No sich a bad day

Apologies for lengthy silence, dear reader (I suspect the singular is now apt.) I have been suffering from an excess of weather. After our cold and soggy wedding, Easter weekend was glorious, which gave practically every inhabitant of Flotta the chance to point out what a shame it was we hadn't got married a week later, but since then the weather has been appalling. It has been largely sunny but with a glacial wind that has driven me to near-insanity. (The title of this posting is the oft-repeated Orkney phrase that could possibly just tip me over the edge.) It soared to 12 degrees the other day and the tar on the slip road to the ferry started to melt. (I am not making this up.)The temperature, apart from a few pleasant days last week, has rarely gone into double figures.

Normally I would have a few entertaining pieces to relate from the world of work (seeing as venturing past the front door hasn't been an option during my days off for the past 8 weeks) but work has been a bit grim, well at one of my two schools anyway. For obvious reasons, I can't go into that, though it's certainly been a hot topic for discussion as my fellow itinerants and I have voyaged on the ferry. Just to make our joy complete, the school was inspected last week, which seemed a bit thick, seeing as there's only two weeks to go till the end of term.

Over on Stronsay, things are going well, at least. Last week we took them round Stromness (see photos) and this week we went to a talk by a real live astronaut. A kid asked the question I confess I was hoping someone would ask i.e. how do you go the toilet? It requires potty-training before going into space, plus careful positioning once in orbit apparently.

Photos: lambs; baby seals, Flotta; lonely teddy, Stromness; grass verge poppies, Orphir

Our Wedding

What none of you married women out there tell us about-to-be-married types is that the whole carefully-planned day will whizz past in a blur of plastered-on smiles and terror and, just as you're starting to relax and enjoy yourself, all the guests start to leave.

Why I got into such a state I can't imagine. I have been onstage enough times and have even appeared 'Live at the Hilton Hotel Colombo! For one night only! The worst singer-saxophonist in the world!' all without a care, but my wedding floored me. Bill did practically all the work; all I had to do was get my hair done and turn up; but somehow that fairytale elation never put in an appearance.

The weather was not kind - I could blame it on that. The hairdresser had managed to coax curls out of my straight-as-a-yard-of-pumpwater hair and it really looked nice. I'd spent the past year growing it for the occasion and the first thing she did was chop 6" off it, so that was rather pointless, but Bill was pleased to find his hair is now longer than mine. The Big Surprise he'd set up for me was that I was to ride to the church in a carriage drawn by two beautiful horses, Finn and Heidi. I'd picked the hotel for my night alone in Kirkwall because it had a courtyard-style carpark on the lee side of the building, away from the perpetual gale that sweeps the harbour front. What they failed to tell me was that they are turning their carpark into a building site, so I had to exit into the teeth of said gale. It began to rain at exactly the time the horses turned up. We trotted through Kirkwall in the rain. The photographer ensured that neither the curls nor my 'waterproof'' mascara would survive the trip by spending 15minutes taking photos before we set off. It was raining so hard that not even the hardy souls normally out on the streets of Kirkwall were out to see my ceremonial entrance.

However, the service was lovely. St Olaf's was packed, which was very touching, and the service - a modern Scottish Episcopalian liturgy - was just perfect. There was a piper outside and my cousin David and I proceeded up the aisle to something unpronounceable by Handel. Lorraine, my friend from work, read my surprise for Bill, 'To my husband' by Anne Bradstreet, something that was very important to me (a) because it said everything I wanted to say to Bill (b) because I wanted Lorraine to be part of our special day, particularly as she'd organised her visit to her son, who's doing his Gap year at the Bah'ai centre in Israel, round the date for our wedding and (c) because that beautiful poem made me think of Viva, who couldn't be with us, but it was a link to New England. Jane (Ainsworth) did the other reading, from the Song of Solomon, and performed beautifully. (I hope to hear such clarity at her wedding next year!) David, our wonderful vicar, did the gospel reading, of course, and gave a lovely homily. Cath, my oldest friend, and Bill's brother Roddy witnessed our marriage and then it was off down the aisle to the strains of 'Highland Wedding' played by the piper.

By the time we got outside, it was not only raining harder, but also cold and windy. The photographer insisted on more photos, in all of which I have hair plastered across my face like a moustache. By the time we made it to the Town Hall, we were both soaked. Apparently the buffet was lovely: I never saw it, as once the call for food was given, the guests descended like a flock of vultures. But I'm glad that people had a chance to see Bill's culinary skill. He did all the food, assisted by his nephew and brother. We employed caterers to do the serving of the hot food and run the bar. The idea was to serve two sides of belly pork, marinated in dry cider. Tesco, who charged us an arm and a leg for stuff that, in retrospect, we should have bought from Lidl's, managed to supply cider vinegar instead, so that was ruined.

