More Sun, Drops of Golden

And I had to drive home, into the setting glare, eyes unable to focus.

There was a long, long way to go, but we made it home for it wasn’t fa, the car following the road as  the thread follows the needle, so, and I salivated at the thought of a female deer, with cumberland sauce perhaps, doh.

Listening to music is usually good, but reading it is not something I was ever able to master, all those hieroglyphs making up quavers and crotchets and whatnots.

But down at the world’s best wee school the other day there was much music reading going on.  We were called to a recitation; the fruits of hard work by visiting specialists, dedicated teachers, and twenty little children unearthing talents they didn’t know they had.

We had massed xylophones and glocks, percussion rasping and tubs thumping , and all the boys and girls giving us The Lion Sleeps Tonight, amongst other things.  Feet were tapping, mouths counting silently, heads nodding and hands clapping.  Some parents had to stop themselves reaching for the high notes and spoiling the whole show, a-wim-o-way.

But the concentration on those little faces – wow.  Then they sang Price Tag; the massed choir of the biggies class, all 20 of them, from P4-7, two thirds of the entire school. Brilliant they were. Oh there was hardly a dry seat in the house – well there were a few grannies in.

And into the sun all the way home, those rays of golden sun, eyes running squinting.  Oh and this weekend the drama club has a show too.  Nurse, nurse….

Sun among the Gloom

These last couple of days it has been easy to forget the woes of others; to ignore the pictures of rising waters and silt sluicing through sitting rooms and of house without heating.  For as I look out the window there is barely a cloud to sully the mood, and the sun glistens brightly on the ragged peaks of Goatfell on the horizon.

And I was cheered yesterday by the smiles of others.  For in my hand I found myself looking at something I may never see again.  It was a birthday card, and it came from The Palace.

I have known Cedric for only a couple of years.  He has a dry humour, and sparkled even after being out partying to midnight the day before.  The family had gathered from far and wide and there were cards and photographs and so many memories.

Collective funds had been spent in planting trees in Israel, hopefully still standing after last week’s shenanigans.  I had been reading just the other day of some olive trees in Jerusalem understood to pre-date a tree tax introduced in the 3rd century.

I do not know all of Cedric’s story, but I enjoyed pictures of a young schoolboy, one born before the first world war changed life for everyone.  And there was a handsome young man at a tennis club, overseas.  Then there was arrival on these shores.

The secret for Cedric was hard work and clean living.  He had only just retired when I met him, well into his 90s.  His wife had passed away in 1946, which is a very long time to be alone.

But that may be the secret, for Cedric is still independent and thriving in his own home and still alone.  There can’t be many cards from The Palace sent to individuals still wholly independent.

But he does indeed have his birthday card from The Palace.  It arrived in an envelope with his name and address printed.  There was another one from the DWP, from the Minister; it was seriously underwhelming, embossed with registered mail stickers and delivery dates.

But the card from The Palace, something I doubt I’ll ever see again, was a replacement for the traditional telegram.  I know not how many are sent out each day but I’d have thought a little human touch was not impossible.  For the signature surprised me; it was not in rich and flowing Indian ink, but simply re-produced by computer.  Such disappointment, after all that has happened in the world since 1912, when Cedric put in his appearance.

But an old man was very happy, and so was Cedric, surrounded with cards and certificates and photographs, filled with memories.

Another Union Dividend

There’s always a good time to bury bad news,  or so the political spin-meisters would have it.  So whilst there’s flooding and mopping up going on in far too many places, and people without heating in freezing temperatures, one of the subjects being aired is the possibility of BAE Systems closing at least one of their three shipyards., with the devastating loss of jobs that will ensue.

Two of those yards are on the Clyde, the third in Portsmouth.  And that’s where it gets far too political.  And remember BAE is not a government agency, though it does rely heavily on MOD contracts.  There are warships, and of course those two aircraft carriers.  Current work may be completed in 2014, with no new orders due to commence until a further two years down the line.

And in between times there are opportunities to cast votes; for Westminster in 2015, Holyrood in 2016; but perhaps more importantly in a referendum in 2014.

So the scaremongering has started.  Scottish yards will be ‘foreign’ and get no orders from the Royal Navy who never place contracts overseas – forgetting Korea of course, and forgetting perhaps the possibility of a Scottish Defence Force’s needs and indeed their entitlement from UK assets.

