Road trip recovery

I slept well last night, a belly full of Mexican food and a couple of beers. This morning my cold reasserted itself and there's been a great deal of coughing and nose-blowing.

Two holidays are ending in quick succession. The road trip is done and dusted, a fantastic trip through some of the world's most beautiful places. We covered just over 700 miles in four days. I kept a journal and hope to turn those pages into something more, perhaps even profitable. I took four hundred and twenty-two pictures and no doubt a few will turn up here. I need to trim them a bit.

The other holiday has been this recent Edinburgh stay. It's been a working holiday. Charlotte and Adam get back Wednesday morning and I am soon to head back to the country and wood chopping. It won't be for long. Edinburgh and gainful employment beckon and my job hunt gathers speed.

Must unpack - and then pack.

Waltz of the Flowers

I'd wondered about my camera. The flash was damaged in the car accident but there was no external damage, so I figured I'd blag it on warranty. It looked like I'd got away with it. The repair shop took it in and said no problem. Well, today I saw the quote for fixing it.

£387.00 inc. VAT

Apparently a bit more than the flash was broken. Something about liquid damage.

I drove home distressed. I had to change from Xfm Scotland to Classic FM. This turned out to be a genius move as they played Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker. I love The Nutcracker. It's the first piece of classical music I remember hearing. It's good for the soul. I got back to the flat feeling better.

So I checked online and found the brand shiny new model for £455 inc. VAT (cheers to Jo for the buying advice).

The new model's on its way. The old model - well, I'll find it a home.

Sketching (or sketchy?)

I haven't typed anything on the book for a few days. I have written a lot though. I call it sketching. A very, very long time ago, I was going to leave school and train to be an illustrator/comic book artist. There are several ambitions I've held at one time or another that I've sidelined for one reason or another that I still harbour the odd dream about. The illustrator/comic book artist thing isn't one of them. It may be the only one. I do still wish I could draw better, and occasionally pull Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain out to see if I can finally crack that negative space sketching thing. I do a mean Garfield. I even carved one into a mate's guitar once (with his permission).

So when, instead of writing the actual book, I grab my notebook and write a sort of scaled version of what's going to happen (I don't know what the scale is: maybe 1:5, maybe 1:10. I dumped geography GCSE to do art - the irony), I call it sketching. It's some sort of hangover from when I was scratching out anatomy diagrams with a trusty 4b pencil. It feels right. Some people use the term outline. That seems cold to me. Something to use when planning an academic essay or a corporate presentation. Images of bullet points of varying shapes with three word breakdowns of paragraphs or smilies to denote the mood of the chapter pop into my head. So I'll stick with sketching - fast, unrefined, rough, undetailed with scratchy lines that sometimes don't look like what they're meant to, loads of words scribbled out, filling notebooks until such time as it's ready to take the water colours out and finish the job.

There are only two more chapters to sketch. After that, there are five to paint.

I'm sketching in biro at the moment. 4b's rubbish for writing.

And before you could say autumnal...

It's taken quite some time for the leaves to change this year. Summer lingered well past its expiry date and this has left the trees confused. In some places autumn blazes with its brilliant burst of yellows, oranges and reds, luminous against the green grass. In others the leaves stay green with stubborn refusal to accept seasonal change. Ducks and geese alike have yet to bugger off for warmer climes. I've been watching it all with interest. I'm fond of autumn - being from New England the appreciation of it was drummed into me before I could walk. I like observing the quiet changes, everything getting ready to hibernate or depart for the duration of the winter. Cozy jumpers come out of the closet (or would, were they not in a duffel bag on a moving van somewhere in North London) and the fires get lit that bit more often. It's a bit chilly but not bitter.

So you can imagine my disappointment when, after all this anticipation, autumn lasted one day. It was Monday, to be exact. Monday was cloudy and mild with lots of gusty, billowing breezes kicking the fallen leaves all over the cobbles. The air smelled of earth and leaves and, when a taxi passed, diesel. The occasional shower would add a damp mustiness to the scent and while there was a nip in the air, it was just a nip, not a bite. The trees in the breeze made noises apt for the night before Halloween, rustling and howling followed by whispers and a murmur. Tumbling into the warm pub from the bluster felt brilliant, as did the ale that came next. I marked it in my mind as the first proper day of autumn. I went to bed with a nice buzz from wine, beer and chat and woke up on Tuesday to find that the next ice age had arrived in Edinburgh.

