The lovely G sits with her legs stretched out in front of her in front of
the full length cheval mirror in the corner of our bedroom. Fully dressed, she has her head cocked to one
side brushing her hair as Jess rubs herself backwards and forwards
across the small of her back. Across the room I have head and shoulders deep in the built-in
wardrobe as I hunt for a T-shirt and a pair of socks, but pull-back when I
realise 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 cheval
mirror.
"You know, if all I had was just this, the pine chest, the craft
table, my laptop, I-player and my log (I know she's talking about a table - top
driftwood candleholder which I bought her for Christmas, gaining mega brownie points.... ) I'd be quite happy living without
anything else."
Jess sits down and looks at her for a moment before looking
at 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 yawn
that 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 bicep
before 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.
Another sleepless night. The insomnia which has come and gone over the years has come again recently and I spent all of last night wishing I could get to sleep, either from the duvet wrapped depths of my bed or from the sofa in the lounge or the comfy chair in the library.
It's one of the worst feelings I've experienced, being dog tired and yet being unable to sleep. When I'm in one of these periods I often find myself resenting the fact that I get tired, hating the torture of knowing that no matter how knackered I'm feeling that the bed is just a temptation and won't give me the rest I crave. I come to hate my bed at times like this - so different from the comfortable place it normally is, I begin to see it as almost deceitful with it's promise of a soft embrace and a good nights kip.
Insomnia laden nights leave me exhausted and barely able to function during the day after a while and again resenting the fact that when you want to be awake you'll instead be almost comatose and will spend the day dreaming of sleep or dozing off for fitful minutes at a time, waking defensively as you want to increase the chances of a good nights sleep tonight. So, not only is the night a battle to get to sleep, but the day is a battle to stay awake. For once I'm glad I'm not working, especially since my previous job involved huge amounts of driving. It would be murder the way I feel this morning.
One of the rare advantages of sleepless nights is that you do get the chance to see some incredible dawns and today was one of those small consolations; the first red rays stretching out across the garden and slowly reaching toward the red sandstone walls of Sparrow Castle a hundred yards away until it turned it soft crimson and then gently softened further through to a wonderful rose colour until it in turn eventually began to pale as the sunlight proper crept up the wall and across the roof. Even feeling like I do it kept me enthralled for an hour this morning, sitting here in the library with the first coffee of the day keeping me company as I tried not to miss any part of it. Pure magic.
It's my birthday next week. Not that that's anything momentous on its own of course, but I was taken by surprise last night when my Lovely G announced that we were going away for a few days. That too isn't necessarily momentous either. We often get away for my birthday. This year I wasn't expecting anything special - I rarely do - so I was delighted and taken by surprise when she announced that she was taking me for a short break to Prague instead of as I expected, to somewhere here in Scotland. I'd been talking it over with a pal the other day, idly chatting, when he asked if we had anything planned for my birthday. I said that as far as I knew we hadn't anything organised but I hope that maybe we would have a few days up north. Maybe even we would have a stay at The Balahulish Hotel {probably my all time favourite} if we could. As far as I was concerned that would be great - but even that wasn't an expectation. Just one of those comments you make when speculating almost without conscious though.
Now, when the Lovely G announced we were of to Prague I was genuinely surprised and delighted and I felt really chuffed that she went to all the trouble of organising the break, keeping it secret and broke the news to me the way she did. Although she's been before I haven't and have wanted to go and see it for ages. I love old towns and cities, going to new places and new countries and just soaking in a different culture, tasting the local food and drinks, enjoying a different language around me and seeing things I've never seen before. Things like that are perfect when I have G beside me because we like many of the same things but see them, as we all do, slightly differently, and that in itself is exciting and interesting as we point out different things and talk about different aspects of our experience together. For me it's one of the wonders about G, how differently from me she sees things yet how it compliments my understanding, makes it better and gives me perspective I would otherwise miss. In that respect I feel we are like two halves of the same person and I think/hope she feels the same way.
But I'm not demonstrative about things. Even though I think I'm showing pleasure I'm not that expressive. I can be having great fun and yet sometimes people will ask me if I'm ok which sometimes really spoils it all for me as then I get on edge looking out for how others are thinking about me. I feel like maybe I should put on a bit of a performance so they know I'm enjoying it but that would in itself spoil it for me. I'm perfectly fine, maybe I'm just concentrating on something about it - one particular aspect or a thought or feeling - or maybe I'm just letting the vibe wash over me but somewhere someone gets worried that I'm less than happy, less than satisfied. It can be a problem especially when someone else has gone out of the way to do something or other, made a special effort to make something just perfect in their eyes and then I don't respond the way they expect. What do they want? Should I jump up and down and clap my hands?. Should I scream and shout and make manic faces at them? I think I smile. I think I say thank you very clearly and let them know that I'm really happy about whatever it is, but once I've done that, well.......I've done it and just want to get on and enjoy it in my own quiet way.
Maybe I'm difficult to please?
Maybe I'm hard to read?
Maybe they don't really believe me when I tell them how pleased/satisfied/happy/delirious/ecstatic I am.
