What's he up to, eh?
So… Final Cut Pro X, eh? Lot of chatter about it. Lot of controversy.
I bought it the day it came out expecting to jump in and find an editing Nirvana. Instead I found something that made my head hurt. I believe this reaction was not unique. Being slightly busy, I resolved to keep an open mind and give it a proper go when I had the time. Turns out that time is now: six months later! Continued…
Categories: editing, Personal, Recommendation, Work.
I was alerted to the fact that this is St. Andrew’s day by the fact that people kept commenting on a video I posted years ago of some Scottish celebrities (such as they are) talking about it. It’s a fun we film, and I’m glad it’s turning out to be perennial. It’s also a rare chance to see Scottish hermit, Leon Jackson, so I humbly present it here:
Categories: Personal, Recommendation.
Dannsa hits Episode the Third with a trip to Taynuilt, near Oban. Well, relatively “near”: Taynuilt isn’t near anywhere, which is sort if the point of Ballet West. In idyllic surrounds, the ballet degree students have few distractions, other than the odd stag sticking his majestic head through the studio window to enjoy a rehearsal.
Categories: confession, editing, Personal, Recommendation, tv, Work.
Following on from last week’s blog, here’s what I have to say for myself regarding the music choices in Dannsa, episode 2, which is on tonight at 10pm, BBC Alba.
This week, we concentrate on the Fusion dance group in Aberdeen, with a brief sojourn with Livingston’s b-boyz (and girl), the Heavy Smokers, kicking off with… Continued…
Categories: confession, editing, Personal, Recommendation, tv, Work.
A new show TV started last Monday, 10pm on BBC Alba. It’s called Dannsa[1] and you’ll all be able to get it, because BBC Alba has just become available to anyone with Freeview. That’s you[2]. I recommend the show to you, because it’s rather good. I know this because I worked on it, along with a string of extraordinarily talented people.[3] And frankly, we all worked damned hard. I don’t want to give too much away, but one aspect of the post-production that I feel I can discuss in some detail is the choice of music. Obviously, the dancers featured dance to something, so music choice was a primary concern.
The show follows six dance groups from all over Scotland with wildly varying ages and dance styles, from classical ballet to contemporary, an over-60s group to a breakdance crew. There’s something for everyone, and it was a joy spending time with them all, particularly when they start coming together later in the series. Episode One introduces us to them all, whereas subsequent editions focus on one group at a time. So this introduction to them all is, itself, a kind of compilation album, a mix tape, a playlist. So the music better be good.
Categories: confession, editing, Personal, Recommendation, tv, Work.
Just watched the political discussion show, Empire, on Aljazeera. Jolly good. I’m quite enjoying switching to the Doha-based network whenever BBC News starts wittering about cricket and there’s nothing good on Parliament. They had, among others, Carl Bernstein of All the President’s Men fame going on about Wikileaks, cyber activism and national security.
The whole thing got me thinking, though, how much of my morality is framed in the context of Star Wars. No, really.
Categories: confession, Personal, politics, tv.
There’s a truism in the world of copyright and media piracy: you can’t compete with free. Thing is, though, you can.
Categories: complaint, confession, DRM, idea, Personal.
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When the free version of an app becomes one of the few that you use every day without fail, it's time to shell out the £2.99 for the full version. Despite good reviews, I balked at the price initially because of its relative highness [1] and the fact that I knew how soul destroying an RSS app could be if it's interface doesn't fit you.
Byline Free's icon
Byline is an RSS reader, you see. For such a simple technology, it seems really hard to get aggregator software to work intuitively. I've never been too impressed with Apple's efforts, for example. You can read RSS feeds in Mail (which seems like a strange place to put it), and Safari's got a weird system where everything but the text can be stripped away, so you're not distracted by the rest of the site (never really been much of a problem, frankly). No, RSS didn't become an integral part of my life until I discovered the right software for it: Shrook. Recommended in Mark Frauenfelder's book Rule the Web, it offered a very pleasing interface and, crucially, syncing between a desktop app and a browser, so it never asked you to read the same post twice. This came at a price, though, a monthly or yearly subscription, without which they'd both have all the feeds you'd subscribed to, but wouldn't know which ones you'd read on the other platform. I took out a month for a couple of quid, liked it enormously, and paid for a yearly subscription.
