Hostages, Dragons and Ransoms

It’s been a bit frantic of late but rest assured that the Bedside Table has not fallen into disuse.  But I’ve neglected to tell you what has been catching my interest.

As is my want I occasionally delve into other worlds, and it’s been the turn of the dragons recently, two separate batches of them.

First up was Naomi Novik.  The seventh in her Temeraire series, Crucible of Gold, was out recently, and I realised I had missed the sixth last year.  But the second hand outlets did the trick and I got right up to date.

These novels are set during the Napoleonic Wars, with the twist being that the Navy has a coterie or two of dragons to help out, as do the French.  The dragons of course hail from China, and so we travel the world, from the English Channel to the Highlands of Scotland, to South Africa and beyond, to the new colonies Down Under, and across the ocean to the remnants of Inca Gold.  Good fun, and cunningly mingling with history.

I was drawn to another part of the world by John McCarthy.  He was relating his own experience of spending five years in the Middle East, denied access to his home, a captive, a hostage, eventually freed.  In You Can’t Hide the Sun he returns to the area to talk to indigenous tribes, the Palestinians, denied their own homes in the Israel that evolved since 1948 at a time when his own father was part of the British Control.  McCarthy elicits a deep and profound understanding of the issues in the area, that seems to hold no solution, or at least not an easy one after 60-odd years of strife.  It’s a fine read and you might just look at the problems of the area from a different angle.

I was minded of a couple of essays by Amos Oz, who at one time served in the Israeli army, and who later looked at it a-new, from eyes not dissimilar to McCarthy.  I must get those essays back from Mistress Ghamellawalla, who may not have taken from them what I did, she being somewhat less than impartial on the matter, and understandably so.

And then it was dragons again, in the magical world created by Robin Hobb, who I have been reading for many years.  It all started with The Farseer Trilogy, a series I have in tatty paperback, longing to be replaced by hardback firsts, but there is quite a value to them now and it hasn’t happened, yet.  Farseer introduced the concept of dragons and she developed the theme through the sea serpents of her Liveship Traders, then back to the Farseer days with the Tawny Man, and finally into the current Rain Wild Chronicles. 

City of Dragons is the latest delicious instalment.  Leave all the problems behind and delve in.  There’s more to follow, for sure.

Currently I’m enjoying a new author, well new to me though long since deceased.  A year or so ago I picked up a volume newly published after a manuscript had been lost for 75 years or so.  The subject matter was RLS, and the author was one Arthur Ransome. 

I have vague memories of a grainy TV adaptation of Swallows & Amazons, but confess to never having read the books.  So I’m enjoying discovering Ransome now.  Perhaps there’s a new project in there, for I see he went to Russia, in 1914, with a role as war correspondent, and remained through the Revolution, publishing a couple of works, including Russia 1919, which I need to find, though it’s not looking easy, at least not at a price I can afford.  But the end of the Romanovs is like a shit to a flea and the quest is on.  As is the modern way though there’s a Print on Demand version with Faber Finds, which might let me read it, but get me that First, with the dustwrapper preferably.

Anyway, Ransome’s marriage was disintegrating.  His soon-to-be-ex-wife sent the unfinished manuscript of his study of Robert Louis Stevenson, a follow up to previous studies of Edgar Allan Poe (another one that sparks my interest) and Sir Walter Scott.  The publishers eventually released him from the deal and gave the job to Frank Swinnerton.  The ms eventually turned up, in 1990, in a lawyer’s strongroom, wrapped in brown paper.

It gives us an insight of one young author, before he started writing his childrens’ works, of an influence on his writing life.  Ransome was 10 when RLS died in 1894, and like all children ever since learned to love the tales and the poems of the scrawny Velvet Coat.  They influenced his own writings and at last we can read his views on the life and works of the master.  And in so doing I get a first glimpse of the craft of Ransome, and want more.

As always one book leads to another.  Weir of Hermiston will be next up, for it has been some time since I last delved in there.  This was the work that Stevenson was engaged in when the hunter returned from the hill that fateful day in Samoa.  I want also to track down his Essays of Travel.  But more than that there’s the whole world of Arthur Ransome opening up in front of me; perhaps for The Urchins too.

