Musings from Millport

Millport occupants have been horrified by a spate of break ins recently, one while the house’s occupants were still in their beds. They appear to be targeting big houses, (sensibly enough, I suppose..) and if they break into George St, the only thing they could possibly nick is some poly filler and a slowly deflating air bed.

However it’s alarming residents,  and holiday home owners feel particularly anxious.

My mind however, as always, has run off at a bit of a tangent. The burglars apparently broke into the first house at five in the morning. As the first ferry over from the mainland is not until seven o’clock, I deduce- ooh get me, Sherlock Holmes!- that they must have spent the previous night on the island. I can’t help wondering what they did. Did they pop into the Ritz cafe for a wee marshmallow ice , and sit in a booth quietly discussing their plans? Did they book into the George hotel, or the Ambler guest house for the night, perhaps asking politely for a really early wake up call to their room? Perhaps they asked for a nice early breakfast, you know, to set them up for a bit of robbing- you can’t do it on an empty stomach, I wouldn’t have thought…

And finally, why did nobody notice them in their stripy jumpers, eye masks and carrying bags marked

“SWAG” ?

You would think they would be fairly conspicuous, even in the midst of the holiday makers who have descended on Millport to enjoy the Greenock Fair. Although if they favoured a shell suit and trainers, and those nifty train track on the side of their head, perhaps not.

Anyway. My neighbour Sandra has kindly donated some voile fabric panels to stop any beady eyed burglar from looking into the windows at Crawford St. I fully expect to see some crest fallen burglars on the ferry home, who will be doubtless muttering

” Blast! Those pesky voiles! I couldn’t see a bloomin’ thing!”

Indeed , you might say that they have been… oh wait.. I feel a poem coming on…

don’t go robbing at the Boyles

you will find that you’ve been foiled

By her neighbour’s window voiles.

It’s been a difficult month for us all at Boyle Bungalow.

First we had personal tradegy. Then we have had job uncertainty. (On my part.) The fact that we have been hemorrhaging money at work for the best part of a year has suddenly come to everybody’s attention, and as area managers, centre managers, directors and bloomin’ Uncle Tom Cobbley and all rush about like headless chickens, me and my boss are left to try and pick up the pieces. Let’s just say most of their schemes to turn the business around are ill thought out, impractical, take no account of what parents want, and don’t even get me started on the difference between good quality, child led play and persuading two year olds to Make Something For Mummy and Daddy. ( so we can fleece their poor parents for £1)

Any hoo. So. Here I am, staring  possible redundancy in the face for the first time in my working life which I suppose ain’t bad considering my very advanced age. And wondering if I can really stomach another job in child care.. ..

Still, every cloud has a silver lining, keep the home fires burning, pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and chin up old girl. The plus side of this month has been a good busy month on my website, lots of enquiries, and several firm bookings.( Also one phone call asking lengthy and convoluted questions about the ferry service, not to book the flat, but just out of interest.. but we’ll draw a veil over that one.)

This week promised to be quiet at work, so I took the opportunity to take a week’s holiday and get down to Millport. I wanted to get some decorating done in George St, and on Friday, I has two lots of renters to let in.

The Happy Cyclists, as Chris and I dubbed them, rented my flat last year. They consist of several middle aged ladies who do a sponsored cycle for a different charity every year.

Last year was for teenage cancer care , and it hardly seems possible that only a year ago I was telling them about a success story, and this year I was telling them about a loss… but I digress.

This year, they were all cycling for MPS awareness and their numbers had swelled from about ten to a mighty twenty. I had a phone call in mid March from a stressed lady asking if I had any other accommodation for the weekend, as their usual landlady had been unable to give them this weekend.( I think with it being Bank Holiday, accommodation is scarce.)

I immediately thought of Pam’s flat, and with just a brief phone call to Jane, we agreed that another eight cheery cyclists could rent her mum’s flat.

Jane’s mum’s flat  is slowly being emptied and sorted out, but as it’s not even on the market yet, we have a bit to go yet. I phoned Jane last week to give her an up date.

“Of course there is still the freezer in the shed to empty..”

“What freezer in the shed?” said Jane suspiciously.

“Your mum had a freezer in the shed. It’s full of food. Didn’t you know?” I replied.

“Oh god. What’s in it?” groaned Jane.

“well….Food. Will I..” (brilliant idea dawning)”.. will I eat it?”

“Er… yes. gotta go. Important clients on their way.”

I’ve known Jane for nearly thirty years, and one of the things I love about her is that she is the complete antithesis of me. She’s ambitious, driven, political, sharp… and she has a heart of gold.She is Perfect Daughter’s god parent and I love the idea that Perfect Daughter has both sides of the “motherhood ” coin to see.( Jane gave birth to Katie and almost immediately asked for her cell phone and a fag.)

