EDINBURGH BOOK FESTIVAL 2011 – IAIN BANKS.

Hullo ma wee blog,

Last night was the first visit to the Edinburgh book Festival this year. As has become customary I took my brother-in-law, Tony, to see one of our favourite authors, the Scots writer of fiction and science fiction, Ian Banks, or Ian.M.Banks as he's known as in sci-fi circles. We've both seen Ian Banks at events several times over the years, usually here in Edinburgh. Tonight, Scotland’s first Minister, Alex Salmond, interviewed him. It's unusual to have such a well-known figure host the event and I hoped that it would make the evening even more special. Tony and I had arrived at the venue good time and managed to get seats in the front row only a few feet away from the action.

Alex started off his introduction to the session by admitting that he never fully read Ian's last sci-fi novel, but he also said that if anyone was going to ask questions on a topic he knew nothing about and hadn't thoroughly researched, then a politician was probably the best person to do it, given that this is what they do for a living, and with his vast experience he hoped he would be able to muddle through. He also admitted that due to an administrator error, both Ian and himself had actually been arranged and had attended the night before by mistake. Luckily, both he and Ian were available for tonight as well, although he had cancelled his attendance at the big football match in the city tonight. "Not," he said, "that this was a problem, as I am delighted to attend the book Festival event instead, despite my well-known support for the Edinburgh team playing tonight." He continued, "and I have assured the director of the festival that the unfortunate error will have no implications on the funding for next year's book Festival!"

His handling of the event over the next hour continued to be confident and affable as you would expect from a polished political performer, but it was obvious that he knew very little about Ian Banks, particularly his science-fiction writing. This did impact the flow somewhat but he did well to keep things moving on at a pace and to keep the tone light-hearted and focused on the author rather than himself. The evening usually follows a set agenda; an initial interview with the author, usually about his current or latest book, followed by an open mike question-and-answer session between the author and the audience.

As usual Ian Banks was highly animated, engaging and thoroughly entertaining. Throughout the questioning he wasn't averse to turning a question into an opportunity to explain his own left-wing political views and use these to have a good natured poke at Alex Salmond or the Scottish political scene. As Ian doesn't have a book launching currently it was a good opportunity, well taken by Alex Salmond, to have a much longer question and answer session which allowed the audience to take a full part in the evenings proceedings as well as cover-up his lack of background knowledge. This allowed many of the sci-fi fans in the audience to ask technical, or more detailed questions about various facets of his sci-fi writing (You know how some sci-fi readers can be right geeky so and so's) which seemed to go down well with the audience.

As is usual in these events the hour passed very quickly and soon we left the main hall and stepped out into one of those rainy Edinburgh evenings so typical of any Festival event. It was a grand way to spend an hour in the company of my brother-in-law and one of our favourite authors and left me looking forward to the next event, which is again something that's become customary – an evening with Ian Rankin, the well-known Scots crime writer, another cracking raconteur. Before then, tonight in fact, the Lovely G and I will be walking up to Edinburgh Castle and the spectacle that is the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, something we've been to once before but many years ago. It's probably the number one tourist event in Scotland and runs to packed audiences every night during the International Festival.

I'm hoping for a clear night but I better look out the wet weather gear for us just in case!

I'll let you know how it goes.

See you later.

Listening to:

On the tip of my tongue.

Hello ma wee blog,

I'm standing in line to buy something at the bookshop, idling the waiting time away in people watching as per usual. The girl behind the counter is obviously a student, possibly working on a summer job . It's obvious that she's not having a good day. She's slim, blonde and trying her very best, but somehow it's just not working for her. Her face is flushed and she looks exasperated. Everything she seems to try is turning into a bit of a disaster. Clearly technology is not her forte and the till is not being a friend. Customers and customer service is perhaps something of a training need, but maybe I'm being unkind, perhaps it's just that being so flustered she can't seem to do anything right. She looks on the point of tears.

As the lane slowly moves forward and I get closer, things aren't getting any better for the young girl. By the time I'm at the head of the queue it's clear that the next person she's going to be serving will be me. As I step forward she puts her hands on the countertop and blows upwards across her flushed face, making her fringe flick outwards for a second. Yep - definitely not a good day!

I look at her and without smiling and say, "I'm looking for a book that helps me cope with rejection without resorting to violence. Do you have it? "

No, I don't say that. But it's on the tip of my tongue.

I'm cruel, but I'm not that cruel.

(Not today anyway)

See you later.

Listening to.

Where the Bodies are Buried.

Hullo ma wee blog,


Sorry to have been ignoring you over the last week but in my sad life where very little happens it's been a hectic few days. From a holiday weekend that saw us go from a concert to a jaunt to the remotest west highlands, to a couple of full days of childrens hearings and all the preparation needed for that and a night in Edinburgh at an event with my sister-in-law, I feel my hands have been quite full. Add to that the insurance company taking away the carcass of my old laptop to confirm it can't be repaired before parting with any of their cash forcing the lovely G and I to have an extended period of sharing computer access and before you know it several days have slipped by without me posting a single solitary thing.

Wednesday night saw me in Edinburgh with sister-in-law K  to attend the launch of Christopher Brookmyres latest novel 'Where The Bodies Are Buried'.  Christopher - or Chris as his publishers are now marketing him - is one of my favourite Scots authors, a scathing, irreverent and hilarious satirist who's tongue-in-cheek-boot-firmly-applied-to-the-establishments-posterior style has often had me creased with laughter, often in places where I should know better like waiting rooms or on aeroplanes. The event, held on the eve of his latest books publication, marks his first foray away from his previous satirical genre into what is described as a more serious mainline crime thriller style, took place in Edinburgh's historic old town, just off The Grassmarket, in a candle-lit and dungeon-like small venue beneath one of the areas oldest buildings.  A glass of plonk kicked off an hour of readings and chat with the man followed by a question and answer session about his writing, life, the universe and everything. From the couple of readings he did it seemed to me that he  has created some credible, grounded characters who are still capable of raising a smile while working within the dark, more realistic backdrop of Glasgow's underworld he has created.

