Day 90 - Green Thumb

 GREEN THUMB

Prompt - Green Thumb : Write about growing something

Fifteen years.  From a narrow shrub, not even a metre high, to a huge bush that was a good bit taller than me, and several times wider.

Five years.  From cutting to destruction.  Bloody squirrel!

In 1999 I planted a bay tree in the front garden of our old house down south.  In front of the dining room window, at the top of the wee rockery, beside next door's fence.  It grew.  And grew.  And grew.  Without much help from me it has to be said.  It became a supplier of a culinary ingredient, and another one of the bits of greenery that demanded attention from my shears during the summer.  By 2014 it was massive and the trimming becoming more severe with each year simply to stop it blocking the light into the room behind.

Then we were moving, to a flat.  Downsizing, to a new city, a new country.  My old city, my old country, place of my birth.  Reluctant to lose my ready supply of bay leaves, I took five cuttings, and potted them, months ahead of the move.  When the time came to pack up I chose the two fittest looking specimens and shifted them up to Scotland.  Each found it's way into its own huge red pot on the balcony, and both started to grow.  

For five years they provided all the bay leaves I could need, they grew taller and denser and looked healthy and hopeful.  That winter we noticed a grey squirrel visiting the balcony frequently.  Not quite what we'd expected on the fifth floor, but it's probably nothing to a squirrel.  It was something to Zoe, our cat, who was visibly annoyed at the presence on the other side of the glass.  Their stand offs provided a few decent photos.

Our visitor seemed to favour the right hand side of the balcony, and would sometimes be seen emerging from the foliage there, a mess of geraniums, tired herbs and the bay tree.  But it wouldn't be doing any harm there, would it?  Would it?  

I hadn't needed a bay leave for a while.  When I went for one I usually went to the plant on the left, which had grown that bit bigger than the other.  On this day I went to the right, and found the leaf brittle.  On inspection I found that the whole plant, although visually little different, was now a deceased bay tree.  A little more digging, both literally and metaphorically, made it come away easily from the dead roots, and the soil was no longer as it had been.  It now shared space with hundreds of wee pellets of old newspaper.  It had been squirreled.  

I still have one of my bay trees, and will look out for it a bit more.  In time maybe it will give me another cutting so we can have two again.  And I will be on the lookout for flashes of furry grey bushiness.

Squirrels.

Cute, eh?

Little bastards!

Day 89 - Status Update

 STATUS UPDATE 

Prompt - Status Update : Write a poem using the words from your latest status update or a fiend's status update on social media.

-------------------------------------------------------

There was an old comic called Aidan

Who finds he's a gig that's been laid on

Indoors in late May

Now he waits for that day

And a poster with his face displayed on

(From a FB post by Aidan Goatley :

Guys, life may well be returning.

Just got my first booking for an indoor gig for 2021. Indoors. At my favourite venue. 28th May.)

------------------------------------------------

I chat away to a guy online

One week passed and it's going well

I've kept to light and easy talk

No rush to give the big hard sell

I tell him that I've got three kids

No sign of him being shocked

But tell him I've five chickens too

And immediately I'm blocked

It's the weirdest reason I recall

For a courtship's sudden end

But if a man can't handle chickens

No way he'll be my friend

(From a tweet by Shona Scott :

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever been blocked online for?  I’ll go first:

I’ve been chatting to a guy online for a week or so, and things have been going well. At least until I mentioned earlier today that I had 5 chickens. He replied “chickens?” and then blocked me )

Day 88 - Natural Wonders of the World

 NATURAL WONDERS OF THE WORLD 

Prompt - Natural Wonders of the World : Choose one of the natural wonders of the world.  Write about it.

Eccentric would be the polite description for my Uncle Jersey.  Batshit crazy was my own preferred term, but he had still been an important part of my early life and I was grateful for all he'd done for me, in awe of all he'd done for himself, and always looked forward to seeing the man who could make me laugh like no other.  

And now he was gone.  I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, the last time he came back to Kirkcaldy, for the trek to the place he called home always sounded too convoluted.  And pricey.  We emailed from time to time, even had three or four phone chats, so he was never gone from my life.  Nor I from his.

So maybe I shouldn't have been too surprised by the phone call, but it still came as a jaw dropper all the same.  Norwegian solicitors don't exactly call me every day.  She told me she was acting as Jersey's executor, could I confirm my home address please, and would I be able to travel to Vardo in the first week of February?   My travel expenses and accommodation would be paid for from the estate.  I asked what it was all about, but all she'd give me was that this was at the wishes of my deceased uncle, and she was not permitted to give me more information, except to say that it would be to my benefit to come.  Otherwise I would get nothing from the will.

His body had come back to Fife to be buried.  He was fondly remembered by his old friends and ex colleagues, so there was a decent turn out to see him off.  I was the only family member.  there weren't many of us left, and I was the only one who'd returned to our home town.  None of which explained why he'd want to make me travel out into the frozen back of beyond at the coldest time of year.  But what else could I say but Yes?  He was my uncle, he was special to me, and, more than anything, I needed to know what the hell he was up to.  Jersey never did things without a reason, even if the reason sounded totally weird to everyone else.

My tickets duly arrived.  Plus full stage by stage instructions, and a shopping list with the means to satisfy it.  I went shopping.  Cold weather gear mostly.  And a camera.  A better camera than I'd ever owned before.  Oh Jersey, what the hell am I going to be doing?

The travel date arrived.  Train to Edinburgh Airport, flight to Oslo, a night in the blandness of the airport hotel, another flight to Kirkenes, then the grumbling bus journey out to Vardo.  Darkness fell like a kidnapper's hood, the temperature plummeted, and I knew I was in Jersey-land.  Who would actually choose to live out here?

Next morning I received an alarm call I hadn't asked for, telling me to be at breakfast by eight thirty.  Elin Pettersen, the lawyer who'd called me to initiate this crazy adventure, would be joining me.  She turned out to be about my age, chestnut haired and brown eyed to confound my expectations, and severely pretty.  And fun.  She'd loved dealing with my uncle, he was so "different", and he was missed by many in the town.  Even if none claimed to have understood much about him.  His will tied in well with his personality, because it was "different" too.  Her emphasis of the word was different too, the first time suggesting that craziness I knew so well, the second telling of... I wasn't sure.  I wasn't sure I liked it.  But I'd come to do Jersey's bidding, and that's what I'd do.

I had a day to myself, but she could arrange for any outings that interested me (birds featured highly on the list of possibilities), and tomorrow I would be picked up at three and taken to the reading of the will.  I should pack my bag.  No, I wouldn't be going far, but I wasn't going to be back at the hotel for... a while.  Elin Pettersen enjoyed a bit of mystery.

An big red SUV duly arrived the next day, driven by a big guy called Rolf who tended towards saying no words when a dozen or so might have been helpful.  Beside him sat another surprise.  Celia, my cousin who lived over in Massachusetts, who I hadn't seen since she emigrated ten years before.  And she hadn't a clue what was going on either.  One more stop before we left town, and now beside me was cousin Greg, who usually resided in Cork, I thought, although I'd later learn he'd been in Waterford since then.  And Roscommon.  And now Kilkenny.  Greg was member of the family most like Jersey.

We were taken to a big lodge about ten kilometers out, given a key and our bags, and saw no more of Rolf.  So in we went.  More written instructions.  Whose room was whose, where the food was and what we should try making, makes ourselves comfy and wait for... whatever.  What else was there to do but as we were told, and begin the long process of catching up with each others' lives.  

Elin arrived after nine.  Elin was grinning from the confines of her Bibendum snow suit and furry halo.  Elin was having fun.  She sat us down and proceeded to read to us, slowly, clearly, frequently stopping to see if we'd understood.  The clarity wasn't lacking, nor the understanding of what.  We all knew the Why too - just Jersey.

We were to stay in the lodge for the remainder of our trip, a further four nights.  On the morning after the last night we would decide for ourselves who got the money the will provided, an amount which would only be specified on that day.  The decision should be based on one thing.  Which of us managed to take the best photo of the Aurora Borealis.  

Elin smiled broadly at our reactions to this news.

"Mr Howden said you would all look surprised." was her succinct comment.  We looked at her, we looked at each other.

"Anyone any good at taking photos?" I asked.  Two sadly shaking heads.  I joined in.  Jersey knew us, had known us, too well.  Elin told us she'd be back in a couple of days.  Outside we could see... nothing.

We spent the next couple of days trying to learn the complexities of the DSLRs we'd been told to purchase and bring along.  None of us had much of a clue about depth of field and shutter speeds and exposures, but we read the manuals and fiddled about and tried to figure out what worked and what didn't.  It didn't take long to realise that setting them to Auto wasn't going to do the job with the Northern Lights.  

