This aint on party, this aint no disco, this aint no foolin' around

So, I’m sitting at the bar of the Café Royal with a pint of Guinness , half a dozen oysters, and a Colin Parsons Scotsman crossword. During the course of the morning I have brief or extended conversation with a a variety of teachers, journalists, petty criminals, and the occasional serious criminal. Around 2.30 I step outside into the watery Edinburgh sunshine, smell the breweries and ……”oh,  that magic feeling – nowhere to go “

But that was then – this is now. Memories tend to flood back when your nurse practitioner has filled in a form, in writing, in black and white, officially, saying that you are not expected to live for more than 6 months. Max. Everything is in hand. Will, kids briefed, blue badge , wheelchair, non-funeral arranged. I believe Mrs. OM has also booked her cruise for month 7. They even offered to show me round the hospice, but I told them to fuck off –  one has to maintain  one’s standards.

Will this be the last post ?  Exciting, isn’t it.

Abraxas was a good album that stood the test of time for me

 

 

Schist happens....

… when siltstones and mudstones are subjected to extreme temperatures and pressure. Obviously.  Shit, on the other hand, happens when you abuse your body over a long period of time, resulting in, as in my case, two “severe” heart conditions and cirrhosis of the liver. All untreatable. This is bad news. Bad news indeed.

I thought I should let you all  (?) know in order to explain the recent (and future) lack of exciting hillwalking posts. I may use the blog space to do a retrospective, or some political rants, or the 500 greatest albums. Or something. Suggestions welcome.

Otherwise – so long and thanks for all the fish.

 

 

Curious

…to see if this still works.

I’ve recently been released (on licence) after a longish spell in the  maximum security Forth Valley Royal Hospital.

I may use this bloggie thing again.

Or then again I might ot.

As the case may be.

Calibration

 

Some of you probably have a local walk, or part of a walk which you use to estimate your relative level of fitness after a long lay-off or period of illness. I have several. After having been hors de wombat for about three months, my expectations have been low, and confined to walking up the village to the shops. On Thursday I made it up to the Co-op and back without having to stop for a breather. This was a triumph. Joy was unconfined and the peasantry celebrated in style. Canons were fired, commemorative coins were struck, and prisoners were pardoned ( but not by the canons – they had been fired, remember ?)

This, as I told the reporter from the Karachi Press and Journal at the press conference, is only the beginning. I have my mind set on the mighty Dumyat (by the direttissima – Warlock gully) in early summer, before the bracken gets too high.

Thereafter, the world is my oxter. In the meantime, I am working for a couple of days next week. This will not involve much walking. I shall travel to the Weege by train , and, on arrival, someone will call me a hansom cab.  I will then spend a couple of days trying to create an impression that is more gravitas than Dignitas. Ah well. And so it goes (KV)

 

One of my favorite Spider John Koerner songs sung by 12-stepper Bonny Raitt complete with Koerner’s trademark footstomp.

A note from his mum

“Please excuse OM from walking and blogging. He is proper poorly at the moment (since November, actually) and he’s all swollen up with yon fluid.

He seems to be getting a bit better, so I’m going to let him  out to play next week. No rough games, mind you. Just some gentle strolling about the town. Perhaps some of that “anti-photography. I hope this is alright with you.

His Mum. (Her mark) “

 

Thanks , mum. That should fool them. They don’t know you’ve been dead for ten years. Here’s one of your favourite wee tunes

 

 

A message

At the end of a year which has seen the country ravaged by threats of international terrorism, natural disasters, and Jeremy Clarkson, a nation turns it's weary eyes toward someone who can provide a message of hope for the coming twelve months. A beacon of light and promise in............
Oh just fucking get on with it. Ed.
OK.

Happy New Year