I've heard low rumours that my day-to-day movements are still mired in obscurity and you, dear readers, don't like it one bit. As attractive as it is to be a mysterious and elusive international citizen (in my mind, someone not unlike Pussy Galore), I thought I would write about my typical day -- in this case, today -- in an effort to clear up any misconceptions. I'm not sure how entertaining it will be, but everyone seems to like reality TV despite it being essentially boring, so here you go:
7:32 am: Wake up with pillow creases on my cheek. My bed is from Ikea and is nothing more than a glorified futon. The mattress is rock-hard and I sleep rougher on that slab of foam than I ever have before. I wake up befuddled and busted after the mattress beats up on me all night. But it's not the mattress's fault, really. It's mine. I make him do it. God, I love him.
7:33 - 8:27: Try on approximately 347 possible outfits, discard them all, and instead wear the same outfit (with a change of shirt) from yesterday.
8:32: Finish up breakfast of porrage oats and a pint of milky tea; wrap myself up in scarves, gloves, hats (plural), wellies; grab handbag and waddle out the door.
8:34: Stop at the fruitierers around the corner from my flat and buy three oranges. I go in that shop every morning, and I have never seen the shopkeeper off the phone. He wears a turban, but I'm not being racist.
8:36: Battle my way up Leith Walk through the hoardes of commuters, homeless, and people who are still weaving about, drunk from the night before. There is headstand-bucket man and burnt-face lady to contend with. Everyone wants a piece of me and it is often quite windy. The sun won't rise for another hour, so it's easy to feel like you never went to sleep and instead are just popping to the grocery store for some milk after a long day of work -- WAIT, YOU'RE GOING TO WORK AGAIN.
8:42: Step in dog poo, attempt removal on the side of a building. Just so happens it is the Louis Vuitton store.
8:54: Turn the corner onto George Street and break into a sprint. It's less of a sprint and more of that crazed-puppet-skip you do when you're running in a pencil skirt and three inch heels. In that last fifty yards I have been known to knock down bankers, executives, tourists and lines of school children. I don't discriminate; I am an equal opportunity hurrier.
9:02: Breeze through reception as if I haven't been running Forrest Gump-style down the poshest street in Edinburgh and wait seven minutes for the ancient lift (elevator) to groan its way down to the lobby.
9:04: Arrive at desk, hang up coat, put the kettle on. I have officially become addicted to tea. I'm not a person with many habits or addictions -- I can barely remember to floss -- but I find myself so desperate for a cup of tea in the morning that it borders on something much more dangerous.
9:06: Start up computer and gaze lovingly at my bursting in-tray. Black out for the next three hours.
12:06: It is lunch time? When did that happen? What have I been doing? Why are there 463 untitled excel spreadsheets open on my desktop?
12:06: Call Nancy and arrange to have lunch somewhere nice. In this case, a wee pub called Amicus Apple that is just around the corner from work. No one is just going to give you a two hour lunch break. You have to make that time yourself.
1:06: Could only take an hour for lunch; not as much of a BAMF as I thought. Start valuation for Erchless Castle in Argyll. Get hung up on spelling of 'Kircudbright' (pronounced Kur-koo-bree) halfway through the contents of the East Wing.
1:17: Charles, our senior valuer, calls from the road to ask about something; unfortunately he is driving through the midlands where they are still banging rocks together to make fire so a cell phone signal is out of the question. I hear "Hallo... gothic chairs ........ buy them, however ..... poppycock ...... cheers old bean." I hang up on him. I have difficulty understanding Charles when he is standing beside me. He talks like Hugh Grant, only deeper and more choppy. He also stores his canoe in the basement.
1:27: Laugh again about how everyone I work with sounds like Christina from Ugly Betty.
1:41: Find myself yet again in a situation where being an American is to my disadvantage: I have to address a letter to a man named Major Lord Sir James Falconer. Is it Sir Falconer, Lord James? Major F? Yo Jamie? I phone our managing director and ask her because she is posh, and I like to look as colonial as possible to the people in charge. She says it is Sir James and laughs that far-away laugh that means "you silly Yank."
1:45: Sign and address the letter four different times in an effort to get the S just right. You only get to write a letter to a knight so many times in your life.
2:02: Worry I am getting carpel tunnel, so spend four or fifteen minutes working out a way to raise my computer screen to eye level. End up stacking monitor on top of a pile of old Christie's catalogs, one of which has misspelled 'furniture' on the spine... wonder which proofreader got fired in May of 2000 and what they are doing now. Probably working for us.
