Quotidian

Ageing and illness in a turbulent world

For nearly all of my 77 years on this earth, I have lived in the Dumfriesshire parish of Kirkmahoe. Not easy to find on a map, it’s a delightful place of rolling green pastures that slope down to the banks of the River Nith, just as it nears the end of its watery journey and debouches into the Solway Firth. I grew up here and with the exception of a few brief sojurns elsewhere, Kirkmahoe and its wider environs are where I have made my life.

The Hare, the Heron and the Professor: a story for ‘children of all ages’

Late one Spring evening, with the sun’s rays slanting low in the sky, the Professor took a walk around his garden. Pausing for a moment to admire the view to the hills beyond, something in the grass caught his eye.

Lying next to a stone that had been warmed in the sunshine was a small brown, furry creature. It was keeping very still. At first he thought it was a rabbit. Perhaps a sick rabbit, as it showed no sign of movement.

The Professor decided it was better to leave the little creature in peace for a while. Maybe it would feel better after a good sleep. He’d come back to check later.

Then, as he slowly set off with his walking stick, there was a sudden movement to his left. Gathering all its strength, that small animal was now dashing off and heading for some oak trees across the garden.

As he watched, the Professor realized this was no poorly rabbit. Quite the opposite. In fact it was a very healthy young hare! Its long legs, tipped with white, were covering the ground at great speed and its beautiful red-brown soft ears were standing up straight and catching every sound.

The Professor was delighted. Such a lovely animal to have in the garden he thought, even if it might nibble at some of my vegetables!

Five days at the Fringe: first performances of Cicely and David

Here’s my journal of 16-20th August 2022 at the Edinburgh festivals. The shows are back with ‘in person’ audiences and the place is buzzing. Meanwhile, I’m in a dual state of excitement and trepidation.

The reason? 16th August will see the premiere of my first play: Cicely and David. It tells the story of a Polish migrant, David Tasma, who is dying from cancer in post-war London, estranged from home and family. A brief, intense relationship with his social worker, Cicely Saunders, helps him to find some resolution to what he feels has been a worthless life. In the process, an idea is born that later changes the face of modern end of life care.

The journey of the play from ‘page to stage’ has been peppered with great people and enthusiastic collaborators. Together, we have gone through the gamut of detailed preparations and demanding logistics involved in bringing a show to the Edinburgh Fringe.

Now everything is to play for. Literally.

My play reaches the Edinburgh Fringe Festival

The year was 1947. David Tasma was just 40 years old. A Polish migrant who had fled his homeland weeks before the Nazis invaded, he’d spent the war years living on the margins of London life, eventually finding employment in a Kosher restaurant in the West End. When peace came he hoped for better things. Then came his diagnosis of inoperable bowel cancer. As his illness advanced his biographical pain increased. He was estranged from his family, fearing most of them had perished in the death camps. He had lost connection with the Jewish faith of his forefathers. He felt he had achieved nothing in life. He longed for love and for reconciliation. Then into his world came a newly qualified social worker, Cicely Saunders. She first met David in the outpatients department of St Thomas’s Hospital and later found time to visit him when he was admitted to the Archway Hospital. Over a few months, an intense and elusive relationship developed between them in which Cicely sought to help David find closure before he died. Their encounter had a remarkable legacy. It inspired her to learn more about the care of dying people and eventually to conceptualise a new model of hospice care that would develop into a global social movement. Remarkably, David’s fear that his life would leave nothing behind was to prove groundless.

The frugal academic

Gary lived alone.

A social scientist, he was good at structures, patterns and policies, but less adept in the world of relationships.

Gary’s minimal approach to intimacy was echoed in the frugal aspects of his living arrangements.

His home was a bungalow, well below his pay grade. Among his few luxuries was a pair of binoculars for birdwatching. He was a stranger to foreign holidays and his tastes in food and drink rarely went beyond the staples of the British diet.

By the standards of the day it’s true that Gary had a rather large television. Placed directly in front of it was an over-sized fake leather armchair that could be tilted backwards to push out a foot rest. To the right of the chair was an upturned Watney’s Red Barrel party beer can, now doubling as an occasional table. That completed his ‘lounge’.

