A pretty quiet week

Chances are you'd worked that one out for yourselves, what with my not having posted anything on here recently - there's just not been a great deal going on. Put it this way, when the high point of the week is the arrival of a new manager for my floor at work, it's really not worth bothering about.

Though he did tell me, on coming into my department, that he doesn't know much about classical music but is willing to learn. His two predecessors came out with exactly the same line when they started, and oddly enough they were both short-arses as well. Must be a company requirement ...

Another ride on the medical carousel

I've been living in Edinburgh just over a year now and only yesterday did I finally get round to registering with a local doctor. The reason? Given what I know they're going to tell me, I decided I could do without the hassle of undergoing umpteen tests relating to high blood pressure, for a while at any rate.

My mother's been on medication for it at least since my teens, my father joined her five years ago and my brother within the last year. From my early 20s, every time I've had mine taken it's been that little bit higher than it ought to be, but not so much so as to warrant medication. They put it down to nervousness when going to see the doctor, hence putting me through all these tests.

Back in '98 my then doctor went the whole hog: in the space of a month or so I was to be found passing all my water over a 24 hour period into a container I had to carry around with me at all times (go with a paper bag here, plastic is too see-through and thus revealing), having a CAT scan, having all sorts of checks done to my blood, you name it. I even went around with a portable blood pressure monitor strapped to my arm for 24 hours, and let me tell you I could have done without being woken up at 4am by a crushing sensation on my biceps.

Medical science will have made a lot of progress in the last eight years, so knowing my luck, they'll have all the more to throw at me this time round.

Don't get me wrong: It's inevitable that I too will end up on medication to keep it down, I accept that. I just wish we didn't have to go through this whole rigmarole every time I move and thus have to register with a new doctor.

Those Saddam Hussein photos

Never mind the human rights angle, what I want to know is what difference there is between photos of Saddam in his underwear and the film footage of his medical examination. Regardless of how the Sun obtained the former, the release of the latter was officially sanctioned by the American government, which leads me to conclude that the current administration is guilty of hypocrisy: it has no qualms about showing Saddam in a degrading light yet cannot accept that someone else does so.

Please don't go thinking that I condone such behaviour on anyone's part - necessary though it was to show the Iraqis conclusive evidence that their dictator had been captured, there was no cause to go to these extremes. The intrusive nature of the the British tabloids would warrant a post of its own (and doubtless will); it is this very diregard for human decency which forbids me from providing a link to the photos. What is of greater importance here is how the Sun can be held in contempt of the Geneva convention while the Bush administration continues to get away scot-free.

It's all rather Animal farmesque: all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.

A pipe dream

I got home from work yesterday to find the downstairs neighbour leaving a note on my door: I'd been down to his flat earlier in the week when he mentioned there was a problem with water leaking through his ceiling (right when my washing machine is) and now a blister had developped in the plasterboard. On the recommendation of the city council, he'd punctured it, but clearly something would need to be done sooner rather than later.

As I didn't really want to call a plumber out at that hour - the problem had been contained, after all - I spent the evening looking into the problem myself. As my friends and family will confirm, I'm no great handyman, so this was, at best, an attempt to get behind the washing machine; an impossible task alone, what with its feet catching on the flooring and generally confined space. I made a start on dismantling the kitchen units around it in time for the morning, but left it at that when I realised how much of a racket I'd make.

This morning I turned to the yellow pages and had a plumber in by the late morning. Typically the problem was a simple one to solve (the cold water hose needs replaced), but as this wasn't the first time the neighbour's ceiling had leaked we'd decided it was worthwhile getting the situation looked at properly. At least it's all sorted, even if I've yet to put the washing machine back in its place: given a couple of days, the dampness behind it will have dried out naturally.

That said, whither the stunning workmen of fantasy?

A stupendous concert

Yesterday was one of those days when I got home and collapsed more or less immediately on my bed - despite returning home for lunch (the benefit of living a mere 15 minutes' walk from work) and then again after work, it felt like I was on my feet all day. When this happens I am frequently guilty of falling asleep in the early evening, though on this occasion the entertainment was so exhilerating as to keep me wide awake and then some.

