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A Life Less Ordinand

6 Sep

Last weekend I was involved in the induction and ordination of the new pastor-cum-chaplain at my church. Events like this always make me irrationally nervous. I’m afraid I might stray onto the stage at the wrong moment and accidentally become a priest or something.

It was the first ordination I had ever been to, but it was similar to a lot of other formal ceremonies of that type, like a mixture between a christening, graduation, wedding and funeral – all the stages of life, really. It began with a minister speaking the words “We are gathered here together…” like a wedding, involved promises from the congregation like a christening or child dedication, had a eulogy like a funeral (much weirder when the man is sitting listening to how wonderful he is), and, just like a graduation, there was a moment when the ordinand (person to be ordained) knelt down as one thing and rose up as another, going from layman to minister the way a student goes from graduant to graduate in a few seconds.

Actually, it was a lot more than a few seconds at the ordination, because the poor man had numerous prayers spoken over him while he was kneeling on what looked like a very uncomfortable step. By enduring that he has already demonstrated a significant committment to his calling. At my graduation from St Andrews it was far, far grander of course (it was all in Latin, for a start) but it was over very fast; a quick tap on the head with John Knox’s breeches while the Chancellor said the secret magic words (“et super te” – or Superted, if you prefer), and you get up a Master of Arts (in my case), then shuffle off into the wide, cruel world.

The ordination and induction is the opposite of that, really. It marks the start of something, not the end, and while it involved the new pastor saying goodbye to his old church (most of whom seemed to be present – the place was heaving) he won’t be leaving behind all of the people who were at the ceremony. In fact he will be working very closely with some of us in a new, exciting and sometimes rather daunting project – being the minister of a church while simultaneously supporting, as a chaplain, the business community that surrounds the church.

I was glad when the ceremony was over, not only because of the amazing buffet (tables groaning with salmon, prawns, cous cous, pasta salad, potato salad and any number of cakes) but also because, as I said, these things make me unpleasantly nervous. Now we can look forward to the unknown and exciting future of our church, about which I’m also nervous, of course, but it’s a much nicer variety of nervousness.

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The Trials of Dyslexia

23 Aug

An hour or so ago I was idly considering whether, if there were a cure for dyslexia, I would take it. I’ve blogged about the joys of dyslexia before, but there are drawbacks, of course. In fact, it’s mainly a drawback, otherwise it wouldn’t be termed a specific learning disability (or whatever they’re calling it this week). This was brought home to me once again, very soon after my ponderings. I am currently supposed to be at an AGM but I forgot to leave something my husband needed before I departed, forgot my phone so I couldn’t even tell him, and so had to come home and miss my train. No AGM.

Forgetfulness isn’t exclusive to dyslexia, of course, and I don’t have conclusive proof that it’s even connected to my dyslexia, but I’m pretty sure it is. Dyslexia is a range of problems arising from faulty brain wiring (a rough description), mostly to do with reading and writing, hence the name dys – with difficulty, faulty; lexis – speech. These specific problems are usually associated with other ones, though, like clumsiness, forgetfulness and even difficulty following the plots of films (I kid you not). I have no difficulty with film plots, but I am forgetful, and my clumsiness drives me up (and very often into) the wall.

So why isn’t it an easy decision to choose a hypothetical cure for dyslexia? No more smashed glasses and chipped dishes, no more missed appointments. With a working sense of spatial awareness I might even be able to dance enthusiastically without the risk of knocking out anyone who came too close! If there were a cure for my lung diseases (two for the price of one) I would snap it up. If hayfever could be permanently cured I would take the injection or have the operation. There is a cure for short-sightedness, and I’ve had it: Thank you, Ultralase, I can now see. So why not dyslexia?

The thing is that dyslexia feels much more a part of me than any of these other conditions. Take away the sniffliness or the need to use an inhaler and I would be exactly the same person. My eyesight was bat-like, now it’s eagle-like, but it doesn’t affect who I am. If you changed the functioning of my brain, though, would that still be true? Who knows how many of the traits I think of as my own are in some way connected to being dyslexic? How much of who I am has been shaped by struggling with this range of problems, and how much of me would change if I didn’t have to struggle? If there were a way to try out a non-dyslexic life without committing to it, maybe that would be an option. But would the non-dyslexic me who made the final choice really be me, or would she make a different decision because she thought differently once she was eulexic? (No, that’s not a real word.)

Ok, this is getting excessively philosophical and could go on forever, but you see my point: It’s not a decision to take lightly. For the moment it’s purely theoretical and I can just sit on the fence, but if it ever became a real possibility, what would I choose? I honestly don’t know.

