An Otter Abroad

I had a lovely time in Portugal last week (so much so that I genuinely considered not returning home, before realising that much to my annoyance, I have various things that I can't just pick up and leave, including two rather heavy cats who possibly would not appreciate being forced into quarantine without an explanation). Many amusing situations occurred as I'm sure you can imagine, because normally I am a walking basket of disasters even in a country with a language I can speak fluently, but the below was one of my favourite exchanges to date. My Portuguese and I were out in an area called Bairro Alto, which is an awesome night spot in Lisbon.

Me: So, what do you recommend I drink?

Portugal: Caipirinha!

Portugal's Sister: No, you should have a shot.

Me: I like the sound of that. Look at all these drunk people! It feels like home.


Portugal's Sister: So, there is a shot called... I don't know how you translate this. Um. A kick in... the...  (she gestures at her crotch)

Me: Vagina?


Portugal: Yes, that! Except, it's worse than vagina. Is there a worse English word?

Me: (suppressing hysterical giggles) I can't think of one right now.


Portugal's Sister: (seriously) Are you sure?

Me: (straining my jaws to keep the laughter in) I ... simply can't imagine what that could be. I'll let you know if I find out. English is such a limited language. Ahem.

It was a great few days and I visited many interesting locations in Lisbon, got seriously hooked on the tiny coffees and pastel de nata (best cakes in the world, I promise you) and generally had an awesome time. Upon my return, I discovered that I'd been made Runner Up in the Flashbang fiction competition (which you may remember I mentioned in a previous post). Please find my story linked here and do comment if you feel that it deserves any praise or whatnot - http://flashbangcontest.wordpress.com/2012/05/15/runner-up-4/

In addition, one of my stories has been accepted into the Raging Aardvark's Twisted Tales ebook for National Flash Fiction Day on Wednesday 16th May! This is amazing in itself, but I also discovered that the lovely people over at Ether Books are going to publicise my story as a free download on both 16th and 17th May. When I know more I'll update with a link. It's been very busy over here in Otterland, but I'm enjoying every moment of it.

This Is A Blues Riff In "B"

We went on a road trip this weekend for the Cublet's birthday to Loch Fyne, which was a beautiful scenic place and only rained about fifteen times while we were there, which as a national average probably ranks pretty well. The drive there took about two hours or so and was accompanied by the aforementioned Playlist of Epic, which featured awesome songs like "Moves Like Jagger", "Ride On Time", and of course my favourite classic party anthem by Lionel Richie, "All Night Long". At one point, the Adele song "Set Fire To The Rain" came on. As I'm sure you all know by now, I like nothing being better than being annoyingly pedantic about things that were never meant to be taken literally, to comic (or possibly not-so-comic) effect, and thus the following conversation happened.

Sarahnator: Adele is wrong. I'm pretty sure you can't actually set fire to the rain.

Me: Now that you mention it, that is a logic fail - water does not burn, Adele. Where were you during primary school science class? I had issues with her other one, 'Chasing Pavements' too. I mean, you can't chase pavements. They're right there. It's like "oh where's the pavement? There. Done. Let's get ice cream."

Sarahnator: Don't forget "Rolling in The Deep".

Me: She's obviously taking notes from Rihanna's school of misinformed lyrics. I mean,  how deep? Deep like Charlie Sheen's despair? Deep like the Marianas Trench?  Could you even really 'roll' down there?

Since the other people in the car could only endure so much dickishness at that time in the morning, I eventually let this go, with a longing look and some swelling, wistful orchestral music. Our hotel was a charming little place just by the side of the loch, with winding stairs and lovely staff who patiently put up with our excited banter and vital questions about how late the bar was going to be open. Wetsoks and I were sharing a twin room. The first thing I did upon entering said room, naturally, was to run around touching everything and poking into every crevice while yelling about my findings to a tired Wetsoks two feet away.

Me: Hey look! There's an old style radio in here attached to the wall, but there's only one channel and it's playing Nelly Furtado.

Wetsoks: Turn it off! It's like a nightmare!

Me: You do it. I need to use the bathroom, dude.

I ventured into the bathroom for private time and a chance to peruse the selection of shower gels the hotel had provided. I was considering whether or not to don the shower cap or to keep it for a later drunken moment, when I heard Wetsoks calling me.

Wetsoks: Um, Otternator?

Me: Yes?

Wetsoks: The radio just informed me that Nelly Furtado is number 14 in the charts right now with "I'm Like A Bird"...

Me: Oh my god, we've travelled back in time!

Wetsoks: And a shit year too!

Me: The year is not my primary concern. The time travel is.

Wetsoks: 'It's not a question of where we are, but when we are'. Ha!

Me: Ugh, if we are ever in a  time travel situation then please refrain from using that. It's totally overdone.

Wetsoks: .....What do you mean, if?

Me: ..... Damn.

