As I looked out on the fag end of a Scottish November day with its all encompassing gloom, low clouds and misty rain, those satanic clouds and rain which suck all the colours out of the world, leaving behind an abstract water colour in Payne's grey of what may or may not be hedges, trees and drystane walls. I thought to myself, "Its guy dreich the day" then closed the curtains on the world to hide it from view. Curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea, a book, the cat on my lap and the wee dug at my head on the sofa back, mentally hugging my knees, I gave myself the aura of warmth and contentment while still feeling chilled to the bone.
From my eyes the whole room was now the same Payne's grey abstract, the words danced on the page of the book or swam from chapter to chapter, making me chase them back to where I thought they had come from. Occasional coloured fireworks burst from my migraineous brain, confusing the issue even further. The cat and dog slept on, indifferent to my confusion, the gnawing pain from my damaged neck and the migraine joining forces to cause a melee of muscle and stomach cramps where ever the muse took them. For additional fun my knackered neck would send jolts of painful lightning down spinal pathways I never used to know existed, causing me to shudder and shake uncontrollably in a mini St Vitus dance, enough so even the cat noticed and responded by sticking his claws deeper into my legs prevent his inadvertent removal from my lap, in a form of feline acupuncture. The wee dog looked up in surprise at my sudden movement and decided to solve all my problems by licking my ear; which was nice of him but not much actual help because, as I stated earlier, "Its guy dreich the day."
I took my tablets like a good boy should, to ease my symptoms, and remembered feeling cold and grey like I did up on Campito Hill above San Carlos Waters the day after Thatcher's war of reconquest had been "won". Looking down across the water where so many bombs had fallen, ships had been badly damaged or blown up and men in aeroplanes had plummeted do their deaths on fiery trails of missiles and tracer bullets. Through the gloom I could make out the ramshackle sheds of Ajax Bay to which I would have to return because whether Thatcher had won or not, the human flotsam of her victory still needed triaged, resuscitated and placed in out, pending or for disposal trays and I was back on duty in a couple of hours. Then my neck did not hurt like it does now but my hands were burning from what was called non freezing cold injuries during which they went frae beily rid, tae tartan, tae is peely-wally is a ghosty an back agains if they got tae cauld. An atop yon ben, they got tae cauld even wi ma glaives oan. It wis guy dreich thon day anaw.
Folk dinnae like askin hoo ye ir when they think yer skelly wi thon black dug.They aw sort o skirt aroun slichtly embarrast, in case you dae somethin daft lik tell them whit's whit, bit noo I jist say, "Am guy dreich the day" an hopes they will jist piss aff afore they git me riled up. Polite chit chat is nae guid tae me when am feeling guy dreich an am waitin fir the sun tae come oot agin. Only the cat, the dug and the sofa unnerstan whin "Am guy dreich the day." an leave me tae ma silence.
From my eyes the whole room was now the same Payne's grey abstract, the words danced on the page of the book or swam from chapter to chapter, making me chase them back to where I thought they had come from. Occasional coloured fireworks burst from my migraineous brain, confusing the issue even further. The cat and dog slept on, indifferent to my confusion, the gnawing pain from my damaged neck and the migraine joining forces to cause a melee of muscle and stomach cramps where ever the muse took them. For additional fun my knackered neck would send jolts of painful lightning down spinal pathways I never used to know existed, causing me to shudder and shake uncontrollably in a mini St Vitus dance, enough so even the cat noticed and responded by sticking his claws deeper into my legs prevent his inadvertent removal from my lap, in a form of feline acupuncture. The wee dog looked up in surprise at my sudden movement and decided to solve all my problems by licking my ear; which was nice of him but not much actual help because, as I stated earlier, "Its guy dreich the day."
I took my tablets like a good boy should, to ease my symptoms, and remembered feeling cold and grey like I did up on Campito Hill above San Carlos Waters the day after Thatcher's war of reconquest had been "won". Looking down across the water where so many bombs had fallen, ships had been badly damaged or blown up and men in aeroplanes had plummeted do their deaths on fiery trails of missiles and tracer bullets. Through the gloom I could make out the ramshackle sheds of Ajax Bay to which I would have to return because whether Thatcher had won or not, the human flotsam of her victory still needed triaged, resuscitated and placed in out, pending or for disposal trays and I was back on duty in a couple of hours. Then my neck did not hurt like it does now but my hands were burning from what was called non freezing cold injuries during which they went frae beily rid, tae tartan, tae is peely-wally is a ghosty an back agains if they got tae cauld. An atop yon ben, they got tae cauld even wi ma glaives oan. It wis guy dreich thon day anaw.
Folk dinnae like askin hoo ye ir when they think yer skelly wi thon black dug.They aw sort o skirt aroun slichtly embarrast, in case you dae somethin daft lik tell them whit's whit, bit noo I jist say, "Am guy dreich the day" an hopes they will jist piss aff afore they git me riled up. Polite chit chat is nae guid tae me when am feeling guy dreich an am waitin fir the sun tae come oot agin. Only the cat, the dug and the sofa unnerstan whin "Am guy dreich the day." an leave me tae ma silence.
When I complain about the cold, dark and windy weather, my son can't understand it, but I tell him I have had many more cold, dark rainy windy winters than he has and it gets a bit much after a while. Can't imagine what it would be like to be out, in a war, in such dreadful conditions.
ReplyDeleteI was watching a film about the bombing in Syria and it was a very sunny day and I thought, how incredibly sad that that sunny day was not a lovely peaceful one, but one where people were being bombed outvof their homes and mained and killed. How very sad indeed that humans make such a desperately awful world for one another, when it need not be that way really. We can't all get on and love each other but to war with each other is the pits it really is. Or should I say, for some to war with others because it can be very one sided. I hope the winter passes by as quickly as the summer did, what we saw of it.