The Littlest Hobo

I found myself hurtling down the M74 late Saturday evening, back to Carlisle. I was going down to meet up with some mates from school for a night out. But my mind started wandering as I was driving. For some reason I stumbled across the thought that since the age of 18, I have moved no fewer than eight times. Eight times I tell you! Eight!! And I'm not just talking about moving house here - I mean picking up and moving on to an entirely new location, new job, new friends. On average, that's not even a whole year in each new place! And when you consider that 3 years were spent in one location (while I was at uni in Leeds) that works out at less than 7 months in any one place.

As you can see, my mind wanders to some quite random contemplations while I am driving. Especially since my stereo broke.

It's no wonder then that all of my Good Friends are scattered about all over the place, and so sometimes I get the distinct impression that I've become a bit of a Billy No-Mates. But of course, I'm not. Its just that, like that scruffy little mutt in the TV show, "every stop I make, I make a new friend, can't stay for long, just turn around and I'm gone again".

Perhaps its all a product of my short attention span and erratically formed Cunning Plans that I feel the need to move about so much. Who knows. I've certainly enjoyed meeting so many of you. Except you Ben. I could have done without the token Welsh boy in my life. And you Jo Jo Rugby Girl. But that goes without saying really ;)

So it shouldn't really surprise me that I find myself with a few mixed feelings about the prospect of remaining in the same place for the next 3 years or so. I've been here a whole 5 months so far, and the thoughts have already fleetingly crossed my mind about looking for somewhere up north of Inverness to move to (hey, just so I would be closer to my study site, that's all. Although being close to the mountains, beaches, and ski slopes wouldn't hurt). Don't worry Mum, we won't. Probably. Not yet anyway.

I guess it would be nice to stay put and build up a settled life here in Scotland. It's definitely somewhere I would consider remaining long term. That is, unless I get a job offer from Parks Canada, at which point I will skip off to British Colombia without a second thought. Fickle? Me? Pah! Its more than likely just some unresolved psychological Issues....

The week (and a bit) that was....

Yeah, so, I have been a bit slack with the ol' blogspot lately. I'd get used to it though if I were you. I mean, I did warn you that this would happen. I have just been too busy to keep posting regularly. Sorry! I keep I thinking "Bugger. I should really write a blog today. But its been days, weeks even, since I last posted, so much has happened, I've got so much to say, how will I start?!" And then I come to the sensible conclusion that the best thing to do is ignore it and hope it goes away. But then the guilty feeling comes back. And so consider yourselves lucky that I can't deal with guilt.

In brief then:

...dad's visit was a phenomenal success, the smiley-happiness of which was not even brought down by Scotland losing (again) in the rugby. The atmosphere was electric at the match, and we had The Best Seats Ever. My dad was so made up by the whole weekend, and we loved having him visit. There was lots of exploring and chatting and drinking and clippity-clopping around Doune Castle ..which Monty Python aficianados might recognise from Holy Grail "I-fart-in-your-general-direction" fame. But then, the weekend ended (Boo Hiss!), and he had to leave. And we missed him.




...but then we got Cathy, one of Sarah's mates from uni, as a replacement. That was fun too. We did stuff. Fun stuff. Important stuff even. We went to an ani-war demo in Glasgow. It marked two years to the day since the bombs started dropping on the thousands of innocent civillians in Iraq. I felt it was important to go along to show my digust for what our "benevolent" leaders have created. This young scally complete in tracksuit and dangly earings got up to give a talk. She turned out to be a 14 year old Maxine Gentle, and she gave a very moving speech. Maxine's older brother, Gordon, was a Black Watch soldier, who was killed at the age of just 19, by a roadside bomb in Basra. You might think, "Well, that's what the risks are of joining the army". I am sure his family would agree with you too ..IF his death had been for a noble cause and not because of an illegal war over oil ...or IF he had recieved more than a few month's basic training before being sent to the front line ...or IF in Pollok (the deprived part of Glasgow that he grew up in) there were more opportunities for young folk other than to sign on the dole or sign up to the armed forces.

