A Whimper, not a Bang

September begins, Edinburgh empties, Festival ends and melancholy rain sets in. I’d like to think that all the recent joie-de-vivre leaves ones cup of creativity half-full, even if ones double-bed remains half-empty. The picture on my Innocent Smoothie at first glance looks like a fringe-flyer, emphasising the reality of singledom. Along with the dubious assertion that the carton is, lacking a ringpull, saving the planet, there is an equally spurious claim that “True love awaits [yea, even] in the supermarket.”

I wonder how many 2011 Fringe shows contained ukuleles and sketches on internet dating. The first piece of drama I saw this year was about the latter subject, and was in my opinion extremely well-written and convincingly performed. I’ll be upfront: my reason for going was not the flier (now buried under a pile of an hundred others on my dining-room table) but the girl who handed it to me.  When she saw me again a few days later, I tried to play it cool by giving a ‘luke-warm’ response to her play. What a fool!

I never saw her again, on any of my subsequent lunch-hour strolls. My wish to give more positive feedback fell, like most fringe leaflets, underfoot.  “But that’s what Facebook’s for!” I hear you holler. (Actually, I’m only convincing myself that, if you exist at all, you are reading this.)  ‘For what?’ I respond: ‘Stalking strangers online?’ There’s bound to be a Fringe play on that, if not a forthcoming production at the English National Opera. And that’s the very reason why this blog is anonymous, and why I’m not on Facebook. (or if I am, I’m not telling you.)

Where does this leave me?

In better place than I was four years ago, when I wrote a poem about the Fireworks that summon the season of mists?  Perhaps.  I’ve heard there’s a code of conduct for cruising in supermarkets; certain aisles suit certain tastes. I’m not sure if I should lurk among the fresh fruit & veg, or the frozen meat section; stand by the savoury packets or hover hopefully by the sweets & biscuits.  One thing is for sure: the fridges are out of the question. Smoothies may be saving the planet, but they’re too cool for me. I guess it’s back to the Bombay Sapphire, the ever-dwindling embers of Festival, and a distant whimper of a voice, lodged somewhere between my memory and the chink of ice in a glass.

Fill it right up, imaginary barman.

Suffer, Little Children

I've often thought it unfair that, in the middle of the month of Festivity, those children (and teachers) who mostly go to what we might call 'normal' schools (a term I will explain in time) return to the classroom mid-august while the rest of Edinburgh continues to party.  At least most of these kids have Friday afternoons free to wander up to the Royal Mile, dodging the leafleters, to watch the street entertainers. 

One year, I recall, a child got pulled out of the crowd to assist in some kind of fire-juggling or magic trick show, and was asked the usual questions: "What's your name?", and "Where have you come from?"  Instead of answering, Camberley, Cumbernauld or Canada, the wean - let's call him Robbie - said, 'School.'  Quick as a firework the Entertainer said, "Let's have a big cheer from Robbie who's with us today, all the way from... School!"

Here, then is the next School-days photo, for all those poor people (especially the teachers) who are back at school, unlike those in the posh schools whose cloakrooms will remain empty for a wee while yet.

The Phone Box Fringe

The Fringe has arrived in Edinburgh, over a week before the Festival which it first skirted, and with it, the pouring rain which fails to dampen the human spirit, but thankfully waters-down the crowds on the Royal Mile just a little.  As always, I will be partaking of the Free Fringe (and some not-free also), as well as the Book, International, and Politics Festivals, but I probably won’t be commenting much here on what I see since my theme for this year is phone-boxes and Glasgow School-Days.  In the spirit of History: here, from last year’s Festival Season, is a phone-box which came and went – much like the rain. (Having said that, the rain doesn’t seem to be going “any time soon.”) Here’s proof, then, that the sun does shine, even in August. Even in the rain...

Out with the Old?

Here endeth a month of unremitting partying – for my parents, at least, who have spent every weekend in July celebrating their Golden Wedding Anniversary with friends, neighbours and family.  I attended two out of the four Occasions, before returning to the Festival City, which has been warming up for a similar month of partying.  In fact, if you include Film, Magic and Jazz, we’re already half way through.
 