When the free version of an app becomes one of the few that you use every day without fail, it's time to shell out the £2.99 for the full version. Despite good reviews, I balked at the price initially because of its relative highness {{1}} and the fact that I knew how soul destroying an RSS app could be if it's interface doesn't fit you.
Byline Free's icon
Byline is an RSS reader, you see. For such a simple technology, it seems really hard to get aggregator software to work intuitively. I've never been too impressed with Apple's efforts, for example. You can read RSS feeds in Mail (which seems like a strange place to put it), and Safari's got a weird system where everything but the text can be stripped away, so you're not distracted by the rest of the site (never really been much of a problem, frankly). No, RSS didn't become an integral part of my life until I discovered the right software for it: Shrook. Recommended in Mark Frauenfelder's book Rule the Web, it offered a very pleasing interface and, crucially, syncing between a desktop app and a browser, so it never asked you to read the same post twice. This came at a price, though, a monthly or yearly subscription, without which they'd both have all the feeds you'd subscribed to, but wouldn't know which ones you'd read on the other platform. I took out a month for a couple of quid, liked it enormously, and paid for a yearly subscription.
Categories: complaint, Personal, Recommendation.
Since updating to OS X 10.6.6 and having available the new Mac App Store, I have acquired yet another book app: Amazon’s Kindle for Mac. There have been, and are, others, none of which have the killer function that I look for in an eReader. Continued…
Categories: complaint, confession, DRM, idea, Personal, Recommendation.
2011 and the holidays are over. Don’t know about you, but I’m set for a very busy three or four months, beyond which lies a mystery. My intention in that time is to somehow fit in some personal work around the busy real-work schedule, but keep it until about April before saying any more about it or doing anything in particular with it. The idea is to have a wee quarter-year buffer, so I’m not watching a YouTube account sit idle guiltily all year. Just for the first three or four months.
Back to work, then.
Categories: Personal.
Just realised that the edit which prompted the previous post will be the last sport programme I do for a very long time. I’m halfway through a 12 month contract with Gaelic indie mneTV (who have a terrific logo, don’cha think?), but the remainder of the time will be devoted to a single programme. It’s an ob-doc, which typically take ages to film and edit, so that’s me accounted for until the end of March.
Categories: editing, Personal, Work.
There’s a wee issue when interviewing footballers at the moment. It’s their age — anything between late teens and late thirties. The problem is that the human experience is so different for people at the extremes of that range, if you want to ask someone what their first album was, how do you phrase it?
Categories: editing, Personal, Work.
Think dreams can’t come true? Or that the only ones that do are mediocre ones that were achievable anyway? Think again! I can prove that if you believe hard enough, for long enough, even the most ridiculous fantasy can come true. But to do so, I must take you into the past…
Categories: confession, Personal.
Despite the late night, Brussels beckoned on the morning of our first full day. One of the deciding factors in choosing the Scandic Grand Place was its inclusive buffet breakfast, at which we could shamelessly stuff our bellies to save money on food later. So stuffed, we trotted out into Bruxelles, data-less on our phones thanks to crippling roaming charges, but armed with the cheap map gifted to us by the reception clerk. The generosity was soon understood when we noticed that instead of directing us to landmarks of historical and social interest, its key was devoted to the “RN Make-up For Ever” boutique and “La Parmigiana” restaurant.
It was certainly useless in locating the Mannekin-Pis, a statue of a cherub who urinates realistically, albeit ceaselessly, into a fountain to the delight of all who bear witness. When researching the trip, websites designed for tourists in Brussels would list very little apart from the chance to “giggle” at this display. Click on the ‘Nightlife’ tab and we were invited to giggle at it at night. It adorns the side of all the public buses, appears in numerous guises (a guitar photoshopped over his modest member to advertise a rock festival; an Uncle Sam costume and “Yes We Can” placard to honour Barak Obama) and seems very much the official mascot of the city. For us, it would serve as a token piece of touristy sight-seeing before we hit the bottle.
Categories: complaint, confession, Personal, Recommendation.
Walked Monty in Mugdock Park today. What a park — it’s massive! We only discovered it recently and have been but a couple of times and the vast majority of its expanse is remains unexplored by us.