2:27: Nancy calls and says she is FREAKING OUT because a painting she wanted from last week's sale was unsold and she could probably get it on re-offer for £100. We go downstairs to look at it. I tell her I hate Asian art (but not Asian people; again, not racist) and she says she loves it. We are at an impasse, so I say "I think it would look lovely in your flat" because that's the truth, Asian art or no.
2:39: Drink seventh cup of tea for the day, wonder where my steady hands have gone.
3:01: Neil makes fun of me for the 893rd time about the two expensive Japanese ceramics I destroyed last week. I didn't tell you about that, did I? Shame. Literally everyone at the office has a story about breaking a priceless antique. Kenneth snapped a table in half on his first day. I was something of a golden child for making it as long as I did without smashing anything, so needless to say that when I fell, I fell hard. When I was lotting up for the ceramics sale last week I managed to drop the detachable base of a cast-iron urn from the top of a high shelf. If it had hit the carpet it would have been fine, but somehow it managed to land smack dab in the middle of a pile of 16th century porcelain. The top two plates were destroyed -- and I don't mean they broke into several jagged pieces that could possibly be glued back together -- I mean they were reduced to a fine, 16th century handpainted powder. Our managing director was in the next room, too. After the terrible, heart-rending crash that sounded like what I imagine the end of days must sound like, she yelled "WHAT HAVE YOU DESTROYED." It wasn't a question.
3:02: I apologize for the 13287th time about reducing two valuable plates to fairy dust.
3:09: Call Nancy in her office so she can console me about the plates. She asks, "did you do it because they were Asian?"
4:12: Kenneth wanders around the fourth floor, stopping at everyone's desk to say hello. He gives me a piece of gum. He goes over to Bruce and asks if he wants a piece of gum. Bruce says "how old are you, aren't you coming up on 30 now?"
4:18: Attach images for the Seaward valuation and marvel over crap that clutters the homes of the wealthy. A white panther skin? Candlesticks made of silver-mounted ostrich feet? Yeah, I'd have both.
4:33: Wander downstairs to drop off a pile of letters that need posting and go to cast my vote for the office awards. Decide who to nominate for 'Rear of the Year' and then wonder whether they mean 'Great Bum of the Year' or 'Biggest Jerk of the Year' as these are quite dispirate interpretations. I nominate Iain because he could go either way.
4:45: Realize I have approximately four more hours worth of work to get through and only 45 minutes left in the day.
4:46: Debate the merits of staying late, remember I did it the last four nights, and put the kettle on.
5:30 Having spent the rest of the day writing this blog, I realize that even if I wanted to tell you about some of the things I work on during the day I couldn't. When I was hired I signed a confidentiality contract and, well, there's nothing like writing a blog about things you aren't legally allowed to talk about to make sure you get fired. Antiques dealing is serious business; don't let the swanky parties and foppish outfits fool you. If you betray us, we will break your legs.
Ok, maybe not. Regardless, it's 5:31, I'm going home.
Chapter Two: My Day in St Andrews -- oooh!
I am just a few hours away from hopping on a plane bound for the States and the excitement is palpable. It's been a rather USA themed-day. Kenneth and I had burgers for lunch at the new Gourmet Burger Kitchen on George Street; I may or may not have sung God Bless America on the bus; and now I'm cleaning up the flat in my new favorite t-shirt (pictured above) -- a birthday gift from the irreplaceable Bridget 'B-Force' Mohan.
I should say, for the record, that Iain's office is in the basement and not underneath a BMW. The first four floors are salerooms and at the moment it's chockablock with some mighty fine antiques. Sadly they will be mostly sold by the end of the week, but I will always be thankful for the little time we had together. 
See the ice skating rink? Go there and you have a good chance of having one or more fingers sliced off. Give the Scots some skates and they go crazy!
As my dad says, Merry Christmas Dammit. 
This rather inviting place is called The Dome, and it is a particularly fabulous pub just down the way from work. I'm pretty sure they pipe in the smell of cinnamon, because for real, it is the best smelling pub I've ever been to. It's like Bath and Body Works in there. Makes me want a christmas cookie something fierce. Here is what the inside looks like, just imagine the cinnamon smell and you're there: 
Unlike my former neighbors, I wouldn't mind if they left their lights up all year. 
