Old, new and not-to-be friends

Today my shopping trip into Blairgowrie involved visiting two old friends, making two new friends and miserably failing in my efforts to make a third.

First stop was the wool shop, to say hello to Fiona. A few ladies were being served so I strolled around, with the air of someone who might actually belong in a wool shop, and spied – next to the knitting sensation of 2010, CanCan wool – Loopy wool, which seems to be a sort of stringy wool with lots of holes.

“I heard you were back!” she greeted me. “And I understand you’ve been very busy with your knitting.”

I quailed slightly, knowing she would be expecting perfect results from the Norwegian sock wool that had, months earlier, been sent from her store to Sydney, the colours carefully chosen by herself and Jeanette.

“It was a disaster!” Deciding honesty to be the best policy, I told her about the sleeves that came out with the wingspan of a bat.

“Och aye,” she said. “It never works to use the wrong wool.” A piece of advice that had not been forthcoming at the time when together we had pored over the pattern and decided upon the sock wool. I suppose I should have been more on the alert – after all, could I truly expect sock wool to be suitable for a 1940s look-alike sweater?

To redeem myself – after all, this is a shop I come to often and can’t afford to be treated with pity – I reassured her that the fair isle jumper I had embarked on during my last trip had come out very well.

“I made one for my son, too, in the same wool,” I told her.

“Oh, that’s nice. How old is the little boy?”

“Twenty-four,” I admitted. “But we don’t go out together in them.”

Thinking that far from redeeming myself, I’m beginning to sound a bit weird, I change the subject.

“Is that a loopy wool scarf you’re wearing?” I asked, eyeing up the knitted strings around her neck.

“Aye,” she said. “It’s not really catching on.” I could have told her it didn’t expect it to be the fashion success of the season, but once winter boredom sets in, who knows what the ladies of Perthshire will set their needles to?

Next stop is Frivols, to visit Ann, who sold me the mink coat I purchased to keep me warm during the winter of 2009, and which last year I traded in for a full-length sheepskin coat.

“I heard you were back!” she said. I am no longer surprised that these are the first words I hear from most people. I think I would be more surprised, in fact, if they looked surprised to see me – or indeed, offended, at not knowing I am back.

“I’m so glad you sold my mink,” I said.

“Oh, it was so lucky. I had it hanging in the stockroom at the end of winter and I asked Jeanette to take it for you, but she was heading off to Edinburgh and said she’d collect it on her way back.

“It was just as well, because the very next day a lady came in and said ‘you used to have some lovely fur coats, do you have any left?’

“’They’ve all sold because it’s been such a chilly winter,’ I told her, ‘except for one which I have out the back.’

“Well, she tried it on, it fitted perfectly and she fell in love with it and said ‘I must have it!’”

So I now have ninety pounds in my purse, Ann’s customer has a mink coat she is thrilled with and I still have my sheepskin should the weather turn foul during my stay – quite likely, as the forecasters are already predicting snow in October.

In Tescos, I stand contemplating the bottles of sherry. There is a crib sheet explaining four different styles of sherry and what they go well with, whether to serve chilled or over ice, with cheese or as an aperitif.  I expected there to be three choices: ‘sweet’ ‘medium’ or ‘dry’ but like everything else, sherry is obviously undergoing a re-fashioning to make it trendy and appealing.

I stop an old lady in the aisle.

“Do you drink sherry?” I ask her.

She looks somewhat startled.

“No, no I don’t.”

“I’m buying it for my mother,” I explain. “I think I want medium, but there’s nothing here called medium.”

She taps a bottle of Harvey Bristol Cream.

“I’ve heard of that one,” she says. “But you’d be best asking an older person.”

There’s not too many older old ladies about, and my new friend follows me down the sherry aisle, pointing out other sherries she recognises before suggesting I ask one of the Tesco helpers. As they all look about 16 and unlikely sherry connoisseurs, I decide to take pot luck and I plump for Amontillado.

As I leave Tescos, I detour for petrol. Parked alongside the pump, I take out the petrol nozzle and click on the handle.

Nothing happens.

I look at the pump and see various instructions for paying by credit card, but I want to dip into my ninety pounds and pay cash at the till.

Finally, I approach a very large gentleman who has just filled his car (and who in truth looks as if he should be riding a large Harley Davidson) and put on my pathetic ‘I’m just a silly woman’ face, and ask him how to get the pump started.

He gives me one of those looks, accompanied by an ‘I don’t believe it, what a silly woman’ sigh, and leans over and presses a button which says ‘Pay in Shop’.

