I seem to remember a few weeks ago declaring confidently that the my vast collection of tree pictures merited a separate blog. And indeed they do, but events have intruded. Since my last post I have broken my duck on ambulance transport and enjoyed not one but two hair raising trips along the back lanes at night. Mum has been, as the sweetly earnest doctor in A&E stressed, “very poorly.” It is a testament to the fortitude of the distaff side of the family that mum and I firmly bit our tongues at this, resisted all possible replies and eyerolls and simply appreciated his excellent care and clear concern. It did make me wonder a bit though. This strange, sugar coating, almost infantilisation, of language seems to be a “thing.” It is in many cases done with good intent, to demystify or improve understanding but I wonder if it may have the opposite effect. Looking at the case in point, I consider myself “very poorly” with a bad head cold. Poor mum was at quite a different order of magnitude and getting the classic “shape up and drink tea” prescription would not have served her well. Looking more widely, when confronting other complex or scary problems, I have noticed that politicians increasingly smear vaseline over the lens to give a soft focus to difficult trade offs that cannot be avoided. They ought not to be surprised when voters react badly when the sharp daylight view inexorably reasserts itself. It is possible to explain things with are complex or scary or likely to be unwelcome, simply but without glossing them over to the point that the sense of the message is lost. We should be brave enough to do this when entrusted with giving the message. And, on the receiving end, we also need to be brave enough to listen and hear such messages without blaming the messenger. If soft soap and magical thinking is rewarded, then the Wizard of Oz is what will be delivered. I rather think this should be published as a public information message before each party political broadcast…..
Anyway, enough of that. Mum is now in the Royal Infirmary receiving excellent care and doing much better. I am ensconced in a friend’s flat in Edinburgh to facilitate visiting. As the ward staff prefer visiting to be in the afternoons I am free in the mornings to pootle about. I can barely remember the last time I was an unban flat dweller with half days at my disposal! Yesterday I tackled some shops and made an admirable start on Christmas shopping. I commenced with perfumes and cologne. After ten minutes acute nasal confusion had set in so I made a selection from the initial short list based on the core criteria of having nice names, coming in less than vat size bottles and conferring free gift eligibility. With my olfactory skills eliminated it was time for colour and texture and I moved on to ladies wear. As always happens when I should be shopping for presents, a pair of trousers with the perfect cut and length for my good self stood out. It turns out that I am 7/8ths of the size of a “real woman”, with the slightly cropped size fitting nicely all the way down, avoiding the usually inevitable turn ups or rehemming. On leaving the shop with an admirably restrained two pairs (there were four potential colours after all) I looked around for all the 6 foot 3 women of full 8/8ths size. Curiously, I was actually one of the taller shoppers. My next stop was the appliance section of John Lewis. I shall draw a veil over this as it affords few entertaining highlights, but when I drew back mum’s ward curtains later that day I was able to inflict many sheets of product details upon her and if that doesn’t bring her back to fighting trim what will???
Strolling around Edinburgh, I am struck again by how much I like it. It is a city on a human scale and manages still to feel lively and lived in. Princes Street gardens are filled with children’s squeals and the raucous music of a fun fair and a whirling chair affair has been erected next to the Scott Monument. Looking from the shopping side of the street Walter Scott seems to have sprouted a wild bolas of a head dress. There are towering edifices but rather than gleaming office blocks these are a mishmash of stacked and nested tenement homes of every design and period, clinging limpet like to improbable slopes and cliffs. Lovingly draped windows above shops and offices glow gently as the light fades outside and below street level curving basement stairs are garnished with pot gardens. Dangling nosily over some railings I spied a lemon tree with two ripe fruits. Yes lemons growing outside, in November, in Edinburgh…
When not peering shamelessly into basements, I have become a familiar spirit on the number 33 bus which runs past every student flay I ever lived in and then wends on out of the city to the Infirmary. Bus travel has restored my faith in human nature. Bellowing thanks to the driver remains the order of the day and no journey has been completed without some kindly chat and wishes for mum’s swift recovery. Yesterday, the driver and several random passengers spent ages trying to reorient and redirect a distraught young woman who seemed to have got on the wrong bus and rendered herself desperately late for an appointment. As well as a new route and bus number she stumbled off with the benefit of a reassuring pep talk courtesy of Lothian Transport.
I have largely retained my mental map of this city, but it has grown sketchy about the edges. Short cuts are not quite where I remember them and I have tended to over and under shoot. Also I had forgotten, as a country mouse tucked up by the fire by four, how dark it is between the kindly streetlights even at four in the afternoon. This evening, stumbling along head down against the chill wind, muffled in a jumper and cursing my insane decision not to bring a coat, I strode boldly past the turning yet again. Luckily in Edinburgh there is a welter of gennels and winding stairs to get one back on track and my little detour took me past Waitrose so all’s well and there is fresh basil for tonight’s pasta.
