Mother's Day with whistles

"Did you see a woman caught TB from her kitten?" my sister says, as she bustles around the kitchen, rustling up breakfast, the day after she'd flown back from Tenerife.

"How did her kitten get it?" I say.

"A badger bit him," she says.

"Ha!" I say and her cat shoots up from my feet and hurtles through to the living-room. I keep forgetting what a nervous nelly he is and I shouldn't, because I've been looking after him for a week while sis has been sunning herself, way down south. 

"You're only back five minutes and you've been at the Daily Mail already," I say.

"There's a lot of good reading in the Daily Mail," she says. 

"There's a lot of good fertiliser in horseshit," I say. "But you don't want it in the house with you."

"You wouldn't be talking like that if Mum was here. What would she say?"

"Oh, Douuglas," I imitate the lengthy first syllable and falling intonation she always used to convey her disappointment that all that good training she'd given me as a boy had failed to stick, and I was talking uncouth rubbish again.

"Exactly," sis tells me, with a smile. "And this is still her kitchen, so less of it please."

"Point is you should be asking questions, not just parroting stuff people tell you," I say. "Stories often have an agenda and that one's obvious."

"I wasn't parroting stuff," she says, with the tone that's told me to back off since we were kids together. "Where would you like this?" she adds, hovering over me with a heaped frying-pan of eggs, mushrooms and veggie sausages. 

"On the plate?" I suggest and she slaps it there with two quick scoops of a fish slice, then sits down opposite. 

"I'll let you off because you've been looking after my old cat all week," she says, stroking the little bugger, who has padded cautiously back, given me a body swerve and climbed up on her knee. "He seems fine."

"He wasn't eating much the first few days," I tell her. "Seemed listless so I was worried. He perked up after I set the kitchen on fire."

"You didn't?" she says, looking round in alarm.

"Not the whole of it," I say. "Just the grill when I was toasting sugary French bread. Smoke and flames erupted and he came diving through to tell me. Been perky ever since. The adrenalin I guess."

She tickles him behind the ear, while studying the little bunch of daffodils on the window-sill that burst into bloom yesterday, and I know what she's thinking. 

"This was Mum's favourite time of year," she says. "She loved spring flowers. Like a patch of sunshine in the house, she'd say."

"She loved the cat too," I tell her. "Used to sit stroking him on her knee, like you're doing now. Then you'd come into the room and he'd jump down to greet you and a wee shadow would cross her face. She liked to think he was her cat."

"He was her cat," sis says and looks away. "We're going to have to scatter her ashes this year, you know. Hers and Dad's. In that field up the Skares road where he lived as a boy."

"We will," I say. "It's what they both wanted, so we'll force ourselves. What was the most interesting thing you did on your holiday?"

"We took a boat trip to an island called La Gomera, which has deep ravines and no roads until the 1950s," she says. "So the natives invented a way of communicating based on whistling, which carries across country for miles. They gave us a demonstration and it was amazing. 

"Let me show you," she says, pressing a button on her mobile that starts a recording.

"That's fantastic," I say, having listened to several seconds of animated whistles. "But it only proves you can't believe everything people tell you, like I've been saying. This is clearly a story made up for gullible tourists and I'll tell you why. That was not the whistling natives of La Gomera. That's bollocks.

"It was Tiny Clanger talking to the Soup Dragon. Which I keep on my mobile because it makes me laugh. Let me show you," I say, pressing a button that starts a recording.

She listens, looks at me sadly, then shakes her head.

"Oh, Douuglas," she says.


More
The truth about the whistling language of La Gomera.

Ball game III

Reading poetry always makes me feel like I'm watching Zinedine Zidane in his prime. Even in the slow motion replays, I can't see how he did it.

It's frustrating. Prose flows freely from my fingers. But I couldn't write a good poem if you promised me endless wealth and nubile women for doing it. Yet my sister turns out wonderful stuff, especially now she's retired from the classroom.

Then there's Gregor Steele, who I'd expect to possess similar skills to mine, since he's a physicist, teacher and writer too. But Gregor is a published poet, something I will never be. He's even been interviewed about his poetry, during which, when asked where he had grown up, he replied: 

"Have you read my poems? I haven’t grown up yet." 

And that got me wondering. 

Perhaps - though I can see my mum's eyebrows rise at the thought - I am too mature and sensible to write poetry. Maybe you have to look at the world through the eyes of a child to do it well. 

I know it's true in science. Kids are curious and creative, the traits a scientist needs most, and lots of scientists have childlike qualities that annoy their husbands, wives and partners.

My son tells me it's also true in art and Pablo Picasso agreed with him. "Every child is an artist," he said. "The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” 

So this morning I asked my sister to talk to me briefly about the process of writing a poem, and with some reluctance she did so. Helen has this paranoid fear that I'm going to write down everything she says.

