Half Full

I got my first parking ticket today.

I lost the new jumper I bought in the Fat Face sale in St Andrews. I retraced my steps but there was no sign of it.

I set off the house alarm when I got home and didn't work out how to fix it for a head-splitting, ear-stabbing 20 minutes. I'd been punching in the wrong code.

I accidentally ran a red light.

But.

But I had a good run this morning.

When I crossed the bridge the sun burst through the cloud and it was summer still.

Lunch was lovely, outside in the indian summer with cold beer, a dog and a great friend.

I walked the dog in the warmth, getting smiles and nods from approving pretty girls.

I sat again in the sun, again with a beer, again with the dog, again with my great friend, with apple trees dropping their heavy fruit around us and old palettes and wine crates as chairs.

I met with a couple of other old mates, got caught up, arranged future pints and retrieved, after almost a year, my prized set of global knives.

I bought a few bottles of brilliant wine, and confirmed a nice dinner for tomorrow night.

I baked cookies for dessert tonight, and had a fantastic wine to go with them.

So my glass is half full. More than half full. I've just topped it up.

Breathing Space

The cat sits on the window ledge, looking into the office when not looking out for prey. The cats hunting leads to contemplative distraction from all things. The garden outside the office shelters all manner of prey, real and imagined, and Bagel and Sam do their best to subsidise their diet. I think they're more succesful than they let on, and have seen Bagel coughing up the odd feather or two. They are my companions at the moment, which suits a romantic ideal: a mad writer and his cats, but does little for romance. Sometimes they remind me of ex-girlfriends. They still come back for a stroke and a cuddle, but shoot off as soon it suits them, leaving me sneezing and cursing my gullibility.

It's been a quiet few days. Playing catch up with all sorts of things, making good progress on the odd secret project. My first photo job went pretty well at the weekend. I felt nervous throughout; worried someone would pull back the curtain and reveal that I wasn't really the wizard of snaps, merely an elevated hobbyist. But I guess having a photo job makes you a photographer by default. The irony, of course, is that the person who got me the job is a much better photographer than I am. Which makes the choice of me as shutterbug a high compliment, one that I tried desperately to live up to, so much that I took nearly 600 pictures over the weekend. But it turned out ok. So it's been quiet, but a contented quiet.

Not quite abstract


We took the work hard/play hard philosophy to new limits this weekend - 5 am finishes followed by 9am starts. I'm tired but happy. There's a lot to do, and I could post more, but I think I'll have a cup of tea first. Then I ought to get myself organised, but really all I want to do is drink claret and listen to B.B. King's King of the Blues really loud.

Pictures on a rainy day

When it rains in Scotland it's hard to imagine than anywhere else in the world has sun. Or that it still exists at all. But it does.

Didn't have to fix the pipe this morning. Joy.

Today I'm catching up on unheard podcasts & unwritten pages.

Listen to Snow Patrol - Eyes Open.

Rocks at low tide, Crail
Fishing boat coming home, CrailSea wall & tower, Crail
Low tide and mist, Crail
The viaduct, Linlithgow Bridge

earning beer, wine & opinion

There are certain life experiences that you can't put on your CV, no matter how much you feel the effort and suffering have made you better for whatever challenge future employment may lay at your feet. Sometimes these things are dreadful. The epitome of why you chose a life other than that which would have lead you to willingly do that thing as a career, or even by accident. Today I helped clean a victorian septic tank. The heady, pastel-imagery of yesterday replaced by, well, shit. It was awful, and the selfish brat in me wants a medal and a parade for dealing with it. I grasped at the straws of consolation - building character, the beer tastes better afterwards, working in the sunshine, earning my keep, et al. Nothing helped. But I endured, a small sense of accomplishment mingled with disgust and feverish need of a shower ensued. There's a reason plumbers earn vast amounts of money in the UK. Because no one wants to shovel, rod, drain, or have anything to do with shit. And they're right, and I feel that we should keep paying plumbers vast amounts of money. And I can stand on my soapbox, ranting, because I've earned that opinion. And a beer. And a glass of wine.