It was a well chosen spot, but there were no lights the first night, just moon and stars and a peace none of us had ever known.  We kept learning about the cameras, but we learned even more about each other.  In childhood we'd spent a lot of time together, but that had ended over twenty years ago and there was a lot of catching up to do.  A lot of remembering of how close we'd once been, friends as much as relations.  

We got a few pics taken on night two, but even we could see they were a bit rubbish.  The third night was a lot better, both in the clarity of the lights and the clarity of the photos we all took.  We were starting to get the hang of it a bit.  By night four we were really starting to enjoy ourselves, all thinking we might have a new hobby, and wishing we had more time to get even better.  The lights were at their most spectacular around one in the morning, and we had to force ourselves to look to our lenses when all we really wanted to do was stand there and go "Wow!".

Elin turned up the next day, asking how we'd got on, had we decided who did best.  We all said there really wasn't much in it, but I said I thought it was Celia, Celia said Greg, and Greg said me.  The lawyer laughed again, her severity a thing of the past now.

"I have one final task to undertake before you leave us, to read out the final provisions of your uncle's will.  Please listen carefully.

"Ms Pettersen will read this to you when you have completed the task I set.  I hope she will be doing so to all three cousins, my beloved niece and nephews, reunited after so long."  Elin paused, looked at each of us in turn, nodded, and carried on reading.

"I hope that, when you leave here, it will be with fond memories of your crazy old uncle, and four things I've given to you as my parting gifts.  I don't give a shit..." Elin cleared her throat and suppress a laugh "who took the best photos, I only hope you all had fun.  That would make four of s, because I had a lot of laughs coming up with this idea."

" First off, there's a bit of money for each of you.  Not a huge amount, so don't get your hopes up.  Putting on this stunt meant keeping a fair bit aside, and I never was one for saving much.  Life was always there to be lived.  Elin will tell you what there is in a minute.  My second gift is a new skill, maybe even a new joy in life.  I knew none of you were photographers so I hope the learning has worked out, and that not only do you know how to use a camera, but you'll start to look at the world differently, with the eyes of the artist.  Number three is the experience and memory of one of the great natural wonders of the world.  I hope the chosen nights delivered the best of the spectacle.  And finally the gift I hope you're treasure most.  I've given you back each other.  Don't lose that one, it's precious.  I love you all.  Jersey."

Our reader stopped there, letting it all sink in, letting the tears come, letting us get together and hug.  Who knew our crazy old uncle was so sentimental, and so wise?

Elin told us about the money, which worked out around eighteen hundred pounds each.  Not life changing for any of us, but welcome all the same.  But we travelled back to Oslo as different people to those who'd passed through the airport less than a week before.  The guide books tell you that seeing the Aurora is something unlikely to be forgotten.  Jersey made sure of it.

Day 87 - Convenience Store

 CONVENIENCE STORE

Prompt - Convenience Store : Write about an experience you've had at a gas station or convenience store.

"Grandad, what did you do in the terrible shortages of 2020?"

"The most dangerous job of them all laddie - tail gunner on an Andrex lorry."

A year ago we experienced shortages in the shops.  Remember that?  Not brexshit induced, as we feared, but a strange pnic brought on by the rapidly unfolding pandemic scenario.  Suddenly it was hard to find pasta in the shops.  Tinned tomatoes, passata, tomato puree all vanished.  The basics needed for quick cheap meals.  But the scariest one, the one that had everyone talking, was toilet paper.  Not just in the UK, but in many other countries too.

Why toilet paper?  Nobody seemed to know the answer, other than once it started in one place it spurted everywhere like an attack of the runs.   Bog roll was now the most valuable currency of the retail world.

We weren't too badly placed, having bought a twelve pack shortly before the runs started hitting.  And I refused to be drawn into the panic buying, knowing that if I got some it might cause problems for a family that needed it more.  But the supply was getting lower, maybe down to around half a dozen rolls remaining in the flat.  Nowhere near urgent, when there are only the two of us here.  Still, it might be best to be prepared to grab some if I saw it.

So whenever I went into a supermarket the paper goods aisle was always scoured, and every time the result was the same.  Rows of empty shelves.  Signs restricting people in their number of purchases had little effect.  Asda.  Sainsbury.  Tesco.  Smaller convenience stores.  This went on for a few days, and the home stock got that little bit smaller.

Then I was in Lidl, and did my usual scan of the soft and absorbent section.  And there they were.  Four packets.  Four big packets, sitting on an otherwise bare pilot, surrounded by nothingness.  From the other end of the aisle a woman was approaching, with clear intent.  There was a man a couple of paces behind her.  I was nearest, but, all the same, I swear there was an ever so slight, involuntary, increase in pace on my part.  And hers.  And his.  

I got there first.  I bent down to pick up one of the packs.  And handed it to the woman with a smile.  She smiled back.  Bent again, picked up one for myself, and held it tight, watching out for... what was I watching out for?  It was  sixteen pack, more than we'd usually get, lower quality than we'd usually get.  But it was coming home with me, and we were set up for the duration.

On the way back, walking the mile and a bit back to the flat, I kept my purchase close, feeling conspicuous, feeling like the might hunter returning in triumph, and way of strangers.  I hadn't heard about anyone being mugged for loo roll, but you never know...

Day 86 - Your Muse

 YOUR MUSE

Prompt - Your Muse : Write about your muse - what do they look like?  What does your muse do to inspire you?

Is that where I'm going so wrong?

Although I have written a daily diary for more than forty five years now, which, I guess, qualifies me as 'a writer' of sorts, I have wanted to be a 'proper' writer', off and on, for most of that time.  With little result.  Is the lack of 'a muse' the real reason?

I think not.  It's more down to the lack of (good) ideas; the inability to make time to sit and write; and my outstanding ability to daydream, procrastinate, and be extremely lazy.  So all I have to show for those forty five years are a few (very few) completed short stories and poems, a much larger quantity of unfinished pieces, and a few pathetic ideas which never come to anything.  I am not, never have been, the 'writer' I have always wanted myself to be.  And now, approaching sixty five years old, it feels easier to simply accept that.

And yet the past almost-decade has seen me write more than at any time in my life.  And, for the first time, put my writing out into the public domain.  Few see it, even fewer will have actually read it, but at least I can say it's out there.  After so many decades as a feckless wannabe that counts as some kind of achievement.

Was there a muse that affected this (relatively minor) change?  Probably it's the 750words site, and the incentives (streaks and badges) it provides.  I found out about it through a woman I followed on Twitter, and latterly Instagram, who goes by the handle of hallirackit (who may, or may not, be called Fiona) and mentioned it in one of her tweets.  I was intrigued and had a look a the site, signed up and... started writing.  So maybe the mysterious Fiona (?) is my real muse?

My output was non-fiction.  Commentary on the world, thoughts and musings, subjects I felt I wanted to explore.  I drew up a long list of topics and got on with them.  Watching my streak grow day by day, and accumulating the various badges for meeting an assortment of targets, provided different challenges.  And then one day I wrote something about poppy day that I felt was worth sharing.  And on the twelfth of September 2012 I posted for the first time on The Litter Bin of the Mind.  A terrible name for a blog really.  And, even now, that post has only ever had thirty page views.  But it is there, and was followed by others.  Quite prolifically for the first couple of months, much more slowly thereafter, and my output has varied from fifty two posts in the year of 2015, to a poor fifteen in 2018.  But through all that time, and still continuing, I have managed to post at least once in that blog for every calendar month along the way.  The muse in this case being my own pride in keeping record going!  And a couple of times my posts have gone a bit viral, with the page view figures into four figures - a rare occurrence but thrilling when it happened.

I have also started a blog of mini reviews of all the live gigs and plays I got to, and have included films.  That's been fun, albeit pressured at times.  Again there are few people who read it, but it gives me another goal in life.

But I still want to write fiction, and my efforts in that direction came to little.  The odd poem maybe, but no hint that I would ever be able to write anything longer.  The idea of a novel, or at least a novella, still appeals, if only I could be... a different person?  I don't think it's just a muse I lack!

So I have moved on, to a new muse, the one that has prompted today's words.  My 365 Project is based on a list of Creative Writing Prompts I found on the web after a bit of searching. Having had so much free time in 2020 I thought I'd try to use it in 2021 to help improve my writing, and bring out some creativity.  And, in part, it's worked.  Although today's piece is very prosaic, and some of the non fiction days have produced real rubbish, I have written quite a few short (very short) stories, a small number of poems, and three or four non fiction items that made their way on to Litter Bin.  I have felt more inspired, I suppose, because I have managed to come up with so many ideas for characters and scenarios, more than ever before.  The 365 project has been my best attempt yet at becoming 'a writer' in the sense I want to.  

