A funny thing happened on the way to the forum

I should have been at the theatre, watching David Hayman in ‘King Lear’ (yes, more Shakespeare I can’t comprehend), but my conscience got the better of me and I found myself at Celtic Park for what turned out to be Mark Wilson’s last game. It was also Thai Tims Thursday, and the charming boys and girls from the Good Child Foundation, accompanied by their bum-wiggling tiger mascot (a bit like Hoopy the Huddle Hound with a personality) entertained the crowd before kick-off.

Celtic didn’t play as well as they could have, and not least because there had been seven changes to the team, but there were some good performances, particularly from the unlucky Mo Bangura, who was making his first appearance since last year (I think), and very nearly scored his first Celtic goal. The starting line up was Zaluska, M. Wilson (captain), Rogne, K. Wilson, Izaguirre, McGeoch, Wanyama, Ledley, Commons, Bangura and Stokes (who got the only goal of the game). Gary Hooper replaced Dylan McGeoch, Mark Wilson was replaced by Cha, and Kris Commons, who appears to be getting back to his best, made way for debutant Rabiu Ibrahim, who is small, strong and very, very quick. Hopefully, we’ll see more of him next season.

Apparently, six players will be leaving, and they’ve been told. We now know that Mark Wilson is one. He has been a consistent performer in his time at the club, a good servant, and a Celtic man, but has had an awful time with injuries since he joined in 2006. Last season, he became a regular in Lennon’s team, after having been neglected by Tony Mowbray. He even played at centre-half, when required, scored some goals, was booked for celebrating, captained the team and came out of his shell. He endeared himself to the sceptics in the Celtic support who never seem to appreciate loyalty, hard work and a steadying influence in the team. I did, and I’ll miss him.

So what happened to ‘King Lear’? I’m going next Thursday, instead (not anywhere near as good a seat, though). That’ll give me time to read it, not that I think it will help. It also means that I’ll be out 10 nights in a row, and 11 out of 12 nights. What can I say?

There's no remedy

Day two of nine, and I’m flagging already. By the time Thursday May 10^th is upon us, I will have been out 10 times in 11 nights. I think this is unprecedented, even for me. To be honest, if I had the money, I’d be out every night, but I think it would be cheaper, in the long run, if I just moved to somewhere that I could close the door behind me when I come home from work and just relax. However, I’m stuck here for now or for as long as I can bear it.

On Sunday night, I travelled out to Paisley for a concert by the St. James Orchestra. They opened with Beethoven’s overture ‘Egmont’, which we rehearsed for a while a few years ago. I love the ending; it’s loud and a bit crazy, and I was able to play some notes I’d not previously managed. As a result, it has a special place in my heart, but it wasn’t until Sunday that I realised that, apart from the Horns, there’s no brass it. To close the first half, guest soloist Philip Higham played Elgar’s Cello Concerto. Good memories here, too, as we played the Fourth Movement in our Summer Concert last year, with BBC SSO Principal Cellist Martin Storey doing the honours. The second half was taken up by Borodin’s 2^nd Symphony, a work I had never heard before. So, an enjoyable concert, and well worth the money.

We’re motoring along nicely towards our summer concert on the 9^th of June. ‘Colas Breugnon’ by Kabalevsky probably wouldn’t be half as bad if it wasn’t so fast, but it’s Russian, so I wouldn’t expect an easy time. The beginning of the Fourth Movement of Brahms’ Symphony No.1 is taken at a snail’s pace, which, frankly, makes it just as difficult. The transposed part for Holst’s ‘A Somerset Rhapsody’ is in at least three hellish keys. I could always ask for the ‘A’ part, but I really should be learning the scales for these keys, as that might just make me a better player. Finally, another crack at bits of ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’, or whatever that preposition should be.

Tonight, it was the Chandler Studio Theatre in the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland (the educational institution formerly known as the RSAMD), and a production of ‘Measure for Measure’. I wished I’d read it before I saw it, as I didn’t understand a great deal of it. I may come back and edit this once I’ve had some sleep (and it will all make sense), but I fear another night of the Bard will render me senseless.

Whilst pacing the corridors looking at the student noticeboards, I chanced upon a leaflet produced by the mental health charity ‘Mind’ entitled ‘Understanding Depression', which listed a whole host of symptoms, five or more of which mean that it’s likely one is suffering from the condition:

• Being restless and agitated
• Waking up early, having difficulty sleeping or sleeping more
• Feeling tired and lacking energy; doing less and less
• Not eating properly and losing or putting on weight
• Crying a lot
• Difficulty remembering things
• Feeling low-spirited for much of the time, every day
• Being unusually irritable or impatient
• Getting no pleasure out of life or what you usually enjoy
• Losing interest in your sex life (I'd have to have one, first)
• Finding it hard to concentrate or make decisions
• Blaming yourself and feeling unnecessarily guilty about things
• Lacking self-confidence and self-esteem
• Being preoccupied with negative thoughts
• Feeling numb, empty and despairing
• Feeling helpless
• Distancing yourself from others
• Taking a bleak, pessimistic view of the future
• Experiencing a sense of unreality
• Thinking about suicide

Five or more? That’s 20 out of about 25, so I’m fucked. Choices? I can pull myself together. I can do various activities. I can be drugged out of my skull for the rest of my life. I can do none of these things. I know what causes it. There are three things: two are long-term but not permanent (though there is no sense of the end); the third is permanent. I know what’s wrong and there’s no remedy.

If I had a million dollars

My seat is always empty on days like these. It’s almost 30 years since I attended an ‘Old Firm’ match, and there’s a strong possibility that I may never again get the chance to avoid a game between Celtic (1888) and Rangers (1872), and guess what? I’ll not lose any sleep over it.

Rangers, as we know it, could go out of business any day now. Even if someone submits a bid to buy the club’s assets and its owner’s shares, can he afford to take on the club’s current and potential (tax) debts? I’m no accountant, but a large number of my fellow Celtic fans have learned a phenomenal amount about accounting and law through following the saga of our oldest rivals. What I am, is a football fan, hence my support for Celtic, and not Rangers.

As a football fan, I have tried to be objective, and I have tried to think how I would feel if the (football) boot were on the other foot. I might be devastated. I might be apathetic. I might be judgemental, like I was when we almost went out of business in the 90s, before Brian Dempsey and the Bunnet saved the club from extinction. My objectivity went out the window last week when Alistair McCoist, the cheeky chappy off the telly, opened his mouth and let his belly rumble. As a result, members of a secret SFA panel (which wasn’t a secret to Rangers, apparently) were threatened, and Raith Rovers had to get the polis in to stop its stadium being burned down. I got that last bit off the Internet, so it may not be strictly true, but what I, and everyone else, heard last week would have got Neil Lennon clapped in irons and sent to the Tower of London had he uttered it.

