Dr G and I are off to the fair city of York this arvo to celebrate three years of hasty marriage.

I should have thought of this weeks ago but forgot amidst the deaf and snottiness... I was wondering - you guys had so many brilliant ideas when we went to New York - has anyone been to the old one? Gareth's all geeked up for the air museum and the rail museum, but what's in it for me? Mwahaha.

Signs of old age and crotchety-ness:

• We booked our train tickets in the Quiet Coach. Shush, you kids!
• Gareth is bringing a thermos of tea coz we're too stingy to pay £1 for the pissweak on-board swill.
• Although Gareth will say it's more about environmental reasons - all them nasty plastic cups.

If he shows up with a tartan rug we're doomed.

Sign in the paper shop window: FOR SALE - ANTIQUE COMPUTER DESK.

. . .

Fun With Amazon Rankings
DR G:  Oh my god. You're NUMBER ONE!
SHAUNA:  What?!
DR G:  Number one in.... Books most likely to be pulped by April!
SHAUNA:  Books most likely to prop up wonky bookshelves!
DR G:  Books most likely to be used as emergency loo paper!

Etc etc etc.

I've weaned myself off the lunchtime pilgrimage to the wee local WH Smith, as it's just too soul-destroying seeing the same four copies there day after day and fighting the urge to scream to all the shoppers, "SOMEBODY. PLEASE!"

. . .

Call it OCD or call it being an idiot, but for the past few years I've been enslaved to a Heading Off To Work ritual of 1) kissing Dr G three times then 2) grabbing a tissue from the box on the shelf in the hallway and putting it in my right pocket.

Once you start these things it is hard to stop. I wasn't even conscious of the routine until one day I turned back halfway down the road because I'd forgotten The Tissue, convinced that without it I'd be mown down by a garbage truck or Gareth would leave his lunchtime beans on the stove and perish in flames. It's not even that dramatic, really. It's just that - my days have been okay while ever I've had three kisses and a tissue... so why mess with the formula?

We've been painting the (evil, bastard, neverending) hallway lately, so The Shelf has been moved to the living room. Today I was running late and huffed in the manner of a martyred corporate slave, I just don't have TIME to take another three steps to the living room! So I left without the tissue.

The old heart was clattering as I slinked down the street, wondering which speeding car would leap off the road and into my arms. I regarded every tree suspiciously, waiting for the falling branch. But then I arrived safely at work and I felt quite exhilarated and devil-may-care. I might try it again tomorrow.

I promise this blog isn't turning into What's New Dawg, but people often ask me about my wee pretend dog Kenco, who Gareth sponsored for a Christmas 2005 gift through the Dogs Trust. I'm sad to report that I got a letter to say that Kenco has passed away.

They say he was a boisterous hound. Loved: Football. Hated: Being disturbed while eating. I only wish I'd met him; clearly we had a lot in common.

I always imagined he'd be a real sweetie until I saw this photo of him earlier this year:

Doesn't he look like a total rocket? A real little scrapper. Somehow those fangs and manic eyes made me love him even more. So it almost seemed appropriate that he died in a fight. Well, they called it "a quarrel with one his kennel mates" in the letter, but I like to think it was some kind of canine turf war. He was rushed to the vets but had suffered from internal injuries so they made the difficult decision to put him to sleep.

As you can see from the tributes on his page on DoggySnaps.com, he was a popular boy. I dare you not to get hopelessly hooked on that website, it's like a four-legged Flickr or Facebook!

So Kenco will be missed, but there are other hounds in need of virtual friends. They've transferred our sponsorship to a dog called Peter Pan (Loves: Squeaky toys. Hates: Other dogs) and he looks almost as cheeky.

My visa arrived in the mail today. You'll never get rid of me now, Britain!

In the end there was no need for immigration lawyers or angry letters to MPs or copulation on the steps of the Home Office to prove our devotion. I simply sent them 58 new pieces of evidence. And one lovely letter of hearty endorsement from Rory.

You may ask why I didn't just send 58 pieces of evidence in the first place. But when the form requested "a minimum of 10 and ideally 20", somehow I missed the invisible sentence that followed, "and another 38 would be quite handy."

My advice to anyone planning to apply for permanent residency: start saving everything. Every bank statement, insurance policy, phone bill, Post-it note, parking ticket, Durex wrapper, milk carton, flat tyre and soggy teabag. Put it all in a big box and send it to the government. Recorded delivery, of course.

Gareth has already skipped off to see his solicitor. I personally wanted to go to Reno so we could end this charade in sunny Nevada where it all began. But now that I'm a permanent resident of Scotland I'm far too tight to fork out for airfares.

Seriously comrades, I'm happy. I love this wee country. Thank you for your kindness and tolerance during my moments of madness. You rule the school.

GARETH:  So when you get deported back to Australia do you think they'll put you in one of those detention camps?

SHAUNA: They don't put you in a camp for going back to your own country!

G: Yeah they do! I bet there's a special Detention Camp for Ejected Spouses. Somewhere remote like Broome. Or the Bungle Bungles!

S:  Did you learn all your Australian geography from Neighbours?

G:  They'll make you eat grubs and berries! But I'm sure they'll let you out now and then to paint some landscapes.

S:  Will you visit me?

G:  Hmmm... maybe once a year. Until the novelty wears off. Then we'll slowly drift apart.

Thanks, dear comrades, for tolerating my Entry o' Insanity last week. The situation is so stupid that we can almost laugh about it now. What else can you do? The fact remains we're genuinely married, so this is just an extremely annoying blip along the road to proving it. I have put in four years of wholehearted law-abiding tax-paying residency so slinking back to Australia is not an option.

So we shall deal with things as calmly as possible and/or bombard them with more evidence until they surrender. If they don't, there's lawyers and appeal processes. And if it comes down to some sort of Green Card-ish interview, I say BRING IT ON. I'm a far more convincing actress than Andie stinking MacDowell.