So off I went to Millport on the Monday with my customary list of  “Thing To Do” including an ambitious “Eat the contents of Pam’s freezer”  underlined in red.

When I arrived I had a quick appraisal. Hmmn. Most food had “best before” dates, which I take with a big pinch of salt.

i started with some salmon, and some rice, which had a “best before” date of 2008. Cautiously I helped it down with some beer which had a “best before ” date of 2009. Then I watched telly and knitted, and waited to see if I died.

With some surprise I awoke feeling refreshed, alert, and ready to take all the crap off the bathroom walls in George St. I’ve decided I need to curtail myself to one job, and that job was going to be:

“PAINT THE BATHROOM”

Because if I don’t I have a tendency to move from job to job, with little effect. You know.. “ooh, thats a big gap in the skirting. I wonder where the filler is… oh… gosh.. look at that tooth brush holder on the shutters?? That’s odd.. it’s really stuck too…..oh my! coffee time!!”

And so  on.

So I did get all the random bathroom holes filled in, despite the sunshine beckoning me outside. I listened to Radio four as I did this, and when I finally stopped for a cuppa, I made friends with Ivy The Amazing Fluffy Cat from upstairs. Ivy likes my flat a lot and I like Ivy because her legs are so fluffy she looks like she is wearing plus fours. This makes me laugh every time.

Thursday I finally got the bathroom painted a fetching shade of Pale Blue (the Thatcher Years) which I had finally decided was the only shade which looked half decent in a cludgie with no windae.

I must have been hanging about in Lucy’s Attic 24 too much (damn that girl!!)- for which I hold a cat entirely responsible.  Because I now want 50’s floral accessories to soften the look a tad, and am on E bay looking for Kath Kidson.

I had out of date paella for tea, out of date wine (complete with sediment) and slept the sleep of the just.

Friday was cyclists day.  They told me they were arriving at four, which gave me plenty of time to have a cuppa with Sandra, my next door neighbour and get every thing ready in two flats.  No bed linen required, which is a godsend, as sixteen lots of linen plus towels would have kept me going at the washing machine for weeks!

When I ambled up to Crawford st, I could see a sea of purple wigs, and the sound of raucous laughter. That’ll  be my cylists I thought.

And indeed it was. I felt I should have an umbrella to tell them to muster under, like a tour guide, as I let them all into the flats. explained bed settees, hot water, showers and beds. They all seemed perfectly happy with Pam’s flat, so I hope this bodes well for the season.

Then I headed up to George St, more Radio Four ( no telly) and another out of date meal.  This time curry, rice,  Guinness, and  at bed time some toast and peanut butter.

Again I slept well, woken only by the gentle slap of sea on sand from Kames Bay, audible if I leave the window open. Even the slow puncture on the Aero Bed didn’t disturb me.

But all good things must come to an end ( so they tell me) and after a lovely breakfast in The Dancing Midge- highly recommended!- it was time to take a few photos of my Cheery Cyclists. They had now been joined by some unconvincing “ladies” with beards and hairy arms.

Then it was time to return to Falkirk, which I didn’t much want to do, to be honest, but the kitties were pleased to see me, Big Man was pleased to see me and not be Sole Parent In Charge Of Teenager.. even Thin White Duke was pleased to see me and suffered a big sloppy kiss from me on his downy little face…

So it’s count my blessings time and battle on, and see what the summer brings.

Another weekend spent moving stuff around the island- I’m wondering if there is a career to be made from house clearances?

Jane is becoming increasingly fretful about her mum’s house- she lives outside Inverness, so Millport’s not exactly handy for her to pop down and continue the clearance. She also has a proper ,grown up , high powered job, with ,like, deadlines and everything, so carving time out from her busy schedule to get down for a few days is hard. And because Jane is my very oldest and dearest friend, and she’s been a really good friend to me in various hours of need, I said I’d help.

Big Man has already been down to paint the walls of the wee back bedroom, where Pam had cunningly painted round the sideboards, so I said I’d go and give it a bit of a spring clean and tidy up .

There was a lot of post behind the door when I arrived on Thursday. I dropped it into the lawyers, and told them I was giving the place a once over, and the lawyer said that was good, as they had already been round to try and take a few photos and found the place a bit..(there was a delicate pause while he tried to think of a tactful way to put it..) cluttered. I agreed cheerfully. It certainly is.

