Foot, Mouth & Healing

I guess Mili-Minor’s mocking of Mackintosh cannot go unremarked.  It probably should, but it just can’t.  Remark however is something best left to the First Eck.  At least, quoth he, he managed to name two, exceeding the rest of the population by the same amount.  But Ken will rise above it, though he will get a warm reception when we gather on Sunday evening to toast our mutual Hero.  And he will be up to it, for long years in politics certainly thickens the skin, even for the nice guys.  For me though what struck me from Ed’s blunder was that he did actually recall Johann Lamont, even though he gave her the southern pronuciation, you know the one adopted by wee peerie Norrie, the man from Shetland, when he was Maggie’s Chancellor.  For Ms Lamont is the scary face, and even scarier voice, that is Old Glasgow Labour, vintage mid-60s, the one from which I expect to hear the death rattle at the Council elections in the spring.  She reminds me of Rosa Kleb, but without the panache.  Is she the type to lead a party in parliament, or even a nation?  You decide.

But I digress for today is filled with joy, and it is of that I intended to blether, and of my own foot, and mouth.  The Grasshopper took to the roads early on, driven by withdrawal after lengthy inactivity.  Released from Urchin duties I managed out just as there was a rumour of sun on the eastern horizon, limning the cairn atop the hill.  The breeze was stiff but not yet troubling the ferries in the firth.  Aloft, a solitary buzzard soared the thermals, unmolested for a change by a murder of crows enjoying playful eddies around the knoll that shelters the end of the valley.  By the time I had reached the Uncut Gem I had realised that my water-bottle remained on the steps, my inhaler in the kitchen.  I wheezed to the top, afoot, witnessed by Midget Gem wandering down the track for the school bus was due.  Why is it that on a cycle there is always a witness to those moments of wimpiness, as the hard miles go unnoticed?

I had thoughts of a black murrel fish, rich in omega-3 oils, jaws filled with unguent.  I couldn’t possibly expect the world to stop for six months whilst I cycled to Hyderabad, for the only real asthma cure, could I?  Had there ever been a recumbent among the rickshaws of the Mughals, would my legs get me further than the nearest set of traffic lights, (some distance away I have to add)?

Every year more than half a million people gather at the home of the Gowd family, each clutching a plastic bag containing a live murrel fish of some three to six inches in length.  One of the Gowd brothers will prise open the jaws, of the fish that is, and fill the mouth with a foul yellow paste.  Then it is the turn of the pilgrim to have his jaws prised apart, to have a grown man’s hand lunge to the back of his throat.  Deeply unpleasant as that may be it is, apparently, nothing in comparison to the sensation of said live fish swimming down the oesophagus with its load of fetid miracle ointment.

The ceremony, if we can give it such dignity, has been going on for more than seven score years and ten, and takes place annually, but for 24 hours only.  The ointment carries its magic only at the first sighting the Mrigasira Karthe star, at the onset of the monsoons.  Technology today could undoubtedly allow a chemical analysis of said paste, to enable apothecaries the world over to reverse engineer to the vital ingredients.  But in their quest to earn millions from the world’s sickly, they could never have what the Gowd family have given away gratis since 1845, which is the magical blessing of the sadhu, bestowed on their ancestor all those years ago.

So if you notice my absence for a while, and I wheeze not as I pass down your way, perhaps I’ve taken the murrel fish to heart, or at least as far as the tonsils.

There was joy on the rounds this morning, for I was able to wish belated birthday greetings to the Queen of Hearts, out taking the morning air with one of her maidens and their jester.  In truth I stopped at The Steadings, just as their precious ones were joining The Urchins on the school bus.  Safety and school buses are mandatory, but someone needs to tell the eejit in the red Fiat.  I once had a Fiat and know what it can do to you, but it doesn’t have to be that way.  And to think we give these people the vote.  There may have been a Lamont sticker in the rear window.

So, Just Who Do You Think You Are?

It’s one of those ‘must watch’ programmes in our house, is WDYTYA, as The Genealogist’s delve into everyone’s past has come to be catchily known.  Coming as I do from a long line of agricultural labourers from Fife I know how deeply the soil and toil of ancestry gets under the skin, the poverty passed down the line.  It is a gripping quest and I was heartened to hear that FirstBorn has taken up the cudgels, determined to get to the bottom of his English genes – they didn’t come from me boyo, I gave you only the grime of the Fife farm.

