Bobbie, Drunkeness, the Buzzcocks and Boredom

I am proud to announce that my youngest daughter takes after her Mum. I'm getting a bit old now so I like to get to bed early and get my eight hours so I was verging on pushing out the zeds last night when my husband came upstairs and told me that he had just received a call from one of Bobbie's friends. Bobbie was in a pub called the Crazy Muskrat or some such name and, more specifically, was in the toilets puking up and could we come and collect her?

Now, Hubby Dearest had had a few drinks and so we decided that I would have to do the driving and because I was still a bit groggy, he would accompany me. We got to the pub, he got out of the car and rang Bobbie's mobile. A few minutes later one of the girls emerged from the pub and spoke earnestly to my husband. Then our 16 year old daughter, Bobbie emerged arm first (that's what I saw first, anyway), slightly the worse for wear after 4 pints of Stella, followed by her 17 year old boyfriend, Raj.

Bobbie got in the back of the car with her Dad and snuggled up to him and Raj sat in the passenger seat and we took him home first. Then we took Bobbie home and she went to bed with a glass of water. She was a little bit hungover this morning but otherwise well enough. She's actually rather charming when she's drunk. A bit giggly and silly but still charming.

I got very drunk two weeks ago today but I didn't end up being sick or having to be brought home. It did mean, however, that I was hungover the next day and the hangover persisted until well into the evening. I went to see the Buzzcocks in Preston that night and I wouldn't recommend going to a gig with a hangover. It spoils it.

We saw three support bands. The first were not memorable at all. The second were called the Aclyrics and I enjoyed the set. The third were great. A young punk band called Middle Finger Salute. They have a loyal following, including a young and quite small skinhead called (if I remember rightly) Danny, who made a bit of a prat of himself directly in front of me. Still, he is young and was probably drunk so I'll make allowances for him. I usually make allowances for skinheads; I can't help myself. They (Middle Finger Salute) were pretty good. Good enough for me to go and buy the CD after their set and add them on MySpace and keep sending them messages. I will go and see them again. I really rather liked them (praise indeed from me!)

Then the Buzzcocks came on. I was still hungover and my feet were beginning to hurt (my docs are not the most comfortable boots I own) but nothing was going to spoil the main act for me. They played a lot of stuff I don't know but it was fine. I'm more a connoisseur of the classic Buzzcocks - Ever fallen in love, I don't mind, Orgasm Addict, Promises and, of course, my favourite, Boredom. They played most of the classics in the encore and in true Rennie style, every time they played one of these an expression of beatific rapture came over my face, I shut my eyes and bellowed the lyrics at the stage. Happiness indeed!

This put me in mind of a minor incident that took place at home a few years ago. The kids were still quite small back then and we still had a record player. I was playing some of my singles to the kids (building the foundations of good musical taste for later life - none of my children like R & B and other such rubbish) and, inevitably I suppose, I put my favourite Buzzcocks song on. The kids started bouncing up and down on the sofa and I told them to stop jumping up and down on it. At the time, I was in my punk wilderness years and trying desperately hard to be respectable. Then I realised to my horror what I had done and I told them to get back on and start jumping again. You can't keep an old punk down, can you?

Here's a video of them performing it in Blackburn recently. Buzzcocks and Boredom that is, not kids and sofa. Enjoy!

Rennie and The Insurance Broker

I've adopted a dual approach to anonymity in this blog. Paraphrasing and the Classic English Literature approach. I've paraphrased some names, for example "Pigton" and I've used the classic hyphen in others, for example "N-". It was great fun. This blog could be also entitled "How not to make a complaint".

Sometimes it's great fun working in a complaints department. Especially when you have to make a complaint yourself. I recently had a run in with a prominent high street insurance broker and took it upon myself to write in to complain. Now, I didn't really have a justified complaint. I brought this situation upon myself by failing to pay a cancellation charge for an insurance policy that I simply should not have taken out and, when I changed my mind, should have cancelled a lot sooner but I didn't. I became liable for a cancellation charge, which I forgot to pay, which led the prominent high street insurance broker to allegedly send me two reminders, which I did not receive, and then pass my debt to their debt collection division, which incurred a further charge of £25.