How it will pan out for the rest of the year I do not know.  It has not been too difficult to keep it going during the lockdown months we've been through so far.  But that will change from April, just a little, and then, hopefully, more and more as the year goes on.  There will be places to go, maybe even things to do.  Maybe even shows to review!   We, I, might leave Edinburgh sometimes.  All of which will put more time pressures on my writing.  There will still be the pressure to write 750 words every day.  Within that I will try to do something in response to the Creative Writing Prompts, my 365 Project.  And there will still be the pride motivation of posting on Litter Bin at least once a month.  It will be less easy that it is now, but I know I can do it.

But will the quality suffer in that new scenario?  Will I find it even harder to come up with ideas?  And, the really big question, what happens with my writing in 2022...?

A couple of days ago I used an old idea for one of the new prompts.  It was a story I first thought up at least twenty years ago, about a man who discovers the ability to be in two places at once.  As well as all the elements listed above (laziness, procrastination etc) I was held up by being unable to solve the technical problem of how he came by this ability.  Writing a quick, short, version of the story helped me solve that, and suddenly it feels like something I should be writing.  Something with the potential to be much longer than anything I've written previously.  So whe, how, do I make the time to try to start writing that?

I have not come close to writing anything of that envisaged length before.  So I should revisit some of my unfinished stories, and tackle one of the longer ones, see if I can see it through to an end.  And then look at my duopolic man (title?!).  

Is there a muse who can help me?  Anyone?  

Day 85 - A Day in the Life

 A DAY IN THE LIFE

Prompt - A Day in the Life : Write about your daily habits and routine

Which daily routine?  Not that there are many significant variations nowadays, for great unpredictability is an element largely missing from my life, but do I write about the daily life of pandemic lockdown, the one which is so well established after a year of giglessness?  Or the routine of the life that existed before covid altered everything?  Or the daily routine I hope will be with us when the current restrictions come to an end and we see what the post-pandemic world starts to look like?  Or should I just be honest and admit that there probably wasn't isn't, isn't going to be, much difference between those three states!

Certainly our life now is very different to what it was all those years ago when we were still working, and living down south.  The experience of the past three days, when I've had to set an alarm to get myself up and into town in time for my jury service, have made me question where the self went to who used to be in the gym for seven and work by nine thirty?  That guy no longer exists and there was a real sense of relief this morning at being able to wake naturally again.  To get back to our own version of normal.

My daily routine is one that is largely without any pressures.  I, we, have become so lazy, and so used to the easy routine, that it's hard to imagine going back to the days of having early appointments for my voluntary work, and going to so many gigs and plays and matches.  So adapting from this current routine may come hard.

As previously mentioned, there's no set waking time.  It is what it is, and if I feel like turning over and dozing I'll doze.  Or lie in bed with phone screen or book until the mood to get up takes me. I like to be out of bed (for the first time...) around eight, but there are days when it's more like ten.  First habit, after going to the loo, is to go down the stairs, feed Zoe, make the drinks.  Until today that's been a mug each of lemon, honey and ginger (using fresh lemon and ginger) in hot water.  Our kickstarters.  To that add a long glass of an energy fruit drink, made up from sachets of powder, for Barbara to drink once I get up for the second time.  Previously that was something I'd get her after my second trip downstairs, but having it with her hot drink, as she has for the past three days, will enable her to get up that wee bit earlier, make more of her day.  

Then I'll sit up and drink my drink.  And read.  This year that begins with one of James Robertson's 365 stories (it's always hard to resist the temptation to make a start on the following day, but I'm sticking with the one-a-day routine, so it will take from first January until the final day of the year to read them all).  It then switches to either my phone, or tablet, or current book.  I like to read a bit of fiction if possible, but sometimes get too distracted by tweets and posts and news items, either political or sporting.  The latter usually about Scotland or Edinburgh rugby teams, or my most recent sports fandom, the New York Islanders hockey team (who are on a good run at the moment...).

Eventually it will feel like getting up time.  Ideally that will be well before nine thirty.  But it might be one of those days when I struggle to make it out the pit by eleven!  I lie down, invite Barbara to do the same, and we have a cuddle to start the day off.  We all need affection.

Down the stairs again, with used mugs and my tablet.  I'll empty the dishwasher (although this morning I did that before the hot drinks came up, and that's a routine I'd like to establish), then chop up the fresh fruit for breakfast.  Typically there were will be at least six different types of fruit tp prepare (such as apple, satsuma, kiwi, banana, grapes and berries).  I'll also prepare the other part of my breakfast, as most days I have a form of muesli that's best eaten after it's had a chance to soak all the milk up.  Or there might be porridge to put in the pot, if I haven't done it the night before.

Back upstairs.  See if Barbara wants me to give her dodgy knees a bit of massage and stretching to help ease her passage into the day, then into my study.  Some days I'll switch the PC on and get it warmed up for later, and maybe use it to play some music.  Or I'll put an LP on the deck.  But then I do soe form of exercise.  On a bad day that might just be a few stretches, with particular attention to getting on my back and doing a few things for my own uncooperative knees (ah, the joys of ageing...).  Most days I try to at least do a few press ups and stomach crunches.  But the best days are when I get the weights out and manage a more tiring routine.  That hasn't happened for a few weeks, due to back and shoulder problems, but I hope to be back into it soon, needing to get myself in some sort of state to return to the gym when it reopens.  When it does the intention is to get back into the old routine of doing stretches here, then going to the gym for about thirty minutes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  

Out of the study, into the shower room.  Weigh myself out of curiosity, have my shower, apply toiletries, go into the bedroom to get dressed.  That bit of the routine includes applying cream to the hard skin on my feet, since visits to the chiropodist have become a thing of the past.  For now. Down to eat breakfast, usually on my own.  Back up to brush the teeth.  And that's me, ready for the world.  It's probably afternoon already!

What happens next?  The bit does vary.  But there will be two fixed elements to the day.  At some point I will go out, whether we need any shopping or not, and walk, simply walk to get my step count up.  Even in wet weather I'll do this.  There's a fair chance that a supermarket, or the fish shop, will feature at some point.  And I will sit at my desk for at least an hour, do some writing, of some sort, while catching up on a few websites I usually check out.  

Whatever order that occurs in, I'll normally make the dinner around six.  Depending on how early or late I got up there might have been some snack lunch at some point - sometimes it only happens around four!  We eat at the dining table, an attempt to remain vaguely civilised.  

The evening will be spent on the sofa, TV to watch.  Occasionally it might mean me upstairs, while we watch different programmes, but at some point we're always together for a bit.  Then there's the late night routine, as tightly scripted as the morning habits.  Close the vestibule door, switch off the hall lamp, do the the cat's litter tray, open the dishwasher, pour two glasses of clod water and take them up to the bedside cabinets.  Then into my study for the final writing of the day, my diary that records the happenings and thoughts for the day.  So there isn't mush to write nowadays!

And finally.  back to bed.  back to book.  Read until my eyes can't stay open.  

Sleep.

Repeat.

Daty 84 - Fanciest Pen

 FANCIEST PEN

Prompt - Fanciest Pen : Get out your favourite pen, pencils, or even coloured markers and write using them!

Pen?? Pencils??  Coloured markers??  I thought we were in the twenty first century?  The days of my having a favourite pen are long gone.  There were times when I took pleasure in writing my daily diary entries with a nice fountain pen, and kept a bottle of Quink on my desk at the ready, but the diary too is entirely online these days and pens are things I use occasionally to write down quick notes and reminders.  But not for any serious writing.  That's what a keyboard is for.  So I've chosen my favourite keyboard to type this up on.  Not the best, not the quickest, but probably the quirkiest and the one that opens up most opportunities (or should do!).

But before that, a couple of asides.  It's likely that I will have a new pen in a few weeks time (hard to be specific when it's Kickstarter!) and that it will become my favourite.  Not because of how it writes, as I have no idea how comfortable it will prove as an actual scribbling implement, but because I can talk to it.  It's a voice recorder, and will be with me for capturing ideas - I hope...

Aside number two  It's an odd coincidence that the past three days, on jury duty, have seen me doing more writing, with a pen, that at any time for months.  But I'm glad that's over.

y keyboard today is small, a bit rattly, prone to missing characters so typing is much slower than on anything else I own that has physical keys, and is less than ideal for typing large volumes of words.  But. It's my Planet Computers Gemini.  Planet's long awaited replacement for, or modern take on, the Psion.  A handheld with a proper qwerty layout and the ability to be used almost anywhere.  It needs me to practice it on it more to become a bit quicker, because at the moment it's usually only used for short messages or internet searches.  

The Gemini will need replacing in the not too distant future.  It runs Android 7 and there have been two further generations of the Planet product since.  I would love to have a better quality, and backlit, keyboard.  But best bit about the Gemini, and the single reason why I love it, is the freedom to write anywhere. That I've done so rarely is no fault of the Gemini, but mine alone.  If this summer is half decent I must - MUST - make myself do more outdoor writing.  If  can write outdoors I can write directly about what I observe.  I can look at people as characters.  I can...  I can speculate all I want, but unless I DO then it all means nothing.     

