Cyclists in the snow

The snow has not been a friend for sometime, it is now like some feckless, irritating, ignorant, unwanted alien creature who wets the floor, trashes your stuff and eats his way through the contents of the fridge and the wine rack leaving dirty laundry in his wake. I have fallen out of love with the snow. It gets everywhere and ruins everything and now ten days into this year's new miserable experience I want it to go. Apart from that life is good, here's some reasons to be mindlessly cheerful.

Today's tea: fish pie, funny carroty-broccoli stuff and salad, late but nice.

Cyclists in the snow: these lunatics clearly have some kind of death wish as they weave between sliding traffic, half blind in a blizzard.

Music: Raw by Confusion.

Radio Scotland: endless traffic prattle, broadcasting texted rants and observations about the absence of guidance, leadership and coordination by the "authorities" during the freeze. No surprises there.

James Naughtie on R4: predicable and not that funny, naughty schoolboy error nicely blown out of proportion by the BBC.

Facebook: like X-Factor in a way, you love it and loathe it but it keeps families connected and the Forth Bridge has an FB page!

Brushing the snow from the cars and the path: Oddly satisfying, presently pointless.

Weather forecasts: fantasising that they are completely wrong and tomorrow will bring a massive thaw.

Cheap grub: BLT from Sainsburys reduced to 39p.

Cats: troubled and confused by the snow but now sleeping in close proximity.

The Trip: BBC2 2200.

Waking up warm at 0600: and wondering about the weather conditions.

Bird strike

Abstract icicles image in detail.

Sometimes you just cannot win. As the weather worsened we decided to make an extra effort to feed the wild birds that visit the garden. Our short journey through the snow to and from the hanging feeders created a track, a perfect route for the cats who dislike moving in deep snow. The birds in turn threw large amounts of seeds onto the snow and other birds (or birds in general) fed from the snow as well as the feeders. The snow is two feet thick, the distance between the ground and the feeders is therefore reduced. The end result is that the birds are fed but the cats (or one cat in particular) are taking the opportunity to strike back at the birds. So we've fed numerous birds but three have died as a result. One brought into the dining room, one brought into the bedroom and one poor soul in a shallow, snowy grave in the garden. As James Thurber said "you are as well falling flat on your back as falling flat on your face", (from the short story The bear who could take it or leave it.) In some ways it's a bit like some of the nobler aspects of British or Western foreign policy, you try to do the right thing but get the wrong result or at the very least not the actual result you expected. Now we need another pack of peanuts and maybe to stop messing with nature.

Silvery trails through history see.

Icicle works

Tesco daily photo #3

Battlefield Central Scotland: A newly frozen wasteland, forsaken by the Tories in favour of the Home Counties, unloved by Muslims and Communists, red squirrels and white vans containing bread and dairy produce. The mad panic brought about by extreme low temperatures and poor quality television programing has resulted in more mad panicking in the form of uncontrolled bread purchasing. Bread fever has cleared the bakery shelves of Tesco, they can now only be described as desolate and abandoned. It seems that any product containing elements of bread must be bought and presumably hoarded and ultimately gloated over by the happy but manic buyer. All over South Queensferry innocent young children, denied the right to attend school due to complex health and safety legislation must now consume their own weight in PB&J sandwiches every day in order to compensate for the temperature imbalance and their parents apparent lack of intelligence and common sense. Form an orderly queue please.

As society breaks down and wolves descend from the mountains to consume our dirty laundry and cuddly pets, ordinary and once useful artifacts are discarded in the general panic. These include shopping trolleys (no good when there is no shopping), BMW 3 Series Coupes, empty wine bottles once destined for the bottle bank, bicycles, electric blankets and woolly Nepalese headgear. We wait patiently in the deep shadows, watching the skies until a new leader emerges...

Exclusions and terms and conditions apply

Indisputable photographic evidence of something.

