Winter in Asturias

Winter? But it's almost May! I woke up on Sunday, however, to a crisp, brilliant white landscape and falling snow. It's melted now, although it's still pretty damn freezing. The previous couple of winters here have been a lacklustre affair without the heavy snowfalls I'd become accustomed to -  a little dusting here and there, and that was about it. This winter, as you can see below, was a different kettle of fish altogether (and has been rather a shock to the system, and the cats). What I can say, though, is that the landscape has been stunning. Enjoy the photos!

The White Car Economy or Henry Ford Turns in His Grave

Most readers, if not all, have to be aware that Spain is going through a difficult time at the moment, and that's putting it simply. One of the measures that our most splendid President Rajoy (or the Famous Disappearing President, as R calls him, since he's almost never to be seen) has come up with - apart from asking the lovely EU for hundreds of millions to prop up our failing banking system while making huge cuts in Education and the Health System, is what is known here as the Plan PIVE. I'm not quite sure what PIVE stands for, but it means that if you have a car that's 12 years old or over, you can pop along to your friendly dealer and part exchange it for a brand spanking new motor and get a whopping €2,000 discount. In reality, the discounts can be much higher as the industry battles to keeps selling, stay afloat and maintain some 4,500 Spanish jobs - even more important this month as unemployment has hit a record high of over 27%.

The result of this is that we're seeing a lot more new cars on the road than you would expect. The effect took a while to kick in as families, recognising a good deal when they saw one, and probably knowing that their current car wouldn't last much longer, scrimped and saved to find the money needed for the minimum deposit to then be able to finance the rest of the payment. What is showing, is that a large percentage of these shiny new cars are white. In other words, there's just about enough money to get the car, but no more to pay for fancy extras, such as a dash of colour. To quote a Spitting-Image-Favourite, Tory MP (and both shock and disgust myself in the process) it's "back to basics". I myself am partial to a bit of white: it looks a lot more stylish than certain colours and doesn't go out of fashion. Plus, and after a bit of internet research I'm not sure if this is true, it's cheaper to insure that a black, red or yellow car, or so people believe. So savings all round. R and I have even turned it into a game - spot the new white car, or as we say, pointing wearily, yet again "coche nuevo blanco". Something else I have discovered is that the cars selling most are the superminis and the cheaper makes. Dacia Spain, for example, has sold out of all its smaller models for this year. If you want a bargain €6,000 car, you'll have to wait until 2014, Kia is on the verge of a similar situation with the Rio. And what are being pushed in all the car ads at the moment are the remaining larger family saloons. It seems, therefore, that there are people who can afford new cars, but with no extra trimmings. Even those who are buying more expensive auto-mobiles are opting to save those extra euros and go for the cheaper white: in my area I've come across both a new, white Range Rover and Nissan Qashqai (it was hard not to notice the latter as it almost ran me off the road, but that's another story). 

And why, you may be asking yourself, have I suddenly taken such an interest in, and become so knowledgeable about cars. The answer, as you have probably guessed, is that I am soon to become the proud-ish owner, with a lot of help from my ever-practical mother, of a new Clio 3, and yes, I have asked for it in white.

A UK Xmas - part III

Final stop, North Yorkshire. I'd made it to Harrogate, where I was kindly met by my lovely sister and niece (whose first words, after a hug, were "I like your suitcase". Ahem.).

A quick drive and we arrived at my sister's house in Ripon where my mum and her boyfriend were already waiting for us. More bear hugs ensued, then before I could continue with the business of Xmas drinking, a shower was needed. By the time I got back downstairs, the living room was full of festive boozers - knocking back the champagne no less - who I happily joined in with. Eight years it had taken me to get back at this time of year, so I felt it was more than justified. By this time I was feeling pretty sleepy, and also, oh dear, a bit achy and sniffly. And yes, by the time I hopped into bed, I needed to take a box of tissues with me.

I was sharing my niece's room, and when I awoke at 5 am on Xmas morning she was nowhere to be seen. Feeling pretty grotty though, I just rolled over and went back to sleep. Unfortunately, I was to be granted only two hours more kip. My mum, obviously taking revenge for all those hideously early Xmas get-ups when I was a child, bounded into my room at 7.15 announcing that my niece could await no longer and my presence was needed downstairs for the Grand Opening of the Presents. I staggered down to the living room and curled up on the sofa while gift after gift was enthusiastically opened by all concerned, myself included (my Xmas haul was composed of, amongst other items, a very-gratefully-received box set of Outnumbered, which my sister had introduced me to the previous January, and a tasteful plaque for my wall that stated "Cats are like chocolates, you can never have just one...").

