"How do we know you're in Scotland?" emailed one cynical WNP visitor this week, "How do we know you're not still in Australia and just being really lazy about updating?"

Indeed, how do we know? I keep forgetting myself, except that I keep saying "wee" all the time and I'm beginning to think lard is one of the five food groups.

There's a heap of photos to post that may serve as proof that I'm not in Oz (or proof of an elaborate hoax). I still haven't got the bastards organised. In the meantime, here's a sample.

A sliver of sexy Scotland, taken somewhere or other as we headed up into the Highlands.

A hairy cow with hair colour eerily similar to my own

A dog in Frankfurt giving me the stinkeye

A dog in North Berwick giving me the stinkeye. He only had one eye. And check out the lady in the back. She is giving the stinkiest eye of all.

Who thought that three years ago today when I started this silly blog in order to look busy at work, that I would crap on for so long? That I'd find brilliant new friends that weren't axe murderers? Or that I'd end up moving overseas just to get some new material?

Step back in time!

"I don't like men who are wet blankets."

"Then you want... a dry blanket?"

"I dunno. I don't like guys who smother you."

"So you wouldn't want a bunny rug then."

"I'm more after a light summer duvet."

"Ohh. I want a wild crocheted rug that you throw over your knees when you get cold at the football."

Things That You Can Do In Australia That You Just Can't Do In Scotland

#1 - The Outdoor Wardrobe

I have fond memories of being one lazy shit during my university days. Former flatmates would have less fond memories. Washing clothes was always an ordeal. We had a hand-me-down "interactive" Hoover Twin Tub washing machine, which is only one step up from pounding your frocks on a rock down by the stream. Two hours later, I'd wander outside to hang everything up on the line. Spent from all that effort, I'd leave them there for days. Sometimes a week or more.

Each (mid) morning I'd venture outside to peer up at the line through bleary eyes, making my selection. I'd unpeg some jeans, a couple of socks, pluck off some undies, then shuffle back inside. In summer the fabrics would be stiff and crinkly. In winter you'd get a touch of frost. Or a spider.

It would have taken all of 30 seconds to take the whole bloody lot off the line, but that would have been too practical.

Now you just couldn't do that here. There's no outdoor clotheslines. There's no bloody sun. There's rain. Not that I would use a clothesline as a wardrobe anymore, mind you. I've reformed.

Oh sweet, sweet lord. I'm getting a hair cut on Saturday. It's been nine weeks. You have to understand how hard this has been for me. I LIVE for the hairdresser, baby. If you could only see the pseudomullet I am sporting right now, you would run for hills and hide oot with the hairy cows.

The receptionist at the salon squealed when I gave her my name and phone number. "Shauna! Just like the girl on Home and Away!"

Cross-posted to Lost In Transit

It's easy to forget that you're a foreigner. There's so many Aussies over here that you can blend in quite easily. But the other day I was repeatedly reminded that I sound "a wee bit funny, hen" by members of the blue rinse set...

Here in Edinburgh, I'm temping at a place that provides emergency alarms for elderly people. I call it Geriatric Rescue, or the I've Fallen And I Can't Get Up Hotline. The other day I was given a list of 150 wrinklies and told to call them up and arrange appointments for their alarms to be reprogrammed.

SHAUNA: Hello! Is that Mrs McWrinkly?

GEEZER: What? Speak up!

SHAUNA: IS THAT MRS McWRINKLY?

GEEZER: Oh aye hen. I'm deaf. What do you want?

SHAUNA: This Shauna from Blahdy Blah, I'm calling about your alarm.

GEEZER: My what!??

Once we'd taken ten minutes to establish what I was calling for, I'd launch into my spiel. But over and over, they kept interrupting me to ask about the accent. Some highlights:

"I'm not paying for this am I? I've not got a lot of money, you know."

"Sooo, you're Australian then, luvvie? Will you personally be fixing my alarm? I'd like to meet you. Ooh yes."

"But I don't understand. Why are you working for them if you're in Australia? How are you going to help me from over there?"

"Is it like Neighbours over there? It's like Neighbours, isn't it. I watch Neighbours."

It's twenty minutes to half an hour to work on the bus each morning, depending on the Moron to Bus Stop ratio. There's always someone who has to argue with the driver, lose their bus pass, not have the right change, or generally mess with the efficiency of Lothian Buses.