I suspect it will have to span several episodes of the upcoming video series, The Parks of Glasgow, where Mo, Monty and I (the Parks of Glasgow) review the various parks of Glasgow (geddit?).
Categories: Personal.
Last week I heard in the news that Twitter had bought Tweetie and turned it into their official client. “Tweetie…” thought I, “is that one I’ve tried?”
Like most people, I found the idea of Twitter, when explained to me, thoroughly uninspiring. I believe it was this post by the legendary Wil Wheaton that convinced me to set up an account and give it a whirl. At first, through a browser, my initial prejudices were confirmed — waste of everyone’s time. I was intrigued, however, by that little widget that advertises client software —little programs that organise your Twitter life outside if the browser.
The first one I tried was for the desktop, and its name escapes me now. It wasn’t great, but it was better than the browser, and it gave me my first taste of Update Anticipation.
It was when I got one for my phone that I really started to get hooked. I could whip it out my pocket and casually see what @GreatDismal or @doctorow were on about at any given moment. Plus I could tweet on a whim. Monty’s bowel movements became a matter of public record.
Categories: complaint, confession, Personal, Recommendation.
AWE Aldermaston has one of those double-fence jobbies you may remember from the Great Escape. You know, the kind short Scottish men who’ve spent too much time in the cooler with Steve McQueen get shot trying to climb. There’s a good four or five metres between them, and so the Boilerhouse Gate was actually two sets of imposing iron doors. Luckily for my nerves, Scary Machine Gun Guy was well behind the second set.
The police had continued to be the kind of enforcers that might appear in some naïve utopian fantasy. Still not quite able to believe their luck, the blockaders maintained their effortless decommissioning of the gate(s). At some point, though, the row of blockaders nearest the AWE realised that a potential opportunity lay right behind them: the gates, both sets, were still open. Now, beyond THEM was a host of cops and security, including Scary Machine Gun Guy, and beyong THEM was a large sign which read: “TERRORIST THREAT LEVEL: HEIGHTENED.” It was no welcome mat. Nevertheless, the chance to become a nuicance was right there, and between them they reached a near-instant consensus and dashed over the invisible line into MoD territory.
The police within the weapons factory reacted swiftly, lining up just beyond the second threshhold, effectively becoming a blockade all of their own. The five activists, though, were comfortably inside the perimeter, and were starting to enjoy themselves. Songs were hollered, dances were pranced, but the line of cops stood firm, allowing themselves none of the affability of the officers with us, still out on the public, civvy highway. Neither, though, did they antagonise or threaten. In the best tradition of NVDA, they simply blocked the way.
Eventually, and probably having been told that they’d be forcably ejected, the protesters just lay down where they were. In the scenario of success, the authorities would conceed defeat by simply closing the gates, whereupon the group would probably move to another, less secure gate (depending on what the cellularly-connected ‘gate support’ people were reporting). Here, though, they couldn’t shut the gate even if they wanted to, thanks to our brave tresspassers.
And so the first arrests were made. A special unit appeared and started cutting through the tubing that protected our comrades’ bonds. It took a while and made a fair amount of noise, but I could make out that the tension had dissapated, leaving room for smiles and banter. Cut free of each other, the arrestees were lifted into the base to be processed before being transported to Newbuy Police Station.
Having cleared the gateways of people, the police were free to close them officially, which they did. Of course, they often wait for the blockaders to relocate and just open them right back up, so we stayed put. The intel from the other gates was that they were all shut anyway, so there wasn’t much call for our human-wall services. With the gates closed, though, our blockaders technically weren’t doing much disrupting.
I got talking to a policeman. I told him how impressed I was with the police and how reasonable they were being. He told me that their briefing had included the instruction to engage with the protesters, listen to their arguments and stories and, generally, be human beings. (This was in contrast to previous actions, the protesters told me later, where the official policy had been to avoid engaging with the activists at all, other than to arrest them.)
I enjoyed chatting to the guy, feeling that there was goodwill though circumstances had put us on opposing teams that day. Just then there was some commotion on the road and my new pal darted away. One of the other supporters stepped up beside me, the one who’d correctly predicted that we’d have our expectations confounded. “Here we go,” he said. “It’s been cozy up ’til now, but things can change. Things can change very quickly.”
