Heading north and hands will be too full to blog. Edinburgh and beyond. Like many UK cities, there used to be so much fagsmog (UK English: fag = cigarette) the men, with their ashlar voices and honeyed fingers, were able to create topiary out of it, or take it home in bagfuls to be shared with the bairns. (Scottish English: bairn = baby / child.) Nowadays the bronchitic and bedridden sing in a flinty way and dance rustily in the street to the sounds of the Festival and Fringe events. It's a sparkling city at any time, even through the mesh of wet, grainy greyness that lashes off the North Sea. But in the middle of August, it dresses up in its best frock and boogies.
So, all packed, apart from finding another suitable case for all the notebooks, scraps of paper, pens and backup pencils I'll need in between trigger-happy conversations, squeamish one-person shows in which the act often outnumbers the audience, and exhibitions that are just the cat's pyjamas. You better get there yourself some day.
Another couple of sleepless nights to get over, however, ever since the drawling approach a week or two ago of the stetson guy with the hand-me-down look. That suggestion of his that I do a country-and-western lyric. I've been trying to avoid it, but at around 3:00am last night - I mean, this morning - into my unsuspecting head came: A major, a rising bass to D flat minor, followed by A7 and the wailing words:
You are an angel on a highwire
Am I in danger of aiming too high?
All I need is the touch of your love
And, Baby, I will learn to fly.
There's more, but does that sound like c-and-w to you? If so, send your favourite band my way and they can have it.
So have a lovely time while I'm away. Check back in a week. Adios! Hasta la vista!
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