Old Man Shouts at Pharmacy

 

Another "old man shouts at cloud" style post mostly using tiny writing.

Since Covid the world has changed. One particular part is now almost unrecognizable. The Pharmacy. Now there are crawling queues, shortages, puzzled customers, and disgruntled OAPs, confused staff and a general air of disorganization. I have to say it's also mainly the Lloyds branches. In my limited experience it's a real mess of a business.

Companies in customer facing retail like Screwfix and Argos seem to be able to handle multiple orders and a quick and accurate stock turnover far easier than the pharmaceutical world can. The staff seem lost and honestly uncaring at times. What is the problem? Supply lines? Staff skills? Have we just given up? OK it's mostly potentially dangerous drugs and medicines they're issuing, nobody wants mistakes but with modern inventory software and verification systems how difficult can it be to smooth this out?

Animal Art

It's usually pictures of lazy house cats here so I've decided to broaden my horizons and be a little more exotic. I've no idea what's going on in the piece either.

The Other Summer of Baccara

 

A weekend outing to a local pop festival: We were there, hot, wet in the rain and as baffled as ever by the bizarre line up bingo we were taking part in. By that I mean I seldom seemed to see who I expected to see, program changes and happenstance simply conspire against the fragile plan. Neither did I expect to join in with a few thousand other mad folks in singing along to (a version of?)  70s euro pop divas, Baccara. They were received in truly heroic fashion by an eclectic mix of Scottish Ska devotees and as they might have said in the old days of music journalism, "the fans went wild". It's all true.

In the "luxury" toilets they actually had this stuff available for use, once a Twitter hit and now a real life trope and no doubt a shock to anybody indulging in substance abuse. That's all I really want to say about the toilets.

A Saturday morning hunt for coffee found me at the Churros van (the queue was the smallest). There was a lot going on; of course queue anxiety and shortage of coffee cup lids (I'm carrying them a long way back to the tent), some staff meltdowns inside and out of the van and the surreal experience of my part of the queue snaking across a Leslie Riddoch lecture in the marquee next door.

Our lovely tent: a reasonably sized base camp from which to explore the site. Of course we've all moved on from flashy tents and huge camper vans now. I does seem that the most desirable fashion accessory these days is a dog, preferably an exotic breed with a decent bark. It used to be hippie kids or unicycles but now it's dogs that rule as their owners struggle on. I suppose the other essentials are a gender confused friend, a talented acrobat who'll amuse bored audiences and somebody quite over weight who just dances to the point where they require an ambulance. A lot of festival attendance centres around people watching and spotting as much of the actual music is pretty dull to be honest.

My final study: an early morning tree set with a broken couch and various bits of old furniture and deck chairs. People just land there, have a drink and smoke, read a book and then move on. A metaphor for all of life itself. We'll probably be back for more of the same next year. Bollocks to Covid and the Tories etc. and who cares who is on the bill anyway.

The Suchess of Duffolk ...

... and the Yuke of Dork. I am not in awe or in fear and trembling of the aristocracy. This mostly because we live in the present day* and also that I'm not fan of things related to glorifying, upholding or recognizing the aristocracy in any form. 

Aristocracy is a form of government that places strength in the hands of a small, privileged ruling class, namely the aristocrats. The term derives from the Greek aristokratíā, meaning 'rule of the best'. 

I dispute that they might be 'the best'. They are to me just 'other people' born into powerful or influential families, not necessarily totally bad but not necessarily very good either. The accidents of birth, breeding and the random powers of fate have a lot to answer for.

*That counts for very little really.

How to do Nothing

" I understand some people get worried about kids who spend a lot of time all alone, by themselves. I do a little worrying about that, but I worry about something else even more; about kids who don’t know how to spend any time all alone, by themselves. It’s something you’re going to be doing a whole lot of, no matter what, for the rest of your lives. And I think it’s a good thing to do; you get to know yourself, and I think that’s the most important thing in the whole world." 

Robert Paul Smith from "How to do nothing with nobody all alone by yourself."

Incredible Shrinking World

 

Back in the days of Charles Dickens a Yorkie Bar was nearly the length of a fully grown Pitbull's back. Nowadays it hardly measures up to a cheap Biro pen from the bottom of a drawer. I blame rampant capitalism and those heartless leverage buyouts that seek to boost shareholder dividends but only ever in the short term. This is no way to run an economy or a confectionery firm. What a time to be alive. 😕

P.S. Every time I type Charles Dickens I also want to type Daryl's Chickens right beside it but in brackets.

The Loneliness of the Lorne Sausage

 

More action from the occasional series on nuanced sausage performances that are slowly veering into the spectacular in domestic cookery situations. We don't do the mass market, fast food, bistros or other types of commercial eatery. No selling out. The best action is often/always found on the home front, where meaty legends end and hurried breakfasts begin. We're here to document the dances and shapes created by creative sausages wherever they may be found. This particular move is known as the "vertical ascent" and is based on a Scottish mountaineering and camping tradition from the Glen Nevis area dating back to times beyond the Highland Clearances.

