Auld Lang Syne

This has been a week of farewells: my last Clicking Needles; my Haste ye Back party number 2; golf in a bitter wind; drinks in the pub; and a cosy cup of tea after a Highland hike.

At Clicking Needles we calculated how many teddy bears we have made and reckon we are well over 70 and our target of 100 will easily be reached. I've knitted seven, adding Yogi and Pooh to Rupert, Winnie, Paddington, Edward & Mrs Simpson. It was a wrench to hand them over – I have become very used to seeing them sitting in my armchair by the fire - and absolutely fatal to bond when one knows they will soon be off to their new families in Africa. But I braved it out, and thrust them in a large bag together with their many brothers and sisters. I also left a half-knitted teddy with Sylvia to stuff and sew on his face. I generously suggested she could christen him for me.

However it was when Jeanette heard me talking about the ducks in the garden, that I received my reality check.

“We have two ducks that come into our garden every day,” I said.

“They spend about two hours outside my window and then they trot up the path and spend another couple of hours outside Elaine and Ronnie's. Then sometimes they come back outside my cottage again.”

Jeanette gave me a piercing look.

“I really think it’s time you went home to Australia,” she said, worried that my brain is starting to melt to jelly.

All my favourite people came to my afternoon tea and as custom dictates, Jeanette’s table was laden with homemade cakes, sandwiches and pastries, with everyone’s contribution recognised on the beautifully framed menu card.  

(I can't show a picture with everyone sitting at the table because Rhoda complained that she looked like a pink blancmange, so you will just have to use your imagination)

Over tea, champagne and calories we reminisced about some of the things that have happened in the last few months.

Petrina’s son, who is a journalist on a local paper, needed some ideas for articles.

“Why don’t you write about the budgie that flew into the chip pan?” his grandmother suggested.

“Or you could tell your readers about the man who had a stroke and called for an ambulance. The nurse got lost and had to call for directions and then she drove her car off the road and got stuck in a snowdrift. She had to get the stroke victim to come and help pull her car out.”

We don’t know whether he survived.

Gordon, meanwhile, has been in London helping renovate his daughter’s flat. She bought a pre-loved sofa but it needed a new foam seat and cushions which had to be custom-made. Gordon went on the tube to collect them. It was 5 o’clock, and rush hour, as he manhandled the six-foot long foam base and cushions down the escalators and onto the tube squeezing in amongst the upstanding commuters. He was somewhat bemused when people began handing him money, assuming him to be a homeless person carrying his bed on his back.

Dawn is fearful that almost three months isolated in her log cabin at the top of the glen has stymied a habit of a lifetime: being a shoe-aholic.

“I think I’ve got agrophobia,” she announced.

“I went to Perth to get my hair done, and do you know? I didn’t want to go shopping! Not even to the shoe shop! Not one pair! I just wanted to get home.”

Eric told me of an old lady, 91, who decided to it was time to give up driving.

“ I ask’d her, had she lost her confidence? Och nay, she said, there’s just too many idiot drivers nowadays.”

Paul and I ventured back to Arbroath (via Forfar to pick up two bridies, a local pastie) for a final, and very chilly, game of golf. On the way home we detoured via Carnoustie, where the women’s British Open will be held. On the way, we passed a charming looking course, with a quaint clubhouse.

“They won’t let you play there unless you first sign into the clubhouse wearing a collar, tie and jacket before changing into your golf gear,” said Paul.

“Oh goodness!” I gasped. “And what about the women? What’s the dress code for women?”

“Women! Oh no, there’s no women allowed.”

Emancipation hasn’t quite reached some parts of Scotland yet.

My last day dawned was fine and sunny. Jeanette asked what I would like to do.

“I’d like to take you for afternoon tea somewhere scenic,” I said.

After some thought, Jeanette said we would drive to Dunkeld and walk from the village to the Hilton, which is set in extensive grounds and overlooks the River Tay, for our tea. She told me it was a lovely walk with pretty views from the hotel. She packed a backpack and I laced on my walking shoes.

On the way we detoured to Birnam, famous for Beatrix Potter, which necessitated a visit to the Arts Centre and a meander around the shop, where we bought a few bits and pieces.

