Welcoming in the new year

BIG TAM HORNA'S YER MAN FUR HOGMANAY

I spent the afternoon of the last day of 2013 the same way I did in 2012.  But with more positive emotions by the end of it.  I was sat in Murrayfield Ice Rink to watch the derby match between Edinburgh Capitals and their local rivals, Fife Flyers.  And, as last year, it was Tense.  With a very deliberate use of the capital.

In 2012 it ended, in the final second of Overtime, with Flyers scoring a controversial winner.  I walked out the doors with shoulders slumped, just like everyone else sitting on our side of the arena.  But as soon as the fresh air hit me I couldn't help smiling.  I'd just watched a drama of Shakespearean dimensions.  Tension, uncertainty, moments of high and low emotion, supreme skill, depths plumbed, heroes and villains, a plot with twists and a veneer of reality, and that final climactic turn of the narrative.  It had all you could wish for in a couple of hours of entertainment.  And it had been special to be there, in spite of the gutting end result.

This year the script wasn't all that different.  There was to be no domination, no clear cut indication of how the story might end.  That edge of the seat uncertainty remained in place throughout, the outcome in the hands of a non existent Spielberg.  The Flyers took the lead, but there was always the chance that one or other side could score.  In reality there was always the chance that either team could cock up and hand their rivals an opportunity.  Quality has it's place, but mistakes are the life blood of the turnover in fortunes.

As with any great tragedy there's always the comedy interlude.  At the end of the first period they brought on the kids.  About six to eight years old, ranging from small down to the hard to see and impossible to keep upright.  Five minutes of miniature beings congregating around a lonesome puck, occasionally moving it in one direction or other, and spending a lot of time horizontal.  It was hilarious, an innocent aside that took our eyes of the main plot line for a moment and deluded us into thinking that this was but a farce before our eyes.  But the serious matters returned.

They extended their lead, we hit back.  And then another, this time a goal of a level of skill and virtuosity that demands replays and slo-mos.  And another, complete with it's own mini controversy when our man, Marcis Zembergs, raised his stick to deflect the puck goalwards.  Too high whined the Fife goalie, not at all disdained the ref (a man of inconsistent decisions, a facilitator of the whims of fate in the theatre of dreams) and Caps had the lead.  Silence on the Fife side of the rink, and on the feet arm waving loud mouthing chanting chorus on ours.  But the writer had other ideas.  By the end of the second period it was three all and we went into the last together, players, Fife fans, the Capitals faithful, anyone who might have remained neutral (eh?) and knew that it was probably going to come down to a single decisive moment.

End to end.  Fast, unrelenting, taking the breath from the lungs.  Step forward the Czech Tomas Horna.  Big Tam.  I don't think I mentioned that he had scored our first two goals.  And was playing majestically.  (I may be guilty of mild exaggeration at this point.)  It's his first year playing in the British league.  He's always appeared in his home country up until now.  So it's probably the first time he's been known as Big Tam.  That may not be a common phrase in Prague.  But Big Tam he is now and will remain.

Big Tam scored again.  Hat trick.  And a one goal lead with about ten minutes left.  It didn't feel like it could possibly be enough.  For more than nine minutes it didn't feel like nearly enough.  Flyers kept coming.  Our goalie kept saving.  The puck did everything but hit the back of the net.  One and half minutes remain and Fife pull their goalie, throw six men forward into scoring that equalising goal.  A couple of times one of our guys sent the puck back to the other end, never quite accurately enough to float between the pipes, to administer the coup de grace.

It was enough.  The final seconds ran down, the Caps side of the house erupted, the Flyers slumped of.  Time for the Caps Man of the Match to be announced and the chant went up, "Horna, Horna, Horna, Horna...." and the announcer duly obliged.  Big Tam it was.

So many smiling faces on the way out.  We're still bottom of the league, and may well remain there, but Big Tam Horna made Hogmanay his own.

Happy New Year.