What else went wrong? I guess top of the list would have to be the music. The two bands BOTH failed to turn up. Luckily, we'd made several c.d.s of danceable music. The idea was that Bill and I did our comic turn (Bill can dance, I can't) to a song by Leanne Rymes (my original choice was 'At Last' by Etta James, but I thought it made me sound desperate) then 'Chantilly Lace' would lure folk of all ages out onto the dance floor to jitterbug the night away. As soon as we'd finished 'waltzing', the caterer, like a person from Porlock, called me away for something or other and, whatever it was, I couldn't escape, so could do nothing about the fact that what was playing was not our planned c.d. but some ghastly heavy metal thing that went on for what seemed like 20 minutes. The net result was that nobody over the age of 16 did any dancing, which is a pity, as they do love their dancing up here.

But it was great that so many people managed to come. I was bitterly disappointed that most of my pals from England couldn't make it, ditto people from overseas, but it was hardly surprising. The logistics of getting up here, not to mention the cost, make it more expensive than if we'd held the wedding in a foreign country. So, for all you people who would like to have come but couldn't, we'll be having a do down in London next year. And we're really grateful to everyone who did come, especially Rachel and co from Cornwall (the longest journey); my cousin David and his wife Cherie, from Hampshire; Ian, Sue and Simon from London; Cath and Adrian from Hastings and Jane and Rich from Warwickshire. You all spent a fortune on this jaunt and we do appreciate it. I can't leave out my fellow-blogger, Mr Trainee Pig Farmer and his wife, brilliant people we'd never met but who actually came all the way from Westray to join in the celebrations. (Check out his The Edge of Nowhere blog: much funnier, not to mention more frequent, than mine.)

The logistics of living on one island (with no Sunday ferry service) and packing up the debris of a wedding in time for the Town Hall's Monday booking are too horrible to go into. We were exhausted and it was not until about Wednesday that we started to open our prezzies. We liked that!! I'd happily go through the whole experience again just for the fun of Christmas-in-April.

(After about of week of trying, I've managed to upload some photos, taken by a couple of the guests, but haven't got them in a logical order. You've been to weddings! Work it out for yourself! The 'official' pix are just good old-fashioned snaps, so at present have no means of conveying them electronically.)

Stranded!

(I wrote this on 1st March but then weddingy stuff took over my life. However, in the interests of continuity - and because this is a personal diary as well as a way of keeping in touch with yo'all, my much-missed chums - I'm posting it anyway. Besides, it's the last thing I wrote (apart from such enlightening works of literature as "Where's your homework?") as a single woman.)

While I remain a happy bunny, February had several lows. A Virulent Virus has been doing the rounds of Orkney and so it was inevitable that, with the majority of the kids on Stronsay dying by inches, that I'd get it too. We picked the NEW CAR, I drove it to the ferry carpark and didn't see it again for the best part of a fortnight, as I was home ill.

The day I returned to work, I got stuck on Stronsay - no planes owing to fog. I had always feared I'd get stuck on that bleak, godforsaken island, though the school had always assured me that, should such a thing occur, I'd be well taken care of. Ha! If it hadn't been for the kindness of Julie, the taxi driver, I'd have frozen to death. There was nowhere to stay: the hotel and the B&B were both full (of workmen, not masochistic holidaymakers.) Julie persuaded a lady to put me up for the night so, after a meal in the dismal hotel, I had a warm bed. I got to work the next day by early afternoon, wearing the clothes I'd slept in and having been in transit for five and a half hours.

The following Monday, lo! the same thing happened again. It was foggy at the airport in the morning, so why on earth they flew everyone out to the isles in the first place I can't imagine. This time I stayed with the new Headteacher, a lady whose idea of comfort is clearly different from mine. She'd moved into the schoolhouse a few days previously and was living out of boxes. The vast old house, situated nearly on the beach, was cold and damp and smelt strongly of a previous owner who was clearly a heavy smoker. I woke at 3am with an asthma attack and never got back to sleep. This time I came back on the 7am ferry, so I didn't even get any breakfast and again went straight to work. The Head on Hoy was effusive in her gratitude for my dedication and commitment, she lied. Actually, she was eager to tell me what a marvellous job she'd made of teaching the classes I'd been forced to miss. (I beg to differ.) The next day, my line manager at the Council was on Stronsay and I took up the issue of the amount of time I'd wasted. His response was 'you knew what you were taking on when you accepted the job.' My response has been to start looking for another job.

