.....from these parts.

No new puppies (new shrubs, but they don’t have the cuddle factor), no holidays in beautiful places, only a teaspoonful of sunshine in a bucket of rain, so not much to take photos of. On the plus side I ‘ve been getting around thanks to aforementioned (in other entries) friend. I saw a play that is now touring the Highlands called ‘.....from These Parts’. A one act ‘Alien Abduction Comedy that explores the changing population of the Highlands and what it means to be local in a cosmic context.’  To quote the blurb.

The set they created is terrific;  beautifully painted flats with a plethora of detailed bric-a-brac sitting on shelves all so cleverly done we felt we could pick stuff up. Of actual moveables there were only table, chairs, ketchup bottle, tea pot, washing liquid, coffee mugs etc.. to depict a garage workshop and a kitchen all in one. At one point the nose of a fancy sports car is dragged in for repair. It must have been fun doing it.  The piece de resistance was an ‘Intergalactic Communicator’ built in real life by Michael Start, our local automata expert, renowned for his contribution to  ‘Hugo’ and ‘the Woman in Black’ amongst other things. The Communicator was the cause of an impressive  denouement with lots of flashing lights, bits that rotated, whirred and clicked, then from off stage a blast of dry ice carried off the amateur UFO hunter who had supposedly created the communicator to make first contact. He had, reprehensibly, been secretly hoping it would take him away from his life on this planet into something more exciting, whilst at the same time he tried to prevent his daughter from leaving him to go down to London in pursuit of her own dream. His last words, heard from afar, were along the lines of; ‘But there’s a lot of nothing up here! Nothing but space that goes on for ever. What the *@* do you find to do with yourselves?’ More or less what one of the recent English visitors to his garage had said to him. Point well made.

The piece was written by two locals men who have produced and toured with several plays over the last few years though until now I, in my shell, had missed them. They call their company ‘Right Lines’ and it looks as if they usually have an issue to air and expose. I don’t know if they always turn it into comedy but lightness suited this particular topic. Incomers to these parts can cause irritation, or even bitterness, especially if they aren’t sensitive. 

Other than that excitement I have only to report a change of diet - no carbs for a while - that is having an uncomfortable effect on my inner microcosmic system....

Spurred on by the needs of my recently widowed friend who lives a mile or so out of town and can’t drive, I’ve been getting about more than usual and last night did something I wouldn’t normally have contemplated - attend the ceremony for the making of new Burgesses. Friend was singing in ‘The Big Choir’ which is a happy band of people who like singing but don’t want to join the excellent, but very formal, established town choir for which one has to be able to read music. The BC had been asked to provide some entertainment at this occasion and I thought they were brilliant; they sing with their whole bodies. The formal choir doesn’t. When it lurches from classical into Spirituals or Blues territory it’s a bit painful. I’m almost tempted to join the BC but years of asthma and necessary medication have given me a voice like a frog. Or toad. Anyway it’s a shame because  they made me want to sing.

The other entertainment was - no surprise - a piper. Now I can enjoy a good blast on the pipes, even in an enclosed space, but this lad went on and on until I thought I’d have to shoot the airbag or crawl out on my hands and knees before I got a migraine. Lots of feet were tapping and he got huge applause so it was only me suffering.

Though the Charter-giving ceremony itself was rather lacking in dignity and, well, ceremony, it was quite touching. The six worthies had their good works read out and very worthy they all are of the honour. I felt quite moved. The making of Burgesses has been going on for at least 500 years, maybe longer, though there seem not to be any records. The first charter giving the town the town the title of Burgh was probably given in 1140 by King David, the revised version defining the rights and privileges of  the burgh in 1496 by James IV.  This acknowledgement of the people who work hard for the town probably would have been celebrated at the Riding of the Marches, but last night we just sat in a Church on uncomfortable pews.

Half way through - and this for me was the real highlight - I had a unusually clear vision of the area in which I have been living for 25 years; the sturdy core of born and bred locals, the Scottish incomers, the English incomers,  the incomers from overseas who come and go, some staying (often to their own surprise) have given this little town a distinctive character. The local people are rooted and secure enough in their identity that, with the occasional pulling in of horns, they are prepared to welcome their incomers with interest and even affection. It makes for a satisfying textural mix. I think I’ve finally found somewhere I feel I belong.

PS: I don't put the name of the town because I want to avoid Googlers - can't feel free to say what I like if it's going to be too accessible.

Everywhere is very green just now, hardly surprising as it continues to rain. Some creatures don't mind.

What I like to read.

Another grey, wet and cold day. Nothing to do but write lists so here’s the start to: What I look for in a book. I put this on Facebook but it's really a bit long for that magazine-mind place.

1. A cast of clearly defined, well drawn characters with an interestingly complex central character, preferably one with as many problems, hang-ups and chips as me. Male or female, sex is unimportant, in fact Stig Larsson managed to have one of each in ‘Millenium’; Salander and Blomkvist.