It'll be lonely this Xmas

HOME ALONE

It is Xmas Day.  I am on my own.  No, this is not a plea for sympathy, not in the least, because it's a temporary state and soon to be ended.  Indeed I'm glad of the chance to get a few things done by myself.  But I woke up this morning beside the person I love most in the world, who also happens to be my best friend, and was soon joined by my other favoured companion.  Who has just come to sit by me now, so I'm not all that alone after all.  Here she is.

So we woke up, had a lie in, ate breakfast together, opened a few presents (including finding out that, as last year, we've managed to buy each other the same book) and now she's gone to her daughter's for a Xmas Day meal.  I was invited, but have a long list of positive and negative reasons for being happy to opt out.  Avoiding noisy kids, the son-in-law's brother who bangs on about his divorce, and the evidence based expectation that the culinary element might not be of all that high a standard seem like good enough reasons to me.  With the added bonus of a long walk on a sunny day (OK, confession - I went to stick a Xmas card through a friend's letter box and no, I'm not going to explain why it wasn't sent or taken there days ago....), some playtime with the cat, and a chance to sit a write for a bit.  There are times when being alone can seem much the preferable option.

I've only spent one Xmas Day literally on my own.  That was the early eighties.  I'd not long since bought my first house, where I lived on my own.  Back then I lived in Hampshire.  For reasons I now forget I'd decided not to travel back to Scotland that year (probably too broke!) and had no problem contemplating a 25th December sat down with full control of the telly.  However I accepted an invitation from a friend to go to his for dinner.  Xmas morning changed that when I awoke to find I had contracted that most toxic and debilitating of illnesses - man flu.  So I spent the day in my dressing gown, stretched out on the sofa and had baked beans on toast for lunch (there may even have been cheese involved).  Did I feel sorry for myself?  Not in the slightest, other that the degree of self pity which is the natural prerogative of the human male stricken with a snotty nose.  I enjoyed the day as much as any other, but then I've always been a bit of a loner by nature.

Perhaps the best aspect of a day like that was having no need to meet the expectations of others.  It was the case then, and is even more so now, that everyone, or what feels like everyone, decrees that Xmas day must be 'special'.  That there should be traditions and excessive quantities of food and drink and presents and general over-the-topedness.  It fits in so well with the mores of our capitalist, greed-is-good society to promote the spending-is-best ethos.  And making that one day 'special' for ourselves and others, has become yet another form of validation that applies pressure to increase the debt mountains, fuel the pay day loaners, be someone other than who you might otherwise be.  If you don't have, and deliver to others, that 'special' day then you are worth less as a human being.  Does it have to be this way?

As I said above, I'm on my own for now, but far from lonely.  But there are many people in the UK who may not see anyone at all today.  For some that will be just fine, as it was for me that time.  It may even be a positive choice, and nobody should be able to make them feel the worse for that decision.  ("Oh, you're not really going to spend Xmas day on your own, are you....?", complete with pitying tone.)  For some there will be greater joy in knowing they've avoided the family rows than having to take part in them.

For others it is just one more lonely day in a sequence where human contact is a rarity and they would give anything to change that situation.  Being constantly bombarded with the image of today as one to share, to give and be given to, to celebrate, may feel like being laughed at by the whole world.  Is anyone surprised that the suicide rate increases over the Xmas period? 

It's been good to dip into the Twitter hashtag #joinin today and see social media at it's best, giving those who feel the need or desire the chance to share their day with others.  It might not be the same as face to face contact, but at least virtual friends don't hold grudges about the present they got from Auntie Margaret five years ago.

So how does this 'special' work?  For some it's that quirky family tradition that's repeated every year.  Others want change, the shock of the new, a break from the fusty sameness that some seem to revel in.  And there are those who'd like to ignore the whole event, thank you very much, and resume a sensible life when all the frivolities have subsided.

