After Rembrandt

Tags

Glasgow, Kelvingrove Art Gallery, Rembrandt

photos inspired by a visit to Kelvingrove Art Gallery, Glasgow.

Have known this painting since I was a child.

Glasgow Bank Holiday?

Tags

Bank Holiday, Edinburgh, Elizabeth Frink, Glasgow

…. actually, no.  Edinburgh 6/5/19

Photo by Candia, with apologies to Elizabeth Frink- and Glasgow.

Kelvingrove Diorama

Tags

Auchenshuggle bus, camouflage, Clydebank, diorama, Gilmorehill, Glasgow, Kelvingrove Art Gallery, metamorphosis, Mountain hare, Partick, ptarmigan, Santiago, stoat, taxidermy, ViewMaster, weasel

(Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum

25/8/06  Photo: Zhi Yong Lee   Flickr)

 

 

My chin was resting on the narrow ledge

and my hand sensed where to find the button.

I pressed: the drama slowly evolved.

Small-headed ptarmigan; weasel, or stoat;

a Mountain Hare…  Was there an Arctic Fox?

My memory is blurred, just as the light

gradually dimmed and a square of blackness

disconcertingly ensued.  By magic,

or perhaps a further impatient press,

a non-existent stage curtain lifted

on the mise-en-scene and, where there had been

autumnal, russet fur and feathers; leaves

of crinkled beech, now there was dazzling white

and a sparkling winter wonderland, with

the taxidermied tableau now pristine,

like the snow in our back garden, before

I rushed to stamp my welly-prints in it.

 

There were only two seasons, I recall:

autumn and winter.  There was no vernal;

no fresh, green meadows with two hares boxing.

There was no aestival, with growing young.

There only seemed to be approaching Death

and a brief, glittering transformation

before darkness set in.

 

It was not there.

I sought in vain for the diorama

when I made my last Glasgow pilgrimage;

no grandfather to hoist me up the steps.

The ’64’ Auchenshuggle bus- gone-

at least from its old Clydebank/ Partick route,

where it stopped at the grandiose facade

of a Santiago in red sandstone.

 

Like a ViewMaster, the shutter came down

on four years of study under the spire

of grimy, but Romantic Gilmorehill.

 

I ask where my springs and summers have gone.

I no longer need a hand to ascend;

can see in the mirror my auburn fade

and pure white winter begin to appear,

with growing sense of metamorphosis.

 

Camouflage did not help them to survive-

except in the memory of a child.

 

(Rock Ptarmigan (Norway) 28/5/10

Photo: Jan Frode Haugseth)

 

The Young Chevalier

Tags

Allan Ramsay, Archbishop of Bordeaux, Bendor Grosvenor, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Camlachie, Charles Edward Stuart, Clementina Walkinshaw, Duchess of Albany, Fiona Bruce, Glasgow, Gosford House, manflu, Meaux-en-Brie, Philip Mould, The Young Chevalier, Walker's Petticoat Tails

So, that would have been one of your ancestors then? teased Brassie.

We were sitting, not ‘sat’, in Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe now

that half-term was over and we could have the place reasonably to

ourselves.

What do you mean? I parried.

Charles Edward Stuart.  His lost portrait has been found.  Didn’t you watch

the programme?

It wasn’t that lost, Carrie chipped in.  It was safely hung, if not displayed, in

a dingy corridor in Gosford House, but catalogued in the inventory there.

Yes, but it took a man in biking leathers with the name of a Derby winner

to have it authenticated, Brassie continued.  He asked a woman whom I

supposed to be the Dowager Countess if he could take it away and, just

because he shares a name with the Duke of Westminster, she immediately

let him take it off the wall, without batting an eyelid.

Maybe it wasn’t because of his name, I speculated.  Leather seems to be

persuasive. They’re all into it.  Fiona Bruce has several leather jackets in a

wide spectrum of colours and she is all over works of art nowadays.

Brassie became enthusiastic: I know, but when Bendor got his leg over..

..his motorbike- I defused her instantly.

Who’s Bendor? asked Carrie.