After that it was back to bed to repose for another hour. Feeling I should lend a hand, I decided not lounge in bed for too long and so shuffled down to the kitchen to help prepare the big meal. Fortunately, I was put on veggie duty so had little more to do than peel potatoes, parsnips and carrots, chop Savoy cabbage and prepare Brussels sprouts. I would've been happy with just the veg - you can't get parsnips or Savoy cabbage in Spain, and I adore sprouts - but I'd been bought a nutty, veggie bake too, my mum had made a gluten-free bread sauce and there was also stuffing. This was all served with gravy, apple sauce and cranberry sauce so I felt quite decadent sat there with a plate full of food, and more than a little guilty. Having come from Spain, where I knew thousands of families had trouble making it to the end of each month, where soup kitchens and food banks are nowadays the main source of groceries for many people of all ages, including some with a university education, I was grateful to be in a situation where I could sit down with my family and enjoy a plentiful meal together. I cleaned my plate; when I was little I was fed stories of starving children in Africa, this time I was thinking of hungry families in my adopted country.

I was brought out of my sombre, and sneezy, mood by a post-lunch photo session. It should've been a simple affair - my sister sat at the table next to me and mum played photographer. However, instead of using the zoom, she shoved the camera at us to get us in frame. We both recoiled at exactly the same time, looked at each other and burst out laughing. And we couldn't stop. The cacophony lasted a good twenty minutes, and proved to be contagious as you can see from the photos:

After we'd all calmed down mum declared "I've not laughed like that in years", and I don't think I had either.

One thing I was disappointed by was the momentous occasion of the Xmas day film. Or rather lack of it. When I was little, this was a big event. I remember watching E.T. and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom on the 25th December - had you not made it to the cinema (a magical occasion in itself back then) this was your first chance to catch the blockbuster and so was a huge occurrence that I looked forward to all through lunch. However, nowadays, with Sky and other channels taking your money and using it to buy up all the best films, we were left with pretty poor showings. In fact, I can't even remember what we ended up watching. A little piece of the magic was lost. Given the state I was in,  though, I didn't last much longer on Xmas day and crawled into bed at an early hour. Boxing day was even worse. I managed a trip out to restock on tissues and that was it. The day was spent feeling sorry for myself and feeling snotty.

However, having been more-or-less force-fed vitamin C and zinc tablets (by my ever-prepared mother) for the previous three days, I was feeling much better by the 27th. Quite fortunately too as it was Panto day.  Harrogate has the best Panto I've ever seen, even though it's performed by the same company every year and contains no B-list, or even C-list, celebs (perhaps that's why it's so good). This year it was Jack and the Beanstalk (with a very believable, moving giant) and, despite my weakened state, I bravely managed to keep up the calls of "Oh, yes it is!" and "It's behind you!" until almost the very end, when I eventually went hoarse.

For my final day in the UK, I went shopping. To the supermarket. I like this type of shopping at all times, but a UK supermarket is, these days, a special treat. I had planned on filling the basket (and my suitcase) with Crabbies and Rekorderlig strawberry and lime cider (see my previous post). However, there was a last-minute change of plan and I ended up with cat treats instead. I have one extremely fussy puss, who will only ever take malt in the form of Whiskas malt bites. These, in Spain, cost me about €2.50. In the UK I got them on a 2 for 2 pound offer. And even without that, it would've cost me only 1 pound twenty per box, or about €1.50. I was furious: not only do Spanish workers earn significantly less than the British (unless you're a top footballer or one of the many corrupt politician, it seems) but we also have to pay more for our goods. And it wasn't just the cat malt, though that was the best (worst) example I found of how we're being swindled over here. There were many, not only in the supermarket, but there had been throughout my trip - the digital camera my sister had bought my niece for Xmas only cost 40 quid, and it was a good make. Something similar in Spain would cost me about 50% more. Had I had more money, I would've bought myself one before I left. I'd never before felt poor in my life, even during the 10 years I spent at university; now I did. So, I filled my trolley with Whiskas malt bites, and also the obligatory, much-missed, gluten-free crumpets (which predictably didn't last very long once I got back home) and that was about it.