I paid that immediately and then wrote the following letter to them:

Rennie Antacid
3 Oliver Road
Madeupton
Madeupshire
MU14 6YY

Your ref: XXXXX
26 January 2007
Pigton Group Ltd
You Get
The Picture
......shire
Whatever

Dear Sir/Madam

I just wanted to let you know that I have now paid my debt to you. This was settled with your debt enforcement division N- over the phone by debit card.

I now would like to let you know exactly what I think of your company. I did not receive one reminder, even though the amount was due over the Christmas period and therefore was pushed to the back of my mind. You did not receive the money within the specified period of seven days (a very short period) and I received a letter threatening me with a County Court Judgement if I did not pay within 10 days (your bold, not mine).

You made me feel like a criminal and a habitual non-payer of debts. I'm actually not that bad at all and I hate owing money. It simply slipped my mind because of the time of year. I am therefore not at all impressed with your company.

So please make sure that you and all your subsidiaries and all third parties operating on your behalf never contact me again by telephone, in writing, by e-mail or even by bloody pigeon post. I would be happy if I never saw the word Pigton again in my life. If I receive any post from you in the future, it will be returned to you and don't expect me to pay the postage. Any telephone calls I receive from you or anybody calling on your behalf will be terminated immediately.

Yours faithfully



Rennie Antacid
Extremely p-ed off private citizen

I got my reply from them on Wednesday (which will be mailed back to them without a stamp on Monday):

Dear Mrs Antacid

I acknowledge receipt of your letter dated 26 January 2007 and received today. I note your comments regarding your policy that was held via our branch in Penwortham. You have informed me that you were dissatisfied with the service provided in connection to a balance owed following cancellation of your policy. I confirm the following...

[I have cut out the part of the letter which tells me they have removed me from the relevant databases and cut to the bit which really wound me up.]

For the reasons stated above I cannot uphold your views that the branch are in some way responsible for the situation in which you found yourself. I have spoken to N- who have confirmed that your account is now cleared in full...

Here's my reply in full. I don't pretend to be reasonable. Most of the people with whom I deal at work are not and it is nice for the boot to be on the other foot:

Rennie Antacid
3 Oliver Road
Madeupton
Madeupshire
MU14 6YY

Your Ref: RXB
My Ref: AL*&$*!!

01 February 2007
Rennie X Bollard
Customer Assistance Team
You Get
The Picture
......shire
Whatever

Dear Rennie

Thank you for your smug letter of 29 January 2007.

First of all, I would like to point out that you have once again failed. This time on all counts:

• I specifically and explicitly requested that no further correspondence be sent to me by either Pigton or anybody acting on its behalf, whether by letter, telephone call, e-mail or, if I remember correctly, pigeon post.
• Your letter does not contain even a hint of an apology. I am not sure if you are aware but the Financial Ombudsman Service states that an apology does not constitute an admission of liability. It can, however, be a simple way of mollifying angry customers, even if their complaint is unjustified. It is therefore a very useful tool in the Customer Service sector.
• You did not get the point, did you? I am not after compensation, a goodwill gesture or any form of redress. I simply do not like your company and I wanted to let it know. I did not want a letter saying: "You were wrong and we were right". I couldn't give a toss about the rights and wrongs of the case.
• You say that you sent me 8 letters in December asking for proof of no claims bonus. I don't dispute that. I did not, however, receive any letter reminding me to pay the cancellation charge. Not one! So you weren't even able to answer that point, were you?
• The letter from N- was unpleasant in its tone. The attitude of the people to whom I spoke there was worse. I'm sorry to use such an unpleasant simile, but they spoke to me like I was dog dirt.

