SURPRISE CONNECTION?
It took Barbara by surprise. It had certainly surprised me. She came into the kitchen to find me sobbing.. The full works, shoulders heaving, tear tracks shining on cheeks, salt in beard, incapable of giving voice. When I could eventually speak with any coherence it was to say a song had set me off. Just a song.
A few months before I'd attended a two day course, something my volunteering with Advocard gives me the occasional opportunity to take part on. This one was held in the zoo (good to have the chance to wander round for free) on Suicide Awareness (any humour was likely to be of the deep black variety...). In my years of advocacy work I've had several service users tell me about their suicidal thoughts, or past attempts to end their lives, so anything which makes me better equipped to deal with those situations was welcome. Of course the tutors ran the sessions with great sensitivity, but it inevitably brought up personal memories for many of the students.
So it took me back to 2002 and phone call from Edinburgh Police. We were still living in England at the time so it was unlikely to be anything but bad news. My father was dead, having gone out to South Queensferry, walked out on to the road bridge and jumped. No obvious lead up, no note, no unexpected problems left behind, no reason. By and large I didn't find that too hard to cope with, bar suddenly bursting into tears in the florist when ordering the funeral flowers. I'd been away from Edinburgh for over two decades so he wasn't a part of my daily life, which usually makes bereavement even harder to deal with.
So there in the zoo the memories were just that - memories, nothing that upset me overmuch. And yet there I was in a kitchen chair, a few months later, overwhelmed in a way I never was at the time of the suicide or at any point since. What connected song, lyrics, and memory into a script that had me helpless as the denouement?
In May 2018 it was announced that Scott Hutchison's body was found in the Forth. Hutchison was the lead singer and songwriter for Scots band Frightened Rabbit. I knew a small something of their music, without having listened often, and had seen, and been impressed with, Scott when he performed as a guest on a BBC Fringe show a couple of years before. The link with my father 's death was obvious, but the differences were far greater. Hutchison was so much younger, had a history of depression and had sent out messages hinting strongly at the action he was about to take. I was upset for Scott and those who knew him, but it didn't affect me otherwise. Later I'd play some Frightened Rabbit albums and even the track Floating in the Forth didn't trigger any great flow of emotion.
So surprise it was when listening to the wonderful album "Karine Polwart's SCottish Songbook". Track five is a Hutchison song. Swim Until You Can't See Land. "Are you a man or a bag of sand?" goes the chorus. I'd listened to the song before. But there must have been something about the moment. A few moments alone and at peace, Polwart's clarity of diction and phrasing, a mind receptive to suggestion perhaps? And then those words had the power to connect, transform and open up a mind taken unawares.
And yet it's no surprise really, is it? The human brain has an immense capacity for storing data, and prioritising it in a way that allows us to get on our with our lives. And that same brain can make seemingly random connections, pulling together forgotten ingredients o serve up unexpected flavours. Traumatic events never leave us, we succeed in overcoming them by letting them sink below the level of our daily consciousness. And then along comes a song...
Click here for the Karine version of the song.
Click here for the song lyrics.
And click here for the Frightened Rabbit original, with the man himself.
PS I can listen to the song with pleasure now, both versions, so it really was all in the moment.
Wednesday, 4 March 2020
Sunday, 23 February 2020
Really? Doris thinks he's 'Winnie'.
YET ANOTHER BREXSHIT METAPHOR
It was announced last year that the 2020 May Day holiday - International Workers Day - would be moved from it's regular slot of the first Monday in May to a Friday that coincided with the anniversary of the end of the war in Europe in 1945. Perhaps not unreasonable as it was the working classes that inevitably suffered most in, and more notably after, the conflict. But the latest UKGov announcement is surely taking the piss? When I first saw it I assumed I'd been transported to 1 April, so ridiculous did it seem, but it checks out on several other sources. For this is the Uk (for now) of Doris, master fantasist and liar-in-chief.
This was the story I saw.
We, the minions of the populace, are to be treated to public broadcasts of the speech Winston Churchill made on that day three quarters of a century ago. What? When did simultaneous announcements in public spaces become a thing? With Doris fancying himself as the reincarnation of Churchill's ghost (or whatever goes on in that bewildered organ that passes for a brain) this has the whiff of a government propaganda machine - and for that there is already a recent precedent, following the news that we rebellious Scots are to be subjected to short films extolling the 'benefits' of the union (benefits to whom one wonders...?).
So what have we got here? It's brexshit writ large. Twist a day dedicated to the solidarity of workers, the most important holiday of the year to many, to other purposes. Try to make as many people as possible listen to a racist drunkard so we appreciate the benefits of peace in Europe - whilst destroying our relationship with the political union that has done more than any other organisation or state to secure that peace for the past 70 years.
Dystopian future, here we come.
It was announced last year that the 2020 May Day holiday - International Workers Day - would be moved from it's regular slot of the first Monday in May to a Friday that coincided with the anniversary of the end of the war in Europe in 1945. Perhaps not unreasonable as it was the working classes that inevitably suffered most in, and more notably after, the conflict. But the latest UKGov announcement is surely taking the piss? When I first saw it I assumed I'd been transported to 1 April, so ridiculous did it seem, but it checks out on several other sources. For this is the Uk (for now) of Doris, master fantasist and liar-in-chief.
This was the story I saw.