Anyway, crashing on, there weren't too many people at the protest, and a disappointing number of students and young people. The majority of the crowd was made up of OAPs (complete with improvised drums, bongos and bizarre instruments involving pipes and tubing) and families with young children. They certainly put my "enlightened", "outspoken" generation to shame. But I found it quite encouraging that the little kids (and little old ladies for that matter) were enjoying singing and chanting with such vigour and enthusiasm, particularly a little nursery rhyme to the tune of 'This Old Man':

#Tony Blair,
you are scum,
you took money off my mum,
and you spent it on your bloody war,
we don't want you anymore.#

Ah! Bless!

...In 160 minutes of pint-spillingly-exciting rugby: Wales won the 6 Nations championship. France didn't. *coughs* HA HA! *coughs* And Scotland were beaten (yet again) by England. I came over a bit Daffydd Thomas for the day, and was genuinely pleased for the boyos. And hey, at least they now include Italy in the contest, so Scotland didn't come at the very bottom of the table overall. Just second to last. Quite amusingly, Wales now ranks above England in the world rankings *sniggers*

...We also went for a jolly around the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. On the way there we passed by the lesser-known-yet-in-my-opinion-equally-bonnie banks of Loch Arklet. Look! Aren't they bonnie?



...Finally, I have just spent the last two days out in the woods of Morangie Forest. Which was very interesting, but is the reason why I am not really writing much coherent sense, or anything remotely interesting, because I am very, very tired now. I didn't see any pine martens yet, but I was ambushed by a female capercaillie. Now I know that they employ guerilla tactics I shall be on my guard from now on.

Gym Bunnies

So you will never guess who I was training with this afternoon..















...only the bleedin' Scottish Rugby Team!!! Woo-hoo!



There are a few perks to having the Scottish Institute of Sport on the same campus as my university. And sharing a gym with the entire national rugby squad is one of them. So I had to try my best to be cool, and not to be sycophantic ..or stare. At least not stare too much anyway. And be thankful that I had made the bizarrely illogical decision to have a wash before I went to the gym today, and so looked just about human. Trying to act as normal as I could, in an overtly I'm-really-not-even-looking-over-at-you-let-alone-watching-you kinda way, I got on with my workout. Now I won't give too many training secrets away about how in-shape they looked, or what training techniques they were using - just incase any Welsh nationals get a hold of my blog and use it's secrets against them. But I can tell you that Chris Paterson (only the team captain dont you know!) kindly got out of my way so that I could use the lifting cage that he had been using. And thankfully, Sean Lamont pointed out my presence to one of his team mates just in time to save my head from being taken off my shoulders as a disturbingly large medecine ball whistled past my ear.

Most people who know me know that I am very much in to all things health and fitness in a major way. So it won't surprise you in the slightest that I couldn't resist the opportunity to show off just a little. So I climbed on top of a Swiss ball and stood there balancing before doing a few squats to impress them. You are probably no doubt sitting there wondering what on earth that means, and why on earth I thought that that would impress them. Perhaps if I were to explain that a Swiss ball is a large inflatable ball, you will understand a little more.... A. Very. Wobbly. Large. Inflatable. Ball. Go and try to balance on top of one if you're still unsure. And then try and squat on top of one. And then see if you're not impressed.

So we are off to watch the game as Wales take on Scotland at Murrayfield this Sunday. My Pa and I. I am really looking forward to it actually. Infact I have been looking forward to it since Christmas (other unbastardised Pagan festivals are available), because that's when I bought my Pa a ticket as a gift. Naturally, I had to buy myself one too, so he had someone to go with - its sacrifices like that that show the kind of girl I really am. We are planning a whole weekend around the event. They (Dad and Jan - my stepmum) haven't been up to visit us in Scotland since we moved here, and so it was too good an opportunity to miss. After lots of local mooching to show them the sights of the lovely Bridge of Allan, Jan and Sarah are off in search of sights and culture in Edinburgh, as Pa and I have a daddy-daughter bonding day over a few beers and a few black-eyed, mud encrusted, bloodied, hairy, sweaty, men. Nice! I have even learnt the words to Flower of Scotland in preparation for the Scottish national anthem. But I cannot hold out much faith that I will be able to make it through the song without getting all choked up and crying. After all, I'm just a big violent-full-contact-sport-loving softy really.