So I remain a dissatisfied ex-customer. However, I would like to save you the trouble and bother of replying to me. As I said in my previous letter, I do not wish to be contacted by your organisation ever again in my life or by anybody acting on your organisation's behalf. So please file this letter in the round file after you have read it and do not act upon it.

Yours sincerely

Rennie Antacid
A still extremely dissatisfied ex-customer.

I think I was more annoyed because she had the same name as me but was much, much worse at her job than I am at mine. She makes me ashamed to be a Rennie.

My life as a punk

Seeing as I chose to call myself Punky Rennie, I describe myself as a 40 something punk and I have blue streaks in my hair, I thought I would like to elaborate on my 30 year love affair with punk.

Please, never call me a punk rocker. It sounds all wrong. I don't even remember being a punkette either, although the term was widely used for female punks at the time … but I digress.

Let's go right back to the beginning. I was a 13 year old at boarding school and my parents were taking me back after one of the school holidays or half term breaks. I had decided to relieve my mum of one of her woolly hats and for some reason I had pinned a nappy pin to it. As we were toodling down the motorway (you could never do anything other than toodle in our car – a Hillman Husky), a car overtook us (again, not an uncommon occurrence). As the car drew level, a seminal moment in my life was approaching (probably at 70 mph although it could have been much slower as my father tended not to go above 40 or so).

In this other car were two or three punks. My memory is a little hazy with regard to numbers but there was definitely more than one. I am really not sure what they noticed but something about my person amused them and I would assume (and did then) that it was the nappy pin in my hat. They were close enough to have seen it. They laughed and pointed at me and at that moment, I knew it was my mission to become a punk. It was my Road to Damascus moment.

Becoming a punk was not that easy for a middle-class thirteen year old girl at boarding school and at first, I did not really embrace punk fully. I didn't really know how the music sounded although I had heard of the Sex Pistols (difficult not to in those days) and I had little or no idea of how to dress but, as punk spread out, even into the little market town where my school was situated, it became easier for me.

I first dyed my hair black when I was 15. The dye did not take well and it looked a bit purple but I didn't mind. That was punk, after all. I had had a perm (the last ditch attempt of my "normal" side to take control) and with it dyed black and a bit woolly, I claimed I was emulating Adam of Adam and the Ants. By then I was the proud owner of Young Parisians/Lady and almost certainly My Way by Sid Vicious. I have very few pictures of me from the punk era and all but 3 are on slides. I have, however, used one of me at 15 as my profile picture.

I read Sounds voraciously and once read an interview with Hugh Cornwell (then of the Stranglers). My semi-formed feminist feelings were incensed by what he said so I wrote to Sounds and also to him. Sounds never printed my letter (why should they have printed the incoherent ramblings of a 15 year old after all?) but Hugh (at least I think it was him) replied. He referred to the Stranglers as the Strangs and signed the letter Hugh Strangler. My little heart jumped when I read it and I was in his thrall permanently after that (I still am). I don't remember what he said, I must have been delirious when I read it for the first time and the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth…

I used to hang around in the local café (a wonderful place called The Mocha, still there the last time I visited the town). This café had a jukebox and the owner very thoughtfully put punk and new wave records in it. That way I was able to listen to Top of the Pops by the Rezillos, Holidays in the Sun by the Pistols and Denis by Blondie, to name but three. The punks from town used to hang out there too and I used to chat to them. There was one I fancied called Bobby. I used to sing Denis about him but I changed the words to "Bobbeee Bobbeee". Yes, slightly embarrassing to me nowadays. The poor lad really didn't seem to like me at all but was forced to "marry" me in a ceremony in the café when one of the older, bigger lads literally twisted his arm. I cringe at the thought nowadays. He refused to kiss me when we were married though.

