Walking, advocacy and kilts 4

THIS WEEK I HAVE BEEN MOSTLY LEARNING...

Always good to get a different view of the familiar.  In the past I have walked along short stretches of the Union Canal, but never gone very far.  A waterway that starts near the heart of the city and carves out a route through familiar territory, but seen from a very different angle.  Given that it's obviously going to be hill free as well this seemed a perfect opportunity to do one of my practice walks away from my usual beaten tracks.

A bus to Fountainbridge and the swans at Edinburgh Quay to send me off in the right direction.

Plenty to see as I head off.

Plenty to see as I walk along.

It's always interesting to get a new angle on familiar places because suddenly they become almost-but-not-quite new and strange, almost, but not quite, like a sensation of deja vu.  But eventually the route leaves the vaguely familiar, crosses over the M8, and spears on through the greenery.  the signposts had indicated that if I walked to Ratho that would be around the eight mile distance I was targeting.  And I knew exactly where Ratho was, having passed it many times on the A8 Glasgow Road.  Didn't I?

The first doubt started to form in my head when, through the trees to my right, I glimpsed the airport.  It did seem to be a bit further off than I'd have expected if I was on the way to where the map in my head told me I was.  But maybe things came together a bit further on...

So off I came at the village of Ratho, climbing up to this bridge and turning northwards. 

We all know the pathetic old joke about 'assume' used on a million mundane management training courses.  That doesn't mean we heed the advice it's meant to hammer into us.  A signpost swiftly assured me that I'd assumed a bit too far.  While the name 'Ratho' was indeed familiar to me, it should have been accompanied by the word 'Station'.  Ratho Station is the village on the A8 I had been heading towards in my mind.  Ratho is where I ended up, over a mile to the south and over the hill.  Which is how I felt as I trudged up and down and on to the busy main road.  But at least the route provided me with some entertainment.

Villagers have a bit of a reputation for not being overly communicative with outsiders.  But this sign seemed to be taking it a bit far.

And a few hundred metres later...

These country folk don't like giving much away, do they?

In the end I walked a bit over ten miles, completing my hike at Ingliston tram stop.  So this was a welcome sight.

As ever the best bit was the hot bath when I got home.  Nothing to write about regarding my Advocard work this week, but I expect to be back in 'action' soon enough.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 3

WHY DO WE HUMILIATE PEOPLE LIKE THIS?

Another walk a few days ago, when it was still hot and sunny and you could see across to Fife (unlike this morning when it had vanished into the mists like Brigadoon).  The same route as last week, and this time I felt I put in a bit more effort, gave up less time to taking pics along the way.  So it was  a bit of a downer to find I'd only knocked a minute off my previous time.  The old body has a lot of improvement to go yet....

The route takes in a lot of the cycle paths / walkways left behind by the demise of the old railway system, so I guess we have Beeching to thank for something.  It even goes past an old station that's been converted into a house, but the sun was at the wrong angle for any pictures this time.  Instead here's an old tunnel.

And a photo taken where the path rejoins the coast.  I had very little idea what I was taking due to the strong sunlight!

My only Advocard appointment this week was a trip to Argyle House to accompany one of our service users to his PIP assessment.  Not something most of us will ever be familiar with, or would ever want to be, but for some there's no alternative.  I'll refrain from having too big a rant about the UK's appalling welfare system, and just let this one example do the work for me.

PIP, in case you weren't aware, is Personal Independence Payment, a benefit for people whose physical and/or mental disabilities cause them additional expenses that most of us won't incur.  This time I was with someone who has chronic schizophrenia.  Although his medication keeps the symptoms under control most of the time, paranoia and panic and hopelessness can still intrude with serious consequences.  If the only answer to your panic attack is a taxi home where you can feel safe, or if the only way you'll eat is by ordering a takeaway delivery because you can't face the world or even heating up something, then you're going to rack up costs the rest of us don't have.  It's one thing to do those things from choice, another to have them forced upon you.