Duh! We both looked at her incredulously.

Don’t let’s lower the tone.  We were talking about Scottish Art

and Allan Ramsay, weren’t we?  Or should we talk about Philip Mould?

He’s more age appropriate, but not so fetching in hide, I agree.

I can see Bendor in a blue sash and cockade, sighed Brassie.

Never mind ‘Charlie is my Darling’.

Yes, but as a Sassenach, he’s not strictly entitled to wear tartan, I

reminded her.  And no one is going to put Mr Grosvenor on a packet

of Walker’s Petticoat Tails, are they?

I suppose not, more’s the pity.  She looked disappointed.  I‘d probably

buy some if they did.  He’s better looking than Rabbie Burns.

Carrie tried to change the subject.  Actually, they thought that there

might have been a portrait of Charlie’s mistress, Clementina Walkinshaw

too, but the one in Derby, or wherever, was discredited.

Now there was an interesting woman, I jumped in.  Glaswegian, one of

ten, from Camlachie.  I don’t believe that she nursed him through manflu,

though. No woman from Glasgow is that sympathetic.  Eventually, fed up with

his drunken antics, she re-invented herself, as many a Glesca girl has done,

and styled herself Countess Alberstroff. She went off to Meaux-en-Brie.

Sounds cheesy, remarked Carrie.

Not as cheesy as what Charlie did next.  He married a nineteen year old

princess.

Didn’t he have a daughter with Clementina?  Wasn’t she The Duchess of

Albany?  It was all coming back to Brassie.

Yes.  Poor Charlotte died young after becoming the mistress of the Archbishop

of Bordeaux, I explained.

Did she have kids?  Brassie couldn’t remember the details.

Yes, but they couldn’t be royal as Henry, Charlie’s brother-who was a Cardinal

by the way- made Clementina sign a document of renunciation of any rights.

There might be a lost portrait of Clementina as a nun in one of the French

convents she took shelter in, suggested Brassie.

Or one of Charlotte as the Virgin Mary at a Bishop’s Palace in Bordeaux or

Cambrai, I added.

Should be good for a motorcycle trip to Aquitaine through the French

vineyards, Carrie concluded.

Perhaps he will need an assistant, Brassie said wistfully.

I’d better buy myself a leather jacket.  Fiona’s too tall to fit in a sidecar.

Nine Inches

Tags

A Red Red Rose, Andy Stewart, Billy Connolly, Brassica, Burns' songs, Dambusters, Donald Where's Your Troosers?, Ginevra, Glasgow, haggis hurling, Highland games, Hogmanay, Maggie Smith, Quartet, Rigoletto, Tom Courtenay, White Heather Club

You bag the seats and I’ll get the order! volunteered Brassie.  Carrie,

Clammie and I miraculously found a table in a corner of

Costamuchamoulah café and pushed the previous occupants’

detritus to one side.

What was that about a bag? asked Clammie.

Oh, nothing.  She was just referring to securing the seating.  Just

before we came in she said she had noticed a poster in the window of

the beauty shop, offering 20% off to old bags.  She must have had it

on her mind, you know, subliminally.

Was the notice serious?  There is definitely a target market here,

commented Carrie, cheering up a little.

Oh, I think we are all practising for the day when we can achieve the

discount!  But no, when I looked at the notice more closely, it

referred to an actual company called The Old Bag Company and

Raquel in Beauty and the Beast must stock their products, I

explained.

There you go, said Brassie, placing the little table number on the

cleared surface.  She sat down opposite Carrie and then jumped up.

She had sat on a jumbo crayon left over from the toddler art club

that monopolised the tables in the afternoon.

Right, I said.  We are all ears.  What happened?

Carrie sniffed a little and began:

I appreciate you guys’ support. Well, as we all suspected, Grandma

Jean’s broken hip was really curtains for her.

(We knew that Jean Pomodoro had suffered a bad fracture on

Hogmanay in her nursing home in Glasgow on Hogmanay.)

They have been brilliant, actually.  The staff always encourage the

residents to put on a mini White Heather Show, with those who are

able doing little turns.

