This wumman's work...

Weel, wid ye look at the time! Ah tak a couple o weeks aff writin, an the next thing it's next year! Ah'm no proud o masel, in fact ah'm black-affrontit. Ah've been hidin in here, squattin ahint ma settee wi a cushion ower ma heid, meanwhile ah've got fowk shoutin at ma door, chuckin chuckie-stanes at ma windaes, postin messages threatenin tae sing bawdy songs in ma stair, ah'll be gettin a bad name fer masel so ah will...

But ye're right, ah've brocht it aw oan masel, ah've naebody else tae blame but me. If ma auld grannie wis still wi us she wid say "Wyte yer teeth if yer tail be smaa" tho tae be honest we nivver kent whit she wis oan aboot hauf the time. Neither did ma granda. Ah think ah owe ye aw an explanation...

Ye see, ah've been sufferin fae an auld affliction. Ma doctor cries it SAD, but ah think o it mair as CAD. Ah hate Christmas an aw that gangs wi it. As suin as December shows up, ma mood gangs doon, an ah turn intae this crabbit auld crone, ye widnae recognise me ah tell ye (an that's enough o the sniggerin at the back) Ah dinnae go oot, ah dinnae answer ma phone, ah sit an shout at the telly when aw thae Christmas adverts come oan wi loads o happy faimilies aw wrapped up in their scarfs an duffelcoats wi their airms fu o presents, an smilin. It's the smilin that gets me mair than onythin. When ye're feelin crabbit, there's nothin worse than bein telt tae smile, tae laugh, tae be happy. Ah'll smile when ah'm guid an ready thank ye very muckle...

Ah wis nivver yin o auld John Knox's biggest fans. Tae ma mind he wis far ower-interestit in ither fowks' personal affairs, he kept gaun oan aboot how God could see through yer curtains richt intae yer bedroom, an richt through yer bedspread, even through yer flannelette nightie! When he stuid up there in St Giles kirk an shoutit at us, ye could see he wis enjoyin the thocht, salacious auld midden that he wis. But ah will say this fer the man, he had the richt idea aboot Christmas. Aw jist popery an frippery he wid say, a confection fer the senses wi nae foondation in fact nor meanin. He banned it alang wi Halloween durin oor Reformation, no that we went in fer it in a big way afore that, an it wis only made legal again in Scotland back in the 1950s, mainly oan account o the BBC wantin an excuse tae pit oan big films an 'Morecambe an Wise' shows. Ah'd happily go back...

Ah used tae be able tae jist pit ma heid doon, ignore aw the tinsel an the flashin lichts, an content masel wi the thocht that we were gettin closer tae Hogmanay. Noo that wis a nicht ah aye luikit forrit tae. Aw the preparations, the scrubbin, the polishin, the washin, the bakin, the cookin, it aw meant somethin tae me. We were cleanin the auld year aff oor backs, ready tae face the new like a fresh-bleachit sheet. Oan the nicht itsel ye had that frantic rush tae get awthin done an dustit, leavin ye jist enough time tae get yer peeny aff, pit yer face oan an fix yer hair afore the bells went. Then ye wid hae a wee quiet toast tae yersel in the hoose afore yer first-fits startit showin up. Then it wis singin an dancin, laughin an greetin, Black Bun an shortbreid, drinkin an mair drinkin, mair singin, mair laughin, even mair greetin, till the sun wis comin up. Ye wid get up oan New Year's Day an dae it aw ower again, mibbe wi yer faimily oan the ither side, an mibbe again the next nicht, till ye had fair broken the year in...

Except its no like that these days is it? Naw, noo it's jist yin big burst o fireworks, wakin the weans an scarin the cats, the streets are fu o drunk teenagers fer a couple o oors, then awbody gangs aff tae their beds. Nae first-fits, nae Black Bun, nae wee turns. Mr Pangloss an masel sat up fer a wee while, but naebody chapped oor door this year. Ah dinnae ken whit we were waitin up fer, naebody's chapped it fer years...

Ach...

See, this is why ah've no been at the postin lately. Ah cannae help masel ye see, ah stairt aff wi guid intentions, but the blackness aye comes doon ower ma een. Ah'm missin the auld days, ah'm missin freens an neebors, ah'm missin the community we aw yaist tae share. Fireworks, nae maitter how many or how big, dinnae mak up fer whit we've lost. So, ah said ah widnae bother ye aw wi ma dark thochts, parteecularly when ye were aw enjoyin yersels. Keep it tae yersel ah said tae masel. Naebody wants tae see yer moanin coupon at their pairty. An that's why ah generally keep ma ain company in December...

But that's enough aboot me. How's yersel? Fer aw that ah've jist said, ah hope ye aw had a happy yin yersels, that ye found comfort in yer faimly an freens, that ye got yersels unco fu an happy, an that ye survived it aw. Ah did, an ah'll be fine till come St Andrews Day, then it's aw doonhill again. Ah'm fu o guid intentions fer the comin year, an tap o ma list is gettin back intae the swing o things an tellin ye mair o ma wee stories. Promise. Until then, an ah'm sorry it's a bit late, ah'll wish ye aw a Happy New Year! Lang may yer lum reek!! Slainte!!

Not this time

Noo here's a thing. Ah'm no aboot tae tell ye yin o' ma stories, no this time. Naw, ah want tae take a wee minute o' yer time, jist a minute, tae talk aboot a wee pet love o' mine, an' ye're no tae laugh at me.