I had two lots of renters in my own flat in Crawford St. One for the weekend, one for a Monday to Friday let. That meant two lots of bed changing, and quite a bit of cleaning .Plus I wanted to go to George St and start tidying up the detrius of two builders, a plasterer, a joiner, a plumber and a tiler.( Admittedly some of these were the same person,) but there still seemed to be a lot of whaddymacallits, bits of pipe, screws, bags of grout and bits of wiring to clean up before Big Man starts papering. I would paper- I can, you know,- but I’m too short to reach the top of the walls even on the highest rung of the step ladder . (Well not the very highest, I wobble too much up there. My bazoombas tend to unbalance me, I reckon)

So. I started off in Clyde St ( Jane’s mums. ) I bagged up all the charity stuff I could find. Pam liked to buy photo frames, I could tell. Then I humped it into the wee back room, where Big Man had taken the single bed apart in order to paint the walls. Then I cleaned the kitchen while listening to Radio Four. I’m getting quite caught up in the Archers.

Then I trotted back to Crawford St. (Mine ) I stripped the beds, hoovered, cleaned the cooker, made up the beds and moved the futon into the bedroom as this lady had a lot of children. (This means you can put all the children to bed, and sit with your wine before retiring on the bed settee, pausing only to threaten said children if they don’t turn the light out and go to sleep NOW…)

The futon does not like me and the feeling is mutual. It is hard to move, and has bits of wood which attack your ankles as you drag it about. Anyway, I got it in, made it up with fresh bed linen, tidied up, let the renters in, and went back to Clyde St. I started on the shed. It was also full of photo frames and Ikea tea lights( We’ve all done it haven’t we? you go in for one thing and then you see the tea lights and you just think och, I might as well..) Pam seemed to give into her impulse buying mood a lot so I took some along to George St and started to tidy up there. By this time it was late, and I was tired, and I realised I had left the milk I’d bought in Clyde St. Sod it, I thought I’m not walking back, and I bought some  more from the handy shop on the corner.

I didn’t sleep at all well. The flat is dusty ,which made me a bit wheezy, and the aero bed was chilly and a bit soft.( Still not got slow puncture properly repaired.)

I awoke in the chill hours of dawn and felt a bit gloomy, before forcing myself into the shower and  then I had a cuppa. I would have had coffee to wake me up more, but the coffee was in Clyde St too…

Back along to Clyde St- feeling increasingly sad as I bagged up more stuff. Why do we all collect so much stuff? What’s it for? Who do we buy it for?

Then I tried to put the single bed back into the bedroom. Big Man had told me it was worse than the futon to move- with bizzarre “spring loaded legs” and it weighs a ton. I managed the headboard and foot board, but half way out of the front bedroom I got the base wedged between the walls and the door. I tried backing up- no good. I tried to do a sort of three point turn in Pam’s narrow hallway. The legs sprung out and jammed against the walls.I tried shouting “PIVOT” like Ross in Friends. Sweating a bit, I regarded it with hatred, and shoved it unceremoniously back into the front bedroom.

I was just taking a bag of crap out to the bin, when I noticed a lady hovering around the back gate. As I approached, she asked me if I was family, as she’d put a note through the door asking if the house was coming on the market. I assured her Big Man had given the details to Jane, who had passed it on to the lawyer, and the house would be on the market soon, so she would be contacted then. She was obviously trying to see past me into the house, when an idea dawned on me.

“would you like to see inside?” I asked kindly.”You would? Lovely. Maybe your husband would help me with a rather tricky bed base, while you’re in?”

They nearly fell over themselves to get in, and while the husband had the brilliant idea of tying the legs up ( the bed legs, not mine or his wife’s legs… not in public, surely..) with Pam’s tie backs from the curtains,  I gave the wife a guided tour. They had a lot of tricky questions for me which I was unable to answer. Who owned what bit of the garden? Who owned the flower pots at the front? Was in mains sewage or septic tank? what was being left in the way of furniture? ?

I made encouraging but non committal noises and the husband and I carried the bed base, tamed at last, through to the other room. Then they left, and I treated myself to a coffee and a roll and sausage in the Ritz.

Later that night I sat outside Pam’s flat and dangled my legs over the sea wall while I had a beer. (Thanks, Pam.) I’ll be sorry to see the house go- I’ve got lots of happy memories ,from Perfect Daughter’s first holiday to Millport at three weeks old, when we stayed at Pam’s, to all the barbecues we had over the years with all our kids.

Perhaps my melancholy is also partly to do with getting Crawford St ready for another year of letting- inevitably it feels less like “my ” flat over the summer, and not having George St finished yet is making me feel a bit rootless. They say home is where the heart is, but where is that ,really?

After another beer I thought I may as well sleep at Pam’s in Clyde St. I had another lot of bed stripping etc to do on the Sunday, ready for my Monday renters. Besides, the coffee was here. As I drifted off to sleep , I realised that the coffee was here, but my back back containing my clean undies was in George St. Cursing silently, I fell into a deep sleep.

