An end to procrastination

THE THIEF OF TIME

Hi.  My name is Blyth, and I am a chronic procrastinator.

'Never do today what you can put off til tomorrow' could legitimately serve as my epitaph.  I was like that at school.  As a uni student, and throughout my working life.  Pulling late nighters to finish off an essay or a spreadsheet or a plan or a document that was essential the next day has always been a part of my 'method', followed by that vacant, rumpled, sleepless look the day after.  And don't talk to me about deadlines....

(As a fan of the late, great Douglas Adams I was always in karmic sympathy with one of his best known quotes : "I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.")

Quite how I was ever a (not wholly unsuccessful) project manager will remain one the universe's great mysteries (or just shows what talented people I worked with, who always managed to achieve stuff in spite of me).

Now I'm retired you'd think none of this mattered any more.  But there always some elements of life that need to be addressed in a timely manner, decisions to be made.  I'm on a committee, I do a bit of voluntary work, neither of them very time consuming but sometimes requiring me to do things and needing then done soon.  Domestically there are always little maintenance jobs, or plans to draw up for the year ahead so we can fit in a holiday among the required festival-going.

So it might have taken me sixty one years, but I have finally cracked it, finally discovering what works for me in tackling the tasks that need to be done, and doing so well ahead of the time when they start to become critical (or at least when I'm likely to start becoming the subject of criticism.... they're the same thing, aren't they?).  Of course it won't work for everyone, but if my approach can be of any help to just one other person then I'm happy to have shared it.

All will be explained tomorrow.

Green

A WALK IN THE PARK

If you're the kind of person who likes making lists (I am) and you've ever been on the lookout for a new home, the chances are that you've sat down and drawn up a list of criteria to try and narrow down the choices.  Must haves, nice to haves, maybe even a few things to be avoided, will be fed into the equation along with price and location.

When we were engaged on that search three years ago, one of the nice to haves, but an important one, was an interesting view, ideally with some trees and a bit of green.  Given that one of our other lines on the list specified being fairly near to the city centre, the options were greatly reduced.

So I still can't believe our luck in ending up with a place that's less than a half hour walk from Princes Street, and looks out, from every window, on to trees and grass and the odd bit of wildlife (I counted 15 magpies sitting in the nearest tree the other day) - even if that comes in the form of one of the cities larger cemeteries.  The place I documented in my "A Year in the Life.... of Death" photoblog. 

But there's a lot more green space nearby.  The nearest bus route runs along the northern side of the graveyard, and on the other side of that is Pilrig Park, home to a large children's play area, space for a football pitch, myriad dog walkers, and the 17th century Pilrig House.  And a pleasant route to take down to Leith, which is what I did a couple of days ago.  The trees might be bare, but the bright sunlight, blue sky and stark shadows gave the place a bit of visual drama, and I felt compelled to stop and take a few photos along the way. 

That clear sky and strong low sun stretched out the objects, and people, in the park.

With unexpected bonus of a shining river of....

mud.

From our balcony the park is only this far away - you can see the path from the above photos running up from the centre of the image.

I am a city person.  The idea of living in 'the country' no longer has the slightest superficial appeal to me, and the very thought runs waves of boredom through my brain.  But there remains something, perhaps even some primeval urge, to be said for having a tenuous link back to nature, and the green spaces in our cities are important in providing the sense of peace and connection that provides an antidote to all that urban busyness.  Edinburgh is well enough provided with tree lined places to walk, and even it's own pseudo wilderness right in the centre, with an extinct volcano to climb.  We were lucky to find ourselves so close to one part of that network, and the reminder it provides of just how essential they are to civilised living.

As if I'd stereotype Weegies....

Regular readers (who??) may be aware that we're big fans of the 'A Play, a Pie and a Pint' series that runs every Spring and Autumn.  Despite price increases it's still an amazing bargain, doing just what it says on the tin, and including some great new short plays.  Each one runs from Tuesday to Saturday, usually after a similar run the week before at Oran Mor in Glasgow.

But here was one, The Weir Sisters (review here), which wasn't making the trip along the M8.  And as it featured a friend of ours in one of the roles it seemed like a good excuse to return to Weegieland after several months absence.  I'd heard nothing but good things about Oran Mor as a venue, so I wondered if it would live up to expectations.  And how it might compare with our more  familiar haunt on Cambridge Street.

That comparison certainly started well, the Glasgow venue being in an old church, a fairly impressive building on a busy crossroads, and a big improvement on the Traverse's bland exterior.  So too the entrance lobby, a characterful space with cartoonish artwork on the walls, and the bar, a proper island bar in cosy wood clad surroundings.  But then....