Demonstrations

No, unfortunately I'm not about going to go off on one about the anti-G8 demonstrations happening at a little upper-class, golf-orientated, retirement village near me soon (yet. I may indeed broach that topic closer to the time). No. I am instead talking about that other sort of demonstrating, the one which is the life blood of all post-graduate drinking funds... practical demonstrating.

So I have signed myself over for the next 2 months to help out in undergrad practicals. I figured that I might as well go professional and be being paid £11 an hour to goof off rather than remain at amateur status. 8 hours a week - I can't go wrong really. It may also add a little much-needed structure to my otherwise laid back schedule. Careful strategic planning will be required to allow for fitting in all that crucial email and blogging time around those busy work periods.

I am quite looking forward to it actually, although I was a little nervous at first. I imagined being asked obnoxiously difficult questions from first years, and worse - my failing to respond. And if there's one thing I hate, its not having an answer to an obnoxiously difficult question from a first year. Then of course, I remembered all the way back to my own undergrad practicals, and my own obnoxiously difficult questions. Which scared me some more at first about just how obnoxiously difficult questions can be! But then came the realisation that when the postgrad demonstrators back then responded to me with:

"now really, you don't actually expect me to just tell you the answer do you?"

..that they were merely just cunningly disguising the fact that they simply had no idea what I was going on about. And for £5 per hour (or whatever they were on back then), really couldn't care less about finding out. Now, I am a little more conscientious than that. I like to know the answer to obnoxiously difficult questions, and so I shall be treated the whole thing as a personal challenge. But I then remembered something else that puts me at a distinct advantage over the undergrads (yes, ok, apart from the fact that I am now on my third degree and so have had quite a bit more time with these things), and that is: I will have at least read the practical handout which instructs what is to happen during the four hour practical. This seemingly simple step is often over-looked by most undergrads. I know that from personal experience. I think it took until my second year to realise that those things actually held helpful information. Luckily, my degree (zoology) was a bit of a no-brainer for the first 2 years. Our practicals mostly involved dissecting dead animals, fish, locusts, cow's intestines, etc.. and then drawing what we saw - its everything an intrepid zoologist needs to know. obviously. I have of course found this training vitally useful to my subsequent career advancement. 12 hours a week of drawing and sketching. Brilliant. Although I have to admit that I loved it at the time. It satisfied the small frustrated art student that was trapped inside the body of a science geek.

So I bet you're wondering what on earth sort of things I will be demonstrating? Well, the first practical sounds like it could be a bit mentally taxing really. It is a practical demontration of "animal locomotion and scaling". No doubt, the premis for these practicals will be exploring advanced theories of bio-mechanical structure and form, and applying Newton's laws of motion to the analysis of movement pattern and gait. However, in an attempt to communicate this to first years, this becomes: lets get a bunch of frogs and locusts, and then measure how far they can jump in comparison to their size, and then lets get a bunch of first years, and measure how far they can jump in comparison to their size. Genius.

Displacement activity

I have always suffered from having a short attention span. I like to think that having such a lively, hyperactive mind like mine is a asset, rather than an affliction, but it certainly does not seem to mix well with PhD research. I have managed to turn work displacement activity into an artform at which I excel. Take last week for example, the grand total contribution to my PhD of my working hours last week resulted in the creation of ONE EMAIL. Thats it. A single email. Thats all I managed to write. It was, naturally, a perfectly crafted piece of genius as emails go ..a well thought out update full of vague detail (my specialty), with just the right tone to make it seem like I'm working hard but without having to hide my new found dedication to my extra-curricular activities. I do get the feeling however, that maybe I should step up the old productivity a gear or two if I am to get this PhD finished ..or indeed started for that matter. Last week was the exception though. I mean, I usually write at least 3 or 4 emails a week normally. But this last week saw the start of my new found obsession with climbing... and a little jolly up to Glenshee to try snowboarding in Scotland. And I think I am entitled to a week off to play every now and again. And again.