And the others having funny turns, joked Clammie.  I glared at her.

Well, they like to see in the New Year and it is all good fun.  Of

course, they vet the acts so that dirty old men don’t get too raucous

over renditions of Andy Stewart’s Donald Where’s your Troosers?

Anyway, Jean loved singing.  She used to perform duets with

Gianbattista- Grandpa- and they blended so well. She had just

finished A Red, Red Rose and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

 Amazing for 91. Although a little unsteady, she had stood

throughout and was about to be led back to her wing armchair, when

a naughty old boy who looked like Billy Connolly, apparently, said he

would follow on with another Burns’ song: Eight Inch Will Please a

Lady.  Jean was so shocked that she fell over.

I’m not surprised, Clammie said.

I don’t get it, said Brassie.

Carrie explained: She was shocked at the impropriety.

Clammie blurted out, I’m not surprised.

No, explained Carrie, she was offended by the fact that he had got his

facts wrong.  It’s nine inches.

What is? asked Brassica, still none the wiser.

I decided to protect her innocence.  It’s the maximum permitted

length of the missile in a haggis hurling competition at The Highland

Games.

I still don’t get it.

Never mind, I whispered.

Clammie butted in: Hey, that’s a bit surreal.  I saw Quartet last night

and Maggie Smith has a poorly hip and she has to lean on Tom

Courtenay for support in the piece from Rigoletto that they all sing

together in the nursing home for ageing divas.

Yes, said Brassie, but she didn’t have the problem of falling over did

she?

No, and I wouldn’t call it a problem if I had to lean on Tom Courtenay

either, quipped Clammie.

What is wrong with her? Clammie, I mean.  She isn’t usually so

insensitive. We are supposed to be empathising with Carrie’s sad

loss.

So, when is the funeral? I asked.

Not till next Friday.  They’re putting her on ice so the Italian relatives

have time to organise themselves.

Maybe I don’t have to worry about sensitivity then.. On Ice?!  She

sounds like a bottle of Bolly!  Speaking of which, how is Ginevra going

to cope when she hears of the demise of one of her closest friends?

It’s the end of an era!

Later:

Ginevra:  I wonder if they do 20% off for Old Bags at the cremmy?

Carrie: Ginevra!

Ginevra:  Allegedly, there was once a huge ‘Glasgow Mafia’ funeral at the crematorium

and the organist was busking it as they all filed in.  He looked over his shoulder at the

coffin, to estimate how long he would have to keep playing and there was a huge floral

wreath with what he thought said: Biggles marked out in red roses.  So, thinking the

deceased must have enjoyed aviation as a hobby, he..

Carrie: Didn’t!  Did he launch into The Dambusters?

Ginevra giggled: You got it. Jean told me. She was in the congregation. She was in

hysterics.

C: So, why was it so funny?

G: Because what it really said was : Big Les!

And she laughed so hard that Carrie thought she was going to fall off her perch

and that would make it a double funeral.  (An economy that Grandma Jean would

have approved of – coming from Glasgow!)

 

Remembrance of Things Past

Tags

Argentinian tango, Carcassone, Carrie, Don Giovanni, Duncan Bannatyne, extra vergine, Glasgow, Leporello, Liguria, Montalbano, Olive, Petruchio, Pino Grigio, Proust, Salva, Souleiado, Suttonford, Tesco

Carrie settled back on the sofa in the snug.  The kids were in bed and her husband, Gyles, was upstairs on the computer.  Bliss!  She was going to watch Montalbano, which she had recorded for such a moment.  It was so helpful for her conversational Italian, though she was picking up a Sicilian accent, she had been told.  All her girlfriends had noticed, though they were speaking in the same way.

It was Tuesday.  She was just about to reach for her Pino Grigio when she had a Proustian moment.  She remembered that she hadn’t seen Salvatore for a couple of weeks.  He used to come to the town markets regularly and had a stall shaded, or sheltered, depending on the weather, by a bright gazebo-type canopy, under which he spread out his wares- olives and suchlike.

