Battle Royale with Cheese

We're quite relieved that dear Alisdair does not constantly require us to buy him the 'New Hot Phone'. Every so often, however, he does demand that we sit with him to watch the 'New Hot Film' – albeit perhaps some months after its ‘hotness’ has cooled everywhere else.  He may be the coming generation, but when all is said and done, this is Airnefitchie, after all.

Last night, we watched a double-bill of Battle Royale and The Hunger Games.

Alaster had given us some warning of what we would be watching, and so I did a brief bit of research.  I found the book The Hunger Games in The Other One's laundry basket, so I gave it a quick read.  It's always nice to hear the exploits of a heroine who’s deadly with a bow and arrow; a girl after my own heart really.

What do you fancy for tea tonight?  Deer?  Rabbit?  Trespasser?

But having not heard about Battle Royale, I gave it a quick internet search.  Some of the reviews I read left me fairly panting with antici...

...pation..

Robert Koehler compares it to 'the outrage over youth violence' that Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange generated in early-'70s Britain.  Quentin Tarantino praised Battle Royale as the best film he had seen in the past two decades: 'If there's any movie that's been made since I've been making movies that I wish I had made, it's that one'.  Michael Mirasol praised Battle Royale for its 'thoughtful characterisation' that is 'lavished upon all the students' and concluded that it is an 'intensely violent fable aimed at a young audience, but with true feeling, intelligence, and respect'.  R.L. Shaffer of IGN gave the film a score of 8 out of 10, taking 'a moment to thank The Hunger Games for reminding us how awesome Battle Royale really is'.  And Maggie Lee of Reuters describes Battle Royale as the 'film that pioneered the concept of the teen death game'.

It must be quite a move, indeed!  It was shaping up to be the Japanese version of A Clockwork Orange meets Lord of the Flies and not to be missed (although if it had been made by Mr Tarantino, all bets would have been off).

The Guardian said it, so it must be true!

The Hunger Games, on the other hand, was mostly reviewed as being a rip-off of Battle Royale – despite Suzanne Collins, the HG author, citing inspiration from the juxtaposition of the Iraq War and reality television (I believe her) and maintaining that she 'had never heard of that book [Battle Royale] until her book was turned in'.

In any case, Henry popped some kernels, I made some hot toddies, and we all settled down with an Irish wolfhound each on our feet.  Alistair sat in a sleeping bag on the floor munching on venison jerky.

After five hours (we had to have an extensive loo break, and hunt for the missing popcorn down the back of the settee) I wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

For one thing, how is The Hunger Games a worse rip-off of Battle Royale, than Battle Royale was a bad rip-off of Lord of the Flies?  Eh?

Watching these sorts of movies always makes one wonder how one would personally react and murder the others; and in Battle Royale it would be far too easy, especially if you were one of the first pupils out of the room.  Finding a hidden spot and taking them out one-by-one as they left the building would have been a work of a moment, and with any luck at all you could have purloined all their weapons to boot.  You probably wouldn’t have enough ammo to deal with all 42 opponents, but at least you would have definitely taken out a fair bit of the competition before having to retreat and re-work your strategy.  That the adults would send everyone out sequentially through the same door seems virtually to invite this.

The Hunger Games solved this with the idea of their Horn of Plenty and setting all the 'contestants' off at once in a circular pattern.  If anything, rather than making threats against Collins, Battle Royale fans should be thanking her for devising a game that might actually be interesting to play or watch.

Also, I felt there were too many characters in Battle Royale.  There was some hasty character development, but it mainly felt like a bunch of screaming schoolchildren, and who wouldn’t want to cut them in in the middle of nowhere on a deserted island?

Again, The Hunger Games seemed to solve this – though I wonder how much someone might have understood this without reading the book.  The Hunger Games film seemed a bit rushed to get everything in at once, but at least included a nice amount of backstory for the main character.  Battle Royale seemed a bit muddled in comparison.  Maybe I dropped a bit of popcorn down my gilet at a crucial moment and didn't see something that would have explained everything for every person.  But when all was said and done, I didn't care who lived and who died; only that they were doing it all wrong and needlessly wasting ammunition.

Tragically, I now feel I need to read the book Battle Royale.  The movie hasn't exactly left me wanting more, and there is even a sequel out there somewhere, but it has left me wanting to understand just what the Dickens was going on.  What made the schoolchildren become such a danger to society?  What made society collapse in the first place?  It could have been covered by the titles at the beginning very easily, like in The Hunger Games.

I'm normally more critical of films based on books, especially if I've actually read the book, whether before or after the occasion of viewing the film.  The Hunger Games seemed a bit more successful in its adaptation.  Of course, not having read Battle Royale, my opinion of the film might change once I have, but as it stands it is very silly.