The assessments are carried out by qualified medical staff, such as a nurse of physiotherapist, and last about an hour or so.  They ask questions that take some account of the information on the person's application form, but can often feel like a box ticking exercise.  It's supposed to show how the person's disability affects their everyday living, but fails on so many levels.  Once completed the assessment is sent to the DWP for a decision on whether an award should be made, and how much.  At least that aspect of it has improved of late, with more claims going straight through to award after it was shown that 70% of subsequent appeals overturned the original decision.

I've heard people say that attending one of these assessments is no more stressful than going for a job interview.  People, quite clearly, who've never had any experience of one.  I've been out of the job market for years now, but I still doubt there are any job interviews that ask for details of your toilet habits, or how many times you've considered suicide in the last 6 months.  Believe me, this is a disturbing and demeaning experience for anyone on the receiving end, no matter how kindly in intent the assessor might be, and even if they have someone along to help them through it.

Which is one of the reasons why I'm proud that in September I'll be walking to raise funds for Advocard so we can continue to provide a (sadly) much needed service.  I'm happy with that.

See - here's a photo of me looking happy.

I'll admit it

NEEDS CHANGE

I am not a good driver.  That's not a statement I'd have been happy to make a few years ago, but times change. 

I've been driving for 45 years and have no idea how many thousands of miles I may have covered.  All kinds of vehicles, including a double decker bus.  Left hand drive, right hand drive, manual, automatic, three speed, four speed, five speed, six speed, saloons, estates, hatchbacks, sportscars, vans, off roaders, diesel, petrol, two cylinders, three cylinders, four cylinders, five cylinders, six cylinders, and a brief shot at a rotary Wankel.  An open wheel racer and towing a trailer.  Long distances - about 650 miles was the furthest in a day - different countries, different laws, very different driving standards.  I suppose I could even claim to have been a professional driver, if you'd count punting an ancient ice cream van over the coastal roads of East Lothian. 

And I always tried to take it seriously, keep learning, keep finding ways to be a bit better, a bit safer, a bit quicker if needed, able to read the conditions and the traffic, able to stay relaxed, able to minimise the fuel consumption and not punish the vehicle.  I picked up little tips.  On a long night trip clean all the glass, except the rear window - reduces glare for lights behind you.  On an unfamiliar road you can often figure out the way ahead by keeping an eye on the line of the trees (not such a useful skill in the age of satnav!).  I liked driving.

We're into May now, and I think I might have driven about three or four times since the new year began.  And that's been the pattern for the past twelve and more months.  Before that the car got a weekly outing over the winter, from September until the end of March, taking us to Murrayfield Ice Rink to watch the Caps play.  And the odd longer trip to watch away matches, and Nottingham in April.  But with that option now denied us the wheels have sat still, the brake discs dulling, moving parts unmoved.  And parts start to seize up with disuse.

As does the driver, or at least his skills.  The reactions lose an edge, the judgement is less able, the confidence siphons off.   Now I'm near to having to think about what I'm doing, the instincts built up over decades atrophying, the enjoyment gone.  It's become a chore.

And so why bother?  I live in a city with award winning public transport, I'm fit enough to walk much of the time, the bus pass can take me anywhere in the country for free, and if I book early enough the train is no more expensive than driving, plus I get to read on the way.  So it's time to contemplate the radical.  Not owning a car.  I've had one for most of those four and a half decades, had some interesting steeds along the way.  But the interest, even fascination, with the skills of driving have long since faded.  And my life, as lived now, simply doesn't need a car on tap.  There's no use case to justify the expense of road tax, insurance, MoT, servicing, repairs and depreciation, when a hire car can be obtained cheaply at quite short notice. 

It's not gone yet, and I'm not sure how emotional I'll feel when it's no longer sat there.  The sensible decision isn't always one your fragile ego is as eager to accept as you hope it will....

Walking, advocacy and kilts 2

MEMORY FAILINGS

Another day, another practice walk.  I won't be able to blame a lack of foresight and preparation for my failure on the day.  Having done a large part of the first half of last year's course last week I thought I'd have a crack at the second 'half'.  Which would mean a slightly longer distance, and the inclusion of something resembling a hill.