That’s a Wrap

So the show’s over now, and I might just forget all those miles and the tank of petrol, the disruption to the entire household fitting in trips to the theatre and back.  I’m sure it’s just a wee touch of hayfever that moistens the eyes, all the way down to the cheekbone.  Yes there’s something pretty special about seeing your offspring on stage, with the lights and the greasepaint.  The Prodigal did it once, twice actually, from the Primary 1 nativity with the starring role, then Youth Theatre in the late teens.  Now it’s the turn of Girl Urchin, and she’s keen to do it again.  And why not?  Well I’ll spare you the cycnical answer to that one, about exploitation and ticket sales, bums on seats, for she might need to get to Hollywood to keep her old man in his old age.  Then again she’ll have to do that as a child star, for he’s nearly there already.  Ach she’ll always be a star, just like her sister before her.  But there’s no link to the Drama Company yet, for they’re still a bit too luvvie, and a bit light on the information and needs of the family for my liking.  Maybe next year though.

But what a week it’s been.  Rising each day and retiring each night under faultless skies, with rarely a whisper of cloud all week.  Layers have been peeled cycling under the sun; skin will be shed soon.  And as I hurtle, chortle not up the back there, round the lanes the hares have been lolloping across the meadows; the cows lazing, and the lambs wandering over to the trough, tongues out, wondering how to reach the water.

So last night the hose came out, for the first time in around two years for it was not needed at all last year even though there is no ban in these parts, never has been, never will be.  And the conifer bed had to get a drenching too, for there are some new ones in this spring.  It always causes consternation does the hose, for the fit to the tap leaves much to be desired and often spray over the window, the ceiling and everywhere inbetween.  One day we’ll get that outside tap connected.

Those house martins have been busy too, singing incessantly.  And as they go back and for’ard all day, between fields and eaves, rising on the thermals and floating it seems when it gets blustery, they manage to miss me on those rare occasions when I manage to get a chair out.  Oh yes, so far they’ve only managed to land one on my hat, and my shorts, but they’ve missed all that bare flesh, perhaps until the next time.  It’s the sun that does it you know, brings out all that bare flesh; dusky maidens everywhere, you mau have noticed.  Aye it’s been a fine, fine week.

But the highlight this week has been that little declaration on Friday.  This one:

“There is no doubt that Scotland has great potential.  We are blessed with talent, resources and creativity.

We have the opportunity to make our nation a better place to live, for this and future generations.

We can build a greener, fairer and more prosperous society that is stronger and more successful than it is today.

I want a Scotland that speaks with her own voice and makes her own unique contribution to the world: a Scotland that stands alongside the other nations in thses isles, as an independent nation.”

Go on, read it again, aloud.  I can sign up to that.  You can too, right here, right now.  And I see that there have been many putting their names to it, right across society, across the political spectrum too, for this comes from far more than an SNP ideology.  There are former Labour politicians and spin doctors signed up, the Greens and the Socialists too; business leaders, like Sir George Mathewson and Les Meikle; celebs such as Sir Sean and The Proclaimers too, well one of the Reid boys does have Margo as a mother-in-law.  United together are union leaders such as Tommy Brennan and tory fundraisers such as Peter de Vink.  The list is endless, so get in there.  Even the luvvies are behind it, from Mary-Doll, to Alan Cumming, and Compston and Cosmo, and many more.

And remember that this is simply about making our own decisions, not about choosing any government.  In fact the very constitution is not even at issue here, for that will be drawn up by whoever forms the government after the 2016 Holyrood election, possibly a coalition of some sort, but it will be drawn up by our people and for our people, and that is why I’ve signed up now.

I see that the Sunday Herald set themseleves out as among the persuadables, an open mind, claiming to have supported Alex Salmond as First Minister in recent elections, by dint of shuddering at the alternatives.  That smacks to me of an editorial board suddenly waking up to one of the causes of a plummeting readership, plunging advertising revenues.  For I read the daily version, every day for decades, but never again, for that was not what I read.  The Herald I used to buy was out, and hostile, and I’ll not be back even if they do claim to have changed their spots or be persauded that they could.  I want openness and impartiality, of the type that the demonstration outside Pacific Quay at the weekend demanded; the demonstration that you’ll not find reported in a media remaining suppine and feeble, the one with plunging sales, or the one funded by us all with a duty to fulfill.