Me?  I'm somewhere in the middle.  My Bah, Humbug! instincts are softened by my wife's love of a bit of tinsel and a few candles.  Were I on my own I doubt a tree would make an appearance in the Crawford residence, but I'd make a bit of an effort when celebrating with others.  See, I'm even wearing one of my festive waistcoats today.

Special is whatever works for you, it's the laugh you had, the mouthful you ate, the look out the window.  It's the cat looking pleadingly at you for food (she made me write that, honest).  I hope you have, had, a special day, whatever that means to you.  I hope that every one of your days, hyped or otherwise, contains their special moment.  And if 'special' to you is doing nothing like the things that you're told are special to others then so be it.

Make your own Special.

So what's British?

BRITAIN'S BRITISH? REALLY? WELL BLOW ME....

I read a tweet a couple of days ago saying "UKIP are the only chance Britain has of remaining British". Now, to be fair, you do get to see some really stupid statements being made on Twitter, and much amusement can be derived from many of them, but I can't make up my mind how much this guy is funny stupid, and how much plain disturbing. Because, and maybe I'm the one who's missing something here, I'm not sure how Britain could be anything other than British. It kind of goes together doesn't it?

Of course this being a kipper he's trying to make some daft point about immigration. Or maybe it was 'islamification', that well known made-up scaremongers terminology. It was hard to see in what context he was ranting, but then context, like facts and evidence, doesn't seem to mean much to kippers. They seem to have their own little fixed ideas ('ideas' may be an overly complimentary term) which no amount of reality will alter. So all the recent conclusive evidence demonstrating that immigration has been positive for the UK is presumably some kind of plot in the eyes of people like this.

Which may mean that this person imagines he's making some kind of sense in coming out with this meaningless statement. For a start Britain is a geographic, rather than political, entity. The UK is the political state, comprised of three countries and a colony. So quite how Britain could be anything other than British is beyond me. Even if the UK was to break up, or become part of a larger state, Britain would remain Britain, and anything and anyone in Britain could be reasonably described as British. Being ruled from London never prevented Ireland remaining Irish, did it? Despite the best efforts of the likes of Cromwell and Churchill Irish national identity remained strong.

So what exactly can 'remaining British' actually mean to this man? Is there something beyond geography which marks out something, or someone, as distinctly 'British'? It's hard to think of there being much in common between Bob Crow and Norman Tebbit, Mary Beard and Cheryl Cole, Mo Farah and Elton John, Kirsty Wark and E L James, but they are all indisputably one thing and that's British. Because they live in Britain. I'd find it depressing to think I would ever be thought of having much in common with Nigel Farage, but we both live in, on, the same island and that makes us both British.

I'm a Scot, but have spent most of my adult life living in England. My move south took place in 1979, shortly after the first general election win for Thatcher. I watched coverage of that event back in Scotland, but saw out all subsequent election nights in England. Until 2010, when I had the chance to be back home once again. And received a powerful reminder of just how different a country Scotland is from England, at least in political terms.

The BBC Scotland coverage was a very different animal to what I'd become used to. For a start there were four main parties represented in the debates and discussions. Then, as the results came through, the tally on the screen would flip between the numbers for Scottish seats, and those for the UK as a whole. And the stories those figures told were hugely different, as they have been since the eighties when the savagery of Thatcherite policies effectively destroyed Tory support north of the border, culminating in the total wipeout of their Westminster representation in '97. As for UKIP.... they remain the sixth party in Scotland, have yet to hold on to a deposit in either Westminster or Holyrood elections, and are little more than a bad smell in the corner of the room. I recall reading that, in the 2011 Holyrood election, all the Scottish UKIP candidates put together scraped fewer votes across the whole country than the independent Margo MacDonald received in just the Lothian Region.

So Scotland is not England. It has always maintained it's own legal system, it has very different cultural traditions and sees itself as a country apart, within the UK. But it is as British as England, or Wales, because it is part of the same island. All three countries have changed dramatically over the centuries, but this was Britain when the Romans arrived, and that cannot be altered.

