I always hated the old house.  What can I say? I bought it in a hurry, because we needed to move from Glasgow to Cheesetown before the (then) Cherub moved to high school. And most of my money was still stuck in Glasgow.

People tried to be nice.  Believe me, a lot of faint praise has been lavished on this place.....

• You get a nice view from here.  Yes things are better if you look out.
• Garden's easy to maintain Yes for it is tiny
• Nice you've got an en-suite.  Yes because the shower in the bathroom doesn't work.  At all. Ever
• So quaint.  Yes because nothing has been done maintenance wise since the last century.

And this house defeated me. The windows and back doors leaked in heavy rain.  And it rains a lot in Scotland.  Half of the upstairs windows were jammed closed.  Conveniently the other half never closed properly, but rattled in the gentlest of breezes.  The double glazing was shot. Even in high summer the place was freezing.  In winter we hugged the radiators (literally) or the dog or both.

And I'd had enough.. There's only so long you can happily remind yourself "At least it's cheap"

The problem was - how could I honestly sell this house in good faith to someone else? How could I fail to mention the strange smell from underneath the garage, and the recent spate of car burnings in the village?  How could I look any buyer in the eye and not mention that the house is on the way from the pub to the housing estate and you get woken up regularly in the wee small hours? I might be a drama queen, but I'm not a good enough actress to smile and mutter about being so sorry to leave this..

And so it was that I found a property developer who would accept my house in part exchange for a new house being built in a new development.  And they only had a huge five bed roomed place left. And I only had.. my house.  And so the deal was done.

And we both thought we'd got the best of the deal....

Which as any fule kno can't be the case...

Yo!! I'm here.. see what I did?  Not there anymore... HERE.  Here in the new house.  That's right, the NEW House.  I did it.  I got out of the old place  The place where my feng shui was definitely fucked.  The place where people and dogs died... or had terminal diseases.  Which is technically the same thing...eventually....

It was down to just me and the kid who can no longer be known as cherub.  We needed out.

So I'm here.  I'm in a house that's brand new and miles away from graveyards - metaphorically or literally. Whichever way you want to put it.  We're not facing the graveyard anymore.  Even better, the wind doesn't come through the windows, and  the plumbing doesn't back up, and the double glazing isn't shot.
We don't look out the back window directly into Bob Next Door's - we look across fields to the Forth.
I've got a double garage. and a huge kitchen, and five bedrooms. Sometimes I walk into the kitchen just to remind myself how fantastic it is.

And it's all taken time.  Between selling the old place, and taking the kid who's no longer cherubic on holiday, and then packing, and then the sale falling through, and then packing again... and then sorting the boxes.  Oh yes and looking into internet dating...  I've been busy.

But there are stories...there will be stories... bear with me...


What can I say meanwhiles?  Merry Christmas of course!!

It has not been a good week.  It's been a bad week.  In fact it's been a stinking week when I've been driven to ask major life questions such as would it be wrong to kill my new boss given her terminal levels of stupidity?*

And since the answer to this  question, of course is a great big emphatic "Yes Macy, killing your boss is wrong", let's ask another question.

Let's ask if Buddhism has anything to help this situation. Because this is a question we haven't asked before,,,

Becaue my yoga teacher is a fan, and because yoga is a Good Thing, and becaue as far as mad ideas go I've had worse, let's get in the car with the Cherub and head for the hills; where, yes, Scotland does have a Buddhist centre. If you want to head there yourself it's conveniently located in the middle of nowhere.

Let's head off out the house in a hurry, with only Google map instructions as a guide, and Cherub as reluctant pilot....Let's start worrying that we are heading the wrong way after heading off the Edinburgh by pass and failing to see any road numbers that match Google's.
Let's spend the best part of an hour driving through small villages with no maps but friendly locals with no idea where the Buddhist centre is, before washing up  in a Starbucks in a service station beside the M74
Let's get a Starbucks and  wonder if this is really worth it, before heading off, this time with a map.

An out of date map as  it turns out.

