LOUISA WHO?
"All meaningful and lasting change starts first in your imagination and then works its way out. Imagination is more important than knowledge." Albert Einstein
It's been more than five weeks now since the name was revealed, a name now well established in the media, widely recognised by the public. And still there are unionists, invariably tories, bleating on social media that the NHS Louisa Jordan, the temporary hospital set up in Glasgow in response to the Covid-19 crisis, should be referred to as the NHS Nightingale. So it can then be confused with all the NHS Nightingales down south maybe?
They object to the Scottish Government not following the 'lead' set by the government in London to have all seven of their similar institutions called exactly the same thing, identified only by location. In part that's because they're the sort of people who will blindly, knee jerkingly, criticise anything their own elected government does, right or wrong. They can't help themselves. And in doing so are they revealing one underlying trait that determines their unionism - a severe lack of imagination?
I had never heard of Louisa Jordan before the announcement. Most people hadn't. Which is, surely, a good thing - ? Everybody has heard of Florence Nightingale. But how many other historic names from nursing can you come up with immediately? Edith Cavell? Emmm...? These temporary medical facilities are being opened in response to a situation that sees many, many people shut away in their homes for weeks on end, with no idea of how long it may continue for. Anything, no matter how small, that makes us think, provides learning opportunities, creates a bit of interest, is to be welcomed, encouraged.
In the bigger picture it's not important what these hospitals are called. But in a shrunken world where the micro is taking on greater significance, calling all these institutions by the same name is a missed opportunity, a failure of imagination, an apparent fear of difference. Why aren't those in England having the sense to follow Scotland's lead and giving them names that reflect their local connections, and bring an obscure historical name to prominence? Why isn't the Exeter hospital being named after Elsie Knocker? (And no, I'm not making her up, check out the link!) She'd bring a smile to a few faces, I'm sure.
Criticise the choice of Ms Jordan as a name and you criticise imagination and difference. (As if right wingers ever showed any hostility to anybody they don't see as the same as themselves...) And imagination is the key to change.
And it's change they fear most. They are desperate to defend vested interests - big landowners, the media, the wealthy, the 'safe' middle classes - with no thought given to the possibility of making life better for those less fortunate. If the system changes they might be relative losers, and they can't stomach that. It's selfishness - most don't want to change a set up from which they benefit.
Hence the attacks on anything the Scottish Government do, no matter how trivial the reasons to try and justify them. Hence the constant attacks on the SNP, and Greens, and the wider Yes Movement, because Scottish Independence threatens the cosiness of their world.
But the Covid-19 crisis has further highlighted the iniquities and weaknesses of what is now the 'old normal'. It's a normal we can't return to, and we have to make sure that the new one is better for more people, that the growing inequality gap is reversed and that empathy has greater prominence in our society. Let Ms Jordan's name be a symbol for change, for difference, for better.
Thursday, 7 May 2020
Monday, 6 April 2020
Queenie - Could do better
WHALE MEAT AGAIN
Anyone watch Queenie's "inspiring" broadcast last night?
Naw, me neither.
Anticipating the usual meaningless platitudes I found something more interesting to do (not a high bar to climb over) and waited to see if the morning's headlines suggested she'd said anything that in any way contributed to the current store of knowledge around the Covid-19 pandemic.
Hard to be hopeful of that happening because, unless I've missed something, she doesn't have any recognised expertise in epidemiology, virology, and/or immunology, or maybe even a bit of experience working with health stats. Come to think of it, she doesn't have any recognised expertise.
I understand there was a passing reference to the kind of 'blitz spirit' drivel ( a period which, for those who know their history, and don't wear blue, red and white tinted specs, included rampant profiteering, black marketeering and a huge surge in burglaries due to the blackout - so Jacob Piss-Dogg would have fitted in well) to appeal to the right wing knuckle draggers that would have formed a large proportion of her audience.
But she conspicuously failed to announce any of the things that she could have done to make a real contribution, to make it seem like we really might all be in this together.
