We're not going on a summer holiday

 

SORRY CLIFF, YOU NEED TO CHANGE THE SONG

"We're all going on a summer holiday" sang Cliff Richard in '63.  It wasn't a song to play in 2020.  But was that really so awful?  The idea of the annual holiday away is, in historical terms, a very recent phenomenon

I admit we were lucky, having been able to make trips to Dublin and London, and three times through to Glasgow, for music gigs in January and February.  So I can count those pre lockdown excursions across the city boundary on the fingers of one hand.  And, on the other hand, I can do the same for the rest of the year.  Two of those were brief crossings into East Lothian, when I was practising for Kiltwalk.  Another two went in the other,  a mile or so into West Lothian, to pick fruit on a farm.  And the last one?  That was our summer holiday.

In mid September, on Barbara's birthday, we gave the car a rare outing and headed off to Dunbar - a massive distance of 30 miles...  The sun shone upon us, the sky stayed universally blue, and social distancing was observed by all.  We ate high tea in a courtyard, walked along the harbour, watched the waves hitting the seawall, enjoying the simple pleasure of not being where we were the rest of the time.  Then we drove to North Berwick, sat atop the headland looking out to sea and reading our books.  And home again.

Do I feel short changed?  Not at all.  It was a glorious day, enjoyable for the most obvious of reasons, and as much a provider of fond memories as Lisbon or Rome would have done.  

Nor do I feel hard done by being restricted not just to the city, but to my own locale much of the time.  There's been time to notice new things, explore previously ignored side streets, enjoy this place in a way I might not have done before.  (OK, it helps to be living in one of the most beautiful cities in the world...)  

I sometimes feel bad about thinking this way, and am cognisant of the dangers of sounding smug, because so many people have had such a terrible time in 2020, and that situation looks like continuing deep into the new year.  But if you're fortunate enough not to have been hit by the health and financial and stress problems that the pandemic has dumped on society, then it isn't that hard to adjust your mental horizons to feel no sense of loss at the lack of any new physical ones.  We humans are adaptable creatures after all, it's what makes us such evolutionary successes.   In challenging times we can find surprising ways to meet the challenge.

Changing times, changing people

 

THE NEW NORMAL?  WHAT'S NORMAL?

We went on our staff xmas night out a couple of days ago.  By which I mean Barbara and I went for a meal at four in the afternoon.  A pub that couldn't serve alcohol (which is something I find no longer bothers me in the slightest), only one other couple in the place, at the other end of the room, but friendly (masked) staff, a cosy fire near by, and good food.  Our xmas meal was haddock and chips, followed by sticky toffee pudding.  Because this is 2020.

We enjoyed it.  The absence of other people in these times is a lot more relaxing than a room full of potential virus carriers, the lack of 'atmosphere' an attraction more than a turn off.  Stay Safe remains the overriding dictum.  Sometimes it's already hard to remember what it was like in the olden times, before face masks became the latest fashion must-have.  

We used to go out a lot.  Music and comedy gigs, plays, sports events.  Edinburgh's festival, from April to August, were what we did, part of who other people knew us to be.  Now we're a stay-at-home couple, sharing the sofa night after night, looking out on 'our' graveyard and staying well away from the world.  Of the few live events we've been to this year, all bar one were in the pre-lockdown days, and that one brought it's own weirdness.  

At the end of August Edinburgh Rugby were allowed, as a government endorsed experiment, to play a match in front of a socially distanced crowd, for which I was lucky enough to get a couple of tickets.  The careful measures in place came as no surprise, and a few hundred people in a 67,000 seater stadium didn't generate much noise, but it was interesting to see the thinking behind it all working out in practice.  Although that wasn't the weirdest part, not for me.  That came when we left and I realised we were going home in the dark.  I hadn't once gone home in the dark since mid March.

We know (or think we know?) that at some point in the future we'll all return to life that's a bit more like what we remember from pre-covid times.  Not exactly the same, because more home working and online shopping and entertainment are with us now and won't entirely be reversed.   And not forgetting, despite Doris trumpeting his fabled deal today, that brexshit is going to bring its own damage and shifts in our ways of life.  But there will be a time when going for a meal or a drink or to see various forms of live entertainment will return as part of our collective experiences.  That, personally, I can go back to watching musicians and comedians and actors and rugby players doing their thing for my amusement and diversion.  

But will I?  In 2019 I went to 112 live events.  In 2020 it's been just 14. Just as our society has been changed by the last nine months, so have I.  We already know that we don't, can't, fully understand the long term alterations in our lives as a community.  I don't think we know how it's changed as people either.  I certainly don't know what it's done to me.  Will I go back to being that person that goes to all those shows and games?  Will I ever again rush around in August doing 40+ Fringe shows?   

2020 has been a year where we've been forced to learn a lot about ourselves.  I don't think 2021 is going to be any different.

Me an' my ol' rockin' chair

 ARE YOU SITTING COMFORTABLY?

This is my rocking chair.  It's made by Ercol.

My mother had a big thing about Ercol furniture in the 50s and 60s.  So we had Ercol dining furniture.  Four chairs that were reasonably comfy and practical.  And a two seater bench-like thing that was marketed as 'love seat'.  I'm not sure who loved it.  It was a bugger of a thing to get close enough to the table to eat when there were two of you on it.  