{Maybe I'm autistic?}
Today my Lovely G called from work to see how I was and told me how all the girls in the office knew that she had been arranging this trip and was going to tell me all about it last night so they wanted to know how it had gone down, wanted all the details. How had I taken it? What had I thought? Was I excited? How had I reacted? She could only tell them that I'd seemed pleased but was my usual unemotive self and that once I'd found out I didn't start asking a hundred questions about how we were getting there, where we were staying, why she had picked it and what we were going to do or see while we were there. They were gutted for her. For me though that's normal. I know I'm going somewhere I've never been before. I know I'm staying somewhere I've never stayed before and we're going to do things together we've never done before and I'm looking forward, really looking forward to it. I want to - I will - enjoy all that as it happens. I don't want to live it all in expectation now, before we get there. To me that'll make less of it somehow. I know I'm going to love it because my Lovely G loves it. I know I'm going to enjoy it because I'm going with her and will be spending time with her, just the two of us. I know she'll enjoy taking me places she's been before and that we'll enjoy going to places neither of us have been to because we're doing that together.
So I'm sorry that I didn't do a back somersault or scream ecstatically in surprise. I'm sorry I didn't react like I had just scored the best ever goal at a football match {Scotland V Holland, World Cup 1978 - and you know what goal I'm talking about boys!} but that's me.
I am who I am even though sometimes - even often - I wish I wasn't..........
But I am so much looking forward to the next few days.
See you later - when I get back.
I've scheduled a couple of posts for while I'm away.
{oops - just realised that includes this one. Just the one to come then - Sunday - enjoy}
Walking along a line of shops at Edinburgh Fort shopping center, we're heading to Waterstones where I'm about to spend some Christmas book tokens. From behind a noise approaches and I hear a voice call out,
"That's far enough ahead Helen!"
At the same time a child rushes past in a whirl of hair and skinny legs. She's exuberantly pushing a small pram with a doll in it, so fast the front wheels are off the ground. She's wearing a brown suede coat with a fur trimmed hood but the hood is down and the coat is unbuttoned. She has blonde hair trailing from beneath one of those Peruvian style knitted hats, the ones with ear flaps and woolen pig tails that hang down - or would if she wasn't moving so fast. By the time I register these details and how small she is she's about 15 feet ahead of us.
From behind her mother calls her name again, a bit louder and elongated by exasperation to an upwardly sliding note.
Helen pulls up short and with a twirl turns to face her Mum and us. Beneath her coat she has a pastel pink jumper and a green skirt above blue tights that end in tan suede boots trimmed at the top with fur. There she stands, momentarily frozen, beaming a smile back that says "I hear you" as she doffs her Peruvian cap with all the style of a Shakespearean actor on the stage. She plops her hat perfectly back on her head and giggles as she waits for her Mum to catch up.
She's a yard of nonsense, three feet of mischief. I may never have seen her before and may never see her again but my world today is a better place because she's been in it.
I carefully carried two cups brimming with hot tea and a plate with a couple of mince pies through to the lounge. I'd been blogging for an hour or so, making up the last post of the year and scooting through a few entries from the blogs I follow. It was just the two of us here for Ne'erday as we had cancelled plans to go through to my brother on the west coast. I have a chest infection {again} which has left me with a racking cough which almost folds me double when it hits and the Lovely G is displaying some painful bruising from having fallen from halfway down the stairs during a power cut the other morning as she tried to get ready for work in the dark. {She's perfectly OK though, nothing seriously damaged, but now she creaks and groans almost as much as I do trying to get out of her chair. Yes, I know. I should never be in her chair in the first place!} So - at the moment we share two sets of seriously aching ribs. This led me to cancel the trip across country and that has left us here with only each other for company across 'The Bells'.
As I carefully put down the cups on the small table between our favourite seats she is just closing down her own laptop and smiles sweetly at me. This in itself can be both off-putting and suspicious. Don't ask me how, it just is, and at this precise moment my man-radar has just gone into inter-continental-ballistic-overdrive. You're fooling no-one with that ' all sweetness and light' routine no matter how big and shiny those baby blues are.
"What?" I ask, suspiciously, but gently and hopefully not so suspiciously that she goes all defensive on me.
She smiles again.
"Nothing..."
"Oh no, there's something going on. What is it?"
No point trying to be subtle now, that's clearly not going to work. I may have to apply pressure so I prepare to go into full grumpy old man mode.
"No, nothing. I was just reading your blog."
A nice warm feeling engulfs me, part relief, part pride, part pleasure and a tiny frisson of guilt for being so suspicious. She has always been highly complimentary as far as 'Crivens, Jings' goes, - except for the post about the French Lingerie advert, but let's not go into that right now- so I prepare to glow in the light of my one and only's warm approval.
I smile back.
"Oh, what were you reading?"
"I was just catching up with the last one."
"And what did you think?"
"I was thinking that it's about right. You never do any of your New Year resolutions."
"Oh...... And?"
"No, nothing...... just seemed about right, that's all."
