No patience

When I was wee, my mum always made me wait when boarding buses and trains. "Let the people off first!" she admonished. And I always do. Recently, I've encountered a lot of people who are not so considerate. At both the Glasgow and Edinburgh ends of today's journey, there was a wall of jostling people displaying no patience at all.

This must be a sign of approaching middle age.

Most people start with the letters

I've just bought a Tusitala Stevenson. It had been sitting in the window of the second hand bookshop down the road for a couple of weeks. I've been curious about some of RLS's more obscure works for some time, so it seemed a good omen. I find myself briefly in another world. "Most people start with the letters" says the book shop man rather cryptically. I must look blank, because he explains that the volumes of letters are the most awkward to find, therefore if you care about getting a uniform edition, it's best to acquire them first, then look for matching versions of the more commonly found volumes. Of course. I don't like to mention that I am no bibliophile and only want to read them.

It has started

I'm hopelessly confused about when the various varieties of Edinburgh Festival officially start, but that's an academic point. When you cross the High Street and see it blocked by the great horde of luvvies and their followers, you know that it has all kicked off. High Street is now off-limits for a month, unless you want to be endlessly detained by jugglers, mime artists, rickshaws, leafleters (is that a word?), and people advertising their one-person show about Mao Tse-Tung.

Ridley can remember it for you

I was reflecting recently on my never actually liking any books by Philip K. Dick very much. He is tremendously popular, and this in itself is a disincentive (I'm a contrary soul). Let's see, I've read Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, of course, and The Man in the High Castle. Both books that are better talked about than read, and whose contents I can barely recall - never a sign of high quality fiction. But after reading another glowing account of the man's oeuvre, I got Valis out of the library to see if I could settle the matter. Don't try this at home, folks. It's unreadable. No doubt some will claim that the confusing jumble of philosophical ramblings is a touching and witty account of a descent into mental illness (or something), but I don't buy it. It's drug-addled tosh, and I think we all know it. Dick's reputation has been falsely raised by the successful films that some of his books have become. But face it people, Bladerunner works because Ridley Scott took a promising idea and realised it more fully than PKD ever could have.

Stick to the painting

I've just heard Howard Hodgkin interviewed on Front Row. He sounded a miserable old sod.

Better now, thank you

I've not been in the best of spirits over the last few weeks, so it's a pleasure to record a very enjoyable Glasgow Fair weekend. This is mainly because I managed to get out for a decent walk yesterday, after several weekends of rotten weather. I think I'm basically like a dog: in need of regular walking to stay in top condition.

My day trip was to the Lui group again, to do the big chap himself and Beinn a' Chleibh behind. Despite forgetting my camera, and wearing new boots (scope for very sore feet), it was a very satisfying trip. The walk from Cononish is very quiet - does everybody do these hills from Glen Lochy now? What a great view they're missing. Anyway, I have the famous corrie to myself and only hook up with other walkers on the summit. Beinn a' Chleibh -which looks like a playing field from the top of Lui - is then an easy walk. There's an interlude of that easy companionship you get on hilltops. It's clear and all the summits are out. Over to the north, Ben Nevis sez hi. I sunbathe on a rocky slab for a bit before turning for home.

I felt fine after this exertion, but I must have been more tired than I realised. I spent this morning in bed, cautiously stretching muscles and reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I'd randomly picked off the shelf a few nights ago. It's a book I hadn't really got before, but it comes up much better the second time round, and perhaps finishing it in a sitting helps. No illicit substances (tea?) were involved.

Scary guns

Saw two policemen with automatic weapons in Queen Street station this morning. A unique experience, and not one I thought I'd ever see.

Farewell Fopp

I feel bereft by the departure of Fopp. When I was a student at Glasgow, I would be pulled across Byres Road to look for cheap Ivor Cutler tapes (this was 15 years ago). Quirky stock and simple prices led to quite a few discoveries over the years. I knew high street CD sales were getting shaky, but didn't think it had quite come to my favourite music shop closing.

Excuses, excuses

Just been on a little trip down Ipswich way, where I used to live. It was mainly distinguished by the variety of train delays. There has been severe weather of course: cue a couple of hours running very slowly past some wet fields near Grantham. Then there has been a derailment on a bridge near Ely, which is proving very tricky to sort out, as some empty trucks are hanging above the river. And how do you get a crane in to such a marshy landscape to lift them out? Over to some Network Rail engineers.

And this morning, coming back via Cambridge to avoid the derailment, we were held up by a swan on the line.

Right inheritance

I'm currently enjoying Joan Fisher Box's biography of her dad, the statistician R.A. Fisher. It's impossible to study stats without getting to know something about him, but the full story is even more interesting. One surprise for modern readers is his activity in the field of eugenics. At this point we all shuffle nervously, because as modern liberal citizens we don't talk about that embarrassing stuff any more. Fisher talked about it a lot though. He served on a Royal Commission in the early 30s on the problem of the number of mental patients, which much exercised the government of the day. Their final report suggested a program of sterilisation (albeit voluntary). That was about as close as we got in this country to fully fledged eugenic laws. It was ignored by the government and that was that.