The Hunger Games just seems more plausible.

I do so enjoy our movie nights, but hope that next time Alistair will allow us to watch something starring George Sanders.

Ah, be still my beating heart…

Pain in the Arts

And so, some poor chap named Altunin has had to flee Russia, seeking asylum in France (correction: very poor chap), for painting a portrait of Russian President Putin and Prime Minister Medvedev in women's underwear combing each other's hair.

And rather confusingly shapely they are too!

Not something I think anyone would have wanted painted; but I'm not here to discuss what is 'art' and what is not, political or otherwise.  Though if an unmade bed and a pickled shark can be called 'art', then Alistair's bedroom is clearly an untapped font of creative energy.

Rather, the story took me back to when Henry and I got our first joint portrait done.

It was soon after we were married and settled down in Airnefitchie.  Our separate portraits wouldn't both fit above the fireplace, so we had to commission a joint one.  We hired a nice art student from Glen Goil Polytechnic called Leonardo Acropolis and had him to afternoon tea to discuss specifics.  Henry thought the lad’s Royal Stewart tartan tights were ‘going it a bit’, especially paired with ammunition boots; but I thought they were charming, if leaving very little to the imagination (the tights not the boots). 

Mr 'No-I-Will-Not-Call-You-Leo' Acropolis had an endless list of questions.  We had a number of ‘totally bad-ass hangouts’ around the castle, but at that time of year (mid-Autumn) would the light be sufficient for an outdoor painting?  Did we want a grand background or a simple one?  Would our new puppies, Patches and Fang feature at our feet? I had rather hoped he'd have the inspiration, not that we would give it to him.

Then came the trickiest question of all: traditional or modern?

Well, naturally we are very traditional people, but we too can be modern.  We just choose not to be.  Should we show the future this?  Show them that we will adapt the thickness of our tweed to suit the climate of the time?  Didn’t great-uncle Lopso marry a Rhodesian flapper/suffragette/aviatrix?

We told Mr Acropolis that we would like a traditional setting, but he could add a modern flair if he so wished and was fairly sure he could make it work.  His voice confidently said yes, but his eyes did flicker nervously for a moment.  He then finished the last scone without asking anyone else if they wanted it and disappeared to start gathering the materials he would need.

In the meantime, Henry and I discussed locations.  Vegetable garden?  No, too earthy.  We weren't farmers or anything, just hobbyists.  Summer house?  Too cold.  Orchard?  Possibly, but what if it rained?  And you couldn't keep Patches and Fang still long enough to pose when outside.  What about modern?  How can we show that we're not really stuck in the Dark Ages?  How about in the bathroom?  Absolutely not!  Kitchen?  Possibility.  The dogs already loved lying in front of the warm Aga, so it would be easy to keep them in the frame.

We walked around the house for an entire day, discussing which tapestry might look good behind us, or which antique grandfather clock would be too 'showy'.

Most of them were, unfortunately.  I blame William and Mary.

We finally decided on an old classic.  In front of the fireplace in the great hall.  Traditional, yes, but we would stand either side of it, each with a dog.  I'd be in my best plus fours and we would both be smoking our pipes.  Equality, rather than truly traditional.  Not to mention the ‘op art’ touch of then hanging the portrait over the fire that features in it.  Surely that would be mind-boggling enough?  A fireplace within a fireplace?  Especially if we're able to get Mr Acropolis to paint the portrait over the fireplace in the portrait.  Then it would be a fireplace, within a fireplace, within a fireplace…

Mr Acroplis came back, in another equally fetching outfit covered with spikes and studs – not entirely unlike the Duke of Burgundy’s 14th-century get-up in the National Army Museum in Paris – with every oil paint, a very retro palette board and some canvas.  He liked our idea about the pose and we set up the shot, or whatever it is painters call it.  We gave Patches and Fang some baby-sized steaks, so that they could munch away oblivious to being made to sit still for so long.  Mr Acroplis started by taking a few photos on a Polaroid camera and then sat down at his canvas, pencil in hand, ready to sketch.

Well, then Henry needed the loo.

Much thumb twiddling later, we were back and ready.

Then Patches finished his steak and started chewing on my plus fours.  Luckily, they're very sturdy, I still wear them today (although I have changed my clothing many times since then, of course), and there was no harm done; but we did have to find something else for him to chew on.

Fortunately, we always have pizzles lying around.

Third time lucky?

The door knocker knocked and I had to shoo off a company of Jehovah's Witnesses, really quite forcibly.  Nowadays they just stand around train station entrances holding out leaflets, but not actually ordering you to take one like in the old days.  Perhaps I forced one or two too many off my doorstep; at any rate, they've lost their spirit.  Smeaton used to beat them savagely with his hayfork.  Not the business end, mind you; Smeaton claims to be a strict Baptist and disapproves of missionary-murdering, however richly it may be deserved.

