Reflection

I was asked recently to tell someone some crazy things I've done. The result was sort of an edited highlights reel of my life. I took it, and added to it, and here's what I came up with, in no particular order:

running outside on the snow day wearing just a pair of very tight denim shorts; inventing a fake band and then being interviewed as six different people at the same time in order to convince people they exist; spending six days in the Scottish highlands with people I barely knew, surviving mostly on German sausage; going to Paris and inventing both a secret handshake and a song about said handshake; running around a park in a ninja mask and beating up girls; playing the wonderful game of 'Shouty-shouty'; coordinating a sixty person picnic, lying to people on long-distance transport, dining with the grandparents of famous people, pretending to be foreign, going for long walks at five in the morning through sculpture parks, embarrassing streakers with a floodlight, camping out in a outdoors shop, buying tiny jackets to prank people with on April Fool's Day, falling for a multitude of different girls, each of whom is completely wrong for me in their own little way, planning and hosting a cabaret evening for my school, and doing it so well that i was asked back the next year, even though i had left, performing in a play that starred my best friend and my sister, and was directed by my ex-girlfriend, discovering what time subway opens, getting caught sneaking into a hotel, having waterfights with buckets at two in the morning, playing volleyball, late-night five minute chats that go on for hours, platonic dates, planning not so platonic ones, trips to visit friends, constructing endless 'Top Five' lists, writing letters that never get sent, screaming into the night, crying on shoulders, sleepovers, spending endless hours on video-games, appearing in movies, exulting in past glories, discussing movies at the top of my voice, having a street-brawl with someone I just met, exchanging countless in-jokes, going to concerts, supporting friends in need, running to hand in an essay by the deadline, dancing, fishing for the first time, planning parties, having my heart broken, then realising it wasn't broken at all, just bruised, making new friends, losing old ones, making out, discussing girls, discussing boys, seeking, finding, exulting...living

I could tag everyone I shared one of these experiences with, but it would really be rather futile. Life is meaningless without people to spend it with.

I'm feeling rather poetic today.

Mmm...Cake

Wow, it has been a while.

Just thought I'd say that - it wasn't really constructive in any way. I do that a lot, I've noticed.

But anyway, what have been up to?

In a phrase, not a lot.

On March 6th 2007, I turned 21. This was only significant because I was in America. If I had celebrated this birthday in Britain, it would have been simply another year. But because I was in the States, where the drinking age is three years higher, it instantly became an exciting event. And yet for me, it shouldn't have been - not only have I been legally able to drink since I was eighteen, three years ago, in high school, I also don't even drink that much back home.

Admittedly in September, I did decide not to drink in the States until I turned 21, and so there was an element of success in arriving at the date, but still, it should not have been as exciting as it was. Bizarrely, it was like turning eighteen all over again - the same excitement, the desire for one day of the year to be IDed, you know how it goes. I definitely over-celebrated, though. Ah well, as long as it doesn't become a habit.

Much more excitingly, on March 6th, my cousin gave birth to her fifth child, Isa. he is of course, due to his birthday, by default my favourite cousin, and so I intend to spoil him outrageously.

It's beginning to dawn on me that my time in Illinois is coming to an end. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean I know I love Edinburgh, and all my friends there (and this Christmas only served to accentuate that) and I know that I am going to be very attached to Illinois because I am currently here and yes, I know that were I in Edinburgh right now I would probably feel the exact opposite, but the fact remains that were I offered a chance to do my final year here and graduate from Illinois, I would jump at it.

This isn't to say that I don't want to go home. I do, desperately. I love Edinburgh, I love all of you there, I love my church, and I know that the next two years of my life are there. It's just that, right now, I really don't want to leave. I guess you truly can't have your cake and eat it too.

That won't stop me trying, though.

21 Reasons Why Alanis Morisette Hearts Me

So I was listening to Alanis Morisette's 21 Things I Want In A Lover this morning (don't laugh), and I realised that I score pretty highly...

AM: Do you derive joy when someone else succeeds?
Me: Yes

AM: Do you not play dirty when engaged in competition?
Me: I try not to. I also try not to misplace negatives to make lyrics work better.

AM: Do you have a big intellectual capacity but know that it alone does not equate wisdom? Me: Absolutely

AM: Do you see everything as an illusion?
Me: No, not really.