But afore ah tell ye, ah want tae pit doon oan record ma gratitude fer the nice things ye've aw said. Ah wisnae awfy sure why ah wantit tae write yin o' thae blogs, an' ah still think it's fer ma ain pleasure first an' foremost, but when folk take the time tae read it, an' then make a comment, well, it gleddens ma heart tae be sure. Ye're no a big crowd, but ah prefer it that way, ah dinnae like big crowds onyway, an' tho ah dinnae ken whit ye's look like, ah'm feelin' that wee bit connection. Whit mair can ye ask fer in this big noisy atomised world we live in?

See. Ah'm gettin' a bit mawdlin' noo, ah kent a wid. The tablets dinnae aye work, ye know? Ah get a bit up'n'doon sometimes, which is why ah couldnae keep up the rate some o' ye dae. Ah'm no able tae jist sit doon an' write, ah've got tae be in the mood. That's why ah'm no gaunnae try tae be a news/politics blogger, ye've got tae be right up-tae-date fer that. Ah can only pit doon somethin' ye can read weeks later, cos ah'm aware that naebody's gaunnae check me day-in-day-oot, tae find the same thing sittin' there. Pop in noo an' again, an' ah'll try ma best. Ah'll find ma strength, an' ah'll play tae it.

Right. That said, ah'll get oan. Ma wee pet love, drum-roll.... is River City!

Ah've aye loved ma soaps, ever since Florrie Linley put her name abune the door o' the shop at the end o' Coronation Street an' Mrs Sharples had a go at her. Ah've enjoyed watchin' aw thae wee folk graw up, graw auld, an' then snuff it. Whit wi' crashes oan the viaduct, knockin-doons in the square, armed seiges in the close, ah tell ye ah've had ma work cut oot keepin' up. But nane o' them have felt real, they've aw jist felt like dramas oan the telly.

No till River City came alang that is. Tae be mair exact, no till the minute Johnny Beattie came through fae the scullery an' said tae his daughter "Wid ye like a wee piece oan cheese?"

That did it fer me. Ah felt right at hame. Noo it's got Johnny, Eileen McCallum, an' Una Maclean, ah feel like ah'm sittin' in the Citizen's Theatre, oan a wee day-trip tae Glesca toun. It's that real ah huv tae hae a bath when ah get hame!

Ah wis near greetin' the night, whit wi' the bother Scarlett's haein' wi that wee toe-rag Theresa. When she blurtit oot, right at the end, that wee Bob's no hers, but is in fact her sister's, well ah don't mind tellin' ye, ah swore at ma telly.

It crossed ma mind tae dae a weekly RiverCityUpdate sortae thing, fer there isnae yin oan the internet, wid ye credit it? But then ah thocht, ah awready watch it every week, so ah widnae find oot onythin' new.

Aw wait, ah'm gettin' masel confused noo, am ah no? Onyroads, ah'm weel aware naebody watches it but me, so ah'll jist keep it as ma dirty wee secret.

As Iona wid say, "Cheerie!!"

Be kind tae ma mistakes

"Bloggin eh? Whit's thon then?"

That's a question ah've been askin masel a lot lately. Is it a diary? Is it tellin stories? Is it like a megaphone oan the Internet? Is it jist a sign o' an inflated ego?

Well dinnae expect me tae gie ye an answer. No yet onyway. See, ah'm no verry sure masel. Whit it feels like is hard work. Hard work if ye're postin regularly that is, an' a bit pointless if ye're no. This big messy Internet seems tae be littered wi' half-startit blogs, fu o' great intentions but tailin aff intae occasional mutterins an' apologies. That may be ma fate an' aw, wha kens? Ah've got stories tae tell, but wha disnae? an' ah want tae tell them, through a megaphone so folk'll hear them, but tae be honest ah've no got a big ego. Ah'm sairly aware that ah'm jist a biddy bidin up a stair in Leith, jist up fae the Fit o' th' Walk (hence the 'shootin fae the shin' joke, an' aye, ah'm sorry) an' ah've nae great insights intae the workins o' this world. Jist ma ain opinions.

So, ah got up this mornin an' ah says tae masel "Sophia, ye're jist gaunnae hae tae gie it a go." "Whit hae ye got tae lose," ah says "except yer dignity, an' ye've no got much o' that onyways." Ah should stop talkin tae masel ah ken, ah only get cheek.

Whit can ye expect fae me then, that ah think's sae great tae publish oan the Internet? Well firstly, as ye've probably sussed awready, ah'm bloggin in ma ain Scots tongue, the yin ma mither gie'd me. Ah love ma leid an' ah'll use it as ah see fit. Ah'll try tae be consistent wi the words an' the spellin, but seein as it's aw comin fae ma heid an' no fae a book it'll likely vary wi the weather. Sae bite me if ye dinnae like it.

Ah'll likely be talkin aboot whit's 'current' in the world, especially ma wee corner o' it, whit's gaun oan in Leith, in Embra, in Scotland, in the 'United' Kingdom o' 'Great' Britain. Ah'll tell ye ma story, an' how it fits intae Scotland's great an' untold story, but if ye're lookin fer facts then ye may be disappointit. Awa ye gang tae Wikipedia if that's whit ye're efter.

This is Sophia Pangloss's blog, like it or lump it.