Monday, August 29, 2005
Nightmare On Dundas Street
I had a horrendous dream last night.
I was helping my friend move pianos when my left rib cage broke. Actually, it snapped clean off from the centre of my sternum and fell loose to the bottom of my belly, swinging around inside me like a slab of beef ribs inside a poly bag. If I pressed my hand into my left side I could feel my lung.
I went to the hospital where they deemed it inoperable until they had operated on my skull first to try and relieve the pressure build up. So without any anaesthetic being administered, the surgeon proceeded to use a Black & Decker to drill several small holes into my skull at precise intervals, stopping just short of my brain. I could hear the high-pitched whine of the drill as it bore through my skull, causing my head to lurch slightly from side to side. The smell of burning bone was horrible, like I was trapped in some kind of Mafia chopping factory. Into these holes, wires of different colours were then stuck in and jammed unceremoniously into my brain in order to take readings.
Nice. Thank fuck I woke up when I did. Suggestions as to what this means are most welcome.
I had an early appointment this morning, which meant I never got my morning coffee before I left the house. I had time to set it up, but had to leave it sitting on the counter, winking at me from beside a steaming kettle as I waved goodbye to a moment of early morning bliss.
Since I had a free couple of hours, I used the spare time to go and collect my watch from the jewellers. It feels so good to have my watch working on my wrist again. I also took a quick look around what is left of the Fringe; tents are coming down, rigging being dismantled and a unanimous "phew!" can be heard from the locals.
During the KIC Live Chat last Thursday, Devon Ellington mentioned the last time she was here there was 1280 shows in 200 venues. The success of this years Fringe has seen over a million tickets sold to see 16,000 performers. Or to compare it to Devon's last visit, over 27,000 shows in 300 venues. One wonders how such a small organisation manages to pull it off.
They do it in pub back rooms a lot of the time, and it was in the back room of the Holyrood Tavern that the latest winner of the Perrier Comedy Awards was discovered. A previously unknown comedienne by the name of Laura Solon won the top prize, after her show in which she plays eight different characters was selected.
And so the tourists are leaving, the hangovers are starting and it feels like one massive Monday morning back to work for everyone. Well mostly everyone; the Job Centre at the Foot of the Walk was stowed out as I walked past.
Walking down Dundas Street I let my mind drift to the lovely hot cappuccino waiting for me inside Club Sandwich when I got there. I made my way speedily down the hill but when I got there I saw the shop in darkness. I looked about. All the other shops were closed. Then the horror struck me full in the face; today is a Bank Holiday!
All the shops except for the newsagent were closed so I had to make do with half a pint of milk instead of a delicious and creamy coffee. Bummer!
I did a brief tidy of my desk tray at work and came across an old copy of the News of the World, Britain's premier Sunday tabloid, leader of sleaze and all things scandalous.
This copy dates back to August 17th 2003, the day after I was married to Gail. It reads;
Groom Is Engaged
ROLY-POLY groom Colin Galbraith missed his own wedding - after getting trapped in a lap-dancing bar's LOO on his stag do.
The chubby 29-year old fell asleep wedged in his seat at New York's Cassa Rossa club on Saturday night. He wasn't found until Monday - the day after his nuptials.
Bride Gail Robertson, 25, fumed: "He's toast!"
Ah, the memories. Sometimes knowing influential national editors can backfire on you, but I would just like to set the record straight and say that I have never, NEVER in my life, been to New York.
In the evening I finished off War Generations. Thanks to all the input I received from my writing pals who took time out to read it and offer some criticisms, it reads much better, is more focussed and the characters more distinguishable. I'm quite excited by it and I'll give it another read through tomorrow when the head is clear. I renamed it to What A Waste - I figure that is a better, all-round title. Then, I have noted the specific markets I want to aim this at so a round of query letters will be in order.
I also completed and submitted the second issue of the Great Scottish Authors series for KIC. This issue concerns the interesting life of Robert Burns, and when it is published, I'll let you all know.
I was helping my friend move pianos when my left rib cage broke. Actually, it snapped clean off from the centre of my sternum and fell loose to the bottom of my belly, swinging around inside me like a slab of beef ribs inside a poly bag. If I pressed my hand into my left side I could feel my lung.