We, the minions of the populace, are to be treated to public broadcasts of the speech Winston Churchill made on that day three quarters of a century ago. What? When did simultaneous announcements in public spaces become a thing? With Doris fancying himself as the reincarnation of Churchill's ghost (or whatever goes on in that bewildered organ that passes for a brain) this has the whiff of a government propaganda machine - and for that there is already a recent precedent, following the news that we rebellious Scots are to be subjected to short films extolling the 'benefits' of the union (benefits to whom one wonders...?).
So what have we got here? It's brexshit writ large. Twist a day dedicated to the solidarity of workers, the most important holiday of the year to many, to other purposes. Try to make as many people as possible listen to a racist drunkard so we appreciate the benefits of peace in Europe - whilst destroying our relationship with the political union that has done more than any other organisation or state to secure that peace for the past 70 years.
Dystopian future, here we come.
Friday, 14 February 2020
It's only a cold, but...
MANFLU MUSINGS
I am dying.
Well, we all are, aren't we? It's the inevitable end for everyone. But also the instinctive whinge in response to a minor ailment that inconveniences. I have a cold. Frustrating, as I feel a bit too out of breath to go for one of my (embarrassingly brief) gym sessions, and I'm not sleeping as well as usual. It's just a cold. And in a few days time I'll be back to normal.
But.
A cold is nothing. But nobody knows if, when, they might be hit with something worse. Accidents happen, viruses circulate, cancers strike, there's a myriad of means for life to make our bodies go wrong, to stop being the thing we take for granted every day and become a microcosmic battleground.
Of course if something serious there are different ways of dealing with it. I wonder if I'd be half as positive as these guys? I don't think Doddie would have let a cold stop him doing much.
Friday, 17 January 2020
Nandy and Doris - 2 sides of the same coin?
LISA WHO?
There's a Labour Party leadership contest going on down south. It feels so irrelevant in this country, where Labour is a near spent force and there's the increasing feeling that we will get ourselves out of this broken UK long before they have a further chance of power in Westminster. If they have a chance. The evidently authoritarian nature of the new UK government is looking to engineer the political landscape in a way that could keep progressive political views out of power in England for the foreseeable future. If you thought the EU referendum was based on a gerrymandered electorate you ain't seen nothing yet...
Almost as if she was trying to add further pressure to the widening political gap between the two countries, one of those leadership candidates, Lisa Nandy, alienated a large section of Scottish opinion with her chilling remarks to Andrew Neil -
"We should look outwards to other countries and other parts of the world where they have had to deal with divisive nationalism and seek to discover the lessons where, in these brief moments in history in places like Catalonia (my italics) and Quebec, we have managed to go and beat narrow divisive nationalism with a social justice agenda."
Quebec? There might be some truth in that. Might. But Catalunya? This is fantasy politics. As in Scotland, the Catalonians pushing for independence from an increasingly right wing state are the dominant voices of the progressive left in their country. The traditional socialists, like Labour in relation to the SNP and Greens, have lost influence through their inability to look beyond the status quo to a more outward looking and international way of looking at the world. It is not the nationalist parties who are being divisive here.
But the events in Catalunya which generate the greatest antipathy to Nandy's crass statement surrounded the brutal oppression of the democratic process by the Spanish state. Anyone who has seen the documentary And With a Smile, The Revolution (ironically a Quebecois film) cannot forget the images of the baton wielding thugs of the Guardia Civil attacking people for exercising their democratic right to vote, nor the subsequent arrest and detention of elected politicians. If Nandy didn't intend to invoke those images then why hasn't she already apologised, not just to Scots, but to the offence she has also given to Catalonians?
Nandy has turned herself into the latest in a long line of ignorant English politicians as an effective recruiting officer for the SNP and the wider Indy movement. So at least her stupidity has one silver lining. Sorry, Lisa, but we won't be 'knowing our place' just for the likes of you.
As for my above reference to 'authoritarian' in relation to the Doris Johnson government, I wonder how his apologist can turned blind eyes to the onrushing sewer of evidence. A Prime Minister that seeks to avoid parliamentary and media scrutiny, a pathological liar with no moral compass, an associate of one of the world's most notoriously repugnant white supremacists, that allows Greenpeace to be put in the same category as far right hate groups, who appears willing to use 3 million EU27 citizens as bargaining chips (thankfully it looks like the EU will be resolute in dealing with that abomination), and who thought water cannon was the answer to a question nobody was asking (unless you're the Guardia Civil). How much more do you want?
And if EU27 citizens are the first target, who's next. The Tory record of Islamophobia might contain a clue...
Niemoller's famous verse is all too prescient a warning in the current situation :
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
There's a Labour Party leadership contest going on down south. It feels so irrelevant in this country, where Labour is a near spent force and there's the increasing feeling that we will get ourselves out of this broken UK long before they have a further chance of power in Westminster. If they have a chance. The evidently authoritarian nature of the new UK government is looking to engineer the political landscape in a way that could keep progressive political views out of power in England for the foreseeable future. If you thought the EU referendum was based on a gerrymandered electorate you ain't seen nothing yet...
Almost as if she was trying to add further pressure to the widening political gap between the two countries, one of those leadership candidates, Lisa Nandy, alienated a large section of Scottish opinion with her chilling remarks to Andrew Neil -
"We should look outwards to other countries and other parts of the world where they have had to deal with divisive nationalism and seek to discover the lessons where, in these brief moments in history in places like Catalonia (my italics) and Quebec, we have managed to go and beat narrow divisive nationalism with a social justice agenda."