Rangers’ management, past and present, has a habit of shooting its mouth off in the media. If anyone tells me that Ally didn’t know what he was saying, then they are more deluded than anyone who believes anything David Murray, Craig Whyte or Duff and Phelps have ever said. McCoist, and his predecessor, Smith, have always known exactly what they were saying, and when and where to say it. What little sympathy the Rangers manager had has surely vanished. Hasn’t it?

The accountants of all the remaining SPL clubs are probably the ones who are losing most sleep at the prospect of being denied the revenue two visits from Rangers would yield. However, has Dundee United been paid what it is owed by Rangers for a cup-tie and a league game? Has Heart of Midlothian been paid for Lee Wallace? This is what it all comes down to: just how much are all the other clubs willing to let Rangers get away with.

If I was rich, I’d buy them, but the Newco would look totally different from the club it replaced. I’d allow them to play at Ibrox. I’d keep the name, well, I’d used the name; Rangers United or Rangers Athletic or something. I’d get them involved in the community, with children of all creeds and colours and, speaking of colours, I’d give them a makeover. No more the red, white and blue to match the Union flag. What about sky-blue, like Coventry, or a nice all-white ensemble? I’d get rid of the songs, too, and any hint of Orangeism. Yes, keep a club in Govan, but neuter it beyond all recognition, cleanse it of its sins.

Even if their worst nightmare (the 'Big Tax Case') doesn't materialise, it could take a lot more than a million dollars to save them. Any advance on 100 million? You can count me out, though. If I had money like that, I could think of many things I'd rather spend it on. Let them die.

In case you were wondering, we won 3-0.

Though April showers may come your way

April: the story so far:

Sunday 1^st

Glasgow City Council decided to try again and resurface my street. Unfortunately, they forgot to tell the company that they were hiring the machinery from. They also forgot to tell First Buses to put the buses back on, so I had to sit and watch TV as Celtic beat St. Johnstone at home to go within one point of clinching the title.

Wednesday 4^th

I was still packing about ten minutes before I had to leave home and catch a bus into town to take the overnight coach to London (see True Adventures for details).

Saturday 7^th

In the midst of Wednesday's packing panic, I forgot to set the Sky+ box to record the Kilmarnock-Celtic game. Just to spite me, Celtic scored 6 goals without reply and played some wonderful football to win the league before the SPL split. Apparently.

Sunday 8^th

Got home just after 8am and went for the Three Bs; breakfast, bath, bed. When I got up around 3:30, with my legs like tree trunks (fucking Megabus), I discovered that there had a been a domestic in my absence.

Monday 9^th

Washing, shopping, more washing.

Friday 13^th

Unlucky for some, particularly me, as I had to go to work. Had to rush home and pack for my next trip out.

Saturday 14^th

Loaded up the car and headed for Lancashire for more True Adventures.

Monday 16^th

Flooded the bathroom after I left the tap running whilst I went to tidy the stuff I’d  removed from the car.

Tuesday 17^th

Washing, shopping and more washing (again) followed by the first rehearsal of the new term. Humourless and selfish fellow clarinettist (a rare beast) left me without a part for the new piece we were working on; the ‘Grande Valse Brillante’ by Chopin, arranged by Stravinsky (there just had to be a twist to it). Further news emerged about the shambles that was the application process in March.

Thursday 19^th

Attended the final concert of the BBC SSO’s 2011-12 season, and what a way to finish. I was sitting in the back row of the Balcony, and had an unobstructed view of the stage. The concert opened with soloist Jennifer Pike playing the ‘Sonata For Unaccompanied Violin, BWV1001’ by J.S. Bach, then the orchestra chipped in with Vaughan Williams’ Symphony No. 4. This tired out the audience so much that it began to disperse for the interval however, we still had ‘The Lark Ascending’ to come. Embarrassed, people sat down again as Jennifer Pike returned. It is so easy to drift away during this piece. Not only does this do a great disservice to the soloist but it also tends to reinforce the description of RVW’s output as ‘cowpat music’. However, it’s not his fault, or that of the players and conductors involved. The blame can be laid firmly at the door of Classic FM and its obsession with charts and over-playing certain pieces, and this fucking ‘Hall of Fame’ shit.

The second half of the concert was given over to the 5^th Symphony and here I was on more familiar ground, as I have heard this symphony more than all of his others put together. It was a triumphal end to the Thursday Night Series, and must have left the capacity crowd wanting more. I am curious to discover how Manze, the BBC SSO and the City Halls will cope with ‘A Sea Symphony’ and how long we will have to wait to see it performed.

Friday 20^th

I became the owner of a Kindle, and proceeded to download some free books from the Amazon website, including a version of ‘The Duchess of Malfi’, which I am going to see in a couple of weeks time.

Saturday 21^st

Went for a haircut, followed by much running around all over the place, and another M&S ‘collect by car’ cock-up. I despair sometime, I really do. Spent the afternoon trying to recover from a very (self-induced) stressful morning.

My first RSNO concert of this season (better late than never) turned out to be a gem. In front of an almost packed Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, and conducted by the legendary Neeme Jȁrvi, the orchestra delighted the audience with ‘Where the Wild Thyme Blows’ by obscure Scottish composer John Blackwood McEwen (1868-1948), Beethoven’s 2^nd Piano Concerto (soloist Christian Blackshaw) and a magnificent performance of Sibelius’ 1^st Symphony. The second half was well worth the ticket price alone, and it was followed by one of the most joyful encores I have had the pleasure of hearing; the March from ‘Boccaccio’ by Franz von Suppe. I can’t imagine my next RSNO concert will have such a happy ending.

Sunday 22^nd

Slow day, and noisy, too, as the workmen turned up to fix the road (again). Celtic won 3-0 at Motherwell, and young Tony Watt had a dream debut, scoring two of them.

Here’s hoping that the rest of the month is like the end of March; tropical temperatures and a distinct lack of hailstones.

Plan your next getaway now

Travel is meant to broaden the mind, and getting away from home and work for the first time since the summer is meant to lift the spirits and blow away the cobwebs after a long, cold, dark winter. I went away for a few days last week; a trip I hoped would be the first of many over the next year or so, but which may, in fact, be the beginning of the end. I’ve not even had the chance to finish writing about it on the other blog, True Adventures. Through no fault of my own, I’m about to find myself trapped at home for the foreseeable future, the prospect of which is leading me to think that there won’t be a future beyond this short-term (?) hell. Tomorrow is another day, another day like this one; it’s not what I want.

