What quality is most essential to be a decent human being?

 HAVE YOU GO IT?

As a society we are becoming more polarised in our views.  This has become increasingly true over the past forty or so years, and is now reaching worrying levels.  The old 

left vs right has spread into pro and anti EU, pro and anti Indy, pro and anti abortion, pro and anti vaccines, etc etc.  Whilst the dividing lines are blurred, it seems true that many of those in 'anti' categories will fall into the whole group of them.  Then there's criticism of the media, with the left seeing the BBC as a tory government mouthpiece, and the right saying that is too much influenced by progressive causes.  Here in Scotland Indy supporters feel the media is against them, but then so do the unionists!

Increasingly I find there's one word that seems to determine if people fall to one side of the arguments, or the other.  That word is empathy.  And nothing demonstrated that divide quite like one of the most important public demonstrations of last year, the Kenmure Street Protest in May.  

If you're unfamiliar with the incident, and haven't got time to follow the link, it happened when a Home Office immigration van tried to remove two Sikh men from their home in Glasgow because of alleged immigration offences.  The men were long standing members of the local community, and those neighbours rallied round in numbers, and alerted activist organisations, so that the immigration officers found their van locked in place by a huge, and ever growing, crowd of people determined not to let these men be taken away.  The police were called, and eventually they advised the release of the men.  The van went without them.

Reactions were split, each side vehement that they had right on their side.  The SNP, Labour and Greens all commended the humanitarian response of the locals.  The tories condemned the action for breaking the law.  But if it's bad law, and badly implemented too, who's to say what's right?

Ultimately your personal response to these events came down to the word I used above.  Empathetic people were able to place themselves in the position of these poor men, being dragged away from everything they new, without warning, early in the morning.  Others saw it in more black and white terms, without considering any of the human aspects.  

Which side were you on?  Do you have empathy or not?  I'm very much on the side of the protestors.

Being Trusted

 TRUST

I've been a Volunteer Advocacy Worker for about six years now, and have become one of the more senior among the group.  The 'job' is rewarding, frustrating, educational, confusing, demanding, funny, sad, inspiring, gut wrenching, worrying, hilarious and weird, all rolled into one.  Varied too.  I have met some very interesting people, some very baffling people, the odd slightly threatening person.  I have tried to help people deal with problems with housing, benefits, doctors, dentists, lawyers, family, psychiatrists, social workers, the council and many more.  I've learned the difference between post natal depression and post partum psychosis, which is something I never ever anticipated happening!  And I've learned to deal with what's thrown at me, find out where I don't know, rely on others and rely on my own ability to relate to people.It's never dull.

But the one aspect of the work that always amazes me, and, I hope, always will, is how quickly so many vulnerable people are able to trust me with very intimate details of their lives.  In part it's because they have come for help, and that Advocard, as an organisation, strives to maintain a strong reputation for being independent and willing to give what assistance they can through advocacy.  In part it may reflect how desperate many of the people we see are.  And I hoper a part of it is that, with all the practice I've had, I have developed ways of making people feel at ease.  But even taking these things into account it is still incredible that within fifteen or twenty minutes of meeting this total stranger they are able to talk about problems they have going to the toilet, or lacking the motivation to wash for days on end, or if they have recently felt suicidal - all subjects I have to ask about if I'm helping them prepare for a benefits assessment (and don't get me started on how inhumane that bloody system is now...).

Trust.  It's never easy to give it to anyone.  Less so to someone you've met for the first time a few minutes ago.  Not everyone does, and with some it's a long battle to win that precious commodity.  But so many do, and that is, with apologies for the cliche, consistently humbling.  I'm very lucky.

Change would be good - but not for the worse

 THE LEAST WORST OPTION

I would like to see an end to SNP government.  The party has been in power for too long, and is now looking and sounding stale, with too many stories of corruption and incompetence surfacing.  But.  If there was an election tomorrow I'd still be voting for them.  Why?

Two main reasons.  The first is obvious.  If, as I do, you believe in the benefits of Scotland becoming independent from the UK, and the increasing urgency of doing so, then the SNP are still the only really credible electoral show in town.  I might prefer to vote Green, but doing so might just lose a constituency seat to a unionist, so it isn't worth the risk.  They can have my list vote, my local authority vote, but for seats in either parliament there are bigger stakes.  (Of course if we had the much fairer Single Transferable Vote system in place for parliamentary seats, as we do at council level, it would be a different story, making it much easier to vote for exactly who you want.)  Alba have yet to show any real campaigning strength, so they can't be considered yet.

