Just a collection of odd recollections and musings from the last week or so…
I was working at the gallery today and an older man came up to the desk. He muttered something that I didn’t quite catch. He repeated it, “[mumble mumble] …trousers.”
I look down at my trousers, black disco pants, confused. I’d tried to tone down my clothes a bit since arriving on Skye and had thought this outfit of boots, a jumper and (admittedly slightly-shiny) trousers was quite ordinary.
“Well I never!” He says, turning to his wife, “I’ve never seen anything like it! What on earth is the world coming to?”
Probably best to leave my sparkly catsuits in the closet for a little while yet…
I drove through Portree last night on my way home from a meal at the Edinbane Inn.
As I made my way out of town I thought to myself, ‘Wow, it’s busy in town tonight! I hope I’m not missing out too much on the party…’
I thought about it for a few minutes then realised I’d passed three cars and a group of four people walking together through the square.
I think the London-Skye acclimatisation is well under way.
Skye lesson #1:
Always hold onto your car door when opening it; never underestimate the strength of the wind.
I almost learnt the hard way when I pulled over to take a photo on a clifftop near Uig. The door snapped back with such force that I actually heard a ‘whoosh!’ sound. The fact that I’m not driving a doorless car like the yellow one in the Inbetweeners is testament to Toyota’s impressive engineering skills. Or luck. Well, I don’t know which but I wont be risking it again.
One of the first things I did when moving here was to register with a doctor (very sensible, well done, Katie). After completing the impossibly complicated forms they handed me a 29-page printed information document.
When I got home I sat down with a cup of tea and started flicking through it.
I smiled at the little advice sections advising the preparation of a thermos flask for evening coughs or administering Rich Tea biscuits after a case of D&V. How cute, I thought, sweet but somewhat twee, a little bit like the famous colourful harbour cottages that sit below the surgery itself.
Then I turn the paper over to find a page titled: TICKS.
An A4 side of paper all about ticks and containing phrases such as, ‘They are not insects… They are blood-suckers’ and ‘The tick’s mouthparts will remain in the skin’. Not to mention a paragraph on contracting Lyme disease because nymph-stage ones are so small that you might not notice if you’ve got one feeding off you.
Aargh! I’m not sure I’ll ever walk through long grass again.