crivens jings and help ma blog

The Sunday Posts 2012

2012-02-19T05:00:00.000Z

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers floating over you.

The blind would stumble, certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe under rain gutters,

monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands in saffron,

disguised them over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women

the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

And you searched your arms for the missing perfume

and knew what good it is to be the lime burner's daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in an act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of scar

you touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said

I am the cinnamon peeler's wife.

Smell me.

The CinnamonPeeler’s Wife

By MichaelOndaatje

Misery Bears Valentines

2012-02-14T05:54:00.000Z

The little bear's search for love continues.

The Sunday Posts 2012

2012-02-12T05:11:00.011Z

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.

But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

'Fire and Ice'
By Robert Frost.

Photo - Loch Rannoch at dusk, Scottish Highlands, Jan 2012 By Alistair.

Meeting Jane.

2012-02-09T07:24:00.000Z

The other night there was a documentary on TV about Bomber Command in WWII. A fellow blogger sent a text to say that it had made him think of my fathers story and that he'd tweeted some links to stuff here on the blog about it. Last night we watched it ourselves. Sympathetically presented by Ewan MacGregor and his brother Colin {Who had been a bomber pilot in the modern RAF} one of the most poignant parts for me was the initial reaction when Ewan climbed into the rear gunner position of a Lancaster in full WWII kit. He was clearly uncomfortable and stunned by the lack of movement available , the claustrophobia and the poor chance of getting out if in trouble.

It made me think about when I met 'Just Jane' - a Lancaster - for the first time......

This was what I posted back in Feb 2010
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I become more and more engrossed in researching the 153 Squadron posts covering Dads last few months of WWII I come upon the stark reality of loss of life. I'm trying to understand how these men managed to come to terms with the fear that must have been part and parcel of daily life then. To be honest, living as I do in an age where danger isn't part of my existence, I've been struggling to understand how anyone could cope with having to face prolonged fear, and I mean fear, not the anxiety that's the closest I can find to relate to it from my place down the years, cloaked in modern comforts and affectations, protected by nurture, education and lack of experience.

I'll never forget the first time I walked up close to the end of a Lancaster, past the twin dorsal fins and with Dads rear gun turret coming properly into view. I remember that frisson of boyish excitement, the pull of an adults curiosity and a very acute personal sense of sadness and regret that I was doing this without him beside me to ask the questions that would obviously come up. The ground crew - now I know to call them 'erks' - working on 'Just Jane' at East Kirkby Air Museum had waved me over the barriers on request that quiet afternoon and had simply returned to their work, leaving me to it with a plea to 'scarper sharpish' if anyone else came in as they weren't strictly supposed to let the public get so close. "It's the only way to see the tail gunners position though so come on in." Just a middle aged man with a camera and a story of a relative who flew in these planes long ago.

'Just Jane' East Kirby's iconic Lancaster.

For them, just another day. For me something quite different.

I approached the Lancaster from the front. I knew what one looked like, its iconic image had been welded into my little-boy-long-ago fantasies of 'playing war' from a hundred half remembered films and books. {Though I didn't know then my Dad had been part of the story.} The reality of getting close to one was different. Clearly from an older age, it reared up, enormous, solidly propped on its front wheels, wings stretched wide across my view, holding out four huge engines, three propeller blades like swords 'en-garde' to protect each one. Above me, the perspex panel of the bomb-aimers position stared back blank and dispassionate, inviting neither respect or approbation, a mute witness to sights untold. Higher still the two guns of the front turret pointed gently upwards and beyond, the bubble of the pilots canopy sat high off the ground. The gaping belly of the aircraft was shown to me with the same message a scorpion gives when it lifts its tail overhead. 'Stay away. I mean business.' Today though, with its bomb bay open and a trolley of tools underneath, any threat was moot and faded, gone to the vets. I passed slowly, curiously, under the wing and down the flank, sentimentally running two fingers down its skin, noticing the flush rivets holding the dark metal together, on below the turret of the mid upper gunner poking up above me and past the stark metal ladder and the dark opening that let crewmen enter their frightening world. I noticed for the first time the reality that while Dad would have turned left, climbing over the internal spar of the tail to reach his place, the others would all have turned right.

My walk to, and then along the side of this plane had turned it from icon to reality. I could feel the strength and undeniable presence of its bulk, could smell the tyres and the oil from the engines. Rubber, heat and old smoke. It gleamed pristine in a way that something 70 years old shouldn't do. It said, "I am still here. I am still ready." Every angle and plane gleamed. Light reflected and shadow highlighted detail not normally seen; door handle; engine port access points; suspension struts; hydraulic pipes; exhausts long coloured with an engines heat. I stopped and looked back along the side and up over the starboard wing and saw its shape created to catch the lift, minimise the drag, to carry the weight of a full bomb load, the cowling over an engine hunched still with power yearning to be released. An old athlete still on the blocks.

I came around the dorsal fin and there was the pod holding the rear gun, the perspex bubble where my father would have sat. No wonder they called it "tail end Charlie". He must have felt like he was sitting in a glass bubble outside at 20,000ft. The thought made my blood run cold, a feeling which remained as I got closer and saw the reality of that tiny space filled with the mechanism to control the two guns that gaped evil mouths at head height. I noticed strangely, although the rest of the aircraft had mainly been above me, fate had delivered the point I wanted to see most at practically waist level. The turret sat overhanging the rear wheel and I could see now some of the things Dad had told me about before he died; the steel doors which closed him off from the rest of the crew and behind which he had to hang up his parachute due to lack of space; the perspex panel in front of him which he had removed to improve vision even though it nearly froze him to death; the chutes which funnelled the used shells out of the aircraft. He'd spoken about the lack of space for his legs with all the hydraulics for the guns and turret and the tiny seat he would sit on for eight to ten long hours sometimes. How difficult would it have been to get out of there quickly had the need arose, stiffened by hour after hour of relentless, bitter cold of high altitude in the unheated turret?

I turned my back to the plane and stood close in beside the turret trying to replicate his position and I began to feel his fear of flying low level over land or sea, skipping waves, treetops and telegraph poles at 200mph, seeing danger only when it had passed, aware of how much might still be ahead, how speed would be frighteningly exaggerated close to ground or water. I could feel his isolation and understand how wonderful it must have been to be high above the ground, above the clouds and feeling like it was just you all alone in perfect solitude. How sometimes he felt closer to God. How, with up to 1000 planes close by in the dark, he feared being hit by other aircraft. How his stomach lurched when they hit the slipstream of another plane or the Lanc leaped upwards when the bombs released. I thought how literal was the 'blind' panic of being coned in searchlights and I saw that while the rest of the crew looked forward he looked only back. He was the last one home. I began to understand where he could look for danger and why he feared what was happening behind those doors where he couldn't turn to see or what lurked beneath his feet on dark nights. I wondered how he must have felt knowing that when a fighter attack came it would almost certainly come from behind. I wondered if he knew as I now did that the casualty rates for tail gunners was almost 70%. 70%? Surely he couldn't have known that? My stomach clenched melodramatically. How could any human being cope with that level of stress? That was when I began to think about how much they all had to be fearful of, how long a flight could be and how those men could sustain control not just across one mission but repeated over days and weeks and months of terrible experience.

There were many strains on them, many ways for fear to manifest itself or to have to be coped with beyond the actual mission itself; the fear of repeated selection for missions, of long hours between finding yourself listed on battle orders for the day, mission briefings and take off, anxious waits for clearance to go - sometimes crewed up sitting on taxy ways waiting ages for a green light to show from the caravan at the end of the runway, wishing it was over - and the more insidious fears; fear of being seen to be afraid, having to bottle it up to crew, family and loved ones to protect them, fear of men who showed signs of breaking or broke under the strain to be classed as LMF [lacking moral fibre] - mercifully few under the circumstances. What had it felt like seeing losses of men and machine posted, seeing belongings cleared and beds lying empty, in new faces arriving.

Numbers seemed to be important markers - getting past the psychological 5th mission to become an experienced crew seemed inordinately important and the insidious perception of higher risk of disaster when nearing the end of a tour of 30 ops as the law of averages swung against survival. A few good experiences could reduce tension by inspiring confidence while just as conversely a run of narrow escapes could practically debilitate or give someone 'operational twitch'. To cling to an irrational belief that it 'wouldn't be you', but some unknown other crew who's 'number was up' was what kept men going. Language hid the reality of an arbitrary death. "Going for a burton", "bought it", "had it" and "getting" - or "gone for the chop" are familiar phrases to me from a Dad who habitually used language learnt in those days but applied it in much different situations in later life.

Some turned to religion, some turned away. Many turned to alcohol and boisterous games or childish pranks when drunk to deaden the senses, and to some extent a great deal of leeway was given to the men in recognition of the high levels of strain. Many turned to human comforts and the release that casual sex would bring. Some turned to superstition with carrying of emblems or tokens, or in actions and routines that had to be religiously carried out. Many touched the aircraft - some peed on the back wheel before leaving - or repeated movements, phrases or prayers; quietly took bags in which to privately collect their vomit. Some wrote songs and poetry, told jokes or smoked desperately, talked about anything other than what was uppermost in their minds, looking ahead only to the successful conclusion of another 'do'; avoiding any long term planning and trying to put thoughts of others out of mind for the time being to be able to deal with the reality of the coming nights work. I felt the bond between the crew that had been described to me. How shared experience and the need to survive depended on each other and allowed - needed even - confinement of closest emotional contact within the 7 crew members and exclusion of others, especially those at risk of contaminating you with LMF. I began then to understand the lack of compassion that could be shown to those poor wretches who simply ran out of courage.

This is in direct contrast to our culture today where we want to get everything out in the open as a means of understanding. A culture where you never have to cope on your own. The culture of the victim where responsibility is shared as a means to help minimise or deny involvement and especially to avoid culpability. It was very different back then where the reality of war and societies acknowledgement of it, was so close and so much more personal than now. Their previous generation had gone through WWI and stark reminders sat in family photographs of those lost or damaged 'doing their duty' - not something that would have been considered unusual then as it is today. There was an infinitely greater expectation for people to do their duty than now, where we question everything and everything is held up for critical and inconclusive review.

I find it hard to reconcile the father I knew with the youth who looks back at me from the few wartime photos I have, even though some confirmation came from Dad himself. I can't see the quiet, gentle, peaceful man that was my father, but what he experienced can't be denied. It was a different world. Perhaps that's what made him who he was, but perhaps even more there is mileage in the sentiment of a small embroidered plaque in Scampton Church where Squadron services were held and where some of the lost boys are buried.

That day there was one final twist as I eventually moved away from the aircraft to some of the information boards about the men and the Squadrons they had served in. I wandered around looking here and there at fading photo's of young men locked in time quietly engrossed in thoughts about who they were and what they'd experienced when I turned round one section and came face to face with a photograph containing my Dad from long ago.

After that I really had to go for a coffee and a sit down.

see you later.

Listening to:

The Sunday Posts 2012

2012-02-05T06:43:00.008Z

They met and they talked where the crossroads meet,
Four men from the four winds come,
And they talked of the horse, for they loved the theme,
And never a man was dumb.
The man from the North loved the strength of the horse,
And the man from the East his pace,
And the man from the South loved the speed of the horse,
And the man from the West his grace.

So these four men from the four winds come,
Each paused a space in his course
And smiled in the face of his fellow man
And lovingly talked of the horse.
Then each man parted and went his way
As their different courses ran;
And each man journeyed with peace in his heart
And loving his fellow man

They met the next year where the crossroads meet,
Four men from the four winds come;
And it chanced as they met that they talked of God,
And never a man was dumb.
One imagined God in the shape of a man.
A spirit did one insist.
One said that nature itself was God.
One said that he didn’t exist.

They lashed each other with tongues that stung,
That smote as with a rod;
Each glared in the face of his fellow man,
And wrathfully talked of God.
Then each man parted and went his way,
As their different courses ran;
And each man journeyed with wrath in his heart,
And hating his fellow man.

'Odium Theologicum'
By Sam Walter Foss

Photo - Memorial to The Cathars, Minerve, France - By Alistair

Edie - A Dog Rescued

2012-02-01T21:20:00.000Z

I've been getting an awful lot of hits over the last week by people searching for 'Edie - A Dog Rescued'. It seems to link back to something posted quite a long time ago and using a link to another blogger which no longer works. I've no idea why this is generating interest now unless there is something more on the story doing the rounds these days - but - if you're looking for this story - here are the video clips which were on it at the time. Hope this is what you are looking for.

And What About Us?

2012-01-29T16:51:00.001Z

The lovely G sits with her legs stretched out in front of her in front ofthe full length cheval mirror in the corner of our bedroom. Fully dressed, she has her head cocked to oneside brushing her hair as Jess rubs herself backwards and forwardsacross the small of her back. Across the room I have head and shoulders deep in the built-inwardrobe as I hunt for a T-shirt and a pair of socks, but pull-back when Irealise she's speaking. I've learned after years of tuition that it's better and less painful to pay attention at all times - or at least to appear to. That doesn't mean that I understand all the time of course. I am just a bloke after all.

I look across at her.

She reaches one hand out to touch the base of the chevalmirror.

"You know, if all I had was just this, the pine chest, the crafttable, my laptop, I-player and my log (I know she's talking about a table - topdriftwood candleholder which I bought her for Christmas, gaining mega brownie points.... ) I'd be quite happy living withoutanything else."

Jess sits down and looks at her for a moment before lookingat me.

I look back and then at G.

" And what about us?"

"Well, ah - erm - yes, of course – I mean you and Jess as well."

Jess looks back at me and yawns a wide mouthed catty yawnthat ends up looking like a smile. I grin back.

"I should think so too! Eh Jess?"

Jess stands, turns to G and butts her on the bicepbefore starting to rub herself against her again.

A thought occurs.........

"Ummm - Can I bring the bed along?"

Still rubbing herself against G's back Jess is looking directly at me.

".....and the cat food."

See you later.

Listening to; Eddie Vedder - Without You

The Sunday posts 2012

2012-01-29T06:36:00.010Z

"Felis Cattus” is your taxonomic nomenclature:
An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature.
Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.
I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
A singular development of cat communications
That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
For rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.
A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents:
You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance;
And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,
It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.
Oh Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display,
Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array;
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

'Ode to Spot'
by Lt. Cmdr. Data

Photo of Jess by Alistair

I think we're going to need a bigger boat!

2012-01-29T00:50:00.001Z

Are there any people in the civilised world who haven't seen the blockbuster "JAWS"? If you're like me, you're probably pretty sick of it being trotted out at every opportunity by satellite companies. Like ‘James Bond’ movies, it seems there's never a holiday passes without yet another rerun doing the rounds on one station or other.

Having just said that, I found myself quite bemused a few weeks ago as I pressed the record button on it yet again. I've no idea what came over me. Later, I'd meant to delete it, especially since we were getting a bit low on recording space on our digital recorder, but for some reason hadn't got round to that either until looking through the planner with the lovely G for something to watch. I was just about to delete it when the lovely G volunteered that she'd never seen it before. Considering we've been together for 25 years I was pretty amazed that despite all the conversations about movies we've had and all the movies we've watched together that this vital part of her cinematic education was lacking. The reason? She'd always thought it would be too scary.

That was a surprise too, particularly considering some of the films we've been to see over the years. She's always seemed impervious to me but, having been too young to see "JAWS" when released, she later wasn't allowed to watch it on TV as her parents thought it too gory. Somehow that imprint remained firmly fixed in her mind.

Earlier today we were watching a BBC nature documentary called ‘Earth flight’, a beautifully filmed series following migrating birds. In the episode there was a scene showing seabirds scavenging remains from shark kills. That she was watching this at all was a surprise in itself as she's usually too squeamish for reality like that, yet for the first time she seemed comfortable watching sharks or crocodiles successfully capturing their prey. At the end of the programme she further astounded me by suggesting that tonight we should watch "JAWS" although with the proviso that she would snuggle up next to me on the sofa in case she got scared

“JAWS” is a classic cinematic milestone and technologically it was a marvel in its day. I loved it when I first saw it at the cinema. That first time it was scary, exciting, incredible and ground-breaking. Now having spawned generations of similar stories – “Aliens” was famously described as being “JAWS” in space – it seems simple, clichéd and a bit naive. The acting of the main cast is great but some of the lesser characters leave a lot to be desired, especially through repeated viewings. Because of the countless similar films over the years, the scene set up is highly predictable and those teaser ’scary' scenes are clearly signposted by the absence of the shark’s signature music.

Tonight for the second time, I got to experience it for the first time!

With G tucked up against me, an arm around my waist and mine around her shoulders I got to feel every shiver; every fright; every sharp intake of breath. I shared her excitement; through her reaction it was all fresh, all new. I jumped too when that head appeared through the hole in the boat for the umpteenth time of watching. I left my jaded perception behind and was thrilled anew by a great big plastic shark. It was brilliant! And I got cuddled to bits!

What a shame she’s seen Star Wars………

What movie would you want to see again for the first time?