I danced with a gnat

Has anything happened since my last pronouncement? You’d think not, but I’ve had so much trouble finding the time (or the energy) to write something, and almost as much trouble trying to give this post a title, that it would make you think something has happened. Well, take a seat and I’ll tell you all about it.

A few weeks ago, I took my car for its MOT and service. After dropping it off, I encountered a salesman and we got talking about a car I had had my eye on. Now, I wasn’t planning on changing my car until next year (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) but, by the time I’d left the building (about two hours later), I’d had a test drive and signed the papers to swap my almost 5-year-old Ka for a shiny new Fiesta. The Ka had never caused me any serious problems, unlike its two predecessors, so I was reluctant to part with it, but I felt that the brakes and suspension were not as they used to be, and that holding on to the car could result in some hefty bills. I also felt that the tiny Ka had outlived its usefulness, as it’s not much good for anything other than a runabout. Ironically, it passed its MOT and my financial fears were groundless but, by then, it wasn’t mine to worry about, and I just had to be patient until my new baby was delivered.

The excitement must have been too much for me, as my condition worsened and I was confined to quarters for a few days, barely able to punch my way out of the proverbial wet paper bag, let alone empty the car boot of the junk that had been living in it for most of its life. I managed it, though, and when the call came on the Monday to tell me that I could collect the new car on the Tuesday evening, I was over the moon, Brian. I took the afternoon off and popped home for a rest, a bite to eat, a quick change and my clarinet before taking my old car for its last journey. I was brave; I didn’t cry and I felt more weird than emotional as I said goodbye to it, but after I'd driven round the block four times in the new one, I’d forgotten what the old one was like. How heartless!

After a somewhat surreal end to the orchestra term, as I coughed and spluttered my way through one last rehearsal, I had intended to take the car for a run down to the Woodhall Roundabout in Port Glasgow, and back, as I had done with the Ka and its predecessor (Rusty), but for some unknown reason, I couldn’t get on the motorway at Stow College. Reluctantly, I headed home and wished the next few hours away until I could be in its company again, and it wasn’t long before I was fumbling my way through rush-hour traffic to get to work. Even now, I still walk away from it like I can’t believe it’s mine. Aww. Having said that, I’ve not seen it since Thursday morning, as it’s parked around the corner. It’s a long story.

I’ve not done a great deal since, apart from attend an organ recital at Renfield St. Stephen’s Church last Saturday and finish March with two days off work. For the first of them, I decided that it would be prudent to spend some time stocking up on provisions prior to our street being closed off for resurfacing on Saturday and Sunday, then take the car to a jet wash to restore it to showroom condition. With the BP station at Canniesburn Toll out of action until May, I headed for Milngavie, but I hadn't bargained for a queue of idiots panic-buying petrol. I’ve not known a Scot to take any notice of a Tory in well over 30 years, yet petrol stations throughout the land were running out of fuel (and putting prices up) due to demand caused by Cameron and Maude talking shite about a tanker drivers’ strike that was over a week away, at least. Forecourt constipation resulted in my heading for Asda to purchase a wash mitt and some car shampoo, and when I returned home, I filled my trusty bucket with water and washed the car myself!

After my early morning exertions, I attended the BBC SSO’s latest ‘Afternoon Performance’; a  (their words, not mine) ‘mostly Russian’ programme conducted by Stefan Blunier, a rather jolly Swiss chap.  The concert opened with ‘The Passing of Beatrice’ by William Wallace (a Victorian composer from Greenock and not, as one old lady behind me pointed out, ‘the one from Elderslie’) and this was followed by Tchaikovsky’s ‘Variations on a Rococo Theme’, played in fine style (and in a shirt with rather interesting sleeves) by the Dutch cellist Pieter Wispelwey. The interval arrived too soon. I could have listened to the soloist all day, but I was relieved to get out, as I was flagging and needed a break. I still had all my faculties, though, unlike the silly old fool I found in my seat when I returned. Her who got confused over William Wallace said to me ‘I didn’t know what to say’. I’d have started with ‘someone else is sitting there’. I stopped short of suggesting that the interloper try on my jacket!

The second half of the concert was totally Russian; ‘Eight Russian Folk Songs’ (including ‘I danced with a gnat’) by Anatol Lyadov and Shostakovich’s Symphony No.1, which couldn’t have been written by anyone else, including an older Shostakovich, I suspect. The BBC SSO, as expected, turned the volume up to 11 and turned in a magnificent performance that I am convinced only they are capable of. Even with Runnicles at the helm, this orchestra, while worthy of being world-renowned, is our little secret, one of the very few things that today’s Glasgow can be proud of, and one of the few things I’m proud to say belongs to Glasgow.

Speaking of Glasgow, I don’t get out of the place as often as I would like but, as I am careering towards 50, perhaps I should? I’ve decided to embark on a farewell world tour, visiting places I am familiar with, places I’ve not been to for years and one or two new places. With that in mind, I have set up another blog for trips outside of the Greater Glasgow area. One or two people may not be surprised by its title,  'True Adventures’.

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

Dear Blog readers, all ZERO of you, it is with great sadness (well, not really) that I have to report that I'm not long for this world. I'd like to think I'm exaggerating, but that's not how it feels. It's been a long time since I've been ill for the best part of two months, but here I am, sick as a parrot, Brian.

It's at times like these that I wonder what I'm leaving behind. It doesn't take an age to work out that, apart from some worthless material possessions, I won't be leaving anything. No one will even notice that I'm gone and, when the time comes, the 'life flashing in front of your eyes' moment will be a blank frame (or even the Blue Screen of Death). There's not been a single achievement to be proud of, and I've not got a single friend to give a heartwarming, nostalgic eulogy at my funeral.

Who wants my green vinyl 12" single version of 'Snot Rap' by Kenny Everett?

Venceremos

I like a good rant. There’s nothing that gives me more satisfaction than venting off about something that annoys me. I could go on at length about every injustice, insult or injury visited on my fellow man by the powers that be, but after a while, steam ceases to come out of my ears. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world, or at least the few square miles of the world in which I exist. However, if I were to get angry every time this (Westminster) Government went into reverse Robin Hood mode, I’d be in grave danger of suffering a stroke or a cardiac arrest. Each attack on working people or the less fortunate in society by an elite group of multi-millionaires should be highlighted by the SNP as another reason why the Scottish people should vote for Independence, and they should promise that this new independent nation should adopt a simple moral code based on the principles of social justice.