I sit down and reach for the tea and lift a mince pie in my other hand. I don't know what it is but the radar is still pinging away back here. There's definitely something else going on. I take a sip, then a bite as I try to work out what's happening without giving off signs that I'm on to her. It's important not to give the game away in situations like this. Never let on that you're on to them, that's the trick.
But she's still smiling. There's definitely something going on. She's not really looking at me. That's a sure sign, a dead giveaway. I'm onto you doll. I know there's something else here. What are you up to?......
"I've made my New Years resolutions."
She emphasises the 'my' part in the last sentence. I'm deep in thought. I still don't get it so I'm not really paying attention as I respond.
{According to my Lovely G this is a normal part of my behaviour. I never listen, I never pay attention and I never 'get it'.}
"Mmnnhh....."
"Oh yes. I've made my New Year resolutions. Unlike you I always do them don't I?"
I'm still not paying attention. What is she up to? What can it be? Could it be? No, probably not. What about?......
"Mmnnh.......yup....."
Distracted.
Still not listening.
In my mind my radar is doing that roving around like in the heads up display of a fighter cockpit as it searches relentlessly for it's target. That takes a lot of attention if your going to avoid an attack or less likely, get a diversionary attack of your own in first.
"D'you want to hear them?"
The radar locks on with high pitched warning tone.
Oops. Missed that one.
"Um.....Aye....of course."
"Your going to lose weight. You're going to take more exercise, get the garden sorted out, complete that list of DIY and be much less of a Grumpy Old Man in every sense of the word.............."
153 Squadron 8th May 1945
- VE day to the end of 153 Sqdn... - 64 Pageviews
The top five posts in the last month have been;
Black Agnes - Dunbar, 1338 - 82 Pageviews
Of Mince and Men.......... - 54 Pageviews
1752 - James Of The Glen... - 50 Pageviews
Today I took some photo's... - 38 Pageviews
Hermitage Castle - 32 Pageviews
What this all means is anyone's guess. It would have plagued my old maths teacher who provided me with the post header more than I. He seemed very determined to drum into us that it was important not to take figures at face value, especially when presented by someone else, but to analyse, check and double check their findings to confirm that what they postulated was proven. He went to great pains to ensure we understood that context and perspective could skew figures to prove an incorrect argument. I remember wondering at the time if he had lost his one and only teenaged girlfriend to a statistician who was more persuasive than he. 'Bubbles', as I called him because he had a habit of forming tiny spit bubbles when he got excited explaining some equation or other, was not a particularly good maths teacher, or more likely that I wasn't a particularly good maths student. It depends on ones perspective really.
And why, for goodness sake, am I prattling on about all this anyway? I dunno really. I was thinking about the list of posts from a few days back that I had decided was most representative of the blog and wondered idly if my list of 'best posts of 2010' would be born out by evidence.
It wasn't, which just goes to show what I know........
Made me think though.
I can understand some of it. The RAF posts were all done in the early part of the year and since then the blog seems to have found its way onto some specialist sites as a point of reference about 153 Sqdn. I was getting quite a number of hits about them at one point and even now they can be very popular on a daily basis - and it reflects on where people who view the blog come from too. It's interesting why a post about someone relatively obscure like 'Black Agnes' would be so popular that it's the No1 post of last year. {well since blogger stats started recording in June anyway} It just goes to show what a diverse lot are out there in the blogosphere.
The top ten visitor countries since June;
United Kingdom 4,756
United States 1,974
Germany 725
Canada 444
Australia 364
Netherlands 221
New Zealand 170
Russia 151
Ukraine 114
Denmark 86
I don't actively advertise the blog anywhere. I'm not on twitter or face-pest. I just scribble down what comes to mind and punt it out there. Usually I have between 25 and 30 visitors a day {although the highest daily figure is 275!}. This year has seen the number of followers rise to 48 fabby, amazing, wonderful and possibly deluded folks, there have been almost 750 comments and replies to 199 posts {including this one} and I've enjoyed every moment of it.
Thanks for coming along for the ride. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. In fact I've had so much fun I think I'll do the same thing again next year.
See you later {hopefully}
Listening to Leonard Cohen, 'Dance me to the end of love'
I had a dream last night. It was one of those oddities where, while not being a nightmare, you're not sure if you're exactly comfortable. Oh, I know exactly what triggered it alright. That's right Mornings Minion, it's all your fault!
The other day she posted a story from her 'family history' I suppose you'd have to call it. An innocuous wee tale of a young lad illicitly dipping into some of his Mums home-made mincemeat which had been stored away for Christmas and, having taken too much not to be noticed, he then had to stand and own up to it rather than watch it all thrown away as having been 'got at' by mice and therefore possibly be unfit for eating. Rather than lose that delicious stuff, he 'fessed' up like a man and ultimately all was well.
As I read that story yesterday I remembered clearly the impact of being a young lad with - shall we say - 'intimate knowledge' of some nefarious deed and standing in line with my brother and cousins in front of a Granny who was trying to puzzle out what had happened and who should be held responsible........