Wordfuse - Motoring edition

2012-01-28T13:41:00.000Z

Blogger pal dbs over in Canada may have invented the 'wordfuse' as far as I know. He takes two words and 'fuses' them together to give added meaning or comical emphasis when viewing some of the anomalies or absurdities of modern life.

This 'wordfuse' occurred while sitting in the car the other day with The Lovely G. I became aware that the conversation was basically a list of instructions from her to me.

I now deem her irrevocably to be my 'SatNag'.

But that's just tongue-in-cheek sweetheart - honest!

No - HONEST!

{Backs away slowly tugging forelock...}

Listening to:

Just Like That

2012-01-27T06:00:00.000Z

Sometimes, so just like that ........

Really..........

The Gift Of Humanity

2012-01-25T09:54:00.000Z

Burns Cottage Alloway

Tonight across Scotland and the world, people willcelebrate the life and work of Robert Burns. Born 5 miles away from where I was born, we grew to adult hood in the same area,knowing many of the same places and tramping much of the same landscape. Many of his poems speak in the language and rythm of the local dialect and make clear connections. His presence,his memory, is revered there maybe even more than anywhere else.You can walk into a graveyard in Ayr or Mauchline and find the graves of thecronies and characters, the loves and lassies that inhabit his poems - imagine findingthe graves of characters from Dickens or Shakespeare: David Copperfield; OliverTwist; Uriah Heap; Romeo or Juliet. You can with Burns because he wrote aboutwhat and who he knew.

I think it was the poet Wallace Stevenswho said the open-minded reading of poetry helps you to live your life. I understand that now; that poetry makes you aware of your own humanity and the humanity of others.That's the gift Robbie Burns makes across the years.

I remember my maternal Grandmother often singing this to me. My Mum also used it to sing and hum small children to sleep.

My Love Is Like A Red, Red Rose

My Love's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Love's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Love!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

See you later.

Listening to

Keeping it real.

2012-01-22T21:56:00.000Z

I like the idea of reality TV, really I do. It's very name tells what it should do on the tin doesn't it? Reality should have a huge place on TV, with its potential to communicate, inform, inspire and influence, yet I get royally furious with so many of these programmes which just set themselves up as entertainment when what they are really there for is to hold up people for ridicule as a freak show and pander to the egos of megalomaniac 'celebrities', fame hungry media whores or deluded and misguided, desperate-for-attention idiots. I hate the way panel shows offer 'participation' at a price, manipulate opinion and votes and change some poor 'winners' life so radically and so quickly, having created a public that's desperate not for any winning individual but for just the next serving of more of the same pap and who will never have interest in a winner for more than a few months beyond the end of the series, so desperate have their manipulated tastes become for 'bigger', 'better' and yet 'more' of the same crap. Most of I won't watch.

I don't get this modern need for fame and why it's become so important for so many. I see 'stars' with no discernible talent or point and a media industry totally aimed at promoting and celebrating this lifestyle. So many who only feel happy or validated when flashguns are popping and pictures are on front covers of crap magazines, who have 'achieved' fame yet never worked to get the recognition. Why do so many want this instant fame-on-a-plate. Is so much missing in life for so many? Isn't it cringingly ironic that we allow someone like Cheryl Cole, or Piers Morgan to judge talent? I mean - COME ON PEOPLE........

And yet, now and again there are things which make me feel a bit better about the 'reality' side of TV. Some shows are now drawing back from the freakshow spectacle aspect and are coming to the fore with a more positive spin on some of the challenges which face some less fortunate than most; a programme showing extreme weight loss over an extended period of time, supported by an expert who does genuinely seem to care and a production company focused on the subject and the benefits of working hard to achieve something, not the cheap hit potential of an oh-my-god-look-at-them-I-feel-better-about-myself-now programme. A programme with an agenda that's positive, a view that's measured, balanced and even a bit understated. A programme that stresses it's a long,hard road but it can be done. About time!

Now too I have even found a talent show that doesn't immediately have all my warning bells going off. A dance competition where judges are industry experts with passion for the art rather than mere self promotion. {and who enjoy and respect each other} Where talent is recognised and there's no gawping for gawpings sake but people who may not have a real gift but who have real passion for the subject and not the fame might still make it in front of the cameras to be treated sensibly, decently and compassionately by all. That even celebrates some of the more eccentric sides of our culture in ameasured way. A competition that takes itself and its candidates more seriously. After three years of shows I think it's getting better too. {If only any prize money was invested in building and growing future potential of winners instead of just as a reward}

Oddly I'm hooked on 'Got to Dance'. OK I'm still not comfortable with programmes giving away life changing amounts of cash but that's my opinion and not everyone needs to share it, but I can watch this show and that's not at the front of my mind. I'm amazed by the talent of some of these people - even some of the kids. I'm enthused by the commitment, the work and effort contestants put in and the pleasure they get from it, the bond they create with their partners and the sheer passion they all have no matter what kind of dance they do. I think it's great to watch.

Any one of these have more talent in a scraping from their fingernail than a boatload of big brother contestants any day of the week.

Let's keep it real.

see you later.

The Sunday Posts 2012

2012-01-22T06:23:00.003Z

Ozymandias

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

At Last

2012-01-21T03:28:00.001Z

Etta James 1938 - 2012

What a voice....

If Music Be The Food of Love.....

2012-01-16T17:45:00.019Z

Late night listening transports me back in time.

It's 1975 and it's late, but here in my bedroom the schoolboy me is wide awake. The first chords have just struck on what will become a lifelong favourite album as for the seventh, eighth or twentieth time tonight I'm listening to Mike Oldfield's 'Ommadawn'. I just bought it today and I've spent hours devouring the artwork and every word on its cover. It's an obsessive trait that I'll carry long into my twenties - until the demise of vinyl for the more modern CD, with their loss of artwork and cover design as a communication medium. Oh for the return of the gatefold sleeve! But like many in the years to come I'll cling to the old ways for a while before I can let vinyl go - partially at least.

I lie stretched out flat on my single bed, the curtains closed to the smallest glint of light from outside and the turntable on the chest of drawers is turning the disc at the required speed. I have the feed arm up so the record will constantly repeat. It's not a great record player but it's all I'll have for another couple of years yet until I can afford to buy one of my own that will give me the kind of quality sound that albums like this deserve. Now though any money I get is invested on buying vinyl. Albums only - singles are for fools swayed by the rubbish on 'Top Of The Pops'. Real men - and of course I include my fourteen year old self in that category - buy albums. Real men are interested { and interesting} because we buy artists and albums by our inate understanding of what's mature and meaningful, not led by the pop charts, although any future trawl through my record collection may not quite prove that point. Or not yet at least. My tastes are developing and opinions are largely unformed.

So here I lie, horizontal, connected to heaven by the headphones {saved for over weeks of self sacrifice and reduced record purchasing} plugged into the record deck and preventing my parents from realising that I'm playing this - like all my albums - at near full volume. This means that I can hear the needle chart its way across the track, adding its own base note. That would be frustrating to the modern me but it's completely normal at the present time so I'm all but oblivious. Still, I yearn in the dark for a better player; more clarity and especially; more volume.

Maybe I have the album cover lying on my chest, but it's also possible that I 'm doing some air guitar or silently doing some fantasy conducting of the talented Mike { by dint of album ownership I now get to call him that} as I guide him intricately, knowingly and insightfully through the multiple shades of meaning in this piece, showing him that I understand: I get it.

I'm lost inside now, carried by layers deeper and deeper into the sound, hairs rise on my arms and on the back of my neck as if connected to an electric pulse. Each listening has lead me to a new discovery and I'm acutely aware that magic is happening. In years to come my union with such magic might be heightened by alcohol but now it's pure and unadulterated by beer, the opinions of others or the need to be cool. Tonight is a musical experience that'll both change me and continue like this for the rest of my life - horizontal, at full volume and in the dark - and all the better for it. I'll come to learn that it's great to share but I've somehow already found my ideal way of communing with important albums is solitary Tonights experience will also open the doors to teach myself how to wash away anxiety and think clearly while being soothed by important tracks or albums; something I'll be particularly grateful for in the next angst ridden couple of years.

It's the first album that's done this to me, completely blowing me away and carrying me off into other worlds, other realities. The first time that an artist has shown me there are incredible possibilities out there. I've never heard anything like this before and I'm entranced, enthralled, enthused, amazed and astounded. It's so different to the crappy pop music that's everywhere. Soon there will be others being loved too: Jean-Michel Jarre: Rick Wakeman: Vangelis: Supertramp: The Floyd: The Who and Thin Lizzy amongst others, but for the moment I know nothing but this sublime album which reaches to my core and tugs emotions so far as yet untouched. It's so perfect I want to cry. That's a first for me too.

As a result of tonight, in the next couple of months I'll also become intimate with Oldfield's first two albums: Hergest Ridge and the sensational Tubular Bells but even these wonders won't have the same effect as Ommadawn.

Tonight it's just us here in the dark. Tonight it's doing all the talking and tonight for the first time - I think I might be in love.......

Play on.........

See you later.

If you also fancy another bit of what does you good?

Thinking About Joining The Childrens Panel?

2012-01-16T00:42:00.000Z

I don't normally repost items but Childrens Panels across Scotland are currently looking for new volunteers. If you are interested and thinking about joining this might give you a bit of an insight into what happens. For more information click on the link below:

Hullo ma wee blog,

Unfortunately not every child gets the safe, secure and nuturing upbringing they deserve. Too many are raised in chaotic conditions where abject poverty, neglect and addiction are the norm, leaving children at risk for their welfare, their future and sometimes their very lives. This is a post about Children's Panels which are lay tribunals set up under Scots Law to hear cases for the protection, care, guidance and treatment of children at risk between birth and age of 16. {or 18 in some cases.} This process which puts the child's interests before all else is unique and has been a worthy feature of the Scottish legal system for many years.

On the day of a Children's Hearing, the three of us making up a panel - always a mix of sexes to prevent any kind of all male/female bias creeping in - get together beforehand to have a short pre-hearing meeting to discuss the information contained in the reports that have been provided. These will be at the least - unless it's an emergency hearing called at short notice - a social work compiled child and family background report and a school report but could also include reports from health visitors, specialist medical practitioners, residential homes reports or any other agencies that the child or family are involved with. The families attending will also get copies of the reports involving them at the same time. Any serious compromising of the length of time to consider reports, especially if it compromises the families right to have ample time to consider and potentially to seek legal advice, would almost certainly ensure that we would decide only to 'continue' - postpone until another date could be arranged - so the families rights would not be infringed. {a sure-fire winner at any appeal}

The sometimes hefty reports the panel have access to are provided seven days before the hearing to allow us to read and absorb the information and consider elements of risk relating to the child's situation and potential next steps that need to be taken to improve or remove the risks to the child. These measures, if we decide to put any in place after a discussion of the case with those involved at hearing, are legally binding on the child and supporting local council authority and can include conditions dictating an action that should be taken by the child or by any of the professionals who are supporting, such as varying where and how the child should be educated, where and with whom the child should live, who, how often and under what protective circumstances the child should have contact with and what treatment, controls, support or guidance should be provided. This effectively means that there are a wide range of measures that can be put in place to protect a child who is at risk either from their own actions or the actions {or neglect} of others.

Normally we will hear three cases in a sitting with each of the cases allocated an hour for discussion and during the sitting each of us will chair a pre-allocated case unless one or more of the members has not had the separate formal training to chair tribunals. If this is the case the trained members will chair more than one case ensuring that due process is followed and writing up the formal record of decisions and the reasons which are given to the child and other relevant persons {normally the parents and local authority professionals but can include others such as foster carers etc} used by following panels in future reviews of the case and in the event of an appeal being made against the panel's decision - any appeal would be heard at court and not by another panel. The reasons written therefore have to clarify the consideration of risk by the panel and the thought process used to come to the final decision and explaining why the panel consider this to be in the child's best interests.

The Hearing:

The family enters to take their seats from the waiting area along with the professionals attending. The professionals at a hearing are normally Social Work and School as a minimum but could include many others such as Lawyers, Health Workers, Family Support Workers, Foster Carers or representatives from Secure Facilities. This is the first time the child and family has been called to a hearing. The child is a boy of about 9 years old and he sits beside his mother, head down. Father isn't in attendance even though he should be but I know we'll deal with that in a moment. Opposite the family and professionals, across an oval beechwood table sits the three person panel that makes up the tribunal that is a Children's Hearing. Today there are two men and one woman. I'll chair the hearing for this case. During the session there will be three cases and although each is scheduled for an hour this is flexible based on needs and circumstances - we take the time needed for the family - and this is the first case of the day. Each of us will chair a case as we are all experienced members, trained to fulfill the procedural and legal obligations chairing a hearing brings. The room is bright and airy, the decor subdued pastel and there are framed paintings done by young children on the wall; a child on a chute; a child in a swimming pool or sea wearing a rubber ring; an unidentifiable animal or bird in garish colours. In the corner there is a small table with a box of crayons and some sheets of paper to draw on, a book and some stuffed animals. There's always a box or two of tissues around within reach of an emotional child or adult.

As the kerfuffle of a group of people coming in and taking a seat takes place I try to observe the child without making it too obvious. He is small for his age and as he sits back in the chair his feet barely touch the floor. His head is still down and his body language is very closed. His hands are clasped in his lap and he has made a hand wringing gesture twice when he did sneak a glance around him. Even though he's done this he hasn't looked in the direction of us in the panel sitting across from him. He takes a deep breath and blows it out through pursed lips. He looks what he is. A stressed and scared wee boy.

I call his name gently across to him and when I have his attention I smile and ask how he's feeling. I get a fairly blank look in return for a second and he looks to his Mum who is still getting herself sorted out.

"Hello ****** you must be feeling pretty scared just now. After all this is the first time you've been to see us at a hearing....."

I now have his full attention but he's not about to say anything just yet.

"Has anyone spoken to you about coming to see us and what happens at a children's panel?"

I got a head shake in response, but he also says " A bit."

"You've got to find this all a bit scary, coming into a room full of strangers,especially if no-one's explained about what happens in a hearing to you."

He's still staring at me.

"How would it be if I told you a wee bit about it while everyone's getting sorted out. Would that be ok?"

I get a nod and he leans forward a bit.

"Well first of all I bet you've heard from pals at school that a hearing is where boys and girls get sent if they've been bad. Maybe you were told too that a hearing will decide you are to be taken away from your Mum or Dad and sent away to live somewhere else."

His eyes are huge and there is a tremble in his lip. He wrings his hands.

"Well you're not here because you've been bad, so don't worry about that. That's not the only reason that children come to see us here. Don't worry either that anyone's going to take you away from your Mum and Dad, OK?. That's not going to happen. We would only take a boy or girl away from their Mum or Dad if we had to because it really wasn't safe for them to be at home and that doesn't happen very often. {A white lie - it's reasonably common for us to see children who simply aren't safe at home, but he doesn't need to know that and this isn't one of those situations} We're people who think children are very important but we know that at times, things might happen that can upset or worry you and sometimes things happen to children that make them feel unsafe and scared. Sometimes things happen, and people - even Mums and Dads - don't know what to do to make things better. If we hear about someone where this is maybe happening we ask them to come and talk to us to see if there's anything we can do to help make things better so that you're not worried or scared anymore. A hearing is just is a meeting to talk about what's happening and to help decide what needs to be done to help you and who would be best able to do that. So it's not just boys or girls that have been bad that come here.

While we're talking about things it's my job to make sure we talk about everything we need to so I will ask different people to speak and I will probably ask lots of questions. If you feel you can talk to us about anything then you'll be able to tell me what it is. I'm also here to make sure that you understand what's being said and you get a chance to talk if you want to. After we've all had a talk me and my two colleagues will say what we think would be the best thing to happen, then I'll explain what this will mean. Before you go away today I'll make sure you know what's going to happen next and why we think this is the best thing to do. Are you OK with that?"

He nods.

"Do you feel a bit better now?"

He nods and I get a glimmer of a smile. I smile back.

"That's good. Let's get everyone started then will we? I'll watch out to make sure you're OK when everyone's talking."

I sit back a bit.

"Now then ladies and gents. Thanks for coming to the hearing today for ******. First let me introduce the panel and then I'll ask each of you to introduce yourselves before we begin......."

The Sunday Posts 2012

2012-01-15T05:59:00.003Z

My Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

By Robert Louis Stevenson from his collection entitled "A Child's Garden of Verses".

Grand-motherly advice.

2012-01-13T17:06:00.000Z

When I was in my early to mid teens my Grandmother once saw fit to sit me down and lay out a clear moral framework for me via a lengthy lecture.

It included:

"And watch out for bad women who will lead you astray and corrupt you with their loose morals........"

After that, I looked Granny, honest I did.

Never found any though....... not for ages.........

If it hadn't been for your advice I might never have found out about them at all.

Thanks Granny!

See you later.

Listening to:

Problems with Blogger - No Comment.

2012-01-13T05:42:00.003Z

I've been having problems with Blogger for the last couple of days which has stopped me replying to comments on my own blog or leaving comments on others. It also meant that I couldn't read posts on blogs I follow where comments had already been left either. Any attempt at going to any of the pages described above simply lead me to a blank white page that wouldn't connect to anything.