She didn't offer to donate a portion of her obscenely vast inherited wealth to help out the NHS or all those people who have lost their incomes.
She didn't offer up some accommodation, in all those palaces and castles and big hooses, to homeless people for whom the phrase 'self isolation' is a sick joke.
She didn't even point out that her oldest son is a selfish dick who should be sacked from his 'job' for going, complete with entourage, to another country and risking the lives of the local community. If it's what Catherine Calderwood deserved....
So what's left? Yup, those same old meaningless platitudes. Vive la Republique!
Anyone watch Queenie's "inspiring" broadcast last night?
Naw, me neither.
Anticipating the usual meaningless platitudes I found something more interesting to do (not a high bar to climb over) and waited to see if the morning's headlines suggested she'd said anything that in any way contributed to the current store of knowledge around the Covid-19 pandemic.
Hard to be hopeful of that happening because, unless I've missed something, she doesn't have any recognised expertise in epidemiology, virology, and/or immunology, or maybe even a bit of experience working with health stats. Come to think of it, she doesn't have any recognised expertise.
I understand there was a passing reference to the kind of 'blitz spirit' drivel ( a period which, for those who know their history, and don't wear blue, red and white tinted specs, included rampant profiteering, black marketeering and a huge surge in burglaries due to the blackout - so Jacob Piss-Dogg would have fitted in well) to appeal to the right wing knuckle draggers that would have formed a large proportion of her audience.
But she conspicuously failed to announce any of the things that she could have done to make a real contribution, to make it seem like we really might all be in this together.
She didn't offer to donate a portion of her obscenely vast inherited wealth to help out the NHS or all those people who have lost their incomes.
She didn't offer up some accommodation, in all those palaces and castles and big hooses, to homeless people for whom the phrase 'self isolation' is a sick joke.
She didn't even point out that her oldest son is a selfish dick who should be sacked from his 'job' for going, complete with entourage, to another country and risking the lives of the local community. If it's what Catherine Calderwood deserved....
So what's left? Yup, those same old meaningless platitudes. Vive la Republique!
Sunday, 5 April 2020
I will not walk 500 miles
THE 11K CASUALTY
Before the lockdown, before the virus did or did not hit me, I was managing to record a minimum of 11k steps on the wee step counter thingummy on my right wrist. The app told me I'd been doing that for a streak of 267 days in a row. It doesn't really tell me how fast or slow I did it, whether I put any bloody effort in or not, but at least I did... something.
And then the bug came, complete with 14 days self isolation, and, at least to start with, a shortness of breath that sometimes had me pausing half way up the one flight of stairs in the flat. Suddenly it was a struggle to crack 2k and the only records I was setting were for hours of body in bed and arse on sofa. As I started to feeling a bit better I got into the habit of walking aimlessly up and down the hall, just to see if I could get my step count up. (You ask why? What else is there to do...) And I'd be smashing through the giddy 4k barrier. Once I even passed double that, but only because I was trying to do a clear out of my jeans and trousers (and no, I'm not going to explain how that could result in my walking so far inside a not exactly vast space).
Now I'm allowed out again. But under the strict guidelines of course. Shopping trips were needed on the first two days, simply to restock the depleted cupboards, fridge and freezer. Without even thinking about it I suddenly found I was back over 11k. But today was just a going out for a bit of exercise day, and to make the target number almost half of the steps had to be done indoors. I made it. Just. That's a triumphant 3 day streak. But how many more days can I do this? Tracks are appearing in the carpets. The scenery is unchanging. And the inevitable comparison to a caged animal only falls down because most animals in cages manage to move a lot more elegantly than my gawky frame is capable of.
The streak, methinks, will not last long. As for thinking about Kiltwalk later in the year... I may have to accept that the arse/sofa interface will become a dominant factor in my life. We all have to #StayAtHome.
Thursday, 2 April 2020
It's a different world
FREEDOM! (NOT FREEDOM...)