Don't get the wrong impression of me by the way. I wasn't a bad kid - just....... well....... unfortunate! {That means I usually got caught.}
Never a particularly good liar - even now I almost cave in at the merest security question at an airline check in; Did you pack this yourself? 'Yes' I say looking at the ground. { in reality my lovely G does the packing and I generally just throw in a book or two. What can I say - she's a control freak! - or if you're reading this sweetheart - an amazingly talented and organised suitcase packer.} Could anyone have tampered with your luggage? - No! {Actually almost anyone in the queue could have tampered with it because I've been bored out of my face for the last half hour standing in your bloomin queue, but probably not as many people as could tamper with it after YOU'VE got your mitts on it Mrs bloomin airline!} I know I know! I'm the only one in class who would have failed my 'Ordinary grade' basic terrorism exam caving in at questions like that!!!
My childhood tactic of trying to look cool and collected and as innocent as a baby in those rare {ha} situations would be given away by an over reactive blushing mechanism when under pressure and the unfortunate tell-tale sign of a perspiring forehead and upper lip even before I had the chance to let the storyexcuse explanation lie trip pure and sweet from my childish mouth. In any case I usually had forgotten to get rid of any offending article, wash my hands clean or empty my pockets/hands/mouth of all incriminating evidence or even to make the most basic preparation such as get the story straight in my head before the grilling began. Granny Robertson had undoubtedly one of the most penetrating looks I had ever come across in situations like that. Her eyebrows would gather together and her nose would wrinkle, she would lower her head and stare at you over the top of her glasses with eyes that could look into the soul of an angel and find dark secrets there, or make that angel feel there was darkness to be found. She would match her inquisitorial look with folded arms and a soft and beguiling tone of voice that almost hypnotised you into believing that if you only told the truth all would be well. {and that was a lie if ever there was one} I'm sure at one time or other she trained the secret service in interrogation techniques, and she probably taught old Obi-Wan Kenobi that "This is not the droid you're looking for" trick. Sometimes I would find myself standing there sweating, face on fire, ready to blurt out an admission to stuff I hadn't done, just to get it over with. The effect was increased when there were multiple potential miscreants as she would line us up and scrutinise each one in turn until the criminal broke down and gave himself up. Grown men would have thrown themselves howling at her slippered feet and begged for mercy rather than endure more than a minute or two of Granny Robertson's patented torture treatment for misbehaving young persons.
Mere children had no chance.
But no matter how bad it was, it was never so bad that after a certain length of time, you didn't think that next time you would do much better and after all it wasn't really that bad anyway. Yes, next time you would be able to stand there and fool the lie detector on legs that was my dear old Granny. No question about it at all!!!
But believe it or not, that's not what this story is all about. I merely pass on this wee glimmer of the woman that was my Granny by way of hinting at the kind of impact she had on my formative years.
And my backside.
This could be my early life -
right down to the poem beneath....
It's not a mile off my Granny that's for sure
Granny Robertson was one of those women who would rightly be called a Matriarch. She was, for my entire childhood, the glue which held my family and indeed my universe firmly together. She was babysitter, confidante, refuge, hospital, historian, maker of sense for all things perplexing, storyteller, fount of all knowledge, knitter of multitudes of embarrassing jumpers,socks and, most cringe-worthy of all, 'Balaclava's, as well as being the family's chief-cook-and-bottle-washer and as described above, 'Witchfinder General'. She would also sometimes be consulted by village folk outside the family on local or more delicate private issues - always accompanied by a pot of tea and - infuriatingly for inquisitive wee boys - behind closed doors. She was the scourge of any authority figure or family member she felt was performing beneath reasonable expectation. As a result she was well known, probably with some of the same trepidation I felt, by our local councillors. I remember standing beside my Father at her funeral and the local councillor saying to him " Nell would be pleased. This is the biggest turnout for any woman's funeral that I've ever seen." {He was probably there mostly to check that she had actually gone!} Sure, she could be intimidating for a small boy or a local politician, but to think of her as just that would be selling her way, way short. Although her decisions were like edicts pronounced from on high and the merest hint that Granny was looking for you meant that you better run as fast as you could either towards the house or away, depending on your recent activities, most of the time she was a benign power, a happy, beaming and forgiving, Buddha like figure.
As my Grandfather was bedridden due to injuries from WWI and she needed help with some aspects of his physical care, we spent a lot of time as a family or as individuals, at her house. Hers was the place where any far flung family would come to visit and hers was the place where we would all congregate for special - or even ordinary - occasions. She had the main care of my brother and I during school holidays as both my parents worked - something I remember as being somewhat of a minor bone of contention between her and my equally strong willed mother - and we would all eat at her house once, twice or more often each week through the summer and at least once a week during the rest of the year.
She was the most fantastic, and I mean just fantastic, cook and baker. This could become the longest post in history if I began to wax lyrical about all the incredible stuff that could be produced en masse from her wee kitchen and primitive stove, but I still yearn - really yearn - for her sublime potato and leek soup, her roast chicken or her Irish stew, or those amazing potatoes boiled then rolled in oats and fried until nutty and crispy and her supreme gift to a hungry child - her clootie dumpling. Just writing this, more than 40 years later, I can almost physically smell the soft yet dense aroma of fruit and spice that rose as steam as it lay on the hearth by the fire still wrapped in the cloth that gave it its name and held it together as it cooked. I can feel the cloth in my hand as I would turn it every few minutes, supervised by a satisfied Granny, to help dry the cloth and form its skin. What an exquisite torture for a hungry wee boy that was! I can still feel the wonder of trying to imagine where the hidden thruppeny pieces, or that one shiny silver sixpence that she always included in the mix, would be.
