Dude! Where's my phone?

I waited in all afternoon for the delivery man who was due to bring me a new and sexy Sony Eric Idle phone. Did he show up? Did he bizzzz!!! My patience has been stretched but I did concoct a decent curry and wrapped a few presents whilst wastefully standing by. Grrrr!

Vox Wyman bass

Blue tin of biscuits.

Vox bass, similar but not the same.

A visit from Fingers Farrell prompted the opening of the blue biscuit tin, the one that has been on top of the fridge for a month patiently waiting on Christmas, visitors or some kind of domestic emergency. I only ate three, not sure how many the others ate. The purpose of the visit was to collect an ailing Vox Bill Wyman bass dating back to around 1964. It was played regularly in the 70s and 80s (by me) and then after a holiday up north spent a few years forgotten and somewhat neglected in lofts and cupboards. The lacquer is cracking, both pick ups are broken (but original) and various parts are loose, mouldy, rusted or seized. A fine project for any guitar enthusiast and I trust Mr F to do a fine fixing job on it.

Electronic drums are fab. Not the wee Dr Rhythm type I mess with or fiddly machines but the big, full size kits that can sound like anything you like. Brilliant in fact, as I discovered today watching somebody who knew a thing or two working out on such a kit. Why did they not catch on?

Hallelujah 2

Rest in peace if you can, Facebook fans want you alive again and No1 to prove a point that seems important, suddenly. Popular culture and a huge machine argue for the poison X that marks the treasured No 1 spot - but it's only a song after all and they blow in the wind and fly like flags, nag memories, tear at edges and tell people things that others don't understand (or so the special listener thinks), it's only a song after all. Rest in peace.

Hallelujah

After two nights of wrapping Christmas presents I was starting to get ragged around the edges, in the mind, with the sticky tape and to make matters worse my knees were sore. I'd also realised about 24 hours after Ali had said it that as a general rule presents should all be wrapped in the same paper according to the recipient. Some how that plain piece of packing truth and logic has eluded me all these years. Like most men I thought you used the nearest, handiest sized bit of paper and then moved on to the next pattern. The resultant uncoordinated effect somehow enhancing the Christmas experience and bringing great joy and so on. Once this festive light penetrated my brain a new and well blended school of packaging emerged - apart from the stuff I did yesterday which does have a certain chaotic charm to it.

Chaos is common at Christmas, in shops, on the road, in peoples houses, on TV, in schools and workplaces. Everybody (apart from you non-Christmas weird folks) is contaminated by this festooning madness and desperate attempts to some how gather together a never ending list of gifts, quaint and inedible foods and random shiny objects. I succumbed to the lunacy many years ago and a masochistic and truculent way enjoy the whole thing: Christ bringing chaos to the world, none of what happens ever being quite what he must have planned or hoped for. It shows how far people can deviate from some simple ideas in just a millimetre of time - and heaven on earth is as likely as peace on earth.

Hallelujah is the Christmas number one, sung soulfully by a decent young singer from X-Factor but totally ruined in the sanitizing process. Shrek and dead boy Buckley gave it a new context and now it has truly been kicked into broadcasting oblivion in the worst way possible. Can you imagine Chav families squatting around their walnut stereo-gramme or head expanders and puzzling over what those lyrics have to do with Christmas? God knows it'll turn up on all the Chrissy compilations from next year on and along with Mad World just to add another layer of theological and unthinking chaos to the mix. Mr Cohen's pension fund will however get a nice little boost in January.

Everybody's happy, everybody's laughing.

Kryptonite and stars and cowboy boots

The celebrations are well underway, our pet starfish has been candy appled (as in apple the fruit) and metal flaked into Christmas and our best piece of green Kryptonite has new sparkly neighbours to join him by his seat of wisdom and solitude. Soon chestnuts will be roasting on the open fire etc. etc.
Today I ventured out into the shops, the idea being that I would buy a series of items that I had carefully listed about five minutes before I left the house. These items were all destined to be Christmas gifts for loads of people. Sure enough when I reached the shops stuff was everywhere (apart from Woolworth's, a shadow of it's former self and now looking more like down town West Beirut did in the 70s), so I had to start choosing things to buy. This didn't really take long as most things were available, all shiny and bright today, all new and desirable, glittering prizes to be stored under the transplanted tree until we can take the suspense no more and rip them to shreds.

