All trivial fond records

I am twenty-two and live in Edinburgh.

Please leave comments or questions here.

Kestrel hovering!

Landscape with Dog Shit Bin, 2010, George Shaw (who did not win the Turner Prize)

The Voyeur

what’s your favourite word dearie
is it wee
I hope it’s wee
wee’s such a nice wee word
like a wee hairy dog
with two wee eyes
such a nice wee word to play with dearie
you can say it quickly
with a wee smile
and a wee glance to the side
or you can say it slowly dearie
with your mouth a wee bit open
and a wee sigh dearie
A wee sigh
put your wee head on my shoulder dearie
oh my
a great wee word
and scottish
it makes me proud.

—Tom Leonard


You are not thinking hard enough if you are sleeping well.
Simon Schama interviewed by Tim Adams in the Observer today.

My neighbour’s windowsill

September 2010 - July 2011

13 June 2011
Passing pylons after a long night on a bus to Cappadocia.

13 June 2011

Passing pylons after a long night on a bus to Cappadocia.

The Clash - Career Opportunities

Week two of what I’m beginning to suspect will be at least an entire summer of filling out job applications.

(And you know what I think I’d be quite happy making tea at the BBC, actually)

Elbow - The Loneliness Of A Tower Crane Driver

I’ve always had a fascination with cranes. Growing up in Texas I remember passing a dozen on the daily drive to school and greeting each one individually. Good morning green crane, good morning red crane, good morning blue crane…

They were alive to me, foolish as it sounds. Giant industrial draft animals, not so much operated as harnessed. It seemed a serene and strangely dignified job, harnessing a crane, what with being elevated above all the muck and clamour of the building site (and everything else for that matter). For much of my youth I privately entertained the idea of working on one.

Frankly it’s a job I still daydream about, in the same idealised and uninformed fashion (ignoring, of course, any practical implications of construction work). In Britain, with the added element of overcast skies, the stark outline of a crane is even more impressive. They now appeal less as anthropomorphised urban wildlife and more as isolated sanctums. Reading Bleak House I was taken by the notion of having a growlery, like Mr. Jarndyce. ’When I am out of humour, I come and growl here,’ he tells Esther, showing her into the part library, part ‘museum of boots and shoes and hatboxes’ connected to his bedroom. Cranes strike me as particularly suited to this purpose and passing them I’ll often imagine myself, brooding away in one such lofty cabin.

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