Incidently, Leith is in the history books as the place where the game of golf was invented. We are on the penultimate floor of a four storey building which faces out onto a big park known as Leith Links. According to the folk at the local pub ‘The Golf’, the game of golf has been played at Leith Links since at least 1600. In 1640, King Charles 1 heard news of the Irish rebellion whilst playing golf on the Links. The game gained more formal recognition in the 1700s when a club formed, calling themselves “The Gentlemen Golfers”. They would meet on a Saturday and lay wages on their game before retiring to a local hostelry to dine and settle their bets. In 1744, thirteen rules were drawn up, the first acknowledged rules of golf. They were titled ‘The articles and laws in playing at golf”. In 1754, The gentlemen of Fife invited The Gentlemen Golfers of Leith to join them in forming a club at St.Andrews which adopted the rules of Leith… and so ‘playing at golf’ spread throughout the world.
When David first told me this history of the park I looked around me and said “Ahh that explains the little hills doted about.”
“Well no.” He replied, “The mounds of earth were used to mount guns during Oliver Cromwell’s siege of Edinburgh”.
That siege was in 1650.
So let’s think this through, given that the game of modern golf is devastatingly boring, how boring would it have been without the little hills and sandtraps? If golf was first played in 1600, that is 50 sad years of wandering in the rain with a stick, a ball and a saggy cap with pom-poms. As I write this looking out over the Links, I imagine the golfers of the day would be very happy with the outcome of the siege of Edinburgh
“Today, men, is a day of Scottish pride, for although we have lost the battle, our independence, and the fine city of Edinburgh, TODAY my friends, we have made wee hills with wee flags to hit our wee balls into! No longer will we face the tryranny of flat parkland!”

HOORAY!
Hooray!
HOORAY!”

I spent my first day in Edinburgh making loud oohhs and ahhs punctuated by the zink-flash! of the digital camera.

The capital city of Scotland is a world heritage site, and to quote my Lonely Planet guide “An architectural wonderland dispersed among the rocky crags of brooding volcanic hills”.

It is a beautiful, old, stone city set in such a dramatically grand location that it reminds me of the model cities that you would make out of paper mache in grade five (though you know, the BEST model in the class). There is a huge extinct volcano (Arthur’s seat), a crowded old town (called The Old Town) with secret lanes, nooks and crannies, and a swanky grand new town (called *New Town) with posh squares, circuses and greens. The best bit: a huge rock (Castle Rock) smack bang in the middle of it all with a castle (Edinburgh Castle) on top and a train running around it’s base. Coooool.

As an Australian, I was amazed at the age and grandeur of the buildings. In Australia, you may have a nice old church here, or some impressively grand mansion there … but to make a city comparable to Edinburgh’s “architectural wonderland” you would have to employ the talent of a (rather clever) grade fiver to carefully prise off all of Adelaide’s gorgeous old churches, Tasmania’s convict-era stone buildings and Melbourne’s memorials and cathedrals, and then deposit them (lots of blue tac) in a model with the prior mentioned “rocky crags of brooding volcanic hills”. Oh, Oh, and the train! Don’t forget the train.

The buildings are brilliant; stone monuments to an age of craft and classic design.
Timshel got terribly excited about the stairs of the flat we are staying in, and his letter home describes them (and the craft of the buildings here) very well.

“Like the majority of buildings here, Marie and David’s flat is a sandstone construction, which must have taken countless man-hours of painstaking labour to build. The spiral staircase which ascends to the flat is an amazing piece of work – each step is a single piece of bluestone supported at one end by the wall, but the remainder of the step is only held up by 2-inches of overlap on the step below. I can normally walk under an arched doorway with the confidence of knowing that the weight of the stone wall above only aids the work of the keystones, but when I climb this staircase I tend to hug the wall-end of the steps a little. But its masterful engineering is a striking reminder of the skill, care and effort required to build in a truly lasting way, especially in our present economy of cost minimisation where concrete and pre-fabricated steel abound.”

P.S. I mistakenly thought the Queen would stay at Edinburgh castle when in the mood for a touch of haggis and tatties but was put right a few days ago when we passed a glittering palace with serious stone walls.
“That’s Holyrood Palace, which is where the Queen stays when in Edinburgh.” Timshel said.
“What about the lovely Edinburgh Castle?” I explained.
“Not enough mod cons.” He said.

* New meaning 18th century!

We have arrived safe and well in Scotland!

Our hosts are a scottish family who stayed with Timshel’s family when visiting Australia a few years ago. The Igoe-Cochrane family (impressively Scottish-sounding name methinks) are Marie Louise, David, and their three boys, Daniel, Robert and Francis. It is lovely lovely lovely to be here.

