The novelty of having this stuff around is wearing very thin. Christmas day Chloë had to ferry grandparents up and down in a landrover and she's been driving it ever since because it's the only means of transport guaranteed to cope with conditions. Boxing day I managed to lug the turkey, bread sauce, veggie stuffing and gravy up to g'dad's (he and his wife baulk at sheep-station cookery so it always seems to fall to me but I'm thinking of rebelling next year.)

Today the books are being moved into the garage by a chain gang of lads otherwise employed as foresters so - heaven help the finer vols. My back and asthma have been playing up something chronic, probably at the thought of shifting 5730 of the remaining stock... urgh.

This was our view on Christmas day from Iain's house. It looks across the Moray Firth to the hills of the Black Isle beyond.

We had a warm and wonderful time over two days and are all much stouter than before.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Spiffingly good last day for the bookshop. Someone even bought the complete works of H. G. Wells with out frst asking me why 'The War of the Worlds' and 'The Time machine' aren't amongst the titles.

It really must be the last day because I felt sad sharing a warming glass of port with Tom mid-morning for the last time, and positively emotional when I closed the door after the last customer, a very nice young man who has been a steady browser-buyer. He took a large bag-full with him including three nicely bound small volumes containing the complete works of Shakespeare.

Charity begins...

.... at Christmas? I usually give all my small change to the Red Cross and there's quite a lot of it because I can't add up or take away fluently whilst holding a conversation so all prices in the shop are whole or half pounds and anything copper coloured goes in the interestingly shaped Red Cross box which empties out at around £20+ every month or so. I like the Red Cross because they offer help in disaster zones regardless of race, colour or creed and won't wittingly place any religious books on their shelves to avoid giving offence. This time of year, with so many Charities rattling boxes or dropping in to catch me sitting at my desk I usually send them on their way with those thoughts because the cash tin isn't THAT bottomless even this blessed week. However I do get caught by my own sentimental nostalgia and the rattle of tambourines outside Tesco had me slipping a tenner to the Sally Army (the Salvo to our antipodean mates) for my dad, and another into the Dr. Barnardo's box for taking in my half-brother whose latest letter about what it meant to him to find me and therebye get to know about our dad, had me in tears this morning.

Fun and games with BT yesterday. I wanted to close my business line and Chloe wanted to take it over, using her number which is at the moment residential and carrying her Broadband. Three phone calls by both of us resulted in the closing of the line (so any friends who ring me on 676576 - it's the other one now!) but when Chloe rang to try her luck at picking it up where it left off there was an office party in full swing in the BT Business line call centre and operator-guy burst out 'Oh this is going to be a NIGHTMARE!! It'll take WEEKS!!" So she decided to keep her number residential for the time being.

I have my fingers crossed she doesn't lose this line completely - like a piece of knicker elastic it might slip down the track and never be seen again.

Once or twice a year I remember why penguins walk in that amusing way.

The condition of the High Street pavements, covered with frozen and/or slushy stuff, should ensure a steady supply of broken legs and arms for the NHS plasterers to practice on and there were plenty of hardy or foolhardy folk out waddling along on them, which was good for me because my doorbell kept ringing as they slid through into the cosy warmth of this little bookshop and its last ever week got off to a really good start.

...and yet more on Mr T ...

An interesting additional tale of the onward march of Toad has surfaced in my pond this morning. During the summer a woman went to the Other Bookshop to say she had books to sell. Ms T went to see them, dragged out some piles and said she couldn’t buy them on the spot but would like them at a later date. The woman wasn’t best pleased to have had the books taken off the shelves and left in piles on the floor so when ‘the man’ phoned to say that he thought ‘they could do something about her books now’ she was already dubious. He turned up in a beaten-up car full of black plastic bags and looking - creepy was the word she used. The creepiness continued as he hung around and hung around telling her stories of his life she han’t asked to hear, for instance that he went into a seminary at an early age. This tidbit always comes up for the ladies; I suppose us romantics like such a show of spirituality, but I fear it may be wearing thin. On this occasion he laced the tale with remarks about giving himself friction burns whilst he was there. Ho! Ho! So perturbed was she that she rang a friend and asked the friend to come round or agree to meet her for a drink so she could get rid of him, which she finally did.

Sounds to me as if the Toad is losing his pulling power. That’s two women who’ve told me his advances only turned them off. The other one blushed heavily as she admitted he’d asked her for a coffee then complimented her bottom. She found him sleazy.

He wasn’t always so unhealthily vulgar and louche. Well, he was vulgar but seemed more rugby player masculine rather than what he has become, shabby, cheap and disreputable. A skin-crawler.

Sad really.

Robins, doctors and sheriffs.

All very Christmas-card-with-robins, also one-foot-wrong-and-you'll-end-up-in-plaster here at the moment. I would like to light a Solstice bonfire tomorrow and am wondering how to do it - a very small one in a flower pot?

Thank you Gillian for your invitation - I think you're right g'son does need distracting and I wish we were closer. He would admire your toe - has an interest in all things surgical at the moment. Travelling in the car is a problem though - causes pain. There's a polar bear in a nearbye wildlife park who must be enjoying the present conditions. Maybe we'll get out to see her one day. For the moment he's cheerful to have been released. Fingers crossed.

It's been an interesting interlude in the Chinese curse sense (May you live in interesting times.) The most alarming discovery being that orthopaedic specialists round here really don't see 'the whole person.' Bandying words like 'somatised' around I thought they knew what they meant but no - they still believe he is 'putting it on.' 'Oh this isn't a mental illness, it's a cry for help!' one exclaimed. Heaven help the NHS if they get a case of Munchhausens or body dysmorphia. They will have amputated all limbs in less time than it takes to tell.

A cry for help it undoubtedly is but Sandy doesn't know that, and quite honestly we are at a loss - even knowing the problems how can we help? We can't just confront him with what we do now suspect, that it's tied up with the guilt and fear and anger he feels around his dad. To him the pain is 100% real and physical anyway.

It took me on a less than nostalgic trip down memory lane to 40 years ago and doctors who told me my asthma was 'psychosomatic' in the days when that was a buzz-word. They also misunderstood the meaning and felt I could 'rise above it' or control it in some way. 30 years on I found myself explaining to a doctor that the asthma was worse again because I had been especially stressed, only to be firmly chided: 'Asthma is nothing to do with your state of mind. It's a purely physical conditon.' Hey ho. A few docs along the way have actually listened to me and they were the real healers (even if they were repressing their own opinions out of politeness!)