Buon giorno!  Carrie would say in her Sicilian accent, re-discovering her Italian roots.  (Her full maiden name had been Carissima Pomodoro, but she had been brought up in Glasgow, where her great-grandfather had opened one of the first ice-cream parlours, long before Duncan Bannatyne had been a glint in his father’s eye.  Ginevra, her mother-in-law, had also been brought up in Glasgow by her parents, the Piccolalivernas.  The Glasgow connection was how Carrie had come to meet her husband, Gyles, but that is another story..)

Yes, Tuesday was Suttonford’s market day, but the stalls tended to deflect business from the regular shops. Frankly, they did not offer anything very enticing that was an obvious bonus to the town, nor did they compensate for the loss of parking spaces on High street.

Vans filled with house clearance detritus or car boot leftovers mingled with vehicles of suspect exhausts and noisy generators that spewed forth olagineous fumes and dealt in butterless baps with slabs of indeterminate material squidged with a squelch of pseudo-ketchup from an array of plastic dispensers.  All of this was profferred to townspeople who largely monitored their own chlorestrol levels and ordered their organic veggie boxes bi-monthly.

Once or twice, Carrie had dared to interrupt a stall-holder who wore fingerless gloves and who was demolishing a pasty whilst talking to the neighbouring vendor.  They’d be discussing grandchildren, golf handicaps or ferry crossings.  Having broken in with a discreet cough, Carrie would point to some ceramic item and enquire:

Excuse me, what is it?

(She was referring to its make, age, composition or provenance and she felt sure that the misunderstanding could not be attributed to her Sicilian accent, since that was restricted to her alternative linguistic mode.)

The stall holder would take a deliberate additional bite and, with her mouth full of pastry, would look her up and down, assessing her status and then pronounce:

What is it?  It’s fifty quid, innit.

Carrie, unsure as to whether this tag was an interrogative or a statement, would immediately slink away, completely ignored by the original addressee.

Off she’d go, past the stall which displayed Mediterranean tat-ie/ 100% polyester tablecloths and napkins in fake Souleiado patterns, whose sunny colours looked entirely out of place in the cold, relatively northern light of Suttonford, but which might have glowed jewel-like in the inner sanctum of Carcassone’s shopping fortress.  She would pass the Spanish ceramic house number plates (so useless in Suttonford, where each house has a name, darling,) and would walk beyond the abandoned trestle tables, where one had to look around for a keeper who had given up hope and had scarpered to Tesco’s for a pack of sandwiches.  No haggle margin, as nobody with which to haggle.

And then there was the effulgent aura coming from the final stall which was like the clichéd candle flame to moths and that was manned- and oh, so manly- by Salvatore, the olive seller. He was not only a babe magnet, but he drew in all the female phagocytes (cells which are capable of absorbing foreign matter) with complexions like sun-dried tomatoes and natures to match, ie/ who would give you the pip, but who giggled like pre-teens, even after half a century, when Salvatore greeted them like long-abandoned exes.

Salvatore’s alluring success owed itself to the fact that he dealt in hope, misplaced meteorological optimism and remembrance of things very far back in the past.  Never mind that he traded in over-salty olives and his stall was probably a Mafia franchise.  (Hey, Carrie had noticed two empty violin cases on the adjacent stall.  Maybe they were for the machine guns.)  For, it was possible that he was being subsidised to create addiction in the way Brits had engendered craving for opium in China, in order to gain trade control.

Carrie could observe his modus operandi- oily flattery, overt grooming, courtship and finally, seduction.  Yet, she was not immune.

First there was the fore-play of the inviting sample, temptingly waved in front of the customer on the end of an olive wood ladle.  Then there was the caring concern shown in the provision of a clean polystyrene cup to contain the poubelles and the sensitive handing over of a paper napkin to wipe the excess oil which dribbled down most matrons’ chins.

Each lucky lady had been selected to taste a particular flavour which was skilfully matched with her character and personality: the reserved and shy could try green olives with mild almonds cheekily protruding, perhaps in a basilica or coriander dressing.