Following the queue that snakes across the bar we go down into the performance area, and look to figure out the routine.  Sure enough the line takes us past a bar where we can choose from the list of drinks on offer, and round the corner to the pie section.  Then take the 'meal' and find a seat.  The seats are free standing, and you eat off your lap.  After a while the play begins.  And very enjoyable it was too.  But it's a rather different experience to the familiar Traverse one.

There's the choice of pies for a start.  Or rather the extreme lack of choice.  What we're used to is a list of, say, Scotch, haggis, veggie haggis, chicken and leek or macaroni pies, plus a veg tartlet.  while in OM there appears to be a choice of Scotch pie or..,. Scotch pie.  There's something unappetising looking that might be veggie, but that's it.  What we're used to is taking our comestibles to a table, and consuming them in civilised fashion, what we get is the juggling of items between hand, lap and floor, trying to keep pie from ending up underfoot.  No surprise when the sound of smashed glass rang out.  And what we're used to when we descend into the depths is tiered seating with good views from all angles, close to the action.  What we get is a distant view of the actors across a silver-grey lake of heads.

But this is Glasgow, and there is one area in which they are bound to outshine their smaller counterpart.  Here the drinks list gives a choice of a pint of ale, lager or cider, red or white wine (125ml measures if memory serves correct), soft drinks, tea or coffee.  There it looks subtly different.  To the pints list you can add Guiness, plus the choice of a couple of bottled beers, the wines include rose and come as 175s and.... erm, where were the soft drink options?  Weegieland, you do not disappoint....

But sorry Glasgow, your bus service is a bit crap....

Clever Mood

I'M IMPRESSED

I don't ask much from hotels.  Mostly they're just a place to bed down, get ready and have breakfast, a room for holidaying from.  When I used to travel for work I learned to only want three things from them.  A double bed (I don't fit into singles well), a shower I could stand up under (after experiencing so many fixed position shower-over-bath experiences where the shower head was about adam's apple level), and a breakfast that fuelled me up for the day.  And ideally a desk I could do a bit of work at. 

And nothing much has changed since.  I'm not a big fan of luxury.  But occasionally a hotel manages to surprise, and delight.  Such as one has this week.

OK, I don't get out much.  Probably half of you have seen this before.  Or maybe I'm just benumbed by Travelodges.  But the Rome Life Hotel has managed to make me smile.  It meets all the basics listed above, plus friendly, helpful staff and a good location for tourist shenanigans.  Additional marks for excellent WiFi.  And a special bonus for this week's new toy. 

Just a slightly elderly Samsung mobile, with a positively neanderthal variant of Android.  Ours for the few days we're here, and preloaded with the hotel chain's app.  Which, unusually, is actually useful.  And a free 4g connection to go with it.  They let you have some free international calls if you want them (I don't - we're on holiday) and have internet access as you wander round the city.  Google Maps has been getting a workout.

My favourite feature is on the drop down menu.  Click "Take me to the hotel!" and you immediately get directions/map back to base.  Reassuring if you have the navigational instincts of a homing bucket.

Take a bow Mood Hotels.

Where did Zoe come from?

This is Zoe.  In her favourite position.

It's her 8th birthday today.  Or thereabouts.  We first met her on the 29 November 2009, in RSPCA Southport, and were told she was about 8 weeks old, so it's near enough.  She was the runt of a litter of five, found sleeping rough with their mother in St Helens (is there any other kind of sleeping in St Helens?).  Her four slightly larger brothers pushed themselves at the glass when people came near, but she kept her distance, unsure of herself or her charms.

This is one of her brothers.

And that's little sis at the back....

Eight or nine months had passed since Millie, our last cat, had had to be put down, and by now we were feeling that the cat shaped hole in our lives needed filling again. One of the staff got her out for us to handle and she was soon sitting up on my shoulder.  Sometimes you just know when something's right.

So we filled in the paperwork, but then had a wait a few weeks while they checked that we lived somewhere appropriate, and until she was old enough to have her first injection.  And that's where Zoer came from.  But where did "Zoe" come from?

Over that time we visited quite often, getting to play with her a bit, hoping she might get to recognise us a bit.  Back then she was just 'little number 262' to us.

A name was required, but none of the options we came up with felt right.  One day, not long before she was due to be handed over to us, I'd gone on my own, spent some time with her, and walked out with a possible name in my head.  I called Barbara and.... Neither of us can recall who said "Zoe" first, but the other immediately said they'd thought of that too.  So Zoe it was.