AM: But enjoy it even though you are not of it?
Me: I'm sorry, what?

AM: Are you both masculine and feminine?
Me: I'm a guy who cried at 'Million Dollar Baby' - does that count?

AM: Politically aware?
Me: Absolutely - Obama in '08!

AM: And don't believe in capital punishment?
Me: Definitely - although some of your grammar is starting to change my mind.

AM: Do you derive joy from diving in and seeing that loving someone can actually feel like freedom?
Me: Um...I guess so.

AM: Are you funny?
Me: I was once described as a 'comedy genius'

AM: Self-deprecating?
Me: I'm really bad at self-deprecation. (See what I did there?)

AM: Like adventure?
Me: Absolutely! I once went for an entire week without flossing!

AM: And have many formed opinions?
Me: Yes indeed. Opinion is my middle name. (My parents wanted a girl)

AM: Are you uninhibited in bed?
Me: Well, I do enjoy a good lie-in.

AM: More than three times a week?
Me: Well, as long as my classes allow, three lie-ins a week is fine with me.

AM: Up for being experimental?
Me: As long as I don't get burned with acid, experiments are fine.

AM: Are you athletic?
Me: Next question?

AM: Are you thriving in a job that helps your brother?
Me: I don't have a brother. Come on Ali, it's like you don't even read the three letters I send to you every week!

AM: Are you not addicted?
Me: Only to your music, Alanis...well, that and cheesy lines.

AM: ...curious and communicative...
Me: Is that even a question?

My number's on Facebook Alanis - I'm waiting for your call.

A Soppy, Yet Heartfelt Thank You

I had an amazing winter break.

In fact, it may have been the best winter break ever. I think the trick to enjoying holidays is to go for very long periods without them. This is very similar to my current theory that the best way to get on with your family is to only see them for very short periods of time.

When I left Illinois, I was definitely looking forward to returning to Britain. I was excited about seeing people I hadn't seen in seven months and about doing stuff I hadn't done in ages, but I was also very aware that I had a limited time to do it in. This necessitated great efficiency, prior planning, and an organised system.

I had none of these.

And yet you, yes all you wonderful people out there made this truly a Christmas Holidays to be remembered. Whether it was thrashing Roger and the Scholls at Risk, going for a walk at three in the morning on New Years Day, playing pool at the Sports Cafe or talking Claire and Hannah's ears off about how amazing my time at Illinois has been, these three weeks have been simply awesome.

When I came back, I figured this holiday would be like any other - sit around on the sofa most days, maybe see people every so often, but mostly be bored. In this respect, I couldn't have been more wrong. This may have been connected to my friends' somewhat fanatical desire to spend time with me - in one case travelling all the way from Inverness to spend an hour with me.

I feel this is the point where I stop being vague, and single out a few individuals for special thanks. And by a few, I mean lots.

First up, my wonderful sister, Frances. Of all the people I've missed while I've been away, you were top of the list. I may hide it incredibly well sometimes, but I do love you, and I love to spend time with you - especially the ridiculous in-jokes we share. I try to explain them to other people, but they just don't understand. I hate mandatory minimums.

Martin - I miss you buddy. All the time. Hello there lighty.

Nik - Badger Position! I just lost the game. Thanks for getting me through - I'll return the favour anytime.

Robin - Thank you for being lovely. I love Robin.

Jamie - This holiday has been a million times better because I finally got to know you properly. Let's not lose touch again.

Andrew - The hugs don't lose anything with repetition.

Claire Storm Philips - If I could choose anyone to be my ex-girlfriend, it'd be you. I think that's a compliment. Don't become a Rah, please.

Josiah - Thank you for letting me just appear and take possession of what is really now your flat. Thanks also for letting me host a party there when your only form of notice was your invitation.

Luke - Stay in Edinburgh. Please.

Clare O'Driscoll - Thank you for not telling me to shut up. I'll still be in Edinburgh when you get back, I promise.

Clare McVittie - You're the best ex-wife a man could hope for.

Christy & Ruth - I didn't realise how much I missed you until I saw you again. Please, don't ever change. If you do, at least act the same around me.

Thom - Thank you for my jumper and my CD. And I know, you're not gay.

Esther - I miss you. Thanks for dinner and wine. It was very bizarre you cooking me food, but I think it worked out pretty well.

