On the Beat

I was staying in Euston, near the station. I was in London to go to the Convention on Modern Liberty, which was taking place on Saturday, and to go to a party on Saturday night. On the corner opposite my hotel was a disused tube station – the original entrance to Euston underground station. This was abandoned when the mainline station was redeveloped in the 1960s and the tube station integrated into the new building. (By the way, this is a fascinating website giving the history of some disused tube stations… but not Euston, which is still in use, except for this bit.)

Meeting up with frankie_ecap gain, we walked through Bloomsbury – past Maynard Keynes house – and down through Holborn to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to go to the John Soane Museum. This was a wonderful place, crammed full of paintings, sculpture and architectural remnants, all seemingly random. I can’t imagine why I hadn’t been here before – it was just my kind of place.
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We went to a Burns’ supper on Saturday night, in memory of Scotland’s renowned poet, Rabbi Burns*.
( Haggis, Neeps & Tatties )

I don’t get too excited about New Year’s Eve; too often, it has been a disappointing anti-climax. Fortunately, my wife agrees with me.

So instead of indulging in a mad round drinking, parties and carousing, we have a really great time at home.

This habit – almost a tradition, now, I guess – started with the Millennium, a few years back. There was so much hype and noise and people demanding attendance at this or that party, that we decided to say No! and stay at home, drink a lot of champagne and wine, eat some great food, and catch up with some old videos. We had a marvellous time – just the two of us. We even managed to see some of Edinburgh’s famous fireworks from our kitchen window.
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It is the party season. I have been to three Christmas celebrations, two work-based and one supplier. I had expected that they would yield exciting tales to regale you with. But I am not sure that I come out of those too well, so I shall keep my ruminations on Christmas parties to myself.

After the last party on Thursday, I came home slightly the worse for wear – only slightly – and sat down, playing with the cats. The way my cats show affection when I play with them is by drawing as much blood as they can; they were very affectionate on Thursday night.

(I was playing with the cats this afternoon, as well: “So you’re not just stupid when you’re drunk”, said my wife.)

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I had agreed to meet some friends from work in Bert’s Bar before we headed off to a party. We were dressed up – the invitations said “dress to impress” – so I was wearing my kilt. (The invitation also said “an evening of decadence…”)

Bert’s is a typical pub, in the West End of Edinburgh. It isn’t large, and it was already busy when I arrived. The small rooms off the bar were crowded, so we stood near the bar; people had to push past us to get to the bar or when they came through the door to the street; the bar staff were ferrying food to the tables, resigned to having to force their way through the crowd - us. (Bert’s is renowned for its pies.)

In a vain attempt not to have too bad a hangover the next day, I was drinking white wine, which seemed a bit weird in what is clearly a beer place. (I had decided not to mix my drinks, whatever I did.)

This old guy, maybe 60 or 65, came up to me; he had white hair, though largely bald, and a neat white beard. He was a fair bit shorter than me. He started to speak. In a foreign language. Gaelic. He babbled a sentence; I looked blank. He babbled some more, until I said in my broadest north Lahndahn accent, “Sorry mate, I’m Scottish by marriage, not by birth.”

He babbled some more – really – and I had to tell him that I hadn’t a clue what he was on about. He wandered off to the bar, where he picked up a copy of the Scotsman and stood reading it.

It was very strange: as one of my colleagues pointed out, most of the people who wear kilts don’t talk Gaelic. Most of the people who wear kilts aren’t Scottish.

And I would swear he was talking English at the bar.

Yesterday, in a meeting at work, the main topic of discussion seemed to be between two females colleagues about what one of them could wear at the office Christmas party.

One of my colleagues had a dress she really liked, but she felt it may be a little too immodest – she said she didn’t want everyone looking at her cleavage.

I am confused. Where else are we meant to look?