I left school and the town at 16 and for the first time used Nestle Lite to bleach my hair. This was not particularly successful the first time and I ended up with patches of blonde, ginger, orange and light brown hair. I looked like a tortoiseshell cat had fallen asleep on my head but I was very pleased because it looked so punk. I also was wearing more and more punk clothing – altering jeans, tearing and vandalising t-shirts.

I bought my first pair of "proper" punk trousers from the Last Resort – a pair of pink leopard skins and a leather jacket second hand from somebody, I don't remember who now. I bought a kilt from a charity shop and was given Docs (again, I don't know by whom). The look was complete – pink leopard skins, a short kilt, a butchered t-shirt and a biker jacket with a picture of Siouxsie Sue in Tippex on the back, UK Subs written above and badges galore on the lapels. Marvellous!

I started seeing a boy of 15, my first boyfriend, and we went to see the UK Subs at the Music Machine. There were 2 support bands. The first was called the Straps. I thought they were absolutely fantastic and I was hooked. I recognised one of the Straps. He had played bass in a band that I had seen at my boarding school. Then another band called Martian Dance played. I remember them as a sort of precursor of New Romantic and I hated them. Then the Subs played and they were fantastic. Unfortunately, they came on after the last train left the nearest Tube Station and I thought we were not going to be able to stay to watch them. Fortunately, my boyfriend had been chatting to some lads and it turned out that they lived near me and had come in a van. We went home in the back of the van that night and saw the Subs.

I used to go down the Kings Road on a Saturday. You would meet punks from all over and we would just walk round, sit in the pubs, look in the shops and get searched by the police. That was a very good way to spend a Saturday. I remember once when we got stopped and searched. The lads got the full pat down the body treatment from the policemen. I had to empty my pockets for a policewoman. I was so disappointed; I really wanted the pat down the body business from the man. The girl with me had two watches and the policewoman thought that was really suspicious. It's a punk thing really, though. Perhaps not something an outsider would know.

I used to hang around in Boy, a punk shop on the Kings Road. Jock, the lead singer of the Straps worked there and I stalked him in a major way. The manager was called Charlie. I didn't like him at all. He was also the Straps' manager. Once, I sat with the Straps in a pub, discussing their most recent gig. They said that they had been awful but I refused to accept that. I just could not grasp the concept that the Straps could be bad. I fancied the drummer, Cliff, and finally ended up kissing him that day. Now I don't know what I saw in him but back then he was an Adonis to me.

Once I was in Seditionaries with my sister. We saw Billy Idol in there. We were behind a rack of clothes and saw him through them. My sister swears the conversation went something like this:

Sister 1 – "That man thinks he's Billy Idol."
Sister 2 – "That man is Billy Idol"
Sister 1 – "Let's get out of here, then. I hate Billy Idol."

Again, haziness of memory prevents me from verifying the accuracy of the dialogue but I do know that I didn't have much time for Billy Idol, we were rude about him in his hearing and we did leave the shop as soon as we saw him there.

I used to go to a pub in Croydon/Thornton Heath called The Star. Loads of punks (mainly underage) drank in there and it had a good jukebox. The only record I remember on it now is Love will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division – still a big favourite of mine. Sometimes bands played there and sometimes not.

Once I was sat outside in the beer garden with a group of local punks and there was a lad there who I didn't know. He called himself Germ and he was very nice indeed. When I saw somebody I fancied, I tended to go for him and Germ was no exception. He got the full treatment and even if he hadn't been a willing partner, I would probably have pinned him to the ground just so I could tickle his tonsils with my tongue. I had absolutely no shame back then.

Another time, in the Star, I saw Spodgenessabounds. They were another massive band for me. Max Splodge was a hero, Miles Flat a poor sap who broke his guitar string and got berated by Max while he changed it and Winston Forbes was a Keyboard Virtuoso (the keyboard part in Simon Templar is brilliant). They had the wonderful Baby Greensleeves who made such fantastic contributions including her part in "I've got lots of famous people hidden under the floorboards of my humble abode". You couldn't fault them.