But the clue to this post is in the header. Granny Robertson's mince was - to use a Scots parlance - MINCE. It was a dish that now, as an adult, I can see was formed in her own upbringing in rural poverty and perhaps honed in the times of the great depression after the first war, when food had to be eked out to go as far as possible, waste was unforgivable and every morsel had to be used to provide sustenance. None of that occurred or mattered to me in the sixties and early seventies when faced with a steaming mound of Grannies indigestible mince. I was always a fussy eater in my childhood. My parents and grandparents all worried that my physical development would be affected by my lack of appetite and limited range of foods that were acceptable. {By the way SNB, I can hear you say " That must have changed!" and I will get you for that. lol} It was, as I'm sure you will understand from all I've written about Granny Robertson above, a major cause of antagonism between us and an ongoing battle that we were both equally determined to win. But, dear reader, I digress.
Grannies mince was appalling. It had a secret ingredient - added no doubt for all the right reasons and as I said above - for all the deep seated traditions and conditioning of my Grandmother's upbringing. It had beaten egg stirred through it. Now maybe it's just my imagination, but I can hear you go "Is that all?" but please, this was disgusting. It came to the table in huge quantities and to me it looked yellow, a horrible greeny yellow flecked with mince and studded with diced onion, carrot and turnip. It was without question the foulest concoction known to man and the worst thing anyone has ever EVER put in front of me. The mere sight of it would be enough to reduce me to a quivering tearful wreck in acknowledgement that this would be yet another interminable battle of wills between me and Granny. I would cry, I would winge, I would howl and I would beg my brother and sometimes my cousins quietly to take some off my plate to no avail as they all felt the same. I would try and attract our dog across to my feet where I would try and get her to scoff some, but even that gluttonous canine, faithful friend and defender balked at Grannies mince, leaving me with soggy dog-sniffed handfuls of the stuff. It was very much a case of "You're on your own pal".
But I tried. Really I tried.......
For each closely scrutinised scrap that I put in my mouth I would need a huge gulp of lemonade or milk and then I would manfully gag it down before sobbing my way to the next tiny, tiny smear on my spoon. I quickly would run out of lemonade and would ask for more which sometimes I would get, sometimes not. I would mix it with the veg on the plate or with the mashed potatoes in the hope of masking the flavour, but all I succeeded in doing was making the mash and veg taste like the mince and the plate appear more full of the noxious stuff than when I had started. Granny was a great believer in no one leaving the table until every scrap had been polished off and plates were gleaming clean; for which purpose bread and butter were generously provided. It was hell on earth and for many years cancelled out all the good memories of the amazing things that she could produce. One particularly bad day I found that every time when Granny wasn't looking or had gone to the kitchen or through to Grandpa as she often did, and I bent down to try and force the dog to eat some, my brother and my cousin who was with us that day, would each spoon some of theirs onto my plate while I wasn't looking. For ages I couldn't understand what was going on. I was eating the stuff, even the dog seemed to be more obliging than usual and yet the pile on my plate wasn't getting any smaller. {Gordon had a different strategy to cope with this meal than I did. He would scoff the dreadful stuff as fast as possible and then wash it all down at the end with a whole glass of lemonade. It worked for him but the only time I tried it I threw up!} As I screamed my dismay at finding out what was really going on that day long ago I attracted an annoyed Granny back into the room and made sure her determination to see me finish the plate was burning brightly. No amount of accusation or explanation could make her see that I was the victim of an enormous injustice. Who would have believed that two such innocent souls such as my conniving brother and swine of a cousin could do such a thing. No, it was terrible that I was prepared to accuse them of such things when they at least had finished their plates like the good boys they were. Absolutely smug, grinning little B's more like. { Even now my teeth are clenched at the memory. GRRRRR}
And so manfully I struggled on, weighed down as much as by the injustice of it all as the heavy weight of at least a pound of Grannies incredible inedible mince in my stomach. The plate was eventually finished without the assistance of any more lemonade and tearfully I was allowed to leave the table but only after having to face the further indignity of seeing my brother and cousin get my dessert which was forbidden me as further punishment for my bad behaviour. What a pair of absolute gits! They even managed to get out of the washing up and escaped my retribution by zooming off on their bikes before I managed to get away from the house to barf up my lunch and go hunt them down.
Even all these years later I hate mince unless its done as bolognese or chili. I am still occasionally haunted by memories of Grannies mince and egg hence the dream that wasn't quite a nightmare at the top of the page. A couple of years ago I had my cousin Elspeth and her husband come to stay with us here for a holiday and as we hadn't seen each other for many years, spent time reminiscing as you do about past times and things fondly remembered. Despite all the great memories of Granny and the fabulous times we had growing up there was one over-riding negative memory we shared.