On to Dunkeld and as we drove down the main street, Jeanette pointed out a few shops she liked. We parked and set off for our hike up to the Hilton. As we reached the first dress shop, Jeanette peered through the door, turned to me and asked, “Shall we just pop in for a look?”. It seemed a shame not to take a glance and about fifteen minutes later, we headed back out into the street.

Next door was another charming craft shop. Jeanette put her hand to the door and again asked, “Shall we take a look?”.

By the time we had explored all the shops that Dunkeld had on offer, and made a few purchases, darkness was starting to fall. We drove to the Hilton, had a cuppa and a cupcake, strolled in the fading light to look quickly at the River Tay before heading back home.

My kind of walk, really, when the best laid plans take on a life of their own, because there will always be a next time.

Jo and Pete agreed to open the pub midweek so we could have farewell drinks. The log fire was blazing and quite a few people headed down to the village hostelry for a wee dram and a blether. Some of my not-now-quite-so-new friends I was even able to introduce to each other.

Charlie commented on how the pub interior had changed.

“When was the last time you were here?” I asked.

“Oh, about ten years ago,” he said. I am resolved to keep having arriving and departing parties, if only to ensure the pub gets more business, and the natives get out more at night to meet with their neighbours.

Val gave me a card with a picture of a semi-naked Scotsman, dressed only in a kilt, looking out across a loch to some castle ruins. She wrote “a wee reminder of what you’ll be missing.” I assume she means the stunning scenery because the only six packs around here are of the beer variety.

I sent a text message to Eric, to remind him to come for a drink, despite Jeanette’s scepticism about his ability to manage sms-ing. As I had texted him a few weeks earlier when in the jaws of a domestic crisis, I felt sure he must by now have mastered the technology. When he arrived, I asked him if he had received my message.

“Oh aye,” he said proudly. “I was sitting eating my tea, when my pocket beeped.”

“I hope your wife isn’t getting suspicious, what with you getting all these messages from me.” Eric roared with laughter, and I shouted him a Famous Grouse.

Elaine wrote a poem for me, a reminder of the distance which both divides and links us:

HASTE YEA BACK

Sarah, don’t forget us, as you fly away home

Keep us in your heart forever, no matter where you roam

Socialising, at a barbeque, or lazing on some beach

Remember friends in Scotland, still shivering for weeks

We hope that you enjoyed every moment spent right here

A white and snowy Christmas, or a fun-packed bright New Year

So never be a stranger, come back, visit once again

There’s a welcome in Kirkmichael, from us folks in the glen.

Burns Night

Aside from the fact that I couldna hardly understand a word said by any of the speakers, it was a reet braw neet t’be oot.

Our Burns Supper was held at a local hall. Over a hundred people attended to celebrate the life and times of Scotland’s poet hero, Robert Burns. My expectation of a formal evening, laden with pomp, ceremony, tradition, bagpipes, haggis and endless readings of Burns’ poems although fulfilled, was also not quite as I had imagined.

Jeanette told me I should wear something tartan so in the morning I went into Pitlochry and purchased tartan tights for both us. Whilst I was in the shop, I could hear the strains of a bagpiper in the street outside. How charming, I thought, setting the scene for Burns Night.

“Oh no, not again,” groaned the shop assistant, “he’s been at it all day. I canna stand the sound.”

That evening,  as Gordon was playing the fiddle at the supper, he left early to rehearse and bag us good seats.  Jeanette and I were dressing up in our tartan tights, when he phoned in a panic.

“I don’t think there’s a bar here,” Gordon said. “You better bring something.”

 A teetotal Burns Supper in a cold village hall on a frosty night did not bear contemplation so we found a few bottles of wine and some whisky to pour over our haggis, and set out.

As it turned out there was a bar after all which was serving the cheapest drinks in the whole of Perthshire so we kept our hooch hidden in our handbags. The quality of the wines was a bit dubious and our gin and tonic was served in wee plastic cups smaller than the wee plastic wine glasses. No ice but a choice of lemon or lime.

Drinks sorted, we squeezed onto our table and proceedings began much as I had expected. The Selkirk Grace was said:

Some hae meat and canna eat

And some wad eat that want it,

Nut we hae meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.

