant at the funeral

As a general rule, funerals are not amusing.

But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.

At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.

I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'

Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.

I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.

Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.

In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.

Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.

At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."

Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.

Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"

My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."

I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."

"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."

My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."

(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)

"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."

My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)

Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.

But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."

Inbreeding

Last Wednesday I discovered why I am enjoying work so much.

Everyone in our team was on a half-day Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) course. I had confirmed, that which I already knew. I am an ENFP. A big one. It means I have lots of ideas that I become quite passionate about, but I don't really like data or details or deadlines. Apparently my preference for "not planning nor organising nor being pinned down" is off the scale. The head of the department looked at this and said: "that's interesting, considering the job you're doing. You must be very good at pretending to be something else." Too true.

Even better, my boss is an ENFP too. And, in our wider team, there are so many other ENFPs that our team type is also ENFP. It's like I've been welcomed home.

A common feature of people given those four letters is their hatred of routine. I hate routine. Although I have to admit I feel so much more in control when I adopt one. I find it difficult to choose my lunch every day. Even when I mix it up a bit and try the deli instead of the cafeteria or Tesco, I'm still paralysed at the point of having to choose something. It all feels so boring and same-y. On Tuesday, we went to the cafeteria and I said to Alice: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a baked potato. Maybe if I had more drama in my lunch I wouldn't have to inject so much ...

...into the rest of my life." "Maybe Lisa. Maybe."

Last weekend I spent practically the whole of Sunday on the computer researching my ancestry. This was after I'd roamed around Restalrig trying to find my car. I'd never been to Restalrig before so that was ... interesting. The other side of the stadium is like a whole different world.

Sunday had started when I got up and made breakfast for 'Dave' and I. Whilst we were arguing about long-life shopping bags, my blackberry buzzed and he called me a 'corporate whore'. It's all so romantic I'm fighting to contain my flowery prose. Anyway, he was heading home and I was going to buy something nice for my lunch to reward myself for all the family history research I was going to be doing.

When we got outside, I noticed that there were no cars in the street and realised there must be a football match on. My car wasn't there either. 'Dave' headed on home and I went to ask the policeman where my car was. "What's your registration?" "Er ... no." I replied shaking my head. I honestly don't know what my car registration is. Pathetic. But as I said at the start of this entry, I'm not so hot on the details.

"Can you phone your partner to get it?"
"It's OK, I've got a note of it in the flat. I'll just pop up and get it."
"Just give your partner a call, it'll be quicker."
"Er ... I don't have a 'partner'."
"Oh, right, was that not your partner? I thought ..."
"He's not my 'partner'."
"Oh. OK. He looked like he might be your partner."
"Well he's not. It's not that .... Anyway, it's my flat and it's my car and he doesn't know any more about it than I do. OK?"
"OK."
"I'll just go get that reg number for you."
"Well if you tell me what kind of car it is that'll do."

Honestly! He told me the car had been removed to Marionville Road and that would take about 15 minutes to walk to.

"I'll give you a lift if you like."
"No thanks. I'm fine with walking."
"But it's raining. I'll give you a wee lift round."
"No. It's fine. I could do with the exercise."

After picking up my car and my lunch, I set about the family history research. My paternal grandfather's mum's side of the family had been causing me problems. I'd located her death certificate and got her parents' names from that, but I couldn't find their marriage certificate. They've recently opened up a whole new set of records so I was able to get my great-grandparents' wedding certificate for 1932. This gave the same names for my great-great grandparents, but didn't give their wedding date ... because they never got married. (Oooh! How unconventional. I love it. However, that said, marriage certificates do make family history research much easier. So I now have a second pro for marriage. The first being that a well-crafted gift and guest list can furnish your entire flat. Still, that's 2 pros against 304 cons.) Apparently, my great-great grandad later committed suicide by sticking his head in a gas oven, but I've yet to find anything to support this. Maybe he did get married after all.

My mum's dad's side of the family is a headache too. They are all called James and Christina Thomson. All of them. So you get a guy called James Thomson marrying a woman called Christina Thomson (yes, same surname) and his parents are listed on his wedding certificate as James Thomson and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson), and her parents are listed as James and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson). Arrrggghhh! I phoned my mum to tell her that I've finally found an explanation for her squint pinky fingers. Disturbing. My great-great-great-great grandad on this side died of 'softening of the brain caused by sunstroke'. In Buckhaven?

Anyway, that's enough for now. I'll tell you about my embarrassing toe cleavage problems (no doubt due to the horrific levels of inbreeding amongst my ancestors) next time.

On trying to be a good citizen

Today at work, I gave blood. I'd been put on a 12 month ban following my Cambodia trip, so it was good to finally do it again. It was my ninth donation and, apparently, I get a badge the next time I donate. I'm trying to put that across and sound like a good citizen, but it's not really that impressive, as if I'd stuck to my three times a year promise I should have donated around 30 times by now. Hmmm.


As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.

The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'

Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.

Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...

... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.

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.

Lesbian, Prostitute or Lesbian Prostitute?

Ah le weekend! It came with a huge sigh of relief and a good deal of anticipation.

Departure Lounge had been in the diary for some weeks and Kerry's Caribbean party had been in for even longer. I left work early on Friday and spent a long time pampering myself and getting ready. I wanted to make an effort for Departure Lounge and decided to liven up my outfit just a tad. It was a black t-shirt with an open back so I decided to wear it back-to-front - as you do. For a splash of colour (and, mostly, to cover my bra) I wrapped a blue/green/yellow scarf around my breasts. I was pleased with the look and set off for The Scotsman hotel to meet Katie.