I'm quite surprised my daughter doesn't have a somatised condition right now - she did have trouble writing the last horrendous £12,530 cheque for the divorce and custody proceedings! Her hand kept shaking.

Talking about court cases, I was pleased to hear that justice has been done vis-a-vis the bookshop up the road. The sheriff found in favour of the claimant, ordered payment, extra payment to him for time and stress caused, and imposed yet another sum for court expenses. The present owner was given a wigging (must be where the phrase comes from?) for not understanding basic business principles. One of which should be writ large in all the books on business practice - don’t get involved with Mr. Toad.

It won’t make any difference of course, she will continue to be in awe of his massive intellect (sarcasm alert) but it’s a heavy price to pay for stupidity.

Not much time to think never mind write here. The week has been full of trips up and down the road to visit g'son in hospital and a whole-day trip to the nearest MRI scanner in the back of a very rattly ambulance. Scan showed nothing wrong which is great except that it only scanned part of his spine and there obviously IS still something wrong since he is still in pain. It's all very frustrating. Sandy is becoming institutionalised but doesn't seem as depressed as he was for a while which is a relief.

We've met some interesting people as a result of his incarceration. A 15 year old German robotics engineer (he was invited to a convention in China on robotics he told us) who was at Gordonstoun for one term only and broke his leg in 2 places during his last ever rugby match. It must be hard for his school and parents to know what to do with one so bright to stop him being bored. Hospital was boring for him because he couldn't get onto the internet but he was nice to Sanders, and a jolly sort so it was quite nice for us visitors having him there too. The doctors - well, they've been English, Scots, Indian, Dutch and Egyptian so far. Orthopeadic specialists, and paediatric specialists and neurologists - and that's just the list to date.

I commend myself for having posted five parcels, one 3' high (dragon) and I've almost written my cards. There were plans to make some but that went out the window as usual.

The shop is doing well when I'm in it, but I wish folk would stop saying 'It's such a shame you're closing.' Bah humbug! Where were you blighters all year?

Squashy

I shopped locally for these two in a nice toy shop a few doors away, the owners of which are biting their nails because the season isn't happening yet in Forres - I hope I got it going for them this morning! After a lot of wavering between clothes and sensible 'educational' toys I decided that every one-year-old needs an utterly useless squashy green dragon which does nothing but grin, take up two grown-up-sized seats and let you cuddle it.

Pirate-guy has buckles and zips and laces which his older bros can show off with. (There's also a clock coming for Big Bros to put together and some nice classical music for them both.)

Now all I've got to do is find a big enough box.

On-line shopping.

In between the baking orgy and sitting twiddling my thumbs in the shop I have been doing my Christmas shopping on-line with some success until today when I wanted to create my own calendar with family pics for a couple of relatives and for me. I find however that my iMac is too aged and generaly doesn't have IT any more - just like me only it's only 3 or 4 years old unlike me. I can't even down-load the updates because it isn't a Leopard and therefore is too far down the food chain even to be updated. Grrr! This built-in obsolescence really makes me grumpy.

The Pantomime Season

The whole house has been smelling like Widow Twankie's laundry this morning since 6.30am. Very Christmassy. Two on the boil and two in waiting.

A day of gothic weather - dark skies, lashing sleet and snow, a wild, haunted moon - so it was nice to be putting together the ingredients for the great ritual feast to bring back the light.

Bordering on the scary side.

I wasn't amazed by the fall of the banks - didn't need a crystal ball to see THAT coming - but I was shocked to hear that Borders is in receivership. We were in the Inverness branch Saturday on an unusual day out and there I was gazing down on browsers, drinking my coffee laced with hazelnut and thinking how much I like being able to browse 'new' bookshops occasionally when pouff! There they are, nearly gone. I hope they get a reprieve of some sort.

The good thing is, according to the Independant today, the pendulum is swinging and a variety of independent bookshops are opening. The bad news is that they are all, so far, in London and Oxford. We do have one in Elgin, so raising a flag here, but only thanks to a wealthy patron who rescued it. Hopefully more wealthy patrons will come out of the woodwork. I really wouldn't like it if the supermarkets and airports were going to be dictating literary taste!!

Can't help thinking it's Amazon's fault. No matter how much my customers bemoan the fact I'm closing they all admit to buying from Amazon when they know what it is they want. Who can blame them? (I do too.) And they buy from the four book-selling charity shops we have in the space of 150 yards of course.

Hard Times for bookshops.

There has been a rash of shop-lifting in town. Sadly one victim was a nice young woman who has a brilliant knick-knack shop, but less sadly (sorry, I know it's not PC to say so but hey...) from the charity shops who are in righteous uproar.

I was glad to close last Christmas and shall be glad to shut the door this year too when Positively My Last Appearance is over. I'm fed up with the folk who assume I'm given the books for free. I'm fed up with the ones who carp about the price of a book when it's both rare and half the price it was last week and therefore probably less than I paid for it. I had both sorts in yesterday. They make me very sour. I nearly refused to sell the 'too expensive' book but bit my tongue in time. Was mopping blood for ages after.

I've also got a heavy cold which may have something to do with the grumps.

All is drear dread dark here in the North. Cold, cloudy, gloomy. No bright shiny fabrics and no beautiful new living rooms to cheer me up. Ah well! I made discreetly globular 'Sale' signs with holly for the window and they look quite Christmassy, not at all closing-down-sad, and I'll put a baubly-sparkly tree with them this weekend. The nice woman who wants to buy my books would like me to pack them all away now until she has sold her house but quite understands that I have to try to raise some of the ready to pay for presents etc. so we will re-negiotiate when she's got some money together herself. It's nice to think that the books will all, one day, find their way onto shelves in new shop even if they aren't sold here. In the meantime I have had some good sales, noteably a very large book of erotic paintings and drawings with a huge breast fondled by a very white hand on the cover that has embarrassed almost everyone who has ever picked it up. It was sold to an embarrassed bloke who put all his other novels on top of the breast to bring it to the counter. I whipped the books off - sadistic bitch that I am!

G'son (transient synovitis again: 'he'll grow out of it') is hirpling about on crutches, not making a very good fist of resting his hip. He's either in such pain he has to have knock-out pain relief or he is fidgetting about praticing going up and down stairs fast. At least we have him home and don't need to sit in a ward trying to think of something to do or say. Sewing would come in handy at that point. Maybe I could teach him to knit.

