La Belle Époque

The Beautiful Era.

Was there ever a moment when things were, briefly, as we might think they should be?

Most people can recall a period, sometimes no more than a season, a year, or even a handful of days  when life appeared balanced. Not perfect, but aligned. A time when effort and reward seemed proportionate, when the future felt intelligible, and the present was quietly sufficient.

Is this a common human experience, or a rare and elusive one?

If you have known such a time, you may recognise it only in retrospect. If you have not, you may wonder when or whether it will ever arrive. What conditions are required for such an era to exist? And who, precisely, is permitted to experience it?

For some La Belle Époque is remembered as a personal “Goldilocks moment”, brief, fragile, and easily disrupted. A period that felt unremarkable while it was happening, yet luminous in memory. A time when Camelot was real and not a myth.

But memory is selective. It smooths the surface of the past, sanding away its anxieties and contradictions. What appears serene now may have been sustained only because of other noises, the roar of human traffic, the weight of unplanned events, the demands of survival were temporarily muted. Not everyone heard the silence.

While some reached for this sense of balance, others were occupied elsewhere; with work, with care, with necessity. The daily labour of living can make an era pass unnoticed. You may have lived through the same years as those who later spoke of them with longing, yet somehow missed the moment entirely.

Was La Belle Époque a matter of timing or of privilege?

How did those on the margins experience it? The workers, the peasants, the displaced. Was it ever theirs to begin with? Or is the very idea of a “beautiful era” an illusion available only to those sufficiently insulated from mundane toil?

Can a society, regardless of background or standing, ever share in such a condition? Or does stability for some inevitably depend on instability for others?

If such periods are possible, why is there no government on Earth with a deliberate plan to create them not only for their own citizens, but for humanity at large? If no such plan exists, why not?

What, ultimately, are we organising ourselves to achieve? Much of human effort appears devoted to other ends; growth, competition, exploitation, tribal conquests. Methods change perhaps but often with the same result, the steady exhaustion of resources, both material and human.

And yet, most people tell themselves a story. They insist that it did happen once. There was a time when things were just right. Short, sweet, and now irretrievable. A calm imagined more clearly now than it was ever experienced then. Alive only in memory, preserved as a private myth.

If only, they say, they could put their finger on what tiny change ended it all ... and go back.

The Blood of Angels

Selvage Place

Found photo: This old photo is of "Dockyard Houses" in Selvage Place, Rosyth, the first address my parents had when they moved west from Cellardyke in the 1950s. We lived at No. 10 which is pretty much in the middle of the picture. This photo looks to have been taken some time in the 1930s, before WWII. 

By the time I lived there most of those fences were gone, replaced by privet hedges. These homes were about 40 years old then and in need of upgrading. The houses were pretty basic, a coal fire, no proper heating, no hot water system, jammed windows, ill fitting doors, only basic sanitation and primitive electrical wiring ... I could go on.  

One plus point was we had a garden. Nothing special but it was a grassy, private piece of outdoors to play in. As you'd expect and nothing to do with the place, I've not set foot in this street for years. At the time nobody knew any better and just put up with things, after all it was the place we called "home". 

Don McLean didn't have a Chevy. He drove a Saab.

I've just about had enough of American Pies and those old time neighbourhood wars: 

So I'm exploring the eternal question that keeps us all awake at night, (even in daytime 😉) these days anyway. If Britain did go to war in my lifetime (a reasonably real possibility, given the current shit show), who would I trust as a wartime Prime Minister? Who would rally the troops, maintain morale, and lead a nation like ours if we were on a war footing?

What person in the current crop of UK politicians would be the best choice? When you look at the runners, it’s a pretty dodgy field. Slackers, sycophants, and shysters mostly, all lost without their lobbyist handlers. I can’t think of anyone who, as a frontline politician, strikes me as being up to such a task. Starmer it seems is a completely spineless dick; he couldn’t/wouldn’t punch a pensioner's bus ticket. I could be wrong of course - but we’re most likely in trouble. Ugh! What a shower. It may be for the best having our Chinese masters colonize us.

