It Tolls for Thee

 

You can't beat a good bit of death, although a good bit of life is preferable. David Hockney once said that "the cause of death is birth", well that's about all you might need to know but for greater depth, details and insights on the topic this book is pretty useful. It's a bit of a reference, revelation, guidance and advice book and it's also an easy and at times moving read describing what works and doesn't work so well when a death occurs (and it could be yours) and we must respond and act. So any morbid curiosity you may have about the unseen world of undertakers and funeral protocols is quite natural, understandable and rewarded here. Read on guilt free, equip and prepare yourself for the great unknown and the awkwardly familiar.

Written by Shetland based broadcaster, musician and writer (obviously) Tom Morton, it's an excellent and thought provoking book. There are many insider experiences, tribute examples, practical tips and information sources given that could prove invaluable in times of grief, mourning or for your own future farewell's planning. It also covers Covid related departure issues, being newly published it's therefore up to date and highly relevant. 

Interestingly I've gone over a year without reading a book, a situation I blamed on lock-down cabin fever and my 2020 acquired inability to concentrate or focus. A year of not reading an entire book has never occurred before in my adult life but I read this one in a couple of days ... Hallelujah, I'm cured, or could it be the Covid vaccine is working?

Funeral for a fridge

The funeral for the fridge has yet to take place but it's passing has been a slow, sad, downhill process. At times we suspected there might be a recovery. Cold air wafted across the shelves, the fan whirred and optimistic ice formed. Drinks and spreads remained comfortably chilly, albeit some assistance in the form of icy freezer blocks was regularly required. As it happened it gave up the ghost on Saturday, slowly warming up, in line with the great thaw taking place outside in the wider world. Water, like a clear life blood, ran from the foot of the door. Nothing smells more death like than a broken down fridge. 

Gingerly things were removed and examined, some sent to the other freezer, some to the tiny drinks fridge, some to the front door vestibule (known to be the coldest spot in the house) and some consigned to the bin (with difficulty). A few luckier items were eaten as it happened, by being turned into "emergency" soup. These items mostly took the form of some kind of broccoli. Now it's midweek and the soup has been consumed. It's all over. We mourn and we must move on.

The assorted saucy sachets seen in the photograph above are refugees from the sunken fridge, why they were ever put in there nobody knows. Now they are homeless. Spare a thought for them.

The tyre that became a drum

 Now a happy story of transition:

And so the long journey from being a used motor car tyre to becoming a nicely sounding Taiko drum is complete. All the hard work, filming, planning and execution carried out by Mrs A G in an afternoon.

Green unpleasant land

 

Last week we broke the blender. Some over enthusiastic smoothie processing caused catastrophic failure of a small but frangible internal part. Once again my cursed but blessed friend Mr eBay came to the rescue as I discovered the part was available for our exact (somewhat vintage) model. £7.50 and two days later it arrived in the familiar Chinese packaging though not direct from China. Thank you UK box-shifters. 

After the customary fiddling and swearing the new part was installed and to my surprise it all worked once again. The end result being this green porridge-like smoothie made from kale, mango, kiwi, banana and orange juice. This unplanned recipe was of course the result of an unplanned catastrophic freezer failure; one unlikely to be repaired via Mr eBay's good grace and supply chain either. We just need to stop having catastrophic failures, simple as that.

Crumbs, tyres and a golden age.

These are not the biscuits I expected to see when I opened the pack. Every one cracked and broken. A proper first world problem that can't be blamed on European relations, pandemics, the weather or the oppression suffered by our beloved and baffled country. It can't be blamed on the political left's loss of meaningful traction and their shifting policy positions or the unhealthy and one side economic measures and targets we might use to rate our successes and failures. Neither is it anything do with the cultural bankruptcy that produces hour upon our of meaningless streams of TV and digital entertainment focused on the pointless activities and relationships of talentless people I just can't seem to care about. The corrupt press and media moguls have nothing to do with these biscuits either despite their heavy handed influence on all levels of society. I think that these poor biscuits simply suffered some mishap in the warehouse or en route to the store where I bought them. It's as simple as that. They were perfect when they left the factory.