Personally, I don’t get along with people. My relations with individuals always end on a sour note, but this is no reason to wish to see every citizen of this country deprived of opportunity, hope or dignity. Imagine a post-industrial town, decimated in the days of Thatcher; a community brought to its knees by poverty and despair and now facing a third consecutive generation of unemployment. Imagine a rural or island community trying to cope with very few jobs, poor transport links, ever-increasing fuel costs and an exodus of its young people. Can someone tell me how low the salaries of public sector workers have to go in these areas before this Government is satisfied? How much joblessness, how much crime, how many suicides before their bloodlust is satiated?

What is the solution, and what will be the resolution? Is it time for civil unrest, for revolution? Would I be the last one standing at the barricades? Would I take up arms and fight to save this society, which, in truth, has done me no favours? I’d like to think I wouldn’t have to. I’d like to think that brave, principled men would rush to fill the ranks before it became my time to be conscripted. I'm the political equivalent of an armchair football manager; I prefer to fight from my keyboard, usually anonymously. I’m a coward; I don’t like the sight of my own blood, never mind that of anyone else, but I’ve been thinking.

I’m sure that statistics will show that most men who have died in battle were from the lower classes. If you’re a General, you’re not likely to be suffering from trench foot and dodging stray ordnance; you’d be in a chateau, miles from the front, sipping sherry and having your handlebar moustache waxed by your batman, whilst the sons of miners and farmers lie in a thousand pieces in a bloody, muddy field. Who cares? There’s more where they came from, isn’t that right? Cannon fodder, plucked from a deep pool of the worthless and the underprivileged. I’ve been thinking; that’s where I come in.

I see it now: The outskirts of the Capital; smouldering shells of buildings, utilities cut off, food stocks running low, ammunition almost spent; a rag-tag assembly of the tired and tousled, huddled together for warmth, writing last letters to lovers or friends, as I, forever the outsider, sit, legs outstretched, surveying the scene from the periphery, writing a history that may never be read. But more than expected were up for the fight, and, eventually, good triumphed over evil. Many lives were lost, all given so that others might have a future. Digging around in the rubble, someone found my notebook and, inside, a letter, the one where I told someone the whole truth. There was nothing to identify either the writer or the intended recipient, so it was put on display in a museum, accredited to ‘an anonymous hero of the revolution’. I think I’d like that, but I'd be happier if I got to stay at home whilst others took up arms and rid these islands of every one of the Tory scum and their LibDem whores.

On St. Patrick’s Day, it’s appropriate to remember the words (possibly mistakenly) attributed to the Irish philosopher and statesman Edmund Burke: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing’. If good men do something, evil won’t triumph, and we will win.

Music therapy

I’m not enjoying life at the moment. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to go right now, and certainly not when plans are being hatched for an escape attempt or two. I’d like to choose the time and manner of my own death, primarily because I’ve never been able to have what I want in life, but also because I’d like to have a little clean-up operation: removing any incriminating evidence and almost every trace that I ever existed (like Tom Quinn would do in 'Spooks'). Imagine my disappointment, then, when I had a close call on Tuesday morning. A fragment of toast went down the wrong way and got stuck, acting as a one-way valve and making it difficult for me to breathe. One of the major disadvantages of being alone is that no one is available to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre, so perhaps I should be commended for discovering a novel way to cough that resulted in the offending morsel being dislodged before it was too late? Sadly, to quote a former colleague, it appears that I had ‘scraped my oesophagus’ in the process, and I have been coughing ever since.

This minor mishap did not deter me from attending rehearsal later that day, but it may have contributed to my being disillusioned with my progress and questioning my usefulness to the orchestra; this after it had been announced that Monday the Twelfth would be the day to re-apply for next term. Ever since, I have been unable to work up any enthusiasm for returning, and it will take a miracle for me to change my mind.

Thursday brought the return of Andrew Manze to the City Halls to conduct the BBC SSO in a concert billed as ‘Manze and the Best of British’. The programme featured works by Purcell, Britten and Vaughan Williams. Manze had himself orchestrated four of the five Purcell pieces, with the 'Chacony in G Minor' having been arranged by Benjamin Britten. It was refreshing to hear this composer at all, never mind programmed with 20^th Century works, but this is one of the things Manze excels at (and the reason why I was puzzled when he was appointed Associate Guest Conductor).

The German cellist Alban Gerhardt, the one who performed that awful piece by Unsuk Chin with the SSO at the Proms in 2009, played Britten’s 'Symphony for Cello and Orchestra', written in 1963, and revised in 1964. I wish I’d been around then (I know I was, but I was incapable); I’d have written to Britten and suggested that he revise it a few more times until he put a tune in it. Oh well, it gave me an opportunity to examine the ceiling in the City Halls, and I found a few defects. Gerhardt’s post-concert Coda consisted of Britten’s 'Suite No. 1 for Solo Cello'. I think it was one of the longest Codas I have ever experienced, or did it just feel like that?

Apart from the bit of the 1st Movement that was used as the theme to the 1970s drama ‘A Family at War’, Vaughan Williams’ 6^th Symphony is not easy to listen to. None of his symphonies are (particularly tonight, as the Vaughan Williams box set is unreachable). There was a section that reminded me of Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 8 (played last week by the Edinburgh Quartet); the part that’s meant to depict bombs dropping on Dresden. Perhaps VW was trying to capture the effect of bombs dropping on London during the Blitz? As usual, the SSO put their heart and soul into it, and turned the volume up to 11, but I couldn’t warm to it at all. Perhaps I just prefer his ‘cowpat’ music?

Finally, here I am, having returned home from Cairns Church after the last in this season’s recitals at Milngavie Music Club. Tonight, a true star, and an event much anticipated from the moment it was announced a year ago; Joanna McGregor (sans weird hair, I’m glad to say). The new piano was given one hell of a christening as Joanna made her way through a blues and gospel-tinged set followed by six pieces by Astor Piazolla in the first half, and Bach’s 'Goldberg Variations' in the second half. The evening ended with an encore; her rendition of Debussy’s ‘La Fille Aux Cheveux De Lin’ from Book 1 of his Preludes. Next year's programme doesn't look half as interesting.

So, does it help? Does music make it all go away? Does wanting to kill some ill-mannered woman who plonks herself in the seat in front of me in Cairns Church at the start of the second half without so much as a ‘can you still see if I sit here?’ or wanting to ask that old fool who sits in Z5 in the City Halls why he goes to concerts when all he does is sleep (and snore) through the music make me feel better? Does someone telling me that they’d miss me if I didn’t come back to the orchestra make me change my mind about quitting? Music might be therapy for some, but there are times when I’d be better off without it. No, I’m not enjoying life right now.