As an alternative and possibly more absurd exercise, I looked at our cats and wondered which one of them might make a good wartime PM:

1. George - reckless but often strangely timid and nervous. Quite curious, good observer, quick to react, unfazed by most people, a bit of a wanderer. Likes to maintain his own territory and borders (good skills). Urinates effectively. Sleeps in a nomadic fashion, a few nights here and a few more there. Very friendly when he wants to be.

2. Zippy - great at jumping but not tree climbing. Elegant mover. Confident when out alone and away from our garden. Acrobatic when going up onto roofs. Returns at high speed when called in for food. Likes to sleep in a box or also likes to sleep where the humans are. Proven hunter / killer: birds, mice, shrews, and butterflies.

3. Bungle - slow but steady. Not fussed about travelling too far but will climb trees easily and quickly if required. Likes to camp out by the bird feeders or in the hedge - mostly doing nothing. Not worried by rain or bad weather. Certainly the muddiest cat of the three after being outside for any length of time. Paws like dirty paint brushes. Takes her own time. Really likes a tummy tickle and a stiff brush.

Hard to pick a winner from a strong but eclectic field. They're all aborable but in the role of PM ...

Perhaps the cats would form a coalition?

Maybe these are all the wrong questions and observations. Being realistic and thinking strategically, it’s more about who would get us the best peace deal after either:

a) our annihilation (not sure how that looks or why we'd need a PM), or
b) a quick surrender when all the conflicted Brits just say “fuck it” and try to walk away (kind of understandable TBF), or
c) a humiliating but not too devastating conventional military defeat.

Get Mark Carney back into the fold (that's the fold that he was never in). He actually has balls ...

Grind, Zen and Mojo.

The clue is in the title: I'd like you introduce you to my new drinking buddies; Grind, Zen and Mojo*. All superior blends. They make me healthy. My mind is clearer. The mist thins out. We are getting on famously but I doubt these relationships will last. The reason being that it's a bit of a one way street. I'm the main beneficiary. They are consumable and disposable. Any kind of further progression is impossible. 

All three will shortly be extinct. As is the way of things. But it was all fine, special even, while it lasted. Farewell old/new friends. Unfortunately this seems to be one of the unspoken principles on which I've built my coffee drinking adult life. Too far into the swamp of existence now to change anything. While things last they are good. When they go you wonder, were they ever really here?

*Nootropics - Plural form of nootropic.

Any substance purported to increase cognitive abilities.
A drug that enhances learning and memory and lacks the usual pharmacology of other psychotropic drugs (e.g. sedation, motor stimulation) and possesses very few side effects and extremely low toxicity.

Glasgow School of Art etc.

Below, below, below: Not my words. Written in 2021. Still no serious reporting on anything here and it's 2026. Make of it what you will ...

"Strange anniversary (actually the other) today. It was a year ago today that I was told that I had been fired for advising the Parliamentary Committee that Muriel Gray and the other Glasgow School of Art attendees were lying to them about their own failures that led to the loss of the Mack. Also in my letter of dismissal they mentioned that I had told the press that the school had lied about the cause and spread of the first fire and that they had misappropriated charitable donations meant for rebuilding the Mack towards the buying of another building. 

What is funny about the whole episode was that in the letter of dismissal they did not claim that I was wrong. What I had evidently done wrong was to tell the truth about how corrupt and incompetent they were. What was sad about it was that I had to be got rid of before Muriel Gray came back to retake her post after her second period of hiding from her duties since the fires. So I was fired in the middle of term, in the middle of teaching my bespoke course, which negatively impacted on the education of around 250 kids.

 
Move forward a year and honest and loyal staff of considerable tenure are still being hunted down by senior management and fired for mentioning their misdeeds. Senior staff are still leaving (two department heads in the last two months). However, strangely all those responsible for the disasters and the fallout, including Muriel Gray, still hang on for some reason. And we have the longest fire investigation in history still ongoing, with no information available on the outcome or its timing, while at the same time all the participants who can do so, are presently preparing to sue.

