Dusty (like Russia)

Finally at liberty to write about one of my more miserable travel experiences, I'm going to take this blog back a month or two.

It began with a room viewing on a rainy Edinburgh day towards the end of July. Walking down a pretty cul-de-sac of blocks of old Victorian flats with quaint, flowery front gardens shaded by rows of large trees on the opposite side of the street. It was in a lively part of town, with shops and bars nearby, but it was set back off the busy main road, at the end of a very quiet crescent.

The rooms were generous in size - we were offered the pick of the bunch. The promises flowed, about urgent repairs to be made, renovations to be done, cleaning to completed. The nicer rooms, however, did come with one condition - a week of relocation to the smaller upstairs areas, so that two holidaying families could be comfortable accommodated on just one level of the flat.

That was fine, we said.

Two, three, four weeks into our stay and none of the promises had been kept. Not one. Workmen, inspectors, all arrived without any notice from our landlord, expecting to be shown into rooms where people were still asleep.

No, we said. We've been given no notice.

Our voluntary, good-will relocation for a week was suddenly turned into a month-long move into smaller rooms.

No, we said. That is not what we agreed to at all.

Visits from the landlord were regular and unannounced. The pretence was the work that was to be done. The result was a flat regularly left disheveled, with dishes and washing left strewn about. No work was done.

At the end of it all, after being forced into resignation over the state of the place, we could have signed longer leases.

No, we said. We'd like our deposits back, as we are going to move elsewhere, thank you.

This was when the real challenge began.

Excuse me, we said. It has been 2 weeks since you promised the return of our deposit. Please, reply to our emails, we said. Please return our calls.

Hey, we said. It has now been 3 weeks and we have not heard a word from you. We have called many times, we said. All we ask for is some communication from you.

Legal advice, we said.

Action, we threatened.

Ok, she said. I'll return your deposits now.

But three more weeks were to pass. Three more weeks with no communication. Our calls went unanswered, our messages ignored, our emails summarily dismissed without any reply whatsoever.

Enough, we said. You will now be reminded every single day. As will your partner. Every day, we said. Every day until we have what is rightfully ours.

We left that place cleaner, and in better condition than we found it. We never had to be chased for rent (in fact, we had to ask to pay it). We were polite, far too obliging, and generally excellent tenants.

In return we were disrespected, our generosity was abused, we were misled and we were completely used. Our first experience in Edinburgh was with a landlord who broke the terms of her own agreement, and who was completely neglectful of the needs of her tenants and her property.

It took longer than our period of tenancy for our deposit to be returned.

Definitely a lesson learned.

Ironique (thanks Millie)

I'm currently working in a fantastic new job for the University of Edinburgh in the Media Office.

This morning a call came in from a man who I thought was identifying himself as 'Tim' hoping to speak with the Director of our department. Unfortunately the call came at a time when the office was full of people and exploding with noise, so I didn't hear too much else.

My first concern was that it was the Principal of the University (first name Tim, last name unknown at this stage), a much respected figure, who, incidentally, is coming on a very important and very official visit to this office tomorrow. Wanting to sound like I knew who he was, I made sure I kept the call brief, business like, very professional, very important, very official.

'Yes, certainly, I'll get him to call you as soon as possible.'

Once off the phone, I enquired as to the Principal's surname. Upon discovering that it didn't begin with 'd' at all, nor did it sound anything like the name that I thought I had heard on the phone, I decreased the importance of this call, and pushed the message down towards the lower end of my to-do list. After all, the Director is a busy man, very important, and was in meetings for the duration of the day.

In a quieter period later in the day I thought that perhaps I could earn some initiative points beside my name if I called back this 'Tim' myself, and attempted to re-direct his call elsewhere in our department, rather than bothering the Director himself.

My call was answered by a kind, gentle voice, identifying herself as Kathleen, whom I assumed must be 'Tim's' assistant.

"Yes, hi, its Hamish calling from the University of Edinburgh-
Yes, thats right-
Yes, I'm calling on behalf of the director of Communications and Marketing to speak with ah, Tim please-
Yes, he called earlier to speak to the Director, but unfortunately the Director is in meetings today, and I was hoping that perhaps I could re-direct his enquiry to someone else in the department who may be able to help him-
Oh, well, could you please ask him to call me back on this number. And, ah, how is that you spell his name sorry?
Oh, its Tam, haha, sorry, my mistake. Tam-
Yes, D-a-l-y-e-l-l-
Pronounced Di-el? Ok excellent. Thank you."

Wanting to find out if anyone else in the press team might know who he was, or if anyone had any dealings with him, I tentatively asked

"Does anyone know a Tam Dalyell?"

I now know that Tam Dalyell is, in fact, a very, very, very important man. And don't I feel quite the fool!

I bought some gloves

Apparently I served lunch to a Spanish Princess or some member of the Spanish royal family on Sunday. As well as some very rich (and I'm sure famous in their own fields) gentlemen and ladies from all over the world, all attending the Alfred Dunhill Links Championship. Notable attendees included Samuel L. Jackson, Hugh Grant and Michael Vaughn, amongst others.

On Saturday I served an exquisite 4 course meal after a cosy champagne reception at a wedding. The father of the bride was one of Scotland's most reknowned chefs (once again, within the industry), and the wedding was held in Mount Stuart House, an old Victorian mansion which is home to one of Britain's most beautiful indoor swimming pools, and which was the first house in Britain to have a telephone line. The ceilings were over 70 feet high in places.

On Wednesday last week I was a part of team that served over 600 French men and women who were partaking in an all-expenses paid business trip/marketing exercise. Their company paid over £1,000,000 for them to enjoy tours of some of Scotland's most famous highland distilleries before being given kilts to wear to a reception at a gorgeous family castle, which included a 30-man marching bagpipe band and a lighting show that was worth over £25,000 alone. They savoured a slow 4 course meal (dessert was not served until after midnight), seated in a (one use only) marquee worth £150,000, punctuated by performances from both local and French bands, complimented by some of the finest wine and whiskey available.

My job certainly isn't easy - its damn hard work. But it is, in more ways than one, awesome, worthy of awe. Nothing helps you realise this like standing with a bottle of French champagne in your hands whilst admiring an intricate tapestry hundreds of years old, in a house that people usually have to pay just to have the privilege of entering.

My fingers are too cold for typing

So more pictures

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Scotland/