Guess what that was boys and girls?.............
see you later.
Listening to The Waterboys, 'All the things she gave me'
The piece that first got me into Vangelis' music.
One for a dark room, headphones and high volume.
Hullo ma wee blog,
The window of the bedroom is closed for the first time in as long as I can remember. Normally the only time it's shut is when we are away from home and the last time I can think it was possibly closed was almost a year ago, during the worst of last Winter's nightmare weather. Tonight as I lie in bed I'm grateful that it's not open. The temperature in the room is freezing in these few hours of the night before the central heating system kicks in to heat the house for the start of the day. {our heating system is LPG as we live in a small village not connected to mains gas which is a lot cheaper. This year our gas has gone up by crippling 55p a litre and - with only one supplier - they have us over a barrel.} The overnight temperature is forecast to get down to -6C but even that has failed to stop snow falling, except now it comes down as hail and it's this that has wakened me.
I lie for a while and listen to the sound of the hail shattering itself against the window in the howling wind. I would get up and have a look but I'm not brave enough to face it this morning, so I lie in bed and relish the warmth seeping across from my Lovely G close beside me. I run a hand across her hip and waist and slowly on up the slope of her ribcage to her shoulder, a soft but deliberate movement which elicits an intake of breath and a slow stretch from somewhere deep in her slumber. I smile and continue the movement, now gently using my fingernails to further mess with her dreams as my hand follows the dip of her spine back down to rest eventually at her hip again. A few moments later, as I drop off back to sleep, my fingers are nudged by a restless Jess who is lying nestled in the curl of the other side of G's body. I ignore her in the hope that she'll also drop back off to sleep but she has other plans and her nose, warm and wet, again nudges my fingers, followed a moment later by the tap of her paw. It too is warm and soft but insistent as it taps me once, twice and then a third time. I push my arm across G and search Jess' furry body with a gentle hand until I can orientate her in my mind and, having found responsive ears and neck, I begin to knead her shoulders and neck as purrs begin to pour from a satisfied cat. We remain connected by the lazy movements of my hand until we both fall asleep, the three of us together now under the duvet, safe from the wind and the brittle sound of hail on glass.
Some time later I wake again. The house is silent, not even the occasional tick from a radiator beginning to heat, so I know it's early. I lie for a while listening and then, as I often do, I get up to avoid waking the Lovely G with my restlessness and, stopping to pull on trousers, tee-shirt and jumper, I head downstairs to kitchen, coffee and computer. The clock on the oven says its 4.15am as I head to the table, cup in hand and press the power button on the laptop. As I've come down the heating has just come on and the hum of the boiler tells me the house will soon be warming up for the day. Waiting for the sign-in screen coming to life I press the light-switch on the wall to the left of my seat. The light outside over the patio comes on and I pull the vertical blinds slightly to the side to see what's been happening during the night. Outside snow - and proper snow this time - is coming down thick and fast in huge flakes, tumbling and whirling in eddies by the nearby walls. It looks like another three or four inches have come down and this will add to the four or five inches already there. The laptop screen turns blue and I sign in and head for my blog's dashboard to check if anyone has posted on the blogs I follow and to check if any comments have been left on 'Crivens Jings...'
After a while I again take a peek out at the patio and see snow still falling as thick as before. Impetuously I reach for a fleece and pull on my boots that are lying at the kitchen door. "What on earth am I doing?" crosses my mind as I step out into the snow and walk round the side of the house and head down the drive to where the streetlights are showing the end of the drive lies. The snow underfoot is soft and fresh and even in the darkness the snow gives off a kind of light despite the stuff coming down all around. I hear the gentle crump of snow compressing with each step and feel that I'm not actually walking on the drive but somewhere vaguely above it, not quite in control of my balance as I slip into holes left by previous and now invisible footsteps. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for the depressions ahead, those puddles normally that are a trap waiting for me hidden as they are under the snowdrift in front of me. I give the area a careful and wide berth and head on down the slight slope to the road. I step out of the drive and again find myself taking extra care at hidden ruts of frozen snow at the side of the road as I step out into the middle of the completely empty street. The silence is........ Well, it's complete, absolute, perfect. It's stunning! The sound of silence is....... stunning!
I stand alone in the middle of the street and no matter which way I turn I hear nothing. I resist a childlike giggle and the urge to shout something into the snow falling round me. It is only about 5.00 after all. I can't hear a thing. Even the sound that is a quiet but almost constant here - the A1 main East coast London to Edinburgh road noise - is absent. Usually you can hear lorries on the hill past the village at any time, day or night.
Nothing.......
I'm in a silence of snow.
I look back toward the house but I can't see it. I can probably see about 30 or 40 feet but not much more. I look at my fleece in the light from the streetlamp. It's covered in snow and my arms are completely white. If I stay out too long I'll be the best snowman for miles around. But the feeling is utterly beguiling. Soon though I begin to feel the cold seeping through the fleece and jumper and I know it's time to head back inside. I've not been out long but it's been enough and I turn to retrace my steps up the drive and around the house to the patio door at the side of the kitchen. I step inside having kicked the snow off my boots and I shake the snow off the fleece back out through the open door before closing it on the snowflakes that seem keen to follow me inside.