We were served cock-a-leekie soup out of a huge tureen and then the haggis was piped in by a young bagpiper, Sandy Horne (truly!) followed by a farmer in his kilt, holding the rather unprepossessing-looking haggis up high on a silver platter.

With great solemnity and a large amount of messianic fervour, the address to the haggis was given by a large Scotsman. It is a rather long poem, so I will just give you verse one:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 
Painch, tripe, or thairm: 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 
As lang's my arm.

This was just the start of several poetry renditions, none of which I could fathom at all, but all were performed with great theatricality and often in the dark with the giver holding a candle. I know not why.

We tucked into our haggis, neeps and tatties followed by oatcakes and cheese, a traditional bill o’fare finished off with tea and shortbread.

Now it was time for the Immortal Memory. I prepared myself for more poetry readings and hoped they would not ramble on for too long as it is rather hard to remain focussed when listening to a foreign language one does not speak.

In this I was wrong. A local livestock auctioneer was giving the Immortal Memory. He had a delightfully eccentric way of speaking and rubbing his balding head as if he was bemused to find himself asked to entertain us. He set the tone for the rest of the evening, that was for sure, with stories such as this (translated into English by yours truly):

“A marine was sent to a vairy remote part of the Shetland Isles to guard a rare snowy owl that had been found there.

“He’d been there for a month and not seen another living soul when one night there was a loud banging on his door and a huge hairy man with a wild beard was standing in his doorway.

“’I’ve walked eight miles,’ he said, ‘to invite you to a Burns Supper. Do you fight?’

‘’’Oh aye,” said the marine, ‘I’ve seen plenty of fighting.’

“’Do ye drink whisky?’

“’Oh aye,” said the marine who after four weeks on the island was ready for a wee dram.

“Do you want sex?’

“The marine thought of his wife who he had not seen for months and said yes, he could do with a bit of that.

“As the large hairy man went to leave, the marine stopped him to ask: ‘how should I dress?”

“’Doesnay matter,’ said the man, ‘it will just be you and me.’”

The evening rattled on in this vein, with the stories and jokes told in broad dialect becoming harder for a sassenach like me to understand - but the local farmers, who largely made up the assembled throng, were having no such difficulty and they roared their approval. Each speaker was a man, and each held before him a progressively larger beer belly than the previous fella, until at last a local woman stood to give the Reply to the Lassies. If we were hoping for a less sexist tone to now balance the male pub humour, we were out of luck.

“Why are middle-aged women fatter than single women?” she asked, rhetorically.

“Single women come home, look at what’s in the fridge, and go to bed.

“Married women come home, look at what’s in the bed, and go to the fridge.”

Finally Billy got up to sing a song – boasting the largest beer belly of all – but an equally large voice to match. Then Gordon fiddled a few selections and we ended the evening with a rendition of Burns’ most famous rhyme of all, Auld Lang Syne – and even I knew the words to that one.

Pony and trap

My car has been the bane of my existence from the moment I picked it up from Edinburgh Airport. No, I fib, even before I collected it, this hire car was a major issue. In short, due to the extreme weather I decided at great expense to hire a 4WD that proved to be a pathetic excuse for a 4WD – it slid all over the road and, even greater ignominy, had to be towed out of our back lane by Gordon’s 4WD.

Shortly after Christmas, I was invited to Dawn’s for lunch. The previous day I had resorted to sliding down the road on my backside and was (a) not keen to walk up again (b) not keen to drive on the ice in my useless vehicle (c) not keen to cancel and let down Dawn.

‘Don’t you worry!” she says, when I telephone to explain my dilemma. “You drive up to the ski lodge and I will arrange for Jimmy to pick you up from there. What sort of car is it?”

“Um, a Ford somethingorother,” I say vaguely.

“Oh, I see,” says Dawn, understanding that women tend not to notice these things. “What colour is it?”

“Um, silver? A sort of dark silver I think.”

“Okay, well I’m sure Jimmy will find you,” she says optimistically.

As mine is the only car on the forecourt of the ski lodge, we have little difficulty locating each other.

“Dawn told me you had a silver car. It’s dark blue,” Jimmy says, as I scramble into his 4WD.

“Ah, yes, sorry about that,” I say, “I couldn’t remember what colour it was when she asked me.”

Jimmy looks at me askance.