On the road in front of the gate there was a swarm. A few policemen held back to cover the gate itself, but most had spilled onto the road, and traffic in both directions was at a stand-still. I swung my camera onto the scene, holding my tripod over my head to get the highest angle I could. The group of linked blockaders nearest the road had apparently taken things up a level and moved onto the road itself, lying down and blocking it completely. The queues of traffic already stretched to the horizons.
The police were talking to the protesters urgently, but quietly, and their trademark leather notebooks saw a lot of action. For a while nothing really changed and it seemed like an impass. A van driver got out and stode threatenly towards the blockade, no doubt late on his errand, but was talked back into his van by a firm, controlled copper. Eventually, I heard policeman promise the road-blockers that they would be arrested, and soon after they were back in front of the gate. The traffic started moving again, cups of tea recommenced flowing, but nothing on the arrest front.
Things started to get interesting when the ‘cutting team’ (as I shall call them) returned and erected a large, sturdy and yet portable fence around those who’d been promised arrest. It was the kind of thing I expect could spring out the back of a Martian rover, instantly configuring itself into a green house in preparation for the first primate visitors. There was some fervent chatting at the cutting team’s van, though, and before the structure could be completed they dismantled it again, packed it away and left. After a while, a policeman addressed the road-blockers, telling them that as they were no longer blocking the highway, they wouldn’t be arrested after all. However, if they blocked it again, the whole rigmarole would be replayed.
It turned out that the two forces involved in today’s policing were on a no-arrest policy along with their talk-and-listen-to-them policy. It was a move of such astonishing good sense that it had some of the seasoned blockaders flummoxed. “They’re playing us at our own game,” one noted, smiling. Another pointed out, with disappointment, that it prevented those who wished to have their cases heard in court from doing so. I’m new to all this, and I’d kept my ears pricked all through the trip for clues as to the minutiae of motivation, goals and expected outcomes of the exercise. This was extremely telling. Later, I chatted to a lovely lady called Barbara who I’d met at my NVDA training the week before. She told about her previous arrests, and how she’d refused to comply with court directions or pay fines, but that she’d won the respect of more than one judge in her commitment to have her view (that she commited no crime, but was preventing the crime of WMD proliferation) preserved in official literature.
So in a way the friendliness of the police, while easing my nerves, was a frustration to the endeavour. Which goes to show how effective non-violent action can be. It’s just, like the fellow said, that the police have cottoned on. Things, indeed, can change.
Categories: Personal, politics.
As usual, I woke up in the middle if the night and didn’t quite get back to sleep as deeply as I had been. That happens in proper beds as well as dusty hardwood floors. So when I heard stirring at half-five, I was more than ready to jump up and greet the day.
After the previous night’s delicious chicken chilli thing with rice and mysterious lentil stuff (also delicious), the great food continued with porridge, bread, rolls, all kinds of spreads and sweet, life-giving apple juice. There was only one gents’ toilet as far as I knew, but there was no conflict for access or even queues. The only problem was that I foolishly left filling up my water bottle ’til too late, and there was far too much ‘number two’ in the atmosphere for me to consider it. (I know I can’t avoid inhaling other people’s airborne shit particles from time to time, but I refuse to bottle them and keep them with me all day, preserved in water I intend to drink.)
I was taking my little bag with me to the blockade, but those who had been more sensible with their sleeping provisions left their rucksacks in a designated room of the hall (which I can now safely reveal as St. Michael’s, near the shopping centre – thanks, Mike!). Someone’s job was to return after the blockaders had been delivered and move the bags to the hall in Reading we’d be staying in later. (I can also identify that as St. Johns & St. Stephens Church & School – thanks, Johnny & Steve!)
As rehearsed before last night’s dinner, the blockaders got locked to each other and boarded the buses. Time could not be wasted at our destination – Aldermaston’s Boilerhouse Gate – for there was every chance the police could intercept them and prevent the blockade from happening at all. The veteran activists all had stories of being thwarted by waiting police officers. On some occasions, they’d been prevented from driving right up to the site, in which case the consensus was to jump from the bus and run the rest of the way, dodging the law as best they could. The worst case was that the van would be turned away too far from the gate to attempt the sprint, meaning there might not even be a blockade. That would please my mum and my wife, I thought, who were fretting away in Glasgow about my possible arrest. (Translation: I’d be slightly relieved, too.) As one of the drivers pointed out, though, the reality when we get there could differ greatly from any of our imagined scenarios. As it turned out, he was right.