I was taken by a sprightly old guy at one of the check outs, joking about being under 25 as he bought his wine in Livingstone's Walmart. He was old from the top of his head to his knees. Below the knee however he was young enough to be wearing silly cowboy boots like Bono or John Wayne - good for him, I want a pair.

Bankers eh? What are they like? Back in a previous life I endured long training sessions being taught about Materials Requirement Planning (MRPII) and when it came to inventory management (and you don't really want inventory but real life tells you need some) the banks were the boys we looked up to. Normal organisations just kept losing inventory (trucks, heavy metal, spare parts, pallets), it just drifted away, but this never happened with banks. They had the best storage and inventory control systems going because nobody ever lost track of money, while the dumbo dinosaur manufacturing industry just couldn't keep track of all their washers, springs and bolts. Well that was back in the 80s, seems that things are different now, we've no manufacturing left (MRP II too late!) and now it's the turn of the hedge funds and the banks that fuel them to have trouble getting the numbers to add up. Somehow another 50 Billion just sneaked away while they were sipping on cocktails and listening to Elton John. Bugger the lot, bring back MRP II, proper compliance checks and some decent stock visibility and control.

Non domestic non goddess

I like cooking if it's leading some where, in other words not just for me. I also like the squirrelesque tactic of preparing food and hording it until a nuclear winter comes along or rampant inflation makes us have to eat nettles and thistles as in days of yore. Today I made a vat of soup (15% only) and a dumpster sized pasta bake even though I wasn't hungry or particularly bored - now I await Ali and my daughter and son in law to arrive, they'll not really fancy any of that but just have a nice cup of tea and Tesco cookie.

Turkeys at Christmas. Firstly Christmas is far too long a festival whatever it is supposed to be about, it should last a weekend but it, like an unwelcome house guest lasts a whole season. This is not a sustainable situation, soon there will be only two seasons, irrespective of weather or tides and they will consist of a short wet summer and a long cold Festive Season (where autumn, winter and spring used to be). So I ventured out to order a turkey at our local farm shop only to be told they'd just one left and it was the size of a bungalow and would cost a week's wages and it'd feed West Lothian and it wasn't quite dead yet.

On paper and in my head it all seemed so simple, perhaps a few shopaholic locals confused the barn for a rural branch of Woolworths and absconded with all the decent sized birds. Now that I think about it they may have done me a big favour, a nice slab of freshly machine gunned venison might be the perfect Christmas roast to share with the family.

Not hitting bottles

The world is clear, cold, frosty and diamond white. I am seeing clearly through the mist and star light thanks to an uncompromising diet of fruit corner yogurts, big Kit Kats, microwave foodstuff and the occasional fresh vegetable coupled with my flat on back sleeping technique and a lot of running up and down staircases.

The days leading up to what some in the west describe as the Christmas season has so far been almost healthy and pretty much alcohol free - since Sunday. Not sure I feel any better overall, probably because as you get older some body functions become odd and less efficient. Shaving cuts are generally disastrous events requiring the pressure of Desperate Dan type thumbs on the leaking chin to stem the flow. I could illustrate other related things by describing staccato piccolo playing or the uneven flow of cat food from a squeezed sachet (but I won't bother) - or the gases produced by a Greek Pizza oven left on overnight and the hissing breath of a black Prussian locomotive steaming out of Belgrade Station.

One nice side effect is that I can no longer eat three mincemeat pies in a row, drink a whole pint of milk or scoff a packet of Jacobs Fruit Clubs. In some strange way I am now at peace with (very small parts of) the world and comfortable in my own wrinkly skin.

Did you notice that the girl in the photo also has two mouths?

This is not how I am

Listening to Ross Harper from the Scottish Green Party would make anyone want to run out and buy a diesel helicopter (see Pigs from Uranus - Oz circa 1970). He spluttered and stammered through a radio interview this morning whilst watching the traffic cross the Forth Road Bridge. His comments on the plans for a new road bridge included the classic lines, "I'd spend shed loads on money on ferries from Kirkcaldy and Burntisland" and "I've been here for five minutes and I haven't seen a single bus cross the bridge". As a regular road user crossing the bridge at the same time I could see three heading south, and blue lighted ambulance stuck in traffic and a traffic jam backed up to Masterton but he doesn't think we need a new bridge. His other sage like advice was based around investing more money in the stupid, creaking and unpopular public transport systems (that have plainly failed) which he somehow expects to run across two bridges that are approaching the ends of their working lives, both will ailing infrastructure.