So firstly - boarding in Scotland is not for the faint hearted. When piste conditions were described on the snow report as "good", I think we could be excused for then being a little surprised to find ourselves going over grass (yes, grass), and rocks, indespersed with slush. Not one to wuss out infront of the hardened Scottish skiiers, and safe in the knowledge that my bottom was being safely looked after by my protective padded shorts, I decided to go all out for it anyway. And I have to say, once you get over the whole lack-of-snow-thing, skiing in Scotland is really not that bad afterall. Plus the bonus is that it was only a 90 minute drive from our door. Winner! Sadly, the days where 4 feet of snow cover every last inch of the Cairngorms are long since over. But so long as you are prepared to face everything that Scottish slopes have to throw at you, and don't mind having a huge arse in padded shorts, you can't really beat skiing in your own country. Hurrah!

Then, last Wednesday, I found myself entered in the Scottish Universities bouldering competition over in Edinburgh. As you do. For those that don't know; bouldering is basically climbing up walls but without ropes, although its usually to a smaller height. And with safety mats. If you're lucky. Its a good way to practice your climbing skills and be generally monkey-like. Its also a good way to practice falling from some quite considerable heights and really appreciate the genius that are safety mats. I had never tried bouldering before, but didn't see why this should stop me from entering the competition. Once we arrived at the comp (a little late thanks to minibus and undergrad related silliness) climbing was soon underway. With 20 problems to tackle, the tactic was to pace yourself. Which, of course, I didn't. The first 10 problems were already getting quite tricky and pretty much seperated the boys and girls. The climbs between 11 and 15 proved even more nasty. Climbs between 16 and 20 entitled you to freak-of-nature status, and were impossible for the majority of entrants. Which of course didn't stop us from trying them anyway, and so generally making tits of ourselves. I managed to finish 3rd out of the girls for Stirling Uni. Something I am quite proud of actually considering my "rugby playing" physique and beer-toned belly. I decided that I have a distinct genetic disadvantage in my reach, given that my limbs look like I am Spawn of Umpa-Lumpa rather than having the elegant long reach of other climbers. Just goes to show how far you can get with sheer bloody-mindedness. So Stirling University came 5th - woohoo! ..out of 6 universities - boo hiss! Which isn't that great. BUT is still an improvement on last year's 6th place. Rah! Also when you factor in that Glasgow (who won the competition) has a student body of 40,000 students, whereas Stirling has a mere 6,000... we totally rocked! Hurrah!

After the excitement of the competition, I made up my mind to get really serious about climbing. So I went out and did what I always do when I am serious about something. I bought a book. Wicked. Yet another way I can avoid reading my own subject yet still feel like I am being productive. I have also befriended Kris and Maria who I have decided are going to teach me to be a better climber - in return for the use of my chauffeur like qualities (I'm the only one with a car). Its a good, fair deal. Mutual exploitation at its best. Yesterday was a gorgeous sunny spring day, so we went out to Benny Beg, a rock face near Creif, to play around on some real rock. Now, this was the first time that I had ever been outdoor climbing before, and so I was ever so slightly just bricking it a little really. There are no mats you see outdoors, and I had become quite appreciative of the joys of mats on Wednesday. However, under Kris' expert tutilage, and Maria's encouragement I found I was well at ease. So much so that by the end of the day I was actually leading the climbs!! This is where you climb without a top rope for safety, and so your only protection is by clipping yourself in to bolts in the rock as you go up! *gulps* Again, no one died - which is, apprently, a good sign of a successfull day's climbing. Hurrah!