Day 83 - Magic

 MAGIC

Prompt - Magic : Imagine you have a touch of magic, and can make impossible things happen.  What would you do?

It was a minute he'd remember for the rest of his life.  The day it didn't just happen, but was made to happen.

He was looking at himself looking at himself looking at himself.  On one side of the room a fully clothed, in control, David.  On the other a naked, slightly surprised looking, David.  Right on the spot, right where he should be, swiftly realising how (what?) he was, where he was, how he came to be.  Because David had willed it.  Because David had finally unlocked the magic.

It had happened before of course.  Or how else could he have known?  It had happened four times.  Or how else could he have believed?  It had happened without his participation.  Until now.

As a baby he'd suddenly appeared alongside himself, the one version well swaddled, the other naked as a baby.  His mother had screamed, he had cried, he'd both cried.  By the time his father came in there was just the one of him.  And his gibbering parent.  Who'd believe a story like that?  

His mum was never quite the same after that day, or so he was later told, and couldn't cope with the thought that something so real had come from her own disturbed mind.  Until he was nine, and it happened again.  He was in the back garden, felt himself parting, felt himself sharing strength, sensed he was both himself and another who was also himself.  That other self was in the bushes, cowering, bewildered, scared.  It, he, peeked out, and saw his clothed self across the lawn, looking back at him, simultaneously shocked and unsurprised.  Both fainted.  There were no witnesses.

Fast forward another four years, it happens again.  He's in his bedroom, feels that same sensation of being divided in two, and this time he knows what's coming.  Knows that if he opens the door his unclothed self will be there.  Hears his mother coming up the stairs.  She sees the naked doppelganger, asks him what one earth he's doing.

"Sorry, just went to the loo and couldn't be bothered putting stuff on."  And goes into the bedroom, there to evaporate.  When his mum knocks it's all he can do to keep himself conscious.

"How did you get dressed so quick?"  He grins.

One more.  He's eighteen.  He should have been out on the town, but stayed in to do some studying.  Lucky.  By now he's tried a few times to make it happen again, but without any real idea how to set about it.  He believes he can, he doesn't know how.  So when he feels it coming again, after such a long wait, he tries to be observer as much as participant.  Feels for the how beyond the why.  Senses a glimmer of understanding.

It's taken him three years.  Being on his own makes it easier to undertake his self-experimentation without fear of being barged in on.  His behaviour becomes erratic, personal hygiene questionable, social skills redundant.  Obsessive.  And he knows it, no longer cares, he will learn to master his magic.  
And then he does.  Three nights later, energy levels restored, he does it again.  The next week he stands outside and clones himself into his room.  This time he has the control, the patience, the stamina, to make his inside self get dressed, and wait until his original comes to the door to see him.  For the first time he has the sense of his single personality managing two bodies, controlling their movements.  It is easier if one sits down, while the other acts, and it doesn't matter which one.  He develops his abilities slowly, getting better each time.

But the question remains.  What is it for?  It is the perfect tool for creating an alibi.  But he'd only need one of those if he did something wrong.  A crime, a betrayal.  he doesn't feel he has those in him.  Or it could be for entertainment, being able to appear to be in two places at once.  Except that he had no real sense of showmanship, had no other tricks to offer, and knew that once the real trick was discovered, that this was no master of illusion, he would become a freak show.  Not a reality he wanted to face up to.  It was bad enough thinking of himself that way.

He'd learned, and tamed, his magical ability.  He'd accepted he was who he was.  He'd felt like a genius must feel on making their first great discovery.  But he hadn't been able to answer the biggest question.

Why?

Day 82 - Book Inspired

 BOOK INSPIRED

Prompt - Book Inspired : Think of your favourite book.  Now write a poem that sums up the entire story in 10 lines.

Inspired by Catch-22

Cathcart tells the boys that they have to keep on doing the biz

The danger will all be theirs, all the glory will be his

Milo says business is best, he even pretends to care

But they all end up losing, though everyone has a share

Nately's Whore was cold and callous, then her beau crashed from above

All her fury, sadness, passion, struck wildly sharp through lack of love 

Yossarian just wants his life back, there's too much fear for any fun

He's done his bit, but the system, forces him off on the run

The Old Man knows the real truth, the things that let him keep alive

There are no winners in a war, the only prize is to survive

Day 81 - Advertisement

 ADVERTISEMENT

Prompt - Advertisement : Advertisements are everywhere, aren't they?  Write using the slogan or line for an ad.

We know we don't want germs around

We've all been told their horrors

We can't go searching for them

Like deep jungle explorers

You'll want them all gone from your home

No need to do it brutally

Telly says deploy Zoflora

Because it kills germs 'beautifully'

Day 80 - Ode to Strangers

 

ODE TO STRANGERS

Prompt - Ode to Strangers : Go people watching and write an ode to a stranger you see on the street.

ODE TO THE PANDEMIC SHOPPER

Our heroes wear their face masks all

Will always enter alone

Swiftly they collect their trawl

The risks are known

No danger to their fellow man

No wish to spread the virus

Keeping distance when you can

Is desirous

The Pandemic Shopper cares for us all

Day 79 - Hero

 

HERO

Prompt - Hero : Write a tribute to someone you regard as a hero.

Rabbie Burns, Jimmy Clark, Jimmy Reid.  When someone asked me one of those daft questions about who you'd most like to have to a dinner party that used to be my answer.  Three heroes.  But the lack of connection between them would probably have made for a boring evening.  Clark was a fascinating person, but no great thinker.  The others were certainly strong in the latter department, but the disconnect between their temporal and societal experiences would have proved  too great to bridge in a few hours round the table.  So nowadays I'd settle for just the one of the trio.  the one who could teach me most.  Step forward Mr Reid.

Jimmy was union leader, local councillor, uni rector, broadcaster, journalist, orator, thinker.  Sometimes described as "the best MP Scotland never had", his political allegiances over the years shifted from the Communist Party, to Labour, to the Scottish Socialist Party, to the SNP.  That record could give a suggestion of inconsistency, of a lack of loyalty to causes.  But I reckon it was more that those parties, and times changed.  The enemies shifted shape over time too.  But Jimmy's central tenet remained the same - wanting the best possible outcomes for the ordinary people of this country.  And that's why Jimmy Reid is my hero.

He was hero of trade unionism in the seventies, the charismatic front man to Jimmy Airlie's backroom boy leading the UCS work in.  Not a strike, not a rabble, but a disciplined, dedicated workforce showing that their work was still of value in the world.  From then on Jimmy was always a key figure in socialist thought in Scotland.  An astute commentator on the political scene, he was sought after for his views both in print and on television, and his straightforward personality and clearly thought out views made for some memorable broadcasting moments.  

Reid died in 2010, four years before the first Indyref.  He'd recognised how essential Scottish independence was becoming some years earlier, despairing at the conservative nature of Blair's New labour and clearly seeing a pathway that's now obvious - that Scotland and England were heading in increasingly different socio-political directions and that the hard right were gaining in influence down south.  If he'd been around in 2014 I wonder what difference he could have made, adding such a cogent and well respected voice to the Yes cause.  

We'll never know.  Although the Jimmy Reid Foundation keeps his views alive for us.  But, as we head for IndyRef2, it's reassuring to recall that the powerful intellect of Jimmy Reid would have been with us.  Indy isn't right wing - just right.

Day 78 - Random Song

 RANDOM SONG 

Prompt - Random Song : Turn on the radio, use the shuffle feature on your music collection or your favourite streaming music.  Write something inspired by the first song you hear.

The end of lockdown appeared to be in sight.  The end of furlough, the end of sitting at home staring at the walls.  Joe Wicks and banana bread could go fuck themselves.  There had been no self improvement, no languages learned, no hobbies adopted.  Sleep, eat, game, drink, eat, game, film, sleep again.  On and on and on.  

In the beginning it hadn't seemed too bad.  They tried to set him up tp work from home, but quickly realised it wasn't practical.  Too much hands on required.  So he'd been furloughed.  The reduction in income didn't hurt at all, for there was nothing to spend it on.  No gigs, no films at the cinema, no nights out at the pub.  He found himself with more money than month for the first time in his life.

There was even a briefly, socially distanced, period back at work, but it hadn't lasted long.  Back to his wee flat again, back to sleeping at any time that suited, back to only leaving the flat for milk, bread, beer and a few ready meals.  And cereal.  How many Coco Pops can one person eat in nine months?