Then there was the long Ercol coffee table, and a nest of three wee tables.  And, by far the worst of the breed, the Ercol sofa, which we had from before I can remember until I sold it after my parents died.  It and the coffee table and the nest all went on eBay and the sofa fetched what I thought at the time was a surprisingly good price.  (Although nowhere near what's being asked for this very similar looking one!)  It was bought by a couple in their seventies who drove their old Volvo estate all the way up from Hertfordshire to collect it.  The woman immediately told me when and where it has been made, and all kinds of other information I hadn't asked for.  Something of an Ercol obsessive.  I helped them get it strapped into their roof rack and bid them a safe journey.  Before they left I did remark that I'd never found it to be very comfortable.  She said "Oh they're not, they're terrible.  I always get backache from them."  And then they left.  I have no answer to the obvious question...

The 'love seat' went to my mother's oldest friend.  We kept the dining chairs for a few years, matched with a surprisingly cheap Ercol table we got on eBay, then sold the lot when we moved up to Edinburgh permanently and did a proper bit of downsizing.  Which left one just Ercol item from that inherited collection.

In the late sixties my parents got themselves comfy new armchairs (not from the big E), while if I wanted to sit with them to watch telly my choices were the floor or that bloody sofa.  Quite why it remained with them for five decades I've never understood.  So I moaned about this situation.  (I know, hard to imagine me as a moany child, eh?)  And moaned some more.  And they took me out to buy a chair that would be mine.  Guess which range of furniture the chosen shop specialised in?

But I was happy with the end result.  Mum got her Ercol, I got a rocking chair.  And, despite the thinly padded back cushion, it was very comfy, at least to someone slightly built like myself, and it has remained so.  I loved it and happily spent much of my teenage years there, rocking away watching TV, reading books, listening to music.  When I'd later return to visit as an adult it was always there, in the same spot, waiting for me.  Although once married I had to share it with my spouse - neither of us could tolerate the dread three seater for too long.

So it's the one item from my childhood home I retain a sentimental attraction to.  New cushion covers had replaced the stripey material it had come with.  In recent years we had new sponge cushions cut to replace the crumbling, sagging originals.  And now it sits beside my bedside cabinet.  It's in an awkward spot, makes getting into the wardrobe a more contortionist act than it need be, and hasn't much functional use.  But sometimes I sit there to read a book and I'm home again.  A rocking time machine.

Introducing.... Thundersnow!

 

NEITHER FLEMING NOR ASIMOV

Thundersnow.  It sounds like something from a fantasy thriller or a sci fi novel, but turns out to be a real thing.  I know because we had it last night.  

It's not a phenomenon that many people outside of the meteorological world were aware of, so it was a rare enough event that Edinburgh made the headlines on the BBC Radio 4 news bulletin this morning.  And Police Scotland found themselves faced with a couple of hundred people wanting to know about the 'explosions'...

I can understand the confusion.  The first lightning flash must have lit up our bedroom enough to half-waken me, the noise that immediately followed was more than loud enough to suggest something unnatural taking place.  Barbara, being on the same side as the open window, probably woke quicker than I did, and had no doubt it was just thunder and lightning, albeit of an unusual volume.  For me, a second behind in fully coming to, the image of a bomb or a gas explosion formed in my mind briefly.  

It was bitterly cold so she got up to close the window, just as the second one arrived.  Big flash, brightly monochromed walls, a fraction of a second pause, and BANG.  No doubt in my mind this time that it was 'just' something I'd seen many times before, just a lot closer and a lot grander.  But I can see How anyone who didn't fully waken in that short time period would have thought the worst.  

So we went back to sleep, found we (well, our city) was in the news when we woke up, and suffered a major let down.  Where's all that nice white stuff to make 'our' graveyard look pretty?  Instead there's rain and wind and a gloom inducing greyness that forces the lights to be on at midday.  Thundersnow should have stayed in the fictional realm, it's too disappointing in real life.  

So maybe it's a fitting event for 2020.  My favourite reaction came from a comedian friend (the wonderful Elaine Miller)who said she and her husband lay there debating whether to gather up the kids and flee Thor's wrath, or sacrifice one of them to appease him.  I mean, if the apocalypse arrived before New year, would any of us really be surprised?

Here's a link to the reaction from that well known source of calm and measured reflection, Edinburgh Live 😉 , but if you search for 'edinburgh thundersnow' there are plenty of more intelligent explanations out there...

America or Gilead?

 

ATWOOD'S WARNING

If you read one of Ian Rankin's most famous series of novels what does Rebus look like in your head?  Chances are, if you've watched many of the TV programmes, it's Ken Stott's face that you see chasing Edinburgh's criminals.  Fair enough, for Rankin doesn't provide many clues to the inspector's physical appearance.  Except that he's at least six or more inches taller than the actor who's become so synonymous with the role.  But overcoming the visual image from screen is, for most of us, hard to do.

It's the same with Wallander books, although there it depends if you're a fan of Sweden's Henriksson or Ireland's Branagh (I'm in the Krister camp).  And if you read any Sherlock Holmes tales the choice of screen faces you can 'use' is near endless (Jeremy Brett for me).  My point being that for most of us the visual image is hard to overcome, no matter what the page says, no matter that the written character is usually the original.

I've just finished rereading Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale after a gap of more than twenty years.  Maybe even thirty.  But in recent years I've watched the three TV series based on and derived from the book, the fictional Gilead turned into images that had existed only in my imagination before.  I was prompted to return to the original text because I'm now reading Atwood's long awaited follow-up, The Testaments, and it seemed sensible to re-immerse myself in that world, one that inevitably had some differences from the one I'd seen more recently.

In fact the differences aren't all that great, the first TV series staying fairly faithful to the original storyline and the culture it described.  The most striking exceptions being, you've guessed it, the descriptions of the characters versus their appearance on the screen.  Top of that list being Fred and Serena Joy who are far from the beautiful people we saw in Fiennes and Strahovski.  These things matter when they can affect the dynamics of the relationships being portrayed.  

I got through the book in a couple of days.  Still as riveting, thought provoking and frightening as it was.  No, make that more frightening, for this is 2020.  Reading that book now is a different experience from my first experience of it those decades ago.  For three main reasons.

One I've already mentioned.  Being faithful to the author meant trying to ditch the TV faces, forming my own pictures of the protagonists.

And I was back into a familiar world, with no need to try and begin understanding the Gileadian societal roles and hierarchy.  That first reading has always retained a powerful impact, back up by the Elisabeth Moss shows, so there was no need to puzzle over the Handmaids and Marthas and Aunts and Wives and Commanders and Guardians and Eyes and all the other narrowly defined constrictions of that brutalised country.  Although it was interesting to be reminded of how fundamentally racist the author's Gilead is, something there's less stress on in the TV series, where it's the patriarchal and fascistic elements that dominate.

Finally, the times we live in.  Tomorrow, and perhaps in the next couple of months, we'll all be watching to see how robust US democracy is.  Have enough Americans recognised what a monster they have in the White House?  Aren't the totalitarian instincts of the orange manbaby clear enough?  One of the clear lessons of Atwood's theocracy is how easy it is for democracy to slip away, bit by bit, until finally it's no longer there.  I'm voraciously consuming The Testaments now and it clearly shows how people can be manipulated into supporting the new regime.  Succumbing to fascism is a banal process, and many of the most brutal functionaries of the regime are not the ideologues, but the conscientious citizens who think that doing their 'duty' to their country overrides any moral qualms (a theme portrayed even more powerfully in the newer book).  Trump's America is already a far more racist and misogynistic place than it was four years ago.  Where would another four years of the same take them to?  The steps to Gilead are there to see.

And in the UK?  Ever since we were forced to swallow The Fairytale of Barnard Castle it's clear there's some kind of hard right coup in process.  If even the suggestion of someone like Dacre at Ofcom doesn't ring your alarm bells then maybe you're not paying enough attention.  It won't get too serious with Doris, who's only concerned about himself and already looks like he's had enough of a game he's found he's not very good at.  But the possibility of bespectacled slug Gove taking over is a more alarming direction of travel.  And yet another reason why Scotland needs out of this broken state asap.

Footnote - The dominant aspect of Gilead is the patriarchy, the total subjugation of women.  So I wanted to make sure I put women first in this post.  With one exception.  I wrote 'Fred and Serena Joy', not the other way round.  Why?  Because when I say it in my head it simply sounds better, rolls out more naturally.  In the same way that 'Diane and Bartholomew' works best.  And that matters too.  Gilead suppresses almost all forms of art, knowing that art is the enemy of tyranny.  So I'll stick with putting Fred first on this occasion, because art should always trump (sorry...) ideology.  Art reaches the humanity in us, it's about thinking for ourselves, about sharing, about imagination.  Art is the anti-Gilead.

Please, please, please let it be Biden....

Living, not waiting

 

THE END OF WAITING FOR THE END

We've got into the habit of watching an episode of some old sitcom while we eat our dinner. Not sure if laughing helps the digestion or not, but maybe it takes the mind off some of my poorer culinary efforts and allows them to seem more palatable.

This daily routine has led to us working our way through series after series of several comedies from the past, including Ab Fab and Dinnerladies. The latest one to be polished off was Waiting For God. Five series and two xmas specials. Originally broadcast in the early nineties, it hasn't dated too badly - what's changed most is the person watching them.

For those who don't know, the series is set in Bayview Retirement Village, a place where older people come to live out their so-called twilight years and await the inevitable end.  There's a lot of funerals. The central characters are Tom and Diana, who find themselves next door neighbours, and the plot revolves around the development of their relationship and how they take on the world around them.

Tom is an ex-accountant, who's lived a mostly boring life and now compensates by indulging in elaborate fantasies. So he's frequently off climbing Everest or escaping from Colditz, without leaving the comfort of his own conservatory. He is cheerful, optimistic, positive.

Diana is ... not. She's had an exciting life as an international photo journalist and now, without that role to give meaning to her life, is waiting to die.  But while she's still around she delights in making life miserable for all around her. She is abusive, curmudgeonly, negative.

This unlikely pair gradually form an alliance (which will later turn into a sexual and, eventually, romantic relationship) to take on the injustices they see around them, mostly to do with the manager of Bayview, the egotistical and materialistic Harvey Bains. The couple are frequently battling to prevent some money grubbing scheme of Bains, or making his life generally unpleasant. In return he is always looking for ways he might be rid of them, especially Diana.

Add in a few other interesting characters (notably Basil, the octogenarian sex machine) and sub plots, and the series had enough to maintain itself across those five series without too often suffering a dip in quality, largely due to the excellent performances of Graham Crowden and Stephanie Cole as the troublemaking oldies. It made me laugh, which is what you ask for most from the genre.

When it was originally broadcast I was in my late thirties. I enjoyed it then, or I wouldn't have wanted to revisit. At the time it made a change to see older people being portrayed as strong central characters, the people with decency, while those of my generation were frequently idiots, deceitful and venal, generally lacking in understanding of what they themselves would become one day (if they were lucky).

But now I'm viewing from a different perspective.  While I hope it's a while before I find myself in any sort of retirement/care home environment (although we can never say what the future holds, as this year has sharply demonstrated), but I'm certainly a lot nearer to that stage of my life than I was thirty years ago.

Now I can view Tom and Diana as role models, for Tom's optimism and determination to enjoy life, and Diana's bloodymindedness and refusal to accept the conventional societal role of 'oldie'. Isn’t it essential that I do, for what's the alternative?  A mix of the fictional Tom and Diana seems a decent template for getting on with retirement. Have adventures, be daft, push yourself a bit, push others a lot more, and stand up to the bastards in life - especially the ones who think the old should be sidelined (although it's hard to blame younger people getting angry when you see how so many of my generation selfishly voted in the two referendums). I'm not going to hang around for anyone's god, but I will enjoy myself.

2020 - the time of the god of small things

 

A CHIP IN TIME

I've not posted in here much recently because... there's not a lot going on, is there?  That applies all the more so to Go Live, my other blog where I write wee reviews of gigs, plays and films I've been to.  This year there have been only 11 posts, the last one in mid March.  In 2019 there were nearly 130.  The bulk of those were written during Edinburgh's festival season, from April to August, a stream flowing with music and film and drama and comedy.  

But 2020 is festival-less.  No crowds, no queuing, no being packed into small obscure venues, no timetable to keep to and no piles of tickets to work through.  

I've missed it, but in the bigger picture it barely registers.  There is more to life.  I'm certainly not complaining, for the need for this situation is obvious, and I've settled into a different way of living which is none the less pleasurable for these enforced changes.  I even, as I wrote here a few weeks ago, found plenty to enjoy about lockdown.  But it does require a change of perspective.  Live entertainment provided so many of the real highs of my year.  And a few of the lows - if you take an eclectic approach to festival-going you're always going to find yourself watching films and comedians that are, in the local vernacular, a load o' pish.  But covid-19 has required some recalibration.  The summits and valleys of daily experience exist in a more East Anglian landscape, where the highs are lower and the lows are higher.  You have to look harder for moments to get excited about.

A few days ago, in a moment of clumsiness, I chipped one of our dinner plates.  Of course I was annoyed with myself for doing something so stupid, and for spoiling the set.  A bit of a low point in a day, like most days, where nothing much was going to happen.  And a high point too. A very very low high point maybe, but a high nonetheless.  Because it was something different to talk about, something unexpected, something out of the usual settled pattern, something that provided a couple of minutes of conversation that wasn't about shopping or eating or TV or what bastards the tories are.   I look to the small things to keep me going...

I did it - honest! (a post with evidential value)

 

VIRTUAL KILTWALK, REAL KILT, REAL WALKING

Many thanks to all those who've donated to my Virtual Kiltwalk page (or those who are still thinking about it...), with the top up from the Hunter Foundation that's well over £400 raised for Advocard.  I did the promised walk today, but since it was a solo effort, unobserved, you might harbour some doubts as to whether I actually bothered to whether I actually bothered making the effort to justify your parting with your hard-earned!  So I thought I'd try to provide a bit of evidence, and show some of the highlights of the Water of Leith Walkway, should you ever feel tempted to trudge that way.

A 5 step guide to walking the Walkway :

1.  Get a 44 out to Balerno

2.  Do some stretches to make it look to passing onlookers like you know what you're doing

3.  Take obligatory selfie with signpost marking the start.

4.  Start walking 

5.  Keep on walking until you get to the end...

The startline signpost tells lies.  How else to explain this one over 20 minutes down the road?  Is this to deter the uncommitted walker?

The first few miles are devoid of recognisable landmarks.  Mostly woodland with the odd break for the back end of spam belt housing outposts.  So the first really photogenic point on the route is almost an hour down the road - the recently completed murals in the Colinton Tunnel.  

The work of local artist Chris Rutterford, aided by sundry schoolkids and the local community, is a multi coloured marvel of words and images and visual stories.  If you're in Edinburgh and you haven't been to see it yet - why not.  This is just a brief excerpt of what's filling the 140m of wallspace.

For the rest of the walk there are plenty of familiar points to show where I've been so I took a few more along the way.  Starting with The Water of Leith Visitor Centre at Slateford.  No time to stop today, but it's a handy loo and sustenance stop if you're going for more of a saunter than a hike.

Twenty minutes more and I'm on my way through Saughton Park.

Followed rapidly by one of the city's most iconic sporting venues...

And then on to a far less recognisable gladiatorial arena...

Featuring the new mini-Murrayfield where I hope I'll be watching Edinburgh Rugby do their thing in X weeks/months time - ?

A little further and frst of the Anthony Gormley men embedded in the river - I'll be giving the Stockbridge one a miss, but the other two pop up a bit later.

Then the most tiring bit of the day - there's a couple of climbs to get up to pass by the scenic prettiness of the Dean Village.

Almost at Stockbridge, so why not a quickie of St Bernard's Well?

I promised another couple of those Gormleys.  Here's the one near Powderhall.

And then on to the same at Bonnington

And that means I'm nearly there.  It didn't feel like it, but coming out on to the sight of The Shore certainly did.

And then I was there, at the Victoria Swing Bridge, a tragedy of it's former self these days.  But the view's still pretty good.

And that was that.  Three hours and seventeen minutes of boot plodding interspersed with fleeting moments of stop-snap-go to take the above pictures.  

Of course the naturally suspicious among you (Hello George - where's my banana?) might justifiably query if those timestamps really show I've done the groundwork.  Might he not have used a bike between stops?  Or even drifted from one checkpoint to another on four wheels?  I accept you suspicion and counter with a screenshot of my step count/pattern, and a map of my walk.  You'll just have accept that I'm not smart enough to fake those.  That sounds credible, doesn't it?

Finally...  If anyone reading would still like to donate then please click on this link.

Thanks again.

Walking for the 'new normal'?

 

ADVOCACY'S NEW NORMAL?

Next Sunday I'll be doing my virtual Kiltwalk, a solo effort at a bit of fundraising since, for obvious reasons, the fully organised version for the tartan masses isn't going to happen in this weird year that is 2020.  Once again my chosen charity is Advocard, for whom I've been a volunteer for five years.  I've written about Advocard before, so you can click on this link if you want a reminder of what the service provides.  

In my most recent post I touched on how the service has changed in the new circumstances we find ourselves in, and today I'm pondering if we haven't stumbled into an approach that might actually turn out to be an improvement - perhaps not for all cases but for a substantial part of the work we undertake.  

Whatever 2021 holds we can already see it's going to be very different from 2019.  The pandemic and resultant lockdown have seen new ways of working popping up, and people sometimes realising that these enforced changes have sometimes proved to be an improvement on what we had before.  Home working isn't for everyone, and carries plenty of risks from the effects of social isolation and consequent issues for mental health, but for some it turns out to be perfect.  And it can bring other benefits, like reducing the wasted time and pollution that daily commuting brings.  Lockdown was a reminder that taking serious steps to reduce global warming isn't always as hard as the naysayers would have us believe.  

And so it is in advocacy.  Pre-April I'd come into the office to read up about the person I was to see, spend up to an hour with the service user, occasionally going through to the back office if there was some question I needed answering.  Then I'd type up my notes, maybe write an email or letter if required.  That's if the person turned up.  It's in the nature of the people we work with that they won't always be organised enough to remember appointments, or their priorities change, or, or, or...  There were a lot of no-shows.  Not so bad for me who, only lives a 10 minute walk away, less so for volunteers who've spent an hour on the bus to be there!

We'd also go to appointments in people's houses, if they were unable to travel to us.  And then, for H&S reasons, we'd have to find 2 volunteers to go together.  Or we'd go out to accompany the person to an appointment, be it with doctor, psychiatrist, social worker, lawyer, benefits assessor, and so on - it's a long list.  And a lot of volunteer time used up.

But now?  While our professional workers still see people face to face when necessary, so far us volunteers have been coming into the office to undertake our advocacy over the phone.  I did wonder how well this would work out, but after a month I'm a convert.  It won't work for every case, but it's already proving successful in a high percentage of the contacts being made.

Instead of having to come in at random times to meet people when they were available, or to not meet them and have to go away again, I now do one afternoon a week, for (up to) three hours.  The office is quiet, just myself and the coordinator.  There might be something I've already been involved in to follow up on, but most of the past month has been spent helping to clear the backlog of people who we haven't had the resources to contact in recent months.  I get 3 or 4 people to choose from, we discuss who seems to be the highest priority, and after a bit of background reading I start phoning.  If someone isn't in I can leave a message and move on to the next.  Phone calls rarely go much beyond 30 minutes, albeit I've had nothing particularly complex to deal with so far.  If there's something I need to know then the professional is sitting in the same room so I can usually get an immediate answer, and there's less time wasted.  After the call I can immediately write up my notes, and move on to the next call.  I might get through 2, 3 or 4 people in the short time I'm there, something that would have meant 2, 3 or 4 trips to the office in the past.  Last week I ended up writing a letter of complaint about noisy neighbours, and another trying to get someone rehoused.  In each case on behalf of people stressed out by their inability to cope with recalcitrant officialdom.

It makes better use of our time.  The volunteer coordinator is far less stressed as he only has one volunteer in at a time, and isn't having to check that our visitors are supplied with tea and coffee!   Our timetables are easier to manage to for all concerned, and more people are getting the benefit of the service.  One downside is that I don't get to see any of the other volunteers, but it's interesting to here that at lest one of them feels the same about our improved productivity.

No, it isn't going to work for everyone.  Maybe we could try out some video calls too?  And there will be those whose mental state, or the complexity of their problems, mean a face to face is essential.  But if the past four weeks have been a good indicator then I find myself welcoming the 'new normal'.  And hope that if this is reflected more widely in society, people being a lot less resistant to change in future.  Not least in the recognising the possibilities that an independent Scotland will bring....

So next Sunday that's what I'm walking for, suitably bekilted, ready for whatever the weather may drop on me, and looking to complete the distance in less than 210 minutes, whatever my knees and feet might be telling me.  And if you'd feel generously inclined to sponsor me you can do so here.  

Walking one walk or another

 

WALKING THE WALK

Back in June I wrote about my return to doing some lengthy walks, hoping that the Edinburgh Kiltwalk would survive the lockdown restrictions.  Alas, for obvious reasons, that is not to be, and instead we fundraisers are being encouraged to take part in a virtual Kiltwalk, on the same weekend when the real thing would have been taking place.  As part of that encouragement Kiltwalk has pledged to add 50% to whatever donations participants manage to collect, so it's definitely worth the effort.

As I have for the past two years I'll be walking to raise funds for Advocard, the organisation I work for as a volunteer advocacy worker.  If you're not sure what advocacy is and what we do I wrote about it in this post two years ago before my first Kiltwalk.  

Volunteering usually means face to face contact with our service users, so that aspect of the service has been in abeyance since March (our professional staff have still provided advocacy where possible, but it's been a tough gig at times).  But the volunteer side of thing started up again a few weeks ago, although for now we're restricted to sitting in an office making phone calls.  Lockdown has been a bad time for a lot of people, but for those with poor mental health, especially if they live alone, it's often been very difficult.  Not having access to services like ours is one of the many problems they've faced, so there's a pent up demand for what we provide.

I said 'walking' earlier, because that's what I set out to do a few months ago, and it would be daft to waste all the miles I've put in over recent weeks.  The Kiltwalk people said we could do anything we liked to raise funds.  Their suggestions mostly included activities so energetic they make my ageing body quiver at the thought, and in one case, trampolining, inadvisable to the inhabitant of a fifth floor flat.  So I'll stick to what I know, keep it simple, and concentrate on putting one boot in front of another.  

Rather than the usual Kiltwalk route I will be taking a more scenic, and a few places mildly more challenging, option.  The Water of Leith Walkway runs from Balerno in the southwest of the city to the Victoria swing bridge in Leith, almost on the Forth.  Over twelve and a half miles it winds across Edinburgh by way of leafy paths, public parks, the occasional busy road, an inner city village, a wonderfully muraled old railway tunnel, a croquet club and the country's largest stadium.  (With apologies for the made up word!)  You can find out more about it here.

As I explained in an earlier post, when the year began I'd been hoping to cover the Kiltwalk route in under three hours thirty minutes.  Having probably had a mild dose of covid-19 I now find myself getting out of breath more quickly than I used to, and I think that target would have been unrealistic.  But I will still use it, as a challenge to beat over this shorter but more inclined route.  Kilted of course.  

If you'd consider being generous enough to donate then please click here.  And please share the page for others to see.  I've been very late getting this out to the world, so already there's only three weeks before the day.

Final plea - if you have any sway with the weather gods please ask them to be considerate over Edinburgh that weekend.  Ploughing on through glutinous mud is not the challenge I'm hoping for! 

Lockdown had some plus points

TEN THINGS I'LL MISS ABOUT LOCKDOWN

The covid-19 pandemic has turned 2020 into a very strange year for most of us.  A tough time for many with the deaths, illness, loneliness, mental health issues, money shortages, redundancies, postponed operations and cancelled events.  The list of ways in which people have been affected goes on and on.  And it's far from over yet, today's news from Aberdeen showing how easy it is for progress in suppressing the virus to be reversed if we don't all adhere to the ScotGov guidelines.  

But for most of us lockdown is not what it was in April and May and into June.  Streets and shops are far busier, we can meet people, travel, go out to eat and drink, there is a greater sense, a fragile sense, of something nearer to 'normal'.  The number of cases, and deaths, in this country (although not so much south of the border) has been declining steadily and the risks don't feel as great.  But let's not be overly optimistic at the moment, with colder weather to come and the risk of a second wave meaning that lockdown may not be entirely in our past.  We all hope not.  

But, apart from (possibly) having the virus, and maybe some resulting longer term issues we're among the fortunate ones.  A comfy home, a steady income, living with someone you love, and the cat, are (with reliable broadband!) the ingredients for contentment.  For much of the time I can honestly say I enjoyed lockdown, and there aspects of it I already miss, or know I will in future.  So here's my list of the things I found brightened up the lockdown weeks.

1.  The daily updates from the Black Isle Correspondent 

Folk musician and broadcaster Anna Massie found herself locked down back home with her parents in Fortrose and decided to make a wee daily video about lockdown life.  It quickly became an essential element of the Crawfords' routine.  Who knew bin-washing and scone-making could be so entertaining?  She's still putting out the odd one every few days, but the what'll-she-do'next thrill isn't what it was.  You can still see the full hundred plus wee videos on her YouTube channel.

2.  Clean air

Wasn't it blissful?  Peace, quiet, and a huge reduction in air pollution.  You could go into the city centre and hear the birds singing.  Wildlife started popping up in unexpected places.  Humans were being stressed out, but the planet got a rest.  Is anyone in power learning the lessons?

3.  Constant praise from government and media...

Well, it felt like praise.  This was THE time in history for us anti-social introverts, when keeping your distance from others, and staying shut away at home as much as possible, became the right thing to do.  

4.  Edinburgh Rugby classic matches

As a fairly recent convert to supporting the club their decision to broadcast classic games from the past, every Saturday at 3, was the perfect means to learning a bit more about them, and having some regular sport to look forward to.  A ritual developed, as I vanished off with a tray of snacks to shout at a screen for a couple of hours.  They finished a few weeks ago, and I still miss them.

5.  The Stand's Saturday night shows

I've watched plenty of musicians doing live web shows in recent months.  Playing to no live audience must be a strange experience, and some adapted to it better than others, but once they are playing that's them into their comfort zone, doing what they do best, irrespective of the dearth of people in the room.  But it's an even tougher experience for stand up comedians, who rely so much on laughter to keep them going.  So it's been fascinating to watch the evolution of the show that the Stand Comedy Club has broadcast every Saturday evening since lockdown began (and which will continue for the foreseeable future, as there's little prospect of them being able to open for weeks, maybe months, to come).  Both in terms of the format of the show, and ability of individual comics to adapt their act to the new circumstances.  As with the musicians some have managed better than others, but everyone who's had the chance to have a few goes has improved every time.  While the comedy value can be hit and miss it's still a must-watch, with some brilliantly memorable moments along the way.  (And some bafflement during the 2 weeks when it came from the Newcastle club - were we the only ones needing subtitles?)

Also, in conjunction with #4, Saturday's became the only day of the week with the slightest bit of structure.

6.  Strangers keeping their distance

See #3 above!  

Apart from the eejits walking along looking at their phones.  And some joggers.  And cyclists on the pavement (why, when the roads were almost deserted??).  

But otherwise...

7.  Not having to be anywhere on time

Yes, I have missed all the plays and gigs and shows and the whole major festival season that takes on Edinburgh from April to August.  Yes, I, sort-of, missed my voluntary work (although I've found the past few months has made me question much of what I want from life now).  And yes, I am retired so any target times I had to meet were purely of my own choosing.  But still... it's been so nice not to worry about being out on time, about missing buses or being in the queue early enough to get a good seat.  

Come to think of it, it was quite nice not having to be anywhere.

And never setting an alarm  😉

8.  More money than month

I've paid out to watch online gigs, like the Stand, tried to buy from some local businesses, done a bit of internet shopping.  But.  No stopping for cakes in cafes.  No tickets for ScienceFest, TradFest, FilmFest, JazzFest, Fringe, plays, films, random gigs.  Now I know where all my cash used to go to.

9.  Video chats

I've seen more of our old friends down south during the lockdown months than in the past five years after we moved north.  Hopefully this'll be one benefit of the pandemic that will stay with us.

10.  Lockdown hair

Who cared?  Wasn't it nice not to give a toss what you looked like (OK, some might be surprised that I did before...).  Wear what you wanted, look whatever.  And another contributor to #8.

Err...11.  Being together

I know I said ten, but I couldn't leave this one out, and I hope you're lucky enough to have had the same experience.

While we always did do a lot together, especially in August, we also had our separate lives, different voluntary activities, different evenings out.  But for lockdown, other than me going out for shopping some days, we were always around one another.  No doubt it helps that the flat is a decent size, so we could easily be doing different things, but it was still a huge increase in the amount of time spent in one another's company.  And that was just fine.  After 27 years it's nice to have a reminder of how much we actually like each other.  

(Well, how much I like her - she might say otherwise...)

I can't get angry any more. But that can change.

CAN ANYBODY FIND MY RAGE FOR ME?

We recently watched the BBC documentary about the rise (and fall and rise again) of Rupert, the man the great Dennis Potter name his pancreatic cancer after.  Barbara was near incandescent about the malign influence that twisted the outcomes of so many what-should-have-been exercises in democracy, notably in 2016 (I know everyone's saying 2020 is the worst year, but, at least for the UK, I'd still plump for four years ago in terms of doing long term damage).

And she's been fuming about Doris' raft of peerages yesterday.  His brother.  A thick cricketer who thinks (?) England is an island.  Ruth the Mooth, a woman we know holds many opinions because she's changed them so regularly.  A broad cross section of the population.  Well, the rich, corrupt and talentless bit of the population.  And, and so good to see that those rumours of Russian interference were totally unfounded.

Oh, nearly forgot - there's an actual fascist in the list as well.  And why not, she doesn't even stand out from the rest of the shitshow.

But I can't get angry.  I can't even find it in me to be mildly surprised.  The UK has a PM who's a pathological liar and was even shown to have lied to parliament but didn't resign.  A housing minister who's openly corrupt.  A Home Secretary who was previously sacked from government for risking state security.  I could go on, but what's the point?  Once we were all forced to accept The Fairy Tale of Barnard Castle there's no scenario ridiculous enough to seem far fetched any more.  The Looking Glass is receding in the mirror.  In a year from now they'll be convincing the faithful that food shortages were what they voted for and this is what 'sovereignty' (or whatever) looks like.  But hey, blue passports, eh?

If I am going to get worked up then it looks like the source will be closer to home.  My relative passivity in the face of the above correlates with my increasing confidence that the UK is coming to an end and Scotland will be independent soon.  (Apologies to readers in England and Wales but you'll have to find your own lifeboat.)  Brexshit and Covid and an incompetent posh boy charlatan of a PM are coming together in a perfect storm.  And it now seems the only obstacle that could intervene is... the SNP?

So very many of us now want Indy to happen, want it soon so we can escape the iceberg Doris and co are hubristically steering towards, see it as the only real answer.  But does the SNP leadership?  Joanna Cherry has been the most prominent, and smart, voice in the party pushing for alternatives to a never-happen S30, and now she looks to have been sabotaged.  That won't quieten her in any way I'm sure, but it has set he warning lights off.  Nicola's done a good job this year - but if she starts faltering on the path to our final destination I might just locate that misplaced anger.

What do you see?

SOMEBODY NEEDS A TRIP TO BARNARD CASTLE

Regular readers will know that we live in a fifth floor flat looking out on a cemetery.  The months of lockdown have given us a bit more to watch, as more people used the graveyard for their daily exercise, and took the chance to explore the place a bit too.  This morning I spotted a man lying, face down, behind one of the taller pieces of monumental stone, topped by a Celtic cross.  He wasn't moving, had one arm stretched out in front of him, one leg tucked up.  It didn't look like the most comfortable of poses.

When there was no sign of movement for a few minutes I asked Barbara to have a look.  And we agreed I should go down and check if he was OK. Before going on with my tale I should make you aware that, because she's been going out so infrequently, she hasn't been wearing her contacts very often, making close up work easier.  So she couldn't see much at first, but her glasses helped a bit, and while I got my shoes on she had a go with the binoculars.  

I'd seen a bulky man in navy tee and shorts, dark hair, very pink legs and arms.  Barbara saw.... a black man lying on a pink blanket.  Which the binoculars confirmed.  Where I'd looked and seen a drunk who'd passed out, she'd seen a poor refugee with nowhere else to go.  And each of us kept on seeing the image the backed up our first impression.

As I was about to open the door she shouted that he was moving.  By the time I got back he was, a little unsteadily it appeared, walking off towards the entrance gates.  A big guy in navy top and shorts, with the look of someone severely hungover.  And yet, so strong was that initial impression, Barbara's question was "Where's the pink blanket?".  

Is Specsavers open yet?

TV's constipation?

THE LIMITS OF SQUEAM

Like most people we've been watching a lot of TV during lockdown.  Although we've watched plenty of shows from this country, and the wider UK, much of our entertainment has been from other European countries, rather than the ubiquitous US stuff.  Despite the language differences we feel more at home culturally with the 'Old World', as it was once known.  And the Walter Presents catalogue on All 4 offers plenty of choice to explore.

One of the best of that bunch has been the Catalan thriller Nit i Dia (Night and Day) featuring forensic pathologist Sara Grau as the lead character.  There have been two series so far, each of thirteen episodes, and well worth a look if you enjoy a good crime series with plenty of suspense and twists.  Of course, as with all fiction, suspension of disbelief is often required.  But sometimes there are such obvious deviations from reality that you wonder why the director chose to do so.  I saw something in the final episode of the second series that made me wonder how film makers determine where our limits of prudishness should lie.

Spoiler alert - if you think this is a series you'll want to watch you might want to stop reading now, because there's a certain amount of plot detail I need to go into to make my point.  Or if you're like me and forget stuff easily it may not matter!

Our heroine is been held captive by the baddie, one wrist handcuffed to the ceiling framework above.  She manages to kill him, but nobody knows she's there awaiting rescue so she has to devise her own way out.  Which requires the severance of one of her own body parts.  While we don't see the part itself being hacked off, there's more than enough blood and sound effects and blade action to get the point across strongly, and this is not a scene for the overly squeamish.  But we're now well used to our modern thrillers involving a lot more blood and guts than Dixon of Dock Green stretched to.  Our societal disgust levels aren't what they were.

Yet in another area of sensitivity we don't seem to have moved on much.  Sara is held in the room for four or five days.  While her captor lives he allows her food and water.  Under those circumstances it would be a bit much to expect someone not to have a few bladder and bowel movements.  But there's not an inkling of a tinkling, no notion of a motion.  No wee smelly piles on the floor - and no wee at all.  Her clothes look crumpled and grubby, but not soiled.  

So it seems OK to show someone cutting into their own body, a rarity to most of us I hope, but not something every one of us does every day.  Is the piss and shit taboo still to be broken?

Of Covid and breathlessness and boots

EXCUSES, EXCUSES...

In optimistic mode I have signed up to do Kiltwalk again.  While the Glasgow, Aberdeen and Dundee events have all had to be cancelled, the Edinburgh walk isn't due to take place until mid September, so there's a decent chance that restrictions might have been lifted far enough by then for it to go ahead.  And having been ill earlier this year I've not felt wholly confident in my own fitness.  Those doubts have meant me not pushing for sponsorship so far, but if everything looks positive in August I'll be back in nagging mode...

Some readers might recall this post from March where I pondered whether the bug I'd had was 'the' virus or not.  I still don't know.  Whether it was or not it did take a lot out of me, as I lost appetite and weight, got very little exercise during the period of self isolation and in the early weeks of the lockdown, and felt a bit weak well into April.

So when I started to do some longer walks in early May, with the intent of seeing how I'd feel, there was some trepidation.  But six miles was no problem, eight easy enough and I started to go quicker.  I'm up to about twelve and a bit now, just over three hours walking, and enjoying it.  But for one slight worry.

Back in March the worst of my symptoms was the breathlessness.  That really only lasted for about three days, and wasn't bad enough to keep me in bed.  I just got very tired very quickly, had to sit down a lot, and sometimes found myself having to stop half way up the stairs to wait for my legs to function again.  I was still sluggish for two or three weeks after, still had a tightness in my chest a lot of the time, but it all seemed to have passed well before the end of April.  Now we're hearing that the damaging effects of covid-19 could last much longer than the period of infection, perhaps even for life, so the question as to whether or not one has had it becomes a bit more than academic.  It's more of a risk for those who were most seriously affected of course, but it seems even minor cases like mine could still suffer some consequences.

Human beings are suggestible.  Especially when it comes to anything remotely medical.  Who hasn't Googled their symptoms and then worried that they have something serious?  We easily think the worst.  So I wish I hadn't heard about this 'long term damage' theory, because it can't help but put thoughts into my head.  Yesterday's walk felt good, and 12.3 miles in 3 hours and 9 minutes isn't too far off the pace I hope to be able to walk at in September.  But there was a point where I had to throttle back, knowing my body didn't want to keep pushing on.  And it wasn't down to my legs not cooperating, as I'd expect at this stage, but a feeling of breathlessness, a tightness of the chest.  Covid damage?  Or fitness still lacking?  Or an overactive imagination producing psychosomatic symptoms.  Or just getting old...?  Who knows?  But the feeling passed after a while and I was able to push on, only limited by these tired old legs.

I don't know the answer.  I do know I'll keep pushing on.  Last year I completed the route in 3 hours 33 minutes, and I'd love to beat three and half hours this year, assuming the walk goes ahead.  It could be something health related that stops me doing that time, but I think I might have something else I can put the blame.  It looks like the route may have to change due to some bridge works in progress.  Always handy to have a pre-prepared excuse...

I'll never know

KEEP NOT TAKING THE TABLETS

This post is, sort of, a follow up to the one about mental health on the 24th.  And I wonder if there's anyone else who'll read this and find it striking a chord of any sort?

For most of my adult life there's been a short film clip that crops up in my head from time to time.  Sometimes in a dream, sometimes in response to external triggers (but I'm not even sure which ones).

I'm a teenager, maybe about 14 or 15, living with my parents.  It's about 3 or 4 in the middle of the night, I'm wide awake, and decide to go into the bathroom.  In there I open the medicine cabinet, take out all the bottles of pills I can find and line them up in a row.  I look at them for a few minutes, then decide to put them where I found them and go back to bed.

That's it, that's all that happens.  My own thought processes during the incident aren't available to me, it's as if I'm an outside observer recording the moment.  I get the inference that I was contemplating taking an overdose, and chose not to.  It's not something I find disturbing, for there's now an easy familiarity about the scene, like watching a favourite film for the twentieth time.

What's still mildly frustrating is in resisting the temptation to try and figure out what this actually is, for I know now that the answer will never come.  Is it a genuine memory, or a dream, or simply a story I told to myself?  Did it happen in the real world or only in my head?  Is that weird?