Fourteen long days have gone by and I released back into the wild. In an earlier post I mentioned we were both self isolating and not venturing out until third of April. Clearly whatever the bug was it affected my brain since I was unable to add up past a baker's dozen. Today was the day, not tomorrow.
For me it couldn't come soon enough. Never mind the actual illness, spending day after day in centrally heated rooms is enervating in itself. My brief forays out on to the balcony were never enough. So it was good to be back out, albeit alone. I still have a bit of tightness in my chest, but am otherwise feeling fully recovered. Not so Barbara who is not yet strong enough to hit the mean streets and still drifts off to sleep from time to time, still has headaches. But she had it worse than me from the start. A few more days yet.
Has it been THE virus? We still don't know. Maybe we never will. Strange times.
The official lockdown hadn't started when we shut ourselves away so it's a different world to return to, a world of restrictions, but also a world that feels fresher and more peaceful. And with better stocked shelves! First time I've seen a tin of tomatoes in weeks. How quickly we recalibrate our definitions of joyfulness.
Few people on the streets, few cars, everyone keeping their distance, buses almost empty. We now have to live under more draconian legislation than most of us have ever experienced, but being out in such quiet (in an area that is supposedly the mostly densely populated in Scotland) brings an odd sense of freedom to being out. Even though you know you can't be out for long it feels more like a holiday than the apocalypse.
Out of curiosity I went past three supermarkets to see what was happening. They all looked quiet, but only one, the local Sainsbury, had a queueing system (strictly 2m+ apart of course) and a one-out, one-in policy. The homeless guy outside one had a sign saying thanks to everyone who'd given him money, but he'd be having to find some other way to survive now. Nobody is carrying change any more. Will this be one of the long term outcomes from this crisis - the death of cash? And a consequent knock on to those who relied on the kindness of strangers?
We don't know yet, will not know for months to come maybe. But this different world is going to remain different, in ways we can't foresee. Capitalism has failed to cope and may not recover, at least in the aggressive form we've seen develop over the past forty years. UKGov daily briefings give us a conveyor belt of identikit lying twats who, defying credibility, are all apparently cabinet ministers. The only thing that can make Doris look vaguely competent is comparison with the orange manbaby across the water, where a disaster beyond Italian proportions appears to be unravelling. We urgently need that different world. We need to be out of this broken UK.
Fourteen long days have gone by and I released back into the wild. In an earlier post I mentioned we were both self isolating and not venturing out until third of April. Clearly whatever the bug was it affected my brain since I was unable to add up past a baker's dozen. Today was the day, not tomorrow.
For me it couldn't come soon enough. Never mind the actual illness, spending day after day in centrally heated rooms is enervating in itself. My brief forays out on to the balcony were never enough. So it was good to be back out, albeit alone. I still have a bit of tightness in my chest, but am otherwise feeling fully recovered. Not so Barbara who is not yet strong enough to hit the mean streets and still drifts off to sleep from time to time, still has headaches. But she had it worse than me from the start. A few more days yet.
Has it been THE virus? We still don't know. Maybe we never will. Strange times.
The official lockdown hadn't started when we shut ourselves away so it's a different world to return to, a world of restrictions, but also a world that feels fresher and more peaceful. And with better stocked shelves! First time I've seen a tin of tomatoes in weeks. How quickly we recalibrate our definitions of joyfulness.
Few people on the streets, few cars, everyone keeping their distance, buses almost empty. We now have to live under more draconian legislation than most of us have ever experienced, but being out in such quiet (in an area that is supposedly the mostly densely populated in Scotland) brings an odd sense of freedom to being out. Even though you know you can't be out for long it feels more like a holiday than the apocalypse.
Out of curiosity I went past three supermarkets to see what was happening. They all looked quiet, but only one, the local Sainsbury, had a queueing system (strictly 2m+ apart of course) and a one-out, one-in policy. The homeless guy outside one had a sign saying thanks to everyone who'd given him money, but he'd be having to find some other way to survive now. Nobody is carrying change any more. Will this be one of the long term outcomes from this crisis - the death of cash? And a consequent knock on to those who relied on the kindness of strangers?
