For the past three years November has been the month where I just sulked beneath the doona/duvet/comforter (choose your language!) and waited for Christmas to arrive, because at least then the cold and dark were offset by parties and presents.

But this year I am determined to not be a whinging git and keep myself busy. Among my Acts of Busy-ness will be NaNoWriMo, the 50,000 word Quantity Not Quality novel-writing thingo. I'm doing it in an unofficial capacity, since I've already started and that is against the rules. But I like writing under pressure and it will be good to churn some words out for the aforementioned Dietgirl draft. Let us hope it is more successful than my 2001 NaNo effort, Not The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Just to add to the insanity, I signed up for Ms Fussy's NaBloPoMo thingy, in which you have to write a blog entry every day in November. Considering I have averaged about four entries per month this year, it will be fun to force myself to write fast and furious. It will hardly be Blogging Gold but it's about time I stopped angsting and arseing about with those dozen half-done entries and spewed out some new shit. So be sure to check back daily and nag me if it looks like I'm slacking off. Huzzah!

I'm going away for a couple of days so I just wanted get in early and say a very happy birthday to my wee brother James, who turns 18 on Sunday. I am sure it was only yesterday he was a screaming baby but now he's over six feet tall and almost officially adult. He has the most compelling MySpace page ever, even though it makes me feel like I am seven hundred years old. It contains words like "crew" and "bitches" and never fails to crack me up. Happy Birthday tiger. You are a legend. :)

. . .

Can I ask a question for an Aussies out there? Where do you do your online shopping these days? For books, music, or groovy presents in general. I am out of touch but I'd like to know where I can get the goods for folks back home.

And if you're not Australian... hmmm... a question for you so no one feels left out. Ummm. What colour are your undies today? What are you doing on the weekend? Oooh, two questions!

There is a train conductor with a secret longing to be a Voiceover Guy. This my theory anyway.

The man really has the golden tonsils. I'll be sitting there, seething into my book and loathing humanity; wishing I had the nerve to tell the guy two rows in front that if I can clearly hear the news that Roger Federer has defeated Inferior Player 6-3 6-3 6-0, then his personal radio is turned up too fucking loud. But then I'll hear the familiar BING BONG of the train announcement PA system thingy, and the Conductors voice will come through, soothing like melted chocolate. "Good evening Ladies and Gentleman... this is your conductor speaking."

He'll just be apologising for the Inconvenience of the Short Delay or warning us that the Next Stop Is Glasgow Queen Street, but his tone commands attention. It's deep, rich and reassuring. It fills the carriages; rising and falling like an old ballad. While all the other conductors mumble, he sounds like he puts a lot of thought into it and practices into a hairbrush at night. He even does wee pauses for suspense. "The next stop is... [Ooh tell me, tell me!] Haymarket. I'd like to remind passengers to please... retain your tickets... [Why? Why?] as barrier checks... are now in operation."

It's a lovely mild sort of Scots accent, not one of those incomprehensible ones or over the top like Mr Connery. It belongs in voiceovers, I tell you. I can just imagine him saying, "Hair care products. Three-for-two this week at Boots". Or, "Stay with us now on Channel Five; next up is the insightful new documentary... The Man Who Was Raised By Chickens".

The conductor is a handsome bloke, 40-something; he'd look so dignified in a small booth with a microphone above him. The other day he sauntered through our carriage to inspect the tickets. This is where he really showcases his range. He managed to say something different to every single passenger as they half-heartedly waved their passes at him. Thank you. Much obliged. Thanks. Perfect. Merci. Ta. Beautiful. That's smashing. I never knew there were so many ways to acknowledge a valid ticket.

Before he got to me, he had to announce the Next Stop. I don't understand how the system works, to be honest. Most trains have an automated voice that blasts through so abruptly that it feels like your sternum will shatter. But sometimes the conductors have to do it manually. Or maybe this guy chooses to do it that way.

I watched him unlock the little hatch where the equipment resides. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, rolled his shoulders twice and cracked his knuckles, as if he was about to walk on stage to play King Lear. Finally he cleared his throat and picked up the handset, "Ladies and Gentleman... [dramatic pause!] The next stop... is Edinburgh Waverley."

