Fish, chips and the past

FISHING FOR MEMORIES

"Everyone at the bus stop pretended not to want some of Sandra's chips"

OK, I have no idea who this young woman is, or if everyone else there was as distracted as me by the fragrant aromas from that cardboard box, but I'd be surprised if they weren't.  She clearly couldn't wait around to get home, or for the bus to come.  That fish supper was there, on her lap, begging to be eaten.  And so she did, with obvious enjoyment.  Good for her.

To be fair they were from The Fishmarket.  I wrote about the attractions Newhaven Harbour held for me a few years ago in this post, and the most recent arrival in that long, low red building has added another one.  Part seafood restaurant, part traditional chippie takeaway, one of the joint owners is the excellent Welch Fishmongers next door, so the quality of the source product is in no doubt.  Having only opened in Spring of this year it quickly gained a good reputation locally, leading to a significant appearance on national TV.  It became a rarity to walk past without there being a long line of people having to queue outside for their boxes of deep fried haddock and potato.

But that passed quickly through my mind, elbowed out by a more distant memory in another part of the city.  Back in the seventies Hogmanay wasn't the super organised (super commercialised) event it's become.  Back then it was a night for the locals, and the place to be was the Tron Kirk.  Or rather filling up the pavements and adjoining streets around the kirk.  Depending on the climatic conditions there'd be twenty or thirty thousand 'merry' Scots assembled, waiting on the sound of the bells, ready to put their arms around total strangers for the sake of auld lang syne, the year departed and that to come.  And getting pished together.

It was nearing eleven thirty and a crowd of us were in a pub down in the Grassmarket, thinking it was about time to make a move up the hill and join the masses.  Small problem though.  I, and a couple of the others, felt in desperate need of sustenance.  Probably to soak up all the alcohol sloshing about inside, and contained in the various bottles about our persons.  And there, on West Port, was our wee life saver.  A chippie, long since disappeared, with a not too-long queue forming.  Heaven.  A white pudding supper for me, salt and sauce liberally applied, and we were on our way.

I remember that pudding supper better than most others I've eaten over the decades.  It certainly wasn't the best quality I've ever had.  But it fitted the moment better than any other.  The relish of alfresco dining, the steaming hot chips and the bitterly cold wind, the need to eat quick before it got cold, all the time joining a growing congregation of worshippers walking up every film director's favourite thoroughfare, Victoria Street, en route to the kirk.  The sense of warmth and comfort and friendship and anticipation of what was to come, the mystery of what the next few hours would throw up (hopefully not the pudding supper...).

All these memories from somebody else's box of fried food.  The mind is a strange and unpredictable thing.  I hope she enjoyed it as much as we all wanted to.


PS  It's not that great a photo, but I feel the version of it I posted on Instagram is an improvement on the original.

Doris the Dictator?

THE AUTHORITARIAN STREAK

The clues have been there in front of us for long enough, ever since Doris squirmed his way into Downing Street on the crooked backs of a few ageing southern reactionaries.  His efforts to avoid parliamentary scrutiny; his avoidance of serious media question (Hide in a fridge?  Why not?); the repetitive lies and cheap slogans (No, brexshit will not be "Done", it will just be the beginning of an interminable and impoverishing process.); the video editing, the fake news, the constant deflection tactics, the desperate attempts to create a counter narrative, even if it simply means making shit up.

The latest scandal has everything you could possibly want to show why Doris is totally unfit for any form of high office (as if his shambolic efforts as Foreign Secretary, corruption as London Mayor, suppression of the Russian interference dossier, embarrassingly insulting behaviour towards other European Prime Ministers, and cowardly avoidance of all forms of scrutiny weren't already enough for you) is the story centring on the boy photographed on the floor of a Leeds hospital.  The "good friend" who was a "senior nursing sister" never existed.  But it was a clever ruse, and it's allowed Doris to give the media a bodyswerve over what should be the real story in this sorry tale.  The reasons why that boy may have been on the floor have become the issue being discussed, but the real controversy, the real anger, should be about the behaviour of our erstwhile leader in the interview with the TV journalist.  He stole his phone!

Do I need to say that again?  His first thought was to take the phone out of the journalist's hand and put it in his own pocket.

Not to face up to the question being raised.  Not to seek to engage with what might be a real concern.  But to resort to baltant theft to try and suppress something he didn't want to talk about.  Add in some of the abovementioned characteristics - the refusal to face (right winger!) Andrew Neil, his illegal attempts to prorogue parliament, the threats to clamp down on broadcasters dare who criticise him - and there is only one conclusion.  Doris Johnson, purchaser of the unusable water cannon, is an instinctive authoritarian.  Never mind the vile, amoral Cummings, this is a man who had a private meeting with one of the world's most prominent white supremacists, a known fascist.  Do not vote to put this nasty charlatan in power.

The water is waiting in the trough, how many will be too stupid to drink?

Popeseye, Porn and Politics

THE BIG QUESTION

Q : What do all these people have in common?

A top chef selecting beef for his steak menu

A porn director casting his male lead

Me thinking about the Westminster parliament I'd like to see on 13 December

A : We all want them well hung.

In around four and half decades of taking an interest in politics there has never been so poor a choice to be the UK prime minister.  Our democracy is such that I have often found myself voting for the least worst option, but this feels more like selecting which leg to have amputated.  Thank goodness I made the move back to Scotland, where we have much better alternatives.

Clearly Corbyn is the lesser of the two plagues on offer, but he's looked less and less inspiring, more and more unstable, as the last few weeks have unfolded.  The accusations of racism and financial incompetence in his party may have some grounds in truth, albeit to nothing like the extent being broadcast in multi coloured lights by the right wing media, but they are nothing compared to Islamophobia, xenophobia and deficit-doubling death-dealing austerity of their opponents.

So what's the best outcome we (well, I at least) can hope for on Friday morning?  A tory majority would be disastrous,a Labour one seemingly impossible.  So the best possible outcome for Scotland, and maybe for the rest of the UK too, is a hung parliament, with fifty plus SNP MPs holding the balance of power.  (I'm tempted to say forty nine just so the world is spared this horrific sight which would do old Nessie no good at all.)  England gets to avoid the brexshit that will destroy it's economy, and we get another chance to get ourselves out of the broken UK.  And this time we need to grab it.

Roll on Friday morning....

