Forgotten

About a week ago Mrs WeeKeef and I were strolling through our local mall when I bumped into a young woman who I used to work with. We recognised each other immediately, but almost as quickly I realised that I had no idea what her name was. To be fair it must be at least 16 years since we last saw each other in real life and, while we are friends on another platform, it’s been a while since she posted anything. Anyway, I was a bit embarrassed but she quickly realised, gently reminded me and we moved on to to a quick and cheerful catch up: family, what’s work like nowadays, how’s retirement, … That sort of thing. It was nice to see her and, about two hours later, I did remember her second name all on my own.

Yesterday I was out and about when I spotted an old friend of mine. On this occasion I remembered his name immediately and called to him. He turned and it was instantly obvious that he could not recall my name. To be fair, while we started school together at age 5 and went right through to age 18, we have only met four or five times in the almost 50 years since. Anyway, he looked a bit embarrassed but I gently reminded him and we moved on to to a quick and cheerful catch up: family, how’s retirement, grandchildren, health issues at our age, … That sort of thing. It was nice to see him.

Thinking about this a bit later I realised that this comes to us all and it’s not really something to be embarrassed about. In my defence I have met quite a few people in my life and I can’t be expected to remember all their names! It is interesting, though, to realise that I can more easily bring to mind names, faces, events, etc from many years ago but stuff in the past few years takes a bit longer.

I’m not worried about this. I don’t feel the need to dash off to the doctor to get tested for early onset anything. It’s just about getting a wee bit older. And that’s fine.

• 

What is the point of all this rambling on, I hear you ask. Well, it’s really about the fact that I haven’t posted anything in 2026 until now and I want you to know that I haven’t forgotten about YOU, dear reader. I just haven’t got round to writing anything: I think we have discussed my procrastination super power before. But I really should have done something because there has been some really good stuff happening so far this year, and there is some really, really good stuff to come. And even if you don’t read it, it will help me to remember!

So, I thought I would say hello, Happy New Year, and perhaps, over the next wee while, post some quick updates to let you know how 2026 is going for yours truly. OK?

Watch this space.

Singing by numbers

Last night I sang my last concert of 2025, with the wonderful Scottish Chamber Orchestra Chorus in beautiful Greyfriars Kirk. I love singing in there and I have been doing it ever since I was in the school choir from the age of about eight.

With the year end fast approaching I have been looking back over the past 12 months and it’s interesting to note that I have done exactly the same number of concerts over the same number of projects for three years running. Spooky!

So, how has my singing year gone by numbers? I’ll tell you:

• 2 choirs – singing
• 70 rehearsals – covering
• 12 projects – performed in
• 17 concerts – plus
• 2 days audio/video recording – as well as
• 1 wedding – and
• 1 carol service

If you add in eight singing lessons that makes 99 days when I have been singing in 2025. There will be friends of mine reading this saying “Is that all?”, but it’s not bad when you consider we had the whole of July off and I was in foreign for most of September. And actually 99 works just fine for me, though I might try to push through for the 100 next year.

Anyway, the festive season is upon us and I thought I would share a bit of our singing with you. Here’s the Chorus singing a new arrangement of Silent Night by Lucy Walker, commissioned for us last year.

Happy Christmas!

Tell me what you want, what you really, really want

It’s Mrs WeeKeef’s birthday.

While it would be wrong of me to divulge her age I can tell you that we are of a similar vintage, and at our time of life pre-birthday conversations tend to go like this:

WK: What do you want for your birthday?

Mrs WK: I don’t know. I don’t really need anything. You really don’t have to bother.

Now, I realise this is meant to mean “Please don’t go to any trouble, it’s just another birthday.” But actually it’s a tremendously unhelpful answer. Can you imagine getting up this morning and saying “Well, dear, you said not to get you anything so I didn’t. Happy Birthday anyway.”? I like being married to Mrs WK and would like that to continue.

In any event, I am not asking what you need. There are 364 other days of the year to buy that stuff. I am asking what you want. What you really, really want.

In the end she decided there was something that she both wanted and needed, and that after several unsuccessful attempts to fill that need recently the best solution was to engage a personal shopper to help out. No problem, I said. Do that and I will pay.

So here we are: the Birthday Girl being given a guided tour of John Lewis’s womenswear departments. Me sitting in the café nursing a flat white and nervously checking the available funds in my bank account. Oh, well. She looks happy.

After today, of course, the conversation changes. It becomes “What do you want for Christmas?” And I know what her answer will be.