"I'm often inspired by something visual," she tells me, stroking the cat in her lap to help her think. "So I try to paint pictures and make connections using the absolute best words I can find. 

"That's not what all poets do, mind you. A lot of poetry is about introspection and emotion. I'm interested in emotions but not to the same extent as many poets."

"Do you try to see things through the eyes of a child?" I ask and she hesitates. 

"I'm not sure about that," she says. "Poetry writing is quite artificial. There's craft to it as well as art and you have to learn to do it well. Kids can reel off rhymes and it's a great way to teach literacy. But it's not poetry." 

"Now I'm confused," I say, scratching my head to emphasise the point. "What makes the kids' stuff just rhyme while yours is poetry?"

"I didn't say they couldn't write poetry," she says. "They can learn and I used to love teaching them. You get amazing stuff out of kids' heads. As I said, it's about trying out words and phrases, choosing the best and connecting ideas." 

"So once you've got a piece of writing, is there something you can point to that makes this one a poem and that one just a rhyme?"

"See now you're asking me the same question you keep asking Dug," she says, shifting in her chair and getting a dirty look from the cat. "'What is art?'"

"I know and he's getting impatient with me too," I say. "Last time he said it would take too long to explain, because I'm not an artist. And he didn't want to try because thought can hamper creativity."

"That makes sense," she says. "Self-consciousness is good but not too much of it. Words and phrases often pop into my head from who knows where. Dug talks a lot about flow and I know what he means. Don't you?"

"I do in football," I say. "But when it comes to poetry I don't even know where to look for the tap."

She glances down at the cat, scratches his ear, then looks up and smiles. "Let me explain it using something you understand," she says. "You like that Ridley Scott film Black Rain, don't you?"

"I do," I say. "Great soundtrack and I love the bull-at-a-gate way the hero goes at problems."

"What's that line of his I've heard you quote?" she prompts and I play a few in my head and choose the likeliest.   

"'Sometimes you got to forget your head and grab your balls,'" I say.

"Go away and try that," she says. "And stop asking so many questions."

To be or not to be - who cares?

My sister is a big Shakespeare fan. Me, not so much.

"Hamlet is a long evening of nothing happening, at the end of which everybody dies," I tell her, as we're sat in the living room of her house, during a long evening of nothing happening, at the end of which nobody dies.

"I'd rather be stuck in a lift for the weekend with Noel Edmonds than sit through four hours of Hamlet's self-obsessed chuntering," I say.

"No you wouldn't," she says.

"No, I wouldn't," I say. "But it's close." 

"Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet - these are wonderful plays," she says. "A Midsummer Night's Dream is packed with poetry."

"I'll give you that," I say. "'I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows...' Lovely stuff." 

"'Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine...,'" she says. "The first time the teacher read that to us, it sent shivers up my spine."

"But you need more than evocative words and clever rhymes," I say.

"Like what?" she says. 

"Like plot," I say. "Humour. How about a happy ending once in a while? I'm with John Cleese. You can be serious without being solemn."

"I think when you're young you're drawn to that dark side," she says. "I know I was. I read a lot of other serious writers like Graham Greene. All that tragedy to other people is comforting when you're struggling with adolescence. 

"And there is humour in Shakespeare," she says. "For a long time after his death he wasn't taken seriously by critics, because he mixed humour with tragedy. But humour doesn't last. You think people will laugh at Peter Kay's jokes in five hundred years?"

"Dunno why they laugh at them now," I say. "But it's not just the depressing endings and black-hearted behaviour. It's how Shakespeare says the same thing in forty different ways. There's a preening quality to that. He reminds me of Paul Jones."

"Who?" she says.  

"Blues singer. You thought he was lovely when you were 14."

"So I did," she says. "He was."

"Well he's still performing and my pal Iain tells me he's one of the best harmonica players in the world. But he's got a narcissistic personality that comes through somehow in his music. Don't ask me how.

"I get the same feeling with Buddy Rich on drums and Shakespeare with words. It's like 'Look at me; I'm wonderful.' It damages the art by drawing attention to the artist."

"But Shakespeare is so inventive," she says. "I love that about him. Half the clichés in the English language weren't clichés then. He made them up. Language and literature would be hugely impoverished if Shakespeare had never written a thing."

"I'm not so sure," I say. "Dickens is just as fluent, inventive and articulate. But what he's got is humour in his phrasing and rhythms. And he says something once and moves on. He's absorbed in the story, same as you are. He's like Steve Gadd on drums or Dylan on the harmonica."

"I can't take all the dirt and squalor in Dickens," she says. "It's repulsive."

"I see," I say. "Murder, suicide, rape and incest are fine in Shakespeare. But you can't take dirty fingernails in Dickens?"
  
