Calvinism's Nae Deid

A big shout out - no, sorry, fit I mean actually is, a barely imperceptible nod wi an 'Aye aye, min' intoned in lugubrious fashion - to Brothmix, who added his tuppenceworth to some posts here a filie back, but today sent me this marvellous link: http://www.thehaar.org.uk/
Go West first of all, and take the test called 'The Voyage Within'. Your result there will indicate whether or not the rest of the site is likely to be your cup of tea....

R.I.P.

Well, I knew it was going to happen someday....
Yesterday morning, only one baby oystercatcher could be seen on the roof, the other presumably having been stolen away by rapacious gulls some time after 4.00pm on Tuesday. This morning, no baby whatsoever. Mum was there, pacing round in circles looking confused and miserable. There was also a large seagull perched on one of the chimney tops with a very smug expression on its face. Boo, hiss. I'm currently fighting an urge to go seek out a gull and punch it squarely on the jaw.

OK, I know, it's just nature, and I shouldn't blame the predators, but I've got a problem with bloody gulls since one summer morning in 1999. Me and a mate had decided to grab some breakfast at a burger van in an attempt to cure hangovers of epic proportions. I managed to force down a wee hotdog roll, but my companion was more ambitious and had purchased a large burger liberally splashed with tomato ketchup. We sat in the car, nibbling away at our breakfasts, in a less-than-salubrious part of Aberdeen, until the hangover won, and the burger was unceremoniously discarded. Barely three bites had been taken from it, and the remains were large and solid. Almost immediately a gull appeared, hastily approached the discarded breakfast and snapped it into its jaws. Then, instead of daintily picking off beakfuls, it decided to tackle the entire (very hefty) burger in one fell swoop. I can't remember ever seeing anything so vile as that horrible gull neckin doon the hale thing at eence. You could see the shape of the burger through the bird's neck. It took it a good few swallies, but it managed in the end. Yeech. We, the hung-ower spectators to this performance, cowked for ages, and I've never existed comfortably in the company of gulls since.

O, wee baby oystercatchers, I'm sorry you never got the chance to grow up to reach that age where you 'd become embarrassed by your beaks. I'm off to find a gull to pit the heid on and avenge your innocent souls.

Oystercatcher Update

I've just returned from the smoky-hole having finally caught sight of two baby oystercatchers being shepherded around the roof by a pair of very anxious adults. This must be the second attempt at raising offspring this year, as I'm certain the first lot that hatched got nabbed by gulls.

Of course, now I know they're there, this will mean double the usual amount of trips up the corridor to the smoky-hole, just to sentimentally gaze upon the wee beaky ones, and check their progress. And the stress of worrying about those bloodthirsty gulls will undoubtedly mean I'll be obliged to smoke twice as much as well.

I'm now girding my loins to prepare for that inevitable day when I scan the roof in vain and am forced to come to terms with the reality that the wee souls have been massacred. Last summer was very emotional for me, particularly when the bereft mother bird spent days k'beaking round the roof in a fruitless search for her missing babies, in a very distressed state. Believe me, nothing looks more dejected than a bereaved oystercatcher.

The Dreaded Lurgy

God must be an Irishman, and he has clearly read my blog and decided to 'pit his haun doon' and afflict me with a foul pestilence for daring to criticise my Dublin experience. Late on Sunday night, I developed a sore throat, which I initially blamed on pollen inhaled on our evening constitutional. However, despite my best precautions (two Lemsip Flu Plus capsules), I awoke yesterday morning with what might be euphemistically described as 'a productive cough' and a streaming nose. Today this has escalated to sore head, sore face and sore ears.
Naturally, I'm feeling very sorry for myself at the moment, especially since I'm stuck at work in a fairly airless environment, and face a long drive home during the glorious Aberdeenshire rush-hour.
Abloo, bloo, bloooo, as Ray from Achewood would cry.


Ray, sobbing his little heart out

K.M.R.I.A.

Ulysses at the NLI

Well, we're home, and I never thought I'd see the day I'd be relieved to leave Dublin, but.... ohh, phew! It's the first time I've been over since they brought in the smoking ban, and it really is a pain in the Royal Irish Arse. The weather was oppressively hot too, and O'Connell Street seemed much more crowded than I remember from before.

