Hello again.

All's well in Lisbon, I am thinking of home though and especially all of the people who I haven't spoken to, (did you find me a Che Guevara?)

Today I heard fresh rain outside my window for the first time in weeks and it made me crave Great Western Road. So I'm going to eat chocolate cake and shut my eyes - I will see grey clouds and I will smell sausage suppers.

But it is beatiful here, I am taking mental photos that I will show you when I get home over a pint in Ishkies.

I have been up to these things recently...

FMM Sines
Festival Sudoeste

I hope to post more, if not, see you when I get backx

Dearest,

I have thought of forty-two different ways to deliver bad writing. Firstly, but not obviously lastly, through pigeons. It's problems are compounded in part in parks. Secondly, one word could spell the end. Thirdly, watching DVDs. Fourthly, typing out all your pointlessness in a cocoon. Fifthly, chopsticks are two-fold origasmi. Sixly, we regret to say, "crumble!" but "crumble!". Seventhly, and probably heavenly, create three hibernating weavels from knitted noodles soaked in cardboard lobsters' claws. Eighthly, invoice bulky baggage by beggar blinking.

So, ninethly, but not before bedtime, I usually ask folk whose eyes crossstitch, PLEASE would someone STOP.
Tenthly, will I ever teach the bastards that manners are not more expensive than trout? I flee.
...
Forty-twothly, one good method is to wish upon your wrinkliest grandma for thirty-one others.

Thankyou for your tenacity. Wally.

Lots more love than you need or deserve,

Gilly. and bean. and my cringeworthy companion roy.

I feel so bad for the man with the storm cloud above his head.

I met him on Sunday night. He was standing opposite me with rain trickling down his long, black coat. Fresh, bubbly rain. He looked at me and said "looks like rain again..." And I turned away from the TV for a moment and agreed, perfectly dry.

I don't know what he did in the past or the future to deserve the unpleasant lingering of a particularly busy rain cloud. It must have been pretty bad though so I'm going to try harder to watch my Ps and Qs from now on. I get sick of the grey days as it is but at least I know that it's dull everywhere, for everyone and that there's a chance that it will be a juggling-in-the-park day tomorrow

But for storm cloud Carl, it's grey everyday.

The wind wants my new hat. I won't give it up because I like it.

It might be nice to be swept away with the wind. I'd like to be picked up and flown somewhere. Or nowhere in particular. I could just keep flying, gliding on the gusts. I could split into a million little dots and be lifted here and there and into peoples eyes, up their noses and into their ears. I could sit in their bags for a little bit until I'm free and I'm away ZoooooooooooM. I could fly over their heads and grab their hats as they walk to the shops "dammit-I LIKed that hat!" And then I'm away again flying whoooooOOOSH. I would run up to the shoppers as fast as I could, throw my weight into my shoulder and try to scoop them up with me, so that I didn't have to be on my own, as tiny dots. I don't think I would get empty crisp packets or the sports pages or bin bags. I wouldn't touch lorries on bridges or ferries at sea.

Arrrrghh!! What is that pain in the soles of your feet when you just come in from walking about and sit down? Is it something to do with circulation? It is so bloody sore, maybe I need to go to casualty.

I wrote a post about the play that we just did but when I tried to publish it, the computer crashed, so I wrote it on a piece of paper and will publish it when I get a chance. It is basically thankyou for all the support. But I mangaed to dress that up as lamb, somehow.

Today, when I walked into uni there was more dry rice scattered for the pigeons, I saw a woman doing it the other day and desperately wanted to hang about to see if it was all just urban legend about the rice then expanding in their stomachs and them exploding but I had to go because I was late. And today there were no sodding pigeons anywhere, probably staying out of the rain like clever pigeons or blown away by the gales.

Oooh. Or maybe they all exploded the other day.

Oooh.

It is autumn and as quick as my new leaf was turned, it blew away. It was so windy this morning I just stayed in bed.

Autumn is unravelling with me still inside it, it's making me dizzy.

When I tell her she's glowing, it's radiance instead of radiation. It's not blushing or anything that might be painfully extracted from her embarrassment. It's those eyes and that big smile. I'm truly happy and maybe more excited for her than she is for herself. Because unlike her, all I see when I look at her is good and sweet. Those eyes and that big smile. She is glowing again.

It is happening more often now. I saw a survey which said that when a group of sixty year olds were asked what the happiest decade of their lives was they said their sixties. Behind that, their fifties and behind that, their forties, descending all the way to their twenties. Is it that in this one year we are that little bit closer to being sixty? I don't think so, uft, I hope not.

I'm happy to be back, happy to be with new people. Happy that my friends are happy. Happy watching them smile with each other, thinking of them smiling when I'm not around. I think that, rather than the fact that we are all one year closer to being sixty (!), we are just enjoying ourselves and each other even more. Myself, I like the possiblities that Glasgow brings. Saying that, university hasn't started yet, September is a beautiful month in Scotland and the winter still seems far off somewhere, dancing around the north pole. Not pole dancing, incidentally.

