something written

I'm a little on edge. Two cups of jasmine tea have done nothing to calm me. I finished editing the submission chapters for my book about an hour ago. It's been a long time coming. There are still things to do (the rest of the manuscript needs work) and there are cover letters still to write, and then they have to be posted and stuff. Oh, and then there's the onslaught of inevitable rejection letters. But this is a start. A good start to the year. It's not quite the end-of-January deadline I set for myself initially, but it isn't the vague sometime-in-the-future-before-summer-maybe deadline that replaced it either. I'll take it. And I'll write the letters tomorrow.

I think I might need a whisky.

waiting for laundry

For reasons best known to no one in particular, I'm doing laundry at half past midnight. Not just any laundry, mind, but my bed linens, meaning that my nightly refuge is bare and I'm growing increasingly sleepy. This sleepiness is not aided by either Bach's Works for Trumpet or my remaining dregs of Lagavulin, though that is my company right now. It's good company, irksomely relaxing though it may be.

I had vague hopes of getting some editing done, but editing is not for this time of night. This time of night is where things that will eventually require editing are created. Red pens and rewrites require the harsh light of day and a sober, conscious temperament. These witching hours, for me anyway, see the beginnings of writing. Ideas in their most basic, sentence-fragmented form peek out at the world, triggered by a stumbling of awkward synapses. I need a pen or a keyboard or else I'll just forget them.

And so I'm sitting at my desk, battering out a blog post and keeping one ear on the drier in hopes that it does its magic before I have to pour myself another dram. There are a couple of new docs open, with sentences here and there that will no doubt need examining in tomorrow's refreshed clime.

The cat's asleep on my naked duvet. He doesn't care if it has a cover.

light thaw

I wrote this a week ago. It snowed today, bizarrely, as it was well above freezing. It didn't stick.

There's been a bit of a thaw of late. Aside from the hills to the north, there's no snow to be seen. The cold still lingers though, and there's a dampness to the air that clings to the bones. But there's not been much frost in the mornings and that's something. Some days have been positively mild.

I don't trust thaws. Not until at least April, anyway. This one is no different. Every Sunday spent playing cricket or rugby on the beach has been stolen from the winter, and I've little doubt it will claim them back sooner or later. I've taken the lining out of my jacket and I'll eschew a scarf while I can, but whatever jumper I choose will be thick, of that there's no doubt.

Ideally, I'd run away about now. Key West or Collioure would both be lovely at this time of year (it's a little-known fact that this blog was started on a trip to Key West in January - when I'm famous, that could be valuable trivia). I've seen both in January and they're a damn sight more comfortable than anywhere in Scotland.

Sadly, that's not possible this year. Be it finance, commitment or simply some sense of anchoring, I'll not be travelling far any time soon.

Instead I've got over a year's worth of photos to sort out, many of which show distant shores - some Atlantic, some Pacific. I also have a car that works, which brings the rest of this kingdom closer - never a bad thing.

The photo sorting proves harder as time passes. Every image is either laden with nostalgia and fondness or prompts quizzical reflection. Those things take too much time, and they're a bit distracting. I'd rather linger on shots of Boston in April, California in July and Islay in August than the slate grey of Fife in January or February.

Elsewhere is appealing at the moment, but it isn't an option. So I'll write about here and gaze at images of there and get a little lost somewhere in the middle.

beer, sausages

It was Jo's idea. From Malawi she emailed me, suggesting we have night of strange beers and sausages. Being fond of both beer and sausages, I thought this would be grand. Freya got involved. At one point there was discussion about actually making our own sausages, but that was quickly brushed aside for the sake of convenience.

The guest list proved quite simple - Broomie and assorted other beer lovers. I was given strict instructions that there was to be no chat of verticals or horizontals - my forthright booze geekery had to be left behind for the night, lest I put everyone off the lighthearted hedonism of the evening. I began to plot a menu.

There's only so much you can do with sausages. Don't get me wrong, they're as fine a meat-delivery system and conveniently packaged a foodstuff as you're likely to find. But because of that, they're also a touch limiting. So I decided on a trio of sausages. For the beef and tomato ones, I made a big pot of sausage stuffing with sage, onions, celery and an excellent oat bread, healthily enriched with organic beef stock. Then for the beef and caramelised onion sausages I made a Dijon mustard batter and baked them as toad in the hole. The fine Toulouse I simply pan-fried with mash and a red wine and onion gravy.

