Unhelpful Queens, Frost, Music, and More Music

'Tear it up and start again,' he said, supposedly channelling thoughts from his latest spirit guide whom he has identified as Mary, Queen of Scots, 'the basic concept is flawed.'

There's nothing wrong with the basic concept, it's my execution* of it that's the problem. But in any case, no professional tears up over a hundred thousand words of work just because it needs more work. I should have asked what she thought the concept was, but I didn't want to test the unfortunate monarch. My friend is delighted at the idea of having her as a spirit guide, and far be it from me to remove any of his happiness given how tough things have been. This is me trying not to break things.

I would have been more impressed if it had been Elizabeth I who, apart from being a personal hero of mine, now proves to have been no lacking wordsmith; https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-50588168 Having said that, she hardly looked after Mary well. Old old stories... Linlithgow Palace is not so far from here. I'll give it an explore the moment hibernation's over.

Friday night was excellent, Edinburgh full of lights and crowds checking the craic. It was the first time I've been to the Liquor Room, with its stunning acoustics. Band of Skulls were superb, better than I've ever seen them.After that we hopped into Bannermans which as far as I can tell is basically a warm pleasant cave, then Dishooms for a cocktail, then home to Bathgate where the Dreadnought was still open. By four in the morning we were walking down a path among trees and long grass bent back, covered in layers of sparkling frost. I have never seen frost lie so thick without becoming either ice or snow, and the stars made each outline twinkle like a Christmas mall. Beautiful. Cold though, so cold! We got in and crashed out. Yesterday we didn't even get out of our dressing gowns.

Music has become more of a theme since we moved up here. For my work, silence is best. I don't like dripping taps, the radio on, the telly on, clocks ticking... Quiet and a blank screen are my friends, and that hasn't changed in terms of how I work. But in every other aspect of my life, there's much more music. R has noticed that I'm singing to myself as I wander round the house. When no-one's around, me and Alexa have a little dance in the kitchen. I've been considering singing lessons. Ridiculous really when what I need to do is beef up my Spanish, but I could do that too.

My thoughts of singing lessons were slightly dented by my experience of the event last weekend. I wanted to think badly of a lady who was very strict about the timing and getting us to our seats; while appreciating that things should start when they're meant to start, anything that smacks of herding leaves me irritated. To my dismay, she turned out to be not only to be a singer but incredibly gifted. Her first set was accompanied, and lovely enough, her second was unaccompanied, and so exquisite as to verge on the arcane. It was more than enough to daunt me, after all, why bother when some people have so much talent?

*I know, I know, let's hope she's not listening.

Of the Skeklers

'I saw the kitchen full of beings whose appearance, being so unearthly, shook the gravity of my muscles, and forced the cold sweat to ooze out of every pore in my body There they stood like as many statues, one of whom was far above the rest and of gigantic dimensions. Eyes, mouths, or nose had they none; nor the least trace of a countenance. They kept up an incessant grunt, grunt, grunt, or a noise partly resembling swine and turkey cocks... Tney were all veiled and their head-dresses or caps were about eighteen inches in height and made from straw twisted backwards and downwards, with bunches or ribbons of every colour raying from the points of the cones. The spirits, for such they appeared to be, had long staves, with which they kept rapping on the floor. Between them and the door stood one as black as 'Horni;' but more resembling a human being than any of the others. His head dress was a South-wester and he had a keshi on his back. ... Immediately upon our entering the kitchen they formed themselves into pairs and commenced hobbling and dancing. When asked what they wanted, the keshie was presented and in it was a piece of mutton and other eatables. Their chieftain, or leader, muttered in a disguised and guttural tone of voice, that they would take anything we chose to give them. My landlady gave them some mutton and oatcakes with which they appeared highly elated, and returned thanks with bows and curtseys; but still kept up the incessant grunting. Before leaving the house, however, they inquired of me, in the same guttural tone of voice, if they should go to the Minister's. "Certainly," said I, "be sure you go there and give him a specimen of your dancing; for the minster is a very liberal gentleman and will, I doubt not, fill your keshie."'
R. Menzies Ferguson Reminiscences of Rambles in the Far North, 1884

Reading this, it's hard to avoid visions of some 19th century version of Mandy. I am sure the Minister was very grateful for the recommendation, delighted to have these characters gallumphing around his kitchen, especially if it was small. The open fire and straw outfits doubtless added an extra frisson. Apparently you couldn't really say no to the Skeklers; revenge pranks included such japes as removing your front gates and setting fire to them.