Page 8 of The Typo

Your boat trip on the Firth of Forth sounds quite the adventure, and having suffered through the horrors of seasickness, I would never diminish anyone else’s experience of it, whether it was on a pedalo pottering around a lake, or on a super tanker crossing the Atlantic mid-winter. Actually, if you have any links for the distillery you could share with me, I would be grateful, although I will have to wait to click on them until the end of this trip when we return to so-called civilisation as the internet here loads at snail’s pace, if it loads at all. My university mates have been trying to persuade me it would be a good idea to celebrate ten years since we graduated. Personally, the fact that so much time has passed so quickly seems terrifying, but at least if I volunteer an activity, they’ll be less likely to rib me for not getting involved. Edinburgh is enough of a plausible suggestion to seem genuine, but in reality, probably too far for most of them to want to bother with. It’s not that I don’t want to see them, you understand, but from experience I know that the person who makes the best suggestion is the one who will end up with the burden of organising the whole event. And my current circumstances would make that very challenging. Besides, I think it’s about time I relinquished my role of the ‘organised one’ of the group. It’s funny how we get typecast, isn’t it?

You mentioned your interest in penguins. There’s no judgement coming from me about your webcam obsession. I’d be doing that myself if I wasn’t fortunate enough to be seeing them in the flesh during our trips ashore. They are utterly fascinating creatures, although let me tell you that they can have their moments of being complete arseholes. But then again, can’t we all? The Rockhopper ones seem to be particularly argumentative, bickering as they sneakily nick stones from each other. Maybe it’s to do with the spiky feathers around their eyes? Mind you, I think if I was rocking a look like that, I’d swagger around too. I do more waddling than swaggering at the moment because I’m so bundled up in layers of clothing (long johns, could anyone invent a sexier item of underwear?!) and every time I move it’s to the accompaniment of rustling waterproofs. But it’s a price I’m very willing to pay to have the privilege of experiencing all this. I still can’t believe my luck in being here. When we are ashore doing the photography lessons I catch myself lifting my gaze from my lens and watching the penguins in awe, unable to believe that they are fossicking around right in front of me* and not on a screen in a documentary. I keep missing shots because I’m distracted by my surroundings, but I suppose enjoying the moment is equally as important. Maybe one day I’ll get used to this. But I hope not.

Aside from penguins, what else do you feel passionately about?

Cameron

*Thought I’d better clarify that when I say the penguins are right in front of me, I mean I’m a minimum of five metres away from them, as per the conditions of the Antarctic Treaty. It’s their continent not ours, and if they want to block my path, that is very much their prerogative. I’m grateful there is still one place in the world where the balance is in nature’s favour.

ChapterFour

What else do you feel passionately about? What a question, and one which cut straight to the chase. Unfortunately, what I felt most strongly about right now was the soothing coolness of the bathroom tiles against my forehead as I lay curled up in a foetal position, strongly regretting having had quite so many shots last night. By the end of the evening the girls and their respective partners still seemed only buzzed, while I had been ready to either stand on the table and sing, or more likely, cry in the toilets with a new best friend, otherwise known as someone I’d only just met.

It had taken me three attempts this morning as I ‘worked’ from home, to open Cameron’s latest missive with clumsy fingers which probably still had pure alcohol running through their veins. My initial reaction to his funny and interesting email was that that was it, our correspondence was over. There was no point in me replying. Why would such a bright, assured guy who obviously had everything going for him be interested in hearing from little old me? Our situations could not be more contrasting. Here I was, arm wrapped around the toilet bowl, nursing the mother of all hangovers, trapped in a dead-end job which was itself probably going to end, and friends moving to literally the other side of the world to get away from me. Cameron on the other hand was communing with the wildlife in one of the most inhospitable yet magical areas of the planet, a talented photographer taking the time to share his skills with others, and patiently indulge the questions of a random woman in Scotland. He wrote in actual sentences, didn’t drop random LOLs all over the place, and had expressed an interest in my interests, which put him ahead of 99% of blokes I’d corresponded with on dating apps over the years. Not that this was a dating app situation, of course, although my befuddled brain had somehow managed to do the maths from his mention of a ten-year reunion, and work out that, on the assumption he hadn’t been either a child prodigy or a mature student, Cameron was of what my mum would call a very suitable age for me. Not that I was in the market for a date, obviously.

On the other hand, I was in the market for a friend, now that one of them was moving to Australia, and the other two were mostly MIA. And in Cameron’s effortless email, I thought I detected the potential for a friendship. Or maybe that was the alcohol still talking. I certainly wanted to find out more about him and hear his Antarctic adventures. Who wouldn’t want to make the most of having a potential penpal in such a fascinating part of the world?