However last night we were taken to the world of the white settler, to the Great Swamp Fight.  1675 it was, in what we now know as New England.  King Philip, of course the incomers had to give the local head-honcho a name they could understand and pronounce, had been taken to war, and his people routed.  It was a tale that was not unfamiliar to me, refreshed as I pulled Nathaniel Philbrick’s Mayflower from the shelves.  The Puritans sailed from England, escaping persecution from one church as they sought to establish another, lured by promises of lands and riches.  And so, in the name of their god, the Naragansetts were wiped out, the women, the children and the elderly burned alive, along with the fruits of the harvest and the homes.  In the name of god.

King Philip had of course worshipped a different god, and his ancestors had been on the land for centuries.  So just who did he think he was, I wonder, to have to suffer at those hands.  How puritanical, how pious it must be, to know that your right is everyone else’s wrong.

I was reminded of the same programme a few weeks earlier, when Sebastian Coe – I was always an Ovett fan way back when, even before Coe became a blue tory; before he took up the ermine robes after the commoners kicked him out; before he brought the scourge that is the modern Olympics to these shores – I gave up on them after the whole Ben Johnson thing and, digressing as I do, can but assume that there will be no gold medals on the track hung round white necks, just as there will be none from the pool adorning the black neck like the slave yoke of yesteryear.  Such is the continuing evolution of the species as the athletes find ways to get bigger, stronger, faster, by whatever means.

Olympics, we are going to hear a lot more of them in the next year, as we seek to divert all the monies from the lottery and from our taxes, the monies that were promised to sports in Scotland and in Wales, the taxes that are needed to restore our economy after the largesse of the bankers and the stupidity of the politicians.  Those monies will be going to regenerate the east end of London, is it now £8.50 of every Olympic tenner that is being spent on what is termed ‘legacy’?  It is not a London rant you know, for my views are the same on the smaller scale that will be Glasgow’s Commonwealth Games two years later.  But back to Lord Coe, for I think it must have been growing up with Alf Tupper, Tough of the Track, in those heady days of The Victor, and Roy of the Rovers.  Seb however knew humility and sadness, and he had it aplenty when WDYTYA revealed his long line of ancestral wealth centring on the plantations of the West Indies, and of slave owners, and dark deeds, and darker offspring.  He came up in my estimation that night.  But there was little humility in the ‘civilisation’ of New England last night, and it left me with unease.

My restlessness was compounded when the BBC brought us more from Liverpool, and Red Ed, or the Wrong Brother, as he seems destined to be forever known, told us of his credentials.  Quite simply he was central, not right, not left, but central.  Seeking the support of the massed ranks is nothing new, but what Ed are your ideas and your policies, for we heard nothing of them, just of your centrality, though I guess that is a move in the socialist direction from your predecessors at the top of the red tories, the ones that became more right wing than dear Maggie.  It won’t do.

Ed, you need to remember that to get back into power in England you are going to need those 40-odd seats from Scotland that allow you to get a majority, to have Scottish members voting on English issues.  But Scotland has for decades voted left of centre, which is why old labour got those seats, and new labour are losing them.  It is why the tide began to turn in 2007, why it rose again in 2011, and why positive unionism falls on deaf ears.  On that subject we have yet, of course, to hear what the actual benefits of that union may be to Scotland, just the usual sound-bites and jargon, headlines without substance.  Tell us now Ed, as you lurch leftwards towards the centre, leaving socilaism and Scotland but a distant memory, what you believe those benefits may be, for my children and grandchildren.  Nothing to say?  Surprise that.

Then Ed popped up again, in that five minute slot that the BBC allow for us to be told all that is important that has happened in our local regions, such as the possible demise of River City, (please, please) or the scorer of the latest meaningless goal, victim of unjust red card or whatever.  And Ed told us that it was time for positive unionism, rather than the negatives of separation.  I find it strange that the only politicians talking about Independence are the Unionists.  The Scottish Government is silent on the matter, other than telling us we will get our say in the latter stages of this parliament, some years away yet.  They are playing the long game, and a canny one at that.  For with each unionist utterance, in the panic to avoid the loss of all that Scotland brings to the table, with each outburst, they chalk up more votes for the Nationalist cause, and Salmond hasn’t had to open his mouth.