The carpet buyers guide to brexshit (or the brexshiteers guide to buying a carpet)

MAKING THE RIGHT CHOICE

I used to work in IT.  Indeed I used to work in IT before it was even known as IT.  I got pretty good at writing code that read and processed data from large files on large tapes in the most efficient way possible.  But I couldn't do it now.  And even if I could - who'd care?  A skill I once had, now rendered pointless by progress.  Not only do we lose the knowledge we might once have had, but it's often irrelevant anyway.

In our old house we had a few new carpets fitted over the decade and a half we lived there.  But the last one must have been well over ten years ago, so I've forgotten the detail of what was involved.  And none of those rooms that were done posed the sort of challenge our recent flooring quest raised. 

Our current flat has a small entrance vestibule, with coir matting, leading into a long, carpeted, roughly L shaped hall.  A bench sat at the beginning of the carpeted section, a place for oldies like us to put on and take off footwear.  After four and a bit years the section of carpet in front of the bench was looking a bit sorry for itself.  So a new carpet was something we frequently discussed, but never got around to acting on. 

That desire for renewal was given a real world kickstart when a mark appeared on the first leg of the 'L', and turned out not to be dirt, but water.  With no sign of anything coming from above the only route to diagnosis was lifting the relevant stretch of beige, to discover an underlay holding enough water to fill the bath.  It took a few weeks, but eventually the problem would be traced to a leak from next door's boiler, and in time that would get fixed, our concrete floor (which had been partially dug up as part of the investigations) was trenchless once more, and we were in a position to move on from the rough bits of old carpet I'd put down as stepping stones.

That's when the hardest bit starts - having to choose something we can both agree on.  The first step was easy.  It had to be something as cat-claw proof as possible.  But beyond that?  Just vague ideas, with no real notion of how they'd work in practice.  Stripes sounded good, but how does that work in an L shape?  Especially one that has an awkwardly shaped junction instead of a neat right angled corner.  And it would be good to have something durable and easily cleaned, or replaced, in front of the bench (a rug wouldn't work without the cupboard doors opposite the bench having to be altered). 

We thought we had a solution for the latter.  Cut a well into the carpet in front of the bench, and insert a contrasting colour that could be lifted out easily.  It didn't sound daft when we said it...

Einstein said "The measure of intelligence is the ability to change".  I say this only to reassure myself that we, eventually, turned into intelligent carpet buyers.  But to change you need information, preferably from people who know what they are talking about (a truism climate change deniers never quite seem able to grasp...).  So we started visiting carpet shops, and discussing our requirements.  Which is the point at which I realised how little I knew, or remembered, about a subject that appears simple enough on the surface, but, as so often in life, reveals it own little complexities the more you delve into the subject.  Cut pile or loop, dense or shaggy, woven or tufted, wool or synthetic?  Each have their pros and cons.  Then there's traffic rates, considering where the join will be, and the perils of joining hand cut with machine cut.  Not to mention wastage.  Most carpets come in four and five metre widths, an L shape results in a huge unusable bit of carpet - wasteful and pricey. 

OK, I could have come up with some of that through persistent Googling, but there's no substitute for talking to someone who knows their stuff - even if each new 'someone' gives a slightly different view on things.  We had an estimate done, but it didn't feel right.  We'd found a salesperson, not a carpet expert.  But the second estimator was a different kettle of wombats, and brought his own experience into making suggestions, informing rather than following. 

The result is nothing like the original vision.  It's better.  The ugly coir has gone, and a hard- wearing entrance matting runs from the front door to beyond the bench, with mottled carpet beyond.  The only join is between the two carpets, and the substantial piece of the wastage has gone to provide new carpet for the wee guest bedroom (that's a small room, not a room for people under 5' 6").  And it works well, with a clear shoes on/shoes off divide and if the entrance area ever does need to be replaced it's only a short section that will need doing.

None of which would have happened if we hadn't taken our time and listened to the experts, people with years of experience in the field that gives them knowledge we couldn't possibly possess.

If only everyone sought out and followed advice from the relevant experts before making an important decision.  If only brexshiteers had had to have a carpet fitted first...

And for those wondering...

Before...

And after...

Launching Bits and Pieces

BITS AND PIECES - A STORIES AND POEMS BLOG

I grew up in a small 1950s mid terrace.  Out front a handkerchief law and prissy wee privet.  The back garden was much bigger.  Narrow, but maybe 12 metres long, split into 2 about two thirds of the way down by a tall wooden fence.  Originally the area nearest the house was grass, but early in my childhood the builders came round, stuck a new room on the back and paved over the green.  I can't recall what the further end looked like, apart from the permanent presence of a shed.

Always looking for ways to save money, my dad honed his DIY skills over the years.  That new build on the back would eventually be fitted out as a dining room, although it took a couple of years to get it all done.  Meanwhile the modernisation of the garden meant digging up that lower section and bringing in a pile of paving slabs of various shades, some cement and a sledgehammer.  Multi coloured crazy paving was the objective, somewhere to hand out the washing away from the house.

Progress was slow.  To be fair he worked shifts, there were always other demands on his time and Edinburgh weather no doubt played a role.  But he was also a slow worker. Methodical he'd say, and the results justified the care he was taking.  As it gradually emerged it looked pretty interesting, by sixties standards.  It got to a point where over a third of the area had been covered and the rotary washing line could be put in place, so at least the area could be used for purpose.  But then it all seemed to grind to a halt.  Years later that space was part paving, part broken ground, and putting out and taking in the washing always had the thrill of knowing there was a potential ankle-turning moment lying in wait.  Many, many years later the fence was taken down and the whole garden landscaped.  The crazy paving never did get finished.

Over the last four and a bit decades I have, off and on - far more off than on - had periods of trying to write stories and poems and messing about with bits of fiction in my head.  Be it nature or nurture we inherit certain characteristics from our parents.  And I seem to have acquired that inability to see things through from my dad.  There are notebooks and cardboard folders and files on my hard drive that are testament to that crazy paving.  Ideas that never quite made it, poems that fritter out for want of an ending, stories that don't even make it to a middle.  I'm rubbish at seeing them through.

Mostly.  Along the way a few, a very few, have reach something I could regard as completion.  Most are short (surprise, surprise), rarely more than a page or two.  Most have sat unread by anyone but me, or perhaps one or two others, for many years.  They aren't worth sharing the voices tell me.

