The Hard Place and the Rock

Brexit anger is a kind of sunken feeling for me now.Consciously, I am not particularly upset, though there's an underlying readiness to bite and enjoy biting.

I had a warning dream about that last night. There was a theatre with its own little theatre bar, and among the throngs was a tiger, big though playful looking. But when I went into the dark and empty theatre, I noticed the outline of its head in the darkness. It was huge and watching me. Then I remembered some real life information, about how, when a tiger hunts for a meal, it doesn't do the big roar and splayed claws thing, no. It is extremely quiet, hides well, makes no sound with its great paws, then leaps and crushes the windpipe of its prey with those magnificent teeth. I also suddenly noticed how small the auditorium was, the closeness of the great cat, and backed out quickly while facing it.

I take an Aesop's lesson from that dream. My anger is much closer, much bigger, than I realise. I need to be aware of it, lest it devour me. Having said that, I love tigers!

In a way, things are all right. I mean, if Leavers try to be arses, I can take the battle to them, but I'm not feeling spleenful. After all, they now have to make Brexit work, and I've no problems folding my arms and watching... And there is a subdued nervousness detectable among the ones I encounter. One doesn't need to say much, they're already strangely on edge.

Leaver: We all need to get behind this.
Remainer: Why? It was meant to be the easiest thing in the world. No mention of huge effort.
Leaver:But we're one people.
Remainer: Really? You weren't saying that when we were being threatened with lamp post lynchings. Doesn't matter. This is so easy, right? Off you go, show us.
Leaver: But if we are to unite...
Remainer: We'll unite behind success, which you said would be easy after Brexit. Go on then, succeed.

We can all use a touch of Tim Gunn.

Meanwhile at the weekend, we had a mate and her daughter up. The little girl was charmed with Edinburgh Castle which she said looked just like Dunsinane ... She's studying the Scottish play at school. When asked whether she would prefer to play a witch or Lady MacBeth, there was no hesitation.

'Lady MacBeth,' she said, 'because I can do a good falling out of the window.' And with that she mimed Lady MacBeth sleepwalking through an casement and plummeting to her doom.
'I think Edinburgh castle would be good for it,' she said, 'but you must take care not to really fall, and that's quite hard with your eyes shut.'

A responsible adult might have pointed out that Lady M's death is not specified as a defenestration, but it felt ungracious, especially given the soundness of the advice.

Edinburgh Castle was impressive enough, though after Stirling it feels slightly lacking in really meaty history. After much wandering, the toilet block in David's Tower called one of our number, so we ambled into the other rooms; and one had instant impact, which is to say I walked in and thought this is horribly haunted.

My friend works in an area of the law at its least fanciful, so I was surprised when she came over to me and spoke in low tones about the unpleasant atmosphere of the place. Reading the legend we learned about the men who had died there during the siege in the 16th century, then looked across at the little girl; no mention of ghosts in front of her just in case she took it too seriously. Not that she minded gore, executions and evil doings; she was already in the adjoining room reading about the foul murder of 'Black' Douglas at the dinner to which he had been invited, the ghastly deed signalled by some servant bringing in a bull's head on a platter. That room felt just fine, unlike ours which didn't improve the longer we stayed in it. R talked about the cold and damp influencing our perception and of course it all made sense, but I have been in cold damp rock-walled places many times, wanting to see a ghost. I didn't want to see a damn thing here except the way out. There's imagination and there's something else.

We joked about how no sane historical Scot of noble persuasion would ever accept an invitation to dinner. MacBeth, the Black Douglas, Glen Coe, and even the Bruce's little chat with Comyn... the lesson had to be the same: Avoid gatherings, soirees, and tete-a-tetes, pretend you're wallpapering your castle, be permanently in a battle somewhere or just claim leprosy, like the Bruce's dad. No-one knows if he really had it, but at least the rumour would dispense with deadly dinner invitations. We laughed and talked, and wandered off out of the castle grounds and down to the old town. At least one of us took care not to look back.