It was a wonderful weekend all in all, featuring much alcohol, many board games (including what we will now only refer to as the "Pictionary Incident", and a new card game called Ho-Bra which I may explain in a later post) and a Clemence Poesy birthday cake featured below.

Happy Birthday Cublet!

Party Like Lionel Richie

Wetsoks approached me yesterday at work, took my hand very carefully and spoke in a confidential voice.

Wetsoks: Now, I don't want you to get upset-

Me: Oh god, why?


Wetsoks: Something has happened-

Me: What?!


Wetsoks: Ronan Keating and his wife are splitting up.

There was a brief pause.

Me: Um. I thought they already had.


Wetsoks: (laughing hysterically) Don't you even care?

Me: No. I mean (grinning evilly) it's only words. And words were all he had to take her heart away.

Wetsoks: Ha! True dat.

Me: I guess maybe she didn't say it best when she said nothing at all.

Wetsoks: Indeed. And on a completely separate note, I'm thinking we should each choose 13 songs for the car journey to Loch Fyne on the Cublet's birthday.

Me: Why 13?

Wetsoks: Because (here please imagine someone yelling a lot of numbers very quickly, because this is essentially what happened) which makes sense.

Me: Okay Carol Vorderman, calm the fuck down. 13 songs. I bet you'll love my choices.


Wetsoks: On second thoughts, I want to be able to veto at least three.

Me: No veto.


Wetsoks: One veto.

Me: No veto. It's going to be 80s disco all the way. Hope you like partying like Lionel Richie. All. Night. Long. I might even wear my tshirt which says exactly that.

Wetsoks: VETO!

I exited the room.

Wetsoks: VETO! VETO? ....Dammit.

The Portuguese Survival Guide: Part 1

My Portuguese friend and I were in Glasgow on Saturday night, heading towards a birthday party which incidentally was at Kelvingrove Museum, after-hours, on a Victorian theme. We got into a taxi as we were already rather late and I'm still nursing a hacking cough which oddly has not been improved by hanging around in the cold very late at night.As we got into the taxi, I put my seatbelt on. I often do this, even for small journeys, because you never know when disaster may strike and I tend towards the blackest sort of cynicism. Portugal looked at me in horror.

Portugal: What are you doing?!

Me: I'm being safe.

Portugal: I can't believe this.

Me: (genuinely puzzled) What? If we crash, I'd rather not fly three feet at high speed and break my face on the glass window.

Portugal: You're weird.

Me: I'm normal. And safe.

Portugal: You're weak. And you wouldn't survive in the wild.

Me: I wouldn't survive in.... Okay. (pinching nose)

Portugal: You're not used to pain!

Me: Tell me, how many times have you crashed in a taxi?

Portugal: Well, just one.

Me: Uh huh. And so you're "used" to pain, are you?

Portugal: Yes. More than you.

Me: I see. And just out of interest, are lions and other predators particularly attracted to seatbelts?

Portugal: ....Um.

Me: Because what you're saying is that since I have chosen to attach a potentially life-saving device while I am in a vehicle, in a city, this makes me automatically more likely to die in the wilderness of, say, a jungle.

Portugal: It's just so British of you.

Me: Yes, it's very British of me to prefer my face unsmashed.

There was a brief pause.

Portugal: Can I have some of your lip balm?

Me: No. Having dry lips is important for strength. If I give it to you, it'll just make you weak and then you'll die in the wild.

She may have been mad at me, but at least I arrived at the party safely and with appropriately moisturised lips. Otternator 1, Portugal 0.

Game on.

A Penis Tortoise Is Worth A Thousand Words

Since the public approval for the Penis Tortoise (I swear I can't help but giggle to myself every time I type that, and I've typed it a lot this past month) was so great, I thought I'd share some other pictures with you, dear sweet audience. You guys are awesome. No, really. You're all SHINY AND STUFF and I'm all like WOAH. What's that? Laying it on thick? I've never heard the expression. I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about.

Anyway, the love for the Penis Tortoise is so massive - so enormously girthy, in fact - that I'm considering trying to make a banner from it for the heading of this page. I can just picture the day my mother masters the internet and with some excitement finds the blog her daughter talks about. She'll click the hyperlink (by then she will know what it is and perhaps, oh giddy dreams, even know how to make one in a Word document), her eyes lingering hopefully over the loading bar, and then suddenly its all OH GOD WHAT IS THAT and WHY DOES MY ONLY CHILD HAVE A PICTURE OF A TORTOISE THAT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE A PENIS ON HER WEBPAGE and so on and so forth. I dread the day that happens. I dread having to answer that something deep inside me simply finds immense hilarity in the Penis Tortoise. It is something in my soul that I cannot explain through the use of mere language, nor even of interpretive dance. (I actually shudder to think what a Penis Tortoise interpretive dance would even look like, and do not encourage you to close your eyes and imagine it as I have just done.)
I suspect this day may come sooner than I think. She does have access to neighbours who are much more modern and very helpful. Let us not dwell on this, however. I promise a full and in depth post if such an occasion ever occurs.