For a whole day I didn't switch on the iMac - I think it felt neglected.

OK - some joker upstairs was listening when I crowed about everything familywise and Sandywise being so much better than this time last year. A day after his rugby match he started up with the same hip pain that put him in hospital last March. Poor child finally couldn't cope with the pain so spent Sat-Sun night on a trolley in a hospital corridor then got a drug-induced sleep from 5.30 Sunday morning until the specialist came round to say - 'Oh, yeah, well, looks like the same thing... no point in X-raying.. bed rest until Thursday..' His mum was hopping mad (being an osteopath she knows a thing or two and there are some true nasties that could be happening in the body of an eleven year old and she would like to know for sure they aren't happening in her sons' body.. and what the hell do they get paid for anyway...? ) Eventually she sprung him, against advice. He is home, will go to school, be propelled around in a wheel chair and thus spared the mind-numbing boredom of life on the Children's Ward.

At least this time it isn't all clouded over with emotional stuff... but maybe I should shut up right there...

It's tough staying atheist sometimes. I'm a superstitious athiest.

Daughter and I had nice time filling a trolley at wholesale prices at the wholesale health food store on Saturday before the worst of this kicked off. I think I might enjoy presiding part-time over her new shop.

Picked the g'son up last night after an away match in Perth (two hour drive away, luckily in a luxury coach with films) When we got home there was the ritualistic counting of bruises and recounting of injuries suffered by others (the worst this time was a dislocated thumb - ouch!!) I got out the arnica, ran a bath, fed soup and sandwiches and fell into bed as exhausted as the warrior. All teams lost yesterday to a fiendishly good school but as they won their last match we weren't feeling too downcast...

My last thought as I slid into oblivion was 'Thank whoever and whatever should be thanked that this child is now a normal boy again who can take a few knocks and still come up cheerful.' Such a difference to this time last year.

Humour.

At the end of my working day I habitually pour my glass of red and switch on the TV in the hope of finding something to relax to. This evening trawling didn’t find much so I settled for ‘The Pink Panther’ which I’ve seen before obviously but the episode that came up was the car chase with all the protagonists in fancy dress and so I watched because this Makes Me Laugh. In fact this can reduce me to tears. Before the wine kicked in I was wondering why some comedy can do this - reduce me to tears and inhibit my already dodgy breathing apparatus.

In this scene it is the addition of one character - the still-upright-and-just-about-in-charge inebriate. As he puts one foot carefully in front of the other to cross the road the inevitable arrival of the car driven by a gorilla sets him back hastily. It screeches past him to be followed, just as he is about to dismiss the first car as an hallucination and recover his equilibrium, the car containg St. George and the Dragon, followed, after an interval for him to once more regain his grip on reality, by another gorilla, and so on until I’m a heap of quivering jelly on the couch.

I had a phone call this afternoon from a dearly loved friend who now lives in California. All this introspection on humour and what makes me laugh reminded me of the many hugely enjoyable arguments - sorry, discussions - we’ve had over the years on many more grave subjects, but the ones that stick in my head are those that concerned just this subject. He is a great fan of ‘Frasier’ and in the days when I would call black white after a glass of whatever house wine was on offer in the local hostelry, (and so would he usually after a glass of Guinness, with or without the natty clover leaf that some bar tenders can manage) we disagreed on the subject of British v. American humour. I had to stick up for my opinion so that made Frasier Not Funny, but this seems like a good moment to admit that maybe I do find the programme (heaven knows there have been enough repeats for me to have had a chance to change my opinion) erm.... well, er - worth a laugh or two.

It doesn’t take much to make me laugh but it takes a very special sort of sitcom or comedian or film to make me weep with laughter. On Sunday I was treated to a good hysterical weep revisiting ‘The Adventures of Picasso’ a Swedish film issued in 1978 and made by Tage Danielsson loosely based on the life of Picasso and opening with the quote from the man himself "Art is a lie that leads us closer to the truth." N & I saw it when it first came out and certain scenes have stayed with me over the decades, notably Wilfred Brambell (Steptoe) as Alica B. Toklass and Bernard Cribbens as Gertrude Stein. Alice forgets her position as Gertrude’s humble sidekick and is sharply reminded by the attention-seeking Grande Dame's reproving: 'Alice! Be Talk-less!" Later Alice dresses as a fairy and tries to seduce another artist - imagine Steptoe dressed as a fairy and I challenge you not to laugh. There are also the scenes in which the Bolshoi Ballet, scenery and costumes created by Picasso, premieres in London before the King and Queen, but, fed cheaply at supper on cauliflower, the dancers find themselves able to ascend higher than usual in their grande jette, battements and split leaps, driven upward by the violent explosions of gaseous farts, and the performance isn’t so well received as they would have hoped..

There are some clever scenes too, for instance the one in which Pablo is about to be electrocuted in an imaginary era of American prohibition of Art. He draws himself a window in the execution chamber and escapes.

My present to myself for myself this Christmas (if I earn enough) is to be the complete ‘Allo ‘Allo.’ That always manages to reduces me to tears.

My Struggle

I rue the day I ever bought that damn book by the comic little fellow with the moustache and stiff arm. I sold it once on ebay in n auction in October but the buyer didn't pay and didn't even respond to polite emails asking what was going wrong. I went through the proceedure to cancel the sale and tried to auction it again, got a buyer but now the wretched Paypal machine won't work for me. Funds were sent, none arrived. The system has worked fine every other time I have ever used it. I tell you - that book is jinxed!!

Nyah-nyah-ne-nah-nyah!

Weather's lovely up here in the North folks.

Ain't she sweet?

My daughter Pudsey - makes a mother proud.

Maximonster

This tiny creature is hardly as big as Sandy's rabbit and it's fully grown. I'm dogsitting whilst the owners are away and was looking forward to it coming, but apart from being really sorry for it being so size-challenged I don't feel I've got a dog at all. There's NOTHING on the end of the lead....

Iain's huge hairy alsation who we were afraid would destroy it in one bite, mistaking it for a rabbit, doesn't seem to register the little thing at all - maybe it gets in under the radar.

Creatures great and small

Gizmalina (Gizmo seemed too masculine. She is all woman.)