Reading the wikipedia article on eugenics filled in some fascinating detail. I liked the Nazi justification of their eugenic policies by the great success that many US states were already having with their own version.

That wet stuff's a bitch

Monsoon-like conditions greeted me this morning. Fleshmarket Close had a burn running down it. I more-or-less dried out on the train, but then Glasgow was about as wet.

Coming home was dry until I got to Newington, when there was a fresh cloudburst. I sheltered in a close (or was it a pend?) with some bewildered tourists.

Nature watch

We've not had any bird watching for a while...

From the office window I can see that some seagulls have raised chicks on one of the rooftops opposite. They are nondescript balls of grey feathers, which hides them rather well against the gravel covering of the flat roof that their parents have made home. All this in the block next to Central Station, and about eight floors above the traffic. No doubt they are being raised on fish supper remnants and discarded kebab.

We hear a lot of bleating about the fragility of the natural world, but some of it is incredibly tough.

It's Monday, bah!

This weekend was the last Munro party of an old friend, so there was a gathering of aging reprobates in Glencoe. Dave's last hill was Stob na Broige, at the other end of the Buachaille from his first, Stob Dearg. A pleasing symmetry. The day was miserable, as is standard for such events.

My boots died on the last part of the walk out. I think they're going in the bin.

Back to the Kingy for a meal and ritual abuse of the other walkers we met (Did ye see that guy? What a twat!).

Great to meet some old faces again, after too long a gap.

A Sunday of gentle rain and reminiscences followed.

Aarrgghh!

I thought I had become accustomed to how crap the drama and comedy on Radio 4 can be, but Blood in the Bridal Shop plumbed new depths. Variously described as a drama and a comedy, this really was dire. I enjoy a challenge sometimes, and decided to listen to all 15 minutes of it rather than switching off at the end of Front Row, as I would normally. This felt a bit like trying to hold your breath underwater: you end up diving for the off switch with bursting lungs.

War art

A couple of exhibitions recently have pointed me to the work of Edward Baird (1904-1949), a little-known painter from Montrose. When I visited Kelvingrove last, I found his Unidentified aircraft, which feels as strong in its way as any of the images in the Imperial War Museum. He also had some work in the recent exhibition of works from the McManus in Dundee: a fine portrait of his father in law playing chess with ghostly pieces. Neither of these can be found on the web, so you'll have to take my word for it. He suffered from ill health and died fairly young, before he could complete much of what he was obviously capable.

My musings on Baird came from visiting the Dean and Modern Art galleries yesterday. They have quite a nice show of graphic work from WW I in a corridor, with German on one wall and British on the opposite wall. Odd how the German work looks much stronger (Otto Dix, Max Beckmann) that the victors. Is this just because we've been trained to see it in terms of the original work that these artists later did? Whereas Augustus John's stock has rather diminished, and who now would want to look at his rather limp and unfocussed image? The work by Eric Kennington still looks good, though he could be illustrating anything.

At the circus

More signs that I am working inside a le Carre novel: somebody today told me that they were sending me something via the "overnight bag".

Fellow traveller

I wondered what the woman on the train was fumbling with in her bag. There was something furry in there. As we waited to get off, a fancy rat popped its head out and had a good look around. I wonder where she had taken it.

If in doubt, eat chips

I bought chips on my way home tonight, and entered the close with a nice warm newsprint-wrapped parcel and a sense of anticipation. At the top of the stairs I was unable to open my front door. How odd: the key just won't turn in the lock. Peering through the keyhole, I can see that part of the lock is out of line. I've no idea how that happened, but it is. I instantly get a vision of an evening spent phoning for locksmiths, waiting for locksmiths in the drizzle, paying locksmiths, explaining to the landlords what has happened...

Call me shallow-minded, but at this point I decide that I might as well eat my greasy food while it's hot. I do so, and very fine it is too. I then have "one last try" at the door, and it opens.

Hills, Mottes, Poles

A pleasant return trip to Biggar in the Clyde valley, this time to ascend Tinto Hill. A lot of walking across farmland and along disused railways (and why did the Borders lose quite so many lines?) was involved.

If you've been paying attention, you'll have guessed that while hills may form the stated reasons for my trips, the real interest can come from many other areas. The Coulter Motte was on my route, and it is a fine example of a site that is historic but not actually much to look at. If the word "castle" conjours up for you vast curtain walls, bristling with fenestrations and drawbridges, then go and look at this. It's a not-very-big heap of earth which once had a wooden building on top. This must have been about as small as you could make a motte and bailey castle without being laughed at. I wonder if it was just impossible not to build this way in the 12th century, in the same way that Scots baronial seems to have been expected in the 19th.

And in 1940, General Sikorski reviewed the Polish forces in exile from a stance in Biggar main street. So there.

On my doorstep

Spent a pleasant hour or so this morning in the Meadows watching the start and finish of the Edinburgh 10K race. It's hard to ignore really, as I can lie in bed and hear the PA system, albeit in garbled form. Interesting to see the range of body types and running styles. Of course the top runners all look much the same. I do wonder if the elite men are shorter than the elite women, or was it just the ones I saw?