Against this murky backdrop, the insurance money will surface and a Mack-like building will be rebuilt. However it won't be our Mack. With their vile hubris and their patent negligence, they let it go up in smoke, along with their parties inside the construction site, their squandering of resources on trips abroad, their pretend research (nothing authoritative was ever written), their silly redesign trifles and their attempts to subjugate the Mack to their will. And so it is gone and the reputation of the institution is sullied.

 
So why are they responsible? They were wandering in and out of the building. They were using a vulnerable historic building when it was a building site. They signed up to a fire plan that relied upon a single watchman finding a fire in a void before it got out of control, in a historic building with ten levels within it. They had no sprinklers working in either of the two fires in 2014 and 2018. 

They should have put in sprinklers ten years before they did, when they were told to do it. They said they couldn't do it because they didn't have the money, while paying for the over-budget Reid Building monstrosity, and subsequently they never got round to doing it until it was too late. And then to add insult to injury, after the first fire and half way through the rebuilding project, the GSA Board decided to instruct the ripping out of the operable but unfinished sprinklers. And then they lied about it. Those sprinklers would have isolated and doused the fire and would have saved the building."

 
"Perhaps, after all, the Mack just died of shame."

- Professor Gordon Gibb (first posted 2021).

I wrote about this ongoing "tragedy" a while ago. As I've said before it's both worrying and strange how the story is currently dead in the water and how little or no official progress of any kind has been made to explain these events. Glasgow School of Art, we have a problem.

 

Weekend

click pic to  ... enjoy?

Every once in a while something happens in football that reminds you that there often isn't quite as much of a gulf between teams and leagues as you imagine. Great to be there and witness the Pars beating Hibs with a very late 🡇 but well deserved goal. Nice.

I celebrated later with a prune juice and spiced rum.

It's a bit of a Fifeshire tradition. Yum!

Pan in the Glass

“Midas, no longer lured by dreams of riches, took to the woods, became a nature-lover. He worshipped the Greek God Pan…”
(Ovid 303)

"Such a mention of the ancient Greek god, Pan, hardly seems threatening. It certainly does not suggest that Pan was evil incarnate, yet by approximately 300 C.E. the demonization of Pan had begun, and it continued until the western world largely associated images of Pan with the devil. To the Greeks, Pan was a shepherd: he was half goat and half man, a thing of nature, certainly not the Antichrist or a being who was out to corrupt and steal men’s souls. He was lusty; he played pipes and was therefore musical; and he was a god of nature.

And though much is made in schools and textbooks of the major Olympian gods, Zeus and the others, it is clear from archaeological evidence that Pan was the favorite god of the Greek people. “It’s a fact that there are more dedications to him than to any other…” (Pitt-Kethley xi). Perhaps this is what led Christian theologians to demonize Pan; they sensed a powerful competitor for the hearts of the people. 

This demonization was no accident, but rather a deliberate twisting of pagan ideals as Christianity spread its influence throughout Europe. After the Council of Nicea issued the Nicene Creed and the Roman Catholic Church was established in 325 C.E., Christian theologians (beginning with Eusebius) transformed Pan from a benign nature god to Satan, the great Adversary."

Filtched from here -

The search for Pan continues ...

B&Q Bucket Daily Photo

 

For the record only: My collection of B&Q buckets amounts to four in the traditional orange and one in the rather sexy and fetching black finish. None of these buckets are featured here 🠉. This particular bucket only paid us a brief but useful visit the other day. As you can see it's comfortable when it comes to working at height.

:----------------------------------:

P.S. I've been in a few cults over the years. A rite of passage thing that just sort of happens to people and of course some are much worse than others. I'm not recommending cult membership as a worthwhile life choice either but as it happens I've belonged to this one 🢃 twice - but they are not the same. So the image below means something different to me than it might to others ... I just might be able to take advantage of that one day. I think I'm on to something.

Dreaming in Cartoon Art

 A Snowman coffee to bring you good cheer. Photo LB.

I dream of and in Studio Ghibli: There must be a school of thought about the importance of cartoons in dreams but if there is I’m not familiar with it. No need for any real life images here, let’s find another source, some Hanna and Barbera, Steve Ditko or Winsor McCay would be fine. Little Nemo in Slumberland etc. Anyway, how and why are some folks able to dream in cartoon form? I’ve no idea other than knowing that it happens to me sometimes but then do I suffer from poor dream “recall”. It’s all a quickly fading blur as I wake up. None of this is at all important or evidence based but for what it’s worth here’s some passing, vague cartoon thoughts ...

