High points

I suspect I'm not alone in finding myself looking back at high points in life as I wait for the current level tenor of personal tedium to pass and allow some variety to lengthen my days again, especially on days such as today in which the wind grew in draughty intensity through the morning, into the grey afternoon, bringing sudden heavy rain - and then, I realise, suddenly clearing to a silent, starry night. 

I did indulge in a brief flurry of housework after breakfast, even taking the doormat at the back door outside to the garden and scrubbing it down with Flash and hot water, then scrubbing the truly horrid bits of the kitchen floor before sweeping it ...such physical effort after breakfast! But then I felt justified in scanning some more old photos, of which the above is one of a day I can actually remember.

It was taken on the summit of Goatfell in the summer of, I think, 1960, when my best friend came down to Brodick for a week in the holidays. She and I had shared a passion for mountains and Ancient Rome - strange bedfellows, I suppose - and this was in fact the first mountain she'd climbed other than in her imagination. Her father was at the head of CID Glasgow, commended by the judge  for his part in the apprehension of Peter Manuel, and I can still remember the day the mass murderer's picture appeared on the front of the Glasgow Evening News on the day of his conviction. You can see that my sister and I have lost our pigtails by this time and have fairly lamentable haircuts, topped by equally lamentable wooly hats ... You can also see that we tended to climb in our school shoes: my friend is clearly wearing the ubiquitous Clark's Teenagers. My father must have felt deeved by so much female company.

In other news, I spent what my Presbyterian soul still thinks of an unconscionable amount of time reading a book, and other time contacting a couple of serving English teachers to check on current requirements for National 5, which I still think of as Standard Grade - or even O Grade. In the late afternoon we bashed round the back of town and back along the promenade in a duty walk that boosted my heart rate to over 180 when the rain came on and we belted up the hill to home in an effort not to get too wet. I then spent a cheerful 40 minutes on the phone to a former colleague before cooking a Palestinian dish involving fried potatoes, hot green chillis, garlic and eggs. It was delicious - but I was glad I'd had the walk to compensate.

Extra photo taken outside my back door when I suddenly realised the sky was on fire and dashed out in the wind and rain to take its photo. Five minutes later it was gone.

And in case you thought I wasn't going to mention politics - I'm not, not really. But I was moved by John Swinney's speech to the Parliament this afternoon; he spoke for me.