inverted

I can walk on my hands. It sounds like an odd thing to mention, but I think it's relevant. I'm generally ok with being upside-down. In my breakdancing youth, I even managed some headspins. Being able to say 'my breakdancing youth' dates me. It's so retro it's come back into style. At summer camp, when I was 12, I set some sort of headstand record. I think it was about 10 minutes. I don't know now whether that was hugely impressive or a bit mediocre, but it was a record nonetheless. That said, I don't know if the record was for the camp or just my age group; if it was for that summer or the entirety of the camp's history.

I found myself upside-down Friday. My shoulders felt strained, but not as much as when I walk on my hands. My seatbelt was cutting into them, taking my weight, suspending me so that my head didn't fall and smack against the roof of the car, or worse, go through the windshield. My phone and nano lay on the windshield beneath me. The car was upside-down and upright. I don't know how that worked. The radio was still nattering away. I turned the engine off. The radio stopped. I put my right hand on the roof and used my left to undo my seatbelt. I didn't fall. My legs worked out where to be. I opened the passenger door, as it looked closer to the ground. It didn't occur to me to be relieved that I was able to open it. An alarm went off, telling me my headlights were still on. I switched them off. I grabbed my phone and stumbled out. My hands weren't shaking yet. There were voices from up on the road, wondering if anyone was in the car. I shouted that I was ok. I was. I scratched my head on a branch getting out of the underbrush.

I sat in the front of a stranger's van, another stranger's blanket to keep me warm in case I went in to shock. My hands started shaking. Pete C, James and the police arrived, concerned. A doctor took my pulse. I told everyone I was ok. Because I was. Everyone told me how lucky I was. Because I was. Pete collected the things that had been in what once was the boot. The boot lost the argument with the tree, and my camera, laptop and rucksack were strewn along the slope of the ditch. He found my Red Sox hat. James phoned his mechanic and asked him to get the car out. We climbed into the written-off Land Rover and drove back to Naughton.

Pete and I went for a walk up to the back field on the hill to finish some fencing. James and Lara joined us and then we headed up to the garage in Gauldry to see the car. My lens broke in the crash, so I borrowed Pete's. I took some pictures, detached. It wasn't my car anymore, just twisted metal, rubber and plastic. The mechanic looked at me in disbelief when he found out I was the driver. He told me I was lucky. I was. He charged me too little for recovery. I left it for him to sell for scrap.

My macbook's chassis is warped: it's had some hiccups. My new lens and my built-in flash are broken. I lost a pen, and the battery cover for my camera. I don't have a car any more. Rain, mud, a bad corner and inexperience took it from me. I wasn't going that fast, but still I lost control. But I'm alive, and my friends took care of me.

I was very, very lucky.

But I don't know if I'm ok. Yet.

fiddling

Just fiddling with the look a bit. Writer's block. It leads to odd distractions. Like it? I'm not sure. I needed to get rid of the orange though. Comments in comments (who am I kidding?).

Memories

Today I had one task. Well, lots of tasks, but there was one task unique to the day. Part of the task required me to be in Edinburgh. I was delivering something. But just delivering something is boring, so I arranged lunch. Lunch should never be boring. So Kirsty and I arranged to meet for lunch where I would deliver her stylish-executive-style-groovy black jacket and we would eat yummy food. She chose a groovy little place on George IV Bridge. Sorted. Traffic was easy. I found a parking space no problem. The walk from Castle Terrace to the bridge was lovely, the sun was out and I paused to admire the apples in Ian Mellis on Victoria St. I got to the restaurant first and was given a big comfy couch, in spite of there being a reserved notice on it. Maybe the waitress liked me? The menu looked good. I ordered a soft drink. Kirsty walked in, all smiles, and I felt like a total prat. Her stylish-executive-style-groovy jacket, the reason for me being in Edinburgh, for having lunch, my day's task, was hanging in the closet back at the house.

My memory perplexes me. I'm nine years-old, lying upside down on the pale blue carpeted staircase in a flat my parents rent on St Peter's Sq, in London. I've just been Indiana Jones, and my adventure has left me inverted. My imaginary adversary fared far worse, no doubt. For some reason I burn that image in to my brain, and promise myself I will remember it for the next twenty years.