This sleep time cartoon themed thing could be in any kind of cartoon style; Tom & Jerry, Disney, Pixar, traditional comic strip, sci-fi, squiggly, abstract, arty and so on. Maybe not much happens. Maybe it's only for the illustration of a single point. You might not get it. Dreams of cartoon characters and scenes are not nonsense. They could be mirrors. It's a dream and anything is possible.

So you dream of Woody Woodpecker because you like trouble and rarely pay for it. You're an irritating person. You push limits. It’s fun for you but push too far and people leave. You dream of SpongeBob because like him you believe in everything. You move fast. You smile but miss the detail. Optimism is a strength until it blinds you. You don't understand how, but it appears that the entire show is based around the Seven Deadly Sins and that SpongeBob is the personification of Lust, of all things. Everybody now knows this, or so it seems. Not sure how that impacts on the subconscious mind.

Dreaming of Bugs Bunny action might mean you’d like to be street smart and clever 'cos you're not. You could survive by fast thinking but lack the quickness of mind. Beware of the moment you start believing you can’t be caught. That's a nightmare. There's also the spectre of Jessica Rabbit living it up in Toon Town, but let's not go there. 

Popeye without spinach shows us how strength fails. What you leaned on is gone. Learn something new or break. You might dream of Wile E. Coyote because you won’t give in. The goal keeps running from you. Persistence is noble. Obsession is not. You're pretty stupid really and you need a better job.

Comic strips that obviously aren't animations can be meaningful dreamscapes. Slowly unfolding. Pace might be more important than action. Rough drawings make untidy but tight points. References are not lost to pace and expression is clear. A form of good, linear storytelling you can study over, inside and outside your dreaming time. Time in dreams is a whole other tin can of carpet mites.

Old Eastern European or Russian cartoons are wild. If you dream in this style I don't know what to say. You're wired to a Mars Bar or you've suffered from some kind of self inflicted torture that you found to be quite gratifying. These dreams may entertain, but they also may warn. I think most European scientists moonlighted as cartoon artists in the 1960s. Makes sense when you think about it. They all had bleak tales of repression, lack of recognition and personal loss to tell. Stuck with stiff collars, white coats, ice on windows and vodka bottles in desk drawers. The trauma was real enough to spawn creation.

So cartoonish dreams, like any other, can show how you act, how you fight, and how you fail, where you are insecure and so on ... but mostly they're just putting your thoughts into some kind of order. It's only a cartoon library that's being ripped up - in your sleepy head. Pay attention, you might learn something. Cartoons can tell the truth in their own strange ways, like any pulp fiction or fantasy work. Sleep tight and whatever else you do, always avoid those strong, badass cheeses for any bed time snacking.

I have never had a dream about a Cullen Skink pie but if I did it would probably look a lot like this - but rendered in the Rhubarb and Custard cartoon style.

The Salt and Vinegar Path

So late in coming to the party and the after party. Only watched this film the other day. Not read the book. Too many things happening around and about this real or not so real life drama to know what to make of any of it. I also think I'm too old for long distance hiking and wild camping these days. I'm unlikely to follow in anyone's footsteps. Look upon this as an odd kind of film non-review film review.

"All the money was gone. We set out along the coast with the wind coming in hard off the water and "bags light" because light was all we could manage. The path was white with salt but our boots took it all in, step by step, as if we were meant to be eaten up by it, inside everything else. According to the guidance provided by the faithful map, the journey unfolded. 

We had the crisps then. Salt and vinegar. They cut the tongue and made the mouth more honest. We shared them without talking. The sea went on and the gulls kept their distance. Understandably. It was enough to walk and to chew and to feel the ache come on to us, clean, simple and salty.

At night we camped where the grass bent high and the cliffs kept a low watch. Locals prodded us through the tent fabric. No easy sleep under canvas. The snack packets crackled in the dark. The vinegar stayed with us, sharp as memory, and the salt stayed too, in the skin and on the breath. We were poor but never lacking. 