1. A strong core plot with interwoven sub-plots involving the various supporting personalities.
2. A single or restricted setting (I hate galloping all over the place). Schools, hospitals, monasteries, nunneries, villages, universities, Innes of Court, New Age Communities, are all good hothouse backgrounds seething with fermented passions. 
3. A bit of mystery, mythology and/or magic is nice, but only if it isn’t explained away at the end. Ditto for extraterrestrials. (e.g. K-Pax)
4. Detailed detective work and if it is a murder it must abide by the rules and present the killer and clues upfront. I enjoy a good autopsy.
5. Realistic dialogue, each character having their own distinct voice. Repetitive obscenities get boring, as does over emphasised local dialect.
6. Humour. Usually the best humour arises from the quirks of the characters; jokes, unless included in dialogue to illustrate the personality of the speaker are not a good idea. Morse, Dalziel, Frost, even Poirot, all have their funny little ways.
7. Writing that comes from the heat. I’m a fan of Marion Keyes because I think she does just that.

I have to add a few turn-offs:

1. Shoot-ups, guns and gangsters. All Crime fiction that isn’t in some way Detective fiction. That’s OK for the boys. Detective fiction needs to follow the rules - clues and characters all upfront so we can have a fair shot at working it out.
2. Spin-offs from successful originals. The Code was bad enough.
3. Gloom, unmitigated, self-pitying, gloom. Feminist writers who write constantly about dreary downtrodden females, getting their characters tortured and hideously misused in every chapter. Wonder who I’m talking about here?
4. Proselytising, religious, or green issues, or any other. 

We do have some rum customers. The latest is a small bandy Highlander of uncertain age (but no spring chicken) missing his two front teeth, who goes to Zumba (whatever that is) who has been popping in frequently asking for something to liven him up. He talks, asks questions I can't answer, talks, talks, and talks. When other customers come in he slides off to one side to 'look around' until they're gone then comes bouncing up to the counter again to get on with whatever he was saying. 


He struck lucky one day when N was in charge. His questions were overheard by a young French woman, just arrived in town, who offered to do some kinetic testing for him there and then. She took the potions N had suggested (more or less the same stuff as I had pulled out) held them in her hand, muscle-tested, etc. etc. and came up with a couple which he duly bought. Then he startled her by kissing her hand gallantly and asking her to the pub. 


N took her home instead to introduce her to his wife who is a french speaking  Belgian so she was saved from - an interesting experience possibly. 


To begin with he wasn't very clear about what it was he actually wanted apart from something to liven him up (this was voiced vaguely and followed by a bit of a mumble I never could catch) but he bought the multivitamins  I recommended in desperation, then asked me if they would work by the evening. Er... no....they might take a week or so to have any effect... He took them home anyway, came back a few days later saying they were no good but he'd found a witch on the internet who was recommending Horny Goats Weed. I started to get the idea. It was one particular part of him he want livening up. 


We ordered the Horny Goats Weed so the ladies at the Zumba class had better watch out.

Once more with hat.

I have the floppy hat and green scarf - it was rather cold!

And that's enough of that! I've bought DVD's to tide me over the Olympics.

Grandson in foreground racing. He did well to be in the team - the only one from Yr. 9 (1st year secondary) with Yr. 13s.

Vivat Regina!

Never let it be said we can't party up here. Friends put together the garden party seen below, complete with cellar bar and greenhouse restaurant. there were quite a number of guests but as usual C&H had thought of a game to spread us out. They were possibly hoping to lose us in the woods. Harley had downloaded images of 36 old queens (yes, Danny La Rue etc. were included) and we had to scramble round his little estate, perilously tripping over rickety rackety bridges to find counterpart photos with information on who they had married. (not Danny!) 8 were easy of course,  but I had never heard of  Sigrid the Haughty!


Later there might be a photo of my hat, £5 from Sainsbury's with cheap dyed flowers from Tesco. I thought the effect was rather good.


I enjoyed myself.

Jubilee Scottish style.

Red, White and Blue.

Belatedly I popped in to our local newsagent to buy bunting for the shop window. If not bunting I was prepared to stick Union Jacks amongst the health food and supplements on display. The Red Cross next door and a Nickel & Dime two doors along that is run by efficient, friendly, immigrants (possibly second or third generation, don't know) have made an effort to decorate themselves in the national colours so we thought we should show a leg. I found a box of Saltires and that red dragon on yellow concoction, but not a single Union Jack. No red, White or blue crepe paper to improvise, certainly no bunting. A message here? In the Sixth Form debating society I remember standing up for the monarchy, mostly on the premise it was better to have a toothless monarch than a mad President. Blair would have loved to be President I think, and as for Alex Salmond.... Heaven help us all (crosses self fervently). In my paper this week a reader's letter pointed out that Sweden, Denmark, Norway and the Netherlands, all countries with excellent 'social mobility' records, also all have constitutional hereditary monarchs. The republic of France on the other hand has as many social mobility (catch phrase de jour it appears) problems as we have, so there is something else at work in the system. I'm going to a friend's garden party Monday. We have to wear hats. I'm sporting an import from Oz brought back recently by other friends, no corks (sadly, as they have a tiny loch on their land that is a breeding ground for The Midge) but it will keep the rain off. Have a good weekend everyone!