I went to the hospital where they deemed it inoperable until they had operated on my skull first to try and relieve the pressure build up. So without any anaesthetic being administered, the surgeon proceeded to use a Black & Decker to drill several small holes into my skull at precise intervals, stopping just short of my brain. I could hear the high-pitched whine of the drill as it bore through my skull, causing my head to lurch slightly from side to side. The smell of burning bone was horrible, like I was trapped in some kind of Mafia chopping factory. Into these holes, wires of different colours were then stuck in and jammed unceremoniously into my brain in order to take readings.
Nice. Thank fuck I woke up when I did. Suggestions as to what this means are most welcome.
I had an early appointment this morning, which meant I never got my morning coffee before I left the house. I had time to set it up, but had to leave it sitting on the counter, winking at me from beside a steaming kettle as I waved goodbye to a moment of early morning bliss.
Since I had a free couple of hours, I used the spare time to go and collect my watch from the jewellers. It feels so good to have my watch working on my wrist again. I also took a quick look around what is left of the Fringe; tents are coming down, rigging being dismantled and a unanimous "phew!" can be heard from the locals.
During the KIC Live Chat last Thursday, Devon Ellington mentioned the last time she was here there was 1280 shows in 200 venues. The success of this years Fringe has seen over a million tickets sold to see 16,000 performers. Or to compare it to Devon's last visit, over 27,000 shows in 300 venues. One wonders how such a small organisation manages to pull it off.
They do it in pub back rooms a lot of the time, and it was in the back room of the Holyrood Tavern that the latest winner of the Perrier Comedy Awards was discovered. A previously unknown comedienne by the name of Laura Solon won the top prize, after her show in which she plays eight different characters was selected.
And so the tourists are leaving, the hangovers are starting and it feels like one massive Monday morning back to work for everyone. Well mostly everyone; the Job Centre at the Foot of the Walk was stowed out as I walked past.
Walking down Dundas Street I let my mind drift to the lovely hot cappuccino waiting for me inside Club Sandwich when I got there. I made my way speedily down the hill but when I got there I saw the shop in darkness. I looked about. All the other shops were closed. Then the horror struck me full in the face; today is a Bank Holiday!
All the shops except for the newsagent were closed so I had to make do with half a pint of milk instead of a delicious and creamy coffee. Bummer!
I did a brief tidy of my desk tray at work and came across an old copy of the News of the World, Britain's premier Sunday tabloid, leader of sleaze and all things scandalous.
This copy dates back to August 17th 2003, the day after I was married to Gail. It reads;
Groom Is Engaged
ROLY-POLY groom Colin Galbraith missed his own wedding - after getting trapped in a lap-dancing bar's LOO on his stag do.
The chubby 29-year old fell asleep wedged in his seat at New York's Cassa Rossa club on Saturday night. He wasn't found until Monday - the day after his nuptials.
Bride Gail Robertson, 25, fumed: "He's toast!"
Ah, the memories. Sometimes knowing influential national editors can backfire on you, but I would just like to set the record straight and say that I have never, NEVER in my life, been to New York.
In the evening I finished off War Generations. Thanks to all the input I received from my writing pals who took time out to read it and offer some criticisms, it reads much better, is more focussed and the characters more distinguishable. I'm quite excited by it and I'll give it another read through tomorrow when the head is clear. I renamed it to What A Waste - I figure that is a better, all-round title. Then, I have noted the specific markets I want to aim this at so a round of query letters will be in order.
I also completed and submitted the second issue of the Great Scottish Authors series for KIC. This issue concerns the interesting life of Robert Burns, and when it is published, I'll let you all know.
Colin 10:50 am
4 Comments:
Poor Colin! Mondays alone are bad enough without a nightmare and - gasp! - no coffee!
What Devon said . . . I think.
No coffee is indeed a bummer and that dream - scary! Take care.
No coffee is indeed a bummer and that dream - scary! Take care.
Big man,
Uncanny. That's exactly what it is like in theatre at the RAH.
Are you sure it isn't a repressed childhood memory?!
Cheers,
startrekfanbob
Uncanny. That's exactly what it is like in theatre at the RAH.
Are you sure it isn't a repressed childhood memory?!
Cheers,
startrekfanbob
Golly, Colin...what a horrid dream!
And *gasp* NO COFFEE? I would be in serious trouble.
And *gasp* NO COFFEE? I would be in serious trouble.