Back to the future

I really enjoyed the current exhibition of Basil Spence's work at the Dean Gallery. For one thing, I live near several of his notable buildings, including the gleaming white ex-garage in Causewayside, where, coincidently, I bought some beer this morning (it's now a beer/wine merchant). The whole show was a succession of "I didn't know he did that". By the late 70s and 80s I think he had become a bit embarrassing, like an eccentric old uncle who you have to be polite to at Christmas, so I didn't know anything about the man, despite encountering many of his works. But recently, that rule has kicked in whereby a building that survives maybe 40-50 years will be appreciated on its merits.

Not featured other than in passing was the Natural Philosophy department of Glasgow University, where I spent a lot of 1990-94. This could be because they screwed it up quite a bit during an unsympathetic refurbishment in this period. This was just before BS's star was in the ascendant, so there were few dissenting voices. At least it's still standing.

Happiness is...

...finding a fiver in the pocket of an old pair of trousers that you are about to throw away.

Dave's busy day

This morning in work I have a long rambling impromptu conversation with a colleague about life, work, education, the Civil Service, and me. It's one of these exchanges when some things fall into place. I realise what it is I don't like about this, and my last public sector job. Maybe I should just look elsewhere--my previous best job was in private industry, and I think that it suited me better. Despite the greyness of the day, I feel happy. Self-knowledge is always worthwhile.

This evening, I attend an event at the Queen's Hall. David Lynch is promoting his new book, and answering questions from loads of art students about transcendental meditation, film-making and everything else. He is supported by Donovan, who sings and reminisces about being with George Harrison and the Maharishi in the ashram. Another odd Queen's Hall experience for me, almost up there with Stockhausen. I got the invitation through work, as well as an invitation to the after-show reception, so my life seems briefly glamorous.

Good to see

There's a nice exhibition of Alasdair Grey's work in Cafe Cossachok in Glasgow. Great to see some original versions of book covers, and some very early work from the 50s. It's just a shame that somebody of this status has a retrospective in the downstairs room of a restaurant (albeit a very nice one).

A quick visit too, because it's only on till Saturday, and I only found out on Tuesday, and I'm busy.

More please, but organise better next time.

Good for my soul

I don't often do any data entry, but I am at the moment. It makes you realise both what boring work it is, and how you don't really understand your data unless you've got personal with scribbled-on bits of paper.

It becomes clear, for example, that some respondents in a block of multiple choice will fill in all of the first boxes. Or, just to break the monotony, will let the responses zig-zag down the page from one extreme choice to the other. I suppose you could exclude some obvious piss-takers like this, but how many other misleading responses would you still take as valid?

Here we go again

Fuck it's Monday again. I hate working. It's much more fun to play with the crappy camera on my computer. The weather's a bit grey today, but the view over the rooftops still gives me some pleasure.

Diaries, blogs

Am reading some of the Alan Clark diaries. By rights I ought to despise this car-crazy Tory, yet I am oddly fascinated, and have the distinct impression that I would have liked the guy if I ever met him.

The diaries often have a gloomy tone, so it's probably not something I should spend too much time on, being in a rather dull patch myself at the moment.

My people

Just been to view a house in Glasgow, and very nice it was too. Suddenly, moving seems like it could actually happen.

On the suburban train both going and coming back I encounter chatty Glaswegians. Going out is a cheery drunk with a dog who happily broadcasts his life to the carriage. Coming back, an arty lady talks at length on her mobile about her recently collapsed relationship, her planned evening of cookery and aromatherapy, and how she needs to collect that painting soon. I'm much cheered by the whole experience: Weegies talk to you in a way that East coasters don't. Personal problems must be shared with all.

Open yesterday

The best bits of Doors Open Day yesterday.

The Glasite meeting house was very austere and Presbyterian, and I'd never even heard of it.

I'd often speculated on, but never seen, the view from the many-windowed room on the corner of Queen Street and St Andrew's Street. It turned out to be owned by the SNP, and to be like an old working man's club inside, with Formica tables and emulsioned walls. However, the light and the view were excellent.

I also enjoyed seeing inside Parliament Hall, and working out what a bit more of that complex of buildings does. Some of the staff in the court of session re-enacted the trial of Madelaine Smith; a curious mixture of amateur theatricals and realistic detail.