Time for coffee I think. But, as I sit down a few minutes later with the warm cup in my hand I can't stop the silly grin on my face.
That was braw!!!
Now I can wait for day to slip in through the night and the careful but exciting journey through the snow to Dunbar and my Lovely G's morning train.
I've been off-line most of this week while my laptop has been away getting repaired and so, now that it's back, this is the first post for a while that takes place at my normal typing speed and not in a stuttering, cursing under my breath thump, thump, thump on the keyboard trying to get sticking keys to work kind of way. It feels like a new me to be honest......
The lovely G did offer me the use of her laptop while mine was away at the repair geek shop but although I did try, and used it to post any comments I've made to blogs this week, somehow it just didn't feel right and perhaps as a result I have been lacking any kind of inspiration for a post. That sad state of affairs - and missing my own laptop - actually made me feel quite down, which is disturbing in its own way, and I was glad that my week had been busy with Children's Hearings and the like. {the 'like' included crashing the garage courtesy car that I have while my own car is also in for repairs! Twenty years driving with no accidents then two in a fortnight!!!}
My week perked up considerably though when I was contacted by Scottish Nature Boy a fellow blogger who's output on Scottish natural history I'm an avid reader of. SNB was on a few days holiday and in the area visiting his parents and his brother CoastKid, who's fabby blog on cycling hereabouts I also follow , and asked if he could drop in and meet me as he would be out with a pal cycling nearby. It sounded too good a chance to let go so of course I agreed and on Friday morning found myself sitting here at my kitchen table sharing tea and biccies with SNB and his cycling pal.
Any similarity to SNB purely accidental!
This is the first time I've physically met anyone through the blog although I've been promising Scudder to meet for a pint for far too long and have also promised to meet up with Coastkid to talk about his blog and his blog films which are beginning to get noticed and win awards from those who know about these things. The anticipation in the lead up to the visit was actually quite an exciting time. I mean it's all very well to post a few comments about stuff you've liked on a blog and all that and to have that reciprocated, but it's truly another dimension to actually meet someone who's previously only been a virtual acquaintance. What if you just don't hit it off for some reason? What if he's a nut job or clearly thinks your not the sharpest tool in the box? And of course he was coming with back up and I would be all on my own.........
Of course none of those things applied in reality and I was pleasantly struck by the ease of conversation around the table as we explored our shared experience of blogging and the multitude of topics that end up being part of the experience of our own and other blogs. We share several similarities in attitude which were very obvious from the start and I'd like to think we were both comfortable in each others company from the off.
His cycling buddy hopefully was reassured that I didn't turn out to be the mad axe murderer he was forecasting either........... Friday's my day off on that pastime luckily for him.
Although I'd seen his picture on his blog profile, he'd never set eyes on me until I opened the door as of course I have a strict no personal photo's rule on the blog and use a cartoon { Dad and Mom from Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Waterson - or Oor Wullie } as an avatar. It was amusing that he had clearly an image in his mind and I was quite different to what he expected. I certainly look nothing like Oor Wullie or Calvin's Dad. Maybe that's a bit unfair of me but they represent part of my personality.
As you would expect we were soon deep in conversation about how we blog, what about and blogs we follow and that led us to talk about the kind of boundaries we set for our blogs and how we protect the integrity of what we are putting out there. It's something I think about a lot as my blog is a very personal one, reflecting me and my values and although I don't censor myself consciously, I'm very protective of what I am writing. We both agree that as our blogs are basically open to the world it's great that we have never had any disrespectful or inappropriate comments. { I have only once refused to post a comment - it was a spam commercial advert}
It was a nice affirmation of the blogosphere to meet such an unassuming and enthusiastic guy, obviously intelligent and thoughtful, as shows in his blog, and with a good sense of fun and it was all too soon before the lads had to saddle up and head off on the journey back west and home. Before he went SNB invited me to visit him in Stirling and go to the castle when the restoration to the banqueting hall ceiling is unveiled.
I never saw the fox until it was too late. I barely just had time to register its shadowy profile and the bushy tail flowing straight out behind in the headlights before impact. Although I hit the brakes hard I knew as I saw it that there was no way I could avoid hitting it. I hit it full on and, being on motorway at the time, was doing about 75 miles an hour. It never stood a chance and probably died instantly. If by some chance it survived it was finished off by the car following close behind on that busy Saturday night, but I'm pretty sure I killed it outright.
