Saturday, 29 November 2014

Whirly

Amid the winter lights people do sit and then rise and wildly whirl high up in the Edinburgh sky, amid much squealing and screaming that reaches us down below. This is one ride that is not for the Don of QuiScottie. Oh no.

Sunday, 23 November 2014

Seasonal balls up


I do see the muchly coloured balls of the season of the solstice (and other silly things) are upon us again, which does discomfit my noble equilibrium somewhat, but not too much these days since my seasonal shopifaction and celebrationing does now consist of... the transfer of many virtual golden pennies to the balances of the Prince & Princess QuiScottie... then the despatching of fewer than ten winter solstice cards to fulfil my seasonal duty while irritating those who think this time does signify something other than the ancient festival of a dying then reborn sun... and of course the close and cosy cuddling of my beautiful Lady Margaret Dulcinea QuiScottie, who submits most sweetly to the Don's affection while possibly reassuring herself that the noble embrace will not last too long... Oh, and some fine food, I suppose, and the lighting up of an evergreen tree that does represent the continuing survival of life itself even as each life must someday end.

You can see the Wallace Monument from here...

Standing high and proud in testimony to a noble ancestor(ish) of QuiScottie, if you look very carefully, behind and above the man's head


What would old William think of QuiScottie's Scotland now, I wonder?

Saturday, 22 November 2014

After a further twenty three circles around the sun

there have been effects on the Don and young Princess QuiScottie



Ah... Much questing between then and now has taken a toll on the Don while the years seem to have treated the Princess somewhat better; and my Lady Margaret Dulcinea QuiScottie looks to have travelled a mere fraction of these circles, which is strange (for I am sure she's been with me all the way), but nice


And I shall nobly venture on, and take the hits and bear the scars some more,
while the young Prince QuiScottie does take the noble quest to foreign lands


It all gives pause for thinking thought, this spinny spinning around a fiery sun. It does...

and dear Ted QuiScottie, who is the same age as the Don,
has taken a few hits from all the whirly whirling too 

Monday, 17 November 2014

The sun does not go down...


 ...but our world spins back on its axis, unfelt by us, and creates such a convincing illusion of a falling sun... which is worth thinking about next time we feel convinced, of anything, I think...

Hmm...

Children can approach sanity, I suppose, if sometimes brutally so.

Like the little neighbour girl who on hearing the Don's age a few years ago repeated the relevant number awestruck, and then added, 'Isn't that nearly dead?'

And the same astute lass declared to her mother that I was, 'a very strange man,' meriting a scolding about rudeness rather than the deserved congratulations for her insight.

But the sanity fades away with age. Not the fading of advanced age - that is a different matter - but the fading away of all sanity that is generally associated with what is laughingly called "growing up".

And so it reaches the stage where these grown up people, if they have no money, will find a way to buy a few pounds, or a lot of pounds, with each pound costing more than a pound. Often much more. They do call such arrangements loans. I have never understood them. The very people who should not pay more than a pound for a pound are the people who don't have any pounds to begin with (or dollars, yen, bawbees...).

Or maybe it is Don QuiScottie who is mad.

Anyhow, I noticed children lining up to see a man in red and white called Santa Claus, apparently, on the 15th of November.

And I heard a lady ask a shop assistant in Poundland how much a certain item was. Hmm...

And I paid two pounds and 83 pence for a cup of coffee. It was big bowl of latte, but two pounds and 83 pence?

Perhaps I'm mad.

Sunday, 16 November 2014

Silver

The young fellow at the dealership of automobiles seemed perplexed that I should have arrived on a horse, and his perplexity seemed to increase when I said I wanted to trade the good horse in for a car.

'We don't do part-exchange deals on horses,' he said sternly.

'Oh, but I want to buy a car from you today and I can pay in full right now.'

'Eh... Let me speak to the manager.'

Ah that old trick, I thought, leave me to stew and think for half an hour while he pretends to negotiate some deal with the manager. And sure enough when he returned it was to inform me that his manager just happened to know a family with a farm who loved horses, which sounded to me as a fine option for Awkward Apocalypse.

'So we could do a deal with you,' he said.

'A part exchange?'

'Sort of. If you pay us an extra five hundred we'll take care of the horse.'

