Monday, 15 December 2008

The caped crusader

Listening to: Alasdair Roberts -The crook of my arm

Dialect word of the day: Broo (Dole/unemployment benefit)

I sit writing this whilst enjoying a highly unsatisfactory foot spa. The bubble function appears to have bitten the dust on the journey up to Scotland. A whole fiver that foot spa cost, I've a good mind to write to Anne Robinson on Watchdog or something.

The reason for my podiatry discomfort? Firstly I have always been a martyr to my feet, secondly I favour wildly impractical Chelsea boots and thirdly I have started my weekend job at Holyroodhouse and I'm on my feet for about 7 hours a day. Despite battered and bruised tootsies an slight unease about whether I am compromising my anti-monarchist stance, I find the whole work shabang rather pleasant, my hunger for arcane trivia is more than sated and I get to get dressed up in the most astonishing garb. This consists of Tartan trousers, a Glengarry hat and the best of all a cape with lovely shiny buttons. I love swishing around the Palace in the cape feeling quite the dandy. I am tempted to see if I can persuade Jess to knock up a cape for casual wear, maybe in a discrete tweed. I'm sure my fellow Leithers will be delighted to see me cutting a sartorial dash through the grey winter streets.

The Glengarry is another matter altogether, very few people can wear one of these with elan and I am certainly not one of them. The most straightforward and inoffensive of hats can make me look a bit gormless, but the Glengarry makes me look an utter simpleton, especially combined with my glasses and luxuriant sideburns.

Hopefully my feet will have recovered sufficiently to transport me around the German Market. Jess is ludicrously excited by the amount of pork based foodstuffs she can consume in a single evening. I am actually quite excited, the first time Jess visited me in Leeds, we went to the German market and it seemed a magical experience, both of us drunk on love and a range of quality German lagers. These are now a staple of British city centres at Christmas time and the stalls all seem to be run by your actual German market traders. It makes you wonder who actually runs the stalls back in Germany, given the vast majority seem to be over here. Perhaps there is a market trader exchange scheme in operation. Whilst we peruse handcrafted wooden ornaments, elaborate nativity displays and specialty beers and wines, the good people of Frankfurt or Munich hurry down to the traditional yuletide 'British market' to stock up on pirate DVDs, counterfeit sportswear and condemned meat sold from the back of a lorry.

Tonight will be slightly bittersweet, given that itll be our last evening together for quite a while, Jessis off to see her mum for a pre-Christmas visit. I shall be left in the flat alone and who knows what chaos will ensue, given my inability to cope with the most mundane pracicalities of life.

I shall keep you posted....


Madame DeFarge said...

Ah, the simple pleasure of remembering my time at the broo.

I am impressed by your gainful employment. The swishing round Holyrood is pleasure afforded to few. Particularly in a Glengarry. Words, strangely, defy me.

Enjoy, if you can, your impending nights without Jess (pardon my familiarity). I spend my weeknights sans M. Defarge, so have some sympathy for your condition. The warmth of a blog is no substitute for the warmth of benign husbandly neglect.

You just coorie in and enjoy it.

rhinestonecatboy said...

Aw cheers for your concern, sure I'll manage okay, I intend to spend most of my time in bed, thus limiting the potential for domestic damage or disaster.