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.

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.