But now.  Even the gaming held little appeal.  He'd tried to read, but his concentration was shot. In the beginning he'd gone out every day, into the Spring sunshine, he'd walked, he'd Whatsapped pals, called his mum, tried to build up a healthy routine.  By October it had all unravelled.  What was the point in going out if there was nowhere to go?  What was the point in talking to people if you couldn't arrange to meet up?  What was the point in trying to cook when it was just for you, and your taste buds had atrophied along with the rest of your body?   What was the point in anything?

2020 could get in the bin of memory.  So far 2021 could join it, although the recent government announcements flickered little spasms of hope before the eyes.  Except that he didn't know if he could cope with hope right now.  He didn't think he could cope with going out, with people, with work - with getting properly dressed or having to jump to the tune of the alarm.  He didn't think mornings existed any more.  The strangeness of this covid world had become a normality. 

This was making him ill, and he knew there was a need to break from his senseless nihilism.  He commanded Alexa to select a random track and half listened to what emerged.  He didn't recognise it at first, until the words connected in his synapses.

#We're living in a strange time

Working for a strange goal

We're living in a strange time

Working for a strange goal

We're turning flesh and body

Into soul#

"Alexa, repeat song" he pleaded.

#We're sailing on a strange boat

Heading for a strange shore

We're sailing on a strange boat

Heading for a strange shore

Carrying the strangest cargo

That was ever hauled aboard#

Strange Boat, by the Waterboys.  Strange times, even then, back in the eighties.  Mike Scott had it right.  Times were always strange, for strangeness was simply newness.  New situations, new people, new ways of working, new routines, new habits, new life.  New pandemics.  Always, for ever and ever.  Nothing was strange, just different.  

He felt surprisingly cheered by this revelation.  People demanded a return to 'normal'.  But this life, the one he was living, was his 'normal' through these months.  And when that 'normal' changed it would never be the same as the one he'd had before.  If he was heading for a strange shore that was fine with him.  He'd ride the boat and see where it took him.  

Day 77 - Geography

 GEOGRAPHY

Prompt - Geography : Pick a state or country you've never visited.  Write about why you would or would not like to visit that place.

Randomly point to a place on a map or globe.  Do you want to go there?  Why or why not?

THE PLACE I WANT TO VISIT

I am not a big fan of travel nowadays.  Trains journeys are good, a chance to sit and read, listen to music, watch the world pass by.  But getting any distance nowadays usually means flying.  While I don't mind the flying itself all that much, other than what the cramped conditions do to my long limbs and suspect back, I have come to hate airports passionately.  Ever since the twin towers they have been transformed from places of promise, even with some of their own enjoyments, into places to be endured.  I adopt Stoic Mode to get me through.

So the prospect of travelling anywhere far away is not as exciting as it might have been when I was younger (and more supple!).  But I have never been to North America (I've only once been outside Europe, and that just to the North African coast) and Canada has an appeal.  So too do iceland and Finland, but if I had to pick a destination right now it would be Montreal.  

Why Montreal?  The architecture looks interesting, from photos and films I've seen, and watching several Canadian Grand Prix from there!  The Frenchness of the culture appeals.  I'm a big fan of Quebecois music (courtesy of Genticorum, Le Vent du Nord, De Temps Antan etc.) so it would be a thrill to experience it live in it's native setting.  And although I no longer get to live hockey games, I would love to see at least one NHL match.  Montreal Canadiens may not be the most successful of teams these days, but I'd be going for the atmosphere and the experience of seeing hockey as part of a really big crowd.  I'd wear one of my old Caps shirts, which might be an icebreaker (pun intended) with the local supporters.  Would anyone have heard of Edinburgh Capitals?  

RANDOM PLACE

Hmmm... My finger took me to a country which shares with Montreal a French background.  And very, very little else.  I landed upon the Central African Republic and have to confess I knew nothing  at all about it.  But a bit of Wikipedia hasn't added it to my potential travel destinations.  

A French colony until 1960, the country is, as the name suggests, totally landlocked.  For someone who has always lived near a coast it would be a strange choice anyway.  The turnoffs are a bit more substantial than that though.  One of the poorest countries on the planet, and one of the unhealthiest, with war zones, a dreadful record on human rights, dubious legal procedures and endemic corruption.  Not a place to travel to unless you are providing aid, doing business or you enjoy danger.  I don't...

Day 76 - Missing You

 MISSING YOU 

Prompt - Missing You : Write about someone you miss dearly

A few days ago my wife received some sad news.  Her daughter tearfully informed her that Lulu, the family labrador, had had to be put down.  They, were devastated.  The dog was always there, always trying to get more food, always ready for walk and play.   My wife was upset too, having visited often enough that Lulu felt like one of her grandchildren.  I had hardly ever met the pooch, so the emotional impact was lesser for me, and I was able to listen and try to console as best I could.  But, perhaps inevitably, our conversation drifted back to our own sad memories.

The prompt says I should write about 'someone' I miss.  Many people, those who haven't had pets, would say that 'someone' should be a human person, not an animal.  Personal experience tells me otherwise.

From the end of the nineties onwards we seemed to have a death of someone close to us at the rate of around one per year.  First off it was my mother in law.  Then my dad, followed by Barbara's brother and, a year later, his widow.  The year after that it was my mum.  It ended in 2006 with the death of Rummy, our ginger cat.  And that proved the hardest one to take.

I'd had Rummy since before we lived together.  He'd been a bit of a lifesaver for me at a bad time in my life, the one creature in my life that asked for no more than food and affection.  I'd got him form the RSPCA, at about ten months old, and he had a very independent nature even then.    Gangly and awkward looking, he matured into a real beauty, with clean white chest and amber eyes.  

He developed quite  personality.  Smart and adventurous, he loved to be outside and patrolling his domain, but had his ways of getting what he wanted inside as well.  When he first arrived there was another cat in the house, a Siamese belonging to my first wife.  The latter tried to terrorise the newcomer at first, but after a few months she could see who was top cat in this relationship and kept her distance.  She had a liking for a bit of buttered toast, and my then wife would give her a bit at breakfast time.  The Siamese would sit at her feet, crying out for the morsel, waiting for it to be taken to her feeding mat.  Rummy would be curled up on a stool, looking half asleep, but with one eye keeping a lookout.  By the time the toast hit the floor her was always the first one there.  

Then there was the time he brought a chicken home.  Not a live one - a fresh roast.  A neighbour must have left it by the window to cool, unattended, and...  He was reluctant to give it up at first, but he got fed on it for three days.  I didn't dare go round the doors nearby asking!

When Barbara first met him I was nervous.  If they didn't take to one another what would I do?  I really didn't want to have to do without either!  Fortunately it was a mutual love-in.  And while he was always very much 'my' cat, she got her share of his affection - and demands.

There would be another cat, Millie, to join him later, but she was small and timid and tried to emulate her new friend.  He would tolerate her, use her as a pillow, and sometimes snap at her if she got a bit too clingy.  But we frequently found them asleep together in one radiator hammock, it's fellow alongside left empty.

Rummy didn't bring home any more roasts, but there were a few wild birds, alive or dead.  And a homing pigeon, much to the disgust of the man a few doors down who turned up to collect our cat's prize.  What did he expect - for a cat not to be a cat?

He was such a major part of our daily lives, and not just at mealtimes.  When he wanted atention I'd get head buted in the chin until I did as he wished.  He liked to lie on top of me, claws going in-out in-out.  Old sweaters were de rigueur at home.  On nice days he'd be let out in the morning and when we got home, especially if it was later than usual, he'd be there, coming up the path mouthing off at us for being late with his dinner.  Or, if he'd had to stay in all day, opening the front door a fraction would unleash a ginger missile that whizzed by our legs and out for a bit of fresh air.  (Though he might be back in seconds if the rain was heavy!)

The decline in his health was rapid, and the decision to have him put down an obvious one.  We stayed with him as the lethal drugs too effect, watching his final breath and that little pink tongue protruding - I can never forget the tongue.  We went home tearfully, and were upset for a few days.  Talking it over we realised that he was the greatest of all the those losses we'd had.  Parents and siblings we saw infrequently.  But take away a being that's such a major part of the daily routine and it's like removing a piece of yourself.  It was only when he was gone that we fully realised how much our lives were geared around his needs and wants.  Poor Millie looked bereft for days, always seemed to be looking for the one she looked up to.

Months later we were on the M6, the sun was shining, and a sad song came on.  I Will Remember You.  And suddenly I could hardly see the road ahead, as the tears flowed and my chest heaved.   A sudden reminder of how much I still missed that ginger athlete.  I still can't hear that song without thinking of him, without my eyes going a bit moist.  He meant that much.

Day 75 - Interview

 INTERVIEW

Prompt - Interview : Write a list of questions you have for someone you would like to interview, real or fictional.

My interview subject is Robert Burns, brought back to life and given time to take in aspects of twenty first century society.

