Meet Hector

We have a puppy! He is a cocker spaniel (English cocker spaniels are a bit smaller than American cockers, for my US readers). He is a blue roan, which is breeder-speak for speckledy grey with black and white patches. Here he is.

There are two things that I've learnt about puppies. The first is that they are very hard to photograph, especially if they have black faces, because then it looks as if they don't have eyes. So forgive me the quality of the pictures in this post. The second is that they won't bother about getting house trained, if you don't bother. A lot. A very lot.

Apart from the house training issue (which is my fault, really, because I just can't build my life round taking a dog outside every 20 minutes, and what progress I'd made, we lost when half-term started and my eye was even less on the house training ball than before), he is a pleasure. He is fun, confident, unbelievably cute, and as 8-yo commented the other day "has brought a lot of joy to our lives". Most of our lives, in any case. I could say all but one of our lives... Looking at you here, Husband... You'll bond with him in time... Trust me...

I do particularly like the fact that he is good at nights. I wasn't looking forward to having to get up in the night to a barking or whining puppy, or those horribly early mornings when the puppy body clock says "day begins now". But Hector has got me up only once in the night. From night one, when we firmly shut the kitchen door, and the bedroom door, and didn't borrow a baby monitor, he settled well. He settles in the evening, and even though he hears us next door in the sitting room, he will put himself to bed in the kitchen, not even being offended if I go in to make a cup of tea. When half-term began, I predicted that his body clock would still be on school hours, but he only barks when he hears us get up. Of course the kitchen floor is littered with unwelcome surprises, but I'll happily mop those up if it means I've had an extra hour or two in bed.

I don't really know what else to tell you about Hector (for such is his name). Oh, except that he was clearly destined to be ours. I'd already short-listed Hector as a name (remember that blog post?). We'd decided on a cocker, a male, and my first choice was a blue roan. When I phoned a breeder, I asked if there were any males in the litter, and any blue roans. The breeder replied "There's only one blue roan boy. He's very inquisitive so we've nick-named him Hector the Inspector". We went to see the litter, and fell in love with Hector, but the children also fell for another, whom they nick-named Cuddles. Cuddles, an orange roan (brown and white), was the shy, timid puppy who pulled at heartstrings. The other puppies gambolled about, while Cuddles got tired, and simply fell asleep in the middle of the floor. So we went off to have a coffee and discuss the issue. I phoned the breeder, said we were still choosing between the two, and asked if we could come and have another look, (though I told the children that Hector was my first choice, as I preferred to have a confident rather than a timid dog). But while we had been having coffee, the next buyer - who had said he wanted one of the all-black puppies from the litter - had chosen orange roan Cuddles instead. So Hector was ours! It was meant to be.

Here are another couple of pictures of him. Bless his little, soft, furry, blue roan heart.

Further woes of a returning Brit

Laundry. It's a common cause for angst amongst Americans living in Britain. As I said in my last post, I find I've crossed the line. I'm in the Big American Washing Machines and Dryers sisterhood now.

There's another divide I've traversed. It also reduces me to a quivering heap of rage from time to time. I'm sure you can guess what it is. Yup. Customer service. Tell me...

• Why do I need a pound for a supermarket trolley? Does the supermarket not want my business? Do they not want to make it easy for me to shop with them? Don't try that prevention-of-vandalism argument with me. If I was a vandal intent on a late night jaunt involving some drunken friends, a shopping trolley, a hill, and a disused quarry or murky canal (sounds quite fun, actually), I don't think the need for a pound coin would put me off. 
• Why do shop assistants expect me to stand and wait while they finish their personal conversations?
• Why do they think it makes it better to say "I'll be with you in a minute"? I am the customer. Be with me NOW.
• Why do shop assistants say "It's over there" and wave vaguely in the direction from which I've come? I wouldn't be asking them where it was, if I'd found it "over there".
• When they say "It's over there", why do they add "or it should be"? I'm not interested in where it should be. I'm interested in where it IS. 
• When I say "I couldn't find it over there", why do they ask "Do you want me to show you?" OF COURSE I want you to show me. If I didn't want you to show me, I wouldn't have asked. 
• Why do shop assistants content themselves (but not me) with saying "I don't know"? It is your job to know, or to find out.
• Why is the British public so happy to be told "It's up to you, really"? Yes, it's up to me - I'm the customer after all (perhaps I should just remind you of that) - but I am asking for your advice. That's why you are in this job.
• Why do waiters ignore me studiously when I want the bill? Do they not WANT my money?
• How on earth do the public loos in cafes and shops pass health and safety standards?