As for the Liberal Democrats, I've just experienced the consequences of their ill informed rantings in a very personal way. With no idea about factual validity or the consequences of their actions these loose cannons continually blow meaningless but annoying smoke up their own arses and into decent peoples faces via a media system that can't differentiate between actual news and wispy opinions. Thank you very much.

On a more constructive political note I quite like "Wee Eck" Salmond's choice of Christmas card this year, an oil painting of a pillar box red trawler parked in MacDuff harbour. Bully boy Salmond's taste is ok with me, however he may well have missed the ironic twist of displaying a sea fairing image less to do with fishing and more to do with money laundering, drug and cigarette smuggling and the passage of illegal immigrants. I suppose since the EU screwed the fishermen they've not a lot of choice. I'm ready and waiting for my card to be delivered any day.

Wooly jumper at the end of the world

Came home today to find that the cold was still as cold. After a long journey from the Midlands of England's Midlands I resorted to putting on my biggest, woolliest jumper (made by Incas and bought in NYC for $10) and going straight back out into the cold. I had an appointment.

The islands at the end of the world

It's always tricky to try to name your all time favourite place, there's always a paragraph in the Sunday papers where people talk about Dunkeld or Princess Street or some blasted heath 100 yards from a concrete time share complex. So I asked myself where mine might be and there are of course numerous contenders, all of which reflect different aspects of my 53 year penal term spent vainly getting used to bits of Scotland and it's quirky geography. So in a moment of abstraction and sausage sandwich chewing I remembered where it was and most likely always will be.

In fact it's very easy to find, get along to the east end of Cellardyke in Fife, past the old drying greens and the remains of the outdoor pool and look out towards Caplie Caves along the coast. Some where out there the sky and sea and land meet and when I first saw that spot - as a very small boy, it seemed to me like the edge of the world (and possibly the end). I knew nothing then of maps or the Fife Coastal Path or the North Sea or Norway, I just knew that over there was a magical place some how way beyond my understanding, a big world defined by a hazy grey line that was somewhere and nowhere. Strange, probably dangerous and always unknowable, if I didn't know myself a little better I'd say it's almost as close to a proper spiritual experience as I've ever come - but in a geographical way.

I still think of it that way, I ignore the fact that Crail is nearby, that Kilrenny is over the hill, that the Firth of Forth turns into the North Sea and that the world is (most likely) world shaped. When you get a bit older, a look through your own eyes, as they once were, is rather refreshing and often a lot better than the current view. I need to go back there one day and stare out to see...

Anstruther lifeboat leaving harbour 1955, my uncle Alex Keay is pulling on the rope in the bow. The original can be seen in my daughter's bathroom in Aberdeen (things get passed around a bit in this family).

Strange sweets from the edge of the world

Not easy to cover these guys adequately, even on a good day.

Some Friday afternoons have a wild and unscripted feel to them: two hours to kill before I pick up the kids from school, so much time and so little high quality activity to fit in. The musical background from 2 - 4 tends to be Tom Morton on Radio Scotland. The car parks vary between Asda, Comet and Currys and the food shopping is usually completed in 20 mins tops with a quick browse over laptops and other things not really needed. It is also possible to obtain coffee in a sweet polystyrene cup and so whittle away at the time. Anyway the mighty Tom had a covers show today (well and hour's worth) and as ever a personal list is required - the (usual) best, predictable covers ever etc. and in no particular order:

Umbrella - The Manic Street Preachers
Hurt - Johnny Cash
Time of your life - Glen Campbell
All along the Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix Experience (on all lists, always)
Ziggy Stardust - Bauhaus
Valerie - Mark Ronson
Super Trouper - Camera Obscura
Careless Whisper - Willie Nelson
Superstition - Jeff Beck
Mr Tambourine Man - The Byrds

That should do it for this week.

Strange sweets - we're still eating them now the lemon pie is over, the chocolate frogs have gone and the jelly beans are proving to be surprisingly tasty.

The many things that cats don't understand.

An altogether better speaker.

Civilised cats (tigers in fact) who have learned to wave at windows.