*sigh*

Oh, Canada

When we were planning for our retirement Mrs WeeKeef and I talked about doing a bit of travelling here and there. And we have done OK so far, but most of our journeys have been in and around the UK over the past few years.

But there have always been a couple of “Big Trips” lurking in the background and this year we decided it was time to get on with it. And so a few months ago we took ourselves along to an actual travel agent and said to the young man sitting behind a desk: “We want to go to Canada. We want to do this this this this and this. And we want it to be “The Holiday of a Lifetime”.

Now, I have been to Canada several times in the past but always to the eastern side of the country – Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, Quebec. All splendid places with fab sights and lovely people, including WeeSis of course. Not this time. This time we went west. And what a time we had.

Five days in Vancouver with the aforementioned WeeSis took us to some wonderful museums and parks, a not so wonderful art gallery, nice bars and restaurants and, for one glorious afternoon, whale-watching in the Salish Sea. Stunning stuff and by the time we had had our fill of orcas and humpbacks we thought it couldn’t get any better than this.

We were wrong. Oh, we were so wrong.

After abandoning WeeSis, the two of us took to the rails aboard the Rocky Mountaineer. Two days of the most wonderful train journey took us from Vancouver past towns and lakes and hills into the desert – who knew Canada had a desert? – for an overnight stay. And then, on day two, upwards through plains then hills then mountains to the Canadian Rockies. If you click the link above you will see that the company tag line is “Truly Moving Train Journeys”. Yes, it’s a good play on words but Mrs WeeKeef and I were moved in every sense.

The train itself, the food, the service and our hosts were all fantastic, but it was the scenery. I have never seen places like this and it is going to take me a very long time to get over the experience. On the day after our journey Mrs WK shed a tear because she was so sad it was over and I coined the phrase PTSD. That’s Post Train Stress Disorder.

And even then that was not all we had to think about. The next two days saw us touring lakes and mountains around Lake Louise, which is quite stunning.

Then a bus journey to Banff which is kind of a ski resort-cum-gift shop but is beautiful in itself and where our hotel used antlers in all of its decorating.

Then on to Calgary where, all of a sudden, we found ourselves back in a city with another few days to explore, marvel at the enormity of the glass skyscrapers and overeat till we could barely move.

Finally, we took another flight, this time to Ottawa to spend the week with WeeSis, WeeNiece and WeeNephew. It was lovely to spend time in their part of the world, exploring some beautiful little towns around the city, visiting the Carp Fair and enjoying our first (and probably last) rodeo, and watching the Fall colours starting to show in the trees.

By the time we came home at the start of this month we were both totally exhausted, completely broke and utterly happy. As I said above, it is going to take a long time to get over the whole experience. Even now when we talk about it Mrs WK and I get a bit misty-eyed and start to fill up. I mean, we are getting a bit better: today we only told one random stranger about our trip.

So, if in the next few weeks, months or possibly years, we meet and the conversation turns to Canada and our holiday, please forgive me if I go on a bit. And in the meantime I have made a start on sorting through and editing the 3,100 photos I took during our three weeks.

Yes that’s quite a lot, but it was the holiday of a lifetime.

Raspberry

Today is (apparently) Welsh Rarebit Day and so it seems appropriate to let you know that our own little Rarebit – a constant joy in this sometimes infuriating world – is now a Big Cousin.

Just a few days ago Boy 1 (of 3) and the Girl from Leith welcomed a beautiful, big, bouncing, baby boy into their lives. A second Grandbaby for me and Mrs WeeKeef and everyone agrees he’s a gorgeous little creature.

He took his time getting here – 12 days late – and he took his time getting here – don’t ask! But, after a few checks and a couple of days delay he is home, sleepy, and looking very content. The new parents are now in that odd period when one finds that all the warnings and advice about babies being hard work doesn’t even come close to reality. The Boy in particular looked a bit shellshocked last time we saw them. That’s fine. It’s the same for everyone and it does start to get easier after a while. About 25 years in my experience, but don’t tell them that.

Their two cats, on the other hand, could not give a flying feline!

Anyway, here we are again, welcoming a new member of the family to forty-nine + one up and the young whipper-snapper needs a name. I thought of Boy 4, but that would be taking far too much credit. Then I thought of Boy 1A but that seems ridiculously proprietorial.

In the end, of course, it is only right that we should call him by the name which his very excellent parents decided on several months ago. And so I am delighted to introduce you all to The Raspberry.

I don’t know – I didn’t ask!

But somehow, the fact that both my grandchildren (so far) have names beginning with the same letter seems strangely appropriate. In our family at least.

Wet blanket on the ground

Once upon a time I had the honour ¹ of being the Chairperson of the Edinburgh Singers – a splendid collection of musical friends who you should check out sometime.