Having posted a question on the Blogger Help forum I found that lots of people are having the same issue and fairly quickly got a response. Unfortunately this didn't resolve the issue for me but lead me to other comments which ultimately seems to have done the trick.

So, if any of you are having problems like this - go to the 'settings' area of your dashboard, select 'comments' and change the siting of the comments away from 'embedded below posts' to one of the other settings. It seems to have mainly done the trick for me although I don't understand why. I can now reply to comments on this blog again but I still have a problem reading some favourite bloggers posts with comments where they have comments embedded below the post. Oddly though it's some and not all......

I'll need to keep working on that. Hopefully blogger will be aware and produce a fix too - it's annoying. {and they're not the easiest people to find how to contact!}
At least I'm back in the land of blogging for a while - until the next problem hits at least!

See you later.

Listening to Mike Oldfields wonderful and peaceful version of 'Etude' from the movie 'The Killing Fields':

http://youtu.be/eTdH-1UWLPg

Kids and Parents - eh?

2012-01-09T04:26:00.002Z

These days it feels like often no-one is willing to take responsibility over their own actions or those of their kids. God knows how teachers cope day after day.

To me this sums it up nicely. although I doubt it's a real answering machine for the school. The voice kicks in after about 30 seconds.......

see you later.

The Sunday Posts 2102

2012-01-08T16:22:00.000Z

Nae Day Sae Dark

Nae day sae dark; nae wüd sae bare;
Nae grund sae stour wi' stane;
But licht comes through; a sang is there;
A glint o' grass is green.

Wha hasna thol'd his thorter'd hours
And kent, whan they were by,
The tenderness o' life that fleurs
Rock-fast in misery

--------------------------------------------

No day so dark; no wood so bare;
No ground so rough with stone;
But light comes through; a song is there;
A glint of grass is green.

Who hasn't endured his thwarted hours;
And knew when they were past;
The tenderness of life that flowers;
Rock-fast in misery

William Soutar

William Soutar (1898-1943), the author of this poem, was born in Perth, Scotland. While serving in the navy during the First World War he contracted an illness which left him paralysed, apart from his arms and hands. He was confined to bed for the last fourteen years of his life but nevertheless produced a number of lyric poems - including this.

Caution - May Contain Nuts.....

2012-01-07T16:45:00.019Z

Am I nervous? Oh Yes. Terrified more like! I don't know whyon earth I've agreed to this. Sitting here behind the table, faced with allthese complete strangers and waiting for my introduction, I feel almost physically sick. Noone who knows me can believe I've agreed to this and more than a few havealmost wet themselves laughing. Yet here I am, nervous as a kitten, stomachtied in knots and feeling like I'm just about to lose my non-existent lunch. Imust be nuts! I didn’t think for a second I'd start out this way when I began looking for anoutlet for my writing.

I’d been writing for a couple of years by then, bloggingmostly but also sending a few bits and pieces in to papers and magazines in thehope of getting something published. I’d joined a writing group too in the hopethat I could improve my skill and perhaps make some contacts along the way. Isubscribed to a couple of writing oriented magazines and used them to follow upon articles on improving chances to get published and check out the adverts forwriting opportunities. It seemed hopeless – most of the adverts looking forwriters expected you to pay them to publish your work and the others wantedeverything for free. No-one wants to pay for anything these days it seems.

And then I found some adverts looking for writers to helpothers; give a few talks on process; hold a few workshops and be available tocheck and feedback constructively on work submitted. Best of all there was afee for your efforts and for a lucky one here and there a paid position for aperiod of time of intensive work. I began to see a rare advert or two forwriters in residence too. One of these was working in prisons helping developcommunication skills and thinking process; keeping prisoners in touch withtheir kids through the writing of stories; helping set up an in-house newsletter.

Although I tried I never got anywhere; the competition forthese rarest of opportunities was intense even where fees were negligible;people desperate to get something that could be useful to build a credible CV.Weeks and months passed by with nothing.

Then.

Wanted:

WRITER IN RESIDENCE

A writer in residence is saught to deliver lectures, workshops and demonstrations to groups and individuals in a holiday environment at our establishments here in the UK and in Spain. An open minded, creative and flexible attitude is required to ensure this experience delivers to our members interested in developing their writing and communication skills in a fun and relaxed manner.

Roll on three months and here I am: sweating; mouth dry;heart palpitating. I wait for the society chairman to finish his speech andintroduce me. A new wave of anxiety and nausea washes over me as I look at thelectern I had requested. Somehow I thought I would be more comfortable speakingfrom behind a lectern but now as I look at it's clear, gleaming perspex under theauditorium lights, I know that's not going to work. What was I thinking?Bugger! I look left and right along the table for an exit but just the sight ofthe other committee members drives the thought from my mind and my head snapsback to looking down at the notes in front of me on the table.

God!

I can't evenlook at the audience! I try to get a grip on my emotions while the voice of thechairman drones on. I take a sip from the glass of water beside me, close myeyes and concentrate on my breathing, silently but desperately telling myself "Calm. Quiet. Peace. Calm. Quiet. Peace." as I do. I become awarethat the chairman is drawing to a close. Too late now, there's nothing I can do. I have tomake the best of this. Who knows, it might be the break I'm looking for afterall. Suddenly, I'm aware of applause. I open my eyes and see thechairman at the front of the stage, half turned towards me, his armoutstretched in a welcoming gesture. I swallow and take another sip of water. Igather my notes and stand up, pushing the chair back with my legs as I do. Ihold my notes demurely in front of me and move out from behind the safety of the table and walk the fewpaces to the lectern where I put them reluctantly down and take one last deep, calmingbreath while I wait for the applause to peter out. I hope I don't look as terrified as I feel.

There is silence. I swallow -hard.

"Mr Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen of the committee.Ladies and Gentlemen.

Three months ago it would never have crossed my mind that Iwould be standing here today thanking anyone for the 'opportunity' of becomingthe first writer in residence for the UK Society of Naturists.

Or that I'd be doing it in the nude……"

See you later.

(By the way – this is a work of fiction!!! - honest)

Listening to this;

Seeing The Light.

2012-01-06T21:46:00.006Z

There are probably fewer things that remind us more of how reliant on modern technology we are than a power cut.

We get more than our fare share of them in our quiet wee corner of the country, especially in the winter when you are in the grip of those short days and long cold nights and losing power also means we lose our modern central heating and gas fire. It's a pain - and we're only about 4 miles from a major power station, which really rubs it in as no matter how often we get cut off they are always gleaming brightly in the dark like a beacon of pure unadulterated smugness.

We've had a power cut tonight when there are no storms like those that happened over the past week when thousands of homes were cut off for days - although thankfully not including us. We did have a couple of outages yesterday or the day before, enough to have us lighting up the candles around the place and leaving spares in handy places and matches close to hand. You've got to be prepared, right?

We like candles in this house and often use them of an evening by preference, but that's a whole different ball game to having no choice in the matter. It always seems to happen when your engrossed in something of course; TV or a book or a DVD. Tonight I'm here on my own ,just Jess and I cosy on the couch watching something on the TV recorder, I'm thinking I need a cuppa and am getting up to go and make one when - WHAM - total blackout. I let out a groan {and probably an expletive}. That'll be that for the cup of tea for a while then......

Luckily I have my mobile phone nearby and grope around to get it and use the built in flashlight which lets me maneuvre round to the fireplace, get the box of matches and light a couple of the bigger candles on the coffee table before getting upstairs to the bedroom where we'd left a battery powered light designed for camping - one of those ones which can hang and give a light round 360 degrees. I bring it down but decide to leave it off and stick with the candles. I go and get the laptop and bring it back to the lounge too, thinking I might watch something on BBC iPlayer but when I come back and sit down with it I decide to write a short blog instead. The battery will last a few hours........

WHAM!

The lights come back on.

I leave the laptop, make a cuppa and fill the big flask in the kitchen with hot water to last the night. Experience tells me these things usually happen in multiples.

A few minutes later I come back through to the lounge, coffee cup in hand and take a couple of steps towards the sofa....

WHAM!

Thank goodness I left the candles on..........

See you later.

Probably in daylight.........

Always Expect The Unexpected......

2012-01-02T15:02:00.005Z

Well hello and welcome to the first post from my new blog called

'The Porage Diaries'.

Dont worry - 'Crivens Jings' is here to stay and will keep on in the same vein I hope but I'm going to try a blog of a more specific nature.......

To be frank I never expected to be setting up another blog right now even though I'd laid the foundations for 'The Porage Diaries' well over a year ago, when the name came to me one day in a haze of porage and sunshine. I know - most people see porage as a winter food, but I happen to like it and am known to have an occasional foray in a poragely direction at any time of the year.

We all get gifts at Christmas time. Most of the time these are more than welcome but sometimes the odd gift will arrive that's either unwelcome or at least greeted with less enthusiasm. This year the unwanted gift I got was type two diabetes which is quite annoying. Even more so when I consider that the person that gave it to me was; well - ME. Now, I take full responsibility: I'm a Scot - well known as having one of the worlds most unhealthy diets, which I have wholeheartedly embraced for many years.: I'm overweight - for many reasons, explanations or excuses which will probably come out in various guises as the blog develops: I'm in the danger zone of middle age {53}: I've lead a pretty sedentary lifestyle for far too long even though I knew I should have been doing something about it {introduce those explanations/excuses again here} and finally: I'm a typical male 'ostrich' in many ways. There is simply no-one else to blame.

I'd been unwell for a few months and had complained to my doctor of lack of energy, aches and pains, insomnia, a general increasing weight despite addressing {somewhat} my diet for more healthy stuff and a dozen other things that I couldn't put down to any particular change in circumstances. This lead to a whole seies of blood tests over a short period of time and a diagnosis of an underactive thyroid and a slow process of medication and monitoring to establish the correct dosage of medication which I'll have to take for the rest of my life - a process that's not yet complete. During this time one of the tests threw up an anomaly with liver function leading to another series of tests and an ultrasound scan which showed that everything was tickety-boo and there was nothing abnormal. I came home from the hospital that day happy that my fears about the big 'C' were unfounded. Two hours later my doctor's surgery phoned to say that there was a problem with my last blood tests and that my doctor wanted to see me right away, so first thing the following morning I saw her and was told that my blood sugar levels had suddenly rocketed and more tests were needed to confirm her suspicions that I had diabetes.

So it was that the week before Christmas I got a confirmation call that her suspicions were correct.Most of that week was spent reading up on the information she had provided, supplemented with information from the web and in making significant changes to my thinking. I have to admit after the previous few months I took the news quite badly and perhaps focused on some websites which emphasised the more negative and serious side of the condition and it's impact on long term health prospects. Probably as a result, my mood and well being took a big dip and I think I convinced myself that I felt dreadfully ill for the bulk of Christmas until one day I just suddenly realised that there are millions dealing with this and doing so successfully. I realised I'd perhaps been given the kick in the pants that I needed to get things back in balance and that tackling this could be beneficial in every way:

I suddenly felt doors opening instead of doors closing. there are many opportunities that could come out of this condition - now that I have it and can't avoid that reality. There are things to discover, things to tackle and things that can be discussed and shared. 'Crivens Jings' showed me that I could use writing as catharsis as I did when I was made redundant. This too is something that I can write about while I experience, come to terms and understand what the implications have on the reality of my life ahead. While I'm not stupid enough to be looking forward to living with any kind of diabetes, I can see that there are benefits to be had for myself and maybe for others in writing about an experience that I can't avoid.So now I have to face some consequences and deal with this condition.

Do you fancy coming along for the ride? I promise you rants, raves and reflections - and porage:

LOTS OF PORAGE!

See you later.

Listening to:

New Music....

2012-01-02T05:13:00.007Z

Something new for the New Year: The first track released by Scots prog-rock band 'Abandoned Stars' who hail from Edinburgh and include my two brothers-in-law in the line up playing drums and bass guitar.

The track is called 'Beyond Reason' and comes from their first EP 'Opening Act'

Members: Tony Hodge - Drums / Peppe Schiavone - Guitars / Olivier Hadder - Vocals / Leen - Bass

Check-out
http://www.abandonedstars.co.uk/

New Year Tradition.

2012-01-01T11:05:00.000Z

The New Year celebrations are traditional here in Scotland. We're rightly world famous for our cheerful and exhuberant welcome to each new year and the extended partying that often accompanies it for several days afterwards. But many countries celebrate it in their own unique ways; the ball drop in Times Square, New York; The fireworks over Sydney Harbour Bridge; favourite TV shows to bring in the new year; a dip in the ocean on January 1st etc. Being married to someone of Swiss German descent I was introduced to a tradition from over there which I really enjoy. It's a TV sketch called 'Dinner For One' which is played across Switzerland and Germany every New Year without fail at some point. They absolutely love it and fall about in stitches, which is strange considering it's completely done in English. I've no idea where the tradition comes from or when it started or how it came to be taken so much to heart by so many, but somehow I too have fallen for it's charm, innocence and fun.

I hope you enjoy it too.

Wishful Drinking........

2011-12-31T17:25:00.002Z

Feeling philosphical: I drink, therefore I dram!

A Happy Hogmanay to one and all!

What does Hogmanay actually mean and what is the derivation of the name? Why do we Scots more than any other nation celebrate the New Year with such a passion? Why should a tall dark stranger be a welcome first foot visitor after midnight, carrying a lump of coal and a slice of black bun?

There are many theories about the derivation of the word "Hogmanay". The Scandinavian word for the feast preceding Yule was "Hoggo-nott" while the Flemish words (many have come into Scots) "hoog min dag" means "great love day". Hogmanay could also be traced back to the Anglo-Saxon, Haleg monath, Holy Month, or the Gaelic, oge maidne, new morning. But the most likely source seems to be the French. "Homme est né" or "Man is born" while in France the last day of the year when gifts were exchanged was "aguillaneuf" while in Normandy presents given at that time were "hoguignetes". Take your pick!

In Scotland a similar practice to that in Normandy was recorded, rather disapprovingly, by the Church.

"It is ordinary among some Plebians in the South of Scotland, to go about from door to door upon New Year`s Eve, crying Hagmane."

Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence, 1693.

Hogmanay Traditional Celebrations

Historians believe that we inherited the celebration from the Vikings who, coming from even further north than ourselves, paid even more attention to the passing of the shortest day. In Shetland, where the Viking influence was strongest, New Year is called Yules, from the Scandinavian word.

It may not be widely known but Christmas was not celebrated as a festival and virtually banned in Scotland for around 400 years, from the end of the 17th century to the 1950s. The reason for this has its roots in the Protestant Reformation when the Kirk portrayed Christmas as a Popish or Catholic feast and therefore had to be banned. Many Scots had to work over Christmas and their winter solstice holiday was therefore at New Year when family and friends gathered for a party and exchange presents, especially for the children, which came to be called hogmanay.

There are traditions before midnight such as cleaning the house on 31st December (including taking out the ashes from the fire in the days when coal fires were common). There is also the superstition to clear all your debts before "the bells" at midnight.

Immediately after midnight it is traditional to sing Robert Burns' 'For Auld Lang Syne'. Burns claimed it was based on an earlier fragment and certainly the tune was in print over 80 years before he published his version in 1788.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o kindness yet, for auld lang syne."

An integral part of the Hogmanay partying, which continues very much today, is to welcome friends and strangers, with warm hospitality and of course a kiss to wish everyone a Guid New Year. The underlying belief is to clear out the vestiges of the old year, have a clean break and welcome in a young, New Year on a happy note.

"First footing" (that is, the "first foot" in the house after midnight) is still common in Scotland. To ensure good luck for the house, the first foot should be male, dark (believed to be a throwback to the Viking days when blond strangers arriving on your doorstep meant trouble) and should bring symbolic coal, shortbread, salt, black bun and whisky. These days, however, whisky and perhaps shortbread are the only items still prevalent (and available).

"Handselling" was the custom of gift giving on the first Monday of the New Year but this has died out.

Torch and Bonfire Ceremonies
The magical Firework display and torchlight procession in Edinburgh - and throughout many cities in Scotland - is reminiscent of the ancient custom at Scottish Hogmanay pagan parties hundreds of years ago.

The traditional New Year ceremony of yesteryear would involve people dressing up in the hides of cattle and running around the village being hit by sticks. The festivities would also include the lighting of bonfires, rolling blazing tar barrels down the hill and tossing torches. Animal hide was also wrapped around sticks and ignited which produced a smoke that was believed to be very effective to ward off evil spirits.

The smoking stick was also known as a Hogmanay.

Some of these customs do continue, especially in the small, older communities in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland where tradition, along with language and dialect are kept alive and well. On the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, the young boys form themselves into opposing bands, the leader of each wears a sheep skin, while a member carries a sack. The bands move through the village from house to house reciting a Gaelic rhyme. On being invited inside, the leader walks clockwise around the fire, while everyone hits the skin with sticks. The boys would be given some bannocks - fruit buns - for their sack before moving on to the next house.