Oh dear, I can feel my blood pressure rising as I write this. Too many UPPER CASE WORDS are creeping in. I'll have to go to Belgium for a day. That'll make me feel better about British customer service.

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Washing woes

If you read expat blogs, there is one subject that comes up again and again. A subject that evokes the deepest, darkest, most shameful emotions, that stirs home-loving, patriotic passion, that will reduce the most rational, accepting, broad-horizoned traveler to a ranting, bigoted ball of nationalistic hatred. Yes... it's the laundry.

I could write a blog post about my puppy. But as I sit at the computer, I am possessed with a fury that I have seldom known in my life, and I need to run into the therapeutic arms of the blogosphere, to release my pent-up loathing. Loathing, hatred, intense dislike. The thesaurus has left me high and dry. I am lost for words to describe my murderous, raging, venomous, aaaargh...... towards my washer-drier. I don't even know how to spell it. Washer-drier? Washer-dryer? What kind of a thing doesn't even know how to spell itself?

Stick to one thing. Wash if you wash. Dry if you dry. Don't try and multi-task. That's for women. Human beings with a brain, intelligence, and years of experience with laundry. You smug little square white pile of... metal. You think you're so wonderfully clever, with your wheel of different programme numbers, and your buttons of special options.You have that irritating know-all expression on your glass-fronted face, and you rumble away in the corner as if you are the King of Clean Dry Clothing Land. But you know NOTHING! You have the laundry sensitivity of a rampaging bull ox. In season. DON'T try to interrupt. What do you know of animal biology?

I poo-poo your eco-wash option. I hate your small white dials. I spit on your spin speed selector. I refuse to  look at your detergent drawer. I walk by on the other side of the utility room, with my face turned away. I despise your attempts to win me back, with your luring offer of three different levels of dryness. Hanging dry, ironing dry, wardrobe dry. It all sounds so good, but then you go and spoil it all. How can I trust you again? No. Nothing you can do can make me change my mind. I will not relent. You have ruined our relationship. I started out suspicious of your dual nature, your washer-dryer combination, but willing to put my prejudices to one side, to make an effort with you. You have ignored my needs, trampled over my desires. My dreams lie in shrunken, creased heaps. You have put me through the wringer, and hung me out to... never mind. There are no more second chances. I am dumping you.

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss my great big American washing machine. OK, so it didn't get the clothes very clean, but at least it tried. It didn't knot them, shrink them, crumple them, and spew them out at my feet, jeering at my woe and sorrow. It wasn't high-tech or environmentally friendly, but sometimes, I have come to realise, size DOES matter. You and your namby-pamby 5 kilogram weight limit. I don't need your clever clogs technology. I need a machine that will love and accept my huge loads of dirty washing, and then another one that will dry them, gently and carefully, with me at the controls. Machines that will discuss with me what outcomes I want, rather than arrogantly assume they know best. Do you care about 11-yo's Manchester United fleece? You say you do. Your instruction book makes all kinds of extravagant claims. But your behaviour is contrary to those empty promises. You've ruined that fleece. That precious fleece. That fleece, several pairs of school trousers, socks, t-shirts, a dressing gown, and my new M&S panties, with no regard to the cost. Hotpoint, it's over between us.

American expats, I feel your pain. I've crossed over. I'm on your side now. I'm missing my Maytags.