A first for me, I stayed around at the end to stand in line and buy a pre-release copy for the man to sign while we chatted for a moment. I'm looking forward to getting to grips with it soon. I might even let you know how it goes.........

See you later.

Listening to

 

A belated 'Sunday Post' .......

Hullo ma wee blog,

Yesterday on our shopping trip {which itself came after a visit to the cinema to see 'The Way Back' and which I would highly recommend} I picked up a couple of books with some of the book tokens I had been given at Christmas. People know I'm an avid reader and after a few years of buying books for me, even cookery books as I'm an avid cook { or more accurately eater} too, have now resorted to giving me book gift cards which is great. Sure there's a bit of regret that instead of finding a gem that I might not have chosen myself among the Christmas loot I have to go and root them out myself, but in general I'm more than happy to be able to avoid some of the less accurate choices that have been made for me in the past. If that sounds ungrateful, it's not meant to be. Rather I'm glad that folk haven't spent effort and money on finding that something that I know I will probably never read.

Yesterday I picked up a book on the WWII airfields of East Lothian and another one which I have been looking forward to getting for some time. It's a book of poetry by Norman MacCaig, one of my favourite poets. I'd never been much into poetry when I was younger even though I was introduced to MacCaig in 2nd year of high school. It was something that I felt we were forced to read as part of the course and it didn't do an awful lot for me at the time.

Or so I thought.

I did remember very clearly two of his poems; one on St. Francis of Assisi and the other about being on a train and feeling the landscape pouring out of his eyes as he was dragged backwards into the future. It was this second poem, called 'Crossing the Border' that years later pushed me to find and read some more of his work and that was a revelation.

Norman MacCaig OBE {1910-1996} was born and lived in Edinburgh but had close family ties to the highlands. His work is, to me, very Scottish and very simple, yet he is so good with words that he paints some marvellous pictures and Jings - does he make you think and make you feel too. I thought that I might post the odd poem or two that I most appreciate now and again, perhaps on a Sunday. This links in to the blog and my 'Oor Wullie' avatar as his cartoon column was carried - and still is - in a Sunday newspaper called 'The Sunday Post'.

Here's the first poem in the book.

Ineducable Me

I don't learn much. I'm a man
of no improvements. My nose still snuffs the air
in an amateurish way. My profoundest ideas
were once toys on the floor. I love them. I've licked
most of the paint off. A whisky glass
is a rattle I don't shake. When I love
a person, a place, an object, I don't see
what there is to argue about.

I learned words, I learned words but half of them
died for lack of exercise. And the ones I use
often look at me
with a look that whispers Liar.

How I admire the eider duck that dives
with a neat loop and no splash and the gannet that suddenly
harpoons the sea. - I'm a guillemot
that still dives
in the first way you thought of: poke your head under
and fly down.


See you later.

Listening to John Denver, 'Sunshine on my Shoulders'

Edinburgh Book Festival 2010 - Ian Rankin

Hullo blog,

 As this gig is an immediate sell out on release of tickets I'm glad that my level two membership of the book festival let's me buy before general release as for me the Ian Rankin event at the festival is a must see every year.  It's not just that he's revered by the Edinburgh Book Festival going public and indeed by Edinburgh itself who claim this working class Fifer as one of their own, or that I've read every one of his world famous Inspector Rebus novels, that I share the characters love of pre-1978 rock music, malt whisky, or even that I love that Rebus inhabits a highly familiar Edinburgh landscape even if he has made it one of the world's murder capitals and therefore, fictionally at least, not particularly safe for us mere mortals. It's not either because I'm particularly captured by crime novels other than in a convenient easy read kind of way, at least most of the time, although I really love the need for a tight and hopefully innovative yet realistic plot in a genre which is so densely populated that it's easy to feel like you've read it all before. I suppose it's that somehow he's managed to take a well drawn character, an incredible, and incredibly small, city and a tightly weaved plot and gel them all together again and again without any of it becoming either too glamorous, too seedy, too predictable and, clearly judging by the success, above all to keep it real.

It's reality that shines out of Ian Rankin. It would be easy to brush by him in the street or in the pub for he is like most of us most of the time - pretty anonymous - and that seems to be how he likes it. He lives in Edinburgh and clearly loves the place. You can bump into him, like I have, in Rebus' favourite den, 'the Ox' or the Oxford Bar, simply because this is one of the places where he has drunk for years and he's comfortable enough in his skin to be recognised or not and not be put off by either. Rankin and Rebus both drink there for the same reason. The beer's good and they are comfortable there, they always have been. It's real in every very ordinary sense of the word

Last night there was no new book for a reading so there was an extended conversation with the chair for the event, fellow Scots crime novelist, Lin Anderson, followed by the usual question and answer session. Much of the conversation naturally turned around Rebus, even though Rankin retired him a few years ago {the novels worked in real time and Rebus like all detectives had to retire at 60} and has published two books - still set in Edinburgh - since. People want to know how Rebus is coping with retirement {drinking more and working part-time on the cold case team at police headquarters, Fettes}. Are there any plans for a book based on his female sidekick Siobhan? {it's something I've considered, so perhaps at some time} or his arch nemesis Cafferty? {ditto} And what about the main character of his last book 'The Complaints', Malcolm Fox, teetotal policeman of  the internal complaints dept. Will this become a series {Very likely. Both Fox and Breck, the other, more dubious police character feel like they have more mileage in them. Fox will definitely be featuring again and I think his character will develop more now I have got to know him a bit better. He may have a few more faults in his character to come out.}. Would Fox and Rebus ever come together in a novel? {It would be interesting to have them working in the same building on cases that converge. It's fascinating how Rebus might react, worrying if any of the skeletons in his cupboard might surface and how Fox would react under those circumstances too}.