Why are people so stupid? Is it impossible for someone to walk along a pavement in a straight line at a reasonable pace? It seems so. I found the same phenomenon in London, so I'm not singling out Dublin for criticism. I expect it's the same in Aberdeen, but since I've now got to the point that I'd rather shovel shite along the Lang Stracht than be on a city's streets in amongst hordes of apparently dyspraxic numpties, I can't comment on the Granite City as it's been so long since I cast a shadow on Union Street. Dublin, however, seemed to have more than its fair share of folk who walk in front of you and then stop dead, completely randomly, for no discernible reason, and turn in a wee circle gaping vacantly. (Maybe they're listening to the voice of some invisible maleficent presence, giving them some form of instruction: "Stop now. Go. Annoy this poor lassie. Be a right tit.") Then there were the wimmin with vast amounts of bags from department stores sticking out each side, who'd take up three times the size of your average American tourist on the busy pavement, and suddenly slow down to snail's pace as they approached another 20% Reduction on Designer Shoes sign. And then there were the slappers pushing buggies, with a knack of steering them as if wielding recalcitrant shopping trolleys. At a 45 degree angle like a shot off a shovel, indeed.

No wonder Jolly Jimmy Joyce left. In 1904 when he got on the boat with Nora, I wonder was he thinking the same as me as I boarded the Ryanair flight home this morning? All that bustle, crowding, and frantic traffic, but all to no purpose. They were just running round in circles like headless chickens. The whole experience of Dublin this time round was a perfect demonstration of Joyce's observation: 'that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis'.

Despite it all, and despite the so-low-key-as-to-be-practically-invisible Bloomsday celebrations, there was a sparkling gem amidst the tat. The Ulysses Exhibition at the National Library was stunningly good. [And free!] The first edition No. 1 copy in all its glory (safely behind glass of course), and a splendid touch screen computer provided, which allowed you to virtually turn the pages, magnify the inscriptions, and generally browse The Book in 3D (complete with useful episode summaries, discussion of the correspondences, and just about everything else you could possibly want for an afternoon's entertainment). On its own, that would've been enough, but there was much, much more. Joyce's notebooks, physically present in all their crayoned glory, but also available to examine via the screen (magnify, transcribe, remove crayon... aaaaahhhh); a very thorough presentation of the host of characters in Ulysses - even down to the Blind Stripling; a episode guide that flashed up images from Dear Dirty Dublin in the 1900s and traced the routes of Bloom and Stephen on a virtual map; a reconstruction of the Shakespeare & Co. shopfront; countless rare editions of the works; a Joyce family history; the famous family portraits including the Tuohy of John Joyce; music and songs from the book; a 'World of the Blooms' installation with sounds and objects from 7 Eccles Street; the social and political context expressed through leaflets and cartoons; and O, so much more. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. And when I finally dragged myself away (via the extremely well stocked book/gift shop), I visited the Ladies in the National Library, and honest to God, it has to be the nicest lavvie I've ever peed in. What more can you ask for? I forgive Dublin for the crowds, the heat, the ridiculous traffic, the inflated prices and the complete lack of hospitality demonstrated in most places, simply for that one haven in Kildare Street.

My rapture was complete when later we found that Sweny's the Chemist was open, and my man purchased a lemon soap for me. It's in a wee brown Sweny's paper bag as well, and I will treasure it forever. Yes I will yes.

In the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis

We're off to Dublin today for a wee holiday. It's Bloomsday on Thursday, and although the celebrations are on a much smaller scale than last year when it was the Centenary, I'm sure we'll have a grand Joycean time.
I'll purchase lemon soap (though I heard that Sweny's was closed due to fire damage), but I'll probably not be partaking of kidneys or gorgonzola.
And as for misbehavin meself on Sandymount Strand, well.... who knows!

Found objects

O, how I wish I had one of those mobile phones with a built-in camera. It would've been useful last night for snapping evidence to post here for your delectation.

The better half and I had been out celebrating his birthday (which is actually today, but since I'm never arsed to do much at the best of times, let alone after a full day's work, we celebrated a day in advance). We nipped in by the St Machar Bar for a pint after our lovely Mexican meal, and on the steps leading down past the Geography building, were suddenly confronted by a pair of discarded drawers. Pink lacy jobs to be precise. The kind that say 'Butter wouldn't melt', you know. It's not really a spot secluded enough for a 'dangerous liaison' even when extremely inebriated, so I can only assume that the owner of the knickers had removed them elsewhere, got on with making the beast with two backs with her new-found beau, then found herself too unco-ordinated to get the underwear back on again afterwards, so stuffed them in her jacket and set off home. Perhaps she stumbled going up the steps, and was unaware of the pants dropping from her pocket.

