I’ve been tagged. This is a relief. Since settling down a few days ago to complete this year’s tax returns, I’ve been variously overwhelmed by a deep and wholly time-consuming interest in The Lindisfarne Gospels (and not just the pictures), the beautiful Georg Cantor, clever slime-ball Edward Bernays and the Moldovan pop outfit, O-zone. (They are not, as might reasonably have been expected after the exhaustingly exuberant Dragostea Din Tei, a one-song band.)
But this tagging thing feels like a justifiable prevarication in a way that those other projects did not. Luckily, I don’t feel any real need to explain such a claim. Finally, just to be clear, my annual tagging has been administered by diabolical blog-rival and love-interest, the mysterious Haggis Dinner Set. So here goes:
Three jobs I have had in my life: Tricky. I started writing for a living fairly early on and so have limited experience elsewhere, unfortunately. It seems a stretch to call these things “jobs”. Pre-university, however: a brief stint with Historic Scotland, restoring stuff (on a menial level); being the musical “entertainment” in a bar/restaurant in a place called Reggio Emilia; working in a touristy gift shop in the far north of Scotland (really loved this, for some reason, really, really loved it).
Three TV shows that I watch: On a strictly DVD box set basis – The Wire, Lost (forgive me) and The West Wing. (The West Wing is an unhealthy addiction. My dog, Emma, has the middle names “Josiah” and “Barklet” – a cunning play on the name of the beloved fictional president, you’ll agree. This seems funny and smart and cute as all hell right up until the moment you hear it being read out in a packed surgery as you wait to see the vet. Then it just becomes excruciating.)
Three places I have lived: Ferragudo, Portugal. Freiburg, Germany. North Lincolnshire, England.
Three places I have been this week: My garden, the beach and Clonakilty.
Three people who email me regularly: My sisters. I have three of these things. They email me. Regularly.
Three of my favourite foods: As long as I cooked it, everything becomes an instant favourite – and not just for me, either.
Three places I’d rather be: I’m not sure I’d rather be in these places, really, but I’d certainly be happy enough to find myself suddenly transported to either one of the following: Lipsi, before it became busy, eating barbecued octopus, drinking suspiciously rough Retsina that not only tastes but feels like partially blended Christmas tree, watching Greek boys dance with their arms in air; The Hermitage Museum; Aberdeen docks on a mercilessly filthy day or, failing that, sitting just out of sight in this picture of two of my aunts (see above), asking them about all sorts of stuff and ticking them off for dying messily in the future. I’ve become quite radically obsessed with this picture and quite often wish myself into the proceedings.
Three friends I think will respond to this message: It's a nice thought.
Three things I am looking forward to: I tend not to do this.
So that's that. Bye then.
