I I had a thought recently, that one of the benefits of blogging this blog is working in a space that I encourage friends and family to visit and is open the blogosphere forces a certain honesty on the blogger.
Last week was pretty stressful. I had to spend an hour here and there doing stuff that looked not entirely unlike my old job. I won’t bore you with the details. But even those couple of hours were exhausting and stressful. So much so that my blood pressure was elevated to the point where my physicians have previously indicated that I should sit quietly in a dark room.
I’m writing this on my birthday, the day before it’s due to be posted. I’m 39. My dad said, last night, “They start to go quicker, don’t they?”
I responded, “Actually, this year’s been pretty eventful. I think that’s made it seem longer.”
But I’ve been at the age, for over twenty years now, that my birthday isn’t such a big deal. I’m enjoying this one, though. Beth made some fried halloumi for breakfast. I put some yoghurt in a couple of small bowls and made some tea. Even though it’s the ides of September, I can see a patch of blue in the sky, if I crane my neck.
.@bethmonahan Halloumi, yoghurt and insolvency. It’s a Greek-themed birthday!
— Ricky Brown (@ricky_ballboy) September 15, 2013
For all that, I may be looking forward to Strokiversary more. I haven’t celebrated one of those before. Well, maybe one, but it was rubbish.
Well, my first Edinburgh Festival for around 17 years has come to a close. I think I’ve enjoyed this one even more than the ones of my youth, partly because of the range of stuff that we’ve seen, from the Foodies’ Festival to experimental theatre to the Book Festival to folk music to modern gothic horror to bedroom farce to macabre cabaret to The Tattoo. Outside the realms of the Festivals and Fringe proper, we’re going to round things out with a trip to the Liquid Rooms on 31 August for The Smyth’s tribute to The Smiths. Assuming they’re not so faithful that faux-Moz doesn’t turn up.
1. Glasgow Zen
At the end of Monday’s post, I wondered why it was that the generosity of spirit that Sandy McCall Smith demonstrated at his recent Book Festival appearance . . .
It gave [Bertie] a warm feeling to be protecting his friend from whatever it was that frightened him – whether it was Campbells, or the dark, or things that had no name. And it was not surprising, perhaps, that he should feel it – this little boy who felt things so deeply; for we all feel that about our friends; we all feel that about those around whom we might put an arm.
Last Monday, I went to the Western General Hospital for a CT scan. In some ways, it was quite similar to going to Methodist in Brooklyn. The NHS has signs up informing patients of the same sort of stroke-related stuff that the American Stroke Association is always — quite rightly — banging on about.
My daughter’s off at sleep-away camp this week. This reminded me of my summers up at Aberlour House on Speyside. We would stay up late at night in our dorms, talking about the girls we fancied and telling shaggy dog stories… and scary stories.
This morning, Underworld’s Second Toughest In The Infants is blasting through the living room, and I weigh about 155lbs. It’s clearly 1996 all over again (except by then I already weighed more than that, student’s beer belly and all), so what better time to write a post about Britain’s latest cuddly Socialist, Danny Boyle?
After a couple of meh episodes, Doctor Who was enjoyable this week. Hide was an intriguing watch, evoking the atmosphere of both Hinchcliffe and Holmes-style gothic horror and Bidmeadian hard sci-fi. What’s more, it stars Dougray Scott as a man with a pleasant burr, a pair of Willoughbys, a duffle coat and an attraction to a woman who saved his life. (Possibly metaphorically, but that works, too.) Prime blog fodder, no?
Well, maybe not. I was recently told by someone with little knowledge of the statistics behind hemorrhagic strokes, and none of the workings of the Hunt Hess Scale, that I should stop over-dramatizing what happened to me in October of last year and get on with my life. So, no heroic narrative this week. And no allusions to epic romance.
It’s been a pretty good couple of weeks for TBI humour. Have you ever had an ailment, and then found everyone seems to be talking about their experiences with it? And it’s not because there’s been a sudden epidemic. It’s just because you’re more attuned. Maybe it’s just been a bit like that. Still, I don’t remember TBIs being a staple of mainstream comedy before my hemorrhage. Maybe it’s the new thing. Or, maybe my memory’s not what it once was…. [With perfect comedy timing, I was reminded of Cartman’s fall from a cow, and belief he was a Vietnamese streetwalker, in the South Park episode Cow Days, shortly after finishing this post.]