And so stoked up by all of this sleep was a distant bedfellow.  I took Tahir Shah into my arms once again, and drifted to another world.  I knew that Shah had been imprisoned, held in solitary confinement, interrogated, with no outside contact with either embassy or family, but I had not read his own thoughts on those dark days.  I did last night.  It was in Pakistan, in Peshawar, with thoughts of finding a distant relative’s house in the Hindu Kush, on route for Kabul through the Khyber Pass, that Shah and his film crew were arrested.  This was shortly after the London bombs, when tensions were high.  Tahir is a British citizen, raised and educated in England, an Asian Muslim, son of an Afghan, married to an Indian and living in Morocco.  He told me of his incarceration, his terrors, and of his release.  He still recalls those terrors, but my lasting memory as I settled after a troubled evening, is of his thoughts, back to those long days and nights in his confinement cell, and his wonder; thoughts and wonder over who may be occupying that concrete box now, and what may be going through his head.

Then he took me down different paths; to the renovation of his house in Casa, the battles with the Djinns and the artisans, the architects and the dead cats.  And I know that he has joy now, that his children experience the tales that Idries Shah imbued into his youngster.  And I know that I need to read again the words of Brian Keenan and John McCarthy, held captive for years not days, both going on to lead richer lives today and to allow us to share in their wisdom.  Who was it that said that words were stronger than deeds, or some such pithy remark, for they most certainly are, if only we could find the right ones.  The search continues.

Indian Summers

I have reservations of these Indian summers, for still, as we get to the end of September, I await the arrival of a good Scottish one; yes a good one, like in 1976, when the sun shone and the temperature rose.  But we are supposed to be having an Indian one right now, and tomorrow, and Friday.

I harboured hopes of a run on the bike today, though time was always going to be tight.  Michael was due to arrive, from Melbourne.  We’d arranged to have a chat and a coffee round the kitchen table.  It is a table that Michael made for us, before he sought the sunshine down under.  Fifteen years on it stands the test of time, as good as it always was.  Michael is a craftsman, in wood, and his part of the table was the wooden framework which still securely holds the granite top.  He made the table when his woodworking was mainly in the world of rocking-horses.  He is back home in Scotland to deal with the affairs of his late mother, who passed away a few weeks ago, and to address the sale of the house.  Something more important than chatting with me must have cropped up, but we can rearrange.  Perhaps I’ll visit him one day.

With Michael’s allotted time having passed, the opportunity to cycle has also receded, for the school bus will be due in an hour or so.  Even a short run is not appealing in this Indian summer, for the wind blows, strongly.  The washing has been rescued from the line, dried in a ridiculously short time.  Fortunately we have wind-proof pegs, though the empty basket had to be rescued from behind the shed, before being held securely between the legs.  It is a strong wind, even for these parts.  I think I’d rather cycle in the rain, the thing I have been avoiding in the early part of the week.

A new volume arrived for the bookcase today, and an order was placed for yet another.  My last remaining interest in newspapers bore fruit on Saturday, with a review of Arthur Ransome’s Long-Lost Study of Robert Louis Stevenson.  There was no option, I had to buy, and with the wonders of online retailing it is here, heavily discounted.  But currently open on the bedside table is Travels With Myself, the latest from the pen of Tahir Shah, one of my favourite authors.  Tahir has eight previous published books to his name, some in their second incarnation.

This latest work though is a compilation of shorter articles written over the years.  It is available from none of his previous publishers for he has gone down the road of PoD, Print on Demand.  I worry about publishing, and kindles and e-readers of all shapes and forms.  But to find an established writer eschewing the advance and the royalty of the traditional route, worries me more.  The book is available only through his own website, and obtainable only through Lulu, which I think is not unconnected to Amazon, home of course to that kindle thing.  It is published in the name of Mosaique Press, which I assume is Shah’s own venture.