Quebec? There might be some truth in that. Might. But Catalunya? This is fantasy politics. As in Scotland, the Catalonians pushing for independence from an increasingly right wing state are the dominant voices of the progressive left in their country. The traditional socialists, like Labour in relation to the SNP and Greens, have lost influence through their inability to look beyond the status quo to a more outward looking and international way of looking at the world. It is not the nationalist parties who are being divisive here.
But the events in Catalunya which generate the greatest antipathy to Nandy's crass statement surrounded the brutal oppression of the democratic process by the Spanish state. Anyone who has seen the documentary And With a Smile, The Revolution (ironically a Quebecois film) cannot forget the images of the baton wielding thugs of the Guardia Civil attacking people for exercising their democratic right to vote, nor the subsequent arrest and detention of elected politicians. If Nandy didn't intend to invoke those images then why hasn't she already apologised, not just to Scots, but to the offence she has also given to Catalonians?
Nandy has turned herself into the latest in a long line of ignorant English politicians as an effective recruiting officer for the SNP and the wider Indy movement. So at least her stupidity has one silver lining. Sorry, Lisa, but we won't be 'knowing our place' just for the likes of you.
As for my above reference to 'authoritarian' in relation to the Doris Johnson government, I wonder how his apologist can turned blind eyes to the onrushing sewer of evidence. A Prime Minister that seeks to avoid parliamentary and media scrutiny, a pathological liar with no moral compass, an associate of one of the world's most notoriously repugnant white supremacists, that allows Greenpeace to be put in the same category as far right hate groups, who appears willing to use 3 million EU27 citizens as bargaining chips (thankfully it looks like the EU will be resolute in dealing with that abomination), and who thought water cannon was the answer to a question nobody was asking (unless you're the Guardia Civil). How much more do you want?
And if EU27 citizens are the first target, who's next. The Tory record of Islamophobia might contain a clue...
Niemoller's famous verse is all too prescient a warning in the current situation :
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
Thursday, 19 December 2019
Fish, chips and the past
FISHING FOR MEMORIES
"Everyone at the bus stop pretended not to want some of Sandra's chips"
OK, I have no idea who this young woman is, or if everyone else there was as distracted as me by the fragrant aromas from that cardboard box, but I'd be surprised if they weren't. She clearly couldn't wait around to get home, or for the bus to come. That fish supper was there, on her lap, begging to be eaten. And so she did, with obvious enjoyment. Good for her.
To be fair they were from The Fishmarket. I wrote about the attractions Newhaven Harbour held for me a few years ago in this post, and the most recent arrival in that long, low red building has added another one. Part seafood restaurant, part traditional chippie takeaway, one of the joint owners is the excellent Welch Fishmongers next door, so the quality of the source product is in no doubt. Having only opened in Spring of this year it quickly gained a good reputation locally, leading to a significant appearance on national TV. It became a rarity to walk past without there being a long line of people having to queue outside for their boxes of deep fried haddock and potato.
But that passed quickly through my mind, elbowed out by a more distant memory in another part of the city. Back in the seventies Hogmanay wasn't the super organised (super commercialised) event it's become. Back then it was a night for the locals, and the place to be was the Tron Kirk. Or rather filling up the pavements and adjoining streets around the kirk. Depending on the climatic conditions there'd be twenty or thirty thousand 'merry' Scots assembled, waiting on the sound of the bells, ready to put their arms around total strangers for the sake of auld lang syne, the year departed and that to come. And getting pished together.
It was nearing eleven thirty and a crowd of us were in a pub down in the Grassmarket, thinking it was about time to make a move up the hill and join the masses. Small problem though. I, and a couple of the others, felt in desperate need of sustenance. Probably to soak up all the alcohol sloshing about inside, and contained in the various bottles about our persons. And there, on West Port, was our wee life saver. A chippie, long since disappeared, with a not too-long queue forming. Heaven. A white pudding supper for me, salt and sauce liberally applied, and we were on our way.
I remember that pudding supper better than most others I've eaten over the decades. It certainly wasn't the best quality I've ever had. But it fitted the moment better than any other. The relish of alfresco dining, the steaming hot chips and the bitterly cold wind, the need to eat quick before it got cold, all the time joining a growing congregation of worshippers walking up every film director's favourite thoroughfare, Victoria Street, en route to the kirk. The sense of warmth and comfort and friendship and anticipation of what was to come, the mystery of what the next few hours would throw up (hopefully not the pudding supper...).
All these memories from somebody else's box of fried food. The mind is a strange and unpredictable thing. I hope she enjoyed it as much as we all wanted to.
PS It's not that great a photo, but I feel the version of it I posted on Instagram is an improvement on the original.
"Everyone at the bus stop pretended not to want some of Sandra's chips"
OK, I have no idea who this young woman is, or if everyone else there was as distracted as me by the fragrant aromas from that cardboard box, but I'd be surprised if they weren't. She clearly couldn't wait around to get home, or for the bus to come. That fish supper was there, on her lap, begging to be eaten. And so she did, with obvious enjoyment. Good for her.
To be fair they were from The Fishmarket. I wrote about the attractions Newhaven Harbour held for me a few years ago in this post, and the most recent arrival in that long, low red building has added another one. Part seafood restaurant, part traditional chippie takeaway, one of the joint owners is the excellent Welch Fishmongers next door, so the quality of the source product is in no doubt. Having only opened in Spring of this year it quickly gained a good reputation locally, leading to a significant appearance on national TV. It became a rarity to walk past without there being a long line of people having to queue outside for their boxes of deep fried haddock and potato.
