Through fiction to reality

 

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF LUIGI ALFREDO

Night Train to Lisbon, by Pascal Mercier, is one of my favourite books. Some time after I first read it we booked a holiday in the Portuguese capital, which prompted a reread and a list of locations mentioned. As part of our trip I made a point of seeking out some of these, and felt a sense of physical connection to the central characters of the novel, a way of making their thoughts a little more real.

Tomorrow morning (at some disgustingly early hour...) we head off to Naples for the first time. The choice of destination was arrived at through various factors to do with price and convenience, and to go somewhere we hadn't been before. It was a late decision, a sudden urge to go somewhere different, and the booking was only made on the 17th of this month. Three days before that we had watched the first episode of an Italian TV detective series, Inspector Ricciardi (Il Commissario Ricciardi in the original), and found it interesting. On the 17th we watched the second installment, having booked our holiday, and only then twigged the connection - the series is set in the city we were heading for, albeit in a 1930s scenario.

Since when we have watched an episode every evening, viewing the finale last night (there are fourteen episodes, of around two hours each, spread across three series). Those daily visits to that (fascist dominated) world gained added interest from knowing that we would soon be walking along the modern version of those scenes. (The series was largely filmed in the city itself.) By the end of our viewing we had formed emotional attachments to several of the characters, and here is an opportunity to keep them going. So a part of our thinking now includes taking in some of those sights which cropped up in the drama (our hotel is, coincidentally, located on a street that gets several mentions) and seek out that same sense of connection mentioned above. The streets of Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi. But without the shadow of Mussolini's thugs...

On being different

 

PEOPLE LIKE WEIRD

I was wearing this tee shirt a couple of days ago. Most days I have some kind of logo or wording on my chest and nobody says anything. So what it it about "Stay Weird" that draws comments?   Twice I had someone say how much they liked it, and this has happened a few times before. No other shirt I wear garners the same level of reaction.

People like weird. We all crave difference, to some degree or other. Something that takes us out of the normal routine same old places, same old thinking. It can be a small change, like a new recipe, or something bigger, like exploring a new city. But how weird do you want it to be?

The Thesaurus offers up these alternative synonyms for Weird. Lots to choose from. And the truth is that one person's normal is another's weird. Your personal 'weird' is very much a contextual concept, deriving from your own experiences of growing up and the life you've found yourself living. So maybe that's why people like the shirt. They can see their own 'weird' in it, without any explanation required. We all have a part of ourselves that likes the idea of being a bit weird, having some part of us that is different to others. It might be wearing colourful socks. It might be going out dressed as a character from fantasy fiction. But all that matters is the feeling that it's your own little individual quirk, one of the things that makes you unique. So be your own weird.

Who put the lights out?

 

SKY DRAMA

No, not the TV people, but that thing up above that's been bright blue for a few days. And the big yellow shiny thing, purveyor of heat and light. Scotland melting. Gingers hiding in basements. Taps aff and lobster skin. Ice cream sales rocketing. Tempers faltering. Who needs the Med?

And then last night. Bedroom lit by flashes, resounding to rumbles, from that self-same sky. Sitting at my desk this morning, straining to see the words on the page in front of me, realising that the only way I could see the keyboard was from the light of the screen. This at 08.30.

Two hours further on now, the light has returned, there are blue patches in the clouds above. The internet full of videos of the storm, the neon jolts flashing above Arthur's Seat. Now just memories.

Nature provides us with drama. I just wish humankind wasn't doing it's worst to up the melodrama...

(Photo nicked from Reddit, but credited as being from last night.)

They 'know', do they?

 

ADDICTIONS

Addicts are manipulative. Often cunning, their desperation not to be 'found out' leads them into behaviour designed to hide their addiction from others, especially those closest to them. Be it drugs, alcohol, gambling or whatever, the stories of partners and spouses who have been the subjects of long term deception by the person they live with are countless. While this article is primarily about addicts of substance abuse, much of it applies to other addictions too.