Tahir Shah’s father, Idries, was also a gifted writer, and there remains a family publishing house keeping Shah senior’s works before our children.  But Tahir didn’t use that facility either.  He may make more with PoD, say £5 per copy net, as against perhaps £1 in royalty traditionally.  But it may not have the same marketing budget.  Perhaps if it does well it may then be picked up by one of the big houses or otherwise find its way into what is left of our book retail industry.  The value to a collector though is scant, for in softcover it will never replace that rare, mint, hard-back first edition.

But I forgive him, for Tahir Shah is a writer of some genious, taking me back to Casablanca or Marrakesh at a whim.  His tales of djinns and traditions are infectious.  Lined up on the shelf is another volume from a recent newspaper review, also not unrelated to Tahir Shah.  The Last Storytellers – Tales from the Heart of Morocco, is a compilation of those stories handed down for centuries and told for ever in the Djemaa el Fna.  These are the stories, from the souks and from the Thousand and One Nights, that Shah weaves through his own works.  This morning he told me of yet another work on those traditions, Robert Leibling’s Legends of the Fire Spirit, and so it too should be in the post soon.  The bank manager will be unimpressed.

It is all this talk of words, and time in workshops, and on the net, that I blame.  I have added another regular read to the blogroll aside, having been introduced to Views from the Bike Shed, just recently.  It is a hand I hope to shake personally, quite soon, but we’re back to that old bank manger thing again.  Mark Charlton’s hands also spend too much time on the handlebars of a bike, though you will not find me cycling from Aberystwyth to Norwich, not a chance.  He spends time writing, and adding notes to his blog.  With his tutelage I may yet improve this outlet.  Or perhaps I should just take the bike if I get to make that journey to Wales next month.

Aberystwyth though is in a frame above this desk.  Memories from just a few weeks ago may dredge up picture of Jamie’s Motors in Bow Street, but in front of me is a print of the flags that fly on the front at Aber.  They are the flags of minority nations, topped of course by the Red Dragon of Wales.  Our won Saltire is among them.  Others include Cornwall, Catalonia, Sardinia and more.  Among them are the flags of Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia; countries that have secured their independence.  There is hope for us all.  Meantime have a look at how real writers do the blog thing.

Heroes

I have mentioned previously the work done by Russell Macmillan, my good pal who devotes his life to helping the less well off.  That astonishing night in London, the one when I enjoyed Keith Jarrett and his Trio when I should have been elsewhere, is aired this coming Sunday.  There will be a large screen in the local tennis club, and a gathering of allsorts.  It promises to be a night of some emotion and much humbling.  Many will wish to give thanks to Russell for all he has done so far, and to Stephen for what may evolve in the future, but you have to wait for Sunday to find out about that.

The link below is to the blurb about this episode, and captures Russell’s drive perfectly.

http://www.itv.com/holdingoutforahero/goodcauses/

Scotland’s Future

It is an important day for Scotland today.  One may be forgiven for thinking this was because we are in the middle of the Labour Party conference, that event which you cannot eascape if you get your news from the BBC.  The delegates are finding a route to devolve their northern branch, to select a leader, to put behind them the dark days of Elmer Fudd, of 2007 and 2011; to find a path through the wilderness of the powerless years that lie ahead, before they recover their true destiny.  Against my normal practice I provide a link worth reading, as I cannot summon the energy to comment further on The Party and its Media Arm.

http://www.newsnetscotland.com/index.php/scottish-news/3282-salmond-targeted-by-gray-and-mckechin-at-labours-uk-conference.html

The importance today for our nation lies not with speeches in Liverpool, but in a full day of committee debate, and Treasury sessions, on the Scotland Bill, that flawed draft brought about by the unionist cabal after the 2007 election.  Now, after 2011, even the unionists fear that the Bill is not the answer.