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Scots, Scottish English and Scottishness

11 Aug

I really ought to be studying Latin just now (I’m trying to get my Latin A-level. It’s a long story.) but instead I find myself thinking about Scots. Scots is what we in Scotland call our language. It sometimes gets called “the Scottish dialect”, since it is a branch of English, but it’s actually (if you want to get technical) a national language variant rather than a dialect. Anyway, what it’s called is not really the point, the important thing is what it contains, in terms of language, and who uses it.

What set me off thinking in this vein was the Pollok Park Family Day last Saturday. There were lots of animals in a big muddy field (it was a lot better than that makes it sound), and commentating on the various animals and activities was a Scottish man. That’s hardly surprising, as Pollok Park is in Glasgow. (It is a very impressive country park, incidentally, and home to the Burrell Collection amongst other things.)

This Scottish man used lots of Scottish words – muckle, clatty, that sort of thing. The problem was that they didn’t sound natural. He sounded as if he had a list of “Authentic Scottish Words for Speakers at Scottish Events” and he was determined to squeeze in as many as he could. It left me feeling a bit ambivalent. I don’t want these words to die out, and they will if the younger generation doesn’t hear them, but then what’s the point in having them if they’re only party pieces, words that you have to go out of your way to use, and pat yourself on the back when you do?

A lot of people still do use Scots words, including those who don’t realise they do. People in the rougher parts of Glasgow could never be mistaken for speakers of the Queen’s English, but at the upper end of the Scots spectrum is something sometimes known as Scottish English, which is what they speak in the Holyrood (the Parliament) and what you find in business letters here. Most Scottish people would think it was just English with a Scottish accent, except that there’s the odd wee difference that you would only notice if you weren’t Scottish, such as the word “outwith”: Perfectly acceptable and rather formal within Scotland, but unfamiliar outwith it.

A better example of how Scots can work as a modern language is found, rather surprisingly, in the Disney film Brave. It’s set in some unspecified medieval period, but the people speak more or less modern Scots. Not the full-on, Rabbie Burns version, but it features plenty of vocabulary, and even grammar, that isn’t found in standard English. (I did enjoy the line “[A princess] disnae stuff her gob!”) It doesn’t all ring true, but the vast majority of it does, probably because the actors are actually Scottish. And there’s a wee gem in the film for Scottish language enthusiasts – a lad who speaks Doric (the dialect of the North East) and is completely unintelligible to the rest of the folks speaking ‘standard’ Scots.

Of course, the reason I take such an interest in the subject is that I don’t really speak Scots myself. I lived in England for many formative years, and although I can understand Scots (except Doric – no-one understands that), speaking it comes about as naturally to me as the pointedly Scottish words did to the MC at Pollok Park. I, therefore, will not be much use in preserving the language except as a semi-external observer. But then, as Rabbie said, isn’t one of the greatest gifts “tae see oursels as ithers see us”?

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The Price of Everything

1 Aug

Last week I visited Chatsworth, a well-known stately home in Derbyshire. Unfortunately I wasn’t an invited guest (despite having once been present at the Duke of Devonshire’s birthday party, but that’s another story) so I had to pay to get in. There was no indication of the price on the information leaflets, nor on the various notices we passed as we queued. That should have been a clue. Once you were at the entrance and it would be embarrassing to turn back, it was revealed that the price was £15, or £16.50 if you wanted to Gift Aid it. (I’ve never heard of Gift Aid making anything more expensive before.) That made £30 for Burri and me.

Bear in mind, this was not London, this was the north of England. The entry price also didn’t include anything like a guide book. No, that was £5 extra. You could save money by viewing just the gardens, not the house. That would be £11, please. There were wee buggies to help the elderly and disabled around the gardens. They were extra, too. A stately house would be wasted on children, so they could go to the farmyard and adventure playground – £5. Of course, you can’t leave small children unsupervised so a responsible adult could enter to watch – another £5.

It’s not that Chatsworth isn’t worth seeing. The paintings, statues and other works of art are stunning, especially the painted ceilings. The gardens are magnificent, especially the staircase fountain that stretches the whole length of a hill and which you can walk up and down in your bare feet on a hot day – and this was a scorcher. My problem was with the way the air of money-grabbing seemed to permeate your whole visit, leaving a bad taste in your mouth and to some extent spoiling your pleasure.

By contrast, when I left the north of England to return to my well-watered homeland, I was able to spend a pleasant fifteen minutes, not waiting on a dingy platform or drinking an overpriced coffee (not that I’m knocking all overpriced coffee – I do love my Costa), but playing a bit of table tennis. Sturdy, weatherproof tables had been set up outside Sheffield station. The bats were scruffy, some of the balls were dented and the tables may well disappear after the Olympics, but it was an unexpected treat. And it was free. We were perfectly prepared to pay for the table, indeed we expected to, but there was no need.