If I've missed you out, it's because I suck at remembering things. You've all been wonderful to me in this holiday, and well, just in general actually. I miss you all, and I'll see you when I get back. You guys rock so much, it's unbelievable. Thank you.

I've Dropped More Ts than You've had Hot Dinners

A friend of mine asked me a while back if she could write a paper on me, or rather, on my accent. I agreed, and she recorded me speaking. She wrote a paper, which included this transcript of the recording:

Sandy: “So I’m in Wal-Mart yesterday… and…no, this, like, was a couple weeks ago. Anyway, this was a while ago. I’m in Wal-Mart and I was trying to use the automatic cashier-less thing – the till. So I’m standing there and you have the swipe-y thing on the thing and it beeps so I have a Mar-, not a Mars Bar, sorry, I had a Milky Way as they call them in this country. And – ”

Jeanne: “Milky Way? What do they call them at home?”

Sandy: “Mars Bars.”

Jeanne: “Oh… okay.”

Sandy: “Yeah, exactly. So I swipe my Milky Way and I think, “Right, I’m going to eat this later,” so I put it in my pocket. And then the Wal-Mart, like, machine, like, starts, like, beeping and saying “You have not put the Milky Way in the bag,” and I was like, “um, okay.” So I take it out of my pocket and put it in the bag and it says, “There is something in the bag that was not swiped through the cash register.” I was like, “No I just…” So at this point I’m arguing with the machine. I’m like, it’s very annoying, like, “No, I can see that, ri-.” So then I realize at this point, so I take it out of the bag, swipe it, it goes, “You have been charged for three Milky Ways.” I was like, “No! I only have one! One Milky Way! It’s not even in two bits like back home!” So I get very irritated. I keep swiping it and it’s starting again and this woman behind me is obviously getting really really irritated. She’s like [imitates frustrated breathing]. And like, I, I’m getting really… you know, I’m a newcomer in this country, I don’t know what I’m doing. So eventually I think, “Alright, alright,” so then I turn around to her and I’m like, “Listen love, I’m really sorry but I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t understand it.” And she looks at me, she’s like “Oh you’re English! Let me help you!” And she does this amazing... I’m sure she was launching a space shuttle or something and I’m sure it undercharged me as well so I was really excited. Put it in the bag, pick it up and leave.”

I'm somewhat ashamed.

The Same Question

I got a CD from my Grandma last Christmas. It was called Reflection of Something, by Todd Agnew.

I opened it today.

This was a mistake.

Not opening it, but opening it a year after I got it. You see, I took one look at the cover and thought "Nah..." It's a soft-focus, warm-toned photo of a hippy, bare-footed man seated cross-legged, looking down with a dopey smile on his face. I looked at the tracklist, and dismissed it as yet another average Christian CD. My Grandmother doesn't exactly have the best track record on this kind of thing, you see. For instance, and my personal favourite, the other CD she gave me, which features 'The Ten Commandment Boogie', with lines like:

"We're half way through with one that's just for you - Listen to your mom and dad 'cause what they say you gotta do."

"the B-I-B-L-E, yeah that's the book for me"

and my personal favourite:

"Commandment Seven feels like heaven but only with your husband or wife"

(oh for goodness sake, go and look it up if you don't know what it is.)

So anyway, I didn't exactly have high hopes for Reflections of Something. Or, in fact, any hopes at all, given that I waited a year to open it. In fact, it was still in its protective cellophane casing earlier this evening, when I decided that I might as well put it on my laptop.

And it's fantastic.

Todd Agnew's voice is pretty good, and the tunes aren't bad, but what really gets me are the issues he addresses, the words he uses. He isn't a perfect, squeaky-clean Christian, singing gloatingly about how awesome it is to be a Christian. He's a real person, a Christ-follower, someone who truly loves Jesus and is doing his best and not always succeeding.

And I don’t know what You want, what You see in my life
And I don’t know what You mean, how You could be glorified
I’m not too sure about this idea of sacrifice

My Jesus would never be accepted in my church
The blood and dirt on His feet would stain the carpet
But He reaches for the hurting and despised the proud
I think He'd prefer Beale Street to the stained glass crowd
I know that He can hear me if I scream out loud.