Things are so bad, I can't even come up with a good title

The first four days of March are almost gone and I’ve not yet blogged this month. Am I ill? Well, now you (or I) come to mention it, yes. I ache all over, and I’m still a bit wibbly wobbly. Not everything can be put down to the long-running ear problem. I may or may not have strained something in the neck/shoulder area lifting a heavy bag of shopping out of the car. I may or may not have been sitting for nearly an hour in the same position and restricted the blood supply to my right foot. I may or may not have a virus, sapping what little energy I have. Everything else can be put down to the long-running ear problem.

It’s been a funny weekend. The last Kilmardinny Music Circle recital for this season took place on Friday night. The Edinburgh Quartet played pieces by Haydn, Shostakovich, Macmillan and Beethoven. It was quite well-attended, and was a pleasant way to pass an evening. Afterwards, I headed for Mugdock Country Park with the intention of looking at Jupiter, Venus and Mars, but it had clouded over in the two hours I was in Kilmardinny House. I’d not have seen much, anyway. I can barely stand still, never mind hold a pair of 10x50 binoculars steady enough to see planets and their moons. The most notable feature of this detour turned out to be the craters all over the road. I was lucky to get the car back to civilisation in one piece.

I don’t remember Saturday. Before you say anything, I wasn’t under the influence. I was tired after running round town on errands, and the day seemed to disappear in a flash, much like Celtic’s winning run. Due to the absence of a number of players who hadn’t returned from International duty, and the injured Scott Brown, Mikel Lustig and Andre Blackman made their debuts, and Charlie Mulgrew was in centre-midfield. Sadly for Blackman, one of his legs got in the way of a shot from an Aberdeen player and the ball was deflected past Fraser Forster. This cancelled out a well-worked Anthony Stokes goal. Here’s hoping this isn’t the start of a downward spiral.

Today, after an excess of ironing, I lost the will to live, and sat around staring at the telly all afternoon. I’ve no idea what was on, but that didn’t matter. I snapped out of my trance in time to travel to Paisley to take part in an open rehearsal with the St. James Orchestra, as part of the Weaving Musical Threads festival. We played the theme to ‘Chariots of Fire’, Johann Strauss’ 'Radetsky March' and Souza’s 'Liberty Bell’. Unfortunately, it only lasted for an hour. I returned home and took my telescope out to take advantage of the clear sky, which, typically, had started to cloud over. I eventually managed to see more detail on the moon than I had previously (sorry, no photos), but had no luck with Jupiter, Venus, Mars and anything else I could see with the naked eye. I’m not giving up, yet, but I’m thinking about it.

It's only a day away

Tomorrow. What is the point of tomorrow? This isn't another question from my (as yet unwritten) tome 'Cod Philosophy for Beginners'. It's something I've always wanted to find out. No, really, tell me? Why the hell do we need an extra day? OK, it's some sort of con to do with the earth not going round the sun in exactly 365 days, and screwing up calendars, but what I want to know is 'do I get paid?', 'does it count towards my pension?' and 'can't I get reimbursed for having to put up with an extra day every four years when I find 365 too many?'  I suspect that no one will ever answer those questions to my satisfaction, so I'll just have to bear this extra burden with my customary good humour. Needless to say, I shall not be proposing to anyone.

You'll never walk alone

Liverpool FC has just won their first trophy since 2006. Their fans are like ours; passionate and emotional, and accustomed to lean times. Cardiff City, the underdogs from a lower division, were worthy opponents, but no one likes to see a game decided on penalties. Football, like life, can only have one winner. There are a number of former Celtic players managing in England: Kenny Dalglish at Liverpool, Paul Lambert at Norwich, David Moyes at Everton, Malky Mackay at Cardiff, Tony Mowbray at Middlesbrough, Paulo DiCanio at Swindon and poor Steve Kean at Blackburn. It’s possible that, one day, Neil Lennon will ply his trade down there, but not until he has achieved all he can in the SPL.

Had our rivals not been docked ten points, we would still be ten points ahead. We have won twenty successive domestic games, eighteen of those in the league, and not lost a goal away from home in the SPL since the beginning of November. Records are there to be broken, and on the day that this run comes to an end, we can all breathe a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that everyone is human again and normality has been restored, but how I wish that all of time could be like this.

One wet Wednesday evening and one wet Saturday afternoon; two wins and two more hairpins on the long and winding road to success negotiated with ease. OK, I’m lying. Negotiated with confidence, that’s what I mean to say. How robust is that confidence, though? So used to winning nowadays, how would they cope if they went three-nil down? I hope I don’t get an answer to those questions any time soon.

Finally, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, Charlie Mulgrew proved, yet again, what an asset he is to this team. Unfortunately, due to modern technology being rubbish, I am unable to link to decent video footage of his goal on Wednesday, and that of Victor Wanyama’s effort against Hearts in December, for the purpose of saying whose was the best. I’ll just need to wait for the DVD.

Altruistic abstinence (or self-denial is not a river in Egypt)

It's Lent tomorrow, apparently. I don't follow all this superstitious, religious crap, but people seem to give up all sorts of things, don't they? I'm not sure what is the purpose of it all. It's not as if you get money at the end of it, though someone did mention chocolate. What would I give up, if I were one of them (not one of them, I mean one of them)?:

Alcohol: Is this year's Eurovision Song Contest taking place during Lent?
Social Networking: Does that include blogging, e-mails and text messages?
Chocolate: Wasn't that one of the New Year resolutions?
Masturbation: I can't see what I'm typing.
Sex: Gave that up years ago. How long is Lent?
Chocolate: See the last two.

That'll be that then.

Everything comes to he who waits

Credit where credit is due; isn’t that what they say? It’s been a long time coming, but Craig Levein has finally seen sense and included Kirkintilloch’s answer to Shunsuke Nakamura in the Scotland squad. OK, so it’s a friendly in Slovenia, and he may not even get off the bench, but it’s a start.

Since the derby game at Ibrox in January 2011, he has barely put a foot wrong, whether playing left-back, centre-half or left-midfield. Unfortunately, when he does put a foot wrong, you notice, but, thankfully, his defensive misdemeanours have been few and far between. Almost always my candidate for Man of the Match, he has displayed levels of consistency and commitment no one ever expected from a man they all thought would be a mere squad player, but Neil Lennon’s first signing as Celtic manager, having struggled with injury in the first part of season 2010-11, appears to have made himself indispensable to his boss and to the team.