I've long enjoyed music for two pianos, so the opportunity to see the Labèque sisters live in Glasgow was too good to pass up, all the more so as the Scottish percussionist Colin Currie was to join them. Any piece with prominent percussion is always fascinating to watch, and so this programme proved: for some reason I'd thought we were to get Bartók's sonata for two pianos and percussion but can't say I was in any way disappointed.

First up was Gershwin's set of three preludes, arranged for two pianos, which worked nicely as a starting point. Next came a contemporary piece, Exile by Dave Maric, scored for live electronics, percussion and 2 pianos - I couldn't see the electronics from where I sat as the piano lid got in the way, but to be honest it didn't really contribute a great deal. Besides, who would want to watch someone at a computer screen (even if it was the composer) when you've got a vast array of percussion being played by a nice-looking man on the other side of the stage?

That said, I was still waiting for things to spark, and spark they did in the second half: an arrangement of West side story for two pianos and two percussionists - songs, dances, pretty well the lot. What was really striking here was the chemistry between the players: at times the two percussionists (one Marque Gilmore joining the fray) were almost flirting with each other and the pianists, Katia (the more jazz-influenced of the sisters) in particular. Marielle had her back to me the whole time but came across as more staid, though it has to be said she has phenomenal technique. As far as the music went, I was taken aback by the intensity of its close: after the sheer exuberance that pervades the rest of the score, it catches me off guard, every time.

Despite the brevity of the concert - not even two hours, including the interval - it was worth every penny. I spent the next hour catching up with my friend Tristan over a couple of drinks, which rounded off the evening nicely before getting the train back home.

Now if only the Labèques' Scott Joplin album were available on CD, I'd be a very happy man.

You thought Andy's dream was unlikely?

I'm returning Andy's favour from a while back. He's just written about a very odd dream he's just had, which brought to mind an equally peculiar one I had a couple of nights ago.

I wrote about Mr M, one of my more eccentric customers, recently - he's the slightly doddery old man obsessed with loud music (particularly Tchaikovsky's The tempest) and films (lots of bits from Lord of the rings). Over Christmas he'd played Scrooge in an amateur production of Dickens' A Christmas carol, and somehow this must have entered my subconscious as I dreamed he told me he had been cast as Captain Hook in Peter Pan. His hands do look rather claw-like at times, so that sort of made sense.

It was the next bit where reason completely went out of the window. He was looking for another acting gig afterwards and had his mind set on something set on castle battlements, perhaps the title role in Tosca?

Customer dopeyness hits a new low

Work wasn't bad today - Nicola Benedetti continues to do nicely, the only CD to shift more copies being a freebie - but what made it really memorable was a cutomer handing me a glasses lens he'd found on the floor. Quite a thick one at that, so we could only assume that it had dropped out of someone's glasses frame and, don't ask me how this is possible, they didn't notice. I could have been left utterly dejected by this new evidence of the world turning stupid, only I swiftly dissolved into giggles. This being too good a story to keep to myself, my colleagues swiftly followed suit.

On an even brighter note, the sunshine has brought out all the pretty boys. Edinburgh is so cruisey!

Day five plus a bit: it was all building up to this ...

Even I will admit I hadn't expected to spend the entire day cooking - I'd hoped we might have a couple of hours free to go out, have a change of scene - but in the even I didn't leave the flat. Usually this bothers me, but for once I was so busy I didn't mind in the least.

I was up at 8:30 with an announcement we'd be leaving the flat in half-an-hour to do the food shopping. Breakfast could wait for our return, and for my part I'd shower before the party started; in other words, I wanted to make a good start.

We were back an hour or so later with enough to feed a small army, and as I've not gone into any detail about the menu, here goes:
- sticky rice balls with Thai spices rolled in crushed peanuts;
- artichoke tartlets;
- feta skewers with char-grilled aubergine (that's eggplant to any Americans out there) and mint;
- roast new potatoes with turmeric, lemon, green pepper and coconut;
- the inevitable washerwomen to follow.
My criteria when choosing this lot were very similar to last time: besides having to be vegetarian, obviously - I'm sufficiently militant to refuse having any meat or fish to be cooked in the flat - it should all be finger foods (to cut down on washing up) with sufficient variety for there to be something to appeal to everyone. My personal favourite was the feta skewers, which were fantastically fresh; not that the rest of in any way bad, but these really stood out for me.