I never did check exactly how many different bottles of beer there were. Broomie separated them into different flights and at first things started slowly. We bantered about, munched on our food and chatted about the beers at a respectable, if somewhat conservative, pace. Bottle after bottle was opened and passed around, poured with deference and sipped. Some drew ire from the table, some ubiquitous affection, but most often opinion split, and one's nectar was another's dishwater. We tread on steadily and as more ale was supped, so our minds strayed from sound to merry, and then from merry to jolly. Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings provided the soundtrack. Lagers, IPAs, Christmas beers, ales all slipped down a treat.

A pause in the revelry. Jo and I stood on the balcony. We leant on the rail, listened to the sea, looked out towards the water and shared a cigar.

Instead of tasting notes, we doodled strange pictograms meant to express the impression the beer left, though after awhile these images became more abstract. The next morning they would appear meaningless. We all got very drunk and shouted 'Fuck your beans!' at each other with laughter-laden ferocity. We laughed at Stuart on his crutches, making his way to the loo ever so slowly. Of course it would transpire that his bladder would be the smallest, what with his ambulatory difficulties and all. Ben suggested we start a microbrewery, earnest and enthusiastic. Mostly, by the end, we spouted gibberish and so taxis were phoned to take people home.

The next morning saw French toast and the afternoon cricket by the beach. We ate nachos and drank pints and traded our beer-filtered versions of the night before. It's maybe a little distant, now. There's something about how the next day always fades towards its end.

a morning in winter

My pillow seems to have greatly expanded gravitational pull these days. Everything is heavier near my bed, including myself. The grey at my window announcing morning does little to lighten the matter and rising to face the day must break down into small, incremental phases. The cat disapproves. He feels I should be leaping up with vigour that mirrors his own. He climbs over the peaks my limbs form in the duvet and presses his face to mine, eager and clumsy. His purr is an odd noise, almost silent, internalized. Pedey head butts me and then clambers over my face to lap the water from the pint jug I keep next my bed. The water thievery is the last straw and I pick him up or just push him, meowing in protest, off the bed.

Thus the first phase of getting up is complete and I sit myself up and rub my eyes and run my hands through hair that is no longer there. The grey light is brighter, though no less grey. I check my phone and iPad and might make a move against someone in Words with Friends (a scrabble knock off I'm constantly losing). My legs and shoulders are sore. I make fists with my toes and stretch out. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed to stand up shouldn't take as much concentration as it does. I grab the cat-tainted pint of water and stand up, not taking a sip. The first few steps fall as though my legs are in braces, or should be. The cat couldn't be happier at my resurrection, believing the sole purpose of my animated state is to feed him. He races underfoot, howling, delighted to have a feeder and a playmate. I'm delighted if I can avoid tripping over the wee shite.

If I've dreamt, I'll ponder them, trying to draw details back from the recesses of my subconscious and attempt to assemble some manner of linear narrative to the abstract. I delude myself into thinking this is a good morning brain exercise, but all it tends to do is confuse me.

Coffee becomes incredibly important about now. Espressos. Or perhaps a run before coffee. The road splits, and this is where everyday is not the same.

Today I ran. It was still dark when I set out. Frost coated the roads and sidewalks and grassy embankments. The sun rose more in the south than east and the sea sat calm beneath it. I could see my breath and by the end my whole body steamed as though I'd just been removed from an oven.

I staggered home and the day started.

the rattling of a wagon

I can't remember which Christmas or birthday it was, or even if it was one of them at all. In any case, one year I wound up with a red Radio Flyer wagon. I don't think it excited me at the time. My reaction was probably, 'it's ok, I guess' or something similar. It grew on me, though. It wasn't a toy, it was a tool for childhood; as seminal in its own way as my first bike. Not to say I didn't use it as a toy, of course I did. My mom and her hardwood floors were all too aware of my propensity to use it as such. She never regretted giving it to me though; it was too useful. It was the kid's version of having a station wagon. All of the sudden a trip to the park could be undertaken fully equipped with all manner of cumbersome sporting equipment, picnic, toy and even extra clothing. Just pile it in the Radio Flyer and away we went. It made a racket on the brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill, trumpeting our youthful parade. My mother would use it from time to time as well, when she didn't want to take the car. It served to link my boyhood to that of Calvin, from Bill Watterson's Calvin & Hobbes. I never quite managed to find a trail quite as idyllic as the scenes set in the comic, but my mind certainly wandered as I sat in it and gripped the handle careening through imagined wilderness. It was frequently a mining cart from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. It leapt many a magma pool in its day.

