Scotland, aye?
I keep having these great little moments. I’ll be doing something random, like sitting on the subway looking at an advertisement for learning German, or trying to regain balance after losing my footing on an icy footpath for the 87th time in a single morning. All of a sudden, it hits me:
“Whoa... guys, hold on a sec. We’re in Glasgow!”
This gets a typical response:
“Where did you come from?”
This isn’t a “what particular region of the world do you hail from?” clarification. Not “Where did you come from?” It’s intended as a statement, not a question, uttered in a familiar Melbournian dialect twang My newfound friends from the Great Southern Land(s) speak with a lot more bemusement:
“Where did you come from [you total freak!]”
Do I really like Glasgow that much?
I really do.
Wait, backup. Hi everyone. It’s been, what, like two weeks? In case you didn’t know, I’ve moved to Glasgow for an extended period of study. Glasgow, Scotland! Huzzah!
I’m currently at the University of Glasgow. Yes, once again, GLASGOW! I somehow managed to loving hoodwink the good folks back at Mac U and the wonderful folks here at U Glasgow into providing me with some moneys to complete my PhD in Film Studies. In a university hookup that would do any Traffic Light party proud (they just had one here too), the two institutions (presumably drunkenly) got together and conceived a sexy new creation: the Joint PhD. It involves me spending a stint abroad (here in Glasgow... GLASGOW!), 15 months to be specific, where I will work on my thesis with a new set of supervisors. In addition to getting to live in Glasgow, Scotland!, I get the benefits of:
- International experience (delightful, considering I did my undergrad at Macquarie as well)
- A double-badged degree (which means I’ll have three crests; one 1.22mm beneath the epidermis on my back, two at the bottom of my Degree)
- Some spending money
- To not go crazy, having spent the last 8 years at the same place (and well past the Seven Year Itch)
You've somehow found your way to my blog. In case you were wondering at the name, “Does yer mother sew?”, I’ve been dutifully informed, is often levelled in Glaswegian pubs. Should one respond in the affirmative, it’s proceeded with “well sew this!”
*Glaswegian Kiss* (*headbutt*)
I do regret to inform you though that in the two weeks I’ve been here I’ve been neither headbutted nor stabbed, which makes this city one-up on Sydney. No wonder they had to settle for ‘UNESCO City of Music’, now that they’ve lost the ‘European Knifing Capital’ title. Thankfully I have another 63 weeks to go, so there’s still plenty of time for me to bump craniums with a local.
***So, I’m now studying in Glasgow, but what have I been up to since last we spoke?
We’ll start the tale on the evening of January 6, 2010. I very strategically and purposefully choose this date to begin my story, the day of departure, as I’m doing my best to exorcise the memories of the days leading up to it. Having tried to not only move houses, but also countries (hemispheres even) in the space of a day, things had been a bit stressed leading up to it (and by things I mean Mum). As a side (and also aside), many props to Black Panther for his assistance and made van driving skillz.
So our adventure begins with a Betts International(TM) tradition: champagne and chicken sandwiches at the grandparentals. Feast over, I was accompanied by Betts’s senior, father and wife, and mother, to Sydney Kingsford-Smith Airport, the scene of many fond farewells and loving advice (see below):
Dressing like a 70s porn star in the hopes of being mistaken for one and awarded a private jet. It was unsuccessful.
“Can you please upgrade me to First Class.”
“Uhhhhm... no.”
“Business class?”
“Sorry.”
“How ‘bout an emergency exit row for the extra legroom?”
“Nope.”
“Well what can you do for me?”
“A complimentary hot face towel on departure?”
“...Sold.”
- Another happy Emirates customer
“Whatever you do, don’t knock up a Scottish girl.” – Grandad.
The flight was a direct to Glasgow (Scotland!), with a 2 hour stopover in Dubai. During web check-in I’d cunningly swapped my exit row seat for an empty one at the back of the plane, hoping to sneak in a cheeky lie-down. It was row 84, I thought, how could I go wrong? Unfortunately, despite the fact that I was in an Airbus 380; a two-storey, giant hunking piece of metal that is somehow able to make gravity its bitch as it careens through the sky, there was not a spare seat on the flight. I know this because an American woman on the other side of the aisle got into a yelling match with an ethnic family next to her who didn’t value personal space, and proceeded to demand relocation. I had to satisfy myself with attempting to solve a Rubik’s Cube (result: unsuccessful) and breaking my glasses. It was a long and not entirely enjoyable trip.
As mentioned, there was a small Intermission in Dubai before proceeding to Act 2 of The Flight. This trip marked the fourth time I’ve been to Dubai airport, and each time I get the weirdest feeling like I’ve been going to run into someone I know. It’s got this purgatory feel to it, like a place between worlds where souls come from all over before they move on to their final destination. Or, if you prefer something more uplifting, Dubai airport is like the Magic Faraway Tree, ready to take you to different worlds. Or, again, if you’re more prosaic, Dubai airport is like a really big corridor with lots of Departure Gates. I feel they're all valid.
So, finally, 16 hours out from Sydney, I boarded the flight for the last leg of my relocation to Glasgow.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to Does Yer Mother Sew – The Prequel!
Somehow between the duelling passengers in Seats A through C and the footballer-looking guy next to me, I managed to miss the on-board Shower Spas.