But I digress.

After five or six hours of attempting to get everyone to stand still for the portrait, Mr Acroplis suggested we take a break.  We heartily agreed and put the kettle on.  Ironically, perhaps, during the aforementioned break there was not one single disturbance.  Not one.  It wasn't until we were ready to try again that the postman turned up needing a signature on a new order of Argentinian polo boots.

Mr Acroplis gave up.  He took a few more photos of the little details and then left to finish the work at his studio or flat, or both.

Or hovel…

For a month we heard nothing.

Then, it turned up.  Just landed on our doorstep, so to speak, with an invoice taped to the brown paper wrapping.  Eagerly we took it into the Great Hall ready to put it up immediately.  We opened the brown paper…

Seems familiar

At least I didn't have to comb Henry's hair in my underwear.  That's an entirely different story.

Tenderiser Mercies

Juicing has come to Airnefitchie.  The Other One bought a juicer and set it up on the kitchen table, with the power cord blocking off the gangway between the fridge and the Aga.  Her way of telling us to stop eating food, one supposes.

Nonetheless, we have rather come to like it.  What with everything and anything that grows in Scotland being in season, our vegetable garden has been flourishing.  We've tried juicing everything from apples (pretty standard really) to beetroot (which is actually rather nice) to carrots (surprisingly sweet).

Although we did run out of glasses.

Eventually, however, we became rather annoyed with all the tutting and scowls that would emanate from The Other One if we then had a bacon roll for breakfast.  I'm all for making your own juices –  anything to spice up the home-made gin – but that does not mean I will live on only juice for weeks on end, even if you do bulk it up with ground 'chia' 'seeds' and a handful of porridge oats.

Therefore, Alasdeir and I had a rare bonding moment when we decided to invent a juice for Patches and Fang.  This would serve a double purpose: not only putting The Other One off using the blasted juicer (which is ridiculously difficult to clean), but ensuring that the floor-level constituency did not feel left out of the lunacy.

Could you deny this face?

Of course, trying to juice meat and leftover bones from the roast leaves you with pink goo, much like the stuff from which they make burgers at your local fast food restaurant, and a pitifully broken juicer with shards of bone stuck in the gubbins.  We decided instead to make a smoothie for our beloved companion animals.

Here's the recipe:

Ingredients

Marrow from one juicy leftover leg bone from roast Sunday lamb (keep the bone to one side).

If your husband hasn't gnawed all the bones and licked all the dishes clean, any leftovers of the lamb itself should also be added.

Leftover lamb gravy (homemade, preferably, but granules will do in a pinch).

6 tablespoons of plain, brown rice (cooked).

Method

Put all wet ingredients into a smoothie maker/juicer/food processor and whizz up to a paste; or, arm your son with a rubber mallet and subject it to his tender mercies.  Add more gravy, if needed, to achieve a ‘smoothie’ consistency.

To Serve

Pour into individual dog bowls and garnish with the leg bone cut in half.

Watch the light brighten in your dogs' eyes when dinner is served, but ignore the puppy-dog expressions when they want some more.  You get enough of that from your husband as it is.

No good looking at me like that.  I don't even know what 'haz cheezburger' means.

What We Did on Our Summer Holiday

We've been away for our summer holidays.  I use the term very broadly.  What we attempted to do was get Alistair out of the house by helping him start his Grand Tour.  We planned to do it in four weeks, with Henry and I showing him the ropes for the first two, and leaving him to it for the remaining fortnight, whilst we enjoyed having the house to ourselves.  The Other One has taken to staying in her room a great deal – she read something about ‘confinement’ in the Middle Ages – I mean, she read it in the present, about the Middle Ages – and felt it suited her surroundings and preferred activity levels. 

Unlike most people in the so-called First World, I am not connected to the ‘World Wide Net’ twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even if stuck in some Foreign Legion fort in the middle of an African desert.  Heaven forfend.  No.  Rather, I kept a more traditional diary, using a proper pen on proper paper.  I did, however, decide to embrace the Network's motto of 'Share, Share, Share!', so I have now transcribed the aforesaid diary to the computer and thought you might like to read it.

Sunday 28th July 2013

Had to briefly re-teach Henry how to drive.  It's been a while, but he insisted on being the carriage driver.  Left Airnfitchie with the Landie mostly full of high-visibility jackets and warning triangles for when driving through France.  Won't be letting those buggers book us on whatever traffic regulation they've come up with this week for foreign drivers.  Alastair seems a bit out of sorts; being made to leave that heap of laundry called a bedroom probably not sitting well with him.

