Tuesday, May 02, 2017

Down The Mineshaft

Every evening I tell myself I will watch TV or read a book. Every evening I end up on the web, searching for any crumbs of political hope.


I will admit, I'm out of my comfort zone trying to write about politics - I've no real history of it, and who wants to invite a fierce trolling? 

But the older I get, the more I see that the wee wife-y (or old man) in the supermarket who says, 'I'm not really political' is wrong. We are all political by action or inaction. So we might as well stand by our views as bury them.

Readers, I have never in my whole life felt more on the losing side of politics. Daily I am aghast by the world's march to the right in Tory 'UK' and Trump's America.

I don't know what I am going to do on June 9th if we have another Tory 'death' sentence - for that is what it feels like to me, politically.

Nicola has a mandate for a second Indy Ref and Theresa says no. Not now, you pesky kids! Never mind that the majority of Scots are appalled at being dragged out of Europe against our will.

I even feel deserted by the BBC. Nowhere are the news reports capturing my deep political frustrations, or those of thousands of other Scots.  

I read Bella Caledonia  and The National and George Monbiot at the Guardian  and Lesley Riddoch but these feel like the margins. The mainstream has changed so much, it can make me feel physically drained and utterly despondent. 

Meanwhile, I've been reading The Secret Seven stories to the kids. I feel like I'm trapped down an old mine shaft with Scamper the Dog. We are powerlessly waiting on a goodie to come by with a rope. I keep looking round, bewildered, thinking - there must be some escape from this darkness. There just must. 




Vote Monkey and be Scottish, European and Funky 



Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Right, Politics Then.

Oh, Blogger - you have me on my knees. 

I just spent an hour trying to write a blog about politics - on the importance of standing up for your beliefs and being true to yourself, even at the risk of being trolled or judged; about my despair at what Tyrant Theresa is doing to Scotland and Europe.

Guess what? I managed to delete it with one random click and can't retrieve it. Readers, you will have to wait.

Women Tell Each Other They are Gorgeous at Moniack Mhor


It’s like we have been starved of each other,
though we have only just met
and we are keen to make up for lost time,
leaning our stripy-topped bosoms on the table,
slapping our hands on its long wooden expanse
and agreeing with each other in shrieks
(Lana laughed enough to pish her breeks).

You’re gorgeous though!
No, you’re feckin gorgeous!

We can’t talk enough
about family, sex and death,
breach labour, Nicola Sturgeon and the NHS.
It’s not every day you wait a decade or two
for a faux medieval candelabra
to shine down on your face
and make you feel like, at last,
you’ve found your rhythm,
your got-it-now place.








Monday, April 03, 2017

Best Scottish Poems 2016 - What Corkers!

I was lucky enough to be included in Best Scottish Poems in 2006 (eek) and I love to read them every year.

It's exciting to see so many poems from new friends and poetic heroes this year. Click here to enjoy.

I am spoiling you. x


Friday, March 31, 2017

Writers Go Crazy in the Highlands



You know that thing, when a photo of a sunset, is only 1% as good as being in the actual sunset? And even a good photo can't convey the whole ravishing shebang of it?

That's what being at Moniack Mhor is like. It's been a wham-bam treat of a week, whooping and laughing with new friends; cutting to the chase in every chat. 

And the countryside! God-dang, I hadn't realised I missed it so much. How calming it is. It's grassy smells and fresh breaths. Highland coos chewing and the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker.

The cottage itself has a farmhouse 'hug' - slate floors,  heavy wooden tables, fresh herbs, wood burners, sofas to sink into.

I have read plenty and written some. I will share in later posts. Big 'shout out' to the Scottish Book Trust. Meantime, here's a couple of iphone snaps that won't do it justice.





Saturday, February 18, 2017

Watch out Dunoon.



Kids who don't want to go to bed will spin out any story or excuse to lengthen the goodnight chit-chat. Tonight Tess was asking to go on holiday and I reminded her of the time we went to Dunoon. 

The weather could not have been more face-slapping-ly horrible (bitter wind and rain - it was February; I was deluded). At the time, aged 3, she declared that she never wanted to go to Dunoon again.

As I tucked her in tonight (aged nearly 7) to stall me, she rambled on that she had a very important job to do:  shutting down Dunoon forever. (Sorry Dunoon, it's not personal). Right Mummy, she said - these are the things I will need to do this job. Can you write them down?

A motorbike that shoots out fire
A gorilla and two monkeys
Chopsticks (for poking people)...and
Donald Trump.

Dunoon, I will defend you.

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

The Tour Bus, Homework and People Going to Aviemore

I tell the kids that Daddy has to sleep on the tour bus. Naturally there are queries.




Tess: I know this sounds silly, (coy giggle) but how can the driver drive if daddy is snoring in the night? 

(Probably a disingenuous question to work her way in. I explain that the bus engine is usually louder than any random snorer within said bus).

Tess: (sudden righteousness) But what about the other people? Like the people going to Aviemore?! 


(I see a clutch of outdoor fanatics in North Face jackets and woolly hats sitting bolt upright on the Teenage Fanclub tour bus as the band snore peacefully in trademark harmonies. The bus hurtles on through various European cities where the band wake and can't escape the desire to apologise for Brexit, either verbally or with resigned shrugs).

Me: (attempting the parental 'kind' laugh) It's in Europe...

Tess: Well, maybe the people going to Russia?!

I explain further about the bunk beds with curtains. I'm glad I'm not in the bunk beds with curtains.

Tess: So is the bus, like, the size of this room?

Me: No, it's....bus-shaped.  A cuboid. 

(I'm pleased I have crow-barred in the word cuboid, as homework this week is the difference between a cube and a cuboid).

Ah well, back to the ol' poetry lark. The metaphorical bus tour of the mind. Where to next?



Thursday, January 19, 2017

Scottish Book Trust, I praise ye!

What a fantastic day I had last week, visiting the Scottish Book Trust and receiving one of their annual New Writers Awards. 

I loved meeting the other New Writers and getting our photos taken in Edinburgh - which never fails to dazzle with architectural splendour. You can read all about it here