Here's a tyre that will soon be a drum.

And here's the Discovery, snowed in at Dundee with the V&A behind, looking for all the world as if she was back in Antarctica a hundred of more years ago. A time warp back to some golden age of exploration and tragedy.

Nae Fitba

 

I don't mention it much but I do follow and occasionally attend Scottish football matches. I've been to big games in the past but to be honest I really prefer the smaller grounds, the "diddy" teams, the lower leagues etc. Anyway there's none of that right now thanks to the obvious. Covid brand football on TV with no crowds isn't great, it's dull  and eerily quiet. It needs to be seen in the flesh, in the cold, in the biting wind, raw and exposed with fans armed only with a hot pie and rather awful cup of coffee. Also standing up if possible, rather than seated, cramped damp and frozen onto plastic wheelie bin lid seats and shouting a heady mixture of nonsense and abuse. Incomprehensible rules, bad refereeing, irritating fellow spectators and a long and winding journey there and back again. Then the remorse following a poor result or the (rare) elation when things go well. What weekends might well have been made for in a better world. Of course today's pretend game is off, frozen pitch. Nae fitba.

A Perfect Minute

If wasn't for Covid and Lockdown this might almost have been a perfect day, or at least a perfect minute. It was close enough. There probably are a lot more perfect minutes than there are days and I don't want to be dissecting time into another type of time fraction just to be accurate. Minutes and days are clear and simple measures. I'm now wondering quite how many perfect little minutes I might have missed or overlooked, also those innumerable special minutes I've now forgotten. So, keeping a clear mind, it's good to experience that minute and quietly reflect on it, if only to balance out the various cares, worries and anxiety issues that we all carry at the moment.

New Religion

 

Welcome to the seasonally adjusted shrine of happy Snow Buddha. Bow down, genuflect, seek peace and forgiveness and all that sort of nonsense. Do it very soon because tomorrow is the new today. He just might melt away before his work on this troubled earth is over and where will you be then faithful follower?

Disclaimer: Snow Buddha (like many other major religious figures) is actually made out of mashed potato using the same construction techniques as demonstrated in the film "Close encounters of the third kind". We apologize if this revelation has resulted in you suffering from any undue stress or upset. Thank you.

Scotland from space the other day, courtesy of NASA and the liberal use of Tipp-Ex.

Snow photos required

Scotland is basking in some normal wintertime weather so the law requires that obligatory snow photos are to be shared all across social media. Of course the news services are rightly shocked at this unexpected twist in seasonal events and the failure of crazy people to behave in a normal fashion during both a pandemic and a blizzard. To add further chaos to this wild sensory overload, tiny snow creatures have emerged that threaten to dominate and control us with their icy powers and the ability to spontaneously appear out of nowhere when and where you'd least expect them. Good to see that they look a bit happier and more competent than our current crop of dodgy leaders. But rest assured, whatever happens nobody will be to blame or held to be responsible. As for the winter weather? "Quite unexpected in winter" said a spokesman.

Virginia Creeper captured on a east facing wall just as the winter weather hits home. Oily materials, actual snow, canvas, hemp and mixed media.

Fire-pit/snow-pit.

This blackbird

This blackbird visits the feeding station on our window pretty much everyday. He's fond of meal worms, that's what we mainly feed him. There's no actual menu. I say "this" blackbird but I suppose there may be many and I'm simply seeing them one at a time and never the actual whole group. This assumes a certain expertise and strategy amongst blackbirds whereby they like to fool and confuse humans by only ever appearing one at a time in a number of feeding locations. 

Naturally I've been well and truly fooled by this clever ploy even though it may not be a real thing at all. I'm also not sure what the purpose of it might be. More likely it's just that blackbirds like to move and operate on their own and appreciate and value the joy of their own free time without suffering annoying interruptions from other passing blackbirds airing their own disagreeable opinions as they eat. Perhaps we can all learn something from observing those solitary blackbirds.