Philippe inexplicably volunteered to stuff the apricots (a whole kilo of the things we'd left to soak overnight), taking no heed of my warnings about how dull he'd find it. To his credit, he made it about two-thirds of the way through before getting fed up, at which stage I decided that it was only fair he should do something rather more interesting to follow. I'd made the rice balls in the meantime so decided to do the boring bit of the tartlets (no pastry, which didn't make cutting out circles of bread any the more interesting), leaving him to make the filling. We made three dozen of these, which seemed a reasonable figure considering I didn't know how many people we should expect; with two shelves in the oven, the final tray went in with the potatoes, leaving me free to make the feta skewers. Which left finishing off the washerwomen, which I did as it was equally laborious as their initial preparation.

Sod it, the feta skewers were so good I'm giving you the recipe: slice an aubergine lengthways, as thinly as you can manage, then brush each side with olive oil and put in a hot griddle pan or frying pan (no fat here) until it turns translucent and blackens a little. Turn over and repeat, then remove from the heat and leave to cool. Then slice each one down the middle, place a large mint leaf and a cube of feta cheese at one end; roll up and secure with a skewer or cocktail stick. Cover and chill, drizzling your serving plate with balsamic vinegar just before serving.

Back to the washerwomen: Philippe deserved a change of scene by now, so off he went to collect an enormous order of sausages and china (another thing our parents wanted) while I got frying. Somehow I was finished by the time he got back, laden with shopping bags: he'd let himself be tempted and bought some china for himself. Quite how he was to get it all back I didn't know.

There were about two hours to go by now, so I got going with the cleaning and was in the shower when the first guests arrived: two of my neighbours were a bit early as they were going out for supper, though they would pop round on their return. It gradually snowballed from there, the room slowly filling, as did my wine racks - if you're ever short of a bottle, throw a party and watch that collection grow - amid a fabulous ambience. Philippe was the nominal barman, a role he took to with great gusto after a shaky start (pouring gin over the top of my tonic; it was the first time he'd had to make a G&T). The food got some wonderful compliments, though people did ask me what I'd do with all the remaining whipped cream I'd prepared for dipping the washerwomen in. Inexplicably I appeared to be the only one having dirty thoughts ...

Philippe was looking pretty tired by the time the last guests left (at 3:30am), but all in all it was a great success. Unfortunately he had an early flight to catch so we were up only four hours later, absolutely knackered but pretty damn happy.

Day four: pottering about

That's not a Harry Potter reference, in case you were wondering ... We just seemed to spend most of Thursday doing little bits and pieces around the city.

The original plan had be to attend a debate at the Scottish Parliament and go round Our Dynamic Earth (a museum of which I've heard endless good), but in the end we did neither, the former because we reckoned it would be a bit dead because of the general election (a view perhaps unfounded, but Philippe isn't particularly into politics) and the second was horribly expensive so we decided against.

We'd spent the morning at home, Philippe poring over the list of sausages he got from the butcher on day two. We knew what our parents wanted him to take back, so he just needed to work out how much he should get for himself; scaling it down took a while, though even so he still ended up placing an order for 8 kilos (a little short of 16lbs) for collection the next day, when it'd provide a break from preparing for the party, which was what I did with my morning.

The success of my flatwarming, back in January, is something I attribute to all sorts of things, but the one comment that stuck to mind afterwards was how good the food was. For me, the occasion as a whole had put to rest my mixed feelings about large parties, vindicated by the effort I'd put into preparing interesting food, so there was no doubt in my mind that I should do the same this time round. The only dish to put in a repeat appearance was the Viennese washerwomen - or Wiener Wäschemädeln, though "Viennese laundry maids" would be a more accurate translation: they're apricots soaked overnight in your choice of spirits (rum's always a good bet), then stuffed with marzipan, battered and deep-fried - as people had been clamouring for more, but that aside, it was back to the drawing board. (More about the menu in the entry for Friday, otherwise I'll have very little to say there.)