Ach, the sun’s still shining, and I’ve sheds and chicken huts to paint, dough to knead.  The future’s bright, and so is the day.

And They’re Off

No, it’s not holiday time, but the greatest race ever run, the one to make the decision on Scotland’s Independence.

It got under way yesterday, with the great and the good assembling at the starting line, the media jockeying for position, or not as the case may be.

So, I’ve pledged my troth, and if you haven’t done so already you can too.  I’ll make it easy for you, just sign up here.

One million signatures, that’s all.  But it won’t be easy.  I bumped into my old chum the ghamellawallah yesterday.  Firstly Mistress Ghamellawallah said her piece.  Separation, a bad word to start with my dear.  Feart she was, feart of the unknown and the possibility of running into financial difficulty in the future.  Better to stay with the financial difficulty we have now she seems to think, the one created by Westminster, the same outfit with no clue as to how to bring their trashing of the economy to an end.

Then he started.  The Edinburgh Trams, disaster, can’t trust this government to run anything.  Despair, here we go.  ‘You need to read more’, says I, ‘and not on the BBC.  For the trams were forced upon us by the unionist majority ganging up to vote down a government proposal to scrap the whole %$*&ing thing!’  ‘I didn’t know that’ whimpers the response.  ‘But look at Sweden, and the Scandinavians, the tax rates’ etc etc.  ‘Yes, let’s look at them, all small independent countries with populations of around 5 million and rich in natural resources, riding high on the World Prosperity Index, and just about every other measure of success you can find.’  It’s not a bad aspiration to have.

But they were having none of it.  Rather have Scotland voting red and being governed by blue, though if I recall favouring orange in the past.  In this debate it seems that no one stops to think about who may form the government in Scotland once the shackles have been severed.  The cross party campaign is to get us the power to make our own decisions, and many back the SNP today to get us that power, but may go back to their party of history once the power has been obtained and exercised.  So Labour could govern an independent Scotland, (assuming they don’t think Rosa Kleb is the one to lead us),Tory too, even though that may seem unlikely.  What we are not saying is that our nation will be forever run by nationalists; just that we have the right to make our own decisions, to stand on our own feet.  And if that is free of WMDs and PFIs, free of the rape of our natural resources through taxes plundered and distributed to other parts, then so be it, and so much the better.  But I’d rather have a Labour Government in Edinburgh, with full fiscal autonomy, than be tugging my forelock to any government in Westminster.

Now, what are you all scared of?  Yes, we need  every day of the next two years or so to run this race.  For if the Ghamellawallah thinks the Edinburgh Trams Disaster is a true indication of the what the SNP government have done for us then there is much work to be done.  Were it not for them that disaster would have cost us even more, and we’d have airport rail links and other follies to cripple what meagre rations Brown and Darling had left behind, and the pips that Cameron and Osborne were squeezing ……..too painful to think further on that one.

And to get the message across we need to rely on our broadcasters and media.  On second thoughts just follow the links elsewhare on the page to Newsnet Scotland and Wings Over Scotland, among others for it may be some time before the rest catch up and we wouldn’t want the impartiality of the state-funded broadcaster clouding the issue, would we?  Make sure you do your daily reading in the right places, at least for the next couple of years.

Resurrection

I mentioned the other day of the possibility of the Return of the Messiah.  Yes the man with his own Faith Foundation is threatening to come back to save us all.

So just take a few moments to remember exactly what Tony Blair has done so far; what he did for the Labour Party; Britain’s Armed Forces; the Banking Industry; Peace in the Middle East.  Socialism.  Oh, and the PFI contracts that mean our grandchildren will be shackled to labour’s corpse for decades, spending millions on hospital maintenace contracts worth more every year than the value of the underlying assets.  Thanks for that one Tony, the blue tories called it PPP and scrapped it, but you thought it was good, as a socialist policy presumably.