But that passed quickly through my mind, elbowed out by a more distant memory in another part of the city. Back in the seventies Hogmanay wasn't the super organised (super commercialised) event it's become. Back then it was a night for the locals, and the place to be was the Tron Kirk. Or rather filling up the pavements and adjoining streets around the kirk. Depending on the climatic conditions there'd be twenty or thirty thousand 'merry' Scots assembled, waiting on the sound of the bells, ready to put their arms around total strangers for the sake of auld lang syne, the year departed and that to come. And getting pished together.
It was nearing eleven thirty and a crowd of us were in a pub down in the Grassmarket, thinking it was about time to make a move up the hill and join the masses. Small problem though. I, and a couple of the others, felt in desperate need of sustenance. Probably to soak up all the alcohol sloshing about inside, and contained in the various bottles about our persons. And there, on West Port, was our wee life saver. A chippie, long since disappeared, with a not too-long queue forming. Heaven. A white pudding supper for me, salt and sauce liberally applied, and we were on our way.
I remember that pudding supper better than most others I've eaten over the decades. It certainly wasn't the best quality I've ever had. But it fitted the moment better than any other. The relish of alfresco dining, the steaming hot chips and the bitterly cold wind, the need to eat quick before it got cold, all the time joining a growing congregation of worshippers walking up every film director's favourite thoroughfare, Victoria Street, en route to the kirk. The sense of warmth and comfort and friendship and anticipation of what was to come, the mystery of what the next few hours would throw up (hopefully not the pudding supper...).
All these memories from somebody else's box of fried food. The mind is a strange and unpredictable thing. I hope she enjoyed it as much as we all wanted to.
PS It's not that great a photo, but I feel the version of it I posted on Instagram is an improvement on the original.
Wednesday, 11 December 2019
Doris the Dictator?
THE AUTHORITARIAN STREAK
The clues have been there in front of us for long enough, ever since Doris squirmed his way into Downing Street on the crooked backs of a few ageing southern reactionaries. His efforts to avoid parliamentary scrutiny; his avoidance of serious media question (Hide in a fridge? Why not?); the repetitive lies and cheap slogans (No, brexshit will not be "Done", it will just be the beginning of an interminable and impoverishing process.); the video editing, the fake news, the constant deflection tactics, the desperate attempts to create a counter narrative, even if it simply means making shit up.
The latest scandal has everything you could possibly want to show why Doris is totally unfit for any form of high office (as if his shambolic efforts as Foreign Secretary, corruption as London Mayor, suppression of the Russian interference dossier, embarrassingly insulting behaviour towards other European Prime Ministers, and cowardly avoidance of all forms of scrutiny weren't already enough for you) is the story centring on the boy photographed on the floor of a Leeds hospital. The "good friend" who was a "senior nursing sister" never existed. But it was a clever ruse, and it's allowed Doris to give the media a bodyswerve over what should be the real story in this sorry tale. The reasons why that boy may have been on the floor have become the issue being discussed, but the real controversy, the real anger, should be about the behaviour of our erstwhile leader in the interview with the TV journalist. He stole his phone!
Do I need to say that again? His first thought was to take the phone out of the journalist's hand and put it in his own pocket.
Not to face up to the question being raised. Not to seek to engage with what might be a real concern. But to resort to baltant theft to try and suppress something he didn't want to talk about. Add in some of the abovementioned characteristics - the refusal to face (right winger!) Andrew Neil, his illegal attempts to prorogue parliament, the threats to clamp down on broadcasters dare who criticise him - and there is only one conclusion. Doris Johnson, purchaser of the unusable water cannon, is an instinctive authoritarian. Never mind the vile, amoral Cummings, this is a man who had a private meeting with one of the world's most prominent white supremacists, a known fascist. Do not vote to put this nasty charlatan in power.
The water is waiting in the trough, how many will be too stupid to drink?
The clues have been there in front of us for long enough, ever since Doris squirmed his way into Downing Street on the crooked backs of a few ageing southern reactionaries. His efforts to avoid parliamentary scrutiny; his avoidance of serious media question (Hide in a fridge? Why not?); the repetitive lies and cheap slogans (No, brexshit will not be "Done", it will just be the beginning of an interminable and impoverishing process.); the video editing, the fake news, the constant deflection tactics, the desperate attempts to create a counter narrative, even if it simply means making shit up.
The latest scandal has everything you could possibly want to show why Doris is totally unfit for any form of high office (as if his shambolic efforts as Foreign Secretary, corruption as London Mayor, suppression of the Russian interference dossier, embarrassingly insulting behaviour towards other European Prime Ministers, and cowardly avoidance of all forms of scrutiny weren't already enough for you) is the story centring on the boy photographed on the floor of a Leeds hospital. The "good friend" who was a "senior nursing sister" never existed. But it was a clever ruse, and it's allowed Doris to give the media a bodyswerve over what should be the real story in this sorry tale. The reasons why that boy may have been on the floor have become the issue being discussed, but the real controversy, the real anger, should be about the behaviour of our erstwhile leader in the interview with the TV journalist. He stole his phone!
Do I need to say that again? His first thought was to take the phone out of the journalist's hand and put it in his own pocket.
Not to face up to the question being raised. Not to seek to engage with what might be a real concern. But to resort to baltant theft to try and suppress something he didn't want to talk about. Add in some of the abovementioned characteristics - the refusal to face (right winger!) Andrew Neil, his illegal attempts to prorogue parliament, the threats to clamp down on broadcasters dare who criticise him - and there is only one conclusion. Doris Johnson, purchaser of the unusable water cannon, is an instinctive authoritarian. Never mind the vile, amoral Cummings, this is a man who had a private meeting with one of the world's most prominent white supremacists, a known fascist. Do not vote to put this nasty charlatan in power.