Certain vestiges of the short season remain: the leaves are still lovely. But their scent is replaced with the crisp nose of winter. The wind remains, but is not billowing or blustery, it's biting and vicious, a lazy wind that cuts through you instead of going round. T-shirts need to be tucked in and it's a three layer minimum to step foot outside. The nights near zero C and while the sun shines brilliantly, it doesn't stay out for very long. My jumpers can't arrive soon enough.

In non-weather related news, I'm sketching the final chapters of my book. It's scary but makes me giddy. Once they're sketched, it's still 35,000 words to write. Close, and yet so far...

Some pics from my running route (not taken while running)

Beneath Stockbridge
Crazy rainbow cirrus cloud. I saw the colours only when wearing my shades. So I put my shades over the lens and Bob's your uncle. It's quite a wintry cloud as well...
Water of Leith heading towards Stockbridge

Vegas

Cleaning out a computer is similar to cleaning a room. You find stuff you forgot you had and wonder why on earth you kept it. Then you're compelled to go over it all, revisit each document in an effort to work out why it's there. It's where nostalgia and bewilderment meet. The old essays and notes I understand. As late as they may have been, most of them took too much effort to relegate to the waste bin. And they don't take up too much space. But an old folder of awful net jokes forwarded around in the late nineties? My reasons for keeping that are lost, and so it gets binned. None of them were that funny in the first place and several are still doing the rounds. In great supply are various mission statements and life schedules. All carry the same sort of rubbish: ideas on how to get my life in order, diet plans, exercise plans, life goals et al. There are even check lists - with all boxes unticked. The language is earnest but uncomprehending and the long-needed changes came later and without ticking any boxes or writing any lists.

Amidst these odd documents I did find something quite wonderful; an anonymous quote that did me far more good than any list:
Work like you don't need money,
Love like you've never been hurt,
And dance like no one's watching.
I don't know where I got it, whether it was sent to me or whether I found it online or not, but I'm glad I found it.

Last night Kirsty phoned up and asked if I wanted a free ticket to Vegas. I didn't know what she was talking about, and assumed she meant Nevada. She did not. Vegas is a roaming club, an event celebrating the halcyon days of big bands, sharp dressing and stunning women. I love big band swing and jazz. It makes me dance like no one's watching. And last night in Ocean Terminal we all boogied to the classics and delighted in brilliantly 'swingified' versions of Sweet Caroline and Wonderwall. People made an effort, with costumes ranging from Playboy bunnies to Hunter S Thompson is Fear & Loathing. Most of the guys looked like they got thrown out of the Rat Pack and the girls looked great and loved looking great. Everyone got into it - a thousand people turning a shopping centre in Leith into Vegas circa 1962. It was glitzy, ridiculous and brilliant. The ages ranged from 20 to 70 and they all just had a blast. We danced until 3am, and when the music finished it was 2006 again. The buses were scarce and the taxi driver home droned on about the miracles of the Atkins diet.

The extra hour came in handy this morning.

Today I had the finest hollandaise sauce ever. This evening? Well, this evening I have to work like I don't need the money.

new neighbourhood

Three-and-a-half years ago I moved back to St Andrews from Edinburgh. There were very good reasons for the move, or so I thought. One was to recover from a broken heart which, like a bone, never quite mended to the same shape it was. Another was to devise a television program. I don't remember the other reasons but I'm sure at the time they made sense. Regardless, the move was always meant to be temporary. A brief retreat to familiar ground to regain my strength and purpose and venture back to the real world and Edinburgh. It was not meant to last as long as it did. But I've realised that while my punctuality is quite admirable when it comes to meeting someone for lunch, or a pint, at the level of life planning it leaves a lot to be desired. It took me seven years to get my degree. My recent London jaunt was only meant to last five months: it lasted ten. I don't even want to mention when I first hoped my book would be finished.

So this short stay in Edinburgh feels long overdue. And hopefully the precursor to something more permanent. There are 4 lovely wine merchants to choose from and the same number of delis. Each has something of interest. I never stop at just one. Bread from Herbie's, a salad from Peckham's, a bottle of burgundy from Raeburn - it's sort of like pick 'n mix for grown-ups. The butcher's brilliant and I'll be trying out the fishmonger before the week's out. Of the two curry houses I have, this evening, discovered which is superior - always useful knowledge. The local pubs need more testing but I've bumped into several old friends, so that shouldn't be a problem.