With the blockaders aboard, I found a seat on the leading bus and got my camera ready. We manoeuvred out of the church car park slowly, making sure the other two buses were following, and headed to the Atomic Weapons Establishment, Aldermaston.
“The most important thing is to stay calm,” said Jane, one of the experienced blockaders, and I drew a couple of deep breaths. I couldn’t see much in the pre-dawn darkness, but I kept the camera rolling just in case. Up next to the driver a guy was navigating with a map on his lap while constantly updating the other buses over the phone. “This is your ten minute warning… This is your five minute warning… This is your three minute warning…”
“We’d better get locked on now,” said Brian, one of the main organisers, and those who hadn’t yet did so. We were at the perimeter of AWE Aldermaston now. It’s a massive site, straddling two police force jurisdictions, and we were following it’s circumference anti-clockwise. “Can you see anything yet?” Brian asked.
“I think I see high viz coats,” said the driver. “Difficult to tell.”
The traffic was thick and slow-moving along the two-lane B-road. The AWE employs a lot of people, and the Boilerhouse gate was the port of entry for many of them. When there’s no blockade, that is.
“Two high viz jackets,” called the driver, “three… four. Directing traffic. Five. Definitely police. Six. Shit!”
The road was lined by trees, and it wasn’t until we’d trundled closer that a good view of the gate was afforded us. Countless police guarded it, all blurring into a single impenetrable mass of neon-yellow.
Then we were next to them, with two buses and a mile of regular traffic behind us. No time to think, just keep calm. The side door slid open and a supporter jumped out, clutching placards and signs, followed by me, camera still rolling, ready to capture whatever happened next.
Despite myself, I made eye-contact with the officer nearest me and instinctively gave him my friendliest smile. He smiled back. Not curtly, or politely, but broadly and with genuine good will. “Morning,” he said.
Not wanting to push it, I got onto the grassy verge beside the gate as swiftly as I could (the commonest charge for arrested blockaders is ‘blocking a public highway’). Training my camera back towards the bus, I managed to capture the blockaders (or ‘arrestables’) disembarking fluidly, despite being locked to each other by the wrist. To everyone’s surprise, the police made way for them and even offered helpful suggestions: “You could be a bit further over, love, give your pals a bit more room.”
Before we knew it we had three neat rows of people, arms locked at the wrist within reinforced tubes, successfully barricading Boilerhouse Gate, flanked by officers of the law who were either engaging in good-natured banter with us protesters or moving the traffic along, telling AWE empoyees, “Sorry, this gate’s blocked.”
If I couldn’t believe it, the veterans were flabbergasted. “Never seen anything like it,” they all told me. One young policeman was weaving through the protesters with a camcorder capturing everything with rather more solemnity than his more affable colleagues. When he turned his camera towards me and mine, I waved and pointed back and forth between them, whereupon he broke into a wide, friendly grin.
The traffic got moving again, the blockagers got as comfy as they could (not very) and the supporters started to erect the Bombs Away Café to keep everyone fed and watered. We had made it, we were fine and the police, it seemed, were our pals.
I was reminded of one of the many classic scenes in A Hard Day’s Night. Ringo and Wilfred Brambell (as Paul’s “very clean” grandfather) are sitting in a city police station. A hopeless trouble-maker, the grandfather regales Ringo with tales of police brutality and corruption, inviting him to consider the bobbies who have just escorted them to their bench. “They seem alright to me,” says Ringo, but McCartney Snr.’s having none of it, insisting, “All coppers are villains!”
Oblivious, the desk sergeant calls through to them, “Would you two like a cup of tea?”
Brambell leans in to Starr, sporting his best Steptoe sneer, and says conspiritorially: “See? Sly villains.”
Categories: Personal, politics.