"No I can't," she says. "The one thing I agree with you about is Hamlet. It's not a great plot and the hero does go on a bit, I'll give you that. The best criticism of Hamlet I ever read was in a school essay by your son David."

"Now he is clever," I say.

"Funny too," she says. "His essay had just one sentence in it. His teacher wasn't impressed, but I thought it was great."

"Yeah, what did he say?" 

"'Hamlet is a big girl's blouse."

There's nothing wrong with surly

Stu Kidd at the Rio. (Photo by Dug Blane)

"I'm not going in there again," I tell my son as we're driving along Radnor Street looking for a good place to grab a bite on his birthday. 

"Guy behind the counter's a surly git and he sticks five percent on the bill if you pay by card."

"Nothing wrong with surly," he tells me and goes off on one. 

"It's a Scottish tradition. It's how you know you're not in New York. You don't get everybody telling you to have a nice day. I don't want total strangers telling me to have a nice day. I'm not their friend. I don't know them. They don't know me. I've got my shopping. I've paid for it. I just want to get out of there. Have a nice day yourself, you artificially cheery little twat."

He stops to draw breath. "You all right now?" I ask. 

"I'm fine," he says. "How about the Rio? They've live bands at the weekend, so we go there often. It's friendly. Stu Kidd plays there a lot."

So I turn right and head up Argyle Street, past the Kelvingrove and find a parking space outside St Peter's Primary. The Rio is jumping when we get inside, but the waitress, who looks about twelve, finds us a table not too close to the door, since it's a chilly morning, and right next to a heater, which is cosy, and we settle down to study the menu. 

My sister's looking good and seems perkier than usual, without the strain lines round her eyes that she's had for a while. "I had the carpet taken up and vinyl put down," she says. "I'm allergic to house mites, I've discovered."

"Seriously?" my son says. "What do they do?"

"Make me tense," she says. "I'd started swearing at other drivers and tailgating them."

"Because you were pissed off with the house mites?" my son says.

"Some chemical they produce was making me stressed," she says. "But I'm fine now. Dead relaxed even in the car."

"Your yin and yang look well balanced to me," he says. "Speaking of which my pal Jawad is into this whole middle class lifestyle thing - wife, sales job, beamer, house in the country. Now he's bought himself a giant dog called Paul. 

"No hang on. It's John I think. George. Adam. Rex. Rover." He chunters to a halt, looking puzzled.

"Bruce!" he shouts and the woman at the next table jumps a foot and chokes on her coffee. "I'm sorry," he says to the waitress walking past, who gives him a raised eyebrow and a tentative smile.

"I have trouble with names," he tells us. "They tested me at College recently and said I was smart but my short-term memory's useless."

"Why were they testing you?" I say.

"I don't remember," he says.

I take a sip of coffee and look about. Busy café with lots of women and little toddlers wandering around. Clatter of plates and heels. Hiss of the coffee machine. Nice feel to the place. 

"You got any mushrooms?" my son says, shoving his food around on the plate. 

"They're under your egg," I tell him. "Maybe chemistry's your problem, same as Helen. Could be food additives. They cause headaches, hair loss, acne, impotence and brain damage."

"Is there evidence for any of that? he says. "Or are you just Daily Mailing it?"

"Less of that," my sis says. "I get the Daily Mail."

"I don't get any news," he says. "Don't have a TV. Don't read the papers. No idea what's going on in the world. Which means I'm much happier than you guys. Death and disaster don't get beamed into my brain every day."

He spears a pensive mushroom. "Only trouble is I'll be the last to hear about the end of the world. Like an asteroid's headed for Earth or robots have replaced the humans and I'll be wandering the deserted streets alone. Hapless, gormless, clueless and doomed."

"It's happened already," I say. "All those people telling you to have a nice day are the first wave of the robots."

"You reckon?" he says.  

"Sure. In fact how do you know I'm not a robot? Or your aunty here. You could be the only human in this whole café."

I jerk my head and go "Bzzzt. Have a nice day," in a robot voice. "Exterminate! Exterminate!"

"Pillock," he says and stabs a surly sausage with his fork.

Tales of love and chocolate

"She's taking you the wrong way again," my niece says, as we're headed to the garden centre for a coffee, a chat and a chocolate cake, and my satnav starts telling me to turn right.

"My grandma used to say the longest way round is the shortest way home," she adds.

"Grans always have daft sayings that sound profound," I say. "Mine used to tell me not to sit with my back to the fire because it would melt the marrow in my bones." 

She chuckles. Cathy has an infectious laugh and lovely eyes that sometimes look sad when she thinks you're not looking. I've enjoyed making her laugh since I first met her, a fortnight old.

We saw less of each other than I'd have liked, as she was growing up, because my own kids were young and she lived a long way away. She still does, so we catch up when we can.

"I miss my grandma," she says, and I give her hand a squeeze and we drive in silence for a while.

