Slow Sunday

 

I AM HELD TOGETHER WITH STICKY TAPE AND STRING

Or so it seems to me.

Have you ever had one of those nights? You're so tired that it almost feels like it will be hard work both getting to sleep and staying awake. You put the light out early (which, for me nowadays, means any time before midnight...) and soon consciousness evaporates. Until the bladder determines otherwise.

So it says 5 something on the clock and I shufflestumble to the loo and back again and close the eyes that never really opened and... Nothing. Or rather something, which is worse than nothing. Something and nothing, anything but where you want to go. Treacherous mind, betraying the desire for more of the oblivion you are looking for. It rambles and roams and won't settle to a purpose.

I pick up my phone. Knowing this is rarely a sound tactic. But a game of sudoku may give that focus, may lead on to the nothing I want. My screen is set to grayscale at night for this purpose, in the hope of minimising the intrusive light. I play the game, I reach an end. The mind feels quieted. Yet still I lie there. Still no void. A squint at thee clock shows 6 something.

And then it doesn't. Sleep returns, but fools me. When I look at the clock the 6 has stood on it's head. 9? It can't be a 9. It is a nine. 6 to 9. 69. My mind leads me there but can't raise the merest hint of a smirk. Even my puerility is dormant. The brain is awake and not awake. The body has no urge to cooperate. The will towards full awakening has found itself mired in glutinous resistance.

And when I do finally find the will to push back the duvet, heave the legs over the edge, bring some semblance of uprightness to my being, it is with the greatest reluctance, with a heavy force of resistancee to overcome. And nothing feels right. I am a makeshift man.

It was one of those nights. It is going to be one of those days. Do not disturb.

The right move

 

BACK AGAIN

Last year we had a brief time in Southport, where I lived for 25 years, and I posted about the signs of decline I saw. Recently we returned. For 2 nights this time, with the opportunity to talk to people we knew, to look around the town a bit, and get a better picture of how things are going.

We were there for a funeral. A sad/happy occasion, but also one that gave a chance to talk to people about the changes that we could see. There was also time to go for dinner at the home of old friends, and to have one of the best Indian meals we've tasted. It helped that the weather was excellent all the time we were there.

Our hotel was on the Prom. (If you don't know the town, that's quite some distance from the beach!) Approaching our hotel the first shock was seeing that Southport Theatre had been demolished, only an empty site remaining. We later learned it had been gone for 3 or 4 years, and all plans to replace had as yet come to nothing. We also found out that the pier had been closed for several years as well. When we lived in Southport I can remember it being shut, and in a poor state for many years, but a major refurb got it back open, complete with it's own little tram line and a cafe/visitor centre at the far end. It had become a pleasant place for a walk.

On our first day we walked to our friends' place. 7pm on a perfect evening. Blue sky, cool breeze, in a seaside holiday town, passing one of the focal points for tourists. So where was everyone? It was almost completely deserted. That would never have been the case when this was still home for us. Lord Street (the main street) wasn't much better. It was pleasantly peaceful, but that's not a positive sign in a town that relies heavily on income from visitors.

The following day, after the funeral, we got talking to old colleagues, who confirmed that the town was getting quieter, and little seemed to be being done to change that. Although I did later see that work on the pier was ongoing now. More concerning is that Smedley Hydro, the office where we both used to work and the town's largest employer for more than 75 years, will close in 2030. We had heard about this, but it was still a surprise that nobody knew what future plans for the site would be, and that there seemed to be no great efforts being made to bring new employment in.

Yet Southport remains an attractive seaside town, with flowers prominent in the centre (see above).  And there were visible efforts to make the place look good, although some of that may have been motivated by the imminence of the Open at Birkdale.  And Liverpool is a thriving city, nly a short train ride away.  I could still imagine us living there.  But I'd miss the festivals too much.  And the hockey.  And the rugby...  Edinburgh it still is then.

Oh yes, that Indian.  Wonderful.  So if you ever are visiting Southport, and fancy a decent bit of spice, try Kalash.