In other good news, my writer's block left without the fanfare and twisted metal that heralded its arrival. The pages are flowing once again, and there are some big round numbers very close.

Oh. And I've bought a new car.

One Year Later (and a few more days)

Writer's block is a strange thing. I have no shortage of explanation or excuse - there are several. Some even make sense. But there's a difference between making sense and ringing true and they all seem toneless to me. There's a strong temptation to put everything down to the car accident. Heap the writer's block, my recent anxiety, my financial troubles et al into the ravaged boot of a cherry red "L" reg Cavalier that now sits in a scrappy's yard, awaiting scavengers. But that's cheating. It's not a shortage of subject matter. There've been all sorts of goings on that merit commentary and musing. This post has been started four times, all with different openings and snippets, ranging from train journeys to old books. Everything leading to some profound observation about the year that's passed since I left St Andrews. But I don't know if I have a profound observation to make. Well, once again, I have several, but I'm not sure if they ring true, and I'm no longer interested in making a point just to look clever.

Every time I try to assess the last year I come up short. In fact, I'm having a difficult time with the last week. It's been an odd mix, and my hindsight is not necessarily in chronological order. I've cooked, run, discussed ninjas with beautiful women, drank, regretted drink, played poker and moved (temporarily) to Edinburgh. I haven't written.

I received my first rejection last week. It was from an agent. I got it on Wednesday, almost a month after I submitted my chapters to him. The email was complimentary, saying that I wrote well. It said little else. A year and only one rejection - my pace needs work.

the truck hammer

The weekend started Saturday morning. Mist lingered through the valley and I snapped a few pics before getting the train through to Edinburgh. I was there to get picked up and taken to Fife. I hate not having a car.

Saturday boasted the Luvians Wine Fair and then a birthday party, both of which were brilliant fun.

Sunday morning boasted my hostess's 3 year-old nephew banging the truck hammer up and down the hallway from about eight in the morning. Having drunk Halo out of Bollinger the night before, this was not what my head needed. Nor was the Hollyoaks omnibus, inflicted upon me by my hostess who claimed that it was the perfect hangover television. She was wrong. Fuzzy-headed, I made my way up to a nice bar on Fountainbridge and had bloody maries, pints, eggs benedict and a lamb burger while sat on omfy couches with meandering chat. Then ciao to some pals and hello again to another, off to the cinema and then, finally, back to the country for warm fires and affectionate cats.

So a pretty good weekend, really.



fruit

Skipping breakfast tumbled into too much for lunch. Homemade split-pea soup - heavy on the nutmeg but that suits me - followed by a massive bacon baguette. There was nothing for it - I had to walk it off.

So Gilmour and I wandered up to the walled garden to see about apples. And pears. The garden has grown wild over the last 20 years of neglect. Waist high nettles, thorns and thistles punctured denim and jumper. We earned our apples. Every step a new sting or prick while the tree waits with bushels of plump fruit. The wicker basket couldn't take any more and we hadn't even found the pear tree. It turns out the pear tree is outside the walled garden. So we traversed the neighbour's field and avoiding vast quantities of sheep shit. Several fences lept later and we stood below what must be the world's largest pear tree. The fruit towered 20 or 30 metres above the ground. The trunk gnarled and knotted with age. There was one pear on the ground at the foot of the tree, next to the knots and gnarls. With so many apples, the one pear was enough.
Cauldron is a cool word. It provides imagery rich with atmosphere, cobwebs and cackling crones. It needs a Brit to say it though. An American speaking the word ruins it, sucking the supernatural out of it and turning it into nothing more than an antiquated cooking implement, something to be found and marveled at in some curiosity shop or garage sale. As such I must resign myself to typing it with glee, knowing that to utter it in my own voice does it a disservice.

inverted

I can walk on my hands. It sounds like an odd thing to mention, but I think it's relevant. I'm generally ok with being upside-down. In my breakdancing youth, I even managed some headspins. Being able to say 'my breakdancing youth' dates me. It's so retro it's come back into style. At summer camp, when I was 12, I set some sort of headstand record. I think it was about 10 minutes. I don't know now whether that was hugely impressive or a bit mediocre, but it was a record nonetheless. That said, I don't know if the record was for the camp or just my age group; if it was for that summer or the entirety of the camp's history.