This BBC post gives information about the items Peter Murrell purchased through his embezzlement of SNP party funds. Do you notice a pattern, a rationale behind the list? A sense of purpose? Some way of improving the person's life in the long term? Because I can't. The list provides no rational motivation. Unless. You see it as addiction. Shopping addiction. Trying to live a pretend life. Then you can see some reason for it all.

And why, as an addict, he could be so good at concealing what he was up to. There was a multi year, multi million pound police investigation, which found evidence that Murrell (and only Murrell) had been involved in the deception. But the allegations are still rife that others, especially his wife Nicola Sturgeon, must have been involved. Refer back to my opening paragraph...

Of course the allegations are largely politically motivated, or coming from those, like Joanna Cherry, who have a grudge to exercise. The loudest voices are from the far right, but it's noticeable that the fascists of Deform are also the first to shout down talk of investigations into the financing of all parties. Hmm, their proven links to Putin couldn't have anything to do with that, could they?

The accusers tell the world that they 'know' Sturgeon is guilty. And probably John Swinney too. If I think I know something it's usually because I have some evidence of it being true, so have these people been guilty of withholding evidence from a major police investigation? Or is 'know' shorthand for 'wish it was true that'? Because if wishes made things true mine would mean we didn't have seventeen fascists sitting in our national parliament. But there they are, including the grubby Thomas Kerr, and their presence and constant hate speech made the recent racist knife attack here seem somehow inevitable. This is what fascism brings. Along with a total disdain and lack of understanding of mental illnesses, like addiction...

The Crackerjack connection

 

THE MIND MOVES IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS... THEN FORGETS ALL ABOUT IT

My brain made a random (and initially incorrect) connection yesterday. It was 10 o'clock, precisely. On a Friday. Suddenly the jump was made. It's Friday, it's 5 o'clock, it's Crackerjack. Why? I've no idea, as this was something I hadn't thought about in decades.

For those not in the know, Crackerjack was a children's TV programme. A variety show with comedy, sketches, music, and quizzes where kids from the audience took part. My incorrect link was that the time would have been 5 to 5, and not 5 itself. But, at that moment, the only other thing that came to mind were the names of 2 of the presenters, who ran the show during the period of my childhood, the sixties, when I would have been watching - Leslie Crowther and Peter Glaze. Beyond that I recalled nothing of the detail of the format or content.

I mentioned this sudden memory to Barbara and she was off... so many other details, other people who appeared. She remembered the cabbages, which kids who answered questions wrongly had to hold. How could I forget that? But it's a blank. Even reading the Wikipedia entry for the programme didn't jolt any real memories, other than knowing it was one of those shows I tried not to miss when I was a wee kid. So how come she remembers this stuff, and I don't?

This has come up before, that she has so many detailed memories of growing up, whilst much of mine is fuzzy, uncertain of periods and places, full of inaccuracies and doubt. She says she can recall something that happened when she was 3. I might have some early memories, but I think most are actually suggestions, stories I've been told later. My first real memory, I can place reasonably accurately, was around the time I turned 5, when I fractured my left wrist.

This has happened to me elsewhere, that realisation that others have far greater clarity about their early years than I do. A decade and more ago someone organised a reunion of our primary school class, so ages 5 to 11. I recalled most names and some faces of my classmates. I could remember the school itself, and that for our final year we moved to a new building. I could just about recall a couple of the teachers. But that was it. Yet so many there brought up arcane details of teachers and their habits, games played, lessons taken, projects we did. I sat back and listened and none of it really registered, or parked genuine memories. One of the guys had become a music teacher at the secondary school I had switched to, and asked me to sing the school song. While I didn't even know there was a song... So the memory fog continued into my teenage years.

Is this common, or am I the odd one out here? Do most people have these detailed memories of growing up, that I seem to lack? And if so, where lies the source of my failings? Is it being an only child, meaning I never had anyone to discuss stuff with? There weren't really any close friends either. Do shared memories survive better than those experienced alone? Does discussion implant the image in the brain?