Q1 : We now have many, many more alternatives to the written and spoken word when it comes to entertainment.  Would you still want to be a poet today, or do you think you would branch out into other forms of art?  What new art forms have you found most interesting?

Q2 : What are the main differences in social relationships that have struck you in comparing your time to now?

Q3 : I think you've had some time to learn about the Black Lives Matter movements and the history that gave rise to it.  Any thoughts on whether this seems like progress to you, and does it make you ponder on your almost taking up a job on a Jamaican plantation? 

Q4 : The country is led by a woman, something unthinkable in your day, but your poetry frequently reflected on your love for and admiration of women.  Do you like the idea of a woman leader?

Q5 : You wrote plenty verses suggesting you had a pretty negative view of the union with England, a dangerous one to hold in those days.  From what you've learned so far has the 250 years since changed that view?

Q6 : Our historical knowledge suggests you had a strong belief in the value of your poetry.  How do you feel about founding out that you are now famous across the world, and such an important part of Scotland's culture and identity?

Q7 : I'm a huge fan of the storytelling power of Tam O'Shanter.  What's your own favourite Burns poem and why?

Q8 : If there was one important message you hoped you verses conveyed what would it be?

Day 74 - Caught Red-Handed

 CAUGHT RED-HANDED

Prompt - Caught Red-Handed : Write about being caught doing something embarrassing

Monday morning.  A glorious Monday morning of blue skies and cool breezes and the promise of being the perfect early summers day.  A Monday morning after the Sunday night before.  That sunny sky hurt my eyes, my head, my being, when I woke.  It was already eight thirty and I would have had to rush, rush, rush to get to work.  I groaned and turned over in bed.  And when I turned back again it was almost ten.

I phoned in sick.  Migraine was grudgingly accepted as a reason.  But I reeled off the symptoms flawlessly.  How did we skive off before there was Google?

"Have you had them before?"

"Yeah, but not for a few years, not since I got here.  Thought I'd got away from them, but this one's a beauty."  

And that bit was true.  As hangovers went, this one was a beauty.

"Sorry about all the rearranging you're having  to do."  I even tried to sound sorry.  

By one I felt a lot better, albeit full bladdered.  It had taken a lot of water to bring back my hydration levels.  So here I was, a free day, a beautiful day, nobody wanting anything from me, nobody expecting me to be anywhere but my sofa.  Opportunities aren't there to be wasted.  I jumped in the car and drove out to the beach.

Staked myself a nice quiet spot, lay reading for a bit, swam for a bit, lay dozing.  (It had been a very late one.)  

"Oh shit."  Her voice opened my eyes.  A few metres away, in my direct line of site, a bikini belle was trying to remove sand from her snack.  I watched appreciatively, savouring my unobserved status.  She was gorgeous, and my sluggish mind was starting to waken rapidly, constructing plots to approach and connect.  There was something about her that was wildly different and curiously familiar.  That made me want to get to know her and feel that I already did.

She seemed satisfied that she'd retrieved her lunch situation and began to make herself comfortable.  At the moment when I was observing her legs stretching out she looked up and across and straight into my eyes.  A mutual horror passed between us as recognition switched on.

"Mr Reynolds, I...."  She looked mortified, reddening rapidly.  But what could I say?  I was her tutor and we were both skipping the same class...

Day 73 - Last Person You Talked To

 LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO 

Prompt - Last Person You Talked To : Write a quick little poem or story about the last person you spoke with.

We met on a video call for an hour

Just three volunteers and three staff

The professionals told us that this was our

Chance to say what about work was naff

No real complaints, just that sometimes the phone

Was proving a bit of a pfaff

But the best thing today, if only we'd known

Was having a really good laugh

Day 72 - Where that place used to be

 

WHERE THAT PLACE USED TO BE

Prompt - Where That Place Used to Be : Think of a place you went to when you were younger, but is now no longer there or is something else.  Capture your feelings about this in your writing.

The combination of the above prompt, and the recent news that the Jenners department store is to close, has dragged off into a roomful of childhood memories.  Jenners, for readers not from Edinburgh, is, was, a big department store on Princes Street, across from the Scott Monument and just a short walk from Waverley Station.  Jenners was THE department store, Scotland's equivalent of Harrods I suppose, and is the last to fall of the big shops I recall growing up in the city during the sixties, the places that were major players in the city centre retail sector of the period.

It's no surprise that Jenners will be gone.  Even without the impact that covid has had on shops the demise of the department store was already well under way.  John Lewis may, or may not, carry on once the doors reopen, but it has always been the new kid in town, and plays no part in the memories of the time I'm taking myself back to.  What follows is largely written from my memories of the period, so it's an unreliable memoir, but there were a couple of facts that I checked up on, one of which came as a big surprise.

Little Blyth remembers six of these behemoth stores in and around the Old and New Towns.  But I'll begin with an honourable mention with an out of towner, because it ties in well with the place I'll be concluding with.  There was a big Co-op department store in Leith, on Great Junction Street, where I recall being taken for my school uniform sometimes.  Two technological marvels fascinated my wee boy self.  The x-ray machine I put my feet in to see if shoes fitted correctly.  And, best of all and a performance I could have watched for hours if I hadn't been dragged protestingly away, the pneumatic tube system that whooshed off the money my mother had handed over to the salesperson, and returned with change and receipt.  Like magic to a six year old.

But back to town.  Jenners was always top of the pile, and far too pricey for a young working class family to frequent.  With two annual exceptions.  In the run up to xmas we'd go in, not to buy, but look in wonder at the central floor space where stood an enormous xmas tree, flashily decorated, extending up and up through the surrounding galleries, topping out around the second or third floor.  There was nothing else quite like it (and this was long before the trashy commercialisation of "Edinburgh's Christmas" we've now got and which I'm grateful to covid for sparing us this time round).  The second visit came after the festivities, and the bargain hunting opportunities of the January Sales.  I'm sure I received some late presents via that route...

A block along from Jenners, similarly placed on the eastern corner, was Forsyth's not quite as big, not quite as grand.  I have no real memories of the place, except it was always known as "Big Forsyths", to distinguish it from "Wee Forsyths", a (mens?) clothes shop a few doors away and a totally different company.  Completing the Princes Street trio was Binns, at the West End.  In 1961, like Jenners and Forsyths to the eastern end of the street, it was handily placed for a train station, the old Caley station that fell in the Beeching cuts a few years later.  Binns was mostly famous as a meeting place, specifically under the clock, as a handy landmark where you could arrange to hook up with friends.  "See you at Binns" was a common phrase at the time.  It was Frasers department store until fairly recently (but always 'Binns' to those of a more mature years), and it's lovely to see that the current restoration is bringing back the clock.  It's to be a Johnny Walker Whisky Experience centre I think - whatever that is.

Two of my remembered shops were on The Bridges, the road that leads up to the old town across the top of Waverley.  Patrick Thomson was never know as such, but simply called PTs.  It occupied most (all?) of the eastern side of North Bridge, a huge sprawling place which, again, I recall little about.  My main memory is buying coffee there (my parents favoured Blue Mountain mostly) in the early seventies.  Further up the road, on the South Bridge corner of Chambers Street, was the place which provided the aforementioned surprise.  My memory tells me there was a department store there called J&R Allan, and that it had the best food hall in the city.  Google tells me that Allans closed down in 1953, three years before my birth.  So what am I remembering?  Was it a different shop which was as Frasers was to Binns - everybody still used the old name, no matter what it had become?  Or is there some bit of information I'm missing?  Who cares?

Finally (yes, finally) the department store memory that prompted this whole stream of recollections.  All of the above were very traditional places, old fashioned even then, with formal Victorian and Edwardian facades.  But in 1960, if you walked out of Binns and walked up Lothian Road to Tollcross, you could find the alien spaceship of department stores.  Goldbergs, set well back from the road, looked so so different to anything else in town.  The huge frontal glass area was a beautiful, brutal counterpoint to the stuffy establishment, with dramatic sculptures to each side of that wall of light.  I don't recall what my parents might have bought there, and I imagine that the goods on sale weren't all that different to those in the places mentioned above.  What I do remember was the technological wonder that surprised and delighted an easily impressed kid.  Moving stairs.  Escalators.  It was like entering the future.  And this was before we had Doctor Who!  Simpler times.

The Goldbergs building was demolished in the nineties.  There's a big block of flats there now, with a restaurant at the front where the steps up to the big glass front doors would have been.  But oftimes when I see that block from the Tollcross junction I find I have Goldbergs in my head, and my child self who marvelled at being able to stand on stairs that carried me to the next level.  Escalators don't impress me nowadays, but surprising technology still can, so maybe that wee boy is still a part of me.

Day 71 - Famous Artwork

 

FAMOUS ARTWORK

Prompt - Famous Artwork : Choose a famous painting and write about it.