I walked into the North Bridge Brasserie and everybody stared. While my attire was perfectly acceptable for a Departure Lounge party girl, I looked a bit too much like a working girl for The Scotsman. It was 2For 1 on champagne cocktails so I took the liberty of ordering raspberry bellinis. Katie showed up and we filled each other in on recent events. We headed down to the Ladies' room before we left, where Katie told me the most outrageous feminine hygiene story I've ever heard.

At The Caves, we were duly stamped with the word 'entered' on our wrists, given some balloons and headed upstairs for a gin & tonic. Not long after, Lawrence and his friend Dave showed up. We got stuck in about the Sambuca and I confided in Katie that I was "totally pished". Downstairs, I got my groove back and shook it on the dancefloor. My top started to slide down to reveal my bra - not a good look. I discreetly managed to fix it and continued to dance whilst holding it in place. Unfortunately, my jeans are a little too big and they ended up halfway down my arse - an even worse look. Hey ho! It was still a great night.

Outside, Katie and I disuaded some Danish tourists from wasting their time and headed off with Lawrence, Dave and Marc for a game of golf in some secret gardens. We waited until 4.30am for it to get a bit lighter and crept into the walled garden. It was one of the coolest places I've ever been. It was massive and had spectacular views to Arthur's Seat. The early morning mist only made it more romantic. I'm so getting myself a key for that place one day.

I got back to my flat around 6am and slept until 8.45am when Kelly collected me to play in a hockey tournament. It was not one of my better performances and I collapsed into bed on getting back to my flat.

Kerry's Caribbean party was kicking off at 3.30pm, which was now an hour ago, and I still had to make my outfit. I scooped out a pineapple and made it into a bikini top. I then used the top of the pineapple as a hat. How cute! Sinead called to find out where the hell I was. I explained that I'd been playing golf until 6am and then played in a hockey tournament at 9am, so was understandably knackered.

I arrived at Kerry's at 6.30pm, to a full swing calypso. The place looked great and everyone had made a big effort with the dressing up. Katie showed up as a treasure chest, which Sinead remarked was "very lateral". Kerry asked if it was true that I'd been playing golf and hockey. I said that it was, to which she replied "What? Like a big lesbian?" The music was great, the cocktails were like rocket-fuel and the chat had everybody rolling on the floor.

I spent Sunday at my parents' place. It was really, really nice. We took a walk to the fruit farm, got some gorgeous raspberries and strawberries, had some ice cream in the sun and walked home again. My dad was on really good form, which I was glad about after last Thursday's lock-out episode. I fell asleep outside in the sun for a bit and then we headed out for dinner.

All in all, it was a fantastic weekend, but I think I need an extended rest to recover.

Work-Life balance

Admittedly, the first week back from holiday is always an uphill struggle. I, however, am 'touching the void' (i.e. my flexi-time has just plummeted through a crevass and my broken-spirit is in no state to pull it back.) Last week's working hours look like this - M 4:45, T 6:24, W 6:38, T 7:01, and F 5:13. It makes me feel slightly better that my inability to drag myself into work before 10am was due more to my busy social calendar than my lazy lard ass.

Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.

The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!

On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.

In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.

I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.

On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.

My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.

Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.

After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.

I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.

Ask and you will receive

What an unexpectedly fab weekend!

Once upon a time, I dreamt of a more interesting life. In recent months this has been working out nicely. My life seems to have fallen into a pattern whereby I am booked up every night of the week and totally 'free' at weekends. You'd think this might make my weekends a little dull and boring, but it's just the opposite. What usually happens is that on Friday night I get at least one call to say "well do you, do you, do you, do you wanna go ...". The offer usually involves alcohol and chat, so I tend to 'wanna go' more often than not. On Saturdays, I get to the gym before heading off with the Economist (that's the paper rather than Gordon Brown or someone of a similar ilk) for a few coffees.

This Friday I called my mum; who told me that she and my dad were coming over to see me on Saturday afternoon. I was most pleased about this as I have some trousers that need to be re-hemmed and some bed covers that could do with an iron. I also enjoy my parents' company. After that I called my Gran to wish her a happy holiday; she's off to Zambia for a month. By the time I got off the phone it was rather late, so I decided not to go out and opted instead to purge my wardrobe of clothes that were a)too big, b) far too small, c) hideous (and, thank God, unworn) and d) the wrong colour. This stems from the fact that I had a colour consultation last week during which I was told that I am light, cool and apparently sporting the wrong hair colour. Having just spent a small fortune having my hair done the week before, this isn't what I wanted to hear.

On Saturday I was waiting for my parents when I realised I had managed to read the Economist cover to cover. It followed that I had been there for quite some time. I called my mum to find out where the hell they were, only to have her tell me that they'd been diverted at the Forth Road Bridge and were on their way to Kincardine. Why didn't she call me to let me know you may ask? Alas, she had no credit in her phone. This is a regular thing. I refused to get annoyed and stemmed any rumblings of rage with a trip to Harvey Nick's where I bought a new perfume.

After an enjoyable (and rather hilarious) dinner with my parents, I bumped into Keith, then Jeff, then Sam, then Katie. They were all on their way to the Blind Poet to drink to Jeff's birthday and asked if I wanted to head along. I promptly did so and had a rather excellent time chatting, drinking and arm-wrestling.

I got to bed around 4am. Mog sent a text at 8am asking if I fancied doing something. I begged off until noon and we ended up going on a little jaunt to North Berwick (oooh, how elderly). We consumed copious amounts of food, bought some sweeties and had a walk along the beach before driving back home. An already fab weekend became fabber still when my Grandad called to 'give' me a car; a decent one with a year's road tax and MOT.

Sometimes life really does work out just as you'd imagined; sometimes it's even better.