I don't find any of this disturbing. It doesn't make me sad, just curious. It's too late to ask anyone, so I'm happy in my ignorance. The only person I know from those times I met at school at age 14, and we didn't really become close friends until we were adults. So there's only a bit of shared school stuff there, nothing really wider.

Maybe I don't have sufficient curiosity in my nature? Or I lack the necessary sentimentality? Does it matter? There were events in my past that shaped me, even if I can't dredge them up now. It's all in the past. But I do remember that Leslie and Peter made me laugh.

That's another rotation done

THREE SCORE YEARS AND TEN

Warning - I am uncertain as to how well this post will be able to bear the weight of its own irony.

I am seventy today, hence the title. Does this mean anything? We tell ourselves it does. Us human love numbers, love trying to give significance to them. But what does 'seventy' mean? It's a measure of the number of rotations around our sun that this planet has made since I began breathing. In what possible way is that significant?

We love those rotations, don't we?  Us humans attach a lot of importance to anniversaries of events.  Even if they are just those rotations mentioned above, and, in universal terms, utterly insignificant.  But we crave meaning.  We look for significance.  We feel a need to justify our existence, for there to be 'purpose' in something.  It's the origin of all religions, many philosophies, even the selfie culture.  Trying to feel like there is a point to it all.  And, as we get older, birthdays take on new meanings, the recognition that not only has another year passed, but we are nearer to our own end.

That's not being negative, but realistic.  Our bodies let us know this.  I think I first became aware of my diminishing physical abilities in my early fifties, when I realised that people were passing me.  For most of my life, when I was on my own and walking, I would usually be the fastest, simply because that's how I walked.  Seeing myself being passed, or unable to keep up, was a window into the future.

So my body is on the downward slope, but I have no idea how steep it is going to be, or when it might suddenly fall away.  But I will still keep on looking for meaning, like everyone else, for some sense that this life I lead is in some ways useful to others.   It's one of the things that keeps us going.

What does this tell us about ourselves?  Maybe that, deep down, we recognise that insignificance in an infinite universe, and much of our lives are spent trying to counterbalance that.  In whatever ways work for us.  We need stories about the human condition, we need takes that fire our imagination.  But do we really still need to try and believe in the sky fairies?  

If I see meaning in life it's in my relationships with other humans (any cats of course).  It's trying to be a decent person, and not hurt others, not discriminate on the basis of who someone is, rather than what they say.  We are really nothing more than animated bags of atoms, but we can seem like more to others.  

So does turning seventy even matter?  (And what does 'matter' mean...?!)  No and Yes. 

No, because the ageing process isn't simply about numbers.  It's about attitude, about taking an interest, about still being a part of the society you live in.  A good retirement is as much about temperament as it is about the body.  Maybe more so. It's a freedom from the regimen of work.  I am content with my life.  I have, I feel, understood that 'enough' is an important word in my vocabulary, a word that can embody a concept for living by.  My life is more malleable, and open to personal whim, than when I was younger.  My real age isn't the number, it's what I feel on any particular day.

And Yes.  There are also some useful and/or inescapable aspects that come with the number.  In practical terms it can be cheaper to be older. My Edinburgh Rugby season ticket is cheaper, as are tickets to many cultural events.  Then there's the "age card", which is easier to play each year. If there's some physical activity to be done I can safely excuse myself and leave it to the Young Uns (my days of actually bending down to pick up soft toys in our hockey team's annual Teddy Toss are behind me).  Finally, there is, like it or not, a cultural significance.  The point of my title above.  People who know your age see you as that age, whatever that means to them. To which I say "Fuck it" - I'll be as old as my body and mind allow me feel, adapted to suit whatever favours me in the circumstances. I'm seventy now - so what?"

Who do we think we are?

 

WHO IS THE YOO KAY?

Belgium. France. Spain. Portugal. Ireland. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Spot the odd one out. OK, I may have exaggerated for comic effect, but it is a weird name. And a weird state that has, and always has had, a serious identity crisis.

