Skip to main content

Big Birthdays, surprises and wee beasties

The wee beastie - 'weight for weight more ferocious than the Bengal tiger' * - or Scottish midge, is as effective a spoiler of the 'best laid plans o' ... men' (and probably also of mice, since they feast on other unfortunates too) than any other 'spoiler' I know - better than rain, or forgetting to write a list, or an attack of the lurgy. Because the wee beasties are just so utterly and incredibly MADDENING!

Nothing else lets you plan an early evening drink outside with friends, enjoying the last of the summer sun and then sends you running into the house in a frenzy of screaming 'Open the door!-Shut-it-QUICK!' while simultaneously spilling your wine, tossing your canapés all over the ground and slapping your ears, scratching your ankles and generally behaving as though suddenly demented. At least, you would look demented to anyone watching, though anyone in the near vicinity (anywhere North of the Clyde) poised enough to be watching, would be doing so behind a wall-constructed-to-keep-the-flying-teeth-out-and-not-built-by-the-wee-beasties-because-expecting-them-to-build-a-wall-to-obstruct-their-own-passage-would-just-be-plain-silly-a-bit-like-expecting-the-midge-to-devise-its-own-barricade-to-prevent-it-bothering-the-golfers-on-a-Trump-golf-course, otherwise of course known as a window.

If you hunt for a reason in favour of the existence of most creepie crawlies, you will find one - bees producing honey  perhaps the most obvious; loads of bugs eating each other, often helping to rid the garden of pests; many in the recycling trade, assisting nature in the business of rot and decay; wasps even (!) scavenging dead things and eating aphids. But what malevolent guiding hand created the midge? Is the creation of the midge perhaps proof that a guiding hand does not exist? Or that if one does, he or she has a sadistic sense of humour? What is the point of the midge?

Distressing fact: 40,000 ... yes! ... Forty thousand midges can land on one exposed human being in an hour. FORTY THOUSAND! My skin is crawling as I write that. Someone tell me, why the midge?

Why?

Perhaps, it caps the Scottish tourist industry - one theory being that without it, Scotland would be over- populated, over-exploited and spoilt. I hesitate to accept this hypothesis. A Scotland without midges would surely be better.  **

Somewhere, as stunningly beautiful as this




is blighted from May to October every year by clouds of tiny teeth.
As Clive Anderson says, "The West Coast of Scotland is gorgeous to look at but you have to contend with the possibility of being blown away or rained on. And in the summer months you can be eaten alive by midges."

September is still a 'summer month' in Scotland - this was yesterday; Sunday 11th September




Sun, warmth and no rain was a pleasant surprise.






Good weather for a brief trip North to co-host a party for Dad-Grandad-cousin-in-law-brother-friend.

Dad the gardener. Turning twenty for the fourth time. A surprise 80th birthday party for him ...




Or not ...

It clearly isn't a surprise if you turn up at your surprise party with a five page speech in your pocket. But that's probably better than your relatives worrying where the nearest defibrillator might be in the event of the surprise going terribly wrong. 

Family parties and celebrations equal cousin time - and breezy walks - and too much food - and rum in water pistols (don't ask!) - and barbecuing a whole salmon called Sven - and catching up with old friends - and laughing - and remembering why Scotland will always feel like home - and not minding when I'm asked to say 'purple squirrel' (try it with a Scottish accent and you'll understand. Also I have a Cumberbatch-'penguin-pingwing'-like-failing when I name the bushy tailed creatures 'squirrls' instead of squirrels) - and liking that I still have Kilbride Bay sand in my shoes - and worrying that the stones I picked up on the beach might trigger a bag search at airport security (they didn't) - and liking (more than I can say) that I wasn't the only member of my family sneaking a stone into my luggage - and promising myself that I'll be back soon - and lots and lots of hugs. 




Congratulations again to Grandad and M&L and lots of love to all. 




* Probably a mis-quote - I thought the source was either William McGonagall or Spike Milligan - but the internet has let me down. However, Billy Connolly refers to them as 'pterodactyls' which is a typical Connolly hyperbole but a brilliant image.

** Hmm and Grr and Bother-said-Pooh! It seems that a Scotland without midges would also be a Scotland with starving bats

... could we live without bats ...??


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn...

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here -  in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast.  Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and ...

Heaven clearly can't wait. Ranting and screaming inside. Growing old and lecturing ... myself, mostly.

What follows should come with a warning - it is a preachy rant. Stop now if you're not in the mood for a lecture. Or, if you're into procrasti-reading, read on and (hopefully) enjoy my latest piece of procrasti-writing. Apologies too for the reference to elderly leakages. And farts. And now, for being deeply irreverent. Sorry. Heaven  can't  wait. Meatloaf was wrong. Clearly the 'band of Angels' is impatiently putting together a gig. There's a party happening which we haven't been invited to. Yet. What a terrible year 2016 has been, so far. And we are barely dipping our winter-wrapped toes into Spring. Is it that the roll-call of those summoned to a higher place grows ever more poignant as we age? Prince was but a few years older than me. Victoria Wood, a meaningless number of years older still. Meaningless because what does age mean astride the long plateau of middle age before the eventual slide into decrepitude? A few years here, a few there - we...