I simper and smile prettily.

Homewards and I remember what Gordon had told me.

“There’s a new book shop at Bridge of Cally,” he said, enthusiastically.

“Really?” I felt quite excited at the prospect.

“Aye, they only sell fishing books.” Ah, now I understand his keen interest. Gordon is rather partial to slinging his hook overboard and likes nothing better than a day’s fishing.

Conversely, my only interest in fish is eating them. But I am somewhat intrigued by the notion that a shop can open – and survive – on a diet of fishing books. So I decide to take a look at River Thoughtful.

The owner, sitting in his doorway, nods curtly at me. The shop is quite large with rows of bookshelves filled with ‘antiquarian, rare and collectable’ books. I browsed the contents and came across various wellknown bestsellers such as, ‘Pike – In Pursuit of Esox Lucius’, ‘A Jerk on One End’ and ‘Practical Fly-Tying’.

I try to engage the owner in conversation:

“I’m not a fisher, I just wanted to take a look”

“What an amazing collection!”

“Has the shop been open long?”

He obviously sees me for what I am – a tyre kicker, and gives a slight grunt of acknowledgement but is not to be drawn into a chat.

Evidently, whether by the river or not, he prefers to remain Thoughtful, rather than engaged in Making Friends.

Freshly baked bread

Barry, the manager of the village shop, has taken to wearing a brightly coloured apron with a harlequin design. I half expect to look down and see him in pointy shoes with bells on the toes.

Since my last visit, he has not only spruced up himself, he has also spruced up the shop.

“Not too many changes,” he told me, “people round here can’t handle too much change. I have to take it slowly.”

Those are definitely new tablecloths I spy in the café. And I’m pretty sure the display counter at the front for potato chips (or crisps as they are called hereabouts) has been moved into a new spot.

But the biggest change – and the one that has the entire village buzzing with the enormity of the innovation – is that the shop now sells freshly baked bread rolls and croissants.

A new oven has been installed in the back of the shop, and each day the staff bake the bread and place it attractive baskets: dinner rolls, small baguettes, croissants and chocolate croissants. Apparently there is some disgruntlement from the employees at this addition to their workload, but the villagers are buying in droves (don’t wait til after midday, all stock is gone), so I suspect these complaints will fall on deaf ears where Barry is concerned – especially as the shop is making a very nice mark-up, thank you.

Finally, the village shop has found a point of difference and may even be encouraging some of its detractors who would prefer to take the 30-minute drive to Tescos for their bread (“it’s cheaper” never mind the cost of petrol), to patronise their local community store. That smell of baking bread sure has universal allure.

Mind you, Tesco does have personal helpers. They do a jolly good job too. Since my last visit, the supermarket has rearranged all the aisles which had me completely bamboozled. So I was very grateful to the assistant who obviously saw me looking confused and asked if she could help me find anything – and probably didn’t expect to spend half an hour running around seeking out chicken stock, crushed garlic, pumpkin seeds, cinnamon sticks … and numerous other basics which had been ousted from their previous homes.

I digress. I should point out that Barry will always act as personal helper too.

“Do you have any Post-It stickers?” I asked. One of Karen’s knitting tips was to use them to mark one’s place on a knitting pattern.

“I’m sure we do,” said Barry and rummaged amongst the pencil sharpeners, envelopes and Sellotape to no avail.

He called out to the young lass serving at the counter to see if there were any hidden beneath the till.

“Just this one!” she said. “I don’t know if it will do?” And she handed me one pre-loved pink Post-It sticker, crumpled at the corners and written on.

“It’s a bit old, it’s lost its stick,” she said. I politely thanked her and reassured her it wasn’t a crucial requisition.

Apparently people come into the shop all the time asking bizarre questions (“is this where I can find my bow and arrow?”) and expecting assistance on any number of issues.

As Barry’s keen on the occasional practical joke, this plays wonderfully into his hands.

“The Greek Prime Minister was in here today,” he told Mahri one day.

“Really?” she said.

“Oh yes,” said Barry, straight-faced. “I asked him how I could help him and he said that he was really struggling with Greece’s finances and wanted to know if I had any advice.”

“Really?” said Mahri, wide-eyed. “What did you tell him?”

“Oh, I told him, ‘I’m just a shop manager’, but I suggested that he might go to the IMF.”

Caught out - again!

I promised myself I wouldn’t hark on about the weather but frankly it commands everything one does, so it’s an impossible vow to keep.