The Bungle Bungles of Western Australia

Still on the train. Gareth just called me to say a letter from the Home Office arrived. Ooh, my permanent resident visa, yay!

BUT NO YAY. Application DENIIIIIED!

They're saying I did not include enough documentary evidence to indicate we're still living together in the married way. They asked for 10-20 pieces of evidence from at least 5 different sources, I sent 20 from 13 different sources. I spent weeks making sure I had the right blend of documents, checking 1000 times they were all there, even including a cover letter with everything carefully numbered. It is completely baffling.

I have 28 days to resubmit my application with more evidence, otherwise it's ball and chain and PJs with arrows and back to New Holland for me. I honestly have no idea what else I could possibly send! It's all there! They only want sensible documents like bank statements and tax letters, a 10000 word declaration of my undying committment to Dr G and bonny Scotland wouldn't help my case. I'm trying to get through to the HO on the phone to find out exactly where I went wrong but anyone who's ever gone through this process knows that's near impossible.

I know this is all beaurocracy and I'm trying to stay calm and rational, but it makes me feel kind of ill that someone could possibly think we're not the real deal. Why would I shove my fat arse into that wedding dress three times unless I really loved the guy? Why would I endure soggy Scottish chips and soggy Scottish winters IF NOT FOR LOVE?!

Three years ago today, love was shiny and new and I could still barely make eye contact without blushing. I'd cleverly ranted and raved in advance about crappy overpriced Valentines flowers that only last a day, so I was chuffed when Gareth showed up on my doorstep with a plant.

I christened him Duncan!

I've destroyed every other plant I've ever owned, including a trio of Unkillable Cactii. But Duncan has marched on and on, strong and unruly and rather primeval looking in his dinky pot that looks like it was crafted from the walls of a Swedish sauna.

I like to think his flourishing is some sort of symbol of our relationship, but to be honest it's more likely because Gareth remembers to water the poor bastard.

Happy V-Day, Doc!

3.   Pull My Finger (timeless classic)
2.   I Give You The Gift Of Fragrance
1.   For Your Consideration

Yesterday was the 3rd Annual You Rawk Day. Forget all those weddings, this is the one I consider to be our proper anniversary.

Standing on the platform in the chilly night air, my breath shot out in anxious, near-hysterical puffs... five long months since we'd met at a pub quiz, the time was ripe to make my move!

With the train rattling towards us there was potential for a dramatic and memorable moment, like Anna Karenina or something. But an ill-timed lunge, my kiss landing somewhere up his left nostril, was hardly something to tell the grandkiddies. Neither was me blurting, "You rawk!" before fleeing onto the train.

I was so mortified that when the conductor came round I bought a ticket to the wrong destination. I still lug it round in my wallet every day and take it out now and then, remembering the chill of his nose and the unbearable agony of eye contact.

There's no problem meeting each others gaze these days. You never know what you will see there - teasing, patience, laughter, understanding, comfort, or the evil glint before one executes a triumphant fart.

I was getting overly sentimental the other day, telling him about the rush of relief and anticipation I get each time I trudge home, knowing he'll be there working away on some engineery shite, wearing his finest tracky-dacks and smelling of soap and coffee. He smiled and patted my needing-a-wash hair and said, "Mmm, feels like bacon."

This week he wrote To moi woife on my birthday card. Taking the piss out of the Aussie accent as usual, but it melted me to see that down on paper.

Happy anniversary, Doctor G. I loike being your woife.

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!"

Domestic Harmony at the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens, 4 March 2006.
Portrait by Rory Ewins.

Incidentally that's a backpack on my back, not some sort of quasi-Quasimodo growth.

What happened next? The snowball connected with my head and I screamed, "YOU HIT ME, YOU FUCKER!".

Despite the violence, we are still happy together one year on. I might just even renew my ring insurance policy.

GARETH'S DAD:  Do you know what I paid for a haircut the other day? Eight pounds! Eight pounds for a haircut. What do you pay for a haircut, Gareth?

GARETH:  I haven't paid for a haircut for about ten years. I wish I could pay eight pounds for a haircut.

D:  Well if you grew your hair back you could go get it cut!

G:  Dad, I don't have any hair to grow back.

D:  Yes you have! If you just stopped shaving it all the time, you could get a proper haircut!

G:  But I haven't got any hair left!

GARETH'S MUM:  He hasn't got any hair left!

D:  Yes he has! He's got plenty of hair.

M:  He doesn't have any hair on top!

D:  Yes he does, he just shaves it all off!

M:  You're dreaming. I'm telling you, he hasn't had hair on top for years!

G:  Yeah, thanks Mum.

For Christmas, Gareth gave me (among other things)... a dog!

Well. Technically, Kenco is not my dog. He lives in England. He belongs to the Dogs Trust. I am but his humble sponsor. But my £1.50 a week gives him food, chew toys and an old couch to sleep on. And I can get the train to Darlington and visit him any time, and even take him for a walk. He also sends me newsletters, just like those starving kids in Ethiopia.

Gareth said he chose Kenco as he was looking for the dog with the stupidest face to make me laugh. Sure enough I fell for the blank expression and slightly manic eyes. He reminded me of Harry, my former mad wee dog who provided years of Blogging Gold until he was snatched away in the Evil Landlord Saga of 2002.

I'd been pining for a furry friend since our trip back to Australia. I'd dropped by Harry's house, hoping he'd greet me at the fence with his usual acrobatics. But that's the problem when you piss off overseas then swan back a few years later, expecting your old life to be frozen in time. It isn't. Harry's house was long abandoned, the gardens overgrown and mailbox choked with catalogues. But still, I stood there in the driveway bleating pathetically, "Harry? Harry?", as the chilly September rain hammered down.

It was so tragic and romantic. Just like the end of Breakfast At Tiffany's! Except Canberra instead of New York. And Trackysuit Shauny instead of Givenchy Hepburn. And mutt dog instead of ginger cat. And Gareth and Jenny waiting in a Nissan Pulsar instead of George Peppard waiting in a yellow taxi. ALRIGHT. Not like Breakfast at Tiffany's at all. But my old dog and his new owner were gone and I had no way of finding out their fate. It was a dud finale to my wacky years of pet ownership.