I'm reminded of a cartoon I saw once. Two turtles sit, talking to each other. One says to the other, “Sometimes I’d like to ask why God allows poverty, famine, and injustice when he could do something about it.” The other turtle asks him why he doesn't. The first replies. “I’m afraid God might ask me the same question.”

Head + Concrete = Concussion

Things I have in common with Ben Roethlisberger, NFL Pro Quarterback:

1) Both our last names start with an 'R'
2) We've both been knocked unconscious and suffered a concussion recently
3) We've both won a Super Bowl.

One of these facts is untrue.

So last night at dodgeball I was definitely unconscious for between a minute and two minutes. I went up to catch a ball, bounced off another player, and then as I came down something inexplicable happened.

My feet missed the ground.

The rest of me, sadly, did not.

The sound of my head hitting the carpet-covered concrete has been described as a 'schmush', a 'thunk', or, and in my opinion this is the most descriptive account, 'the most disgusting noise I have ever heard.'

Now I just remember lying there for about thirty seconds, with the wind totally knocked out of me, unable to think straight, but with my eyes open. Turns out I was down for a good couple of minutes, with my eyes closed, and was totally unresponsive. Pretty scary. The weirdest part of all this is that the things I remember as a continuous stream of events actually occurred over several minutes, with big gaps in between.

The real kicker is the concussion, though. Since then, I keep getting weird headaches and rushes of blood to my head. My hearing will fade in and out, I'll feel randomly nauseous, and standing up too quickly is really weird.

On the plus side, I'm done with all with all my classes, and all my finals were in-class, so I really have nothing better to do than sleep and sit around doing nothing....which is really all I feel capable of doing right now.

All I Want for Christmas is Mariah Carey

Hello again.

Well, I'm still in Illinois, still not doing very much. Well, actually, that's a lie. I have four finals in two days this week, three of which are in a five hour span. That's just ridiculous. Add to that an average of four hours a night of rehearsals, and you start to realise that I am somewhat overworked. On the plus side, I did work out where a certain film quote that was bothering came from, so I'd call it a successful week.

My laptop is driving me crazy. Its latest 'hilarious' quirk? The disc drive won't stay in. At all. What the hell is that all about? On the plus side, it still runs the internet...just about.

Christmas is approaching at breakneck speed. I honestly have no idea where the last four months have gone. It seems like so recently that I arrived here in Champoo-Banana, and yet I have been here an entire semester. Crazy. What else have I to tell you my devoted readers?

Well, I've been working on my five year plan. I currently plan to graduate from Edinburgh in Summer 08, and then, hopefully, do a Post-Graduate Certificate of Education (The Caps make it official sounding) at Edinburgh, before coming back to Chambana to teach in underpriviledged schools around here. Originally I wanted to come out to America sooner, but recent events, and large amounts of rumination have made me realise that, actually, I'm not quite done with the U of K yet.

Well, I should probably go study for my final final, but to keep you thinking, here is my Christmas wishlist, just in case you have Santa's number on speed-dial.

1. World Peace
2. Understanding between all peoples
3. A new laptop

What I've Learned from Breakfast in the Residence Halls

I hate country music.

So very much.

Or, to be more specific, I don't necessarily hate country music. What I hate is the country music voice.

Having been exposed to a very, very, very large amount of country music here in the United States, I can reveal that there are only two country music singers - one male and one female. Oh, sure, they might release songs under multiple different names, and release hundreds of different albums, but I mean really - has anyone ever listened to these songs? They don't even try to disguise the fact that they all sound exactly the same. The voices on these tracks are identical, people! Use your ears!

But who are these shady people? I did some investigation, and, at great personal risk to myself, am finally willing to reveal their true identities.


Virgil McSouth and Cindi Starkweather are the true names of this mysterious duo. They've been recording country music for over twenty years. Before that, Meat Loaf filled in after Elvis' retirement.

Thi conspiracy has been well-hidden, with the Country Music Association arranging for people to mime along to their music in live shows, and the annual "Country Music Awards" where D-List actors and homeless people pretend to be big-time movie stars. One of the most elaborate deceptions was when, using clever multi-tracking and lip synching techniques, the CMA managed to fool people into thinking that Starkweather was in fact three jobless sisters of the CEO's wife. You may know these three better as 'The Dixie Chicks'.

The truth is out, people. I've put my head on the line to expose this. Now, spread the word - don't let my risk be for naught!