One of the most spectacular Fire ceremonies takes place in Stonehaven, just south of Aberdeen on the North East coast. Giant fireballs, weighing up to 20 pounds are lit and swung around on five feet long metal poles, requiring 60 men to carry them as they march up and down the High Street. The origin of the pre-Christian custom is believed to be linked to the Winter Solstice of late December with the fireballs signifying the power of the sun, to purify the world by consuming evil spirits.

And it is worth remembering that January 2nd is a holiday in Scotland as well as the first day of the year - to give us all time to recover from a week of merry-making and celebration, all part of Scotland's fascinating cultural legacy of ancient customs and traditions surrounding the pagan festival of Hogmanay.

All the best for 2012

info from; http://rampantscotland.com/

Think and drive - or else!

Scottish Wonderings

2011-12-31T07:51:00.002Z

Think about it.......

Technically, every true Scotsman was originally a Scotch egg..........

see you later.

listening to:

Unusual wonderings.

2011-12-30T22:30:00.000Z

Blind people wear sunglasses.

I wonder why deaf people don't wear ear-muffs??????

{Um.........Sorry!}

see you later.

Listening to:

ISN'T TECHNOLOGY WONDERFUL.

2011-12-30T11:16:00.002Z

Shame about the colour though

Was Santa good to you? He was to me!

Amongst the lots of goodies I received was a hands-freeheadset like these. This cracking bit of kit allows me to do lots of things with thelaptop while wandering around the house. I can use the voice recognition systemto control the laptop operation, create letters, post blogs, listen to musicand the BBC I-player etc from almost anywhere in the house. So, I can amblethrough to the kitchen and make myself a coffee without missing any of myfavourite music. One of the downsides is that now I wear the headphones almostall the time and there have been times when my lovely G has been calling to menot realising that I have the headphones on and of course I haven't heard aword she said. Sorry – one of the best things about it is that now I wearheadphones almost all the time, if my lovely G is looking for me to give mejobs to do etc, I can’t hear a word of what she's saying. Blooming marvellous!

One of the other useful features is that the headphones workeven in the smallest room in the house. Yes guys – technological advancementnow means I can go to the loo and be perfectly cocooned while occupied listeningto my favourite stand-up comedy routines or youtube music at the same time. Adda book or newspaper and I can be gone for ages.

Technology is all about making life better for us and as faras I'm concerned these little beauties are a major step forward. Even better,as an extra bonus, the even keep your ears warm. Must have been developed by a guy!

And now you'll have to excuse me. I've just picked up mynewspaper and have an appointment to attend to in the smallest room. Don't waitaround for me – I may be gone some time………….

Isn't technology wonderful!

See you later.

Listening to:

Internet Wonderings

2011-12-28T09:36:00.000Z

I wonder if you can order stuff from Amazon if you're actually IN the Amazon?

See you later.

A Christmas tale.

2011-12-26T15:27:00.001Z

An Uncle, who was a baker, drowned at Christmastime. In a very unfortunateaccident, he fell into the bowl of Christmas pudding mix. He would have been okbecause he was a good swimmer but he didn’t realise that just under the surfacethere were some very strong currants..........

see you later.

The Christmas Sunday Post

2011-12-25T20:53:00.001Z

The silhouettes of leafless trees,
Are etched against the sky,
With branches spread like outstretched arms,
Forever reaching high.
The ebony of bark and bough,
Is bathed in pearly light,
As silver frost like tinseled thread,
Is glistening clear and bright.

It seemed as if a Winter sprite,
All dressed in frozen rime,
Has woven with an icy hand,
An intricate design.
By scattering his fairy dust,
On every naked tree,
Has clothed each branch and bough and twig,
In jeweled embroidery.

'Winter Sprite'
By Kathleen Gillum.

Gold, Frankincense and Socks

2011-12-24T12:03:00.001Z

Please - don't give socks this Christmas.

Have a heart!

see you later.

Coldplay Christmas

2011-12-24T11:49:00.000Z

Merry Christmas folks..

2011-12-23T23:53:00.000Z

Just a line to wish you all a peaceful, happy and {relatively} healthy time this Christmas. While I'm not overly religious this is a Christian celebration so here is a favourite version of a well known Christmas song. While the music is beautiful the video is well cheesy, so sorry about that.

I See Winter In The Wind..............

2011-12-23T07:47:00.024Z

Chi mi'n geamhradh 'as a' ghaoith
Chaneil an sheachd' fada bhuainn
Sgothan dorch' 's na craobhan ruisgt
Tha an oidhche nochd fuar

I see Winter in the wind,
The snow is not far from us.
Dark clouds and the trees are losing leaf.
The night is cold.

Shaoilean fhein gur ann an de
Bha teas an t-samhraidh 'gar leaghadh
Fad an fheasgair air an Dun
'S tu laighe leisg ri mo thaobh

So often it feels like it was only yesterday,
The Summer heat melted us,
All evening long out on the dun,
And you lying lazy by my side.

S iomadh oidch' a rinn sinn suiridhe
'S iomadh oidhch' a rinn sinn gair
'S ionadh oidhch' a bhithinn a'smuaintinn
Gum bitheadh tu comhla ruim gu brath

Many nights we loved,
Many nights we laughed,
Many nights I thought,
That you would have stayed forever

Chan fhan a' ghrian chan fhan a' fad na bliadhna
Cha sheas an uair mar a tha i
Dh'fhalbh thusa gu'n a'cheo
'S dh'fhag thu mi le mo geamhradh

But the sun never shines all the year,
and time will not stay as it once was.
You left me for the city,
Leaving me to my winter.

'S iomadh oidch' a rinn sinn suiridhe
'S iomadh oidhch' a rinn sinn gair
'S ionadh oidhch' a bhithinn a'smuaintinn
Gum bitheadh tu comhla ruim gu brath

Gum bitheadh tu comhla ruim gu brath

Gum bitheadh tu comhla ruim gu brath

Many nights we loved,
Many nights we laughed,
Many nights I thought,
That you would have stayed forever

Photo - The Tree. By Alistair.

Listen to it here

Winter Wondering

2011-12-23T05:55:00.005Z

I wonder what colour a Smurf goes if you leave him outside in the snow?

See you later.

Driving Home For Christmas.

2011-12-22T23:55:00.004Z

I can't help thinking how much I love driving a newlyserviced car as I turn out of the garage forecourt and onto the main road. Theengine is silky smooth and purrs quietly as the accelerator is pressed and thecar surges eagerly forward and picks up speed. The steering feels tightertoo, altogether more satisfying, comfortable and more responsive to my hand onthe wheel. This year, for the first time, I've invested in a full set of wintertyres – a direct result of my experiences in last year's horrific winterdriving. The expense is something I could well do without so close toChristmas, especially the combination of tyres and service, but somehow thatthought is far from my mind as I approach the first roundabout and appreciatethe better grip on the cold roads surface. Confidence plays a large part in myenjoyment of winter driving, realistic confidence in my own abilities andconfidence in whatever I am driving. The car feels in tiptop condition and thatbreeds confidence. I can't help but smile at the feeling.

Stopped at the roundabout I wait for the traffic to pass byand my eyes are drawn to the scene across the road and fields in front of mewhere the slope of the escarpment overlooking Dunbar and the surroundingarea rises steeply from the flat farmland. I follow the slope upwards in thelate afternoon light, appreciating a beautiful but subtle green that’s somehowclear yet barely showing in the fading light. On the crest of the hill there isa line of evenly spaced, low trees silhouetted perfectly against the petrolblue sky that you sometimes get here in the earliest part of an encroachingwinter evening. The sky is pristine in its clarity and my eyes continue to bedrawn upwards through the imperceptible changes to the inky blue that shows athigh altitude - this evening seemingly lit from behind. The view is breathtaking in its simplicity and heart stopping in its purity and it captures myattention for a long moment where thankfully no other cars come up behind me.To set the scene off there is one single star hanging an inch above the treeline. I look left to right across my view but there is nothing else in thisperfect sky.

I smile again as I put the car into gear and move off,taking the first left and the road to the village. The scene I've been lookingat moves to my right shoulder and I glance again thinking that itwould be perfect on a card.

Somehow, it suddenly feels like Christmas.

See you later.

Away in A Manger

2011-12-22T23:34:00.000Z

The Reindeer Song

2011-12-22T12:56:00.001Z

More from the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre I'm afraid...........

and still more to come over the next few days.

Be Warned!

Pantomime Wonderings

2011-12-22T05:42:00.001Z

I wonder what Captain Hook was called before that crocodile bit his hand off????

see you later.

Away in {Pret} a Manger

2011-12-21T18:30:00.000Z

Mwahahahahaha

Man Rules

2011-12-20T17:30:00.002Z

We've always heard ” the rules ” from the female side.
Now here are the rules from the male {AKA the right} side

Please note.. they are all numbered 1 ON PURPOSE!

1.We are NOT mind readers.

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You’re a big girl. If it’s up, put it down.
We need it up, you need it down.
You don’t hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

1. Sunday sport is like the full moon or the changing of the tides.
Let it be.

1. Crying is blackmail.

1. Ask for what you want.
Subtle hints don't work!
Strong hints don't work!
Obvious hints don't work!

Just say it simply, clearly and preferably more than once!

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what we do.
Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument.
In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.

1. If you think you’re fat, don’t ask. If you ask a question you don’t want an answer to, you'll get an answer you don’t want to hear.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

1. Either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both.

1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during the adverts on TV.

1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

1. Men see in only 16 colours.
Peach is a fruit, not a colour. Pumpkin is also a fruit. I have no idea what colours mauve/russet or antique linen are. Indigo is a blogger pal.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say “nothing,” We will act like nothing’s wrong.
We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine.. Really

1. Don’t ask us what we’re thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as football, politics or current affairs.'

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!

Thank you for reading this.
Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight; but that's ok - It’s like camping.

The Sunday Post

2011-12-18T06:30:00.010Z

Sunset over the house

Don't matter if the road is long
Don't matter if it's steep
Don't matter if the moon is gone
And the darkness is complete
Don't matter if we lose our way
It's written that we'll meet
At least, that's what I heard you say
A thousand kisses deep

I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat
You see, I'm just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet
Who loved you with his frozen love
His second hand physique
With all he is and all he was
A thousand kisses deep

Don't matter if you're rich and strong
Don't matter if you're weak
Don't matter if you write a song
The nightingales repeat
Don't matter if it's nine to five
Or timeless and unique
You ditch your life to stay alive
A thousand kisses deep

The ponies run
The girls are young
The odds are there to beat
You win a while, and then it's done
Your little winning streak
And summon now to deal with your invincible defeat
You live your life as if it's real
A thousand kisses deep

I hear their voices in the wine
That sometimes did me seek
The band is playing Auld Lang Syne
But the heart will not retreat
There's no forsaking what you love
No existential leap
As witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep

Leonard Cohen

The Sunday Post

2011-12-11T06:16:00.023Z

Reach me dowm my Tycho Brahe,
I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!
You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil
By Sarah Williams

The Sunday post

2011-12-04T06:19:00.003Z

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

'Jenny Kissed Me.'
By Leigh Hunt.

The Sunday Post.

2011-11-27T06:23:00.006Z

The Spell Chequer.

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a quay and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
It's rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
It's letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.

Martha Snow.

Dear Santa......

2011-11-24T00:44:00.000Z

Dear Santa,

Are you the good guy we think you are?

Sure, Christmas isgreat and all that - but are you really the benevolent character we all take youfor? You certainly have some incredible housebreaking skills and all thisdo-goodery is a great cover story for some good old-fashioned burglary or amultitude of other nefarious activities. Your P.R. skills are also certainly upthere with the best considering we spend so much time and effort these daystelling our children to avoid strangers except in safe environments likeschool. Heck we’ve even turned our schools into virtual mini-prisons to keepout unsafe adults – an example of creating anxiety in our kids where there isalmost no risk - yet we happily tell them that you will come into theirbedrooms at night and leave them presents – if they’ve been good. We even tellthem not to be afraid if they wake up hearing someone in their room and thatthey should just pretend to be asleep and not to look at you { that’ll workvery heavily in your favour in any potential ID parade you clever old rascal }

And that disguise? Genius! You’ve made a disguise out of themost identifiable and high visibility clothing you could possibly wear, makingsure that even CCTV Camera’s won’t be able to pick out any identifying personalfeatures. With all that bulky clothing you could be anything from the mostobese burglar in history to a complete anorexic with access to industrialquantities of padding. You’re supposed to be old but you might not be – youcertainly aren’t as old as the stories suggest. What an incredible feat! Way togo sunshine!

There are some weak points in your strategy though, whichI’m sure you must be aware of; all those mince pies and sherry have to slow youdown a bit { and make me veer towards ‘the most obese burglar in history’theory } and the getaway vehicle not only isn’t the fastest option you couldhave come up with but is also stand out conspicuous in all but the most ruralareas. Despite this, probably due to the laxity of our police and the ineptitudeof air traffic control staff over the holiday period, you’ve managedconsistently to evade detection. Yes we have all seen the photos of Santa beinggiven a parking ticket or the videos on ‘Youtube’ but these aren’t you arethey? This is yet another genius stroke in the master-plan. You’ve generated –spawned even – a whole slew of impersonators with which to confuse and convincesociety that it’s all a fantasy. Absolute bloomin’ genius mate. Well doneindeed.

Yes, you’ve created a cover story perfect for the mostgullible or sentimental elements of our society, built it up over a significantperiod of time { clearly a master of planning and organising } and woven itaround the most fantastical garb that hides you in plain sight. Your transportappears ridiculous but evades the most elaborate detection systems moderntechnology can produce. You telegraph the time of your crime yet create aperfect alibi by ensuring multitudes of lookalikes may be culpable – some of themwho don’t even get dressed up because they’re in their own homes – and at theappointed hour you do your stuff and apparently disasppear like you’ve justgone up the chimney.

Or is the there an even more elusive side to the story? Areyou simply an extra savvy entrepreneur who's moved to the Arctic Circle becauseof tax breaks, lower environmental standards and an abundance of cheap elf labour?

Whatever the truth I'm still waiting for the flamethrowerI've been asking for for the last three years. This year Santa, please – getyour act in order. There are so many places I'm planning to visit with my newtoy.

See you later.

Listening to:

A Fair and Balanced View.

2011-11-21T13:20:00.003Z

An essential fair and balanced view

I'm becoming more than a little unhappy with the BBC. Itseems more and more obvious lately that the powers that be within what issupposedly an independent, objective news organisation are aligning themselvesmore and more closely to the established government line, to the detriment offair and balanced reporting.

For several months I have been annoyed by the politicaldiscussion show "Question Time" chaired by David Dimbleby. The panelsare increasingly weighted on the side of government argument with one Cabinetminister, one Tory MP, one LibDem MP and as often as not a celebrity supporterof Conservative policy with a token Labour voice or independent panellist. Ontop of that I feel that Mr Dimbleby's chairing leaves much to be desiredwhen it comes to objectivity and the ability to provide a fair and opendiscussion. Often he will question the antiestablishment voice on the panelagain and again in supposed "clarification" when he rarely does thisto other panel members and he's much more likely to interrupt anynon-government speaker or curtail the time allotted to them to answer aquestion. I've also found him irritatingly dismissive of clear and sensiblequestions from the audience pertinent to the discussion at hand for noexplicable reason. He also allows Tory and Lib-Dem {or is that Con-Dem} to veer off piste, usually prefaced by the "Of course, we inherited this terrible position from the previous govt who failed to......" or "What the previous govt failed to do was ...." before waffling on about some twaddle which clearly the party want on the agenda but certainly isn't a direct answer to any question put to the panel. And OK, to be fair ALL politicians are prone to this nonsense - but it's the role of a good chairman to keep the panellists in line and stop this infuriating and insulting rubbish out of it. The question is usually "What are you going to do about" something or "Do you feel this is the right way to deal with" something. When asked this, all we want to know is what you are doing about it and why - not what the other party have failed to do or what they have done that's "made things so very much worse than they first appeared". To be honest if you didn't know exactly what was going on then your a bloody poor opposition - and if you couldn't find these things out then you can bet your doing just as much you want to keep hidden too.

I'm beginning to wonder why I watch the damned program.

Even the main evening news on BBC1 the other eveningcontained what I consider to be biased reporting and subliminal messageselevating the position of the government both in national and internationalissues regardless of other relevant points of view. For example; a news itemshowed the three main party leaders visiting a factory together in support of ajobs initiative. The first shot showed the three leaders entering the factoryfloor together while a voice-over explained that David Cameron and the othertwo party leaders had visited the factory. The narrative continued explainingthat "Mr Cameron" was leading an initiative to improve jobs andapprenticeships in British industry. The next 3 min went to great lengths toexplain "Mr Cameron's" visit and each shot showed only the PrimeMinister and not any of the other party leaders. David Cameron was heard to askquestions of workers on the shopfloor and was shown posed in statesmanlikeposes amongst the workers as he listened attentively to them. The voice-overcontinually referred to him as Mr Cameron, something I don't remember happeningbefore when the previous prime minister was referred to as "GordonBrown" or simply "the Prime Minister". It seemed obvious to methat the whole tone of the article was designed to increase David Cameron'sstature in the public eye and though he was visiting with the other partyleaders in this instance, to focus on him as being the only relevant person.