We have the blue tories seeking separation from London, ditto the red ones, devolving their parties as they strive to keep Scotland under control; independence for them, but not for us.  That old chestnut that is the West Lothian question will become even more of an issue.  Imagine, if you will, the soon to be elected leader of what is to become Scotland’s Labour Party setting out on a path and whipping his members accordingly.  It may be an appropriate path for a Holyrood vote but contradictory to a need in Westminster.  Now how do you think Scotland’s delegates in Westminster may vote, on side with their northern dictat, or in line with the Mili-whip?  Ask the same question of the blue tories, or whatever Fraser intends to call them hereabouts should he get the nod.  Interesting times lie ahead.

Remember too that some Scots at Westminster do note vote on issues that do not directly affect their own consituents.  The SNP will only take part in a vote that has relevant impact, including those issues with Barnett consequentials.  The other parties use Scots votes to carry measure in England, even when England says otherwise, and the English are quite right to question that system.

It will be some long weeks yet before either has a new leader in place, and FMQs takes on a new drive.  Meantime we have to suffer the dire ranting, paper-waving drivel of Iain Grey, leading with his chin at every opportunity.  We can yet enjoy the wit of Auntie Bella, now playing a parody of herself as she leads the diminishing band that favours the blue rosette.  And we can ignore Rennie and his four followers, ranting away about nothing in particular, nobody listening, poisoned by the nation’s Clegg bite.

Economists dispel the myths peddled from the south, their opinions ignored as they do not serve the purpose of the serving media.

Today though it is so vital that John Swinney argues our case well, for fear that we end up lumbered with Calman’s fantasy.  I suspect that the best source of information may not be the BBC, Liverpool being the only show in town.  So keep your eye on Newsnet Scotland, and add your own views from time to time.

Coincidence or what?

Click, click, scrape.  Street sounds.  On a rare afternoon without conflicting commitments we enjoyed some quality time together.  It was the turn of The Urchins to experience the joys of cycling, on a trail once ridden by their parents, in times long gone.  Memories of a post-cycle climb up the steep crags in sweltering heat flooded back.  Such madness had now subsided, largely.

We were in Callander, where Highlands meets Lowlands and thumps you right in the Trossachs.  It has always been a delightful town but today is unchanged since Dr Finlay first entered a case in his book.  It is convenient for a brief escape from either of our major cities; an opportunity to practice the Princes Street Shuffle, an art form that pre-dates tramworks.  I felt almost naked without a walking stick, clacking slowly along past the shortbread tin shop fronts.  The sartorial elegance of the golf course, there must be such a thing somewhere, melds with the tweeds of the country, and Callander’s High Street comes alive.  Thankfully the tour buses had reached the end of their season, and we were spared the worst of the shuffling hordes.

But at the end of the street, as should be case in every town in the land, there stood a book shop, a second-hand one, with a warm welcome and a fine stock.  The Urchins browsed, then begged.  Ideal methinks, and fine justification for the couple of volumes that had slipped under my arm.  I found the second leg of Alastair Scott’s trilogy round the world, in fine condition and signed.  It cost less than the ice cream from the cafe nearby, and a poor vanilla at that.  Just the outward leg to find now, but no rush for that.  The sorry vanilla brought back thoughts of an ice cream tour round my past, perhaps an exercise for another day; a mapping single scoops and single nougats, and the gems and nuggets that mark Scotland’s links to Italy.

But what caught my eye in that bookshop was not a leather bound volume, or an elusive first edition.  No it was a flyer, an advert for a cafe, left casually on one of those coffee tables that all bookshops should have; the one that allowed the wizened proprietrix to rest all day with her brew and her book, and idle away the hours, hoping that something would move from the stacks.

The flyer was for the Troubador, and I had spent all of the previous day in that self same cafe-cum-gallery.  Why a bookshop in Callander would have a leaflet from a London cafe remained a mystery, but there it was.

The Troubador had been a marvellous day, filled with insights and snippets as we discussed the world of publishing and the role of the freelancer.  From 800 word articles to the 120,000 of the researched book, we explored the myths and the mysteries as we tried to nail down the writers’ craft, or the access to the editors’ inboxes.  Competitions and blogs, old friends and new.  All that and a full Irish breakfast with a large glass of the black stuff.  It is easy to forget the exhaustion of getting there and back, the stifling heat of the tunnels linking tube stations, and the noises and smells as a city lives and breathes.  Harder to forget are those leaving the Euro-Gamer exhibition, in full costume, but it takes all sorts.

