On grindstones...

...and having one's nose returned thereto. I was off all last week, and very nice it was too. I flew north on Good Friday, and on Saturday I went for a run, which was very dull. Then I went riding, and fell off this evil creature, who was in a profoundly silly mood, and shocked some onlookers with my fluency with sweary words. In the evening I met up with some schoolfriends: a night of fun, stupidity and random shooters was enjoyed by all. Sunday was quieter (although not quiet enough for my poor achey head), with church, a hangover-aiding chippy for lunch, and Easter eggs. On Easter Monday I steeled myself to go shopping; to my surprise it wasn't actually that horrendous, but in typical fashion I couldn't find a damn thing I wanted to buy. Tuesday was enlivened chiefly by a visit to Cumbernauld. Everything you've ever heard about Cumbernauld is true. Trust me. Now you don't need to go there yourself; be glad of that.

Wednesday pm, after a wedge of toffee cake (oh yes!) at Ardardan, was taken up by NYCoS rehearsals in the Merchants' Hall (a very handsome place indeed). After a break (during which some of us were introduced to the Spectre of Terrible Service which was to follow us wherever we went) we moved to the recently-refurbished City Hall for an orchestral rehearsal. Following this I ate my own body weight in pasta and garlic bread. It's not clever, but it is big. Bleugh.

The early part of Thursday K and I spent in the Gallery of Modern Art in Glasgow (really not that great), lunch in the Lab off Buchanan Street (highly recommended) and the shops. Oh, the shops. Then back to the City Hall for rehearsals, M&S sandwiches (this is not just a sandwich: this is a posh sandwich in a recycled cardboard box) and the concert. A review can be found here.

Aberdeen on Friday, via a private prescription from A (the success of which excited both of us far too much) and Sainsbury's for bus provisions. I hate coach travel. Even in company with fun people I hate coach travel. And I especially hate it when you think "Gosh, we've been on this bus for ages, and I'm sick of it: surely we'll get there soon" and then you pass a sign which says "Aberdeen 87" and then start screaming uncontrollably. All in all we only spent about 3 hours in the damn place, but that was enough time to get harrassed by a tartan-clad tramp on Union Street, who had serious problems accepting the concept of a non-English speaker ("Ah conny bleeve yus only speak Jairman.") - fair enough, you might say, since I was definitely pretending, but never mind - and tried to give us Buckie ("Yis gurruls drink wine?") at which point we ran away. I know some people who I know, like and respect are deeply attached to the place, but I really don't understand why.

Returned to Ingerland on Saturday, after a day which T and I spent wandering round the West End, making nachos (drooling again at the thought) and visiting IKEA and Braehead very very quickly; both were hellish. Yesterday I went to Portsmouth for my godmother's silver wedding celebrations, and on the way home was suitably chastened by the sight of returning London Marathoners who could barely get off the train. Today I am back at work. Ho hum.