Tomorrow we fix the pipe that leads to the tank, whether it rains or not. Joy.

several seasons

The water smouldered with the ghost of the early morning haar, wisps and tendrils reaching up towards the shore, the bridges and the sky. I was late, so the camera stayed in the boot. Above, charcoal smeared clouds edged with brass loomed, to the north the rest of the haar lingered, obscuring the cliffs behind North Queensferry. The odd bit of pastel blue poked through, looking lonely. It looked like another world. Across the bridge, in the other world, the light and sky continued its show. And those in the right lane on the M90 refused to reach the speed limit. The Redhouse Roundabout smelled of peanut butter. Clouds the size of counties battled the sunlight, neither yielding, giving rain, rainbows, glorious summer warmth and the chill of shadows. My partner in crime for the day collected, we headed for the coast, wary of the rain, thirsting for the light and hungry for lunch. Soup and a sandwich in a quiet pub in a quiet village, nestled in front of a deserted beach. Sated, we wandered the beach, seeking crabs and the odd minnow. The tide out, the pools of the sea's leftovers enjoying their temporary independence, we sought new life and talked rubbish. It started to rain, but stayed warm, so we headed back to the car but didn't rush. Crail next, as postcard a seaside village as you will ever get, and the misty haar still lingered on the water in front of Bass Rock. The sun dazzled through cartoon cotton clouds and the lobster shack was typically closed. We walked the pier and I snapped some pics. St Andrews next, for a beer and a natter. It's all different and the same. West Sands then, for a beach walk and more talk, the sky ceaseless in its entertainment. Deposited the partner in crime and sped south, the cats needed fed and so did I. Crossing the bridge and fissures in the cloud to west erupted with the molten evening sunlight, bathing the water and the shoreline.

The cats needed fed, the camera stayed in the boot.

curry, cars & Steve Irwin

Solitude's a funny thing. I like my own company. Writing is about as lonely a career as you can choose, so it's just as well. But every once in awhile, you just need to be with your mates. You need company. I'm alone in the house for a couple of days and last night I genuinely felt a bit lonely. I phoned a lot of people, caught up a bit, started the 'agent hunt', but when I hung up, I was still in a big house by myself in the middle of nowhere. Normally, this would be a good thing. Many pages get written in such situations. So I finally settle down to do some writing, pour myself a beer and re-read page 140-odd. But I wasn't ready yet, so I checked Messenger to see if Irony was about, as I hadn't chatted with her in ages and she was grumpy the last time. Irony was about and on spectacular form, with all sorts of good news. Friends with good news are a much underrated wonderful thing. Chat turned to dinner. There was food in the house, but I fancied a curry. I mentioned this and was told I was a bastard because I could go to the Balaka for a curry. The Balaka's in St Andrews, just over an hour drive away. I dismissed the idea at first, citing the distance involved and the general extravagance of traversing a couple of counties and a firth for a curry. It was the non-driver in me. It just didn't occur to me that I could drive to St Andrews to eat dinner and drive back. It wasn't even seven yet. And I'm the one who harps on about needing adventure in my life. So I phoned Pete W, mired in a stocktake in St Andrews, and told him we were going for a curry - I'd be there in just over an hour. And with the Kaiser Chiefs as my theme music, bounding over the Forth Road Bridge, that's what I did. It felt good, the company was good, and the curry was ace.

Off to Fife again today, to whisk a gorgeous young student away from her dissertation to buy her lunch and see if her incredibly fit friend still fancies me, or at least remembers who I am. There's a picture of her draped over me somewhere on this site - the friend that is.