We don't know yet, will not know for months to come maybe. But this different world is going to remain different, in ways we can't foresee. Capitalism has failed to cope and may not recover, at least in the aggressive form we've seen develop over the past forty years. UKGov daily briefings give us a conveyor belt of identikit lying twats who, defying credibility, are all apparently cabinet ministers. The only thing that can make Doris look vaguely competent is comparison with the orange manbaby across the water, where a disaster beyond Italian proportions appears to be unravelling. We urgently need that different world. We need to be out of this broken UK.
Tuesday, 31 March 2020
New world, new entertainments
CREATIVITY FINDS A WAY
Some readers will know that as well as occasionally posting on here I also, on a separate blog, write reviews of gigs, plays and films we go to see. Purely for my own amusement, I don't expect anyone to read them, but you need a few hobbies in retirement, and that's one that gives my brain a small challenge and adds another dimension to being an audience member. Over the course of a year I'll usually write well over a hundred of these, with the bulk of them reflecting our assiduous attendance at the various festivals the city has to offer from April to August and beyond.
But, for obvious reasons, not in 2020. Our last live entertainment, the excellent Boo Hewerdine, was almost three weeks ago and it looks like being many months before there's another one. That's a big element of our lives put on hold, my little hobby suspended - and a large chunk of disposable income not being spent! For us that's an annoyance, but such a minor one in the context of what's going on in the world it's barely worth a thought. For the performers - musicians, comedians, actors - we'd have been going to see it's much more serious, as that's how they pay the bills. And how they express their essential creativity. So it's been fascinating to see how they are coming to terms with the new reality, one that could be with us for some time to come and is, surely, going to change much about the world we've known until now.
We can't go to see them, they can't come to us, but there is this thing called the internet, and it has always offered endless possibilities for new ways to interact with others. Seeing artists adapt to this is fascinating, and I've sat watching several music gigs and a couple of comedy shows. It gives them an outlet for their talents, us a substitute for the raw entertainment we are missing, and, possibly a way for performers to earn some much needed dosh in the hard times they are experiencing.
The first one of these I watched was pretty impromptu. The band Talisk found themselves stranded in the US when the bulk of their tour, and income, went awol. They launched a crowdfunder to help them get flights back home and cover some of the debts they had outstanding. As a thank you for the money raised they did a Facebook Live broadcast from a hotel room in Nashville. It was manic, shambolic and probably more verbal rambling than actual music. But it was also very funny, had some great music and curiously involving. Partly because FL provides for real-time commenting by viewers, but also the sense of this being the start of something that would become our main source of 'live' entertainment for who knows how many weeks to come - and maybe beyond.
Since then I've watched a few live, or almost live, music performances, and a couple of the Saturday night shows the Stand Comedy Club have done. In every case there's a palpable sense of nervous experimentation, and trying to find ways to cope with the lack of any immediate audience response. It's going to be fascinating to see how this evolves, but for now I won't bother trying to write reviews. As a performance medium it's still too raw, too feeling-the-way, to be able to criticise. But by the end of April...?
Some readers will know that as well as occasionally posting on here I also, on a separate blog, write reviews of gigs, plays and films we go to see. Purely for my own amusement, I don't expect anyone to read them, but you need a few hobbies in retirement, and that's one that gives my brain a small challenge and adds another dimension to being an audience member. Over the course of a year I'll usually write well over a hundred of these, with the bulk of them reflecting our assiduous attendance at the various festivals the city has to offer from April to August and beyond.
But, for obvious reasons, not in 2020. Our last live entertainment, the excellent Boo Hewerdine, was almost three weeks ago and it looks like being many months before there's another one. That's a big element of our lives put on hold, my little hobby suspended - and a large chunk of disposable income not being spent! For us that's an annoyance, but such a minor one in the context of what's going on in the world it's barely worth a thought. For the performers - musicians, comedians, actors - we'd have been going to see it's much more serious, as that's how they pay the bills. And how they express their essential creativity. So it's been fascinating to see how they are coming to terms with the new reality, one that could be with us for some time to come and is, surely, going to change much about the world we've known until now.
