About a month from the winter solstice here in Scotland, and once you get out of the city and away from the buildings it becomes truly evident how much the sun's path through the sky has changed.
The sun no longer rises in the morning. It more just plays hide and seek, occasionally peeking through a gap between buildings, maybe teasing you by peering out over the rooftops, but never completely clearing them. It stays low in the sky, before lazily returning to bask other parts of the world in all its glory.
Clearly the sun is bored of the northern hemisphere at the moment, and is seeking greener pastures amongst our southern friends.
Or perhaps, as a wise Scot confided in me today, perhaps the Sun is smarter than we give it credit for. Perhaps the Sun has heard somewhere along the grapevine that Scottish winters are notoriously miserable - cold, cloudy, dark - and is merely leading by example. Perhaps it is getting to that time of year when we humans should reconsider rising from our beds each morning. Maybe we should sleep in a little longer, only stay out for a few hours, then hurry back home to some warmth and comfort. If the Sun knows about avoiding Scottish winters, why shouldn't we?
I think the Sun could be on to something here...
Friday, November 21, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A Highland Tribute
We took a drive up through the highlands this weekend. Begining with a tour of the small-but-stunning town of Stirling on Friday evening and Saturday morning, and ending with an enjoyable sprint from Inverness to Edinburgh on Sunday evening.
In between I was witness to some of the most amazing scenery I have ever been so privileged to see. The Scottish Highlands are an absolute wonder. As the shores of Loch Lomond gave way to the bare hills of Rhannach Moor, Glencoe Valley, and Loch Leven, words were stolen and replaced merely by repeated gasps at the beauty that was before me. In much the same way, Loch Ness took my breath from me as I gently immersed my face in the cold, cloudy waters (keeping a promise to my mother that I would pass her greetings on to the fabled monster), not just with its icy temperatures, but with the sincerity and drama of the surrounding landscape.
It is a beautiful thing to see a cloud swallow entire hills just metres from where you're standing. Hills that, when visible, are incredibly steep, rocky, seemingly unconquerable, eternal, formidable; hills that defeated the Romans over 2000 years ago, that held at bay the English armies for almost as long; hills that have changed highland hands hundreds of times, but have never themselves changed or relented. Hills that must still succumb to the gentle rolling of low-lying rain clouds, rendered completely invisible by nothing more than wafts of air-filled water.
An old friend of mine passed away recently. He was a proud Scot, whose genuine excitement travelled halfway around the world when I called him from Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. Pop was a man who lived life because that's exactly what the word 'life' means - living. He took opportunities in the same way that he took disappointments - with a smile, and an attitude that reassured you no matter the situation. His grey hair and thick grey beard could not hide the youth that still sparkled in his eyes, nor could his aging exterior contain the energy that he still exuded.
He wasn't a huge man, but he had an unconquerable sense of humour, an amazingly kind heart, and an incredible spirit. All who knew him will miss him dearly, without exception.
In passing his body may have completely disappeared from this world, but I know that he is here, somewhere, just behind the clouds.
In between I was witness to some of the most amazing scenery I have ever been so privileged to see. The Scottish Highlands are an absolute wonder. As the shores of Loch Lomond gave way to the bare hills of Rhannach Moor, Glencoe Valley, and Loch Leven, words were stolen and replaced merely by repeated gasps at the beauty that was before me. In much the same way, Loch Ness took my breath from me as I gently immersed my face in the cold, cloudy waters (keeping a promise to my mother that I would pass her greetings on to the fabled monster), not just with its icy temperatures, but with the sincerity and drama of the surrounding landscape.
It is a beautiful thing to see a cloud swallow entire hills just metres from where you're standing. Hills that, when visible, are incredibly steep, rocky, seemingly unconquerable, eternal, formidable; hills that defeated the Romans over 2000 years ago, that held at bay the English armies for almost as long; hills that have changed highland hands hundreds of times, but have never themselves changed or relented. Hills that must still succumb to the gentle rolling of low-lying rain clouds, rendered completely invisible by nothing more than wafts of air-filled water.
An old friend of mine passed away recently. He was a proud Scot, whose genuine excitement travelled halfway around the world when I called him from Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. Pop was a man who lived life because that's exactly what the word 'life' means - living. He took opportunities in the same way that he took disappointments - with a smile, and an attitude that reassured you no matter the situation. His grey hair and thick grey beard could not hide the youth that still sparkled in his eyes, nor could his aging exterior contain the energy that he still exuded.
He wasn't a huge man, but he had an unconquerable sense of humour, an amazingly kind heart, and an incredible spirit. All who knew him will miss him dearly, without exception.
In passing his body may have completely disappeared from this world, but I know that he is here, somewhere, just behind the clouds.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A short black for a long while
I treated myself to a macchiato this morning at a friendly little deli around the corner from where I used to live.
I sat, read the newspapers, sipped slowly at the tiny coffee, and completely immersed myself in matters of the world.
Financial crises, leadership challenges, stories of violence, stories of hope, cynicism beside optimism beside pessimism beside strange inquisition. The less liquid there was in my cup, the more I found my thoughts floating far from myself and to those people and issues that I truly care about.
After being completely involved in my own world for so long, it was a comforting relief to re-find some perspective beyond the borders of my life.
There is so much that I miss from home. People, problems, solutions, challenges, familiarity, family, friends... But the wonderful thing about this re-discovery was that I could also look back on my own self from without, and I could see exactly where I was.
I was walking along the Meadows, with Edinburgh Castle keeping watch over my left shoulder, a bag of bread and a carton of eggs under my right arm, and an old friend on the phone from Brisbane. I could see the distance between myself and my native land, but I could also see all the Australia that I carry with me, all the home that lives in my heart.
This morning I remembered what an incredibly lucky guy I am, and that is a really great way to start a day.
I sat, read the newspapers, sipped slowly at the tiny coffee, and completely immersed myself in matters of the world.
Financial crises, leadership challenges, stories of violence, stories of hope, cynicism beside optimism beside pessimism beside strange inquisition. The less liquid there was in my cup, the more I found my thoughts floating far from myself and to those people and issues that I truly care about.
After being completely involved in my own world for so long, it was a comforting relief to re-find some perspective beyond the borders of my life.
There is so much that I miss from home. People, problems, solutions, challenges, familiarity, family, friends... But the wonderful thing about this re-discovery was that I could also look back on my own self from without, and I could see exactly where I was.
I was walking along the Meadows, with Edinburgh Castle keeping watch over my left shoulder, a bag of bread and a carton of eggs under my right arm, and an old friend on the phone from Brisbane. I could see the distance between myself and my native land, but I could also see all the Australia that I carry with me, all the home that lives in my heart.
This morning I remembered what an incredibly lucky guy I am, and that is a really great way to start a day.
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