Had to stop on the way at the Quine & Loon Kennels to drop off Patches and Fang.  Not leaving them behind with The Other One.  She'd probably try to feed them wheatgrass smoothies, and we would return to find nothing left of her but a long, dry arm bone.

Hadn't reached England when H. decided to swear at SatNav for taking us near Manchester.  He thinks it smells peculiar; and frankly, back in ’83, it really, really did.  Scenic route down A1 instead.  Got to Folkestone in just 14 hours.

Reached France half an hour after that.  Went into nearest Tesco at A.'s insistence.  You would have thought that he would upgrade from the dreaded Stella Artois as the plonk is so very much cheaper and cheerfuller over here.  Alas, no!  Hopefully we can persuade him otherwise whilst we tour.

This being a time of austerity, we are camping tonight at the Huttopia Versailles in one of their Canadian tents.  Ignored pleas from A. to use one of their wood cabins.  He has no idea about making economies.

Bottle of red plonk (not merlot) as we watch A. burn dinner on the barbecue, which is not, was never, and ought never to be spelled with the letter ‘q’.

Monday 29th July 2013

Paris day of the Grand Tour started off fine.  Having avoided the gleefully avaricious clutches of the boat-trip-up-the-Seine mob, H. and I splashed out on hiring a French-speaking guide to take the three of us around Paris.  I can just remember when Paris was seen as preparation for a young lad’s future a leadership role in government or diplomacy.  I could fancy A. as a fabulous ambassador to France, or some such.  However, his grasp of French was very limited.  He succeeded in chatting up some floozies during his fencing lesson; and some others, during his dancing lesson; and another one during his riding lesson.  Frankly, I think the appeal of French high society and courtly behaviour was lost on him.  H. and I were intently listening to our French guide during a small tour of the Tuileries before lunch when we noticed A. was missing.

We found him in the evening at the Moulin Rouge, enjoying the Belle Epoque menu, accompanied by all his lesson-fellows sharing a very large bottle of Champagne.  H. was kind enough to let him finish his croquant feuilleté au caramel before dragging him out by his ear.

At least the female population will always find dear A. diplomatic.  Unfortunately, the FCO probably won't.

Tuesday 30th July 2013

On to Geneva.  To make it easy on H., we took the A5 all the way there.  Alisdair sulked in the back seat under a blanket.  I heard only a few snores and his iWhatsit blaring something from the headphones.

Arrived at Geneva with a grumpy H.  It's not his ideal stop, since Geneva was Calvinist, and therefore the birthplace of the Church of Scotland.  Not his thing at all, but we're here for the cultural education of A., so we toughened up our sense of predestination and went exploring.

As we searched for a famous church historian of H.’s acquaintance, we heard a terrible sound and realised that A. was yodelling, or rather attempting to yodel, at two well-busted young women.  Worse, they were yodelling back.  We beat a hasty retreat to a wristwatch emporium roughly the size of Kincardineshire, but then there occurred something rather unseemly involving an Omega ‘Plongeur Professional’, the capacious pockets of A.’s surfboarding shorts, and a very, very unamused Swiss man dressed approximately like Erwin Rommel, but shinier.

Wednesday 31st July 2013

Left A. to stew in gaol overnight as we prepared for the next leg of our journey.  Although H. and I did visit the Conservatoire et Jardin botaniques (where it was hard to tell where the conservatory ended and the gardens began) and Musée d'Art et d'Histoire (a very impressive building indeed).  I also suggested the Museum of Voltaire, but then H. growled something about his ancestor who was shot to pieces at the Battle of Brandywine, followed by a string of very, very rude words, interspersed with the names Locke, Shaftesbury, Paine, Cromwell, Washington, Jefferson, and ‘that horrible little man from the television’..  Dashed if I know what it was all about.

We only managed to find a yak when it was time to turn in for the night.  Will avoid all cultural hotspots tomorrow and seriously get ready to endure the difficult crossing over the Alp – or perhaps more than one – as we proceed into northern Italy.  Wondering if we might have to dismantle the Landie.  Will probably need a bigger yak.

Thursday 1st August 2013

Well, would you believe it?  The Great St Bernard Pass is now a road, that you can drive on!  Took the yak back, but unfortunately didn't get a refund on the deposit. H. went to bail A. out whilst I packed provisions for the journey.

Since it was August, we decided to take the historic road winding over the pass itself.  The Landie would find it a summer holiday after winter in Airnefitchie.  Still, I took all the necessary winter survival precautions, and we just about had room for A. and H. in the car alongside the tents, brandy, mittens, a St Bernard dog and half a hundredweight of salted beef.

