dougie thomson
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
Saturday, 11 August 2012
The Sky
My
eyesight is on the blink and the hearing is none too sound. I ask the dentist
about the old choppers. ‘O your teeth are fine,’ says he, ‘it’s your gums I would
worry about. You’ve got gum disease.’ A disease? I’m nae wanting nae disease. I
get these stabs at the heart that have nothing to do with women. My right knee
groans referee when I tackle too many stairs. I keep on wrenching something in
my arm. The doc says that it’s tendonitis. An -itis? I’m nae wanting any -itis.
He tells me to rest it. But it’s my right arm, says I, it’s my second most used
muscle. He freezes a smile. Possibly the old ones are not all for the best, in
this…Something flops through the letterbox.
There’s
the NHS logo, that’ll be those test results. The envelope’s suspiciously plump.
There’s a symptom that ‘is quite common’ that ‘may have many causes.’ But the
reassuring words are undermined by the brief ‘urgent.’ There’s no doubt about
it. It has started. I am dying.
But
fifty-four and there’s so much more. I don’t want to leave, I like it here. I’m
the guest that’ll outstay his welcome for as long as possible. But, come on,
what’s the big surprise. Everyone’s life falls into this personal Niagara. All
animals sicken and die. I am an animal. Therefore I will sicken and die. It’s
sure. Sure as a syllogism.
I
drink tea look out the window. Last night’s storm has gone and the sun is
sparkling, turning everything bright with promise. I go out into the wide world
in search of wonders.
Without
thinking I head downhill, towards water, towards the river. Where else is
there?
I
swing in by the botanical garden, to the arboretum. The trees are wearing their
reds and browns. Is this what paradise would be like? Then I think this
doubtless is all there is. And here’s me, descended from billions of survivors,
sitting here, surviving.
I start to harvest the plums, supposedly from Normandy. Robert the Bruce and his murdering cohorts were Normans, and I wonder if there’s a connection, as Bobby Bruce once trod around here. I see the medlar tree, and remember reading of its fruits. I go to explore. They are sharp and sweet. They’d do well stewed, or maybe wine. I start to gather them too. Then I fancy I hear a clamour of complaint from the surrounding birdlife. I consider that these fruits stay edible into deep winter and I leave them on the tree, leave them for the wild things. I, after all, have Sainsbury’s. Then I pass what I take to be a Rowan, but on closer inquiry, what I thought to be rowan berries are clusters of tiny apples. On tasting, yes, apples. I speculate that this must be an ancestor of the fruit we all know and love. I go out onto the Chanonry, and head for the river.
I
pass St. Machar’s Cathedral with its twin spires stabbing at the heavens. I see
that an ash tree, exhausted by its own weight, has fallen in last night’s
storm. I urge myself to look out for the men that’ll come to clear it. Nothing
burns better than ash. The tree has smashed into the graves below and I think,
‘even gravestones die.’ I like the line, resolve to remember it, and use it in
some future poem or other.
I
meet a friend who’s armed with a camera. His talk is full of otters and
swallows and ospreys. The otters are called Oscar and Kate and I say I must
look out for Oscar and Kate. After all, they now have names.
Today,
I decide, will be a foraging day. So I head upstream to Grandholm Bridge, to
the other side of the river, to an ancient garden where horseradish, apples,
rasps, gooseberries and apples live. I pass the Wallace Tower and wish it back
in town instead of Marks an’ Sparks. It looks lonely here, granite walls
glowering over the river below.
I
go down to the bank and meander along. I marvel at the miracle of sunlight,
turning the water to champagne. The river flows deep and slow here, as though
catching its breath before its last galloping rush to the sea. And there’s the
swan that hangs about here. It’s said swans are monogamous. Has there been some
tragedy or other? He takes fright and crescendos across the water, then, with a
great yawn of wings, settles down once again. And I wonder if he ever he ever
questions the point of his existence, here, all on his ownio. I say ‘he’
because he’s like me. I suppose.
My
feet clatter over the old footbridge that once took the workers from Woodside
over to Grandholm Mill. I remember seeing a photograph of them in their
hundreds, all smiling. They must have been coming off shift. And I think about
all those gone lives, and the gone mill, gone these twenty years, after the
Soviet Union collapsed like a rotten tree, exhausted by its own weight. (The
politburo wore Crombie coats).
I
consider the endless thousands who have made a living on the Don. The mills,
the weirs, the fishing. Here and there the remnants of all the forgotten work
of the forgotten people. These cobbles, that wall. No-one now makes a living
here, and life, abhorring the vacuum, has returned, now that the toxins have
gone with the people. But some folk remain, with their dogs and binoculars,
ambling along by the inevitable housing estate. I pass and they say ‘aye, aye,’
and ‘morning’ and ‘fine day.’ I muse about the green places and try to imagine
folk saying ‘fit like’ to strangers on the city street.
I
come to the old garden and I pick apples and horseradish. I will lament its
destruction should the new bridge arrive. All this life flattened and paved and
lawnified, for wildness isn’t ‘clean and tidy.’ Soon a tentacle of road will
stretch here and there’ll be streams of cars and lorries and fumes and noise.
Man keeps on coming back at ye, like the monster in the movie. Then I wander
along the river bank to the nature reserve, where the deer and the fox and the
rabbits live. They scurry and leap away from little old monster man me. For I
too am part of men’s dominion that justifies that ill opinion that makes ye
startle.