So when Gareth presented me with Kenco on Christmas Day I was ecstatic and teary. He'd been a little worried I'd think it was a dorky gift and that perhaps he should have just got the perfume and Thornton's chocolates from UnimaginativeHusband.com, but I thought it was the sweetest thing ever. Owning a real dog just isn't an option when you live in a poky wee flat, so sponsoring an unfortunate English mutt was a brilliant substitute.

I carted Kenco's photo to all our Christmas gatherings and showed him off proudly. People seemed rather bemused and bewildered by Gareth's choice of gift, just as they were when he gleefully told them I'd given him (among other things) a copy of Don't Pee On My Leg And Tell Me It's Raining by Judge Judy. It was the first time I ever felt like the dreaded Smug Married (okay, Highly Defensive Married) because what seemed stupid to everyone else just made perfect bloody sense to us.

Later on Christmas Night I was browsing the Dogs Trust website and was surprised to see that My Kenco was still listed as an Available Dog. In fact, it was just the same dozen or so hounds in the gallery for everyone in the whole of Britain to choose from.

"I just realised," I announced to Gareth, "That I don't have exclusive rights to Kenco!"

"Well yes. Each dog really needs more than one more than one sponsor. It costs £9 per month for their food alone. So the sponsorship money goes towards all the dogs at the shelter. You didn't realise?"

"I'm like a part owner of a racehorse."

"Has that taken the gloss off the gift a little?"

"Oh no! Not really." I sniffed. "I'm sure that if he were to meet all his sponsors, he would love me the best."

There are many advantages of having a virtual dog. Unlike Harry, Kenco doesn't shed hair, howl at the moon, or pee on the couch when he gets nervous. And even though he's not a physical presence you can still use him as a scapegoat after hearty Christmas dinners.

"Jeeeeesus... did you fart?"

"Nooo!"

"Well somebody did."

"It was that bloody Kenco."

"KENCO! You dirty bastard."

"Get back in your basket!"

Today wifely pride abounded as Gareth received his Ph.D in Electrical Engineering, looking ravishing in his magenta robes. After three years slaving over a hot thesis, it seems more punishment than reward to have to parade in front of hundreds of people in a freaky pink cape.

Henceforth he shall be known on this blog by his proper name, DOCTOR G!

What's big, brown and looks like a turd? Why it's the Big Potato, one of Australia's premier tourist attractions.

A couple of years ago we told Gareth about this monstrosity and I don't think he ever quite believed us when we said it was utterly crap - an entirely pointless giant concrete lump plonked in the middle of an overgrown block in the main street of Robertson, New South Wales. But he vowed to make the pilgrimage if he ever made it Down Under.

I managed to capture the exact moment of underwhelmed-ness when the spud came into view:

According to the Big Things website, the definitive guide to all things Big and Australian, the Big Potato originally served as the toilet block to the adjacent Potato World, both long since abandoned.

But The Big Potato merely played entree to the main course that was The Big Merino of Goulburn - fifteen metres of concrete jowls with a souvenir shop where its balls should be.

Once again Gareth was bedazzled.

Inside the Merino, you can learn all about the history of the Australian wool industry with a display that remains unchanged since the Merino first opened its guts to the public in 1985.

We learned that you should always dress your children in wool, not evil man-made flammable fabrics. Like they say, 165 million sheep can't be wrong!

After that, all that's left to do is climb upstairs into the sheep's majestic head, gaze out at the world through its yellow eyes and ponder, "I flew 24 hours for this?"

Sometimes I go searching for non-existent cracks and crumbles. It just can't be right that there's nothing wrong. I've watched a lot of marriages come and go, and grew up thinking they all had to have a certain style and flair. So why aren't we throwing things? Where is the screaming? Where are the divorce papers? Where is the adultery? Where is the bit on the side that doesn't speak English?

Luckily when I fall victim to paranoia and cliched woman-making-mountains-from-molehills behaviour, Gareth is incredibly nice and patient. He's also not afraid to point out when I'm being a moron, as I was the other night with the bread.

SHAUNA:  Hey, I am just going to open up this new loaf of Tesco Multigrain loaf, I think I've had enough of the Warburtons Seeded Batch.

GARETH:  Oh good! Throw it away because it's boggin'.

S:  What? You don't like it?

G:  Nah not really.

S:  What? You don't like it at all?

G:  It's alright, but I like the Tesco one better.

S:  You do? But I used to have that bread at my old house in Edinburgh and you'd eat it for breakfast for over a year!

G:  Well I didn't hate it right away, it just sort of developed over time!

S:  But WHY didn't you TELL me? You have to TELL me if you don't like something so I can FIX it! Before it escalates into something worse! If I don't know about problems how can I solve them!?

G:  It's just bread!

S:  But for all those months you ate your toast and acted like you liked it when all along you didn't!

G:  It's bread!

S:  I wouldn't normally buy the Warbutons, you know. It's really like my Last Resort bread. I wanted to get Hovis Country Grain which is my Agreeable Substitute bread if we can't get to Tesco, but they were out of that... OH! What about the Hovis Country Grain? Do you not like that either!?

G:  It's great!

Later on, around midnight, I was drifting off to sleep when Gareth suddenly mumbled in the darkness.

GARETH:  I can't believe they did it!

SHAUNA:  Can't believe who did what?

G:  I can't believe the other Beatles let Paul McCartney record Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da. It's so fucking shite!

S:  Oh I agree completely.

G:  Mmmhmm.

S:  So... you really don't like that Warburtons.

G:  Oh man!

S:  Well?

G:  Nah. It's just too squishy.

S:  I don't really like it either, you know. The bread is almost like white bread with a few seeds tossed in to pretend like it's healthy, but they're not fooling anybody.