The reality of the fiction

 

LUIGI'S COFFEE

In my previous post I talked about looking in Naples for sites linked to the TV crime drama series we'd been watching, Inspector Ricciardi. On the first night we wandered down to the coast, and saw several of the places we'd seen mention of.

The shot above isn't an exact match for that used in that post from a from last month, but it's roughly the same location. There were too many tourists about (including us!) to get the perfect copy. We also saw the Teatro di San Carlo, the opera house shown in the other photo used there. But we didn't go inside, and the exterior is not so photogenic. There were several other locations too, but there's just one I want to talk about.

I'm not sure if it was in every episode, but it was in most. The Gran Caffè Gambrinus was a regular meeting place for the Inspector and his colleagues and acquaintances. An elegant mid 19th century coffee house, which was frequented, on the screen, by the city's wealthier citizens. It's still very much there, still elegant, even if the clientele is often less so (including us!).

The interior is beautiful, the staff smartly dressed and attentive. It feels like a place where the prices wouldbe, should be, high. So it was a surprise to see how reasonable the dishes we selected for lunch were. I had the special salad, and it lived up to the name. Varied leaves, tuna, 2 different kinds of tomato, avocado, olives, sweetcorn, tuna, mozzarella. All for €13. ( Restaurant prices generally were surprisingly reasonable in such a tourist oriented city as Naples.) If there was a sting it was for the coffees - €6 for my decaf espresso, and a steep €8 for Barbara's macchiato. The Inspector was independently wealthy!

Yet entirely worth it for the experience. And a chat with our waiter about the impact Ricciardi had on the cafe itself, both in terms of the filming, and of the resultant surge in interest. We were glad we had gone, and grateful to the series, without which we might not have bothered.

TV dramas are unreliable guides to unfamiliar places. I've seen Edinburgh's geography abused too many times on screen not to be aware of that! But they can give clues to interesting spots to visit, provide backdrops that give the visitor a sense of familiarity when they arrive. Definitely better without the blackshirts though.

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.

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?

Thirty Days in September

THE FINAL DAYS, THE FINAL THOUGHTS

Two more days to pick a Thing for, and a chance to think about what I've written over this series of posts.  Is there anything meaningful to be drawn from the process, either of myself or for others?  Well I can only speak for myself, so I leave the latter to you.

Monday 29 September.  The day passed with writing and reading and walking and shopping (only for food) and cleaning the flat.  No pilates again this week.  But the highlight came in the evening, going up into town and down into Waverely Station.  Barbara's return.  Good to have her back again.  I was never lonely while she was away, and we talked on video every day, but having her back is always an improvement.

Tuesday.  A day of the mostly mundane.  I picked up my big bag of prescription pills from the pharmacy.  We went out in the evening to a successful, but largely boring, AGM for the housing estate we live on.  So my 'Thing' for the day is a bit different, as it's about the future.  We had already planned to go down to Preston in November, because there is a Wallace and Gromit exhibition on, and we've always been fans of the plasticine pair.  The one night trip extended to two when we heard that an old friend's band is playing as a support act in Southport the night before we'd planned to go.  And that they were supporting an American duo I've become a fan of in recent years.  One of the best things in life is having things to look forward to...

So that was my month, or at least a few highlights from it.  A lot of the ordinary and mundane is missing.  The efforts to hit a decent step count each day. The regular visits to supermarkets (usually Lidl...), because we eat fresh fruit for breakfast each day and we're always running out of one or another berry or citrus or whatever.  The TV dramas we binge watch in the evenings.  And, since last Xmas, the shared fun of building Lego sets.

You hear of people feeling a bit lost when they retire.  The structure and routine that work provided is gone and they find that hard to replace.  Humans need some structure in life.  People like excitement and novelty, but also need a framework that provides reassurance and a sense of purpose.  My life now provides sufficient of that. Weekly classes and volunteering.  Seasonal entertainment and sport.  The festival month of August.  But also the additions to the routine, like trips away, cinema visits, outings in Daffy.  

It feels like I should end this series of posts with some kind of message, a life lesson or nugget of truth.  I'm not sure I really have one, or maybe I just scared of sounding pretentious.  But I'll have a go, and finish on that.