I dragged it behind me when I walked to the Boston Common for little league games. My bat and glove joined the rattle of the wheels along the brick, bringing their own rhythm. Sometimes there'd be a playmate cooler full of juice and sandwiches. I have no bad memories of those games. Time has polished them into unblemished gems of childhood. Wearing a batter's helmet that would always look too big and trying, at the age of 11, to stare down the opposing pitcher. Lying in the warm spring grass before warming up, tossing the ball up gently and catching it again. We talked about Boggs and Clemens and Oil Can and Greenwell and '86. We all wanted to play for the Red Sox when we grew up, right after being James Bond, Indiana Jones and Luke Skywalker. Then we'd play and sometimes we'd win and sometimes we'd lose. Losses stung and wins overjoyed.

Then, in the golden late afternoon, covered in dust and dirt, I would load up the wagon and drag it home, firing questions at my mom, 'did you see that double I hit?', 'did you see that throw?' I never waited for an answer. Breathless, I'd ask another and another until we got home.

These memories come back stronger in the depth of Scottish winter. The golden afternoons, when they're not grey, come far earlier in the day. My bright red Radio Flyer's been replaced by a beat up silver Renault.

There's still a rattle, but it's less endearing.

still not used to writing the date

I scratch my stubble and look at the number that comes before January and it takes a double take to comprehend. As I start writing this, it's the 17th. It may be the 18th when I finish. Or, knowing me, it could be March. In any case, it doesn't feel like we should be in the second half of this month, not yet at least. I need to concentrate to write '2011' instead of any other year. I wrote '2002' the other day. Where the intervening 9 years went is anyone's guess.

It seems like New Years was yesterday, or perhaps the day before. I've no idea where the last two weeks have disappeared to, though I'm quite certain they're not coming back.

Meanwhile, 2010 fades into the mist of the distant past. The memories aren't gone - they just seem further removed than they should.

It's strange, because I haven't moved in a year. In spite of travel, new people and new places, I've gone nowhere. That's something quite difficult to face and to accept, but it is what it is, and within that I need to find a new gear, preferably a forward one. Reverse and neutral are worn down.

It shouldn't surprise me that the correct year confounds me - it could be any of the last nine and little would be different.

Probably time that changed.

why this weekend won't be like last weekend and other tales

There are times in my life when I will admittedly regress to my younger self. Well, that's what I think I'm doing. I feel like I'm chasing some version of me that could drink more, party longer and get up the next day without any sign of the damage from the night before.

Last Thursday, for example, a bunch of us went to a whisky tasting, including four genuine-actual-really-grown-up booze trade professionals (myself included). We were excited. Not just because it was a whisky tasting, but because it was an Adelphi Distillery whisky tasting, and they bottle some utterly spectacular drams. So we were professionally excited, kind of, and excited because pretty much everyone of us (six in total) loves whisky. We met beforehand and had a bite and some overpriced beer and pretty much all we chatted about was what was going to be available to taste? Apparently, everyone at the table was an adult. I ate a massive burger, deluded that this would provide adequate ballast against the 5 whiskies to come.

We left the pub and skipped down towards the hotel where the tasting was being held. A queue for tickets indicated we were just in time and sure enough it sold out just seconds after we took our seats. Many disappointed whisky fans had to be turned away at the door. We were quite close to the door and oozed schadenfreude at their misfortune, thumbing our nose at both them and karma. Oops.

The tasting was full to the brim and all five whiskies showed well. We delved deep into the mind-numbing analysis of whisky chat, but always with our tongues firmly in cheek. No one had the same favourite, though quite a few had the same least favourite. The outing of a Talisker-skeptic caused the always rambunctious and legendary Broomie to howl in outraged disbelief, hurling insults of such epic fury that I daren't transcribe them here. Too much would be lost.

The crowd grew louder the more drams supped and the remains of the tasting bottles were raffled off for extra drams. I won far too many. The majority of whiskies were cask strength, never less and often more than 50% abv. At this point, they were going down like ambrosia, and I just happily glugged away. We all did, but I probably glugged a little bit more.

We went to the pub after that. We didn't need to, but we did. Then Broomie and I went to another pub and I remember us attempting to barter for the remains of a bottle of Tio Pepe sherry they had in their fridge, to no avail whatsoever. Broomie is usually quite the barterer when it comes to leftovers. The barmaid was having none of it and so we simply supped our pints and muttered in the language of drunks, not listening to each other while nodding sagely at changes in volume. There was live jazz too.

Megan walked me home as she didn't think I'd make it on my own, and she was right. I woke Friday to a brickbat of a hangover and a cat in my face, demanding food. I stumbled, made some phone calls, cancelled lunch and went back to bed. When I finally left the house it was for a hair-of-the-dog pint and a chicken and ham pie at the the Crit. There was a beer festival on and the pint tasted good. I didn't hang around long as I had the weekend's next big event the following days.