I've never hit an animal like that before. In thirty odd years of driving I could count how many small things I have hit on the fingers of one hand. It's always been a phobia of animal loving me, perhaps from childhood memories of a rare pheasant or even once a hare that dad killed while driving. Dad would always stop and check if the animal was injured and I remember once seeing him dispatch an injured something in the red glow of the rear lights. He always used the lead loaded cosh, prophetically called a 'priest' which he used when fishing, to kill any injured animal. I can remember his sigh, the clunk of the car boot being opened, a quick fumble for 'the priest' in his fishing bag and the sound of him walking away to return a few moment later and put it away again. He would close the car boot with a slow but gentle pressure that would press down the whole of the back of the car. {I remember being inordinately impressed with the strength of that gesture and tried to recreate it unsuccessfully many times until I was much older.}
Whenever he hit a game animal it would always be put into the boot and taken home, not to a squeamish Mum, but to Gran Robertson, where it would go into the pot. It was this trait of his own childhood country upbringing that first showed me a newly dead animal in close up, laid out on the jade-green topped table of Grannies kitchen. I remember that first time, seeing in the bright kitchen light, being tearfully sad yet curious about the beautiful pheasant with its shining eyes, incredibly coloured feathers and blood-dripped yellow beak. Its black eyes seemed calm and yet sad at the same time, like it had been somehow cheated out of its life I suppose. I remember too being confused about how matter of fact, pleased even, Dad and Gran were about the destruction of this amazing creature and on asking being told that they were going to eat it. Although I don't remember my reaction, I imagine it would have been one of horror and I probably cried a lot more. I know Mum always found incidents like that disturbing and couldn't bring herself to look at the creature and would never take part in any meal that resulted. I was firmly on her side on that score although I would be equally curious about anything brought home in the future - and a good deal less tearful.
As I hit the poor fox that wet Saturday night a week ago, muddy water splashed up onto the windscreen and I realised that this must have come from its coat. Dad always told me not to brake if I was going to hit an animal. "Better to make sure if you can.", but I was never able to do that and anyway due to quick reactions and decent brakes I've missed a good few birds and rabbits over the years. Even though I had started braking that night the impact was startling, something I'd never considered before, and I instinctively looked in the rear view mirror to see the body of the poor creature hit again by the car behind and thrown towards the roads central reservation. As the road was very busy I didn't stop but continued on, a pang of guilt deep in the pit of my stomach, guilt for the death of a beautiful animal and guilt for breaking Dads unshakable rule; if you hit something, make sure it's dead. Don't leave an animal that might be suffering. I told myself and my shocked lovely G that I had killed it instantly, it was too dangerous to stop and finally that if I hadn't killed it outright then the car behind certainly had, but part of me didn't want to be confronted by the result of my actions or the dead eye of that beautiful fox.
The car seemed to be handling properly although I watched it carefully the rest of that silent accusatory journey home and it wasn't until we got to the roundabout at the edge of the village that I heard a small scraping noise which told me that part of the plastic of the front bumper was hanging low. As it was late I parked up at the entrance of the drive and we walked up to the house and bed. The next morning I went to check on the car and found that the accident had caused quite a bit of damage to the front bumper, springing it out of its fixings and bursting it in two places, one of which was hanging low and caused the noise of the previous evening. So the car is off the road while I wait on my insurance company coming to fix it.
I've thought a lot about that fox in the last week. I have given myself a long silent version of the talking to my Dad would have given me for not stopping regardless of how bad the weather or busy the road, at least to try and confirm that the animal was dead. I've also given myself the talk where he would be much more supportive and conciliatory, where he said that the deed is done and that it was time to move on. I've thought too about that pheasant on Grannies green table-top and the image of lingering regret the memory brings to me all these years later.
Been setting up this blog, which is no mean feat for someone as technically challenged as me, and am already getting mildly cheesed off that I cant choose to tell you exactly where I live in the profile section. Oh no, that would be too simple I suppose. I have to say that I'm from the UK, as thats in their selection criteria, but really what I want to say is that I'm that from Scotland. Its only a small point I know, but for gods sake, its a bloomin country! We have our own parliament and everything. !
Ach, you'll just have to get used to me, wont you.
Anyway, Like I said above somewhere, I,m just the wrong side of 50 years old, or at least thats how it feels right now, and am lucky enough to live in East Lothian, a county which is a really bonny part of Scotland, a few miles east of Edinburgh. Its rural but still close enough to town that when the mood takes me I can be sitting in an Edinburgh pub having a beer or watching a movie in less than an hour. In the space of a month I have lost my job, my forties, my sense of humour and my Dad, of all of which there will be more to come. The worst of these of course is losing my Dad, but I still kind of find it hard to talk about him at the moment. Maybe later hmm?
I dont want this to be about loss though. I want to try and use this blog thingy to help me go forward, to have a moan sure, but to have a laugh too! I hope it can help me get ma heid around stuff as I'm in a bit of a fankle at the moment. In the course of posting I will no doubt tell you about the shitty minutia thats my life at the moment, and a bit about me, my family, my likes and dislikes etc etc, and the daily trials and tribulations of not having to get up in the morning and go to work like I did almost every single day for the last thirty two years. Actually most of this feels the same as just about any other blog so I wont be offended if you want to bugger off somewhere else. Your probably busy and got better stuff to do eh?
In the meantime please forgive me but I, for my part, am going to treat you like my imaginary friend. I've never had one before. An imaginary one that is - dont be sarcastic. I'm very vulnerable just now. You never know it might be fun.
Listening to right now.........Porcupine Tree " Arriving somewhere, not here"
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