That's definitely the last time I organise anything! All those phonecalls and how many people turned up?

Two. Marion and myself.

Anyway, yesterday I did my grade 8 clarinet exam. Put it this way: I had nightmares about it *afterwards*. It could have been worse, but I messed up rather a lot of scales and I'm v. uncertain as to whether I'll pass.

Afterwards, Marion and I saw "Human Traffic". Tip: if you like films with plots, don't see this. It was ok, but of the threads that were introduced, so many were left loose. One way of describing it would be "'Trainspotting' without the trains". However, this would be a rather pants description since 1) I've never seen "Trainspotting" (although I've read the book and the script), 2) "Trainspotting" itself was somewhat lacking in trains, 3) who wants to see trains anyway? and whatever-number-comes-after-3) that would leave 'spotting' and there wasn't that much spotting at all. Whatever spotting is. Maybe drawing spots on everything, which wouldn't be v. entertaining either.

Then we went to the pub, where the aevil General Knowledge machine ate much of Marion's money, and I reached the conclusion that I needed to 1) stop drinking or 2) find a drink that tastes half-decent. The only drink I actually like is water, which is very cheap but for some reason is not considered sociable enough by many. Mimph.

Back to Marion's house we went, where we watched "Rush Hour", which was much better, but not exactly The Best Film Ever. I stayed there for the night, then went into Carlisle this morning and got the bus back to Brampton.

Friday 2 July 1999

Today, I went to see a play with the parents. It "Much Ado About Nothing". Everyone kept going on about the marvellous setting (a church) and how professional it was, but I don't know what all the fuss was about . . . Sorry.

Saturday 3 July 1999

I thought you got acne from eating junk food. I haven't eaten anything remotely junky in ages (four days) and yet my complexion is a join-the-dots puzzle that would keep a kid busy for hours. Quite what the eventual picture is, I'm not sure, but if I get really bored, I might find out.

Wednesday 7 July 1999

Interesting Things I Could Do Today

1. Finish reading "Other Bells For Us To Ring".
2. Go to post office.
3. Um...

Monday 19 July 1999

W00t! Got 123 in my clarinet exam! (Out of 150.) You need 100 to pass and, to put this in perspective, if I wanted to go to music college, this would probably be enough to get in with. Yoj!

Sunday 25 July 1999

Random quote: "In Alaska it is illegal to look at a moose from the window of an airplane or any other flying vehicle." - Uselessknowledge.com

"Upper Pigsville" was my mother's invention, but that name and "Pilkington Wombat" readily became part of Zobo Creat - suitable names for all pants little villages at the end of twisty one-lane roads in the middle of nowhere.

For a long time I've wanted to drive in Scotland. Just so I could say, "Bwaha! I've driven in two countries and I haven't even got my licence." This afternoon, Mum suggested we put this plan into action, and so we did.

Dad advised us to go to Langholm, which is only about twenty miles away. Not that there was a great deal to see or do in Langholm, but anywhere not-too-distant that didn't involve going on motorways was fine by me. (Learner drivers aren't allowed on motorways.)

But when we got to Scotland, Mum said, "Turn off here. Let's go to Canonbie, because your Dad used to live there." So to Canonbie we went, and I passed his old house (although I didn't actually see it, since it was all overgrown).

The question was, where next? There wasn't anywhere obvious to turn around and there were very few turn-offs as well. "Look, there's a turn-off to Langholm," I said, as I whizzed passed one.

"Oh well, there'll be another one soon," Mum said.

There wasn't.

We travelled about fifteen miles (as the crow flies, that is; it was actually a lot further) until we reached a small town called Newcastleton. We seemed to be heading east, so I was hoping there would be some turn-off that would take us back to England.

But there wasn't. The only one was to a place called Hermitage Castle. "Presumably that's a dead end," I said, "so we could turn round and come back the way we came. But that's boring! I want a round trip!"

And so we went onwards. All the signposts said was Hawick. (Pronounced "hoik".) "I don't want to go to Hawick!" Mum wailed. To the best of our knowledge, that was a long way into Scotland. "We'll probably end up in Glasgow or Edinburgh."

"Or Skye," I said. That prospect actually made me happy (I [hart] little islands), but my legs were already getting tired. This was the longest journey I'd been on with me driving: all but one of the others being under twenty miles.

And the road could not be serious. I had to spend nearly the entire time in third gear; a lot of sections of the road were only one lane wide; and there were hills and corners everywhere. Not to mention sheep. I had to actually stop the car twice to avoid running over them.

But when we were nearly at Hawick, we came to this small settlement. It was just a farm, really, but outside there were pigs.

"Upper Pigsville!" Mum exclaimed. "We found it!"

Hawick was a silly place. I almost ran over a woman who stepped out in front of the car. Fortunately we found a signpost with "Carlisle" on it. "Carlisle 44" to be precise. But the road back was good - the slowest I ever had to go was forty five miles per hour. Except when I had to slow down to avoid hitting a car coming towards me, swerving to get round a dead deer. (Or maybe a "deid deer". Twas Scotland, after all.)

I eventually found a suitable stopping place, and got out of the car to stretch my legs. Another car was parked there: the people in it were eating and the windows were wound down. I got "NatWest-Barclays-Midlands-Lloyds" by the Manic Street Preachers stuck in my head, and started singing it. (As you do.) "Natwest! Natwest-Barclays-Midlands-Lloyds! Blackhorse apocalypse! Death sanitised through credit!" The people couldn't get away fast enough.

On the way back, I noticed a turn off to Castle Hermitage. So if we'd gone there, we could have lopped about fifty miles off the journey and had a round trip! As twas, the entire thing took about two and a half hours. More driving than I'd ever done in one sitting, and I'd gone into three counties: Cumbria, Dumfries & Galloway, and The Borders. I had actually been hoping for an opportunity to include Northumberland as well, but I've driven there before, so ne'ermind.

It probably doesn't sound that far to any Americans reading this. Americans, according to Bill Bryson, will happily travel a few hundred miles to get a taco. But I go only go on journeys that long a couple of times a year.

This is getting weird. Observe:

If I see my grandad or hear from Sir Mark Of Minis within the next day, I'm suing God for having no imagination. If I wake up in Bundoran, Donegal, I think I'll just scream.