Tuesday March 15, 2005
I really must work at getting the Highlands and Islands out of my head. Or, at least, in there somewhere but in a proper proportion.
The trouble is I’ve always dreamed of living in the wilder parts of Scotland. My heritage, through my father, is Scots, several generations back when good honest working folk were forced off of their crofts and cast adrift on the road. When I visit, even though I am patently English, I feel old roots stirring. And everyone who knows me smiles tolerantly at my love of the pipes, the lonely hills and the wild, wild sea.
But it’s simply not practical. Too remote. Too cold. Too dark in the winter. And little or no prospect of a job for Graham. We’d survive perfectly well on my pension but that dies with me and he’ll need a bit of income to see him forward from there.
So I think I ought to shove the whole thing back where it belongs. In dreamland.
Graham is still admirably flexible about where we should go, how we should live. London is top of the list of course but, once more, we have the whole Kingdom at our feet. And much of the European mainland, too.
“I think I should follow you this time, and into the future,” I said. “Time you took over decisions like that.”
“Ummm,” said Graham. “What’s for lunch?”
I sometimes wish I had more of that devil-may-care approach in my nature. It’d be wonderful, wouldn’t it, to have such complete faith that everything will work out fine in the end.
Oh, but the pipes! The pipes!
|‘Postcards from my head’ No. 7
Not sure about contour drawing with the pen