“Well, now I know why you’re a friend of Dawn’s,” he says, as he drives expertly up the ice and I try to stifle my envy at the grip of his tyres.

Later, on the way back down the hill, we pass a gnarly old man driving a pony and trap, which oddly does not look the least out of place. Evidently this farmer found a more traditional transport option to be a surefire way of negotiating the conditions.

Now it is thawing, the least I can do is repay some of the kindness of my friends who have ferried me around in the bad conditions. Today, Jeanette and I are meeting Rhoda in Dundee to see the movie, The Black Swan. I offer to drive, even though yesterday my horrid car had slid all over the road to Blairgowrie. Black ice, I suppose, but if I drive slowly and carefully, all will be fine.

Five minutes before we need to set off, I turn on the engine so the car can defrost and warm up. As I jump out I notice, with horror, that the back tyre is down. Well, very flat to be more precise. At least, this explains why its road-hold was even worse than usual yesterday.

I go to tell Jeanette the sad news. We immediately launch into damage control action.

“I’ll call the AA and see if you are covered on my insurance,” she says.

“I’ll go to the antique car restoration garage and see if they can help,” I say, with not much hope. Last year my friend’s car wouldn’t start and the mechanics just stood around, helpless to fix a car controlled by computer rather than crankshaft.

I poke my nose into the garage and see, behind an ancient MG, a mechanic. I tell him my plight and ask if he could possibly change the tyre for the spare for me.

He patiently hears me out.

“You’ll have to ask the boss,” he says, and waves vaguely to the back of the garage.

With his head deep into the bonnet of a Jaguar, I find the boss. I repeat my tale.

“Dave can do it,” he says, referring me back to the mechanic I had just spoken to. “It will only take five minutes.”

I ask how much it will cost.

“Ten pounds?” says the boss, with a hopeful tone to his voice. Daylight robbery, I think, but this is an emergency and we don’t want to be late for the movie.

Fifteen minutes later, Dave has fitted the spare and my deflated tyre is put in the back of Jeanette’s car to drop off at the tyre repairer. I do not want to risk driving to Dundee with no spare, so my good intention of being the designated driver is once again thwarted.

 I hand Dave a £10 note.

“Pop it in here,” he says, pulling open the breast pocket of his jacket. I drop the note in. A receipt is out of the question, I imagine.

At the tyre repairers, Steve tells me I will need a new tyre. It will cost £300. The car has done only 800 miles so I am not best pleased. I become marginally happier when he tells me that Bridgestone have none in stock but he can get another brand for £180. I can pick it up in four days’ time.

We arrive in Dundee just in time for the start of The Black Swan (great music, scary women).

Back at home we don’t have swans, but a pair of ducklings have taken up permanent residence in our garden in the last couple of days, proudly walking up and down the length of the flower bed, preening themselves and practising their ballet moves.

On the links

During the Funky Stumpwork Workshop, Paul came bursting through the door – not, as we all assumed, to see his wife Teresa  - but to give me an update on the state of the local golf courses.

“I’ve just been for a drive to my course and it is covered in ice. I can’t think it will be open for weeks yet,” he says, although there is a twinkle in his eye.

“BUT, I think courses nearer the coast where it’s warmer may be playable. Shall I see if I can book us a game?”

Silly question, Paul.  Yes, yes, yes!

An hour later, Paul reappears with glad tidings.

“I have booked for us to play at Arbroath.” He arranges to pick me up two hours before our tee time as Arbroath is a fair distance away. Golfers are notorious for travelling great distances in order to hit a little white ball many times during a long walk – especially when, like now, we have been cooped up for weeks.

“It’s a traditional links course and it's quite difficult,” he says, a little apologetically. “But if it’s not windy, it’s not too bad.”  In this instance, desperate for a game, Paul becomes master of the understatement, I am to discover.

The great day arrives, sunny and fresh (loosely translated, that means zero degrees).  Before Paul tells me the history of the Arbroath Artisans Golf Club, he exhales with relief as his eye wanders up to the trees. There is no wind. 

Way back when, in the days when golf was invented, the artisans of Arbroath – being unwelcome at the hoi polloi’s golf club – set up their own club right next door. Over time, by good management (Scots are canny with money) the artisan’s club flourished. Meanwhile the gentry were flagrantly extravagant at their club, finances were parlous and the club became in danger of going under. Perish the thought!  So the lairds and gentry approached the artisans to see if they would like to join their club, thinking that despite their low breeding, their success in financial matters would be of welcome assistance.