As always we have to rely on web sources for news and opinions.  So have a look at this summary over at Wings.  And if a Clyde yard is to go where does that leave all that guff from the Bitter Th’gither mob, using shipyard workers in their promos.

Interesting too that the STUC have refused to join the BT campaign.  The left may be on the rise, as witnessed by up to 900 people paying to attend a cross-party Radical Independence Conference last week.  That does tend to leave the red tories firmly in bed with their best pals the blue ones, far away from their socialist roots.

On the other hand if, as is speculated by BAE and the local press down Portsmouth way, it is the southern yard that has its anchor chain tugged – for wholly practical and commerial reasons around the type of work possible in that location – then consider the impact in a tory heartland in the run up to the election.  And what about the ‘no foreign yards’ argument, if England’s only facility closes?

As always there’s excellent input at Newsnet, and much to be learned by the comments from contributors on both sites.

And of course at the same time we have the legacy of the Olympics back in our minds, with the announcement of the candidates for this year’s Sports Personality bunfight.  Get your union jacks out again.  For what it’s worth I think if I were to vote I would have to favour Mr Murray.  I rank the achievements of him and  Mr Wiggins on an even footing, but Murray gets the edge, not for parochial reasons, but because when he is out there on the court he is completely alone.  Cycling is a team game, as evidenced by the failure of the team to get Mr Cavendish his gong.  It’s a tough choice, and ultimately I think Wiggins will lift the trophy.  But it could be Jessica Rennis, or Nicola Radams I suppose.

Now just to lighten it up a bit, and touching on matters of deep loathing, this one from the alternative BBC had me chuckling.  Then despair with this one, not at all funny, but intensely sad.

It’s Scottish Book Week

…. and that is quite important.   Every pupil in Primary 1 is given a pack.  It contains three picture books, including one from Scotland’s Julia Donaldson.  Come on join in with me – a mouse took a stroll in the deep dark wood – and if you haven’t read any of her works to your children, it’s never too late to start.  She’s got some belters out there.  Stick Man, there’s one for the festive stocking.  Anyway anthing that gets children started reading, and adults reading to them; that’s good for me.

I heard a discussion about Book Week on Radio Scotland’s Book Cafe earlier; just a little taster it was, and a promise of more detailed broadcasts this weekend.  Tune in.

The weekend press had it covered too, with a book review.  My old man read it, for he told me that Michael Palin had a new book out, something about The Falls of somewhere, he’d said.

Yes, I saw it, Falls of Dochart, up at Killin.  But it’s not really his book you know.  The Scotsman had printed the full text of Palin’s article, and that resulted in at least two readers missing the few words mentioning other contributors.

Anyway there’s much more to Book Week Scotland 2012 than Michael Palin.  One thing that intrigued me was the return of the mysterious book sculptures.  They’re giving out a clue every day and the first one has me foxed.  Four pictures, supposed to remind you of a book with a Scots connection, then you get a clue to the whereabouts of the sculpture.  Much head scratching going on up at Grasshopper Towers so far.

There’s a Childrens’ Book Tour, with authors going into schools and libraries.  And all this week there’s 100 Authors in 100 Libraries, so there just might be something on near you.  I see Mairi Hedderwick’s at The Mitchell in Glasgow, with Katie Morag stories for 4-8 years olds.  I know one 48 year old who might be interested.

Liz Lochead has her Writing Tips and I haven’t been there yet, you may have noticed.

And that book of Michael Palin?  Well you can pick that up from this week, free, in all branches of Specsavers, Waterstones too, and at CalMac terminals, local libraries and museums.  My Favourite Place it’s called.  Some of you may have heard about it.  I dropped a copy off at the old man’s earlier on; we’ll see if he reads it

Do yourself a favour, have a look and see what else this week has to offer:

http://www.scottishbooktrust.com/

Raffles

There are items that have a life cycle revolving around charity events and fundraisers, destined never to see the light of day.  I was minded of this by a raffle prize, one of several over the weekend as it happens.  And of course we are at that time of the year when what remains of the shops on the high street seem filled to overflowing with boxes of those ‘ideal’ gifts, usually two or three bits of something or other, vaguely connected, and boxed up in rainforests of packaging or encased in plastic.