Anyhow, we then walked gently to more or less the other side of town so Philippe could at least see the Scottish Parliament and Our Dynamic Earth. After lunch, we got on a bus to Easter Road with two aims in mind: showing Philippe where I lived before getting my own place and popping into B&Q to get the necessary for making a frame for the piece of Chinese cloth I wanted to hang up in the hall. On the way home I insisted on going into Valvona & Crolla, the Edinburgh delicatessen par excellence, as I wanted to get a bottle of raspberry liqueur which only they seem to have. We spent the next couple of hours at home, after which we headed out for a quick pint before choir rehearsal.

I'd warned Philippe about this ages before he came and he hadn't seemed altogether keen, though I hoped he might come round by tonight. He didn't, insisting he had no interest in rehearsing with us, all the more so as he wouldn't have an opportunity to sing in a service (he'd be leaving on Saturday), so I didn't force the issue, despite being a little disappointed. As expected, however, his being there proved worthwhile as he joined us for drinks afterwards and had a great time. From my perspective, it made sense for him to meet some of my friends before the party so he wouldn't be thrown in at the deep end, so I was glad it came off.

And that was it for Thursday. Friday was to be taken up almost entirely by preparations for the party: Philippe was rather taken aback that I had allowed a whole day for this, but as it turned out, it was with good reason. I'm not one to do good catering by halves ...

Musical malapropisms

(This'll be one of these things with potential to run and run, so you can expect additional posts along similar lines. For once, the stupidity of the people I work with can be relied upon to maintain high quality, or lack thereof, in case of sequelitis!)

First up, two which actually pre-date my work in this industry. You know the cards used in CD racks to show you where recordings of one person's music end and another's begin? The classical ones are a notorious breeding ground for spelling mistakes, to a certain extent because of the use of foreign languages, but those in English aren't safe either, it appears. I suspect The merry window may have been done accidentally on purpose, but it is rather good. Just as inspired is the image conjured up by that lost Stravinsky masterpiece, The rite of string. My predecessor in my current position left behind some purposefully dubious boards (renaming Khachaturian "Khacha choo choo train" was the best of the bunch), but overall it's the customers who come up with truly priceless mistakes.

Classic FM is to be thanked for introducing many people to classical music, even though it frequently veers too far towards classical crossover. To date, Andrea Bocelli leads the field for having his name seriously misconstrued, but just occasionally you get to hear another. Ungar's The Ashokan farewell is a perennial favourite with Classic FM listeners, though it took a moment for the penny to drop when I was recently asked for The Shogun farewell. I wonder what James Clavell would have made of it.

Return to work

In case you're wondering, the last two days of my brother's visit were not so horrible that I couldn't bring myself to write about them: I enjoyed having a very quiet weekend after a very busy (and enjoyable) week. I'll get round to it at some stage.

Today, however, was one of those surreal days full of mixed feelings. No matter how good it was to have a week off, I enjoy my work and had it not been for having so much to do with Philippe, I'd have missed it. As expected, there was heaps for me to catch up on this morning, so much so I spent the best part of the morning rushing around. More often than not, on these occasions, the return to work is a real anticlimax, but today, I'm glad to say, was something of an exception.

The reason? For the first time in three-and-a-bit years of working in this business, we had a major classical musician coming in to sign copies of her CD - Nicola Benedetti, the winner of last year's BBC Young Musician of the Year. It meant a great deal to me, as I'd long wanted to have a PA (that's personal appearance) for my department; countless customers had asked me, over the course of the last year, for a recording of the Szymanowski concerto she'd played at the final (held in Edinburgh, for the first time in the history of the competition), so I leapt at the opportunity as soon as I heard the release date.