Ian spoke about 'Open Doors', the tale of an Edinburgh art heist. This first novel after Rebus was his most successful ever. {If I'd known that was going to happen I might have pensioned Rebus off earlier! }.  He pointed out that it was only after it had been published and recognised as a success that he realised this was the first book he had written where no-one had been murdered. It's been picked up to be worked on for TV, as has 'The Complaints'. Interestingly Rankin has retained some rights in these transactions and hinted that he would have some, if limited, say in the adaptions for screen play and even in the casting of characters, something that never happened with the translation of the Rebus novels to TV. He admitted that although he has copies of the TV Rebus at home, he has never watched any of them, even now after the apparent demise of the character. The reason for this, he said, was that he didn't want another persons interpretation of Rebus to get into his head. Questioned about who was best cast as Rebus he did say that one of his friends commented on the difference between John Hannah and Ken Stott playing the part was that at least Stott looked like he would punch you in the face.

The fact that Rebus the series still lies unwatched in the Rankin household would seem to say that Ian really is unsure that Rebus has finally left the stage. I wonder if he is haunted by his spectre across the bar-room in 'The Ox' too..........

Interview over Ian picks up his i-pad; a small sheet of paper covered in tiny script detailing what he is doing every day this week. He smiles at the audience, the grin of a cheeky schoolboy.

" The screen size is great, it's lightweight and the battery lasts for ever!!! "

{I've paraphrased Ian's responses to questions}

Ian's wki bio is here, his website here and an interview with him here

Listening to Mogwai 'Friend of the Night'

Edinburgh Book Festival 2010- Christopher Brookmyre

Hullo blog,

Last night my brother-in-law Leonard, AKA Leen,  stepped into his ill girlfriends shoes {nice heels by the way, Leen}  to come with me to The Book Festival event with Christopher Brookmyre, another of my all time favourite Scots authors and raconteurs. It's been a great festival so far and tonight held firm promise of this continuing as Chris has never failed to impress on any of the dozen times I've heard him speak at this kind of event in the past. Chris is a very different proposition compared to authors like Ian Banks or Ian Rankin being a scathing satirist with very firm anti-authoritarian/establishment and anti organised religion views. His books are breathtakingly sharp, bloody and irreverent in the extreme. They've been labelled  'Tartan Noir',  are certainly not for the faint hearted or easily offended, yet are both excruciatingly funny and uncomfortably insightful when looking into the abyss of those corrupted by power, greed or even the modern facade of  newspaper feted 'celebrity'. A Brookmyre book is strewn with  bodies, gore and expletives in a way that is often visceral, certainly creative and often indulgent yet at the same time can be weirdly restrained and considered, even occasionally innocent. A skewering, literal or figurative, from this mans pen leaves no-one in any doubt that there has been indeed a skewering of humongous, even biblical, proportions. His books are laugh-out-loud bundles of absurdity, yet are carefully, skilfully crafted, populated with character traits familiar from anyone's life and jammed full of twists and turns in a clever plot-driven pastiche of reality that's just close enough to the real thing to make you sure that much of what's going on between the pages could probably happen out here right now without too much help from anyone else given just a few changes in circumstances.

If murder, mayhem and witty one liners are your thing and you've not bumped into Christopher Brookmyre's work before, then consider giving him a shot at the title.......

The night started off with a few stories from Chris about writing, being an author and public speaking, all in his typical robust , tongue in cheek 'call a spade an effing shovel' style, which oddly detracts not a jot from his wit, intellect or vocabulary.  His latest work is Pandaemonium, which he then went on to give us a reading from. It's a bit of a departure from his previous works {this is his 13th book} in the crime genre, with its theme of debunking religion, God and the Devil.

 It's a book in which vengeful demons meet grief stricken, horny, angst ridden Scots teenagers on retreat in a remote location and huge quantities of blood get shed in the process - or is it the guise - of dispatching characters and giving demons a good kicking. I mean let's be honest,  in any fight between vengeful demons and your average teenager, demons are punching well above their weight!  But, under all the usual gleeful gore and cheerfully strewn viscera lies Brookmyre's optimistically beating big heart and cheekily irreverent brain cell pounding away with its apparently genetic determination to give the bleeding heart lefties a good poke while the right equally gets the usual swift and deservedly accurate kick in the pants.

On describing it as a Gothic horror novel at pre-publishing event, he was challenged about what made it 'Gothic'. His response was  "Because it's got Goths in". You have to love a guy like that.

With his trademark typically vivid plotting, detailed characterisations and vigorous but considered debate over the nature of, in this case, heaven and hell, all coupled with ample profanity, sex, and copious amounts of cheerful slaughter, teenagers will probably devour Pandaemonium in the same way hordes of us did with Stephen King when we were weans too.

Chris also gave us a world exclusive peek into his next offering, which is still work in progress, via a short reading from "Where The Bodies Are Buried".

I could tell you what it's about, but I'd have to........ well, I'm sure you catch my drift.

A fairly lively Q+A session brought the evenings proceedings to its natural end and a horde of eager groupies followed Chris to the book signing tent as Leen and I headed to the bar in the nearby Spiegeltent for a beer and a chat about the evenings event, books, authors, life, the universe and everything, before I dropped him at Waverley station for his train back across to Fife.

I bet he was glad to get those heels off when he got home................

It was everything I'd hoped for and now I'm looking forward to Ian Rankin on Thursday.

For more on Chris, his wiki page is here, website here and an interview with him here.

See you later.

Listening to Semisonic, 'Secret Smile'

Edinburgh Book Festival 2010- Ian Banks

Hullo Blog,

Tonight it was back to Edinburgh and the book festival for one of my favourite authors, who also happens to be one of my favourite raconteurs; Ian Banks AKA Ian M Banks. Ian's a novelist in both mainstream fiction and sci-fi, where he uses the Ian M Banks moniker. Unusually for the book festival, tonight there was no reading from an existing book or a work in progress, merely an extended interview and extended Q+A session.  The evenings event was sponsored by Highland Park malt whisky so free samples were on offer as you came in the door, but as I was driving - and had already had a beer with our dinner beforehand - I declined, or more accurately - postponed - as I have a small one beside me while I'm writing this.