We're fastidious creatures, so obviously we didn't examine the drawers closely, but it crossed our minds that it'd serve the wee slapper right if she'd had her name sewed into them.

Of course, we're being grossly unfair to accuse the poor knickerless lassie of al fresco promiscuity. There could be another explanation.... she could've pished hersel on the wey hame, an thocht she'd be comfier wi the sipin draaers aff aathegither.

Perhaps I'll take the digital camera in with me tomorrow, and see if they're still there. It might make a nice picture to put in the new edition of the University prospectus - we'll try anything to attract more students, you know - or better still I could label it as a work of art and win next year's Turner Prize.

K'Beak K'Beak!

Haematopus ostralegus

Over the past couple of years I've become very fond of oystercatchers. From the illicit smoky-hole in my department, we have a wonderful view of the university rooftops, the closest of which acts as home to (usually) two pairs of oystercatchers during the spring and summer. Initially my affection for these birds was due to their perpetually depressed expressions. Oystercatchers just have a 'look' about them which indicates chronic low self-esteem. I imagine them being quite serious birds, who spend most of their days being embarrassed by their ludicrously flamboyant beaks, and thus becoming bitter, resentful and suspiciously jealous of creatures with a more subdued and subtle appearance.

Our university oystercatchers have other reasons to be miserable. The flat roof that I gaze upon while smoking is not ideal territory in which to raise one's brood. Predators abound, in the shape of magpies and herring gulls. Last year's baby oystercatchers all fell prey to these vicious brutes. This year, so far I've only seen one tiny oystercatcher, running around happily under the watchful beady eyes of his harried and harassed parents. But he seems to have vanished now, and although I'm being uncharacteristically optimistic and willing myself to believe he's hiding round the back of some chimneys out of my sight, in my more realistic moments I give in to my worst fears, and start plotting revenge on the bloody sadistic gulls. I'm smoking more frequently in order to keep a look out. If that's the best place available for a nest, it's desperately unfair, but I suspect that oystercatchers have self-destructive tendencies.

Yesterday I was chauffeuring my father to a piping job - a wedding at Cluny Church. It was a wee village church in the midst of some very attractive farmland, and I had an unexpectedly entertaining afternoon. Firstly, there was the spectacle of the arrival of the wedding guests, decked to the nines in offensively floaty frocks and strappy sandals. Ho ho, thought I, sitting shabbily in the car, waiting to see how they'd manage to negotiate the rough car park. Sadly no one fell, but the occasional shrieks, and ill-advised chiffon florals stretched over weighty arses, drew the attention of some neighbouring cows, who all strolled down to the fence that bordered the car park, and mooed mockingly. Up beside the church wall, the wifies peched for a bit, then set about wiping their shoes with paper hankies, while glaring at their partners (who were clearly solely responsible for the state of the ground surface). Then I heard the familiar sound of K'Beak, K'Beak. Oystercatchers. Stressed oystercatchers. Four of them, flying round overhead, k'beaking like fury. I assumed initially that they'd merely taken exception (like myself) to the fashion crimes on show below, but after the company had wandered inside, the bride turned up and the ceremony was well underway, dad came to inform me about the oystercatcher situation. Right at the side of the wall of the church oystercatchers had laid two eggs. The minister had been a tad concerned about the safety of the nest during the wedding, and had helpfully placed a traffic cone at the side to keep blundering guests at bay. Round the other side of the church, at the war memorial, directly in front of two poppy wreaths, there was another nest, this time with three eggs. I was delighted.

'Delighted' is not the word I'd use to describe the Cluny oystercatchers, who obviously deeply resented their Saturday afternoon being disturbed by rabble celebrating their nuptials. The four parents sat on the roof throughout the ceremony, k'beaking their dissatisfaction and outrage at the interlopers. The limousine drivers, the photographer, my father and I all had great amusement in observing the oystercatchers' behaviour, the climax of which was during the signing of the register. We could hear a soprano voice wailing out an aria inside the kirk, and this racket brought another two oystercatchers to the roof. All six birds gravely bent their beaks to the slates, and screeched their disgust vehemently throughout the whole song. There's no way their noise couldn't be heard inside, and I sincerely hope that their whole performance was captured for posterity on the wedding video.

Well done Cluny oystercatchers, you made my day. May all your troubles be little Haematopus ostralegus-es.