Contentment lies in the joys of small things.

Seven days in September (#4)

 WEEK 4

We've hit the final full week of  Things being done.  Is there any variety left?  Is anyone still following this?  Do I care...?

Monday 22 September.  I went to pilates alone, but made it up to Waverley in plenty time to wave goodbye to our guest.  After a trip to some shops it was time for a cake stop, this time in the Hopetown Coffee on Broughton Street.  A lovely and friendly not-for-profit place, with interesting artwork on the walls, and comfy seats.  Cake stops do seem to feature frequently in our days out...

Tuesday.  Today's short play was funny at times, but not one of the better ones in the series.  So for today's best 'Thing' I'm back to cake.  After some shopping we went into Princes Street Gardens and had our cakes sitting in the sun by the Ross Fountain.  In glorious sunshine.  Maybe the last opportunity to do so this year?

Wednesday.  Pilates was good, the toastie in Cafe Marmalade after that was tasty.  But the best bit was then going to see my befriendee, and having the weather and her health both be conducive to an outing.  We got her shopping, we went into a cafe, we had a laugh and a chat and I hope I brightened up her day a bit.

Thursday.  Haircut, film and pizza day.  I enjoy going to get my hair done.  For the past couple of years I've been having it done by Martin, a heavily tattooed Czech who, like me, has scoliosis, and (unlike me...?) is always great fun to chat with.  I always leave there feeling better.  The film was The Naked Gun, of which I was nervous as remakes of old classics are often poor, but this was a pretty well done homage.  And pizza because why not?

Friday. Left to my own devices again.  By 11 Barbara's train was pulling out of Waverley, heading south to see family and friends.  I had a long walk, went home, and the afternoon passed by without me feeling bored.  If only I knew what I'd been doing!  But the best bit of the day came later on, when I thought I'd give Daffy a run in the dark.  I put about 15 miles on her clock, and had a great time feeling one with my ancient machine on quiet roads.  And somebody saw her and smiled.

Saturday.  A few jobs done at home, rugby watched on the TV, and out to the rink in the evening.  For one of the more memorable Caps matches.  Playing our nearest rivals, Kirkcaldy Kestrels, this one could have gone either way.  We scored, they scored, we scored, they scored, etc.  You get the idea. We briefly had a 2 goal lead, but by the end it was 5-5.  Overtime up next, and nobody scored, although both goalies were busy.  Which meant penalties to decide the result, and for this one point in the weekend I was glad I was on my own.  Barbara is not temperamentally suited to watching shootouts without risk of coronary arrest! 😂  No goals in the first 4 rounds, despite a Kestrel waltzing smoothly round our keeper, Ben Keddie, to open up the net only to find a flying twisting Cap blocking the puck.  Possibly the most remarkable, and hard-to-believe save I've ever seen at Murrayfield.  And in round 5 Sean Cochrane allowed the crowd to breathe again when he slotted the puck in gloves-side, brought us to our feet and the volume to max.  6-5 and I drove Daffy home with a smile.

Sunday.  Walking and shopping and doing stuff on the PC and eating and watching a film on TV.  But the biggest smiles of the day were produced by sporting news from elsewhere.  Caps won again, this time beating the Kestrels 3-5 in their own rink.  And Europe retained the Ryder Cup.  While I don't take much interest in golf these days, hearing that they'd defeated an unsporting US team, and silenced a despicably Trumpian home crowd, sounds like the perfect outcome.

The final week done, two more days to write about, and some thoughts on my own month.  That's the next post.

Seven Days in September (#3)

WEEK 3 

Monday 15 September. We went to pilates, and I made a passable curry for dinner.  But my highlight was going to the Sicilian Pastry Shop for a couple of their strawberry tarts (the last 2 they had).  Delicious.  Oh, and we had The Plumber's Return.  Not a new job, but a continuation of the work I mentioned so many days before.  He left us with clouds of dust and a bit more done.

Tuesday.  Remember that plumber?  We ended the day with a new shower.  And a lot of mess, but the shower was done.  We went to another P&P&P at the Traverse.  And I wrapped some presents, because...  