Ian was on fine form. In fact he was so animated and so different from his laconic self at previous events that I think he had perhaps tried a few samples of his own before the off. {who can blame him - sip - it's lovely stuff and he is an aficionado of malt whisky, having written a book on the stuff!}  The interview, more of a monologue with a few interruptions in reality, was highly entertaining as Ian gave free rein to his wit and experience in response to the questions and showed clearly how his imagination allows him to both create and handle multiple threads and yet retain the ability to tie them all neatly together before bringing the subject to a close. I've long admired his socialist principles, something that I like to think that to a large extent we share, and the way he holds these close in his writing - he put an embargo on his books being sold in Israel in protest at the recent forced boarding of an aid ship bound for Palestine and famously also cut up his British passport and posted it to Tony Blair in protest at the invasion of Iraq. He was challenged on this latest protest by a member of the audience and responded by explaining that while he had a great admiration for Israel in general and Jewish culture in particular, that he did not feel that he could stand by while they mistreated their neighbours in such a callous way and that of all cultures it was a shame that the Jewish people, who had suffered so badly at the hands of others, would allow themselves to treat other human beings in the same way.

Politics was a large part of the nights discussion, and he freely admitted that as he gets older he is becoming an increasingly angry and a typically curmudgeonly,grumpy old man. {See any more similarities between us here anyone?} He was particularly scathing on Capitalism, the bonus culture and the way the new government is proposing to deal with the recession;

" Take the National Health Service, it's there to care for people, to make their lives better, to make a difference. Now look at how government is acting. According to them public ownership equals bad - old fashioned, inefficient, ineffective, a drain on public resources. It has to be made to work better and the only way to do this is by privatisation. This means that it has to work harder, to deliver more with less resources and it has to deliver a profit to its shareholders, be managed outwith public control by people who have a clear conflict of interest between public good and private profit. According to politicians this is the best way forward possible. Control of this edifice is simply not possible by people who simply want to operate solely for the benefit of the general public, who have no purpose other than meeting a social need or making a better, more caring society.

Now, ask that same politician why he or she went into politics and they will tell you without exception that they want to make a difference to peoples lives, they want to make things better, build a better society, give something back to society, etc etc etc.............

To me, something doesn't add up here........... if we apply the same principles to them as they are to others, shouldn't we be privatising politics? But suggest that to any one of them and what do you think the answer would be? " *

All in all a highly entertaining and thought provoking evening.

Another good one!

Thanks Mr Banks............

You can read his wikipedia bio here or an interview here

*Quote Paraphrased

see you later.

Listening to Grace Jones, 'Private Life' {long version}

Edinburgh Book Festival 2010 - Michel Faber

Hullo ma wee blog,

Yesterday afternoon The Lovely G and I went to the first of this years book festival treats. For the last several years as part of my birthday present she has bought me a membership to the book festival, allowing me to pre book events with my favourite authors, usually in the format of a reading by the author, then an interview and finally a question and answer session with the audience, all of which takes about an hour. As an avid bookworm it's a time I look forward to eagerly for months beforehand, impatiently waiting for the event brochure to land.

Yesterday was a bit different as I booked for us to kick off the festival with Michel Faber, one of The Lovely G's favourite authors, although not someone I know well, having just finished reading a collection of short stories in preparation for the event. I did find his work intriguing though so was looking forward to hearing the man himself. I found his stories very well written, humane and thought provoking. He seems to write in various styles with equal effort which I found I really liked in his short story collection.

At the event he read one of his short stories and was then interviewed by another author, a lady I had never heard of and for some reason I can't remember her name for the life of me, before doing another short reading from a novel he is currently working on. I found him shy, engaging, self deprecating and a complex and highly intellectual character.  We both felt that although he appeared open he was very careful about how much of himself he gave away to the audience. He is clearly a very private person and lives quite in seclusion in the Scottish highlands. He admitted to not having a TV or even to reading any other authors unless he has been asked to provide a review - he has a column in  newspaper -The Guardian I think - or if he has been given one as a gift by a friend or if a friend makes a recommendation. It was an enjoyable hour and an interesting insight into someone I am definitely going to read more of.

You can read an interview with him here, or his bio here on wikipedia.

Tonight the book festival continues with an event I am taking my brother-in-law to, Ian Banks, a favourite of both of us. Over the years it's become a bit of a tradition that we go and see him together, ave a meal and a few beers. A rare boys night out.

See you later...

Listening to Phil Collins,  'Invisible Touch'

Cheese - and Whine.

Hullo ma wee blog,

It's a bit daft really. I've got loads to do but done none of it today. I've spent the day mainly in the garden. Sure, I've justified it to myself by saying that I should make the most of the weather while its here and I have done some weeding and minor odds and sods around the garden but in reality most of the day has just been me goofing off, enjoying the sun and the fact that the grass - never a lawn - is looking good simply because its the shortest it's been for weeks, which hides a multitude of sins. In my delusional mode I call it 'organic' or 'natural' or even 'wildlife', but I'm fooling myself as its really none of those, even if it is teeming with well fed birds thanks to an intensive feeding program. I enjoy a garden but I'm not a gardener. So it's been me at the patio table, book and sunglasses to hand, the odd glass of dry white wine to help wash down some crusty bread, nicely juicy pears and a piece of lovely soft and slightly salty goats cheese barely drizzled with honey. My idea of a wee taste of the Languedoc in Scotland.

Bliss.

I've also caught up on a few blogs while the back of the house has been in shade this morning as I don't do squinting very well. I've read a bit as the sun has come round the house, forcing me to lay aside the laptop while I catch up on stuff I've been meaning to read but strangely for someone unemployed, who should have plenty of spare time on my hands, have not found time for.

While I've been doing that thoughts have been niggling away at me like unruly children, particularly about reading and books. A few bloggers I read have touched on the subject of bookish things over the internet lately, talking about the impact of the web on reading habits, the effect of on-line bookshops selling at knock down prices and the impact on 'real' bookshops and libraries. I've added the odd comment here or there, interested or curious, questioning or approving, all the time letting layers of content slowly build up a curmudgeonly niggling concern that, as with many other things, the world is changing and something that is important to me might be changing faster than I'm comfortable with and not in a direction I would choose.