G:  Yeah. It doesn't toast well.

S:  I still can't believe you didn't tell me. All this time I've been buying this bread, all this time you've been unhappy!

G:  I'm not unhappy!

S:  But don't you SEE? If you can't tell me you're not happy with the bread, who knows how many other shitty things I'm doing but you're too polite to inform me about? If you don't tell me what I'm doing wrong you'll be stockpiling all these resentments for years and years until one day it bubbles over and you run off with some blonde!

G:  You really worry about this blonde, don't you?

S:  Well!

G:  Hehe. Well Oprah, it all started in 2005 when he confessed that he didn't like the Warburtons Seeded Batch! But it really wasn't about the bread at all!

S:  Arrgh!

G:  It was a symptom of something far deeper! A festering boil in their marriage!

S:  !!!

G:  I call it, the Warburton Effect!

S:  Ahh, shut yer guts.

There was a touching moment last year when Gareth wanted to show me to his old high school. It was to be an incredible journey, he said. "It's a bit of a walk, it will take us about forty minutes to get there". We trekked past abandoned Irn-Bru cans, Hula Hoop packets and graffitied fences then arrived, breathless with anticipation... in five minutes.

"Well it seemed like a long way when I was a student," he said with a puzzled frown.

That was only the first surprise of the day. The second was that his beloved high school had been... completely demolished. All he could do was stand in the rubble of his precious memories, and forlornly point out random spots now cluttered with cranes and building supplies. "That was where the music room was. I think. And that's where we'd hang out at lunch. Maybe." You've never seen a more devastated face, I tell you.

In October we're off to Australia for a few weeks, and it will be my turn for educational nostalgia. The canteen line where the skanky kids used to pester, "Have you got five cents?". The science lab outside which a magpie shat on my shoulder. The basketball court where some boys asked if I was a redhead down there. And of course, the Fantasy Chairs.

Fantasy Chairs started out as regulation Australian government school chairs: red, orange or blue plastic, hard and unyielding and liable to stick to the back of your sweaty thighs on a scalding January afternoon. But then some obnoxious little shithead in Year 8 would decide to draw upon the seat of the chair, right at the very front in thick black permanent marker, a PENIS.

I was surprised when I started travelling overseas that there is a pretty much universal technique for graffitied blokey bits - the three scrawly loops, the middle one bigger and longer of course; and some short sharp lines if it's a hairy specimen. They're on the back of toilet doors; on the underpass near the train station. But I've never seen them on chairs anywhere aside from my alma mater.

I don't know who started calling them Fantasy Chairs, but you can imagine how traumatic they could be for a teenage girl. In the earlier years of high school we had a growing interest in the accessories of the opposite sex, but this did not mean we wanted to SIT atop an artistic impression of one during double English. This often meant circling the classroom trying to find a Normal seat. If you were late to class then often you had little choice and were subject to the ridicule of your peers, "HA HA HA! You got a Fantasy Chair!"

By the time we got to our senior years most people were totally over the Fantasy Chair thing, but me and my mates were particularly immature so if we struck gold we'd shout across the room with glee, "HA HA HA! I got a Fantasy Chair!". I remember rushing in for one of my Year 12 exams and there was a particularly large specimen scrawled on my seat. I smiled fondly and gave it a little pat for good luck.

On the surface it looked as wholesome and innocent as any other community centre. The noticeboard stabbed with posters for seniors Tai-Chi. Old metal chairs that scraped and clanked. Young hoodlums in beanies clustered round a half-size pool table. An urn and a stack of polystyrene cups. But today, for me anyway, the community centre was the embodiment of evil. It was Blood Donor Day.

When Gareth first asked if I wanted to give a pint, I flatly refused. I don't have a problem with blood, it's just all the paraphenalia they use to extract it. The big bitey needles, the tourniquet thingy, those vile plastic bags and little tubes. Especially the big bitey needles. When I last got a tetanus shot the doctor had to hold my hand and promise me jelly beans, and I was twenty years old. I hate the needles. But at the last minute I decided to go out of pure pride and stubborness. I couldn't have him thinking I was too wimpy to donate blood, especially afterwards when he'd be all smug and righteous and full of free biscuits.

It seemed I was the only person in town who had a problem with the process. The queue stretched down the hall and halfway out the door. Were they all here out of a sense of caring and community, or had they heard about the free biscuits? As we shuffled to the front I could see the neat rows of metal trolley beds, the donors with narrow tubes spiralling from their outstretched arms. My stomach lurched.

A nurse smiled from behind a clipboard. "Is this your first time hen?"

I nodded meekly.

"You're going to be fine!"

There is nothing less reassuring than someone blatantly trying to reassure you. And as usual, my nerves transformed into a desperate need to pee. "Gareth! Where's the loo?"

"Down the back and to the left."

"Back and to the left. Just like JFK."

I perched on the loo, muttering to myself. You must do this, you big pussy! It's easy! It's painless! Millions of people do this every day and they're totally cool with it! And then I heard frenzied footsteps, a gagging sound and a cubicle door slamming shut. There was a groan. Then a moan. Then, "BLLLLLLLLLUUUURGH!"

After hearing that vomiting concerto I almost ran home, but I skulked back in for my interview with the nurse. I tried my best to flunk, emphasising that I was an Evil Foreigner and lord knows where I've been. But I hadn't travelled to any of the countries on the Dodgy list, I had no recent piercings or terrible diseases and my iron levels were healthy. It seemed my blood was ripe for harvesting.

"And finally, has your partner had sex with another man?"

"No he hasn't," I said, tempted to add that he does have these very tiny lycra shorts that he says are for mountain biking...

"Okay you're fine, just wait on the chairs over there."

"Dammit!"

I'd conjured this whole hellish image of how it would go. I'd be chained the bed and there'd be a giant empty bag hanging from a meat hook while a fanged nurse stood over me screaming, "Bleed more! Bleed more!". But instead the nurses were friendly and chatty and said "ken" a lot.