But why not?  The worst anyone can do is tell me they're awful, and that wouldn't come as a shock.  Mostly they will get ignored, and that's fine too.  But if even one of them brings out a smile, or an unexpected thought, in some random reader then there will have been a point to doing this.  So Bits and Pieces is the repository of those few finished works.  Only three to begin with, more to be added over time.  Doing so might even motivate me to return to those crazy paving jobs and see if I can smash up a few more slabs, or come up with something new.  I'll see what happens.

First up is a poem I wrote a few months ago when I was having one of those spells of trying to write.  Nothing was working out so I began a verse about being unable to finish anything off and that was the one I found flowed out easily.  Followed by another recent poem, one of those I mentioned before as having stalled.  Unfortunately by the time I got around to polishing it up the political subject had already resigned from the post that gave her prominence.  But it still feels worth sharing.  And finally a very short sort-of story that came from real life.

Here's the links to the three posts :

The poem about being unable to write a poem

The already out of date political doggerel

The short short story

Mon the Boks

WHY I'M SUPPORTING THE BOKS ON SATURDAY

Back in the old, old days, before all seater sports stadiums became de rigeur, Murrayfield had a west stand, the other three sides being covered in terraces.  The clock tower that now resides between the east stand and the turnstiles used to sit proudly atop the south terrace, long before there were digital displays.  Officially the capacity was about eighty thousand, but because you could just turn up and buy a ticket on the day in 1975 the Five Nations tie against Wales was played in front of a sardine like one hundred and four thousand.  At least you couldn't get cold.  Internationals became all ticket after that...

At international matches the schoolboys (I say 'boys' because I can't recall any girls going, but could be wrong) seating, benches in front of the terracing and not far in from the east touchline.  Close to the action.  However for one game, in December '69, we were told to sit in the north end of that big stand, as a safety precaution.  The opposition was the touring South African side, who were confronted with anti-apartheid protests at every point along their journey, and a few of these demos turned into scuffles, so it was thought best to protect us wee innocents.

Innocent?  I was thirteen, so maybe I should have known better.  But my parents never discussed politics, the subject wasn't  raised at school, and ignorance is my only defence.  It shames me now.  This would be the last time the Springboks toured these islands until the nineties, although rugby as a sport was more culpable than many in maintaining contacts with their racist counterparts.  Not a proud history.

The release of Mandela brought the beginning of an often painful transition that continues to this day.  Scars like that take a long time to heal, and anything , however small, that can chivvy that process along, is to be encouraged.  And that's why I'll be supporting the men in green next Saturday, as i did this morning.

When your own country's team finds itself on the plane home from a world cup you find yourself free to support whoever you wish, for whatever reasons work for you.  With Scotland out early my inner francophile took over and I looked to France as 'my' team.  That didn't last long.  So when the final four became clear my allegiance switched to the Africans.  Not because they play the most entertaining rugby (they certainly don't), not because they were favourites (they still aren't), and not because of any particular player I like (although Faf de Klerk is curiously watchable despite the constant box kicks).  But because Siya Kolisi is captain.

South Africa have already won the World Cup twice, and those occasions did help bring the country together a fraction more each time.  But this feels different.  That world of '69 would be just that little bit further away if next Saturday sees the cup being lifted by the first black captain of his country's rugby team.

Of course my choice of finalists to support is made easier by the other participant.  It's hard, culturally, not to subscribe to the The Lincoln Position (good ol' Abe).

Nae bad for an auld yin

ALL THE THREES

I'd have been annoyed with myself  if it had taken over four hours.  That was my published target for this year's slightly shortened Kiltwalk 'Big Stroll'.  In my head I knew I wanted to break three hours and forty five minutes.  I imagined myself doing a 3:42.  That would be win for me.

Cue reality.  Two practice walks ago, when I last tried a similar distance, it ended discouragingly badly.  Partly redeemed by a more successful shorter walk last week.  But the memory of that failed longer effort stayed in the back of my mind.  So it was a relief/miracle/pleasure/palliative/comfort/bloody big surprise to find myself still making good time after the uphill section with only three miles to go.  And a bit of a shock to find myself crossing the finish line three hours and thirty three minutes after leaving the start in Musselburgh.  (Which is probably why I feel totally knackered now, as I write this seven hours later.)

It helped that the weather was a bit cooler than it's been this past week, and the wind a lot less obstructive.  That I was able to find my own pace soon after the start and stuck with it.  That I didn't stop walking the whole time except to get safely across the few roads placed in our path (aided by a fellow walker who held my backpack for a minute so I could take my sweater off without breaking stride, helpful friendly people these Kiltwalkers).  Nor did I stop to take photos, so all I've got here is a shot of the crowd ahead of me at the start line.

I think I need my bed...

Meanwhile, if you are still considering donating for my efforts... here's a link to my Kiltwalk donations page.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 13 (with added cat)

THESE BOOTS (AND KILT) ARE MADE FOR WALKING

As I type this there's little more than forty hours to go until I set off from Musselburgh, aiming to be in Murrayfield in under four hours and, the most important part of the proceedings, raise  money for Advocard.  If you'd like to donate please click on this link - it all goes to help providing a very valuable service to people who deserve to have their voices heard.  While nowadays there's much greater awareness of the impact mental ill health has on people's lives, and wider recognition that it can happen to anyone, many still struggle to cope with the world of bureaucracy they have to negotiate.  Dealing with the shambles that is the DWP is bad enough if you're healthy!

In the last couple of weeks  I've had a mixed bag of Advocard appointments.  A couple where the service user failed to show up (something I know to accept as part of the deal, no matter how frustrating it can be at times.); a home visit to a lovely couple, the woman having serious physical health issues as well as depression, who seemed please with the signposting we were able to provide for them; and a guy who I'll accompany to his PIP assessment next week.  Home visits are not something we do often, requiring more time and manpower than an office based appointment, so we always want to be sure that the person really would struggle to get to the office.  There was no doubt that this one was fully justified.

I've also been on a 2 day course to learn some suicide intervention skills.  Over the years I've had several people opening up to me about having suicidal thoughts, so it's good to have some additional knowledge to help me deal with those situations.  PIP assessors frequently ask if claimants have had suicidal thoughts, or made an attempt on their own life, and it's part of my role to prepare them for that line of questioning - never a pleasant bit of the job.

