Long retreating roar
I think I'm getting fed up with January now. It's cold, though not cold enough to be exhilarating, and windy enough - again - for the wee ferries to have gone off and declare their forthcoming unreliability tomorrow. I'm fed up thinking "better not go to Glasgow tomorrow in case I don't get home". And I'm fed up wearing the same anorak all the time, excellent though it is. It's become like a uniform, and I'm turning into one of these old wifies who don't give a damn what they look like as long as they're warm and dry ...
So I'll indulge in a flashback, as today brought nothing more exciting than a rash foray to the supermarket for, inter alia, a wine box, which I then brought home on foot, up the hill, with a rucksack and two shopping bags. I'm back in Glasgow, I'm maybe 16, I'm at Hillhead High School. I'm wearing a uniform skirt and shirt (cream poplin, no white) and tie, a V neck jersey, a wool blazer (complete with badge) and a gaberdine trench coat. By this year I think I was wearing a beret, though it might still have been a squashy gaberdine hat. With a badge. Hats were compulsory. If it's raining, the hat would be sodden, as would the coat. But my feet would be wetter than anything, because by this time fashion dictated pointy-toed flatties, with a minimal lace (another mandatory thing, lacing shoes), which slipped off the heel at every step. And 15 denier stockings, whatever the weather. So - uniform again. Did I ever escape?
I'll finish this rambling by commenting that the photo is of the West Bay promenade this afternoon, a couple of hours after high tide. The prom is covered in seaweed, pebbles and lumps of driftwood. There is a seagull looking picturesque. I failed in my attempt to capture a breaking wave, as the rain began again. But the sound was amazing:
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.