That it is populated by mongrels alters this fact not one jot. The waves of immigration to these islands are too numerous to mention. Perhaps the Romans were the first to be properly documented, but that certainly didn't mean we had an Italian influx. For any Roman occupying forces were as polyglot as the French Foreign Legion. There were men, and women, from all over Europe, the Near East and North Africa. Many integrated with the locals and remained once the empire receded. In the following centuries there were Germanic tribes, Scandinavians, and, of course, the Normans (most Scots forget, or don't even know, that Robert the Bruce came from a Norman family). Although there were no further major invasions this island developed trading links all over the world, which led to lpopulation movements in both directions. The impact of the slave trade should not be forgotten either, with many people of African original being brought here forcibly. On a more cheerful note, let us not forget that Britain has a long history of providing sanctuary for political refugees, saving lives from the possibility of torture and death.

So @DuncanGray (for it was he who was the 'genius' behind my opening sentence), what were you really trying to say? Just what is this 'British' you speak of, if it is not a simple adjective referring to the fact of being from, in, part of, Britain? How can being part of the EU stop Britain from being British? Have the French become less French or the Italians less Italian? Is it the immigration which dilutes the number of inhabitants actually born on this island? Why should that matter, given the constant changes in origins reflected above? The gene pool is strengthened by variety, not inbreeding (as our royal family appears to demonstrate).

Or is there something else at work here? That's the trouble with proto-fascist parties, there's always the whiff of racism working somewhere in the background. Any time spent following a few UKIP supporters on Twitter, or listening to the idiocies of Godfrey Bloom, will soon show you that. How much of this 'British' malarky is a hankering for a non existent golden age when white, straight males knew they were better than the rest (nobody appears to have told our current government that the world has moved on)?

I'm only surmising of course, but you have to wonder....

Action on ice

SPREADING THE HOCKEY WORD

Yesterday we listened to the Fred MacAulay show on Radio Scotland. This was a regular habit during the Fringe, when he shared the duties with Susan Calman in front of a live Festival audience (which we were part of a couple of times). Without wee Susan, and the audience, it's rarely as entertaining even though Fred himself can be very funny at times. This was one of the less exciting shows and I had to sit through tedious discussions about making mincemeat pies, getting children to say sorry and other stuff that flew from my mind as soon as it entered. I thank the Twitter gods for keeping me entertained.

All this was endured for what turned out to be a less than ten minute slot near the end of the hour and a half long show, but I was glad I did. A chat with Craig Anderson, otherwise known to us as Slapshot Scotland, a sports journalist I follow on both Twitter and Facebook for updates on the Scottish, and UK, ice hockey scene.

The timing of the interview was down to the presence, in Dumfries, of the World Under 20s Ice Hockey Championships. An event all but the avid ice hockey fan will be totally unaware of. Unless they happen to be Rod Stewart fans. Because one member of the GB team is said Mr Stewart's son, who plays his club hockey for a team based near Washington DC. A fact I was totally unaware of until recently, until Craig retweeted a couple of comments from Rod. Dad can't be there to see his son play, for whatever reasons, but he is obviously taking a close interest.

Not that GB are expected to have many triumphs in the tournament, but anything that raises a bit of awareness of the game in this country is a plus. Because I doubt that many people are even aware that it's still played here competitively.

Although similar games on ice have been played for hundreds of years (the Vikings were fans apparently) it's reckoned that the modern sport was invented in the late nineteenth century by British soldiers and immigrants in Canada, possibly influenced by a game played in Iceland. Montreal became the focal point for the sport and it spread across Canada, and later into the US and Europe. In North America it's simply referred to as Hockey, with the Ice prefix being reserved for those countries, like Britain, where field hockey is more common.

Hockey remains Canada's national sport, and in the US it's one the big money games along with football, basketball and baseball. Although the huge majority of the thirty teams playing in the National Hockey league (which is the top level of the sport in the US and Canada) are American the majority of the players come from north of the border. In Europe it's a major sport in Russia, Sweden, Finland and both the Czech and Slovak republics.