"Starry, starry night".  The immediately recognisable opening words of Don McLean's second most famous song, Vincent.  Although the lyrics go on to spring up images from a variety of the artist's work, and the impact they had upon the singer and the world, those three short words forever link the pop hit with one particular image.

Van Gogh painted other night skies dotted with stars, but it's the 1889 masterpiece, The Starry Night, which the song always evokes, probably because it was already one of the Dutchman's most renowned works before McLean's 1971 release.  It's a simple enough scene.  An impressionistic view from a window.  Some dark trees in the foreground, a mid-ground of a neat village alongside a wood, laid before rolling hills and a dark cliff face, topped with a swirling night sky.  The palette is dominated by blues and yellows.  The drama of the image is all in the technique, and in the mind of its creator.

This wasn't the first night sky Van Gogh had painted, but it is the most dramatic.  It's based on his view from his bedroom in the mental asylum he entered voluntarily after the notorious self mutilation of his ear during a psychotic incident.  The asylum doctors felt that painting would be beneficial to his recovery, and he was prolific during his period residing there.  His second floor bedroom looked out on trees and hills and the sky.  The village he added in from other sketches he had made, to give the scene more evidence of humanity.  It is just before dawn, the sky beginning to lighten slightly, but the moon and stars still prominent on a clear night a world away from the light pollution we live with today.  It is a commonplace view given a radical treatment that makes it so memorable.

The trees and village are almost representational, prosaic in contrast to the other elements of the picture.  Hills and wood roll smoothly over the eyes, enhancing the natural beauty of nature.  But over fifty percent of the surface is given over to the night sky and the lights within it, and it is this which draws your attention.  This is not the sky as we think we see it, but one that suggests the movement of light that creates it, the longing for theatricality from our world,  Van Gogh's vibrant (and often disturbed) imagination and his unique way of observing and interpreting at his surroundings.  It is the sky we would like to see if we were in a fairy tale, it a sky that is exciting, welcoming, and likely to have been associated with death in the painter's thoughts - he would die just over a year later from infection to a self inflicted bullet wound.

Creativity sometimes seemed akin to madness.  Yesterday I wrote that writing fiction may need an injection of craziness to make it sparkle.  That swirling night sky is undoubtedly genius, but came from the mind of a man who found the real world too difficult to handle.  

"You took your life, as lovers often do

But I could have told you, Vincent

This world was never meant for one

As beautiful as you"

McLean's sad words reflect the difficulties of an at times unstable visionary fitting into a society that doesn't know how to cope with his erratic behaviour and ability to see the everyday in a way nobody else could.  The Starry Night is a bittersweet memorial to a tragically short life.  I began with the opening words of the song, and I'll end with those that bring it to a tearful climax.  Do you think we're listening yet?

"Now I think I know

What you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they're not listening still

Perhaps they never will"

Day 70 - Recipe

 RECIPE

Prompt - Recipe : Write about a recipe for something abstract, like a feeling.

You will need :

Screen

Keyboard

Comfy chair

A bit of peace

Ingredients :

1 almost ripe concept

3-4 green plot constructs

A large variegated cast of characters

1 beginning (tinned or fresh)

As many ideas as you can carry

2-3 endings, hot or cold

A couple of unexpected twists

A bunch of fresh metaphors

1 tsp sadness

2 tsps happiness

1 Tbsp excitement

3 cups of varied imagination

A large dash of creativity

A thesaurus to taste

Craziness if desired

Method :

1. Gently sauté the concept, gradually adding the plot constructs until it begins to stick to the pan.

2. Add the beginning and stir until loose.  If using fresh you may need to add water.

3. Stirring constantly, gradually introduce the characters, bringing each one to life.  You may prefer to reserve some characters to be added later, if you like that half baked taste.

4.  As each character hardens add a pinch of ideas and the first cup of imagination.

5.  Add the sadness, happiness and excitement, and craziness if using.  Check the flavour carefully during this step.

6.  Turn off the heat and allow the dish to marinate in its own juices.  You may want to sprinkle on some fresh words at this stage, with the best of your metaphors.

7.  After a few days decide which of the unexpected twists you want to use as a finishing flavour.  Don't overdo it or you'll ruin the whole dish.

8.  In a separate pan fry the endings together until they begin to blend and take on a coherent shape.  Add to the main dish.

9.  Chop off words from your thesaurus and add carefully to spice up the language.  

10.  Serve your story to family and friends, adjust seasoning according to taste, before sending on to publishers.

Day 69 - Silly Sports

 SILLY SPORTS 

Prompt - Silly Sports : Write about an extreme or silly sport.  If none inspire you, make up the rules for your own game.

The Game.  Those two simple words are sufficient to identify players to one another around the planet.  They are a signal of friendship, like mindedness, and fierce competitiveness.  They are a gateway into hours of absorbing pleasure, honing wits and testing stamina.  And into a deep and rich history, for The Game has existed, in one form or another, for two millenia, the earliest evidence of it's being enjoyed being found on volcanically preserved wall mosaics in Pompeii.  The Game is a game like no other.  And the great joy is that can be played anywhere, any time, with no need for special equipment (although loose clothing is strongly advised) and by any number of people greater than one.  (Solo practice of the game is useful for learning the basics, but is no real preparation for the drama of combat.)

The rules as they exist now, at least at World Championship level, have been codified as such since 1903.  But even today there are still many, many regional and national variations, and skilled players love the thrill of having to perform in what can at first seem like alien territory.  The universal maxim that no two games can ever be alike finds its apogee in the sport of Mornington Crescent.

Newcomers to The Game often suffer severe bafflement at first.  It almost seems as if there are no rules at all, as if players are simply making things up as they go along.  Nothing could be further from the truth, and The Game has a very strict envelope within which it operates, yet offers the latitude for imagination to flourish.  That breadth of opportunity makes it necessary for a strict and knowledgeable umpire to be present for professional competitions, and many of their adjudications pass into legend, set precedents, and dictate how the modern game evolves.  For Mornington Crescent is a living being, which it has needed to be to maintain its popularity over so many centuries.

I have listened breathlessly to many competitive matches, and been fortunate enough  to attend a good few as a spectator (for I am a mere amateur compared to the gods I saw at these events), as part of crowd that sat silent and mesmerised by the felicitatious moves of the true experts.  Who could forget the drama on Brooke-Taylor's clinching rubber at the 2011 world championship final, won in just four moves.  There has never been a more worthy winner of the Armitage Shanks Charity Bowl, and it was a joy to see him drink a toast from said bowl when it was passed to him.  

The umpire for that match was, of course, umpired by the MC champion of champions, the late great Humphrey Lyttelton.  Sadly I never got to see him play at his best, but his judicious officiating  and trivially stimulating exhibition games hinted at how supreme the master must have been at his peak.  It's just a shame he nodded off so often.

Whether you prefer the Stovold or Knaresborough variations, favour the Baker Street or Kennington openings, have cheered for Cryer or Garden as they succinctly uttered the dual words of victory, or simply become animated and passionate at the mere mention of Bethnal Green, The Game has something for everyone and everyone for something.  It can be enjoyed as pure recreation, there are children's versions (get them hooked young and they will never leave), and a thriving international competitive circuit has fans following on foot, by train and on social media.  The Game truly is the global and ultimate game.  Play fair and play safe. 

Day 68 - Random Wikipedia Article

 RANDOM WIKIPEDIA ARTICLE

Prompt - Random Wikipedia Article : Go to Wikipedia and click on Random Article.  Write about whatever the page you get.

That took me to this page, and clicking on the first on the list brought me here.

Vegan.  Renewable.  Sustainable.  Organic.  Ethical.  Oh, and waterproof, light, beautiful, improves with age.  And harvesting the raw material is good for the cork trees.  Plus chic, handmade, practical, versatile.  Different.

OK, so I bought into all the marketing blurb.  But it's some list, no?  Why wouldn't I want a bag that combined all those facets?  One that had all the good aspects of a classic leather bag, and none of the bad ones.  I liked the look, the thought that had gone into the design, the passion underlying it.  

The bag did not disappoint.  Spacious - I could carry my laptop in there - and sleek, versatile and  ever so French.  My snobbery helping the world for once.  No cows were harmed in the making of this bag.  It allows the cork trees to breathe, and gives them new life, new purpose in life, with the demand for wine corks steadily decreasing, as screw tops take over the world.  As cork becomes less attractive for its insulation or flotation qualities, replaced by ever improving man made products, finding new uses for the bark is essential to maintaining biodiversity and employment.  I can look classy and do my bit for Portuguese farmers and wildlife.

So much justification just for one purchase.  And I haven't even mentioned the best bit.  The admiring comments, the surprise that this isn't leather, that the surface has such a gorgeous patina, that the bag is so light on these slim shoulders.  So much envy.  

I am bag smug.  Thank you cork tree.