Almost the next item in the news was about "MrCameron's" position on the euro financial crisis. As the newsreader readthe article a photograph was displayed behind her – a compilation of two images– one of Angela Merkel the German Chancellor, the other of the Prime Minister,but in this instance these head and shoulder portraits had been manipulated sothat her figure appeared slightly below that of Mr Cameron and his arm appearedto be wagging a finger at her. It seemed to me that this was designed to givethe impression that he was on the higher moral ground and was reprovinglywarning her off. Interestingly, when you looked closely at the picture it wasclear that this hand was in fact not David Cameron's but hers.

It may be a sign of modern times or it may just be a signthat I'm a grumpy old so-and-so but I'm really disappointed when at almostevery news program I can pick out something that is being emphasised in aparticular direction with no balancing point of view. I'm no intellectual butI'm no idiot either and I resent being treated in a manner that offends mysense of justice and appears to assume that I haven't the ability to smellbullshit when it's propped directly beneath my nose.

Okay – rant over.

See you later.

Listening to:

The Sunday Post

2011-11-20T09:49:00.001Z

Cockburnspath, Scottish Borders

LONDON TO EDINBURGH.

I'm waiting for the moment

when the train crosses the border

and home creeps closer

at seventy miles an hour.

I dismissed the last four days
and their friendly strangers
into the past
that grows bigger every minute.

The train sounds urgent as I am,
it says home and home and home.
I light a cigarette
and sit smiling in the corner.

Scotland, I rush towards you
into my future that,
every minute,
grows smaller and smaller.

Norman MacCaig.

January 1989.

The Sunday Post. - Remembrance Conversations

2011-11-13T10:34:00.014Z

Dad {aged 20} - Front right

"We knew we were different, special. We were treateddifferently almost everywhere. When people saw the wings that marked you asoperational aircrew – maybe on the bus or on the train – you'd quite often get a smile or anod, sometimes a hand on the shoulder or a pat on the back and a word ofencouragement or an appeal to 'give em hell' and of course, the girls loved it. Even on the base aircrew gotthe best of everything – the best rations and the best billets

We felt different too. After all, we'd been selected; gradedand sifted, tested and trained and carefully allocated the roles most suitablefor us. In a way we were an elite and we felt it. Not that you were big headedabout it. That's just the way it was. You had a job to do like everyone elsebut that job just happened to be different to most.

We became a crew one day at the Operational Training Unit back in thehangar when hundreds of us had been gathered together and the senior officersimply ordered "Right - sort yourselves out" and somehow almostorganically we found each other. Groups of you who had trained together wouldbe standing together so there would be little groups of navigators, engineers,wireless Ops and gunners standing about all around the hangar. Pilots would wander round andfind someone they were comfortable with, a navigator or a flight engineer, thenthose two or three would walk round together until somehow there was a crewaltogether for the first time. I think it was best because it wasn't somethingwe'd been ordered into. A crew came together because somehow you knew you'd geton, you'd feel able to trust each other. It was quite magical really and itworked. The next month of constant training exercises turned youinto a crew. Then we were sent to an operational station. We went to Scampton near Lincoln. The base was famous because that's where the Dambusters raid had gone from. Somehow it made us feel a wee bit more special. Somehow we'd something to live up to just because we were at Scampton.

{The personnel required to keep one Avro Lancaster flying on operations, taken at Scampton, Lincolnshire. Front row (left to right); flying control officer, WAAF parachute packer, meteorological officer, seven aircrew (pilot and captain, navigator and observer, air bomber, flight engineer, wireless operator/air gunner and two air gunners): second row, twelve flight maintenance crew (left to right; n.c.o. fitter, flight maintenance mechanic, n.c.o. fitter, five flight maintenance mechanics, electrical mechanic, instrument repairer, and two radio mechanics): third row, bombing up team; WAAF tractor driver with a bomb train of 16 Small Bomb Containers (SBC), each loaded with 236 x 4-lb No. 15 incendiaries and, behind, three bombing-up crew: fourth row, seventeen ground servicing crew (left to right; corporal mechanic, four aircraft mechanics, engineer officer, fitter/armourer, three armourers, radio mechanic, two instrument repairers, three bomb handlers, machine gunbelt fitter): back row (left to right); AEC Matador petrol tender and two crew, Avro Lancaster B Mark I heavy bomber, mobile workshop and three crew.}

On the base, after breakfast every morning, the flightcommander would tell us if we would be operating that night, on stand by or stood down. Crews selected would be posted up just after that. The morning wouldbe taken up by briefings for the senior officers and leaders of gunnery,navigation, communication etc so they could prepare the detailed briefings foraircrew later in the day. If we were ‘on’ we would go and check the aircraftover, making sure that any niggles or malfunctions had been recorded and wouldbe attended to, perhaps even taking the kite up to check everything was okay.Then the waiting would start. A bit later there would be initial briefings forpeople like the wireless operators and bomb aimers but the rest of us wouldhave to wait until late in the day. Waiting was strange and unpleasant,sometimes even hellish. There was always dread deep in the pit of your stomachbut a strange excitement too and of course the time went slowly. Some peoplewrote letters and some played cards or just sat around reading or chatting. Ithink I smoked for Scotland.

Lancasters at Dispersal, Scampton

Meanwhile the ground crew would have been told the numberand type of bombs to be loaded and the amount of fuel for each aircraft and thearmaments bods would be loading the guns and the ammunition tanks. Once bombed up the kites were taken some distance away from the hangers in case of accidents to a dispersal point where they were kept under guard until the crews arrived at the appointed hour. Once the squadron had had an accident when a bomb dropped as they were bombing up and it went off killing all the ground crew and destroying two kites.

Usually late in the afternoon everyone would be called tothe main briefing and we would be told the target and the route. That crankedthe nerves up and tightened your ring I can tell you. We’d find out about potential hot spots and what to look out for from the intelligence officerand we'd be given a motivational chat by someone with scrambled egg {the decorative piping on cap of a senior officer} before the padre closed the meeting witha prayer and we'd file out past the medical officer who would dish out pills to take later tokeep you awake and alert if you wanted them. Then we'd head to the mess for a meal, usually baconand eggs, before final preparations. By the time we came out of the briefingthe station was on lockdown. No leaving the camp and no phone calls out were allowed and allnon-essential phones across the Station were disabled. Even so some peoplewould always try even though they knew it was impossible. This was a time whenthe nerves would be at the worst, there was still hours before the off, thestation was sealed off, the bars were closed and everyone had to fill in thetime as best as possible. Sometimes you had to go to the loo again and againbecause of the nerves but some times were better than others. The crew wouldsit around together and we’d talk or read, tell stories or try and sleep acouple of hours away. If anyone shut themselves away or wanted to be alone itcould be hard on fellow crewmates so generally you didn't do that in case theythought you had the jitters. Sometimes there could be arguments. Even the tiniest thing could set you off but usually one of the others would step in and calm things down. We all knew it was just nerves though even though it didn't help at the time. There was absolutely no alcohol. To be caught drinking would have been a court-martial offence.

About 90 min before the off we'd be taken to the crew roomto change into flying gear. I'd wear thick socks, longjohns and a vest, a shirtand jumper, then an electrically heated jacket with leads which went down yourtrouser legs to heated oversocks. Then I wore a battle dress jacket on top. Iwore three pairs of gloves – silk, chamois and wool or sometimes leather – andflying boots made of leather with sheepskin lining. They had a detachablelegging part which was made to be cut off in the event of parachuting intoenemy territory. Theoretically this turned them into what looked like acivilian boot but I never quite got that as after all, you were still wearingyour uniform. A whistleattached to your collar to help you attract attention from rescuers if youditched at sea. We laughed about that. In reality you'd no chance. Dogtags wentaround my neck along with my St Christopher and my lucky domino in my breastpocket. Finally I had I had a gunners flying suit over everything and then a Mae West lifejacket and the parachute harness and I wascomplete. It was awkward to walk with it all on. On the way out we would pick up our parachutes and a flask of coffee,some boiled sweets, some chewing gum and a bar of Fry’s chocolate cream. Wewould also leave anything which could identify the squadron or its location and any personal possessions behind. These went into two bags. One bagcontained the stuff you wanted to go back to the family. The other was forstuff you didn't want to go back. You have to remember that some of the boyswere seeing other women even though they had a wife or sweetheart at home andthe last thing they wanted would be for a wife to get something they'd beengiven by a girlfriend. We were also issued with escape kits in case of comingdown in enemy territory. These contained a scarf printed with maps of Franceand Germany, phrase sheets, local money and a pen which contained a hiddencompass. Personally I would have preferred a pistol.

Rear Turret

Once we were suited and booted we were driven out todispersal where the aircraft and groundcrew were ready and waiting. Once therethe pilot, flight engineer and the ground crew would walk round the kite and dovisual checks. I would go to the rear and polish the Perspex panes one lasttime. The tension was just hellish and I’d always have to go pee which wasn’tthe easiest thing considering the amount of kit you were wearing. Eventually the word would come and we'd saycheerio to the guys and we’d climb in, me turning left to climb over the bigspar of the rear tailfin before shuffling forward on my buttocks into the rearturret area, hanging up my parachute before sliding into the seat and closingthe doors behind me and beginning with the flight checks, hooking up the helmet microphoneconnecting the crew and connecting the oxygen supply. I'd stick my feet and myhands into the gun control mechanisms and stroke them. I'd talk to the guns andask how they were doing. I called them "my girls" because they'd lookafter me. I'd check the ammunition belts and boxes, remove the securing pinsand switch the safety’s to off. As everybody got to their positions and hookedup the intercom and checked in the pilot and flight engineer would be goingthrough the start-up checklist. Soon the ignitions whined, engines coughed and spluttered into life as the revs kicked in. Engines would start one at a time, spouting flame and great gouts of smoke. Thenoise, vibration and the smell filled the Lanc and the engines would be run to warmup. The kite was awake.

The tail-end Charlie takes his place

Once the order was given we would taxi out from thedispersal point in takeoff order, twelve or fifteen of us in a row towards therunway. My nerves kicked in again because I hated the takeoff. A fully ladenKite takes a long time to lift off the ground and any mistake would bedisastrous. We were after all carrying several tons of high explosive andaviation fuel and I often thought we would just run off the end of the runwayand crash although obviously it never happened. At this point you waited, engines running. Ten minutes was a long time. Twenty was agony. There was a caravan at the far end of the runway and this 'gave you the green light' to go by shining a coloured light but often we had to wait for a long time while bods somewhere decided if the weather would be good enough over the target or some other reason meant that the raid was aborted. Having an op scrapped when you were out there was terrible because you were so keyed up, maybe you'd taken the benzadrine pills to keep alert too so the combination of nerves and drugs guaranteed you'd take a while to calm down again and anyway you'd a certain number of ops for a tour and you just wanted it over. Despite that, cancellations happened fairly regularly so you just had to cope. Terrible, really terrible.

Flight Commander signals green light, Scampton 1944

You never forget that feeling just when the engines areopened up to full throttle and you start to move. The noise is incredible,every part of the Kite vibrates and you feel it, you feel it in your chest andyour arms and your legs, you feel it through the seat of your pants and in yourguts. You vibrate because your part of it too. It was just amazing.

perhaps eight hours ahead

As you trundled down the runway getting faster andfaster the rear turret would be the first part of the aircraft to lift off theground giving you a slight jolt of adrenaline and which also made me first person to leave and the last person to return. Asmore and more of the runway appeared behind me I'd find myself urging her offthe ground. "Come on, come on, come on, come on, lift yourself, lift yourself,come on, come on, come on" until eventually she would lift and you were sailingjust above the ground. It takes a long long time to feel your getting anywhere. 10 feet, 15 feet, 20 feet, 40 feet, 60 feet – safe nowsurely – 100 feet, 200, 300, 500……. and we were off and close by somewhere ahead andbehind so were the others.

The Squadron Taxi's Out, Scampton

Soon the kite would swing round as we turned towards the concentration point where we'd meet the other Squadrons and join to make what was called the bomber stream of hundreds of aircraft. A bomber stream could be six miles wide and over a hundred miles long on a big raid but you felt there was safety in numbers even though there was a bigger chance of collision too at night as we only had a few visible navigation lights to warn of our presence in the sky and at a certain point these were to be switched off so not to give ourselves away to the enemy. The concentration point was a tense time for everyone because of the risk of accidents. We regularly heard of near misses and collisions at concentration points with so many aircraft getting together, especially in the dark, but if everything went well there then your nerves had a chance to calm down a bit. Once out over the sea the order would come for us gunners to test our guns and I'd squirt a few down into the water to make sure everything was working ok before we got too far into the do. Even now I can still taste the rubber and oil from the helmet and mask. That was why we were always clean shaven - to make sure the mask had a good seal for the oxygen supply - otherwise you could pass out due to lack of oxygen at high altitude. For a while after that all that would bother us would hopefully be the cold. "

Plaque in the Squadron Church

See you later

Listening to

Remembrance Day - A Poem for the Boys

2011-11-11T11:00:00.048Z

The Battle of Britain Memorial Flight - an Excellent Film

A poem for Remembrance Day.

LIE IN THE DARK AND LISTEN by Noel Coward.

Lie in the dark and listen,
It's clear tonight so they're flying high
Hundreds of them, thousands perhaps,
Riding the icy, moonlight sky.
Men, materials, bombs and maps
Altimeters and guns and charts
Coffee, sandwiches, fleece-lined boots
Bones and muscles and minds and hearts
English saplings with English roots
Deep in the earth they've left below
Lie in the dark and let them go
Lie in the dark and listen.
Lie in the dark and listen

They're going over in waves and waves
High above villages, hills and streams
Country churches and little graves
And little citizen's worried dreams.
Very soon they'll have reached the sea
And far below them will lie the bays
And coves and sands where they used to be
Taken for summer holidays.
Lie in the dark and let them go
Lie in the dark and listen.

Lie in the dark and listen
City magnates and steel contractors,
Factory workers and politicians
Soft hysterical little actors
Ballet dancers, 'reserved' musicians,
Safe in your warm civilian beds
Count your profits and count your sheep
Life is flying above your heads
Just turn over and try to sleep.
Lie in the dark and let them go
Theirs is a world you'll never know
Lie in the dark and listen.

In loving memory.
Sam Robertson - Bomber Command, 1944-1945
Thomas Hughes - Royal Flying Corps France, 1914 -1918
Sam Robertson - Royal Scots Fusiliers, Gallipoli and Ypres 1914 -1918

Old Dogs. New Tricks

2011-11-08T10:28:00.001Z

Having worked for a company for 32 years I was made redundant in 2009. Hurt and angry at the time I proved they failed to fairly apply company selection procedures during the process and won damages from them. At the time I was confident about the future. We had good insurance cover to protect us financially and I had many years of experience working for one of the UK's most respected companies in an area which was both high pressured and had many transferable applications for the skills I used. Things were getting tough in the job market but I was convinced I would be back in a job in a fairly short time. I had bags of experience, bags of drive and lots of technical skills. I wanted to work. I wasn't one of those workshy wasters who would live off benefits. The next few months carefully removed all of my conceits. Not only didn't I get a job, I didn't get any interviews either despite applying for hundreds of jobs.

The introduction to benefits through jobseekers allowanceand the joys of JobCentre plus and its institutional bureaucracy, while givingme the occasional chance to post a rant or make fun of the ludicrous side of thesituation, soon took its toll of my good humour and tolerance. The lack of anyimprovement in my situation and the absence of any hint of potential jobs soonbegan to erode my self-confidence. The absence of interviews or indeedresponses to applications across that winter though made me even moredetermined. Surely something would come my way?

For the last few years of my employment I had volunteered inthe children's hearing system and my employer had been given an award for theirsupport of my participation. I found this role really rewarding and realisedthat ideally I wanted to take my career away from big business towards thisdirection but unfortunately, I also realised that financially I couldn't affordto do this because of the commitments of mortgage and modern life. Now, with aredundancy package and solid insurance protection behind me, I wanted to makethat move so much of my efforts went in that direction.. Despite my bestefforts this continued to bear no fruit so I was forced to combine job applicationsback into my previous employment arena. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, ofapplications elicited no response, not even the acknowledgement that they hadbeen received. Those who did respond listed lack of formal qualifications,failure to meet specific criteria and worryingly, lack of recent employmenthistory. This final comment more than any other caused me some real despair andcertainly many sleepless nights. Despite that, I rewrote and rewrote my CVnumerous times, tailored each application to the specifics of the jobadvert and continued hammering home application after application,sometimes eight or 10 a day, week after week, month after month.

When I started applying for jobs I looked for salariesaround the earnings I'd been making. By the end of the year I'd reduced myexpectations by 20%. As time went on and more and more applications disappearedinto the void those expectations reduced and reduced 25%, 30%, 40% and finally50% but still there was no sign of any takers.

