The Age of the Nose Bleed

 It's come to that awkward point on my journey into happily aging (from the River Forth to the River Styx) where nosebleeds seem to happen now and then. There's no rhyme or reason, no obvious stress, no anxiety or physical explanation other than wear and tear and too much sniffing and breathing. "As breathing is my life, to stop I dare not dare", (as a wise man once said).

So I don't intend to be stuck with this problem, no, I'm calling in an expert, a Doctor no less. We'll have a clinical and chilly Zoom consultation. I'll get a sweet seven minutes of the Doctor's time and I'll pack that time with all the virtual nasty nasal evidence I've carefully gathered, except for the cotton buds I burned on the bonfire. I hope it gets me somewhere, even if it's just to the back of the queue. Then, as darkness descends, I'll dive into the mysterious, experimental corridors of the Ear, Nose and Throat Wing. "Next!"

There's always an enterprising engineering answer out there for a temporary fix when you're suffering a physical inconvenience i.e. Tena pants. Such devices are never pretty, only functional and of course Amazon get them to you faster than the fire brigade. Now it's a new routine when I step out on a sunny day in my brilliant white T shirt: phone, wallet, keys and a handy man-sized pack of RhinoPinch, check! For safety, confidence; man-sized and for your own smoking pleasure. Takes me back.

Lovely Eggs

Posh and lovely eggs from the Cotswolds, almost too lovely to crack open and eat. It's not going to be easy but it will have to be done, just not quite now, they still need some looking after, some respect. They've traveled a long way to be here. Modern logistics and their packing and distribution methods are remarkable and often unappreciated by people like me, in what are commonly known as the chattering and blethering classes. 

Please note: sorry for any confusion if you happened to have googled the band "Lovely Eggs" and arrived on this page, (the Lovely Eggs are a two piece lo-fi psychedelic punk rock band from Lancaster, England. They consist of married couple Holly Ross and David Blackwell. Ross was formerly the lead singer and guitarist in the all-female band Angelica). You can find out all about them here.

Still Life Saturday

Dog asleep in a car park

 

Looking out the window (I was hearing voices as usual, strange spectral chants and sunny harmonies) I noticed this dog, curled up and sleeping in the sun, lying in the car park next door on the warm asphalt. Not a care in the world, or so I like to imagine.

Keep checking in for more content like this; sights, situations and opinions of little use or consequence.

Walrus Trouble

One of the strangest comics I've seen with a very well thought out (?) origin story that rivals anything DC or Marvel could ever have come up with: [from the text above] "From the moment Mr Brown had eaten a magic pill given him by a gipsy he turned into a walrus. He had kept his secret but it seemed now that it was bound to be discovered." In the first picture he has a bit of Homer Simpson look about him ... it's probably all a well worked hoax.

Next up a surreal school dinner drama that's not really for children: "The Rich Red Revenge of the Rhubarb Pie".

Merrily Drinking

Just parking this "spur of the moment" piece here in case I decide some day to reflect upon it further: 

If anyone is in any doubt that the BBC in Scotia are nothing more than a state mouthpiece for tone deaf propaganda and divisive rhetoric here's a lovely piece of Radio Scotland nonsense some house-hack came up with yesterday. 

Everyone in England is "merrily" drinking and shopping like the fucking Kardashians, meanwhile we're living in muddy holes in the ground, sucking on icy rags and roasting rats on a bonfire of old IKEA pallets. Welcome to Scotland. Wait for your turn and your colonial masters will deal with you when they're good and ready.

The truth is we're all merrily drinking almond milk quietly at home.

Lost Football

 

Floating in the drink at Port Edgar Marina, about to be lost at sea. Quite a long way from any reasonably sized football pitch. We'll never know the truth.

According to the Guardian I've read 1442 articles in the past 12 months. I'm not sure how many of them I've actually understood but nevertheless the figures are fascinating. I've yet to stump up and make an actual contribution but from time to time I also read the adverts as a means of gathering information and suffering penance.

A record number of 110,000 people have complained about the BBC TV's coverage of the DoE's departure. I'm somehow disappointed by that relatively small total. We just don't complain enough. I still think of myself as a good person however.

48 years after it's release I listened to the album "The River" by Terry Reid for the first time yesterday. I've been procrastinating a bit over doing this. It sounded ok but might take a little time to get to me. A sleeper. I wonder how many folks listen to an entire album of music (at one sitting) these days anyway?

Greens for tea. An enormous great bag of them cooked up in our largest pot. I ate my share, shredded, along with brown sauce. High in iron and heavy as lead. I'm still on the couch, stuffed as a couch.

A number of the above sentences may be poorly constructed. I'm not sorry.

48 Hours Later

 

It's not Friday anymore: 48 hours and more after announcing the death of Prince Philip, the death of Prince Philip seems to be being reported continuously on line as if via some kind of weird news looping system. Somewhere in this an unhealthy thought occurs whereby this is some kind of horror plot where he dies, then is revived, dies again and so on. Real deaths in the real world are not reported this way. Whoever you are please take your clumsy foot off the pedal and stop this madness (as if all the other mad things we are having to put up with at the moment aren't mad enough).