On returning home, late on Sunday, I discovered that nobody had kept on top of thing in Falkirk. Carpets unhoovered, washing in piles, filthy bathroom….

Thanks, guys.

So. Easter Weekend. Eggs, chocolate, chicks, a nice walk in the Spring sunshine perhaps?

Not on your nelly. No, Big Man and myself have spent most of the weekend shifting rubbish about like a couple of binmen.

We arrived on Friday evening, ready to welcome our first lot of renters of the year in on Saturday. My friend Jane was coming too, to try and clear out her mum’s house and get it ready to sell, and also to shift things about a bit to allow some friends and family to make use of it as a holiday house over the summer. Property in Millport is selling poorly- often taking six or eight months to sell, or even longer. There’s one flat that was for sale when we began looking for Crawford St in 2007, and I swear to God it’s still for sale.

Jane and her family arrived about an hour after we did, and I popped over to find her surrounded by random objects which she was picking up, looking at and putting down somewhere else. It didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere, and her husband and daughter,plus the two dogs, Barney and Archie, weren’t really helping. Barney and Archie didn’t much like Granny Pam’s house and showed their feelings by whining a lot and standing on my foot.

I’d left Big Man trying to get the satelite box working. On the way down we’d stopped at Maplin for him to buy yet another gadget to assist with this- the third such bit of hardware. The dish has never been the same since he decided to give it ever such a gentle poke with the broom handle, to  gain better reception. after that, it stubbornly refused to work at all, and showed programmes from lots of other countries, including a huge ammount of German porn. It’s not without it’s charm, of course, but not exactly what my Easter renters will be looking for, I suspect.

Anyway, back to Jane. Her biggest headache was, of course, what to do with all the rubbish- a thorny problem facing all residents of the island. No dump, no free council pick up, pavements too narrow to leave items out for days at a time …expensive ferry fares for anything bigger than a car. The two sideboards in the dining room are large, bulky and ugly. Would I like one, asked Jane hopefully? No, I wouldn’t. No? well, what about a hostess trolley? I  pointed out that when you live in a room and kitchen, a hostess trolley is a bit of a pointless exercise. I couldn’t even use it  to woo Phil Spencer on.. far too wobbly. To say nothing of it’s dangerous hot plate..

Jane was not disheartened by my lack of enthusiasm for her two sideboards. clearly she intended to wear me down over the weekend. She presented me with some of her mum’s wine collection and some out of date beer, and Big Man and I retired to our own flat.

The next day my renters arrived , concerned that I had not replied to their two emails they had sent that morning about their time of arrival. Rather bemused, I explained that I’d given them my mobile number to text me as they got onto the ferry, and since I don’t have a Bramble, or whatever the blasted thing is, emails are not going to get to me. They admitted they wondered if they had been conned out of their money … I suppose I should put that in my contact details- mobile only.

Sandra next door asked if I could get people to put their own bin out - and put the right rubbish in the right bin. This is another rubbish related problem- the recycling bins go out every fortnight and it’s hard for renters to keep track of what week is which, let alone what type of rubbish goes in where. Then bin day is Tues, so Big Man and I aren’t always there…

I promised I’d come up with some solution, as I’m aware that Sandra takes care of  a lot of things that aren’t her responsibility.

Then I made good my escape. Cap’n Pugwash and I had arranged a rendez voos in Largs. I kissed Big Man goodbye and assured him that I would be home before dark, and headed off to Nardinis to see Barney. We passed a fascinating hour in Nardinis, discussing Kc’s pu’s, his daughter Saga, hoarding things… all sorts of things! Cap’n  Pugwash twinkled delighfully and bought me coffee and cake ,and I enjoyed the whole experience very much. Then I bought some milk and bread before heading back to Millport to tell Big Man all about it. In my absence, he’d tidied up George St so we could stay the night there, and blown up the Aero Bed. All the rubbish, including the old windows, was neatly stacked in the kitchen. I prepared our first meal in the new kitchen and we toasted our new abode- so very nearly finished now!- in style with a bottle of out of date sparkling wine.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur ,to be truthful, and I awoke at some point in the night with a very dry mouth, to find Big Man thrashing about on the bed like a beached whale. The Aero bed seems to have a slow puncture, and as it slowly deflated, it became harder and harder for us to turn over . As he writhed about , breaking wind exuberantly as he did so, he grabbed the first thing that came to hand to get a bit of purchase- and that thing was my bahookie. He nearly knocked me out of the bed entirely. I drifted back off to sleep thinking about bins and hostess trolleys.