Ch... ch... ch... changes

Do you know, I've been blogging for over five years. I have. That's more than 10% of my life. One of my early blogging favourites, Wife in the North, popped up in my reader the other day, saying she was coming back to blogging after a break. I left a comment saying "Oh, it's all changed, you know", and then started thinking about how, exactly, blogging has changed in those five years.

I have had phases when I've got a bit sad about the development of blogging. In my time, I've written the odd post bewailing this: "oh, it's going all commercial", I've lamented. But mostly, I've enjoyed watching it. Watching it? Heck, I've not just watched from the sidelines. I've been part of it. Because that's one of the great things about blogging. You can be part of it, just by doing it.

So, how has blogging changed over the past five years? Here are my thoughts.

It's just so much bigger. I remember the days when I didn't have a reader, but just scooted round blogs from blog roll to blog roll. If a new blog appeared, it felt like everyone popped over to check it out. A new writer on the block. Now, I imagine it must be much harder for new bloggers to jump in. Perhaps that's why it feels as if there's an "in-crowd" (always a favourite topic for a whinge in the blogosphere). I used to deliberately have a look round blogs I hadn't read before, on a frequent basis. Now, I hardly venture outside my comfort zone of known friends. But that's mostly a function of my changing needs as a blogger. I'm not in search of new readers, particularly, so I'm not in search of new reads. But if I was, I'm aware that it would be tougher than it used to be - there are more readers, but there are a lot more writers.

Yes, blogging has got more commercial. But here's the thing. It doesn't have to be. There are people making money out of blogging. There are people making a living out of blogging. There are people using their blog to support and promote their business. But there are still plenty of people like me, who blog for fun, and are happy to have the odd perk, but who would, and do, willingly blog without perks.

Because it's bigger, blogging is more fragmented. Niches are no longer niches, but whole communities.  I don't read blogs about new babies any more, because (dare I say it) once you have left that world behind, you lose the intensity of interest in the issues. I clearly remember the day I read a blog post on baby led weaning, and thought "what the heck is that?" I didn't know about it, and so I couldn't have an opinion. I felt a little excluded. It was a moving-on moment. I still found the post quite interesting though, whereas now, my attention isn't grabbed by baby or toddler issues at all. My conclusion is that most people write blogs that are about the generality of their lives, but that they'll only really attract new readers if they are writing for a specific audience, and those audiences are pretty segmented. Those of us who enjoy the luxury of having made bloggy friends in the early days, find that we can drag them along with our general wittering about life. But I'm guessing that you couldn't really start out that way these days (correct me if I'm wrong).

Blogging is no longer just about writing. Once upon a time, people who had fancy blog designs were in the minority. Now, the design is a crucial part of the blog. Blogs have become much more visual. Photography is a huge element of blogging. Just look at the popularity of Tara Cain's Gallery. Writing takes its place alongside other forms of creative expression: photos, videos, music. It's a richer mix than it used to be. Writing has always been the central interest for me, but I love the variety. There are some blogs that I follow exclusively for their photographs.

Blogging used to be just a little bit shocking. It started with people confessing to imperfect parenting. This is something that we now take for granted, but five years ago, confessing to having lost your temper with your children, or to beginning your anticipation of the 7.30pm post-bedtime glass of wine as you clear away breakfast - these were things that you only revealed to a good friend, jokingly. That's one thing I think blogging has seriously influenced. The general perception of parenthood is much more real, and less sugary than it used to be. There are other areas of life that used to be whispered about, that blogging has made it ok to talk about publicly: infertility is a big one, miscarriage, stillbirth, cancer. It's hard to shock now, in the blogosphere. When I wrote about having cancer, it felt very exposing (I wouldn't do it now - it only felt possible when I was pretty much anonymous). But now the blogosphere is dotted with photos of bald chemotherapy heads, mastectomy scars, blow by blow medical details.