I was dying to tell him how brilliant I thought he was, how his voice warmed my soul and if put to commerical use, it would also make me want to buy stuff. But I figured he'd just think one of the following -

1.  I was being overly polite. Like when people at work thank me for making such great coffees for their meetings, when I KNOW full well I make the most shit coffees in the world, or

2.  I was drunk. Like 75% of passengers on my train line tend to be.

Then again, maybe he had always harboured this secret desire to be a voiceover guy, but didn't have to confidence to really believe he could be a voiceover guy, and took the train conductor job because at least he got to announce the stations. Maybe if someone said to him, "Have you ever thought of doing voiceover work?" his secret desires would feel validated and he'd go and sign up for Voiceover School or whatever you have to do.

Or maybe he was just a dedicated train conductor who happened to have a nice voice. When he came by I silently held out my ticket. I was rewarded with a Marvellous.

I have this hoodie. It is navy blue, old and grotty. I bought it for ten pounds back in 2004. That was the Year of Voluntary Poverty, when Rhiannon and I worked seven days a week and ate Tesco Value beans to fund our travels. I had never worn a hoodie before and at first I marvelled at its mid-season practicality. If I was walking to the bus stop and suddenly attacked by a Spring shower, I could just flip the hood and prevent my hair from exploding into its usual revolting orange cloud.

Later on that year we went to Russia and despite being summer it was bloody chilly so I had to get the hoodie out. While our fellow Contiki tourers were also backpacker types, they'd had the good sense to be accountants or computer programmers in London instead of administrative losers in Edinburgh, so they had posh, stylish jackets. Worse still, Rhiannon had accidentally brought the exact same hoodie as me. We'd meant to get different jackets before the trip but we'd run out of time and dosh. So we felt like right dickheads sitting on that tour bus for three weeks, all matched up.

"Are youse two twins?" an Aussie girl shouted from the back seat, the first of twenty-five people to ask this question.

"NO WE ARE NOT," we said in unison. "It was an unfortunate purchasing coincidence!"

"How thick are these people?" Rhiannon hissed, "Twins, just because we have the same stupid jacket."

"Idiots."

I think Rhiannon ceremoniously burned her hoodie after that trip, but since I am lazy and not half as stylish I clung on to mine. And on and on. It makes me look like a bum, about to shuffle off to place a bet on some greyhounds. But my commute involves so much walking and this is Scotland, there's hair-wrecking downpour lurking round every corner.

What sucks is Gareth has a hoodie too, and seems surgically attached to it. He was wearing one the fateful day we met, and he would have worn it down the aisle had it not been so hot in Vegas. But as previously reported, the good Doctor has nae hair, so a hoodie is handy when there's a sudden chill in the air.

He recently replaced a hood he'd had for about twenty years, and what do you know, it's navy fucking blue. If we go for a walk we have to argue over who gets to wear theirs, because I was scarred by Russia and refuse to walk around all Mrs and Mrs Hoodie. What's next, matching white trainers and bum bags? So it's a fierce battle between the Baldy Head and the Risk-Of -Frizz Ginger. I fantasise that one day we'll just wake up and simultaneously declare, "Let's stop dressing like middle aged students and go out and buy some proper jackets!". But it never happens.

Recently I was behooded and half-asleep on the train, heading home from work. A young lad got on, juggling an armful of books, a guitar, and a huge bunch of flowers. He was dressed in black and smiling, a sharp contrast to us dour corporate slaves. He reminded me of one of those guys at high school that chicks would obsess over, assuming he was Deep and Mysterious because he had long hair and a faraway expression.

He arranged his goods on the luggage rack then plopped down beside me. As the train pulled away he started scrawling funny squiggles on a piece of paper.

"I'm learning Arabic," he said after a few minutes, catching me looking.

I sat up straight, shocked. This was the first time a stranger had spoken to me on the train. Normally it's just grim silence, everyone absorbed in their iPods and Dan Browns.

"Nice!" I croaked.

"I'm really loving it." His voice was soft and dreamy, "It looks like art, don't you think?"

"Sure!"

I decided to have a stab at conversation, since this was such a rare event. "You know, I remember when I did Japanese, I always liked drawing the squiggles more than I did learning how to say anything."

"Japanese! That is so cool!"

We started chatting about the two languages and it was such a hoot because he was so earnest and completely uncynical, his lust for life not yet destroyed by working in a call centre.