I have given up on my mission to civilise cats, I've come to the conclusion that there is nothing I can do to house train them into wiping their paws on entering our humble human abode. The cats clearly see no difference and upon returning to the warm indoors insist on stamping their muddy paws, capable of retaining and spreading muck better than any re-inking stamp, all over the house. Even picking them up and wrestling with them whilst wiping the offending paws with paper towels doesn't seem to fix the problem. The mud is sticking and the cats refuse to learn. Beatrix Potter would know how to deal with these furry snakes with legs by writing a humorous short story about their dirty socks and tattered whiskers and making a handsome profit in the process no doubt, God bless them.

The Rt Hon Michael Martin MP, Speaker of the House of Commons, is a complete twat and a disgrace to modern politicians anywhere. This opinion is based on the stirring performance he gave in Parliament yesterday as seen on numerous TV newscasts. Please retire this person to an appropriate home for the bewildered before serious damage is done to an already creaky and disreputable system (but one that is strangely still the best in the world). Politicians and (muddy and disrespectful) cats and bankers; beware the wrath of Karma.

Starlings over Rome

Today I've managed to avoid going to Rome and getting mixed up with the five million starlings that have descended upon the Eternal City. They've also ascended above the city and with unmeasured abandon and little thought as to the overall effect, busy themselves creating their artworks in the winter skies. In so doing they infuriate the locals by their roosting, avoid the harsh weather further north and delight tourists and people with fancy cameras and Flikr accounts.
Today it is cold, cars are iced up, noses run and the only good thing to eat and beat the chill is a hot Pukka pie - which I did. I would've made soup but that seems too complicated and the vegetables are still firmly rooted in the shops. I will now retire to the lounge where the ironing, the fire, Ali on the couch and the glow of the TV are already beckoning in a weary, warming way.
At least I've started the annual ritual procurement exercise in true homage to those three seasonal wise men, Dickens, Nicholas and Coca-Cola and started my Christmas shopping at Amazon, the lazy man's answer to retail blues. A simple list of things that people don't really need but have to have is quickly translated into a string of irritating emails and two pages on a credit card statement that not only sets fire to the carpet when it plops through the letter box but lasts until June. Joy to the world and MasterCard. I'm sure none of this was quite what God, Jesus and the other angelic folks in the arithmetically challenged trinity had in mind 2008 years ago when this snowball began to roll but DHL, the Post Office and numerous white van firms are still rejoicing in the Christmas Chaos. Next is the tree erection episode and the Brussels sprout peeling contest.

Things that begin with T

Tea Cups - used to safely hold hot herbal drinks, the kind that have become fashionable as a result of our shameful Imperialist history, drug cravings and thirst.

Telephones - handy devices used to make and receive crank calls at odd hours of the day or night.

Thailand - far eastern country currently struggling with getting the correct balance between tourists, police and demonstrators.

Tourists - hard working but bewildered people who have gone as far as their money could get them and now want to get back home without spending any more.

Tourism - the name of an educational course carried out by the Open University and a number of badly named colleges scattered across the Central Belt.

Toyota - Japanese car firm that specialises in manufacturing cars and pick-up trucks made in Japan and other places. Noted for their "snick-snick" gear boxes.

Tantrum - extreme form of behaviour particularly noted in chimps, Scottish politicians and school teachers.

Top-Gear - amusing and irreverent TV programme and periodical that celebrates and champions the motor vehicle and the views and values of middle-aged men.

Toxic - toxic pop tune performed by "Forces Favourite" Brittany Spiers.

Thomas the Tank Engine - blue choo choo loved by small boys everywhere. An urban myth has it that Thomas was in fact the fifth Beatle.

Transcendental Meditation - a form of ritualised day-dreaming generally practised by twats and bored rich people with nothing else to do.

Twats - see above.

Travel - the art of moving smoothly between places either for business or for pleasure.

Time travel - as above but with an added dimension and a degree of danger and uncertainty.

Turnip - root vegetable that is notoriously difficult to cook and control. Popular with the agricultural classes and students for it's ability to create tummy gas.

Twix - two fingered chocolate sweet manufactured by the Mars Corporation.

Tree - leafy form of erect, growing wood worshiped by some religions and left wing pressure groups.

Tasmania - small island even further away than Australia. Popular in cartoon loving circles.

Tudor - obsolete crisp making company and one time despotic ruling family of England.

Ten Years After - 60s rock band famous for the tedious overplaying of electric blues related music at Woodstock.