I didn't want to leave anything up to chance so made sure the event was well advertised: the List may mistakenly have said she'd be performing the Szymanowski (yeah, like we'd be able to fit a whole orchestra in the shop!) and Metro let us down by not even mentioning it - though amusingly, her appearance at the competition in Glasgow was in the rock and pop section! - but we still ended up selling 44 copies of the CD, not to mention the dozen or so signed for collection later this week. I was rather proud of myself, as this made it the day's topseller across the whole shop. As I put it, rather flippantly, yay me!

The boy done good ...

Day three: physical and mental exercise

... not to mention it being my birthday (hence the timing of Philippe’s visit). I’ve turned 31, so for the occasion we went to Stirling, site of my alma mater, to indulge in a bit of nostalgia. There was a time when I made an effort to spend each one of my birthdays in a different place - I think I managed it pretty well between 18 and 28 or thereabouts - but have since come to appreciate that while the place is of importance, it should still be secondary to the company you’re in. Apart from a slight impatience on my part at the time Philippe took to take some photographs, I couldn’t complain.

We were running a little bit late so didn’t get on the train until 10:30am for a 50-minute journey, some of which we spent reading (Alan Hollinghurst’s The line of beauty is proving quite an absorbing read, even if I still prefer Patrick Gale), though Philippe, being new to this route, did spend some time taking in the view. Our conversation throughout the day revolved around telling him, as much unprompted as in response to his questions, about student life in general and my experience of it, the only long silences coming as we conserved our energies walking up Dumyat, the hill behind the university.

This walk was a favourite student activity, on of those things you had to do at least once during your time at Stirling (which’d usually mean right in your first semester and then never again). The height and distance you walk isn’t always obvious - it’s 418m high but doesn’t look it and there are times when the peak looks deceptively close - but it still makes for a very enjoyable couple of hours. We met maybe a little short of a dozen others along the way, some dressed more appropriately than others, but most of all we concentrated on the beauty of the landscape, Philippe’s photography providing numerous pauses in the ascent. He was keen to get at least one close-up of a sheep, which proved quite a challenge.

There’s actually a choice of two peaks, each topped with what would make a good beacon for a fire, tall metallic baskets invariably filled with stones placed there by walkers. From a distance, they look like little protrusions atop two mounds, so in our student days we referred to them as nipples. It wasn’t unusual to be asked, once you’d got back to the campus, which nipple you’d been to.

Our route up Dumyat was the standard one, at least once we got through the wood behind the university and onto the road, but we improvised a bit on the way back down to avoid retracing our steps. It was about half-past three by now, time for a late lunch at the student union and perhaps more importantly an opportunity to rehydrate at subsidised prices (I’d foolishly not thought to take any water on our walk). Our legs were pretty tired by now, though after a good sit down we felt up to going to the base of the Wallace Monument on the other side of the university campus - we’d left it too late to go up the monument anyway, so that was that question answered - so after a few more photographs and the end of Philippe’s film we got on a bus back into Stirling and then on the train home.

We could have stopped there, only one of the pubs across the road was holding its weekly pub quiz and I’d invited the neighbours along (they came about halfway through). I only just had time to put the washing machine and breakmaker on before rushing to the pub, only to find we were half an hour early, though that said, had we got there any later we wouldn’t have got a seat, let alone a table. It was all great fun, with the occasional taxing question, the most challenging of which was identifying the ten countries (besides Germany) with the highest number of German speakers - nothing to do with proportions, so I was wrong to say Liechstenstein, however clever it sounded. We did get nine of the ten highest grossing Disney films between 1991 and 2003 though (the last one was Dinosaur, apparently).

We stayed for another couple of pints after the quiz ended (no prizes for us), then came home and went to bed pretty well immediately. As birthdays go, this was a good ‘un.

Day two: two films and more shopping

One of my landlords from several years back had pointed out to me that one of the prime benefits of working lay in the inability to spend your money while at work. I’m starting to appreciate that, as this week’s holiday is turning out to be an expensive hobby ...