"When I worked at Rolls-Royce there was this guy called Colin who'd come out with total gibberish," I say. "Then he'd blame it on his gran. So he'd go 'A nod's as good as a wink to a ripe banana - as my old granny used to say'."

"My grandma used to say, 'Don't put dogs in windows,' Cathy says and goes quiet. "I have no idea what that means."  

"The chocolate cake is nice here then?" I say, as we turn into the car park at Woodlands Nursery. 

"You'll love it," she says. "They make it with chocolate. Then they mix in chocolate and put chocolate on top."

Sure enough a powerful chocolate theme is evident in the cakes and cookies displayed in the nether regions of the sprawling garden centre, where their little cafe is located. 

Inside the glass display case, walnut fudge, black forest gateaux and chocolate layer cake occupy pride of place, like battleships defending the Dardanelles, while the lower shelves are densely packed with éclairs, brownies, macchiato muffins, millionaire shortbread and thick chunks of rocky road. 

I order a slab of cake the size of a door wedge, while Cathy goes for ice-cream and one of the lighter sponges, decorated with hazelnuts and summer berries.

"I'm not going to get out of here alive," I tell her. "If we sit too long I suspect they'll coat us with chocolate and sell us to somebody."

"What kind of chocolate would you be?" she asks.

"Hazelnut cluster," I say. "Sweet and wholesome-looking, but hard inside. What about you?"

"Cherry liqueur," she says, chuckling again. "Rich, satisfying and slightly piquant."

"It's nice to see you, kid," I say and this time she gives my hand a squeeze. 

"You should visit more often," she says.

"If I knew there was this much chocolate here I would," I say. "I've got a problem though. The cake on my plate is scrumptious. But all those still on the shelves are catching my eye and making me wish I'd picked one of them."

"You'll never be content if you keep looking over the fence and coveting your neighbour's house, or his wife or his ox or his ass," she says.

"That's very true," I say, giving the waiter a little nod. 

"My grandma used to say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence," she says. 

"Mine used to say there's no sense risking a cholesterol deficiency," I say, and order a large portion of walnut fudge, two hunks of rocky road and a chocolate-topped cappuccino to go.

Dance me to the end of love

Another Saturday Night

So we're at the Jack Vettriano exhibition in Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Sis keeps asking my son what he thinks of the glossy images of men and women in dark, dramatic poses. And he keeps trying to sidestep the question.

"They're very evocative," she says. "Like scenes from the Hollywood films on TV when we were young. What do you think, Doug?"

"I can see why people like them," he says and I glance at him, wondering why the evasion.

The Singing Butler

Vettriano is a self-taught artist from Fife, who found overnight success when almost 40, by displaying his paintings for the first time and discovering they sold faster than ice-lollies in the Sahara.

Prints of The Singing Butler now net him a quarter of a million a year and the original - one of a hundred the Kelvingrove borrowed to create the first major exhibition of his work - went for three quarters of a million in 2004. He is Scotland's most successful artist ever.  

And the art critics hate him.

Soho Nights

"He can’t paint; he just colours in," said Sandy Moffat. Duncan Macmillan called his work "dim erotica". Jonathan Jones said his paintings were "brainless".

The criticism hurt the working-class guy and sent him south to live in London. But there has been a backlash. "People don’t like being told their taste is crap," reported The Scotsman. 

So craven critics, once happy to badmouth Jack in print, now ask not to be named. And prominent people are starting to get behind him. There is an emotional content to his paintings, says writer A.L. Kennedy. "There's a sexuality that's really sexy."

 Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe 

Complaints that he objectifies women come mainly from men, she says. "It's not a subordinate thing. It's not naked women under a tree surrounded by men in suits, who are ignoring them while eating - which is just rude. They should at least chat to them or offer them a sandwich."

So an hour after entering the crowded exhibition we emerge into the dim October day, and cross the road to the little cafe where my son and I had chatted about the Tao.

Love Story

"Tell us what you really thought," Sis says and he looks uncomfortable.

"And why you wouldn't tell us inside," I say.

"I wanted to like them," he says, still hesitant. "I really did."

"But you couldn't?" she says.

"Not much. But with all those people around trying to enjoy his paintings, I'm not going to go, 'I'm an artschool student and Vettriano's crap'. Nobody needs to hear that." 

The Arrangement

"Why didn't you like him," Sis says.

"His technique isn't wonderful and the content is kinda repetitive," he says. "Maybe people read meaning into them that isn't there. Seems to me to be all on the surface. Anything deeper is in the mind of the viewer."

"Did none of the paintings work for you?" Sis asks, and he tugs on the lobe of his left ear. 

"The self-portrait was interesting," he says. "There was real feeling in that one."