At this gig were Dave, the Straps' guitarist and Steve Slack, then bass player for the UK Subs. I already knew Dave reasonably well and asked him to introduce me to Steve. They'd supported the Subs a few times and it seemed the obvious thing to do. Dave was not a Preux Chevalier at the time (he's improved since then, I can tell you) and he wouldn't do it so I had to go and introduce myself. I came out with the immortal line: "You don't know me but I'm famous, really." Corny or what? Fortunately, Steve was a gentleman and signed my jeans and we had a lovely chat. Later, I was hot so I removed the jeans. I had a large t-shirt on (punk t-shirts came in 2 sizes back then – XL and XL) and I used my dog lead (which went nicely with the dog collar I used to wear) to belt it so it looked like a mini dress. I went back to watch the band and Dave came up behind me and grabbed my leg. We both jumped. He was expecting me to be wearing jeans and I wasn't expecting him to get so intimate. He jumped higher than me – that's official.

I used to hang around with the Bromley Punks. We all used punk names (like Germ, mentioned above). There were Menace, Sparrow, Turtle, Spittle, Ellie and various others. One who I should give a special mention to was Groper. We didn't get on at all. We used to fight on the bus to and from Croydon and we fought in the Star. I never worked out what Groper had against me or for that matter what I had against him. We just didn't get on. Sparrow had pillar box red hair and Turtle's room was painted black. Menace was a cocky little bugger but I liked him. Ellie turned into a skin girl and went back to using her real name. I called myself Rene but everybody called me Rennie. My sister was Panda.

I should also mention the Coppice Skins, who used to walk me home from Bromley Common after I'd been to the Star. They would walk me through the Coppice Estate and occasionally one or two would take me all the way home. I remember my Dad being up when I got home with a couple of them once. Dad is incredibly cool and just sat and chatted to them. The thing about Skinheads is they do look very thuggish indeed but that didn't worry my Dad at all.

I fell for one of them hook, line and sinker. His real name was Paul but they all called him Big Ears because he had sticky out ears, which, of course, were accentuated by his shaved head. He was the one who took me all the way home on a few occasions and he was always there when I was being walked through the Coppice. Eventually (it seems to be inevitable with hindsight), I ended up kissing him before continuing home with my sister. His brother, who was not a skin, was with us and insisted on Paul sharing me with him so he got a look-in too. I wasn't too worried; there was plenty of me to go around.

Well, I think I've pretty well come to the end of this particular incoherent rambling. I was a punk for about 18 months and pretty rebellious during that time. I succumbed to the ultimate rebellion in the end and rebelled against punk. It was already becoming a bit too glamorous for my liking. Some punkettes' hair was getting too big and they were wearing heels and shit like that (my nose is wrinkling as I type this). It was time for a change so I went and bought myself a Fred Perry t-shirt, some red braces and retrieved some jeans that I had not butchered. I turned them up so they were just resting on the top of my 6 hole brown Docs, had my hair cut in a feather cut and became a Skin. Very briefly. I quickly realised that I could not afford the clobber but for a short while I felt wonderful. I saw Groper in Bromley and walked up to him and said Hello. I stopped calling myself Rene and went back to my proper name. After that I really don't remember what I did. I was a lost soul and never really recovered. (Not actually true. I had a fine time after but being a punk was superb.)

I always say that the best time of my life was when I was a punk. It was a fantastic time and I'm really glad I had those experiences. It's a time that I look back on fondly and I still smile when I think of those wonderful people, their wonderful haircuts and clothes and their great personalities.

Just a postscript to this. When I originally wrote this blog on another site I did not count myself as a punk. Since then I've realised never actually stopped being a punk, I merely went respectable for a while. I have now rediscovered my punk roots; my nose is repierced and I have blue streaks in my hair. My poor husband and children despair of me. I've even bought some Docs - second hand and black and white tartan but docs nevertheless. I love going to gigs and hanging around with punks and skins at them. I've rediscovered many of the bands I loved back then and found to my delight that getting older has not diminished the music's attraction for me. I also now realise that there were plenty of bands back then that I ignored that are fantastic and I'm really enjoying discovering them. In short, I've undergone a punk renaissance and I'm thoroughly enjoying myself.