Hoar frost today. Winter has arrived.

Brilliant fireworks last night though - always some compensations.

Isn't he gorgeous?

A friend wrote this on my facebook 'wall.'

"I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn't itch". (Gilda Radner)

No idea who Gilda R is/was but she is a soul sister.

Happy Birthday Chillsider!!

Mount Kailash. The sacred mountain of Tibet.

Not sure why but I thought of it when I thought of you...It's yours for the day!

Hallowe'en passed without much celebration here. I just put spooky books in the window i.e. tarot cards, werewolf stories, Frazer's Golden Bough, Edgar Allan Poe, Buffy novels and so on. They did very well and I shifted books that have been hanging around a while, so that was all good. It brought me in some interesting conversations whatismore. A fairly regular customer, one I like, started talking about folklore and finished by telling me about her own totally fascinating experience of living in a haunted house in Ireland.

It's very much the place I am in at the moment as I retell the tale of the witch Isabel Goudie and chase around the other local books on the shelves and on the internet looking for North of Scotland folklore. It's rather like an archaeological dig, the further down I get the more complex things become and the more interesting only I'm afraid I'll disappear forever in some archive or the other and never be seen again.

At least it's keeping me from panicking about the future moves, which is a good thing. Poor Chloë decided to go down the honest route and notify the Moray Council of her proposed change of usage. Bad idea. They will charge her for the new signage - she could hardly continue to call it 'The Forres Bookshop' after all - and were going to charge for the change of colour so she has decided to keep the colours as they are! There are other things they'll charge for which I have forgotten because they're so stupidly insignificant but all in all it will cost at least £300 just to clear the red tape, and this is the council that claims to be helping small businesses!! Bah!

I keep thinking I'll write A Letter to the local papers, signed Disgusted of Forres, but I've been down that route in the past and it only leads to tugging in the gut where no doubt ulcers are thinking of forming. Best just stay above it all.

"They were, for the first time, the eyes of a man and not of a servant."

I'd like to offer a prize to the one who can name the author of this quote but I'm too broke. It's from Agatha Christie's 'The Listerdale Mystery.'

Autres temps, autres mœurs.

Change in the air.

My days as a bookseller are definitely numbered now. Daughter has the bit between her teeth and is organising stock supplies, new signs, new paintwork, new name... lots of debate on that one, 'Health Foods' just doesn't do it as she plans to stock massage cushions, memory foam cushions, those huge blow-up excercise balls, books (!) Runes stones etc. etc. We're coming down on the side of 'Balanced Living: Forres Health Store.' but questioning the use of 'Forres' because there's already a 'Forres Health Shop.' Varris or Varis is the name Ptolemy gave it 2,000 years ago (though I don't think he ever set eyes on it himself, just relied on Marinos of Tyre and other gazeteers of the Roman Empire. I think he was an armchair traveller.) Whatever the truth, not even many of the locals understand why so many businesses call themselves 'Varis Dubrimakers' so it doesn't seem to be a great choice.

The jury is still sitting.

Hobbit?

And here we have an Elijah Wood look-alike (almost)

Sandy Leylandii

I think he looks like a wood sprite. Shame the hair has to be shorn tomorrow.
This hedge in g'dad's garden is about 9' tall - I don't understand how he came to be on top.

Busy day.

Exciting day for this woman here. Lunch with the Rotary Club (daughter is now a member) in the nice traditional hotel restaurant up the road followed by the yearly 'flu jab in the Town Hall. The notable features of the first experience were the surprising number of toasts (I haven't been to anything that involves formal stand-up-for toasts for about 100 years) and the veritable sea of male faces all in one room, a very pleasant change, albeit a lot of them where liver-spotted. They seem a jolly enough lot, good at doing fun things to make contributions to charity. Last week there was a horse racing evening with filmed races, only sometimes they do it with human beings dressed up and a big floor mat and furry dice. Chloë looks to be the youngest member and gets made a lot of fuss of, which is as it should be! No leather aprons or rolled trouser-legs or slow-handclapping (I went to a Masonic Ladies Night once and was appalled because a slow hand-clap to me meant disapproval. It had to be explained...) There seems to be a constant need for bucket-shakers at charity events and Chloë has been persuaded to dress in a Pudsy costume sometime soon.She chose that over the bucket-shaking because she feels the cold and everyone assured her it's very warm inside Pudsey!

Notable feature of second experience - the sugared tea and biccies afterwards. I never eat biscuits these days because once I start I can't stop. Ate three shortbreads and then waddled home.

Personal Hygiene Please.

As a general rule I don't like peple who talk about 'The Great Unwashed' and anyway not many do these days, but I do seem to have had a few of TGUnW in the shop recently. The rain and chill must have brought them in. They aren't the down-and-outs, oh no. They include an elderly and rather leery old chap who takes pains to tell me every time he comes in of his previous career in banking (not something to shout about thse days one would have thought!) He name-drops heavily, names of individuals I'm supposed to recognise and impressive organisations he's had dealings with, but as he now lives on four pensions he can't it seems afford to buy my whole stock to add to his already considerable library although he would like to do so - blah blah ... Oh Yeah? I want to feel sorry for him because he is/was obviously intelligent and probably raised properly and is undoubted lonely, but I would prefer to be sorry for him at a greater distance - my little shop just gets full of that sour smell unwashed clothes have about them, and other body odours I'd rather not have to think about. He also does that thing with his tongue that Nick Griffin did on Question Time, flicking it in and out - it really revolts me. (I noticed that David Tennant did it when he played Bartimious Crouch Junior in 'The Goblet of Fire.' It was a masterstroke - made him very repulsive and I didn't think David T COULD ever be repulsive to me.)

There used to be a sweet old lady visit at least once a fortnight from the neighbouring town. She looked as if she didn't have two halfpennies to rub together but always spent £20 or so on books she 'couldn't resist.' I loved her for that as much as her evident gentleness and, again, intelligence, good manners etc. etc. Unfortunately she too smelled terrible and I used to writhe in embarassment if other customers came in at the same time or soon after her. It shames me to feel this way - I'm not very accepting of folk, but I know I was always friendly toward her whereas I keep my responses to this old man rather curt and distant and my eyes on my crossword and/or novel as much as possble.

The old lady hasn't been in for over a year and Chloe and I often speak about her, wondering where she is. Probably in a dreadful Home where she won't have access to any of her beloved books. Or she could be dead I suppose. I would like to know about her but don't have the first idea where to start.