(One of the things that impressed me most about the route last year was the manner in which the organisers had managed to have so much of it on the level.  This in a city where visitors are advised that getting anywhere is going to be uphill and into the wind.  Even on the way back.)

So that meant taking in the one feature that stands out in my mind from last September, the steep climb of over 100m that leads into the climb to Silverknowes.  Here it is today....

Errr, maybe not.  It's quite gentle, and maybe around 70m.  But, to be fair to my memory banks, my first encounter with it was deep into the eleventh mile, which does change perspective a bit.

The other interesting feature of today's effort was provided by the weather.  It is May, isn't it?  After my legs feeling like boil in bag rice last week I dispensed with jeans and moved straight into the shorts (the kilt comes into play much later in the process).  This felt like a big, big mistake for the first cold, wet 45 minutes, and my knees were reminded of primary school days.  I had intended to take some photos along the way, but no chance when my hands were stuffed firmly into pockets to retain some sense of feeling. 

Anyway, the sun came out as I neared Gypsy Brae so here's some shots of the Firth of Forth across to Fife.  Rain free, and beautiful.

End point was a cloud covered Murrayfield Stadium and the tram stop homewards.  Nothing much to say about Advocard today as I've done nothing since my last post.  But I have a few things on this week, including attending a PIP assessment.  It's a glamourous life.

Walking, advocacy and kilts 1

ONCE MORE PASSING THE BEACH DEAR FRIENDS

Fifteenth of September.  That's the date for this year's Edinburgh Kiltwalk, and once again I'm going to be doing the intermediate distance (about 15 miles) and hoping to raise some funds for Advocard.  Last year I wrote about what Advocard does, at least from the perspective of one of their volunteers, and this time around I'll try to fill in a bit more detail of the work we do.  And yes, I will again be pestering people for donations as the date gets nearer....

Last September I completed the distance in near enough four and half hours dead.  And was still capable of walking like a reasonably normal human being at the finish line.  So this year my aim is to knock at least a quarter of an hour off that time, weather conditions permitting.  To that end I'm starting my practice walking a bit earlier than in 2018, and today was my first attempt at getting my feet and legs accustomed to the plodding step.  Anyone unfamiliar with Edinburgh's geography may want to skip the next few paras....

A bus out to darkest Musselburgh, and down to the shore to get under way.  The coast of the city curves around to the west, the threatened rain scurries off and it's going to be dry.

Past Musselburgh harbour, back over the city boundary, through Joppa and on to Porty Prom, quiet on a Thursday.

But even on a quiet day there's always something to see down there, be it dogs chasing their tails, children on trikes, joggers, walkers, strollers, amblers, people eating, people drinking, people getting sand in between their toes, and a corpulent blue bathing suit emerging from the sea topped with a bright red swimming cap.  Or just a couple of people swinging their legs off the breakwater.

Beyond the prom, at the back of the bus depot and the interminable, impetuous car dealers, I saw my favourite sight of the walk.  Sea, sky and a good book - what more could you want?

On through Seafield, complete with infamous stench, past Rabbie's statue and on to The Shore.  They're finally working on dilapidated decks of what used to be Cruz, so my walks will give plenty opportunity to keep tabs of progress in the coming months.  (It's supposed to become a luxury hotel, but time will tell....)

Then up the Water of Leith, a bit slower now, up the steps (clump, clump) to Newhaven Road, and home.  About seven miles, just over two hours.  Must try harder!  But there's no blisters, no more aches than I'd expect at my age, and I'm looking forward to the next one.  The plan is do something every week.  Maybe.

All of which is enjoyable enough, a bit of challenge, a bit of a goal (us oldies need goals).  But I'm also keeping in mind why I'm doing this.  In the post I linked to above I described some of the things I do in working with our service users.  It's about providing people with a voice.  This week I saw a woman who, for now, wanted some help sorting out her own internal voice, to better understand her own aims and options.  She had recently lost a custody battle for her daughter, largely because of her poor mental health in the past being used against her in court, despite having been given a thumbs up since by the psychiatrist.  If she left feeling a little clearer about what next steps are possible, and who she should try talking to, then I feel I've been of some help (which is far from always being the case!).