Finally, a week ago I had an interview. This, in the area ofsocial services that I so desperately wanted to get into, was for part-timework, but by this time all insurance cover had ended and I have never beenentitled to any financial benefits beyond 26 weeks of unemployment benefit longsince ended. The interview seemed to go well but as is the way with thesethings, you can never tell.

Last night, I got a phone call from my interviewer offeringme a job. Not just the part-time job had applied for, but a full-time job inrecognition that I have the kind of potential they are looking for. I wasstunned, in fact I still am. Finally, someone other than family and friends, believes inme. Two bloody years of Purgatory but finally somebody believes in me.

At last.

Once all the checks have been done to allow me to work withvulnerable groups and once my references have been received I will be back inthe land of the working and finally my working life will be moving in thedirection and in the kind of area I want. I will be working with people suffering from autistic spectrum disorders.

Time for this old dog to learn some new tricks!

See you later.

Listening to.

The Sunday Post.

2011-11-06T06:00:00.001Z

Wanting to go,

all the leaves want to go

though they have achieved

their kingly robes.

Weary of colours,
they think of black earth,
they think of
white snow.

Stealthily, delicately

as a safe breaker
they unlock themselves
from branches.

And from their Royal Towers
they sift silently down
to become part of
the proletariat of mud.

Norman MacCaig.
September 1982

photo: Alet Les Baines, Languedoc, France by Alistair.

The Sunday Post.

2011-10-30T07:11:00.002Z

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

by William Henry Davies

The Sunday post

2011-10-23T07:00:00.006+01:00

See these hands folded now,
Hands that wrought for so many,
Tended and tidied a family,
Soothed them and calmed them,
Fed, clothed and reared them
Almost on nothing.

See these hands resting
That in the old hard days
Picked blackberries for pennies
And gathered dry sticks in bundles,
In dim March days I scarcely remember
When beech woods were a mystery
And fox cubs played among daffodils.

See these hands resting,
That raked hay in the fields
Of a summer coloured with butterflies,
That brought tea and sandwiches
To tired men at harvest,
And scattered wheat and Argentinian maize
To hungry hens.

See these hands, hands never still,
Hands they have folded now,
Hands that are resting,
That will never be active again,
Long though I kneel for their blessing.

Frank Mansell.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye.

2011-10-21T18:53:00.004+01:00

I wonder what she was thinking?

It's nice when visitors come to stay. Sometimes in fact, it's brilliant!

Passports please!

We recently had our Swiss niece Julia come to stay. While we were on holiday in Switzerland during the summer we visited the lovely G’s cousins and while there 12-year-old Julia had asked if she could come to stay with us in her October holidays. We said it would be fine as long as her parents were happy and they replied that they would be quite relaxed about it as long as Julia realised that for the first time she would be travelling completely on her own, which is no small thing when taking an international flight from a major airport. Her parents were confident that arrangements could be made to ensure that Julia could be escorted and kept watch over during the journey to make sure that she was okay, if we could make sure that she was met off the plane in Edinburgh.

Unusual sheds, Lindisfarne.

Over the following weeks flights were investigated and arrangements made to make sure everyone was happy and, after what seemed like no time at all, the time arrived for Julia's visit. The lovely G and I had just returned from holiday in France the day before and luckily the forecast weather for the week of Julia stay looked promising for the most part. Numerous texts flew back and forwards between us and Switzerland making sure that we knew of Julia's progress with her parents to the airport, on to the departure gates, then onto the flight and that the flight had departed on time. We arrived at the airport in good time and make sure that the lovely G was in place to meet her with all the proper required documentation to ensure that the airline would relinquish their charge into her hands. This done, Julia was free to enjoy her holiday with us.

What goes up must come down and get wet feet

Julia had been to the house before, on holiday with her parents and her older brother couple of years ago and had loved being in a place so different from her home. That holiday introduced Julia to the nearby beaches, coves and coastline of East Lothian, something that was entirely new to a wee girl from a completely landlocked European country. Julia had probably never seen the sea before, only beautiful Swiss lakes. She was amazed to look out to sea and not see land on the far shore, in fact she was amazed not to see a shore at all. Much of the hot summer fortnight spent with us back then was spent on beaches and in particular on rocky shorelines investigating rock pools at low tide or watching breakers crash down onto the shore in front of them. These things, ordinary to us, completely fascinated Julia and she soon amassed a collection of shell's and stones as well was the odd empty crab shell or claw which were carefully packed to be taken home as treasured possessions.

Treasure

Two years later Julia was just as excited at the prospect of spending time by the sea. As young girls do, she had prepared an itinerary for her holiday which covered almost all the available time with things she hoped to do. Many of those meant being by the water – not necessarily the best place to be in Scotland in October. Luckily for Julia (and for us) the forecast good weather came as scheduled and even managed to crank up the temperature a notch or two above expectations. This gave us the opportunity to spend lots of time with Julia outside doing the things she hoped to do, as well as gave us the chance to do things she hadn't thought of and show her places she hadn't been before. There was plenty of time to indulge her fascination with rock pools, investigating seaweed draped corners and carefully turning over stones to investigate the wildlife hiding underneath. Julia and I spent hours on the nearby coast scrambling across rocky shorelines in the hunt for the perfect pool as we collected and examined shrimps, hermit crabs, starfish and all the other creatures that can be found on the local coastline. As I trundled across seaweed draped rocks, slipping and sliding at almost every step, she skipped like an elf sure-footedly across wet rocks and water filled channels, fearless and unaware in her excitement. More than once I'd to call her back closer to me so that I felt more in control, or to remind her of how quickly incoming tides can come in and the dangers of being left stranded on rocks, especially when accompanied only by an overweight middle-aged man, no matter how proud that same man may be of his junior Lifesavers badge earned 40 years ago in a lovely, heated indoor swimming pool.

......... and wildlife

Julia's gone back home now. A week goes very quickly.. If I was a curmudgeon I could mutter on about how nice it is now to be able to get into the bathroom when I want, to have a shower without checking where our guest is, or to be able to walk around the house without switching off lights as I go, but I won't because those things are unimportant. I miss her smiles and the dozen grateful hugs I received across each day of her holiday. I miss her frantic energy and her enthusiasm. But - I don't miss the responsibilty of being a parent - no matter how temporary it's been.

To busy to pose for photo's

Sweetheart! Should we take her to the doctor??

It's good to have visitors. Sometimes in fact, it's brilliant!

Thanks Julia.

see you later.

Listening to

The Sunday Post

2011-10-16T07:00:00.000+01:00

PRAISE OF A DOG

She was a small dog, neat and fluid –

even her conversation was tiny:
she greeted you with a bow, never a bow-wow.

Her sons stood monumentally over her

but did what she told them. Each grew grizzled
till it seemed he was his own mother's grandfather.

Once, gathering sheep on a showery day,

I remarked how dry she was. Pollochan said, ‘Ah,
it would take a very accurate drop to hit Lassie.’

She sailed in the dingy like a proper sea dog.

Where’s a burn? – She's first on the other side.
She flowed through fences like a piece of black wind

But suddenly she was old and sick and crippled....

I grieved for Pollochan when he took her a stroll
and put his gun to the back of her head.

Norman MacCaig

January 1974

Gentlemen Take Polaroids?

2011-10-12T13:44:00.007+01:00

Early Morn, Villa 'Les Rosiers', Aude, Languedoc.

{Post title is a vague reference to a track by 'Japan' in case you're trying to make a connection.}

Well, that's the final holiday of the year over and the sad return to cold, damp, rainy Scotland happened on Sunday afternoon. We had a great week of good weather in the Languedoc, with temperatures in the high twenties and low thirties each day apart from the last couple before we flew back. In some ways this actually helped us prepare for coming back to the weather that we heard was covering Scotland in rain and windy conditions.

It was great to be back in the Languedoc again. It's an area we've been to a couple of times now and always felt completely at home there, so much so that we have looked at buying a house in the area (should the finances ever allow) at sometime in the future. For now though we have to make do with renting a holiday home, which this time was in the village of Trauss, just to the north of Carcassonne. The house is owned by a British couple, one of two gites attached to their own house, which they bought when they moved to live in France permanently four years ago. {lucky people}

The house was lovely. A typically French affair with shuttered windows, open beams and exposed stone walls, well kitted out with all mod cons and comfortable furniture. Having a nice pool was a definite bonus, despite advice that it would probably be too cold to go swimming as the temperatures now were a lot cooler than the summer temperatures of a few weeks ago. Of course with temperatures at 30 degrees, hotter than the normal Scottish summer, that advice was largely ignored and I was often grateful to have a cooling dip after a long day out on a hot day, especially if that day had involved a long drive or hoof up a mountain to explore a castle or two.

Lastours

Distant Queribus

We spent our time returning to old haunts, exploring new ones and finding those wonderful, unexpectedly amazing restaurants you sometimes find in the farthest corner of the smallest village. We had some amazing meals at bargain prices and certainly didn't lose any weight while we were there, despite doing plenty of walking. We walked through picturesque villages, drove mountain roads covered in fallen chestnuts whose spiny shells carpeted the road as far as you could see. We were amazed by the incredible colours of autumn that were beginning to come to the fore despite the heat and were mesmerised throughout one unforgettable drive through the montaigne noir which lay close behind the village we were living in.

Minerve

Alet les Bains

We spent time in the World Heritage site of Carcassonne old city with its incredible mediaeval walls and soaring towers, glad that the crush of summer tourists had gone leaving space for everyone and time to take photographs undisturbed. We spent the final night of our holiday in a hotel in the old city and I had the amazing buzz of being able to drive through the narrowest streets to get to our hotel at six p.m. when the curfew on cars was lifted, something I've repeated again in the early hours of Sunday morning when we left to go to the airport. An absolutely unforgettable experience.

One of the entrances to La Citie, Carcassonne.

There's always a cat!

or two!

Although the week didn't seem to go too quickly it was over far too soon and it did rekindle our love affair with the area and make us determined to come back more regularly in the future, to explore the area even more thoroughly and perhaps to look further afield at some of the other areas around the Languedoc too.

Cloudy day, Rennes le Chateau

La Tour Magdala

See you later.

Listening to.

The Sunday Post

2011-10-09T07:00:00.000+01:00

SLEEPING COMPARTMENTS.

I don't like this, being carried sideways

through the night. I feel wrong and helpless – like
a timber broadside in a fast stream.

Such a way of moving may suit

that odd snake the Sidewinder
in Arizona: but not to me in Perthshire.

I feel at right angles to everything,

a crossgrain in existence. – It scrapes
the top of my head and my foot soles.

To forget outside is no help either –

then I become a blockage
in the long gut of the train.

I try to think I'm an Alice in Wonderland

mountaineer bivouacked
on a ledge 5 feet high.

It's no good. I go sidelong.

I rock sideways... I draw in my feet
to let Aviemore pass.

Norman MacCaig.

May 1966.

On being quiet this week

2011-10-06T17:38:00.000+01:00

Sh........don't tell anyone

It's because I'm sunning it up in LangueD'oc in the South of France with my Lovely G. The promosed wifi at our gite has not been forthcoming.

So......

Normal service will resume on Monday!

See you later!

The Sunday Post

2011-10-02T07:00:00.000+01:00

Three men are pulling
at the starboard oar,
the man I am and was
and the man I'll be.

The boat sails

to a blind horizon.
Who's pulling on the port side oar
that keeps our course straight?

Pull as we may

We’re kept from turning
to port or starboard by that
invisible oarsman.

'Crew' by Norman MacCaig.

August 1985

Con-text.

2011-10-01T12:29:00.002+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

We live in strange days: natural disasters: economic chaos: political upheaval: terrorism: Scotland warmer than Mexico in the last week of September. Things that can’t be forecast or satisfactorily explained; complicated, unfathomable, such things are mysteries of life, the universe and everything. Living in times like this you become accepting, used to them, somehow inoculated against their effects to continue with your own world-weary view until eventually something truly earthshattering arrives.

Like this morning.

It's early, we're still in bed. On the bedside unit my wife's mobile phone beeps a signal that a text message has arrived. Groggily, she reaches out and picks up the phone squinting at it through sleep drenched eyes. Who could be texting at this time on a Saturday morning?

“Thanks so much for the birthday present. I'll buy something nice with it. We're going to have a birthday meal for the family after the holiday, so hopefully we'll see you there. Thanks again.”

Now you might be thinking that this isn't really an earth shattering experience, but you'd be wrong. This is a thank you text from a teenager. Before lunchtime on a Saturday morning. It's not in text speak and therefore I can clearly understand it. And it's from an 18 year old boy!

There are things in the world which are mysteries and there are things in the world which just should not be. These confuse and confound me, warp my understanding, skew perception and shake my grasp on reality. I've spent 52 years coming to terms with the world, fixing it to a structure so I can see more clearly, so it can fit my expectations and let me announce my occasional weighty, profound and illuminating critiques.

Happenings like this morning make me feel like I know absolutely nothing.

This has got to be against the laws of nature!

Blooming teenagers!

See you later.

Listening to:

Work is - Misery.

2011-09-28T21:26:00.000+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

No explanation needed.

See you later.

Love is - Misery

2011-09-27T03:04:00.001+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Been there. Done that.

A long time ago thankfully.............

lol.

A blog Challenge

2011-09-25T09:06:00.011+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

The curmudgeonly TwistedScottishBastard has thrown down the gauntlet and nominated 'Crivens Jings' to complete a challenge. Nominated blogs have to create a list of the following:

What's your most beautiful post.

What's been your most popular post.

What's been your most controversial post.

What's been your most helpful post.

Which posts success has surprised you most.

Which of your posts do you feel didn't get the attention it deserved.

Which post are you proudest of.

I also have to select five other blogs to take the challenge too, so I nominate the following five blogs to take part if they feel they would like to:

Dougies blog. (Because he complained so much that I missed him off the list the last time. lol)

'think.stew' (Because…… Well, just because.)

'Indigo Roth'. (Simply because sometimes you find a hidden gem of a blog that deserves a wider audience. I'm in awe of the way this guy's mind works – and that some of his choice characters are talking badgers.)

'Coastkid'. (Because I like the fact he's a bike geek, is enthusiastic about where we both live and because he makes great wee films – any of which he can post instead of a written article. And also because he buys me the occasional beer!)

'Letters to the world'. (Because she 's always worth a read – and she led me to Indigo!)

Here's my compilation, which I confess has taken a few days musing:

What's my most beautiful post?

Tricky, after all – how the heck would I know? I suppose I'd have to go for 'Whiskers At Dawn' as it's a personal favourite.

What's my most popular post?

Thankfully this one is easy thanks to blogger stats– although it would also be high on my list for the most surprisingly successful post. 'Black Agnes'

What's my most controversial post?

Again, this is tricky – I don't think I do controversy! I suppose I'd have to go with this one. 'The Devil's in the Detail'

What's my most helpful post?

Crikey! Makes me realise I'm not that helpful either! From a very short list – it would have to be this. 'Contact'

Which posts success has surprised me?

From a very long list it would have to be this one - simply because it was difficult to write and didn't quite get down what I was feeling at the time and yet I got immediate good feedback from some kind people. 'Fear, Reflected' .

Which post hasn't had the success it deserves?

Tricky to answer when the footfall on the blog isn't particularly high. Personally I'd go with this one. 'Am Freiceadain Dubh'

Which post am I most proud of?

I'm quite proud of them all because before starting this blog I've never written anything – even my teenage attempt at a diary lasted for two inconsistent weeks of drivel – but I think I'll choose this one simply because it comes from the early days of the blog and was probably the first time I realised I could connect with my emotions and get them onto the page semi-effectively. 'Connections, Coincidence and Claret'

See you later.

Listening to:

The Sunday Post

2011-09-25T07:00:00.003+01:00

Old man thinking.

Oars, held still, drop

on black water

tiny roulades
of waterdrops.
With their little sprinkling
they people
a big silence.

You who are long gone,

my thoughts of you are like that:
a delicate, clear population
in the big silence
where I rest on the oars and
my boat
hushes ashore.

Norman MacCaig.

May 1967.

Photo of East Lothian by Alistair

Can't stop the music.....

2011-09-24T13:13:00.000+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Occasionally a song gets inside your head and plays havoc as you try to ignore/delete/just lower the volume. This is what's doing my bonce in this morning and apparently can't be removed by anything I try...........

The Sunday Post

2011-09-18T06:29:00.000+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Sonnet 29.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

William Shakespeare

Undaunted By Odds, Unwearied In Their Constant Challenge......

2011-09-15T13:04:00.006+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Interested in history as I am I cannot let today go past without marking what is known as 'Battle Of Britain Day'. This year is the 70th anniversary of the day when the heaviest fighting took place.

In his political career, our famous wartime leader Sir Winston Churchill made many great speeches but two or three in particular are perhaps remembered most. Two of those relate to the war in the skies. Even today these stand as some of the greatest examples of oratory in history and are capable of touching the heart. It's especially interesting to note that these two iconic speeches occured within just two months in 1940, indicating the dire situation facing the country at that time. Especially perhaps on a day such as this, it's worthwhile remembering too, that while oratory remains, it is individuals and their deeds, which are more transient, that stand behind those words and should be remembered most.