Netflix Burnout

Turns out cats aren't too bothered about our evening time streaming habits on TV. A warm rug and sunlight is all they need. We've still a few episodes of Call My Agent! to watch (actually about a dozen, there are only 6 episodes in a season). We may survive and thrive on this cultural diet but we'll never learn French properly.

It was cold but clear today and the gardening was going quite well until I tried to dig up a clump of ancient fuchsias that are getting in the way and are slightly out of control. They've been in the ground for a while and stubbornly refuse to move. If left alone they will take over as is nature's way. I gave up on the job once I'd broken the garden fork. Chinese steel or recycled Ford Fiestas? Perhaps as used on the Queensferry Crossing and UK's aircraft carriers?

Box of Frogs

 

Sorry, what I actually meant to say was box of logs.

In other news I hear that Edinburgh is now sadly without it's Duke. It stands Dukeless and bereft I imagine. No mean city. A mere shadow etc etc. I wonder who will step up and into this prime vacancy?

Meanwhile on Friday the BBC shows it's respect by disrespecting a few million licence fee payers, and there will be blanket coverage probably for the rest of the week too. This is neither healthy or balanced. Strange how they, by that I mean the establishment, assume that we must all feel the same way no matter what, they're afraid so they overplay their control. National mourning etc. All trouser legs to be set to half mast. If you want to count me ... count me out.

Big Cat Little Cat

 

Cat Diary: Rare and unusual photo of our two cats actually sitting together - peacefully. They remained in this position for a while just chillin'. Odd to see the relative difference in their sizes, Clint has a huge head compared to his mum and is obviously heavier, though not as heavy as he once was. She's tiny in comparison but far more energetic and active, but they are both well past middle age now so warm spaces to relax are more important than dark places to hunt.

Valneva to the Rescue

Valneva's new anti-Covid bombs: Made in Scotland but not from girders, condensed milk or turnips. There's a fairly complex pharmaceutical process involved I imagine that requires better, more sophisticated ingredients. 

Valneva (they're from France you know, but don't tell the government), manufactures its Covid vaccine at a plant just doon the road in Livingston, said the results of their phase one/two study showed the vaccine was "highly immunogenic with more than 90% of all study participants developing significant levels of antibodies" to the Covid virus spike protein. Those who received a medium dose of the vaccine showed an 89.8% immune response, while people given a high dose showed a 100% response. 

This is good news for Scots and humanity (in an otherwise slow news kind of week, apart from some welcome colour returning to the streets).

Mystic Mons Meg

 

The future is a strange and unknown country and there are many views and opinions as to how it might look for us here in Alba-Land. So I've been flexing my spiritual muscles and peering forwards into the gloom by getting in contact with Mystic Mons Meg, just to see how the old cannon might be viewing things from the rarified heights of Edinburgh's fortified buildings society. The consultation was a bit one sided, perhaps the spirits weren't really moving smoothly in the pre-election climate. Unsurprisingly it was looking like a more or less a "wait and see" kind of non-verbal answer for me. That's the world of spirits for you.

The air and water were undisturbed and the fire was gently snuffed out by the chill of the north winds, but then from deep inside Meg's own rusty (unused in anger) barrel a small, still voice whispered; "You know the SNP don't really want an independent Scotland, they're quite comfortable riding along on their own wee gravy train." I nodded silently and walked off home, back down the deserted castle esplanade.

Then out of the blue (and the red) the postman unwittingly provided welcome kindling for the log burner wrapped up in some views and ideas for me to ponder. Nice to see some agreement between the reds and the blues as they tackle key issues; the common enemy and general disquiet (as understood by their lords, ladies and puppet masters in the fair city of London). 

Bothered by Tory leaflets?

Stick them in an envelope addressed to:

FREEPOST RSBB-XRZT-ZTXE

Conservative Party Foundation

30 Millbank

London

SW1P

Thanks for not joining our club

 

Nothing personal, there's nothing wrong, nothing bad to say. I'm just not up for joining your club or clan. All the best with your social endeavors, motoring trips and so on. Cars, coffee and Instagram are fine by me, but I'm possibly the wrong age and don't fit the demographic. My clothes and hair style might look out of place. You wouldn't like me much either. I can be a little awkward over things, but not really.

I often (actually not very often) wonder if this might be the story of my life ... or is it simply a story line that I'm conveniently telling myself as some entertaining piece of fiction? Or am I just on some immature superficial journey of self discovery, an internal and voluntary meander with no final destination? Yeah, blogging's such a grown up pastime. 

Cat Food Fingers

Cat's are fussy buggers. Our two have lost their taste for the posh cat foods, marketed with sophisticated human sensibilities in mind but designed for the feline animal appetites. Now we're onto Asda Tiger meaty chunks in rich gravy, the Aldi equivalent is equally prized but harder to come by (Aldi's inventory balance being a lot more volatile).