In other news, an old friend, deeply upset at the loss of Steve Irwin, has started a poetry tribute to him. The best will be sold to raise money for his conservation fund. So, without further ado, I give you Steph Lunn's tribute, penned in a moment of grief last Friday.
Golden crinkly spaces of time will pass
But your khaki-tinted memory will last

And when we watch you handling snakes
What hearts your memory will break

How odd that we still fancied you a bit
As you rolled around in crocodile sh*t *(no swearing in the office)

But all good things must come to an end
Someday our sad little hearts will mend

So next time I’m chasing Komodo Dragons up a tree
I will close my eyes and think of thee

And while with your memory I’m smitten
I will try my best not to get bitten….

And with a bottle of wine so white
We’ll drink to you and your crocs tonight

RIP Steve xx
If you'd like to submit a poem (no time wasters please), email stephlunn@msn.com with the subject line "croc poet." I think she had a bit of a crush on him, poor thing.

Intelligent Life (& cows)

We drank in the sun while we drank in the sun yesterday. To call it the last bbq of the summer would be depressing, but it may well have been. The spaniels presented everyone with rocks, sticks, bits of coal and copious quantities of slobber. The cows from the field next door got curious and had a look in. We got curious and leapt the fence, wondering if it was possible to ride a cow. There had been much drinking in the sun by this point. The cows, smarter than drunk people, ran away. I ate too much Thornton's toffee cake.

Today I feel as though I'm made of cotton wool.

Cows: smarter than drunk people

Earless in Edinburgh

Summer refuses to surrender in Scotland. The days get shorter but they're still filled with glorious sunshine. Hints of autumn creep about - the odd brown leaf, the lingering morning dew - but it's hard to concentrate on those when you need to put on factor 21 to stop from burning.

I found no gift for my mother. I did find a brilliant card though and never has my sock collection been so shiny and new. It was liberating throwing away the odd, holey socks.

The Dean Gallery was brilliant - though confusing. It didn't look like it did eleven years ago. It took me awhile to work out that I'd never been to The Dean Gallery, I'd been to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. In fact, the Dean Gallery wasn't even a gallery eleven years ago. However, they are both beautiful buildings, set on lovely lawns, and they're on the same road, so my confusion is understandable.

There was a Van Gogh exhibition on - a brilliant surprise. Field with Ploughman and Orchard in Blossom (Plum Trees) moved me far more than anything I've set eyes on of late. It's a wonderful exhibition, not just for the paintings, but for a sense of time - it isn't just a study of the man and the art itself but a look at the environment in which they existed. No matter where you are in the UK, make the effort to have a look - it's on until 24 September.

The Dean Gallery

Oh, and top secret project planning went well. So well, in fact, that a couple of new top secret projects were planned. So I don't know how many I have now.

sock merchants

Off to Edinburgh today - need socks. I feel like Hugh Laurie's Prince Regent in Blackadder the Third: never enough socks. Sadly, there's no machiavellian butler selling them to a Tunisian sock merchant. Life would be more interesting with a machiavellian butler. And there'd be an explanation for my sock woes. As it is, I haven't a clue.

Vital though new socks are, there's other business to sort out in Edinburgh. A top secret meeting to deal with one of my top secret projects. A visit to the Dean Gallery (haven't been in 11 years). Maybe some food and a wander. A glance in the windows of a few estate agents. A glance in the window of a literary agency.

And - ohshitI'veonlyjustrememberedthisrightthissecond - a birthday present for my mother. Bollocks. It's on Sunday. There's no mail on Sunday (except for that dreadful newspaper - ba-dum-tum). Bollocks. And I think they're flying to the States tomorrow. And I haven't a clue what to give her. Socks?

Bollocks.

Sort of like Alice, but with champagne

There's a part of me, the guy part, that likes to pretend I'm unimpressed by most of what I see. Grandeur and the epic recognised as though it were merely average and ordinary, given a cursory glance with a cynical eye. It's stupid, really. And I'm not very good at it. I'm an eager and excitable person. Attempts at aloofness, cynicism and world-weariness collapse in the face of wonder, excitement, and boyish enthusiasm.

