flying ants

Last week, as the Sous Chef and I were cycling home, we noticed that flying ants were out. So many that the seagulls were having a feast. So while we cycled through the clouds we discussed the concept of ants as a superorganism.

Since ants are pretty much clones of one another, this allows for a large amount of self-sacrifice for the colony. If your sister ant has exactly the same DNA as you, then her survival is equally as important as your own. Dying to save your sisters is not really dying at all. In a way then, a single ant is nothing, it is like a cell within a larger organism, a superorganism, which is the colony. It is one genetic entity made up of cells (ants) with the same DNA.

Back to the flying ant, its sole purpose is to go out there, to spread the genes by hopefully finding a receptive female and she'll start a new colony with genes from herself and the male.


Sous Chef: "so essentially, flying ants are like sperm, then"

me: "yes, it m..gghhaaggrggrghhkkhk ...[cough]...I think I just swallowed one."

Sous Chef: " ... "

Where we shop

We've just enjoyed our usual shopping experience at the large supermarket near to where we go for our run. The supermarket is enormous and yet.... and yet... something about the experience.

Let me describe to you the supermarket.

The outside is pretty tatty and grim and an optimistically large number of trolleys block your way in. Once inside you are greeted by bread in plastic packaging stacked by the door just where people who are leaving the supermarket come out. It is quite strange to have this here rather than in the main section itself. It looks like the delivery driver just left it stacked there.

But onwards to the fresh fruit and veg section. You walk between a gateway of fridges displaying an odd combination of fresh raspberries, bean sprouts and ham. You then have your path blocked by whatever is going mushy that day and needs selling before it becomes biohazard. Now you have to either go right (toward the dimly lit organic area) or left (the rest of the stuff, which is, actually, reasonably well presented).

Past the fruit and veg you come to .... shoes and handbags. This, as we shall see, is not the only odd combination in the store.

At the end of the shoes and handbags you can turn and see the rest of the supermarket. The fruit and veg section is cut off from the rest of the supermarket by a wall. I don't know why but it makes going back for some runner beans seem like not worth the bother.

From here you can see the deli counter which is never staffed. No one buys anything from there and I half suspect the delicacies on offer are wax copies. In fact, I suspect that's true of the staff, too.

The rest of the supermarket is pretty much as any other except with the supermarket's unique little twist: A refrigerator section with fresh pasta, fresh soup, pasta sauces nestled next to tins of lager. In the next aisle you'll find socks and pants next to the herbs and spices.

Another curiosity is there is another bread section right at the back of the store strangely called the Bakery. I've never seen any bakery related activities going on and if you are looking for bread, you might need a head torch to find it. I never venture that way because I'm a bit scared that trolls and ogres live down there. It's gloomy and smells a bit funny.

But I needn't have worried. The trolls and ogres are all on the till*. Not actually working on the till, just sort of loitering, watching the queue grow. This evening there were more staff than customers and still there was a long queue at the till which was manned (or should that be boyed) by someone who has to ring a bell every time a customer has an alcoholic beverage they wish to purchase.


The running of this store might explain why, when this is the largest supermarket within some miles, it remains deserted most of the time. Sometimes I wonder whether it's not actually a supermarket but actually some sort of social experiment.


* I could write much more about the staff but it would be unkind so I won't.

Plans for August

This summer, the Sous Chef and I have our holidays all sorted. We could go anywhere in the world. Asia... South America... Where could the intrepid cycle-tourers go to sate their Wanderlust? The world is our oyster.

After much thought I decided the place to go would have to be: Scotland. More specifically: The Outer Hebrides. To me it evokes whisky galore, rugged coastlines, crofter-types, raw natural beauty, seals frolicking off the coast, whales and sea eagles. The British Isles as nature intended before we started building A-roads all over it.

He asks me whether I'm excited about our trip and to get me in the spirit of things he keeps reminding me:

-In Scotland, August is the height of Midge season. Midges are thought to outnumber humans (their protein-source of choice) by approximately 5,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to one. Or thereabouts.

- Most insect repellents (except some that are illegal in the EU) do not repel these hungry wee beasties. Some might say it just helps them sniff you out.

- The abundance of midges (and to a lesser extent the ferocity of the average Scot) might explain why the Romans never conquered Scotland and instead decided to build a wall to keep them out of England (the Scots that is, the midges go where they please).

- The Outer Hebrides are very windy and the weather can be extreme. Daytime temperatures during the hottest part of the year (summer, apparently) is 16 degrees C.

- So far, we've had three mind-changes as to which tent to take because there is a somewhat real chance of our only source of shelter ending up lifting off and flying toward the North Pole. There aren't even any trees to tie it to.