As I mentioned at the start of this post, I have a rather lovely sister, a fact that was confirmed when I discovered that my train back to the airport had been cancelled due to engineering work. Of course that hadn't stopped them charging me 110 pounds for it then failing to advise that it wouldn't be running. Cue my fantabulous sis, who offered to take me down to Stansted - a journey of 3.5 hours each way - without blinking. In the end, the journey was much more comfortable for me that way. A good thing too, since I arrived back home, exhausted, at about 8pm that evening, much to the delight of six, stroke-starved cats. 

I must admit, all in all, it was fun. I had a great time, despite the sniffles, sometimes unreliable train service and tiring journey to and from Spain. I also learnt to appreciate where I come from and see the many positives of the UK, for perhaps the first time ever. Having said that, thankfully I did make the most of it, because it may take me another nine years before I decide to brave it again at Xmas.

A UK Xmas - part II

So, I’d finally made it up to Macc where my friend Sue was eagerly awaiting my arrival for some fun and frolics, helped along by the odd cocktail, pint or glass of wine, or two. And I must say, the programme she’d come up with for my entertainment passed with flying colours.

Given my late arrival, we only managed the one glass of the old vino before bedtime, but were up and ready to go by a decent hour the following day, which held a trip to Manchester in store. Now, I know that Macclesfield is none too far away from the home of Corrie, Oasis, Aflecks Palace and the Madchester music scene, but, apart from a fleeting visit last year, I hadn’t been there in years. Literally. And yes, it had changed, though the slightly scruffy-with-a-whiff-of-cool Manchester I remembered from my teenage years of Saturday shopping trips was still there too.

Where are George and Bungle?

Anyway, it being the 21^st December, we had a wander round the Xmas markets, comsuming some Amaretto-imbued mulled wine, purely to keep the chill out you understand, and then I went to good old M&S to do a bit of knicker shopping – I tell you, you cannot beat the price-quality ratio anywhere in Spain, and I always look forward to a trip to Marks to keep the old underwear draw in good nick whenever I’m back. So, I ran around the lingerie section, eagerly holding up pairs of smalls to ask for Sue’s opinion, oblivious to the funny looks we were getting from some customers. After that, it was time for a drink, so off we headed in search of something tasty, which indeed we found, in the form of a Cliff Richard.

Winter warmer - mulled wine with added Amaretto, hence the grin

How could I not opt for a Cliff Richard when choosing a Christmas cocktail?!

I could’ve happily downed several, but having promised to meet up with some old friends back in Macc for a night out, we caught the train back and continued the drinking there, not before I’d freshened up my journey-weary hair with some spray-in, dry shampoo, which, as far as I know, has yet to make it to Spain, though I hope it does soon - brilliant stuff! After Cliff, anything was going to be a bit of a let down, though I solved the dilemma by opting for a Crabbie's (alcoholic) ginger beer which came with added lime and Tabasco (and I'd thought it couldn't get any tastier!).

The old faithful, with a twist

We were joined in the pub – one of the very few “traditional” ones left, though I'm not sure if a stuffed Crocodile stuck upside down on the ceiling counts as traditional (shucks, why did I not think to take a photo?!)  - by Dee Dee the Jack Russell, making it seem even more typically British and therefore exciting my, now Spanish, cultural tastebuds. Yes, I was in my hometown, but also feeling a little like a tourist.

Traditional pub deco

The next day involved some last-minute Xmas shopping – there’s only a certain amount of presents you can fit into a suitcase – and so it was back to M&S for more knickers (this time for my Mum – hmm, could this be genetic?) and other bits and pieces. After the previous night – I was proud to have managed to stay out until 1 am after an afternoon’s boozing in Manchester and the long journey the previous day, though by Spanish standards it was a pretty poor showing – it was time for a quieter night. We headed to the old Heritage Centre, which I was pleased to see now has a cinema on the top floor, to see The Hobbit. We went for a quiet drink (or two) after and then felt the need to go home (again, not so good by Spanish standards, but I enjoyed myself anyway).

Wanting my last day to live up to the rest of the visit, Sue had organised a plethora of events for the following day, including a walk around Macc Forest. It was windy, cold and even started to rain while we were up there, but I didn't care -  I had forgotten how serene and beautiful it was and was busy taking it all in, as if for the first time. 