Bad grannies

Good grief the Independent ran an article on research 'just out' that shows boys who have lots of contact with paternal grandmothers have a shorter life expectancy and thrive less well!! Can this be true? It's obviously very fortuitous that my son's babes live so far away from me. It doesn't say anything abut maternal Grandma's so hopefully Sanders is OK.

Honestly - who thinks up these research projects? This one, at a wild guess, was dreamed up by someone who hated her mother-in-law.

My daughter is becoming a formidable poet. I'm very proud of her. She has this on Facebook but I have to add it here too.

Savasana

Here in a room full of strangers
thunder living beyond dark windows,
in trembling silence of air
my body lies its warmth on cold
floor, eyes closed against a tangible
world, each tiny sound a touch.

We are no more than breathing.
Balanced at the top of an inhale
we live; at the base of an exhale
we die for a moment and hold it
close, that emptiness, that earth
scented weightiness, sinking.

I wanted, I wanted, I wanted
to create something perfectly delicate
carved of language, intricate patterns
of syllables. I wanted greater existence,
to know everyone, see everything,
be loved, be touched, to own.

But poised in fragile pausing,
just briefly all wanting has ended.
I search through this space
for a key to lock myself in,
but I built my walls in frailty this time,
they withdraw, withdraw and
the world pushes in.


Copyright Sophia Argyris 2009

R.I.P Mr McSeed

I can't find a single photo of this stalwart companion in my collection. That's terrible. He has been with Sandy since his parents split up - indeed he was a sort of consolation when his dad moved out because dad would never let him own a hamster. Poor Sanders is taking it very hard and it seems to have pushed him right back into the noisy breathing tic long with the depression that hounded him this time last year.

Maybe it's partially the time of year. It's hard to be cheerful now it's dark both ends of the working day. Not that I always disliked the dark. Once upon a time I saw it as party time and time for romance. Sandy isn't yet in that place and he has what the writer of 'Bringing up Boys' calls a 'sad mind.' There's a lot of deep-rooted grief and loss.

I made buns. It's always my reaction to tragedy - bake something cosy. Not sure how much good it will do.

Well Fin and Theo seem to be coming on nicely (see below.) Fin has changed - looks very like his mum just now and he still has a VERY determined mouth. It's good to see him happy on a bike. He was nervous of riding it, in fact refused to be bought one last Christmas - the only child the man in the bike shop had ever known to scream 'Don't make me have one!" It looks as if things have changed there too. He's a cautious chap; likes to think things out first. Theo is much more gung ho for adventure.

Thank heaven for digital cameras.

Sandy is in a trauma again as Mr MacSeed, now 2 1/2 years old, has had a stroke and is looking a bit lopsided. Sandy is refusing to leave Mr M's side today which won't please a certain father as it's half term for Sandy's school and he's supposed to be getting a visit. Ruffled feathers and some squawking later today I predict.

On a personal note, I wish the clocks did't change. I get all messed about. I was watching 'Cabaret' at 2.30 this morning and it gave me nightmares. Must have been the heavy atmosphere of violence, present and impending, that the film does so damnably well.. or maybe I was tuning in to the vigil over Mr M up the road.

This is my garage after two hours of tidying and packing a few boxes for a friend to take away to sell at a LET's fair. Some progress I suppose.

Tales of the North.

There’s a new blog now attached to this it’s purpose being to house some tales I discovered recently in a bundle of newspaper cuttings tucked into a stapled book of poetry. In the 1960’s a poet and storyteller of Brora, by the name of Frank Maclellan, contributed short stories to a local newspaper, the Northern Time. Someone lovingly cut them out and kept them till their books were sold to me and arrived in my garage. Respectfully I’m retelling them here alongside other tales whose heroes and heroines lived closer to home in the countryside of Moray.

I’ve always been hopelessly jealous of the Scottish heritage born as I was in an Essex county town, raised in an Essex village, brought up by two incomers to Essex so always detached from it and never bonding. My mother from Cambridgeshire - not a million miles away but far enough in accent and identity to separate her, and my father was born in Wales though he denied his heritage there too because he was so often teased for his obvious Welshness of stature, short, stocky and dark. His mother once told him their family came from the ‘foot hills of Wales’ by which I guess she meant Monmouthshire, (not always part of Wales) or the borderlands of Breckonshire or Herefordshire, and so she also disowned the Welshness in their breeding.

They were god-fearing parents, my mother Chapel, my father Salvation Army, and would have had no interest in the witches and dragons that once stalked the Essex countryside. Indeed my aunt, my father’s sister, a slightly mad but very gentle spinster who could quote the scriptures extensively, would have disapproved, (or been afraid maybe) of the stories from pagan times. The Devil lay in them.

There is a book published now by Sylvia Kent ‘The Folklore of Essex’ and from the blurb it promises:

“Essex - the witch hunting county - is especially rich in traditions, legends, dialect and stories that have been handed down through the ages. ....... dragons and warriors, literary folk and legendary folk, .... traditional beliefs, stories, events and customs of the common people. .... music, dance and song.”

I saw none of this. Perhaps we were living in different times, so soon after the war when just to be alive and scratching a living was enough to keep most people occupied without worrying about the past. Certainly I have the impression that the local history even here in the North of Scotland was not so well appreciated as it is today and books have been carelessly lost and destroyed that customers mourn for now when they see the prices I have to ask for a replacement!

I hope to persuade a friend to make line drawings to illustrate the tales.

Some time ago I started to put together a history of this town and the neighbourhood. It was interesting work but I came to the conclusion in the end that I would only be re-hashing the old books and records that already exist. I have nothing to add because I am an incomer. A friend has taken over, acting as amanuensis to a local who has many stories and can bring the old history up to date. This amassing of folk tales and legends is more up my street and allows me mre freedom for my own imagination - for after all a folk tale is not an accurate historical account it is a tale told round a log fire at night to entertain and thrill and any embroidering that the teller can put on it is to be welcomed by the listeners. .