24 Hours

My own, personal, 24 hours is nearly at an end now. I should take pains to point out that at no point during this narrative was the world as we know it in any danger and I look absolutely nothing life Kiefer Sutherland but I've had an eventful last 24 hours and in true true-confessions style, I'm about to tell anybody who cares to read this blog what an absolute pillock I can be.

20.49: 24 hours ago, I was sat in a large room in Chorley while my son (who should be getting himself there at his age) played the piano. He still takes piano lessons, which is laudable at his age, and I take him because I like the fact that he does. He's very, very good. He has already got his Grade 8 and the stuff he's learning now is impressive. Well, he was sat there 24 hours ago and I had no idea what was in store for me in the next few hours.

(While we were driving to Chorley yesterday, my petrol light came on. Normally I ignore it and carry on driving for a couple of days until it is not going off again but I decided to be sensible and so on our way home, I stopped off to put some fuel in the car.)

21.10: I got out of the car and left the keys in the ignition. Thos was in the passenger seat so I thought nothing of it. I filled the car and then went into the shop to pay for the petrol. Thos joined me in the shop and so, being a sensible sort of a person, I asked him to get the keys out of the ignition. He asked me with some incredulity if I had left the keys in the ignition and I confirmed that I had. He then told me he had locked the car from the inside. Panic Stations all round!

21.13: Having paid for the petrol, I got my mobile phone out to ring my husband, who was at work at the time. The call diverted straight to voicemail. "Damn!" I thought, "he's got it switched off". I then asked the lady in the petrol station if she knew of a local taxi firm and asked my son if he had any money. I was about 7 miles from home, the keys were locked in the car, I couldn't raise my husband, I had a grand total of £7 in my wallet and I was beginning to feel like a bit of a fool.

21.16: Having ascertained that my son had some money on him, I rang a local taxi firm, explained my predicament and asked them to send a car as soon as possible.

21.22: I realised my husband's phone wasn't switched off at all, it was simply not working because he had dropped it in the washing up water a few days ago. I made a mental note to buy a new one at the first opportunity.

21.25: The taxi driver arrived. I left my son to keep an eye on the car and we set off for home. The taxi driver was incredulous that my car, a new car, would allow me to lock it with the keys in the ignition. I explained it was a basic model with no frills.

21.35: We arrived outside my house. The taxi driver switched off the meter and told me he would charge double the fare so far - £12.00 - which would make a total of £24.00. I ran in the house with a hurried and shouted explanation to my two daughters and went to look for the spare key on the hook on the back door. It wasn't there. Panic stations! I checked inside the pantry - not there either. Now I was getting extremely worried and working my way through the house, I spotted it on the hallway window sill. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I picked it up, kissed it and keeping tight hold of it, ran back to the taxi.

21.38: I got into the taxi and triumphantly exhibited the spare key. The taxi driver turned round and started the journey back to the petrol station, my car and my son.

21.48: We arrived at the petrol station. My car was looking very frightened and very alone. My son had not even bothered to keep it company and instead had lurked in a dark corner of the petrol station like the surly metal-head he is. He came over to me while I was still in the taxi and we cobbled together the fare, which I gladly gave the taxi driver.

21.50: I opened the car door and put the spare key in my pocket. Knowing my car was now safe, the kind-hearted taxi driver drove off to collect his next fare. My son and I climbed into the car and we drove off.

22.01: Emotionally exhausted, I drew up outside my house and parked the car on the roadside so I could use it again in the morning. I went into my house to find my son telling his two little sisters that under no circumstances whatever should they relate the evening's events to their father.