During my tenure I thought it might be nice to organise a get-together over the long summer break. People were very pleased by the suggestion and we duly gathered one sunny Sunday afternoon in central Edinburgh. We ate and drank. We swapped stories. We played games. For some reason we dug a hole and buried some sticks, with the aim of seeing if we could find them again next year.

Well, next year came along and a picnic was organised once again. And then it rained. And rained. And rained. Come the day of the picnic it was positively biblical. Stair rods. What my Ex used to call “very doony rain”. I caved in to the weather gods and hastily mailed and messaged around everyone to cancel the event. And, of course, two hours later the clouds disappeared, the sun came out, and everyone got grumpy because I had spoilt their day. ²

Fast forward about 15 years and, because I never learn my lesson, I recently floated ³ the idea of a summer picnic to the members of the Scottish Chamber Orchestra Chorus – a splendid collection of musical friends who you really should check out sometime. People were very pleased by the suggestion.

So today is the day. And it is raining. I mean really raining. MetOffice, Amber Warning, Risk to Life raining. I was not having it. Despite Mrs WeeKeef’s very cogent arguments I was going ahead with it, even it was only me sitting under an umbrella with a soggy sausage roll. I was not going to spoil everyone’s day again.

And then, just as I was looking out our picnic bag, the first clap of thunder rang out, the rain bounced off the pavements with gusto and messages started arriving from people saying that they weren’t coming after all.

And they are right. Of course they are right. And while I feel terrible about having to mail around everyone to say the picnic is cancelled (or at least postponed), I would feel even worse if we went ahead and some poor second bass was hit by lightning and had to spend the rest of his days as a countertenor.

Or worse!

To be fair I have already had some lovely messages from people saying well done, not your fault. There are even possible future dates being suggested. But right at the moment I do feel a bit like

WeeKeef – The Canceller of Picnic Fun

Oh well. I am off to eat 10 sausage rolls (not soggy) and then I shall spend the afternoon building a Picnic Ark for next year.

Footnotes ⁴

1. I say “honour”. It was like herding cats sometimes 🙂 ↩︎
2. Also, we never did retrieve those sticks ↩︎
3. Oh, the irony … ↩︎
4. No, Footnotes are not my new thing ↩︎

Birthday thoughts

I read something recently which shook me up a bit. It said:

Usually I scroll right past such trite nonsense on the internet, but this one made me stop and read it again. Hang on, I thought. That can’t be right. It must be more than that. But I did the maths and it turns out that 4,000 weekends is just under 77 years. That’s more than your biblical threescore and ten; less than you might hope for in the so-called civilised world nowadays.

But it’s a decent estimate, and that really shook me. I thought about it quite a bit for the next two or three days and was a bit sombre. Because if I’m only getting 4,000 weekends, indeed 4,000 weeks, I am an awfully long way into that number by now. I may only have 600 or so left.

So the big question is what am I going to do with those 600? Am I living my best life, to use another trite phrase? Or should I be doing more? Should I be trekking to the South Pole? Climbing Everest? Hang-gliding in Acapulco?

And of course the answer is no – none of the above. Because that’s not me. It’s not my life. My life is, always has been and always will be rather more “gentle” than that. Nowadays it’s largely about days and weeks full of Mrs WeeKeef; a bit of travel (city breaks!); lots of singing; fun times with family and friends; great food and drink; some home improvements. It’s not for everyone, but for me it’s just great: wonderfully middle-aged and I love it. I’m looking forward to more of the same.

So, why am I telling you all this? Well, I’ve had a birthday in the last few days. I am now forty-nine plus … well, I am an official old age pensioner, and birthdays are always a time for a bit of reflection. Especially if I only have another 10 left to me! 

Some people who have also had birthdays in recent days seem to need a parade in order to feel loved. Not me.

So I will say no to Everest, thanks. Enjoy Acapulco, but I won’t be coming. I’m too busy living my best life.

New Year – old story

Happy New Year everybody. How was it for you? Did you have a quiet time?

We didn’t! Mrs WeeKeef and I ended the year in exactly the same way as it had begun: in a fab restaurant, with the fabbest of friends, having fun.

Of course, 2024 wasn’t all suntan and bananas, as the Pater would’ve said. It started very sadly with a final goodbye to the Ma-in-Law. But, on the other hand, we also said hello to The Rarebit, and so the circle of life goes on.

