The Forth Bridge

I have changed my header photo. And yes, it is the Forth Bridge, but not the picture I wanted to use. I have several others but they won’t quite fit the frame without cropping-off the top or bottom of the bridge, which would be a naff thing to do. I’ll have to get out there and take a few more.

Scott Pack

You might have noticed that I have zapped Scott Pack’s blogsite from my ‘Blogroll’ list. I am no prude (I was a policeman, for God’s sake. The air in police stations used to be blue with obsceneties). But obscenities aren’t really necessary, are they, not from an educated man. Scott, you don’t need them. I would like to think that my grandchildren, as well as your own kids, can access your site without facing a barrage of ‘F’ words.

Neil Oliver

I have just returned from a long weekend at the ‘Winter Words’ literary festival in Pitlochry (Scotland…Perthshire…Tay Valley…beautiful scenery, got it?). On Saturday evening I attended a talk by Neil Oliver entitled, appropriately and unsurprisingly, ‘An Evening with Neil Oliver’. If you have never heard of Neil Oliver then I would be interested to know where you have been for the last few years (apologies to my few non-UK readers, there is no reason why you should have heard of the man. Google him, he has big hair – not big hair like Billy Connolly, big like Richard III). Amongst other things he (Neil Oliver, not Richard III), recently presented the BBC series ‘Coast’, and also ‘A history of Scotland’. Now, I am not a Scot. I first visited Scotland on a geology field trip in 1970 and I fell in love with the place. I have now lived here for ten years. But this is not about me, this is about Oliver. Not only is he passionate about Scotland, he is passionate about everything he does.

Neil’s talk should have been called ‘A history of Neil Oliver’, because that’s what it was. When he started the Scotland series he got a lot of flak from academics, which in my experience is the way some academics like to burst through into the real world (Oliver is definitely NOT an academic). His story about how he came to be asked to present ‘Coast’ is fascinating. My initial thoughts were that he was lucky, that he was in the right place at the right time. While I was driving home I realised I was wrong. We are in the right place at the right time because we put ourselves there. And as for luck, there is that saying: ‘The harder I work, the luckier I seem to be.’

Okay. Sorry. Far too much philosophy here. Maybe I simply had a thinking weekend that stimulated the little grey cells. Thank you, Neil.

Waterstone’s e-books

I have at last successfully downloaded an e-book from the Waterstone’s website. This time it went through without a problem.

Wet Wipes

My car is amazingly dirty. No surprises there, considering the amount of muck and slush on the roads around here. We need a good downpour to sort things out (but preferably not while it’s freezing, which is what often happens at this time of year). When the three-year-old clambered out of the car I warned him against brushing against it in case he got dirty. He stood and looked at it. ‘It is very dirty,’ he said. I knew that, I had just told him that. ‘It needs to be cleaned.’ I knew that too. My logbook, or V5, or whatever it is called these days, says silver-grey (the paint, maybe, but at the moment the car is brown because very little of the paintwork is visible). I told him that it was too cold to clean it (minus 2 at the time), and that the water would freeze. But that was no problem apparently, because he had the solution: ‘There are baby wipes on the seat.’ He was right, of course. I keep a pack in the car in case of… well, you know, emergencies. So watch out, you car wash guys, your days are numbered…

Waterstone’s e-books. Or maybe not.

This is a grumble. I’m not much of a grumbler (all right, so I tell lies). But this grumble is, I assure you, quite legitimate. If you have been following my blog you will know that I have a Sony e-book reader. It doesn’t replace real books, but it allows me to supplement them by carrying the reader in my pocket and bringing it out when I’m bored. I love it. It came with the complete works of Shakespeare, Wilde and Dickens (presumably for when I am desperate for things to read). I have bought e-books from WHSmith, no problem. Admittedly I had to download Adobe software to handle the anti-copying part of the purchase, but that doesn’t worry me. I like to think that if one day a miracle happens and my own work is published, the ‘Digital Editions’ software will work to my advantage. But I’m straying from my point. Who is the biggest book retailer now that Borders is no more? Waterstones, presumably. So why can’t I buy an e-book from them? I have been trying for days. Each time I get ‘There has been a problem fulfilling this request. Unable to contact e-book fulfilment service.‘ So, not my problem, it’s clearly theirs. I have sent them two emails about it. They have replied to neither. Either you sell e-books or you don’t. So what is it to be, Waterstones? In future, for me, it is back to WHSmith for my e-books and their flawless download.

