Well done spanna, you are the Little train that could 
Sorry about my cutting and sticking metaphor the other day, reading it back it probably sounded trite, and perhaps, nay definitely, I'm not really qualified to be giving any advice re children. I hope things are a little better for you, xx
beaches I'm on the same day as you, and trying so, so hard not to have a drink tonight. On late shifts tomorrow, I have a lot of time to fill. xx
venus when you see it written down like that, it all makes sense. And do-able. One thing at a time, that I can do. Wise owl, you. xx
joey it's morning, we're at the Inversnecky café at Aberdeen Beach, a bacon and fried egg roll and a steaming mug o builder's tea nestled in our hands. Sated, we head outside, out into the morning air. The waves are crashing off the breakwaters, people are walking their dogs, happed up against the spray. Joyous barking hurls through the nippit air. The sun is rising, casting a rosy glow over the horizon. The supply ships are forging their way through the swell to the harbour, their path steadfast and true. The air is clean, salty and cutting, making the roses bloom in our cheeks. The early morning sunshine warms our frozen bones, as the gulls wheel and whirl above our heads.
For lunch we're heading to Carmine's on Union Terrace, the curmudgeonly wee Italian mannie waits outside, his apron splootered wi tomato ragu, the very heart and soul of his famous lasagne. We gaze upon sepia toned images of an old and forgotten Italy, while listening to our host rip seven shades o shite out of someone who tries to order off menu, we look sympathetically at the cocky wee fanny, but we're grateful we didna make the same mistake. We clean our plates, feart but full. We escape laughing into the brisk wind, it takes our breath away as we tuck our chins into our scarves. Prince Albert looks at us knowingly from his granite plinth, the silhouette o Education, Salvation and Damnation ahin him.
We're at Duthie Park, heading for the Winter Gardens. There are children playing on the bandstand, we're too far away to tell, but it looks like a game of Kick the Can, that time honoured variant of hide and seek we all used to play as bairns. The sound of a trainered toe batters the can, it elicits yells of 'yaaaaaaasssss' and frantic scrabbling as they try to find new hidey holes. The wind snatches the big glass door of the Gardens and we're instantly hit with a blanket of comforting warm air. In the Cactus Hoose, we wonder at the battle scarred spiky behemoths tattooed wi Ally wis 'ere, or sic and sic funcies sic and sic. The dry air starts to nip wir eyes, and as we both wonder fit became o the colourful throng of budgies who used to swoop in and oot between the arid and the rainforest bitty, we spot a stray spurgie, high in the rafters warming his frozen feet on a pipe, grateful to be in oot o the biting cauld.
It's supper time, we're at Torry Point, our Mike's fish supper warming our laps, the pungent chippy vinegar burning our eyes, but it's a good burn. The best. We're gazing out again over the water, a small pod of dolphins escorts a training vessel as it heads out to sea, the sky darkens, a myriad of distant tiny lights start to flicker, the cormorants start to nestle on the rocks. We sook the last remnants o oor Irn Bru from the tin and head for hame. Night night joey xx