Camera in hand and sulky son in the back, I drove this leg of the journey…and with gusto.  Whilst still in Switzerland we got a puncture.  Silly me!  I rummaged around the provisions for the jack.  A. asked me what I was looking for, and when I described it to him, he said he had moved it off his seat when getting in the car back in Geneva.  No, he didn't know where he’d put it.  Yes, it was likely to be ‘just, like, on the pavement.’  No improvised jack could be made: the rocks lying about were too unstable.  Fortunately, H. remembered a group of monks living somewhere this side of the border, so we sent out the dog to request their help.  Sure enough, half an hour later, the dog came back with a rescue party.  They didn't look happy.  Apparently the beast had fornicated its way around the rest of the St Bernards holidaying in the Alps for the summer.  A. seemed proud, and a rapport between him and dog developed more or less instantly.  Rescue party helped us get the Landie over to the hospice kept by the monks.

We had a quick tour of the place whilst we were waiting for the wheel to be changed.  Apparently the Great St Bernard Hospice, founded in 1049, straddles the highest point of the road.  Most of the traffic is re-routed around the outside of the place on the modern road.  The two buildings are from 1560 and 1898…oh hang on…where's A.?

A. and the dog were found chatting up a group of blonde, buxom gap-year backpackers.  Again, we dragged him away by his ear, though the other ear, to avoid any permanent damage.  With the wheel mended, we made a hasty getaway on the modern highway through the pass.  Since A. was clearly a bad influence on the dog, we left it at the hospice, where the dogs have been used since, at least, 1690.  A., sulking again, missed most of the gorgeous views.  We were soon in Turin.

To keep A. firmly within our sights, we have found a dodgy-looking campsite and settled in for the evening.

Friday 2nd August 2013

Knowing we'd be in Italy for a fair bit of our Grand Tour, we hired a local guide who could help us with our rusty Italian skills, and to find our way around the city (big museum and gallery day tomorrow).

As regards A., our day was rather uneventful.  He stayed with us and hung off every word our guide spoke.  Yes, our guide was a woman.  Yes, she was of student age, doing a bit of tour work over the summer break from university to earn a few extra euros.  And yes, she seemed somehow susceptible to A's brutish charm.

We started in Piazza Castello, as the square in which some of the main central streets converge.  There are some staggering buildings: Palazzo Reale, the Palazzo Madama and the Biblioteca Reale.  The skyscraper Torre Littoria, which was supposed to be the Fascist party headquarters, and is quite different from the prevailing Savoyard Baroque style.

There was a very tasty lunch, during which H. and I were left to amuse ourselves whilst our tour guide and A. whispered sweet nothings to each other.  A.'s grasp of Italian came shockingly quickly.

At the end of the afternoon, H. and I looked up from our guidebooks to see A. wandering off into the distance with our guide in the general distance of the incipient ‘night life’.

This made hotel selection a bit easier. We swung up to the Grand Sitea back in Piazza Castello and booked into a rather spiffy double room, with breakfast thrown in naturally.

We are now parked in the hotel bar awaiting a pair of veal burgers and sampling the selection of gin and whiskies, just to ensure everything is fresh.

Saturday 3rd August 2013

When we awoke, we put on the TV for a bit of local news and to our shock found A.'s mug, or technically a ‘mug shot’, plastered all over the headlines.

The daft boy had been accused of stealing the Shroud of Turin.

We calmly had breakfast and then proceeded to the nearest police station.  It took quite a bit of delicate negotiation; A. had apparently hoped to use the Shroud as a toga in one of the nightclubs –and, I suppose, that seven million religious pilgrims wouldn't notice that Christ now had two arse prints. But we managed to dislodge A. from the holding cells by dint of a fat bribe and the promise that we would leave Turin immediately and never return.  I was secretly rather impressed that A. was able to get as close to the damned thing as he did: real Dangerman stuff. 

After H. attaining some very questionable speeds on the A12, we passed Florence in record time, and reached the Chianti region.  To keep a low profile after A.'s derring-do, H. and I booked into a hostel (twin garden room with private bathroom).  I think the hostel owners were rather shocked to see all the tweed, but they soon got used to us.

We have made A. sleep in the Landie as punishment, and more to the point, to keep him away from the local female hostel clientele.  Why go hoarse shouting ‘Lock up your daughters!’ when you can simply lock up your sons, as Mother used to say.  Don't worry, we left a window open a smidge.

Sunday 4th August 2013

Florence was a lengthy stop on the original Grand Tour.  There was a considerable Anglo-Italian society accessible to travelling Englishmen 'of quality', and it brought together a large collection of art and sculpture which would inspire picture galleries and art collections back on the farm.