I said this was a grumble, you were warned. And Mr Shakespeare, Wilde and Dickens, if you are reading this, no offence, okay? I love your stuff.

Ratty and Moley

Well, probably neither Ratty nor Moley. Have you ever seen anything like this? It is not a particularly good picture, as I had to reduce it to fit. We had deep snow up here, three feet of it, and it has only just gone. A BBC nature programme suggested that small creatures might forage beneath the snow in search of food. Here is proof of that. Whatever this was (not a mouse, the tunnels are too big), made its way between the snow and the top of our lawn (which is more moss than grass, for this is Scotland, not the sunny south of England). Whatever did this (or made these, for there are many such tunnels, our lawn now resembling the ground beneath StalagLuft III) must have been hunting for grubs. Note that the pencil in the photo is for scale. The creature that did the digging didn’t stop to draw plans.

Still not Harry Potter

I met a magician today. I had been writing in Cafe Nero and met my son there for lunch. The place had become busy (no great surprise at 1pm). The queue stretched to the door, so we went without coffee – and food. We had been there ten minutes, chatting and waiting for the queue to shorten, when a man aged about forty came in, came over to us and asked if we were staying. Things like that don’t happen that often in real life, so we asked him why. ‘I’m meeting a very good friend here,’ he said, ‘and I was wondering if you were about to leave.’ Had the man been swarthy, aggressive, and built like a brick outhouse we might have smiled sheepishly, nodded and left. But he wasn’t. He was a nice man. ‘I do magic tricks,’ he said. ‘And I get to know my audience, I understand their mannerisms. I got the impression that you were about to leave.’ A magician, then. The fact that there was nothing on the table, that my mug and plate from earlier had been cleared away, might have had something to do with his impression. I pointed to a vacant table and suggested, in a friendly way, that he wait there for his friend to arrive and perhaps, by then, we might have made up our minds to leave. Ten minutes later we stood up and waved to him. He came over, thanked us and shook our hands. No rabbits from hats, no bunches of plastic flowers from his sleeves. No sudden, unexpected production of our own watches and wallets from his inside pocket (I told you already, he was a really nice guy). What I didn’t tell my son, but will happily admit to you, is that I had every intention of giving up our seats to this man. I know what magicians can do, I have read Harry Potter. If we hadn’t left voluntarily we might have been turned into the street (feeble joke). Seriously though, I hope his friend came. We walked up the road and bought sandwiches. When I passed Nero’s ten minutes later he was still on his own, in the comfortable leather armchairs we had vacated.
(‘NOT HARRY POTTER’ is here)

Mr Toad would not be happy

Last Thursday I did a 300 mile drive south using the M6 and M5. I accept that one of our great British grumbles is roadworks, and I also accept that roadworks are a necessary evil. Traffic was dire, as always, especially those unbelievably busy bits of the M6 between Manchester and Birmingham. I have been doing this run for years, but this one was a real world-beater. I didn’t check the total length of roadworks on my way south, but because my return journey today was more leisurely, instead of passing the time counting the number of red / blue / orange cars (no, I don’t really do that), I totalled the miles of roadworks with 50mph restrictions. The total length, excluding works on the southbound side, was 69 miles – SIXTY-NINE! I’m no speed freak, and the restrictions didn’t particularly annoy me. But could 69 miles of speed restricted roadworks between Bristol and Penrith (a distance of 250 miles) be a world first? Should contact the Guinness Book of Records?

The thing that amazed me as much as the length of the roadworks was the way some drivers blustered along at their normal high speeds, ignoring signs stating clearly that ‘average speed cameras’ are in use. What alternative universe are these people in?

The Dick Vet

I went to see the Dick Vet today. In case you are sitting open-mouthed and wondering what has got into me, you might like to know that the Dick Vet is an institution, not an individual. Specifically ‘The Royal (Dick) School of Veterinary Studies‘. I went because I’m doing research for a new novel, I am bored with all this rewriting. If you have seen my website you will know I’ve been re-doing old novels. It is hard on my brain and does little to exercise my imagination. I feel it is time for something new, hence my visit to the Dick. I didn’t go in, you understand, I just looked at the place. Unlike Rolf Harris I am disturbed by sick animals. I didn’t actually see very much because the roads are blocked and it is it is one massive building site, they are constructing a new teaching block. The place is impressive. They will do a post-mortem on your goldfish for £45, and I understand they have the facilities to deal with large animals, including elephants. Though I’m guessing they don’t get many of those. Nor goldfish.