But back to my Kiltwalk preparations.  Since my last post I've had two final training walks.  The first of those, last week, was, I admit, discouraging.  I walked along seafront from Musselburgh to Cramond, then inland to Craigleith.  Fourteen miles, so a bit less than I'll be faced with on Sunday.  And the worst struggle I think I've had since I began!  I kept going for three and three quarter hours, but by the last 2 or 3 miles that's all it was - keeping going.  My legs felt like they didn't want to be there, I almost gave up a couple of times (those buses looked so tempting...), and I got slower and slower.  About the only encouragement was the fact I did keep going and resisted the temptation of several inviting looking benches.  In my defence I was walking into a strong headwind for much of the way (the kilt is not the most aerodynamic of garments), and hadn't slept well.  I need my excuses!

The final walk, two days ago, was shorter, about eight and half miles, and left me feeling a lot more positive again.  A route I've done before, managed to knock off five minutes from my previous best despite kilt-unfriendly breezes, and feeling more than strong enough to carry on at the end.  More the sort of encouragement I was looking for...  Like Nancy Sinatra almost sang, these boots and kilt and made for walking.

There are four of us strolling out for Advocard on Sunday, in a team called The Devil's Advocates (sorry, best we could come up with).  The others are doing the five mile walk from Gypsy Brae, so I'm hoping they will be forming a reception committee when I cross the line.  If you happen to see any of the Kiltwalkers on Sunday look out for tee shirts with these logos front and back, do give them (us) a shout of encouragement.

The heading photo above was shot as a daft way to set up to my pathetic Nancy joke.  It took a few goes to get it right.  Someone else thought they should be in shot....

Zoe will not be taking part in Kiltwalk.  She can't find a kilt to fit.

Oh, and here's that donations link again. Zoe wants you to give Advocard your money.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 12

PUTTING IN THE MILES AND MINUTES

In the two weeks since my last update I've done another couple of practice walks and have, post-Fringe, started to get back into more advocacy work again.  Only just a bit more than two weeks until the walk itself, and the emails from the Kiltwalk organisers are getting more frequent.  Today's confirmed this will be the biggest event they've held in Edinburgh to date, with well over five thousand walkers taking part (that's a lot of tartan).  And the entertainment at the finish line will be provided by The Red Hot Chilli Pipers.  Another incentive, for me at least, to get over the line as soon as I can.

The first of those two walks was also the furthest distance i've attempted.  Starting at the Fountainbridge Basin I walked along the Union Canal (I mean along the pathway alongside, I'm not the messiah) to Winchburgh, a little short of sixteen miles or around twenty five and half kilometres.  Four hours and eleven minutes.  Easy because it's all flat of course, and I felt fine afterwards.  Nice route to walk with ever changing scenery, human and bird activity on the canal, and a sense (for a city boy) of being in the middle of nowhere. 

This week I sought out the start point for the walk proper out in Musselburgh, down on a windy and cloudy seafront, and followed much of the route I'll be doing then, stopping at Silverknowes.  About ten and a half miles, seventeen kilometres, in two and threequarter hours.  Which bodes well for being able to do the full distance in under four hours.  Walking into a high wind towards Gypsy Brae did threaten to expose more of me than the public might be ready for - yes, I was kilted, and will be for the remaining practice walks and, of course, the real thing on the fifteenth.  Not sure if anyone on a Kiltwalk has been charged with indecent exposure yet?

The number of advocacy appointments I've managed to do recently has been hindered by no shows.  An appointment is made, you turn up at the office and wait.  And wait.  And someone calls the person and gets no response or finds out they have forgotten and that leaves me to have a chat with whoever is around and then head back home.  Occupational hazard.  We often work with people who live very chaotic lives, who aren't able to remember things easily, who sometimes get confused.  It's nobody's fault, but can be very frustrating.  Less so for myself, who only lives a ten minute walk away from the office, but much more so for volunteers who've travelled half way across the city for that one appointment.  C'est la vie.

Of those I did see the most interesting was another PIP assessment, another unnecessarily stressful experience for someone whose life is already a bit shit.  The man I was with has suffered chronic depression for over twenty years.  It's manageable with drugs, but he has very little quality of life.  So it's not much help when the nurse doing the assessment is clearly well versed in physical health matters, and far less so when it comes to mental health.  He got his point across eventually, but it was far harder than it should have been.  The welfare system remains very poor at recognising just how debilitating mental illness can be. 

It must be even worse for people who have to go through that experience without having anyone along to back them up, give them support.  Which is why, once again, I'm asking, if you managed to read this far, to donate something to my fundraising efforts please.  Advocard makes a difference.

You can click on this link to find my donations page.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 11 (with added tartan)

REAL KILTWALKING

I haven't written one of these posts for a while, mostly because they were getting to be boringly repetitive.  In the intervening weeks I've had four more walks, a couple of interesting advocacy appointments (fewer than usual with the Fringe being in town this month!) and an email from Kiltwalk that has meant a slight rethink to my planned target.  Plus my training regime is getting help from mechanical failure...

Three of the walks took the same route I've done before, from home to the tram stop at Murrayfield Stadium, and that seems to have become my default 'short route'.  It's good as it's mostly away from roads, follows the second part of the actual route I'll be doing on the day, and has a lengthy slope to climb.  Each time I've managed to improve my time by a minute.  Today, as the photo above suggests, I finally got the kilt out and wore that for the walk.  No unexpected chafing, and it was good to feel the breeze round my nethers.

Last week's walk took the Water of Leith path again, from Balerno to Leith.  And showed an improvement of ten minutes over my previous effort.  Three hours and thirteen minutes to cover about twelve and a quarter miles.  Last year the same walk usually got close to the four hour mark, so maybe I am a bit fitter this year?

That ties in with the news from Kiltwalk.  They've moved the starting point forward, deeper into Musselburgh, so the total distance is now only fourteen and half miles.  That makes a lot of sense.  Last year the start line was only a hundred metres from a busy road to be crossed, then went into a single file section that caused a big bottleneck.  This time the start is on a wider expanse, allowing people to find their own pace more quickly.  But it does mean that my stated aim to complete the course in four and quarter hours is now meaningless.  However that slight reduction in the distance to be covered, and the time I managed down the river last week, has me wondering if completing the walk in under four hours will be possible?  So now my target - wind, rain, hail, snow and injuries permitting - is to beat four hours.  Who'll give me extra money for the cause if I do it?

Speaking of which....

With little more than a month to go it's about time I started pestering people for cash.  Who's going to be first to donate?  Click on this sentence for the link to the donations page.

