Recent posts here at apoplectic.me have evinced my current obsession – mythical sea creatures from the Loch Ness Monster to mermaids to sirens. If one was of an apoplectic bent, one might even see evidence of perseveration.
Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth and I went out to celebrate the birthday of one of my old undergraduate pals last weekend. He’s the last of the group, I think, the reach forty. He may have been presented with a Chuckle Brothers birthday cake, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a sobering experience.
A good part of the past week has been taken up with research for a short story about a young transgender Hibs fan (in Lowland Scots, natch) and contemplating a creative reaction to the Christopher Orr exhibition at the Talbot Rice Gallery. So, a few nights ago, I needed to come up with something for the blog. A spark, if you will. An idea.
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I think it’s increasingly complementary to the blog. But, judge for yourself.]
On Saturday, I was walking past George Heriot’s School on Lauriston Place again. This time, with Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth. We carried on behind the back of the National Museum of Scotland, and the dome of the Old College seemed to both hang directly and vastly above us, and stubbornly remain blocks away.
It was neither, of course. The dome was at the far end of the quad as usual, as we approached the Old College from the south-west.
Gazebo is my favourite word. Even ahead of the oddly onomatopoeic gorgeous. This partly arises from the way it pops up in favourite play of the blog, Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia. Here’s a picture of Rufus Sewell playing Septimus Hodge in the first production of the play. et ipse in Arcadia est, if you will.
[Can’t get enough Latin puns, classical scholars? Sign up for the apoplectic Tiny Letter here. There’s a properly great song in it this week. Even though it’s not by Nerd Bait.] Continue reading Gazebo
Today, the Edinburgh Festival will shut up shop for another year, more or less signalling the end of our first full year in Edinburgh. Fortunately, that doesn’t mean the city is pulling down the shutters. Last February, I wrote to Tiny Letter subscribers that even in the depths of January, Edinburgh maintains a wide range of treats for the arts enthusiast, and that Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth and I had recently seen The Lanterns Of Terracotta Warriors in the quad of the University of Edinburgh’s Old College.
Last year’s Edinburgh Festival marked the beginning of our settling in to Auld Reekie. The passing of twelve months means that I’m beginning to sound more like a native at Festival time.
Day 1 of my #fringefest2014. Everyone’s 12yo and/or walking dead slow, but I’m retaining the returning native joy. Joy, I tells ya!
— Ricky Brown (@ricky_ballboy) August 4, 2014
I wrote the above returning from an afternoon at Deborah Frances-White‘s Half A Can Of Worms.
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Well, not exactly. Just as famous Americans like Justin Bieber, Pamela Anderson, Jim Carrey, Alanis Morissette, Neil Young, and Michael J. Fox aren’t American at all, a number of things dubbed as being from New York are from a different State altogether. The New York Giants, the New York Jets and the New York Red Bulls (née Metrostars) all play in New Jersey. Continue reading Secaucus
Before I begin, I generally have my first sentence more or less ready.
And I always know what the last sentence, or the last verse, should be.
Then I go on discovering the thing as I am working on it.
I remember sitting at home as a wee bobble heid, watching Doctor Who with my mum and dad. I remember being scared by Scaroth, shocked by Earthshock, and being amazed by my generation’s multidoctor story. So, fast forward thirty years…. Continue reading Day Of The Stroke Bloke