The more fiery characters were tamed by this Petruchio via glistening orbs, coated in chili, or jalapeno-flavoured oils.

Those who considered themselves cosmopolitan- such as the members of Carrie’s Italian group-had plenty of garlic garnish and the acerbic and twisted had citrus zest on black globes.

Salvatore- she had subliminally taken to calling him Salva after the detective- would lick his fingers while maintaining eye contact and then she and others in his fan club would come away laden with little tubs and paper carriers and a determination to lobby the local council for an Argentinian tango class for beginners.  Ciao and prego crept into Suttonford vocabulary, especially when the besotted customers  met up in Costamuchamoulah.

Buon giorno, Carrie!  He raised an expressive eyebrow, in lieu of a question.

She tried to maintain a certain froideur.

Commissario!

Try some with lemon, rosemary and thyme, he suggested.  (100% on the oleometer.)

No, I’ll just have some foccacio, she resisted.  Maybe that was the wrong word?

Extra vergine? he persisted, lubriciously.

A little flutter like a breeze playing lightly over the strings of an Aeolian harp reminded her of her hormones.  I’m not frigid after all, she thought.

By the time he had finished with her, she had a till receipt the length of the list of Leporello’s conquests in Don Giovanni.

She heard a tread on the stair, which brought her back to the present.  Salva was probably basking on a verandah in Liguria- sounds a bit like a ligature, but let’s not go there.  Or, subsidised by Carrie and other victims, he was, in all likelihood, wining and dining some Loren-lookalike on his balcony over the sea, canoodling in Calabria, like Montalbano, only with hair.

Gyles popped his head round the snug door:

I thought you were watching your programme? he said mildly. Do you want some olives with your Pino Grigio?  He placed a tub of Tesco’s best on the nest of tables.

But somehow the little love grenades had lost their charm.

No thanks, love.  I’m just coming up to bed.  I’ll watch it another night.

Gyles went ahead.

Hello, wall!  she said to herself.

Tuesdays were never going to be the same. 

Arrivederci, Salva. Adieu, adieu.

And All That Jazz

Tags

Amazing Grace, Barrowland, Bobby Hamilton, Breughel, clarinet, Geraldo, Glasgow, New Orleans, Old Rugged Cross, Pete Fountain, Pied Piper, Pope, United States

 

Pete Fountain at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Just in case any of my readers think I have been too harsh on Homo Glaswegiensis, I seriously identified with some of the salt of the earth characters whom I had the privilege to meet in my childhood and adolescence.

When I travelled to New Orleans in adulthood and heard the great Pete Fountain play in the Marriott Ballroom, it only served to remind me of an even greater performance in the Glasgow Barrowland.  And here is the poem:

AND ALL THAT JAZZ

Holocaust plies of crawfish, picked clean

by black tie delegates at this event –

a Breughel backdrop for those held enthralled

by one who’d played for Pope and President.

Pete Fountain – diamond-studded clarinet,

King of New Orleans and razzmatazz,

free as a bird, and yet a martinet

of syncopation, tempo…all that jazz.

It took me to another mise en scene:

(the Glasgow Barrowland, no less,)

where Bobby Hamilton, a pro has-been,

shook his instrument, tootling through the mess

of broken mussel shells dropped by the damned.

like a Pied Piper, he mesmerised them all,

with decorations from Geraldo’s band.

Once, in youth, the world had been his oyster;

but now he’d found the Pearl of Greatest Price

and this prodigal, who’d loved to roister,

found that the Living Water would suffice.

And, to the strains of The Old Rugged Cross,

he leant his burden on no broken reed.

Filled with new wine, he played to those who doss

in draughty doorways. Alcoholics bleed

if cut, like Presidents or Popes, or you or I.

And tears would streak the cracked and grimy lens

to think Amazing Grace would save them too,

with all their filthy rags and warts and wens:

if Bobby played it, then it must be true.

But those who filled the Marriott ballroom

saw that the dollar sign was in control.

Malodorous mishmash masked by perfume

cannot disguise the absence of true soul.