Let's, in other words, spend the best art of four hours traveling to the Kagyu Samye Ling, the first Tibetan Buddhist centre in the west.

And having turned the prayer wheels, and walked through the herb garden and sat in the temple -  let's give up being a smart arse and cynic, and general know it all. Let's hear it from the Dalai Lama

“If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.” 

It's better isn't it? It's great.  Be assured, on Monday New Boss can expect to be positively cudgeled with compassion


*
(For yes Penny has been replaced, and never have so many been so quickly reminded of the old addage "Hold onto Nurse for fear of finding something worse...")

Good morning blog world! How are YOU doing?

This morning I'm looking at my nose.

That's right.  My nose. I have been studying it very carefully in a good clear light.
 I know, I can can hear you asking, what's wrong? What's the problem with your nose Mace? To which I can only reply. Nothing. There's nothing wrong with my nose at all - that's the problem.

See, it was a thought I had.  There I was, applying a newand  incredibly expensive engineered skin serum, when it occurred to me that I never put this stuff on my nose. I don't know why not.  Laziness? Cutting out an extra 30 seconds from my morning routine every day? Misguided economies? With the price of this stuff who can afford to do their whole face?  Just basic wilfulness??  Anyhoos, the fact stands, that in all my thirty-odd years of dutifully applying face serums, creams, moisturizers, youth lotions and what not to my face I have never applied any to my nose.

That's right, for whatever reason, my nose has never had the benefit of moisturiser, serum or youth dew.

So this must show right? Since my nose has not benefited from peptides, Retinol A, wrinkle reduction, or revitalization of its epidermis, it should by definition look a good couple of decades older than the rest of my face which has benefitted from such miracle creams.

And it doesn't.

Unbelievable I know.  But I can see no difference.

You know your input is valued on such major questions. Feel free to advise....

What do you know.  Turns out that three deaths* in just over three and a bit years is my limit.
Turns out I'm a lightweight that way.
Turns out a retreat under a metaphorical duvet was needed after the second deathbed, and the second body, and the second funeral and the second choosing of coffins, and readings and cremations and it all just brought back everything - and I didn't even have the bloody pills I was prescribed after the dog died.

But let's skip to the good news. There's a limit to how long I can spend in a self pitying fog.

Which is lucky because The One Remaining Aunt (TORA!) has also had her problems. My mother has been visiting her in her dreams.  No really.  TORA is quite insistent on this.  And because TORA is not the most sensible person on the  planet, well maybe she is psychic, so you know, hang in with me here.  Anyway, apparently my mother is annoyed, and exasperated, and trying to tell TORA something. She's shaking keys, and walking away.
And she's doing this on a quite regular basis.

TORA reckons she's telling us there is another will. Without saying anything to TORA, I suspect that if my mother is creating in psychic space it's very likely to be because her remains are still out at the crematorium and she wants to go home.  Actually, come to think of even if there is no such thing as an afterlife, my mother's remains were definitely overdue for collection from the crematorium.

This is a long preamble to me saying I collected my mother from the crematorium.

For those who have never held human remains, let me tell you know, they are surprisingly heavy. And it's impossible not to feel the person with you as you hold them.  So it  felt only right to fasten my mother's urn into the back seat with  a seat belt. What you going to do? Put your mother in the boot?

Then the problems started. I didn't know where to put her.
She couldn't come back to mine, because I still have W's ashes and they hated each other in life.  In death there would be one unholy conflagration. Cheesetown could be annihalted.

So she had to go back to hers.
 But where at hers?

It seemed too Norman Bates to leave her urn in her old seat in the living room. A wee bit odd putting it in the window.
Odder still to put her urn on her bed..What you going to do? Tuck it in?
She couldn't be in the kitchen.  We still use that.  That would be wrong.
And what kind of person would put their mother in the hall cupboard? With the shoes? When she only had one leg?
And she couldn't go in the garden; it's going to rain till Christmas

Sigh.  She's in the back of the car for now. I'll figure this out later.


*If you count Ned, which my god I do.