The second reason concerns those bigger stakes.  For more than four decades I have despised the Tories and what they do to ordinary people, and have always voted tactically to try to keep them out.  In the constituencies I lived in down south that meant Lib Dem.  Here we have other options.  But is there a realistic option to the SNP?

No party is perfect, no party has policies with which anyone, even party members, agrees 100%.  So we vote for the best fit for our priorities.  Often that means voting for the least worst option, rather than the best.  And this is what it comes down to.  The SNP might not be the party it once was, but is there a better option?  

I've asked unionists on Twitter (that well know source of rational opinion...) what the credible alternative Scottish Government is.  Answers, if given, tend to be vague, coy.  These are mostly right wingers,    Outside of the right wing bubble, the Tories remain what they've been since Thatcher's time - the most divisive and disliked party in the country.  The branch manager, and the Borders MP who is allegedly Secretary of State for Scotland, are ciphers, devoid of any bite or ideas.  And hamstrung by the failure, nepotism and general malfeasance of their masters.  Labour might have their best national leader in some time (they've been through enough of them in the past few years), but are also hamstrung by their London bosses.  What sort of Labour Party is it than can contemplate expelling the great Ken Loach?  As for the Lib Dems... choosing a vile misogynist who seems to be trying out-evil the Tories seems like a route to oblivion.

The SNP commitment to Indy can reasonably called into doubt, but for now they remain the most likely vehicle.  But even if that major issue were discounted, I can't see who would actually do a better job.  The least worst option remains the only choice.

It's all about the quality

 As we get older our concerns in life change.  And since, clearly, the older we get the nearer we are to our own eventual end, the subject of death, our own death, and our health more widely, becomes an increasingly common preoccupation.  I have no fear of being dead.  I know it will be the same it was before I was born - nothingness.  But the dying bit, and the possible pain and suffering that could entail, well I'm not so keen on those aspects.  So my focus on my own health isn't about prolonging my life for as long as possible, but trying to ensure that for however many years I do have left I'm in good enough condition to enjoy them.  Still as physically and mentally sharp as my body will allow me to be.

Advice on what that entails seems to change with time, but most of the basics are pretty obvious.  For all that a great deal of our future to our unalterable genetic inheritance, and the way we've lived life to date, there's still benefits to be had in eating healthily, and exercising brain and body regularly.  I intend to be as responsible for my own decline as circumstances allow.

In the past much of the emphasis has been on aerobic fitness as one of the best ways to prolong health as we age.  Recent thinking suggests that maintaining decent muscle tone is as, or even more, important in ensuring that getting older doesn't mean gradual incapacity.  So a bit of physical exercise every day, including some weight resistance activity.  Nothing too strenuous, just enough to make sure everything is kept in reasonable working order.  And looking for new ideas, new games, new mental challenges to keep the mind exercised too.    

I intend to keep trying to do what's needed for me to be able to do the things I most want to do - getting out every day, walking a few kilometres each day, getting myself to gigs and plays and films, reading and writing and laughing.  And for as many years as possible.

Six years ago I was diagnosed with gout.  I took the doctor's advice, and sought out information on the internet, and adjusted my diet accordingly.  Which mostly meant drinking at least five pints of water each day, and no alcohol.  Although I now consume a very occasional glass of the latter, my overall consumption must be more than 90% less than it was before the diagnosis, and I continue to take water like I'd just emerged from the Sahara.  I know of other gout sufferers who have chosen to ignore this approach, and still happily down their pints and drams as they always did.  While I can understand reluctance to give up old habits, I never liked the drink so much that I'd want to risk the pain of another gout attack, or, more importantly, the inconvenience it can bring.  Being housebound is not my idea of enjoying life (nor crawling about the flat on all fours, as I did during the worst bout - Barbara thought we'd acquired a dog...).  

Quality, not quantity, is what matters.

Two different countries

 WHO'S CHRIS WHITTY?

Yesterday I returned from my first trip to a different country since January last year.  We were in Manchester for a couple of days, the choice of destination determined by a wish to see the Grayson Perry Art Club exhibition.  That had come out of the two series on Channel 4, of six programmes each, using art to look at various aspects of the pandemic and resultant lockdowns and restrictions.  