Tiddlywinks, Now There's A Real Sport

So it's a been a while since I updated this thing. I've been far too busy doing nothing.

I've definitely got addicted to American sports. And I'm not just talking about the good ones, like American Football, or basketball. I'm talking about the ones they show at midnight on ESPN-2.

No, not those kind of sports. Get your mind out of the gutter.

In fact, I'm not even sure that is a sport.

So anyway, last night, me and a couple of friends (male friends, obviously - girls have far too much sense to do this kind of thing) decided it would be fun to find out what non-sport was showing on ESPN-2 at half eleven. (That's eleven thirty to all you crazy Americans.) Well, suffice to say, we weren't disappointed. We tuned in just in time to watch the girls' final of the Teen Masters...of ten pin bowling. That's right. That's a real competition.

You know the saddest thing, though? After five minutes, I was really getting into it. We were talking tactics, cheering, and rooting for our favourite. It gets better, though. After the girls' final, it was the boys' turn! And then after that, the boys champion and the girls' champion faced off against each other! Amazing!

Once that finished, I decided it was finally time to do something productive, or at least to watch some real sport.

And then the World Series of Poker came on.

Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fungus

You know, sometimes old clichés are actually true.

They say that sometimes you have to leave something behind to realise how much you love it.

(They also say that bumblebees shouldn't be able to fly, but hey 'they' can't get everything right.)

So I was volunteering at a Study Abroad Fair the other day (hey, it's not like my courses give me any work). I was there to represent Edinburgh, and convince people to take a semester or a year abroad there. Well, I did that for a while, and it was fun, but there were two of us, and I noticed Newcastle didn't have anybody. So I switched over to Newcastle, and started plugging that.

And wow. I have never realised quite how much I love Newcastle, and the North-East in general. As I spoke, I realised I wasn't exaggerating a single word. Now that doesn't mean that I regret leaving - not in the slightest. Edinburgh is awesome, and Illinois is fantastic. It just makes me a little bit sad that I'm unlikely to spend more than three weeks at a time there ever again.

My life, or at least the next few years of it, is starting to come together in front of my eyes, which is nice - although also incredibly petrifying. I may be returning to America a little sooner than I thought, although to a totally different place than I expected. But I'll tell you more when I know details.

Well, that was mysterious.

In other news, the room I share with Chris has become known as 'The Embassy'. Who knows why. Still, we made a Facebook group, so if you want to see pictures of life in Illinois, then that's the place.

My addiction to American Football is growing stronger. (Yes, I called it 'American' Football - deal with it.) On Sunday night, I really wanted to watch the Colts vs Giants game, but I also really wanted to go to church.

DILEMMA!

So, most normal people would've just shrugged their shoulders and resolved to watch the highlights on YouTube. (That's the football, not the church service.) Not me. No,I got my friend to TiVo it, and then went over to her's immediately afterwards to watch it. (While making sure she screened my calls so that no-one could ruin the score for me.) Thanks Kirsten, you're a legend.

I also went to see the University American Football (We won, but not against a great team.) and the real Football. (Again, we won, this time 4-0). It was refreshing seeing 'soccer' (urrggghhh...) again. I think me and my other British friend enjoyed ourselves a little more than the rest of the crowd. We were the only one's standing up, and I think we confused the other fans by nicknaming the girls based on famous European football players. (Especially when I decided to yell "Pass it to Nedved!" across the field.)

I feel like I'm some kind of talisman. Notice how Illinois have a perfect record at games I attend? Now contrast that with the American Football game at Rutgers, which we lost 33-0.

I wonder if watching it on TV counts?

William Gallas May Soon be Sleeping with the Fishes

Gallas 'issued own-goal threat'

For those of you who aren't aware - The English Premier League champions Chelsea just sold William Gallas to Arsenal, after long and arduous negotiations.

"Chelsea say they sold William Gallas because he threatened to score an own goal if he was selected for their first game of the season."

Wow - that's hardcore. I love how bitchy this statement gets. Chelsea went on to say:

"He also failed to recognise the role Jose Mourinho and Chelsea played in helping him become a double Premiership champion for a player whose only league title prior to that had been in the French Second Division."

and then of course there's the frankly disturbing:

The manager told him that, even if he did not agree a new contract but returned to the "family" and abided by the rules, he would still select the best players available and would not punish him playing wise.