Dear Mrs Anabelle Goldie,

I am writing to you as I consider you to be a sensible and mostly straight up person and an all round good egg. I now have proof that snow is truly demonic and I wanted you to know, it could not have existed in the Garden of Eden and was brought into this world by the unfortunate "fall of man" approximately 5050 years ago or so. Above is a small part of photographic evidence I am putting together to form a comprehensive dossier on the unsavoury and antisocial behaviour of this supernatural and frankly bloody freezing substance. This (eventually buff coloured) dossier will be passed onto the (strangely quiet at the moment) so-called Scottish Government so that they can take proper action against this illegal frozen H2O - namely the phantom menace that is snow. Hopefully the full force of the law will come down upon said menace and it will be banned from these fair shores etc. etc.

Yours in anticipation,

Cardinal Sir John Knox of Bathgate.

Polis stopping traffic and chatting to punters, £60m or thereabouts was also lost to the economy at the same time - strange or what? (Note closed bridge thing not far away).

After 42 years on uneventful events the great bridge was closed today totally severing cultural links with the Kingdom of Fife (temporarily). For 12 long hours we teetered on the brink of complete collapse, anarchy and no pies from that posh farm in Puddledub until they got their act together and arranged for the 42 year old Lada snow plow to be fixed up at Tom Farmers in the "Toon", whit a relief! The Queen will be making a statement shortly.

Snowplough over the speed bumps

Frozen waste.

No exit, no entry, no escape.

Today will go down in mankind's and West Lothian's battered history as the day when everything stopped (and it's only 12:10). The full fury of a long frustrated ice-age has settled upon us, it's anger at the over exaggeration of global warming building up for months, now we shall choke, freeze and stick like ice to a shovel to our broken roads and un-cut in bus stops. So in a climate fight what would win; relentless, sizzling global warming or the stinging deep freeze of a new and poison ice-age?

The cats are not dealing with the snow very well. It's as if their universe has collapsed and they are trapped in the confines of the house with no proper access to their beloved fields and woodland. They sit in curious crouched positions, eyes staring, drooling, peering through the dim gap of the cat flap looking out into a new, foreign, white and inhospitable world, a world too deep with snow for any kid of basic or serious cat manoeuvres. They have cat cabin fever and will shortly need appropriate and possibly expensive counseling. Your financial contributions towards alleviating this difficult feline situation would be very much appreciated.

Other worlds

Explorer 1

There are other worlds, many other worlds out there in the ether. All close enough to be touched, to be explored and to remain within your grasp and completely visible if you really want to see them. Depends how far you take things and how elastic your imagination is.

Explorer 2

As a child I was amazed at how the nose cone of XL5 could detach from the main body of the spaceship and operate like an atmosphere craft or shuttle. The design still acts like some strange bridge between H G Wells and Star Trek in imagined technology. This was 1963 and I was getting my appendix removed.

More depraved works of fiction

A tree or possibly more, forgotten in a field.

The long road home is shorter than you may think.

OK; you add smoothie to yogurt, not the other way around. The remains may require rapid spooning for maximum enjoyment and nourishment.

If only I could find some of the late and lost Picasso's lost works under the bed, in the loft, in the glove compartment or maybe at the bottom of my briefcase. Perhaps left in a battered carpet bag by a wheelie bin that I then happen to come across or in the wardrobe of a cheap hotel. Maybe by the ticket machine at a badly surfaced local authority car park, or deep in the freezer section at ASDA besides Aunt Bessie's' Yorkshire puddings. In a duffel bag bought in a pawn shop or charity shop or just sitting there, wrapped in newspaper like a 70's bulky fish supper on the parcel shelf on a red and white bus to Tulllibody. In a cardboard tube, rolled up with a Postman's band and popped through our letter box while we are out walking a borrowed Labrador in deep and unseasonal snow. Finally one of the cats (not sure which one) thunders through the cat flap carrying some rolled up parchment or thick artist's paper, turns out it's a developmental sketch done by the great man and buried our garden, the cat recognised his style and signature just as he (?) was about to take a cat-pee. Nice.

Pub tea

Obvious snowy car photo.

Obvious snowy tree photo.

After abandoning various Sunday plans we couched for a while and then drifted uphill through the snow for a pub tea. Nicely placed in the warm Arms of Duddingston; tried three beers, drank one properly(completely) and pigged on chips and shrimps, Ali chomped on a North Sea fish pie. We returned using the navigational power of magic sticks and the untried Wenceslas method of deep snow walking. This involves singing the Carol in a hearty, trudging fashion and enjoying the heat that "was in the very sod". There was also the issue of who would be king and who would be page. Being a middle aged page didn't work for me, not a great career move in my view. I also resisted the temptation to throw handmade snow balls at the neighbours windows mainly thanks to being in temporary Slovak king mode at the time.