22.30: I decided to go to bed and took my mobile phone with me to use as an alarm. I set it to a timed silent profile so nobody could disturb me.

07.49: I checked the time on my mobile, thinking it was about 5.50am. I jumped out of bed screaming silently. This is the time I'm usually setting off for work. I had forgot to set the alarm the night before.

07.51: I rang my manager to explain that I had just got out of bed and I would be late for work.

07.55: Whilst having a shower, I noticed my watch was still on and was getting very wet indeed. This is not one of these fantastic waterproof watches so I removed it pronto, hoping I hadn't broken it.

08.05: I got out of the shower and found to my relief that my watch was still working. I got dressed.

08.10: I went downstairs, made myself a cup of coffee and put some weetabix in a bowl. I checked my e-mails etc.

08.32: I set off for work in my still traumatised car.

Actually, the rest of the 24 hours was pretty uneventful but those few at the beginning more than make up for it.

Temper Tantrums on the Pap of Glencoe

I would introduce myself but you can check my profile so there is no point. I would, however, say that I think I was designed to be laughed at. Tall, thin and incredibly clumsy, I trip over my feet all the time and spend more time on my arse than is decent.

I probably don't have to look far to find some incident in my life that is entertaining but I thought the best time is back in July when I went on holiday to Scotland with my husband and two daughters and we decided to climb the Pap of Glencoe. Now I was severely mentally scarred by this at the time and I have only just begun to come to terms with what transpired during the day and that is why I have chosen now to blog about it.

The Pap of Glencoe was across Loch Leven from Tiramisu Lodge (where we stayed) and is a beautiful mountain. I've included a photo so you can see for yourselves.

Yes, not the clearest photo but I hope you get the picture.

Well, we set off, relatively early, full of hope and expectation. Butties and drinks in the backpacks and a spring in our step. Actually, we went in the car, so any springs were in the shock absorbers. We parked up and my husband consulted his trusty map, pointed back towards the road and said "This way!" Actually, he didn't but it sounds good, doesn't it?

We hiked along the road a little way and then after further consultation of the map, we struck off left onto a footpath. We did a sort of large zigzag - more a z-shape than a true zigzag and started climbing. To my horror, my older daughter started getting short of breath and she had not brought her inhaler. I was sympathetic to her for about 5 minutes and then lost patience and struck off up the slope like the intrepid climber I am.

Here is another picture. I can assure you my husband and two daughters are going uphill, not down. I'm just a poor photographer.

So we carried on climbing for a while and at nearly midday, my hard taskmaster of a husband allowed us to stop to take a short break and to take on some fluids. The view was getting good by now and it was pleasant to stop but I was feeling more and more like a mountain goat and was anxious to be on my way. Our daughters on the other hand were both moaning volubly, complaining about their asthma and generally being wimps. (I would like to reassure you at this point that neither had an asthma attack on the mountain and both got down again in considerably better shape than I did.)

Time for another slide, methinks.

This is the view back down to Loch Leven on its way out to the sea. Beautiful, isn't it?
By this time, my husband had been able to convince the girls that he wasn't impressed with them and anxious as they were not to cause any more friction, they carried on up the hill like a couple of rabbits with rockets up their arses. We carried on at a more leisurely pace.

At the top of the hill is the Pap, apparently shaped like a nipple (actually, I can see the resemblance). This is harder rock projecting above the softer material that has eroded away over the years. It makes a nice scramble... most of the way. Time for another slide. This time it is of the view up the Loch towards Kinlochleven, which is the small settlement just above the centre of the photo at the right hand side.

Unfortunately, we are coming to the point where things started to get nasty. First of all, I had to negotiate the Pap, which, as I said before, was mostly a nice scramble. There was one moment where my fear of heights got the better of me and I froze on what seemed like a sheer rockface. It wasn't. I was just being a wuss. My husband very kindly talked me through getting across the gap (it seemed more like a chasm at the time) and even offered to catch me if I fell. I took my courage in my hands and stepped across. One little victory for me.