The artisans refused this offer – presumably not wishing to be dragged down to the level of the gentry – but instead, extended the opportunity for the gentry to join their club. Which they did. And now there is but one club, although the clubhouse of the original lairds still stands just a few metres away.

I can only comment that the artisans must also have had a sense of humour. Their links course could best be described as woodland rough with the odd bit of fairway popping up now and again amongst the hillocks, plus a good peppering of sheer-sided bunkers. Signage was also minimal, thus explaining why we failed to find holes 10 and 11.  Our errant balls also often fail to find the fairways, rather, favouring the rough stuff or beyond onto fields and the adjacent railway line. Imagining the further complication of wind does not bear contemplation. To further protect the fairways from our hacking, we have been armed with wee hard woven plastic mats to place our ball on when (occasionally) hitting from on the fairway. These prove to be yet another impediment, the plastic mat giving added resistance and having an uncanny knack of being able to grip the golf club head at critical point of impact. But it is a bad workman etc.....

Nevertheless, it is braw to get out and enjoy the pleasure of walking in a straight line on green grass, not having to constantly duck and weave around ice patches. 

Arbroath is famous for its smokies and its abbey, so after our 16 holes of golf we toss away our scorecard and go to investigate both local attractions.

After visiting this fishing port even the most unobservant person could not fail to know that Arbroath is famous for its smokies, for every second shop loudly proclaims the sale of said ‘Arbroath smokies’.  I have a half smokie and salad for lunch and can testify that the smokies – haddock smoked over a variety of woods, tasting not dissimilar to kippers – are delicious, despite being very boney.

Replete, we go to check out the abbey, built in the 12^th century and now largely in ruins, but nevertheless magnificent. The abbey is held dear by Scots as it was here that the Declaration of Arbroath was signed in 1320, witnessed by Robert the Bruce, establishing Scotland’s independence from England.

The abbey towers over the centre of the town and it is not hard to imagine that the monks lived a pretty pampered life here, with much power and wealth. Abbots came and went and one was even sacked by his own monks for (God forbid!) supporting the English.

On the drive home, we detour via our local golf courses to inspect whether any of them look likely to be playable soon. Our hopes are soon dashed when we see extensive snow and ice still stretching along fairways and greens. However, a rumour is circulating that the wee 9-hole course may open at the weekend.  As our pitiful efforts today confirmed that much practice is needed to get our games back in shape, I undertake to pursue the matter.

I ask the starter at the pro shop if the rumour is true. He tells me that it is possible six holes will be open on Sunday, if there are no more hard morning frosts.

 Oh well, three rounds of six holes and we will have achieved our first full 18 hole game of 2011, albeit in rather unconventional fashion.

Murder at the mansion

Truth to tell, there is no murder involved, but there should be. All the characters involved have stepped straight out of a 1930’s Agatha Christie novel. The only thing missing is the body – which is a mystery in itself.

The story begins on a frosty Tuesday morning. Jeanette and I have been invited to Mrs Peacock’s cottage for morning coffee.

The cottage where she lives is ‘tied’ to the main house where she and her husband, a retired police officer, are also the housekeeper and gardener.

We turn off the side road, over a bridge and through a set of magnificent gates and onto the driveway where a commanding house gradually appears, a huge gothic monstrosity but not without a certain eerie, dramatic charm. A sweeping lawn in front is still covered in snow and deer meander around in the distance.

We park outside Mrs Peacock’s cottage, opposite to the stables where a pheasant is ‘hanging’, before its journey to the stovepot and table.

Mrs Peacock is one of those talented people who can sew, knit, write, cook and still find time for social work and to attend college to learn yet more craft skills. She and I share a common interest in the English language.

“How do you spell anonymise?” she asks me.

“You don’t. It doesn’t exist as a word,” I say. “It’s anonymous.”

“Oh, the university guidelines tell me I have to ensure the work my students submit is anonymised.”

“Well, I am sure it’s not a verb. You will have to say ‘anonymously’,” and I spell it out for her.