Wednesday.  Barbara's birthday.  The usual pilates class, with an unusually giggly French woman on the mat next to me.  Dinner in Mowgli, delicious, but noisy.  However my highlight for the day was my wife's reaction to her main present, the Sherlock Holmes Book Nook Lego set.   We don't have to be grown ups  all the time, do we?

Thursday.  On this day I enjoyed the creativity of an Instagram post I put up.  But the main pleasure came from something more physical.  I do pilates to keep my wonky back in order, and part of that same regime is a monthly massage.  Not the incense and whale song kind, more the type that's only 2 steps removed from invoking the Geneva Convention.  Sometime painful, but worth it in the end.  For a long time I was manipulated by a young Irish woman, who gave great rugby craic, but she returned to Dublin and now I'm in the hands of a Pole.  No sport talk, but very entertaining, and I always leave having laughed, as well as having my muscles deknotted (a veeeeery tight left shoulder being the main culprit this time).

Friday.  Return to The Hive.  A double header of preseason matches for Edinburgh Rugby.  Good to be back shouting for the lads, good to be back chatting to my oldest friend, who I've known since I was 14 (I don't want to think how many years that is...).  Some rubbishy food in the break between games, a spectacular sunset sky, and a win to end it all.  I look forward to the season to come, as the point in time where all seems possible...

Saturday.  We met Barbara's daughter off the train at Waverley.  Nothing was planned for the rest of the day, so we ended up sat at the table putting bits of bricks together.  While the two women put a Lego kit together, I tried making one from a manufacturer called Cada.  And it was fun for all.  

Sunday.  While mother and daughter did their own thing, I did mine.  A bit of walking, a bit of writing, shared the blog post that described the first week in this wee series.  Dinner for 3 was in Cafe Andaluz in Stockbridge, and back home our visitor was introduced to the delights of Gary : Tank Commander (it's on iPlayer if you haven't discovered the daftness yet).  So a good day, topped by a discovery.  I'd never before seen or heard the collaboration between Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris from earlier this century, so playing footage of their concert was a huge pleasure.

And so endeth another week.  Is there a pattern here?  Is there some great secret of life?  Probably not...

Seven days in September (#2)

WEEK 2

The third in my series of six posts trying to give some idea of what this pensioner's life is like on a day to day basis.

Monday 8 September.  Back to pilates, followed by eating cake in the Leith sunshine.  That's a good day right there.  Even if the plumber didn't turn up...

Tuesday.  A Play, a Pie and a Pint is back at the Traverse, and this was the first of six we'll be going to see.  Wallace was a Scottish hip-hop musical, far removed from our usual fare, but hugely entertaining and leaving a lot room for thought about the myths we create as nations.  I also spent a couple of hours in the garage, giving Daffy a clean and a check over, ready for her outing later in the week.

Wednesday.  The pilates class was again enjoyable, and I even got a compliment from someone who had just joined and was impressed by how easy it looked for me (she's easily impressed... this is the beginners class!).  Then on to my voluntary role.  Earlier this year I became a volunteer befriender to a woman in a wheelchair, and we get along well.  Normally we'd go to a cafe, but she wasn't feeling up to it so we sat in her flat chatting and laughing.  

Thursday.  A Daffy the 2CV day.  And, in other news, our wedding anniversary.  A drive to the south west on the A701, a visit to the Gretna outlet village and a stay in the Star Hotel in Moffat - allegedly the narrowest detached hotel in the world.  Our room certainly went the full width, but it was a good size.  (A family room with a double and two singles, for reasons we didn't enquire about...)

Friday.  More Daffiness.  Good fun coaxing her up the steep bendy road away from Moffat, and taking photos of the spectacular scenery in that area.  NIce cafe stop in Biggar, then home through the rain.  We must do some more of those nights away.

Saturday.  Easy to choose which of this day's 3 Things was the one to remember.  Out to Murrayfield Ice Arena to see Caps play and win their first league match of the season, a 4-1 vicrtory over Solway.  More of the same please.

