Clues to Contentment?

A SUPERFICIAL VIEW OF HAPPINESS

I've been in Copenhagen for just a little over 24 hours.  Today was a beautifully sunny, albeit cold, day, and we walked miles, taking in sights, sounds, smells.  Not long in which to form an impression of a place, let alone the prevailing culture.  But.

One of the first sights to greet me in the airport yesterday was this

A proud message to convey to visitors, even if it is only a Carlsberg ad (and I'm no great fan of lager).  It's certainly a prize the Danes win regularly so there must be something to it.  But surely someone can't suggest to have understood the reasons why in one day?  Of course not, but I do feel I've already picked up a few clues, so here are some observations based on first impressions....

The first thing you notice are the bikes.  Hundreds upon hundreds of the things.  Stacked everywhere, coming towards you on every street.  And that's a huge positive.  And it's not just the numbers that matter, but the bikes and riders themselves.

This is a city geared towards bike travel.  There are cycle lanes all over the place, the drivers drive with the expectation that there will be riders inside them.  All the time.  So the drivers drive more carefully, more considerately.  Which makes bike riding a much safer means of transport than it is in UK cities, and also benefits pedestrians too.  This feels a very safe city, not so much in terms of crime (although more on that theme later), but as a place to walk around.  The traffic is less aggressive, more disciplined, less competitive.  Make a note of that last word.

There's a virtuous circle in operation here.  With so many people using bikes the number of cars in the city centre is greatly reduced.  Those who do drive have less traffic to deal with, but have to take more care, and drive more slowly, because of the priority given to cyclists and pedestrians.  Their own stress levels are reduced.  And fewer cars means cleaner air to the benefit of all (but especially the cyclists - I haven't seen a single smog mask today).  One up to Copenhagen.

I did mention that the bikes themselves make a contribution towards this culture.  What you don't see are many mountain bikes or racers.  The vast majority are of the sit up and beg variety, which might be considered old fashioned in the UK, but make for the perfect city commuter.  Most have some form of carrying attachment, either a basket on the front or carrier at the rear, to render them suitable for shopping or a briefcase, plus a plethora of child seats behind the rider.  There are many trikes, with the dual wheels at the front to support a container of platform.  The postman uses one.  I've seen a guy with three small kids in his, another transporting a double bass, and a woman with a small dog and large bunch of flowers.  These are entirely practical means of everyday transport, with no hint of competitiveness or oneupmanship.  You see the odd customised paintjob, some roughly hand-painted, and a couple had artificial flowers curled around the frame.  But the wonder is why so few have strong identifying markings.  It must be a nightmare picking your plain bike out from the hordes of others in the racks!

One final observation on the bikes themselves.  I've seen many without any padlocks, the rider fully expecting to return and find his or her trusty steed where it was left.  It may not be a coincidence that I've hardly seen any police as yet and only heard one siren.

The final element of the two wheeled observations lies with the riders.  As with the bikes the people on them are prosaic.  There are few helmets and even less lycra.  People cycle in their street clothes.  Riding, for them, is as natural a part of getting around as walking down the street or taking the bus.  Any element of this being a 'special' activity has been removed.  And there's few signs of riders getting competitive.

My other observations are more minor in nature, but I do think the keys to contentment lie in an accumulation of small details.  There seem to be far fewer people, young or old, walking the streets looking at or talking into their mobiles.  Which means more people looking where they're going, being considerate to others, and less stressed at trying to multitask their lives.  OK, I only have one day of evidence for this so maybe I've been lucky so far, but even the busiest streets here do have a far more relaxed atmosphere than their UK equivalents.

There haven't been many shouty children either.  Most appear well behaved, happier in themselves than those we are used to.  I've never been a parent, but my wife has and she commented on the parents we saw.  That they seem to finding their parenting role far more natural than is often the case at home.  That they seemed to be more relaxed in the parenting role and thus the children have a more balanced view of their position in the world.  That parenting needn't be a competitive activity....

While the main shopping streets have their share of tackiness there does not seem to be quite the same emphasis on brands that we have sadly become used to.  And, for a European capital, there is less evidence of the intrusions of the grim American chains like McDonalds and Burger King.  Funnily enough I haven't seen much sign of obesity either.  Maybe it's down to all that cycling.

One final thought.  From perhaps the most unlikely source.  The Royal Guards.  We saw them standing guard at the royal palace, and later heard a group of them march past led by a fife and drum band.  Much like their British counterparts standing outside Queenie's place they have silly outfits on.  The same daft furry hats and uniforms that make them look as if they've just fallen out of a Victorian toybox.  But there were a couple of telling differences.