There were lots of other good things too. Seven trips away from home, for starters – the final tally being England 6 – Italy 1 (a good result for England there!). And, since I mentioned restaurants, I should probably confess that our memory jar tells us that Mrs WK and I went out for lunch 28 times, dinner 24 times and afternoon tea once in the past 12 months. Whilst this may be doing our bit for the economy, it certainly has not helped the waistline any.

And so, like so many other people at this time of year, I’m telling myself that I will do better in 2025. This will be a challenge given the amount of chocolate that is still lurking about the place. Nevertheless, I have just been outside. For a walk. Voluntarily.

Don’t get excited. It was nothing fancy and didn’t last very long, but it was a start and that’s a good thing.

It was also an opportunity to listen to some music while trudging the streets and so today I have had a first listen to the playlist for one of my upcoming concerts – rehearsals start next week.

What’s the music you might ask? And I will answer: Thomas Tallis – Lamentations.

Well, I may be taking exercise but I don’t have to feel happy about it.

Why Die Hard is not a Christmas movie

People say the strangest things at this time of year. For example, many people – some of them friends of mine, some of them lovely, intelligent, thoughtful people – will try to tell me that Die Hard is a Xmas film.

It’s not. Clearly it’s not. But for those few people out there still labouring under this misapprehension, I will explain why it is not. But first, let’s have a look at some of the arguments these poor, benighted persons deploy.

And knock them down.

They will point out that Die Hard is set in December; that it takes place during an office Christmas party; and that there are indoor trees and other such fripperies. This much is true, but all of that stuff is just the setting for the film and the action about to unfold. The party could have been any corporate event: celebrating end of year sales records, for example. Or Gladys from Accounting leaving after 43 years. People, especially 1988 people (for that is when the film was made), would be just as likely to be drinking too much, engaging in the taking of illegal substances, and enjoying inappropriate liaisons on the boss’s desk. What the plot needed was a big office building full of potential hostages, all of whom were distracted by shinier goings-on, and a party fitted that trope nice and easily.

Then, people will try to argue that the coming together of two people amid marital difficulties chimes well with the Christmas themes of forgiveness and reconciliation. Personally, I tend to feel that there is rather too much gunfire, death and destruction to be truly “festive”, and that one over-stressed woman deciding to change her name right at the end of the film does not go any real distance towards offsetting said mayhem. I’m not sure that Mr Takagi, for example, was in much of a forgiving frame of mind.

Some people will point to a scene where a chap wears a Santa hat and has Ho-Ho-Ho written on his chest. Well, yes, but I’m pretty sure that he was on the naughty list and that the jolly message was written in his own blood.

More generally, many people try to argue that it is a Christmas film simply because it is shown on the telly at Christmas time. This is a very weak point indeed: anyone familiar with the higher numbered channels on Freeview TV will know that Die Hard seems to be on an almost permanent loop throughout the 12 months of the year, interrupted only by endless showings of Pitch Perfect and Fast and Furious 26 (or whatever ridiculous number they are up to now). Even if that were not the case, are we really being asked to believe that other Yuletide regulars such as The Wizard of Oz, Mary Poppins and Enter the Dragon are also considered to be Christmas movies? No. Those persons responsible for deciding television schedules are not to be relied on when it comes to such matters. If they were, BBC2 would not have been showing Easter Parade at 9.30am today.

I could go on …

Don’t get me wrong. I love Die Hard. It is a fantastic heist movie. It has something for everyone: baddies; a lone hero battling against impossible odds; suspense; explosions; a token woman realising that she really needs her man after all. It’s a classic. But it is not a Christmas classic.

And here is the final, clinching argument for me: Die Hard was premiered on 12 July 1988 and went on general release to much of the world from July 20 that year. It didn’t reach the UK until February 3rd 1989. That’s not a Christmas movie. Nobody in their right mind releases a Christmas movie in July. Or February.

Look:

It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) – Released on December 20, 1946.

Home Alone (1990) – Released on November 16, 1990.

Elf (2003) – Released on November 7, 2003.

Love Actually (2003) – Released on November 14, 2003.

The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992) – Released on December 11, 1992.

No, what we have here ladies and gentlemen, is a summer vacation action movie. And a darn good one at that. I may order a pizza and watch it again this evening.

Right, that’s cleared that up for everyone. Q.E.D. But just in case you, my lovely, intelligent, thoughtful reader have any lingering doubts, I shall leave the last word to the man himself: Officer John McLane of the NYPD.

Merry Christmas everybody. Or, as we say around Nakatomi Plaza … Yippee-ki-yay.

Eating out – Two updates

While we are on the subject of restaurants,

[What do you mean, what do I mean? I was talking about restaurants. Ok, yes, that was three months ago, but I’ve been busy.* Well, read this quickly to catch up.]