Easter Sunday- the weather was really beautiful, and Millport was very busy. Lots of families were out enjoying the sunshine, riding bikes , visiting the Garrison grounds for the organised egg Hunt. Big Man and I had breakfast in the Dancing Midge  which was also very busy- I hope this is the start of a good  season for Millport!

Then we went to help Jane again- this time to put old jars of food in our wheelie bin as hers was now full. Just at the gate, Garry dropped an old jar of Bovril, which had to be washed away with boiling water- it smelt wonderful and attracted an interested flock of seagulls.

Eventually Jane had to admit defeat and stop trying to persuade me that what George St really lacked was a sideboard and hostess trolley combo. She reluctantly hired a van, and took the offending articles back to Edinburgh.  Much to her horror, as she moved the sideboards to put them in the van she discovered that Pam had cheated a bit and painted the walls round them.There are now two sideboard shaped white patches in the dusky pink paint, and we all agreed it wasn’t a good look for prospective buyers.Then she, the dogs, husband and daugher headed back to Edinburgh to meet the van, leaving Big Man and myself to put the double bed up and tidy up. Much to my glee ,she forgot to take the apple pie that was in the fridge. Big Man and I had some with a coffee, and I read the paper while Big Man made up for his poor night’s sleep and dozed on the couch.

Then it was back to George St to load up the car with yet more rubbish. Happily the dump was open, and we threw it all in skips and headed for Falkirk.

My mobile rang. It was Jane, worriedly telling me she’d left a pie in the fridge. I told her we’d eaten half of it, and brought the rest home. She pointed out that if we’d taken the hostess trolley, we could have taken it home warmed, but she knew she was beaten.

We seem to have spent the entire weekend moving other people’s crap around the bins of Millport, but we’re surely a step closer to the goal of having George St completed by the summer?

After a shockingly short illness, my friend Jane’s mum has died from cancer. She had lived in Millport for many years, and we had stayed on many an occasion in both her tiny  room and kitchen in Stuart street, and  latterly her bigger two bedroom flat just off Clyde street.

Granny Pam, as my children called her, was unfailingly glamorous. Indeed, as a young woman, she quite terrified me, as she was so unlike my own mum (who was more a tweed skirt and cardigan  kinda woman. ) Pam was always perfectly co- ordinated, often sporting bright red nail polish, sun glasses and gold coloured slip on shoes, her hair delicately coloured and a good bit of bronzer to help her Millport tan.

She seemed to warm to me as the years went by- initially I suspect my lack of education at Hutchieson’s School for Girls in Glasgow raised a few questions in her mind, but by the time we were visiting Millport with our children ,and Jane was coming with her daughter Katie, she seemed to have accepted my undoubted lack of breeding.

Often we would all go over for barbecues, with the inevitable table groaning with alcohol. Indeed, Pam seemed to take a perverse pleasure in getting me absolutely leggless.

“Have some more wine, Jen.. oh c’mon it will only sit in the cupboard and go to vinegar! Just one more glass!”  she would insist, pouring me out a glass of wine so large I could have a swim in it. Then she would watch me stagger across the rocks that divided her house from Crichton St, laughing quietly as I fell over and into the rock pools on the way.

Pam never got noticably drunk- she could drink hard men under the table. Any time of day was the right time for a small sherry, or a gin and tonic in Pam’s view.

Anyway. Cancer reared it’s ugly head for the second time in a frighteningly short time for me, and Pam died two weeks ago. I wanted very much to go to the funeral- partly out of fondness for Pam, but also to support Jane, and her siblings. Much to my irritation, I was unable to get the day of work, due to lack of available supply staff. I apologised to Jane, and decided to go down after work that day, and take the next day off work instead, so that I could at least see Jane after the funeral and help wherever I could.Perfect Daughter would accompany me, as she and Katie are very close.

It was a bit of a rush, but we got the last ferry, and I planned to pop into the newsagents for milk as we got off the bus. I was pretty hungry- lunch had been soup and a sandwich at 12.30, and it was now 8.30. Perfect Daughter and I clambered onto the bus, and debated what hostelries might be open to get a bite to eat in. As we rounded the corner into Millport, it became clear that something was not quite right- the entire town was in darkness. Millport had had a Major Power Cut. The bus disgorged us into inky black darkness -overhead the sky bristled with stars, and Perfect Daughter and I scrabbled about with mobile phones to try and find the flash light option. It really didn’t help, and we walked slowly towards Granny Pam’s flat, and our own flat giggling nervously.

Jane and her sister Carol had found candles, and lots of alcohol, and were entertaining the remaining funeral party with shadow puppetry and gin. (Well, Carol was going strong- Jane looked exhausted.)Katie and her mate Robyn insisted on taking Perfect Daughter to the pub by candle light, but there was no prospect of a cup of tea or any grub. Och well, c’est la vie, I thought, and got stuck into the wine.