That was twenty-one years ago last month. The details are there, but it's arbitrary. There are thousands like it, both before and after that moment that seem so clear, and for some reason significant merely for their clarity. A moment's concentration and more comes out. Detail after detail, names, faces, times, dates, menus not just what I ordered but what others ordered. What people said, why they said it. Or why I thought they said it. Moments of horrendous embarrassment and great triumph - the former surface with more annoying regularity, of course - it's all there.

Well, almost all of it. Story ideas disappear without a trace - only the echo of elation at their conception remains. Nothing brings them back. I have notebooks but forget to bring them with me. Ironically, I forget to remind friends about things. There's laundry in the drier, I've just remembered, that I put in three days ago. I remember birthdays, but not family ones. I don't remember the chat that led to me kissing the most beautiful girl I've ever kissed. I didn't remember Kirsty's jacket. But I remember the first night I met Kirsty. I remember it was February of 2002. Andy introduced me. I had just finished my shift at the shop. The Central still had Becks on draft, so I drank five pints as we chatted about the wine business and got to know each other. Afterwards, I went back to the shop, tipsy, and bought a bottle of Les Forts de Latour 1988 and opened it then and there. I only drank a glass, because my palate was a mess from all the beer. I left the rest for Zana, who was working until ten.

It could have been yesterday. But it's today, and I forgot the jacket. Lunch, however, was excellent and well worth the trip. Just as well, really.

Pete C scales the shelves of the Naughton cellar, much to Kirsty's bemusement

lifting haze

It turns out a dinner party of two can still be a party - provided champagne, wine and port are consumed as well as a smattering of oloroso and a healthy dash of talking utter gibberish. Exes phoned as drunk as we were and added to the general nonsense.

Once again the problems of the world and heart were solved but once again we remembered none of the solutions in the morning.

If only all hangovers could be so good.

The sun followed us north across the bridge while Jonathon Ross provided the chuckles. Two speed camera close calls and we were once again in North Fife, where the haar consumed us, a silver filter on the sunlight. Bacon butties for brunch coupled with strong coffee and the curious question as to where everyone had gone. To the front steps we went, rehydrating and shaking the cobwebs out. Snippets from the night before; the chat, the wines, the food, the questions raised drifted through the conversation. Our heads cleared with the haar and in the bright autumn sun we brought apples for the horses. We contemplated kidapping Chester, the wee fat mini Shetland, but thought better of it.

Back at Naughton the coffee machine bubbled, and a glance in Polo Times revealed one of my photos, leading to a juvenile swelling of chest and pride. Kirsty rocked up and we had a cocktail and a glass of champagne. I got home late. The cats were hungry and grumpy. Ah well.

There's beach polo and a wine tasting tomorrow: not a bad weekend really. Though I really ought to write something.

Lish has had an epic rant, and I want to share it. And I don't even know what Tastee Delight is.

patchy update

The sun, when it appears, is autumnal. The summer sun has said its goodbyes for the year. The dew sticks to the grass until well into the afternoon, if it evaporates at all.

Life is full of pleasant distractions at the moment. There are birthday presents to design, menus to create, cats to feed and the like. Last night I went to the grand opening of a stylish new bar/restaurant in Edinburgh. Free champagne flowed and some excellent canapés served as my meal. It's nice to be able to hover around the fringes of the wine trade still, grabbing the odd freebie. Beautiful waitresses bringing stylish trays of mouth-watering food. I didn't even need to talk shop - just chat with my mate and stuff my face with great grub. There was some society photographer taking candids and I think every pic of us we have a mouthful of fishcake or spring roll. Ah well. For posterity and all that.

While last night was lovely, yesterday morning was hell. We stayed up too late on Wednesday, having feasted on mussels, roast chicken with all the trimmings, fine wine, whisky and healthy dollop of beer as well. It was grand. Gilmour and I decided we would have made great uni flatmates, though separated by 4 decades. We watched Sean Bean sort out corrupt English army types and the French in Sharpe's Regiment. Then we remembered we had to be up at 530 to get to the airport in time for Gilmour to catch his flight. We got up. I drove. We were well on our way on the M9 when Gil checked and realised that his tickets and passports were in the kitchen. A half-hour delay and we get to the airport, and all's well. Except for the ride back home, which was swamped by the swelling tide of Glasgow morning rush hour. I retreated to bed. I meant to sleep for only an hour or so. I slept for four.