Last night, some dear friends and I attended a champagne tasting at Broomhall, seat of the Earl of Elgin, direct descendent of Robert the Bruce. The guy part of me assumed control of my expectations - another big country house in Fife. Whoop-dee-doo.

It was stunning. The guy part of me received a severe beating from the rest of me, jaw scraping the floor at the scale and beauty of the place, stuffed full of the most remarkable artefacts. The historian in me, the one I try to forget, leapt to attention, noting the portraits, the remarkable marble, the statues, the framed letters, the centuries of family, national and world history that permeated every corner of the house. So I was in a bit of a daze, trying to drink it all in while trying to drink champagne. My critical faculties were smothered by a barely concealed grin. It wasn't awe at the opulence, or a material need for my own mammoth pile, but curiosity and delight at so many treasures under one roof. An ancient printing of the music "Cockles & Mussels" or "Molly Malone" lay discarded next to a piano sat in the corner of the tasting room - classic, intricate typesetting with an abundance of Victorian swirls and flourishes. Letters from Winston Churchill to the current Earl's great-grandfather were on display, the legendary wit in its original ink.

So I wandered through these enormous rooms, past marble busts, statues, tapestries, great curtains cut from rich cloth that laid out would cover a tennis court, and drank champagne, and ate. I didn't mingle too much, sticking to the group as much as possible. Not to be antisocial, but my buzz was a personal one. The Petes and Kirsty cover the diplomacy thing a bit better than I do. I got the sense that everyone felt a bit like they were through the looking glass, gazing about in wonder. The Earl himself looked delighted with things, a proper raconteur, as much a part of the house as any of its artefacts, answering questions with glee.

We got back to Naughton and it felt no smaller. Every bit as grand as before. The world needed put to rights though, and so we ploughed on til past 4, sketching the future and drinking more wine. We have something wonderful and don't know what to do with it yet.

The morning came unwelcome at first. Tea with toast and marmite served as a restorative. Kirsty, Pete C and myself pried the sleep from our eyes while Pete W was already at work, James had already walked the dog, and Annie had already remarked on how clean the kitchen was, even though I was there.

I got back home and went for a run, a hangover cure if ever there was one. I received an email from one of my most cynical and critical friends, who poured over the first 119 pages of the book and heaped more praise on it than I could have imagined. It's not quite complete vindication (there were some important criticisms as well as praise), but fairly close. Complete vindication comes with the first printing. Which is far more real to me now that it was this morning. I'm still through the looking glass, staring at all the fineries, but they're not curtains or statues or portaits: they're possibilities and opportunities.

earning beer

The seventh time the spaniels ran through the wet cement we tied one to the boat so they would stop. It worked. Those dogs are beginning to annoy me.

Today I earned my keep. Pick-axes, spades, cement-mixers, ball-peen hammers, bricks, gravel and several hours of shoveling, digging, bricking, pouring, smoothing, patting, heaving and swearing led to a new drain in front of the boat shed. It was hard work. I'd feel accomplished if I weren't so exhausted. My beer tasted earned and deserved. So much so that I've poured another.

Tomorrow we're meant to be shovelling aggregate. Aggregate is what gravel's called when it's bigger and there's 10 tonnes of it. I hope it rains.

The path up to the stables in the evening light.

small escapes

I took a nap this morning and woke to find one of the cats had been sick on the carpet of the tv room. It was not a morning for cleaning up cat vomit. No one told the cats this. So, down on my hands and knees, I scrubbed it all away. A few hours later one of the neighbour's spaniels, soaking and covered in mud, stormed into the kitchen and devoured the cats' dinner. This left the kitchen soaking and covered in mud. As I mopped, it occurred to me that without their dinner the cats would have nothing to vomit up.