The Weight

"Ah ha," I say. "I think I know why. In Vettriano's mind he is the only person in the world who possesses depth, substance and genuine emotion. Everyone else has a role, like buyer, critic, model or sex object. But they don't have an interior life. He does. What do you think?"

"Well let's see," he says scratching his chin and smiling. "Good with words, no talent, talks bollocks. I think you should be an art critic."

Chaos attractor

Amano Tatsuya

There was a time when friends and relatives used to welcome me into their homes, enjoy my company for days on end, and seem to be sad when I left. Those days are gone. Now even my sister makes me feel I've outstayed my welcome, half an hour after I've arrived.

I suspect the signs have been there for a while. But not being particularly perceptive I hadn't twigged that the true meaning of "Will you still be here on Tuesday?" is "Can you bugger off today?"

The suspicion that my charms are waning penetrates my carapace of confidence the day after I've filled my petrol car with diesel and Helen and I are starting to tackle the full veggie breakfast she has just cooked for me.

"So what chaos are you planning to bring into our lives this morning?" she asks, and I look up in surprise from a succulent-looking mushroom I'm about to skewer.

"I didn't plan yesterday," I say. "It just happened. Thanks for your help by the way."

"It happens ... mumble, mumble, mumble," she says, turning her back to reach for the dish of tomatoes and lowering her voice at the same time.

"I didn't catch that," I say, popping the monster into my mouth and getting that lovely 'shroom-flavoured juicy squirt as I bite.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," she says.

"You can't hurt my feelings," I say. "I'm not a big girl."

"All right then," she says and hesitates. "Things like that happen around you all the time?"

"Well that is hurtful," I say and her jaw drops.

"I'm kidding," I say. "Things like what?"

"Like the time they thought you were a terrorist at the airport," she says. "You got body-searched and we missed our plane."

"How was that my fault?" I say.

"You were wearing a T-shirt that said 'I found Jesus in the Qur'an'."

"Well I did," I say. "I thought it was an interesting fact people should know about."

"Then there was the time you went missing when you were testing a nuclear submarine in Barrow, and they thought the Soviets had got you."

"How was that my fault?" I say.

"You went for a drive, didn't tell anybody and only got back the next day," she says. "Then there was that time, wearing a green and white top, you got into Ibrox through a small side door, and nearly got lynched by the security guards."

"How was that my fault?" I say. "Oh never mind. You've made your point. I wasn't always mature and sensible."

"That is not my point," she says. "My point is you're still not mature and sensible. Isn't there something called a chaos attractor. That's you."

"No there isn't," I say, putting my fork down and reaching for my mug of coffee. She is clearly unhappy and since Helen usually bottles up bad feelings about people, it seems serious that they're all coming out now. I'm going to have to be soothing, tactful and diplomatic.

"That's a common mistake among the scientifically illiterate," I tell her. "There is something called a strange attractor, a structure in phase space often associated with chaos, which is an inordinate sensitivity to initial conditions. 

"Then there's a song called Chaos Attractor by a Japanese metalcore band with an amazing madman drummer. But I am clearly none of those."

She is shaking her head now. "You also tell people stuff they don't want to know," she says. "And you have a seriously misplaced sense of humour."

"Some folk like it," I tell her. 

"Not many," she says. "Listen to me. You remember I asked if you would still be here on Tuesday?"

"Yes. I said I didn't know."

"Well I'm going to ask you again," she says. "And this time the answer is, 'No, I'm leaving after this delicious breakfast you just cooked for me."

"Go on then," I say, putting the coffee mug down on the table and studying her expectantly.

"Go on what?" she says.

"Go on ask me," I say.

She sighs. "Will you still be here on Tuesday, Douglas?"

I suck my teeth. "I don't know," I say.

"Ahhh!" she screams and bangs her head several times on the table.

Later that day I relate the whole incident to Susan, looking for a little sympathy and wondering if I should get medical help for Helen. "She seemed very overwrought when I left," I say.

"Trust me, she'll be much better now," Susan says. "Do you think she'll have you back?"

"I'm not sure," I say. "Maybe not for a long time."

"That's bad," she says, looking concerned. She knows how much Helen means to me. "What are you going to do now?"

"I thought I'd stay with you a few days," I say.

She turns away so that I don't see how delighted she is. Then she turns back again. 

"Will you still be here on Tuesday?" she says.

Windows in the West

"Well that's certainly ruined my day," I tell my son as we stand in Saltoun Street, looking up at the block of flats that inspired the celebrated Glasgow painting, Windows in the West.

We've just finished a pleasant pavement lunch at Crolla's Gelateria on Byres Road, although he's pulled a muscle in his back and is quieter than usual. Until that is I offer to show him the original of artist Avril Paton's best-known work.

"You don't need to," he says. "I know it well."