On our return to the ice-house the feuding cats were now at peace, Second Life was being seconded into Third Life (where virtual people build alternative lives on real laptops) and Strictly X-Factor come Jungle was rapidly replaced by an episode of Bones or something similar on Sky 1. The thaw and a brave new dawn is just around the corner according to the Second Life Facebook Met Office.

Doctor Blog

Another kind of pear - as imagined by a local artist.

Served today by his Royal Highness the manager of Tesco EH30 who was proudly wearing his manager's badge. "Why don't you employ more people on the checkouts?" I asked. He didn't give me a straight answer, "I often work on the checkout when we we're busy". You have to ask yourself what kind of organisation allows the manager to work on checkouts wearing a dumb badge and a pink tie? I did however refrain from questioning his management style and moved the conversation on by telling him that most DVDs and Lego in the store were cheaper than their counterparts on Amazon, (I think). Not that I'm a good price geek...

Dr Who, Dr Prog, Dr Blog...I'm seeing a pattern here.

Snow news day

Snow celebrations. Photo by remote CBQ.

Well worn car looking almost clean thanks to the application of a convenient blizzard.

Eventually it came to the point where the sky could hold no more snow, we were seated in the warmth and comfort of the Dakota at this critical moment, in the company of the illustrious Mr & Mrs CBQ. My Cornish sardines were by now a distant memory as the frozen material continued to fall, as ever regardless of our outstanding travel plans and hopes for the weekend. Next day our trip to the frozen north was cancelled when we ran out of stamina but applied good sense and consumed pancakes at Kinross. That was pretty much that as they say.

Bleak Ocean Terminal Shopping Mall view - last weekend.

Nice pair

His n' hers: Predictable.

I'm drinking more than my fair share of pouring yogurt or am I pouring more than my fair share of drinking yogurt? As usual I can't think straight or even perpendicularly, a great word to use from time to time. "Pour on the nutritious goodness" it says on the carton, illustrated by a glowing spoon and translucent berries and cereal type accessories. It is also satisfying and has a fantastic pouting but more likely pouring texture apparently, "ahh Danone!" all the good people chirp. Not sure about you but I'm up for a taxi to the Dakota, easy on the scallops.

Opinions and Quiz. Anyway which one was/is better Judee Sill, Judy Tzuke or Judy Collins and which one was immortalised by HMHB?

There are questions in corners of my mind that lurk

like how do the road gritters get to work

answer me that and you could win a cruise

Here's Judie Tzuke to take us up to the News

Fife Speak

Passed on from the good people at the Daily Reckless.

Dr P

Mmmm, a nice bottle of Dr P.

M40

Back home after two days out there on my favourite road, the M40. It runs and runs and then it stops, then it starts and we all move on, as does life in general. The best part is the company provided by the programming of friendly Radio 4, odd, eclectic: Arthur Miller, the design of public toilets, multi-choice examinations and their origins, opera, the Electric Light Orchestra and Dublin. I live and as far as my deteriorating memory and powers of concentration allow I learn.

Top things today:

Emma's Spagbol reheated in the microwave.

Strangely nippy and likable Peugeot 207.

Against all the odds a Costa latte that I enjoyed and finished.

4 eggs, two sausages.

A clear ariel view of England and Scotland all the way home thanks to no clouds.

A snooze.

Potential snow and winter weather, (better to learn to love it and live with it I suppose).

Never had it...

...so good. It's true and a measure of the strangled life and the slow death of free speech. You can still think what you like but keep your mouth shut and tow the heavy and abstract party line. Me, myself and my other various unattached selves are happy and most probably have never have it or any other indefinite thing so good or at the very least a good deal better than average and most certainly far beyond a lot of what most people have to put up with, also and in parallel trying not to be smug about it. The only outstanding issues are:

A small piece of roast beef stuck somewhere in my top teeth.

The need to find a donor car to provide a catalytic converter for Mr Cougar.