Gary was content with this approach to domesticity, which characterised all the rooms in the house and even the contents of his fridge.

Visitors could be seen swivelling through 360 degrees, curious at the absence of functional or decorative accoutrements. He never noticed their bemusement.

Tonight Gary had a special guest. An American colleague had arrived early for the national sociology conference. Until now he and Gary had only known each other via the email. Gary had invited him over for a drink.

As he poured the beers, Gary began to explain a recent misfortune that had befallen him. He had been burgled.

The perpetrators had got in through the kitchen window and stolen a watch and some cash from his bedroom.

Gary had no experiences of break-ins and was still feeling shaken by it over a week after the event. Recounting what had happened, he was touched by the American’s concern.

‘I can understand totally’ said the visitor. ‘To feel that the private space of your home has been invaded by external, perhaps threatening agents must feel somewhat like a violation’.

‘Indeed’ mumbled Gary.

‘To have malevolent strangers touching, perhaps pruriently raking through your personal possessions, must be a high level form of transgression’.

‘Absolutely’, came the weak reply.

‘But then in addition to the special importance of losing the watch and the annoyance of the stolen money, to think that they would be so bold as to steal most of your furniture – that’s the final insult!’.

Gary, ever the minimalist, shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor in silence. He felt grateful for the American’s sympathy. ‘Thank you’ he said.

It was the least he could do.

The host and the special Baden wine

The big moment was imminent. For weeks the host had been rehearsing in his head how the evening would end. I knew this because every morning when our paths crossed at the school drop-off he’d had something to say about the special wine that would conclude his next dinner party.

It was to be a Burkheimer Feuerberg Kesselberg Spätburgunder Eiswein, some ten years old, and emanating from the Baden region of Southern Germany. These details and more besides were tripping off the host’s tongue with increasing facility in the days before the meal.

From scalpel to story: creative reactions after surgery

It’s curious how a moment of creativity can sneak up on you by surprise. After months, even years, of struggling with an idea that will simply not allow itself to be realised, something changes, and the floodgates of the imagination are opened.

Here’s how it happened in my case, quite recently.

Alan McClure: creator of songs and wielder of words

I first met Alan McClure over 10 years ago when I read a review of a CD from an upcoming trio called The Geese. I quickly bought a copy and was rewarded with a selection of songs that combined wit, insight and enthusiasm with great tunes and memorable choruses. The acoustic band was quickly booked for my infant Kirkmahoe Concerts series, where one spring evening they delighted a small but discerning audience in Dalswinton Hall. That evening I had a feeling much more would emerge from The Geese over time, and perhaps not least from their main songwriter – Alan himself.

Play-writing as a shared endeavour

When I first set out to write a play, I envisaged it as the lone writing task, par excellence. I thought of someone like Henrik Ibsen, exiled and working alone with only his dramatic imagination to guide him. The prospect was uncongenial.

I called my friend Jo Hockley, who had once produced a play at the Edinburgh Fringe, and asked her to join me in the enterprise. She readily agreed to review my drafts, offer insights and comments and generally take an interest in the project. Quite soon a former student of mine, Erin Craighead, an amateur actor and budding playwright herself, came on board in a similar way.

Suddenly my playwriting ambition was housed within a team of three people, whose members were keen to work together. I was no longer on my own.

Hazel Campbell: at the stroke of a brush

The year was 2010. Heading to our favourite cafe/gallery in Castle Douglas one gloomy Saturday, we paused at the front window. A large watercolour painting was mounted on an easel and seemed to be lighting up the whole High Street.

Electric blues and vibrant greens shone out around a quirky white cottage. In the foreground, as if on a window ledge, was a pot of purple flowers, itself decorated with a red heart. The sky looked like the northern lights. The whole painting exuded a sense of energy, yet at its centre was a sense of quiet, rural calm. In an instant, Dr G strode into the shop and within moments she had made a purchase.

Thus it was that the work of Hazel Campbell found its way into our home. It is my pleasure to enjoy that painting multiple times each day as I go in and out of my house. It is the first thing visitors see on arrival and the last thing they view on departure. Fastened to the wall with strong mirror plates, it has become almost a part of the building itself.