The water is waiting in the trough, how many will be too stupid to drink?
Popeseye, Porn and Politics
THE BIG QUESTION
Q : What do all these people have in common?
A top chef selecting beef for his steak menu
A porn director casting his male lead
Me thinking about the Westminster parliament I'd like to see on 13 December
A : We all want them well hung.
In around four and half decades of taking an interest in politics there has never been so poor a choice to be the UK prime minister. Our democracy is such that I have often found myself voting for the least worst option, but this feels more like selecting which leg to have amputated. Thank goodness I made the move back to Scotland, where we have much better alternatives.
Clearly Corbyn is the lesser of the two plagues on offer, but he's looked less and less inspiring, more and more unstable, as the last few weeks have unfolded. The accusations of racism and financial incompetence in his party may have some grounds in truth, albeit to nothing like the extent being broadcast in multi coloured lights by the right wing media, but they are nothing compared to Islamophobia, xenophobia and deficit-doubling death-dealing austerity of their opponents.
So what's the best outcome we (well, I at least) can hope for on Friday morning? A tory majority would be disastrous,a Labour one seemingly impossible. So the best possible outcome for Scotland, and maybe for the rest of the UK too, is a hung parliament, with fifty plus SNP MPs holding the balance of power. (I'm tempted to say forty nine just so the world is spared this horrific sight which would do old Nessie no good at all.) England gets to avoid the brexshit that will destroy it's economy, and we get another chance to get ourselves out of the broken UK. And this time we need to grab it.
Roll on Friday morning....
Q : What do all these people have in common?
A top chef selecting beef for his steak menu
A porn director casting his male lead
Me thinking about the Westminster parliament I'd like to see on 13 December
A : We all want them well hung.
In around four and half decades of taking an interest in politics there has never been so poor a choice to be the UK prime minister. Our democracy is such that I have often found myself voting for the least worst option, but this feels more like selecting which leg to have amputated. Thank goodness I made the move back to Scotland, where we have much better alternatives.
Clearly Corbyn is the lesser of the two plagues on offer, but he's looked less and less inspiring, more and more unstable, as the last few weeks have unfolded. The accusations of racism and financial incompetence in his party may have some grounds in truth, albeit to nothing like the extent being broadcast in multi coloured lights by the right wing media, but they are nothing compared to Islamophobia, xenophobia and deficit-doubling death-dealing austerity of their opponents.
So what's the best outcome we (well, I at least) can hope for on Friday morning? A tory majority would be disastrous,a Labour one seemingly impossible. So the best possible outcome for Scotland, and maybe for the rest of the UK too, is a hung parliament, with fifty plus SNP MPs holding the balance of power. (I'm tempted to say forty nine just so the world is spared this horrific sight which would do old Nessie no good at all.) England gets to avoid the brexshit that will destroy it's economy, and we get another chance to get ourselves out of the broken UK. And this time we need to grab it.
Roll on Friday morning....
Saturday, 30 November 2019
The carpet buyers guide to brexshit (or the brexshiteers guide to buying a carpet)
MAKING THE RIGHT CHOICE
I used to work in IT. Indeed I used to work in IT before it was even known as IT. I got pretty good at writing code that read and processed data from large files on large tapes in the most efficient way possible. But I couldn't do it now. And even if I could - who'd care? A skill I once had, now rendered pointless by progress. Not only do we lose the knowledge we might once have had, but it's often irrelevant anyway.
In our old house we had a few new carpets fitted over the decade and a half we lived there. But the last one must have been well over ten years ago, so I've forgotten the detail of what was involved. And none of those rooms that were done posed the sort of challenge our recent flooring quest raised.
Our current flat has a small entrance vestibule, with coir matting, leading into a long, carpeted, roughly L shaped hall. A bench sat at the beginning of the carpeted section, a place for oldies like us to put on and take off footwear. After four and a bit years the section of carpet in front of the bench was looking a bit sorry for itself. So a new carpet was something we frequently discussed, but never got around to acting on.
That desire for renewal was given a real world kickstart when a mark appeared on the first leg of the 'L', and turned out not to be dirt, but water. With no sign of anything coming from above the only route to diagnosis was lifting the relevant stretch of beige, to discover an underlay holding enough water to fill the bath. It took a few weeks, but eventually the problem would be traced to a leak from next door's boiler, and in time that would get fixed, our concrete floor (which had been partially dug up as part of the investigations) was trenchless once more, and we were in a position to move on from the rough bits of old carpet I'd put down as stepping stones.
That's when the hardest bit starts - having to choose something we can both agree on. The first step was easy. It had to be something as cat-claw proof as possible. But beyond that? Just vague ideas, with no real notion of how they'd work in practice. Stripes sounded good, but how does that work in an L shape? Especially one that has an awkwardly shaped junction instead of a neat right angled corner. And it would be good to have something durable and easily cleaned, or replaced, in front of the bench (a rug wouldn't work without the cupboard doors opposite the bench having to be altered).
We thought we had a solution for the latter. Cut a well into the carpet in front of the bench, and insert a contrasting colour that could be lifted out easily. It didn't sound daft when we said it...