Obviously, we weren't able to spend months visiting Florence and neighbouring cities, so we will settle for a day trip to Pisa.

This time we hired a tour guide who was H.'s age.  A. was moody most of the day.  Even when faced with the façade of the Santa Maria del Fiore, he just guzzled from a bottle of Peroni he seemed to have prestidigitated.

In Piazza della Signoria, we took photos of the Fountain of Neptune – a complete masterpiece of marble sculpture at the end of a still-functioning Roman aqueduct.  But it was no good.  By now, A. had had quite a few Peroni (God knows where he was getting them) and tried to urinate into the fountain.  Our tour guide actually preceded H. in giving our son a clip around the ear.  Quite a good chap.

A. cheered up slightly when he encountered a rather pretty Italian shop-girl on the Ponte Vecchio: a sort of replica of Old London Bridge, which I was hardly expecting to see in the middle of Italy.  If we have to drag him away by the ear too many more times, there will not be much ear left. Not even the Uffizi would cheer him up.

Eventually, the tour guide gave A. a handful of euros and told him to bugger off in the most beautiful Florentine.

We are anticipating a very hearty dinner sharing a bistecca alla fiorentina, washed down with plenty of red wine. 

Monday 5th August 2013

I used an internet café to print off the Wikipedia page for Pisa and bought a map of the place from a tourist information bureau.  H. and I spent our morning Earl Grey just marking off all the sites of interest on the map.  Somehow, A. had found out where we were and joined us just in time for the bacon to turn up.  He looked very green around the gills. Surprisingly there were no mobs of paesani pursuing him with forconi and torce, but we'll be looking out for tear-stained letters from an Italian shop-girl (RE: love child) for years to come.

Even though it only took an hour to get to Pisa from Florence, we left as early as we could, as the drive from Pisa to Venice would take four to five hours, and we (read: H. and I) wanted to see more in Pisa than its well-known leaning tower.

Just as well, the crowds were immense at the Piazza del Duomo, so we went into the Museo Nazionale degli Strumenti per il Calcolo soon after taking the obligatory photos of A. holding up the leaning tower, which he instantly shared on Oafbook.  After a quick look around the scientific instruments, we took in some of the architecture, including the small church of St Sixtus, one of the best preserved early Romanesque buildings in Pisa. We even had time to visit the oldest university botanical garden,the Orto botanico.

Luckily, A.’s hangover lasted most of the day, allowing me to imagine (howbeit briefly) that we were making some progress on A.'s cultural education.  Maybe he could still be an ambassador, but to Italy instead?  I then remembered his brush in with the law in regards to the Shroud and quickly shook the idea from mind.

Tuesday 6th August 2013

Venice is our stop for music and interior design.  Why it is 'twinned' with Wolverhampton of all places, H. and I simply have not been able to figure out.  Marked by a characteristic style of composition and the development of the Venetian polychoral style, Venice become of the one most important musical centres during the 16th century.  It was home to Vivaldi, Ciera, Picchi and Dalla Casa during the baroque period, after all – not to mention Petrucci who began publishing music almost as soon as the technology to do so existed.

We succeeded in dragging A. into a glass workshop (not by an ear this time).  He was impressed for a minute or two, which H. and I thought was the start of something cultural for him, but alas!  It was not to be.

We had hoped that the city would calm A. down, but unfortunately, we lost him after he was asked by some pretty young things if he could drive their gondola, a plush one with velvet seats and a Persian rug; they claimed to have no sense of direction.  A. immediately said he could and swam straight to them (in the circumstances I hesitate to call it a ‘bee line’), muttering something about learning on the job. 

We are getting used to this, and have chosen to spend our A.-free time to indulge ourselves at the Terrazza Danieli and are watching all the lights come on as night falls.

Wednesday 7th August 2013

Remarkably, A. managed to find us having a leisurely breakfast with our tour guide by the waterfront, and as always was just in time for the bacon.  He seemed awfully pleased with himself.  We reached Rome in about seven hours.  A. was awfully giddy and kept taking photos of the coast as we drove south.  At that point, we didn't know which A. we preferred, this being the most animated we've ever seen him since we took him to Blair Drummond Safari Park when he was five.

I was rather looking forward to seeing the sights of Rome.  I hadn't been there in so long.  The aqueducts, the fountains, the churches and palaces, oh and the Roman ruins!  Surely A. couldn't help but absorb some culture in this metropolis!  The Colosseum alone ought to do it.  Failing that, the Stadio Olimpico would work for the more modern-minded, surely?

However, due to the radial street pattern, we spent about an hour on each circular road before we were able to penetrate the horde of people on mopeds to reach the next circular road.  This continued for a good while until we somehow got stuck circling the Colosseum for two hours looking for a way out.