Further updates on my promenading progress (or otherwise), and experiences at Advocard, to follow across the summer.  The begging for money will follow on inexorably.

Death and Memory

IN MEMORIAM

As some readers may already know, we live over a cemetery.  Grass, gravestones and trees form our immediate view out.  If you're not among those people, and we're not, who get freaked out by such proximity to the dead then it's great.  Green, quiet, dark at night, a bit of wildlife (squirrels, foxes, birds aplenty - if I raise my eyes from my screen my sixth floor window looks directly on to the large birds nest which we've watched being constructed in the top of the tree just outside), and human interest.  The lure of the graveyard, and the changes it undergoes across the calendar, even resulted in me writing a photoblog about it for a year.

I mentioned human interest.  Rosebank dates back to 1846, so there's a lot of social history in there, and some stories to be found, many associated with the sea.  It is also still active as a burial ground, so we see funerals from time to time.  Not just the ceremonies themselves, but the work that goes into the before and after aspects of the process.  There are frequently workers down there, mowing the grass, trimming bushes, raising fallen gravestones (a surprisingly watchable activity!).  But the majority of the people we catch sight of have come to visit the grave of a relative or friend, and that can be very emotional to see.  (They do just happen to come to our notice when looking out, we're not lying in wait for them - that would be creepy!)

Many bring flowers on a regular basis.  There's one grave which has an annual family gathering, which at least once has taken the form of a barbecue, complete with swingball for the kids.  Fortunately they had a nice day for it.  Why not combine remembrance with enjoyment?

All of which has been prompted by a graveside visitor we saw today, one we hadn't seen before.  It was clearly a highly emotional occasion for him, and he was there for around an hour, so each time we looked he seemed to be doing something different.  He kissed the gravestone, knelt in front of it, lay down on the grass, walked around, waved his arms, talked aloud.  It was both sad and inspiring to observe, sad at his obvious distress, inspiring that the person who had died evoked such strong memories.  Clearly this trip to the graveside meant a great deal to him and, presumably, served to help him come to terms with the loss.

But he was of interest because he was the exception.  Few of the mourners we see behave with such complex intensity.  But what they do works for them, which is what it's all about.  And that got me thinking about the various ways in which we grieve for our dead.  There was a time when strict social norms laid down the path for those widowed or mourning the death of a close relative - the wearing of black for a specified period, a withdrawal from society, a need to observe the proprieties rather than deal with the loss as an individual.  We are more enlightened now, with fewer strictures of ritual and codified behaviour.  We can do what works for us.

When my dad was cremated my mum didn't want anything put up which marked his death.  There's no plaque, no stone, no urn.  When it was my turn to decide for her I did the same.  I am not someone who needs some physical symbol to help me recall or deal with the past.  The memories are in my head, and if that requires an aid then they're in photos, in old diaries and documents.  I wouldn't find any need to visit a grave or memorial to connect.

But that's a very rationalistic approach and wouldn't suit everyone.  Which is why it's good that we have the freedom now to do as we need - funerals, gravestones, memorials are there for the living, not the dead, and the living all have their own needs and coping mechanisms.  Today's visitor clearly requires a more corporeal association with the person he's missing, and if that's what he needs then I'm pleased for him that he can do that.  À chacun son goût.

If Brexit means Brexit then what does Brexit mean?

THEY'RE BLAMING THE WRONG PEOPLE.  AGAIN.

Douglas Adams was a very funny man, and is still much missed for his wit and imagination.  But his books, for all their silliness, also manage to convey the odd pearl of wisdom and provide something to think about.  When Deep Thought, "the second greatest computer in the Universe of Time and Space", is asked to come up with the ultimate question Life, the Universe and Everything he goes off to think about it.  For seven and half million years.  So when, after all that time, he reveals his answer is "42" there's some disappointment amongst those present.  To which DT responds "I think the problem, to be honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is."