[I’ll wait.]

Right, while we are on the subject of restaurants, I was saying that I was looking forward to another rail journey to a pleasant lunch date. It was to be a slightly longer trip, but not too far, with a 10 minute walk from station to restaurant. And we knew the place well, having been quite a few times over the years, and through a couple of incarnations.

But then – and you’re not going to believe this – it closed down! All of a sudden, there it was gone. Perhaps it’s not just a coincidence after all. Perhaps Mrs WeeKeef and I are actually restaurant killers. That would be a shame, especially considering how much we have invested (OK, spent) in them over the years.

Anyway, no names, but the (once famous) chef still has his other place, where we have also been, and I hope it continues to do well. But I am keeping an eye on it …..

————————————————————–

In other news, the lovely Mrs WK has a birthday coming up in the next few days and we decided to go out for dinner to open the celebrations. After a bit of discussion we booked to revisit one of our favourite places. It’s a wee while since we have been and it has changed hands in the past few months, so we thought we should give it a go.

And it was fine. But just fine really. The menu has changed and it’s a bit more expensive, but quite a bit less imaginative. The cooking was nice, but nothing jumped out at you and they really need to put salt and pepper on the table – or in the food in the first place. And the wines …. well, they were disappointing.

WeeSis suggested they were perhaps just having an off night, but I don’t think so. We have been many times over the years by ourselves, with friends, with family and, on one special occasion, with colleagues for my retirement lunch. We had their offerings during lockdown several times. For those readers with a long memory, it is the only restaurant that I have visited twice in one evening. In more than 10 years I have not known it to have an off night.

Well, things change and things move on. I wish the new people well and I hope they make a success of it, but I am not sure that we will be back.

Still, according to TripAdvisor there are 2,604 restaurants in Edinburgh. Blimey, we need to get on with it …..

* I have not been busy!

Gravy train

Anyone who knows me, or just anyone who has been reading this for a while, will know how much I enjoy eating out. A good dinner in a nice restaurant with family or friends, taking time to chat, try new dishes and generally be convivial is one of life’s great joys as far as I am concerned.

I even had a go, once upon a time, at a bit of restaurant reviewing. I gave it up, though, because (a) I’m not organised enough, (b) I’m not very good at it, and (c) the restaurants I reviewed all changed hands or closed down. In one case very soon after I went public. I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.

Nowadays, with Retirement in full swing, Mrs WeeKeef and I often choose to head out for a nice lunch. Sometimes “posh” but frequently somewhere fun and cheery. Usually we go for old favourites around town – heaven knows we are spoilt for choice in Edinburgh – but sometimes we venture further afield. Almost always this involves a car journey and the inevitable discussion about who is going to drive home. (It’s always me!)

In fact, I could count on the fingers of one finger the number of times we have taken a train to a lunch (or dinner) destination. Until recently. And then, last month, we headed off to the lovely town of Linlithgow for a very nice lunch with friends, and again just five days later to Aberdour, again with (different) friends. On both occasions we happily wielded our Senior Rail Cards and enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine. Thank you Scotrail.

I won’t be reviewing either repast because one was in said friends’ home, and in the other case the restaurant has since announced it is closing down. I’m SURE it’s just a coincidence.

Anyway, the point is that rail travel to a lunch date is my new thing. It’s very civilised and good for the environment (though bad for my waistline). I’m already looking forward to our next trip ….

Chew! Chew!

Moreish

It seems almost inevitable that I would get the answer to my own competition wrong. What is less certain is that anyone would be paying enough attention to spot the error.

But one person did. One lovely friend spotted the mistake, which was right there for everyone to see (I say everyone …), and kindly and quietly pointed it out.

So here I am saying Oops, sorry about that. The fault has been rectified and all is now as it should be.

And, of course, thanks to you, the aforementioned lovely friend. Not just for prompting the change, but for reading this rubbish in the first place. It’s nice to know someone is out there.

Especially someone as Moreish as you 😉

And the answer is …

Remember a few weeks back I asked how many of these posts you thought have titles based on songs? No? Well, hardly anyone noticed. But for those few that did (thank you) I promised to let you know the answer.

34 35

Just 34 35 out of 200 posts owe their titles to songs. This is much lower than anyone who cared to hazard a guess, including me, thought it would be and this raises two interesting points.

Firstly, it implies that I think my punning art is far more glorious than it actually is, and that I am not nearly as funny as I think I am. No real surprise to anyone there, I guess.