Since we are already on the subject of genitalia, and it seems like we are on this particular subject a lot at the moment but I'm going with it, I'd like to introduce to you to two photos I took in Oxford which never fail to make me laugh.

"What shall we name this street?" 

"Let's have a drink first and THEN we'll worry about that."  

"...Good plan."

Enter with care and tenderness. Don't just go barging in there like you own the place. 

In conclusion, this was our attempt at balloon dinosaurs, which were purchased as a birthday gift by someone lovely who had no idea that I am actually quite afraid of balloons, which I might add is a perfectly valid fear for a half-grown woman/full grown otter to have. Yes, I know the worst thing that can happen is that it will pop and make a small noise, but I can't convince my survival instincts. I find it odd that a body which can barely pull itself together long enough to master walking up a flight of stairs without falling over somehow manages to have the reaction speed of a cobra when balloons are around.

Now, I say "our" attempt, but I mostly watched from a safe distance and supervised - which is as we all know my best position during teamwork. Bonus points if you can actually name any of the dinosaurs we made. You will receive special otter points for making up ridiculous but referential dinosaur names.

A Little Respect And A Lot Of Other Stuff

This week, I have been in Oxford - bringing the Scottish flavour to England without the use of shortbread or heroin hasn't been easy, let me tell you, but I've done my best.

On Saturday, Jen (@JenClone) and Alex (@nicelittlestory) and I attended a great gig at Westonbirt Arboretum. Sophie Ellis Bextor was supporting Erasure, one of my favourite bands of all time, and we were all very excited. The were a couple of odd moments during the evening which I feel worthy of bloggage. The first was when The Bextor (note: once I've grown attached to a celebrity and they have proved themselves worthy of my eccentric and perhaps slightly misguided but unconditional adoration, they get assigned a 'The' - see previous extensive notes on 'The Dern') announced that she was about to perform her first release 'Murder On The Dancefloor' and then followed that announcement by saying "which was released in 2001." Imagine the horror. A whole decade has passed since then. I won't deny I had an existential freakout.

Me: Did you hear that?

Jen: What?

Me: Ten years since this song first came out. Oh my god, I haven't done anything with my life.

Jen: Um...

Me: You see that child standing next to you?

Jen: (looking increasingly uncomfortable) Yes?

Me: That child wasn't even born when this song came out. SHE WASN'T EVEN BORN.

It had started off a quite a nice summer evening, if a little cloudy, but soon the weather began to torture us for enjoying '80s electronica. It started with a light refreshing rain, followed by a heavy, drenching shower, finished off with a delightful round of painful, belting hailstones marinated in a chilly breeze. This is really something to savour when you're standing in a forest, jumping up and down in muddy joy with a couple of hundred other people.

Once I'd forgotten about The Bextor and the horrible implications of my own mortality had faded (this took about ten minutes, as the attention span of an otter is short and easily led by shiny things) I was able to relax and enjoy the gig fully. Erasure came on stage and performed brilliantly. They played all the classics - 'A Little Respect', 'Ship of Fools' and one of my personal favourites 'Love To Hate You'. The crowd was a varied mixture of people both young and old, gay and straight, and the atmosphere was lovely. About halfway through the set, a man wearing fluorescent sunglasses pushed in front of us. I happened to glance downwards for a moment, and saw that he was carrying a clear plastic bag, filled with yellowish liquid. I hesitate to relay the following conversation, and not least because of what it concerns, but let's face it, you've heard me talk about worse.

Jen: That guy..

Me: What's in the bag? Is it a goldfish?

Jen: A...goldfish? Who brings a goldfish to a gig?

I admit, I hadn't thought the idea through fully.

Me: What is it then?

Jen: I think it's piss.

Me: I'm sorry?

Jen: Piss. He's carrying a bag of piss.

Me: Why? Why would anyone do that?!

Jen: It could be beer.

We all looked at the bag with reactions ranging from curiosity to plain horror. People around us were beginning to stare at the man with the bag.

Jen: If it is beer, I don't know how he'd pour it.

Me: I'm still stuck on the bag of piss idea. Somehow I can't get past it.

Jen: Hmm.

There was a pause as we tried to bend our minds around this concept.

Me: Do you think he has a bag of piss from every gig he's ever been to?

Jen: What, like a trophy?

Me: Yeah. Like, maybe he has a shelf above his bed where he keeps them all neatly labelled. That's what I'd do, if I had a bag of piss.

People were looking from Piss Bag Man to us for help, as if we would be able to offer answers. We distanced ourselves quickly, making clear we-have-no-idea-either-and-are-frankly-scared gestures. We may never know what he was carrying, since we were afraid to enquire further, so it will remain one of the great unsolved mysteries of our time, however I appreciate all suggestions.