"Mary, d'ye ken my boyfriend?" said one nurse to another as she directed me to the bed. "He's always snowboarding, right, always getting bruised or breaking his legs and I was getting sick of it. So I made him a pair of shorts out of bubble wrap! Hold out your arm, love."

My veins were even wimpier than I was. As soon as she started squeezing and prodding they disappeared under the surface, refusing to surrender my precious blood. "They looked quite smart! I couldn't keep my hands off his arse, just popping that bubble wrap! Pop pop pop! Ooh, I cannae get a vein here. Mary, we'll need a left arm here! Have we got a left arm free?"

"One over there!"

"Okay, we'll have to move you Shauna, but did I tell you that I got a new phone delivered today? My boyfriend called me to say it had arrived and I asked him to look inside the box, and he says 'Ooh it's covered in bubble wrap, you can make me another pair of shorts!' Isn't that funny? She's not laughing, Mary. Do you think she thinks we're crazy? Off you go hen, over there, you'll be fine!"

My new bed was right near Gareth's. He was already half done, laying back looking calm and relaxed; the seasoned veteran. Bastard. The guy next to him was furiously texting with his non-donation arm.

I had a different nurse, but equally friendly and reassuring as she fired up the needle. My left arm was completely obliging, rolling over and offering her an assortment of plump veins. I scrunched up my eyes and before I knew it the needle was in and I was bleeding for Scotland!

It was a rather strange sensation. I willed myself to think of un-bloody things, rather than wonder what would happen if the nurse decided to go out back for a smoke and forgot to turn off the tap. Would I just drain and drain til I was just a bag of skin and bones and blubber and undigested lunch laying on the bed? I looked over at my husband instead. He was gazing up at the ceiling all sweet and serene. I felt a great rush of tenderness. He has this way of encouraging me to try new things even though I whinge and complain and worry things out of proportion, then he'll just smile and not laugh when I finally discover for myself that it wasn't so scary after all. What a guy. What a catch! And then he looked over, screwed up his face at me and made his lips curl and eyes bulge in what could only be called The Gollum Face. Charming!

Ten minutes later the nurse declared she had the required 568 millilitres and I could now proceed to the refreshment area. PEOPLE OF SCOTLAND, listen up. If you surrender just one pint of blood you can freely select from a range of quality biscuits. I thought they'd just plonk down a shitey packet of Tesco Value Assorted but there was Walkers shortbread, McVities digestives, Tunnocks Tea Cakes and something new to me - the Jacobs Club. Apparently they were an 80s lunchbox staple and not as good as they used to be, but to me it was the euphoric meeting of mint and chocolate AND biscuit. I ate two.

Now that I'm over the fear and feeling smug, I'm quite excited about this blood donor business. They only ask you to do it three times a year, and apparently just three tablespoons of your ruby fluids can save the life of a premature baby! Not only will you feel good for doing something helpful, the nurse will order you to go home and DO NOTHING all evening. Which is quite possibly the most convoluted excuse I've ever used for skipping the gym!

So even if you're a complete and utter wimp like me, why not give a pint? Just lay back and think of the biscuits!

ScotBlood
National Blood Service (UK)
Australian Red Cross Blood Service
Give Life (US)

I suddenly woke up at 2.02 AM today to find him peering at me in the half-dark. I reached out and patted the furry face and said, "Are you STILL bloody awake?"

To which he replied, "Will you marry me Shauna?"

I said, "Are you SERIOUS!?"

(Which really annoyed me because, if/when the moment ever happened, I had planned to respond with something witty and memorable like, "Depends... will you wear a kilt?". But instead I said, "Are you SERIOUS!?" in a broad, booming Aussie accent, like I was Steve Irwin and I'd just spotted a rare saber-toothed kookaburra or something.)

Gareth said that he was serious.

So I said, "Am I awake?"

He said that I was indeed awake.

So I said, "Yes! Of course!".

Fourteen hours later I still feel too excited and stunned and grinny and teary and lucky and so freakin happy to articulate properly, so for now it's just... WOOHOO!

I was doing so well with Gareth's parents. I think they're legends so I've tried hard to win them over with my Novelty Accent™ and a framed photo of the firstborn for their Xmas present. But then this morning Gareth and I were lazing in bed...

(and just lazing, mind - no funny business. Holidays were made for lounging in your scratcher, drinking endless cups of tea, listening to the radio and declaring, "I give you the gift of fragrance" before dropping farts with a strong note of festive Brussels sprouts.)

... when the doorbell rang.

"You get it, it's your flat."

"You get it! I don't know where my pants are."

"I don't know where mine are!"

"But you'll be able to find yours quicker."

"Fine!"

I stomped to door and picked up the intercom phone thingy. "Hello?"

"Hello, Shauna?"

My stomach dropped. It was the voice of Gareth's mother.

I flew into the usual unthinking panicky spinning-in-circles routine, pressed the door entry button and bellowed, "GARETH! It's your MOTHER!", with no regard for the intercom handset thingy nestled under my jaw in the perfect position to beam my voice outside into the crispy air where the potential mother-in-law stood.

"Shit! Shit!"

I couldn't hear approaching footsteps. Had I scared her off? I peered through the frosted glass of the front door but couldn't see a thing. I pressed the door entry button again just in case.

"GARETH! It's your MOTHER I tell you!" I fumbled with the lock, hauling the door open, "GARETH! GET YOUR PANTS ON!"

And there she was on the doorstep. She's barely five feet tall so she'd slipped in under my eye level. I couldn't figure out what kind of smile she was wearing. Bemused? Bewildered? Disturbed?

"I'm not staying, can you just pass this on to Gareth, it's a case for his new camera. How about I come back tomorrow and catch up with you both, say, 4.30?"

"Sounds great!" I bleated as she scurried off. "4.30 it is!"

Cannae wait.