The path asked only that we continue and so we did, then the tide arrived in the wrong place. In the morning the bags were lighter once again, but wetter. The sea was still there, this time in another place, punching faces, blue and true. We ate the last of the crisps and laughed once, briefly looking up. The taste was strong and the day was long/hot and that was just how it had to be. I fell into a thorn bush and that was very unpleasant. So I decided I still had to write all this stuff down for our own future reference. Right now I'd kill for a shower."

The Common Temple

A stark warning: families and friends everywhere need to know there’s a new(ish) religion in town. I’m not talking about right-wing fake Christians who are clearly as thick as shit in a recycled water bottle. No, I’m talking about the very reverent worship of higher-end, artfully produced baked goods. Those kinky temples of golden dough and shiny pastry that pop up on high streets and then close abruptly and forever soon afterwards. 

Across the crumbly biscuit base of SQ, crowds flock to the Dune Bakery every weekend. They queue in the rain or once in a while the sun, perhaps. Then carry their little brown boxes of delightfully baked treasures back up to the bus stop, from whence they came via the number 43. Sometimes they also add coffee. Their meaningful experience is then recorded on Insta, alongside their fashionable dogs, backpacks and coloured cardigans. They make witty comments too.

Whilst other quite reasonable local bakeries are available, for the moment Dune is the king of the crusts and artistic sandwiches. I’d have been there this morning, digging into the wet weather and firmly stuck in the damp queue - but alas, my bank card has been compromised by some not so idiotic scammer in the American Midwest. He took $1.48 from my account and returned $1.49. High level financial crime schemes abound. Sadly a new and usable card won’t arrive until midweek.

This means that temporarily, but with immediate effect I can't spend anything and can no longer function in this world of pricey croissants, outlaw bakers and internet scammers. I’ll have to rely on handouts until then, keeping going as best I can, sustained by my carefully curated sausage and cracker collection and any random slice of pizza or human goodwill that comes my way.

Also: During cold spells we often remove various parts from various cars, take them off the street and bring them into the house so that they can experience some warm winter cheer and join in with our lively chat and banter. For example here's a recently rescued Ford tail-light cluster .

I Told You So

Being a fully qualified "oldie" I certainly agree with this. As they might say in Cowdenbeath or thereabouts, "I fuckin' telt ye, ya stupid cnut."

Moving on ... when you ask Poundland Chat GTi to run up a wee map of Scotlandshire for your NorthSouth 500 bit of galavanting in the old Dacia campervan.

Egg Mountain

One person's egg mountain misery is another person's reasonable and sustainable egg supply situation. It's a tricky thing to get right. Supply v demand. Appetite v abstention. Feast v famine. Whatever. All numbers and conclusions are abstract.

It's never easy to know where you are with eggs (hen's eggs I mean, forget the other kinds). Sometimes perfect; in a Denny's in Key West, over easy with pancakes, syrup and bacon on a warm Gulf of Mexico morning. Then in that WWII Brad Pitt film with the tank, Fury, the scene with the fried egg, set in that particularly disturbed house, ugh! It haunts me still. Eggs can tip from brilliance to disgusting in the blink of an eye. 

Eggs. Like some alien thing. You have to be in the right mood. The mind has to be settled correctly. Keep it clean. Avoid things that may distract or push a negative image or feeling. You're walking on eggshells. A crazy image in itself. Develop a physically and psychologically sound system of defence to optimize your egg preparations and consumption. Learn how to be wrong. Then fix it. Too many tough recipes. Stay simple.

Fried eggs are never easy. The very hot oil, crinkle theory is all good and well but it can go so badly wrong so quickly. A rubbery textured white streaked with sizzled orange bubbles is a bad thing. Boiled and poached have their own problems but we seldom speak of them. Never trust anyone who says, "He/she is such a poor cook, they couldn't even boil an egg." Don't believe it's all that simple. Not if you ever want to see and experience eggs done properly. Idiots can't do eggs. They* also serve them on cold plates. Scrambled egg on a cold plate is a cruel form of torture but remember the microwave can be your friend - for scrambled egg and the late, great plate warming ritual.

