[SC_NEWS] From The Scotsman (July 1st)

[Ian Dickerson]

If in doubt - hide under the covers with a whisky
ROBERT McNEIL

FUNNY how a day can take on its own character. Sad how that character is
often based on nincompoopery. We've all had days in which everything has
gone wrong. At such times, Jehovah the Merciless, or Stan the Demonic, if
you prefer, appears to be in the room, by our sides, losing our pens and our
reading glasses, laughing soundlessly as he watches us get more and more
irate. Then these malevolent spirits love to compound matters: a bucket
falls on our head; we trip on an oven chip; the packaging on a simple,
ready-made stew finally gives way with a rip, and the food slops on to the
floor. On such days, retiring under the bedclothes with a bottle of single
malt, a packet of Kettle crisps and a Saint novel by Leslie Charteris is the
only rational thing to do.

On other days, things unexpectedly go right. There's milk for your Golden
Grahams; the sun shines; the Inland Revenue calls off its enforcers.
Outside, somebody smiles at you or even says hello. A polite driver lets you
cross the road. A cyclist falls down a pothole. All seems well with the
world. On such days, retiring under the bedclothes with a bottle of single
malt, a packet of Kettle crisps and a Saint novel is the only rational thing
to do.

Sometimes, a day takes on both characters; what footer commentators call a
day of two halves. I'd one such recently. In the morning, everything went
well. There was only one death threat in the post, but I recognised Mother's
handwriting. I tootled out for a walk, and no one lunged at me. In the
grounds of Lauriston Castle, birds flittered hither and yon, twittering
happily. The day was changeable but, for the moment, reasonably warm. In the
Japanese garden, I sat in a bamboo pergola and thought about nothing, which
is my favourite subject. If they'd a degree in Nothing Studies, I'd pass
with honours.

All this was fine and dandy. It doesn't pay the rent, but these unreal
moments of verdant pleasure reconnect us to memories of our unfallen state
in the Garden of Eden, from which we were all barred after one burd's lewd
and libidinous activities with a Cox's Pippin.

The afternoon was a different matter. At first, it seemed the goodness would
continue. I managed to park in one of those awful winding concrete car parks
without, for once, pranging my rear-end. The weather had turned inclement,
but I'd remembered to bring a brolly. A severe wind was starting to howl
and, soon, rain spattered the lieges.

After successfully completing a small bit of business in Holyrood ("Ten
pounds fifty, and the pictures are yours"), I decided to leave the car and
travel to my next engagement on foot. I ascended the Royal Mile, brolly
aloft. I was having trouble with my newly soled shoes, which kept slipping
on the wet pavement slabs.

As I got to the intersection between the Mile and North Bridge, a savage
wind whipped my brolly inside-out, and I struggled unimpressively with it,
while other people with normal lives looked on. On North Bridge, I recalled
that, over a month earlier, I'd ordered and paid for a picture frame from a
local shop. I'd completely forgotten about it, so now seemed a good time to
collect it. Bad move. It was a large frame and, on the exposed part of North
Bridge, flapped about in the wind like a cat trying to escape a sack.

I met a friend, which meant conversing for a few minutes, while juggling my
mangled brolly and ready-for-take-off picture frame, as my feet threatened
to slide from under me and, to cap it all, my peculiar barnet flopped hither
and yon. I thought when I started cutting my own hair that the clumpiness
created by experimental follicle economists over the years would disappear.
But it has not. When the wind blows, all my hair flops over in a heap to one
side. Then it flops to another. Then it all goes up together. Then it all
flops down. I could see the fashionistas and baldies sniggering.

On Princes Street, I checked the business card for the next destination and
discovered it was far further off than I thought. But I persevered,
slipping, flapping and flopping. Eventually, on completing my next
transaction ("Eleven pounds fifty, and you can keep the negatives"), I
decided to phone for a taxi back to my car. Then I discovered I'd forgotten
my mobile phone.

Luckily, my erstwhile business associate phoned one for me. The wind had
dropped. The rain was lessening. Things promised to improve. But I was
taking no chances. Once home, I got under the bedclothes with a bottle of
single malt, a packet of Kettle crisps and a Saint novel.
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