I lived in England for 35 years. Early on in my residency I gave up trying to correct locals in their usage of words to describe their own country. England seemed to suffice for many to cover England itself, Britain, Great Britain, and the UK. Some even appeared to scoop up the whole of the island of Ireland into their terminology. Ofter the four in my list were exchanged randomly, without thought. This is not something that happens in the other countries that make up the UK, where our sense of national identity is stronger. (Well, unionists in Northern Ireland are a pretty confused bunch sometimes...)

This identity confusion is continued in the media. If a UK newsreader talks about 'the largest city on the northeast' we all know where they are referring to. And it isn't Aberdeen. They frequently talk about 'UK politics' and then it's clear their subject is only England.

But if you want to see real confusion then have a look at the UK in international sport, which proves, maybe more than anything else, what an anomalous state this place is in global terms.  In sport is the UK ever 'The UK'?  I can't think of an example where it is.  In the Olympics, and a few sports like ice hockey, there is a 'Team GB', even though it is supposed to include Northern Ireland.  But in most international cometitions 'the UK' doesn't exist.  It's the national teams that play.  England.  Scotland.  Wales.  Sometimes Northern Ireland.  Is there any other state on the planet that does this?  And in one major international sport, one element of the UK's territory plays as part of the national team of the neighbouring state.  (Ireland plays rugby union as a complete nation, including the still-occupied territory in the north east of the country..)  That is an anomaly...

And now, for the first time, the UK will have First Ministers in two of the nations who want to take their country out of the UK, and another who favours reunification with the rest of their nation.  While the largest nation appears to be heading in a very different political direction.

It's easy to conclude that the UK is a bit of a mess, a place of uncertainty and confusion. But also that my title question was the wrong one. Maybe we should be asking - Why is the UK? (And for how much longer...)

It might not be wisdom, but here's a few thoughts

Some thoughts that keep buzzing around my head, and felt a need to be released…

Being, or wanting to be, a billionaire is a mental illness. I mean seriously… why? How deep is your sense of inadequacy? And why are you inflicting it on the world?

And related to that…

We need to make a lot more use of the word ‘enough’, and the concept it embodies. Do you know when you’ve had enough? Do you know when you’ve done enough? Do you know when you’ve got enough. It’s an imperfect world filled with imperfect people. Understand what’s important and necessary is one key to a contented life, and surely enough is… well, enough. Isn’t it?

The right bang on about rewarding ‘wealth creators’, and I couldn’t agree more. Where we disagree is on who those people are. The true wealth of a country lies in it's people, not an accumulation of money (which is, after all, merely conceptual). Our real wealth comes from learning, and teachers are the true wealth creators, to be rewarded as such. Oh, and the myth of the ‘self made man’ is just that – a myth. We are all interdependent. (Ditto the ‘alpha male’…)

The right bang on about immigrants and poor people as if they were your enemy.  But they're us.  Whereas the scumbags and companies that don't pay their due taxes... yeah, they're the real enemy.

The right bang on about the Starmer government being left wing, or 'socialist', or even 'marxist'. Would this be the same Starmer who purged most of the decent left wingers and socialists from this supposedly socialist part?  (And as for Marxist...🤣🤣)  The last time the UK had a government that could be seen as left wing was the 70s.  It's been downhill since then.

Never be afraid to use the F word when it's the right one to use.  Deform and other far right groups are Fascists.  Use the word, own it, and use this list from the great Umberto Eco to prove it.

I was chatting to a young person on social media and they asked me if, from my great age and experience, I had any wisdom to pass on. At first I thought “no, the best learning is your own experience”, and wasn’t going to say anything. But then I realised that maybe I did have something to pass on, in 2 parts :

First, learn to ask the right questions. They aren’t usually the ones that politicians, the media and advertisers want you to ask. So maybe don’t ask how to stop ‘the small boats’, but why these poor, desperate people are having to take that route? What are the barriers, where is their motivation? It’s not what Niggle Fuhrage and the Daily Fail tries to con you into believing…

Second, look after your knees. That’s the big one!