English: The Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow, Scotland (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I Am What I Ate

Tags

Andrew Fairlie, Commonwealth Games, Cullen Skink, Glasgow, Gleneagles Hotel, Irn Bru, Jammie Dodgers, Loch Fyne, Rab C Nesbitt, Scotland

The Commonwealth Games are coming to Glasgow in 2014 and more than 2 million meals will have to be prepared for athletes, officials, staff and spectators.  However, Ah hae ma doots that the 100 plus tonnes of fruit and veg that are being ordered will necessarily go doon a treat.

Save the Children co-ordinator, Malcolm Clark, has been reported as saying that there should be a junk food ban.  Many will respond:  Ach, away an’ bile yer heid.

Rural Affairs Secretary, Richard Lochhead said: 

There will be unprecedented opportunities to showcase the magnificent produce Scotland has to offer.

There will be a Food and Drink AGM in Perth, so close to Andrew Fairlie’s eponymous restaurant at The Gleneagles Hotel. However, I don’t think his signature lobster dish- its shell smoked in whisky, as if you didn’t know, will be featured in the biodegradable cardboard takeaway dishes of the Games themselves.  Nor do I see Celtic Fish and Game and all things feathered and sustainable being up there in the hot desires of Rab C Nesbitt and Co.

Candia was once a student at a Scottish University, in the gloaming of time and so she can recall seeing some graffiti sprayed on the exterior of the students’ refectory and it read:

You Are What You Eat

And that is a very frightening concept.

Just over a week ago now, I was contemplating a journey north and felt compelled to express in verse my anticipation of the culinary delights of Alba.

I Am What I Ate

I’m returning to the land of shortbread-

(Petticoat Tails, the Peek Frean Custard Cream)-

where, for many years I had ingested

more Jammie Dodgers than in sweet-toothed dream;

Lorne sausage, Stovies, Co-op jam

stirred into semolina, mutton pies,

mince n’ tatties, neeps, pan peeces, flaccid Spam,

school custard, tablet- then, to appetise,

Black Bun.  If I felt a wee bit faddy;

Barr’s Irn Bru, a Paterson oatcake

with a Loch Fyne kipper; a Finnan haddie

gar’d me grue. Bottles of ginger would slake

my thirst and, if I was in a paddy,

you could shut me up wi’ a soor green ploom.

On Fridays we had something Ruskolined,

Cock-a-Leekie, Clootie Dumpling, sheep’s womb,

Tunnock’s wafers, Lees’ Snowballs, but now weaned

off those pokes of chips, black pudding slices,

I spread my Low Fat Flora very thin.

Childhood diet no longer entices,

yet I am what I ate- there’s nae denying

the place the skillet had in all our hearts.

Arteries were clogged through constant frying

by strangers to the culinary arts.

But Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled don’t shrink

fae food wae names like bannock, Cullen Skink.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

All Things Lavenderial

Tags

Andy Murray, Bradley Wiggins, Chlamydia, Clydeside, coffee, Glasgow, lavender, London 2012, Michael Phelps, Novak Djokovic, Olympics, Roger Federer, Sarah Montague’, Thought for the Day, Warren Buffet

You could sit in the sun, but there was a wind. I suggested to my friend Chlamydia that we should go to an alternative venue for those all-important coffees.

There is a barn with surrounding lavender fields which sells all things lavenderial – wreaths, scrubs, oils, essential and non-essential, cake, shortbread and lilac furbelows.  Actually they stock pink, white and tufted green plants as well and someone told me that they had supplied floral spikes for the Olympic bouquets.  They probably supply some for the local Hyacinth Bouquets too.  Chlamydia, or Clammie, as she prefers to be known, caught them out, though, by asking for lavender which suited a north-facing position.  It was worthy of Gardeners’ Question Time from Sparsholt College.  Of course, she knew the answer and she also knew that it was only available on the Isle of Wight, so there!

Then I quizzed them as to whether the lavender in the shortbread was definitely of the edible variety.  I was a little nervous since they hadn’t known the answer to the north-facing question.