The soldiers on guard duty looked just that bit more relaxed.  They took it seriously enough to be photogenic (which is surely their primary role?), but it was good to see a couple of them having a chat as they marched along in their positions.  Humans, not robots.  Maybe they don't feel they have anything to prove?

The wee band was the clincher for me.  They marched in step, as soldiers do, they looked the part.  But the tune?  None of this bombastic nonsense we're used to, but something a bit jollier, perhaps a Danish folk song?  There was an underlying sense of fun about the performance.  Maybe, lacking a recent imperial past, the Danes have learned not to take themselves too seriously?

We should be so happy.... 

That portrait revisited

SHE'S BEEN FRAMED

Anyone who has read this blog before will know that my approach to it is on the eclectic side.  There's no unifying theme, just a collection of random ideas that pop out of my head.  So there have been a few posts which provoked reactions, others that provoked yawns.  But the post which generated the most interest in recent months concerned the portrait of Barbara I'd received and just how happy it had made me . Several people asked to see how it looked once it had been framed.  And if you were one of those people then this is the post for you.

And if you weren't, well, please read on anyway, because I'm going to try to persuade you to support a talented but struggling artist.  And isn't that something we should all do at least once in our lives?

The framing wasn't something I was going to rush into.  For something this special it needed to be perfect.  There's a framer in Southport we've used a few times, and he does a competent job, but not as good as I was looking for.

We took the painting with us to Edinburgh for New Year and showed it to an old friend who's knocked out a few decent watercolours in her time (and she only began in her sixties so she is also a source of inspiration for the future).  She was, as expected, bowled over by the quality of the portrait.  More important was her recommendation of a framer she's used in the past.  And who, conveniently, was sited just ten minutes walk from our flat.

In my head I thought that a simple wooden frame would be perfect, maybe in a shade similar to the teak or the burgundy in this range.  But what do I know?  The guy who served me couldn't have been more helpful.  Or knowledgeable.  Or patient.  I'm not sure exactly how many wood options we went through before I had to admit I'd got it completely wrong.  Which is when he came up with an idea of his own and showed me a style of frame I would never have considered if left to my own limited visual imagination.  And it was perfect (I suspect it occurred to him as soon as he saw the painting, but he was good enough to go through the whole "customer is always right" routine!).  I could see immediately that the framed portrait would now look exactly as it should.  And the moral of this story is - trust a pro.  Especially if you're a bit clueless.

And another moral is that I should recommend, to anyone in the area requiring the services of a picture framer, the guys at Edinburgh Arts.

That took place on 10 January and we had to return south a couple of days later so there would be a lengthy wait to see the final result.  In the meantime Barbara had commissioned Marc to produce a couple of portrait drawings of her son and grandson.  And they were delivered in time for said son's birthday weekend, when he came to visit us.

This time the artist had no opportunity to meet the subjects, working only from photos.  So, in some ways, the results are even more impressive.  Both are excellent likenesses, with the depth of character that only a talented artist can imbue, and they made for very special presents.  I particularly like the choice of a profile view for Matt, an uncommon angle that gives a more casual feel to the picture.  You can see them both, Matt and Oliver, on Marc's website.  And Barbara's still there too.

Which brings me back to that painting.  We picked it up yesterday.  It's a shame the same guy wasn't serving because I'd liked to have told him just how much I appreciated his efforts to help me.  The portrait has been enhanced, Barbara approves of my (!) choice, and all is well with the world.  Now I just have to hope the artist agrees with me....

It even looks good at an angle.

So we're happy and those of you who wanted to see the final result have got what you asked for.

Now - have I convinced any of you to commission a portrait for yourselves?  If so you know where to go . (Prices can be found here.)

Danger? Pah!

WE FLY THROUGH THE AIR WITH THE GREATEST OF EASE

I am not a fan of danger. The fad for extreme sports, the likes of bungee jumping, has passed me by. Not even closely, but at some considerable distance, where I feel it belongs. I get quite enough of an adrenaline rush running for a bus or contemplating a new curry recipe. Any more than that is too much more. The brave are welcome to it.

I have never been to Alton Towers, or any similar experience, and I doubt I ever will. There were a couple of the smaller rides at Blackpool's Pleasure Beach complex. And twice I had a go on the spinning chairs ride Edinburgh parked next to the Scott Monument (our very own Thunderbird Three) for the Xmas period. The latter has gone now, to be replaced by a device called the Star Flyer, on the edge of Saint Andrew's Square.