"There it is," I say, as we turn left into a narrow road, flanked by parked cars and solid sandstone flats, their roofs forming, from our perspective, a large V in the sky, the vanishing point blocked by the paler stone of 60 Saltoun Street, right at the end.

"No it isn't," he says.

"Yes it is," I tell him. "I lived there on the top floor when I was a student 40 years ago, with my oldest friend, Ian Dalziel. You know Avril Paton has these little figures in some of her windows?"

"I really like those," my sister says. "It's a wee glimpse into people's lives. It's intriguing. You'd like to know what they're doing. You want to learn more about them."

"Well now you have," I tell her. "One of them was me."

"It couldn't have been you," my son says. "Because a) she didn't do the painting until long after you'd left. And b) that's not the block of flats she painted. Follow me and I'll show you the right one."

So here we are looking up at the sky-etched symmetry of number 35, with its round bow windows at either end and square-cut bay windows running up the centre. There's no doubt it's easier on the eye than number 60, but I cling to my illusions a little longer.

"That's not it," I say,

"It is," he insists. "She painted it from a flat above where we're standing now. Do you want to hear what she says about it?"

"No," I say.

"Yes," Sis says.

"It was something like this," he says, screwing his eyes half-shut to help him remember. "'On January 11th 1993 there came a sudden heavy blizzard. In ten minutes it was over and the view from the attic window at Athole Gardens overlooking Saltoun Street was transformed. The lilac pink sky, the lit windows, the clarity of whiteness where there had been darkness - it was magic.'"

"That's beautiful," Helen says, the poet in her moved by evocative words.

"It's annoying," I say, the codger in me moved by being wrong again. "I've been telling people for years I used to live in Windows in the West. Well that's certainly ruined my day."

"Surely it's best to know the truth," Sis says, trying as always to console me.

"I don't think so," I say. "Illusions are better. When we lived in this street, Ian and I had a friend called Charlie Dundas - a lovely guy with big brown eyes and an articulate, literary sense of humour."

"Fascinating as I find your reminiscences," my son says, turning back towards Byres Road, "I'm wondering if there's a point to this one."

"There is," I say. "Charlie was short-sighted but he would never wear specs. He loved the element of surprise, he said, that their absence brought to his life. 

"He would look at mysterious shapes in the middle distance and they might be giants. They could be unicorns. People walking towards him were Marilyn Monroe or J.D. Salinger, until they got in close. 

"Then he said something that has always stuck in my mind."

"What was that?" Helen asks.

"'Life is better when it's blurry at the edges.'"

Sex and chocolate biscuits

The tables on the pavement, as we drive past, tempt us to stop and try Montgomery's in Radnor street. But the menu offers little hope of solid Scottish sustenance.

"We got bagels, waffles, croissants, muffins, panini, pastries and gateaux," I read aloud from the menu. "With an 'x'. Clearly a cultured cafe. But I see no sign of eggs."

"You want to ask?" my son says. "I like it out here in the sun so I'm prepared to be flexible."

"For a change," I smile, getting up and heading for the counter at the far end of the high-ceilinged interior.

"Ask if they've any gluten-free food too," my sister calls after me.

"No," the well-aproned guy behind the counter replies to both questions, in an accent that tells me croissants were not prominent at breakfast, when he was a boy.

Cheese panini, assorted coffees and chocolate crispy biscuits keep everyone happy and we settle down to chat in the sunshine.

"You spoke to anyone yet about your feedback art ideas?" I ask my son.

"Nah," he says. "Still trying to work them out."

"I guess someone might steal them if you talk about them too soon," Sis says.

"That's not how it works," he tells her. "You share. You throw out ideas and people pick up on them. It's a great atmosphere at Art School."

"Sounds like my attitude to food," I say, reaching over, breaking off a piece of his panini and popping it in my mouth. "Food's communal. So is art, you're telling me."

"So is anything creative," he says. "It's a very human trait. Watch what someone's doing, copy and adapt it. Music's the same. 'I like that wee riff so I'll pick it up.' All this copyright just lines lawyers' pockets."

"Don't musicians need copyright to make money?" I say.

"Maybe the really rich ones," he says. "But I've a lot of pals who are musicians. They all share stuff."

"Do they earn much?" I ask.

"Not sure any musicians do. I guess the Stones get by. But Stu Kidd is a really good musician - plays with several Glasgow outfits. He makes a living teaching music. Dave Towers is a great saxophonist. He sells insurance."

"Some creative people make it pay," I say. "I've been earning a living from writing for 15 years."

"Yeah, but that's journalism. It's hard to make ends meet doing the pure thing. You sold your novel yet?"

"No," I say.

"There you are then," he says

"What sells books, I think, is coming to the end of a chapter and there's a puzzle," Sis says. "Dan Brown is good at that. Even if you don't like the story it keeps you reading."

"I was thinking of churning out a sex novel bestseller," I say. "To fund the writing I want to do."

