Beside myself

With frustration.

Lying ill in bed for two days, with some hideous virus, has caused my back to seize up.


This is a little me on a bench, probably in Edinburgh, in a very large Aran sweater.


Here are a few words on Edinburgh from my Dad.

'When I arrived there in the late sixties I was hardly aware of it - I spent most of my time in the tiny Traverse Theatre (then on the Royal Mile) stage- managing Max Stafford-Clarke's miniscule experimental theatre company rehearsing and running shows. Most of us rarely left the premises (there was a good wee restaurant and a well-stocked bar) except to stumble home in the darkness after long day-time periods of rehearsal and night-time performance. Not that I regretted it: working at the Traverse in those days was an experience not to be forgotten. I loved it.

It wasn't until later that I discovered the city and that was a revelation. From my topfloor flat at the bottom of Dublin Street I had sensational views across the Firth of Forth and up the way to the city itself: a five-minute uphill walk took you to Princes Street and all its glory, and then up The Mound to the Royal Mile and the beloved Traverse, the coolest place to be in all of Scotland.

In those days Edinburgh wasn't lit up and as illuminated as it is now and the winter evenings especially were overshadowed with an almost gothic and eerie darkness, with swirling mists snaking through the streets. I seemed to wake those days often at dawn to the pale sunrise over the city: so many times I remember the hot bread rolls bought from the early morning bakers, the smell of the floury dough in my nostrils and the yeasty taste in my mouth.

I can taste it all still'.

I might make 'my images/my dad's words' a series.