After the blackbird's third helping of meal worms he silently winked and watched me leave, en-route for the local showgrounds where an empty pavilion has been converted into a Covid vaccination centre. I parked up, wandered through the slush and into the building, then into to a pristine booth where I duly received a dose of Pfizer's best medicine from a young military nurse dressed in combats. Then a fifteen minute wait to ensure all is well  and finally joining in on an OAP shuffle parade, straight back to our vehicles and home. So far I've no side effects to report other than my own already well established ongoing internal conflicts. Phew ... safe at last  ... almost.

There's probably a word for it

 

I read today that Adam Curtis has a new film out. It's called "Can’t Get You Out of My Head: An Emotional History of the Modern World". It's in eight parts and will be on BBC iPlayer and it's estimated that it'll take you at least 100 years* to watch it and possibly longer to understand it. Of course you should be in possession of a full UK TV licence and a full UK TV in order to enjoy the full UK TV viewing experience. A condensed and abridged version may be available on Kindle. Viewers in Scotland will have their own edited program including a sub-titled version and the free use of their own choice of recreational drugs to enhance the overall experience. 

Imagine that, watching a film that was so long you spent your whole life just watching it. Then you died. That's it. A new alternative reality that doesn't belong to you but just passes by your eyeballs as you fail to retain any meaningful information gleaned from the incomprehensible parade. Perhaps that is what the future (that thing that happens some time after today but we're not really sure when) will look like. Eyes propped open, spoon fed snacks, sucking on straws as an alien and reconstructed life passes by with little or no interaction other than perhaps a blink or a pause for the toilet. There's probably a word for it.

*When I say 100 years I really mean I've no clear idea.

Four Bean Chilli

 

One, two, three, four bean chilli in a pot. What are the four types of beans represented here? No clear idea to be honest. 

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Tackle your inner critic by just doing something without worrying about the outcome or consequences. Four bean, semi hollow chilli inspired guitarscape. 

eBay Bingo

 

Per the previous post, I was idly indulging in some eBay browsing when I came upon this rather unloved and strangely painted Washburn HB 30. Advertised as being 30 years old, unloved and being "sold for a friend". Not a great looker but I fancied a hollow body guitar. There were a few low bids, all well under the value of the guitar so despite my inner voice's better judgement I bid £2 higher than the previous bit. The auction still had three days to go and I fully expected the guitar to sell for at least £150 more than my bid. Oddly enough there was no more activity and my bid won and I duly received the guitar last week. 

The guitar turned out to be decent enough, nice action, no major damage, things working and I was pleased with the purchase. The only problem was the horrid and badly painted gold stripe of the front and a load more gold paint on the back, (which was roughly trying to ape the Washburn head stock design). It all had to go. I stripped the guitar down, taped up all the delicate bits and using a combination of WD40, white spirit and paint remover I began to work on eradicating the gold paint. I had the idea of making an old credit card into a soft scraping tool and with a lot of elbow grease the gold eventually came away without too much damage done to the actual cherry body finish (as below).

Serial Killers

Back to guitar based noodles: It's DNA is out there somewhere. Born (or at least manufactured between 1991 and 1992 by Samick Music in Indonesia), some details are missing, as you might expect. To be honest the serial number arrangement doesn't look so robust but it is consistent with what the guide books say. Washburn guitars, an old and reputable make, have of course gone in all sorts of directions in the last 50 years but are still regarded as a decent builder despite all the out sourcing and global manufacturing. For various reasons Washburn serial numbers tail off about 2000ish, albeit I've probably only scratched the surface of the generational investigation. Strangely 1991/1992 doesn't seem that long ago but in the real world (as opposed to my imagination) it's all of 30 years. Doesn't time fly?
 