It's particularly true of the technology around books, or more accurately reading, for what I see ahead is the potential disfigurement of reading as we know it. I wonder in twenty or thirty years if we will have books in any meaningful sense or will they be the domain of academia, dwindling numbers of bookshops, curiosity shops, reference libraries  and museums or the musty collections of crusty old men like me?  Will the availability of cheap books online actually reduce choice and the number of titles as these places promote the blockbuster and ignore the merely sublime. Will readers have lost contact with the reality of a book in the hand if books are simply story downloads to an i-pad reader or some other piece of technology which retail chains and publishing houses use as the opportunity to stop printing to reduce costs and maximise profits? How will we find those unexpected books if we cannot browse, can't pick them up and read the cover as we weigh the value of story and the weight of the authors effort if the book exists only online? With the increasing trend amongst kids towards talking books on i-pods for convenience, how will we create those characters to live in our minds and in our hearts if all we have is an actors interpretation being read to us? Will 'readers' question if the interpretation could be different or if the story is crippled by heavy handed abridging? Will books of the future simply be screenplays? Will we simply accept that Dracula or David Balfour or Jane Eyre have American voices attempting foreign accents?

Not that I can do anything about it of course. I can only be the curmudgeonly archetypal grumpy old man and note the change and comment.

When I was a child I loved libraries. Dad was a great reader and supporter of our local library and I too was bitten by the reading bug. As a teenager I was hit by asthma which meant I was often laid up. When that happened I read constantly, a stream of library books was supplied by Dad, not always to order but he would often pick up a wee gem for me. Like him, I became an avid and prodigious, if not altogether selective consumer of the written word. But I also became enthralled by books themselves; the hard-backed leather bound edition, the hard-backed paper sleeved novel, the cheapest paperback. I loved them all. I learned to love the feel of a book, the weight of it's mystery as it journeyed home with me in a bag strapped to my bike, or just hung from the handlebars, knees nudging the book as I pedalled; the smell of the pages as you cracked it open for the first time, old and musty perhaps if it had lain on the shelf for a long time or if it was elderly in itself; other scents, held by the pages, of the last reader, an old man who's fingers held the smell of pipe or cigarette tobacco or oil from machinery in their pores, a young woman who's delicate scent would perfume the pages for a short time. These things all spoke to me and evoked a feeling for the history of a book, almost as a living thing. I learned to love the heady smell that always seemed to be in a library. I loved the almost reverent hush of the place. The need to be quiet for once not an impossible task.

Over the years as I got older and more selective in subject matter, I began to covet books {shades of 'My Precious' ringing in my head now} that were special to me. I loved history books, books on art, religions, architecture. I loved the books of Stevenson and Scott, Ryder Haggard, Michener and so many others. I wanted to have space at home for more than an overstuffed bookcase. I wanted to have a library of my own. I succeeded when we bought this house.

 I've long enjoyed trawls of antiquarian bookshops and revelled in the atmosphere of ancient books, something which has become increasingly rarer as these places have gradually disappeared to be replaced with coffee shops, tanning studios and tattoo parlours. I've watched engrossed as an old bookseller, offered an old book, put it to his face and listened carefully as he softly rrrrrp'd the pages past his nose, caressed the pages lovingly and spoke in hushed tones about the quality of the paper, the way it had been made, the fact that although the paper was French the printing was English, the pages hand cut and rough edged. He waxed lyrical about the binding and the cover, it's absolute authenticity,the skill of the maker and about the healthy smell of its history and the lack of knocks and scrapes, folds and tears that showed it had been cared for through generations. Like being guided through a cathedral by a stone mason, he was a master of a craft that sadly seemed to be out of it's time.

I'm not exclusively interested in old books though. I've cheered myself with walks round the humongous racks of large chain bookstores and enjoyed the personal touch of informed, enthusiastic and well read staff in independent bookstores. I've gone looking for particular books and come out with treasures unexpectedly unearthed in my search through the shelves. I've collected the works of Rankine, Brookmyre and Banks and enjoyed Hiasson, Coelho and Cornwall.

I've often enjoyed a book at bedtime. Does it feel the same being read on an I-Pad? I've often dropped a book from the bedside table or from the corner of a chair. I've dropped one getting up from my seat on a plane or a train. The books have survived them all. I wonder an I-Pad would.?

Oh, and I've never had a book run out of battery power although a few have run out of steam.....

I now have a room I use as a library in my house. I spend a lot of time there enjoying the atmosphere and relaxing with a well read book or attracted by the brightness of a cover to something that suits my mood. Could I have the same fun scrolling through the list of titles on my reader?

I really hope I never find out.

see you later. I'm browsing the Edinburgh Book festival brochure wondering if I can afford to attend any more events this year.

Listening to;

Parcels In The Post

hullo ma wee blog,

Its was a busy day the other day for the local postie as he had to lug two books and a nice parcel of photographs to the door. It made a nice change from bills anyway, looking from this side of the doorstep.

In search of more, and particularly relevant info on 153 Squadron, I had found and ordered a couple of books off the internet; 'Wingspan' by 153 Squadron leader JW Gee and 'Nothing heard since takeoff - The story of a 153 Squadron Lancaster crew' by Ronald Hayne. the story of a plane and crew lost over occupied Slovakia. The last a particularly poignant story for me as one of the men lost was from Dalmellington, a small Ayrshire village near where I was brought up and where I spent 20 years playing in the village band. But made more poignant as he was a member of 137 {Ayr} Sqn Air Training Corps, which he and Dad served in at the same time and so would have known each other well. {I also joined 137 Sqn ATC many years later and was involved for some 3 years during my 'maybe I want to join up like my mate' phase}

Also delivered was a bundle of old Robertson family photo's that I had given my Aunt Helen - me seeming to be the repository of much of the family archive, I had taken them down for her to look at a while back as when I had mentioned I had them she said that she never remembered seeing them anywhere within the family since she was a wee girl and had long considered them lost. I left them with her and she had arranged for copies to be made before sending the originals, and some very nice copies, back to me with a lovely card. Hopefully I will be able to upload some of them if I can ever get my laptop and our antiquated old scanner to talk to each other

That night too brought a further surprise as the lovely G came home from work with a copy of 'Lancaster, the 2nd World War's Greatest Bomber' by Leo McKinstry, a lovely and very detailed history of the plane from its inception to its end of service with the RAF in 1956.