Actually, I’m not sure I had forgotten. It dawned on me, while squelching around in the mud, hood up to shelter from the rain, that I’d previously taken the area where I lived somewhat for granted. Being away from it for 8 years and seeing it again was somewhat of an eyeopener. It seems familiarity does indeed breed, if not contempt, then at least a certain lack of appreciation. Anyway, such was the shock, that we had to end the walk with a trip to the pub – this time I decided to try some of the cider on offer – it was certainly different from the stuff you get here in Asturias and tasty too, though it still didn't knock Crabbie's off the top of my Best UK Bevvies list.

Not Crabbies, but not bad at all

Given my lifelong proclamation of never wanting to have children, I seem to have picked up a knack of getting along with them quite well. After the walk it was time to play Santa Claus so we wove our way back down to Macc (getting a fantastic view of the Cheshire Plain – my, I’d never thought that before either!) and went to see some old school friends and their offspring, and drop off presents from “Auntie Rachel”. This was followed by an Indian (also a must on my UK to-do list: #1 knickers, #2 curry) and then the evening’s entertainment consisted of, and wait for this and can I have a drum roll please... a pub quiz! Sue knows me very well indeed – and so she should, we've been friends for about thirty years – and had planned the perfect final evening of my stay in Macc. Even better, it was in a new (for me), low-key bar in the town that I discovered served not only gluten-free lager (gasp!) but also the most delicious cider I had ever tried (sorry Asturias).

Really rather tasty - and much to my delight, available in supermarkets too!

Add this to the pub quiz and I had a spectacular time – if you’re interested, we came third (though the teams coming first and second had five and four members respectively) and would’ve racked up extra points if I only could’ve remembered the name of Santa’s ninth reindeer  - Vixen (I got the other 8) – and the name of the third wise man – Caspar (Melchior and Balthasar are the two others if you’re wondering). I spent the whole of the pub quiz scratching my head on that one and at one point declared that if I’d still been at the academia, I would’ve remembered it, it being the Three Wise Men who traditionally bring presents in Spain and so was a widely talked about subject by my pupils. Sue sagely pointed out that had I still been at the academia, I wouldn’t have been in Macc enjoying myself (and the cider), so that made me feel much better.

The next day I made my way up to Yorkshire, happily recalling events from the previous few days, keeping an eagle-eye on my garish, new suitcase and in slight shock that all of the trains (three in total) had been on time. Now the only challenge I had to face was Xmas with the family.

A UK Xmas - part I

This last 20th December I rose at the abnormal (for me) and therefore rather painful hour of 6.30am in order to begin my journey back to the UK for my first Xmas festivities there in 9 years. No longer being at the academia, I was free for the first time in almost a decade to join the family for their seasonal celebrations. As you may have read/know, I myself am not a great believer in this particular celebration. However, I thought it was high time I took part for once; to see my niece, and everyone else for that matter, enjoy it. Besided, I'm not that adverse to all aspects of the celebration, and having been promised two-for-one cocktails back in Macclesfield, plus my first proper UK pub quiz in more than 10 years (more on all that in the next post) I was rather looking forward to it all.

So, I took the car down to El Entrego, caught the train from there to Oviedo, hopped on the bus from there to the airport and was kindly flown to Stansted. I was rather impressed actually: it being only a few days before the 25th, the time of year when pretty much everyone and their granny is travelling, I was out of the plane, though passport control, rejoined with my snazzy new suitcase (actually, it's a pretty gaudy affair with a turquoise snake-print pattern, but having suffered previously from stolen Xmas luggage - bye bye pressies and favourite clothes - I decided that this would be the best way to deter would-be thieves this time round: no robber in their right mind is going to grab luggage that screams "look at me, over here!" And happily I was right, no-one did) and down to the airport train station all within an astounding 40 minutes. I had an afternoon stopover in the capital to catch up with an old school friend, who treated me to lunch and some mulled wine (thank you Fleur!) and then headed to Euston to await my train up north. That was when the culture shock kicked in. Sleepy Asturian hamlet to Euston train station one evening five days before Xmas is one huge change, let me tell you. The crowds were massed in front of the information boards and every so often, hardly had the announcement been made, parts of the crown would stir and make a mad dash for the mentioned platform. Controlled chaos. And of course, this being England, there was an announcement every 15 minutes or so advising people to take care in the station due to the "inclement weather". Now, this may sound perfectly normal to British readers, but after living for so long in Spain it rather tickled my fancy, and kept me vaguely entertained for the 30 minutes that my train was delayed. By then, I was rather sleepy, so when the announcement was finally made for boarding at 8pm (9pm to my Spanish body clock), I had a bit of trouble keeping up with the sprinting commuters determined to have first choice of seating. Fortunately the train was more than half empty (I'm not surprised at those prices!) and I collapsed into a double seat and awaited for the final leg of the journey to start.