Sleeping in a church hall reminded me of a Scout camp I went on once. Actually, it was a Cub camp; I never made it as far as the Scouts, and here’s why:
Some other kid and I were shining our torches onto the ceiling of the hall after lights-out and having a good old laugh about it. The leaders’ threats became more dramatic the more we ignored them, culminating in a choice between going to sleep and having our parents roused from their slumber to come and get us right away. I can’t remember where they’d taken us for this ‘camp’ but it was at least a few hours’ drive from home. Like the others before it, this threat went unheeded, forcing our opponents’ hand. Though it was the middle of the night, we were told that our parents were on their way and we were to pack our things and prepare for their arrival.
I think my partner in crime’s will broke and he started blubbing and grovelling, which no doubt pleased our adversaries no end. I, however, was resolute: not because I was preturnaturally brave, but because the thought of my parents’ passionate fury was nothing compared to the shiteness of the camp. Sleeping bags on the floor of some strange church hall, bad food and, for fun, ritual humiliation in the traditional children’s game, Let’s Rank Our Worth By Athletic Prowess.
Pathetically and crushingly, the Cub leaders had lied. Our parents hadn’t been called and were still, as infuriating as the thought was, lying in REAL beds in REAL houses and no doubt sleeping soundly. I mean, really, where were they planning to go after dropping that whopper? “Your parents are coming. No… wait. No they’re not. We just told you that to make you cry and crush your spirit. We hadn’t realised your contempt for us outweighed your fear of your parents.” I’m still ashamed that I didn’t demand the use of the phone then and there.
I’ve slept on plenty of floors since then, and doing so when discovering drugs and girls led to my becoming fond of it by default – a pavlovian response. So I didn’t mind at all sleeping in the church hall, even opting for my usual bag-for-a-pillow, jacket-for-a-blanket over everyone else’s comfy sleeping bag and camping mat approach.
It’s only the fact that that we were all lined up on the floor of the hall that reminded me of that night. In the morning I would awake and go to battle. The foe this time, the utterly immoral and militarily useless WMDs that we’re continuing to develop though we can’t afford it. Like that childhood memory, I would be brave, but wouldn’t follow through; I’m not there to get arrested, and I’ll back down and do what I’m told. Unlike that Cub-scout skirmish, though, this time I REALLY don’t want them to phone my mum.
Categories: Personal, politics.
We didn’t have long to wait in Killington Lake before the other two buses showed up. There was, however, something of a pause while coffees were drunk, lunch eaten and plans made. Not being much involved with the plans, and having had an easy ride what with not having to drive, I made myself suspitious/useful by filming beautiful panning shots of the car park.
I thought I’d seen every service stop on the M6, but Killington Lake was new to me. Helen on our bus (a knitting genius from whom I plan to commission a pair of psychadelic rainbow socks) went so far as to call it her favourite.
Almost as nice, but not quite, was the next service stop, just after the turn off to avoid the M6 toll. This was about two or three hours later, during which time I filled the Archers vacuum with podcasts. The other two buses made then for Basingstoke, but we detoured to a Travel Lodge to drop off some of our number who’d opted for more civilised digs (including psychadelic rainbow socks Helen).
At our more humble lodgings, we put the finishing touches on our plan, ate some excellent food and practiced disembarking from the buses while locked together. Well, of those three, I only did the eating, hiding behind my camera the rest of the time. I AM only ‘media support’ you know.
I’m starting to sense a frisson, though. I’m conciously avoiding specifics about where we are because the police (hopefully) don’t know we’re here. If they did, they’d probably have turned up and confiscated our locking devices. I’m not here to get arrested, but for some (fourteen of us, to be exact) that’s the whole point. They might not get arrested tomorrow, but bailing them out is certainly part of tomorrow’s itinerary.
I should be safe from arrest, as I won’t actually be doing anything illegal. (I just hope my tripod doesn’t look too much like an automatic weapon.)
Categories: Personal, politics.
As my eyes drew open, seconds before my six-thirty alarm sounded (as is their wont), I began the calculations that customarily get my brain into gear: what is the last second I can get up and still be where I need to be, when I need to be there?