We first saw this at the beginning of December. It is brightly lit, interesting to view in a neon lit scaffolding sort of a way, and goes up much higher than the previous ride. Much, much higher. Watching from the ground, and listening to the shrieking from above and the comments of other bystanders, I concluded this was not for me. Yet another experience I'd be more than happy to avoid, based on the wisdom that comes with age. And yet....

The memory of it nagged at me. Even after seeing the headlines when a bit fell off. There was no harm done to the occupants of the chair, and, very fortunately, the falling debris missed anyone below. All of which was, paradoxically, reassuring in a counter-intuitive way. If something like that could happen, but, after investigation, it was deemed safe to continue, then that probably meant it was very safe indeed. And when the high winds and storms came they were quick to close it down. Danger actually seemed to be low on the list of possible outcomes.

None of which would have got me up there but for the simultaneous occurrence of two events. I was out and about with my oldest friend, and we tend to spur each other on in matters of daftness. PLus I'd consumed four (or was it five?) pints. That these should both happen at the same time is not coincidental.

Having made the decision we positively rushed towards the ticket office and clambered aboard to take our places. A sober me would not have recognised, or wanted to be associated with, this person. And very soon we were off, rising into the air and turning anti clockwise as we went. Having hooked my camera on to my wrist I largely concentrated on filming the occasion, if only to remind myself who it was had been up there.

In the event it turned out to be slightly disappointing on the scary scale (the old ride in Princes Street Gardens was faster and more alarming). We went up high enough to be well clear of the rooftops, and the views were amazing. Or could have been if we weren't spinning too quickly to focus on any one point for very long. For all the joking we indulged in the only mildly worrying moment came as we descended and our arc took us ever closer to the roof tops on the south side of the square. Sensibly the speed of rotation dropped dramatically and we returned to a perpendicular attitude. The suddenness of this adjustment moved my insides in a way that neither the spinning nor the height had achieved.

And then we were back. Not even dizzy, not all that exhilarated and not in the slightest bit chilled (it is unseasonably warm for early January). No hint of wobble on finding a solid surface beneath the feet. Just a sense of "is that all there was?" I am, it seems, less of a wuss that I thought I was. But you still won't find me diving off a cliff with a big rubber band around my middle.

Welcoming in the new year

BIG TAM HORNA'S YER MAN FUR HOGMANAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year.

It'll be lonely this Xmas

HOME ALONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make your own Special.

So what's British?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Action on ice

SPREADING THE HOCKEY WORD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A picture to love

THE PORTRAIT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Xmas comes to Leith

THE 'BIG' SWITCH ON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is artistic integrity still possible?

PHILOMENA

We went to see the film of that name yesterday. If you've been thinking about doing the same then I can strongly recommend it. It's beautifully acted (could La Grand Judy do otherwise?), often very funny and deals with a moving subject without ever being mawkish. Of course it has it's manipulative moments, but any dramatic tale which has to be told in little more than an hour and a half requires some licence to tinker with the audience's emotions.  If you can't handle that then you probably aren't much of a movie goer.

Spoiler alert. If you haven't yet seen the film and don't want to know what happens until you do then stop reading now because I'll be giving away most of the major elements of the plot, then having a look at how this dramatisation appears to relate to the real world Philomena.  Because this is a story very much based upon real life events.

The film begins with two strands which are quickly knitted together. The eponymous central character grows up in small town nineteen fifties Ireland, then even more socially backward than Britain and subject to the mores and diktats of the Catholic church.  Largely ignorant of the facts of life, she has a brief sexual relationship which leaves her pregnant (but also extremely happy memories of the sex itself and the great enjoyment it gave her).  With her mother already dead it is left to her father to decide what fate awaits her.  Disgusted at the actions of his daughter he hands her over to the 'care' of a convent which will punish her for the sin of becoming pregnant out of wedlock.

Philomena has a son, Anthony, who she is then allowed to see for no more than one hour each day. For the rest of the time she is, in common with the other inmates, used as slave labour in the convent laundries and subject to a strict and punitive regime from which no escape is permitted. This was the subject of the 2002 film The Magdalene Sisters which first brought to the attention of a wide audience the barbaric nature of the treatment meted out to the girls unfortunate enough to be subjected to this brutal stricture.

Anthony, and the daughter of Philomena's best friend, are taken away for adoption by a wealthy couple. No warning is given, no explanation or details provided.  All this is seen in flashback through the mind of Dench's elderly Irish woman, now living in London.  Having kept the secret to herself for decades, she breaks her silence on Anthony's fiftieth birthday, finally confiding the story to her daughter.