*I have a mental hit list of offending eateries, some nearby, some not so.

Back to our personal egg mountain. A seasonal problem. That's what we're telling you. We're getting somewhere. On top of it but not literally. Every different "egg" day presents a new but familiar challenge. We rise, we fall, we rise again. 

Never forget the holy trinity. Shell, white and yolk. Three things that are somehow one. Or is that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit? I just don't know for sure. It's all out there if you care to look.

The Final Act

I sat down and saw and rather enjoyed the David Bowie documentary on C4 the other night. I'm not a huge fan but like anyone of my age he was almost always there as a symbol and totem of our meandering lives and times. He wrote some great songs.  Anyway the next day, without any provocation on my part, Temu shared with me the option of purchasing this rather "niche" Black Star related object d'art. Now I don't want to watch anything on TV anymore ever again.

Your Genre or Mine?

Another chance for me to state the obvious - so what?

I heard someone on Insta talking about artists and bands who defy categorization, they don't easily fit into the established and understood genres. Nice. It's probably where most artists would want to be if they could choose. Floating around in that cosmic minestrone.

So what's a genre anyway? Well it's a category of artistic composition, as in music or literature, marked by a distinctive style, form, or type of content. So in music there are some artists who some might say really only belong within their own personal genre - Zappa, Beefheart, Velvets, The Fall, Primus, Tool, The Cure and so on ... you may disagree but ... this is just my personal perspective. I could do a proper list but it would always be an opinion based thing that's hopelessly fluid.

How important is genre?  Genres still matter in modern music but how they matter has changed a lot in my lifetime. Maybe they matter as much as you want them to, perhaps to settle a decent pub arguement or define some odd element of style or content.

 
Why genres are useful: Genres act like some shared dialect or code between artists, listeners, and industries. They can be understood. Ask anyone who runs a record shop. It makes sense.

Orientation & expectation: When you hear “jazz,” “metal,” or “folk,” you immediately anticipate certain sounds, moods, and values. That mental framework helps you enter into the music more quickly or dismiss it more easily. "Free form Jazz is a load of shit!" "Dad Rock sucks!". "Boy Bands - God help us". You can easily understand the origin of your bias. Try and work on your self awareness for a few days. 

Cultural and historical context: Blue's roots in tough Black communities, Punk’s anti-establishment and rich kid bollox, Country’s ties to rural storytelling and suffering. You have a quick (but not always correct) understanding of why the music sounds the way it does and what it’s responding to and how that impacts on you. Maybe.

Community & identity: Helps people find each other. Fans don’t just like music, they bleed it. They often fixate with a scene, fashion, attitude, or worldview connected to a genre. Tattoos and T-shirts and scary, crazy fan obsessive shit. 

Practical stuff: Playlists, recommendations, radio formats, festivals, more fashions, shops and marketing all normally align with scenes or non-scenes. You instinctively know what to avoid. Five years later nostalgia says you're a fan.

Where genres fall short: Modern music is often all over the place. It's broken, fragmented and for some, pretty tired out. Bedroom recordings and sonic experiments. AI slop isn't helping either (and that's a recent new genre nobody saw coming). Everything has it's product life cycle and there will another one along in a minute.

Things can get blurry: Artists blend rap with rock, electronic with folk, jazz with hip-hop. Rigid genre labels can feel misleading or dated. Keeping up with lists is a pain.

Algorithmic listening: Streaming platforms often sort music by mood, vibe, or activity (chill, workout, alone and so on) rather than traditional genres. They do all the heavy lifting for you, just plug yourself in. Curation is a dead thing. We shift the focus from structure and lineage to emotions and consumer convenience. Music's only another commodity after all.

Audience access: Artists draw from traditions worldwide. A single genre label could lose the complexity of multiple, diverse influences. Somebody might care about that.

Artistic intent: Some artists intentionally resist genres as a statement - it's how they might see themselves. But they may still fit into one easily just the same. Esoteric fixes and the bloated ego. They're only flesh and blood.

 
Do genres help us understand what it all might mean? Probably. I can't say too much about that at the moment.