Back in 2013, almost a year before the referendum was due to take place, the Scottish Government posted a 670 page document giving details of what an independent Scotland would look like, the institutions it would have, the way it could be made to work.  It was far from perfect, and there were some glaring holes that the Better Together side would go on to exploit, but it was a clear statement of intent and an essential guide to what voters would be voting for if they put their cross against Yes.

So far, so unrelated.  But I'll be back to that opening pair of paragraphs a bit later, because this is a post about brexshit, and with the Westminster Parliament having long ago followed the white rabbit down into the hole it's clear that anything and everything can suddenly become relevant.  The Mad Hatter would feel completely at home on the green benches and talking playing cards feel like no more ridiculous a concept than being given 8 alternatives and rejecting all of them.

I've wanted to try and write this for some time, but kept hoping there would a moment of clarity that would enable me to hang the whole thing on a particular point in time.  Instead it trundles on miserably, leaving everyone confused and angry.  Since that has become the UK's default status I'll just have to run with it.

In recent weeks I've made a couple of attempts to engage with some of the more rabid Leavers on Twitter, to try and understand their thinking.  Because so many of them continue to oppose the May Deal, if we can call it that for now without resorting to more colourful terms, despite it being their best chance to get what they voted for in 2016.  But they don't see it that way.  This isn't The Brexit that THEY voted for so it's not good enough.

So what did they actually vote for?  Sometimes they seem to be better at defining what they didn't vote for.  I've seen one full-on brexshiteer "journalist" (who appears to be in receipt of some rather shady funding to post continuous misleading propaganda on Facebook) say that "having a deal wasn't on the ballot paper so why should we accept it?".  Well a "no deal" wasn't on there either, so that's another thing you didn't vote for.  Two can play at that (stupid) game.  If it comes down to what common definition people had before them before the referendum.  Part of that is the wording of the ballot paper itself, to which I'll return later.  The other would be some widely available document that defines what a future UK, outwith the EU, would look like, how it would work, what the problems to overcome would be.

Which brings me back to IndyRef and my second paragraph.  Where was the leave equivalent of that 760 pages?  I wasn't aware of any such thing, just an unending litany of often contradictory soundbites that made lots of promises, but with no substance behind them.  had I missed something?

I finally found a Leaver willing to engage, when most go off in a huff when confronted with inconvenient things like "facts" and "evidence", and usually end up blocking me.  I'm proud of the list of right wing nutters who've been so rattled they've taken that step, but that wasn't what I needed here.  So we engaged in a dialogue and I asked him to provide me with some equivalent of the ScotGov document, something that would mean that leave voters all voted for the same thing.  After much prevarication, and some desperate attempts to change the subject, he came up with this.

Feel free to follow the link - but you might not learn a lot if you do.  It's a blog.  By Richard North.

Yes, THAT Richard North!

No, I've never heard of him either....

He's an author and blogger whose past includes a bit of work for the European parliament group that included ukip, so he has fascist connections.  But, as far as I know he had zero connections with the official Leave campaign, and his name, and work, was not widely known by the public.  So after about two hours of tweeting the best my correspondent, desperate to make his case, could come up with was an obscure blog by someone no-one but fanatical anti-EUers will have heard of.  Really?  That's the best they can do?

Which leaves us with the question on the ballot paper :

"Should the United Kingdom remain a member of the European Union or leave the European Union?"

Read it carefully.  All it asks is whether the UK remains a member or not.  It is, quite clearly, only about membership and nothing else.  The rest was a blank canvas that individuals could choose to paint in any way they wanted to.  Unlike IndyRef.  So when Leavers say "I know what I voted for" they aren't really lying.  They know what they thought they voted for, they just don't know if they voted for the same thing as the next person - because it was never defined.  No wonder we ended up with the verbal and linguistic masterpiece that was "brexit means brexit"!