Sometime last week was the One Year Anniversary. I spent so much time trying to figure out the actual date that the moment has now passed. These were the options:

1 NOVEMBER:  Out for birthday drinks, sitting beside each other in a bar, too nervous and crap to make any eye contact. Rory and Jane sat across from us no doubt wondering, Will these two bumbling morons ever get it together?

2 NOVEMBER:  After sulking all night that he Didn't Even Know I Was Alive, he called! I went to his house and we talked talked talked. By dawn I almost dared to think this could be something special. Just to be sure, I poked through his record collection. Didn't find anything too disturbing.

3 NOVEMBER:  Standing on the platform in the chilly night air, my breath shot out in anxious, near-hysterical puffs. I'd called in sick that day coz I couldn't bear for the conversation to end. And now five long months since we'd met at a pub quiz, the time was ripe to make my move!

With the train rattling towards us there was potential for a dramatic and memorable moment, like Anna Karenina or something. But an ill-timed lunge, my kiss landing somewhere up his left nostril, was hardly something to tell the grandkiddies. Neither was me blurting, "You rawk!" before fleeing onto the train. All executed without any eye contact whatsoever.

6 NOVEMBER:  After days of agonising over the You Rawk Incident, we sat in a beautifully dingy old man's pub. I was nervous and euphoric, fumbling with Walker's crisps and a gin and tonic. The MTV Awards were on the telly, live from Leith. I had no Zany Stories left to charm him with after discovering he'd stalked his way through the entire WNP archive, so I resorted to probing intellectual debate: "So, re Michael Hutchence -- would you rather people think you committed suicide or wanked yourself to death?"

We walked home in the drizzle, stopping outside a lighting shop. My heart was clattering against my ribcage as we made inane conversation about lampshades. I was considering attempting another Move when I felt his hand curl round my fingers, so warm and inviting. Simple, effective. Why hadn't I thought of that?

Twelve months on I've mastered the art of looking him in the eye, but the giddy excitement remains. I've know only made vague references to Gareth on here, and there's a few reasons for that. Part of me still feels so shy, lucky and nervous that I fear it will all disappear if I dare say it out loud. Yet at the same time I've never felt so calm and confident about anything in my whole little life, so sure that something was good and right. I'm wary of getting too personal on here and the dear readers becoming nauseous and thinking I'm an indulgent wanker, but for a whole bloody year I've been bursting to blurt it out in besotted detail.

I have a terrible habit of looking at life as a series of Exciting Episodes waiting to be rolled up into blog entries, so I may as well acknowledge we have a new character on the set who is just as top shelf as The Mothership or my dear sister Rhi. It's like how Heather Locklear was always billed as Special Guest Star on Melrose Place when everyone knew she was just as much a main player as Andrew Shue or Josie Bisset or any of those other talentless hacks.

So, how about a character description? On paper he sounds a bit of a badass. I told The Mothership I was seeing a tattooed motorbike-riding shaven-headed rock-band-playing lout, so she had to come to Scotland to investigate. She discovered he was just a harmless lovely lad with an accent she couldn't understand a word of.

What else? He is kind. He is a complete dag and makes me laugh. He listens to people when they talk. He's a committed vegetarian who occasionally gives in to cravings for lamb. His family are nice, especially his dad who sends baffling text messages such as, "WHO ARE BLUE?". He works hard on his Crocodile Hunter impression. He has an infuriating inability to cut cheese in proper slices, instead hacks the block to shreds. He not only tolerates my compulsion to document everything but encourages it, "That'd be good for your blog, with a bit of exaggeration". He's up for all sorts of adventure, whether it's driving to the top of Scotland on a whim or lazing on the couch to snigger at personal ads on the Teletext.

It's also reassuring to have finally met my match in ineptness. While I busied myself with destroying photocopiers, he was accidentally locking himself inside my house, setting oven gloves on fire and riding around France with a crash helmet full of maggots because he hadn't noticed he'd spilled food on it.

It feels incredible to love someone this much, to worry about them, to feel inspired by them, to want their happiness more than you want chocolate or for The Darkness to break up. It takes me by surprise every day. When we first met I was so wrapped up in the excitement of moving to a strange country, it took me months to realise I had fallen for the guy. Okay, Rhiannon had to stage a sort of INTERVENTION in a restaurant to make me see it. I admit I am useless. But it was an incredible surprise, and I continue to be surprised every day, especially the days when I wake up and there is this precious person snoozing away on the half of the bed that I used to use for storage. I feel so stupidly lucky that I give him a tiny poke in the arm to make sure he's not just some sort of Very Realistic Mannequin That Says 'Aye' A Lot.

Even in my dark old days of yore, I was always an optimist deep down, excited by life and the scary/delicious uncertainty of the future. But these days I'm looking forward to it just that little bit more, knowing he's around.

When Australians living in Scotland congregate, the conversation will inevitably swing to Is The Food Here Shit Or What!? at some point.

We all know there's actually an abundance of deliciousness, but when you meet your fellow countrymen there's a strange compulsion to get misty-eyed about vegetables that don't come shrink-wrapped from Kenya and checkout chicks that don't ask "What the hell is this?" when you buy some passionfruit. That cost £1.20 each.

Sometime last year Rhiannon, Jane, Rory and I were pining for Mint Slices. They are a true classic of the Arnotts family - a delicious chocolate biscuit with a layer of peppermint cream, elegantly coated in smooth dark chocolate. They marry the adultness of an after dinner mint with the dunkability of a biscuit.

"Oh yeah," piped up Gareth, the only Scotsman in the room. "That sounds just like a Viscount!"

We shot him doubtful looks, certain that the country that gave the world the deep-fried pizza would be incapable of producing anything near the standard of a Mint Slice. But he bravely faced the panel of Australian critics, bringing a pack to our next gathering.

I was excited, as I was by anything that combined chocolate and mint. You get to scoff the goodness of chocolate and bonus! -- your mouth is left minty-fresh like you've just brushed your teeth! It's like the calories never happened!