I found myself upside-down Friday. My shoulders felt strained, but not as much as when I walk on my hands. My seatbelt was cutting into them, taking my weight, suspending me so that my head didn't fall and smack against the roof of the car, or worse, go through the windshield. My phone and nano lay on the windshield beneath me. The car was upside-down and upright. I don't know how that worked. The radio was still nattering away. I turned the engine off. The radio stopped. I put my right hand on the roof and used my left to undo my seatbelt. I didn't fall. My legs worked out where to be. I opened the passenger door, as it looked closer to the ground. It didn't occur to me to be relieved that I was able to open it. An alarm went off, telling me my headlights were still on. I switched them off. I grabbed my phone and stumbled out. My hands weren't shaking yet. There were voices from up on the road, wondering if anyone was in the car. I shouted that I was ok. I was. I scratched my head on a branch getting out of the underbrush.

I sat in the front of a stranger's van, another stranger's blanket to keep me warm in case I went in to shock. My hands started shaking. Pete C, James and the police arrived, concerned. A doctor took my pulse. I told everyone I was ok. Because I was. Everyone told me how lucky I was. Because I was. Pete collected the things that had been in what once was the boot. The boot lost the argument with the tree, and my camera, laptop and rucksack were strewn along the slope of the ditch. He found my Red Sox hat. James phoned his mechanic and asked him to get the car out. We climbed into the written-off Land Rover and drove back to Naughton.

Pete and I went for a walk up to the back field on the hill to finish some fencing. James and Lara joined us and then we headed up to the garage in Gauldry to see the car. My lens broke in the crash, so I borrowed Pete's. I took some pictures, detached. It wasn't my car anymore, just twisted metal, rubber and plastic. The mechanic looked at me in disbelief when he found out I was the driver. He told me I was lucky. I was. He charged me too little for recovery. I left it for him to sell for scrap.

My macbook's chassis is warped: it's had some hiccups. My new lens and my built-in flash are broken. I lost a pen, and the battery cover for my camera. I don't have a car any more. Rain, mud, a bad corner and inexperience took it from me. I wasn't going that fast, but still I lost control. But I'm alive, and my friends took care of me.

I was very, very lucky.

But I don't know if I'm ok. Yet.

Memories

Today I had one task. Well, lots of tasks, but there was one task unique to the day. Part of the task required me to be in Edinburgh. I was delivering something. But just delivering something is boring, so I arranged lunch. Lunch should never be boring. So Kirsty and I arranged to meet for lunch where I would deliver her stylish-executive-style-groovy black jacket and we would eat yummy food. She chose a groovy little place on George IV Bridge. Sorted. Traffic was easy. I found a parking space no problem. The walk from Castle Terrace to the bridge was lovely, the sun was out and I paused to admire the apples in Ian Mellis on Victoria St. I got to the restaurant first and was given a big comfy couch, in spite of there being a reserved notice on it. Maybe the waitress liked me? The menu looked good. I ordered a soft drink. Kirsty walked in, all smiles, and I felt like a total prat. Her stylish-executive-style-groovy jacket, the reason for me being in Edinburgh, for having lunch, my day's task, was hanging in the closet back at the house.

My memory perplexes me. I'm nine years-old, lying upside down on the pale blue carpeted staircase in a flat my parents rent on St Peter's Sq, in London. I've just been Indiana Jones, and my adventure has left me inverted. My imaginary adversary fared far worse, no doubt. For some reason I burn that image in to my brain, and promise myself I will remember it for the next twenty years.

That was twenty-one years ago last month. The details are there, but it's arbitrary. There are thousands like it, both before and after that moment that seem so clear, and for some reason significant merely for their clarity. A moment's concentration and more comes out. Detail after detail, names, faces, times, dates, menus not just what I ordered but what others ordered. What people said, why they said it. Or why I thought they said it. Moments of horrendous embarrassment and great triumph - the former surface with more annoying regularity, of course - it's all there.

Well, almost all of it. Story ideas disappear without a trace - only the echo of elation at their conception remains. Nothing brings them back. I have notebooks but forget to bring them with me. Ironically, I forget to remind friends about things. There's laundry in the drier, I've just remembered, that I put in three days ago. I remember birthdays, but not family ones. I don't remember the chat that led to me kissing the most beautiful girl I've ever kissed. I didn't remember Kirsty's jacket. But I remember the first night I met Kirsty. I remember it was February of 2002. Andy introduced me. I had just finished my shift at the shop. The Central still had Becks on draft, so I drank five pints as we chatted about the wine business and got to know each other. Afterwards, I went back to the shop, tipsy, and bought a bottle of Les Forts de Latour 1988 and opened it then and there. I only drank a glass, because my palate was a mess from all the beer. I left the rest for Zana, who was working until ten.