Genres can try to explain: The hidden language of the music. The musician's intentions. The traditions it builds on or what it rebels against. How did we ever get ourselves into this awkward place?

So please continue to kick out the jams ... if you can be bothered.

There's probably more to say but this piece has gone on long enough.

"Aye, that's all fine then."

 Venezuela is also very rich in rare minerals, gold, etc. etc.

So everything seems to be going quite well.

Alright for some.

Paper Sun

It’s a fake kind of winter. Only a paper sun. Low in the sky. Blinds you when driving. The snow is within touching distance for us, if you’re prepared to go 60 miles. I’m happy to avoid that. We’re on the coast. But it’s still killer chiller. All this warming just makes us cold. The sharp kind of cold that pings your ear’s insides and rises up through the tiles or tarmac into bones and nerve ends and into your core. In a non specific way. The older you get the thinner the skin, so you feel less protected, like wearing cling film in a freezer. 

Old age: The chilled blade of the traitor’s knife has your name on the hilt. We've fallen into that trap already.

I have trouble spelling. I can’t concentrate. I’m waiting till it’s a sane time to light up the logs and then count them down. Hoping for a clean burn. One good, big hot meal. Might include alcohol. Pots of soup can last us three days. Add pepper. Books, TV streams and guitar noodling. Looking out of windows. Charge up the devices.

Nobody ever says, "I really think that I should check my phone a little more."

Winter is full of ritual - or is that just life? How dark is the dark? Check the air and wind direction. Does the sea water look choppy? Trees are moving. OK to let the cats out? Good time to let them in? Boil a kettle. Is the Co-op open yet? Empty the drier. Why are those people waiting out there? The buses seem to be running. Bin's out. Bed time soon.

First thing: Clean out the wood stove. Wipe the carbon and creosote away. Remove excess ash from the pan bottom. Collect logs from outside. Add some kindling on the way. Order more logs in about a week or so. Put tomorrow’s logs under cover to make sure they’re dry. Construct the cold, dry fire. Maybe chop sticks later. Once in a while it lights up spontaneously - warm embers and my careless ways of working to blame.

Every year a different fire building method emerges. One horizonal log across the back. Two vertical at the sides. Kindling in the middle, a mix of thick and thin. The logs can’t be too big to begin with. Add a log into the red hot the middle after about fifteen minutes. Never change the method, repeat and repeat till summer wipes the memory clean. Next year’s method then has to be decided. Experience is learned but I seem to forget. Fire is it’s own master. Still a just paper sun up there.

2026 was the year that I decided to do something.

Mindful

Staring deep into the same old void after the first rumblings of the new year: It was the second of January and we decided it was time to take down the Christmas decorations - but in a mindful way, without panic and pain. It is never too soon to act if you get the urge.

The great festival of extravagance, indulgence and general confusion has passed. Both meaningful and meaningless it's the perfect expression of how lost we've all become. There's no way back either. So let's bury it in the past, not that it was particularly bad this year, just a reasonable dose of all the normal Christmasy stuff everybody in our wee world gets on with. 

With a positive mental attitude the mindful hard labour and removal of Christmas tat and tinsel isn't so bad. Our tracks and footprints are silently erased by the incoming tide as we journey on, the pale winter sunlight almost warming those worn and weary hearts.

We breathed in a lot. 

Sang a Joan Baez organising song.

Stopped and considered things.

Got high on a step ladder. 

Exchanged observations.

Untangled the various cables - slowly. 

Breathed out even more. 

Rejoiced that we'd less stuff to put away than last year. 

Unshackled the "real" tree and returned it to the "real" garden in the "real" cold. Just about everything was real it seemed. 

Spread brandy butter on various baked goods. 

I also ate the slightly overage blue cheese.

Used the dustpan rather than a noisy hoover. 

I wore plimsolls.

Maintained the silence of our souls.

Once the boxes were full of all the cables and gnomes, paper and golden stars, baubles and switchgear, they were duly sent off into oblivion until about the 13th of December 2026. Perhaps I'll  join them there.

Lucky Cat Lego

Almost Happy "lucky cat" New Year time.

Next up - 2026.