From there, it was a relative quick and easy scramble to the summit. At the top of the Pap, we found shelter amongst the rocks and ate our dinner. Always a favourite part of a walk for me. I find that the further I go, the hungrier I get. After I've eaten, the further I go, the more my knees hurt. That is actually very significant to this story.

It is at this point that my husband made a serious error. He completely under-estimated my wussiness and decided to come down the sheer north wall of the Pap of Glencoe. This was actually previously uncharted territory and even the sheep saw it as a no-no.

At first, it was not too bad. Steep, yeah, but I could handle it. I just couldn't keep up. I've never been able to keep up coming down a mountain or hill. My knees are just not as efficient as those of the other members of my family. My husband seemed to take delight in disappearing into the distance and try as I might, I could not lessen the distance between us.

We then came to a part which might be called a scramble by a dangerously over-optimistic rock-climber. I call it potential homicide/suicide. The rocks were sharp and well and we all suffered cuts. Some stupid bugger had forgotten to pack any plasters and I let my cut bleed... everywhere. Eventually, after losing about 2 pints of blood, it clotted.

After the sharp rocks came the waist high heather and bracken, the pot holes and hidden streams. I was beginning to feel the strain quite badly now as the hillside was still horribly steep and I was losing my footing all the time.

By this time I was wallowing in despair and wishing I could break my leg or something so that Mountain Rescue could come and rescue me and give my husband a good ticking off into the bargain.

I didn't break my leg and I had to carry on down unassisted. I kept slipping over and from time to time, it seemed a better option to slide down on my arse. At one point, I not only tripped but also rolled down the hillside by a full 360 degrees. My husband very heartlessly shouted "What has she found to trip over now?" I started planning his murder immediately.

After much crying (yes, I cried like a baby, sat down, refused to go on, got up again, fell over again, slid down on my arse again and generally felt and looked a complete arse) we got to a path. I thought my ordeal was at an end and maybe if I had listened to my husband and walked the relatively short distance to the road and sat down, it might have been. Instead, I didn't trust him not to leave me there and take the girls home, I walked along the path back to the car. I should point out at this point that my knees were still in good shape. The rest of me was in dreadful shape.

This was not a short path and there were some very steep bits in some woods where I nearly gave up again but eventually, after what seemed like years, we got back to the car. I took my boots off, vowing that I would burn them to ashes when I got home, and put my trainers on. I ratcheted my back up to upright again and sat down in the passenger seat with the intention of never getting out again.

My husband is a sadist and made me go into a convenience shop in Glencoe to get some stuff for tea. I got some cheap bubble bath there as well. I should say that when I got out of the car, I was so stiff all over that I looked like an elderly and disabled woman.

When we got back to Tiramisu Lodge, I bagsied the bath and ran myself a bubble bath. When I stripped off to get in it, I found blueberry stains on my knickers and pieces of heather (definitely not lucky heather) inside them. I also ran all the hot water off (serve the bastards right for laughing at me). My husband cooked tea and had the temerity to hug me before I'd even finished plotting his murder.

After tea and probably the washing up and some telly and hopefully some wine (I really don't remember now) we went to bed. I was stiff and aching all over. The next day, we went on a steam train to Mallaig where I had the best fish and chips I have ever eaten. I was still stiff and still could have passed for an old lady with rheumatoid arthritis (my Mum had it so I know how it looks).

There is one final slide, taken on the way up when I was still full of optimism about the walk. We found a dragonfly on the path and my husband and I (how regal I sound) both took photos. Mine was much better because I'd worked out the macro setting on my camera. Here it is.

Okay, I wouldn't win any prizes but his was not as good as mine!

There we are then. My triumphant climb up the Pap of Glencoe and my positively embarrassing descent down it. I hope you enjoyed reading this more than I did doing it.