Sunday.  I know I should choose the video call with our old friends as the highlight of the day.  However Scotland played England in the quarter final of the RWC.  Clear underdogs, we were well beaten.  So where's the highlight?  With the clock in the red our women finally got over the line, a beautiful score from Rhona Lloyd.  Beaten yes, giving up never.

A week as atypical as week 1, in that this time there something going on every day, with a trip away trhown in.  Maybe there is no such thing as 'typical'?

Seven days in September (#1)

 WEEK 1

In my previous post I mentioned my habit of writing 3 Things that  made me smile every day, and that I'd follow on with further posts looking at each week in September, picking one of the 3 Things for each day of the week.  So this begins with the beginning., with an atypical week, as the pilates studio was closed.

Monday 1 September.  3 Things became 4, so it was a good day.  I could choose going to the cinema, but The Life of Chuck was disappointing, so I'm going with writing and posting a blog post.  About tourists.  It was fun to be writing something I was happy to share, which hasn't happened very much this year.

Tuesday.  Another 3 that became 4, another trip to the cinema.  The Roses was a lot of fun, but my highlight of the day was a very old-man kind of choice.  I've been having problems with my left leg, so I had an appointment with the physiotherapist at our GP practice.  She talked, examined, manipulated, and diagnosed.  I came away with some strengthening exercises to do each day, and a hope that maybe Kiltwalk might be possible again next year...?

Wednesday.  In the afternoon we sat down and worked together on the bookshop/cafe.  We got into building Lego models last Xmas, and it's something I'll post about in future, as it's become a really enjoyable joint hobby.  We hadn't had time to do some for a a few weeks, so it was good to be back.  This isn't actually a Lego set, being made by Lumibricks.  The same building materials, the same quality.  And, in several ways, seeming to be superior to the better known and more expensive brand.  But that's for a future post.  The best bit about it, as well as the feeling of creativity, is that we do it as a team.

Thursday.  Only one possible contender for today's highlight.  An early start saw us driving to the cancer clinic at the Western, where Barbara got another 'all clear' after her recent scan.  Four years since the op and all remains well.  What could possibly top that?  Although I will mention that the materials for our new shower arrived, as it will be of relevance in further posts...

Friday.  The shower materials had arrived, now we needed the plumber to do something.  So an early start for us to be ready for his arrival.  Then a wait.  And more of a wait.  Then wait more.  He turned up mid afternoon, ripped out the bath, then went again.  And that was that.  So it didn't make it's way into my 3 Things, and a lot of the day felt wasted.  Poor Barbara stayed in the whole time (I went out for some food shopping) so the highlight was a walk in the graveyard together (!).  Some may be aware we live above a cemetery, and in 2016 I published a blog dedicated to watching it change across the seasons.  It became a frequent exercise ground during covid times, a quiet green space that felt like an extension of home.  So it's always a pleasant place to be, despite the obvious connotations.

Saturday.  Winter is coming which means a return to watching sport.  This day gave me one match on TV, one live.  In the afternoon Scotland faced Canada in the Rugby World Cup, in the evening we were at the rink to see Edinburgh Capitals take on Sheffield Steeldogs.  Both 'my' teams lost, but weren't disgraced. Our women scored 3 tries against the number 2 team in the world.  The Caps,in a preseason game, gave a pro team a good competitive match, losing 2-5 to a couple of late goals.  Scotland are through to the quarter finals for the first time in a couple of decades, Caps have faced a team with far more speed and skill that any they'll meet in their league or cup campaigns, so both count as big pluses.

Sunday.  Another trip to the rink to see the same match up as the day before, but with a 'slightly' different outcome.  Exhausted by their efforts of the day before, they were unable to cope with a vastly superior side and lost 2-14.  So my choice for the day is a bit of creativity.  I enjoy posting my photos on Instagram.  Hardly anyone sees them, but that's not the point.  I put up some more pics of our trip to Brussels last month.

Conclusion - ?  I'm not sure there is one.  Each day is different, each day throws up something that's enjoyable, sometimes planned, sometimes surprising.  Another week to follow soon.  And I will leave any verdict to the final post.