Burns like fire

 

Modern politics* remains an ongoing skip fire. These happily dancing flames are however not fanned by right wing extremists, woke activists or sundry Tweets from god knows who shouting aloud on the margins. These flames arise from the burning of eco-logs. Something that makes sense on paper and in advertisements but fails to live up to it's claims in reality. They emit a strange black goo that coats the interior of the stove with eco-treacle and they just don't live up to their low key hype. File under "disappointed". Unfortunately real Estonian logs in handy plastic bags are no longer available, as no haulier in their right mind will bring cargo back into rogue Britain these days. We'll be burning the furniture next.

*I know, same as it ever was.

Not giving a fig

 

Not giving one and not getting one either. Few knew that Lockdown (insert actual number here) plus a floppy Brexit plus seasonal market fluctuations would lead (amongst other things) to a full scale fig shortage. Sure there are dried ones in bags, ready to be punished, debagged and baked in the oven in some loaf or other (that may well be tasty) but there are no actual real, fresh, juicy, ripe figs in this small corner of the inhabited universe.

Mandatory food disclaimer: Three days on the trot I've written about foodstuff. Clearly the old brain is gumming up in some hungry and dietary fixated way. I apologize. Other slightly less food focused material but still with some foodstuff references and questionable content resides here.

West Lothian Sourdough

 

Kingdom of the Dough People: Bread goes back a long way in the history of mankind, one of the first processed (cooked or baked) foods, a staple of the human diet. Turns out that it's found it's way to West Lothian now, all the way from across the world in the Middle East's cradle of civilization to right here in the backwoods. Well Lidl's discount supermarket just down the road.  There are other baked goods too, allegedly created on the premises by bearded and tattooed artisan bakers and the like. I've had samples. Next, if ever Brexit fever cools, there will be actual Brie, figs and Parma ham and together we'll put together world beating toasted sandwiches, here, in sunny West Lothian, very soon. It's all true I tell you.

Call any vegetable

The humble vegetable: There once was a collection of humble vegetables who, for a brief time forgot themselves. They aspired to higher, non vegetable types of things. They had ideas beyond their station and their abilities. They had dreams and when they slept they would do just that. Sadly those dreams came to nothing much, mostly on account of them being vegetables. I'll name the likely vegetables for you: carrot, onion, parsnip, turnip and a rather large, invisible potato. Can you see it yet? Now they are all soup. They are happy now. It is a marriage made in heaven some say.

 

Weekend Briefing

 

"Right then Percival, your main tasks this weekend will be to source a suitable used auto tyre to turn into a Taiko drum, remove dusty and crusty materials from the damaged fireplace, adjust any slack electrical items you might come across and cook a reasonable and tasty breakfast/lunch for those in the household* who can be bothered with it. Otherwise count both the remains of Saturday and Sunday as 'free time' to be used for your own edification, but whatever you do don't fraternize with the locals and stay off the milk-bomb hooch. Oh, and in the evening you can watch WILTY on iPlayer but only because Bob Mortimer's on it this week. Understood?"

(*I also noticed that the cats seem determined to display their collection of cooked chicken breast cuts all across the kitchen floor in a haphazard manner. Simply put this wont do and it is not good enough that you tolerate it.)

Cat in the full flight of a longish purr after satisfactory chicken breast display event consumption.

Peanuts Kids Singing "Roundabout" by Yes

I like Yes and I have a sort of soft spot for Peanuts, which one has aged better? Hmm. "Roundabout" is a great song I could enjoy all day, the bass and guitar workings are epic, Peanuts not so effective, bit of a thumbs down there, it's dated badly. Overall this isn't quite as good as I'd hoped but in the school of lazy blogging you get 2 points for sharing a YouTube video and then making meaningful remarks about it. I suppose that see it as layers of google upon google so that we as the subjects of google continue to worship at the altar of google and so pledge our loyalty to our great and benevolent google god by means of simple usage and promotion. Meta on meta observations. You could of course substitute the word "google" for Amazon, Apple, Tesla or PayPal. The things that we subconsciously worship as they bring us life, of a kind. Modern religion is wonderful.