And then there’s the commitment to renew the WMDs just down the road.  Just think about that one as the IMF tells us what we already know.  There needs to be a Plan B, the one that spends money in projects to provide employment and improve our infrastucture on roads and other essentials to our day to day living, such as dualling the A9, and many more.  These could all be met, and more, without the waste on submarines and nukes.  And reduce bank interest rates?  Hm, not sure about that one, for banks cannot make money at 0.5%, which is why they want to lend to me, on standard buisness terms, at base +13%; and why their credit cards want to double that; it’s why mortgages are now running at over 5% and depositors get sod all on their savings.  So reducing base will make what difference to that?

Yep, it wasn’t that long ago was it, and look what we are reaping now.

So this is the man that’s going to make sure we remain just where Westminster want us.  Or perhaps it’s just a wee leak or two, to sound it out, see what the reaction is.  I know what my reaction is.  Bring it on, as one of his former colleagues once said.  Go on Tony, save the union.  Someone mentioned that the dream team could have Brown make a comeback too, but why not go the whole hog, let’s get Maggie on board.  Together they’ll make sure that Scotland toes the line won’t they?  But I suspect Blair may not do it, for it might just impinge on his global empire, perhaps his residence status, his tax bill even.

Great article here, summarising much better than I ever could, on the welcome we need to give to the former PM.

No Words From Me

Just two fine articles that deserve to find a wider audience, so this may give them another couple:

http://moridura.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/thoughts-for-scotsthe-snp-and-left.html

http://www.newsnetscotland.com/index.php/scottish-opinion/5012-lockerbie-the-death-of-megrahi-and-the-continuing-shame-of-bbc-scotland

Oh, and this too.  What am I do now that The Bridge has reached it’s span.  When do we get the next series of The Killing and Borgen?

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2012/05/21/the-bridge-review-saga-noren-martin-rohde_n_1532995.html?ref=uk

It’s all just a bit better when the sun shines

I was enjoying that blissful half hour; the one that comes along rarely when the sun shines and the wind drops; the one before the school bus arrives.  It’s not often I get the chance to do so, especially sitting outdoors with a glass of something cool, book in hand and the last few overs of the test match on the radio, wishing Johnners was still with us but glad of Blowers and the tittering of Viv.

The muscles were relaxing after  slowly grinding round the lanes, chasing pairs of goldfinches along the hedgerows.  Back home it was peaceful, or so I thought.  My eye was caught by movement, under the car, and crunching.  There was a cat, and a rabbit, one of the newborns, and it sounded as though it tasted good.  It was not even our cat, for he had not been seen since seven of the clock, just that pest of a stray, putting on weight.  Oh goodness I hope that ginger tom’s been done, that grizzling, growling beast that sets our cat on edge, the one that left home months ago, the home that he once shared with our rotund gala float designer.

Anyway it was not just my eye that was caught, for suddenly there was more movement, and the chickens enquired as to what may be appealing under the car.  Usually when food is the isuue, and chickens and cats are around, there’s only one winner, well five actually and the cat can be seen with tail between legs slinking off.  But this cat worked hard for her dinner and her slinking off was done with the rest of the carcase in her teeth.  The chickens’ attention span is somewhat limited and they wandered off elsewhere.

But the cat headed into the garage, where there’s no room to even think about putting a car because of the detritus of life, including bikes, workstands, car-racks and assorted balls and prams and debris.  Now I know there’s the remnants of a half-eaten carcase lurking in some dark corner or other, one that only a nimble pussy can get near.  Sod it, it’s probably above the office ceiling, rotting, ready to drop maggots from what the cat leaves behind, usually a bit of green inner, or rag of bobtail, a tag of ear perhaps.

But I moved not from my seat for there was more going on in that half hour of bliss when nothing was happening.  White butterflies bobbed around, and a furry bee zipped by.  The chickens watched movement in the grass, or rather under it.  The mole was on the move.  And escaping him was a worm, cutting through the uncut meadow that will never earn the title of lawn, like the slinky that used to run down the stairs way back when, back when I had a house that actually had stairs.

