The Great Perfume Hunt Of '09

You've heard of The Secret Seven. You've heard of The Famous Five.

Pah. Amateurs.

When you're on the scent of, well, The Scent, you need the best of the best. You need The Thaumaturgical Three. (Er, you may also need a dictionary, if you're not a Terry Pratchett fan).


Reunited for what would prove to be their most challenging case yet, Alien Wally, Mags, and Shirley-Mom vowed to utilise all their investigative power to track down the elusive Scent from its hiding place somewhere in the UK.

Here are some highlights from the case files:

The Three started out in Windsor, posing as tourists, hoping that the castle would hold some clues to The Scent's location. The presence of soldiers suggested the guarding of some very important national treasures. But, it was to prove a herring as red as the soldiers' fancy outfits.


Foiled, The Three decided to search for the Scent in London.

First stop: Trafalgar Square. Nada but for Nelson.


Mags searched vainly in the National Gallery for clues, though as usual got hopelessly distracted by the Turners.

At first sight, Harrods, with it's gleaming perfume bottles, seemed a likely spot for The Scent to hide. But 'twas not to be.


And with Big Ben not telling them anything besides the time, The Three gave up for the day.


The following morning, they tried to draw on the wisdom of the animal kingdom, but were laughed out of the field.


With the trail of The Scent growing cold in The SOUTH, The Three decided to try their luck further north. But, before they could leave, Shirley-Mom needed to update her skillz to blend in seamlessly with the locals.


The trip north encompassed a quick visit to York, where they learned one important fact.


And they arrived in Scotland to a very warm (er, cold?) welcome.


Where better to start in The Land Of The Water Of Life than with the life-giving elixir itself. But, despite its sublime aromas, no clues as to the location of The Scent were revealed.


Mags and Shirley-Mom braved the winds on the Forth Bridge to see if The Scent was trying to make a break for it on the river.


They asked the locals.


They tried Edinburgh Castle. They watched the cannon closely, saw some ghosts in the cafeteria, checked out the Crown Jewels and even descended into the Castle's deep dark depths to see what the prisoners had left behind. But to no avail. The Scent was more deeply hidden than that.


Alien Wally and Mags tried to persuade Shirley-Mom to swim out into the North Sea to Bass Rock to search for The Scent there. But, this is as far as she got. *Cough* Wuss *cough* (to which the only acceptable reply is *Cough* Hypocrites *cough*).


The East Lothian countryside seemed full of possible hiding places.


Eventually, they turned their sights further north.


Like Nessie, The Scent was nowhere to be seen.


Perhaps too far north? How about slightly further south? They tried the Lammermuir Hills, where Alien Wally thought he spotted something fishy, and the gargoyles were stony-faced.


Strange stone carvings led The Three to realise they hadn't yet tried the obvious place – the home of the Holy Grail. But, despite promises of Truth, even Rosslyn Chapel wasn't telling any of its secrets.


In desperation, they eventually thought to ask Madam, who had spent most of the adventure sleeping. “Duh,” she said, yawning in obvious annoyance at being disturbed, “St James, the Patron Saint of Scent.” And she was right. Case closed.

The Pre-Holiday Holiday

Once upon a time, a good few months ago, Alien Wally and Mags went on holiday. To prepare for another holiday. Practice makes perfect, you know.

This time, the travellers were bravely heading past the Scottish border and the north of England towards that amorphous area simply referred to on northern road signs as "The SOUTH" (caps included).

And amorphous it is, with the motorway between Newcastle and London not having much to show for it in terms of distinguishing features. Anything of interest requires a detour off the long boring road to see.

So, before they fell asleep at the wheel from lack of visual stimulation, that's exactly what Alien Wally and Mags decided to do. Their detour destination: Cambridge.

The last time Alien Wally and Mags visited Cambridge, five years previously, it was at the end of a very busy and exhausting three week holiday. Consequently, the visit went something like this:
Mags' mind: Let's go, let's go! We're in Cambridge! We have to go pay our respects to these hallowed halls of academia! Come on!
Mags' body: F*#$ off. I'm tired. I hurt. I give up. I'm going to sit here in the grounds of Kings' College and cry.
Mags' mind: But... but... University! Books! Bicycles!
Mags' body: Tired. Hurt. Sit. Cry. What part of this don't you understand?
Alien Wally: So, does this mean we're not going punting on the River Cam then?