The first raffle was succesful though, providing a CD of hielan’ music and some plonk.  The plonk soon made up half a case, another addition to the stock for the future Big Red Shed ManRural.

For the quiz team had been out, and defended a title won a year ago.  The excitement of the three-way play-off was not needed this time, with a handsome 10 point winning margin and a threat of keeping Lesmahagow itself and not just the non-existent trophy if we can repeat the process next year.  And the boys are on the march again, intent on a night out or two, and what better excuse than one of the regular pub quizzes within a 10 mile radius, even if there isn’t a quiz taking place on the chosen night.

But it was the ceilidh that brought raffles to the fore.  It was extensive and took a while, the rafflle that is; usually held in that break in the dancing, for energy supplies in the form of sausage rolls and sandwiches.  It was catering similar to that at the quiz, but where the quiz followed up with biscuits and home baking, the dancers got mince pies and the eyes twinkled more than the toes.

And what a night it was, with Drops O’ Brandy, the Sarn’t Major well and truly dashed, the Orcadian willow stripped and all the usual favourites.  The Urchins got their grand old duke but generally just ran around practising goal celebrations on a slippery floor – the type that usually end up with holes in the socks as friction builds between floor and shin pad.  And there was a Highland Schottische, but that is best left for for the fit young things and the twinkling toes of Tractor Jim, medics on hand.

But the raffle, where was I?  Oh yes the prizes that circulate from one event to another, continually raising charitable funds.  I know this how?  Why because I came home with the same piece of tat with which I had set out, one gained at another event on another day, and all the bottles and the chocolates went to much more deserving causes.

But it was a good cause, for those Friends of Loudoun Kirk have a 12th century project and need to preserve the final resting place of countless Earls of Loudoun.  It is an interesting tale, one publicised by Tony Robinson and his team.  For the Loudoun line is intertwined with those of Hastings and Dumfries and there are tales to tell.  There’s Britain’s rightful monarch and the scandals wrought on Lady Flora by Victoria.  And there’s reckless gambling, the family fortune placed on a horse  in The Derby and the ending of the Hastings title.  You can read all about that one in The Pocket Venus; now there’s a good one for the bookcase.

That Hastings family once had Donington Park to race round, and that leads us to the Bute cousins, and Johnny Dumfries, now the Bute Earl, and once known for his exploits on the F1 circuit.

Oh the memories dredged up by a piece of tat in the raffle.  Wonder who’ll win it next year?

Tales of the Playground

Events over at Holyrood seem to be descending into the puerile.  It may be deliberate policy on the part of the unionists; one designed to scunner us all of the political process so that by the time the referendum comes around we long for those heady days of Westminster, and the big boys playground.  Aye, right.

There are several aspects to this.  Firstly the Labour benches contain nothing more than a rag, tag and bobtail from the council chambers, unused to the glare of publicity and the spotlight on every utterance.  In appointing their leader they have made a gift to the independence cause, challenged in far too many ways to be considered a potential leader of a nation.

One interesting development is a parliamentary grouping of 3 Independents and 2 Greens – this gives them collectively the same clout as the completely pointless LibDems and thus hopefully a regular slot at FMQs, and more opportunities to contribute.

But collectively the debating chamber has to improve the performance.  Finally we have a suspension for boorish behaviour, but it may take much more, and a stronger performance from the Presiding Officer to bring the class to attention.  Sit up, arms crossed, quiet at the back, please.  How many times does Ms Lamont need to be warned before the yellow card is produced?

And then there’s the media, specifically the BBC.  It’s just not good enough.  One may have liked to think that the state broadcaster may be ultra careful these days, after all the recent exposure of poor journalism and bad practices, but it seems Pacific Quay just carries on as normal.

So for your Friday reading you could do much worse than explore these discussions, firstly at Wings Over Scotland, on the debating chamber.  Then over at Newsnet on the media performance.

But finally have a read at The Herald, yes I know these are not words that you will often here from me, but Iain McWhirter’s piece on Norway, and parallels with what could lie ahead, comes into the ‘must read’ category.