Einstein said "The measure of intelligence is the ability to change". I say this only to reassure myself that we, eventually, turned into intelligent carpet buyers. But to change you need information, preferably from people who know what they are talking about (a truism climate change deniers never quite seem able to grasp...). So we started visiting carpet shops, and discussing our requirements. Which is the point at which I realised how little I knew, or remembered, about a subject that appears simple enough on the surface, but, as so often in life, reveals it own little complexities the more you delve into the subject. Cut pile or loop, dense or shaggy, woven or tufted, wool or synthetic? Each have their pros and cons. Then there's traffic rates, considering where the join will be, and the perils of joining hand cut with machine cut. Not to mention wastage. Most carpets come in four and five metre widths, an L shape results in a huge unusable bit of carpet - wasteful and pricey.
OK, I could have come up with some of that through persistent Googling, but there's no substitute for talking to someone who knows their stuff - even if each new 'someone' gives a slightly different view on things. We had an estimate done, but it didn't feel right. We'd found a salesperson, not a carpet expert. But the second estimator was a different kettle of wombats, and brought his own experience into making suggestions, informing rather than following.
The result is nothing like the original vision. It's better. The ugly coir has gone, and a hard- wearing entrance matting runs from the front door to beyond the bench, with mottled carpet beyond. The only join is between the two carpets, and the substantial piece of the wastage has gone to provide new carpet for the wee guest bedroom (that's a small room, not a room for people under 5' 6"). And it works well, with a clear shoes on/shoes off divide and if the entrance area ever does need to be replaced it's only a short section that will need doing.
None of which would have happened if we hadn't taken our time and listened to the experts, people with years of experience in the field that gives them knowledge we couldn't possibly possess.
If only everyone sought out and followed advice from the relevant experts before making an important decision. If only brexshiteers had had to have a carpet fitted first...
And for those wondering...
Before...
And after...
I used to work in IT. Indeed I used to work in IT before it was even known as IT. I got pretty good at writing code that read and processed data from large files on large tapes in the most efficient way possible. But I couldn't do it now. And even if I could - who'd care? A skill I once had, now rendered pointless by progress. Not only do we lose the knowledge we might once have had, but it's often irrelevant anyway.
In our old house we had a few new carpets fitted over the decade and a half we lived there. But the last one must have been well over ten years ago, so I've forgotten the detail of what was involved. And none of those rooms that were done posed the sort of challenge our recent flooring quest raised.
Our current flat has a small entrance vestibule, with coir matting, leading into a long, carpeted, roughly L shaped hall. A bench sat at the beginning of the carpeted section, a place for oldies like us to put on and take off footwear. After four and a bit years the section of carpet in front of the bench was looking a bit sorry for itself. So a new carpet was something we frequently discussed, but never got around to acting on.
That desire for renewal was given a real world kickstart when a mark appeared on the first leg of the 'L', and turned out not to be dirt, but water. With no sign of anything coming from above the only route to diagnosis was lifting the relevant stretch of beige, to discover an underlay holding enough water to fill the bath. It took a few weeks, but eventually the problem would be traced to a leak from next door's boiler, and in time that would get fixed, our concrete floor (which had been partially dug up as part of the investigations) was trenchless once more, and we were in a position to move on from the rough bits of old carpet I'd put down as stepping stones.
That's when the hardest bit starts - having to choose something we can both agree on. The first step was easy. It had to be something as cat-claw proof as possible. But beyond that? Just vague ideas, with no real notion of how they'd work in practice. Stripes sounded good, but how does that work in an L shape? Especially one that has an awkwardly shaped junction instead of a neat right angled corner. And it would be good to have something durable and easily cleaned, or replaced, in front of the bench (a rug wouldn't work without the cupboard doors opposite the bench having to be altered).
We thought we had a solution for the latter. Cut a well into the carpet in front of the bench, and insert a contrasting colour that could be lifted out easily. It didn't sound daft when we said it...
Einstein said "The measure of intelligence is the ability to change". I say this only to reassure myself that we, eventually, turned into intelligent carpet buyers. But to change you need information, preferably from people who know what they are talking about (a truism climate change deniers never quite seem able to grasp...). So we started visiting carpet shops, and discussing our requirements. Which is the point at which I realised how little I knew, or remembered, about a subject that appears simple enough on the surface, but, as so often in life, reveals it own little complexities the more you delve into the subject. Cut pile or loop, dense or shaggy, woven or tufted, wool or synthetic? Each have their pros and cons. Then there's traffic rates, considering where the join will be, and the perils of joining hand cut with machine cut. Not to mention wastage. Most carpets come in four and five metre widths, an L shape results in a huge unusable bit of carpet - wasteful and pricey.
OK, I could have come up with some of that through persistent Googling, but there's no substitute for talking to someone who knows their stuff - even if each new 'someone' gives a slightly different view on things. We had an estimate done, but it didn't feel right. We'd found a salesperson, not a carpet expert. But the second estimator was a different kettle of wombats, and brought his own experience into making suggestions, informing rather than following.
The result is nothing like the original vision. It's better. The ugly coir has gone, and a hard- wearing entrance matting runs from the front door to beyond the bench, with mottled carpet beyond. The only join is between the two carpets, and the substantial piece of the wastage has gone to provide new carpet for the wee guest bedroom (that's a small room, not a room for people under 5' 6"). And it works well, with a clear shoes on/shoes off divide and if the entrance area ever does need to be replaced it's only a short section that will need doing.
None of which would have happened if we hadn't taken our time and listened to the experts, people with years of experience in the field that gives them knowledge we couldn't possibly possess.
If only everyone sought out and followed advice from the relevant experts before making an important decision. If only brexshiteers had had to have a carpet fitted first...