My golf buddy, Paul, phoned to check that I was all prepared for our regular Wednesday game. He must be a bit anxious about the improvement in my game, falsely believing that all the lessons I have been taking will have me out-driving, out-chipping, out-pitching and out-putting him, because he straightaway covered his tracks in case of a loss.

“Oh, I’ve really done my shoulder in,” he says. “I had to retire from my game yesterday.”

Little does he realise that his strained shoulder, which apparently prevents him from swinging a club, will be small disadvantage against me. I already know that playing each golf stroke off the wee astro-turf mats that are de rigueur here, dressed in several layers to keep out the wind, hail and rain and impeding any effort at a swing, will hinder any likelihood of an Australian win. But I shall give it my best shot, if you’ll excuse the pun.

Nevertheless, when Wednesday dawns and I peer out of the window and see pouring rain and hear a howling wind, my determination to be as hardy as Braveheart wavers.

I telephone Paul and after a chat with his wife Theresa, broach the reason for my call.

“The weather’s awfully foul down here. How’s it up your way?” This is my pathetic attempt at levity because although Scotland is renowned for local micro-climates, Paul only lives about three minutes walk away.

“Yes, it’s terrible,” he says. So, I think, golf will be cancelled which is rather a relief as I do hate playing in the rain.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks, tossing the proverbial decision-making ball back at me.

I realise Paul may be quite prepared to don an extra layer of wet weather gear, but I’m not. And I tell him so. But he’s not done yet, he has a crafty plan.

“I’ve something to drop off to you,” he says and tells me he will pop down to see me later.

Reprieved, I snuggle back into bed with my book, cosy with the rain beating against the window.

Two pages into Ruth Rendell, there’s a tap on the door. I scramble into track pants and there’s Paul.

Over a cup of coffee, he presents me with a very nice golf sweater embossed with his club’s name.

 “I couldn’t bear seeing you play in that sweater embroidered with Gilmore’s club,” he said, by way of explanation for his generosity. Evidently competition with Gilmore extends beyond the 18^th hole.

Having buttered me up, he casually suggests we head to the driving range to hit a few balls. This is patently a man with a bad shoulder, hmmm? But having assured me the range is under cover, I agree – not least because our game is now rearranged for Friday when we will be joined by two of Paul’s low-handicap mates. I need the practice.

Down at the range Paul smacks 60 balls past the 200-yard mark and then slumps on the bench, declaring his shoulder is snapping and creaking. With his beady eye on me, I concentrate on at least getting past the 100-yard mark. He offers helpful comments and then asks if he can try out my driver.

The man with the bad shoulder then drives my last four balls about 250 yards. I am chastened.

The storm clouds gain momentum, hailstones rain down, and we make a dash for the clubhouse, glad we are not stuck out on the 14^th hole, far from cover.

Settled with bowls of soup and glasses of ginger beer and lime juice (Paul’s recommendation – do not try this except in cases of emergency), we are deep in conversation when I spy a familiar figure, weaving her way through the dining tables.

“Dawn!” I call out, surprised to see her so far from the village, here at the golf club.

Startled, she sees me and smiles in surprise before turning her gaze, eyebrows lifted, to my companion. Oh dear.

“Now don’t go starting any rumours!” I say, fingers crossed behind my back.

Femme fatale, that’s me.

The most complicated job in the village

Being the local postie demands a talent for solving cryptic puzzles if letters and parcels are to have the remotest chance of delivery.

For example, my neighbours, the Thirds, live at Number Four. My cottage is Number Three, yet it is the second cottage in our row. And Jeanette and Gordon live at Number Two, even though they are the first cottage, because Number One and Number Two were knocked together to make One. Or rather, one. However, the original front door of Number One remains in situ so if I give directions to visitors that I am the second cottage, they need to know that I’m the third front door, so I find it easier to tell people that I am the third cottage. If however, they are confused (I can’t think why) and knock on the door of the third cottage proper, they will indeed by greeted by the Thirds, who as I mentioned before, live at Number Four.

“Am I at the third cottage?”

“Aye.”

“Um …. Is Sarah in?”

“Nae. There’s nane of that name here.”

“Oh, but I was told the third cottage.”

“Aye, this is the third’s cottage.”

“Um, so do you know where I might find Sarah?”

“Ye could try the third cottage.”

To add a little more complexity, our postal addresses are just ‘The Cottage’ with no number appended. Nor are there brass numberplates on the doors. It’s obviously a given that the regular postie knows the names of every local resident so clues such as this won’t be needed.

All of which is fine until there’s a relief postie and then – as you can imagine – the mail ends up any which way and a lot of letter, package and newspaper swapping (the postman doubles as paper delivery boy) takes place amongst the neighbours.