I had intended linking to The Herald but for some reason I get an error code – they like to hide behind a wall and get registrations, preserving advertising against plummeting circulations, but it didn’t work so you can get it all, in full, at Munguin, which is a much better link.  That brings me on to The Scotsman, circulation now down at 32,000 and falling.  No surprise that both papers are owned outwith Scotland and have Political Editors from furth of these shores, and an agenda to peddle.

And finally, yes another one, here’s a rail ticket I’d happily pay a first class immediate boarding fee to travel on.  Not sure who comes up with these ideas for the bitter th’gither mob, but as a means to getting their message across this one looks to be a real pup.  Available from a station near you.

It’s a New One On Me

The name of Charles Dickens that is; never been on the Bedisde Table before, but there he sits now.

It’s an interesting tale.  In 1857 Dickens and his chum Wilkie Collins took themselves of to Cumberland, on a sight-seeing tour.  And they wrote of it, in the form of satire, of the energy of one and the sloth of the other.  And good stuff it is too.

Originally published in weekly instalments on Dickens’ Household Words, it has been brought to us now, thanks to Hesperus Press, publishing a complete volume last year.

And thanks to them I found myself in Allonby, with bridges over the burn and donkeys; a view across the sea to Criffel – which minds me of High Tea at the Criffel Inn – and eating shrimps.  160 years later and nothing much as changed, ‘cept the donkeys perhaps, though Dickens din’t have the delights of Twentyman’sice cream in those days.

The two idlers arrived by train to Aspatria – Spatter as they picked it up in the local dialect – and on by one-horse fly to the coast where there was nothing much to do except eat shrimps.  Eating shrimps in Allonby is something I may be reminded of when certain people meet up, that and penaut butter and digging to Australia.  Was it really only six months ago that we woke with a film of frost on the fly sheet in that same place?

But what brought this volume to my table is interesting in itself.  It is one that I happened across in a certain bookshop in Biggar recently.  It’s a bookshop The Urchins enjoy, perhaps because of the proximity of a certain ice cream parlour to match that of Allonby itself.  Anyway, Atkinson Pryce hand pick their stock, and I feel they must do so with only myself in mind, for it is stock the like of which I can find in no other single place.

My favourite small publishers are well represented, more so than in any multiple you can name.  I can browse through volumes from Eland and Haus, Tauris Parke, and now I need to look and see what else Hesperus can do for me, for just as Dickens is new on the database here, so too is Hesperus.  Oh it’s good when you find new things to explore.

Now forgive me, I’m off back to Cumberland on The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices, and that’s not something I would have found browsing online.

The Test of Time

As promised on RLS Day I did indeed pick up Jekyll & Hyde once again.  And am I glad I did for it is a gripping yarn.  But I’m also glad I read that essay from Kevin Williamson beforehand.  Illuminating it was to read the tale in a new light.

Many will remember those grainy black & white images from Hammer, but few may remember the story as it was told, movie adaptations often skewing our perceptions of the written word.

The first thing that grabs you is Stevenson’s writing; his descriptions of people and place.  They are trully outstanding, and pass the test of time.  The opening chapters, before we even meet the subject matter, are superbly written.

The tale was originally published in 1886, the year the cocaine fuelled fizzy drink we still have now in those red and silver cans first hit the market.  My own version is part of the Edinburgh Edition of his Collected Works, from 1894 (the year of his death) to 1898.  I enjoy holding those rich burgundy covers and turning the rough edges of uncut paper, with clear print and smelling as e-readers can’t.

And just as those concoctions may be addictive so I’m tempted to dip further into Louis’ world.  I might just head to Ballantrae next, Hermiston even.  I’ll let you know.

Good Viewing

There’s been some cracking stuff these last few days, and I’m not referring to rugby matches from around these isles, nor even to cricket from India.

Oh no, it’s Sarah Lund time again, and the first two episodes of the third and final series of The Killing are here at last.  This one looks to be a real stoater, as they used to say in these parts.  There is a new slant, perhaps borrowed from the success of Borgen.  For as well as Chief Inspector Lund and the mess she trails along with her, we’ve got some political intrigue thrown in, along with the small matter of child abduction.

And wasn’t that a stunning way to leave us waiting for more?