Why?  I have no idea.  Neither of us knew a Zoe, or ever did as far as memory serves.  The only connection the name called up was Zoe Wanamaker, a good actor, but not a particular favourite of ours.  Maybe we'd seen something on TV, perhaps just a trailer, where her name had been mentioned?  Whatever, it's odd we came up with the same moniker independently and near simultaneously. 

So by the time she came home she was a confirmed Zoe, and we still haven't met another one since.  This was the first video of her emerging when she first arrived in this strange new place.  Cute,eh?  And she soon came back out....

She's still shy with most visitors, but remains playful.

Even if she all too often ends up like this.

I know my place. 

From Fringe to Fridge

MUSIC, FILM, COMEDY AND... HOCKEY

Monday - Fringe came to an end, and we fitted in a final couple of shows courtesy of the half price hut.  Tuesday - Return to the Fridge of Dreams, and a first chance to see some of the new players that will make up the Edinburgh capitals team this season.  Monday - Hot, sweaty rooms that have you wringing your shirt out.  Tuesday - Cold, cold and more cold.  Icy ice rink.

Contrasts.  Next Sunday I can indulge in the Asian exoticism of The Edinburgh Mela during the day, and the chilled and pie scented air of Murrayfield in the evening.  Life is never boring here.

I see some of my fellow Caps fans on social media over the summer, wishing their lives away until the rink opens it's doors and there's a puck getting battered about again.  That's not a problem I ever have to resolve these days  April - hockey ends for the season.  May - TradFest.  June - FilmFest.  July _ JazzFest.  August - Fringe, and all the other shenanigans that plonk several hundreds of thousands of tourists on top of us and turn entertainment into a stamina test.  And then.... hey, it's hockey season again.  I hardly missed it.

It helps to have the time to do all these things (being retired is a big part of that help...).  And, of course, it does need a bit of spare cash, and some financial planning.  (Being poor in this city is no better than it is anywhere else, and there are still way too many people who have to live lives of poverty in this, our grossly wealthy society.)  I fully recognise how privileged I am.  Part of that privilege is being able to live in one of the world's most beautiful cities, and take advantage of so much of what it has to offer.  Which, for the next seven months, will mostly mean Edinburgh Capitals...

Return to Brigadoon

The Edinburgh Fringe is gone from our streets, and there's eleven months of work getting ready for the 2018 extravaganza.  We get our city back and get on with life, and all the things there are to do here.  Yes, we really do.

You wouldn't think so to hear some of the acts who come here for August - especially comedians.  Too many appear to think of this place as some kind of comedy club Brigadoon, only coming into existence once a year for their benefit.  We get used to it, and they get laughed at in more ways than they'd hoped for.

Worse, to my mind, are the comics who see themselves as 'political'.  Most were sensibly avoiding the beyond-parody farce that is the current White House, but there were plenty having a go at the stinking potage that the UK is in right now.  The UK is, you may remember, a union of countries, and some of these comedians have terrible memories.  Like being unable to recall that they are performing in a different country, with a different political dynamic.  Andrew Doyle was the most obvious offender I saw this year, asking his audience if they'd voted Tory.... or Labour.... or Lib Dem.... or.... No, that was it, apparently we don't have any other options.  But what would I know, I only live here.  In Brigadoon.

My childish vanity

A CARTOON OF MY FORMER SELF

Motivation.  Sometimes we have it, sometimes we don't.  But I do know it changes over the decades.

In my twenties and thirties I exercised for fun, for the joy of playing sports.  In my forties I started going to a gym to try and lose a bit of weight and get some sense of physical wellness back after a very stressful year at work in '99.  And now?  Prevention.  Maintenance.

I exercise to try and stave off the time when bits of me start to fail.  My morning routine includes stretches to fend off upper back problems, exercises to strengthen my dodgy knees, and strange contortions to stop my lower spine returning to the S shape it decided to adopt at one point.  I try to improve my stamina, not with the aim of running a marathon or anything so daft, but to prevent the sense of impending heart attack I've experienced running thirty metres for a bus.  Less Olympics, more Arthritics.

Several years ago we found ourselves the less than proud owners of a Nintendo Wii console and associated Fit board.  In my quest for some flexibility (aka impeding muscle rust) this too has been resuscitated.  It is, at least, fun at times, and by contuinually thrusting at me my best previous scores it just about manages to dredge up the residue of my never-all-that-dynamic competitive spirit.  I'm being motivated by an urge to keep up with a younger me....

But the Wii offers a more direct route to seeming more youthful.  At the end of the Body test it generates a "Wii Fit Age".  This comes from the results of two random balance-type tests computed against my actual age.  Some of these tests I simply find a bit easier than others, so my score on any given day depends on what they are.  If I get the standing on one leg test I'm buggered.  But get two I'm reasonable at and this can be the result.