Katie and Robyn slept at our flat- the electricity had come back on by eleven. I found a solitary portion of UHT milk in the cupboard, and gratefully sank into my bed with a cuppa tea.

Perfect Daughter had Uni the next day, which made it essential that she should get the half seven ferry, so I was up by half six. No tea.. or toast… I really need to get some emergency supplies in the flat- there was plenty of soup, or beans, but I couldn’t face that for breakfast. I had to wait till the VG shop opened at nine, and by then my stomach thought my throat had been cut.

After a bit of breakfast I trotted across to Pam’s house to see how I could be useful. Jane and Carol went to see some of their mum’s friends who hadn’t managed the funeral either, and I started the grim task of sorting through clothes for the charity shop. Katie assisted me by putting on several amusing hats and posing around the bedroom. At one point she thought she might have found some cool pearl earrings, but on closer inspection they turned out to be Mint Imperials.

it’s always a bit weird going through clothes when somebody dies, isn’t it? All the hand bags, with shopping lists and hankies in them. Not knowing when you use a bag that it’s going to be the last time you use it…I got as much bagged up as I could and started in on the huge pile of make up and toiletries to go in the rubbish. (Later on it transpired that I’d put Jane and Katie’s make up in the rubbish bag too, so I’m not exactly sure I was that helpful, but I’m sure the good intentions were clear!!)

Then I caught the train home. I was tired, a bit hung over, and still quite hungry, but I had time before I left to slap a bit of lipstick on and tidy my hair.

Pam would have approved, I felt.

Behold! Fall down and worship, every one of you, the beauty that is my new Ikea kitchen! for what it lacks in space is made up for in the ingenuity of it’s single tap that can, with only a deft flick of the wrist, deliver cold water and then hot water straight after it! So long as you have remembered to turn on the Big Red Switch at the side!

Sharp eyed readers will notice the dear little two ring hob  on which Landlady and Big Man may heat up their tins of beans. How smooth, clean and neat the hob is, as yet unsullied by Big Man’s Cooked Breakfast.

Other, sharper eyed readers will note the lack of space between hob and sink - barely room, we may feel, for a spot of Hows your Father with Phil Spencer. Or anybody else, for that matter. Do not fear, gentle readers. Big Man has kindly suggested the purchase of a small trolley which can hold the microwave, or, should Phillip come a- calllin’ , a small Landlady.

Sorted. The cupboards are filling up nicely with saucepans, plates, cheese graters, and biscuit barrels. No mugs as yet- a fact which escaped Landlady as she proudly boiled the kettle for her first coffee in the flat since before October. Coffee granules? check. Milk? check. small choccy biccie? Yup. Mug… Hmmnnn. So being an ever resourceful soul, I used the wee little casserole dish instead. It tasted divine.

Next week the joiner/ window man is going in. More photos to follow.

since the beginning of January, George st has been undergoing a bit of a transformation. The kitchen units, ably put together by your very own Handy Landylady, are actually in the kitchen alcove now, and with a bit of wrestling the plumber/ tiler chap has got the sink, two ring hob and extractor fan in place too. I am mad with excitement at the thought of being able to put some things in these kitchen units, and also having running water for the first time for several months. Such simple pleasures as being able to make a cup of tea, and wash the cup up afterwards  are within tasting distance. My boss gave me a huge box of kitchen utensils a few months ago, and I can hardly wait to get them all washed and put into the kitchen! A certain kitty, whose recent blog featured the Sixth Cupboard of Happiness, will no doubt understand the frissons of excitement that run through me at the thought of a brand new kitchen unit to be filled up all neatly.

For I am, by nature, a tidy and methodical person, who likes nothing better than to open a cupboard and find neatly labelled or stacked items. I find it infinitely soothing to see my towels in neat fluffy piles, or my pilowcases snugly fitted together in pairs, according to colour, pattern, size and matchability to a duvet.

Alas, Big Man is more your free spirit type of chap. He randomly hurls single duvets in the pile for doubles, important documents into the folder for receipts.. you get my drift, I am sure.

so it is with secret pleasure that I look forward to a few days spent in Millport in a fortnight,by myself. Well meaning friends express regret that Big Man cannot get time off work to join me, and I absently agree, but my mind is feverishly working on relining   kitchen drawers, shampooing the carpets in Crawford St, and tidying the jigsaws. By myself!

The joiner will follow me into George St at the end of a fortnight, and box in all the pipes, fit new windows, and rehang the doors.

We are so nearly there, I can almost taste it. I will wow you with photos once it’s really there.