Then later I caught, unusually for me, The Adventure Show.  This is a BBC Scotland production and well worth finding on the iPlayer for those further afield.  The highlight this week, apart from some stunning Norwegian scenery amongst the walking trails and mountain bothies, was a bike ride.  There was a tandem doing it, a recumbent too, and the show host, Dougie Vipond.

But this wasn’t any old bike ride.  This was 300km, and over 18 hours in the saddle from a 6am start.  Did they really say almost 5,000m of climbing?  The snow road, a circular route from Kirriemuir, via Banchory and Braemar among others, and over The Lecht and Glenshee.  What got me was the age of these nutters the guys undertaking this feet.  Makes you ashamed to be waiting slovenly for a gap in the diary and a gap in the weather to head out for an hour or two.

Anyway, if they’re showing The Killing in double episodes that means it won’t be long till Borgen’s back on screen.  I guess I’ll just need to get in the habit of staying awake after 9.00 on a Saturday night.  So while I lead the chorus of long live the beeb, I kid you not, I realise I’ve missed another cracker tonight on Radio 3, all about the dark arts of travel writing and featuring some familiar names, including Rory Maclean tutoring a workshop.

But I found that on the listen again facility, and I might just listen again several times, for as well as Rory there’s chat from Artemis Cooper, new biographer of PLF, and Nicholas Shakespeare, Chatwin’s biographer as well as Chatwin’s widow Elizabeth.  Travel writers embellishing their notes for the sake of a good story?  Who’d have thunk it?  Couldn’t happen here you know.

SNP Accused

It’s a phrase you see often in the media in these parts, usually a screaming headline based on nothing whatsover, a bit of make believe, or the type of hypocracy that only politicians can rise to.

In an effort to keep stress away I’ve been glossing over politicians and media types of late.  leaving the BBC and scandals and poor journalism for others to talk about.  I’ve even ignored those who should have been in court but were apparently too ill to face up to the theft of our money.  But this one had me reaching for the keyboard.

In Scotland we get to appoint a Secretary of State, Scotland’s man in Westminster, or Westminster’s man in Scotland or whatever, to look after our best interests.  And the Opposition appoint a Shadow to that post, to keep him on his toes.  Both are positions which are largely redundant since devolution, but continued at enormous expense.

The current Shadow Secretary, one Margaret Curran, known at times as Stairheid Rammy, Magrit and various others, has just embarked on her latest tirade which sees the media digging out the SNP Accused banners once again.

The subject this time is the sale of the 4G licenses for our mobiles, tablets and other can’t-live-withouts.  Why haven’t those nasty nats not got a plan in place to spend the largesse from this unexpected windfall?, rants our Maggie.  And it wasn’t just a wee story for the Sunday lunch table, oh no, the fragrant Ms Curran let off steam at an STUC Conference – the sort of place that once would be packed with socialists, in bygone days the life-blood of the Labour Party.

But although a 4G license for, amongst others, Glasgow was up for grabs, Magrit has completely failed to recognise that the loot is not Scotland’s to spend.  For in much the same way as licenses for exploration of Scotland’s sea bed, or the siting of green energy facilities on Scotland’s slopes, the money goes, in full, direct to HM Treasury and is Westminster’s alone.  There are no Barnett consequentials and no change in Scotland’s pocket money.

For Barnett only works on spending in England, and only if England spends our windfall can we expect to get some crumbs for our table.  But not always.  If say they spent it on something such as say an Olympic Games, there are no changes to the block grant, which would only apply if the spend was on something that had been devolved – health, education, transport primarily.   Now you might have thought any MP would know that, far less one in such an exalted post.  Especially when a parliamentary answer to one of her own coleagues on the same day confirmed it to be so.  But then, they never did let fact get in the way of a good story, expecially when the SNP Accused banners can get another airing.  And the media? – let’s not go there, I feel the stress rising.

But Mags is heading for the top with Labour, and that of course means London.  And Labour are not losing touch with their roots, for haven’t they just allowed Lord Watson, convicted arsonist, back into membership.  Jailed for fire-raising and endangering lives; retains his seat in the Lords, and now back in the Labour fold.   Whatever next?

Now if we manage to vote Yes in a couple of years we can rid ourselves not only of the expense of Scottish Secretary, but also of the need for such license monies to be paid elsewhere.  Then we really could use the windfall for the benefit of Scotland’s people.