We can't go to see them, they can't come to us, but there is this thing called the internet, and it has always offered endless possibilities for new ways to interact with others. Seeing artists adapt to this is fascinating, and I've sat watching several music gigs and a couple of comedy shows. It gives them an outlet for their talents, us a substitute for the raw entertainment we are missing, and, possibly a way for performers to earn some much needed dosh in the hard times they are experiencing.
The first one of these I watched was pretty impromptu. The band Talisk found themselves stranded in the US when the bulk of their tour, and income, went awol. They launched a crowdfunder to help them get flights back home and cover some of the debts they had outstanding. As a thank you for the money raised they did a Facebook Live broadcast from a hotel room in Nashville. It was manic, shambolic and probably more verbal rambling than actual music. But it was also very funny, had some great music and curiously involving. Partly because FL provides for real-time commenting by viewers, but also the sense of this being the start of something that would become our main source of 'live' entertainment for who knows how many weeks to come - and maybe beyond.
Since then I've watched a few live, or almost live, music performances, and a couple of the Saturday night shows the Stand Comedy Club have done. In every case there's a palpable sense of nervous experimentation, and trying to find ways to cope with the lack of any immediate audience response. It's going to be fascinating to see how this evolves, but for now I won't bother trying to write reviews. As a performance medium it's still too raw, too feeling-the-way, to be able to criticise. But by the end of April...?
Sunday, 22 March 2020
Covid or 'NotCovid'?
IS THIS IT?
It's a terrible time to be a hypochondriac. Every media outlet telling you to stay at home and shut yourself away if you show any signs of exhibiting from this long list of symptoms - who could resist such blandishments? Youthful valetudinarians aside, the young have always seen themselves as immortal, and many, too many, are still acting as if that were true, with parks and proms and squares bustling in many towns and cities. While the rest of us intently monitor the respiratory condition of anyone who walks within twenty metres, nervously pondering why we have a sudden urge to cough.
And then you actually come down with... something. Is it just the bug you would have caught anyway at this time of year, or THE virus, the one that's receiving global air time and fame? How do you know? Is it going to be obvious? And that's where we find ourselves... Confused.
Barbara and I have both come down with some kind of illness, but can we say if it's Covid-19 or not? No we can't. There's a list of classic symptoms we're constantly being told about, but how many of them do you need to shout 'House'? And if you each have different symptoms do you both have the same bug, even though it hits you in different ways?
I have a tight chest and shortness of breath, but apart from one night when I sweated so much I was starting to looks out for sharks, I haven't been feverish much. Barbara's had the fever, but vomiting isn't on the list. Neither of us have had much of a cough. Hence the confusion.
I write this not for looking for any sympathy. We'll be fine. Now she's eating again Barbara will soon get some strength back. Neither of us seems at any risk of placing any further burden on NHS resources. We have a comfy home, an endless supply of books, music and video, and a cat and each other for company. Our neighbours have created a mutual-help group for the block and a lovely young couple just brought us some milk. It's just a bump in the road.
But I thought it worth sharing because determining if you really have coronavirus is, at least in milder cases like this, not that easy to figure out. Maybe not a big problem in itself - if you're feeling at all unwell then you should immediately shut yourself off from others, that's simple for us all to understand - but it makes you wonder if, when you fully recover, you then have any degree of immunity or not? Maybe, maybe not. But even if you did you could still be a carrier, a risk to others, so sticking with the familiar social isolating behaviour is going to be the safest course of action for... however long it takes.
Whatever it is, covid or notcovid, we have both cried 'House' - or rather 'Flat' - and declared ourselves well and truly self isolated until Third of April. And for now the safest thing is for us all to worry a bit - release your inner hypochondriac.