The 'family'? Sounds a little ominous.

I guess Arsenal just made him an offer he couldn't refuse...

Bow for Brown

I went to a volleyball game the other day.

It was utterly insane.

In Britain, when two university sports teams face off against each other, the usual turnout is around twelve. (and that's only at the home games, and if the striker's little brother doesn't have a dentst appointment.) At the volleyball game we attended on Friday, there must have been around 1000 people - 986 of whom were Illinois supporters.

The atmosphere was incredible - we were right in the middle of a big group of Illini (that's pronounced [ih-line-i] - it tooks us a while to work that one out) and the chants were awesome. Each player on the Illinois team had a different chant, and the ones to mock the offense were frankly hilarious. From "You can't do that!" when the opposing team fouled to "Awkward Silence!" when they took too long to serve.

Some of the other chants were a little bit harsh ("She's got crabs!" when the opposition server came up being a case in point.) but everything was in really good spirit. Oh, and did I mention that this was women's volleyball? In Britain, we like to pretend women's sports don't exist, but at Illinois, and in the Big Ten (the league Illinois is part of, which is actually a pretty original name, given that there are eleven teams in it) women's sports are as well-attended as the men's. Crazy, eh? Next they'll be running for President.

A friend of mine from camp was visiting, and we instantly found a favourite (yes, I spelt that word with a 'u', you lazy Ameriquins) player - number 2, Vicki Brown. She managed to lead her team in scoring, desite only being on the court for about two minutes at a time. We decided to start bowing to her every time she scored a 'kill', and by the end of the second game we attended, the entire hall was following suit.

That's my contribution to Illinois athletics, and I doubt there'll be another one.

FYI...

God rocks.

Just thought I'd let you know.

Initial Report from Champaign-Urbana

So I've been here for a week now.

And it's pretty darn awesome.

If you ever come to the UofI - the first thing you'll notice is the obscene size of everything. There is a fully-fledged gym in my halls, and a bowling alley in the union. There are about 40,000 students here, pretty much all of whom are from Illinois. On my floor I appear to be the only foreign student, which means I have both novelty value, and an excuse for doing anything wrong - wonderful!

I've registered for a scant twelve hours of classes, three of which are in 'Fundamentals of Acting 1', which seems a bit ridiculous, but never mind.

My halls are, perversely, absolutely freezing - the air conditioning seems to be turned up to a ridiculous amount. This meant that I had the very odd experience of buying a very thick insulated blanket from WalMart in the middle of summer. (There are three WalMarts in Champaign-Urbana, by the way, all of which are bigger than the city of Durham.)

Continuing with the 'insanely big' theme - my church in Edinburgh is around three hundred strong. My church here is something like 2500! They have a gym...inside their church. Utter madness.

However, they are all really cool, and I got on with them really well. I think I'm improving on my record from first year in Edinburgh, where I knew very few people, and almost none in my halls. So far, I've got to know a load of people on my floor really well, and we're looking at starting an intramural soccer team. It's shaping up to be a really awesome year.

Can a Bag Really Have A Weight Problem?

I'm currenty speeding from O-Hare airport (which, during my brief stay there, I discovered is named after a famous fighter pilot. Just thought you'd like to know.) onboard a small minibus, which has been christened with the somewhat overdramatic title of 'The Lincolnland Express'. My flight from Minneapolis, where I was staying with my family, was fairly painless. As ever in my travels, it was the eve of the day of travel which provided the excitement. Coming from Edinburgh to Pennsylvania, it manifested itself in lost tickets and my travelling companion locking his bags in an unoccupied flat. The night before I left Camp to head to Minneapolis, somebody got fired, and I got hopelessly lost in the forest. All par for the course, really.

The fiasco this time revolved, of course, around my packing. I arrived in Minneapolis with one bag. My parents had brought another one over with them when they visited my Minneapolis family earlier this summer. Following so far? In addition to this, I had with me a backpack, and my parents brought my laptop with them in another backpack. Actually, come to think of it, there's a satchel packed into one of my suitcases for when I get to Illinois, but mentioning that would just confuse things.