After a cyclist had been run over by a bus containing the media, Wiggins had lent his support to the cause of compelling cyclists to wear helmets.  Some smart arse had objected and recommended that more people should simply get on their bikes and go onto the roads and there would be safety in numbers.  I could only think of huge flocks of Canada geese, where the outriders were picked off by preying predators, yet a percentage made it through to sunnier climes, or to more wintry ones, depending on the birds in question. We are supposed to be worth more to God than the fall of a sparrow, I pondered.  I had heard that assurance on Thought for the Day.  I thought that more academics should listen in, if they weren’t too exasperated with Sarah Montague in the rest of the programme. They might learn something.

Andy eliminated Djokovic in a very short time and then actually smiled.  Roger, looking very fetching in the colours of his country’s flag, played the longest Olympic tennis semi-final ever, against a very smart Argentinian.  When Roger nipped off for a comfort break, I myself was relieved that the Argy guy did not unfurl a banner about the liberation of the Malvinas, though that was the second publicity opportunity that they had missed.

I was disappointed in Roger’s wife, however.  She was wearing a baseball cap- and I remembered what that had done to William Hague’s credibility- and she was chewing, as if she was Alex Ferguson. My granny had always told me off for chewing in public though she had come from Clydeside.  So, I shuddered to think what part of Glasgow Alex had come from.  At any rate, cud regurgitation was not a cool look and I felt it was unworthy of the consort of the glacial elegance of Federer.

At a crucial match point a baby had started yelling and I had felt that stab of maternal anxiety that can ruin a day out or an evening meal for adults.  I was glad when it was silenced- perhaps by an usher asking if it had its own ticket, or was merely related to a ball boy or girl.  Just as well it hadn’t squawked at Andy’s match, or his mum might have dealt with it very efficiently off camera- see Scottish play.

I watched the women’s ten thousand metres race and found it amusing to see the four Africans overtake the others who were visually ahead, but who were in lap arrears.  They had to avoid a big Polish(?) guy who had chucked a cannonball an amazing distance.  He had the bad manners to run across their track.  Had he tripped they would have had to hurdle over him, like negotiating some kind of beached whale.  Then it was the turn of pregnant wives and excited children to swarm over the track.  It was getting like the rush hour.

On the radio I had heard someone quoting Warren Buffet, who commented that when the tide recedes you can see those who are swimming naked. I wondered if there was a wave machine in the Olympic pool.  It would be quite interesting to flick a switch.  However, they all seemed to favour those lycra long johns – even Michael Phelps – pity.

Lost in Translation

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, France, George Osborne, Glasgow, Scotland, swifts, Vince Cable

26/7/12

Maybe even hotter, but a high pollen count.

Swifts seem to be abandoning the UK as the summer hath all too short a day and is soaking wet.  There hasn’t been enough in the way of insects for them, so they are returning to Africa, faster than Polish migrant workers are legging it back to Warsaw.

It was reported that a commercial aircraft on its way from France to Glasgow lost communication with Air Traffic control, so a Typhoon was scrambled. I could imagine the lost in translation dialogue with the pilot:

’allo, ‘allo, nous sommes ou?

Right pal, never mind that.  You’re jist aboot tae be hit by a

missile and Ah doan’t mean a stick o’ rock, or an Olympian

caber.  Defence is convinced that you are in cahoots wi’ the

North Koreans, who are bent on nuking us for insulting their

wimmen’s footie team, whitever that is, by flashing the

wrang flag.  Git oot o’ that air space.

Comment?

You had to laugh at Vince Cable trying to outdo Ann Widdecombe in the modesty department, by stating that he isn’t after George Osborne’s job.  He is probably too busy training for Strictly 2.  And he says he has only one job!  He may find out that his costume has 50% fewer sequins in this time of austerity.  If he thinks he can improve on George, or Gideon’s performance, then he’d better consult his Swarowski crystals, as nobody seems to have a clue as to how to kick start the economy.  The Bollinger, Bullingden, whatever Club, might like to lead the way by consuming fewer country suppers, whatever they are.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012