There’s nibbling at the fence too, big black panda eyes, as one of the spring lambs munches away at the bamboo, tail a-wag, mama calling.  Above there’s endless activity as the house martins flit back and forward, whistling while they work, though that must be a bit difficult on the way in, with a beakful of mud.  They never rest.  So it all changes with a bit of sun and some warmth in the air.  The whole world seems to smile, except perhaps that rabbit.

A delivery van arrives, having taken three days to find me.  It’s a bookcase, well two actually, and that could mean another growling beast as I try to find a bit of floor and wall to store more precious goods.  At least she’ll get the piano back, for a while.  Hm, wonder how many bookcases I could get in the space the piano takes up?  Then the bus arrives, and the mind turns to other things, like homework and dinner and Brownies.  Oh well, it was good while it lasted.  Now, precious child time, or sorting books?  If only I could get the wii controller off him I might just get him out in the sun.  Where’s that football, back corner of the garage I guess, the one the cat’s guarding.

Today’s Headlines

There are a few that catch the eye.

Firstly we have the announcement of the passing of Abdelbaset Al-Megrahi.  That in itself is very sad, but the headline that we should all read of course is this one, for of course the death of Al-Megrahi changes that not one bit.  He was simply the patsy convicted, but the bomber yet walks free.  As always the only dignity in the entire affair comes from Jim Swire.  I will spare you a link to the BBC article, for it may leave your blood approaching boiling point.  For they tell us that Labour’s Scottish Leader has taken the opportunity to apologise to all the Lockerbie victims on behalf of the people of Scotland, that’s you and I, for the decision to release him from Greenock prison.  Not in my name Ms Lamont; you do not speak for me, for my apology is to the Megrahi family for the horrendous decision by a Scottish court, under whatever influences, to convict him in the first place.  We know now that the star witness has been found wanting, whilst counting his $3m kick-back.  And of course we remember that Ms Lamont’s London leaders didn’t want the man to die in Greenock either, though their dodgy desert deal was never going to provide am alternative route.  The real sadness is that the appeal had to be dropped, but that allowed Megrahi to live out the rest of his painful days in his home country and, in so doing, to get access to medical treatment that he would not have had here and which made that precious time a little longer.

Then we have the news that the Yes campaign, that’s for the 2014 referendum for those of you who have been in a bubble for the last five years, will begin imminently, and this gives me the opportunity to spare you another embarrassing link.  For that august rag, The Herald, publices the start of the most important political debate in our lifetimes, and those of our children and grandchildren, the debate that the combined unionist parties did their utmost to deny us the opportunity to begin, with a full colour picture of the most embarrassing Scot of all time, yes it’s Mel Gibson, in full Braveheart mode. OK I accept that they are mentioning that the Yes strategy will be to avoid all references to said Aussie, but the picture kind of defeats the purpose.  No wonder sales are plummeting at The Herald and Sunday Herald.  That is simply appalling, but speaks volumes for the tiny shadow that this paper brings to what once was a journalistic institution.

Then just when you pinch yourself to find that it is not a dream, you get this one.  Yep Blair, the peace envoy that took us into that war, with all his other baggage.  Back to save the country, the union perhaps.  I’m not even going to mention the Rupert word, for whom of course he is a family godparent.  The last I saw from our ex-PM was an article about his Faith, but that’s another subject all together.  One saving grace though is that, having become a Roman Catholic, he won’t get the key to No 10 again,  but that’s another farce to be debated another day.

So all in all it may not be a bad time to start the campaign towards 2014.  With Lamont’s apology; The Herald’s Braveheart; and the threat of Blair, I suspect that the SNP membership secretary might be in for a busy time.  It’s hardly positive stuff for Darling’s Niet camp.  Perhaps Mr Cameron has something he’d like to add.  Go on, make ma day, as someone once said.

Is This what Happens in Your House?