For those who didn't see the series, there was different theme each week - Home, Family, Food and others - and visual art works created in response to these.  One would be from Perry himself, another from his wife Philippa, one from a celebrity guest (mostly comedians such as  Joe Lycett and Harry Hill), one from a professional artist (or artistic team in the case of the Singh Twins), and several from members of the public.  The best of the latter would be chosen as exhibits for a planned future exhibition.  This exhibition which we went to see.

It was extremely enjoyable, full of interest, and a reminder that art doesn't need to be perfect, or technically brilliant, to be worthwhile, a rule that applies just as much other art forms.  There was a lot to discuss afterwards, a lot of lessons about how many ways people have coped with the strains of the past eighteen months.  

But there was also, to me, one undercurrent to the show I found slightly irritating.  One image cropped up regularly, in Grayson's own works, and those of the celebrities and public.  The face of Chris Whitty, the Chief Medical Officer for England.  But the show had placed a strong emphasis on wanting to represent the views and experiences of the British public.  So where was Jason Leitch?  Whitty has been a leading figure of the crisis in his own country, but irrelevant in the other constituent parts of the UK, or indeed Britain.  While I'd noticed this to some degree while watching the programmes, it was much more obvious when seen as one coherent exhibition.

I lived in England for thirty five years.  Much, of course, was the same as it had been back home.  But there were more than enough differences to make me realise I'd come to a different country.  One of those I noticed persistently across the decades.  An irritant at first, I eventually gave up correcting people and accepting that that was the way they were.  This was in the use of Britain/British as synonyms for England/English, and vice versa.  I couldn't say how many times I was told about how well England were doing in the Olympics, or asked if I'd seen the British football team playing a match.  

There was nothing malicious in this.  Nothing arrogant.  It was totally unconscious.  I once corrected my first wife over her misuse of the two terms, and that ended up in a row - she simply couldn't understand why she was wrong, that there was any real difference between England and Britain.  Surely they were the same?  But I have never heard anyone use Scotland/ Scottish in the same way, and I doubt if it happens in Wales either.  We have a much clearer understanding of our own national identities.  Whereas this confusion appears to be endemic to English culture.  And Grayson Perry is no exception.

Of course I write this from the perspective of someone who would like to see Scotland become independent.  Not from any hatred of England or the English - after so long living there most of my friends, and my wife, are English - but because we want to do things differently, and that we are clearly different nations.  Hard line unionists on social media often want to make out there is no difference between the cultures of England and Scotland.  But there are many, and this, for me, is the biggie.  We are Scottish, but also British.  To be English is, for most, to think that being British is the same thing.  Art Club is a sharp reminder that the differences are real.

Now, remind me again - who's Chris Whitty?

That was the, or a, Fringe

 IT'S THE FRINGE JIM, BUT NOT AS WE KNOW IT

Regular readers (??) will be aware of my love for Edinburgh's festivals, particularly the Fringe, and that every August my days became dedicated to comedy and music and drama and street acts and the whole experience of a city filled to overcapacity with artists and punters. We'd usually find our way to about forty or fifty shows, plus spending time watching buskers and the like. Three weeks well lived. 

But not in 2020. Edinburgh felt like a ghost of it's former self.  In the midst of a global pandemic this feltmore of a relief than a disappointment.  But now it's 2021 and the Fringe returned.  Not the Fringe of the past, but a smaller, less intense, more geographically distributed Fringe.  It had changed.  And so had we.

I would have liked to recover my old enthusiasm, but twas not to be.  A year and a half of caution, of keeping a distance, of not mixing with other people, has made me even more antisocial than I was before.  So there was no great mass booking of tickets, not detailed schedule of daily activities.  Instead there was a desire to go to see shows, but also to feel comfortable, to feel safe.  And what that means is very much down to personal experiences and preferences and what feels right for the individual concerned.  I'd go to town to see what shows we had, but wandering about to see what was happening felt too odd, in light of recent times, even if it was a joy not to be given any fliers on my one venture down the High Street!

In the end we saw a curious of mix of events, felt much more comfortable where there was plenty of fresh air, and enjoyed what we did see.  Even if it meant abandoning some tickets already bought, because our one experience of the venue just didn't feel 'right'.  This was reflected in my daft hobby of trying to right reviews for the events I go to see.  I gave up on that after the first two, because I found myself wanting to write about the venue, and the social distancing measures they had in place, as much as I did the actual show!  The subsequent reviews are getting written, but only as a reminder to myself of what we've been to see, and they won't be getting shared with others.