We arrived yesterday morning, slept a little and then made ourselves get up for a few hours before crashing again. Reuben needed some convincing that 2am wasn’t 2pm. He wanted to play and kept shouting Ma! Dad! Ma! Ma! DAD! in a bid to rouse us from our our stupour. What a time to nail the whole “Ma/Dad” thing. He was very cute, but it WAS 4am. We stifled our giggles and feigned sleep. Until he woke up again a little later wanting lunch. Poor little fella. So a quick feed and re-settle.

I have just woken up to our second day in Scotland and Marie has assured me that it is friday. I had no idea what day or time it is. was. will be. or something. Bit jetlagged.

Their is eleven hours difference between Scotland and Australia. It was a trip to the other side of the world. As Timshel reflected, you can’t get much farther apart unless you flew from New Zealand to Oslo, and even then the weather would be more similar. The day we left Australia, it was 33C. The week before we left we had had a string of 40C days. When we arrived at Heathrow, it was -1C, and Scotland had had several -5C days in a row. Brrrrrrrrrrrrr.

So how was the flight?

Arduous, fun, arduous and fun again. This being our first
international flight we were like two excited ten year olds
“Look, a toothbrush and tiny toothpaste!”
“The alcohol is FREE?”
“Oh so the bassinet folds down into our lap, how cute”.
By the end of our flight, however, I had a working hypothesis that the person
who designed the whole parents bit of the plane had major issues with their own
parents and so subliminally wished all parents all over the globe to SUFFER. The bassinett did fold down into your lap, the armrests were immovable and the nappy change tray was just that; a tray. Everytime I changed Reuben I would return to
Timshel muttering “Change tray my ass! A tray is for a cup of tea and a piece
of toast, not a squirmy 10 kg pup of a lad!” to which he would respond
“Look,they gave us a pair of socks with no heels!”

Reuben did very well and was super-keen on meeting and greeting EVERYONE. He has only just learnt to walk and delights in squirming his way into little gaps. Planes are full of little gaps, mostly between people. I spent a lot of time trying to guage whether his visitations were welcome or not, “This is our baby Reuben, do you mind if he looks out your window/climbs into your lap and sucks your tie/tries to drink your chardonnay?” Most people were happy to have a quick visit before Reuben moved on to the next seat.

The flight from Heathrow to Edinburgh was exciting and beautiful. We had a
WINDOW SEAT (!!!) at the back of the plane, a sausage, chutney and scrambled egg ciabbatta roll and sleeping baby across our laps. Only an hour to go before we reached our destination. Bliss!

I really cherished that window seat; after 24 hours in the air it was wonderful to finally FEEL like we were flying. I watched the landscape slide under us in that seemingly miraculous way and half-expected an angel to fly past and give a little wave.
It’s a great opportunity and always bizarre for me.

So hear we are. Edinburgh. Haven’t been out to explore yet. On the way home from the airport I noticed lots of stone buildings, deciduous brush and double-decker buses illuminated by a very beautiful blue-white light. I said groogily “I feel like I’m in an episode of ‘The Bill’”. (Which is, of course, a pretty stupid thing to say. especially to a Scot.) Later that day, someone arrived on the front door for Robert’s guitar lesson and he had an accent just like the Igoe-Cochranes. I realised with a shock that EVERYONE here talks strangely. No wait, WE talk funny everyone else talks normally.
So I’m enjoying the differences. The water does goes down the plug hole in the opposite direction (no really, it does, I checked). The Mac keyboard has a £ key. The weetbix here are called Weetabix and they have round edges! The toilet flushes with a little handle.
We haven’t ventured out of the house yet so I’m busting to get out this morning. I haven’t ridden on a double-decker bus since kindie. The stroller is packed, very excited must go will write soon bye.

just went outside arrggh VERY cold must wrap baby in more clothing bye.

Arriving in Heathrow Airport for the first time was like meeting an old Aunt who had been a famous movie star in another age. Having her so much about her I expected her to be sassy, bold and polished but she was the airport equivalent of an old lady with saggy pantyhose and her petticoat hanging low. Heathrow was vaguely familiar in a familial kind of way, but in such bad repair that it was depressing. Old travelators that had ceased to function were left lying about with their inner mechanisms exposed and piles of old chairs could be found napping in strange corners. Bits of machinery that I expected to be hidden behind shiny panels were just kind of hanging around. I spotted gaffa tape holding bits together. Very disconcerting. Being a practical person I understand that gaffa tape does have an important role to play in the mechanics of daily life but I do not want to see it in an airport.* Especially moments before I lock myself up in a metal canister which is then “driven” into the sky.