“Hmm, explains why the spell-checker couldn’t find it,” says Mrs P.

Settled with coffee, fruit cake and Earl Grey biscuits we learn that Mrs Peacock and her husband have lived here for six years. The owner of the big house is over 80, disabled from a childhood accident, and only visits once or twice a year. It is his holiday home. Actually, he is a twin, but as he was born first, he gets this house. We’ll call him Col. Mustard.

Col. Mustard’s sister, Mrs White, was the person who originally interviewed Mrs Peacock. As she and her husband stood on the front doorstep, somewhat overawed by the mansion rising up above them, Mrs White barked at them:

“Do you smoke?”

“Well, yes,” admitted Mrs Peacock, feeling it best to tell the truth. “But we are planning to give up,” she adds hopefully.

“That’s excellent,” said Mrs White, her accent cutting shards from the crystal decanters. “Come on in, we all smoke here.”

The house has 13 bedrooms and most years is only fully occupied for Hogmanay. There is no central heating, and these days no army of servants, so guests have to stoke their own log fires in their bedrooms. Col. Mustard’s nephew, Prof. Plum, sometimes comes to stay and he brings his friends with him. Mrs Peacock must make sure the house is ready and aired, all the beds are made and towels laid out.

When Col. Mustard comes to stay, usually only for a week or two in May and again in August, Mrs Peacock cooks his meals and sees to his linen. He is very appreciative of her efforts.

“I always know when he is happy because he comes to the kitchen and says ‘that porridge was wonderful, Mrs P’ or ‘splendid fish pie’!,” she tells us.

“If he says nothing, I know it wasn’t up to scratch.”

Mrs Peacock’s dream of having her own linen store has come true, she has a whole room devoted to the house linen and after she arrived Mrs White taught her how to iron napkins.

“You iron them wet, wrong side first, then right side to get the sheen, and then fold them into three,” she informs us.

Close by to her cottage is a farmstead. She says she and her husband are friendly with the owners but in the six years she has lived there, they have never been into her cottage.

“And they never will,” Mrs Peacock says. “They hated the previous couple and refuse to cross the threshold.” The previous couple held the position of gardener and cook for ten years. That’s a long time to be at silent war with your only neighbour for several miles.

A shadowy figure that has presided over the house for many a long year is the ex-housekeeper, Miss Scarlett. She is notorious for meddling and stirring up antipathies amongst the staff. She is suspected of having designs on Col. Mustard. Or perhaps on his will. Lately she has become persona non gratis and no one is missing her.

“She was forever accusing us of terrible things like stealing the silver,” says Mrs P.

“Mind you, you have to be very careful. Miss Scarlett was dining at Rev. Green’s manse a few years back and she commented on how delicious the salmon was. Oh, said Rev. Green, I purchased it from your gamekeeper.”

The poaching gamekeeper was sacked that very night.

So there you have it, a cast of characters living in this isolated mansion, cut off for weeks at a time, with enmities and a long history of feuding.

All that is needed is motive, opportunity – and a body.

Funky stumpwork

I am absolutely exhausted. I have spent six hours today at the Funky Stumpwork Workshop and it was gruelling.

When I first received notification about the workshop, not knowing what stumpwork is, I did not register. Then I get an alert that there is only one place left and think, what the heck, the weather has been so restrictive lately, it would good to do something different, so I sign up. All I have to take is lunch as all materials will be provided.

Not sure whether I am going to learn a woodworking technique, a Scottish dance or flower arranging, I set off this morning (minus packed lunch, I overslept).

When I finally race into the village hall (late) our teacher, Di, is already explaining all about stumpwork and is handing around exotic, complicated examples of this artform.

Stumpwork originated in England in the second half of the seventeenth century and – wouldn’t you know it! – is understood to be one of the more difficult forms of sewing. Wikipedia can explain it better than I:

Stumpwork is a style of embroidery where the stitched figures are raised from the surface of the work to form a 3-dimensional effect.

Stitches can be worked around pieces of wire to create individual forms such as leaves, insect wings or flower petals. This form is then applied to the main body of work by piercing the background fabric with the wires and securing tight.

I quickly see there are only eight of us taking part, which is a bit daunting but even more dismaying is when I see that they are all the A level needlewomen from the village. My face falls when Di passes around an example of what we will be creating today: a delicate flower, less than three inches in diameter, exquisitely formed and perfectly executed.