Under these circumstances to actually get a postal delivery is a miracle. More often than not Jeanette gets a note in her letterbox (at Number Two) to advise that a parcel is in her shed. Or with The Thirds at Number Four. This recourse is no doubt after the poor relief postie has stood staring up at the cottages for some time, counting the front doors, and getting a scrambled brain trying to decide where to leave the parcel.

It’s not just for mail delivery that our local postie, Roy, is relied upon. There are other little jobs that he might be called upon to assist with, as my friend Dawn can attest.

I asked her how she had been coping since she broke her shoulder at the beginning of the year. Well into her eighties, it can’t have been easy, especially as she lives in quite an isolated spot.

I knew that she had recently started to drive her car again, much to the horror of her friends who believe that steering with only one arm is a tad ambitious around narrow country lanes.

Dawn agrees. But she needs her independence and more importantly she needs to get to Tescos which is only a 30 minute drive away, mostly in a straight line, and so far there have been no incidents, so really, she’s just fine thank you.

“But the thing I have the most difficulty with is putting in my earrings,” she says, demonstrating how she can’t quite lift her arm high enough.

“Well, perhaps you could go without earrings, just until your shoulder is mended?” I suggest.

Dawn looks at me, horrified.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that!”

Standards must be maintained and Dawn is always immaculately dressed, ever prepared for an unexpected visitor. But help is never far away in this community.

“When I saw Roy coming up with the post, I called out to him, ‘Roy, could you come in and help me for a minute’.

“Of course, Roy you know is so kind, and he came in and I explained my dilemma and I knew he’d be able to help because he has a wife and two daughters so he’d be used to this sort of thing.

“I sat down in my armchair and he knelt down in front of me. I must admit I was a bit worried about whether he would know how to put in an earring, but he did it perfectly!

“He gave me my post, and then off he went. Marvellous!” she chuckles merrily, another satisfied customer of Royal Mail.

The new cupboard

The ladies of Clicking Needles were apoplectic with excitement today. Petrina had cleared out a cupboard and designated it for the sole use of storing the bags of donated wool, which later would be spun into items for charity.

Sylvia and Glenys were carefully sorting out the wools by colour and bagging them, only to stop every few minutes as another Clicking Needles knitter arrived and they battled to be the first to show off their good fortune.

‘Look! We have our own cupboard! No more clambering up the step ladder!’

Having spent many hours myself up said step ladder trying to prevent bags of four ply and double knit from tumbling on my head while I foraged for black fluffy wool to knit up hair (yes, that’s not a typo) or a pair of elusive 5mm needles, I quite understood why this was a momentous step forward in the evolution of Clicking Needles.

As each arrived, Jeanette, Ivy, Karen, Theresa, Doreen, and Gillian all ooh-ed and aah-ed and went and made a careful examination of the cupboard – which, it should be noted, had been in the same place for a long time but just not as a repository for wool – before settling around the long table for a gossip over the clicketty-clack of a dozen sets of needles.

I established that the current knitathon for charity is to make a variety of miniature hats to put on the tops of bottles and sell for a premium in Sainsburys supermarkets. This is stranger than fiction. Apparently Scots will pay extra for a smoothie drink with a wee knitted hat on top.

Armed with patterns for a mini hat with flower, a mini hat with sheep’s head and a mini hat like a baby’s bonnet, I raided the new cupboard for a selection of 8-ply and some eyelash yarn (well, that’s what the instructions call for).

Then I cornered Karen who is an oracle on everything from felting to lacework, to get some advice about how to rectify my latest effort – a jumper, which for some unaccountable reason ended up with sleeves that look like over-hormoned mutton legs that could easily fit three arms.

“I think you better post it to me and I’ll see what I can do,” she said with a sigh, and then proceeded to teach me basic crocheting.

When I showed her the next project I am planning to embark upon (a rather fetching sweater with intricate collarwork) she nodded sagely and offered to give me a private lesson in the magic loop system. I plan to secretly take tuition first on YouTube because the fear of failure amongst such talent is intense.

“I’ve picked up so many wee tips since I’ve been coming to Clicking Needles,” said Ivy, who was listening intently.

“Yes, and none of them about knitting!” said Karen, tartly, to hoots of laughter.

Gillian was sitting quietly, biding her time. Then with a flourish she triumphantly pulled a package from her bag, knowing she had something the rest of us would covet and admire.