By way of incentive here's a bit about one of my recent experiences doing advocacy work.  I was asked to accompany a woman to her Universal Credit assessment.  She came from one a war torn country in Africa, and, although she spoke very good English, she was clearly very worried about the process.  We met a few days before, and I took her through the kinds of information she might be asked to provide.  It's an awkward situation, having to ask someone you've never met before for extremely personal information, and it never ceases to amaze me that people are willing to do so despite only meeting me ten minutes before.  I always like to ensure I've asked someone all the worst questions they might face.  Better to be prepared in this less stressful situation than to have it sprung on them during an interview that will do much to determine the quality of their lives.

But, for once, the assessment process itself proved less difficult than usual, largely down to a sympathetic and intelligent assessor.  He concentrated on asking all about her physical disabilities (severe back pain meant she walked with crutches, and chronic incontinence is a constant worry for her), reckoning they were more than enough to demonstrate to the DWP that she was incapable of working.  That spared her having to discuss her mental health issues, and we were out in about thirty minutes (most assessments seem to go on for more than an hour).  So all credit to this particular assessor.  I wish they were all like that.

As we left she still thanked me profusely, despite my having had very little to do during the assessment.  I think it's just having someone there who's on your side that seems to make a big difference to people, especially those who have difficulties expressing themselves or react badly to stressful situations.  Advocacy works.  So give us your money!

PS  I mentioned mechanical failure had proved to be a help to my walking preparations.  We live on the fifth floor.  The lift has been out of action for about three weeks now, and they can't get the necessary brake part.  It looks like we may need a new lift, but we'll be lucky to have it by Xmas.  Doing all those stairs a few times each day must be having some fitness benefits, eh?  Even it is very slow progress.  (This news may make anyone considering visiting us want to reconsider for a while!)

Pectus Excavatum

THAT'S ME!

I missed watching The Last Leg last night, the final episode of this series having gone out the previous Friday.  One of the few programmes we have at the moment that's both extremely funny and delivers some much needed topical political satire (notably on brexshit).  There will be a new series in the Autumn.

On the penultimate show of the recent series one of the presenters, Josh Widdecombe, was absent.  He'd been taken into hospital to have his appendix removed.  So, on his return, he jokingly claimed he was now as disabled as his co-hosts, Adam Hills and Alex Brooker.  And I recalled that a series or so ago I'd had a look to see if Widdecombe did have any disabilities.  The answer's no.  But his Wikipedia entry mentions he has 'pectus excavatum'.  Curious, I clicked on the link and up came a photograph of a male torso.

Hang on... that's me.  Well, almost.  My own indentation is nowhere near as severe as the one portrayed.  But I've had this thing for 63 years and never knew it had a posh name.  Many decades ago a doctor suggested I could undergo an op to have my chest bone moved in some way, but it seemed rather an extreme 'cure' for something that I hadn't really ever thought of as a problem.

It did get me laughed at at school, and I was sometimes called 'Biafra' in the changing rooms (you have to be a certain age to get that reference...).  I was never much of a runner because my lung capacity is a bit reduced compared to normal (but it's not going to stop me from walking).  And I was rushed into hospital once because my GP thought an x-ray showed my heart was enlarged - turns out it's just a bit squashed due to my peculiar shape.

So it's not a problem, not a worry, but now I know it's got a Latin name.   Thanks Josh.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 10

BEATING THE RAIN

As I type this I'm glad I got out reasonably early (by my standards) to do today's walk in the morning.  It's chucking it down now.

Back to the route I took on walk 2 and walk 3, an easy eight and bit miles, but some gentle climbing involved.  I knocked a few minutes of my previous time and felt I was still walking strongly at the end of it - as I should when the 'real' distance is going to be nearly double what I did today.  I'm going to try to walk more frequently in the coming weeks - although once the Fringe starts...

When I got home there was a workman in giving us a quote, we got chatting about what I'd been doing and why, and he kindly offered to sponsor me.  Which is what this is all about, raising money for an organisation that can be a positive benefit in the lives of people who have got used to being ignored.  I haven't had any appointments this week (the volunteer coordinator is on leave, which gives you an idea of how under resourced Advocard is), but that won't stop me asking you to consider contributing something, anything, to the funds I'm trying to raise.  You could even be the first to do so this year (at time of writing!).

Click on this link if you'd like to give.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 9

AND STILL NO KILT?

Almost two weeks since my last walk, one that felt like I didn't want to be there.   So it's a relief to be enjoying the experience again, as well as a sense that I'm improving.  There are no photos from today's walk because there was no stopping, other than a brief comfort break.  Today felt like a proper walking day.

I was back on the Water of Leith Walkway, from Balerno to Victoria Bridge, a bit over twelve miles.  Within half a mile I knew today was very different from the last time, and this was going to be enjoyable. When I did this walk a few weeks ago it took a bit over three and half hours, at an average of 3.4mph.  This time I knocked a further eleven minutes of that figure, now at 3.6mph - which is very close to what I need to do on the day.  Albeit there'll another three and a bit miles to plod on through.

Best of all the clouds stayed overhead for most of the walk, so it never got too hot (by Edinburgh standards...).  Sub-taps aff conditions.  But still warm for kilt wearing.  I'll have to get around to wearing it soon, to be used to it again.  But some cooler weather would be nice.  Please.

My only advocacy experience last week was accompanying a man to his dental appointment.  he felt the dentist hadn't been listening about his dentures problems, but she happily gave him what he wanted on the day.  One thing I really liked about this dental practice, and not something I've come across in any of the ones I've been a patient at - when he was laid back in the chair she put a big pair of dark glasses on him to stop the light being too bright for his eyes.  Smart idea, as it can often be dazzling.  Anyone else come across such a thing?

Walking, advocacy and kilts 8

ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER

I've enjoyed my practice walks so far (with the obvious exception of last week!), and have felt comfortable with the distances I've walked.  To the extent that, although I'm committed to the 15 mile distance this year, there's a part of my brain wondering if in 2020 I should attempt the longer distance of 25 miles, before I start to get too old to have a go.  And then there are days like today, when the idea comes up and my brain just goes "Naaaawww".

Although my injuries from the fall last week were minor, there was a pain in my ribs stopped me from doing much exercise.  Add in a mild summer cold and I wan't feeling my best.  Ho hum, there will be days like that, and I'm pleased I still did the distance I was aiming for, albeit a lot more slowly than usual.  I'd been to the Mail depot near Portobello to pick up a parcel, so I started the walk from there, along Seafield and the dock road to the river, then up the water of Leith Walkway to Murrayfield Stadium.  With the odd detour along the way it was just a bit under ten miles.  In a painfully slow three hours.  At least I know I can do better.  At least I did it.

