The twenty-second of November

I didn't think about what day this was until quite late in the afternoon, but it's one whose date rouses memories, associations. First of all it's St Cecilia's day - the feast day of the patron saint of musicians and music - so, by association, one worth celebrating in this household. (Oh, all right - I did it by putting on Facebook a rather nice painting of Blessed Cecilia playing a little organ.) And I remembered the excitement of learning Britten's Hymn to Saint Cecilia at a choral camp in Campbeltown when I was 18; I'd just finished my last year at school and had been persuaded to spend a fortnight living in the old Campbeltown Grammar School learning and performing a whole variety of choral music instead of going to Arran with my family. In the event I had a wonderful time, learned some fantastic music, and have thought of the words of the Britten every year on this day: Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions to all musicians; appear and inspire...

That summer, of course, came at the end of the academic year in which John F. Kennedy was shot, so I can also remember exactly what I was doing on 22 November 1963, but I've blipped about that already. I shall just remark, however, that I was for the first time aware of the peril of being a public figure, and wonder if assassination became more commonplace or if I'd merely been rather late in maturing?

As for today: it began with frost on the grass and ice on windscreens, but ended with cloud cover and milder air. It began with Pilates, in which we explored the lack of flexibility in those of us who are unable to sit with our legs flat out on the floor and hold onto our toes. (One woman in the class can put her face on her knees in that position and make it look comfortable.) I worked very hard and have been pretty tired since. 

Later, I walked to the Post Office to post birthday presents, taking the long way home and popping into a friend's for a cuppa en route. By the time I left her house it was dark, and I could feel the air actually milder than when I'd arrived. And the day ended with the hilariously unedifying sight of the Great Statesman losing his way in a speech to businessmen and fumbling for an eternity with his notes. He's pathetic. 

Blipping two views of the Pilates venue: the inside of the studio just after everyone had left, with the view of the hills through the window facing me (photo taken from where I like to put my mat), and below the view of what must be one of the oddest industrial estates in the country, on the top of the hill between Dunoon and Sandbank, between the cemetery and a Primary School. One a wet morning, it's incredibly bleak, but the studio itself is a pleasant space. 

Another grim memory tonight: a documentary on BBC1 brought back the hunt for Bible John, the serial killer who terrorised Glasgow women in 1968.  At the time it seemed distant from my own life in Glasgow, but the grainy shots of familiar buses and Glasgow as it was made it seem all too familiar. No wonder my parents were worried if I set off alone to meet someone in town.