(I can't resist an aside on the vile frog-faced creature that goes by the name of Niggle Fuhrage.  He recently claimed he had spent a quarter of a century fighting to leave the EU.  It's a pity that not one of those 25 years was spent on coming up with any plans for doing so.  Or details of what would be involved.  Or thought.  Or intellect....)

The ONLY thing they can say they all voted for was that wording on the ballot paper.  They voted for the UK not to be an EU member.  Which is exactly what the May Deal delivers.  So why do they continue to object?  Because it doesn't deliver on the fantasy brexits they've built in their heads.  It isn't the dream, there are no unicorns.  And if I, back in the days when I was a project manager, had suggested going ahead with something like triggering Article 50 without any plan or end goals I'd have been crucified.

So if you hear a leaver saying it's Remainers  (or maybe judges, the BBC, the 'liberal elite', celebrities, Jon Snow, Anna Soubry, Scotland, Ireland, EU "intransigence", civil servants, Moslems,people who sneeze, leaves on the line...) who are stopping what he voted for coming into being you can point out it's the brexshiteers themselves.  The ERG (if they ever had done any actual 'research' maybe we wouldn't be in this mess?) and their  ilk have killed off the brexit you could have had.  And nobody is voting down the one you wanted - because it never did and never can exist. 

Which, finally, brings me back to my opening paragraph.  Obvious all along, wasn't it?

No artichoke or concerto, just another day in the capital

TYPICAL EDINBURGH WEATHER

It looks like we're having one of those 'four seasons' days.  Not because we're eating pizza to the sound of Vivaldi, but that's what the Edinburgh'S weather can do sometimes.  I've already experienced blue skies, black skies, being mildly warm in the sun, icy rain, unruffled calm and lean-into wind, gloves off, hood up, where's my sunglasses and why have my glasses got so wet?  And it's not even 2pm.

I  have questioned my choice of outerwear because I'm sweating underneath the layers, and wondering if I have enough on and is it all buttoned, zipped and pulled up as much as it can.  I have checked the weather forecast on one app, then another, only to have the climatic schizophrenia confirmed.  I have looked forward to getting out in the fresh air and sun, and wished I was back home in the warmth of a world governed by thermostat.  I have potentially been confused.

Except I'm native to this city and I know what happens.  Back in the seventies I found myself driving an ice cream van through snow on the first of May.  Welcome to Edinburgh's weather, expect the unexpected.

2018, not all bad

SOME BEST BITS

2018 - what was that all about, eh?  Probably not a year that history will look back on kindly.  The orange man-baby stayed in the White House, his behaviour becoming ever more bizarre and alarming.  At least the US has a constitution that manages to contain the worst excesses of the wannabe dictator, but has Brazil?  The election of a brutal, homophobic misogynist takes the Trump trend a dangerous step forward.  Meanwhile the UK does it's best to compete with America as leading international laughing stock as the farce of brexit continued to display the embarrassing incompetence of UKGov and aggressive vacuity of the brexshiteers.  Scotland remains in the grip of a regime for which it did not vote and dismisses every issue it raises, the union feels more broken by the day.  And if the far right is now a major threat to world stability it still takes place to the potential catastrophe of climate change - which brings us right back to the culpability of that corrupt crook in Washington....

So I'm going to indulge myself and look back at some personal highlight from a year that saw me go to 38 music gigs, 29 dramas or musicals, 27 comedy shows, 27 films on the big screen, and 1 poetry evening.  I like to keep busy.  And Edinburgh does insist on running all these festivals!  Oh, and I managed to get through 54 books.  So my way of having a more cheerful look at the recent 365 day period is to think back on what were my highlights in all that entertainment.  And maybe a couple of disappointments.

Starting with best new music discovery.  That one doesn't take a second's thought because The Kinnaris Quintet, first seen in February and again in November, could count me as a fan from their opening number.  Their first album, Free One, is superb and has had many plays Chez Crawford, they have stage presence to back up the musicianship and imagination of their arrangements, and a couple of brief chats suggest they're pretty nice people as well.  More in 2019 please.