The most exciting moment of the journey was having a wee Leith woman shout abuse at me.  She and her pal were busy gabbing, left me little room on a narrow path, and out arms slightly bumped together.  From her reaction you'd have thought I'd gone the full Mark Field!  I walked on, leaving the swans to cope with the 'interesting' language.

More variety in my voluntary duties last week, with a guy who needs a referral to a psychologist, but feels he's being blocked.  I made a phone call which may help.  And there was another PIP assessment, rarely a cheerful assignment as the service user is so stressed by the proceedings.  But, as is often the case, he felt he couldn't have got through it if he hadn't had someone along.  It's nice to feel necessary sometimes.

Now I've made my commitment, and registered on the Kiltwalk site to do what they call The Big Stroll, which is the fifteen and half mile walk.  A team has been set up called "The Devil's Advocates" and I'm hoping half a dozen colleagues will be joining me in it.  We'll even have Advocard tee shirts made up - preferably in a colour that won't clash with my kilt!

This means, inevitably, that I'm going to have to start nagging people for money.  Plenty of time for that yet, with well over two months into the day, but that does mean two months of nagging from me....

Here's a link to my page, and a few wee photos from yesterday's plod.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 7

WET WEATHER WALKING

As anyone who was in the city yesterday will know, Edinburgh was a bit on the damp and breezy side.  But I'd committed myself to having another walk, the first for a couple of weeks, and who knows what conditions may be like in September, so out I went into a less than summery summers day.  It provided my most "interesting" walk to date.

Down to Newhaven, head east along the coast, until I finally reached Musselburgh a couple of hours further on.  It was wet, I was wet.  It was windy, I was... 'refreshed'.  Looking north there was no sign of Fife.  No sign of anything but a short stretch of water and a dense wall of greyness. 

When you wear glasses there are two choices on a day like this.  Take them off and not really be able to see where you're going.  Or leave them on and not really be able to see where you're going.  I chose the latter, but I don't think either option would have helped me avoid having an involuntary lie down.  I was on Baltic Street, an uninspiring location even when the sun shines down.  Nobody around, just a few cars passing, which I tried to keep an eye on in relation to their juxtaposition with the massive puddles that sat kerbside.  One second I'm pushing on through the rain, the next I'm horizontal.  The speed with which it happened probably saved me from any real injury, as I didn't even have time to stick an involuntary arm out (which is what often leads to broken bones).  Picking myself up I swiftly identified the culprit, given there was nothing else around.  A loop of thick wire, just big enough to capture both my feet at once and propel me asphaltwards.

I did think about turning back and getting a bus home.  But an assessment of the damage concluded that the worst thing seemed to be stinging palms.  And I don't walk on my hands, so on I went.  I was glad I did, or I'd have missed out on the most exhilarating walking experience so far.  Walking along an empty Porty Prom with the rain and sea blowing into my face was a glorious feeling and more than made up for my brief recumbent interlude. 

Still no airing for the kilt yet.  I was glad it wasn't with me yesterday, what with the potential for damage, and the general sogginess that accompanies wet weather kilt wearing.  But it needs to come out soon, so look out for an update in July.

Plenty of Advocard duties in the last week.  Two of the things I most enjoy about the role is the variety and unpredictability of what I'll be asked to do from one service user to another.  In the past couple of weeks it's included helping someone work out their options for getting their employer to make reasonable adjustment for their anxiety in the workplace (it may work out as simple as moving to a different desk); going to see a housing officer about getting a move because the person I'm with is experiencing health issues from his current accommodation; and helping someone speak out to ask for different treatment from the mental health services.  Two of those people talked about suicide so there's sometimes some real urgency in helping them towards a resolution of their difficulties.  I also went on a short training course about understanding and working with people who self harm.  Advocard are good about trying to provide us with the skills we need to do the job better.

A negative side to the weather yesterday was it made taking photos tricky, so I've nothing much to show for my eight miles , except this brightly coloured little boat in Fisherrow Harbour.  That and a graze on my knee....

A nasty warning about Boris Johnson

A WARNING FROM MARK FIELD

The recent furore over a Tory MP, at the time a Foreign Office minister, assaulting a peaceful protester has some chilling lessons for us all.  If you haven't seen the footage it can be found embedded in this interview with the victim.

That one of the UK's supposed leaders should behave in this way is bad enough.  What's far more chilling about this incident is the level of support he's received from some fellow MPs, such as the gung-ho cartoon character Johnny Mercer,  and the reaction of the hard right on social media - and in the right wing MSM.  In their truth-free bubble Field exists as some kind of hero saving the day, instead of the violent out of control thug the video evidences him to be.  This attitude paves the way nicely for....

We await the coming annointment of the right's current darling, the floppy haired serial liar who would be PM whatever the cost (to others).  This is the man who thought that 'water cannon' was the answer to a question nobody was asking.  This is a man who apparently considers violence to be a legitimate response to peaceful protest.  Another Mark Field.

Having recently watched a documentary that showed the vicious response of the Spanish state against democracy in action I find this the most worrying aspect of the Field assault.  is the response to his violence is the right laying the foundations for a far more sinister development - the use of state force against peaceful protesters.  We saw it 35 years ago at Orgreave, when the police were politicised.  This time it could be a lot worse....

Almost gone

TAKE OFF TEMPTATION

I had a solo night away in Aberdeen recently.  A slightly under 24 hours stay, so I may not have got a full impression of the place....  But.  It was dreich.  Grey.  Uninspiring.  I did get to see a great gig, but that was about the only highlight.  It rained persistently, it was ridiculously cold for the time of year, I had a rubbish pizza for dinner and the hotel breakfast was even worse.  I will go back, but - Aberdeen, you need to do better. (Any Aberdonians or lovers of the Granite City reading this will no doubt be able to put me right.)

On the morning before I caught my train homewards I wandered about, looking hopefully for photographic subjects without much turning up.  And occasionally dodging into shops to get out of the damp for a few minutes.  One of those was  TK Maxx, just at random.  And something happened.  I saw this.

A splash of colour to relieve the greyness of the day was one thing.  But this display set my mind off on an unexpected journey.  On my back I had a change of clothes, toiletries, a laptop.  I could buy a suitcase, get a pair of jeans and a few tee shirts, other bits and pieces, all for around £200 or so.  There'd be a bookshop at the railway station to stock up on the essentials - books.  Another flash of the credit card in the ticket office and I could be off, away, somewhere, anywhere.  It suddenly felt very appealing, just vanishing for a week.  Switch off the phone, hide from the planet.