In these days of (now cheap) foreign imports, it’s pleasing to see a player come through the club’s youth system and make it into the first team. However, this particular player has had to take a rather circuitous route, after being discarded by Gordon Strachan. This may or may not have been a good managerial decision but it has certainly done the player the world of good: mature, professional, hard-working and determined are just some of the many terms that can be used to describe him now, and he has, on a number of occasions this season, been trusted with the captain’s armband and taken to the task admirably. It’s been a dramatic turnaround and this latest accolade is richly deserved. If he makes it on to the field next Wednesday, I’m sure I won’t be the only one applauding the rise and rise of Charlie Mulgrew.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil

I suppose you think I’ll have a lot to say about it. On another day, I’d have got on my soapbox and preached to anyone who’d listen, but not now, not at the moment. Out there, in the real world, there are people more knowledgeable, more articulate and more aggrieved than I could ever be, so I’ll leave it to them. I won’t deny the smile, the laugh, the schadenfreude, but does it really matter to me? Is it what I think about first thing in the morning, or last thing at night? Is it my life?

Remember when I wasn’t sleeping? That seems to have stopped, for now. I’ve got no reason to lose sleep. I have a job, I pay my taxes and I have security that many can only dream of, yet I can’t dream, not in the way others do. I exist in a dream. I live in unreality and I commute from one nightmare to another. I have no idea how I got here, or why I chose to come, but I made that choice, didn’t I? Well, I’m not so sure. Do we all find ourselves somewhere we don’t want to be, unable to escape? Are we always in control of our own destiny? With the stroke of a pen or the wave of a hand, one person can ruin so many lives. Some people never seem to stop paying for the sins of others, and some never pay at all. The things we love the most can be taken from us in an instant, leaving the best of us isolated and bereft. What you love and what I love may be the same or different. There’s no logic, no reason; I think we are simply genetically pre-disposed to be ‘here’, or  ‘here’ and ‘there’. We can’t choose what, or who, we love, so why should we justify it or argue about it?

I’ve always been an extremist, an equally passionate advocate or opponent, but now, after the initial supporting or disapproving statement or gesture, that particular fire is extinguished; I haven’t the energy or desire for a fight. When did the firebrand cease to function? I can pinpoint any one of three or four days in any one of three or four months when I was changed. I’m not certain what the catalyst was. All I know is that I am ‘here’, just as you are ‘there’. I’m not saying I feel your pain. I feel MY pain, and that’s ample, but I’m a little more sympathetic than I used to be, because I know what it’s like to feel, to love, to be alive. Perhaps we’re not living if we can’t stand in the road and cry about something that seems trivial to others but means everything to us? Perhaps we’re not living if we can’t point and shout and scream and direct our vitriol at the nameless, the faceless or the all-powerful? Is it sufficient to hope that they’ll get what they deserve one day? Would it really matter? Wouldn't it just be enough if you or I got what we need today or tomorrow?

This is my truth. Tell me yours.

I know why some actors don’t like to watch themselves on television or in films. When I read something I’ve written, something serious, I’m embarrassed. I feel sick; violently, and directly proportional to the time that’s passed since I wrote it. I’m a simple peasant who struggles with self-expression, loathe to bear a tortured soul for fear of ridicule. I’m first in the queue to beat myself up about something and I spend plenty of time on self-flagellation, so I don’t need anyone else to join in.

Earlier this week, I wrote (the first draft of) a poem for someone (that makes me sound like a pretentious prat, doesn’t it?). It reminded me of two poems I’d written years ago for people who had just turned forty. I could find one of them, but not the other. However, it came back to me this morning. My original web site, ‘The Wonderful World of Karen’, had a poetry section: funny ones, serious ones and readers’ submissions. The funny ones are still funny, if I say so myself. The readers’ entries consisted of a number of small ditties from a lone contributor who stumbled upon the page and felt sorry for it. Reading the serious section revealed something about me that I am hardly unaware of: I’ve been a talentless, suicidal, miserable excuse for a human being for most of my life: fifteen to fifty. Nothing changes. Life’s shit, and so is my writing.

The reason I’m on this subject isn’t the poem, but a (short) short story I wrote for a 12-week Open University module entitled ‘Start Writing Fiction’. I got the marked version back today and, being shallow, I was only interested in the score. I did OK. The tutor seemed to like (most of) it. Of course, I made plenty of elementary mistakes, and I’d say that many of them would be down to my inability to read books, and the rest from problems with Creative Writing clichés like ‘show, don’t tell’ and ‘write what you know’. I can’t get my head round the former, but practice may make something approaching perfect one day. The latter, however, will always cause me consternation. What do I know? What have I ever done in my life that I could turn into a story, a story that someone would read and enjoy? Bugger all, obviously, and I’m not clever enough to write Science Fiction. I remember a teacher at primary school saying I had a good imagination. I’d need to. Anyway, that minor triumph and a surprising success in another module, this time on Shakespeare, may just inspire me to sign up for more literature and creative writing courses, or maybe not. I suppose it depends on my mood at the time.

The stock cube incident

I’m on autopilot in the morning. I don’t like to think at that time of day, and I don’t like being distracted. Sometimes, when I’ve stopped at a set of traffic lights, I look down at the foot well and check that I’m wearing shoes and that they match. I’m lucky that I’ve not been guilty of any faux pas more serious than an open button or a jumper on back-to-front, but it’s only a matter of time.

I was tired on Wednesday. My mind was elsewhere. It was breakfast time. I sat down to have my Cornflakes (other breakfast cereals are available). It was like the milk had gone off. I sniffed it. I didn’t detect anything unpleasant, but then I saw the underside of the spoon. What? What? I grabbed my spectacles. I saw a huge brown blob. It didn’t look like one of those mutant cornflakes you sometimes find in a packet, and it was solid. I tried to focus on it, and it was then that the full horror of the situation struck me.

I’d made beef casserole on Sunday. I’d obviously slipped up when washing the dishes. Quality control had broken down, and I was eating cornflakes laced with half a stale stock cube which had been soaked in Fairy Liquid three days earlier. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They don’t warn you about things like this, though.

The week that was

You can never accuse me of having a one-track mind.  Regular readers (not that there ARE any readers, regular or otherwise) will know that I have many interests: music, politics, death and fitba’. Well, today, I shall pass comment on all four. Oh, you lucky devils.