The second strand follows Martin Sixsmith, once a well known BBC foreign correspondent, who has been controversially sacked from his post as a spin doctor in the Labour government (if you Google on Sixsmith Byers you can get details of the story). At a loss as to where his life is going he is approached by Philomena's daughter asking if he'd be prepared to help her mother track down her missing son and write their story. Initially disparaging the notion of involvement in a 'human interest' tale (which he construes as overly sentimental and trivial), he changes his mind, perhaps seeking something which will help change his own life.

And so the unlikely pair come together.  He is Oxford educated, world weary, cynical, often supercilious. She somewhat simple minded, verbose, apparently innocent, staunhly Catholic. The scene is set for a classic odd couple movie and that, in part, is what we get. Together they visit the convent in which Philomena was incarcerated and come up against a wall of silence. Sixsmith does some digging and finds out that the children had been taken to the USA, sold for adoption to an American family, yet another charming aspect of the nuns' 'humane' treatment of their charges.

The pair then travel over to the States, a chance to show Philomena's near childish delight in things that an experienced traveller like Sixsmith takes for granted. At times her naivety grates upon him and then she will tell him off for failing to treat people as his equals. They become closer when the journalist finds out that Anthony, known in his new life as Michael, had died six years previously.  But he also discovers he had been a success in career terms, as a senior member of the legal teams within the Reagan and Bush presidencies. (At which point I did find myself thinking that maybe it was as well he had died - imagine having to meet a Republican relative.... Whereas Philomena would be far less political, less mean spirited and far, far more forgiving.  I told myself off.)

They meet Michael's sister (the little girl who had been taken away with him) and his ex partner, Peter. To the journalist's surprise Philomena takes the news of her son's sexual orientation in her stride and her calm is often more effective than his anger in getting the information they seek.  Peter reveals that Michael/Anthony is buried back in Ireland, in the grounds of the convent, and they'd travelled there trying to find information about his real mother. Although Philomena had been contacting them frequently, asking for details which help her trace her son, the nuns said nothing to either son or mother about each other's efforts and he died (of AIDS) without ever learning who she was.

Sixsmith and Philomena return to the convent and confront the nuns, in particular one who is frail and elderly, but was once amongst the most brutal instruments of the oppressive system. The journalist's heart felt anger achieves little, but the mother's forgiveness proves the more effective in emphasising who occupies the position of moral superiority in the engagement. The film ends with the couple driving away from the institution, Philomena once again relating the tale of the book she has just finished reading and how she is surprised at the most obvious plot twists.

Back home I watched a couple of video interviews on the subject. In the first the real Martin Sixsmith and Philomena Lee were asked their opinions of the film. Dramatic licence had been used to give the characters greater contrast, for the real Irish woman is nowhere near as simple as portrayed on screen, nor is the journalist quite as off hand or emotional. But both accepted that what had been done to their personas worked in cinematic terms and that the film managed to be entertaining whilst remaining true to the most important elements of their story. In the film it appears that both learned important life lessons from the other, the journalist the greater beneficiary. Both thought that, while exaggerated, there was an underlying truth to this.  Even if it turns out that, in reality, Sixsmith made the US journey on his own, keeping in touch with the subject of his story by telephone.

So this was no Hollywoodisation of the tale. That would have seen the son still being alive, a reconnection that would have been falsely moving and a faked heart warming ending. The second video emphasised the importance attached to staying true to the spirit of the real events. This time Sixsmith was paired with Steve Coogan, who co-wrote the screenplay and starred as the journalist. Coogan had been inspired by the book which Sixsmith had written on the back of the investigation and wanted to tell the tale in the more immediate format. For all the liberties he took with the real characters and events it was pleasing to see Sixsmith nod his approval that the moral heart of the story remained untouched and that this version will help raise further awareness of the Magdalene story. (And, I suspect, happy to think that the film may stimulate a revival in the sales of his own book. We'd certainly like to read it now.)

'Artisitic integrity' is a much abused and maligned phrase. As is, even more so, 'journalistic integrity'. In the face of Hollywood fabrications, and post Leveson, both have a mythical quality. This film won't stem the tide by itself, but it does show that both these phrases can still hold true in the right hands.  It tells of a journalist who does the right thing for, mostly, the right reasons and gives the world a story that it needed to hear.  And we have a film that sets out to be entertaining whilst still purveying the essential truth about a part of very recent history that the Catholic church, and Irish state, would like people to forget.

It does that, combining some laugh out loud moments with passages of genuinely touching emotion.  We could do with a lot more films like that.