I
stare down into the gloomy depths below the Brig o Balgownie, and think on
alcoholic toxins. I nip to the supermarket and pick up a fizzy white vino. Then
after rage-raging against the King Street traffic, pass the new planted trees and
the Golf Links that was once the bed o the Don, centuries ago.
I
walk along the path between the course and the beach. Just for five minutes
you’re in the hairt o the highlands, yet bang in the city. I see a kestrel,
hovering, hovering, hovering. Then it turns all gravity, and I think I hear a
tiny scream. How short it can be, this life thing! ‘Sprung frae night in
darkness lost.’ You’re nibbling away on some grass or other, then from the
heavens, these claws, that beak. And I wonder if it was like that at the twin
towers. Bored with this office, then, looking out the window, there’s an
airplane heading right at ye.
And I head up the wee hill looking out o’er the Donmouth. I look at the miles up north towards Balmedie and south to the lighthouse. I take a blast o the sparkling wine, full o promise. A seal pops up his head and stares. ‘Eyes of Picasso.’ And I look at the seal and the people and their dogs and the seagulls. This is their day in the sun, mine too. And amid all this motion, thinking all things will die, watch the river turn to ocean, and the ocean turn to sky.
And I head up the wee hill looking out o’er the Donmouth. I look at the miles up north towards Balmedie and south to the lighthouse. I take a blast o the sparkling wine, full o promise. A seal pops up his head and stares. ‘Eyes of Picasso.’ And I look at the seal and the people and their dogs and the seagulls. This is their day in the sun, mine too. And amid all this motion, thinking all things will die, watch the river turn to ocean, and the ocean turn to sky.
Douglas
Thomson
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Deer Culling
Dougie’s Election 7
Deer Culling
One time I was meandering along in the Gairloch
on the west coast
through the usual sea of heather
when I came across a fenced enclosure
(mebbe 40 acres)
With big signs saying:
EU BIOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT
You are free to enter
DO NOT ALLOW ENTRY TO DEER OR SHEEP
I then entered (carefully closing gate behind me)
what I can only describe as
a Garden of Eden
full of trees, bushes and flowers.
I said to myself
good god is this what Scotland would look like
without deer and sheep!
For, as is often said to us in natural history programmes,
the Scottish environment is largely man made
created by landowners down the generations
for the benefit of four species
sheep (profit, Highland Clearances and so on)
deer and grouse for the ‘sporting’ pleasures
of the idle rich
and finally
midges
For if you have a look at eighteenth century writing
Burns, Martin Martin et al
there are no references to the notorious, dreadful insect.
Even Dr Johnson,
travelling with Boswell through Scotland,
who complains about just about everything else
doesn’t mention the damned insect once
The midge is a product of our environmental ‘policy’
of the last two hundred years
We must re-forest Scotland
Our natural resources are far too important
To be left to the landed aristocracy
We must turn the Highlands into a huge National Park
(Think of the tourism!)
Get the hunting and shooting brigade out
and the biologists in.
This will entail either deer culling
or massive investment in fencing
as in the above experiment in the Gairloch
It’s up to us.
The Tullos tree planting scheme
is a GOOD THING
though it is a shame for the deer.
So why not protect the trees?
Cost cutting?
Monday, 16 April 2012
Bankers
Dougie's Election 6
On....The Bankers
There's a phrase we used to hear a lot
before the 2008 financial crash
bankers and city whizz kids
were described as
'wealth creators'
We don't hear it anymore.
It was as though the bankers were gods
(remember 'Masters of the Universe?')
Let there be wealth
and lo!
there was wealth
Of course we now realise just how dodgy
this kind of 'wealth creation' was.
Wealth is created by adding value
to simple commodities
The carpenter takes a few planks
and transforms them into a table
It's why Germany and China are relatively 'rich.'
They make stuff.
It's the classic Labour Theory of Value
which comes not from Karl Marx
But the philosophical darling of the right
Adam Smith.
The bankers are not wealth creators
but wealth expropriators
It's a form of embezzlement
as everyone with a bank account knows.
(e.g. the thievery of bank charges.)
It works by plundering the accumulated wealth
of previous generations
(privatisation)
And of future generations
(debt)
creating paper riches
creatively creamed off.
And now we all have to fill in
this black hole of debt
We, the real wealth creators.
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
Third Don Crossing
Dougie’s Election 5
On……Third Don Crossing
I was out walking one day
and as I was passing the Zoology Building
(near the new University Library)
I saw yet another traffic jam
There are often jams at this roundabout
usually heading towards King Street
but this time it was heading all the way up into Tillydrone
Later I learned that there had been
an accident on Great Northern Road
and the traffic had been re-routed through Tilly
‘That’ says I, ‘is the problem with the Third Don Crossing.’
The new bridge will deliver 1000s of cars to this point
it can’t go left to King Street
or go up Bedford Road
but must go up to St. Machar roundabout
creating what one commentator described as a
‘second Haudigan’
Thanks a lot.
The whole idea of the new crossing
comes from the
‘something must be done’ mindset
And fair enough
but this scheme simply won’t work
and even if it did
it isn’t fair
Woodside has already got more than its fair share of the city’s traffic
The Ring Road, the main road north, as well as the notorious Haudigan
Give us a break.
The traffic will go from St. Machar
up towards Cairncry to the Ring Road
completing a circuit
which will create an inner city M25
around – broadly- what we call ward 5
(Woodside, Hilton, Stockethill, Cornhill)
And,
as a great lover of the river Don,
plough through one of the most beautiful bits of meadowland
in the city
If I am elected,
I will do all in my power
To resist this bridge.
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