Oh dear, what have I got myself into now?

I feel – as you can imagine – well, stumped. But hey kid, I say to myself, you can’t back out now!

I won’t bore you with the technical details but suffice to say that for five hours I painstakingly (literally – I keep jabbing my finger with my needle) do buttonhole stitch over the thinnest fuse wire available, with one strand of embroidery thread (the lady sewers amongst you will appreciate that embroidery thread commonly has six strands). My thread twists; I squint to see; my thread knots; I tie myself in knots; my thread keeps breaking; I am at breaking point. It is an extremely harrowing time.

But out of all adversity, triumph comes. After five hours of this torture, I have stitched five miniature flower petals and I am presented with a pair scissors to cut them out. Then, by judicious stabbing of the wires through material, I am finally able to near the finish line with my masterpiece.  

Next, I have to create the stigma (that’s the centre of a flower). This is achieved with lots of delicate wee French knots, coupled with a bit of swearing in the process. Theresa provides some hints and tips.

“I think it looks nice if you sew layers of felt on first, to give it raised look,” she tells me. Heave ho – more fiddly bits, but I can hardly ignore her advice so I cut out teeny weeny felt pieces and sew them in place, a task which is reminiscent of craft classes at primary school.

Then she shows me how to wind four strands of thread three times around my needle to create my French knots. This requires patience as the needle gets caught up in the wires and the four threads keep getting entangled amongst themselves. At last, I have just a couple more knots and I will be done!

“You can add beads too,” she says, “to get more of an effect.” To be polite, I look through her bead box with absolutely no intention of adding another layer of difficulty to my stumpwork.

“Oh, that’s a shame. None of the beads are a good match,” I say, regretfully, fingers crossed behind my back.

The last French knot is sewn into place. And though I say so myself, I think that may be a small glimmer of admiration – or perhaps it is surprise – that I spot in my fellow stumpworkers’ eyes at my offering.

As we walk home, I swear that today is the first and last time I will ever stumpwork. My back is killing me, my eyes are sore, my fingers are punctured with thorn-like pricks and yet! I have a wee feeling of pride at being able to compete with the best of the best and not be the total Australian disaster they have come to expect.

I even received an Award Certificate. I shall frame it and hang it alongside my university degree:

The only lingering question, however, is what on earth does one do with this work of art? Petrina thinks it could be nice as a brooch. Theresa suggests it might be perfect to cover the lid of a box. 

I think I might make mine into an egg cosy:

The King's Speech

Going to the movies is an Outing, a Major Event, which involves careful aforethought. As the nearest cinema is in Perth, which is about an hour’s drive away, aside from seeing the film sustenance is needed, and the best financial deal possible must be struck.

I suggested we see The King’s Speech and maybe make up a group to go. Jeanette, the local party planner, swings into action.

After numerous telephone calls, she has confirmed eight women who wanted to go, and because it is dark so early, a 2.30 matinee would be the best time – which would still mean driving back in darkness but I forebore to dispute her logic.

Drivers were designated, pick-up points arranged and Jean’s husband Johnny co-opted to collect Dawn in his 4WD from her ice-bound home at the top of the glen and then take her back up again in the evening. Dawn confided in me that she was much happier to have a man drive her up and down – in case anything happened, she felt a man would handle the emergency better. So much for emancipation!

Jeanette phoned to explain all the details of this military operation.

“We’ll need to leave at 11.00am,” she told me.

“That early?” I asked.

“Och aye, I’ve got a table booked at The Bothy for 12 o’clock.”

Later she rang me back.

“Now, there’s a special deal. We can get a three course lunch, glass of wine and cinema ticket for £20. What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Book it!”

A little later, Jeanette rang again (yes, I know she lives next door but truly, it’s easier to conduct these type of arrangements via the phone).

“Apparently, if you are over 55 there is a concession ticket for the cinema and 20 percent off the food at The Bothy. What do you think?” Without pausing for breath, she continued.

“Because I think some people may not want wine. Or three courses. How old are you?”

(Reader, I am omitting my answer to that question. It is quite unpublishable.)

A short time after this call, she rang again.