Three words guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of tens, nay hundreds, of thousands: Inverness. Caledonian. Thistle. Yes, time for yet another cup-tie against our northern nemesis. Not only have we come off worse against them in the cup on two occasions, but last season’s league challenge also foundered on those rocks; not on that Wednesday night in May, but way back on the 27^th of November 2010, the Saturday that the snow fell, the Saturday we scored two wonderful goals but went home with a 2-2 draw. What would fate have in store this time?

Last Sunday, in the League Cup, an unconvincing Celtic side saw off Steven Pressley’s spirited Falkirk bairns (see what I did there?) on the hallowed (ahem) Hampden turf. Scott Brown’s first-half penalty was the only difference between the sides at the interval. Anthony Stokes scored a superb free kick early in the second-half, before some bloke who got sold to Huddersfield a couple of days later scored for Falkirk. Hooper and Stokes linked up to provide Celtic’s third late on, making it look more comfortable than it really was. Job done, and on to another Cup Final, when fans of Kilmarnock will get a wee day out in the Metropolis.

Scotland is turning out to be a popular tourist destination: no, not for ex-pats from Oz and Canada, or whisky lovers from the Far East, but for Labour politicians who, rather than oppose Tory policies at Westminster, would rather come up here and tell us how to vote. On Monday, we were treated to a lecture from Ed Miliband, the worst Labour leader since, well, the last one. According to him (the man who couldn’t even name the third of three contenders for the Scottish leadership of his party), the ‘…United Kingdom is better for the working people of Scotland, and better for the working people of the United Kingdom as a whole’. I’m sure that the working people of Scotland, and those who used to work, think very highly of the Union, and of Margaret Thatcher and David Cameron and their ilk. As if that wasn’t funny enough, we had a visit from Ed Balls, the Shadow Chancellor. Now, Big Ed was either one of the architects of Bankrupt Britain or a man so in thrall to Gordon Brown that he couldn’t tell him he was buggering up the country’s finances. Either way, he can’t be trusted. Yes, his hand gestures during PMQs are source of amusement and, yes, he’s a nice guy who likes football, but what the hell was he doing in Scotland last week? Making naan bread. Talk about fiddling while Rome burns.

The Transfer Window closed at 23:00h on Tuesday and all was quiet on that front down Parkhead way. James Keatings, Lewis Toshney and Paul Slane went out on loan, Efrain Juarez and Morten Rasmussen came back and Glenn Loovens and Georgios Samaras came out of the closet (not like that). Four new players were acquired but, as none of them have names I can spell or pronounce, they will not be mentioned. Apparently, a ‘big striker’ was being sought. They cost a lot of money. We have some, unlike another Glasgow club, who sold theirs and tried to buy someone they could never afford. Apparently, his manager said that, if Celtic had been in for him, he’d have driven him up here himself.

Tuesday night is still rehearsal night, for the moment, and I continue to do it justice. If I’d known we were going to be out for a sectional with our clarinet guru, I may have practiced, at least once, but I’m as good a seer as I am a clarinettist. The threatened return of ‘Colas Breugnon’ has yet to become reality. Thank God.

Back to the Merchant City on Thursday, this time to see how the big boys do it. It was absolutely baltic outside, and I was feeling a bit sniffly, so I wasn’t expecting the evening to go well. However, trust the BBC SSO to come up with a hot toddy to banish the winter blues. I can’t remember if I’ve seen the back of Donald Runnicles’ head this season, but there he was, and there they were, and, lo, so was Steven Isserlis. It was a game of two halves, with the final score Debussy 2, Ravel 4. In the first half, we were treated to ‘La mer’ followed by the ‘Suite for Cello and Orchestra’, the latter a lost work reconstructed by Sally Beamish (no, don’t switch off). Half time arrived, and I wondered if I’d be fit enough to sit through the second half. The City Halls was like an oven, and I was being slowly roasted.

Isserlis returned with a cut-down orchestra to play two short pieces by Maurice Ravel: 'Deux melodies hebraiques' (arranged by Richard Tognetti) and 'Une barque sur l’ocean'. What do you mean you want me to go and find all those stupid wee things? No, I’m not doing it. Anyway, I digress, as usual. The rest of the band came back on for ‘Valse nobles et sentimentales’, which had a lot of false endings, and ‘La Valse’, which was as loud as I warned the nervous, handsome young gentleman who had the misfortune to sit next to me that it would be. The post-concert coda was a delicious duet performance by Isserlis and Runnicles (on piano) of two short pieces by Glazunov: ‘Melodie and Serenade Espagnole, Op. 20’ and ‘Chant du menestrel, Op. 71’. Honourable mention must go to MC Jamie MacDougall, who managed to behave himself on live radio. That man should have a show of his own. What do you mean he does?

It was even colder outside on Friday night, and Kilmardinny House was just as warm as the City Halls had been. The penultimate recital for this season featured Kate McDermott on clarinet, accompanied by the dishy James Willshire. Apparently, the audience was full of clarinettists, but I spotted a flute player and an oboeist (is that even a word?). Anyway, the new Principal Clarinet of the Gothenburg Opera Orchestra delighted the assembled throng with her well-chosen programme, designed to impress the neutrals and frighten the bejesus out of anyone who has ever had the inclination to take up that particular instrument.

Opening with the tame, by comparison, ‘Sonata for clarinet and piano’ by Leonard Bernstein, she moved on to ‘Introduction, Theme and Variations’ by Rossini. I’m sure she played some notes in there that they don’t have in any of the clarinet books. She followed this with a beautiful piece written for the composer’s brother who died in the Great War, ‘Pastoral’ by Arthur Bliss. They adjourned for the interval after ‘Le Tombeau de Ravel’, influenced by ‘La Valse’ by, erm, Ravel. I don’t just throw these blogs together, you know.

This month’s Spotlight performer was pianist Penny Watson from Douglas Academy Music School, who played ‘Reverie’ by Debussy. I say played. She moved her hands up and down the keyboard a lot, but I’m not convinced she touched any keys. Extraordinary! Kate and James returned and opened the second half with ‘Drei Romanzen, Op. 94’ by Schumann. They followed this with something called ‘Peregi Verbunk’ by a Hungarian composer called Leo Weiner. Next, ‘From Galloway’, an extract from a larger work by James MacMillan. I needn’t have worried. It was OK. The recital ended with Joseph Horovitz’s ‘Sonatina for Clarinet and Piano’. I particularly liked the jazzy third movement. It was over all too soon, and I left for home, having resolved to sell my clarinet and buy some tropical fish.

