Look to the Cookie, originally uploaded by Shauna.

Our New York hols are sadly at an end. This here is a black and white cookie as seen on Seinfeld ten years ago; I had to give it a crack. It’s cakey as opposed to cookie-ish, nice and spongey with deliciously gooey icing. Like someone ran over a lamington, then stripped off the coconut. Sorta. Phwoar :)

Draft entry from last September when I was addicted to Nigella Express and Gareth tried to contain his disdain for poncy food programmes.

Notes
- Nigella still foxy
- Has abandoned suggestive deep-throating of runner beans
- Still does "Spontaneous" Midnight Fridge Raid at the end of every episode.

SHAUNA:  I wonder where you get that garlic oil?
GARETH:  From London.

SHAUNA:  I can never find those mini chocolate chips.
GARETH:  That's because they're in London. You can only get them in London.

NIGELLA:  I love making quick and easy food for my friends after they've had a stressful, hard day's work.
GARETH:  Get down a pit!

NIGELLA'S DINING COMPANION:  What is that delicious flavour with the chickpeas?
NIGELLA:  It's a bag of rocket, darling.
GARETH:  That's preposterous. What a tosser. Everybody kens rocket. I come fae Fife and even I ken the taste of rocket!

(I love how when Gareth gets irritated about poshness his speech suddenly turns all Fifer-like, eh.)

"Many commonly used kitchen implements are a threat to health and should be thrown away, scientists have warned.

Washing up bowls and re-usable dish clothes are thought to be a particularly good breeding ground for bugs."

The article is from December 2000. If I'd seen it at the time it may have killed my longing to move to the UK, especially with this quote from Professor Hugh Pennington of the University of Aberdeen, one of Britain's leading infection experts:

"I would like to get rid of washing-up bowls altogether. They are an absolute menace."

"I have a feeling that if you've only seen blogs in the past five years (which is probably 95+% of people reading blogs today) you consider comments to be de rigueur and they are entirely divorced from the original concept of a conversation between the reader and the author of the original post. It's not an intimate conversation, it's just another content management feature available to you on the web.

This has a de-humanizing effect that I'm seeing play out more and more often in the weirdest places. People will post about their idle curiosities on their personal blog ("Why does x happen when I do y?") and instead of seeing friendly answers I would expect many years ago, I'll often see someone early on read into the question and assume all sorts of accusations ("well, maybe it's because you are a, b, and c, and everyone knows it!") and watch most followup comments start from there and go into darker directions."

Well, you do see more moronic semi-literate bawbags popping up these days, but it seems to be mostly on really mega personal blogs of Dooceian proportions. I have more issues with shameless pimpsters that skim one entry and write, Great Post, Shauna! This reminds me of my stupid diet pills / miracle face cream/ revolutionary health website which is 10,000 times more infuriating than the olden days of automated comment spam, because at least that was done by a machine!

At least with the blogs I stalk... there is plenty o' cosy chit chat goodness to be found. And here - 105 comments debating the merits of washing dishes in a plastic bowl? That's the sort of thing that makes you want to hump the internet with ecstasy.

I've come to love so many things about Scotland. The fish suppers, the mountains, the graffiti...

At the train station
 

... but I cannot get my head around THE TUB.

You're familiar with a kitchen sink, right? Into which normal people would insert a plug, fill with soapy water and wash their plates?

Over here they ignore the sink and the plug and for some unfathomable reason place a large plastic tub inside the sink and fill that up instead.

 

Why?

Why?

Why oh why?

At first I thought this was just a weird habit of Gareth's, but as I mingled more with the natives I discovered they were tubbing it all over the countryside. My mother-in-law, friends, colleagues...

I just don't bloody get it. What purpose does the tub serve? You've got a perfectly good contraption there already with the kitchen sink, designed precisely for the task. Does the tub have historical significance? Is it an ecological or economical thing?

I've asked Gareth many times, why do they use it?

"Because we just do."

In my quest to fit in to my adopted country I'd come to tolerate the tub over the years and had actually stopped ranting about its pointlessness every single time I did the dishes.

Then my friend Jenny was over from Australia recently. She stared in bewilderment as I turned on the kitchen taps after dinner.

"What's the go with the tub?"

"SEE!" I crowed to Gareth, "Told you it was weird."

After staying with us for a week Jenny filed her report: "I can see only one benefit of the tub. If you forget to empty a cup or saucepan or something, you can tip it down the sink. But apart from that? It's just weird."

I'm curious if the tub phenomenon is a Fife thing or if it's rampant across the land. And what about the rest of the British Isles? Rhiannon reported with great relief when she first moved to London, "No tubs down here" but we've no data for the rest of England.

So... if there's any Scots out there:

1. Do you have a washing up tub?
2. If yes, why the hell why?

Remember how I wrote that ol' book? It's almost two years since Transworld signed me up. The whole publishing process has been the most mental rollercoaster ride and it feels strange to have barely mentioned it, especially when I documented all the other rollercoasters of the past eight years. I was quiet during the book deal and book writing process due to fear of cocking it up then quiet once it was published for fear of sounding like a self-promoting smug git.

But it has been a unique, once-in-a-lifetime experience and I need to get down some of these memories before they fall out of my head. There's so many details in the WNP archives that I'd never have remembered had I not blogged them at the time. I know there's only three people reading WNP now thanks to my criminal neglect (and that's not because I'm too smug and happy to blog, as it has been suggested; just sideswiped by bastard job, etc etc) but I hope you guys won't mind me wittering on about this author stuff.