Secondly, it clearly indicates that anyone kind enough to read these pages does so in the full knowledge that I am terribly predictable. I can live with that!

More importantly, nobody got the answer correct and therefore nobody won the magnificent prize of becoming a character in my online ramblings, which is a shame as I clearly need new material.

In the meantime, here are the titles in question.

• Money Money Money – Must be funny
• Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s Nineteen Fifty-Nine
• Alone again, unnaturally
• And so that was Xmas
• You say you want a Resolution
• Dreaming of a White Easter
• On the 56th Day of Christmas ….
• Alive alive-o!
• Those wedding bells
• Music was my first love
• Dem Bones
• You cannae shove your Granny
• You say you want a revolution
• In Out In Out Shake it all about
• D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
• Can you dig it?
• Reasons to be cheerful 1-2-3
• Last post
• Don’t you wish your boyfriend was large like me?
• This bird has flown
• Travelling man
• I don’t like … I don’t like … I don’t like Fridays
• It was twenty years ago today
• Homeward, tae think again
• Going Home
• British Summertime and the lockdown is easing
• Memories are made of this
• I’m a Barbie Boy
• Her Majesty
• Will you still need me, will you still read me?
• Daisy Daisy
• Prom Prom Prom
• Dizzy (My head is spinning)
• Up, up and away
• I don’t want to go to Chelsea

Feel free to disagree.

Edited – somebody disagreed!

Out voted

Here we are again on the threshold of a general election. A chance to have your vote counted and to feel you can make a difference. Well, maybe.

We were in London, Mrs WeeKeef and I, when the outgoing Prime Minister stood in the pouring rain to tell us he was calling an election. A quick check on dates showed that the two of us would be away from home (again) on the day itself and so we would need to apply for a postal vote. Fair enough, there’s plenty of time, we thought.

Ha!

Admittedly we left it a wee while before applying for said vote, but in this modern age four weeks is more than enough time to apply online, get the forms, complete them and send them back to the appropriate authorities.

Or so we thought. But somehow several Scottish local authorities, including the City of Edinburgh Council, have managed to screw things up. Many, many, many people have not received their forms in time, before heading off on summer holiday. Including the WeeKeefs.

Well, I have said before how important it is to exercise your hard won vote at every opportunity, so you can imagine how pissed off I have been.

But never fear, dear reader. The situation has been saved. The Ex has appeared in these pages a couple of times in the past and I think I can safely say that we have an ok relationship all things considered. It is she and her Mrs Ex who have come to the rescue.

Already engaged to look after Mrs WK’s garden in our absence (in what is fast becoming a standing reciprocal arrangement) it is they who retrieved our forms when finally delivered and forwarded them to us as a special delivery.

We received them the following day in lovely Norfolk, delivered by Jamie the postman who was told the tale, and told us that councils in England seem to have failed to cock things up (well done English councils!).

Not only that, but the lovely post person then told us that he would be passing our door again five minutes later and that he could pick up our completed forms to ensure they were in the post again that night. He even lent us his black pen so that there could be no possibility of doubt or of ballots being considered invalid or spoiled.

What a legend!

Anyway, the day has indeed been saved, our views have been expressed and democracy has been served. All that is left to do is to make a list of the people that Mrs WK and I will be complaining to once we get home.

So far the list is:

• The City of Edinburgh Council
• The relevant electoral registration officer
• Our outgoing MP
• Our chosen candidate at the election
• Our incoming MP
• And, of course, you, my lovely readers

Well, I wouldn’t want you to feel left out.

200 into 15 equals 65

Well, I guess we have arrived at a bit of a personal landmark. On two counts.

Firstly, it’s my birthday. Again! Not just that, but it feels like it’s a big one. When I was a lad 65 years old was old. My Grandma was 65 round about the time I was learning to walk. She was very definitely an old lady in an apron, who thought that an advocaat at Christmas was rather naughty and whose bad language of choice was “In the name of Goodness”.

But here I am: 65 today. From now on I have to tick an entirely different box on official forms to say what age range I fall under. And yes, I do wear an apron occasionally and I have been known to use rude words, but do I feel old yet? No, not really. I mean sometimes, especially first thing in the morning, I do. But overall I’m thinking I’m not doing too badly, and hopefully have a few more years left in the tank.

Secondly, it is (therefore) 15 years since fortynine plus one up was born – or rather gifted to me by Mrs WeeKeef. Not only that, but this is the 200th post, which is also a bit of landmark. Two hundred pages of not very much when it comes down to it, but I enjoy the occasional e-scribble and some people are kind enough to read it and even say they enjoy it. Sometimes.