And so to the Scottish Cup: a much-changed Celtic side went into battle with ICT at the Tulloch Caledonian Stadium for a place in the Quarter-Final of the grand old tournament. Celtic came out on top thanks to a goal in each half; a corker from Georgios Samaras, one he’d miss nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, and another penalty from Scott Brown, whose goalscoring exploits in the last two weeks are making him look as prolific as the Greek. At this rate, Broony may even overtake Sammy. A successful outcome but, unfortunately, we have to play them again next week.

It’ll soon be time for dinner, and then half of the weekend will be gone. Someone appears to have bid my anxious fears subside this week: Sally Beamish, James MacMillan and Inverness Caledonian Thistle have all have all been negotiated with consummate ease, though, to be fair, none were at their most frightening. But it’s not all joy, joy, joy. In the style of News at Ten, here’s an ‘..and finally’.

Earlier this week, the death was announced of Ricky the chimpanzee from Edinburgh Zoo. He was believed to be 50 years old. I wonder if his eyesight and hearing were failing, or if he had wonky knees, arthritic fingers and toes, a weak bladder and the inability to suffer fools gladly. As I type, he’ll be up in heaven with as many bananas and cups of PG Tips as he can cope with, whilst the rest of us have to soldier on, pretending that everything is fine and we love being here. Enjoy your rest, Ricky, you lucky, lucky bastard.

Anger is an energy

I don’t want to get angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry, but some people are trying what’s left of my patience. Things have been said. Attacks have been made. Is it any different from any other week? No, except that this hasn’t been just any other week.

I’ve been avoiding the political talk shows, averting my eyes from newspaper stands and tuning in to different radio stations. My mind is made up. My mind was made up a long time ago, with no aid from outside influences but, for health reasons, it’s best that I don’t get too agitated.

On Wednesday 25^th, Burns Day, the First Minister went to Edinburgh Castle and announced the Scottish Government’s consultation on the forthcoming Independence referendum. He also announced his preferred question. Yes, ONE question; what all the Unionist windbags have been bleating on about for weeks. They want one question, and he’s come up with one:

Do you think that Scotland should be an independent country?

It’s ‘biased’, apparently. It’s ‘loaded’, apparently. It’s ‘unfair’, apparently. No, hold on a minute, it’s a simple question, so simple that Labour retards and Tory in-breds can understand, and that’s what they don’t like about it.

In the past, I’ve said to people that the dream of a better nation would be shattered by vested interests. What are they?

1. The landed gentry and big business (Tories); exploit the land and its people for their own benefit.
2. The parasites (Labour); pocket the money at all levels of Government but put nothing back into their communities. I mean, why is that the East End of Glasgow is still the poorest place in this wonderful United Kingdom after almost 80 years of being represented by Labour?
3. The bigots (Protestants, mostly of the Orange and Masonic variety); shit scared of an independent Scotland cozying up to a Catholic EU.
4. The fearties (Catholics); shit scared of being marooned in a Presbyterian Scotland twinned with Northern Ireland.

This week, we’ve had Reg Empey, sorry, SIR Reg Empey telling us that our Independence from Tory England will harm Ulster. Here’s his considered opinion, stolen from the BBC:

“The former Ulster Unionist Party leader said Northern Ireland had “spent decades overcoming nationalist terrorism and we gradually after years and years and years managed to settle down our community”.
“I don’t wish to exaggerate, but if the Scottish nationalists were to succeed it could possibly reignite the difficulties we have just managed to overcome,” he said.
“I do not say that lightly.”
He told peers said that if Scotland broke away from the UK, people in Northern Ireland would have “a foreign country on one side of us and a foreign country on the other side of us”.
“We would end up like West Pakistan,” he said.”

Funny comparison, considering his mob wanted partition. Even funnier the idea that 'our community' is settled down. That'd be why there's a honking great 'peace' wall, then.

This is the same Reg Empey who led his party to the brink of extinction. Naw, Reg, that’s not what’s going to kill off your apartheid state; the Catholics, as per orders from Rome, have been breeding like rabbits for years and the entire balance of the population is going to change in the next couple of decades. Now whether or not they throw their lot in with the bankrupt Republic remains to be seen, but it’s over.

His successor, Tom Elliott, spouts more pish on his blog. I loved the bit about us all benefiting economically, politically and socially from being in the UK. So that would be why Northern Ireland was left virtually undefended at the start of World War II, or why a large number of its citizens were actively discriminated against for decades. I also loved the bit about Salmond being more of a threat than the IRA. I know I’ve written some shite in my time, but that takes the biscuit.

We’ve had the usual guff from Michael ‘yes, it is my real accent’ Forsyth, Johann Lamont (who?), Foghorn Curran and even Christine Lagarde’s best buddy Alistair, too, but surely the best contribution to the debate has come from ‘bra tycoon’ Michelle Mone. According to her, Scotland will go tits up if we get independence and she’s going to pack up all her underwear and run away from home. Oh, dear.

At your age who knows what excitement might do

I had pie and beans for dinner. Nothing reminds me of school more than pie and beans: pie with baked beans on top. There are fewer than six degrees of separation between school and the City Bakeries. Pie, beans and potato: pie with mashed potato on top, baked beans in the middle. It’s funny just what I remember, and sad how much I’ve had to force myself to forget.

I arrived at 2:30am from two different directions this week. In the early hours of Wednesday, I woke up for no apparent reason, and never slept again until that night. This morning, my head hit the pillow at that unsociable hour, but not before I noticed something in my Twitter feed; a tweet from ‘Philosophers Quotes’ (@philo_quotes) attributed to William James, brother of Henry, the novelist:

‘Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact.’

I’m not sure I can subscribe to that, at least not every day. I’ve tried, many times, but to no avail. I’m a fatalist, or so I’ve been told. If my life was meant to be different, it would be.

Searching for the William James quote, another caught my eye, from Jean-Paul Sartre:

‘For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it.’

I woke up one day and realised that I’d stopped saying ‘Oh God, not another one’. I woke up one day and discovered that I was on one of those adventures. It’s a story I’d love to recount, one day when I figure out what occurred, and when. But how, and who would listen? A friend I've not seen for a while, a philosopher, no less, replied to me today in one of her fleeting appearances on Facebook:

‘At your age who knows what excitement might do’

Well, it might just kill me off this time, but I hope I can accumulate at least a chapter’s worth of memories and occurrences for the storytelling.

A footnote: ‘Revenge of the Folksingers’ arrived in the post today. It’s everything I hoped it would be, and something that probably played in my ear one night as I slept during ‘Late Junction’. Catherine Bott even gets a mention in the ‘Thanks’ section of the liner notes.