I groaned as Fraser sidled into the room and casually used my stomach as a springboard to get into the bath, nearly making me throw up all over again.

‘Ooof, thanks for that. If you think I’m turning the tap on after that display of indifference to my delicate state, you’ve got another think coming. When Mr McTavish gets back from his trip, I may be forced to say you guys are no longer welcome to visit me.’

It was an empty threat. I definitely needed them more than they needed me.

Before long, Eliza had followed her brother’s lead, joining in the silent campaign for the dripping tap and I accepted defeat. I hauled myself upright and somehow managed the delicate procedure of turning the tap on to precisely the correct amount of drippage for discerning felines. Of course, my reward for such care and attention was both of them disdainfully turning their furry backs on me, which made me want to gain their attention and love even more. What a metaphor for my life in general. I let them enjoy their drink, then once they were done and safely out of the way, I took over their place and turned the shower on full blast, trying to wash away the regrets of last night.

A few minutes under the punishingly cold water soon revived me enough to decide on how I was going to respond to Cameron’s email. Because I’d always known I would reply, despite the nasties in the back of my mind telling me not to bother. But I was beginning to realise that if I wanted to sustain this communication with Cameron, I was going to have to make myself sound much more interesting than I actually was, otherwise he was going to grow bored of me, and fast. Our respective locations put me at a disadvantage, but the rest of my humdrum life really wasn’t going to help if I wanted to continue as his penpal. My precarious employment situation and battles with the boss did not the stuff of scintillating correspondence make. I needed to think about what else I had going for me. Nothing like a challenge, eh?

I thought carefully about my strategy as I fixed a hangover curing brunch. I wasn’t planning to lie, exactly, just gloss over the boring bits and try to present myself in the best possible light so Cameron would want to carry on emailing with me. Basically, I was going to do a marketing job on myself, and why not? There was nothing wrong with that. It wasn’t going to hurt anyone and besides, it wasn’t like I was ever going to meet the guy. He was almost literally at the other end of the world from me. If presenting him with Amy 2.0 was the way to keep receiving the messages which brightened up my day, then that was what I was going to do.

Once the salty hash browns and fried eggs washed down with a dayglo Irn-Bru had worked their magic on my delicate insides, I sat down at my laptop with renewed spirit and started to type.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 19 Jan, 10:42

Subject: Re: Penguins

Hi Cameron,

Every day’s a school day—who knew that penguins could be arseholes? Maybe if I’d watched ‘Happy Feet’ I’d be aware of that, but I’m a complete softy, and try to avoid animated movies because I cry when anything bad happens to the cute creatures.

I paused, and wondered if I was making myself appear pathetic rather than demonstrating the caring, self-deprecating, kooky girl vibe I was going for. At this rate, Antarctica would have melted by the time I’d overthought every sentence and formulated my response. And I hadn’t even got to the difficult bit. What was I passionate about? In some ways, that was an easy question, but the completely honest answer would definitely be complicated. Perhaps it was best to keep it simple. I carried on typing.

Clearly my passion for penguins is based on a lack of actual knowledge of their habits, but I’m going to give the Rockhoppers the benefit of the doubt and assume that they have very valid reasons for pinching pebbles and having rows with each other. I’m sure they all made up the minute your back was turned. They’ve got to amuse themselves somehow in all that vast expanse of ice.

Aside from penguins, I’m passionate about music. I’m a violinist, and…

I looked across at Fraser who seemed to be watching me with an accusing stare.

‘What? It’s factually accurate. I still love music and I still have my violin. Yes, admittedly it’s been a while since I picked it up, but Cameron doesn’t need to know about that.’

I shuffled around on my sofa so I couldn’t see the accusing eyes of my feline companion anymore.

…and I really enjoy performing as part of a group. There’s something about that buzz I get when everyone is in tune with each other, both literally and metaphorically, and I look at the audience and I know that they can feel it too—that they’re hearing the story we’re telling and they’re moved by it. There’s nothing like creating that connection.

I fiercely swiped away the tear which was threatening to fall on my keyboard. Hangovers always made me ridiculously sentimental. Would Cameron think this too mushy? But I thought of that picture he took of the starlings at sunset. Someone who could capture such an ethereal moment, who had the patience to wait for the display, and who showed their appreciation by immortalising it, surely that person would understand what I felt about music? Or at least, how I used to allow myself to feel about music. I decided to be brave and ask.

---