I can't wait to have you all back. I miss you terrible like. But I wonder again, when you get back, will your eyes be even bigger? Will your brains be exploding with new information and new details of foreign smells and sights? Will you have a tan? A mullet? A Norwegian prince? A slab of Yak butter? Stories? Photos? Diaries?

I can't wait.

I am looking forward to the summer and being brown and bare feet in the sand. Missing you, my "I'm so sorry I can't be there, you have all my thoughts." Seeing you again and all those colours to dance with. Travelling and staying put. Barcelona. Tarragona. Pamplona. (Bully's gonna get ya!) Spain rocks.

We are looking for a new house but before we find one, there is a man downstairs called Mr. Blair who has to get to know ours first... I don't think he's any relation so I'll put the eggs away for now.

For the duration, I am still and still thinking about you and still writing even though it doesn't all appear here.

In tribute to the birthday girl, I finish on a joke...
What did the inflatable teacher say to the inflatable boy when he brought a pin into the inflatable school?
You've let me down, you've let yourself down but worst of all you've let the whole school down...

I'll get my coat. See you in September.

Make, Do and Mend with all your favourite stars.

Celebrity "Guess Who?" rocks my world...

1. Take one game of "Guess Who?" - available in Prestwick airport apparently.
2. Play game until even the hilarious new rules bore you.
3. Of a boring Sunday afternoon, cut out pictures of your favourite celebrities, three of each celebrity (one for the blue board, one for the red board and one for the cards).
4. Cut two of each to size so that they will fit into the flip up cases that previously held "Guess Who?" favourites like Phillippe and Anne (the ultimate).
5. Insert famous faces into slots replacing former "Guess Who?" characters.
6. Take a deck of playing cards and stick the remaining celebrities onto the required number of cards (depending on whether you have travel "Guess Who?" or the full version, which is larger.)
7. Play.
8. Laugh.
9. Shout at people who think Joey from Friends would have a poodle or Avril Lavigne, while on holiday in France, would eat snails instead of a hamburger... no.

Pacheen.

Is a fire growing out of a jar that has just been de-lidded. The jar is melting and the fire is spreading with intesity and purpose. A friendly fire. I like to watch the shapes and colours changing, I like to feel the warmth the fire wraps me in.
I spilt on the fire and doused a bit, I didn't think.

Spilly gilly apologises.

Today it has gone sunny and warm again.

This morning I saw a man cycling to work in leather trousers.

That just can't have been fun.

The inbetween-us is heavy and rich with ingredients. I breathe it in deeply, pulling in the inbetween-us like the first half of a sigh; gradually but with the force I use when I want every little bit. I exhale and the inbetween-us gets richer, swirling and changing its face.
The inbetween-us spreads out into the dark sky, gets thinner and eventually disappears. A new inbetween-us is born thick, rich and sweet-smelling.
The inbetween-us curls and licks up, meanders its way to the crest of my forehead, glazes my eyes over and bear hugs my lungs. I let it out, contributing my small part to the inbetween us.
The inbetween us sits between us. It sags with each breath out. It's delicious and thick, simmering and stirring calmly.
Pieces are taken from the inbetween-us. I shape bits in my hands just before the inbetween-us is washed empty by the air around it and disappears completely. Even now (when was the last inbetween-us?!) those pieces spin around me. Like the planets they are infinite, eternal and full of stories.

Why don't babies lose their voices?

I have the answer "because of the kind of noise" from a first year nursing student at Teeside but that's not enough for me. If I made any kind of noise for hours on end I would surely be a little hoarse. (A little horse).

If anyone is interested in conducting a little experiment, build yourself a soundproof room and let me know the results.

In other news, why did nobody ever tell me that graphic design was reeeally HAARRRD?! I want to go back downstairs and read the paper all day. No, not really...
I have discovered though that while it might be enthusiastic and impressive to say that you are going to design a whole thing by yourself, in practice it is actually quite challenging. Who'd have thunk that graphic design with no training, no research, no REAL computer skills, not much artistic talent and (apparently) no imagination would be difficult?! Not I.

The words get inside me and trickle down to my heart after they've seen my brain. They drip slowly but with an inconsistent rythmn so that sometimes all I get is that melodic tap, tap, tap. The sound I love of raindrops and a steady wind against my window at night, ushering me off to sleep. Other times it is a downpour of the drops I want to catch and inflate, it's lightening and a thinderclap in perfect unison. These ones floor me for a secondwhile my heart regains a normal beat. These ones have a hundred other words written on them that everyone reads differently.
My bones are still soppy from that last film, that last book and now I have another soaking me through.