It's a terrible time to be a hypochondriac. Every media outlet telling you to stay at home and shut yourself away if you show any signs of exhibiting from this long list of symptoms - who could resist such blandishments? Youthful valetudinarians aside, the young have always seen themselves as immortal, and many, too many, are still acting as if that were true, with parks and proms and squares bustling in many towns and cities. While the rest of us intently monitor the respiratory condition of anyone who walks within twenty metres, nervously pondering why we have a sudden urge to cough.
And then you actually come down with... something. Is it just the bug you would have caught anyway at this time of year, or THE virus, the one that's receiving global air time and fame? How do you know? Is it going to be obvious? And that's where we find ourselves... Confused.
Barbara and I have both come down with some kind of illness, but can we say if it's Covid-19 or not? No we can't. There's a list of classic symptoms we're constantly being told about, but how many of them do you need to shout 'House'? And if you each have different symptoms do you both have the same bug, even though it hits you in different ways?
I have a tight chest and shortness of breath, but apart from one night when I sweated so much I was starting to looks out for sharks, I haven't been feverish much. Barbara's had the fever, but vomiting isn't on the list. Neither of us have had much of a cough. Hence the confusion.
I write this not for looking for any sympathy. We'll be fine. Now she's eating again Barbara will soon get some strength back. Neither of us seems at any risk of placing any further burden on NHS resources. We have a comfy home, an endless supply of books, music and video, and a cat and each other for company. Our neighbours have created a mutual-help group for the block and a lovely young couple just brought us some milk. It's just a bump in the road.
But I thought it worth sharing because determining if you really have coronavirus is, at least in milder cases like this, not that easy to figure out. Maybe not a big problem in itself - if you're feeling at all unwell then you should immediately shut yourself off from others, that's simple for us all to understand - but it makes you wonder if, when you fully recover, you then have any degree of immunity or not? Maybe, maybe not. But even if you did you could still be a carrier, a risk to others, so sticking with the familiar social isolating behaviour is going to be the safest course of action for... however long it takes.
Whatever it is, covid or notcovid, we have both cried 'House' - or rather 'Flat' - and declared ourselves well and truly self isolated until Third of April. And for now the safest thing is for us all to worry a bit - release your inner hypochondriac.
Sunday, 15 March 2020
Easy cheesey, what I miss about work
SAY CHEESE
"Don't you miss work?"
A common enough question aimed at retirees. And you'll usually get certain set answers, such as...
"The people."
"The mental challenge."
"The sense of purpose."
"Bugger all."
And I'm in that last camp. By the time I'd left things were generally so miserable/unpleasant the only sense of mental challenge was maintaining some sense of equilibrium, and any sense of purpose, other than getting the hell out, had long since departed. My greatest joy was being able to send out, to multiple recipients (almost everyone I knew in the office) a very, very long email slagging off everything about the place. Childish perhaps, but I received several plaudits for it afterwards so totally, completely, utterly worth the effort.
As for "The people"... that's the really common one, isn't it? But it's not that difficult to stay in touch with the few people you actually liked. (Well, it is if you're as shit a friend as me, but that's not everybody, is it?) What they really mean is that they miss the sense of belonging, the casual acceptance of their presence as part of the furniture, the bored welcomes every morning and half hearted "see you tomorrow"s of people who don't really want to be there at all. Like a mildly less alcoholic version of Cheers, "where everybody knows your name", but without the visual attractions of Ted Danson/Shelley long (delete according to preference).
And, to my surprise, I've replaced that part of it with my voluntary work, where I can walk into the office and everyone says Hi. And it's only taken four years.
But I lied when I said I was in the "Bugger all" camp. There is one thing I still miss. When we had all-day meetings, or outside visitors coming to see us, there'd be an order placed with the canteen for one of their buffet lunches. There were three levels of what they laughingly referred to as 'menus', going up in price and, at least theoretically, in quality. Levels two and three included dessert. Which was fruit, and cheese and biscuits. And the latter, despite their sense of artificial reality, were really popular. There would be four kinds of biscuit. Something that seemed almost, but not quite, like Tuc; a water biscuit; a digestive; and those brown ones with crinkly edges that look and taste like salted toasted cardboard.