And for those wondering...
Before...
And after...
Thursday, 31 October 2019
Launching Bits and Pieces
BITS AND PIECES - A STORIES AND POEMS BLOG
I grew up in a small 1950s mid terrace. Out front a handkerchief law and prissy wee privet. The back garden was much bigger. Narrow, but maybe 12 metres long, split into 2 about two thirds of the way down by a tall wooden fence. Originally the area nearest the house was grass, but early in my childhood the builders came round, stuck a new room on the back and paved over the green. I can't recall what the further end looked like, apart from the permanent presence of a shed.
Always looking for ways to save money, my dad honed his DIY skills over the years. That new build on the back would eventually be fitted out as a dining room, although it took a couple of years to get it all done. Meanwhile the modernisation of the garden meant digging up that lower section and bringing in a pile of paving slabs of various shades, some cement and a sledgehammer. Multi coloured crazy paving was the objective, somewhere to hand out the washing away from the house.
Progress was slow. To be fair he worked shifts, there were always other demands on his time and Edinburgh weather no doubt played a role. But he was also a slow worker. Methodical he'd say, and the results justified the care he was taking. As it gradually emerged it looked pretty interesting, by sixties standards. It got to a point where over a third of the area had been covered and the rotary washing line could be put in place, so at least the area could be used for purpose. But then it all seemed to grind to a halt. Years later that space was part paving, part broken ground, and putting out and taking in the washing always had the thrill of knowing there was a potential ankle-turning moment lying in wait. Many, many years later the fence was taken down and the whole garden landscaped. The crazy paving never did get finished.
Over the last four and a bit decades I have, off and on - far more off than on - had periods of trying to write stories and poems and messing about with bits of fiction in my head. Be it nature or nurture we inherit certain characteristics from our parents. And I seem to have acquired that inability to see things through from my dad. There are notebooks and cardboard folders and files on my hard drive that are testament to that crazy paving. Ideas that never quite made it, poems that fritter out for want of an ending, stories that don't even make it to a middle. I'm rubbish at seeing them through.
Mostly. Along the way a few, a very few, have reach something I could regard as completion. Most are short (surprise, surprise), rarely more than a page or two. Most have sat unread by anyone but me, or perhaps one or two others, for many years. They aren't worth sharing the voices tell me.
But why not? The worst anyone can do is tell me they're awful, and that wouldn't come as a shock. Mostly they will get ignored, and that's fine too. But if even one of them brings out a smile, or an unexpected thought, in some random reader then there will have been a point to doing this. So Bits and Pieces is the repository of those few finished works. Only three to begin with, more to be added over time. Doing so might even motivate me to return to those crazy paving jobs and see if I can smash up a few more slabs, or come up with something new. I'll see what happens.
First up is a poem I wrote a few months ago when I was having one of those spells of trying to write. Nothing was working out so I began a verse about being unable to finish anything off and that was the one I found flowed out easily. Followed by another recent poem, one of those I mentioned before as having stalled. Unfortunately by the time I got around to polishing it up the political subject had already resigned from the post that gave her prominence. But it still feels worth sharing. And finally a very short sort-of story that came from real life.
Here's the links to the three posts :
The poem about being unable to write a poem
The already out of date political doggerel
The short short story
I grew up in a small 1950s mid terrace. Out front a handkerchief law and prissy wee privet. The back garden was much bigger. Narrow, but maybe 12 metres long, split into 2 about two thirds of the way down by a tall wooden fence. Originally the area nearest the house was grass, but early in my childhood the builders came round, stuck a new room on the back and paved over the green. I can't recall what the further end looked like, apart from the permanent presence of a shed.
Always looking for ways to save money, my dad honed his DIY skills over the years. That new build on the back would eventually be fitted out as a dining room, although it took a couple of years to get it all done. Meanwhile the modernisation of the garden meant digging up that lower section and bringing in a pile of paving slabs of various shades, some cement and a sledgehammer. Multi coloured crazy paving was the objective, somewhere to hand out the washing away from the house.
Progress was slow. To be fair he worked shifts, there were always other demands on his time and Edinburgh weather no doubt played a role. But he was also a slow worker. Methodical he'd say, and the results justified the care he was taking. As it gradually emerged it looked pretty interesting, by sixties standards. It got to a point where over a third of the area had been covered and the rotary washing line could be put in place, so at least the area could be used for purpose. But then it all seemed to grind to a halt. Years later that space was part paving, part broken ground, and putting out and taking in the washing always had the thrill of knowing there was a potential ankle-turning moment lying in wait. Many, many years later the fence was taken down and the whole garden landscaped. The crazy paving never did get finished.
Over the last four and a bit decades I have, off and on - far more off than on - had periods of trying to write stories and poems and messing about with bits of fiction in my head. Be it nature or nurture we inherit certain characteristics from our parents. And I seem to have acquired that inability to see things through from my dad. There are notebooks and cardboard folders and files on my hard drive that are testament to that crazy paving. Ideas that never quite made it, poems that fritter out for want of an ending, stories that don't even make it to a middle. I'm rubbish at seeing them through.
Mostly. Along the way a few, a very few, have reach something I could regard as completion. Most are short (surprise, surprise), rarely more than a page or two. Most have sat unread by anyone but me, or perhaps one or two others, for many years. They aren't worth sharing the voices tell me.