Confused yet? Good. Now, as I was saying, I had my two large bags, and my laptop backpack, which was to bee my carry-on. All other small bags were stowed away in the larger bags. I spent about 20 - 40 minutes packing all my stuff away, which wasn't easy - fitting a year's worth of stuff into two bags can be pretty tricky like that. About 10:00 PM, my aunt pointed out that, even though I was flying domestic, it was probably still a good idea to take my passport. Good point, I thought. I'm ahead of the game, I smiled smugly. I opened my bag, and took out my lockbox. "It's right in here." Unfortunately, the lockbox was locked. Guess where the keys were? Inside my backpack. In the bottom of the bag I'd just packed.

Crap.

So, I unpacked that bag as best I could, scrabbling my way to the bottom of the bag. I pulled out the backpack, and guess what? No keys. Uh-oh. I repacked the entire bag (not an easy feat) and then turned to my carry-on laptop bag. I unzipped the side-pocket, and, of course, there they were. I unlocked my lockbox...and my passport wasn't in there. Great. I started to get the sinking feeling I'd had before, except that last time it had involved lost tickets, and had resulted in a last minute call to two airlines, and a very hectic weekend. I didn't have anything like that time, as at that point I had about eight hours till my flight left. Me being me, of course, I didn't tell anyone that I couldn't find my passport, as I was terrified of looking stupid. With the other prospect being the utter derailment of an entire year of schooling, it was good to see I had my priorities correctly sorted. I proceeded to check through my carry-on multiple times, both my large bags, unpacking and repacking the four or five times, before searching the entire house, all the while striving to 'act casual', so my relatives didn't twig that something was up. Having spent about an hour doing this, I checked my carry-on bag one last time. And there it was - right where I could have sworn I'd looked about twenty times.

DUH!

But the fun doesn't stop there. Oh, no no no no! Because, having finalised everything that was in the bags, I remembered that there was an limit on the weight of my checked baggage. So off we went again, wheeling out the scales, and futilely trying to balance a very large case on what seemed like a very small set of scales. Depending on the scales used, both cases seemed to range from just under the allowed weight of 50 pounds to about twelve pounds over. This prompted a frantic display of packing and repacking, culminating in me abandoning a bag in its entirety, and replacing it with a larger one. After about an hour, we figured both bags were roughly about maybe 50 pounds.

So this morning, my cousin accompanied me into the airport, so that if anything was too heavy, I could load him down with non-essentials to bring me back under the weight limit. We queued up for some time, before finally reaching the check-in desk. I dumped my first bag on the scales, and waited with bated breath...47 pounds! I exhaled loudly. Now for the next one. I groaned as I saw the dial read 52 pounds. I frantically started calculating what I could leave behind. I could get more bodywash in Urbana, right? Nobody needs such a big towel - maybe I could make do with a facecloth till I got a new one. Did I really need that pot of marmite? What about...

My panic-stricken reverie was interrupted by the check-in associate smiling at me, and saying 'Oh that's fine. Two pounds is nothing really."

What? "Are you sure?" I asked, almost as if I wanted to argue with her. (At this stage I'm not entirely sure I didn't - I'd got myself all hyped for an argument, and now she was backing out - who did she think she was?)

"Absolutely. Don't worry about it." I could have kissed her.

I didn't, of course. We are at Threat Level: Orange, after all.

I Still Know What I Did This Summer, Part the Nineteenth

So anyway,

we took a busride to the camp the next day, along with the rest of the international staff. At this point, we were all being horrendously polite to each other, to avoid making a bad first impression. They all seemed nice, and, in truth, they all were nice.

We got to Camp William Penn just as the heavens opened, and one of the biggest rainstorms I have ever seen was unleashed upon the land. It was pretty wet. The Camp Director, Michael Shelton got onboard the bus, and asked me forward to check everyone was there. As I came up to him, he passed me the list of names, and then said "Oh, by the way - you're going to be a Unit Leader this year."

My response to this was: "Ah. Right."

Basically, I got a promotion in everything but money. I was in charge of around 10 to 20 kids, and four to six staff (Although one week there were ten staff. Crazy). There were four ULs in Boys' Camp (although one of them got fired the day before the kids arrived), and four in Girls' Camp; and between the eight of us (seven after the training week), we managed the everyday operation of the camp.

The kids this year were, on the whole, pretty good kids. I did have the unfortunate reputation of being the only UL to send kids home (one after only forty minutes at camp), but at least none of my kids got arrested for aggravated assault, unlike one of the other ULs. Another good thing was that this year, no-one tried to sue me, which was nice.