No photo opportunities for this blog recently. Shame. I spent most of the weekend eating - at least that's what it felt like. Probably should have taken shots of the dishes. The sticky toffee pudding was wonderful and quite decorative for a moment or two. A fishy theme throughout: Squid in tomato sauce served on a bed of wilted spinach and risotto with Sandy and Chloe Friday. Fish soup (more like a stew really, very thick) served with a heavenly garlicy rouille and shared with Kate on Saturday. Sunday lunch I didn't cook, went instead with Judith to the Ramnee, a comfortably old fashioned hotel with bar and restaurant which does a good carvery only I ate yet more fish being off meat for the time being. That was where I fell upon the sinful STP. All very nice, but I feel a bit bloated and had great trouble saying awake today in the shop. I dread a customer catching me drooling over my crossword.

Some change in the air

First through the door this morning were an Australian couple who have a secondhand bookshop back home and were just curious to see inside a Scottish on. A rather scruffy Diane Gabaldan I have priced at 50p would, they told me, fetch £5 on their shelves.

Last week the Canadian homecomer told me the set of faux leather Dickens I have on offer for £25 would be £200.

Now they may be exaggerating in the excitement of the moment but I do now understand how people make a living shipping loads of books out to those countries. The Australians also said that on an average day in their shop they are so busy with books coming in and going out they can't sit down, still less do a crossword (which is what I was mulling over peacefully when they arrived).

Too late to emigrate.

I shall be moving in the foreseeable future however. Chloë has finally made the decision to take over the shop and, to my surprise, also the house around it. She wants to save her over-worked body which is suffering from the amount of massaging she has to do, and develop, as a second string, a health and whole-foods shop where she can also sell the sort of gadgets people interested in excercise like to have about their houses together with ergonometric back-packs and support cushions etc. etc. It should do well I think. She's put her own house on the market, which in the current climate could take months to sell but when it does - all change! I'm looking forward to it. Mostly because I rather like changing houses. The actual move might be a bit grim but I'm up for it.

It's nice that there will be some change in my life. I'm aware that practically none of the projects I set for myself this year have come to fruition; that doesn't bother me as the time has passed pleasantly enough, but stagnation is never good.

Toot Toot!

Mr Toad rides out - again. The first person through my door this morning spent no time looking at books. He asked me straight out if I have anything to do with a certain bookshop up the road because he’s taking them to court. I was very relieved to be able to say ‘None whatsoever!”

Mr Toad went to 'value' some books that this chap's wife left when she died, and which have become part of her estate. Toad took them away to do this (in itself a rather suspicious move by a bookdealer of some years experience who should be able to value books on sight). Some time later Toad made an offer which was accepted . It was agreed that an envelope with the money in it would be at the desk in the bookshop to be picked up. The chap duly turned up to get his money but the woman behind the counter told him Mr Toad had taken the envelope back and gone into the house. Mr T wasn't to be roused with knocking so the man went away very angry. Asking the present bookshop owner to pay up only got the response that it was Toad’s deal and nothing to do with her. That wasn't the way the chap saw it as he had rung the bookshop to get the valuation done and Toad had handed him the bookshop card when he went to the house. As far as he was concerned the deal was made with the bookshop.

He rang the person who owns the buildings in which the Visitors Centre is housed and has two shops of her own in the units so has an interest in the good reputation of the place and was understandably disturbed by this turn of events but obviously could do nothing about it to help. Finally after trying to contact Mr Toad by email and receiving some unsatisfactory (arrogant and rude) replies he has taken it to the small claims court. The bookshop has till October 27th to pay up or it will come in front of the sheriff.

He really has absolutely no conscience whatsoever. Recently he thought to reopen friendship with people he had stung badly in the past (friends until then) and got no joy so drove off disappointed. To have tried at all took gall beyond belief.

Chapbooks

I wrote a cheque last week for some incoming books - a very unusual occurence at the moment. These charmed me and when I had looked them up showed me that I'm probably not alone in my reaction. There are eleven of them out of a set of 16, tiny, thin, fragile, c. 1840 printed in Otley, Yorkshire. It's amazing they have survived in such good, unfoxed un-grimed condition. They're either printed in yellow and black, red, or brown with eight woodcuts in each and tell the traditional children's tales, Old Mother Hubbard, The History of Cinderella, Cock Robin and Jenny Wrenn and so on. They're chapbooks - may as well let Wikki take over here...

"....pocket-sized booklets, popular from the sixteenth through to the later part of the nineteenth century.

The term chap-book was coined by bibliophiles of the 19th century, as a variety of ephemera (disposable printed material). It includes many kinds of printed material, such as pamphlets, political and religious tracts, nursery rhymes, poetry, folk tales, children's literature and almanacs. Where there were illustrations, they would be popular prints. The term is derived from chapmen, a variety of peddler, who circulated such literature as part of their stock.

It's quite a while since I got excited about anything in the book trade but I'm excited about these. I don't want to part with them for a while either.

Head stuck in a book.

It must be the darkening days and the onset of chilliness. All I wanted to do for the last week was read. Curl up in a blanket and read. A couple of Agatha's then I was saved by the arrival of Iain Rankin and Stieg Larsson. After that a prize from the Red Cross shop next door.

Maybe it was coming to oor loon after Agatha that made him seem so bland and lacking in frisson. Not a decent corps, library, lead pipe or mickey finn to goad me on to the need for discovery and retribution. No catharsis. I was full of good will and expectation when I started out, relaxed with enjoyment into his excellent style, but half way through became irritated. I need to relate to one or two characters in a book and although I think his new hero is interesting, there wasn't anyone else I could get excited about, not even his alcoholic sister. I suppose if your chief protagonist is on the wagon there has to be a drunk somewhere fighting with the demon. After all this is Scotland.

It had tension and the general atmosphere of deep distrust but - not enough horror for this girl maybe? I have never done well with spy novels, nor in general with anything that involves using my brain rather than my instnct, especially if it demands I pay full attention to the wink-and-nod nuances of in-house conversations, know somethng about the dirty machinations of business and politics, and so on. Maybe he's just too clever for me. Maybe I'm just not that interested. I haven't seen any crits yet (except Chillsiders 'flat' which I endorse.)

I was relieved to have done my duty by th national treasure and be able to move on to the The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest which had all I needed. It was a totally satisfctory denouement in my opinion. Plenty of characters for me to get interested in and therefore follow through the winding paths of politics and dirty government. Which sort of gives weight to my complaint about Complaints People like me (there must be a few million out there?) like to get to know the cast, find empathy, have more than a name, clothing and a job title to identify them each time they appear on stage.