It could have been yesterday. But it's today, and I forgot the jacket. Lunch, however, was excellent and well worth the trip. Just as well, really.

Pete C scales the shelves of the Naughton cellar, much to Kirsty's bemusement

lifting haze

It turns out a dinner party of two can still be a party - provided champagne, wine and port are consumed as well as a smattering of oloroso and a healthy dash of talking utter gibberish. Exes phoned as drunk as we were and added to the general nonsense.

Once again the problems of the world and heart were solved but once again we remembered none of the solutions in the morning.

If only all hangovers could be so good.

The sun followed us north across the bridge while Jonathon Ross provided the chuckles. Two speed camera close calls and we were once again in North Fife, where the haar consumed us, a silver filter on the sunlight. Bacon butties for brunch coupled with strong coffee and the curious question as to where everyone had gone. To the front steps we went, rehydrating and shaking the cobwebs out. Snippets from the night before; the chat, the wines, the food, the questions raised drifted through the conversation. Our heads cleared with the haar and in the bright autumn sun we brought apples for the horses. We contemplated kidapping Chester, the wee fat mini Shetland, but thought better of it.

Back at Naughton the coffee machine bubbled, and a glance in Polo Times revealed one of my photos, leading to a juvenile swelling of chest and pride. Kirsty rocked up and we had a cocktail and a glass of champagne. I got home late. The cats were hungry and grumpy. Ah well.

There's beach polo and a wine tasting tomorrow: not a bad weekend really. Though I really ought to write something.

patchy update

The sun, when it appears, is autumnal. The summer sun has said its goodbyes for the year. The dew sticks to the grass until well into the afternoon, if it evaporates at all.

Life is full of pleasant distractions at the moment. There are birthday presents to design, menus to create, cats to feed and the like. Last night I went to the grand opening of a stylish new bar/restaurant in Edinburgh. Free champagne flowed and some excellent canapés served as my meal. It's nice to be able to hover around the fringes of the wine trade still, grabbing the odd freebie. Beautiful waitresses bringing stylish trays of mouth-watering food. I didn't even need to talk shop - just chat with my mate and stuff my face with great grub. There was some society photographer taking candids and I think every pic of us we have a mouthful of fishcake or spring roll. Ah well. For posterity and all that.

While last night was lovely, yesterday morning was hell. We stayed up too late on Wednesday, having feasted on mussels, roast chicken with all the trimmings, fine wine, whisky and healthy dollop of beer as well. It was grand. Gilmour and I decided we would have made great uni flatmates, though separated by 4 decades. We watched Sean Bean sort out corrupt English army types and the French in Sharpe's Regiment. Then we remembered we had to be up at 530 to get to the airport in time for Gilmour to catch his flight. We got up. I drove. We were well on our way on the M9 when Gil checked and realised that his tickets and passports were in the kitchen. A half-hour delay and we get to the airport, and all's well. Except for the ride back home, which was swamped by the swelling tide of Glasgow morning rush hour. I retreated to bed. I meant to sleep for only an hour or so. I slept for four.

Tonight was meant to be a dinner party. But there are only two of us attending. It's my fault. I decided this morning it would be a dinner party, which is a bit late. As all of my friends are cool, it was foolish to think they'd not have plans for a Friday night by a Friday morning. But I don't really operate along a weekly calendar. Most weekends I find myself doing as much work as the week, if not more. This is a hangover from the wine trade, where working weekends was a matter of course and even Sundays weren't sacred. Days off fell arbitrarily. I toyed with the idea of taking weekends off once I started writing, but it's failed. Mainly because it's a good time to catch up on all the stuff I failed to write during the week. But also because I have difficulty resting. It would be different if I had some sort of contract to fulfill, if I had a deal. Then I could let it go: bask in a guilt-free Saturday and Sunday, writing nothing but Amazon wish-lists. Until then, I will write on weekends. Or at least feel guilty when I don't.

Light reflected in the window in the lounge

window hunting

A week and weekend of dinners, lunches and wine and I find myself hanging out to dry, drinking water and tea, chopping wood, catching up on work and trying to wrap my head around what happens next. It's happy busy work, and I'm still glowing from the company of good friends.

Bagel keeps me company, even when out hunting.