Was it a coincidence that Apocalypse snorted rather loudly at this point?

'That's not exactly part exchange young man, is it?' I opined.

'Well its a sort of negative sum part exchange deal,' he attempted.

'Negative sum? In which I owe you?'

'Well do you want rid of the horse?'

'I do.' At which Apocalypse snorted again.

'And would you like that nice and almost new silver Vauxhall Corsa over there, all serviced and valeted and ready to go right now?'

'I would, I suppose... Nicely small and economical. Not pretentious. Ready to go you say?'

'Yes.'

And thus I was soon looking at Apocalypse in my rear view mirror as I rode inside my new steed Silver out onto the wide straight road and onwards.

'Hi Ho Silver!' I called out loudly, with a chuckle, as my foot pushed down on the pedal and the engine growled, somewhat half-heartedly, as could only be expected from a Vauxhall Corsa. Silver was no Apocalypse, but he, no... she... would hopefully be a lot less trouble and leave less mess behind her for cleaning up.

Apocalypse now

After a day of lonely wandering with nothing resembling sane sensibleness being found, I retired for the night in a scruffy little Bed & Breakfast hotel, only to be awakened at about three in the dark morning by the voice of the manager's wife screaming, "There's a bloody horse tied up outside!"

Ah. I had neglected to inform them of the presence of Apocalypse. This may be a problem on my intended travels, and the speeding black saloon car of yesterday has got me wondering, for I have a card of credit with me, being a noble Don of some pecuniary substance actually, and after explaining the presence of Apocalypse (not that the explanation was much welcomed) I then lay wondering if a little black saloon car might be a more sensible steed for my travels, rather than a big black horse that neighs angrily through the evening and deposits steaming piles of (noble) shit at regular intervals after munching his carrots, oats and hay, Hmm… I do believe I would similarly foul the streets most regularly on the same diet and with a physiognomy that made sitting on a porcelain pot impractical.

So here I am, lying alone in a strange bed, tippy typing on my trusty top of the lap computifier thing, and wondering who would give a good home to a mighty Apocalypse. And I am also thinking of Seanso, good Seanso Planter, the rather rough but sound Germanic vegetable-growing fellow who has accompanied me on so many other quests. Might Seanso be persuaded to be of assistance too, perhaps tagging along behind my now planned little black saloon car, probably also called Apocalypse, on a rusty motorcycle (unnamed of course) instead of that damn dopey donkey of our previous adventures? Hmm… Possibilities… Perhaps… How long to ride to my assistance from German Land on a motorized cycle, I wonder?

But back to sleep now. The search for signs of sanity is proving a tiring quest already.

Don QuiScottie de l'Écosse

Apocalypse seems interested to get on with things, trying to trot onwards more speedily than my own current sentiment desires, for, truth to tell, I am already beginning to feel somewhat daunted by my noble declaration of intent to seek some sanity in this ignoble world. But there is no holding back the fine Apocalypse. Hah! Indeed no. The Apocalypse will not be delayed, his dark mane swaying before me as he strains against the attempted restraint of the reins. So well then, Apocalypse, lead us... Lead us onwards to see what we may find, and there, oh… a man approaches travelling fast in a smart black saloon car, now speeding past in a spray of noisy dirty dust. Oh... I recognise him as the banking fellow travelling quickfully towards his big money house in the far city. Not much chance of finding sanity there I fear. In the tavern recently I supped with him as he pronounced that it made good sense for him to receive a reward of extra gold for delivering another year of failure, since failing as spectacularly as he can do is apparently an expensive skill to purchase, I think he was trying to declare. Bah. He is mad. Let us turn down this beckoning track between those trees and move on.

A Don Revived

Seanso's Magic Potion, available here, may have revived my noble parts and as I recently declared on his good blog, "my noble new quest [is] the search for sanity amid a world of nonsense. It looks like a tough one, but I am a tough Don ... or have I finally flipped a flip too far?"

We shall see, as on my good new steed Apocalypse I tentatively leave Castle Don QuiScottie, bidding the fair sweet Margaret-Dulcinea QuiScottie goodbye, and trot out in search of some sanity somewhere around me, with none visible as I cast my eye around thus far...