Last night saw horse-racing and drinking but almost no sleep and patchy recollections. Today has been an effort in avoiding accomplishment: small escapes from responsibility - friends over for lunch, a nap, tidying - that waste away Sundays and leave pages unwritten. The price is that peculiar hangover anxiety that squeezes your ribs and makes your heart pound, like you've forgotten something terribly important, or missed something wonderful.

Adam's new hair.

snoozy afternoon

I've taken a leaf from the cat's book and stretched out on the couch. The rain is erratic. The house is empty apart from myself and the cats. I chopped a trailer full of wood this morning but have not worked on the book. Last night's wine and whisky lingers like mist in my head. I've put on a cozy jumper and am thinking about buying a pair of slippers. There's a smile on my face as I recall Zippy the dog leaping for the cork from a wine bottle. Today's landmark decision is whether to have a nap or a snack. Maybe both.

Back to Normal?

Pause to consider old sayings. Their inner meanings are sometimes misleading. I used the term, "when the dust settles" yesterday (or the day before - perhaps both). I used it innocently, chatting to a friend who was very busy, making plans to make plans. She noted that that dust doesn't settle these days. I shrugged at that and jotted a mental note to make plans to make plans when she was merely busy, and not very busy.

Moving twice in a fortnight, sorting out a job interview, trying to find a car, trying to write my book, getting used to living in the country, organising my three top secret projects, catching up with friends, sorting out bank accounts so that I can live, contemplating my own flat; life has been perpetual motion of late. I saw this coming week as the beginning of routine. Something to settle into with a cup of tea and a piece of toast with butter and marmite. The bank's sorted, I've found a car, there's time to write, I like living in the country and my interview's tomorrow. Slowly but surely, every thing is slipping into place. It's like the last piece of a jigsaw. There's a a satisfying click. My dust's settling. Then I get unsettled. Because while this week is settled, next week is a mystery. There's fear and anticipation and the temptation to ignore it, and settle anyway. Sleep till nine, go for a run, get some writing done and ignore everything else. But I'm up at seven every morning, fingers tingling, feet itching, mind sprinting, wondering what to do first and what to do next.

So the dust isn't settling. Nor am I. It's not a bad thing. When dust settles, it means that something, somewhere, is dirty and inert.

And that's not very nice, is it?

the odd bit here and there

• Scissor Sisters I Don't Feel Like Dancin' - wicked track. Get your disco on. Or something.

• I have a job interview on Wednesday.

• No beautiful women wandered the countryside last night. Well, none that I could see anyway.

• Cooking a roast for 7 o'clock but need to be in Edinburgh for 9.

• Got a new lens for my Canon - very exciting. So far it's taken pictures of sheep and an aquaduct.

• Still looking for a car.

• Have actually got some writing done in the last day. First proper output since getting up north. Must keep it up in spite of a busy weekend and week upcoming.

• Haven't had a job interview in 5 years.

• The cats conned me into feeding them early this morning. Curse their cuddly cuteness.


The aquaduct. I run atop it (almost) every morning.

4 and a half hours to go

So much went right today, that had I met a stunningly beautiful, intelligent, funny, single woman, I would have been able to woo her by merely commenting on the weather.

The day's not over yet. Of course, the chances of a lady matching the above description wandering through the West Lothian countryside at this time of night are pretty slim. But if it's going to happen, it's going to happen today. And I've got my weather chat ready.

didgeridoo

It's only drums and a couple of didgeridoos. But you will be compelled to dance. You'll have no control over it. Sit in the corner all bashful and embarrassed if you want, but your toes will be tapping. Then your legs will start. Then you'll bang out the rhythm (or something close to it) on the table, trying to look nonchalant. Before you know it you'll have rushed to the dancefloor and started bouncing around with someone you don't know, massive grin on your face, laughing and breathless, sweating and not caring. Just this song, but the song lasts ages as you're secretly happy about it.

Was that pretty girl looking at me?

Jammin' at the Jam House with the Trans World Orchestra


One of the support bands arrived in this - pure class.