Here in Britain ice hockey leads a more perilous existence, at least at the top level, and our best teams are no match for the cream of the European leagues. There is very little money in the sport, and few top level British players. The Elite Ice Hockey League, the only UK wide competition, currently has four teams each from England and Scotland, plus one each from Belfast and Cardiff. Each club is capped on the amount it is allowed to spend on player salaries, but some lack the income to get even close to that level of spending. A team has to ice with a certain number of home grown players each match, but the most talented stars of the league are imports. With the majority, surprise, surprise, being Canadian.

I'm very much a newcomer as a spectator. My first live hockey match was only two years ago and it had been decades since I'd watched any on television. Although I can recall some matches from the NHL being shown here, the only time the sport got extensive coverage was during the Winter Olympics. It shows how long ago it was that I took an interest that my main memories are of the battles between the USSR and Czechoslovakia, two countries which haven't even existed for more than twenty years! They were real grudge matches, with my heart always hoping the Czechs would come out on top. Scots always have an affinity with the underdog, especially if they are being repressed by a larger neighbour....

So there's an irony in the fact that the team I now support has a high proportion of Slovaks in the side, plus a couple of Czechs. I'd been aware that Edinburgh had a hockey team and I can remember the Murrayfield Racers, as they then were, being reported on in the local paper in my youth. It was only when a Groupon email came up with a half price ticket offer that we were finally prompted to turn up and see if we'd enjoy the sport as live entertainment.

That first match was Edinburgh Capitals against Hull Stingrays. There wasn't a huge crowd - perhaps just over twelve hundred - but in a closed arena they can still make a lot of noise. The match was fast, close and exciting, there was a young figure skater to watch during one of the intervals, and Edinburgh came out winners. We were gripped by the end to end action, the speed of the play, the skill, the excitement. And the occasional need to remind yourself that everything you watched these guys doing was happening ON ICE. A surface I'd struggle to skate more than a few metres on, and where just standing can be counted as an achievement.

So we've been back to watch as and when it’s been possible, depending on the frequency of our visits to the city. We learned to accept that that first victory was to be a rare occurrence and just enjoy the game for what it was. Edinburgh are definitely not one of the rich clubs in the league, far from it, and their position in the hierarchy fits with their resources. I've been to more than twenty matches now and perhaps it's just as well I don't keep a tally of wins and losses....

Last season was the first time I'd kept track of events closely, and I've picked up on a lot of people to follow on Twitter who keep me updated on what's happening in the games I don't get to see. Given that I've never been much interested in most team sports, and could never claim to have been a fan of any clubs, I've surprised myself by how much I'm emotionally invested in the fate of the team. It's a very strange sensation to discover so late in life. But I do enjoy seeing Edinburgh win, and want to see them qualify for the playoffs again this year (which requires them to finish in the top eight of the ten team league).

Last season saw a very poor start, then a change in fortunes about a third of the way through. A final flourish saw them rise to sixth place. I was at the final match of the regular season to see that happen and the atmosphere was such that you'd have thought Caps had just topped the competition. This season their start has been even worse, but when I finally got the chance to see them last month they'd found their mojo again and we won both matches.

Whilst, as far as I know, all the other EIHL teams have North American coaches, Capitals have a European (Slovak) and play a different style of hockey. Apparently. I still find it hard to see the difference.... And while most teams have a lot of Canadian imports on their benches we only have two. In among all the Slovaks, and a couple of Czechs, there's a Latvian, backed up by several Scots. Which gives the fanbase interesting challenges in coming up with chants for their favourites. By far the best is for the captain, Martin Cingel (pronounced Sin Gel, with a hard G). To the tune of Jingle Bells he conducts the 'choir' at the end of each winning game. I hope he gets a lot of practise in the coming months. We're bottom of the league at the moment....