This was not fun, especially in the really quite hot Italian summer heat and we were all losing our patience.  In the end, we made A. hang onto the front of the Landie and shout broad Scots at everyone until they moved and we were able to plough our way (quite illegally no doubt) back out of the city and on to the road to Pompeii.

I shall not be going back to Rome next year.

Thursday 8th August 2013

It was dark as we approached Pompeii, so we stopped close by and slept in the car.  Imagine our surprise when we awoke to see Mount Vesuvius staring down at us.

Something appealed to A.'s sense of stupidity, as he insisted on going up to the top to see the crater.  Now, I know the last time it erupted was back in 1944, but it is still under constant supervision.  Would we make it up and then down again before it exploded?  A. spotted a road quite handily going up the mountain and he was sure the Landie could handle it, especially if Italian bus tours could.  If the volcano did erupt, the Landie would be heading back down, leaving all the bus tours in the ash, before the first hint of lava.  We'd probably be clear of Naples and halfway to Palermo  – on bright yellow glass-fibre pedal-boats if need be.

Volcanism is such an excellent motivator, don’t you find?

Luckily, we were the first ones to arrive at the designated car park.  We bought a few snacks for breakfast and headed the rest of the way on foot.

It was a very impressive sight, especially as it wasn't yet crawling with other tourists.  It also made me very glad we didn't live in any heavily populated volcano plains back home.  Even if the 'Snow-pocalyse' happened, our lovely Airnefitchie would still be standing.  And with our new Armageddon shelter in the cellar, we too would still be standing.

Pompeii seemed to appeal to some morbid humour in A.  Didn't really fancy it myself, though the views were nice.  Too much roped off for conservation purposes.  Almost felt we were trespassing.  Prefer my archaeology to be in the form of that rather nifty Civilisation computer game.  A. took a few photos of the more hilarious plaster moulds of the dead Pompeiians, especially the one of the dog appearing to lick itself mid-volcanic destruction.

Much limoncello later, H. and I have retired to the Landie for a doze.  A. carries on.

Friday 9th August 2013

The haze of limoncello having worn off, H. and I tried to source breakfast. Easy enough to find the retailers, but hard enough to find somewhere that wasn't already packed with residents and tourists.  I briefly considered trying to find Alister instead in full confidence that bacon would immediately appear.  But coffee and pastries were all we could get our paws on.

We were sitting on a park bench munching away when A. managed to stroll along and steal some from us. He then surprised us by saying he wanted to visit the National Archaeological Museum.  Baffled, but rather pleased that the Grand Tour was finally working, we proceeded there directly.  It was founded in the 1750s by Charles III of Spain, in a building originally built as a cavalry barracks: ah, memories.

I was quite excited, actually, as it was supposed to have a fine collection of engraved gems and marble, including marble Roman copies of Greek lost works, the only way to know what these works looked like.  Very cultural indeed.  I was rather pleased that A. was so interested.  However, I was not able to get rid of this niggling feeling at the back of my mind about the museum.  Something secret…

Unfortunately, I have been proved correct.  A. bypassed all the marble and headed straight for the Secret Cabinet, where the Bourbon Monarchy kept the really rude stuff, only accessible by people of 'mature age and known morals', of which A. is neither.  Sadly, you only need to be over 14 to see the exhibit nowadays and I couldn't very well stop A. and drag him over to the marbles.  Instead, I diverted H. before he went in and died of an apoplexy, and took him to the more classical statues of curvy ladies with lovely bottoms.  Disaster diverted.

Saturday 10th August 2013

This was the day we left A. to the rest of his Grand Tour.  H. and I would head back home to Airnefitchie whilst A. went around the German-speaking parts of Europe before coming home.

Very early in the morning, we gave him his travelling, lodging and food allowance, packed up the Landie and headed towards Calais.  We are in a service station not far from the shuttle terminal and about to turn in, in the Landie amongst the caravans and motorhomes (with adequate protection in case of theft from all the illegal immigrants).

Sunday 11th August 2013

We arrived back at Airnefitchie.  The Other One hadn't noticed we were gone, but was still annoyed we didn't buy her anything from all the boutiques in Paris and Italy.

Wednesday 14th August 2013

Alistair got home today.  He had run out of money in Naples approximately ninety minutes after we left him.  So he lived as a non-sexual gigolo for as long as he could, living off a very wealthy old heiress who liked his accent, before getting beaten up by the Italian mafia for stealing their business.  It's taken him this long to hitch rides back to Scotland: an experience he would rather not discuss.

‘Seller Protection’: où est-il allé?