The two minibuses bound for Aldermaston, Reading, via Basingstoke, were leaving at 0830 from Glasgow’s George Square with or without me. AWE Aldermaston is where they’re building the next generation of nukes for the replacement/upgrade of Trident that the government hasn’t officially committed to yet. An NGO called Trident Ploughshares had arranged a bockade and I’d gotten myself involved.
I heard about it at a Green Party meeting a month ago. The membership secretary told me about it, and when I expressed an interest he sent me contact details. At the next meeting he asked me how I’d got on. “Fine,” I told him, “I’ll be there. Are you going?” At which point he giggled nervously. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head.
By the time I got up I barely had time to jump in the shower, throw some clothes, phone and camera chargers, a bottle of Diet Irn Bru and a fork into a bag, feed the cats and make for the door.
Thanks to a solitary cab on the ghost town streets of Sunday morning Glasgow, I got to George Square just before the minibuses. I had failed to photocopy my driving license for the Non-Violent Action Training the week before, and some last-minute work during the week prevented me from providing it in the intervening time. So I wasn’t allowed to be one of the drivers, as had been the plan. There were still three drivers for each of the two buses, so no one would have too much driving to do, but I felt appropriately idiotic.
Some of the people departing from Glasgow I’d met at the training the week before, but there were as many new faces. All were immediately friendly and welcoming, and by Carlisle I’d managed to remember all their names.
The first leg of the journey would take us to Killington Services, where we’d rendezvous with the other Scottish buses (one was coming from Edinburgh) and reaffirm the plan from then on. In the mean time, we had the Archers omnibus to keep us company. I don’t follow the Archers, but I soon found myself hoping Pip’s father would lighten up about her older boyfriend.
Categories: Personal, politics.
We had our new coffee machine wake us up with a fresh pot this morning. I’ve never been much of a coffee-drinker, but now I’m beginning to feel like I did when the family took its first foreign holiday (to Rimini, Italy) when I was fourteen or so and I discovered that I did like spaghetti. Up until then I had liked the look of spaghetti; that and the fact that it could be bought in the shape of whatever the toy fad was at any given time. I’d made my mum buy me dinosaur spaghetti, Transformers spaghetti, He-man spaghetti and a million other kinds, only to spit the first mouthful back onto my plate and demand that she make me something else. My problem had been the disgusting tinned pasta that Heinz and others thought somehow would ‘do’ and the lazy way they used the same tomato sauce they used for their baked beans. Then, in the restaurant of our Rimini hotel, when there really had been nothing else I could stomach the thought of on the menu, I had surrendered and asked for spaghetti bolognaise. The joy of al dente pasta and a sauce that someone, somewhere had given a shit about flooded my being. I was in love with pasta instantly, and my passion has never waned.
Now, having picked up a coffee-maker in the post-Christmas sales — reasonably priced and coming without the advertised instruction manual and measuring spoon — I’m discovering that freeze-dried, instant coffee isn’t really coffee at all. Mo tells me it’s not tolerated by anyone in the United States and I’m immediately ashamed that there are millions of the people who can simultaneously vote for George W. Bush and hold more sophisticated tastes than I.
This new coffee is a revelation. I’m already an addict, and proud of it.
So, this morning the timer on the machine had coffee ready for us at 9am. Mo poured it and brought her mug and mine back to bed. She also made the first run for refills, I made the second, and after our third cup I was so awake that I wondered why I’d waited over three decades to start the day with this jolt of awareness. It struck me that half the planet starts the day this way, so I’ve really had no excuse not to give it a try. Now, now I can see their point.
What other wonders await me? Do I really not like tuna? Can the eight tenths of the world’s population that smother everything in mayonaise all be wrong?
As these radical ideas bravely burn new pathways in my extra-alert brain, I realise that my cup is empty. Mo offers to refill it, but I claim the chore for my own. For one thing, I’m getting restless just sitting here. Honestly, how much of my life have I spent at rest? How could I have tolerated it? I’ve got to move around, dammit. There’s also the fact that the coffee machine is my new toy, and I want to play with it. If they made coffee-machine-shaped spaghetti, I’d probably go and buy some right now.
Cup refilled, I ingest the goodness. It’s been over a week since I last had a beer, but I’ve a new monkey on my back, and he’s very friendly. Next time I see you, I’ll introduce you. Name’s Joe.
Categories: confession, Personal, Recommendation.