The effect on people was noticable. Strangers smiled at each other, and tossed back stray balls. British people laughed and even exerted themselves in public. It was an uplifting episode. Chatsworth no doubt could not afford to support itself if visits were free, but if they care at all about leaving visitors with a positive impression of the place, they should probably try being a little less mercenary. And maybe introduce free ping pong tables.

Something else free: Running for Cover by K C Murdarasi

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Look Up

19 Jul

In Glasgow we are blessed with some amazing architecture – so much of it, in fact, that after a while you hardly notice it. You hurry past Regency era terraces and shelter from the rain under ornate Victorian overhangs, and keep your eyes on the pavement. If you lo0k up, though, and actually see the buildings, the view is inspiring.

Yates Wine Lodge, West George St, Glasgow

Yates Wine Lodge, Glasgow

I was reminded of this fact the other day when I was out for “food and a flick”, a semi-regular social event organised by a lovely couple of friends. The food was at Yates Wine Lodge on West George Street, one a chain of cheap eateries. While it’s a bit loud and rough in the evening, it is a great place for cheap, plentiful, tasty, quick food until about eight o’ clock. I mentioned to the “food and flick” group that I had once taken a South American friend out for lunch to Yates and apologised that it was “nothing special”. He was taken aback and gazed around him. “Nothing special?!” he said.

Looking around, I had to take his point. While Yates is,  indeed a cheap eatery, that branch is also a beautiful Georgian building with polished sandstone pillars and gorgeous proportions outside, while inside it has a spiral staircase, dark wood appointments and lovely plaster mouldings. Visually, at least, it is something special, but I had totally overlooked the fact.

The Counting House, George Square, Glasgow

Counting House, Glasgow

Later in the evening, after the flick (Ice Age 4 – not great, not bad, pretty funny) we repaired to The Counting House on George Square for a beverage. We left without having one because it was so crowded, but I was struck by the beauty of the place. Look around and you see crowds of people between you and the bar. Look up, and you see prints and paintings, Georgian plaster panels, and an impressive dome. I don’t go to The Counting House much, so I wasn’t so blind to it, but most people there weren’t giving the surroundings any thought at all.

I first noticed how stunning Glasgow is – really noticed it – when I took a bus tour with a Greek friend, for his benefit (so I thought), and saw not shop fronts, but the rest of the buildings above them. It was a revelation.

So, if you are ever in Glasgow city centre, or any other old city – look up!

 

 

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Nefarious: Merchant of Souls

7 Jul

Last night I saw the multi-award winning documentary Nefarious: Merchant of Souls. Hard-hitting doesn’t cover it. I thought I knew quite a lot about prostitution and people trafficking (I even touch on it in my novel Leda), but this was an eye-opener. The statistics were truly horrifying, although of course statistics can be endlessly debated. What really got to me, though, and to the rest of the audience, was the stories of real life victims of the sex trade, in their own words. That, and the footage of happy, smiling children in South East Asia at a rescue centre – this was them leaving the sex industry at the age of ten or twelve. It’s the kind of thing that makes you shake with rage.

At times during the film I felt really hopeless, the problem seems so huge. Fortunately, as the film makes clear, there is hope. People do escape. It is even possible to combat sex trafficking as a nation. If Sweden can do it, so can we – and in fact MSP Rhoda Grant is trying to. (This fact is not in the documentary, but was mentioned afterwards by representatives of Exodus Cry.)

Exodus Cry is the organisation behind Nefarious, and they are unashamedly a Christian organisation who are doing what they do (combatting slavery) because of their Christian beliefs. They get some stick for that from people who think that if you’re doing anything because you’re a Christian then you’re insincere or have an ulterior motive. I would say, instead, that if your Christian faith doesn’t move you to help others (to “love your neighbour”, as Jesus put it) then there’s something deeply wrong.

So if you do care about sex slavery, what can you do?

1) Try and see the film Nefarious, if you can. You can buy the DVD from their website or even arrange a showing near you.

2) Write to your MSP (if in Scotland) to support Rhoda Grant’s campaign, or to your MP/ local politician to ask them to support something similar in your country.

3) Pray. I know, lots of people reading this will not be Christians and will think that praying is about as much use as thinking happy thoughts about fairies and unicorns. However, I am still going to recommend it as a course of action because in my experience, and the experience of many people I know, it’s the most useful thing you can do, especially when faced with such an overwhelming problem.