So, plenty to read in keeping up with info for the blog.

Ach, what are you groaning about...........

see you later.

Listening to Lily Allen 'who'd have known'

One Fine Day In The Middle Of The Night...........

Hullo ma wee blog,

Of course it's not unusual for me to be awake at 4.00am. It is unusual for me to be quite happy and relaxed about it though, like I was today. Rarely for me I had gone to bed at 11.30 and slept right through till 4.00. So there I was refreshed and ready for the day but needing to be quiet for another few hours so that the lovely G got the sleep she needed.

Having put on the heating and hot water {the lovely G prefers not to rely on timers but perversely gets up to switch the boiler on manually. She loves being able to go back to bed for another hour, but also likes to be told sometimes that she doesn't need to come down as I will deal with it for her} and with coffee in hand I retired to the library and a comfy chair by the window so I would see the first lightening of the night into day. I had taken with me my current read; Bill Brysons 'Made in America' which I am enjoying immensely even though its just begun. I've read several of his books and he seems like a familiar voice to me now.

I've not often sat in the library this winter so far. Usually it's been too cold to be in there in the mornings and anyway, my usual haunt is the kitchen table where its warmer and a bit more distant in case of any noise disturbing the notoriously light sleeping G. It's rare that I can sneak out of the bedroom at any time of the night without a sleepy "love you" or "coffee again?" before I even get my hand on the squeaky door knob. {Aye, I know. I should do something about that. Quit nagging me will you!} Today though, it's quite balmy for a change even though it's been windy most of the night. The temperature, though the heating hasn't had a chance to make a difference, is fine and although I took a fleece with me I don't need it.

My favourite chair is across the angle in the corner and sitting there the window is on my left, its wooden blind still smelling fresh and new. Beyond it the small bookcase holds mainly my paperbacks, some favourites but mostly cheap and tacky, holiday reads yet to be read or discarded. On top is a Christmas cactus belonging to my Grandmother, probably older than I am and valued beyond belief. Next is a cacqualon {ceramic fondue bowl} hand painted in Swizerland and filled with odds and ends - pens, tiny screwdriver, things I know I will need some day - and then a photo of Dad and crew under the Lancaster. Beyond that, almost the full width of the wall, are the pale gold varnished wooden louvre doors of the built-in double wardrobe that shows the library for the bedroom it used to be, framed either side by a map from my collection and on top by a long framed photograph of 153 Squadron taken in July 1945. Then at the corner opposite me, the door out to the hall and then the large brown leather sofa bed with yet more maps above, these ones showing Edinburgh, The Lothians and Fife changing slowly over the last two hundred and sixty years or so. The corner hides a carefully stacked and tastefully cloth covered pile of boxes from the lovely G's parents house containing thousands of her fathers photographs still waiting to be checked and divided between her and her brothers. Unable to face the size of the task when we moved here shortly after her dads death they have lain apparently forgotten but calling patiently and with quiet insistence to be dealt with ever since. The last wall holds the big bookcase. Solid, wooden, the strong shelves are crammed with my hardbacks, originally filled by subject: history, architecture, religious history, arcana, Scotland, England, France and the like. My system is now somewhat degraded due to overcrowding and that too needs to be dealt with some time, sooner than later, preferably.

Behind me in the corner are two favourite maps: a 1550 woodcut map of Switzerland made in Zurich and a huge map of Scotland made in France for the Dauphin, by his court cartographer in 1690, reflecting the status and hopes of the Jacobites, newly arrived at court and probably at the height of their importance, influence and expectation of restoration to the British crown.

Then there's me baukit* in the corner

The coffee is hot and strong to the taste, just the thing for a first cup. Smiling, comfortable, I pick up my book and begin to read........


see you later.

listening to Debussy 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair'

*baukit - comfortably settled/Not likely to move anywhere soon. {The Minister came in and got baukit by the fire.}

Title Tattle.........

Hullo ma wee blog,

{No the headings not dyslexia; just my liking for puns.}

I feel like I am getting to grips with the wealth of material in the history of 153 Sqn/end of the war script I'm doing and coming to an understanding of what I want to include and exclude. I don't want it to be completely overwhelmed with technical detail and to be great long posts that ultimately no one is going to enjoy wading through and be put off the next ones so I want to be able to read them in a couple of minutes, but to hopefully create some afterthought. I know I'm coming to better appreciate what these men went through and the circumstances in which they found themselves, so for me, its really interesting.

There is a huge amount of information on the internet, much of it highly technical and dispassionately detailed, so for the more human aspects of their experiences I have turned to a couple of books in my library: Christina Mattingley's 'Battle Order 204' which is a recounting of her husbands experiences of being a Lancaster pilot, based in Lincolnshire, though not at Scampton and coincides chronologically almost exactly with the timeframe I am looking at here and is a marvelously human work based on his diaries. It effectively has brought together for me the bond between the crew which I want touch on in a couple of posts not specific to operations maybe.

The other book is a compilation of accounts by British and Commonwealth flight crew of operations called 'Flying Into the Flames of hell' by Martin H Bowman. It conveys the feelings of terror at being coned by searchlights over targets, the effects of night fighters and carefully nursing damaged aircraft back home.

Both books are written in a gentle unassuming style which is typical of the way which Dad remembered or reminisced certain events. Both books quote liberally from poetry written by the men, a common release from tensions of life threatening situations, and I may also use some of these in later posts too. At least the feeling of muddy waters is receding a bit so hopefully there will be some kind of coherent structure emerge shortly.