So it was good to see this sport I've grown fond of getting a bit more exposure. If you ever get the chance to go along to a match then take it. You might be surprised by just how exciting it can be.

A picture to love

THE PORTRAIT

I'm not long back from the Post Office depot.  To join the queue and collect a parcel of course.  Or, to be more accurate, a tube.  Just over a foot in length and about two inches in diameter.  And I both did, and did not, know exactly what was inside.

No, it hadn't been sent by a Herr Schrodinger.  I knew that within was one item, a painting.  And that it was a portrait of Barbara, my wife.  What could not begin to anticipate was who I was going to see in the picture.  The woman I love, or somebody else's vision of her, a person I would hardly recognise?  Would it bring about feelings of joy or concern?  Was it going to be an item to be treasured or denied?  Dorian Grey lingers in the mind.

The portrait hadn't been commissioned.  Nor did it come as a complete surprise.  We have bought a few paintings by Marc, an artist friend in London.  All have been of fish, vivid and full of movement.  He is very talented and imaginative, although so far without the commercial success he deserves.  I've given him a little help with his website, making suggestions on layout, spotting typos and suggesting some alternative phrasing of the text..  

So the last time we were down there he and his wife invited us for dinner.  He showed us some of his latest work - he's moved on from fish to female nudes, not in a pornographic sense, but as objects of beauty.  He also does superb portraits and has undertaken several commissions.  I knew, from seeing many of these works, that he is able to go beyond photographic reality and reflect the character of the subject.  Or at least those aspects of character he considers most striking.

During the meal he made the suggestion that he paint a portrait of Barbara, and before we had much chance to discuss the idea he had his camera out and was taking her from various angles.  The lighting wasn't great, so I did wonder what the results of the exercise might look like.  Anyway, the meal was excellent (we're now using his chilli recipe and several other culinary ideas he gave us), we all had a decent amount of alcohol, and it was a very enjoyable evening.  We left giving little more thought to the portrait idea..

The months passed.  I, we, forgot all about the suggestion, and if it ever came to mind we assumed it was one of those things that get said on the spur of the moment, but never become reality.  Perhaps I was ascribing to Marc my own characteristic of failing to follow through on ideas.  He is obviously made of better stuff.

A couple of weeks ago a mail arrived from Marc saying he'd finished the portrait.  Cue gobsmacked expression from me.  I was busy at the time and thought I'd have the time to reply next day.  Except by then I'd had a text telling me that the portrait had been posted and was on its way to Southport.  Great news, other than the fact that we were in Edinburgh at the time, and for the following ten days.  But he had checked that the post office would hold it for our return and, as today has proved, that was the case.

And so to the grand opening of the tube.  And my first look at a proper portrait of my wife (there should also be a chance to see a painting featuring us both around New Year time, because we are in a fifteen metre mural which was painted in the Tron Kirk during the Edinburgh Festival Fringe this year).  Schrodinger's portrait.  Would this be the woman I know so well, or an unfamiliar view through the eyes of another?

I need not have worried.  It is looking back at me now from the floor at my feet and it's hard to imagine how it could be any better.  This is the woman I fell in love with, am still in love with.  She is fun, happy, warm and beautiful.  Golden, with the light shining on her hair.  A head and shoulders perspective, she is wearing.... something.  It doesn't matter, because the item of clothing isn't what you see.   I am drawn in to the smile, the eyes, the mouth, the feeling that this is the person I want to be with.  It almost feels as if the artist was in love with her!

Marc has achieved a far better result than I had even hoped for and I may even have to moderate my compliments to him so as not to sound too insincere!  But the more I look the more I am delighted with what may be the best present I've ever received.  This is Barbara seen in a way that a photo could never show (and I've taken many of them over the years).  A Barbara full of personality and life and love.  Marc said he was proud of it and considered it one of his best.  He wasn't just boasting.  

I will, I suspect, return to this as a subject at a later date.  Each glance I take reveals more than I'd seen before and there will be much to write about as I take it in fully.  It is deserving of a proper frame, which may bring out even more in the image.  That will be the next step.