Then there were the cheeses, all tiny portions individually wrapped in hard-to-get-into plastic. They were religious, because the were the baby cheeses. (Sorry....) There was a triangle of something soft, vaguely Brie-ish. (All of them were a bit like the first kind of biscuit - almost, but not quite, something you actually recognised.) There was a wee tombstone of something cheddary. And little blue streaked cubes of varicose vein cheese.
Most of that lot went quickly. Except for those cubes. Who wants blue cheese for lunch? But that din't stop the canteen sending them in. Every time. This meant that, come the end of the meeting, there's a pile of unwanted, strongly flavoured, bacteria-ridden lumps, and Crawford walking out the door, jacket pockets stuffed with the smelly stuff. To be taken home, stuck in the fridge, then pulled out whenever there was a need to spruce up the taste of a soup or a stew or a white sauce. There was no end to the number of dishes that could be enhanced by one those wee fellas.
And that's what I still miss about work.
"Don't you miss work?"
A common enough question aimed at retirees. And you'll usually get certain set answers, such as...
"The people."
"The mental challenge."
"The sense of purpose."
"Bugger all."
And I'm in that last camp. By the time I'd left things were generally so miserable/unpleasant the only sense of mental challenge was maintaining some sense of equilibrium, and any sense of purpose, other than getting the hell out, had long since departed. My greatest joy was being able to send out, to multiple recipients (almost everyone I knew in the office) a very, very long email slagging off everything about the place. Childish perhaps, but I received several plaudits for it afterwards so totally, completely, utterly worth the effort.
As for "The people"... that's the really common one, isn't it? But it's not that difficult to stay in touch with the few people you actually liked. (Well, it is if you're as shit a friend as me, but that's not everybody, is it?) What they really mean is that they miss the sense of belonging, the casual acceptance of their presence as part of the furniture, the bored welcomes every morning and half hearted "see you tomorrow"s of people who don't really want to be there at all. Like a mildly less alcoholic version of Cheers, "where everybody knows your name", but without the visual attractions of Ted Danson/Shelley long (delete according to preference).
And, to my surprise, I've replaced that part of it with my voluntary work, where I can walk into the office and everyone says Hi. And it's only taken four years.
But I lied when I said I was in the "Bugger all" camp. There is one thing I still miss. When we had all-day meetings, or outside visitors coming to see us, there'd be an order placed with the canteen for one of their buffet lunches. There were three levels of what they laughingly referred to as 'menus', going up in price and, at least theoretically, in quality. Levels two and three included dessert. Which was fruit, and cheese and biscuits. And the latter, despite their sense of artificial reality, were really popular. There would be four kinds of biscuit. Something that seemed almost, but not quite, like Tuc; a water biscuit; a digestive; and those brown ones with crinkly edges that look and taste like salted toasted cardboard.
Then there were the cheeses, all tiny portions individually wrapped in hard-to-get-into plastic. They were religious, because the were the baby cheeses. (Sorry....) There was a triangle of something soft, vaguely Brie-ish. (All of them were a bit like the first kind of biscuit - almost, but not quite, something you actually recognised.) There was a wee tombstone of something cheddary. And little blue streaked cubes of varicose vein cheese.
Most of that lot went quickly. Except for those cubes. Who wants blue cheese for lunch? But that din't stop the canteen sending them in. Every time. This meant that, come the end of the meeting, there's a pile of unwanted, strongly flavoured, bacteria-ridden lumps, and Crawford walking out the door, jacket pockets stuffed with the smelly stuff. To be taken home, stuck in the fridge, then pulled out whenever there was a need to spruce up the taste of a soup or a stew or a white sauce. There was no end to the number of dishes that could be enhanced by one those wee fellas.
And that's what I still miss about work.
Wednesday, 4 March 2020
Going for a song
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.
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.
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.
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