The gap in the narrative will help this weekend as the lovely G and I are about to head off for an overnight stay at an old friends,someone that as is often the case I have lost touch with over the last twenty odd years and who's daughter - who I remember only as a toddler - is now a mother twice over herself. Jings that makes me feel OLD!

So I have to get up from the table here in the kitchen and go have a shower and make myself pretty before the two hour drive across the west coast. No doubt, all being well, you get to hear of events in due course.

Got to go - 2 hours may just about be enough time to make myself............


"YES OK, HUN - THE LAPTOPS OFF. I'M SHIFTING MYSELF.........."

Jings!

See you later.


Listening to Cherry Ghost 'Thirst For Romance'
{If Only!!!}

Some Books, Beer and Great Big Bangs...........

Hullo there ma wee blog,

On Sunday, after a stressful week at work, the lovely G was left early doors for a much needed long lie in while I padded off downstairs to drink coffee, potter and do some overdue housekeeping on my laptop, part of which was playing with labels for the posts on this here blog. As usual for a novice I no doubt have complicated things too much. I'll look at it again later perhaps.

I also installed a visitor counter which shows the countries of folk reading the blog. While it probably wasn't the primary reason for wanting to start blogging initially its nice to know that what I scrape out of the brain cell is read somewhere once in a while, and of course if you are here and reading the output of my addled brain then feel free to leave me a note if you like. Even if its to advise me to give up or seek professional help that's awright.

I have wandered somewhat off piste a bit here as usual. I started this to update what my Sunday consisted of.

After a leisurely brunch we decided we would go out to visit some friends, the parents of one of our God daughters, to take the wee one some clothes we had just bought for her, but as it was an off the cuff thought of course we found when phoning ahead that they were out. So we ended up at "The Fort" one of Edinburgh's prime retail locations ably designed for parting unsuspecting souls from their hard earned baw-bees.

Moi being moi, I also decided that I would opt out of the trawl round the dens of iniquity with the exception of Borders books, where the lovely G could find me when she had finished traumatising our overdraft. I have learned { painfully } over the years not to get in the way of a { read MY } woman determined to have some retail therapy, so I headed for the sanctuary of the cafe, or is it a coffee shop, what is the difference, at the back of Borders.

{I would just like to say here and now, quite freely, uncoerced and not in pain, that the lovely G is not usually guilty of traumatising our bank balance in any way, shape or form. Never know who might be reading this stuff! Jings! }

I had forgotten how expensive a simple coffee can be in one of those places.

Crivens! Mine cost me nearly 30 quid.........

But I got, ahem, free with my coffee.........

'The Alchemist' by Paul Coelho
'The Voluptuous Delights of Peanut Butter and Jam' by Lauren Liebenberg
'The Complaints' by Ian Rankin

The lovely G returned and we had coffee together before heading into town to park up and make our way to meet Marion, a friend I hadn't seen for a couple of years. No reason for that I suppose other than she has been closer to the lovely G and they meet occasionally for drinks, coffee or the odd film or theatre night.

Sunday night though we had a meal before heading off for the fireworks which mark the end of the Edinburgh festival for another year. A massive show from the castle ramparts and linked to a concert which takes place in the open air theatre below in Princes Street Gardens. We had managed to bag some tickets for access to a private party in a bar in one of the streets looking up onto the castle. Access to many roads is restricted this year because of the Tram works so it was great to be able to get into a prime location for the show.

The bar, on the other hand was something else: very trendy, exclusive and the haunt of the beautiful and well heeled of the student classes. It may come as a surprise but I dont fit into any of those pigeon holes.


Inside we were give two marbles each which we could exchange for free cocktails. The girls went for a strawberry one and a martini based one with lots of ice and vegetation sticking out of it. It looked like it couldn't make its mind up if it was a drink or a salad to me. Still, whatever floats your boat as they say. Being more traditional, read PLEBEIAN, I stuck to beer, or the closest to that which was a continental lager for a fiver {choke}. Lots of very glam young ladies either in very short cocktail type dresses with lots of bosom on display or carefully understated designer chic. The guys were uniformly 6 foot anorexic looking baa- studs with Ferrari/Porsche/other sporty key fobs in their hands. But that could just be me being a bit insecure. Just a wee bit.

Mebbe.

I fitted right in of course with my chinos and tee shirt and received several admiring glances as I stood at the bar for what felt like twenty minutes trying to attract the attention of the beautiful, over friendly and attentive - with every one else - bar staff, who, whenever they finished serving someone seemed to be so exhausted they had to go and lean on the end of the bar furthest from me and have a wee drink themselves. And a chat with their friends. And eat some canapes. And......ach well you get the idea I'm sure.

I managed to attract ones attention by cheekily dying of dehydration at my end of the bar and she shimmied - dontcha love that word - across to take my order.

In truth she was stunning, very scandinavian; short haired, fine chinned, beautifully proportioned and revealingly dressed - not that I noticed of course. Unfortunately she seemed to have failed her 'O' level basic cocktail making skills course by quite a long way and it took her about 8 minutes to cobble together a strawberry thingy and a cabbage patch on ice. After a few more minutes waiting while she showed me her A+ skills in putting a huge head on a pint, {No jokes about me asking her for that pls!.} I left with the drinks and she left, exhausted, traumatised and almost tearfully, for the other end of the bar again.

When the first bang indicated the fireworks had started and everyone left for out side - OK,OK, I admit it. That's how I managed to attract the barmaids attention, alright - and I had the drinks, I too left for outside to watch the show. The two girls had been successful in claiming a prime spot - canny fight these young uns - especially when they have their good frocks on - and we settled down to enjoy the evening.

Well worth it.

Super!

Smashing!

Lovely!






See you later.

Listening to Men Without Hats, 'The Safety Dance'

Scots, and Wry

Hello there ma wee blog.

Just crawled back from the second of two trips to the Edinburgh Book festival this weekend and am having a coffee before heading to bed.