"I have this big bag of henna at home," he said suddenly, "Someday I'm going to invite round a whole bunch of naked girls and paint poems all over them in Arabic. Yeah. Love poems!"

"Oh... brilliant! This is my stop."

"It's mine too. That's cool."

As the doors opened he gestured for me to go first and said the magic words, "So you're a student too, then?"

A student! A student! Have you ever heard anything sweeter, a decade after you'd last set foot in a place of learning?

We parted company and I walked home in the warm glow of the mildly flattered. It was a good ten minutes before I figured why he'd thought I was a student. It wasn't my youthful complexion or quality banter. It was because I was dressed like a slob. That bloody hoodie!

"You wouldn't believe what happened to me and my hoodie today," I told Gareth later. "It's going in the bin."

"No!" Gareth yelped, "You can't put a hoodie in the bin! Wait til you hear what happened to me and my hoodie today!"

He had spent the day canoeing down the River Spey today with two pals. They got caught in a crazy current and hit a huge log. The canoe capsized. The other two were flung out but Gareth got trapped underneath! He almost died! Well, he was certainly under there long enough to start thinking of the tragic headline, Fife Lad Drooned In The Spey. Luckily his mate swooped in ... and hauled him out by his hoodie.

"You see, hoodies are magic," he declared, "They keep you looking youthful AND they save your life."

"Right on."

"I am never taking this off again!"

So there were a few hundred carefully worded words sitting in my Gmail Drafts folder and what did I just do? I hit the Discard Draft button instead of the Save button and didn't realise until I'd clicked onto some other emails, making it far too late to Undo. Is there any shittier feeling than hours of precious drivel zapping off into the ether? All that rage and nowhere to direct it because it's your own stinking fault. Off to bed. Try again tomorrow.

Yesterday was magnificent. There was a wee football match in Glasgow with Scotland taking on the mighty World Cup finalists France in a Euro 2008 qualifier.

Scotland won! 1 - 0!

We were in the car at the time; our mate Steve had issued a last-minute invitation for a night out in Weegieland. I'd forgotten all about the match, but when we flipped on the radio to find Scotland had scored with just twenty minutes left to go, I got swept up in the agonising, hysterical countdown to the final siren.

It was a historic victory, as the presenters on Radio Scotland breathlessly reminded us every seven seconds. The Scottish team hasn't enjoyed much success in recent years; the match reports are usually pretty grim. On a good day you'd get a "gallant in defeat" sort of headline. They have been rebuilding nicely under their new manager Walter Smith, but last night's victory was still a major upset.

The presenter's voices were raw with pride and emotion. In Australia we're so confident about sport and victory is often expected; demanded. But when it happens over here it can be a magnificient surprise and everyone goes mad in the most joyous, infectious way. Forgive the paraphrasing here but one radio presenter rasped, "Everyone out there keeps saying we're crap! But we're no crap. We just beat France. So everyone, just stop saying we're crap! Because we're no!"

Then another bloke got carried away interviewing Gary Caldwell, the Scottish goal scorer. "Hold on... I have to give you a cuddle first before I ask you any questions. Ahhhh... this cuddle is from all of Scotland!"

Steve lives right near the stadium, so by the time we arrived the Tartan Army had flooded the streets. A singing and dancing swarm of blue and white; flags and kilts and Jimmy hats. People jumped out in front of our car, waving and cheering.

And other folk just tried to flag us down. Gareth's car is a six-year-old silver Peugeot 406, which happens to be the same vehicle as a great number of taxis in this country. Ever since he got it a few weeks ago, we can't go anywhere at night without some drunk leaping out and waving their arms, then giving us the finger when we don't pull over.

So we had a nice night out in Glasgow; it was impossible not to with everyone in such a good mood.

"It's just so brilliant," gushed a woman on the train, clearly overwhelmed by the victory, "At best I'd hoped for a 1-0 win to France. That would have been a respectable gubbing."

"Oh aye!" said her companion, "And now we're the best team IN THE WORLD!"

"How do you get that?!"

"Well Italy won the World Cup, but France beat Italy the other day, and now we beat the Froggies... so that makes SCOTLAND the best team in the world!"

"Ahh," said Gareth. "I love the logic of ten pints."

woohoo!