For many, The Fringe is the festival, while others come here purely to see the Military Tattoo, which isn’t a festival as far as I’m concerned. It’s a far cry from the spirit of the original Festival, conceived as a ‘platform for the flowering of the human spirit’ after the horrific events of World War Two.  Nevertheless, as the hoards arrive, one thing is certain: there’ll be lots to celebrate, with plenty of drinking going on, and maybe an extra phone box or two on the menu.

Axed

Recently I “bumped into” (okay, I know, no need for the “fingers” thing) someone I used to “work with” (this is getting cryptic now) who once asked me, ‘What’s with the phone-boxes?’ – or words to that effect. I never got round to answering her question, so I took the opportunity to direct her to this year’s bloggage. 
Around the time of that unanswered question, she sent me a load of phone-box pictures, one of which adorns my desktop. God knows where it came from: consider it pilfered.

This month’s poem is about another friend with whom I lost contact. I cannot post the picture in question – that would not be fair – but I think the above picture sums it up.

Don Giovanni and the Phone Box

Somewhere in a farmer’s field
in deepest Devon this one stood,
a little battered, tattered paint
and tractor-spattered with mud,
but the panes were all in place.
One caught a glint of January glare.

It was just another in a long line of photo
Opportunities. You said it was too scruffy,
but I insisted, and you stopped the car.
Of the many boxes I have shot, I have
lost count. But of un-numbered
female friends you pilfered, I would
put the count at one too many.

Testament to our friendship, I let you
pose beside it – even though I like
my phone-box photographs au naturelle –
much like you prefer your women –
one in particular, to whom I can’t refer.

She was just another in a long string
of women I unwittingly provided.
Leporello to your concupiscent Don,
each village that we drove through;
every town, I took a phone-box while you,
driven by testosterone or libido, or both,
took whatever you could chat up or talk to.

I was never sure, my former friend,
exactly what you were trying to prove.
My heart was like that phone-booth:
slightly battered, but unbroken, red,
and still receiving in-coming calls.
Yours was shattered; devoid of love,
awaiting disconnection or removal.

Enlightenment

There’s nothing much to say about this month’s picture. There’s not much to say about this month either.  A small matter of a Royal Wedding inspired me (if that’s the right word) to slough my Republican tendencies and jot a little ditty.  Sadly it went right over many ignorant heads – even supposedly educated, intelligent, privileged people – perhaps suspecting an anti-royalist agenda.  From me?!  Maybe they just don’t read Shakespeare, or wouldn’t spot a pun if it kicked them up the bum.

Windsor Wins Her

To tame a shrew,

He said, ‘I Will’

She said, ‘I do,’

– they did.

I’m only assuming that this happened, because I neither saw it on the TV nor read about it in the papers.  Whatever one thinks of this antiquated system, I have to admit that the present monarch is the best alternative to… well, whatever the alternative is. And of the future, as the trend of watering down both the Germanic and aristocratic blood continues, we are made to believe that the Royal Family is moving with the times.  Very enlightened, I’m sure.

Which brings me to the next in my sequence of pictures, Glasgow School Days.

One of my Dad’s old schools is now a pub, and this old lamp is not one of the themed fittings that adorn the bar.  It’s tucked away in a stairwell that leads, one way, to the pub kitchen, the other, to the classrooms upstairs that look much as they used to when my father was educated.  My father is one of the most knowledgeable people I know.  And the great thing is, his schooling didn’t cost him or his parents (at least, not directly) a penny. 

Now that’s what I call privilege.

Eggs is Eggs, surely?

Yesterday, while the Lord was yet entombed in His three-day prison, my new-found Turkish friend was asking me what Easter Eggs were all about. So I explained all the lovely Christian Symbolism that must seem anathema to someone from a Muslim country, but it still didn’t wash. ‘But Chocolate Eggs?’ she questioned: ‘Why do you have eggs of chocolate?’ And that I couldn’t answer; it must seem a little like re-inventing the wheel. Why not eggs made out of, well – egg!

This picture is equally perplexing, since I know nothing of the news story, and can’t be bothered to search. All I can say is, whatever that shifty bloke has got in his rucksack, they’d better not be confectionary, ornithological, or anything to do with the alignment of the planets, and all its connotations – taken up (or stolen) by those Christians.

A Crème Egg (Caramel or
Twisted) to anyone who can locate this phone-box.