miles smiles

I'm listening to a lot of Miles Davis at the moment. Classic stuff; not the later years. I've been getting the odd headache and find that the long, meandering trumpet notes untie the knots tied up in my skull. The drums are gentle, along with the keys and the bass. It's usually 'Kind of Blue', with some 'Birth of Cool' on occasion. I find 'Sketches of Spain' too sad at the moment. The notes too piercing. Those notes tighten the knots.

I don't know anything about jazz, other than I like it. Well, some of it. That could pretty much be my blanket statement about music, really.

puffin

There's a dead puffin behind the dunes on West Sands. Its body lies on the grass next to the West Sands road. The bright orange beak stands out in the green summer grass. It's quite a bit smaller than I expect a puffin to be. For the last two days, I've dodged it on my run and wondered. I wondered why it was there. Puffins don't tend to hang out in St Andrews. The Isle of May, sat in the middle of the Firth of Forth, is more their scene. Especially at this time of year, as they're nesting. Maybe it got lost, I thought to myself as I ran on, or maybe it just wanted a change of scene from the volcanic pipe that guards the entrance to the Forth. Then I wondered how it died, if it fell dead from the air or was ambushed on the ground. I feel sorry for it as my legs ache. 

It saddens me, somewhat, as it means the only puffin I've seen is a dead one. 

Which is quite a selfish way to look at it.

the weekend passes

There was wine and beer and old friends and new friends. I cooked and we all drank. In a tremendous fit of nostalgia, we re-canted wines from decanter to bottle and wandered down to the end of the pier in the never-dimming light of a summer evening. We swigged merrily from the bottles as we navigated the cobbles and kept far from the edge and the water below. The pub beckoned, but we only lasted a pint before staggering home.

Sunday felt rather dreadful. But it was worth it.