How did the US elect a moron to be president? Dubya now looks like a towering statesman in comparison. And if you doubt the ‘moron’ tag… try drinking some bleach.

And related to that…

Janey was 100% right (and fat ol' Donnie doesn’t understand how percentages work).

Anyone want to agree or disagree?  What would you add to that list?

The smile remains

 

IF CARLSBERG DID SATURDAYS...

I woke up smiling this morning. Not for the reasons you might think, if you're have a sordid turn of mind. No, this was a memory, a very recent memory, but one that has had me grinning every day since when I remember the perfect storm that came my way. Saturday 7 March 2026 was a good one.

On Friday I'd given Daffy a good clean in preparation for her big day out, and the chance to meet some of her family. On Saturday morning she emerged into the sunshine, the roof was flipped back, and we made our way across the city to the southern reaches. Swanston golf club. There to join the line up above. 14 2CV cars, and one van. In the (almost) 2 years we've had her she's only once encountered a familiar, and that very briefly. And here she was in a convoy of these weird little upturned prams, making our way down into the city centre, and across to Murrayfield. To be cheerfully received by the crowds making their way to the stadium, especially the French amongst them. Cheers, shouts, smiles, laughs and thumbs up came our way. Fun for us, fun for them.

If that had been the end of the day it would still have been memorable. But at home we sat and watched the match they'd all been walking towards, and an unexpected thriller it was. Scotland taking apart the championship favourites in stylish fashion, running in 7 tries against one of the world's best defences, making the world's greatest #9 look ordinary on the day. Elation.

Not finished yet. After eating, Daffy took us back to Murrayfield, and we went into the rink this time. Caps were playing Kirkcaldy Kestrels, our big local rivals. A 5-1 win was a good way to end the day. But with the added frisson that this leaves us needing just 1 point from our final 3 games, which would make us league champions. A special feeling, after 3 years of finishing in second. The title could (should?) be ours on the twenty first of this month.

3 special moments in one day. No wonder I'm still smiling. And yet I haven't mentioned the little cherry on top. Checking social media and seeing the Six Nations result in Rome. OK, a little schadenfreude isn't always something to be proud of, but... who can resist a wee grin when they hear the English have lost 3 in a row? Not me.

You don't get many days like that. ☺️

An unexpected discovery

 

SERENDIPITY ON A PLATE

We rarely have need to go to the Morningside area, way out on the south side of the city. It was somewhere I went several times in my old volunteer role, but there's not been much reason recently. However there was a hospital visit out that way this morning, and once it was over and done with we sought out a suitable replenishment hole.

The first couple of cafes we passed were rejected. One too busy, the other with uncomfortable looking seats (heh, these things matter at our age!). And we found one we'd not seen before. Narrow frontage, but going a long way back. Fresh and bright interior, cakes that looked top class, and the seats were OK too. A more extensive, and imaginative, menu than most others too

A friendly welcome inside, a glass of water served up as we checked out that menu. I went savoury, Barbara sweet. The coffees were good as we waited for our meals to be cooked. When they arrived the presentation definitely had impact. You can see mine above - colourful, artfully arranged. Barbara's pancake stack came topped with with an upside down cone, complete with ice cream inside (Luca's ice cream, the owner wanted to make clear - if you're Edinburgh you'll know why). Both plates tasted as good as they looked. OK, the cost was a bit above most cafe meals, but the quality was way way up too.

To the extent that if we don't have excuses to got to that part of the world then Fourdish itself (for such is the name) might be reason enough. For us it's easy to get to - only 35 minutes on a bus that passes five minutes walk from our door - and there are always some shops to have a look into out that way. Or maybe a trip to the Dominion cinema.

Some days life can bite back, on other it hands you an unexpected gift. Today definitely fell into the latter category. Not just a nice cafe, but a great pleasure.