Tonight was meant to be a dinner party. But there are only two of us attending. It's my fault. I decided this morning it would be a dinner party, which is a bit late. As all of my friends are cool, it was foolish to think they'd not have plans for a Friday night by a Friday morning. But I don't really operate along a weekly calendar. Most weekends I find myself doing as much work as the week, if not more. This is a hangover from the wine trade, where working weekends was a matter of course and even Sundays weren't sacred. Days off fell arbitrarily. I toyed with the idea of taking weekends off once I started writing, but it's failed. Mainly because it's a good time to catch up on all the stuff I failed to write during the week. But also because I have difficulty resting. It would be different if I had some sort of contract to fulfill, if I had a deal. Then I could let it go: bask in a guilt-free Saturday and Sunday, writing nothing but Amazon wish-lists. Until then, I will write on weekends. Or at least feel guilty when I don't.

Light reflected in the window in the lounge

window hunting

A week and weekend of dinners, lunches and wine and I find myself hanging out to dry, drinking water and tea, chopping wood, catching up on work and trying to wrap my head around what happens next. It's happy busy work, and I'm still glowing from the company of good friends.

Bagel keeps me company, even when out hunting.

Half Full

I got my first parking ticket today.

I lost the new jumper I bought in the Fat Face sale in St Andrews. I retraced my steps but there was no sign of it.

I set off the house alarm when I got home and didn't work out how to fix it for a head-splitting, ear-stabbing 20 minutes. I'd been punching in the wrong code.

I accidentally ran a red light.

But.

But I had a good run this morning.

When I crossed the bridge the sun burst through the cloud and it was summer still.

Lunch was lovely, outside in the indian summer with cold beer, a dog and a great friend.

I walked the dog in the warmth, getting smiles and nods from approving pretty girls.

I sat again in the sun, again with a beer, again with the dog, again with my great friend, with apple trees dropping their heavy fruit around us and old palettes and wine crates as chairs.

I met with a couple of other old mates, got caught up, arranged future pints and retrieved, after almost a year, my prized set of global knives.

I bought a few bottles of brilliant wine, and confirmed a nice dinner for tomorrow night.

I baked cookies for dessert tonight, and had a fantastic wine to go with them.

So my glass is half full. More than half full. I've just topped it up.

Breathing Space

The cat sits on the window ledge, looking into the office when not looking out for prey. The cats hunting leads to contemplative distraction from all things. The garden outside the office shelters all manner of prey, real and imagined, and Bagel and Sam do their best to subsidise their diet. I think they're more succesful than they let on, and have seen Bagel coughing up the odd feather or two. They are my companions at the moment, which suits a romantic ideal: a mad writer and his cats, but does little for romance. Sometimes they remind me of ex-girlfriends. They still come back for a stroke and a cuddle, but shoot off as soon it suits them, leaving me sneezing and cursing my gullibility.

It's been a quiet few days. Playing catch up with all sorts of things, making good progress on the odd secret project. My first photo job went pretty well at the weekend. I felt nervous throughout; worried someone would pull back the curtain and reveal that I wasn't really the wizard of snaps, merely an elevated hobbyist. But I guess having a photo job makes you a photographer by default. The irony, of course, is that the person who got me the job is a much better photographer than I am. Which makes the choice of me as shutterbug a high compliment, one that I tried desperately to live up to, so much that I took nearly 600 pictures over the weekend. But it turned out ok. So it's been quiet, but a contented quiet.

Not quite abstract

We took the work hard/play hard philosophy to new limits this weekend - 5 am finishes followed by 9am starts. I'm tired but happy. There's a lot to do, and I could post more, but I think I'll have a cup of tea first. Then I ought to get myself organised, but really all I want to do is drink claret and listen to B.B. King's King of the Blues really loud.