That I should have this thought reflects the influence of the novel I was reading at the time, Paul Auster's The Music of Chance.  The central character was living a life on the road, aimless and arbitrary in his directions, pointless in his progress.  At the time, surprise surprise, I hadn't yet reached the point in the book where his life spirals out of control into a world of threats and violence and tragedy...

I didn't go of course, but wandered on a bit more, still taking photos of grey.

And finding a highlight in the rain.

And then I got on my train, reading on to the point where the 'hit the road' idea seemed a little less attractive.

Anyway, I had my gorgeous female to come home to.  How could I ever have considered anything else?

Walking, advocacy and kilts 6

FOLLOW THE WIGGLY LINE

This line in the ground marks the start of the Water of Leith Walkway, out in Balerno to the southwest of the city.  It's the path the river follows from there until it reaches Leith Docks, and there's a duplicate line in the ground on The Shore in Leith.  And it's about 12 miles to walk there.

I wanted to start stretching myself a bit more, and get a bit nearer to the distance I'll be doing in September.  This walk is almost entirely off road, and there's a visitor centre after about 5 miles, which means a loo break.  You have to think of these things at my age.

And it's a really nice walk, much of it tree lined, the occasional open views, past Murrayfield Stadium and Ice Rink, the pleasures of St Bernard's Well and umpteen parks along the way.  A few tunnels too, going under roads mostly, and some showing off a colourful interior.  You can't argue with the message in this one.  So I did.

There was a lot of mud to try and keep out of, and a few crazed cyclists who decided that not using a bell to warn walkers would add some excitement to their lives (bastards....), but with no other traffic it's possible to let you attention wander.  Since most of the walk is through central areas of the city there's a decent 4G signal much of the time.  So I walked along watching Dominic Thiem trying, and eventually failing, to be the one to unseat Rafa's dominance of Paris clay.

The weather varied, but no rain came, despite some gloomy moments.  But Dean Village looked as photogenic as ever.

I walked this route a few times last year, as part of my then preparations, and never really beat the four hour mark by much.  So it was good to find I'd done the journey in just a few minutes over the three and a half hours.  I later calculated that meant an average speed of just over 3.4mph.  Not bad, but must do better.  To hit my Kiltwalk target time I need to be doing nearer to 3.7mph.  Lots of work to do yet.  And I suspect quite a bit of it will mean aiming for Victoria Bridge again.

My Advocacy work last week sounded straightforward enough.  A woman had been sent a cheque by a bank back in 2016, but had been too ill to cash it.  By the time she was able to try, the 6 month limit has elapsed.  She's tried several times to get a replacement, she's had her daughter helping her, and some other advice, and got nowhere.  All of us have experienced these situations, getting passed from one person to another, waiting for calls back that never happen, the ostensibly helpful turning into the wilfully uncooperative.  Imagine how much worse that experience is if you suffer from acute anxiety, if you have no confidence that you are able to get your message across, if every setback feels like the ed of the line.

I made a couple of calls and learned that bank of Scotland branches can act as agents for Lloyds nowadays, so I arranged for us to go to a BoS branch.  But the promised meeting and help evaporated, and we had to leave with a promise that someone would be back in tomorrow and deal with it.  Sounds familiar....

No matter.  I now have people to talk to, face to face, and if nothing gets done we'll be back.  This woman is going to get her cheque.

Drip Drama

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE

It's wet outside today, been raining for hours. Shame it's a bit wet inside too.

A few weeks ago we noticed a stain on the hall carpet. It didn't want to come off. A day or two later and we realised it wasn't muck, it was water. We had a wet patch. And it wasn't down to the cat or the incontinence of our advancing years. And so the story begins.

A plumber came in, we pulled back the carpet, to reveal a squelchy mass of soggy underlay. Pull that back and there, it would seem, was the culprit. At some point in time (and the block was only built in 2003) someone had dug a channel into the concrete flooring. Then refilled it. But they hadn't given the concrete enough time to set, so at the first hint of any water it started to crack and to crumble and to provide a point through which the water could press its way upwards. It had then spread out across the concrete, being sucked up and around into the underlay, to finally emerge under our toes.

Digging out the dodgy filling revealed a pipe, surely the culprit here. But no, it looks sound. the water is coming from elsewhere, running in channels under the solid floor to find an outlet - our poorly mended hallway. And that's when the detective business began.

It's taken four plumber's visits, and about three weeks, to find an answer. Once the obvious had been checked - bath, washing machine, dishwasher, sinks, water tank, radiators, heating system - it just became more confusing. It would have been funny to see the baffled look on the workman's face if it hadn't meant that we still had a wet exposed trench to come to each day. Then came the news that the damp wasn't just inside our property, but outside the door too.

We're on the fifth floor, sharing a common entrance way with five other flats. The discovery indicated that wherever the leak was coming from needn't be within our boundaries - we were just the lucky recipients of the resulting flow. If nobody else had a makeshift channel like we had then they might never know that there was water under their feet.

Eventually the problem appears to have been traced, to a steady drip from next door's boiler. We now await their landlord having the impetus to get that fixed. For the dampness to dry out. For it to be clear enough to lay down new concrete into our little trench. And for that to dry out totally to feel confident that we can lay carpet on top without fear of ruin. The weeks stretch out before us.

That's if this does prove to be the problem. Until their leak is fixed, and a couple of days have then gone by, we won't know for sure. So for now, and for some time to come, we can play at stepping stones. I've cut out rough squares of the old carpet to give us something to walk on without bringing a load of concrete dust into our home (it isn't working...). One becomes used to these things. But the reaction of our guests in a couple of weeks time could be interesting

Walking, advocacy and kilts 5

I COULD CONQUER THE WORLD.  IF I COULD REMEMBER WHAT WAS HAPPENING TOMORROW.

Deciding to eschew buses I opted for a more circular route today.  And stuck to my plan to go out in the morning despite persistent rain.  Who knows what September will bring?  So a bit of gloom makes a change.

Yesterday I'd been out in the car and had seen a sign reminding everyone that today was Edinburgh Marathon day.  And I immediately thought I should check out the route so I kept my own comparatively pathetic perambulations well out of the way of the fit people.  I wonder where that thought went?