My final tally amounted to seventeen events attended, plus a couple online.  Only eight of those were Fringe shows.  Three of those were indoors, two on the top deck of a multistory car park (yes, really...), one in the open air, one walking the streets, and one online.  There were five in deck chairs, outdoor film screenings from the Film Festival which had forgone it's usual June slot and joined in the August activities.  Three in giant open sided polytunnel like structures as part of the International Festival.  Two under a big plastic gazebo, at the BBC's new location.  And the final one, last night, was a Book Festival event online.  Hardly any of the above were in venues I would normally find myself in during Augusts past.  And of the nineteen only half a dozen were comedy shows, which is very far from the usual ratio.

We had fun.  The EIF gigs were all outstanding (as was their covid-related admin!).  I do hope that 2022 sees the return of something more like the old Fringe experience.  But whether I will be the same person I was remains to be seen.  The pandemic has changed society.  And individuals.

The ultimate pizza

 

GOING GREEN

The past eighteen months have changed the world.  Provided lessons for governments, health services, wider society.  We learned who the really valuable members of society are (hint : it's not bankers and hedge fund managers), who the selfish people are (the weird Fox of the family somehow comes to mind...), and a lot about ourselves.  The world has changed and so have we as individuals.

Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into one of those profound personal epiphanies about how my experience of lockdown has helped me discover some deeply buried truths from my inner being.  None of that bollocks.  For although I do think I have discovered some things about myself, and my relationship, in lockdown times, it's a very different discovery that feels like the most important personal revelation of covid times.

Roast brussel sprouts.  How did I not know about these before?  Much as I've been one of those people who always liked their sprouts, the roasting of these wee tight packed bundles of leaves makes them into something else.  It came about by luck really, when I put a few into a tray of roasting vegetables and they emerged as the star of the show.  Then, having been introduced to this culinary delight, I began to wonder what more elaborate uses they might be put to.

Google turned up sprout and stilton risotto.  Some will turn away at this point, the dry boke their only reaction.  For those willing to continue let me tell you this is wonderful.  You shred half the sprouts and cook them in with the arborio, half roast the others to be added to the mix at the end.  Wonderful, one of the best risottos I've ever made.

But there's one more step to this story.  If stilton and sprouts work so well together in risotto, where else could the combo be successful?  What works well with cheese and veg?  What needs high temperatures to cook at it's best?  Pizza...

And that's my lockdown discovery.  Roast sprouts are delicious in their own right.  Sprout and stilton risotto is to become a Crawford winter staple.  And there is no better pizza than brussels and blue.  Trust me.

Back for some of the old normal

 

BUT... THERE'S GOING TO BE PEOPLE THERE...

Some readers will be aware that, pre covid, going to live entertainments played a big part in my life.  Music and comedy gigs, plays, sports events.  And that Barbara and I have been enthusiastic audience members at the Fringe for a few years now.  Then 2020 came and did it's thing.  My last experience of live music was on the eleventh of March last year.  I won't be able to say that for much longer.  Hopefully.  Maybe.  

There have been sports events with crowds recently.  There have been gatherings of one sort or another in streets and squares.  But there have also been lots of vaccinations, and the covid infection rate, after a surge upwards, appears to be in decline again.  Yet, despite regular trips to the shops, the idea of sitting down in a building with strangers feels ever so slightly weird.  This may be because I have been a fan of social distancing long before it became popular.  Because people.

My calendar tells me there are nine events booked for the rest of this year.  Four of those are carryovers, dates rearranged from one or more postponements last year.  Five I have booked recently.  Four in August, one next month in the Jazz and Blues Festival.  It feels like there should be more, and also that that's too many.  But there are Fringe tickets being made available next week, decisions to be made.  Book now, while there's availability, or wait until we see how we feel after our first gig?  

I already know the answer.  Unable to resist seeing what's on sale, my brain will say that we need to see her, we need to see him, that there are plenty of free days in August to fill.  That this is what we missed last year.

And that gig in less than three weeks from now will confirm I was right.  There will be people.  But there will also be guitar.  It's the music that counts.  Bring on the blues.