Big Man and I set off for Millport on Boxing Day with an air of thinly veiled mutual resentment. I was unimpressed by Big Man’s Xmas gift of a pair of pyjama bottoms that were a size too large and a nightshirt that was a size too small. He was similarly scathing about my present of some waterproof trousers , pointing out that they hinted at some prostrate related incontinence rather than the ” carefree walking in the rain ” vision I was striving for. Well, if the cap fits, dear…

I adopted my default position of Icily Polite, while Big Man tried Denying  Noticing There Is Anything Wrong. By day two I had tried to out maneuver him and gone for Plain Mean, while he trumped me by The Headphones Technique, whereby he simply puts them on and ignores me.

It was loads of fun, I can tell you.

In Millport itself, several things had happened in the run up to Christmas, and none of them was the flat becoming habitable. Firstly, the tiler’s daughter was badly bitten by a dog- how badly depends on which newspaper you read, of course. She had to be taken to Yorkhill Children’s hospital, and we wish her a full and speedy recovery.

Then a tenement flat caught fire, which has completely gutted the whole building. All the flats were holiday flats , and the flames were only spotted by a driver of the gritter lorry, who quickly raised the alarm. It’s unclear how the fire started, but one owner had been down the previous week, and it would seem to be in this flat that the blaze started.  Millport residents are wondering if she left something on which may have started the fire.( I bet she’ ll be off a few folk’s Xmas card list…)

The chemist shop ,Millers, was badly damaged by the water and falling masonry, and had to sell all his stock half price from the back room of a local pub. Big Man rushed me past this pub, clearly fearing I would become over excited by the sight of so much Coty   L’Aimant perfume and Lynxx gift sets.

The flat remains unfinished. However, once New Year is past, all tradesmen have promised me to resume work immediately, and I reckon a push of a couple of days work from them will get us to the point of being able to fit the kitchen. With this in mind, Big Man and I set off for Glasgow Ikea in a state of high excitement. (We had suspended hostilities by this point- I don’t recall how this happened- possibly I  absent mindedly accepted the offer of a cup of tea too warmly, signalling the end of the argument.)

I of course was keen to see the black granite work tops, ideally suited for a spot of How’s Your Father with Phil Spencer, in the fantasy world that I inhabit. Big Man however vetoed this choice, stating that it was foolish to spend so much money on  a small bit of work top then cut two dirty great holes in it for hob and sink. Tsk. Spoilsport….

In the end we opted for the cheapest of everything, and very lovely it is too. No running away with the budget for us Boyles! After treating himself to a hot dog, and me to a coffee and organic muffin- is there no end to the man’s generosity?- Big Man suggested that since we were half way to Millport we might as well take the kitchen units straight down there. We loaded the car up with a pile of unidentifiable boxes labelled “Frammtid”" and “Laggen”, or something like that, and sped off down the snowy motorway back towards Largs and the ferry. It was surprisingly quick to unload the stuff into the flat, and I believe breaks the existing record for Shortest Millport Visit. We arrived on the quarter to five ferry, and got the half five ferry home.

There is only one more thing to note.  Youngest son has always been known throughout my blog here as “Wee Man”. As readers will no doubt see for themselves in the photographs that follow, this is just not accurate. Indeed, he rivals Lanky Boy in ..er.. lankiness, and in view of this and his slightly effete bearing, I hereby rename him “the thin White Duke”.

It only remains for me to wish you a Happy New Year, fellow Bloggers. After a hideous day at work where I managed to fuse all the wall sockets three times in an attempt to plug in enough fan heaters to warm the room up ,  I opted for a bath, wine, and bed rather than the usual obligatory visit to the neighbours. I leave you with a selection of my festive photos. (Phestive Photos?)

I think I might have borrowed that title from the Tourist Board and their official Millport Information Leaflet- if so I apologise. It’s hard not be be alliterative when you live (part time ) on a Scottish Island, don’t you think?

Anyway- I thought I might share some of the photos I have taken this year. Big Man was overcome with envy when he clocked my Big Bro’s camera in the summer, and promptly strode out and bought me an identical one for my birthday.  Which was lovely, but not as altruistic as he would have me believe, as he’s enjoyed it just as much as I have.

I find Millport so photogenic, so beautiful, that I have just kept snapping away in the hope of capturing that unique loveliness that surprises me every time I walk out of my front door. I hope you enjoy them too.