St Andrews Quotes

1 Jul

When I was a student at St Andrews I heard some very funny and bizarre things said, and indeed said some of them myself. In my last couple of years there I started taking a note of the best ones, despite mild ridicule from one of my friends. Someone has just published a book of things overheard in St Andrews, which prompted me to look again at my list – and they’re still brilliant. So here they are, for everyone to enjoy. I swear they are all genuine.

– It’s amazing how many wrong ends a stick has.

– It’s called being dead. Live with it.

– I wish you were a boy, sometimes.

[doesn’t this sound like the opening to a novel?]
– At New Year I got drunk on champagne and told my father I was gay.
There were repercussions.

– Yes! No! What was the question?

– Always look on the bright side.
– That’s the dark side.
– I always get them mixed up – HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

– So – whose angels are you?

– No, I think that’s unjust; he would never stone anyone.

– You have a lovely house. It’s much nicer than either of mine.

– Three wrongs make – a mess.

– Well since the world is ruled by evil computers…

– Sheep still excite me.

– Oh, it’s so depressing!
– Hey! You wanna sing a song?

– Good grammar is for insecure people.

– I always wanted to be a muppet instead.

– Smile, nod, back away slowly.

– In the end I had to eat my head because nobody else would.

– They’re amazingly united. With all their divisions.

– He’s a sweet boy.
– Especially when he has half a tomato in his tea.

– You can’t insult astrophysics!
– We can, but we choose not to; we prefer a challenge.

– How romantic is it, anyway? Is is something you would do to your rabbit?

– So the moral of the story is, if you find a dead pig in a field, don’t microwave it.

– Speaking of incest, where’s Ben? [by his academic sister]

– I Can’t Believe It’s Not Offal.

– You have a mean streak.
– No, she has a nice streak.

– I had dual residence last year. I lived half in Gannochy and half in denial.
[Gannochy is a very ugly residence that was used as an overflow for the very beautiful St Salvators Hall.]

– I am married, all but legally.

– Is he smoking a Mars Bar?

– You should join SupNet [Support Network]. We want people who aren’t nice.

– I think death is the only way to approach this situation in a rational and logical manner. Whose has yet to be decided.

– So he never lost a battle. And that’s supposed to be some sort of achievement, is it? [This was a comment on Alexander the Great]

– I could die a happy man. Especially if you stabbed me.

– I need sleep. No, I mean caffeine. Sorry, I get the two mixed up.

– Darling, here’s a ring. Let’s exorcise the gift of lust.

Liked this? Try Office Life (and Death).

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Balkansickness

28 May

The combination of the unusually hot weather and the Eurovision Song Contest are having an unlooked-for effect on me. I had hoped that the sun would cure me of my longing to go somewhere hot this year, but in fact I’m having the opposite reaction. All these experiences and sensations that I associate with Albania and Greece, rather than rainy Britain, are giving me a gut-deep yearning to be in the Balkans.

Walking down a street with the sun scorching my bare shoulders and the hot pavement cooking my feet takes me back to Lushnje. Iced coffee will always mean Greece to me. I can even order it in Greek, just the way I like it. The opening strains of the Greek Eurovision entry made me long for outdoor cafes with jangly music playing in the background. It wasn’t even a good song! Today I’m going to the beach (wearing shorts!), something I usually only do in Albania or Greece, either romantically with my husband, or chaotically with some of his millions of nieces and nephews.

It doesn’t help that hubbie is currently abroad due to a death in the family. This means a) that we won’t be able to go on holiday to Albania this year and b) that part of this yen for the Balkans is really a longing for him.

The Balkans aren’t heaven on earth, and there’s plenty I don’t like about Albania, Greece, Macedonia etc. When we move back there (as I hope we will) there will be plenty I’ll miss about the UK, too. So what I ought to do is appreciate Britain while I’ve got it – beach, shorts and all. Albania will still be there, and still be hot, next year.

Fancy a virtual trip to Albania? Try Leda, my novel set there.

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Happy 600th Birthday

19 May

Next month I will be going to a university reunion in St Andrews, so I’m in a bit of a state of nervous anticipation. It will probably be great fun but will certainly be a bit strange. I’m hoping that there are plenty of people I know, and worried that there won’t be, but the likelihood is that there will since you have literally scores of friends when you’re at uni.

I won’t tell you how many years it is since I graduated because it makes me feel old (I can still pass for 25 if you squint), but the University of St Andrews itself is 600 years old! Or 601, 0r 602, or 603, depending on how you count it. Things were a bit complicated at that point in the middle ages. Anyway, it’s been celebrating its 600th birthday over the last couple of years, and the culmination is this year, coinciding with my reunion and making me feel comparatively young.