Best play wasn't nearly as obvious, with some excellent candidates like McGonagall's Chronicles, Ken, Infinita and the surprising Sob Story.  But I'll go for Still Alice not just for the quality of the performances and the staging, but for tackling such a tricky subject so well.

My favourite film was one of only two documentaries I went to see.  But Nae Paseran! has characters, storyline, excitement, humour and pathos to match any drama, as well as an important political message.  Going back to my opening paragraph, this film is a powerful reminder than even small actions can have big consequences in the fight against the rise of neofascism.

I'd like to have chosen someone new to me for my favourite comedy act, but none really stand out in my memory.  Honourable mention to the very entertaining Iain F M Smith who I'd happily go to see again, but he's perhaps more storyteller than actual comedian.  So I'll go for the man who made me laugh like no other all year, the surreal ragdoll that is Dylan Moran.  I'll add a mention for two local acts that rival, when measured in chuckles, giggles and guffaws, the best the Fringe has to offer - Stu and Garry and Morrison/Sutherland that goes by the name of Fanny's Ahoy!.  Who needs the big names?

It's become our habit to leave the final day of the Fringe free of bookings, and go up to the Half Price Hut to choose a couple of random shows.  We ended with a musical called Trump'd which, sadly, was probably the biggest disappointment of our August.  But that was trumped by the most enjoyable surprising discovery of the year, Where the Hell is Bernard? performed by Haste Theatre Group.  Weird and wonderful and utterly memorable.  Still makes me laugh when I think of them going down the "escalator"....

My favourite read was by far the oldest text I tackled this year.  You know those books you buy and they go on the bookshelves waiting (and waiting and waiting) until the moment you feel ready to tackle them?  So it was with Don Quixote.  As with so many books pre-twentieth century it means persevering through the first thirty to fifty pages while your head adjusts to the author's mindset and language.  Once over that hump you're in a different world, surely a major objective in reading fiction.  The society described might be very different to our own, but the frailties, cruelties, kindnesses and love of humans are very familiar.  Plus it's laugh out loud funny at times.

Some oddities to end on.  Biggest disappointment of the year was the demise of my beloved Edinburgh Capitals.  No more hockey, for the moment, and much as I'm enjoying discovering the pleasures of rugby spectating it's still no real substitute for what was lost.

Best personal achievement was completing the fifteen and half miles of Kiltwalk  in what I felt was a respectable time for my advancing years.  Not just for managing the course, but the pleasures I got from the practice walks I went on and wearing a kilt after so many decades.

I'll end on the most special surprise of the year.  Going to see that lovely, lovely man Henry Normal and finding he'd written a poem for our 21st wedding anniversary.

Well done 2018.  There's always joy out there to be found, and sometimes it's in as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.  In a skirt.

What is this strange thing called Success?

WINNING ISN'T EVERYTHING

As I wrote a couple of months ago, I've started going to spectate at Edinburgh Rugby home games.  After several years spent watching in the rink next door the comparisons are becoming interesting.  I've only been to four games so far, but the most striking differences become obvious quickly.

Compared to hockey the oval ball game feels much slower, the action more distant and less inherently skilful (they don't have to do all that they do perched on narrow blades across a slippery surface, do they?).  And while the Fridge of Dreams was a chilly place to sit for a few hours it was, at least, consistently chilly, and dry, so you knew exactly what to dress for.  Finally I miss the "Cheers" aspect of going to the rink, it did feel like a place "where everybody knows your name".

But then there are the pros too.  I'm watching a much higher level of the sport than I got to see next door, with many of the players on the pitch likely to be heading for Japan in September/October, when the World Cup takes place.  The whole operation is so much more professional, so much more twenty first century, from the big TV screens to the PA that's so clear you can actually make out what's being said.  And five, six, seven thousand people make a lot more noise than five, six, seven hundred.  (Even if the chants are nowhere near as entertaining....)

But the biggest difference of all is a simple one, and still takes the most getting used to.  Edinburgh Rugby win matches.  Regularly.  Supporting Caps was never like this.  I could almost wish I get to see them lose just to have that old feeling back again.  But only almost.