I think I’ll be back in Callander before I suffer the city streets again.  There’s the lure of the cycle path and the drive of The Urchins, and there’s a very good bookshop.

Drams

With an early start tomorrow, yes it’s time for another jolly in old London town, I had to get through some work commitments before dawn today.  Thus by the time the sun was up, and for a change of late it was actually visible, The Grasshopper could take to the roads.  It was a fine run, and a quick warm up heading as I was into the teeth of a fresh breeze which made every turn of the pedal an uphill task.  So by the time I reached my watering hole, a very steep stretch heading up towards that swahili greeting I may have mentioned before, I had well and trully broken sweat.  As always crossing the main road, aside from being life threatening, also means crossing into a different climate.  Even at the top of the hill on the far side there was no wind, and so it was indeed a very fine run.

I opted for the route that took me past the battle monument, the stiffest climb on my various circuits, one that I had stayed away from for a few months as a road closure meant I had to remain on the A road far too long for my liking.  I knew that I had insufficient time for a longer route, expecting, as I was, a call to collect FirstBorn from the station for a rare and welcome visit.  He brought with him a rare and welcome gift, in the form of whisky, and Welsh whisky at that, an antidote to that dire time we spent in the valleys just a couple of months ago.  Matured in madeira casks, it promises tropical fruit, raisins, and vanilla, and I can’t wait.  But I shall have to for the early start tomorrow, a flight at 7.oo, rules out any sampling this eve.

It was the second bottle to arrive this weekend, the first having been a very fine, too fine for my poor palate, 2010 bottling of some 16 years ageing, from the peatiest of Islay’s peaty halls, a Lagavulin.  That goes on to the top shelf, for special sampling with special friends.

A dram from Wales comes at an opportune time, for I am very much looking forward to a return trip, perhaps at the end of next month.  Another jolly is under negotiation, brownie points being accrued at every opportunity, and as always wasted at every mere trifling.  But the grass is cut, the lunch made, and the dishes washed.  One day the fruits of all these jollys may be evident, as I seek to break down the barriers to any vestiges of talent that remains deeply buried.  It will be fun, even if the talent remains but latent.

Whilst driving to said station this fine morn, I was able to enjoy Excess Baggage, Saturday morning being my delve into Radio 4, usually with the book reviews and travel supplements spread across the kitchen table.  The mellifluous tones of Anthony Sattin graced the airwaves and I travelled back all the way to Marrakech, to the weekend that introduced me to Excess Baggae in the first place, the weekend that I think is still available to listen to via the website.  It was fun, the weekend that is.

Anthony was discussing not the story tellers of that fabulous square, but his latest piece on his other specialist subject, Egypt, and Lifting the Veil.  Asked what drew travellers down Cairo way a few hundred years ago Anthony, in his own inimitable fashion mentions not simple things like history, or pyramids.  No for Anthony it was ‘the lure of antiquity’; and he does speak like that, all the time, and I could listen to him for hours.

Anthony Sattin is the only man I have ever heard referring to that great protagonist at the quill of Cervantes, one Don Quixote, in its original form, the ‘x’ being replaced by a ‘ch’, and the accent over the final ‘e’ omitted.  Sattin is as much a character as Quichot himself.  But Anthony I still disagree with you on matters Rosinante, and Sancho’s ass, though that is another story for another day.  Instead I am reminded that 600 or so years ago, Cervantes it was who admitted that never would he understand the workings of a woman’s mind, no matter how long he lived.  There are times when I may be tempted to agree, but given the parlous state of my brownie point account, and my need for credit imminently if I am to see Wales again, and in one piece, then I couldn’t possibly comment at the passing of 600 years without apparent change.  No sir, not today.

For now though it is brownie point time for the FirstBorn, granny will be pleased.

Faith in our Future

I guess I am not alone in despairing at times at what the future may hold, thoughts that often surface after some display of poor behaviour, or appalling knowledge, from the next generation; those that will get the right to vote and to shape their world.  There are times when I feel a bit like M’Learned Friend back in 1963 or so, who, in addressing those assembled in his court was heard to mutter “and who are these Beatles chaps?”  Yes, an old fart.