Winston Churchill's address to Parliament June 18th 1940.

"What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say; This was their finest hour."

Winston Churchill's address to Parliament; 20th August 1940.

"The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. All hearts go out to the fighter pilots, whose brilliant actions we see with our own eyes day after day; but we must never forget that all the time, night after night, month after month, our bomber squadrons travel far into Germany, find their targets in the darkness by the highest navigational skill, aim their attacks, often under the heaviest fire, often with serious loss, with deliberate careful discrimination, and inflict shattering blows upon the whole of the technical and war-making structure of the Nazi power. On no part of the Royal Air Force does the weight of the war fall more heavily than on the daylight bombers, who will play an invaluable part in the case of invasion and whose unflinching zeal it has been necessary in the meanwhile on numerous occasions to restrain."

Cat-A-Lyst

2011-09-12T05:02:00.014+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Outside the open bedroom window the sound of wind penetrates the darkness. Lying here comfortably in bed (for a change) I listen to its sound as it hisses, swirls and gently swishes around the corner of the house. The trees around the garden add a leafy sibilance as they shudder and shake like they've done across the whole windy day today. Tomorrow gales are forecast across Scotland as we experience the tail end of the hurricane that hit America recently. In all likelihood high winds will mean a bumper crop of windfall fruit from the apple and pear trees for the kitchen and probably enough to be shared out between the neighbours too.

Sleepily I decide a trip to the toilet is in order and gently slip out from under the covers. Comfortable in the darkness, I step around the bed and head towards the door which is slightly ajar to allow Jess to come and go during the night as she pleases. As I pass the end of the bed I see her rise up from the folds of the duvet in the murky light and, as I reach her, she jumps down between me and the door. I watch the white shape disappear around the impenetrable dark of the doors edge and I follow. She walks in front of me, a white splodge in the darkness that leads me along the hall and stops just beyond the bathroom door where the shape changes as she sits down, efficiently marking the point where I should turn to open the bathroom door. As usual I keep the lights off and the moonlight coming through the bathroom window is more than enough to see by. A moment or two later I turn off the tap and dry my hands before opening the door back out into the landing. The ghostly shape sits patiently waiting until the door opens and then leads me back to the bedroom. I follow a few sleepy paces behind, not quite closing the door fully behind me as I enter. A small gurn of effort tells me that she's lept back up onto the bed even before I hear the airy puff of her landing on the duvet beside the sleeping shape of G.

I climb carefully back into bed beside my wife's sleeping form but I can tell from the lack of movement when I try to pull the duvet over me that Jess is there waiting for her reward. As I prize enough duvet back from beneath her to cover my less than sylph-like figure, she steps forward until, by the time I'm successfully covered, she is by my chest. I roll onto my side facing her and after a second she sits down and lowers her head toward me. A loud purr starts when I reach out to rub her shoulders and neck and after a few seconds she collapses against me while I close my eyes and continue massaging. As penances go it's quite therapeutic really.

Some time later I wake.

Jess is still beside me, silent now and fast asleep tucked against my chest. It takes me a moment to realise what has wakened me. The room is silent. There's no sound of wind beyond the window. I listen for what seems like only a few seconds before the distinct patter of raindrops on the pantile roof drifts back to me. In the perfect silence it has an oddly musical quality that is very hard to describe, but somehow seems close to the sound of a wooden xylophone being struck by knitting needles. I lie musing on the image I've just created in my head and can't stop feeling that it's accurate as the sound of rain gets heavier and the noise of raindrops on the window and frame is added to the quietly building cacophony.

I reach out to Jess and she begins to emit a pattering sound.

Outside, the rain purrs down.

See you later.

Listening to:

The Sunday Post

2011-09-11T09:11:00.003+01:00

On such an anniversary there can be only one kind of poem.

If I should die and leave you here a while,
be not like others sore undone,
who keep long vigil by the silent dust.
For my sake turn again to life and smile,
nerving thy heart and trembling hand to do
something to comfort other hearts than thine.
Complete these dear unfinished tasks of mine
and I perchance may therein comfort you.

Mary Lee Hall

Paint Your Palette Blue And Grey.

2011-09-10T23:11:00.000+01:00

ISO 200 f/4.5 for 0.6 sec.

Hullo ma wee blog,

Nice light tonight took me to the nearby headland for what I hoped might be a decent shot of dusk.

ISO 200 f/5.6 for 1 sec

Untouched by photoshop, just as they came off the camera, they reflect the true colours tonight.

See you later,

Listening to;

Now What can I say?

2011-09-10T18:36:00.002+01:00

Picture from Wikipedia

Hullo ma wee blog,

In Scotland, if not the whole of the UK, there's a well known saying when a job seems to be taking a long time to complete that it's "like painting the Forth Rail Bridge" because this's literally a never ending job. No sooner had the poor blighters painted themselves from one side 1.5 miles across to the other than they had to catch the next train back and start the whole bloomin' thing all over again.

Until now.

Now, some bright spark has invented a long life paint resistant to sun and sea that will last twenty five years between coats. This week, the poor guys who have been painting this fine edifice since 1890 completed the mammoth task for the last time and celebrated by doing themselves out of a job.

.......and me out of a saying.

Thanks Lads!

see you later.

listening to.

Freddie Mercury would be HOW old?

2011-09-05T19:30:00.003+01:00

Statue of Freddie, Montreux, Switzerland.

Hullo ma wee blog,

Freddie Mercury, the charismatic lead singer of rock band Queen would have been 65 today. I heard this on the radio as I travelled across the country to see a friend and was stunned to realise that, had he lived, this great musician and character would have been a pensioner picking up his bus pass today.

I always enjoyed Queen’s music, although I was never a true fan. I always thought they were talented musicians, good songwriters and exceptional showmen, whose songs have the rare balance of intelligent lyrics, great tunes, and fantastic delivery. As a lover of live music, they were a band I'd have loved to see but never did. Much of their music holds up well to the passing years, unlike many and Freddie, if at all possible, is a bigger star today than he was when he was alive. Who knows what fantastic tracks he and the band would have made since, had he lived.

There are many tracks I could choose to play as a tribute in memory of and no doubt there will be more than a few across the Internet today. Here are a couple of my favourite tracks from the band.

I hope you enjoy them. (Especially you Jane)

See you later.

The Sunday Post

2011-09-04T07:00:00.005+01:00

WILD OATS.

Everyday I see from my window

pigeons, up on a roof ledge – the males
are wobbling gyroscopes of lust.

Last week a stranger joined them, snowwhite
pouting fantail,
Mae West in the Women's Guild.
What becks, what croo – croos, what
demented pirouetting, what a lack
of moustaches to stroke

The females – no need to be one of them

to know
exactly what they were thinking – pretended
she wasn't there
and went dowdily on with whatever
pigeons do when they're knitting.

Norman MacCaig

February 1968

Yoko Ono / Kerry Katona

2011-09-03T02:53:00.003+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

If I was Yoko Ono's Dad...........

...............I would have called her sister 'O-Yes!'

And - I sometimes wonder if Kerry Katona actually owns a cat???

See you later.

Listening to

G'night..........{yawn}

2011-09-01T02:34:00.000+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Too many things are swirling through the brain tonight, thoughts that won't form themselves into any kind of sense and images that are tumbled through with feelings that won't willingly give me the words to describe them. {How do you spell a sigh or the sound of a wave as it falls over on itself?}

I'm tired and heading off to bed - to dream of better words.

See you later.

Listening to.

If I was illiterate..........

2011-08-31T13:49:00.001+01:00

I really would judge a book by it's cover!

Um.......

Aye, ok.

Bye!

It's Got To Be Purr-fect

2011-08-30T22:54:00.002+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

It's late.

I'm cold and I’m tired. This isn’t surprising since it’s silly o’clock in the morning and the house has been quiet for hours, soon after My Lovely G had come to kiss me goodnight, yawn and make her way upstairs to bed, taking time to perform her nightly ablutions before switching off the lights in the hall and closing the bedroom door, leaving me to follow on behind when I feel I'm tired enough to make sleep a possibility. In the past weeks I've tried every combination and convolution of routine in trying to find a way to get a decent night's sleep. Despite this, I've not found a consistent solution to the problem. Eventually, to avoid waking my lovely G with my constant tossing and turning, I've resorted to staying up until tiredness hits me. Sometimes, that's four a.m. Tonight it's a little better.

Several hours have passed since G went upstairs and eventually weariness has begun to set in making me think that perhaps I should head upstairs and try to get some rest. I close down the computer, get up from my chair, collecting the coffee cup from earlier in the evening as I go, and head towards the kitchen where I rinse the cup and leave it on the draining board to dry before going to the utility room to spend a moment or two saying goodnight to a sleepy Jess who is warm and comfortable in her basket. She purrs loudly in response to my hand on her shoulder and neck and watches me with large eyes as I massage her for a second or two while I murmur goodnight sleepily at her. After a few moments I turn away towards the door but before I get there a plaintive meow follows. I turn back to find Jess, now fully awake, is in the process of stretching and rising to a seated position. Seeing she has my attention she meows again more forcefully. Clearly she wants to come with me. I hesitate, worried that if she comes upstairs now she's awake she'll be disruptive and need to be brought back downstairs which in turn will disrupt me from any chance of sleep, but decide despite that to take her with me. I give her a look that I hope shows my concern by way of a warning in the hope of good behaviour and say, "Aye, okay." I pull the door open and stand aside as she struts along the edge of the work surface with her tail held up in triumph before jumping down to land lightly at my feet. She takes a few steps towards the door into the hall and sits politely down to wait as I close the utility room door behind me and reach towards the light switch. As I open the hall door she slips through before me and heads towards the stairs, pausing momentarily to look back at me as if for permission, before she begins to climb. I close the door quietly behind me and follow on, switching off the light downstairs as I go.

Jess sits waiting facing the bedroom door as I climb the stairs. Despite the look she gives me that clearly says she feels she's been patient enough, I turn away from her and head towards the bathroom. After a few minutes of tooth brushing I'm ready and head back towards the bedroom. Jess is still there, although now she's facing towards me and has her back to the bedroom door. "If only cats could frown" comes to mind as I walk towards her. I give one final look to warn/beg for good behaviour as I open the door and once again she slips ahead of me into the darkness. I hear a sound, a small puff of air that tells me she's lept up onto the bed beside My Lovely G as I walk round to my side of the bed peeling off T-shirt and trousers before eventually climbing under the duvet. I pull it up across my shoulder and sigh with contentment, realising that sleep is a real possibility.

Instinctively when I go to bed I reach towards my lovely G and usually spend a few minutes caressing her back, shoulders or hips and tonight is no exception, even at this late hour. Touching her reminds me how cold I really am. I'm absolutely freezing. Tonight, my roaming hand also serves to raise a groan from the sleeping silhouette beside me and she turns towards me, reaching out to clasp and pull me towards her. She holds me to her skin in a burning embrace that instantly begins to force heat into my body. It feels incredible. She takes a deep breath, sighs contentedly and kisses my cheek. Her hand presses against my shoulder indicating that I should turn around, and as I do so she slips closer behind me and I'm held by a gentle arm across my waist. The heat of her pours into me and the cold slips out. I groan in deep satisfaction and, as the heat penetrates, I feel myself almost literally fall backwards towards sleep.

I feel Jess gently (for once) move across my legs and up towards my chest. She sits momentarily before collapsing softly against me and I begin to feel her heat seep through the duvet and chase the last vestiges of cold from my chest.

I smile as she begins to purr. This time, I know I'll be joining her shortly.

Purrfect........

See you later.

Listening to:

For You dbs.......

2011-08-29T19:55:00.002+01:00

Sometimes - you get an impression of someone.

Hullo ma wee blog,

Seems like blogger pal dbs has a problem. He's got too many apples and is struggling to know what to do with them. While this may not solve the problem entirely, I hope it goes some way to making the solution that more enjoyable. If I have you sussed out properly - and I think I do, this may make quite a dent in the problem.

THREE-MINUTE PASTRY.

This farmhouse pastry method was taught to me by my wifes's Aunt {and Godmother} in Switzerland who uses it to make the most incredibly delicious tarts {called 'dunne' doon-eh} which we love. There's no need for any of the ingredients to be chilled or to go into the fridge at any time and the speed of making the pastry is breathtaking for a completely hand-made pastry which is used raw without any need for baking 'blind'. While it's ideal for these little tarts, giving a really crisp thin pastry shell for them, I wouldn't use it for tarts where the filling ingredients are really wet. The secret of success is that the whole should be light and flavoursome with a perfectly cooked filling and an extra thin crisp base which cooks quickly in a hot oven. To help this, the liquid mixture should be applied sparingly, poured over all the filling but still barely covering the base for fruit - which makes the fruit the star of the show - and a bit more generously for a savoury filling like cheese which would burn unless there is some protection from the liquid content. These are so easy to make and so quick, that I'm sure a wee bit of experimentation will be only too easy to do.

Take 55 grams of butter or margarine. Melt gently in a pan.
Add 100 mils of water and a pinch of salt.
Add 200 grams of sifted plain flour.

Method.

Stir until the dry and wet ingredients are thoroughly but barely combined. I know this sounds odd but just don't over-work it......

Remove the dough from the pan and press together in a rough ball but do not knead.

Wrap in cling film and leave aside for a minimum two hrs but preferably 6-8 hrs at room temperature.

Once the dough has rested, unwrap and divide into two.

Without kneading roll out each portion into a thin disk sufficient to fill an eight inch tart tin. (ungreased) Don't worry if it tears - this is the ideal pastry for any beginner and is very forgiving - just use any excess to patch any areas of concern.

Believe it or not - that's the hard part done!

Prepare filling.

Take half a cup of single cream and add one egg and beat together along with one teaspoon of cornflour (cornstarch) dissolved in some more single cream.
Slice the fruit of your choice e.g. Apple, pear or any fruit you fancy into thin or medium slices and arrange neatly in the pastry case. (Unripe or ’sharp’ fruit may need some sugar added before cooking and a wee touch as served)
Carefully pour over the cream mixture – do not flood the pastry case, use minimum liquid needed to provide a thin layer on the bottom of the pastry case.

Bake in the oven for 20 minutes at 220 degrees.

This is an odd pastry which is ideal for these small tarts. As well as the sweet fruit tarts, the base is also ideal for savoury fillings such as cheese – I use Gruyère – or cheese, ham and leek. Whatever the filling, these tarts are best made with only a shallow filling that helps the pastry to cook quickly enough in a hot oven so that it doesn’t become soggy once the cream/egg mixture has been added. The pastry may shrink away from the edges of the tin, but that's okay. After all, we're just making something to eat, not something for show.

The sweet tarts are ideal served at room temperature and to be honest I just serve it with some of that really cheap aerosol cream, but lightly whipped fresh cream would be perfect.

And that's just hard as it gets.

So, dbs, I hope that solves some of the problems you've got with your rather bountiful harvest at present. I don't suppose for a second that will use up all the apples, but these little tarts taste so good and are so easy to make that I'm sure you and the family will really enjoy them and that should get rid of a lot of those apples!

Let me know how you get on.
p.s. They're not fattening until you eat them - so why not give some away????

dbs' highly addictive wee blog can be found here.

See you later.

Listening to:

Death of a Prince – Bonnie Prince Charlie

2011-08-28T22:16:00.008+01:00

On the south bank of the River Arno in Florence, on the corner of the Via Mazetta in the Piazza Santo Spirito stands the Palazzo Guadagni. This sixteenth century building is handsome enough but somehow lost amongst Florence's incredible Renaissance architecture. Most tourists generally pass it by, but it's worth paying attention to, especially if - like me - you're fascinated by Scots history. Behind these thick walls and huge wooden doors far from home the Jacobite dream finally ended. Here, Charles Edward Stuart fought and lost his last battles to be recognised as King of Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland. Here too took place a squalid, violent and chaotic marriage with his beautiful and lively young wife, Louise de Stolberg.

The marriage of Charles Stuart and Louise was a disaster right from the start. He married her for the male heir she never produced; she married him for a kingdom he could never deliver. He was arrogant and authoritarian with an unshakeable belief in his right to the throne of Britain: she was vivacious, restless and sociable. Demoralised by failure, exile and constant diplomatic and social snubs, over the years Charles became even more embroiled in alcoholism, his health failed and he wallowed in increasing self-pity. Here in Florence Louise learned to despise him and then punished him by taking a string of lovers, one of whom – the well-known poet Vittorio Alfieri – she eloped with.

For six years between 1774 and 1780, in private inside the Palazzo Guadagni, and outside in public, Charles and Louise mauled each other with breathtaking viciousness. Florentine society gossiped and sniggered while they waited for the marriage to disintegrate in disgrace and spies working for the British government charted and cheerfully reported the downward spiral of the relationship in all its happy detail.