The Viscounts came individually wrapped in green foil. We turned them over in our hands, slowly unwrapping, regarding them suspiciously. After examining from all angles we all took tentative bites.

"It's pretty good," I said diplomatically.

"No. Nooo," said Rhiannon, "It's all wrong."

"It's not quite the same," said Rory, "The biscuit isn't chocolate, for starters."

"And the chocolate coating should be dark. This is low-quality milk."

"The mint isn't evenly distributed across the surface of the biscuit."

"It's basically nothing like a Mint Slice at all."

"Oh," said Gareth.

"Well I think they're alright!" I said brightly, and promptly shovelled down three more. One, because I am a big fat guts and two, because I desperately wanted to get into Gareth's pants.

A few months later I was reading Women's Own on my lunchbreak and came across this disturbing article that confirmed the inferiority of the Viscount once and for all. Can you imagine the horror of the daughter of Mrs Engel-Gilmore of Eastleigh, Hampshire when she found a DEAD BEETLE inside her Viscount?

That would surely never happen to a Mint Slice!

This is the first entry in a special series on Scottish Cuisine, the result of eighteen months of exhaustive research and lard consumption. Stay tuned!

The best way to combat Post Holiday Blues is to follow up immediately with another holiday. Saturday morning we decided it would be fun to drive to John o' Groats -- the very top of Scotland, the last bit of mainland UK before you either fall into the sea and die or swim to Orkney. So we hired a Ford Focus or similar and headed north .

We consisted of myself and Gareth, who you may remember as the noble soul who dragged my unconscious form out of the Radiohead mosh pit last November. We covered six hundred miles on this trip, and I'm ashamed to say I was perched in the passenger seat the whole time. I've had Issues with with Scottish roads ever since the Mothership's traumatic visit. I was a rubbish driver to begin with, but my nerves were shredded after a week of dodging sheep on single track island roads with Mum in the back seat hissing Shaaauuunnnaaa!, her foot stabbing at phantom brakes.

It seemed a feasible plan on paper, to the top and back in a day and a half. But the A9 was choked with roadworks and elderly Germans in caravans, causing much crankiness and scoffing of chocolate digestives. When we finally inched past Inverness, the road was blurred by great slabs of rain. But we pressed on -- if you waited for good weather in Scotland, you'd never go anywhere.

We stopped in the lovely wee town of Dornach for a 4 o'clock lunch. An old man wobbled up and down the street, shouting something about helicopters. He approached us with his can of Strongbow and declared with a burp, "Love is all around".

Entertainment was all around, too...

 

The rain cleared further up the coast. The sea looked still and silky grey, blending perfectly with the sky. Oil rigs hunched along the horizon like spiders. We finally reached John o' Groats at 8 o'clock.

As Rory says, John o' Groats is John o' Great. But once you've posed for photos at the cheesy sign , there really is bugger all to do, especially when John o' Groats Novelty House is closed.

So we decided to find the actual, official most northern spot in the UK. According to the map Dunnet Head jutted out further than John o' Groats. We could make out a sign in the distance, a D and a Head, so we headed up the road.

It was a gorgeous albeit windswept spot. We gazed out to nothing, congratulating ourselves for reaching The Very Top of Scotland. Woohoo! What a day! And we still had four digestives left!

We wandered past sheep with ridiculous rabbit-long ears until we reached cliffs that teemed with seabirds. Thousands were tucked away into the crevices, dainty puffins dwarfed by fat gulls. Further along we saw what reminded me of the Twelve Apostles in Australia, just not as many. And not drowned in sunlight. We decided to call them The Three Neds.

And then the rain cranked up again. We got drenched, icy jeans clinging unpleasantly to skin, muddy water swishing inside our shoes. Then Gareth's leg disappeared down a putrid hole that almost claimed his shoe. We trudged back to the car and fired up the heating. The air swelled with the scent of peat and gently baking sheep shit. But who bloody cared? We saw puffins! We saw seals diving for their dinner! We were at the very top of Scotland!

Except we weren't at the very top of Scotland at all. As we peered at the map to locate our hotel, we realised we were at Duncansby Head, not Dunnet. And The Three Neds were better known to the world as The Stacks of Duncansby. The Very Top of Scotland was actually ten miles down the road in the opposite direction.

This is the sad and sorry tale of what happens when you take obsession and anticipation much too far.

When I saw Radiohead live in Sydney in early 1998, I was so euphoric I could barely breathe, and declared I'd happily sell my mother to see them again. Finally six months ago I got tickets for their Glasgow show. Since then the anticipation quietly simmered, then hotted up to a mighty boil, until last Sunday morning the day finally arrived. I woke up so wired I only manage a gleeful squeak, 'CONCERT!'

After a hectic day, we were standing at the bus stop waiting for a bus to take us to another bus that would take us to Glasgow. After fifteen minutes of anxious hopping around, I studied the timetable again and realised I'd looked at the wrong route. This left us ten minutes to get to the Glasgow bus. Arrgh!

We ran down the road in search of a taxi, bodies screaming in protest at such unexpected exertion. Finally a bus came by, and an excruciating ten minutes later later we were running down Princes Street, just like Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting, except without heroin to make us speedier.

Then we couldn't find the fucking Glasgow bus. Cue third sprint session and breathless cursing. By the time we found it and left Edinburgh, it was almost 6pm.

I was edgy. The M8 was an endless stretch of roadworks and the traffic shuffled like an arthritic pensioner. The road signs taunted me with their lack of metric-ness.

SHAUNA:  Hey. What's 35 times 1.6?
GARETH:  Hmm...
SHAUNA:  Jane! Ask Rory what's 35 times 1.6?
JANE:  Rory, what's 35 times 1.6?
RORY:  Hold on...
G:  52.
R:  54.
G:  No wait, 56.
R:  Actually it's 56.
S:  56 kilometres to go! That's AGES!

It was 7.30 PM when the bus plodded into Glasgow. I was clawing the armrests in frustration.