But yesterday I had my faith in our future restored.  It was done not by gangs of angry, looting teenagers repenting of their ills; not by the deeds and words of highly paid elected members; nor even by some new found re-birth of any long lost faith gene that may once have existed hereabouts.  No, it was done by spending less than an hour in the company of half a dozen kids with an average age of less than nine, and it prompted me into some positive action this very day.

Our local primary school is very dear to me, not least as it has amongst the 30-odd in its care, my own precious Urchins.  I had been asked to attend a meeting at said school, to get some parental involvement into the next stage of the Green Team project.  Hm, thought I, parental attendance, box ticked, next flag awarded, k-ching.  Cynical, moi?

Not so.  I was given a presentation, heavy on the technology, digitally filmed by the children themselves, and presented with their plans for the year ahead; their plans to make their school more eco-friendly; their thoughts on what they could do to re-use, to re-cycle; to fully consider the environmental impact of the school garden, of water and electricity.

Brilliant they were, each and every one of them.  Motivated they were, to do better; better than our generation had achieved.  Agitated they were, at the damage done to the previous efforts in the school garden, so quickly destroyed by mindless vandalism, even in our tiny community, that dug up the new plantings, that broke the signs, and damaged anything that moved when the boredom of holidays set in and the school grounds lay empty and inviting.  I had no idea that such destruction had taken place, and hope there is to be no repeat.  For if the children can take responsibility and pride in their environment and in their work, why not others?

I was presented with proposals for spring bulbs, and delighted that I could offer some tiny assistance.  For many years it has been my habit to plant a few sacks of mixed daffodils so that one day the garden, for a few short weeks each spring, may slowly begin to inspire just a few words worth repeating, or better, hosts of them.  The children, bless them, thought bulbs to be a spring planting project, and I realised we were all in danger of missing the season for next spring.  So today I stocked up for my own garden, a planting job for ther next few days, and dropped a sack in at the school on the way by.  No better time to get them working than when they are fully motivated.

There will be a pole to display the  current Green Flag, I promise you that; and I will do all that I can can to help these youngsters get a second award for their efforts, and to meet up with them whenever inspiration is needed, either by me or by them.  The future’s bright, as someone once said, so much so that I’ll leave the politicians alone today, promise.

Finances and the State

There are other important issues today.  Swinney presents the latest budget to the parliament at Holyrood, juggling Westminster’s crumbs, balancing the books once again.  Let us see if the opposition parties fulfill their promises in the aftermath of last May’s destruction, to be constructive, to refrain from voting against their own budget amendments.  Let us see how the state-funded broadcaster covers proceedings.  Let us watch the aftermath at FMQs.

And the BBC of course continues to make the news rather than just give us their version of it.  For days now we have had endless coverage and quotes from the Fib-Dum conference.  Accepted, they are a party invlolved in the government south of here, but in these parts they have enough representation at Holyrood to hold their group meetings in a Ford Cortina, or some other such rusting relic, fit for such a purpose.  Wullie Rennie leads his four others, and the BBC give him air time a-plenty as he forges ahead in his soundbite, rent a quote style which they seem to love.  Perhaps the tide is turning and the broadcaster is lessening the admiration for the party that takes no part in government, anywhere.

Meanwhile Radio Scotland gives endless coverage to a report, from within the BBC, of near 90% satisfaction.  As usual they are selective, failing to mention that 12% expressed serious concerns, raising accuasations of bias against the Scottish Government.  The report actually said ‘ Some of these respondents argued that Radio Scotland lacks impartiality and suggested that news coverage is biased against the Scottish National Party.’  You will not hear of that on Radio Scotland.  Other snippets suppressed from the public, unless they go to look at the report and read for themselves, include:

Awareness levels have fallen in the last year and are currently below those of Radio 1,2,3, and 4.  Audience approval scores tend to be slightly lower than for other BBC radio stations.  At 7 hours a week the average length of listener time is low compared with other BBC stations  and commercial radio (Radio 4 11.1 hours).  The proportion of listeners who had a high overall impression was lower for Radio Scotland than for BBC’s other national radio stations – just 45%, compared to 56% Radio Wales, 58% Radio Ulster.