Tinkerbell - Disney fairy character mildly related to the J M Barrie original and Julia Roberts.

Tentsmuir Forest - dull and over-rated area on the Fife coast that could do with being bulldozed by Donald Trump's people.

Trump (Donald) - Real estate whizz-kid who owns large golden buildings in New York run and operated by surly and unhelpful staff of questionable Afro-American origins.

Trumper - fine aristocratic and old English family from the heartlands of the Midlands. Often shows a degree of unwarranted tea-cup enthusiasm following marriage or spending too long in the cold.

Things that start with an F

F - sixth letter of the alphabet.

Ford's database - a wonder of modern engineering and the result of much IT blood, sweat and tears and strategy. Also slightly worrying due to it's big brother prowess but who really cares, if you've a driving license, a Tesco card or a mobile phone they've got you sussed anyway.

Friday - a day in the week but the one that generally leads to a longer than usual stay in bed the next day but not always.

Fat Freddie's Cat - See below.

Fabulous Furry Freak Bros - See above.

Finlay - a small grandson, in fact the smallest.

Fandango - Album by Texan rockers ZZ Top.

Fix - to repair, could be quick, could (as in most cases) take a little longer.

Frog - a variation of toad, as seen in various parts of the house, garden and orange plastic B&Q buckets.

Fleet Foxes - see Felice Brothers.

France - better than England but not as good as Scotland.

Fish - creatures that like the wet, say very little and are nice with chips and brown sauce.

Fudge - English version of tablet for softies.

Freuchie - small village in the middle of the Kingdom of Fife.

Fife - small and pleasant (sometimes grumpy) Kingdom containing Freuchie.

Fascist - extreme and unsavoury right wing political beliefs generally more stylish and interesting than the left wing version. Not a recommended choice to follow for a variety of good reasons.

Flintstone (Fred) -stone age cartoon cultural icon, dinosaur owner and male role model.

Faro - pleasant small town and plastic airport in Portugal.

Farm shops - always a host of interesting and expensive provender on display, some local, some not so. A valid diversion and second career choice for farmer's wives or possibly the partners of gay farmers.

Fender - a popular make of guitar made famous by Buddy Holly and Bob Dylan. also the maker of the "Tweed Deluxe Amplifier" and the "Twin Reverb".

Fellini - Italian movie maker with a fountain fetish.

Fetish - overly focused need or sexual preference.

Finish - the opposite of start and generally a welcome relief and a place to revel in the wonder of endorphins.

Felice Brothers, only here because I dropped the the from their formal title.

White birds

A strange and cold selection of china birds stare across and down at us as we busy ourselves in the kitchen, patter out to the garden or rescue the hoover from the cupboard of oblivion. Apart from some cheap and interesting guitars, three pairs of sunglasses and CDs dating back to the dawn of music they form my main collection. Of course I forget about them as they roost in their lofty nests, often I fail to look at them for long periods of time and when I do I wonder if any of them have crept up in value. The birds of prey of course have a secondary function as (empty at the moment) whisky decanters plucked from the vaults of Edinburgh's own £9.99 special beverage, ex-Whyte and Mackay's vaults. The ducks are ducks.

Dumpsie Daisy

Another picture from an occasional food based series that I am unlikely to repeat.

The jam here somewhere or there on the right, served as part of a scone and jam and cream ensemble, is a new flavour I've never before encountered: Dumpsie Daisy. Fortunately it's not made from either dump (?) or daisies but a conglomeration of rhubarb, ginger, apple and plum. It tasted ok but it'll never beat strawberry in a straight fight. I'm not sure Dumpsie Daisy is a proper name at all the more I think about it - it should really be two schoolgirl characters in one of Ali's pre-war Dimsie Books.

We had to escape from our house to the nearby Garden Centre due to an unexpected funeral turning up and causing major congestion outside and so had to sample the delights of the cafe for an hour. Strangely it was full of grey and slow moving retired people bent on killing time and eating salad rolls and other (also retired) grandparents child minding for a day and wheeling the little monkeys around the shop.

The funeral traffic passed away and the muddy skid pan that we call a road is now deserted, the cats are settled down now, having not killed anything for about 6 hours and the washing machine leak and flood that threatened to destroy the day earlier on has gone, I hope.