The boots are back, the body isn't

 BOOTS BACK

I may not be pestering people for money this year.  Kiltwalk remains hit by the pandemic and the unknowns it continues to bring into our lives.  There was a virtual Kiltwalk at the end of April, much like the one I took part in last September (https://baclitter.blogspot.com/2020/09/i-did-it-honest-post-with-evidential.html), but that was too early in the year for me.  I'd done no serious walking since that trek down the Water of Leith Walkway so I was in no shape to tackle anything beyond going to the shops.

There is still a plan to hold a 'proper' Kiltwalk, with a large crowd of kilties assembled.  That's set for late August.  But in Glasgow only.  At the moment they haven't even opened registration as there's still a high likelihood that it won't be able to take place.  But if it does, and logistics of travelling through in time can work for me, then I'd be tempted to give it a go.  Or perhaps, given that the covid situation is going a bit better at this end of the M8, it might even be switched to Edinburgh.  The final option would be another virtual walk.  Whichever it might be, if any of these variations do end up taking place, I want to be ready for the possibility.  Which means getting the boots on and doing some miles.

I'm late starting out, at least compared to last year,and the end target date is nearer as well, so I need to get on with it.  I began last week with an easy route of less than ten kilometres, which took just over ninety minutes.  A reasonable time, but I was pushing myself.  Too early is it turned out.  The next day I felt not exactly ill, but a bit shaky, a bit achey and a bit slow.  I felt... old.  Which is hardly surprising - I'll be sixty five next week. Today I walked a fourteen kilometre route that I've used as practice a few times in the past coupe of years, so I know what a good time over the distance looks like.  But I took my time today, hoping not to feel quite so old tomorrow.  The end time was over fifteen minutes slower than my best time over the same route last year.  Oh well.

I'll keep on getting the boots out regularly over the coming months.  Even if there's no end purpose it's still an activity I enjoy, and should be doing me good.  But I think I also need to recognise the effects of the ageing process, the general slowing down and steady erosion my physical abilities.  Maybe comparing my efforts with previous times I've set isn't the best approach for a pensioner...

The bushy tailed bayn of my life

WHAT'S GREY, FLUFFY AND  A WEE BUGGER?

Fifteen years.  From a narrow shrub, not even a metre high, to a huge bush that was a good bit taller than me, and several times wider.

Five years.  From cutting to destruction.  Bloody squirrel!

In 1999 I planted a bay tree in the front garden of our old house down south.  In front of the dining room window, at the top of the wee rockery, beside next door's fence.  It grew.  And grew.  And grew.  Without much help from me it has to be said.  It became a supplier of a culinary ingredient, and another one of the bits of greenery that demanded attention from my shears during the summer.  By 2014 it was massive and the trimming becoming more severe with each year simply to stop it blocking the light into the room behind.

Then we were moving, to a flat.  Downsizing, to a new city, a new country.  My old city, my old country, place of my birth.  Reluctant to lose my ready supply of bay leaves, I took five cuttings, and potted them, months ahead of the move.  When the time came to pack up I chose the two fittest looking specimens and shifted them up to Scotland.  Each found it's way into its own huge red pot on the balcony, and both started to grow.  

For five years they provided all the bay leaves I could need, they grew taller and denser and looked healthy and hopeful.  That winter we noticed a grey squirrel visiting the balcony frequently.  Not quite what we'd expected on the fifth floor, but it's probably nothing to a squirrel.  It was something to Zoe, our cat, who was visibly annoyed at the presence on the other side of the glass.  Their stand offs provided a few decent photos.

Our visitor seemed to favour the right hand side of the balcony, and would sometimes be seen emerging from the foliage there, a mess of geraniums, tired herbs and the bay tree.  But it wouldn't be doing any harm there, would it?  Would it?  

I hadn't needed a bay leave for a while.  When I went for one I usually went to the plant on the left, which had grown that bit bigger than the other.  On this day I went to the right, and found the leaf brittle.  On inspection I found that the whole plant, although visually little different, was now a deceased bay tree.  A little more digging, both literally and metaphorically, made it come away easily from the dead roots, and the soil was no longer as it had once been.  It now shared its space with hundreds of wee pellets of old newspaper.  And a few peanut shells.  It had been squirreled.  

I still have one of my bay trees, and will look out for it a bit more.  In time maybe it will give me another cutting so we can have two again.  And I will be on the lookout for flashes of furry grey bushiness.

Squirrels.

Cute, eh?

Little bastards!