* If the Singaporeans ever had to use gaffa tape to stick bits of a machine together then it would be colour co-ordinated tape, cut (not ripped off the roll with their teeth) on a neat diagonal. They would place a nice shiny panel in front of the offending gaffa tape and perhaps post a guard in front of the bit of recalcitrant machinery. Just in case. I know some may think that approach is ridiculous (HI Timshel!) but that’s the level of control I expect from an airport.

Reuben peering out of the plane window on arrival at Edinburgh Airport

Whenever I mentioned that our stopover was Singapore airport friends would moan contentedly like someone was scratching their back in exactly the right spot, and then sigh
“Ahh Singapore airport.”

I soon found out why. Whilst plane travel is risky, dirty, squishy and highly inter-personal, Singapore airport is controlled, clean, spacious and impersonal.

We arrived at the airport in the sub-human stupour of ickiness that flying economy class (baaaa/moooo) provides. Unslept, unshowered and groggy we were shoe-horned out of the plane onto kilometres of bright carpet. I think the carpet had been carefully commissioned for the job at hand; its vast acres immediately restored my lost sense of personal space whilst the pattern roused me from my grogginess. We staggered forward, noticing nice big green plants and smiley guards that looked like they had been raiding the wardrobe of a 70’s cop show. Before long signs started appearing as if anticipating our needs: “Toilets,” “Refreshments,” “Showers,” “Restored Humanity”*.

Everything was sparklingly clean. Most shops spared you the agony of having to think too hard whilst sleep-deprived by accepting different kinds of currency. The staff of the coffee shop we chose made international baby cooey noises at Reuben.

Timshel just looked over my shoulder, read this entry, and thinks I am exaggerating.
“You’re making it sound like heaven”.
To which I narrow my eyes, nod sagely and whisper
“Maybe it was, my friend, maybe it was”.

* Ok, I made that last one up.

Until we leave on the 8th of february we are staying at the home of a good friend. Sarah is a busy woman with a full life but has generously made room for us. And we in turn seem to have completely taken over her home. Sitting in the loungroom I am surrounded by toys, unpaid bills, overdue library books, lists of things to do, piles of unfolded clothes and nappies, computer bits and our half-packed packs. Somewhere around here is our 1 year old child, I can hear his little muffled voice.

Leaving the country is so easy in the movies. Throw suitcase out of cupboard and onto bed. Toss clothes into suitcase randomly whilst checking window to see if wild band of gun-happy mexicans have yet to arrive. Slap suitcase shut and tuck passport into back pocket whilst checking window to see if herd of brain-eating camels have yet to arrive. Run to car, drive to airport, checking revision mirror for swarm of bird-flu infested chickens. Have brief yet earnest pleadings with airline staff before LEAVING THE COUNTRY. Easy-peasy.
It has taken Timshel and I MONTHS to leave our beloved country.

I think we are getting there though; slowly sorting through all those little tasks that need to be done. Like our tax. We have finally filed the numerous (close to 10!) outstanding tax returns that were overdue. Our accountant assured us that a few years ago that kind of administrative neglect would of seen us detained at the airport. Eeek. What about all those bohemian types that shunned the tedium of real life but still fluttered about the world like excited moths? I don’t think THEY did their tax.

Home is Footscray, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

One week before I leave.

It is hot, humid and raining heavily. Footscray reeks of coriander, fish sauce and pork in this kind of weather. Footscray is in Melbourne’s west, the cement side of town. It has a reputation for drugs and Vietnamese noodle houses. The food is brilliant and cheap, the drug deals aren’t always obvious but the effects of drugs are.

I am shopping, pushing Reuben in his stroller down the main street when someone approaches me from behind and grabs my bag. The bag is attached to the back of Reuben’s stroller. The guy yanks at the bag, I yank it back and all we succeed in doing is throwing the stroller about. After a few moments of surreal wrestling I think to myself
“This bloke is trying to take my bag. I think this is called a ‘bag snatch’.”

I decide the best thing to do is yell.*
“Help! Help!” “Someone call the Police” “Go away!” “Help!” “What are you doing?”
I feel supremely stupid yelling like this. More stupid as the seconds tick by. Eventually numerous folk emerge from their own shocked watching and grab the bloke. He is a Vietnamese bloke aged between 50-60. He doesn’t look like a bag-snatcher. He doesn’t act like a bag snatcher; various people come to my aid, the police are called and still the snatcher hangs about. He looks upset but doesn’t speak English. There are enough Vietnamese speakers about to translate. He keeps repeating that I have stolen from him.
As I had just left a chemist, I asked him if he was manager of the Chemist. I offer to go back to the chemist and show them the contents of my bag.

