We've lived in another country for almost two months now, and I'm aware that I haven't posted ONE SINGLE THING in that time. I haven't been lolling about, eating haggis-flavored bon-bons, or disappearing Agatha Christie-style. (I used to think she ran off to Istanbul, but she was only in Harrogate, probably going to Bettys every day - as I would, if I were A. Christie and on the lam in 1926.)
The country, by the way, is Scotland, and our new city is Glasgow. Or Glasglo, or Glascow, according to some of our bank statements and magazine subscriptions from the US.
Every day or two, I think: I must write a post. There's so much to write about. So many pictures to share: autumnal scenes; majesty of the Highlands; the weekend in Luxembourg; Gordon Ramsay at the BBC Good Food Show; our stairwell, etc. The photo we took (and lost) of the container last seen in Cucullu Street in New Orleans, now on the back of a truck in the East End of Glasgow, parked outside our storage facility. Pictures of T. Middy glowering at his beloved public over a plate of oysters or a venison burger.
And of course, now that we're in the land of Boswell and Hume, TM and I engage in numerous intellectual exchanges, all of which demand preservation for posterity. For example:
TM: Why are you crying?
PM: I'm watching STRICTLY COME DANCING. [This is the British version of DANCING WITH THE STARS.] Pamela Stephenson has just done a very moving rumba.
TM (stomping off): Ridiculous.
TM: I don't know how you can watch this show. I find it unbearable.
PM: Because you're a snob.
TM: That's right. I'm Vladimir Snobokov.
Here's the real reason I haven't written a post.There's quite a lot to do when you move somewhere new and start a new job. And even on a day at home, like today, I end up doing the following: reading all the applications for a job in another department, because I've been drafted onto the search committee; visiting the Tenement House Museum, because it's about to close this weekend for months, and we live in a 19th-century tenement so it's practically like going around an open home; shopping at John Lewis for Halloween tat for the children we'll be seeing in Wales this weekend; lugging home groceries for tonight's dinner, because we're back to car-free city life, i.e. only buying what we can clutch; replying to emails from students even though it's mid-term break and they've been warned off emailing me unless something tragic has occurred; and realizing that I haven't written the column for NEXT magazine's January issue, even though it was due two weeks ago, and need to crack on with it right away.
So that's all the post you're getting for now. (And by "you" I mean my one loyal reader, Bookman Beattie.) I've recently finished writing a book, and there's an interview with me about it, and about RUINED, up at Stirling's great Gothic Imagination site. And for those of you pining for a sighting of T. Middy, here he is at the Witchery in Edinburgh, pondering eternal verities and willing me not to steal any of his chips.