The lifting of the humiliating feeling of falling on my fat bum in mud at the football while deftly trying to trap a ball and failing spectacularly.

The small matter of repairing the frazzled Irish economy - help is at hand from a team of experts being released by our national disgrace RBS however.

Not looking forward to some sustained up and coming Flybe new and miserable experiences.

Once these minor irritations evaporate, it'll all be good.

Cranberry Diaries

Moving swiftly away from quasi-religious and unfathomable ideas and their observation we return once again to the thrust and drive provided by the moon and seasons and numerous pagan marks upon the calender. This leads us into various activities designed to keep out the cold and remove the shuffling unknown creatures currently living in the roof space. Thus the mincemeat making begins and strong drink, honey and the fruits of many strange lands come together in cooking pots and eventually in pastry cases.

Honey is light and Marmite is dark, opposites from nature and jars. The two strike a breakfast balance when applied to golden toasted bread and scoffed. Both products can trace their history back into the Garden of Eden where early man and a few friends toiled under the yoke of pre-Tesco ignorance to produce the malt and without any decent protective clothing robbed the bees of their precious honey. The boys were badly stung but reckoned it to be worthwhile, the ladies loved that sweet sticky syrup apparently. After a while Marmite and honey were wrapped in leaves and mud, then as industry developed stored in clay jars and cleaned up yogurt pots and exported westwards to the Greater-Mediterranean area, so Bill Bryson or someone says anyway.

Free Kirk

“The fact that a corrupt tree can bear good fruit is a truth that religious traditionalists find hard to accept, just as strong atheists find it difficult to admit that the corrupt tree of religion can at times produce beautiful fruit. Everything that we have achieved of any worth or beauty has emerged from the harsh soil of nature.” Richard Holloway.

Listening to god and all that.

The men in authority who will always take charge of any religion once it has established itself are suspicious of people who claim to hear the divine voice; the kind of people who in fact get religions going in the first place. That is why leaders who take over a faith always close down the “community radio” and replace it with an officially written version of the divine encounter, a book. The main advantage of this is that it gives them much more control over their followers than would have been possible had they been allowed to tune directly into the voice of god. That line has been disconnected for centuries it seems…

…but listen and take heart, in the deep darkness and the all consuming loneliness of the universe there is a voice, there and gone, here and distant. From the stars to the inner reaches of the soul, it speaks, it murmurs, it calls but few listen, fewer understand and it seems none obey. If we consider ourselves lost we are not just where we are, we are where we have placed ourselves, by the single, stupid and irresponsible act of not listening. In another separate, exciting development the Free Kirk have voted that you can sing to god (in his general direction anyway) or even play a musical instrument of some sort (provided that it‘s not an accordion), turns out that he doesn’t mind music and hollering after all. Who says that god is inflexible and set in his/her ways?

Sunburst Les Paul in an Edinburgh junk shop for £5.00, one broken machine head. The year is 1971.

Lunch

Lunch today in Portsmouth. The spectral spectre of the sugar and dough sign, alluring looking and blinking in the rainy mist, all misty in the blinking rain. Foraging for food and a Harry Potter wand but after a brief struggle I ended with just the food, a receipt and crumbs in my lap. On the 'plane I read a long book about a short subject, "time and eternal forgiveness" or something or was it the other way round. By the time I got to the end of it I was sadder and wiser and following on from that experience eventually happier again. That's the power of the written word and the bleak and barren conscious mind for you. After a while I was home, the travel a long way behind but there remains in me a sneaking suspicion, cloaked at the back side of my soul that I'll travel again, in the customary manner using some kind of machine, some day soon.

Alcohol

Alcohol is a fuel, is poison, has no taste, tastes good, is an acquired taste, can be mixed, can be diluted, can be savoured, comes in numerous forms, generally liquid, clear or coloured, cheap or very expensive, banned but legal, popular but hated, creative and destructive, fun or ugly, tells the truth or tells lies, knocks you out or peps you up, makes you quiet, makes you loud, makes you go home, makes you come out, is serious, is stupid, is grim, is healthy, kills germs, burns out organs, wrinkles skin, keeps you young, part of religious ceremonies, not part of religious ceremonies, misunderstood, fully explained, drunk in secret, drunk in public, made in Scotland (also available in other countries across the globe).