But why not? The worst anyone can do is tell me they're awful, and that wouldn't come as a shock. Mostly they will get ignored, and that's fine too. But if even one of them brings out a smile, or an unexpected thought, in some random reader then there will have been a point to doing this. So Bits and Pieces is the repository of those few finished works. Only three to begin with, more to be added over time. Doing so might even motivate me to return to those crazy paving jobs and see if I can smash up a few more slabs, or come up with something new. I'll see what happens.
First up is a poem I wrote a few months ago when I was having one of those spells of trying to write. Nothing was working out so I began a verse about being unable to finish anything off and that was the one I found flowed out easily. Followed by another recent poem, one of those I mentioned before as having stalled. Unfortunately by the time I got around to polishing it up the political subject had already resigned from the post that gave her prominence. But it still feels worth sharing. And finally a very short sort-of story that came from real life.
Here's the links to the three posts :
The poem about being unable to write a poem
The already out of date political doggerel
The short short story
Sunday, 27 October 2019
Mon the Boks
WHY I'M SUPPORTING THE BOKS ON SATURDAY
Back in the old, old days, before all seater sports stadiums became de rigeur, Murrayfield had a west stand, the other three sides being covered in terraces. The clock tower that now resides between the east stand and the turnstiles used to sit proudly atop the south terrace, long before there were digital displays. Officially the capacity was about eighty thousand, but because you could just turn up and buy a ticket on the day in 1975 the Five Nations tie against Wales was played in front of a sardine like one hundred and four thousand. At least you couldn't get cold. Internationals became all ticket after that...
At international matches the schoolboys (I say 'boys' because I can't recall any girls going, but could be wrong) seating, benches in front of the terracing and not far in from the east touchline. Close to the action. However for one game, in December '69, we were told to sit in the north end of that big stand, as a safety precaution. The opposition was the touring South African side, who were confronted with anti-apartheid protests at every point along their journey, and a few of these demos turned into scuffles, so it was thought best to protect us wee innocents.
Innocent? I was thirteen, so maybe I should have known better. But my parents never discussed politics, the subject wasn't raised at school, and ignorance is my only defence. It shames me now. This would be the last time the Springboks toured these islands until the nineties, although rugby as a sport was more culpable than many in maintaining contacts with their racist counterparts. Not a proud history.
The release of Mandela brought the beginning of an often painful transition that continues to this day. Scars like that take a long time to heal, and anything , however small, that can chivvy that process along, is to be encouraged. And that's why I'll be supporting the men in green next Saturday, as i did this morning.
When your own country's team finds itself on the plane home from a world cup you find yourself free to support whoever you wish, for whatever reasons work for you. With Scotland out early my inner francophile took over and I looked to France as 'my' team. That didn't last long. So when the final four became clear my allegiance switched to the Africans. Not because they play the most entertaining rugby (they certainly don't), not because they were favourites (they still aren't), and not because of any particular player I like (although Faf de Klerk is curiously watchable despite the constant box kicks). But because Siya Kolisi is captain.
South Africa have already won the World Cup twice, and those occasions did help bring the country together a fraction more each time. But this feels different. That world of '69 would be just that little bit further away if next Saturday sees the cup being lifted by the first black captain of his country's rugby team.
Of course my choice of finalists to support is made easier by the other participant. It's hard, culturally, not to subscribe to the The Lincoln Position (good ol' Abe).
Back in the old, old days, before all seater sports stadiums became de rigeur, Murrayfield had a west stand, the other three sides being covered in terraces. The clock tower that now resides between the east stand and the turnstiles used to sit proudly atop the south terrace, long before there were digital displays. Officially the capacity was about eighty thousand, but because you could just turn up and buy a ticket on the day in 1975 the Five Nations tie against Wales was played in front of a sardine like one hundred and four thousand. At least you couldn't get cold. Internationals became all ticket after that...
At international matches the schoolboys (I say 'boys' because I can't recall any girls going, but could be wrong) seating, benches in front of the terracing and not far in from the east touchline. Close to the action. However for one game, in December '69, we were told to sit in the north end of that big stand, as a safety precaution. The opposition was the touring South African side, who were confronted with anti-apartheid protests at every point along their journey, and a few of these demos turned into scuffles, so it was thought best to protect us wee innocents.
Innocent? I was thirteen, so maybe I should have known better. But my parents never discussed politics, the subject wasn't raised at school, and ignorance is my only defence. It shames me now. This would be the last time the Springboks toured these islands until the nineties, although rugby as a sport was more culpable than many in maintaining contacts with their racist counterparts. Not a proud history.
The release of Mandela brought the beginning of an often painful transition that continues to this day. Scars like that take a long time to heal, and anything , however small, that can chivvy that process along, is to be encouraged. And that's why I'll be supporting the men in green next Saturday, as i did this morning.
When your own country's team finds itself on the plane home from a world cup you find yourself free to support whoever you wish, for whatever reasons work for you. With Scotland out early my inner francophile took over and I looked to France as 'my' team. That didn't last long. So when the final four became clear my allegiance switched to the Africans. Not because they play the most entertaining rugby (they certainly don't), not because they were favourites (they still aren't), and not because of any particular player I like (although Faf de Klerk is curiously watchable despite the constant box kicks). But because Siya Kolisi is captain.
South Africa have already won the World Cup twice, and those occasions did help bring the country together a fraction more each time. But this feels different. That world of '69 would be just that little bit further away if next Saturday sees the cup being lifted by the first black captain of his country's rugby team.
Of course my choice of finalists to support is made easier by the other participant. It's hard, culturally, not to subscribe to the The Lincoln Position (good ol' Abe).
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