I’m quite pleased by the fact that many of those 200 owe their titles to songs – titles or first lines or well known lines, or paraphrases of them. It started out quite unconsciously but it has become a bit of a thing. A silly thing admittedly, but none of us are here for serious debate are we?

So it’s competition time. How many posts do you think take their titles from songs? Anyone going to go back and count? First correct answer out of the hat next Tuesday (17th) gets a 49+1^ blog name, and an entry about how we know each other. I reckon there’s …. well, I’ll tell you what I think after Tuesday. (Hint: It’s not 200, or 15, or 65)

In the meantime, I am off for a wee Birthday advocaat. Cheers.

This sporting life

It appears that today is School Sports Day for the children of quite a number of my friends. The sun is out now but this morning’s egg and spoon race was, I gather, largely conducted underwater – or at least in a great deal of rain. Still, as I pointed out to one friend, things could be worse.

I am not, and never have been a sporty person. I was not a bad gymnast in my day (see later) and could shift pretty quickly, if I wanted to. The issue was (and still is) that I rarely wanted to. For example, my school was a rugby school but, being of quite small stature, I found the whole thing to be a cold, wet, miserable and painful experience most of the time. As soon as I possibly could I transferred from rugby to the school rowing club, secure in the knowledge that I was too small to be much good with an oar, and that they would make me a cox. It was still cold, wet and miserable but far less painful, and at least I got to shout a lot at the big lads!

Once school was done that was pretty much it. The craze for jogging in the 80s passed me by, literally. Pilates and zumba are mysteries to me, and can happily stay that way. And even the more “social” activities such as cycling or Munro bagging are not my thing. There may very well be superb views from up there but unless there is a car park and a tea room I will not be seeing them first hand.

Strange, then, that I decided to take the 1998 Dad’s Race at the Boys’ (2) school quite so seriously. To be fair, there was some pressure on me. I was quite well known in the school community, having spent the previous four years on the School Board, and the Ex was, at the time, Chair of the PTA. Plus, and this is the clincher, the Dad who had won said race for several years prior was no longer eligible to take part, his own children having moved up to senior school.

So there we were, about 20 frustrated, not-quite-yet-middle-aged fathers, all with something to prove, lined up and ready for the gun. Bang! I was off, running like the wind for the first time in years, cheered on by a large contingent of small children and their Mums and thinking I had this in the bag. Sporting glory at last.

But then someone else’s Dad was coming up on the right hand side. He drew level. Then he passed me. I put on a mighty sprint for the line ……….

It was at this point that the ground started to slope away ever so slightly. I was going too fast and started to lose my balance. And as I started to fall I thought “I was not a bad gymnast in my day,” (see above) “I will just roll with it”. It turned out that forward rolling at speed is not as easy at 39 years old as it was when you were a nimble wee schoolboy.

Long story short (ha ha!) I did not win the 1998 Dad’s Race, but I was apparently a spectacular second as I flew across the line upside-down, landing on the point of my shoulder and making a real mess of my collarbone.

Well the staff picked me up and put me in a car and the very nice music teacher (it had to be the music teacher!) drove me to A&E, where several X-Rays confirmed I had made such a mess of things that no amount of surgery, pinning, etc could mend it. It would just have to heal itself, in a big lump of bone. Which it did eventually, after about 10 weeks in a sling during which time I was not much help to anyone, including the Ex who found out, just a few days later, that Boy 3 was on the way and she needed all the help she could get.^*

It’s OK now, of course, though it still pains me a bit now and again. Today for instance. Perhaps it’s because of all the rain.

Well, there you are, the story of what was then and remains to this day my only sporting injury. But it was a cracker.

* This is not why the Ex is my Ex.

I don’t want to go to Chelsea

Once again I am on a train to London. This time, however, I will not be singing (distant cheers). Instead, we are having a proper touristy visit.

The main reason for heading south is that Mrs WeeKeef is having a day at the Chelsea Flower Show with her gardening pals. And the interesting thing is that whenever I tell people this a fair number of them respond with “Oh that’s great. You’ll love it.”

No. I am not going. Have we not met? Do you not know me? Have you not, at least, read several previous posts hereabouts?

It’s not my thing at all and, to be fair, Mrs WK does not want or need me trailing around behind her for several hours like a sulky, bored teenager, asking if it’s time to go home yet.

Anyway, I have bagged myself a ticket to go see “Much Ado About Nothing” at the Globe Theatre and I am very pleased about that indeed. That’s my thing.

But we have another three days to spend together so, what to do?