Good times, folks. Good times.

Anyway, things went much better this time around, Mags is happy to report.

There was punting.


There was hallowed academic halls.


There was bicycles.


There was a crazy man. And a crazy lady. And another crazy man. There are no pictures of these – what, you think Alien Wally and Mags are stupid enough to attract the attention of The Crazies by taking pictures of them? Think again, dear friends. Self-preservation is an art more prized than photography.

And then, there was back on the road, heading to Kent to visit family.

With a few days' grace until even more family arrived from South Africa, Alien Wally and Mags decided to visit Greenwich while they were down that way (i.e in The SOUTH).

There was a Naval College. With very beautiful ceilings.


There was much anticipation while waiting for the observatory's one o'clock ball to drop. There was much anticlimax at witnessing the observatory's one o'clock ball drop.


There was crossing the Greenwich meridian, through the hordes of people all waiting in a long queue along the meridian to have their pictures taken in front of the fancy commemorative sculpture.


There was the decision to take a wee walk along the Thames from Greenwich to Tower Bridge. Because how far could it be, really? Turns out: five miles (eight kilometers). As a result, there was walking. And more walking. And still more walking.


There was a roundabout with confusing traffic signals.


And then there was Tower Bridge.


And, before Mags' body could throw a hissy fit like it did in Cambridge five years ago, there was a ride back to Greenwich on the Thames Clipper.


Good times, folks. Good times. For real.

Home Makeover: The Extremely Slow Edition

Man, but y'all are just too impatient with your constant clamouring for photos of Alien Wally and Mags' new kitchen.

What y'all have got to understand is that these things take time. Here's roughly how it went down:

* Psychological preparation to cope with breaking the house after paying a $h*tload of money for it – 2 months
* Breaking the house – 2 weeks
* Fixing the house – 1 month
* Finishing touches (euphemistically referred to as The Last Few Little Things) – 3 months

You see? Time.

The old kitchen was just that. Old. Eighteen years old, in fact. Having a kitchen that's old enough to vote is perhaps a clue that a style update is required.

Style considerations aside, however, the old kitchen was proof that MFI kitchens do last for longer than five years, despite the almost desperate attempts by some other so-called premium kitchen companies to convince Alien Wally and Mags otherwise... “Only our kitchens will last longer than ten years.” Oh, really? And, let's guess – that's why we'd have to pay ten times as much for your kitchens, right? Right. Moving on.

Needless to say, Alien Wally and Mags didn't buy from any of these obviously delusional kitchen companies. In spite of the proven durability of the old kitchen, they didn't buy from MFI either, as a result of MFI experiencing a slight wobble known in the industry as Going Out Of Business.

The old kitchen may have outlasted the company that made it. But it couldn't withstand the combined destructive force of Mags and Alien Wally. After Mags had done the hard work of the first hole in the wall, Alien Wally got the easy job of removing the rest of the kitchen.

After which the friendly-neighbourhood-kitchen-contractor-who-lives-down-the-road-and-sometimes-brings-wine-to-make-all-the-chaos-seem-much-easier-to-handle-and-the-bill-easier-to-cope-with took over and made everything all pretty again.

After he'd left and Alien Wally and Mags could restore some order to the house by moving the kitchen out of the dining room and the dining room out of the lounge and the lounge out of the cat basket, they got right to work enthusiastically sorting out all those finishing touches like flooring and beading and painting and hanging pictures collapsed in a heap and didn't do anything until they'd slept for three weeks solid.

Finally, though, it all got done. And, here, at last, to appease the masses, are some pictures:

Highland Fling

Kilts were flying, sporrans bouncing and sgian dubh's flashing. Concealed weapons? Bring 'em on! No, this was not the Battle of Culloden, this was about 20 miles South, where two friends of Mags and Alien Wally were celebrating their Wedding.


Unbeknownst to Mags and Alien Wally, a Scottish wedding (and especially a Highland wedding) is typically celebrated with a Céilidh (kaylee). To paraphrase Wikipedia, "before discos and nightclubs, there was The Céilidh."