"We're going to get a CRAP spot. The doors opened half an hour ago."
"There'll be plenty of spots!"
"The hardcore people camp overnight, you know."
"You're in Scotland now! Everyone will still be at the bar."
"No! You don't understand Radiohead fans!" I shrilled. "They're GEEKY and OBSESSIVE!"
"Yeah?"

Finally inside the SECC, I got my shoving elbows ready and prepared to burrow as close to the stage as possible. And it was true, there were still a lot of people at the bar. When support act Asian Dub Foundation began, we'd scored a reasonably central spot, wriggling closer after every song. ADF were great, but I was distracted a vision of loveliness lurking at the side of the stage. Behold! It was Ed! Ed O'Brien! Ed O'Brien from Radiohead!

Long-term WNP readers will remember the enduring obsession that sparked such cringe-worthy entries as this. It had been almost six years since I'd seen him in the flesh, and he had aged gracefully (except for needing a haircut). He busied himself with various percussion instruments throughout the ADF set, dancing and singing along in his long and luscious way.

What a guy. I noted a faint rumbling in my stomach, a weakness in my limbs. I put it down to the rush of hormones.

Soon ADF were done and the crowd closed in. We pushed forward, our view of the stage increasingly cluttered by tall skinny folk in black t-shirts. Then two tall skinny chicks beside me lit up cigarettes. I felt my stomach backflip as the smoke curled around me.

All at once the over-excitement and lack of food and water hit me. Things were getting woozy. I closed my eyes for a quick nap. Then I remember turning round to ask how much longer until Radiohead would start, but my voice sounded distorted and I couldn't hear properly.

"I think there's a mosquito buzzing round inside my ear," I frowned.

There were great murky blobs across my vision and the crowd melted into a blur of spaghetti limbs. I closed my eyes. I dreamed that I was falling, on a jaunty angle of approximately 45 degrees. Back in the real world, eyewitnesses reported my face drained of colour and my lips turned white, then I stumbled in drunken fashion, smacking into the two smoking chicks.

Next thing I knew Gareth was dragging me out of the crowd.

"What's going on?"
"We're getting you to First Aid!"
"Nooooooooooo! We've got a good spot!"

I turned around to sneak back in, but then realised I couldn't see. I was cranky and confused as a First Aid guy sat me down. It wasn't until I gulped some water that my vision cleared and I realised what had happened. I had fainted at the Radiohead gig. Goddammit!

"Are you on any medication, miss?"
"No!"
"Do you have any medical problems?"
"No!"
"Have you passed out at gigs before?"
"Noooooo! I've been to MILLIONS of gigs!"
"What did you eat and drink today?"
"Vegemite toast and two cups of tea!"
"Ah ha. Dehydration for sure.'

I was just contemplating escape when another First Aid dude approached with a clip board.

"Oh nooooo, you can't write this down."
"It's just for our records."
"Arrgh!"

What a blow to ones credibility! I'd spent all day crowing about what a fucking rock veteran I was; speculating on the setlist, demonstrating shoulder-barge techniques to secure the best spot. In the past I'd sniggered at those skanky chicks being hauled from the mosh pit, their bodies limp and useless. "Amateurs!" I'd scoff, "Can't hack the pace! G'wan, get outta here!". But now here I was, pasty-faced and pathetic, sipping water from a paper cup.

Suddenly the lights went down and crowd screamed. I tried to stand up.

"Come on!"
"Just sit for a minute and relax!"
"You don't understand. It's my favourite band!"
"Just five minutes."
"No!"

The drums were calling me; low and rumbling, signalling the start of 'There There'. The First Aid dude handed me a couple of glucose tablets and I shoved them into my mouth, like Popeye with his can of spinach, crunching and spluttering and getting to my feet.

"I'm going in!"

We'd lost out centre spot, but our new perch on the Ed-board side offered a perfect sweeping view of the stage. Best of all there was room to breathe. By the time the boys barrelled into '2+2=5', I was BACK, baby! Sugar surged through my veins and I jumped and screamed like a madwoman.

The boys were on fire, I tells ya. In 1998 they were intense and spectacular, but the crowd was strangely still, as if overwhelmed. The band in turn seemed overwhelmed and weary, but then again they'd spend the last year with the world humping their collective legs in ecstasy after the release of OK Computer. That'd be tough on anyone. But now they were comfortable in their skin. Thom actually smiled and cracked jokes now. The music was more ferocious and physical than last time, they just plain rocked!

The crowd soaked up their energy. The old hits got the drunks singing and snogging and slopping paper cups of Carling. But it was the new songs that really grabbed you by the guts. Take a song like 'Myxomatosis', so irritating on the album that I wanted to clobber the stereo with a brick. But live it was raw and menacing, you could feel the guitars buzzing right through your chest. Woooooo!

Oh I was doing so well, riding high on life and traces of Hovis Big 'n' Bouncy White Sliced Loaf. But when Thom wobbled his way into 'Idioteque', my stomach started wobbling too. Just five more minutes, I urged my innards, This song is so good live, please hold on. But soon I was clopping around the perimeter of the venue with my hands clutched to my stomach, looking for the loo.

I made it back in time for the encores. 'How To Disappear Completely' was so lush it made your bones ache. 'Karma Police' was marred only by cheesy twats with cigarette lighters.

The final song was 'Everything In Its Right Place'. I could have made it, but everything in my stomach was in its wrong place. I bolted out again, hand clamped over mouth. I spent the last moments of the show perched over the loo, alternately swearing and gagging. I'd missed my boys leaving the stage. I could have cried!

But what a way to make a gig memorable! On the way back to Edinburgh we pondered where it all went wrong. There is the scientific view that one cannot live on tea and toast and adrenaline alone. Even when said toast is slathered in the nutritional goodness of Vegemite. But let's not rule out that Ed O'Brien was possibly so saucy that he could cause me to squeal and swoon like a boufantted Beatlemaniac.

photo: rory associated press.
author's lifeless body: not pictured.