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.

When is a dream not a dream?

 

THE DREAMS THAT REMAIN

This morning I saw a writing prompt that asked about the link between dreams and memories. I certainly don't know the scientific answer to that, but it is clear that the two can be linked. Some dreams remain with us for many years, some have dream status placed upon them, because they lie in the strange zone of mystery, where dream, imagination and reality get so jumbled up they are impossible to disentangle.

That led me to recall two childhood dream memories. The first clearly a dream, a weird little movie clip that I woke with one morning, and has always lingered on the edge of consciousness. But the second... that's in that mystery zone I mentioned, where I am uncertain of its real status, and will never know.

I grew up, an only child with my parents, in a small mid-terrace 1950s villa. The dream I remember probably emerged when I was about eight. But it could have been anytime in the following four years I guess. The house had somehow become detached from its neighbours, and plonked on a beach on a tropical island. There were palm trees, waves and sand. We were under attack. From 'natives'. (UK school education in the 60s still carried a strong whiff of imperialism, so this word came as a generic term that wasn't then as questionable as it would be today.) We had barricaded the windows in my parents' bedroom, and were firing back at our attackers. The one detail that stands out is that the wallpaper was the original decor, red with white stars, that had been replaced some years before the dream took place.

That's it. I recall no more, if there was anything to recall. I have no idea about the possible psychological significance, or the factors that fed into creating this brief scenario. Although I did read a lot of "boy's own" type stories in books and comics, so that is likely source material. But why should that odd dream, of all those I must have had, still be with me six decades later? What was so powerful about that particular sequence, other than I think I awoke feeling frightened? The questions remain unanswered.

My second 'memory' is from my teenage years. In the same home as above. It's the wee small hours, say 4am. I've been lying awake. Get up, go to the bathroom, open the cabinet on the wall. Stare at the contents. I have not turned the light on, but there is sufficient illumination from the window to allow me to read the labels (oh for such young and perfect eyesight once more...). I place the jars containing tablets and medicines on to a flat surface. I stare at them for a long time. I contemplate taking them all. But then, eventually, after who-knows-how-long, I put them back. One by one, into the places whence they came. The cupboard door is closed, and I return to my bed.

Dream? Story? Reality? To this day I cannot answer that honestly, because I don't know if it 'happened' or not. It's a 'memory' for sure, but an unreliable one. And doesn't every teenager dream of their own death at some point, be it an accident or by intent? So did it 'happen' because it's a memory, or a dream, or a story, and that's all it needs it to be? Do you have these tales that could be any of the above? That are woven in to your life fabric and that's all you really need to know about them? Because who cares if this is 'real' or 'dream' or something even more nebulous? It's a part of me, of my history, a memory of a thing that may or may not have happened or been dreamt or imagined, and that no longer matters in any real sense.

We are our memories, our dreams, our past both real and imagined. The trick is to accept them all and let them be a part of who you are, the stock cube in your stew of life.

One final thought. We have friends coming to stay with us next week, and I have been thinking through what I might cook for them on their first night here. This morning, the morning when the dream-related prompt presented itself to me, I woke from a dream of cooking that meal. It was all there - shopping list, ingredients, method. And I typed that up when I came to my desk, not wanting to waste that valuable timesaver my subconscious had gifted me. Will it be any good? I'll let you know next week.

Shifting Sands

 SLIDING SCALES

I lived in Southport for twenty five years. There was a spell, during that period, when we'd be in Preston every third of fourth Saturday. There was a good, if old fashioned, indoor market, with a great variety of food stalls. We got to know the centre fairly well. It had a nice solid working class feel to it, very different to the middle class pretensions of it's slightly twee neighbour a few miles down the coast. Not that Southport was a bad place to live, it just had a very different vibe.

I moved back to Edinburgh over eleven years ago. Since when I have returned to Southport a few times, but never to Preston (other than the train station ). So when we saw there was a Wallace and Gromit exhibition on in the town ( now officially a city) it was an opportunity to revisit and see what had changed in the last decade. We also heard that a friend's band was playing in Southport the night before we planned to go down. A quick check showed they were the support to one of our favourite US duos (Alice Howe and Freebo), so the overnight trip became a "two centre holiday" - a night in Southport, another in Preston!

I'd been told that Southport had been in decline, but what I saw of the centre (we were there for less than 24 hours) was still saddening. A once busy arcade, with several interesting shops, cafes, bars, now feeling like it's haunted, with a few ghostly remnants clinging on.  The beautiful Victorian canopies of Lord Street in disrepair and shop fronts defaced with gaudy tat.  A sense of loss.  Of course it's not all bad, but it's when you return after a long period that you see what a huge difference time has made to a place.  

Then there was Preston, which I'd not seen in over a decade.  Busy streets, very few empty shops, a sense of purpose.  Still feeling like a working class town, which was always a refreshing contrast to the faux-poshness of Southport.  Culturally refreshed, with a revamped gallery (where W&G were starring), new artwork in the streets, and an excellent indoor food market.  There was a confidence to Preston that wasn't there before.  (And yes, this is from a superficial impression, but it felt real enough.)

So what does this tell me?  Another reminder that change happens.  Constantly.  We all know that, and yet it stll comes as a shock to be reminded so visually.   Fortunes shift.  While differing local government policies will have played their role in the decline and rise mentioned, there will also be external factors.  Southport grew up in the 19th century as a pleasant seaside resort for the well to do of Liverpool and Manchester.  It's perhaps no coincidence that both those metropolises have turned themselves around in recent years, with both, especially Liverpool, now major tourist atractions in their own right.  Swings and roundabouts.  If I manage to return a decade from now (if I'm still capable!), I wonder if the town will have gone up or down?