The rational me knows that this is entirely meaningless, the product of a random event pattern and an algorithm with zero scientific validity.  Only an idiot would pay it the slightest heed.

Then there's the other me.  The one that's narcissistic, puerile, desperately seeking validation, grasping at straws and very, very needy.  Does this alter ego respond to a misshapen computer character declaring that my body is in great shape for my age?....

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I am being manipulated/motivated (delete as you think appropriate) by bunch of pixels with Pavlovian leanings.  But if that's what it takes....

It's easy to find a homegrown Quisling

OUR VERY OWN QUISLING

Yesterday, as part of the Edinburgh International Film Festival, I watched a Norwegian movie called The King's Choice.  It portrayed some of the behind the scenes events during three days in April 1940 when Hitler's Germany invaded and occupied the country.  The government, and royal family, went into hiding.

In Oslo Vikdun Quisling, a name now synonymous with treachery, declared himself Prime Minister, despite having no support in the parliament.  His political career was one of consistent failure, but he was head of the Norwegian fascist party which had links to the Nazis, and would go on to head the puppet government for the rest of the war.

Quisling branded himself a 'patriot', but was only interested in power and the chances it provided him to persecute those he saw as enemies of the state.  Like the Nazis this list began with the Jewish people and moved on down through left wingers and any groups considered likely to oppose the regime.

Nothing remotely like that has happened in the UK.  Quisling's equivalent back then, Oswald Moseley, never came close to power - but might have had the German invasion plans succeeded.  Now the rise of neofascism in Europe and more widely makes one wonder if any similar situation could arise.

Most major European countries have had the sense to reject the far right, as recent elections in Holland and France have shown.  So too in the UK, where ukip have faded as an electoral force.  But in the US....

Trump is fascist in all but name, something clear from the political appointments he made on taking office.  Fortunately the US constitution is a lot more robust than that of Weimar, and the country's democracy should survive in spite of the resident of the White House.  But if it didn't....?  A UK that had moved out of the protection of the EU would soon be in big economic trouble.  You can just about imagine a Trump government suggesting they provide a bit of 'protection'.  But they'd need a puppet in charge here.

Taking Quisling as the model, it doesn't take much to arrive at the obvious candidate.  A far right leader, obsessed with patriotism and targeting minorities, with an unthinking cult following and close links to the fascists offering their protective umbrella.  Niggle Fuhrage fits the bill in every way.  That's our modern Quisling right there.

Leadsom wants us all kept quiet

STOP POINTING OUT THAT WE'RE HOPELESS....

In a Tory government that's hardly brimming over with intellectual talent, Andrea Leadsom still manages to stand out.  It's some achievement to be seen as the most stupid of all in a shower of dimwits.  And it looks like she's determined on cementing that fully deserved reputation beyond all doubt.

Her latest 'brain'wave is telling broadcasters that when they report on anything to do with the ongoing farce to leave the EU they should be more 'patriotic'.  A couple of quotes seem appropriate at this point....

“Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious”
― Oscar Wilde

“The greatest patriotism is to tell your country when it is behaving dishonorably, foolishly, viciously.”
― Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot

It sounds like Leadsom wants the already supine BBC to become a bit more like the Currant Bun, Daily Fail and Desmond's ukip-propaganda shitrag.  All of whom will print any lies about the EU, and the ongoing 'negotiations', if it suits their hard right ideology.  So is this her speaking what there is of her ind, or official government policy?  Is this a sign of a government now running so scared that it wants to suppress criticism?

Anyone paying attention knows that the EU team hold all the cards, and any end result will be determined from their position of far greater strength.  And that the UK government, now fatally weakened after a botched general election, is looking more and more clueless as each day passes.  One year on from from the madness of the referendum result the consequences are becoming more obvious, with food prices rising and the poorest in society, yet again, bearing the brunt.  Minds are changing,  except with those extremists who refuse to let go of their prejudices.  The above-mentioned rags would never reflect that reality of course - and now the government want broadcasters to 'report' in the same way?  Mushroom management.

That Barnes quote above is the most appropriate here.  If you are going to serve your country then pointing out mistakes, questioning dubious decisions, exposing falsehoods are the most valuable contributions a free press can make.

There are calls for Leadsom to apologise.  They don't go far enough.  She should resign, and may needs to explicitly state that this approach is something she rejects.  Except I suspect it's what she really wants.  otherwise her desperate incompetence can't be contained for much longer.