Looking for a creative dance slot in the Edin-B Fringe if anybody's chucking sponsorship money around for artistic shit.

Sympathy for the Troubled

More  of a ramble really: As a confused teenager I recall thinking that it must be cool to have some kind of mental breakdown. This was inspired by the rock star experiences of folks like Syd Barrett, Brian Jones and Peter Green and some movies and novels that I'd also taken in. The fame and the burden of genius bearing down upon you, a few drug experiences and down you went. I imagined it was some kind of temporary state and they would return, fully formed and powered up once more. The fans would go wild. After a while I saw that real life is different.

I knew nothing of mental health problems and little about the damage that drugs can do.  It was only later when friends or acquaintances actually journeyed over this "high side" that I began to understand that most people were not tough and/or resilient and that bouncing back from troubles and addiction wasn't a given. 

Why am I writing this? I've no idea, I was just sitting in the garden on a sunny afternoon thinking how daft and innocent I was as a young man and how life is a long process of learning. Some people are good at learning and do it quickly, others struggle, some just repeat their mistakes over and over. Some go under and are beyond rescue, but how sympathetic and supportive can you be when people don't seem to or want to learn and move on? Of course if a mental illness is serious then you can't just learn your way out of it so I'm not comparing life lessons with that.

At least I've made it this far without doing anyone any serious harm (?). I suppose, what with all the media and news activity going on, I'm thinking of that human stain BJ, eternal Prime Minister in his own head and a man incapable of taking responsibility. He's a damaged and dangerous individual but I can't feel any sympathy for him. He's had all the privileges and opportunities, set out on a shiny silver plate in front of him, on easy street all his life and he's still a first rate cnut and always will be. So, moving on ...

When Cats Retire

We all get old, it's a fact that most people would agree on even if you think the earth is flat. It follows that if you live long enough and are inclined that way you might just manage to retire. It's a fairly odd concept in many ways but is a reality for older folks; folks like me. In parallel to my own aging our cats are aging. I'm unable to explain retirement to them as they've never really been employed apart from a ten or twelve year slot they had catching mice, birds and bees and presenting them to us as gifts in exchange for bed and board, supermarket chicken pieces and various types of sachets of slimy cat food. That's the extent of their careers I suppose. Mind you they've provided a good detail of company and emotional support and some periods of light entertainment too. I should add these in for good measure so they've got some pension credits to cash in. It's a love thing.

So their hunting season has stopped, they're way too slow and inflexible and they sleep for about 20 hours a day. They don't know it but they've retired and their once wild and wide ranging habitat has shrunk to the confines of our leafy garden landscape and, most of the time, the inside of the house. They are firmly in the "care home" stage and we've become their twitchy carers. We always were but now it's a more acute relationship. Meds twice a day administered in Liki-Lix, seriously long naps with bodily functions and moods under close observation, puzzled meow interpretations and the occasional visitor they can either sniff, cuddle or avoid. 

Social activities are rare as are the once spontaneous playful moments. No more chasing feathers on sticks, laser pointers, climbing up the curtains or clawing at tapping fingers. They like to sit on the arm of the couch or on the table (as above) and just stare into space. I often wonder what memories they might be reflecting upon or be reliving. The chases, the hunts, the take downs and stake outs, the rooftop walks and their nightly safaris deep into the undergrowth. Their first puzzling frog encounters, crunchy warm mice, snow carpeted all across the garden, hiding from rampant toddlers and from their own capture prior to a vet visit or even worse a fortnight in the cattery when we were off to Florida or somewhere that you can never quite describe to a cat. 

In cat years they're heading well into their 80s but they don't actually look too bad. It's the high protein diet and the lack of economic and cultural pressures coupled with any awareness of mortality. If they were human they might be considering running for American President, completing all the Munros or playing the main stage at Glastonbury right now. Well that's not going to happen, to them or us. Retired is retired but it's also something of a non-specific and abstract state of being. All a bit "do not go gentle into that good night."

Sniffing Petrol

 

When the economy is regularly giving you a kicking all across the board and we remain rudderless in the storm what is the point of even the most basic of research into price variations? Sometimes seeing things as they are, in other words having some "knowledge", isn't really all that useful. There are a few things you'd just rather ignore, like the crazy price of petrol. Here's where you can compare prices if you dare. It's hardly a revelation and is arguably pointless as there's no real difference between suppliers. 

I had expected BP to be more expensive (though our actual local BP and Shell stations don't figure on this list and they are only about half a mile away) but it's in second place ahead of Tesco. Why don't their automated pumps show up a saving? Anyway I quite like the fruit and bakery departments in Morrisons but it's over at the Gyle, all potholes and bus lanes too. One day we'll all have EVs I suppose and we'll worry about the prices of charging as we grapple with range anxiety and software upgrades. Until then it's just buttons.