Ask Mr Tufte

My current favourite time-wasting site is that of Edward Tufte, who has narrowly edged out the Exile recently. If you don't know, Mr Tufte is something of a guru in the matter of presenting information, so I suppose it's almost relevant to, but more interesting than, work.

His discussion boards are diverse and intoxicating, taking in radar maps of migrating birds, color charts for farmed salmon, and why PowerPoint is crap (this pleases me, because I think it is).

When worlds collide

What do you do when you have to fill a job vacancy that is a medieval relic, but you have a strict set of guidelines on the advertisement of public sector jobs?

Well, you just put it in the Herald, as The Lord Lyon King of Arms was today. I might apply.

I am two

I notice this is my blog's second anniversary, and my 200th post. Frankly, I'm surprised it got this far.

Sheep may safely graze

I went up the Eildon hills on Saturday. It was a lovely walk, though hardly gets in the door as mountaineering. The sheep are a bit of a giveaway really: you don't expect to reach the top of a significant hill and find them munching contentedly. If this goes on much longer, I'll start doing Marilyns.

What do you want?

There was a squirrel on the wheelie bin this morning. Just a grey one, of course. They're just fluffy-tailed rats really.

How it was done

As an occasional military history anorak, I was delighted to discover Brent Nosworthy's book on Napoleonic battle tactics. A lot of accounts of battles are useless because they leave you no wiser about how things were achieved. Mr Nosworthy fills this gap with a wealth of information about, say, the Prussian thinking on attacking infantry squares post-1806.

And I discovered that Henry Shrapnel invented the shrapnel shell. How could I not now this?

First time

I heard somebody introduce themselves by using the term Scottish Government today.

Good game.

Falkland Palace is just a tiny bit disappointing: a lot of the interest can be seen from the street outside, and the interiors were mostly 19th Century reproductions.

More interesting is the world's oldest tennis court, which is in the grounds. That's royal or real tennis, of course, not lawn tennis (another 19th century innovation). I like that the idea of a serve is to get the ball onto the roof of the gallery, and that you get points for knocking the ball through the holes in the end wall. And the word "serve" originates because one's servant would start play off to save one from bending over in one's fine clothes.

Impassable for motors

They have a lot of cool old signposts in East Lothian. Nice to see such enthusiastic use of vulgar fractions. If a man walks from the sign to Woodhead, how many miles is he from Gifford? Express your answer as (a) an improper fraction (b) a decimal.


This one was grubbier, but more informative. I liked the obsessively accurate direction "Edinburgh 20 7/8". No doubt as a counter-blast to those hot-headed fools who claimed it to be 21 miles.

Art

I manged to get to some of the main art exhibitions for the festival today.

I'll write some more about some of the big shows later, but some of the wee ones are cool too. Maybe it's just because you start without any expectations, but the small groups of work in single rooms are often excellent.

Among its blockbusters, the NGS have got together some prints by William Blake, and very fine they are too. In passing, I wonder if anybody has done a critique of, say, Songs of Innocence that considers both the word and the image? Those literary types shouldn't think they've annexed the topic.

The portrait gallery has a lovely selection of pastel portraits next to the cafe. What else can I say - they are exquisite and beautiful things.

The Queen has also done us proud and put on Amazing Rare Things at the gallery in Holyrood. (I suppose it's not a small show, but hey, I'm on a roll.) This is of natural history illustrations, whether part of Leonardo da Vinci's studies in red chalk, or a rich cardinal's cabinet of curiosities. The lack of an aesthetic party line or agenda about 'Art' is very refreshing. I noticed both here and in previous extracts from the royal collection, that HMQ has a lot to thank some of her predecessors for. George III in particular seems to have had an excellent eye (or been very well advised). I doubt the current members are enhancing the collection much.

Nature ramble

I originally set out yesterday to do something boyish and mildly obsessive involving Munros, but plans went sideways, and I ended up on a pretty ramble round some hills near Pitlochry. Some middle-aged men were twatting around with landrovers in the woods, but I left them to their tentative off-roading. It was, after all a day for wildlife. Spot of the day was a red squirrel which ran across the path, then watched me critically from high on a tree trunk. Dragon flies and butterflies were all around in the woods, and up on the moorland, I spotted a lizard trying to get warm enough to move.