(Bounding back into the room she comes... A little out of breath, a little red faced, but smiling from ear to ear to see them all again. She takes giant steps and gives an enormous, wayyy over-emphasised wave. Finally she sits cross legged on a wheely, office chair and talks to the audience)

GILLY: I like the studio, it's going well. Today I have been taking photos of our ads around the place. New ones, down in the metro stop near my office. I have been speaking more Spanish than ever and this is a goooood thing, considering I need to. A lot.
Today was Sant Jordi so I had to fight to my desk in David Attenborough style, machety-ing through bright red roses left for me by admirers far and wide... ...
On St George's day the Catalans (is it just the Catalans?) celebrate a kind of far more classy and tasteful Valentine's day. He's their patron Saint, so the boys give the girls roses and the girls give the boys books. So this morning, all up and down every street there appeared stalls draped in Catalan flags and selling old and new books and roses wrapped in coloured paper and flags and just generally looking pretty. I haven't been down to the Ramblas yet but have been told it's totally packed.

(Without saying goodbye, she pulls her chair back to get momentum and kicks off, launching the wheely chair off into the distance...)

Talk to Studio boss about moving upstairs to the studio - check

Talk to Accounts boss about leaving to move upstairs - check

Casually drop it into conversation with Marta and revel in her reaction - check

Write and send email informing people not to write to my work address to much anymore - check

Finish all tasks asigned to me before I go - ummmm... check?

Tidy desk - check (eerie)

Leave trout in hidden place in office to stink up the place - hahahahaha

(And she floats out of the office, to return in ten days, but not to this little glass box and not to calculators, plastic files, ring binders, excel, powerpoint and brain melt.)

Should I be annoyed that I'm not on the list? No, I suppose not.
Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls - the most humble of humbles, the lowest of the low, the trainee account director. (goferus put-uponipus) The trainee never asks for the recognition she deserves for the work that she does, primarily because ninety per cent of the time she doesn't actually do any. But this time she did and now she feels unappreciated. Boo hiss.

"¿Recordáis este jingle de la fiesta de Navidad? Pues fue premonitorio. Hemos ganado el concurso de las “*”, dejando en la cuenta a * y a *. Enhorabuena al equipo: Alvar, Laura, Ana, Maite, Maria, Eva, Roger, Monica y Marta. (ahem... ahem... aHEM...)"

*Brand/company names have been excluded to protect my sorry ass.

It is raining and I can't wait to get out into it, for the rain to be on the back of my neck and the wind to be messing up my very messy hair. The sky is that white/grey that hides a million different colours and promises lightening later.

Amanda lifeboats is coming back today which is good but Daniel has found a flat already so now I don't have anybody to play Playstation with which is bad.

Seeing old friends and not needing to explain your absence from their lives is one of my favourite things. Tapas is another of those favourite things.

There are only 33 Spanish Words Which start with a "W". All of them are derived from other languages, the Worst of Which are " water polo, m. (sport.) - water polo", "wattaje, m. - wattage" and "whiski, m. - whiskey".

The whizzing water-worm weaves a wicked web of water-vapour waves westwards past walloping whales, waltzing over whispering white horses and whipping past wandering, wafting whitebait below. Widening like wildfire the water-vapour waves whelm all wildlife warping the well-known world into a woozy, whistling whirlpool full of wasted wishes.

The start of this post seems like so long ago in my mind. Words make me happy.

Incidentally, this makes me happy too.

Alright, I know I've mentioned the related search bar before, but this time it's serious. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, it's the ad that Blogger puts on your page so that you can have the webspace (I think). Anyway, you'll notice that it says "Related Searches:" and that the searches it comes up with change as I post more things. It looks at the things I am writing about and puts clever little links to Google about what it thinks are the most topical... topics.

By the time you read this post, I am sure that the related searches will have changed. But as I look at it the phrase that it has come up with to sum up my writing is "Backstreet Boys fanfiction".

If you don't know what fanfiction is, ask Paddy. I'll be sulking in the corner over here....

...hrrrmph... backstreet's back COME ON!?

Oh, here's another one that hasn't been realised yet.

Become good (or even mediocre) at Mathematics.

I just got asked to figure out the percentage of something and then realised I had absolutely no idea how to do it. I knew it was something to do with dividing by a hundred or multiplying by the percentage but couldn't figure out how to get the right combinations of buttons to press.

I feel little and dumb.

Does anyone want me to compare leadership styles of Pinochet and Castro?

Or want me to recite Spanish verbs?

Or want me to give a brief biography of Gloria Estefan?

No?

Just the percentage, you say?

--------------------------------------------------- leg it --------------

Peanut butter crisis over, thankyou all for worrying...

Childhood dreams realised -

Go and see Arrested Development live in concert.
Shake the hand of Speech from Arrested Development.
Be old enough to have pudding before meal.

Childhood dreams still to realise -

Become most important and hilarious person in world (nearly there)
Walk on hands.
Go to Oscars.
Become pirate.
Become medieval character in the vein of Robin Hood's Merry Men.
Work at Disney World.
Build and live in entirely edible house.
Become dolphin.
Procure personal candy floss machine.
Sit on a cloud.