Queensferry Daily Cruise Liner

In an unexpected plot twist summer has arrived, albeit in an often dull and blustery fashion. Along with that come the baffled cruise passengers who hardly set foot in the village before being bussed off to the capital city to get fleeced by whatever red hot tourist spot they're dropped into. I don't envy them the pain of it all, the fudged history, the tartan tat and the uneven pavements. Meanwhile all local roads are blocked off by sets of marauding alien traffic lights let loose by the Russians and determined to choke and harass any unwanted transport whilst unpopular building works progress and budget midweek weddings and funerals run amok. Good times!

Random summer observations: 

Those accidental phone photos of your feet as you cross the cobbles.

Waiting for a fresh brew of coffee while standing in line with six hefty cyclists in their sweaty lycra outfits. 

Looking up into the clouds and trying to predict when they might part in biblical fashion to reveal a watery sun so you can sit down and enjoy it's glow for a few minutes. 

Yesterday's litter still strewn across some bumpy car park awaiting the arrival of a pack of crows currently distracted by the activity at the drive through. 

Anticipating the walking directions of oncoming elderly pedestrians in order to avoid a collision.

Wedged open pub doorways that are somehow quite unwelcoming.

Never being really clear how much an ice cream will cost and how much extra a 99 might be.

Noisy school leavers in their 2022 sweat tops simulating the movements of a family of apes, swigging Monster but  unsure what direction to run in and quite who to shout at. 

A couple upstairs in a busy bus who decide it's OK to sit separately on both the left and right front seats. 

Trying to enter the chip shop but there's a wall of Just Eat and Deliveroo carry bags and there are angry voices rising from behind it. 

Any news website trying to make sense of the shit show that is British politics. FFS.

Sweet Bird of Youth

Sweet Bird of Youth and a Graffiti Cat: A tiny gif one of my grand daughters kindly sent me via her swinging, trendy and super dooper smarty phone equipment. Nice. One tiny gif deserves another, I'll see what I can round up and capture in the lands of the digital Serengeti.

Unholy Marriage

 

A short essay on the significance of labels: Supping warm Guinness from a cold Tennent's glass doesn't affect the taste or the alcoholic content or the level of enjoyment. It doesn't affect anything of meaning, it's just a not very thoughtfully selected glass holding the contents of a tin of beer. So there's my position on labels, products and life in general. I may also hold other views at different times, according to my variable moods and general outlook. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Indy

 

RIP Indy, Fox Red Labrador, 2011 - 2022.

Some dog time, well spent.

South Queensferry Daily Photo

 Consider yourself well warned.

Whisky and Covid

 

Strange Bedfellows & the Whisky and Covid Blues. Nobody has written the song yet as far as I know but perhaps one day we'll slug it out, see how it goes, see how it feels and play it for real. "Everybody had a good year..."

Escalation of Things

Following on from yesterday's post "grill pan fire of meat based activity", it is being reported that other similar events are taking place, albeit ignored by the (glutenous) mass media. Outbreaks of wild, sensual sausage dancing seem to happening across the country. An anonymous user sent me this picture. I'm not sure what's going on to be honest. Humans are present and also participating, I think. There's a hint of ketchup. It may be something to do with the pandemic, social hysteria and vegetarianism or not. I've no wish to point accusing, plump sausage fingers at any innocent party. People should just do what they like but maybe don't be too flag-wavy and enthusiastic about it. A keen sense of proportion is useful.

Sausages

Sausages performing one of their traditional "frying pan" folk dances. I was very lucky to capture this particular shot. As you may know sausages are quite private and shy and dislike it if any of their dancing or display performances are seen, never mind captured on film. For information these are of the venison variety.

Glastonbrie

 

N.B. This post has an irritable and  recurring annual theme: Another wild weekend of televisual cheese. The Beeb entertains us, all at the meagre expense of our intellects, sensibilities and the constraints of the licence fee budget. Everyone is on message, everything and every performance is brilliant. It's represented on all the channels as if some general election or sports weekend. You have to be here. We're mainstream. Some dickheaded band begged and blagged a private jet so that they could make it onstage, hmm. Love it when a plan comes together.

The fans went wild. Never before has this happened, you will not believe your ears and eyes. It's all the best yet/ever/possible. Some of the onstage sound mixes were a bit dodgy though, but it's only a TV presentation.  Glastonbrie Bingo. 

Enough negativity though; some of it was pretty good, some OK, some mediocre, some of it was shit, all viewed from 500 miles away on a comfy couch. But a sense of balance doesn't exist in the over egged world of TV entertainment, which is what this has been reduced to. 

Maybe we'll go next year and cheer it up with our own extremes of misanthropic and enthusiastic behaviour. That'll show them. And there will be mud.

Call Any Vegetable

 

Trying to think of a suitable meal in which to use four artichokes and a bag of potatoes, nothing obvious coming up. That's the problem with the random varieties that arise with the homegrown growing of things in the garden. Turns out that vegetables grow in their own time, they're not all edible and ripe at the same time. Damn. In other news, artichokes are a member of the thistle family and as such are a bit spiky. Handle with care in the wild.