Round My Way

This post was supposed to be a rather overdue one about my first trip back to the UK for Xmas in nine years. However, I have so much to tell, I find myself putting it off until I have a good chunk of free time in which to regale you with stories of my British experience.

Instead, to keep you going, I have this: 

Not bad, is it?  I took it last week, on the way up to the house, just before my village. This was before the rest of the snow came, though it never reached us, despite the daily threats of the weather people.

Raelha meets Ken

So, a few weeks ago I was trawling t'net for information on concerts in Gijón. I'd seen a Facebook friend mention an Asturian group which was playing in December and thought I'd check for details. As well as coming up with the goods on said concert, I also discovered, much to my very great delight, that one of my musical heroes, a certain Mr Ken Stringfellow was to be playing in a bar in the same city on the 6th December. Even better, given my current financial state, it was free.

First of all though, a little bit of history about Ken and I. I first came across his music one summer in Cardiff, whilst struggling to write my PhD. I bought his album Touched on a whim from Amazon, having a five pound voucher to spend, reading a few reviews and deciding that it might have potential. How little did I realise just what a jewel that case contained when clicking "buy". I always, perhaps somewhat snobbishly, maintain that you can never judge an album after just a few listens. You need to give the music time to develop, to fully appreciate the different levels therein, everything that's interwoven in there. However, one listen and I was entranced. Normally this is a bad thing, for me at least, I find music that catches your attention that quickly, will lose its attraction with a similar speed, but not this time. The album has become a staple of my collection (and for those who are aware of the size of the collection, that's no mean feat!). Touched lived in my CD player almost permanently that first summer. I'd lie on my bed, trying to summon up the courage to face the PhD draft once again, but instead would let myself be transported by the music and lyrics, away from what was pretty much a daily torment.

Anyway, over ten years and three more, splendid albums later, you can perhaps now imagine how I felt at, for the very first time, seeing an advert for a Ken Stringfellow concert, in a city close to where I lived on I date that I could attend. So, this last Thursday, off I trotted, in my shabby old Skoda, down the Autominera, to Gijón, trying very hard not to speed too much in my excitement to get there and see the man himself perform. 

Now, without wishing to be negative, I wasn't expecting many people to attend. The general response I got when I announced I was going to see Ken Stringfellow was "Who's he? Peter's brother!?" (Google Peter Stringfellow if you don't know about him either, actually, wait a moment, you might be better off in ignorant bliss.) In fact, of all the people I've introduced to the man's music, only one has ever responded with the "absolutely brilliant!" that he well deserves. (Although I do take comfort that this person was the then music editor of the Student Union newspaper and now writes music reviews and interviews the stars for The Guardian - so you could say he knows what he's talking about.) I got to the bar and had to squeeze though the door, it was that full. I couldn't get to the bar, so I decided on a trip to the loo, right at the back of the place, passing by the stage on the way, where I discovered an even more tightly packed crowd awaiting the performance, and, ooh, interesting, Ken himself setting everything up on the small stage. I fought my way through to the toilets, then back to the bar where I finally managed to get served, but was more interested in Mr S who by then was there sipping a glass of red wine, right next to me - lucky man, I was driving and had to make do with a fizzy water. I nervously smiled in his direction, trying to find the courage to say something, preferably witty, but chickened out. (Actually, the same music editor was with me the only time I'd ever found the nerve to speak to another personal hero, this time at Wimbledon: I was practically bullied into wishing Guillermo Coria good luck, in Spanish, of course. And a good job too, otherwise I would've just stood by the court looking foolish instead of blurting out "suerte Guille" as he walked past. To which I received a beaming smile and a "muchas gracias" that kept me on a high for the entire week.)

Anyway, I found myself a chink in the crowd, not so near the stage, but by then it was impossible to get any nearer, and waited. To be honest, I was a little worried: earlier that evening I'd checked his webpage and read, on his blog, about his trouble at catching a taxi when on his way back home in Paris. The driver had apparently been particularly obnoxious and threatened to chuck him out of the vehicle. As the story went, Ken reasoned with the man, told him to calm down and not be so rude and finally got taken home, and then promptly called up the driver's boss to complain - this seemed a little vindictive, and perhaps even prima donna-ish to me, and I wondered if I was going to be let down, not my the music, but by the person - always a possibility when you have a high opinion of someone you've never met. 