The Luvians Wine Fair and I have a long history, with me both as a customer and employee. It is a Bacchanalian extravaganza involving well over 150 wines and finger food. Students, adults and adult students all descend upon it with a thirst and a glass and everyone gets gleefully merry over the course of a Saturday afternoon in October. While not unbiased, I can assure any reader of this blog that it's a pretty spectacular bash and the wines are exceptional. It takes a lot of work to pull off, and every year it seems as though we're on the verge of disaster but it all comes through fine in the end. 250 people have a great time and stagger off into the fading afternoon light while the Luvians crew has to clean up. And do something with all the half-empty bottles of wine.

So we went for the obligatory after-wine-fair pint or two and then headed into the dark and foreboding suburbs of St Andrews for the aftermath party. It's one thing to see 150 wines spread over 15 or so tables on 2 different show floors. 150 wines on one small kitchen table, spilling over to the countertop and coffee table is all the more imposing. It started in a rather stayed, gentrified fashion. I searched for wines I'd not tried at the fair, or was curious in sampling again. There were quite a few. The chat was almost civilised, with the possible exception of the odd roar when a new arrival appeared at the door. I switched somewhat into elder statesman mode for awhile and regaled all with tales of wine fair after parties in the days of yore. I made the mistake of mentioning the one particularly painful party where some undrinkable Portuguese grappa made its way into the room. Faced with its undrinkability, some people started snorting it.

Snorting booze is irredeemably stupid. Really, really dumb. It is so dumb that animals sniff booze and instinctively flinch. It goes against every shred of intelligence we've evolved since the dawn of the universe.

Broomie brought out a bottle of Spanish grappa. Not quite as vile as its Portuguese cousin, though fairly undrinkable nonetheless. He also produced a snuff box, complete with snuff inside. By this point I'd tried a few more wines. I was perhaps becoming less selective. My mental images are certainly more impressionist than photographic. My judgement on all things was certainly, and beyond question, impaired. Everyone's voices became louder and I lost track of how many people were there. Amateur boxing played out silently on the television, for reasons unknown. A teaspoon appeared and someone poured grappa onto it - too much.

The guitars and the bongos came out, much to the neighbours' disdain. We sang and shouted and some people left and more arrived. Whisky made an appearance with a couple of teaspoon encores as well. I retreated from the snorting (whisky, snuff and grappa) and grabbed a beer. Its merciful bubbles washed clean the tannic remains of the day's wine tasting. I phoned a taxi and headed home.

Sunday morning I woke to find my flatmate had bought me a breakfast roll. Not just any breakfast roll: a Munch breakfast roll. I rose slowly and unsteadily and devoured its fried-egg-bacon-sausage-tattie-scone-haggis-y goodness and then retreated back to the warmth of my bed. I slept another four hours. When I rose again I found Alex and Jamie in the living room discussing tunes and contemplating dinner. We went for a curry. When we got home, we watched Anchorman and called it a night.

Thus ended four days of drinking, hangovers, sleeping and revelry. Sometimes all at once. I certainly didn't recapture any youth, though I did discover that being older doesn't stop you from acting like a moron. Or having fun.

last whining about being sick post (promise)

The last time I relied this much on 'symptom-killers' was in the Autumn of 2007. Knee damaged, overworked and illness-ridden lead to the consumption of anything that would dull the pain to the point that I could function. It wasn't an addiction by any means. I never took more than advised and would often forget to take any at all. The bad mornings though, those were the days of paracetamol/codeine/espresso cocktails. They left me numb to the pain but buzzed, fuzzy and tweaked for the rest of the day. Comfort, which was all I sought, never came.

Now, three years later, I'm typing this with a sinus headache that punishes movement and even the slightest change in altitude. I've given up on the pills and am drinking a beer that will be followed by a wee dram. My ears need popped every minute or two and I don't cough as much as I should because it makes my head hurt too much. Bizarrely, the only time my head feels clear is when I'm running. I've done two days in a row, a six-miler and 4-miler. There's no pain at all. There's clarity and it's keeping me sane at the moment.

It's not comfort, but it'll do.

sniffles

My change-of-seasons cold is clingy. I can't shake it no matter what I do. Lemsip, running, not running, Sudafed, rest, lack of rest, whisky, beer, wine; none of it works. Instead of buggering off and leaving me alone, it changes symptoms. At one point I was incurably snotty, then the next it's a chesty cough and now it seems to have settled on a piercing headache. There is still nose-running and the odd cough, but all they seem to do is make the headache worse. It's made life a touch uncomfortable of late. It's not a serious enough ailment to phone in sick and one man's discomfort is hardly worth whining to the world about. Well, not when he can blog about it, anyway.