The gourmet sachets and tubs have experienced the unclipped claws of customer betrayal and are now sniffed and ignored, the cat's just want some basic chewy meat from unknown sources and the fatty gravy. Those high end "recipes" with the stupid names and prime cuts no longer make it. 

I'm fine with that but the cheaper cat food does stink, at both ends of the process and of course neither posh nor economy are as good as a succulent fresh vole, mouse or baby blue tit. Wash all cat food contaminated fingers diligently after use.

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Oh, here's a link to the banned study piece on Scottish Independence by Scott and Chapman, that's nothing much to do with cat food of course but I'm parking it here anyway, mainly because it seems that "they" don't want it to be read or shared ... or do they?

Memories of burned pies

                        

We're currently operating under kitchen duress and below our normal standards with a less than perfect gas oven that refuses to be regulated. It's old and broken.  Everything ultimately burns up, the only two working settings being on and off. Like some solar giant spewing erratic streams of fire it's slowly dying and it's unpredictable. We've learned the hard way that gently heating things up as opposed to cooking them requires precise timing and calculation ... in other words it's impossible. 

Having said that most items that emerge from the oven are pretty much edible, there's just that element of danger and uncertainty about how things will turn out. You need to remain very observant and alert during the process. The good news is that our new oven is on the way (via Singapore and the Suez Canal or somewhere), all subject to Covid sorting itself out and various other 2021 shaped imponderables. 

We have decided against a new B&Q oven and the matching kitchen units for obvious reasons.

Yesterday's beer/tomorrow's coffee

Using the term "beer" rather loosely as this is actually porter, darker, thicker and a bit more bitter to the tiny taste buds on the human tongue. I was wondering how it might taste to an animal, say an octopus or a kangaroo. That's a piece of research I've not heard about nor have I seen any of the results. Nice enough tasting for me though. 

To sum up: I was out of doors then I went into a shop. Once inside I saw this beer on display and bought a couple of bottles. Then I returned to the outside world and gulped a few lung fulls of fresh air and then I went home (still quietly gulping air using my automatic breathing function). Eventually I drank some of the beer, as pictured. By this time I had removed my face mask. The bottles will be recycled. 

On line people were asking me questions about coffee, mostly  Nespresso, as if I cared. Posh tiny metallic pods of coffee that they like to pretend rich folks enjoy, apparently I should try them too. Not sure about that. It's a broken model in my opinion. It also requires some investment in a possibly corrupt coffee distribution infrastructure that I'm not ready for.  How was your day?

POMPLAMOOSE - Bby Shrk

This is not becoming a habit but ... It's pretty easy to fill the vacant white space with somebody else's content. Anything goes in the gnawing emptiness of a polluted and lost soul; searching, reaching out and finding validation in vapid social media nonsense.

Shameless opportunism and laziness etc. That's show business (there's no business like it you know). 

But it's a sunny morning, My mind is elsewhere. Good Friday even. 

So there's a high chance good things might even happen on such a day, though not much can top human sacrifice, crucifixion and an ultimate work of redemption for all mankind; unless it's a sizeable and chunky chocolate Easter egg gift.

Pop goes the fire cairn

I've no clear idea what's going on here, some arty kind of thing I suppose. An artist looks to have been involved. Piling up stones and composing. 

I'm not really connected with that world at all - composing using stones.

But it's all quite interesting. 

The installation took place down by Dunbar. A town on the east coast (the opposite of the west coast) where unsurprisingly the land and sea connect, complete with jagged edges. As a result they have some cliffs and beaches that look quite tricky to access. No bad thing. Keeps the zoomers out. 

The old furniture burned quite well. 

Eventually the tide will extinguish the fire, I imagine.

That may be a metaphor for something.

On April 1st I keep my head down for reasons of temporal humour.

Message ends.

5 for a Fiver

I'm not sure what I was thinking, a fairly common experience for me. I'd been watching a YouTube snippet of Terry Reid performing at Glastonbury in 1971 and was also idly reading a little about his musical career, or his lack of a career you might say. A nearly man who seemed to miss out on one opportunity after another but is still going (?) strong  somewhere in the music business, in quasi obscurity. He was always highly regarded by the press and his peers but lacked that magical edge the others had. Wrong places, wrong times, who knows? So despite a decent voice and a quirky kind of talent he remained a ghostly figure during rock's golden years when the rest were cashing in. Now he's old and grizzly, like me.

Then into my irregular Amazon feed came a daft offer; five of his albums in a box (I don't mind CDs either) for a fiver. I agreed to make the transaction. That was a few weeks ago. I'm now trying to decide at what point I give them a listen, perhaps on some future longish car journey when Radio 4 isn't interesting. I'm procrastinating. 

History is repeating itself here, I'm sure back in 1971/72 I saw Terry on the Old Grey Whistle Test playing songs from "The River". Bob Harris was very enthusiastic about the album. I meant to give it a listen, but I never did. It all just floated away, for me and about a million others I guess. We moved on silently. Now I find myself in the same place. When will I ever get round to listening to Terry Reid? Deja Vu.