My experience of eB** is very limited.  Henry is the one who normally 'eB**s', sometimes much to my displeasure.  It flabbergasts me that he can simply press a button and find people willing to publicise the fact that they have, and are willing to sell, such items as (to quote one of my favourite novels) ‘T.V.-character lunchboxes, rusty oil lanterns, Eastlake furniture, Esso-station green glassware, gold-tone Japanese watches, Toby jugs, trompe-l’oeil majolica lobsters... every imaginable style of pseudo-baroque 1960s brass lamp... bear-traps and alpenstocks and Chinese shipwreck pottery and an oil painting of King Charles II... lutes and flugelhorns and jade dildos... and a whole, real, stuffed mountain goat with testicles the size of a man’s fists’.

I have only used the eB** once: to sell a pre-owned modern ‘sport-utility vehicle’ we bought in a fit of desire for a snorkel on our beaten ’52 Landie.  I found this new thing far too big and complicated.  It could not be fixed with a simple kick to the wheel and a spanner up the exhaust.  It would need taking to a dealership, heaven forfend, for any repairs.  Luckily, though alas not soon enough to head off this costly mistake, I was able to source a snorkel (probably knocked together from leftover bathroom plumbing) from our local scrapper and attached it to the old Landie very adequately myself.  The new vehicle now being surplus to requirements, I listed it on eB**.

My mobile phone had never been as busy as that day.  What I didn't know before listing the car was that eB** could provide my mobile number for potential buyers to call or text me about the item.  The first man to ring was a very polite gentleman in Kent, who was looking for a Land Rover for his aged mother, so she could battle the flood-plains in style.  He offered more than the asking price and said he'd fly up the next day to pick it up.  Sold.  I removed the listing from eB**.  This didn't stop people constantly calling and emailing saying they'll offer twice what we asked, and in cash.  All very suspicious.  We met the man from Kent and business was concluded.  I removed my details from eB**, starting with the mobile number, and have never looked back.

The Other One, on the other hand, is a regular to eB**.

Lately, she's been surfing for maternity wear in which to clothe her trendy new bump.  One day I heard an excited screeching from the sitting room and I rushed in, with a bucket of hot water and a towel (some habits die hard) expecting the unexpected; but it was just The Other One jabbering about some vintage t-shirt for a rock band I had never heard of.  There wasn't even a hint of Braxton Hicks, let alone premature labour.  Quite disappointed, I put the bucket and towel back in the kitchen.

She bid straight away and ended up winning the item.  However, what she forgot to factor in was the actual paying for it.  She was a bit short on funds until pay-day, a few weeks away.  Somehow, she and the seller come to an agreement to wait for her pay-day.

A week after pay-day, she finally remembered to pay for the item.  When it didn't turn up the next day, she sulked and immediately complained – not even to the seller, but directly to eB** itself.  I had to remind her that some courier services don't know how to find the castle at first, and those that do are in such a state of disbelief that they often forget they're to deliver a parcel.  Had she enquired as to which courier it was?

We happened to be out in the garden picking strawberries when a delivery man turned up with an unrelated item.  He apparently had left a note two days earlier, but we now suspect Patches ate it, judging by the suspicious red cardboard traces round his muzzle.

Armed with this new information, The Other One eagerly took the Landie to the local delivery depot and picked up her t-shirt.  At home once more, however, she was dismayed to find it didn't fit over her bump.  Or rather that it stretched rather badly, making the god-awful graphic look even more god-awful, which I wouldn’t have thought possible.

She grabbed her laptop sulkily and immediately started a dispute – her reasoning being that an advertised size 8-10 should ‘totally’ fit her, as she is a size 10, O.K., or sometimes 12; or at least was, that size before the bump arrived.  I leave her to it – shaking my head at the silliness that seems to have rubbed off on her since she left Scotland for California all those years ago.

At any rate, Blame Nation (as I am now calling her) lodged a complaint with eB** about misrepresentation of the item.  This led to two weeks of further faffing about, including at one point her offer of accepting a partial refund if she were allowed to return the shirt after cutting out the main design, which could then be sewn onto a more appropriately sized t-shirt.

To my very great surprise, The Other One won the dispute and even had the initial shipping charges refunded to her; try that one on an ordinary department store.  Apparently, eB** are either idiots, or the Buyer is their god.  In any case, a damned pity for the seller if you ask me.  Where do they stand when the face of stupidity looms up against them over a simple case of buyer's remorse?  A couple of questions before purchase would have solved this before any money had to change hands.  Such questions as, 'Would this fit a pregnant size 10-12?'  It is, or ought to be, the virtual version of trying things on.  It might also help to measure yourself whilst you're at it, in case you're far fatter than you realise.  Or you could always resell it at a profit, like we did with the electronics-laden pseudo-Landie.

Just where, pray tell, has all the common sense gone?