We weren’t in any particular hurry today, nor did we have any grand plans (the only thing I’d noted was watching “Hustle” on BBC1 in the evening, which was a little disappointing, like much of this second series). We both had a little shopping to do, so started off at the west end of Princes St and worked our way east. First up was my place of work, where Philippe spend absolutely ages browsing the DVD racks, giving me time to nip to the bookshop next door and order the one book I’d not been able to find in Glasgow. We left with six DVDs between us (Four weddings and The life and death of Peter Sellers, worth it for Geoffrey Rush’s performance alone) and then continued looking into digital cameras for me - though I don’t know how or if I’ll be able to afford it if this spending spree carries on.

Jenners and Harvey Nichols took care of the higher end of the market (we spent very little in either), then it was on to Broughton St, the epicentre (such as it is) of Edinburgh’s gay life - not that there was much of it in evidence in the early hours of the afternoon - for the organic food shop and the butcher’s, so Philippe could look into interesting types of sausage to take back to France. From there we got a bus back the way we came and beyond, as we’d decided to go to the cinema to give our feet a rest.

The hitchhiker’s guide would probably have made more sense if either of us had known more about the source material. It left Philippe lukewarm at best, though I particularly enjoyed Alan Rickman’s performance and the whole of the book which provides the film’s title. Back home, after a very acceptable Indian take-away from down the road, I put The Bourne identity in the DVD player. I’d been rabbitting on to Philippe about the car chase through the streets of Paris - to say he has a soft spot for Minis would be an understatement, hence my recommendation - and thought we should at least see one film this week which he’d have a chance of enjoying.

We’re off to Stirling in the morning for some pretty serious walking (weather permitting - it wasn’t brilliant today), so as the back of my knees has been a bit stiff all day I’m going to slap some Deep Heat on and go to sleep.

Till tomorrow then ...

Day one: Glasgow

On and off, I lived in the Glasgow area for about three-and-a-half years, and in that time didn’t have a single relation come to see me (the time my mother joined me on a car journey from Norfolk hardly counts, for reasons which aren’t really worth going into here), so it only seemed natural that Philippe’s visit should include a trip to the west of Scotland.

The only bit I’d worked out in advance was that we would leave the flat on an empty stomach so as to have a late breakfast (in Philippe’s case, a cooked breakfast, this being something he’d never get in France) at the Thistle Hotel in Glasgow, where I worked as a part-time waiter in early 2000. The train journey from Edinburgh was pretty uneventful - we’d both got something to read from the newsagent’s, which came in useful when conversation flagged - but it gave me time to work out a rough plan.

We managed to go all the way round the Glasgow underground during the course of the day; not much of an achievement, admittedly, as there’s only one line, a circular one at that, the round trip probably taking about 45 minutes. Our first stop was to walk off our substantial breakfast by wandering from one side of Kelvingrove to the other, punctuated by quite a few pauses so Philippe could take photographs.

Then it was back on the underground to Cessnock, from which we walked to the Science Centre, which turned out to be very much child-oriented so we didn’t bother to visit. Thankfully the banks of the Clyde in that area are of architectural interest (the Armadillo in particular providing another photo opportunity), so that little circuit wasn’t entirely wasted.

From there we returned to the city centre for a spot of shopping: Philippe was wanting a copy of The hobbit and got sundry other writings of Tolkein’s (two volumes of “Lost books”, which he tells me is part of a series of twenty!). I found myself a book of Austrian short stories edited and translated by one of my old German tutors, two excellent reasons for getting it, together with a second book you may hear about at some stage. Inevitably, I also got some sheet music - a book of Purcell songs and the vocal score for Haydn’s The seasons - and treated myself to a ticket for the Labèque sisters’ concert on the 17th.

We’d done a fair amount of walking by now so paused for a good hour-and-a-half for a natter over a couple of pints before heading back home, once Philippe had also got in a photo of the equestrian statue outside the gallery of modern art, which I reckon would look quite naked without the traffic cone invariably placed on its rider’s head by drunken students.

Back home, we had pizza in front of the telly: the final part of a series on British animation, followed by the nth showing of A close shave rounded off the day quite nicely.

The best thing, however, is that I’m not quite so disconcerted by how well we are getting on. Whether absence makes the heart grow fonder or not, I hope it’s not a temporary thing ...