So it is clearly not just me, but you won’t hear about it on the wireless, not from the BBC anyway.

Meanwhile, the BBC are actually airing a programme tonight, on the gaelic platform gaelic, in opposition to a cup match involving Celtic which just might take the edge in audience share, which promises to cast the beloved red tories in a bad light, and does so on the day the Scottish budget is presented.  Eorpa has an expose on PFI contracts, those deals so beloved by Blair and implemented with abandon by his whipping boys in Edinburgh, many at the hands of his finance man in Scotland, my own former MSP, one Andy Kerr.  PFI was the mechanism used to give us all those schools and hospitals.  We knew from the outset that fat cats were having their pockets lined, that we the public, were left with contracts that were going to impoverish our children and grandchildren, and theirs too.  Eorpa promises to lift the lid on all those dodgy deals, leaving the only question as to why, why, why it took so long.  Why wait until Labour were out of power in both parliaments?  Why was the work not carried out and the programme aired a decade ago, for we all knew then the black pit into which we had been plunged.

However, with gift horses and mouths, lets not get too cynical.  Are the BBC on the point of changing?  I doubt it.  Coverage of the Scottish budget, and in a couple of weeks of the SNP conference, will be confirmation of that.

Soaking

No it’s not the weather, though it could be, for it is.  No it’s that time of the year when soaking is something pleasurable in the diary, an enjoyment, and it has happened this very morning.  It seems just a scant few weeks since that dire trip to Wales, the one where one of the highlights was the last slice of last year’s Christmas Cake.  Normally I take the view that it should be three months to make, then three months to eat, but I eked it out a bit longer last year, mainly be denying anyone else the pleasure, in short being selfish, which comes easily.

And so the first stage is done, the fruit is soaking.

The kitchen is rich with the smells of freshly cut peel, and ginger, cherries and cranberries.  Apples have been stewed and added to the usual heap of mixed dried fruit, more than 3lb of the stuff.  Lemons and orange are squeezed, the juice and pith added.  It is an hour’s graft of sheer joy.  For the next week the mixture will be turned over daily, until each and every piece of fruit is fattened with fresh juices, bursting with flavour, in short, soaked.

For several years now I have used a recipe from a wonderful book by Tamasin Day-Lewis.  She credits that recipe to Jane Grigson.  I add my own little nuances, such as extra and varied fruit, and a little dash of something to ensure it is moist and flavoursome.  Even after baking day next week, there will be a dash as the cake cools, and then a wee monthly something before we get down to making the marzipan and the decorations once three full moons have passed.

The recipe is one I have shared with a number of people, though not necessarily those little extras that make a difference.  This time round I promise not to burn the beast, all faults in that area are mine alone and nothing to do with the recipe.  There will be double linings, the outside of the tin will be wrapped, and the top protected, well protected.  Baking will be on a day untramelled with duties of an Urchin type, timed to be over before the return of the bus, even if an early start is needed.  I also promise, so far as is within my power, to remain utterly selfish, at least so far as said cake is concerned.

That Grigson names stirs up memories, distant ones.  Sophie of that ilk, daughter of Jane and a fine cook herself, used to grace the airwaves of a Saturday morning.  These were the days when Talk Radio was entertaining, before the scourge that is Kelvin Mackenzie turned it into an endless diatribe about metatarsals, and inane phone-ins about the fortunes, or otherwise of all things to do with Old Trafford and The Bridge, and all other important places in the world that is footie in The Premiership and beyond.  As a result there is a huge gap on the wirless that once was filled, daily, by the mighty, and indeed many,  voices of Sean Bolger, he’s the man that used to give Sophie Grigson a slot, Tommy Boyd, the original wind-up merchant, and the wonderful Anna Raeburn who dished out sage advice and pithy wisdon with panache and good grace.  And then there was Nancy Roberts, who invited you to pull your chair up to her kitchen table on Sunday afternoon, and have a blether.  Oh happy days, gone now, in the quest for advertising revenue and audience figures.

But it is soaking day and nothing will be dampened, especially the spirits, for I must go now and taste the air in the kitchen, which will linger until baking day next week.