My son chokes on his coffee. "What do you know about sex?" he says.

"I knew enough to make you."

"Anyone can do that. Look around - kids everywhere. Just because you can procreate doesn't mean you can write a bestselling sex novel."

"Listen laddie, I was young in the 1960s. We invented sex."

"Yeah but in those days it was five minutes, boys on top, roll over for a cigarette. People won't read that now. You got to stretch them. Tell them stuff they'd never think of themselves."

"We discovered the clitoris."

"That's like saying you discovered Auchinleck. It's on the main road. You can't miss it. What about the G-spot?"

"I've heard of it," I say.

"Not good enough," he says. "You got to be able to find it in the dark with handcuffs on. You have to play tunes on it with your fingertips. Can you perform an F sharp chord progression on a woman's body?"

"You're making that up," I say.

"I'm not," he says. "Have you taken part in a mozzarella sandwich? Can you do the chocolate chip muffin?"

"You're reading that off the bloody menu," I say.

"I am," he says. "But I'll guarantee people are doing them to each other right now, somewhere nearby. Face it chief, you can't write a modern sex novel. Not unless you get someone else to do the research and write up what they tell you."

I raise my cappuccino to my lips and study him in silence.

"Not a chance," he says.

I start to turn towards my sister. "Don't even think about it," she says.

"Oh bugger," I say. "You're right, of course. It's going to have to be the crime novel then. Does either of you know any bank robbers?"

Hard shell

There are spells in any conversation with my son and sister that make my head spin. It's like when you hit a foreign language film, while channel-hopping, and don't realise at first. The lips are moving and sounds are coming out, but they don't make any meaning.

"As dull as what?" my son asks, over a pizza and pasta lunch, his mobile in one hand, thumb poised above the keys.

"Dishwater," Sis suggests.

"Too obvious," he tells her.

"Tortoises," she says, and he raises an expectant eyebrow.

"You always think they're going to be interesting," she explains. "Then they're not."

"How many tortoises do you meet?" I say, but they ignore me.

"You're right," he says to her. "They just sit there on the grass with their heads waving."

"And lift a foot every three hours," she says.

""Would turtles work?" he asks. "Less letters."

Helen sips her latte and considers. "Maybe," she says. "But they are quite interesting. One died recently in the Galapagos that was at least a hundred years old. They called him Lonesome George because he had no friends."

"I know how he feels," I say, but they ignore me.

"How about those immortal jellyfish?" he says. "Wouldn't that be good?"

"Great," she says. "When they start getting old they reverse the ageing and go back to being kids again."  

"Just living forever would be crap though," he says. "You'd get more decrepit every day."

"When you woke you'd wonder what else had dropped off in the night," she says.

"You'd be bald, deaf, daft and toothless," he says. "Till the end of time."

"Being old isn't that terrible," I say, but they ignore me.

"As dull as Tuesday?" Helen suggests.

"Not bad," he says.

"I like Tuesdays," I say.

"Mud?" she suggests. "Linoleum. Tax returns. Teachers. Politicians. Forms. Flies. Football."

"How about 'As dull as my dad'," I suggest, and for the first time my presence registers and they turn to study me.

"Perfect," he says and starts to text again.

Holiday home

I don't get the appeal of cats, so most of them don't like me, including Helen's little black job that she calls Sooty, a daft name for a cat I've always thought, though why anybody gives cats names in the first place I have no idea.

Dogs at least know their names. Cats don't appear to. It's all part of the aura of aloofness that cat-lovers claim for their pets, in contrast, they say, to the slobbering servility of the average dog. TS Eliot famously believed cats have three names, one used daily, one for special occasions and one known only to the cat.

It's all bollocks of course. The reason cats don't fetch sticks or come when you call is that they have only two brain cells. And one of them's asleep.

So when Helen asks me to check on her cat while she's on holiday I hesitate. "All you have to do is drive to the kennels, when I've been gone a few days, and see if Sooty is happy there," she tells me. "The last time I put him in somewhere it took him weeks to get over it. He was traumatised."

It seems an extreme description to me for how a cat can feel, but what do I know?

"So I'm trying this new place," she continues. "It gets a good name and I've talked to the woman who runs it. She seems nice and caring. But I'd like you to make sure he's all right. He's getting old and doesn't like change."

I know how he feels, I'm thinking, as I head south on the hill-road out of New Cumnock and the land gets steadily higher and bleaker. The slate roofs and whitewashed walls of the little farm, just off the road, look old but clean, as I turn into the yard.

The first discordant note comes when I open the car door and hear dogs barking. And not just barking but going berserk. That can't be nice if you're a cat here on your holidays, I think, as I get out and head for the entrance to the cattery, a well-signed wooden outhouse.