But there's been high points too: Bill and I drove (in the NEW CAR, henceforth known as Persephone) down to Dundee and got most of the rest of the stuff for the wedding. We stayed in a nice little hotel with its own Italian restaurant in the basement, and had really fantastic food for two days. We were very lucky with the weather, as Northern Scotland was covered in snow the previous week, but it had all gone, except for the mountain tops of the Cairngorms, so we had the beauty without the driving problems. The journey through the dawn as we belted up to Scrabster for the midday ferry was so beautiful - I've travelled a lot, but this was among the best mornings I've ever seen. Sadly, no photos of the clear pale turquoise sky with a few lines of smudgy white cloud as if drawn by a minimalist artist, as we were in danger of missing the ferry and arrived with only 9 minutes to spare. In fact, as soon as we arrived, they loaded the boat and left early, as the weather was expected to worsen...

(That's as far as I got. I came very close to applying for a new job, but with the wedding on the way, it all seemed too much. Have spent SIX HOURS of today trying to upload some wedding photos, hence still no Nuptial blog, but in the meantime, here's a few shots of my journey home on Valentine's Day plus our new pals on Flotta and their wee cousin on Hoy.)

Poop poop!

This post is solely for the purpose of showing off. No more Mole! Now I am MRS TOAD!! We have a new car. Yes, new, as in 8 delivery miles on the clock. It's metallic blue. It has gizmos hitherto unknown to (this wo)man. And it's a CONVERTIBLE!!!

(Oh yes, and we had a lovely dawn the other day.)

Here comes the sun

I finally feel moved to put fingers to keyboard to celebrate the fact that today I drove to work with dipped headlights because...drumroll...it was almost light as I drove to the airport. My two-month vestigial hibernation is over - expect blogposts with more regularity from now on as I emerge, blinking, into the daylight. My two classrooms both have very poor natural light, and, as previously moaned about, I do 12-hour days, so for the past two months I have seen little daylight. Years ago, I played Mole in Toad of Toad Hall - I see it now as a rehearsal for life here. (But more of this in the next post, she added mysteriously.)

Last October, I was packed off on the first part of a training course that has enabled me to teach with considerably less effort than hitherto. Basically, I wind 'em up and let them go. It's brilliant. If anyone gives you the chance to do 'Critical Skills' training, take it. As a result, I now do even less work than I did before (hard to imagine, I know...) I have, however, written another play. Rehearsing this with the kids on Hoy is a strain but it is slowly coming together. Meanwhile, Stronsay is currently without a Head: there was a perfectly good Acting Head, but the council in their ineffable wisdom, decided to get rid of her and replace her with someone who couldn't start for several weeks. To steal a line from a pal who was working in a dysfunctional school, 'I just get my head down and pretend I'm self-employed.'

I will draw a veil over Christmas - Bill and I enjoyed each other's company but his brilliant idea of inviting his sister to spend Christmas with us was a disaster. I haven't actually spoken to her since. We did, however, manage to see The Nutcracker at the Colisseum, which was the highlight of our trip. If you live in London and have been wondering why we failed to so much as phone you, it was due to circumstances beyond my control.

Both Hogmanay and Burns Night were blighted by The Bug that has afflicted practically every inhabitant of Flotta. Dedicated readers may recall last January's Burns Night as one of the social events of my year: this year even young Graeme wasn't well enough to turn up. I repeated my error of last year and had three helpings of haggis, but there was no question of dancing anyway, as about 5 minutes after they cleared away the tables Bill announced that we needed to leave NOW and thus managed to make it home just in time before he was violently sick. It was nothing to do with the food: not only was I fine, but I also had haggis for school lunch that same day as well as for Sunday dinner. That's it for this year - haggissed out.

Thanks to those of you who posted comments - cheered me up no end. Pictorial offerings this time are of the oil terminal, the little settlement where we live and my Christmas present to myself. Those of you who admired 'The Snow Queen' as a child will understand how pleased I am to finally own a coat like the little Robber Girl. A lifetime's ambition realised! Excuse the apparent vanity of sticking two pics of myself on the blog, but as I couldn't see any of you over Christmas, I wanted to share my joy with you.

A nocturnall upon St Lucie's Day (well, more or less)

Lots of excitement chez nous. The roof is finished. We have a beautiful new front door, one that closes without slamming and, better still, lets in light. And we have a floor-to-ceiling window with a glazed back door filling the south-facing livingroom wall, giving us a superb view of the island and the Scottish coast away in the distance. The house is - finally - warm. They have also replaced the manky strand of wire that marked the garden boundaries with a proper wooden fence that makes the garden look like the little house on the prairie and hopefully will enable us to grow something next year. (Whatever thrives on the Siberian tundra.)