Day 67 - Dollhouse

 DOLLHOUSE

Prompt - Dollhouse : Write a poem or short story from the viewpoint of someone living in a doll house.

I wonder if it will be today.  I wonder that every day.  Fear of being found out, fear of the unknown.  Fear of being crushed.

I think I've been here about a year now.  It's hard to keep track of time.  Especially when you don't know when time began.  With consciousness I suppose, but that developed over several days.  Or weeks maybe.  I have no way to measure it.  All I know is that I was once like my fellow inhabitants.  Inanimate, voiceless, lifeless.  Subject to the whims of a child.  Or, worse, her friends.  

There are four of us.  A nuclear family I suppose.  Mother, father, daughter, son.  And dog.  Why should I be the one to find life?  Will it ever happen to any of the others?  I used to check every single day, once I'd understood what had happened to me.  Or not understood, but accepted.  I was alive, they remained toy dolls.  My husband and children and pet remained plastic.  Remained toys. 

When She picked me up the first time I almost cried out.  Of course it wouldn't have been the first time for her.  Did she not notice the changes in my body?  The flexibility?  The warmth?  The eyes that looked up into hers, pleading to be set down, pleading to be told what the hell was going on?

Stupid child, She never did.  And I have had to create stratagems that reduce the number of times She wants to touch me.  Every night I change the scenario She left behind, every morning. She fails to notice, just wants to play.  

I have made a life of sorts for myself.  So far I haven't worked out a way to escape.  I could leave, yes, but where would I go?  How would I survive?  In here I can find, forage, food, shelter.  There is a bed in the doll house, plates and cutlery to eat with, chairs to sit in.  It is a life, of sorts.

But my world is changing.  I am accepting that it is only me, will only be me.  If there others like me then they are outside this house.  I am accepting that one day, if I don't get away, She will do me injury I cannot live with.  If not Her, then one of the occasional friends She brings to see me, and my family, and my home.  The only She calls Sheel is to be feared, and I do my best to keep out of her way.  I still limp from the twist she gave my leg.  Sinking my teeth into her finger had just enough impact to make her sting and let go.

No, it can't go on like this.  I must risk all, must pack what I can carry and make my way into the world.  It is not a world for tiny people like me.  Or is it?  The only way to find out is...

Day 66 - Name

 NAME

Prompt - Name : Write a poem of short story using your name in some way or form

I learned to hate my name when I was at school.  Who wants to be the weird kid?  But I was, and I adapted to it, shaped myself into the role.  Later I'd appreciate being unique, for it made me memorable (something my face never did), although I was always having to spell it for people, so there some annoying aspects of the weirdness remained.  And, of course, I even had a story come weak joke ready to explain it away.

I met another one once.  He was a lorry driver, making a delivery of a new mainframe computer to the office, and I had to sign to confirm safe receipt.  Sign and print.  He took one look, said "That's my name too".  This was not something I'd ever expected to hear.  At least not from another man.  

"Without the e?" I asked.

"Yeah.  Well, best get going."  He picked up the paperwork and left.  Brief encounter indeed.  

A few years later we moved house.  Now our route to walk into town took as along a street of 1920s doors-together semis, a broad avenue of trees, neat gardens and a Spar on the corner.  And one of those dual occupancy houses caught my eye every time I walked past.  There, up on the wall above the arched doorways, a sign.  A white plaque, with clear black lettering.  BLYTH VILLAS.  Without the e.  Just one of those things.  Enough to generate a private smile.  And a bit of wonder.

That sign would take me back though, back to the time when I wanted rid of that unusual moniker.  Not because I was the weird kid any more.  But because my name, mine and only mine, now had the same ring to it as Crippen or Lecter.  It was no longer a name to be associated with.  Not once the headlines appeared.

The story emerged, in dramatic chunks, over the week following the event that put Blyth on the front page.  The Villas were owned by the same family.  Mother to the left.  Son, his wife and kids to the right.  Two doors, one household.  Respectable, friendly.  Mother went to the church, the WI, a known pillar of the community.  Son in insurance, wife ran an expensive frock shop, kids at the local high school.  They got the attention they were due, and no more.  

Until the police arrived. And the ambulances. The flashing lights, striped tape, SOCOs in their pale blue all-in-ones.  Reporters, cameras.  The street peered out, came to see, were ushered back.  Not now, come back later, no news yet.  Rumours abounded.  Some of them got near the truth.  But not the horror.

Mr insurance man had had a bad day.  Or had he?  Was this all planned, or an instant decision?  Why did he have that special milkshake ingredient?  What question was this the answer to?  He'd come home, as usual.  Said he'd pop through the back to see Mum, as usual.  In the semi with Blyth over the door.  Gone there via the shed, not as usual.  Emerged carrying the axe he used to chop wood, and took it with him into her front room to chop his mother.  Chop, chop, chop.  So much blood, so much frenzy.  Gone back home, to the semi with Villas over the door, and chopped his wife in the kitchen.  Chop, chop, chop.  So much blood, so much frenzy.  

It was a Wednesday, the evening the kids came home late.  They say he had time to change, his blood soaked clothes thrown on the marital bed.  To prepare three milkshakes, chocolate and cyanide flavour.  To watch his kids drink them, see their agonies, and take the last one to himself.  Within ninety minutes of his return from just another day of insurancing five people lay dead.  Blyth Villas became newsworthy.  Notorious.  

 We had to move.  I call myself Alex now. 

Day 65 - Telephone

 TELEPHONE

Prompt - Telephone : Write about a phone call you recently received.

As with yesterday's subject, I have a problem in relating to it.  I hardly ever receive phone calls.  Most of my remote conversations with friends are on video link.  The last phone call I received was from my bank querying some transfers I'd made - hardly fascinating!  So I will turn to the phone calls I make to people in the course of my voluntary work as an advocacy worker.

This is not the first time

I have heard you tell me

Of a wish to die

Of bridges

And pills

And darkness

Still the voices leading

Different voices, different path

Same destination

I hear you tell me

You want to change

You want to live

You want a life

So why does every change

End up the same?

The Final Push

You say

You say so much

I listen

Belief lies elsewhere

As I sign off

I think the same thought

I hope this is not the last time

Day 64- Sing a New Song

 SING A NEW SONG 

Prompt - Sing a New Song : Take a popular song off the radio and rewrite it as a poem or story in your own words.

I don't really listen to music radio nowadays, so I chose a song from a recently purchased album.

Home is where the heart is.  There's no place like home.  Blah, blah, blah.  Tired old sayings I want to deny.  As some do, for homes aren't always the places of fondest memory, even if they should be.  Bad things happen everywhere.  

But they didn't to me.  Sure, I argued with my mother like everyone does.  And I had the usual small town feelings that there had to be more somewhere else.  For many people that's the answer, move away, and if the streets you find aren't paved with gold at least they're not full of salt and seabird shit.  I was almost one of them, and then I wasn't.  Your stars can align in unexpected patterns and mine kept me back here on the island.  I'm not complaining.  No matter where I've been it's a joy to come back to this wee town.

One time, in my late teens, I was on a boat down south, playing my guitar in a way I thought made me look cool (it definitely didn't).  The strings broke, so did my temper, and I flung my own prized possession into the whitecaps in puerile fury.  I put off my return to Stornoway, imagining all I'd have to endure by way of jibes and snides about my ship-based breakdown. 

But the lure of the place itself was too strong to ignore and back I went.  To learn I'd stayed away too long.  Folk had chipped in for a new guitar, wanted to hear me play, wanted me.  How could I ever think of leaving?  The kindness, I'd missed the kindness.  I'd missed the chime of the town hall clock.  I'd missed the people.  I'd missed Stornoway.

So don't argue with me.  This really is the finest place in the world.  Come to visit, some to stay, you'll find the same love I did.  But maybe not a new guitar.

Taken from the song Stornoway by Peat & Diesel :

I got my first real six-string onboard The Heather

I played a few tunes and I broke all the strings

And then I threw it over the side

So I made my way to Stornoway

On the road to Orinsay

Where my thoughts return each day

My lovely Stornoway

Where the folk are truly kind

Where you leave the world behind

Where each cloud is silver-lined

My lovely Stornoway

The town hall clock of Stornoway

Chimes its message every day

Well heaven can't be far away

From lovely Stornoway

And no matter where you are

Hitch your wagon to a star

Hand in hand we can't be far

From lovely Stornoway

So make your way to Stornoway

On the road to Orinsay

Where my thoughts return each day

My lovely Stornoway

No more worries, no more care

If you choose to settle there

A love will find you anywhere

My lovely Stornoway

So make your way to Stornoway

On the road to Orinsay

Where my thoughts return each day

My lovely Stornoway

So make your way to Stornoway

On the road to Orinsay

Where my thoughts return each day

My lovely Stornoway