All Over the Shop

Being the thoughts, writings and fancies of Sarah Morrison.

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Shadows at Paisley on Flickr.

Ah, stations!

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Book nyt? on Flickr.

Never thought of myself as a literary squirrel before. Loving Hillhead! @glasgowsubway

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Urban deer on Flickr.

Mater is not THAT mad, there really are deer in the garden. #urbandeer

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Another 50 word story ...

Didn't win this one either, so here's my entry for the March 50 word story competition at Scottish Book Trust for your delectation. The writing prompt was a watch.

Time

"I listen to the ticks of your watch, feel them beat in my closed hand. The minutes chasing the hours, catching them then racing away until the shadows gather and it’s too dark to see anything. But in my hand there is still a glow. Give it time everyone says."

Nope, I've no idea what I was on about either.

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Ghost station on Flickr.

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Ghost station on Flickr.

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V&A on Flickr.

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untitled on Flickr.

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Gherkin on Flickr.

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Preferred place of work on Flickr.

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50 Words ...

I'm never going to win one of these things, so I might as well inflict them on you. Scottish Book Trust sets a 50 word story challenge every month, and here's mine from January. This strange picture was the prompt and I'm afraid I went straight for the weirdness of what looked like a woman with a beak. Trust me.

The Siren

Sara pushed her headscarf back. Shireen’s hands flew to her mouth in shock -- Sara had a large, scaly orange beak.

   ‘I woke up like this!'

   But Shireen had never heard anything as wondrous as Sara’s voice and it drew her closer.

   ‘You are so beautiful. Tell me more. Please.’

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On the twelfth day of (pre) Xmas ...

In the absence of children, horses, boats, skis or a drug habit, we travel. Sometimes it is up a river in a rickety boat, sometimes on a dizzying variety of trains around cities and sometimes we just sleep, eat breakfast, lie on a beach, eat lunch, lie on a beach, drink cocktails, eat dinner, sleep (and repeat). And a great place to do just this is The Calabash in Grenada. Gorgeous, peaceful – apart from a cute and shouty cat – and with the cocktail magic of George whose sole aim in life seemed to be to get me to drink as much rum as is humanly possible. A bad man, but very nice with it. Sometimes, usually on a rickety boat or the only Westerner on a commuter train in Japan, I ask myself ‘How did I get here?’ With The Calabash I just want to know ‘When do I go back?’

The view from our humble abode at The Calabash.

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On the eleventh day of (pre) Xmas ...

It was all going so well, revisiting the nice things of 2012 when everything went a bit wrong. A couple of weeks before Xmas my mum caught one of the horrible bugs doing the rounds which, when you’re 75 and on your own, is very frightening. Almost as frightening as calling an ambulance, NHS 24 and the GP, racing to the chemist ten minutes before it shut or sitting in A&E for five hours with your Mum weaker than you’ve ever seen her and not being able to help. Put together with a very stressful work situation and borderline depression and, it’s fair to say, that my season of goodwill was slightly lacking in goodwill. Mum is better but still a worry, work is work. It’s a new year. Time for resolutions. My first is to finish things – it’s the only way to have a clear conscience I’m told – so here are the final two days in my (pre) 12 Days of Xmas.

Manly, by name and nature, and I love it. Just a short ferry trip from Sydney it is what I’d expected Australia to be complete with surfies, yellow beer and dogs with Frisbees. I shopped at Rip Curl, drank Angry Man Ale and watched stupidly white waves crash on the beach. When I am rich and famous … well, I have another place to add to my list of places to live where I can stare at the sea and not think of anything with a nice beer and bare feet.

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On the tenth day of (pre) Xmas ...

I am an eighteenth-century junkie. Show me a veal chop and a pint of gin and I am a goner. Diamond buckles? Knee-breeches? Yep and yep. When I get that really far away look in my eyes, I’m in Vauxhall Gardens with John Fielding. Just leave me. It’s the best thing. And Mr Hogarth is my artist of choice (non-portrait).

He makes me laugh, he sees every little detail of human frailty and pride and paints it to perfection. He was friend to many of the demimonde of the day - the prostitutes and rakes who cavort around his canvases - and does not shy away from showing them with their bubo-covering patches, picking pockets and getting pissed with gay abandon.

If you find yourself in London get thee to the Sir John Soanes Museum, as I did earlier this year, which as well as being amazing in itself houses A Rakes Progress by Hogarth. It is the fabulously colourful and brilliantly observed rags to riches to rags story of a young man who has his head turned by wealth. All human life as it was in the eighteenth century is there from upper class to lowlife, and all points in between. Mr Hogarth is the fencing master in the second painting, The Levee. Introduce yourself and tell him I said hello.

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On the ninth day of (pre) Xmas ...

How can it have taken me to day 9 of this to talk about The Wedding of the Year?! I was a proper - and I mean posh frock, hyperventilating, chuffed to the tips of my fingers type - bridesmaid to my mate, also called Sarah. We like to keep it simple with names.

Early morning fittings for the frocks were at the amazing Reeta's Fashions in Glasgow. You have to love a place where the sales assistant will try on the ugliest dress in the shop to make you laugh and all prices are 'of course, we wouldny charge you that'. Thank you ladies! The venue was fantastically accomodating, the photographer a genius - another mate B (Brian), see previous statement about names - and the sun shone madly.

To Mr and Mrs Glen. Definitely one of the highlights of this year. Ach, THE highlight of the year. *sniiif* x

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On the eighth day of (pre) Xmas ...

The end of the world is nigh! Apparently. So today’s choice of things that made me smile over all things in 2012 is memories.  

   If we have nothing else we will have always memories. For example, my mum’s neighbours still say that no matter what they were doing they always knew when my dad came home. It didn’t matter what I was doing, I stopped it and went home for dinner.

   To choose one season-specific memory, as a kid we had a coal fire. We didn’t have central heating until I was about 10 and our 50-year-old house wasn’t a warm one so the coal/wood fire was a central part of life at the best of times. ‘Victoriana’ seemed a long time away, but even then a coal shovel with a bag of Malcolm Campbell’s chestnuts on it vaulted time as no Star Trek holodeck could have done.

   I don’t think for a moment that I grew up alongside a hedgerow or with a pitchfork in my hand but I treasure that a couple of hundred years of time could disappear in a father’s treat. And I miss that little thought from him every day, not just Christmas. 

To Archibald MacDougald Cunningham. Merry Christmas, Dad. You stood at the gate of so many stories.Thanks.

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On the seventh day of (pre) Xmas ...

Regular viewers of any kind of social media I get my hands on will know of my abiding love of David Lewis Gedge. Whilst much of the back catalogue of The Wedding present makes me think of smelly boys, the output of Cinerama and his wily ways with a rhyming couplet mean I get slightly fluttery in his presence, even if it is with a couple of hundred other people in the room.

   This year – having seen Mr Gedge in various venues around Scotland – I got the chance to see him in Stockholm. Rarely do these things ever come together but this time flights, hotel point deals and a brilliant gig all joined hands and cavorted as one. Not even the idea that there was no admission charge for a Wedding Present gig stuck its oar in, it just meant we spent more time drinking Brooklyn Brewery beer because we got there way before anyone else. 

   Mr Gedge, I salute you. You even sang My Favourite Dress. And you hold the dubious distinction of being the only man my husband will allow me to have an affair with. Apparently, I will be back in six months and it should produce enough material for a really good album. So, you know, give me a call sometime. We’ll talk. Maybe in Stockholm?