On the downside, however, I did quite seriously damage the muscles in my back around my lung. That hurts. On the other hand, I'm on enough painkillers that I wouldn't know. :D

In summation, then, I had an awfully large amount of fun this summer. I'm pretty sure that I'm going back next year as well. Right now, I'm camped out in my Aunt's basement for a week. Next Wednesday I fly out to Chicago, and then take the shuttlebus to Urbana, where I shall start the next stage of my exciting adventure.




That's going to the University of Illinois, in case you hadn't worked that one out.

I Know What I Did This Summer...Part the First

So, it's been a while.

Camp is now done. And it was officially awesome.

We finally got to America, after a series of farcical cock-ups. First the airline lost my reservation, then they found it, but couldn't confirm it, and then the check-in lady at Glasgow just gave up and decided to let the people in Heathrow fix it. I had a pretty low opinion of her by this point, but that plummeted after the following conversation:

Me: Could I have my passport back?

Her: I gave it to you.

Me: No, you didn't.

Her: Yes, I did.

Me: I don''t think so. [checks pockets, and asks travelling companions] No, I'm sorry, you definitely still have it.

Her: [v. sarcastically] Oh, well maybe I'll just check under my seat then. [she does so. she finds it] Oh.

Me: Yeah.

I mean, really.

When we got to Heathrow, through a series of more screw-ups, I ended up havinig to completely check-in again, and go back through Security. This could have taken about an hour, but I managed to blag my way into the Speedy Check-In, cutting out 90% of the queue. Nice.

Still, it could have been worse - the lady at Glasgow managed to actually cancel my friend Clare's reservation from Heathrow to Newark.

I think the moral of this story is clear - never, ever fly BMi Baby.

When we finally did get to America, the fun hadn't yet finished. They nearly had to divert us to JFK because of a bomb threat, and then when we finally did land, the man at immigration managed to stamp the wrong visa on my passport. Idiot.

Roger, of course, managed to get himself left at the airport, after forgetting to fill in a form at customs. Using his traditional flukey luck, however, he somehow managed to get picked up by the Camp Director of a different camp, who gave him a lift to the hotel we were staying at, so he arrived before us. Crazy.

Anyway, I have to go to the beach now, so I shall update you on what happened next at a later date. Suffice to say, with me and Roger involved, it was just a little bit farcical.

In A Bit Of An Odd Pickle...

So I thought my mistake was ridiculous.

Well, Roger has raised the bar in madness tonight, challenging me to reach new heights in idiocy.

We're staying in my flat in Edinburgh tonight, as we're flying out of Glasgow tomorrow. Roger has been in Edinburgh for the past couple of days, so he dropped his stuff off at my flat on Friday...or so he thought. It was at this point that everything started to go wrong.

Roger got the wrong flat. I told him we lived in Flat Three, which, logically, he assumed must be on the third floor. He went up to the third floor flat, which is actually number five. At this point, he probably would have realised that he had the wrong flat, and tried the one downstairs. Except that in Edinburgh, Flat 5 is also Flat 3f1, which was what was on the door. So Roger asked if he could leave a bag for Sandy.

At that point you would expect the woman who answered the door to say that she had never heard of Sandy...except that she's foreign, and she thought he said 'Andy', who does live upstairs.

So Roger left the bag upstairs. But that should have been fine, right? Because we could just go up and get it when I got here and we realised the mistake. Except that the people upstairs moved out today, before I got here. So now we have Roger's bag locked upstairs, and we're waiting for a man from Grant Management, who own the flat, to give us the authorisation to call a locksmith to break in.

All very silly. Here's hoping he calls soon.

I Am, Actually, An Idiot

I'm sure this will come as little surprise to most of you.

Quick check on Friday night:

"Passport."

"Check."

"Visa"

"Check"

"Other Visa"

"Check"

"Plane Tickets."

"Uh..."

Yes, that's right, folks, I have lost my plane tickets. How? I have no idea, but I've managed it. We've tipped the house upside down, but to no avail. I talked to a lovely lady at Camp America, who clearly really didn't want to deal with this. She said she would ring me back when she'd sorted it.

One day, I will go on holiday, and not lose something. Not this time, though.

UPDATE: Sorted out an e-ticket. I love Camp America.