For more years than I care to recall, I have been an avid watcher of programmes about houses- what Big Man calls Housey Housey programmes. There was the one with Carol Smillie and Lawrence Llewyn Bowen, where neighbours would swop keys and decorate each others front rooms. Lawrence would often insist that a Mexican theme, or French Boudoir theme should be applied, and the luckless competitor would have to smile and say how smashing it was, all the while clearly pining for her nice brick fireplace and flat screen telly, instead of badly painted purple rag rolled walls.
Then came” House Doctor,” who would tell you why you couldn’t sell your house. It was often because you had yappy dogs that savaged the ankles of your house hunters, or you had tartan carpets. Or purple rag rolled walls.
“How Clean Is Your House?” is another favourite, as the answer is always a smug “A Lot Cleaner Than That One- I Can At Least See My Carpet” .(Well, in most rooms.)
“Build a New Life in the Country” seems to involve couples driving around looking at big houses in the countryside, complete with Agas, but since you rarely find out which one they bought, if any, it doesn’t satisfy me somehow.
“Location Location, Location ” is one of my favourites. This is at least in part due to the fact that I have developed an unhealthy and slightly stalker- like obsession with Phil Spencer. I would be very happy for Phil to show me around a house and then take me roughly over the granite worktops with the Belfast sink inset. “Landlady! Really! Behave yourself!” I hear you cry. ( I also think I hear a few of you cry “Landlady! Really! Tell me more?!” but these are the voices best left unheeded, that only besmirch the good name of Island Blogging. )
I am also amazed at the budgets that the couples on Location Location have. Kirstie, bless her Prada heels, will often give a bit of a run down on the couple at the start of the programme, and it goes something like this;
“Cressida and Pablo have a budget of £400,000 to spend on their country residence, and about £300,000 for their pad in London- essential as Pablo works as something incredibly obscure in marketing.. He will return at weekend to be with Cressida at the Kent /Hampshire house. They are looking for five bedrooms,a large garden to exercise the pony, and a paddock as Cressida wants to keep pigs. ”
Five bedrooms? There’s only two of them! Is one for the blooming pony??
I notice that the couple are never called Maggie and Wee Stevie. They are never looking for a room and kitchen in Maryhill ,Glasgow,with a wee bit of back court in which to let the dug out, a black Rottweiler called Rambo.
Phil and Kirstie show Cressida and Pablo achingly beautiful properties. They have large gardens with breathtaking views, aged housekeeping staff, and granite kitchen worktops.(Oh Phil..) Cressida and Pablo find fault with the level of birdsong in the gardens, the colour of the front door knob, or even more inexplicably, tell Kirstie that it lacks “that certain wow factor” . Pffttt. Words fail me.
But my absolute favourite Housey Housey programme of the moment, is “Homes Under The Hammer”. I rush home from the gym , (or even use that as excuse not to go to the gym,) and sit with Liquorice the cat on my knee and a cup of milky coffee by my side and wait in blissful anticipation of this starting. It is deeply satisfying on so many levels.
This programme is all about people who buy houses at auction. The presenters interview them in their newly purchased house, ask them what they intend to do with it, and then revisit them to see how their plans turned out.
They always use a bit of music which has a loose connection to the house or purchaser. For example, if it’s been a GP that has bought the house, they might play “Doctor, Doctor” by The Thompson Twins every time they show this particular house on the show. This is presumably in case the viewer is distracted by, ooh, a fly landing on the coffee table . It cleans it’s front legs… oh, now it’s doing the back ones.. Argghh! I’ve completely lost the plot of this show! Who are these people? Which house did they buy??
The presenter will ask the purchaser how long it will take him to do any renovations. It needs central heating, a new kitchen, bathroom suite, and they’re going to put a conservatory on the back. Well, he says, gazing round thoughtfully, I reckon I can do it in three weeks. And the cost? oh, lets see- about two thousand pounds.
At this point I always tell Liqourice that they are talking complete and utter p**h. Two grand??? Three weeks???? Are they mad?
But, no, when they return to the house, (with a blast of “Doctor, Doctor” to help those folk who have nodded off for a bit,) the entire house is beige carpet and cream walls. The bathroom is all beige wall tiles and power showers, and the garden is neat and tidy with some nice decking. The purchaser appears to have barely broken sweat. He has come in under budget, and it only took him two weeks, with the assistance of his brother. A builder. Aha I say to Liquorice, that’s where we have gone wrong! Big Man has no siblings, and my brother is a Music Development Officer! He’s no help, is he?
( Sorry, Olly, I love you dearly though..)
Then the local estate agents come in and tell the chap that the house is worth twenty five grand more now he’s done the work. The chap looks suitably smug, and the credits roll.
The result of all this is that I feel woefully inadequate now. We have had the flat in George St since May, and have only succeeded in making it into a building site so far. The ceiling needs taken down now, which is holding up the floor tiling, which is holding up the kitchen installation. I long for beige walls, power showers, and even door knobs. I want to put up my pixie door knocker, bought from E Bay and polished up till he sparkles.
In short , I want a house. I want a kitchen. And when I get it, I want granite worktops.