He said he owns the bottleshop next to the chemist. I have stolen a bottle of spirits from his bottleshop. He says the bottle is in my bag, and he grabbed my bag to retrieve his bottle of spirits.

Not having been to any bottleshop that morning, I think the guy is an absolute nutter. Comforting Reuben who is crying, I say so. Numerous people offer suggestions as to what should be done. Some say we should sort this issue out before the police come; I should open my bag. I refuse to open my bag until the Police arrive as I don’t want to give this bloke the opportunity to point at anything in it and declare it his. I am unsure if his story of owning the bottleshop is true. So Reuben and I wait for the police. I am glad of the company of two witnesses, an African man and a Vietnamese bloke who hang about. The snatcher lingers near the bottleshop. We all wait, trying to shelter from the rain. I am glad that Reuben seems happy enough and unscathed. The African man leaves. We wait some more. The vietmanese witness wanders down the street a little and I cast nervous glances in the direction of the bottleshop. The bottleshop looks pretty run-down. I think
“Grabbing people at random would hurt your business” but also wonder if the snatcher really DOES think I stole something. Mental illness is regarded as very shameful in Vietnamese culture and often goes untreated. He may be paranoid.

The Vietnamese bloke I am with counsels me
“I’m not saying that you stole anything, but if you did, it’ll look much better if you bring it out now before the cops come.”
The police come. They search my bag, and I get a little teary as I explain my side of the story. The police ask the snatcher to apologise after hearing a translation of his side of the story. He approaches me and his son translates for him.
Avoiding my eyes, he says he is very sorry. He thought I had stolen from his shop.
“Does anyone in the bottleshop speak English?” I ask.
“My mum speaks a little, but not really” says the son.
“Tell your parents that they have to start talking to people. They can’t just grab people like this.” The son translates. The father replies that people often steal from his shop. He had hurt himself only last week, fallen down. I sigh and don’t really know what to do. I hold out my hand. We shake hands.

As I harness Reuben back into his stroller, I notice that I am shaking. I think the bottleshop owner would be shaking too. The policeman smiles down at us,
“All part of living in Footscray, I’m afraid”.
He grins encouragingly.

I would of loved to have made some pithy comment about the irony of it all, or the struggles of living in a multicultural community. Perhaps I could of declared my love for the vibrancy of a place like Footscray. All I did manage to do was shake my head and swear.

* Reflecting on my immediate reaction to the bag snatch (yelling like a banshee), helped me realise how we fall back into societal roles even in emergencies. What do I mean? Well, I felt pathetically passive just yelling for help but in another respect it was the easy option because it was expected. I was a woman, with a baby in tow, attacked by a man. What do women do in such a situation? They yell for help.
What do 6 foot tall blokes do when attacked or mugged? Are they allowed to ask for help? I reckon if I was a heavy-set 19 year old bloke from Footscray I would feel like I had little choice but to resort to physical violence in such a situation. Simply to save face. If I had done that a week ago I may have ended up with a charge of assault.

Timshel, Shelley and Reuben depart for Scotland on the 8th of February.

We are off! We are away! Okay, we have not left the country yet but we HAVE LEFT THE BUILDING. We are out of our house. All those exclamation marks and capitalisation are due to my immense relief (and genuine disbelief) that the hell of moving is over. We are now convalesing at our friend Sarah’s house, lying prone on the couch, watching tennis in 40°C heat. Every now and then I am roused from my exhaustion by a feeling of immense jubilance, fear and freedom. I roll off my end of the couch, lunge at Timshel, and, grabbing him by the shoulders, shout “We have NO HOUSE!” Reuben, playing with pegs in the middle of the room, holds a peg up and shouts “Blaaaaammph”.

How can I capture the agony of the last few days? Imagine spending an afternoon wrapping your head in packing tape. Followed by an evening peeling the tape off your head. Slowly. Moving house was about that much fun.

Days and days of really hard physical work fuelled by reduced sleep (6-7 hours not enough when breastfeeding) and bad food (in a week we sampled the fine delights of BBQ chicken, pizza, pies, fish and chips, kebabs, more chips, and vietnamese). My muscles ached from lifting boxes, my ego hurt from having to ring up friends and beg for help/cars/trailers, and my brain hurt from trying to figure out whether a box that contained an anti-pasto platter, an umbrella, 36 pegs, washing detergent and my grandfathers polished stone collection should be labelled “Laundry”, “What the hell” or simply “A box”.