So, less than an hour into my journey, who do I encounter?

Other than stirring up my general feelings of inadequacy (We all have those, don't we?  Anyone...?) this shouldn't have been a problem.  And it wasn't really, although I did have to improvise my route after stewards barred my path.  Anyone unfamiliar with the city's geography will want to skip the next paragraph.

My route took me up Leith Walk from Pilrig, down Calder Road and past parliament where I found myself joining the runners.  Through Queens Park, intending to head for Jock's Lodge, but forced to double back bit and go round the back of the sadly demolished Meadowbank Stadium (sad as I have good memories of attending the event it was built for, the 1970 Commonwealth Games) to Marionville, down Restalrig Road, across Leith Links (where a fragment of blue sky put in a visitation), back along the dock road to Newhaven and back home via Victoria Park and a bit of the Water of Leith Walkway.  About 8 miles and hillier than I've been used to.  All part of the master plan.  If I had one.

Still nothing to report on the advocacy work, but I have an appointment on Wednesday.  One of the inevitable facts about the work we do is that many of the users of our services lead quite chaotic lives.  I've joked about my poor memory above, but for many people trying to make sure they keep appointments, or even remember to take their medication, is a daily struggle.  The man I'm to see this week cancelled our last appointment on the day.  With good reason, as he'd been detained in hospital for a few days and only just released.  No problem for me, as I only live a 10 minute walk from the office, but for some of my fellow volunteers, who have far longer journeys, it's more irksome.  Acceptance is the only option.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 4

THIS WEEK I HAVE BEEN MOSTLY LEARNING...

Always good to get a different view of the familiar.  In the past I have walked along short stretches of the Union Canal, but never gone very far.  A waterway that starts near the heart of the city and carves out a route through familiar territory, but seen from a very different angle.  Given that it's obviously going to be hill free as well this seemed a perfect opportunity to do one of my practice walks away from my usual beaten tracks.

A bus to Fountainbridge and the swans at Edinburgh Quay to send me off in the right direction.

Plenty to see as I head off.

Plenty to see as I walk along.

It's always interesting to get a new angle on familiar places because suddenly they become almost-but-not-quite new and strange, almost, but not quite, like a sensation of deja vu.  But eventually the route leaves the vaguely familiar, crosses over the M8, and spears on through the greenery.  the signposts had indicated that if I walked to Ratho that would be around the eight mile distance I was targeting.  And I knew exactly where Ratho was, having passed it many times on the A8 Glasgow Road.  Didn't I?

The first doubt started to form in my head when, through the trees to my right, I glimpsed the airport.  It did seem to be a bit further off than I'd have expected if I was on the way to where the map in my head told me I was.  But maybe things came together a bit further on...

So off I came at the village of Ratho, climbing up to this bridge and turning northwards. 

We all know the pathetic old joke about 'assume' used on a million mundane management training courses.  That doesn't mean we heed the advice it's meant to hammer into us.  A signpost swiftly assured me that I'd assumed a bit too far.  While the name 'Ratho' was indeed familiar to me, it should have been accompanied by the word 'Station'.  Ratho Station is the village on the A8 I had been heading towards in my mind.  Ratho is where I ended up, over a mile to the south and over the hill.  Which is how I felt as I trudged up and down and on to the busy main road.  But at least the route provided me with some entertainment.

Villagers have a bit of a reputation for not being overly communicative with outsiders.  But this sign seemed to be taking it a bit far.

And a few hundred metres later...

These country folk don't like giving much away, do they?

In the end I walked a bit over ten miles, completing my hike at Ingliston tram stop.  So this was a welcome sight.

As ever the best bit was the hot bath when I got home.  Nothing to write about regarding my Advocard work this week, but I expect to be back in 'action' soon enough.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 3

WHY DO WE HUMILIATE PEOPLE LIKE THIS?

Another walk a few days ago, when it was still hot and sunny and you could see across to Fife (unlike this morning when it had vanished into the mists like Brigadoon).  The same route as last week, and this time I felt I put in a bit more effort, gave up less time to taking pics along the way.  So it was  a bit of a downer to find I'd only knocked a minute off my previous time.  The old body has a lot of improvement to go yet....

The route takes in a lot of the cycle paths / walkways left behind by the demise of the old railway system, so I guess we have Beeching to thank for something.  It even goes past an old station that's been converted into a house, but the sun was at the wrong angle for any pictures this time.  Instead here's an old tunnel.

And a photo taken where the path rejoins the coast.  I had very little idea what I was taking due to the strong sunlight!

My only Advocard appointment this week was a trip to Argyle House to accompany one of our service users to his PIP assessment.  Not something most of us will ever be familiar with, or would ever want to be, but for some there's no alternative.  I'll refrain from having too big a rant about the UK's appalling welfare system, and just let this one example do the work for me.

PIP, in case you weren't aware, is Personal Independence Payment, a benefit for people whose physical and/or mental disabilities cause them additional expenses that most of us won't incur.  This time I was with someone who has chronic schizophrenia.  Although his medication keeps the symptoms under control most of the time, paranoia and panic and hopelessness can still intrude with serious consequences.  If the only answer to your panic attack is a taxi home where you can feel safe, or if the only way you'll eat is by ordering a takeaway delivery because you can't face the world or even heating up something, then you're going to rack up costs the rest of us don't have.  It's one thing to do those things from choice, another to have them forced upon you.

The assessments are carried out by qualified medical staff, such as a nurse of physiotherapist, and last about an hour or so.  They ask questions that take some account of the information on the person's application form, but can often feel like a box ticking exercise.  It's supposed to show how the person's disability affects their everyday living, but fails on so many levels.  Once completed the assessment is sent to the DWP for a decision on whether an award should be made, and how much.  At least that aspect of it has improved of late, with more claims going straight through to award after it was shown that 70% of subsequent appeals overturned the original decision.

I've heard people say that attending one of these assessments is no more stressful than going for a job interview.  People, quite clearly, who've never had any experience of one.  I've been out of the job market for years now, but I still doubt there are any job interviews that ask for details of your toilet habits, or how many times you've considered suicide in the last 6 months.  Believe me, this is a disturbing and demeaning experience for anyone on the receiving end, no matter how kindly in intent the assessor might be, and even if they have someone along to help them through it.

Which is one of the reasons why I'm proud that in September I'll be walking to raise funds for Advocard so we can continue to provide a (sadly) much needed service.  I'm happy with that.

See - here's a photo of me looking happy.