Self portrait

Following on from some Sunday breakfast inspirations and the cancellation of the football due to snow in Fife, (bacon and cream cheese bagels it was) I have completed a self portrait using the simple medium of brown bread, a Wall's sausage of some questionable % meaty variety and Heinz tomato sauce. The white coffee mug is not really relevant but adds a sense of scale and significance to the piece. It works on so many levels really.

Those of a religious persuasion may, in a certain eerie and troubled light, see a slight resemblance there to either the Prophet Mohamed, Saint Paul or Groucho Marx (all of whom would need to wearing tortoise shell Rayban Wayfarers to make it work) and will also need to ignore the pig parts in the sausage please, offers for this work are welcome but already too late as it's been scoffed.

In a further food based experiment I've come up with an alternative to the ubiquitous and over-priced fruit smoothie. My home made alternative (as shown below lurking next to the Flora in the fridge) offers all the taste and goodness of a store bought smoothie but with additional and nutritious lumps - it's the LUMPY. These allow you to thoughtfully pause as you drink so the consumer can reflect and chew, a perfect combination to lengthen the taste experience. Full production will begin once I get the shed built, the strawberry patch free from dead giraffes and the apple trees planted.

The Lumpy prototype resting.

I can't explain

I've come to the conclusion that most of the world's troubles and most everyday troubles are down to one thing, the failure to provide a proper explanation. This revelation came to me as I dozed on a flight from Exeter to Edinburgh during the week. When I look back upon my life (not always with a sense of shame) I've always been the one to fail to explain and to mumble and therefore blame. Maybe it's all in the question being asked and not the answer. I was asking someone about the tidal range on a site and he told about me the depth of the water, then I asked about the maintenance arrangements for a piece of equipment and instead he told me how it worked, then I asked him about the working pressure of the equipment and he quoted figures nothing to do with that. I smiled and nodded politely and wondered about my accent and tone and general demeanor, then got back in the car. So I've got a feeling inside but I can't explain...

In Exeter airport I had the joyful experience of sitting next to a Paris Hilton clone in the coffee shop. She was shouting in an American accent into her pink phone using phrases like "And he's like.." "And I'm like..." "And we're like..." then just when I thought the dialogue couldn't get any worse up popped a Nicole Richie clone to add a third thread to the shrill and clearly pointless conversation. Now I am an expert on the lives of some dance troupe from Wales and their creative tensions and group dynamics. Nice enough girls really but you wish they could reduce their levels of hysteria to something close to inaudible when out in public. I suppose they were just trying to explain...

Peggy the pig got a nice big carrot to chew this afternoon as we shopped in a farm shop, a place I'd normally avoid but not today. My grandson poked the carrot through the fence and Peggy didn't quite take his fingers off but certainly enjoyed the carrot. I was on a log buying mission and filled the boot of the car with logs, kindling sticks and various home baked pies and West Lothian vegetables, all designed to see us through this cold snap. My grandson managed the quip of the day, he picked up a turnip and said: "My mummy says these make you pump!" Good explanation for an eternal problem.

Random busy-ness

Most of the weekend has been spent on the hoof, in the car, around hospitals and football fields and staring up into water dripping down from ceilings (it never drips up). Overall things have worked out, mouths have been fed, processes and procedures completed and the coal fire has learned how to relight itself, a quite useful if a little scary skill. You might think it to be a significant evolutionary step like gravy mix or self cleaning ovens, it keeps the house warm anyway.

In a single idle moment I did reflect on how I am no longer the treasurer or a committee member for OOTB - a weekly open mike night in Edinburgh. After five years of various bits of hard and easy labour I'm out of the bedroom altogether and possibly slightly relieved. The truth is there is only so much original local music you can stomach and I've heard most of it over the years and to be honest I'm bored with a lot of what's about, but I had a few laughs as well.

That's not to say there are not good people and musicians dodging around, it's just like I've eaten a whole sponge cake when I should have had just a slice. So I'll take (more of )a break and then hover for a while whilst trying to understand and appreciate another wave of the marathon strummers trying to make sense of their little world, (you can't!), the grunge kids who don't know it's not 1992 anymore, the middle aged, mid-life crisis impressionists (that'll be me), the serious and virginal blues-men and the ever lovin' ever losin' hippies, god bless them all.

Thanks to the staff of this surprisingly good West Lothian hospital for looking after us (?) this weekend. A cleaner, less cluttered and better mannered hospital would be hard to find anywhere I reckon.