Arriving on stage, he caused a great first impression by announcing, as he lifted his beverage, "water is good for you," then raised a different glass and continued "wine is great for you". And off he went... I drifted with the songs and the voice and can't actually remember his opening number, though I do know that he then played one of my absolute favourites of his "Any Love" next. I could enthuse about the music, but anyone who wants to listen can go to Youtube and discover it for themselves. What really impressed me (I already knew the music was going to be fantastic) was the man himself. The concert was peppered with anecdotes, amusing one-liners, personal insights, and more. There was a touch of the surreal and a hint of the ridiculous about it all too. For a start, I've never heard any other musician either profess a dislike for microphones ("if there were any other way of getting the music into the computer, I'd use it") nor state that he hated being above the audience and then get down to play right among them. We were regaled in, what sounded like perfect, Klingon: "today is a good day to die," (interesting, is Ken a Trekkie?) asked to imagine what would happen if the world were to end in half an hour, and then to restart again, but with less bullshit (and off course, he'd come back and play Gijón in this better,second world) and happily followed the man on the journey that is a Ken Stringfellow concert. 

I was impressed already, and then we treated to a story about going to the BBC to record (as it turned out, with REM, though he didn't directly state this - seems Ken Stringfellow is quite a humble man) and on discovering that one of his own musical heroes, Dave Brubeck, was recording there too, he asked the sound engineer in his studio if he perchance knew where Mr Brubeck was recording and awaited while he made a phone call. Here Ken changes voices and puts on what sounds like an Aussie accent, but might be his attempt at cockney:  "Alright mate, you got Dave Brubeck here with you? There's a guy from REM who'd like to meet him" and turning to a now slightly panicked Ken Stringfelllow ("No, don't tell him I'm in REM ! It's just little me") told him he'd be there in a few minutes.   The tale continued with a conversation between the two musicians, the elder happily chatting to the younger admirer and inviting him to his concert the next day, and backstage afterwards, to which Ken went and continued the conversation there, after which he also got a lift back to The Dorchester (REM obviously tour in style) on Brubeck's tour bus ("we're going back to London, why don't we drop you off?"). Well, at hearing this rather heart-warming, and as it was told, often amusing, story, as well as Ken's reiteration that that's what being great is all about - not just being good at what you do, a little idea stirred in my mind.

Two hours after he started, and only because he was told to stop, the music ended and we were offered the chance to buy Stringfellow merchandise on stage, sold by yes, Ken Stringfellow (reading his blog, I've discovered that, not only does he never cease touring/recording/mixing/writing, he seems to catch public transport everywhere, on his own, sorts out transport for his own gear and basically does all the work himself). I'm sure you could see my heart as it attempted to leap out of my chest as I waited by the side of the stage for the swell of customers to diminish. Then, trying not to thinking too hard about what I was about to do, and not quite able to believe that I was actually doing it, hopped on stage with the opening line, and my hand held out "I'm not going to give you any money, I just wanted to say hi, I'm Rachel" and off I went, and it was fine. The hand was clasped, and eye contact was made! I told him I'd been wanting to see him live since that summer when I bought Touched, and also accused him of ruining my PhD  - he took it well, and on discovering that it was in Spanish history, exclaimed that he should've played History Buffs (a song off his latest album). I shot back that I'd expect it the next time he played Asturias. I wasn't anywhere near as eloquent as I would've liked to have been, but it was good. I wasn't quite comfortable, but neither did I make a horrendous fool of myself as I'm always worried about doing - especially in a situation like this - how not to sound too gushy/obsessed while still trying to convey how well you like the music and how much it means to you. I think I managed it. We chatted for about five minutes before I decided that I should let everyone else have their chance. I floated back to the car, and all the way back up the motorway, and then my mountain till I reached home in a state of bliss, unable to call even R at that late hour to gush to him about what an unexpected, marvellous treat I'd been given.

After class the next day, I rushed to R's clinic (he's a vet) and proceed to gush to him there about the previous evening. He smiled, and told me I sounded like a little girl. Perhaps he was right, but I fail to see anything negative in that. There's something wrong in life if it's missing those experiences that make you forget just how you're supposed to behave, but just appreciate them, enjoy them, and hell yes, act like an excited little girl, touched by Ken Stringfellow.