An incredibly romantic and heroic figure in popular Scots history, ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ as Charles Edward Stuart is perhaps best known, is best remembered for his ‘so near and yet so far’ exploits during the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 and particularly his flight across the Highlands and Islands after the Battle of Culloden, the tale of Flora MacDonald, and the loyalty of the Jacobite clansmen who fought for him. History books often lead us to believe that the story ends there but in fact he still had another 42 years to live. History also forgets he was incredibly right wing,highly conservative, had a staunch belief in his right to absolute rule and was sponsored by tyrants for their own political gain.

The end of his life was far from romantic, sentimental or heroic.

Louise de Stolberg

In those 42 years though, he never stopped plotting and scheming. He never stopped lobbying European powers to return the house of Stuart to the British throne from which his grandfather, James VII of Scotland and II of England had been driven into exile in 1688. Loyal followers of King James were known as ‘Jacobites’ from the Latin for James and after 1745, while his father continued to remain in Rome under the protection of the Pope, Charles stayed in France because the King Louis was his most likely ally. During this time Europe was involved in a struggle between Catholicism and Protestantism that placed France and Britain on opposing sides. The Jacobites therefore were initially highly influential and potentially very useful to France, although the failure of the 1745 Rebellion – mainly due to France's lack of support and Charles’ headstrong naïveté – had significantly reduced their influence with King Louis. By 1749 though Louis finally lost patience with Charles and the Jacobites and had him move out of the city to Avignon where eventually the local archbishop also lost patience with this impulsive, headstrong ‘Prince of Scotland’. The political worth of the Stuarts had waned and they were now more of a tool in levering advantage in the politics of the day rather than a weapon to attack the throne of Britain.

For more than a decade Charles wandered around Europe plotting and scheming, taking time to father - by his mistress, Clementina Walkinshaw - a girl, Charlotte, his only known child – in October 1753. Always a heavy drinker, he became more and more reliant on alcohol to buoy his mood and perspective on the world.

Then, at the beginning of January 1766, Charles's father, James Stewart, the Old Pretender, died.

Charles declared himself King Charles III of England, Scotland and Ireland while equally swiftly the British royal house of Hanover acted to make sure that nobody else in Europe called him that. The situation in Europe had changed in the intervening years, the Jacobite cause had few advocates and with the exception of Spain and France, no European country wanted anything to do with the defeated and discredited Stuarts while the House of Hanover had ascended in its importance and influence. Charles though was undeterred and found himself rejuvenated. He moved to Rome hoping for recognition from the Vatican, where his brother Henry was a cardinal. Unsurprisingly considering the new political landscape, although the Pope had recognised Charles's father as King, the Vatican refused to recognise Charles in his place. Charles would never forgive the Pope or his cardinals and railed against them for the rest s life.

Charles was determined to play the King in exile, but was thwarted at every turn. He moved into his father's Palazzo in Rome but the Pope ordered the royal coat of arms above the gates should be removed. When some Jacobites amongst the Scots, Irish and English colleges in Rome began addressing Charles as the monarch they were banished from Rome. Rome and society treated Charles like he was just one more aristocrat among many, and a minor one of no real importance at that. They recognised him as the Count of Albany but never as King Charles III.

Clementina Walkinshaw

Even a pretend, or an unrecognised dynasty, needs heirs and Charles had dynastic ambitions but Clementina Walkinshaw was a commoner and therefore unsuitable to provide the next generation of Stuart royalty. In the early 1770's Charles began to search the European aristocracy for the suitable wife. He eventually he found one. Louise de Stolberg – Gedern, was the 19-year-old daughter of a minor German Princeling killed fighting for the Austrians in 1757. Suitably, she was even distantly related to the Bruce's through her mother's line. Reports came back that blonde, blue-eyed Louise had "a good figure, pretty face and excellent teeth and all the qualities which your Majesty can desire". Who could resist such a recommendation?

Some historians believe Louise to Stolberg was an innocent sacrificed to an older middle-aged drunkard but Louise knew what she was doing. She was well educated and calculating and Charles Stuart was a better catch than most of the minor royalty that would come knocking on her door and, even though it was a slim chance, he held the prospect of a Crown. The fact is she was very keen to marry him. They were married in Paris, by proxy, on the 28^th of March 1772 and then again in the flesh, on the seventeenth of April in the Marefoschi Palace, Macereta and proceeded to Rome where Charles's brother Henry organised a triumphal procession into the city for the "King of England" and his queen. The crowds turned out in force to see Charles and his bride arrive in Rome where the couple set up court and began to live the life of European royalty, ‘receiving’guests at court, rarely venturing out to socialise with mere mortals. But in reality they were fooling themselves. The new Pope, Clement X I V, refused to recognise Charles as a King. Roman aristocracy were happy enough to call on the "Count and Countess of Albany" but could not recognise them or address them in the way that Charles wanted so desperately.

Cardinal Henry Stuart

As the diplomatic and social snubs continued, Charles grew more depressed and morose and sought refuge in alcohol. By 1773, the Hanoverian spy Sir Horace Mann was reporting that Charles was ‘seldom sober and frequently commits the greatest disorders and his family’, reporting that Charles was drinking a dozen bottles of wine a day.. In those circumstances it is hardly surprising that an attractive, intelligent woman who had eye of many would eventually turn away from husband. Many young aristocrats of the day, doing the fashionable European tour, with pay court to Louise over the next several years, attracted by the glamour and notoriety of the Jacobites and the personality of the woman who had become named "Queen of hearts".

Charles in old age

By the start of 1774 Charles would suffer Rome and its perpetual insults no more and he moved his "court" to Florence. The reason for this is not clear because the Duke of Tuscany was just as hostile to Charles and the Stuarts as the Pope and had no intention of upsetting the British by welcoming The Pretender. Also, the British government's chief spy in Italy, Sir Horace Mann, lived only a few streets away from the Palazzo Gaudagni where Charles and his young wife resided and he ensured that the "Royal" household was well manned with spies who reported on all the comings and goings and the day to day machinations of the house.

If anything the isolation of the family in Florence was even greater than when in Rome. The Duke of Tuscany annoyed and embarrassed Charles by having his Royal coat of arms removed from above the box he used at the theatre. Only Jacobite exiles and beggars on the street gave Charles the recognition he felt he deserved. He led a strange existence becoming gradually more and more isolated and more and more demoralised which led to even greater depths of drunkenness and, as a result, even greater disapproval from the authorities in Florence and the Duke in particular. The strong physique of Charles's youth and disappeared and age and years of bad living had taken its toll. Now he was fat, breathless, his stomach was troubled and he could not control his belching and farting which became a constant source of embarrassment. His legs swelled until he had to be carried everywhere. Dropsy added to his already ample girth and he began to suffer from epileptic fits. Reports from this time describe Charles as vomiting in the corridors of the theatre and opera in plain sight of the general public. No matter how low this appears for one in his position, Charles would soon reach even lower.

By now Louise had come to despise him and the communication deteriorated into bad tempered notes to each other. Their physical relationship seems to have stopped by this time and Louise pointedly threatened to advertise the fact. Despite Charles’s isolation and depression, Louise in contrast was still very much in favour and receiving numerous visitors. Charles was overcome by insecurity and jealousy and would not let her out of his sight. All routes to her rooms, except those that went through his own, were barricaded. It was at this point that Alfieri appeared in Louise's life and soon became her lover.

The downward spiral of isolation of alcohol continued and increasingly the Duke of Tuscany regarded him with horror and embarrassment. Eventually, he forbade members of Florentine aristocracy to visit Charles, which piled even more isolation onto him and fed his feelings of despair and bitterness. He had lost grip of his political life and his personal one too. It may be that this was the reason for the public disaster that was about to happen. The mounting tension between Charles and Louise exploded into violence on the thirtieth of November 1780. Charles had been drinking heavily and telling his often repeated stories about his escapades during the rebellion. A row developed which escalated beyond the usual raised voices into physical violence. Some say he attacked her, some say he was trying to rape her. Whatever was the literal truth, her screams brought dozens of servants rushing into her bedroom. All of them saw Charles assaulting his wife.

The marriage was over.

Helped by Alfieri, Louise fled to a convent nearby. When Charles tried to gain access the Abbess refused to let him in and he stood screaming abuse from the street. Sometime later, supported by an armed guard provided by Cardinal Henry her brother-in-law, Louise left the convent for Rome and the protection of her brother-in-law. Charles and Louise never met again. Louise would spend the rest of her life with her lover until he died in 1803.

Charles tried to restore some dignity and respectability to the household in Palazzo Gaudagni by recognising and legitimising his daughter, Charlotte, by his mistress Clementina Walkinshaw and by inviting her to live with him in Florence. For some time her father was satisfied that she took her Royal duty seriously, insisting that servants and visitors address Charles as "Majesty" and herself as "Highness". She also treated the ailing pretender with a care and affection that his wife had never shown.

Charles died, aged 67, in Rome in the early hours of the thirtieth of January 1788. His body was carried to the cathedral at Frascati to lie in state, bedecked in royal robes and with a replica of the English Crown on his head, the sceptre in one hand and the sword of state in the other. His brother the Cardinal said a requiem mass over him and then declared himself to be Henry IX, King of England, Scotland and Ireland. This too would never be recognised officially by the pope or any sovereign state.

Charles was buried in the cathedral at Frascati and later reinterred in St Peter's basilica in Rome beside his father and his brother.

His daughter, Charlotte, his only offspring, died of cancer of the liver a year after her father.

Louise Stuart nee de Stolberg died in 1824. She continued acting the part of Queen of England until she died.

Like the fortunes of the Jacobites, the Pallazzo Gaudagni faded over the years until it was a shadow of its former self. Now it has been restored and is a three star hotel. Its link with Scotland and the Royal House of Stuart is not mentioned on its website.

See you later.

Listening to:

The Sunday Post

2011-08-28T06:56:00.000+01:00

The way it goes.
Reality isn't what it used to be,
I mutter gloomily
when I feel like Cortes on his peak in Darien
and then remember it wasn't Cortes at all
and feel more like him than ever.

Norman McCaig.
January 1979

One day...

2011-08-27T01:53:00.000+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

My Lovely G and I went to the cinema the other day. We went to see ‘One Day’, the film based on the book by David Nichols. We saw him at last year's Edinburgh Book Festival talking about this book which he had just completed and on the back of enjoying the evening we both read the book. I thought the book was really good. I thought the idea of using one repeating day the across some two decades to catalogue and tell the story of the relationship between a boy and a girl/ a man and a woman was a unique idea.

The book is partially set in Edinburgh, where the two main characters meet during the University time and then follows on elsewhere across the years and a relationship where they are emotionally never too far apart but never quite together in one of those familiar tales where teenage angst develops into adult confusion, longing and the fear of having let something incredible slip away as you settle for an uncomfortable friendship rather than risk losing someone you need and love.

It's always strange watching a film set somewhere so familiar, as the way a cinematographer will cut shots of individual places together can be confusing, almost annoying even, when you know the place so well yet watch characters stroll down a street, turn a corner and end up a couple of miles away, turned yet another corner and find themselves (in reality) back with they started. Of course that's not something that affects the majority of moviegoers, most of the time anyway.

One of the main benefits, having read the book, was that the film stayed very true to the structure, content and style of the book. This is probably due to the fact that Nichols himself wrote the adaption to screenplay which gave the whole a nice clarity and continuity with the book and especially the characters, which is unusual in a film of a book rather than the book of a film. I've often gone to see a film made from a book and been disappointed because the screen experience doesn't measure up to the imagination. While I love cinema, I also love what a good book can create in your imagination. The two aren't always compatible and lots of movies I've seen have left me feeling disappointed and sometimes cheated. I think that this continuity was really important in this film because the book is about character predominantly and the author's touch was retained in the screenplay. Despite that it's not a patch on the book.

This film isn't high art, it's entertainment. It's a decent story well told, well cast, filmed and produced but it's not going to win any Oscars. Anne Hathaway for example, right for the part as she may be, sometimes struggles to maintain an English accent. Despite this the film kept me engaged, entertained and just as importantly for my lovely G – awake. One difficulty is casting lead roles and expecting actors in their thirties to play an age range from 18 to 40. Belief is stretched just a little thin, particularly in the teenage years. It's been getting mixed reviews too.

I enjoyed it. But then again I did write in my blog profile that I'm becoming scarily fond of chick flicks but maybe it's an age thing!

I'd still recommend it.

See you later

Listening to:

Courage beyond fear.

2011-08-25T00:51:00.005+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

Sometimes things come unbidden to mind. Sometimes you've no idea what triggers memories and sometimes you know absolutely what the trigger is and yet it's not something you have any control over. For instance, I've written a lot about my Dad in the course of this blog, but even then you of course have hardly scratched the surface, because life's like that; it's complicated. I've written extensively about his time in the RAF during the Second World War where he served as tail gunner in Lancaster bombers. He was merely a tiny part of something enormous and yet it's interesting to realise that there are things out there, often much bigger things that somehow make you remember tiny details.

Research for the 153 Squadron postings piqued my interest in the Second World War in general and RAF bomber command in particular. Nowadays, I watch a number of programs relating to World War II in the air. Some of them are good, some not so good, but often, details of remembrance come back to me. I watched a documentary about bomber command the other day and the programme contained interviews with surviving aircrew who flew in bombers, particularly Lancasters. Naturally, I found some of what was being said quite moving. Some of it triggered memories of conversations with my Dad. Tiny details and some significant things came back to me as I watched and listened to what these men were saying. Here are a couple of examples from the programme that particularly resonated.

Background/crew bale out/ tail gun position.

This section brought back a memory where Dad told me about the rear gun turret, how he'd had the Perspex panel in front of him removed to improve vision as when it was in place it was prone to icing up, reducing critical visibility. He also reminisced about donning the flying gear – rear gunners, due to the exposure to the cold, wore much more protective clothing than other aircrew. Dad remembered that he had been trained to put on this equipment slowly so he did not sweat. At 20,000 feet the temperature could plummet to minus 40 degrees C in the gun turret and this would cause residual sweat to freeze on the skin despite the layers of clothing protecting him.

area bombing/Cologne/aircrew/fears

The following section reminded me of when Dad spoke about training flights; evasive action was a key requirement for any operational crew and the ability to switch into evasive action smoothly and swiftly was an essential, potentially life-saving necessity. The corkscrew manoeuvre was practised again and again, often causing aircrew to be violently sick. It was this memory that Dad revealed when he explained what happened to him the very first time he had experienced ‘the corkscrew’. He described the terror of plunging downwards in a near vertical backwards position, how he had screamed until he ran out of breath only to vomit when the aircraft turned vertically upwards. This manoeuvre disorientated him for a few seconds until, having recovering his equilibrium, the aircraft was again pitched into a vertical dive and he vomited again. He remembered the disgusted ground crew back at base handing him a can of paraffin with which to clean up the resultant mess, which he did with a churning stomach. The manoeuvre, and the result, was practised over and over again. It was something Dad hated with a passion, particularly during night training flights when the disorientation was multiplied by the darkness. Eventually he overcame the sickness but always feared the potential need to perform a maneuver like this in a congested night-time sky filled with other bombers

He also described training in low-level high-speed flying in similarly horrified terms, once with a pilot who was afterwards removed from duties due to being assessed as unbalanced and unsuitable for flying duties! (Dad recalled flying over water at such low levels that he screamed into his intercom that "if you go any f****** lower I’ll have my F******* feet in the f****** water!")

The bomb run/flak/enemy fighters/corkscrewing/window

Needless to say, these things made me quite teary eyed, but I have to admit, they made me smile too. The overwhelming thought though was how on earth any of them managed to cope under these circumstances with what they were facing. Despite this, it's only a small part of the man I knew.

High density defenses/type of flak/Dresden

God – I miss the old bugger!

To read the full story of 153 Sqdn and their campaign in date order start here and follow through the dates by clicking 'newer posts'.

See you later.

Listening to;

TWO LETTERS.

2011-08-24T09:55:00.002+01:00

Hullo ma wee blog,

On October the fourteenth 1964, Nikita Khrushchev, leader of the Soviet Union, was deposed by his rivals in the Soviet central committee. When his successor Leonid Brezhnev took over he found on the desk in his office a hand-written note and two sealed envelopes from the defeated predecessor. The note said, "Keep these letters safe and when things go wrong and you don't know what to do next, open the first letter. The next time things go wrong and there is no escape from disaster open the second letter."

About a year into his new office the situation was precarious and Brezhnev was on the brink of political defeat. Having tried everything he knew and his advisers being unable to come up with any kind of solution, he was sitting at his desk when he remembered the note and letters from Khrushchev. In desperation he rifled through the drawers of the desk until he found the note. He re-read the note and tore open envelope one.

Inside was written two words, "BLAME ME".

He did, and miraculously this saved the political situation.

Several years later another crisis loomed and he was again faced with complete disaster. Once more he remembered the advice from his predecessor and the resulting successful recovery and once again he retrieved the letter from his desk. With a smile he opened the letter and began to read. The letter said,

"Sit down and write two letters."

See you later.

Listening to: