Where do the days go?

 

BUT WHAT DO YOU REALLY DO?

"What do you do?" We have all asked, or been asked, that question many times. It's seen as a safe conversational gambit with people new to you, and gives them something to talk about. There's also the risk that it's been used to judge who you are on the basis of your employment status, but that's a different discussion... The usual response is to tell the interlocutor your job, or what you study. Or, in my case, for over a decade now, the simple reply "I'm retired".

"What do you do with yourself?" Or "What do you do all day?" are the usual follow up questions.  (The smarter question might be "what did you do before?", but not many people think of that one.)  Because when you work it's hard to imagine life without that structure determining so much of how your days and weeks are occupied. How does all that time get filled up?

"What do I do with myself?" I think. And I'm never sure how to answer, either them or me. Our weeks have some fixed points in them, some days have places to go, things to do. others don't. Yet I can't say I've ever been bored. There's always something to do, to think about, books to read and messages to answer. I can see why that might sound dull to someone outside looking in, but that's not the experience I have.

One thing I have done for a long time, in fact with only a few short breaks since I was 19, is write up a daily diary entry. There's nothing earth shattering in there, just a run down of my day, and any thoughts that seemed important. Occasionally references to what's going on in the the wider world, mostly the mundane reality of the everyday. It helps me download my thoughts before bed, and provides a reference document of when things happened, what I thought about them at the time.

For the past decade and more these entries have finished with a short list, entitled '3 Things'. Every day I have to come up with three things that made me smile, made me laugh, provided some moment of happiness. Even on the occasional bad day, it makes me look for the good in the previous hours. Most days it's easy enough to nominate a trio. Some days it can be hard to get past two. On others the list goes on to four, five, six...

So to answer my own question - what do I do? - and maybe to explain my life a bit, I am going to follow this up with further posts, each one looking at one of the three days, and focusing on one of the 3 Things for that day. For all of September. A month of happy moments, or utter tedium? You

Of tourists and hypocrisy

 

AUGUST, BLOODY AUGUST

Hello September. You're welcome. Cooler weather, calmer city. Hockey is back, rugby soon to follow, and the winter weekends begin to take shape for me. August was the usual mix of heaven and hell.

August in Edinburgh. festival month. Correction, festivals month. Lots of them. Lots of shows and exhibitions and venues and acts. And tourists. So many tourists. If a city could be full to the gunnels (it certainly can't be the gunwales, can it?) then this one was packed. Tourists, tourists everywhere, and lots of them with drink.

We ventured to a few Fringe shows (only eighteen this time, the number seems to decline every year now, perhaps as we decline...), but kept out of town otherwise. Even then the usual words were frequently on our lips. "Fekin tourists!" Gawping, dawdling, blocking, obscuring, bewildering, straying, misplaced souls that they all seemed to be. With disregard for all but themselves, forever in the way of locals, forever a source of irritation.

Post-Fringe, our end-days of August were spent on trains and in Brussels. Where we gawped and dawdled and blocked and obscured and bewildered and strayed and were misplaced constantly. We tried not to be, honest. But how can you not when you're that thing - fekin tourists... Sorry Brusselians (?).

Sorry Miriam, but I have to disagree...

NO HE ISN'T

We went to see Miriam Margolyes on the Fringe yesterday. A wonderful show, the actor pouring her talents into bringing Dickens characters to life, telling hilarious stories of her own life. She's great entertainment, and an unfiltered voice on the world. It's refreshing to hear a prominent Jewish voice speak out against the Israeli government's criminality and genocidal policies.

At the end there was an audience Q&A, and someone asked for her opinion of the Tangerine Tyrant. You probably know the gist of the answer already. She's not a fan, is she? She declared that he, along with the likes of Niggle Fuhrage, was a fascist. And there I felt myself disagreeing with her.

Fascism is an (abhorrent) ideology. And there is always some vague, if ill founded, belief system behind it. There is a form of coherence to the thinking of the fascist. There is no doubt that the likes of the Deform leader, and his cronies, meet the definition. Farage is a fascist, always has been. But Trump? I don't think so.

Certainly he has surrounded himself with a lot of people who are fascists. And clearly the results of his actions (I would hesitate to call them 'policies') can be seen as fascistic. But, as I said above, being a fascist involves a belief in some ideology. However the Mandarin Moron only has one belief - an even more ill-founded one it's true - in himself. This is the man (?) who mused, out loud, that injecting bleach into humans might help against covid. This is the creature (better) that said, to camera, that he was going to lower prices by 1000%.

Trump is not a fascist. Trump is, genuinely, too stupid to be a fascist. Sorry Miriam. Everything else you said was true.

Back here again

A WEEKEND OF RETURNS

In the eighties and nineties I performed in several amateur theatre productions. Acting both terrified and delighted me. In the noughties my job often took me around England and Wales to give talks to audiences ranging from little more than a dozen to more than two hundred. Presenting both terrified and satisfied me. Last night we went to a poetry and music event where audience members were invited to bring along a poem and read it out. So I did. My first stage appearance in many years. It both terrified and pleased me. The ham lives on...

(This was the poem I chose to read out.)

My last post in this blog was back in January. I have continued to write ever since. Every day. Mostly nonsense, mostly mundane, often rambling and incoherent (well, not quite Trumpian levels of incoherence...). But I write. I haven't felt like sharing it. With anyone.

But here I am again. Here I hope to return. Because last night reminded me that, as the ham, the performer, is still within me, so is the writer. So is the desire to expose my writing to others. And in doing so expose myself (but not in the way that attracts police attention). Even if hardly anyone bothers to read this...

There will be more (may contain Lego).  Probably...

Farewell to 262

 

LITTLE 262

That's her above. No, not the pushy wee fella in the foreground, begging to be taken away. But the reticent furball peering hesitantly from the safety of her cardboard haven. She was one of five siblings, newborns found in the streets of St Helens, and taken into the shelter of the Southport RSPCA. And this was love at first sight.

Her other brothers were all as pushy as the one shown. Only she held back, reluctant to put herself forward, and maybe that's why she was the one for us. The assistant got her out, and we held her, tiny, fragile, scared. We wouldn't be allowed to take her home with us until she was 12 weeks old, so there were frequent visits to the refuge, 'getting to know you' sessions, trying to form a bond. At first she was simply 'Little 262', because that was the number she had been given.

Meanwhile we tried out names. Nothing stuck. One day I'd visited her in my lunch break, and then called Barbara to report on progress. I thought I had a name. So did she. We can't remember which of us said it first, which said "that's what I had too", but we had, independently, arrived at the same answer. Where it came from we have no idea, as there was nobody of that name in our lives. But Zoe it was and Zoe she became. 262 had gone.

This was her arrival, in the place which would be her home for the next 5 years - an unboxing video of curiosity, fear, safety-seeking and an uncertain future.

She quickly developed her own unique character. Not a great fan of being picked up and held for long, but loving to be on laps and bodies when seated or in bed. Skilled at finding obscure hiding places (especially when the carrier came out...). Adaptable to a life that saw her ferried between Southport and Leith several times a year. And the softest fur you could find to stroke and nuzzle up to.

She could be a bit of a tiger...

Always ready to pose...

3 years ago she was diagnosed with a tumour in her chest. We decided against the imposition of surgery or chemo, and settled for managing the condition with steroid tablets. What a little survivor she was! Still going strong long after the worst had been expected.

But it had to end eventually, and the tumour got so big that her heart and lungs were being squeezed, her breathing compromised. The hardest decision had to be made. Which took us to today, and a tearful farewell.

This was my final photo of her, taken this morning when she came to sit on me in bed.

Goodbye Little 262. You were always loved.

Bringing the fun back

 

DRIVING A DAFFODIL

I'm heading towards one of those urban traffic calming things where the road narrows down to single lane and oncoming traffic has priority. So I slow down. Heading towards me is one of those big black Audi SUVs, and we know how aggressive they can be. Suddenly he's flashing his lights and I wonder what's wrong.  Then, as he closes, I see the guy at the wheel is grinning. And waving. And giving a big thumbs up. Which is when I remember. I'm in Daffy.

Sometimes I forget, because she's become so normal to me. But not for long. There's usually someone to remind me, like that manic SUV driver, or sometimes the simple act of driving - of leaning through bends or the umbrella handle gearchange clicking back and forth - makes me grin. Driving a bright yellow 2CV is never dull.

Daffy arrived in our lives last April. Moving to Edinburgh, a decade ago now,  meant our lives changed.  Public transport is so good here, and the roads so crowded, that our old Skoda spent most of its time sat idle, quietly seizing up. Lockdowns came and problems arose from underuse. So did we really need a car? Probably not. The only time it felt necessary was getting to hockey matches on cold, wet, winter nights. Apart from that there was rarely any incentive to drive.

