Deirdre Saoirse Moen

Sounds Like Weird

Glasgow, Thursday

06 August 2005

I finished my Javascript exam in the morning, then headed off to the SECC to get all the registration sorted out and see the convention. Enroute, I ran into Liz Mortensen and Ed Green, then James Stanley Daugherty. Eventually, I did manage to get to registration, where they managed to get my name correct on the second try (a lot of people seem to think Saoirse is just syntactic sugar rather than the first half of my last name).

First, though, I need to digress into an impression from Wednesday. When people found out that we were visiting Glasgow on holiday, they seemed rather stunned. “There’s nothing to see here, really,” one public servant said. And Glasgow is definitely lacking something on the city pride level. None of the “I (heart) NY” crap, at least, but it’d be nice if they respected their city a tidge more.

While in the convention center, I ordered a hot dog without a bun. “Just the sausage then?” the lady asked incredulously. I said I was allergic to wheat. “You’re really in the wrong place, then. We even batter fry pizza.” I wasn’t sure she was being serious.

Later, I was sitting at a table with James Stanley, with a UK fan, Martin, sitting at the table reading his own stuff. I was telling JSD about the comment from the lady at the hot dog vendor, wondering if they really did fry their pizza here or if she was just joking.

Martin interrupted, “When it comes to fried food in Scotland, they’re dead serious.”

“They fry their pizza? Really?”

He assured me that they did.

I’m not sure I fully believe it yet, but I’m not going to order it just to see.

I didn’t actually get to any panels on Thursday, in part because I still had a brutal amount of homework and exams to finish and turn in. As a result, I spent much of the day in the concourse borrowing power from the Internet Lounge while working on my homework.

Rick and I returned to our hotel for a nap, then went back to eat dinner at the same place as the night before. This time, I asked them not to batter the sausages before frying. The food was wonderful.

When we came back to our hotel, we tried to find the ceilidh, which was well underway. A woman in the lift was attempting to lure the unsuspecting into the ceilidh. She turned out to be quite a good dancer.

“Have you ever been to a ceilidh?” one of the gents in the elevator asked.

“Yes, but only to ones spelled with fewer letters.”

He caught on quickly. “How do the Irish spell it?”

“Without the dh at the end.”

“That dh is always a pain in the arse,” he opined. I’m not sure about Scots Gallic orthography, but in Irish, dh usually comes out sounding like a j.

After a small quantity of partying, I returned to my room, finished up yet more homework, getting to bed around 4 in the morning. Despite my best intentions of sleeping longer, I woke up when Rick got up at 7:30. By the time my alarm went off, I was already as awake as I was going to get (not very). I finished up my Photoshop exam, leaving only one thing left to do.

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