Most obviously, blogging has ridden the wave that has been the surging development of social media. Now this is where I have to go quiet, because I'm immediately out of my depth here. I used to feel protective of blogging, feeling that it would be submerged. Remember that song by The Buggles: Video Killed the Radio Star? I used to fear that social media would kill blogging. But it hasn't, and it isn't. It's giving it new platforms, new opportunities. I'm going to stop on that subject, before I reveal my almost total lack of functional knowledge.

Those are my thoughts on how blogging has changed in the past five years. What about you? What do you think? I'd like to tag a few bloggers who've been around a while, to invite them to share their views. It's an interesting topic. So, consider yourself tagged:

Expat Mum
Potty Mummy
Nappy Valley Girl
Who's The Mummy?
Sticky Fingers
A Modern Mother
The American Resident
Rosie Scribble
More Than Just a Mother
Crystal Jigsaw

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The Blue Goose

Disclaimer: Those nice people at Groupon gave me £40 to buy myself a Groupon and review the goods or service.

Now, I do like a Groupon. I've had good Groupon experiences and bad Groupon experiences. In America, I discovered my nearest restaurant with a Groupon, which I'd never have thought of going to otherwise, and which became a favourite. I also discovered a sad, empty restaurant which served not very nice food, an over-priced and inflexible hairdressing salon, and a bit of a mediocre massage therapist. What I like about Groupon, is that it makes you try new things. It's the nearest thing to adventure that I get - or want (I'm quite boring, really). I enjoy the randomness of it. You pick one, you buy it, and sometimes it's great, sometimes it's not. I guess that's the essence of a bargain. Sometimes that sweater that was a steal in the shop becomes your favourite go-to wardrobe item. Sometimes it spends its life accusingly sitting on the shelf, saying "you bought me, now you must darn well wear me, even though I'm really not very nice to look at after all".

When you've moved to a new city, Groupon seems a great way of exploring. Especially if it's a freebie. Thus it was that I purchased "Tapas for Two" at the Blue Goose Country Pub. The description sounded as if the experience contained all I would need for a cosy night out with Husband. It was by the Water of Leith, and the words "Country Pub" always warm the cockles of the heart, especially the heart that has been living in America, thousands of miles away from the nearest country pub. We'd been told that Leith is full of nice eateries and drinkeries, and it's not far from where we are, so I thought it would be an easy night out.

Thing is, no-one told me that the Water of Leith is the name of the river that flows through the city of Edinburgh. So just because an establishment is "by the Water of Leith", it doesn't mean that it's anywhere near Leith. Stop laughing at me. It was an easy mistake. It did mean that the evening didn't get off to a flying start. First, I must have asked Husband about half a dozen times if it really was ok to leave the children with the new puppy on their own, even though the puppy would be asleep all evening (oh... and there's a blog post I haven't written yet... the puppy...). Second, I had the traditional argument with Emily, our GPS voice. She does insist on taking us through the city centre, even though half the roads are closed where they are laying tramlines. Third, we realised pretty soon that we weren't headed for Leith, five minutes away, but for three-quarters of the way down the Lanark Road, about twenty minutes away (or more, if you're relying on Emily).

The Blue Goose is, indeed, right by the Water of Leith, and there is a small outdoor area where you could sit and have a pint (though not on a rainy, cold, dark September evening). But even with as many provisos as I could muster, the words "country pub" seemed... well, perhaps I just have an over-romanticised mental image of a country pub. Call me picky, but the words don't somehow conjure up a building on a major arterial road. The atmosphere as we walked into The Blue Goose wasn't so much open fire, horse brasses and low beams, as brightly lit restaurant area, and bar area with Nutbush City Limits blaring loudly from speakers. We've all had those "this is not what I had in mind" moments, and this was one of mine.

But all's well that ends well. I dropped my pre-conceptions, and decided we were going to have a nice evening anyway. We found a quietish corner, and I think they must have turned the music down. Either that, or Husband's conversation was so scintillating that I filtered out any other decibels. The tapas were delicious. The staff were helpful and when we said we wanted something else to eat, but not a whole course, the waitress suggested the cheeseboard from the dessert menu. She said it was really nice, and she was right. Just the perfect suggestion.