Now I'm reading 'The Cutting Room' by Louise Welsh and finding it gripping though nasty in a way that would probably put Miss Marple off.

First frosts and Feein's.

Monday brought the first frost of the winter and a beautiful day. Autumn is the best time of year when it's clear and dry like this.

Monday also brought in a customer with an appallingly wet and sneezy cold who seemed determined to browse intimately every book on the shelves. Perhaps she has been employed by the government as a germ warfare agent to suppress the populace? Believers in conspiracy theories and dystopian futures will understand where I am coming from.

The footfall into the shop increases as the winter grows closer. A book of 'Cornkisters' that I bought from Jane on Sunday sold on Monday. This time of year itinerant agricultural workers would be going to the 'Feein' markets to find work for the next season. It must have been a bit like a slave market in some ways, those wanting to be hired hanging around with their hands in their pockets (or not if they had more self respect) as they were eyed up by the local farmers for signs of strength, stamina and, vitally, 'good character.' Tom tells me that the reliable workers already known to the farmers could sometimes get a special deal to entice them to sign on, like the chap who got the deposit for a motor bike he coveted so he could visit his sweetheart in the next town. He worked off the deposit during the winter months. Those employed by the same farmer would generally live together for the season in a bothy with no entertaiment except what they provided for themselves (and, I suppose, the drink) so the Bothy Ballad, or 'Cornkister' was born. The subject can be anything but is most often sentimental memories of a town or village, or about a girl.

The Feeins in some areas have morphed into annual events on the social calendar as Farmer's Markets and get-together's designed to draw in trade for the shops before the lean times and to raise money for charity.

The Auld Alliance

Yesterday I took a drive over the hills to Ballater and Dinnet again. In The Auld Alliance, Dinnet, I took these photos to tantalise Gillian. I love this shop with its mix of Scottish and French antiques and bric-a-brac and, of course, Jane's books. It's hard not to buy. I'm hoping to return with a fuller purse in a month or so before the gift-giving time is on us.

Jane is expecting a Happy Event. Her bizarre gargoyle-faced, extremely well-bred cat hs proved that breeding alone does not a lady make by getting pregnant to a local Tom and, as Jane says, is looking as if she has swallowed a football.

Sadly I didn't see the mother-to-be in the flesh so couldn't take a picture. Dave was predicting the birth for this weekend as today is the full moon. Certainly I had one of my famous sleepless nights and have a hung-over sort of feeling today. The drive was more tiring than it should have been because the car is still not firing steadily on all cylinders and lost power going up the worst of the hills. Luckily I was the only car on the road so no-one was exasperated by my slow progress. It's like being back 60 years when cars weren't what they are today and groaned their way up hills slipping gears and hiccuping. Must get it fixed.

Into the shop yesterday rolled a large Canadian. I didn't immediately know for sure that's where he came from but could have put money on him being a 'Homecomer' guided by his outfit. The kilt (very fine wool and quite a mini, definitly off the knee) the laced Highlander shirt, the short leather jacket (not to be found on the fancy dress sites on-line) the sgian dubh (which he had trouble with at Customs understandably) and the sporran - hand-crafted and tooled. Larger than most wiry Highlanders he rather filled the shop and once we'd got past the book queries (old Scottish recipe books which sadly I couldn't provide) he exclaimed about the lack of kilted males on the streets of Highland towns. Tourists lusting after plaid have been taking photos of HIM which is certainly a bit ironic. There are a couple of elderly gents who walk these pavements in their kilts habitually and have never been known to wear anything that covers their knees in their life but apart from them, a dying breed I fear, the only kilts to be seen are the effete looking get-ups with their smart woollen 'Prince Charlie' jacket, or the slightly more robust and butch 'Argyle' jackets rented out for weddings.

My visitor proudly tld me that it had taken him a while to leave off the boxers but that he had finally braced himself and was know properly unclad. Oh too much information! I asked him to be careful sitting down (there have been some horrendous photos of ill-placed knees and droopy family jewels on Youtube!) He assured me that his sporran was heavy enough to keep the kilt below the vital line.

It's true that ex-pats are more patriotic than the stay-at-homes. He makes his own haggis and has to go to great lengths to get the right ingredients because offal is still banned from sale in mad-cow sensitive Canada. The first time he boiled the lungs he claims he nearly gave up the project but has hardened himself to the smell and the sight and now makes some real good stuff. His poor wife. I hope he does it in the garage.

As I type Sandy and the rest of the rugby team are bundling onto the school bus to take them to a match, dressed in their kilts and sporrans. Sandy does NOT abide by the dress code. He wears his long protective rugy under-shorts and cotton socks under the woollen because he like me can't stand wool next to his skin. Poor child. They wear them to the other school, change into rugby gear for the match, change again for lunch and to ride back on the bus. Cruel I call it.

The booksellers day

I found this nice piece at the end of a long rainy day full of chatty customers with lots of questions to ask me and book-related mysteries for me to solve.

".....bookselling is the best possible training in humility. There's nothing like being surrounded by thousands of books that one has not read, and trying to answer impossible questions from customers on every subject under the sun, from fly fishing to physics, to reveal the full extent of one's own ignorance. At the end of the day, I feel both tired and stupid. It's like being young again."

Suddenly the shop had a really good day for sales. Bizarre. Then a good collection of fishing books was wafted under my nose - and there I am back in the quandary again - to buy or not to buy? Am I continuing with this enterprise or winding it down? Do I re-invest yesterday's takings (and quite a lot more beside) or shake my head at temptation and take pleasure watching the shelves empty?

I just can't make up my mind.

For those of us who don't find spinning a good yarn so easy:

"Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."
GENE FOWLER

Shall I compare thee....

It needs replacing but I'm fond of it. I bought it because it was different and I usually dislike spending my money on utilitarian things because they are so dull.

It became especially memorable when my super-cleaner daughter, looking at it in distress, remarked: 'It's everything you are mum - interesting and completely impractical.'

What a compliment!

The teller of tales.

As I chomp my way through Agatha Christie's works a few random thoughts about the development of the popular novel creep in. She sometimes reads like Enid Blyton for adults; sometimes she's a little more literary than that. My feeling is that they were both excellent tellers of tales and that is what a good entertainer should be. Modern fiction writers may be subtler, be better edited, more spohisticated, but they don't always have such intricate and interesting plots. They might be good at dialogue and creating believable characters and hot with the psychology, they aren't always page turners. In the crime genre there is too much reliance on the forensic details and the horrors of decomposition both physically and in the human psyche. The murderer is often not a person we have been at all interested in.