Philippe's visit: first impressions

(In reference to yesterday)

I will admit it’s come as something of a surprise. For some time I’ve been concerned that there could be a rift developing between my brother and me, but thus far we’re getting on fine. It is early days, I will admit, so only time will tell ...

A word about this rift: I’m not out to him, for the simple reason that I reckon he’d take it very badly and turn to our parents for moral support. As far as I can tell, my mother had enough trouble with my father’s reaction, so it wouldn’t be fair on her. She’s had enough on her plate over the years without my adding yet more to them.

The initial plan was that I’d meet Philippe at the airport, but the weather was so foul when I left church this morning that I texted him to say I’d meet him in town, which also had the benefit of giving me more time to tidy the flat - yes, again: I’m not the tidiest of people, so having a visitor round is always the best incentive for cleaning the place up - and do a spot of food shopping as the fridge was looking decidedly sparse.

Philippe took me rather by surprise by saying he wouldn’t mind a pint (it wasn’t even 4pm at the time), but I insisted we wait until 6 at least, so the next couple of hours were spent at home, first showing him the flat and going through what I’d done with the place, then reading the newspaper while we discussed the agenda for this week. We’ve since been on a miniature pub crawl - it was only two pubs, nothing exactly major - and got home in time for something to eat before watching “Trainspotting” on DVD, which Philippe had never seen.

We’re off to Glasgow tomorrow, which Philippe doesn’t know at all, possibly followed by a whisky-tasting session with a friend from the choir. Tuesday’s still free, more or less, then on Wednesday I’m taking him off to Stirling for the day, which will involve a good bit of hill-walking (always assuming the weather is fine). On Thursday we’ll be off to the Scottish parliament, while Friday’ll see us preparing for that evening’s party.

The joys of having a day off

(A belated post from before the weekend. I've been busy ...)

Thursday was one of those busy days which never seemed to stop, so come Friday I was delighted to have time to myself. After a quiet morning, it was a matter of going out to get a few more things for the flat - strange how, despite being here since November, there’s still no shortage of improvements to be made. This time, it was a mirror for the hall, a clock for the living room and, pure indulgement this one, a coffee grinder. Long before I appreciated the taste of the drink, I have distinct memories of waking up to the smell of freshly ground coffee. Even now, the sound of a coffee grinder evokes all sorts of childhood memories.

Anyhow, back to Thursday: I was down for the late shift at work, i.e. 11:30 to 8pm, Thursday being late shopping day in Edinburgh, but with Bill’s funeral starting at the same time as I was due at work, I was there two hours early. There’s nothing really to be said for the time I spent there, as the funeral proved, not unexpectedly, to be the making of the day.

I’d expected it to be moving, but this service was one of those rare ones to strike a balance between the emotional and the celebratory. There were laughs a-plenty - in keeping with Bill’s character, as I gathered he was something of a joker despite the problems life had thrown in his direction - tempered by any number of poignant moments. On occasion I looked up to see someone in the stalls opposite red with tears, yet for me the key moment came right at the beginning of the service as we processed in. Bill had always been the one to lead this procession, carrying the cross which now lay upon the communion table, to which we each added a single rose. Definite lump-in-your-throat sort of stuff.

The music I’d looked forward to so much wasn’t pieces I would have chosen, I will admit, which didn’t take anything away from its effect, nor from our performance. As I pointed out afterwards, we did him proud.

Afterwards, my working day could but drag on: nothing of much interest happened over the course of the remaining six-and-a-half hours’ work I fitted in before returning to the church for that evening’s choir rehearsal. Usually I join the rest of the choir for drinks afterwards, but on this occasion I was expecting a friend round to stay the night, so I headed back home, had a quick something to eat and tidied the place up.

Michael is one of my closest friends from university, and as expected we kept on natterring well into the small hours. For some years after we came out to each other, he’d claimed that I fancied him, which I have since counteracted by suggested that he’s been desperate for me all this while. While it’s not meant seriously, it could certainly account for his insistance on sharing my bed rather than making do with the futon ...