So will I go to The Blue Goose again? In all honesty, I probably won't make a special trip. We are in central Edinburgh, and therefore very spoilt for choice with places to eat and drink without driving for 20-30 minutes with the irritating Emily. But if I happened to be in a traffic jam on the Lanark Road, on my way back from... Lanark, perhaps?... and wanted somewhere for a break, it would be good to know of The Blue Goose, with its easy parking, flexible menu, friendly staff, and memorable name. It might be a balmy summer evening, and I'd order the cheeseboard and a glass of wine, take a table outside, and sit by the Water of Leith. Not very near Leith.

Iota and Husband enjoyed a glass of wine each and six tapas for two, at The Blue Goose, 27 Lanark Road, Edinburgh EH14 1TG.  Normal price £32 pounds, covered  by a £12 Groupon, representing a £20 saving. And we didn't pay the £12 anyway - thank you, Groupon.

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New to living in Scotland

Here are three things about living in Scotland that I've discovered in the past 24 hours, that I didn't previously know.

• It's a bank holiday this coming Monday. The last Monday in August wasn't a bank holiday.
• No prescription charges (wa-hey!).
• If your son puts on his "formal wear" (it being Harvest Festival), and he hasn't had a bath the night before, you will have to spend some precious morning minutes getting him to sit on the bathroom floor with his legs outstretched, scrubbing at the mud with a flannel. Yes, "formal wear" is a kilt, and paraphernalia. I'm not a great fan of strict uniform for children, but I have to confess I do love 11-yo in his kilt regalia (and he likes wearing it, so that helps). 

Here is one thing I don't know about living in Scotland, and don't really ever want to know.

• While I was scrubbing 11-yo's knees, he was pondering how you're meant to have a pee in a kilt. He had solved the problem at school by going into a cubicle, and wrapping the event in privacy. But hold your horses before you start typing in the comments box. As I say, if you do know the correct Gents etiquette for kilt-wearers, I don't need to share that knowledge.

Birth certificates

I've just been trying (again) to apply for child benefit. (Now there's a blog post, explaining to my American friends why on earth the government gives you money to look after your child.) I've ticked all the boxes. I've downloaded Adobe Something Latest Version, I've found my children's birth certificates, I've wished on the full moon, but I still can't get the online form to appear. It doesn't seem that you can use the website to request a form to be put in the post to you. The two choices are either to fill in the form online, or to use the one in your new parent Bounty pack, which was given to you in hospital. Fifteen years ago, in my case. I've just phoned the Child Benefit helpline, but they're very busy. All their operators are very busy. So busy, that I couldn't even be put in a queue. They told me I had to phone back later. When I've emerged from my medieval peasant yearnings phase.

I feel I deserve a gold star for finding my children's birth certificates, though. Go on. Give me a gold star. I've moved half way across the world. I have only had internet access in my home for 2 days. I have no idea what the PIN number for my debit card is, so I'm living entirely on credit. I can't remember whether to say shedule or skedule.  I have no idea what most of the television I watch is about. The great majority of our paperwork is in stacks, or in boxes. And still I found our children's birth certificates. That must be a gold star. Actually, Husband found them, but I'm taking the credit, because... I can't think of a good reason. I'm just doing it.

Anyway, it's always interesting looking at birth certificates, isn't it? Most parents spend hours and hours choosing a name for their child, but we never think about the name of the registrar who will sign their birth certificate. Our oldest child's was signed by Helen Kettle. Our third's by Sheila Moist. Ms Kettle and Ms Moist! What fabulous names! I think the government could make a penny or two here. Just as people pay to have a personalised number plate on their car, I think there would be potential for charging for the kudos of having someone with an interesting name sign your child's birth certificate. Then the government could use the extra revenue to post out child benefit application forms.

Our second child had his birth certificate signed by A. Lumsden. A disappointingly ordinary name. I can only hope that the suspiciously anonymous A. stood for something interesting. Aardvark, or Anorak.