One of the wonderful things about St Andrews, though (and I could write you a very long list) is that nothing really seems to change. A few months ago I saw a video by the St Andrews Christian Union and it looked so like the time that I was there, and all the people looked so similar, that I found myself expecting someone I knew to wander into shot. Then this week I discovered The Other Guys, a male voice choir, and their mash-up St Andrews Girls (based largely on California Girls by Katy Perry). There was one piece of slang that wasn’t around when I was there (“schweffing”), they seem to drink gin and juice rather than G&T (unless gin and juice just scanned better) and obviously the names of the bars have changed, but otherwise everything was exactly the same. Of course, the normal laws of physics don’t apply in the Bubble, so I shouldn’t really be surprised.

Anyway, I would invite you to have a look at St Andrews Girls by the Other Guys because

1) you can download it to support breast cancer charities

2) it’s hilarious if you know anything about St A’s – and pretty funny even if you don’t

3) these boys can really sing. Really. Some of them could, and should, go professional. You saw them here (or rather, on YouTube) first.

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Eleven Questions

4 May

I was looking at Peggy Strack’s blog and saw this “chain letter” style set of questions. I decided to copy, paste and answer them myself since I enjoy these things and they can be very revealing (in a good way, usually). Nothing is as revealing as “Do You Really Know Me?”, the very long and involved one that was circulating when I was a student (and had more time), but eleven questions is a manageable number, so feel free to copy, paste and join in.

1. What is your favorite color?
Blue. A boring answer, but not a boring colour. I particularly like the sky above North Street in St Andrews at near dusk when you can look from the pale, pale blue – almost white – where the light lingers in the west, right down the spectrum to the deep, inky blue above the ruined cathedral in the east.

2. If you got a plane ticket – for free – to go anywhere you’d like – where would you go?
Cuba. Sizzling hot, beautiful buildings, great cocktails, the best dancing in the world.

3. Is there anything in your life you always wanted to do and never had a chance to?
I have a strange desire to travel the length of Italy on a motorbike, with my husband, stopping whenever we feel like it and discovering places to eat and stay by pure chance. We don’t have the money, and by the time we do we’ll probably have kids or be too old and creaky to do it anyway.

4. Which is your favorite old movie (let’s say older than 20 years)?
I love old films. There are too many to list so I’ll just mention a couple of overlooked ones. The Incredible Shrinking Man (does what it says on the tin, basically, but has real pathos, a great leading man and a scary fight scene with a spider) and Q Planes, a thriller with Laurence Olivier. I LOVE this film, but no-one has seen it! It’s Olivier in one of his more light-hearted roles, and it’s all terribly, terribly British. “Goodbye, darling.”

5. If you were a blonde – would blonde jokes bother you (and, of course, if you are a blonde, do you mind them? )

I’m an ex-blonde, and I am still  blonde in my mind. Blonde jokes don’t bother me. I particularly like the one about the river:

Two blondes, one on either side of the river. The first blonde spots the other and calls out, “How do I get to the other side?” The second blonde looks puzzled and then replies, “You’re on the other side.”

6. What is it that always and with 100% certainty makes you laugh?
The Four Yorkshiremen sketch from Monty Python. It literally makes the tears roll down my cheeks.

7. Where do you usually put your clothes?
If I’m wearing them tomorrow, on a chair. If they’re dirty, in the washing basket. If I’m not wearing them tomorrow and they don’t need washed, in the drawer or wardrobe. Where does my husband leave his clothes? Everywhere!

8. Does wind bother you or do you like it?
Usually I like it and find it exhilarating, but I do hate what it does to my hair, and I particularly hate it when it blows the hair into my eyes and mouth, making me blind and unable to breathe. We had a couple of really bad storms in Scotland this year. One of them, Hurricane Bawbag, trended on Twitter. I was safe and warm indoors for most of it and I have to admit that I actually quite enjoyed them!

9. What is it that you hate most about high school reunions?
I’ve never been to one. I’ve got my university reunion coming up (St Andrews). I’m a wee bit nervous but I think it will be fun. It will also be my last chance in a while to wear a ball dress!

10. Are you a cat or a dog person?
Cat. Don’t like dogs.

11. Can movies/TV make you cry easily? When was the last time?
Oh yes. It’s quite embarrassing. My husband loves making fun of me as I blub away. I even cry at books.

An example: I was once reading a library copy of Gone With the Wind and noticed little roughnesses on the final pages. I didn’t know what they were, until I read a bit further. Then my tears started dripping on the page, too, and I understood. It was lovely to have that weird, distant sort of communion with other readers of that fantastic book.

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