-The islands are sparsely populated, so if the tent really does blow away, there'll be not a bugger around to help.

- We're not likely to stumble across any gastro-pubs or the like. The occasional village post office might be able to sell us some tinned meat of unspecified animal origin, so our cooking will probably have to be experimental/innovative.

-The rainfall is variable but you can expect rain not less than 2 out of 3 days. Did I mention we were camping?

-He's started to wistfully reminisce about how nice the south of France is this time of year. I'm not sure whether this is a hint or not. We certainly won't be needing the sunblock on this trip.

-I've sneaked a peak at the contour lines on the maps to see what sort of hills/valleys we might encounter. Uh.Oh.

So all of this enthusiasm and optimism has me fired up for our trip away. I can't wait...

Here we go again

I can't believe it. I thought I was over this. I go to one salsa party and suddenly I'm crazy about it again. Lately, I've been going to bed and drifting off to sleep doing turn-patterns in my head. As I wake up each morning I realise I've been dancing all night, sometimes Cuban, sometimes L.A. style, sometimes On2 but always salsa.

I have salsa music in my head and I feel the rhythm and beat even when I'm just sat at my desk in a silent room. I'm mentally executing neat turns, passes and spins. Cross-body lead, double turn, arm up, hold his shoulder, open out, create some tension, another turn, roll of shoulders...

What this means is, since last week (for about 5 days now) I have been dancing. You wouldn't know to look at me, it's all happening in that unknown place where movement is felt even where there is none, but I am continually, imperceptibly, secretly dancing. I'm dancing at my desk, dancing on my way home, dancing when I clean my teeth - always dancing. This is how salsa fever feels.

When I find I actually am alone I do occasionally bust out some moves. Nothing fancy: a turn, a roll of the shoulders, soften the knees and let the hips roll, too. Nothing of any note but to me it's the juice, the essence of the movement I enjoy and it feels too good not to.

Man, I can't believe I'm back to this again - all because of one night of such good dances.

For an example of the sorts of moves I'm dancing, see the video



(not me dancing in the vid btw)

Tripping the Light Fantastic

It had been a while. I hoped it was like falling off a bike or is it riding a log? Something like that. Anyway, it’s been more than two years.

Recently, however, I ventured out on the dance floor in my hand-made, sparkly, strappy, high-heeled, dance shoes and twirled and spun and stepped and swished to the infectious clavé beat. I was nervous when I first went in but hearing the music I was itching to get out there.

Yes, I was back at salsa and despite my time away I wasn't as rusty as I'd expected and didn't break anyone's shoulders by spinning the wrong way.

with split soles - thin as a slice of ham

In the past, I’ve always danced in jazz shoes. Shoes is actually the wrong name for them. They are about as substantial as socks. A thin heel at the back, a patch of suede at the ball of the foot and nothing at all in between. The rest is softest leather and it's impossible to trip. I'd tried dancing in high heels but I can’t even walk in them and so had always ended up staggering about and misjudging my step when the heel touched the floor, sending me falling my way through a complicated move.

Last night, since I was wearing a halterneck dress that was not only most forgiving in my least favoured areas but also made my bust look flippin’ amazing, I figured I should bite the bullet and wear the heels (but took the jazz shoes along to change into, just in case).

Readers, I was fabulous. No falling over, no tripping on my own feet, no lurching toward other dancing couples due to a mis-timed step and I could spin looking relatively composed (rather than terrified) most of the time. In other words, I danced a whole lot better than I had expected and it was like I had never been away. Plus, whenever I looked down I would see beautiful, sparkly feet, which were mine! (I don’t have a shoe-thing at all but even I was taken aback by how lovely my sparkly feet looked - like a real girly!).

I expected to be a liability. I apologised to anyone who asked me to dance that I was out of practice and for them to be gentle with me but I always followed well and each asked me for more dances later on, so I couldn't have been that bad for them. One begged me to come to his salsa haunt and called me "a thing of beauty".

On reflection he must have been a ‘man of partial sight’ because this was the end of the evening and (as a horrified look in the mirror in the ladies later confirmed) I looked a wreck. The face was an alarming red, I was dripping with sweat and had hair matted to my head as the sweaty tresses had nowhere else to go. The back of my neck was drenched and more hair was stuck to the skin because somewhere, mid-spin, I’d lost my hair-elastic so hadn't been able to tie it up out of the way. I also had a bit of a limp since those heels were no longer like magic on my feet. I was like the Little Mermaid. Having exchanged her beautiful voice for some human legs, the sea witch warned her that every step would feel like daggers (Hans Christian Anderson must have walked in heels during his spare time – I’m sure of it!)

The feet have been sore for three days now. My arches practically creak every time I take a step. It was worth it, though. So worth it.