Our car has been recovered. Supposedly.

So the police found our car on Monday. But we still do not have it. Apparently they had to impound it, to a little garage owned by a certain George McPhee. So David called them to see if we could get our car, after which he sent me this email:

Wow! Well, the good folk at George McFie's had this to say:

We have your car. 

You can't get it. 

The police haven't authorised us to release it. 

Yes, I understand the police told you to call us and pick it up.

No we can't release it. 

Yes, I understand the police told you it was available to be picked up, but we can't release it until we've heard from the police.

No, we can't release it - we have to hear from the police.

No, we can't phone the police ourselves - we have to wait to hear from them. 

Sir, your attitude isn't helping this situation.

The release fee? It's £150 at the moment.

Please sir, your language isn't helping. 

Okay, then, thank you, have a good day.

There you have it then. To add to our frustration, in the two weeks before the car was stolen we got two parking tickets ($60 each). Plus we got photographed going 63 in a 50 zone on the highway (a relatively unmarked quarter of a mile where they slow the speed limit down by 20 mph to go under a bridge, then photograph everyone who passes and charges them $120. Nice little moneymaker). So that's a total of $240, before the $300 to GET OUT OWN CAR BACK AFTER IT WAS STOLEN. Lovely.

Automobile Woes

Our car got stolen. Well, not our car exactly, but the one we use courtesy of David's parents. I am so, so sad about this because I am American and therefore do not feel complete when I don't have a car. The evening after we reported the car stolen, the police phoned to inform us that they had someone in custody who may have been responsible. Apparently he matched the description of a certain ned who was trying to steal a van and happened to be driving, yes, our car. Unfortunately, this especially productive thief was no longer in possession of our car by the time they picked him up, and we are awaiting his interrogation to see if he might spill the beans about where our precious baby blue Nissan Micra ended up.

If you are wondering what a "ned" is, allow me to refer you to the wikipedia definition:

"Ned is a derogatory term applied to certain young people in Scotland, akin to the term chav in England. The stereotypical view of a ned is a white adolescent male, of working class background, who wears fake Burberry, who engages in hooliganism, petty criminality, loutish behaviour, underage drinking and smoking or general anti-social behaviour."

David seemed to believe that "Ned" is an acronym for "Non-Educated Dipshits," but I was later informed by his friend Simon that the proper term is "Non-Educated Delinquents." They wear tracksuits and drink a delightful tonic wine concoction known as Buckfast, or "Buckies" affectionately. And they look like this:

Or, alternatively, this:


What I find especially disturbing is that whoever stole our car may have been wearing fake Burberry.

Shakespeare by the sea

Last night we drove up to St. Andrews in Fife to see a production of Romeo and Juliet in the ruins of St. Andrews castle. I could explain to you how wonderful it was, but it's probably best you see it for yourselves:

St. Andrews Castle

St. Andrews Cathedral (or what's left of it)

Everyone packed picnics. And umbrellas - but luckily it only sprinkled.

We sat in the front row. This required us to be there early, much to David's chagrin. But he's getting used to it.

How many more days til the weekend?

I had a great one last weekend. The weather was perfect for once, and there was a little festival in the Meadows (the park by my house). I went with a couple of girls to check out the stands and sit in the grass, while listening to a string ensemble and eating crepes. Ah, bliss.

The Meadows

People who might be my friends?

Kirsten, looking pale and very English

Girls on the grass

Caught One

Sex and the City yielded a possibility - nice girl, new in town, wants to meet up for drinks. Making friends in a new place is officially like dating. We met, liked the look of each other, and now we're going on a date. Will we take it to the next level? Could she be The One?

In other news, David and I have been having a go at each other a bit this week. I can count at least four meltdowns. Ah, growing pains. One thing I love about him: He's like my family. There's no carryover. So we fight, maybe even yell, sulk for a minute, and then it's all "Wanna order a pizza?" We just can't be bothered to stay mad. I take this as a good sign. Now if only he would let me mold him into the perfect man, everything would be wonderful. I sincerely hope you can sense my sarcasm.

I Need friends. Now.

Tonight I'm joining a bunch of girls from a meetup group to watch Sex and the City. Among them, hopefully, will be someone who will hang out with me and save me from my current state of extreme estrogen deprivation. I am a huntress, ready to pounce on anything breathing with two x chromosomes. Watch out, female population of Edinburgh! I am on the prowl.

Um, that doesn't sound, like, creepy...right?

Especially in the month of June

We have big plans for today. Sunday has turned out to be our "get out and do something" day. I submit as evidence photos from last Sunday's adventures, a trip north to see the highland games at Blair Castle. What are the highland games, you might ask? They are nothing less than enormous men in kilts throwing various heavy objects in shows of strength, while vendors hock there wares (mostly burgers) and little girls dance highland jigs on a stage to the side. In other words, they are wonderful. See for yourselves:

Blair Castle Highland Games

Bagpipe music could be heard from all directions, at all times

There was many a kilt to be seen as well

The contenders...

...throwing heavy objects

Squinting in the sun

Highland dancing!

The pipers of Blair Castle

And the imposing castle itself