I end by looking down once again at the canvas below me and marvel at the ability of someone to daub on swipes of paint and turn them into something that is both real and imaginary.  That shows both the shape of a person and the spark that makes them who they are.  Thank you Marc.


You can see examples of Marc's work (or commission your own!) on his website.

Xmas comes to Leith

THE 'BIG' SWITCH ON

We missed out on seeing the ceremony to unveil Edinburgh's Xmas lights this year. It was quite some show in 2012, with a dancer being whisked through the air on the end of a crane, plenty of music and action, well worth the wait around in the cold. And the big tree, donated every year by Norway, looks spectacular in it's traditional position half way up The Mound. This year the tree is still there, as it has been for as long as I can remember, but the opening celebrations were held elsewhere, shifting the short distance to George Street. This appears to be in line with giving what was originally intended to be the primary thoroughfare of the New Town (but eventually usurped by Princes Street), and the grand square of Saint Andrew at the eastern end of the street, a more central role in all official Edinburgh festivities. This was evident during the Festival, with a large chunk of George Street closed off to traffic and given over to a spiegeltent, large bar and food areas, and outdoor entertainments, while there were some new activities in the square as well. This was intended to stop the spread of the Fringe southwards, as the university area has creepingly become the great focal point for shows.

So Xmas came to George Street, which already had the spectacular lights of The Dome as an impressive starting point, and there was Chris Hoy on hand to press the button. Reviews suggest it was an enjoyable occasion, if lacking the spectacle that the hillside location afforded in past times. Maybe we'll go next year and join the thousands that turn up to see it happen.

That's the main attraction of the opening of the Xmas period in the city, but there are a few more localised sideshows too, and several districts in the city have their own switching on ceremonies. We live in Leith so this year we decided to get a look at how the old port area welcomes Xmas in.

Now, we had some idea of what it might be like, so this was more to satisfy curiosity than anything else. At the Foot of the Walk there's a decent sized tree. And some lights on lampposts. It was the same last year, and the year before, so we knew that spectacle wasn't really the appropriate term. This is a low budget effort, and crane swinging dancers were unlikely to be on the agenda. But if you attend an event filled with very low expectations, and those are met, isn't that a the very definition of satisfaction?

There was a choir in santa hats. Mostly children from a local school, 'conducted' by a teacher. There was a sound system, of sorts, which worked intermittently. But that didn't matter too much. Because there wasn't that much of a crowd to broadcast to - certainly fewer than two hundred, and how many of them were parents or other relatives of the kids on show? And secondly because - I have to say it - they weren't all that worth listening to anyway. Unless, presumably, you were one of the said parents or other relatives.

So there were songs. Predictable Xmas songs, with encouragement to the crowd to join in the singing of these well worn 'favourites'. Which at least helped drown out the choir a bit. There were jolly(ish) charity collectors in that most festive of outfits, the hi vis vest. And there was the big switch on itself.

This was filled with drama as a secret envelope was opened and a card read out bearing the names of the two kids from the singers who would 'help' press the button that would give us light. They were to aid the two celebrities chosen (?) to undertake the vital task. Who turned out to be a couple of Hibs players, looking very young and trying hard not to appear bored. Their names must have been announced at some point, but even if I'd heard them they would have meant nothing to me.

To round out the climactic nature of the actual moment there was the big countdown, starting at ten and managing to take in all the relevant integers going to zero. And there it was, the great light up.

You had to look closely. The actual Xmas lights were greatly outshone by the spotlights on the choir. But the tree has a sprinkle of white lights, and the four - count them all - lampposts have their curiously shaped appendages, all white, shining upon us. Xmas has truly come to Leith.

And now I know exactly what's involved I can carry away the two lessons this experience has taught me. Curiosity has been satisfied, expectations met. And. I won't bother next year. Chris Hoy seems quite interesting.