"He's been eating fine," the farmer's wife tells me, ushering me inside. "He doesn't come out of his bed when I'm here. But when I look in he seems happy enough. See for yourself."

The room is cold and lined with cages, their bars reaching up to the ceiling. All of them are empty, except the one in the corner, which is occupied by a fleece-lined, blue and white cat-cosy and a small plate of meat.  

"Go in if you like," the woman tells me, unlocking the metal grille door and pulling it towards us. I step inside, get down on my hands and knees and peer into the gloom. All I can see, way inside, are reflections of the light in two dark eyes. They are wide and startled-looking.

"Are you sure he's all right?" I ask. "My sister is very attached to him and she worries."

The woman smiles. "I know," she says. "I realised that when she was talking to me. But this isn't just a business. I care about animals. If there was a problem I would tell you, I promise."

I believe her. Half an hour later Helen gives me a call from Corfu. "He was fine," I tell her. "Eating well, they said."

"Did you see him?" she says, her voice strained.

"Yeah," I say. "He was a wee bit subdued."

There's a pause. "What did the place seem like?" she says.

"It was cold. There were dogs barking. He was on his own."

She says nothing. The silence stretches. "So I brought him home," I tell her.

"What?" she laughs loudly, all signs of stress gone from her voice.

"He's looking up at me now from the rug, with a wee smile on his face. I think he can hear you."

"Aw, that's fantastic," she says. "You've no idea how relieved I am. Will you look after him till I get back?"

"Sure," I say.

"That's wonderful," she says. "I can enjoy my holiday now."

I put the phone down and beckon to the cat. "Hey Sooty, come here. It's you and me for the rest of the week, pal. We'll have a few beers, watch the football and do some male bonding. What do you think?"

The little bugger ignores me completely.

Wisdom tooth

My sister sometimes overdoes the empathy. "He comes from Greece and you know the problems they're having," she tells me over a fried egg breakfast in her home. "He probably sends money back every month to his mum and dad and their dog."

"That's hardly your problem Helen,"  I tell her, trying to sound like the sensible elder brother I should have been. "He's your dentist not your responsibility."

"I feel sorry for him," she says. "I don't think he's a great dentist. He's clumsy. He drops things. He bumps into people. And his equipment. And the walls."

I stare at her and shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says. "He's a nice guy though. Got this lovely accent."

"Which he uses to say 'Oops'?" I suggest. "And 'Pardon me for stabbing you in the throat, madam.'"

"Also I don't think he's done much root canal work and that's what I'm booked in for tomorrow."

I shake my head and chew my egg roll, one of those you pop in the oven for a few minutes and it comes out warm and doughy. "This is lovely," I tell her. "You buy fried eggs in a café they're half raw and run down your chin. These are firm but not crisp. Perfect."

"You think I'm nuts." she says. "Don't you?"

"Because you're having a dyspraxic dentist do root canal work on the only teeth you'll ever have?" I say. "Nah.

"What is root canal, anyway?" I ask her. "People talk about it, but it means nothing to me."

"It's the part of a tooth's root that carries nerves and blood vessels," she says. "The dentist drills down, scrapes all that out with little files because it's infected and replaces it with artificial stuff. The tooth's dead then but gives you no pain. He was very good at explaining it to me."

"In his lovely Greek accent?"

"Yes."

"While bumping into things?"

"He smacked himself in the eye with the back of his hand while doing the scraping action."

I shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says. "But he's NHS and it's so hard to get one these days. The job would cost £1000 if I went private."

"But you would have the use of your face afterwards," I point out. "Your jugular would be unsevered and you wouldn't have a scalpel sticking out your forehead."

"Once he's working on your teeth he seems less clumsy," she says.

"How can you tell? Your head's numb. He's probably dropping drills, tweezers and cups of tea into your mouth and you can't feel it. I bet they're still there. Let me look."

She tops my mug up with fresh coffee and ignores me. "It's good service here," I tell her. "Reasonable prices too. I'll recommend you to my friends."

"Don't you dare," she says. "I've met your friends."

"You like Al," I say.

"I want to mother him," she says. "There's a sadness in his eyes. You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"Nah, I want to mother him too."

"I mean about my dentist."

I sip the coffee. Piping hot, just how I like it. "If we had a who's the most sensible person in this room contest, Helen, you'd lose. That's how far you've come from any semblance of sanity."

"I know. I know," she says. "What do you think I should do?"

"Dump him. Get a better dentist."

"What about his mum and dad?"

"He's an orphan."

"What about his dog?"

"It's being looked after by his best friend on an orange farm in Attica."

"Will it upset him if he loses me?

"He's your dentist Helen, not your lover."

"I'll do it. You've got me all fired up. I'll do it," she says, banging her egg roll on the table and making the cat jump. 

"Right after I keep this appointment tomorrow," she says.

I shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says.