“This was a birthday present from my friend,” she said and reverently placed a glossy, hard-backed book on the table, filled with patterns for knitted dogs and cats, and two skeins of grey mottled wool which are apparently a close match for her tabby. The book passed from hand to hand, with gasps of glee and – let’s be frank – blatant envy.

Not to be outdone, Jeanette casually slid her latest pattern book from her bag - pages and pages of designs for tea cosies, most of which defy description. Just imagine pouring your cuppa from a pot decorated with a woolly hat that has a washing line of clothes hanging from it, or topped with an evil looking, tentacled octopus.

For now, I’m sticking with my bottletops (Prototype No. 1):

A village affair

I may have unwittingly started a rumour.

I haven’t yet arrived at the village but I have a feeling the tom toms will be working overtime (and not the GPS variety, either) and smoke signals will be drifting up over the heather.

Hiss! Scarlet woman! Hie thee hither! I fear for the welcome I will receive when I arrive in about 15 minutes time, 20 minutes if I slow down and pull across to let every car behind me overtake.

As I turn the corner and obey the 30mph sign at the edge of the village, all looks quiet. Angry villagers waving fists and demonstrators thrusting banners at my car to advise me in the nicest possible way that it might be better if I stayed elsewhere this year, are nowhere to be seen.

Still – I drive through and decide to postpone the moment of my Grand Re-entry for another hour or so. I tell myself I need to buy an umbrella (how could I not have brought one with me? Was I really so optimistic about the Scottish weather?) and so I drive a further 30 minutes to Pitlochry. The lashing of the rain on my windscreen is unwelcome, it makes me think of lashings of a different kind. And stocks. And stonings.

Past the world’s oldest pub, I swing through the now oh-so-familiar streets of Pitlochry and pull up outside the Golf Shop. It just so happens there’s a sale on and so I get somewhat distracted by trewsers, jerkins, shirts and paisley socks.

“Halloo there,” says the jolly owner. I remember he is a chatty sort of fella, so I am likely to be here for a while and settle in for a cosy chat. A blessing really as it postpones getting to my village just a wee bit longer.

“I know you,” he says, reminding me of where I live when I am here in these parts.

“Ah yes,” I say, wincing a little. He won’t be so friendly next time, I think, not once he knows what the whole of Perthshire thinks I’ve been up to.

“You’re from Sydney! I’ve just had three weeks in Europe, the weather was wonderful.”

I’m not sure about the connection. Sunshine I suppose.

“Ah, you’ll need that,” he says with a hearty laugh as he sees me checking out the brollies. “It hasna stopped raining here for months now.”

After some lengthy technical discussion about the merits of the various umbrellas on display and no, he doesn’t stock rainhats, conversation moves onto the Rugby World Cup. He is pleased as punch that Ireland just beat Australia.

“We love it when anyone beats Australia or New Zealand,” he says, which I suppose is complimentary in a perverse kind of way. I can’t believe I have travelled to the other side of the world to escape two months of persistent consistent rubgy talk and here I am, already caught in patriotic crossfire.

Finally, I can eek out this shopping trip no more and I turn my car back in the direction of the village and without incident arrive, park in my designated spot and within moments Jeanette and I are hopping about, hugging each other, burbling stupid stuff about the grass being green not white this year.

“Leave your luggage! Gordon will get it later! Come in, come in,” and I am led into her kitchen.

“What will we have? Fizz? Tea? Or a wee glass of Edradour?”

I think I better get it off my chest. The Edradour will give me Dutch courage.

We settle on her settle, cuppa in one hand, Edradour in the other, chocolate slab with maltesers in it resting invitingly on a plate.

“I think I may have started a scandal,” I confess.

Jeanette’s eyebrows, ears and head shoot up.

“Oh yes?” she asks.

I launch into my story.

“Well, I stopped at the shop to order my newspapers on the way here. And Bob was standing outside with a postie. I went over to him and said hello and I kissed him on the cheek. Well, that’s what we do in Sydney. I just didn’t think. I mean, it was just an automatic action.

“Bob blushed bright red and began burbling. The postie, who turned out to be Roy’s temporary replacement, made some ho ho ho nod nod wink wink comment.”

“Oh nooo!” Jeanette covers her mouth with glee as she giggles at this scene.

I followed Bob into the shop, which he was just closing (heaven only knows what any watchful neighbours might have thought at this) and I asked Bob how he was, how the weather was, how his wife was.

“That was such a lovely greeting,” he said, still looking rather pink. “Thank you so much, I don’t usually get a kiss."

Then blushing again, as he wrote down my paper order, he said, “I’m so sorry, but what was your name again?”