“You have to be over 60 to get the concession! But the lady at the cinema said och, no one will notice, and she’ll still give us the 20 percent off at the restaurant.”

“Well,” I said, “Those of us who couldn’t possibly pass for 60, will just have to say that the Botox is working fantastically.”

The morning of the Great Day arrives. We convene in the village and are on our way!

A good job we booked for 12 noon at The Bothy. It took us fully half an hour to decide what we wanted to eat, what with the natter and difficulty of tossing up between the soup of the day (parsnip and cider), baked potato with haggis, or goats cheese tart with rocket salad (“Oh, I can’t eat rocket,” says Dawn, “It gets stuck in my throat” so she opts for a turkey sandwich).

Liz tells us about living on the island of Iona, where she is working for a year. The island has about 100 residents, and is one mile by three miles. In the tourist season, numbers can swell to about 250. To get from Iona back to the village takes her a full day by foot, ferry, bus, ferry, bus, train and bus.

She asked if she could join the Iona Ladies Group which meets once a week. After some discussion amongst the ladies in the Ladies Group it was decided she could join, but only for a year, as they only allow 20 members at any one time. As there are about 60 ladies on the island, this seems a bit unfair to me, but perhaps the others have branched off and formed splinter groups, otherwise their social life would be very limited.

I ask what there is to do on the island.

“You can walk around it in about half a day,” says Liz.

“That’s Mahri sorted!” we chorus.

“You can play golf, there’s a golf course,” she continues.

“Sarah’s fine then!”

“There’s wonderful light for artists,” Liz tells us.

“Theresa, you’ll be happy!”

“And the flowers in summer are just beautiful,” she says.

“Aye, Jean will be in her element!”

Just then the food arrives, so we tuck in.

Jeanette tells us Gordon’s story of buying a Christmas tree when he was in London, for their daughter Gillian’s flat.

Gordon gets on the tube and travels a few stops to the market, where Gillian has assured him the best trees at the best prices are to be found. He chooses a magnificent Norfolk pine, about seven feet high and proceeds back to the tube station.

Somehow he manhandles this monster on the escalators and gets it to the station platform – which is empty. He props the tree up and takes a photo of it, standing alone as if it is waiting to catch the train.

On the train, Gordon approaches a rather stuffy looking London city gent and asks him if he would mind taking a photo of him and the tree, and thrusts his mobile phone at him to take the snap. He then poses with the tree.

Humourlessly, the gent obliges. Gordon looks at the photo.

“Och, it’s a bit fuzzy,” he says. “Would you take another one?”

Dawn is inveigled into telling us her story of stealing a chip a few weeks ago.

“Oh yes,” she says, “I have always wanted to steal a chip. So, I was in Perth and I was walking along the high street, and I saw this pair of young lads sitting on a bench, eating fish and chips.

“And I thought, I’m going to steal a chip! So I leaned over and I just took a chip out of this lad’s box of chips, and I popped it in my mouth. He looked so surprised.

“When I told my grand-daughter, she was appalled. Oh granny, she said, you could have been mugged or beaten up.

“Oh, I don’t think so dear, I said. It was broad daylight after all, and anyway, I think they were far too shocked at an old lady stealing one their chips to do anything about it.”

It’s only 1.30pm but people are making moves to leave. Now I know why we left the village so early – being in the big smoke is an opportunity to change Christmas gifts, go to the bank and do other sundry chores.

Before we leave, I go to the Ladies. It is down the stairs, then around a corner, then a long corridor, with a sign that reads:

“Don’t dawdle, it’s a long way”

Then at the end of the corridor:

“Tie a knot in it, not far now”

Around the corner:

“Hold on for a wee bit more”

With a good 15 minutes to spare, we reach the cinema which is full, but we squeeze into two rows on the side. Half way through the film Jan falls asleep, and as she is snoring, Mahri has to wake her up. Otherwise the film passed without incident.

Her snooze is probably a good thing because it has been thawing and raining all afternoon, and as our designated driver, Jan needs to be on alert as she drives through deep puddles, some of which totally blind out the windscreen as they spray the car.

“Not as bad as Queensland, though,” she says.

Six o’clock, and we are home. Next week we plan to go and see another film, The Black Swan. We might take in a second movie as well, just to take full advantage of the Day Out.