Yellow flags and banners, printed in black, with simple, short messages, dripping slightly now with the mizzle that came with the dawn. Many arrived with the early morning street sweepers, the old guard, he knows most of them. There is Polly, with the cropped hair, talking to the media. Safe pair of hands, she’d not … Continue reading Freedom and Democracy
I couldn’t tell you how I know the Harold Lloyd theme tune (dodo-do-do-do-do-doo-do-do-do), but I do. There may have been old repeats on television when I was a child, because I have known the catchy tune since I was small, “A pair of glasses and a smile.” You’ll find lots of clips on the internet; try … Continue reading Hooray for Harold Lloyd
Other women have told me that they don’t like match day, they take themselves off for the afternoon or evening, or they adjourn to the back to the flat to block it all out. I like it; I find the unruliness enlivening rather than unsettling. Before I look out the window, I can feel the … Continue reading Match Day
There is a lady in York whom I speak to every February. My ten-minute phone conversation with her is a highlight of this short, little drab month. She is an insurance broker with whom I renew my car insurance – probably not usually a highlight in one’s calendar, but it is for me. Unbeknownst to … Continue reading That Time Again
He’s carrying a small backpack that is far from full, hardly looks as though it holds enough for an overnight stay. For a moment, I wonder if he’s a runaway. He looks and sounds too calm for a runaway (as if I’d know). ‘I’m going to see my grandparents,’ he volunteers, mind-reading. I am to … Continue reading Companion
Came across a lovely passage by Clarice Lispector on the divisions within ourselves: “…she really had split into two, each part facing the other, watching her, wishing for things that the other could no longer give. In truth she had always been two, the one that had a slight idea that she was and the … Continue reading Me, Me, Me
XI. Holyrood Park Freedom reigns in Holyrood behind the Queen’s big house. Wide-open space, grass to roam barefoot, feed ducks, kick balls. A woman in a leotard – small waist, wide hips – attempts to wheel a hula-hoop along her arm across her clavicle and back along the other arm. Every time, she fails. I … Continue reading Holyrood Park, Arthur’s Seat
VIII. Easter Road My stomping ground is Easter Road, a place of withered leaves, stubbed butts, strewn rubbish, and the same squat bulldog lamp post tethered while his master buys a macaroni pie. A bookie’s, two booze shops, three options for tattoos, and a bakery with sourdough for £6 – can’t see that lasting, not … Continue reading Easter Road, Abbeymount, Meadowbank
“Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beats and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, friend hencod’s roes. Most of all he liked mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.” Ulysses, James Joyce. When … Continue reading One About Eating
The conductor, a small, blonde, square woman in her thirties, comes to our carriage last. She has checked all the tickets and has plenty of time to chat. I, invisible to the three boys sharing my carriage, am apparently invisible to her too. She does not look near me. Twice she tells them the time … Continue reading Off The Rails (II)
My Edinburgh Press 