I admire people who can tell a good tale in an engaging way and I'm not too bothered if they are unsophisticated in their style. AC sticks very much to the plot, especially at the end when everything speeds up agreeably. There is very little superfluous waffle, though just enough to cause distraction. The clues are always there for the reader and the cast is all introduce properly so we can get to know them. There is no deus ex machina brought in on the last-but-one-page.

Who did I see being interviewed recently who said that on the last page he writes a 'confession' or a denouement that implicates the wrong person to punish the reader who cheats by looking at the end first?

I watched with enormous pleasure the BBC biopic on Barbara Cartland - missed it first time round. These larger-than-life celebrity figures that we love to mock always have an interesting history and it's often a heart-breaking one. Will I ever be thinking that about Posh though? Or was it the times they lived in?

Barbara was a shrewd operator and knowing director of her own drama so not so flighty and lacking in IQ as her books make her sound. Her tales did what she wanted - entertained bored housewives in their millions and continued the quest for the Holy Grail of perfect love and perfect happiness. It has been claimed that reading too many Mills and Boone can be detrimental to ones health - the disappointment of real life is too much to bear.

In my opinion most readers recognise the illusion for what it is but go along with the fantasy which gives them a respite from reality.

Which could lead me into a diatribe about children's writers who believe children need 'real life' situations to relate to so give them all the heavy stuff like pregnancy, dying parents, paedophilia and so on. What nonsense! They can get all that from their parent's newspapers.

So Philip Pullman is taking up the cause again with 'The Good man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ' due to be published next Easter.

''By the time the gospels were being written, Paul had already begun to transform the story of Jesus into something altogether new and extraordinary, and some of his version influenced what the gospel writers put in theirs.

''Paul was a literary and imaginative genius of the first order who has probably had more influence on the history of the world than any other human being, Jesus certainly included. I believe this is a pity.''

(and how! says Carol)

Pullman told The Times newspaper that the idea of Jesus being the son of God came from Paul's ''fervid imagination''.

He went on: ''The story I tell comes out of the tension within the dual nature of Jesus Christ, but what I do with it is my responsibility alone. Parts of it read like a novel, parts like a history, and parts like a fairy tale; I wanted it to be like that because it is, among other things, a story about how stories become stories.''


Sounds promising.

Getaway? Nah.

I ordered a book local to this area from a seller in Spain and to my surprise got an email from a fellow bookseller who lived (as far as I knew) about 20 miles up the road. he and his have moved to Spain where they are continuing to sell his huge stock of books in a sunnier location. How sensible!

I don't imagine myself ever doing that but admire folk who do. Much as I might like a warmer climate at times, I know from the Belgian years and extended holidays in Greece that I prefer - I was going to say my 'own' country but what with one thing and another, and the Scots wanting Independence I'm not sure it is mine own... Anyway, I do know I prefer living in the North and in a community where my mother tongue is prevalent and mostly understandable. Of course that could be true of whole areas of Spain too by the sounds of it but... hell, what DO I mean? The world has become homogenized.

Maybe I'm just too lazy now to move.

Here be dragons.

The dragon T has landed and Sandy is delighted. He wore it to archery last night. It isn't really that much too big. They must cut them rather small which is why the one I bought for 11+ is already tight. The ones I bought for three-year-olds were also small so the Chillside grandson should be just right any time now. Many thanks for ours. I think I might keep the black on black one when he finally releases it - I shall frame it. Best dragon I've seen for ages and I'm very taken with them mythologically and artistically.

Chillside's reason for taking up smoking for the 'naughty girl' effect reminded me of the day we found my ma-in-law, sitting up in her hospital bed after her first hip replacement, puffing elegantly away at a cheroot. She said it helped to keep her feeling human in the face of the dehumanising nurses! What can we replace this weapon with? Last time I was hospitalised I took a 'protective' Aura Soma oil in with me. It smelled so nice I got more attention from the nice nurses so maybe it worked.

Not much news here except that I won a £15 voucher for meat from a local butcher by finishing the crossword in the local weekly rag. YES! Pity Sanders has decided to go veggie (he's a piscitarian actualy as he is still eating fish.)

I have a fluey cold - is that IT? Chloe has had the same. So far it isn't even enough to stop me sitting in the shop dammit. I should be grateful but - what an anticlimax!!

Doubt sends custom.

One of yesterday's customers told me that he had read about the closure of my shop on the internet - but because it was on the internet he hadn't believed it so came looking for me anyway!

The Moray Art Centre, Findhorn.

Suddenly I had a rush of enthusiasm for taking photos. It must have been the nice weather. The new Art Centre at the Foundation won a prize for its architect; I'm not sure I've done the building itself justice but it was the outside features that I liked best today, especially the big shiny balls and the illusory window which is really reflective metal.

Whilst I was at it I wondered around the rest of the place - see below...

Remembering Frances.

Two years ago Chloë and I scattered the ashes of a very dear friend, Frances De Silva, here in the Quiet Garden and around the little sanctuary. I don't need to go back here to remember Frances, whose caravan was only a pace or two away from the bushes we shook her into, but it was quite nice to sit there today and give her a bit of extra attention. She made many cups of sanity-saving tea for me on difficult post-separation days, whilst she shared tales of her own marital woes - most memorably the day she threw a plate of food at her first husband and knocked him cold. She watched the potato sliding down the wall and wondered how many years she'd get if he was dead! That's the sort of tale to put a bit of iron into the soul and momentary distress into perspective!

I was always jealous that I hadn't had the brio to throw a plate of food...

Gateway.

Barrel housing.

Harley (see below) was in at the meditation to envision this first experiment with new housing for the FF. The idea of making a house in an old whisky barrel was greeted with derision in some (many?) quarters but it succeeded. I believe it took a long time for the whisky fumes to dissipate but don't think the first inhabitant minded too much. The idea caught on and now there are several barrel houses of ever increasing complexity and grandeur. I still think this is the nicest. Most like a cosy Hobbit hole.

Amazing manifestations.

I don't often gt down to the Foundation these days but today it was a pleasant place to walk, out of the wind and into some interesting memories. None of these houses were around when we first came to live here so they have no part in those memories but are a constant source of amazement. Some of them are so huge!!