Every time I've tried to write on WNP this year I've been kind of paralysed with self-consciousness so I'm going to start over and remember how I just used to write about stupid things that happened in my life for the pure hell of it. Woohoo!

To get started here is a wee thing I wrote for Trashionista about life after publishing.

. . .

Sometimes it's still hard to believe I'm a proper published author. There's a dent in the living room ceiling from a champagne cork, popped on the day I signed the deal for Dietgirl, yet apart from that my life looks much the same. I get up, I go to work, I swear at the computer, I come home; I watch University Challenge.

But then I get to have all these delicious Author Moments. Like skulking around doing interviews. I run home at lunchtime to chat to Spanish radio stations; I yak to Australia in the dead of night. I sneak into empty offices, hoping the boss doesn't catch me as I tell yet another journalist how I gained all that weight.

"Nutella!" I hiss down the line, "Yes. That's right. I used to eat it from the jar with a spoon. S-P-O-O-N!"

Then there's all the book stalking. I remember the very first sighting - 23rd December, 1PM, face out and snuggled up to Gordon Ramsay's bio at the local WH Smith. I took photos from five different angles then stood there poking the cover, making sure it wasn't a mirage.

I've managed to curb the habit now, but for weeks I was drawn into every passing bookshop with the same irresistible lure I once felt for the dessert bar at Pizza Hut. My mood soared or slumped depending on whether or not the book was stocked, where it was placed and/or the number of copies. When my publisher told me that ASDA had taken it on, I dragged my husband Gareth around three different stores to witness this first hand. The first two stores didn't have it, and the third had an empty space on the shelf with a plastic label beneath: Amazing Advents, Shauna Reid.

"They don't have it!" I whimpered.

"They might have sold out!"

"Or maybe they changed their minds and never got it in the first place!"

"This is a very tumultuous time for you, isn't it?" said Gareth. "And consequently, for me also."

Best of all has been the lovely surprise of reader emails. Again, I'll always remember the first, from Verity in Warwickshire. I nearly wrote back, Mum? Is that you? I couldn't believe someone had read the book without being nagged by me to do so.

Since then I've had warm emails, funny emails and emails so heartbreaking that I drip snot and tears on the keyboard. I've even had a few confessions: "OMG, I thought I was the only one who ate Nutella with a spoon!"

“Hey! Do you still reckon I’m alright?”

“In what sense?”

“In all the senses.”

“Well… you look nice. But you’re a wee bit mental!”

Down on the misty Solway coast of Scotland lies a music festival called The Wickerman. It's named after the 1973 cult movie - many scenes were filmed in the area. The highlight of the festival is the burning of the big fella on Saturday night, except there's no Edward Woodward-type trapped inside.

This is the 2006 model. Such tardy blogging.
 

Music festivals can bring out my most pathetic insecurities. I don't really drink or partake in wacky substances (got enough problems with sugar and saturated fats already), so at first I stand round feeling dull and clumsy and wobbly. I curse my inability to casually layer tiny garments and look cool despite three days without bathing. I don't even attempt welly boots. But the Wickerman has a more cosy, welcoming vibe. You only get the occasional hipster in the mist.
 

 

The line-up is eclectic with scores of obscure bands and remants of big ones. When we first went in 2006 the headliner was a Ramone. The Ramone. I can't remember which one; the one who wasn't dead. There was also The Blockheads; no Ian Dury of course since he's also no longer with us. This year we had KT Tunstall, Gary Numan and... Hippo! Yep, Dr G took his sexy keyboards on the road.
 

 

I got to be a roadie for five minutes when he had technical difficulties with the Powerbook. The volume control had disappeared from the menu thingy but I totally saved the day. Except for the bit where I might have cocked up a bit because when they jumped into the first song all you could hear was DR G ON THE KEYS! Thankfully nobody in the crowd noticed as they were all merry with their substances. After some quick adjustments the rest of the set was bloody magnificent. They sounded so, so, so good. I was delirious with pride and could have kissed all seven of them if not for their coatings of festival grime.

Meanwhile back at the campsite, the port-a-loos were doing a roaring trade.
 

 

While our pals went to see KT Tunstall (or attempt to see her since the mist was so thick) Dr G and I headed over to the ska tent to see Neville Staple, otherwise known as The Dude from The Specials.

I'm ignorant so I kept referring to him as Arthur Staples. Gareth reckoned I must have him confused with the elderly president of a lawn bowls club. Neville Staple on the other hand is a spritely 53 years old, supremely buff and dancing like a mofo. I only knew Too Much Too Young and A Message To You, Rudy but went crazy with the dancing too. And so did Dr G!

That was when I realised that in almost five years of togetherness I had never seen the Doctor dance. It was surreal! Not because he danced like a dickhead or anything, but you get so used to someone looking a certain way - hunched over a computer or painting a wall or hiking up a hill or sitting behind the wheel of the car. It was so foreign and hilarious and oh so good, shaking up our little world.

Scottish festival food is getting posher these days - lots of noodle bars and organic frou frou. You've gotta look harder for the shitty burger vans.
 

Floating like lillies on a pond.
 

They burned the wickerman at midnight; you could barely make it out the poor bugger in the fog. We were too busy scoffing doon our chips anyway.
 

File footage from 2006!
(More Wickerman pics on Flickr)