My first civic appointment this past week! I was asked to coach the little girls who were St Lucy and her attendants as part of the tree-lighting ceremony, a major production number with visitors from the Norwegian town that donates the Kirkwall tree, numerous musicians, a choir of tinies and assorted civic dignitories. All went well. St Lucy looked suitably angelic and spoke up as instructed, the fainter failed to pass out (my main concern) and the rain held off till after it was all over. Bill and I decided to stay the night in Kirkwall so we could go to church the next morning, me because I wanted to and Bill because he wanted to liaise with the vicar re: the wedding, but even he was impressed by the sight of The Bishop in full fig standing outside the church to greet the congregation. He looked most impressive and gave a good sermon, although Bishop Bob is a less than dignified name, I feel.

The problem with staying overnight, apart from the vast expense (we could have had a weekend in Paris for less) is that you can't get home till Sunday night, but the weather wasn't too grim, so after a nostalgic tour of Woolies, we drove to Skara Brae, where Historic Scotland was holding a free drink+end of season sale in the visitor centre and we were able to tour the oldest settlement in Europe on our own.

Only a few more days to go till we break up - can't come soon enough. I'm shattered. Christmas in Londinium - hooray! If I don't get back to the computer before then, hope you all (although I fear my readership is now down to 2) have a great Christmas. Finally, Lorraine's joke:

Did you hear about the dyslexic devil-worshipper? He sold his soul to Santa.

Puff C. v. OIC

Above: seals in Flotta harbour

A quiet month. Settling down in domestic bliss on Flotta is wonderful from a personal point of view, but lacks the drama and conflict necessary for literature, even at this bottom-of-the-pond level. However, turning Bill's bachelor tip into a 'cosy wee home' - with the emphasis on the 'wee': it's minute -has been a joy for both of us. We now have a lovely new livingroom carpet, a freshly painted kitchen,bathroom and livingroom and new flooring in the hall, porch and bathroom. That's our own work and expense. But it's a council house and the council, in its wisdom, has decided that all their houses on Flotta need renovating. I'd have done this during a period when the days were longer and the weather less inclement. But the Council clearly thought that November was just dandy for re-roofing, so the house has been covered in scaffolding for the past fortnight and occasionally the weather permits the workmen to hang a few more tiles before they have to retreat to their hut or else are blown into the sea by another storm. We are also to get a new front door - the present flimsy plywood effort blows open in the night when the weather is really bad - as well as a French door into the garden. This will not only enable us to see the glorious view when we are sitting down instead of the present sheet of plywood (maybe someone on the council had shares in the company) but will also mean that, in the event of fire, we would have a chance to escape. These one-door houses would be illegal in England. Just thought I'd add that patriotic health-and-safety point.

My new working arrangements are not ideal. My timetable on Hoy has been changed so I can no longer take advantage of leaving early on Tuesdays. I leave the house at 6.40am and catch the launch provided by Talisman for their oil terminal workers to the mainland. Mondays and Wednesdays I then drive to the airport for my day on Stronsay. The plane gets back about 3.30pm, so I then have to fill in a couple of hours before driving back to to catch the launch at 6.15, arriving home at 6.40. If the flight's been particularly awful, I fall asleep somewhere. The Hoy trip is less tedious, but more frustrating, because I can actually see Flotta but can't get there until - you guessed it - 6.40. 12-hour days consisting largely of travelling and hanging around are taking it out of me. Still, beats working in Dartford hands down.

The journey to work last Wednesday week was awful. The sea was so rough that I was actually thrown out of my seat on the launch. I couldn't believe the plane was going to go, but, sadly, it did. We flew higher than usual, presumably to allow room for the sudden vertical drops we kept experiencing. Apparently it got worse after I got off at Stronsay. At the next stop, Eday, the plane dropped like a stone and bounced off the tarmac. (Maybe he should have done what he did on Stronsay and landed in a field.) The wind was worse coming back and we were all a little green as we staggered off the plane.

I don't know if there's a pattern to this, but the plane flight this last Wednesday was just as frightening. I sat at the back and I confess I took a slightly sadistic pleasure in watching my new colleague's head bashing against the roof of the plane, as he had been somewhar smug about the ease of the job and how very simple being an itinerant was compared with whatever it was he did before embarking on a teaching career.

I only got as far as the mainland last Friday. Radio Orkney announced that the only school closing would be the one on Hoy, so I got back on the launch and straight back to bed. Bliss! It snowed in the night and Saturday we had sort of blizzardettes. I've put a couple of photos up - it reminds me of a trip I made once to northern Norway. Yes, dear reader: I have actually chosen to live here. I remember thinking, as the train whizzed through various isolated settlements on that Arctic trip, 'how could anyone live here?' Well, now I know.