I came across this article; it’s well worth sharing.  You may agree or disagree but the author puts it better than I ever could.

http://wingsland.podgamer.com/the-state-of-our-union/#more-17643

Let the Children Perform

It’s come round again; already.  It must be age that makes the year’s turn so quickly but here we are, on the verge of another Gala Day.  Yes it’s that time of the year again when we have to do something with a tractor and trailer, for there’s a parade to be held, and a judging committee to baffle.

Before that though there’s the mere matter of a week treading the boards, for Urchin the Elder has joined a drama club and they put on Fame this week.  It’s going to be a logistical nightmare, and for one who has deep nightmare’s ever since Lionel Bart’s cockney crap first appeared, it could be grim.  For I am no fan of child performers; no lover of am-dram in any shape or form.  But my own robes have been delivered too.

First up though it’s Fame and at least two thirty mile round trips every night.  That’s trips to be made amongst all the usual stuff such as Brownies and swimming, and homework and dinner and all the commitments the rest of us have.  The teachers have been warned that they may have Little Miss Grumpy by the end of the week, for it’ll be late nights and sleep deprivation; and there won’t be a dry eye in the house.

Meanwhile, a little further afield, the CharityMan that met ChattyMan, also has board-treading on his mind.  For he has 150 tickets to distribute to a night at another theatre, and is doing the rounds of the local homes and carers; distributing good feelings and warmth wherever he goes.  Never mind the eyes, I feel there may be scarce a dry seat in the house that night.

But Gala Day looms ever closer.  We have our trailer and our shed to work in, but a tractor is proving troublesome, and a driver.  First choice is tied up with Gala Court duties and being entertained all day whilst youngest carries out courtly chores.  Second in line is away at a wedding a couple of hundred miles away and though his tractors will be idle his drivers will all be dashing their white sergeants at said nuptial bash.

And the way the weather’s looking every other John Deere for miles around could be up to it’s fenders in silage, assuming the grass will eventually to start to grow and the temperature reaches double-digits.  But we’ll get there.  There’s a theme this year, involving wizards and castles and those pesky child performers, and something called quidditch.

Now this house may be stuffed with books, and films of stories, but I confess to never having turned one of Ms Rowling’s pages, nor seen the movie, any of them.  So I’m in the dark with all things Potteresque.  But I have robes, and am promised that the children are making a hat; there’s to be a wig too and a beard, a long flowing one.  I fancy a staff, a stave even, perhaps an antlered crook.  I think of Gandalf, or Goodkind’s First Rule.  Perhaps I’ll immerse myself in Lord Foul’s Bane once more, for I like wizards.  No I’m told, it’s Dimblebore, who I thought I watched at Question Time, hackles often raised.

And we’ve a starring role for the Queen of Hearts, her last before heading off to suck the life blood from a new community, taking her Knave and her little rooks and tartlets with her.  She’ll be missed, all those cheery words of encouragement as I wheeze slowly past, at least I think that’s what they are.  They’ll only be ten miles or so away, off my track though, but still in touch he threatens.  It’s a big hole in this wee community that’ll be hard to fill, and they’ll all be missed, one way or another.  So a Dementor it is, and I see that this is some sort of ‘dark creature, the foulest creatures that walks this earth.’  Can’t be my Queen of Hearts, but I don’t cast the roles.

Three weeks we’ve got, to make this all happen, and it will, one way or another.  For we’ve a rotund designer of all things to do with a tractor and trailer; a mean hand with a power tool or two.  Just don’t let him near your barbecue, for he tends to leave the coals in the sack and you’ll starve waiting.  He think’s it’s to be his last Gala Day, but I know differently.  And I know we’ll have a WogHorts that the thronging streets will recognise, even if the judges remain confused; and spotty youths in cloaks, and broomsticks and whatever else may appear between those pages though I draw the line at a viaduct and an express train.  We’ll keep that one for next year, perhaps.

But the children will have a blast, if we ever survive Fame.

Moving Borders

I came across this little nugget, over on the HuffPo.  There’s a video on YouTube detailing how Europe’s borders have shifted over the past thousand years or so.  Fascinating stuff, and a great soundtrack through the three and a half minutes.  I can think of one wee change I’d like to see in the next few years, though it’s plain to see that nothing is set in tablets of stone, not even boundaries.