But I look forward to the journey. It's a delicious chunk of time to just sit up the top and daydream, to attempt to put on lipstick, peer into peoples backyards, snigger at bad hairstyles, doze briefly, or chase fallen lipstick down the aisle.

There's a lot of elderly people on the route. They're loud and funny and always bitching about the weather. The other day some old biddie got on, flashed her OAP card then sat down. The bus driver called her back and reminded her that she had to pay 40p as it's only free after 9.30 AM.

"Ooh, I clean forgot!" she blushed.

"Yoooo stupid old fart," muttered a sweet little dame in front of me, who looked at least ten years her senior, "Everyone knows that."

Then she gave her the finger.

Another day an old guy went sprawling when a particularly mental driver really hammered on the brakes at his stop. He giggled and brushed off his coat, and we all smiled back at him, knowing it just as easily could have been one of us. Except for one cranky wrinkly who snarled, "Look, sonny. Maybe you're just too old to ride the bus now!"

If the oldies aren't entertaining me, there are plenty of intruiging conversations to drop in on. There's politics...

"You know they keep saying on the news how disappointing the turnout was for the Scottish elections, I can tell ya what the real reason for that is. It's because it's just so bloody borin'. Why don't they make it worth our while? They should put it on the telly and make the politicians sing or dance or do magic, and then we ring up and vote for our favourite. We wouldn't have to go out in the rain or anything."

... and technology...

"I don't know how I'd get through the working day without Solitaire."

"Don't you think it's a bit borin' and lonely? You can only play it on your own."

"But that's the idea!"

"Personally I think Hearts is more excitin'."

"You can only play that on your own too!"

"Aye, but Solitaire just seems more solitary to me. I think it's got something to do with the name."

Cabin fever really set in last week. Well, attic fever, to be more precise. Rhi and I do our endless data entry holed up in a little room at the top of the stairs, with some servers and a very quiet secretary for company. Every time she leaves the room, we degenerate into behaviour not seen since kindergarten. Chronic boredom seems to have pushed us to the brink of madness. There's hair pulling, tickling, stomping on toes, Chinese burns, graffiting of limbs with highlighters, and very nasty insults. As soon as we hear the secretary on the stair, we drop our weapons and nonchalantly resume our typing.

Eight hours of daily attic confinement combined with living together has taken its toll. It all came to a head on Friday when Rhiannon "accidentally" smacked me across the face.

"Whoops!" she said. "I didn't mean to do that. Really."

"Really. Really?! What the hell is happening to us?" I cried, rubbing my nose. "We've become savages!"

"I know! We're worse than the Romans! Killing people for entertainment!"

We sat there contemplating our sad state. A mere hour later, Rhi got a call and was offered a job elsewhere. A real job, with a desk of her own, no attic, no data entry. She starts tomorrow. Left alone I will no doubt start talking to myself, but at least there will be an end to the violence.

I saw the sweetest thing at work today. Inside the cupboard with the teacups, there's a little spreadsheet taped up with all the employees names down one side. Across the columns it says TEA, COFFEE, MILK, SUGAR. And there's ticks and crosses to indicate everyone's preferences. They spend all day making each other cuppas and I always wondered how they all knew what everyone liked. It's bloody adorable.

Row pointed out to me in a comment that because I have a Mac at home, I have to burn my files to the CD without putting them in folders, otherwise the PCs at the net cafe won't be able to read them. I worked this out for myself today, but only AFTER I bought another bloody CD to the internet cafe here tonight. So once again, we have no bananas today. Look again tomorrow! And thank you so very much for being nice to me in spite of my pathetic hissy fit.

I am feeling so incredibly out of whack at the moment.

As for net access at home, I require £200 for a security deposit for a landline, since the phone company doesn't trust me because I'm Australian. Well, they say it's because I don't have any previous UK addresses, but it could be because I talk funny and have very shifty eyes. Anyway, I am saving up for that so stay tuned.

The bacon over here tastes amazing. BACON!

1.  Refrain from all contact with shower, bath or soap since the Thatcher era.

2.  Be part of a tribe of fifteen year old girls on AIM, reading each other snippets of your saucy conversations with dirty old men. Squeal often, and actually say LOL out loud

3.  Sniff loudly and frequently, as if you were trying to inhale Loch Ness up your nose

4.  Be Mr and Mrs Joe Suburbia on Expedia, squabbling over who gets to control the mouse as you plan which crappy Greek or Spanish isle you will take your fake tanned arses to for the Bank Holiday weekend