Being blissfully unaware what might transpire during the wedding celebrations, Mags and Alien Wally were severely unprepared for the evening's turn of events. Mags' shoes for one were not particularly stable, and Alien Wally felt particularly underdressed even in full-length trousers. Perhaps it was the lack of a handy blade tucked away in a sock that left him feeling nervous.

Fortunately our naive couple were seated with a group of friendly allies more skilled in the arts of war, and with some (not so) gentle encouragement were soon kicking off shoes and jackets and getting down to the serious business of having a really great time.

The following morning Mags and Alien Wally were up surprisingly early to tackle the trip back down to Edinburgh. First stop was to visit the Church where the Wedding ceremony had taken place the day before, in order to get some pictures of what it looked like when it wasn't raining...(note, if you aim to get married in Scotland, plan B is reserved for sunny weather).



The chuch is located right on the River Spey, which must provide a most convenient source of (very) Holy Water.

Just a bit further South, the Cairngorm mountain reaches up to catch the snow, still sporting enough to entice a few late-season skiiers.


Further down the A9, Mags and Alien Wally stopped off at a popular tourist trap to see the 9th highest waterfall in the UK, The Falls Of Bruar. So popular in fact that in 1776, William Gilpin was moved to say
"Scarce worth so long and perpendicular a walk. One of them indeed is a grand fall, but is so naked in its accompaniments that it is of little value."
Well with such a glowing recommendation, how could Mags and Alien Wally not stop by? To be fair, it sounds like the area was pretty barren at the time. What was needed was an awareness drive, a "Save our Falls" campaign, celebrity involvement. Bring on the bard, Rabbie Burns, with his catchily titled poem "The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the Noble Duke of Atholl".

So inspring that the Duke did more than
"shade the banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes",
he planted 15 million trees and constructed the two bridges captured here.





With such a prestigious highlight ticked off, there was nothing more to do but head back to Auld Reeky, a mostly uneventful trip made more uneventful by the half-hour traffic jam imposed by road works on the A9 in the middle of a school holiday.

Seven Year Itch

Alien Wally stumbles across a cure for the seven year itch.


Happy Anniversary Mags!

Winter Olympics

The daffodils are blooming, the farmers are out ploughing, it's about time Alien Wally and Mags come out from hibernation. What better way of welcoming Spring than by publishing a collection of Winter pictures?

While the UK experienced their coldest winter for thirteen years, Edinburgh was spared much of the disruption. Despite his pleas to the Great Snow Man in the sky, Alien Wally did not find himself snowed in and unable to make his way to the office. That's not to say that snow didn't fall, Pencaitland had a fair dusting.

While Mags was covering the story from Pencaitland during the day, Alien Wally was in Edinburgh on his lunch hour.

Generally, on days such as these, Alien Wally accepts defeat and drives the car to the nearest station, the idea being that four wheels offer more grip than two. The plan fails however when conditions appear great first thing in the morning, only to start turning white as the day progresses. This is the "oh I'm so happy to climb off this thing now" picture taken by Alien Wally upon his arrival back home; just before what was to be the most treacherous part of the journey - getting the bike up the driveway into the garage.


All this sliding around put ideas into their heads however, and they headed off into the Lammermuir Hills to try out their Winter Sports Skillz.

First up, Alien Wally testing the slopes...

And finally finding his feet.


Next up, Mags demonstrating the cautious start...

But finding her form early on

Some Winter athletes spend thousands of pounds on equipment in an attempt to be the best, but Alien Wally and Mags have just shown that equipment is no substitute for raw talent; an old piece of linoleum flooring recently ripped out from a kitchen is all you need.

With the crowds baaing for more, it was time to head back to a floorless kitchen.

That’s What It’s All About

Ya know, sometimes these things happen. There you are, doing the hokey pokey, and you’ve managed to put your left arm in and your left arm out. You’ve managed to shake it all about. And then… it’s time to put your tongue in, which is the same thing as putting your tongue out, and then it all starts to get a bit confusing – is your tongue in when it’s out, or out when it’s in?


And then your brain freezes and you totally forget what you were doing in the first place and you wonder why the paparazzi are taking pictures of you. Must be because you’re so cute.