Well, two completely different events.

Last night we went to see Irvine Welsh, author of "Trainspotting" among others. The lovely G came along even though she hasn't read any of his work and so didn't really know what to expect, although she has seen the film. His stuff, if you dont already know, is tough and very uncompromising, set in the hard hitting, violent and aggressive world of drug culture and depravation, inner city life and mindless thuggery. Its written in the rough language of the streets that it comes from so it doesn't pull its punches.

He read from a collection of short stories called "Reheated Cabbage". The name he explained came from translating an Italian expression which describes someone repeating the same mistakes in life over and over. Its a collection of stories which were mainly written in the '90s, some published and some not, which he has put together as a volume representing the kind of work he was doing then. { the unkind among us can read that as "I need the money but can't be bothered writing anything just now" but we could be being uncharitable.} The story he chose was about a character from "Trainspotting" called Begbie, who was the uber violent psycho in the film and tells of him spending Christmas day with his family. It was loud, energetic and totally engrossing and he held the audience enthralled because under all that coarseness and swearing, bigotry and hate was a story of well observed character and situation told in a way that held you fixed by its raw power and its honesty. Just fascinating.

Tonight was Frank Skinner, TV presenter and stand up comic. A world apart from last night, he was presenting his second autobiography which deals with returning to stand up after some 10 years of TV work, caused by in his own words " the work drying up". He was again, very honest, especially in talking about his own insecurity in going back to stand up, an area where he had been acknowledged to be a master in his previous career. He was absolutely terrified of failing publicly and damaging his perception for more TV work and also was afraid of how the new generation of comedians working now would react to him. Would they accept him or would they just think he was up himself and out to grab the cash?

He read a couple of passages which reflected different sides of his experience and I found that once again they were masterfully observed and nicely self deprecating. He was very open during the interviewing questions and with the audience and, as he had come in with a small musical case - explaining that he had just come from his fringe show and that he thought that if the readings weren't going well he could try and win us over with a song - he was persuaded to give us a song. Surprisingly the instrument was a ukelele and he sang a song in the style of a hero - George Formby! I thought he was just using this as a comedy tool but he IS an absolute afficiando of George Formby and proceeded to give us a rendition of a song which he had created with great affection in the style of aforesaid WWII icon.

Of course it was a funny, bringing Osama Bin Laden to life through the eyes of GF, and absolutely hilarious.

So, two good nights, and more still to come. Love it, Love it, Love it....................

Tonight though I have yet another Childrens Panel training session, but, as the lovely G is oot an aboot in toon hersel', at least I'm not at home on me tod.

Ah well, got to go. I really didn't mean to be writing a mini review.

listening to Sia, 'little black sandals'

see you later.........................

Family, festivals and finding a job.

Hullo there ma wee blog.

Not posted for a while as the lovely G and I have been busy with the usual mundane daily rituals of work - her not me - and home - definitely me - and the festival.

Edinburgh Festival is in full swing and the whole city is stuffed with tourists - see previous entry - and of course I am partaking of the opportunity to get a wee bit o' culture myself in between job hunting and stuff. I love Edinburgh at this time of year. Its absolutely at its best, even with all the upheaval of the new tram works which have left half the city roads closed off and dug up, making driving and parking even more impossible than normal. I always feel that during the festival there is an excitement in town I find hard to resist.

Being a bit of a bookworm I love the Book Festival - Edinburgh Festival is actually 10 different festivals running at the same time { so I found out from the TV anyway } Edinburgh International Festival, The Fringe, The comedy Festival and The Book festival to name but a few.

In the Book Festival lots of authors come to give readings, be interviewed and have question and answer sessions with the audience and its become a tradition for me to go and see as many of my favourites as I can { or afford }. I usually get a couple of tickets for each author and persuade a friend or member of the family to come along with me. Everyone seems to enjoy it and its a nice way to spend some one to one time with friends or family at a different kind of experience. Usually it takes in dinner and drinks either pre or post event and as each event lasts an hour there is usually time for a drink or coffee after and a chance to talk about the show and life in general.

So far I have seen Ian Banks with my brother in law, Ian Rankin with my brother and Gerald Scarfe with the lovely G. Still to come are Christopher Brookmyre with my sister in Law, Gryff Rhys Jones with the lovely G, and Michel Blanc with my sister in law. Ian Rankin, Ian Banks and Christopher Brookmyre are old favourites and never fail to entertain, real highlights in my festival each year. Gerald Scarfe was also riveting, really entertaining, scathing, acerbic and witty in his description - or dissection - of politics and politicians.

On Sunday my cousin Elspeth and her husband Dave arrived for a short stay till Tuesday, and had time to visit the town and take in the sights. Elspeth is a probation officer, the daughter of Dads twin brother Bill, and this was the first time we had spent any real time together as adults as that side of the family live in Leicestershire. It was really Mum and Dad that visited most often. Gordon or I visited only for infrequent short stays and had seen Elspeth and her family only for a couple of hours at a time within the wider family circle. It was good to see her and to get to know her as an adult, and to find out that she is the kind of person I can get on with.

As Dad died recently we spent a lot of time talking about family connections and history and reaffirmed many of the shared memories of our childhood back in rural Ayrshire before they moved south. She called it reshaping our relationship, I teased her that I was not one of her clients and we had a good laugh. They left saying they felt chilled and refreshed and promised to come again. I hope they do.

Next weekend our Dutch friends arrive for a short break from their farm near Eindhoven.Its been a couple of years since we saw each other and are looking forward to them coming again, even though this time their two daughters cant come with them.

On the job front I have applied for a couple of positions, one with the Parole Board for Scotland { long shot I know } and with the NHS as a controlled drugs inspector.

I am determined to go for jobs I really want to do and fortunately our redundancy cover gives me the opportunity to do this. These kind of jobs are few and far between and I desperately hope something comes along soon. I am just not cut out for not working. I feel my self confidence very low some days.

ah well better go.

see you soon.

listening to Talk Talk by Talk Talk..........