But I've hardly ever been without a car in the past half century, and giving up on that sense of convenience would be hard. Was that enough of a reason? Not really. If we were to justify ownership then there had to be some other justification. One thing was certain, the old Skoda, once so useful but now an encumbrance, had to go. Any replacement had to be something that brought some pleasure back to the act of driving.

I've had a few fun cars over the years, notably my beloved Matra Murena. But none of them would fit into our current life very well. Except one. Back in the nineties I had the aforementioned three seater, not always the most practical of vehicles. So we had a second car for Barbara, which I could also use. To match our French sports car in quirkiness we opted for... a Citroen 2CV. And Eric came into our lives.

Ok, so it's pretty naff to name cars, isn't it?  2CVs are different. They have character. They demand to be named. And Barbara always wanted a car called Eric, so such he became. Green and white and a bit rusty, a bit problematic at times, but fun to birl along in. Soon replaced by Phoebe, a white and red Dolly with Roadrunner stickers on the sides. Only replaced when we needed the second car that was a bit comfier on longer trips. During the Pheobe period we got married. On the cake sat two cars of icing, a grey Murena, and a red and white 2CV. While we, bride and groom, arrived at the Town Hall in a bright yellow Deuche chauffeured by a man in full racing gear (but that's another story...). The 'upturned pram' has had significance in our lives.

In the nineties 2CVs were a fairly common sight on UK roads. They'd sold well in the seventies and eighties (production ended in 1990), being cheap to buy and run, in tune with the fuel crises we experienced back then, and appealing to a certain type of person. In 2023 we went to a one man play starring the great Mark Thomas. One of the characters he described was a woman with flowing curls, cheesecloth tops and gypsy skirts, a social worker of middle class origins, and Mark asked the audience what car she'd have been driving. I immediately piped up "2CV", and I was right, to Mr Thomas' delight. I didn't get a chance to mention that it would almost certainly have had a big smiley face on the back, with the words "Nuclear Power- Nein Danke" proudly emblazoned. You get the picture.

But there aren't so many around nowadays, especially in Scotland. Rust, rust, rust, the great enemy, has taken them from us. But we'd made up our minds that this what we wanted, needed. So I set about the search, which motly involved haunting various duck-related Facebook pages. There was a red one down in Kent that looked perfect, but my online investigations left big question marks over the claimed restoration work and it was abandoned.

There was a blue one nearby, in a classic car dealer in Musselburgh. We went to see it. Not as claimed! Rust, rust, rust... No thanks.

Then a yellow one turned up in Somerset. Not perfect, but well within budget. Not fully restored, but well cared for. Not possible to go and view, but being sold by a name that had cropped up many times. Being sold on behalf of the widow of an enthusiast, a lover of the marque. Being sold by a man well respected in British 2CV circles as restorer, enthusiast, organiser of events, a man who wanted 2CVs to survive and thrive. We talked online. He sent photos, detailed the minor faults, gave me some history. A deal was struck, the Skoda departed. A transporter was arranged and, in early April, this yellow 2CV, with black roof (like our wedding carriage), was loaded on to a trailer and towed from Warminster to Pilrig. Both vendor and transporter sent pics, my excitement grew. News came, only ten minutes away. We went down, waited. It was a dull day, damp, the roads dark and shiny. Around the corner came a black Toyota Landcruiser. With a bright splash of jaune behind. "She's like a daffodil" said Barbara. Well, it was still Spring.

Unloaded, paid for, garaged, inspected, delighted. Driven the following day, smiles wide. The registration letters are HOY, so by rights this vehicle, now a domiciled Scot, should be called Chris. But that first comment stuck. Daffy she became. Adding a few Daffy Duck stickers confirmed the moniker.

Nine months on she's a delightful part of our lives, and I love her. She gets to go out weekly, to keep things ticking over and because... I want to. For the sheer fun of driving, and I haven't thought like that for many a year. There have been a few problems, not least with neighbours (and that's for another blog post...), but almost universally the reactions of others have been positive. Grins, kids laughing, thumbs up, questions, laughter. Even cynical mechanics converted. She brings a little joy into the lives of others (like that Audi driver) and maybe that's the best thing about her. That and my grin...