Several days ago I asked that very question of my Fb pals and have about 70 suggestions to go through. (Thank you, you are all awesome)

But quite a few of those suggestions are a bit wide of the mark. Have we not met? Do you not know me? Have you not, at least, read ….

Well, as my lovely spouse pointed out, I asked people what is good in London, not specifically good for me. And I would do exactly the same, offering suggestions framed by my own likes and interests.

To be fair, there were some great suggestions, several of which we have taken up. Plus there are flowers and doublets and a couple of interesting restaurants and a river taxi and much besides. I might tell you about it sometime.

Anyway, whatever we decide to do, I’m sure we will have a capital time.

Up, up and away

I have never understood the thinking behind the early morning pint (or similar) at an airport before getting on a plane to parts foreign.

The issue raised its head earlier this month when Mrs WeeKeef and I escaped the miserable cold and damp that has been the British spring of 2024, and instead had a few days in some lovely warm sunshine (26degC) in southern Italy. Naples to be precise.

Our trip started with a 4.30am taxi ride to the airport where, for once, we were travelling light and the security systems were all working splendidly. The result was that we found ourselves lurking in Departures with a comfortable 45 minutes until boarding and the issue of what to do next. For us it is a familiar pattern: first, buy water for the journey; second, nip to the loo (unrelated); and third, get a coffee.

Easy, relaxing and uncontroversial.

And it gives us a little time to watch the world go by: a favourite pastime of mine in airports, you may recall. Inevitably we end up marvelling at the fact that, despite the early hour, all of the bars are full of people downing some alcoholic beverage or other. There is a strange thing that happens to many people in airports which convinces them that it is perfectly fine to “get a start” on the holiday, no matter the time of day.

But it’s not fine. It really isn’t. It’s five o’clock in the morning and you have a pint in each hand and a determined look on your face which says you are going to enjoy this no matter what. The vast majority of those people would never begin to contemplate drinking at this time, and rightly so. If nothing else, an airport departure lounge is not “on holiday”. It’s a nightmare of queueing, official documentation and second thoughts about whether a 6am flight was really a good idea in the first place. And then you’ve got tiny seats, in-flight upselling and immigration to cope with.

Certainly the man who I spotted sitting in a crowded Wetherspoons, nursing a half empty pint glass, staring over his lady companion’s head into the middle distance and looking miserable as sin did not seem to be enjoying his holiday so far.

Relax people. Have a hot beverage. Maybe a bacon sandwich. Good times are coming.

Anyway, I will tell you more about our trip, and others, in a while. In the meantime, here is a photo I took on the flight home.

What? It was after midday. Italy time!

The Rarebit

Anyone paying any attention to this nonsense might be wondering what I meant by new roles and new names at the end of my last epistle. Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s all about the circle of life.

Of course we are not yet anywhere near getting over the sadness of recent weeks. But then, in the wee small hours of last weekend, Boy 2 (of 3) rushed the Welsh Girl to hospital where, some very few minutes after arrival, the aforementioned wonderful daughter-in-law produced the most beautiful baby girl you ever did see.

To coin a (para)phrase, we are a Grandfather and it is the most joyful thing. Today Mrs WeeKeef and I trundled up the road to meet this new miracle. The parents are happy, a bit gob-smacked and totally doing brilliantly. The dogs (they have two) have calmed way down and are gentle and watchful, making sure we knew what we were doing before letting us out of their sight. And baby girl was sleepy, well fed and looking awfully contented. It’s a good start and, having got my hands on her I only gave Mrs WK a turn reluctantly.

And so we have a new family member. A new player in this ongoing annal, and we need a name for her. Well, that’s easy: she is precious, one of a kind, and a bit Welsh. Friends, readers, people who have stumbled here by accident, please welcome The Rarebit to the world, and to forty-nine + one up. She shall no doubt make regular appearances.

And that’s it. That’s the big news. Nothing more profound to say – babies, I find, are quite profound enough without any help from the likes of me.

And anyway, I can’t type anymore just now. I’m totes emosh.

The Last of the Crumblies

When I started doing this blog thing almost 15 years ago I had no idea what it should be, but I never envisaged it becoming a funeral procession. Or, to be slightly more accurate, a procession of funerals. And yet over the years we have successively said goodbye to the Pater, Auntie M and the Mater.

So it was with a sense of inevitable familiarity that we put on our sombre clothes and walked into a rainy crematorium to say a final goodbye to my lovely Ma-in-Law yesterday. But we were not too sombre, because the lady in question was remarkable in many ways, not least because of the joy she took in so many things in her life – family, friends, the theatre and cinema, good music, good food and a glass or two of something sparkling. Yesterday was about recalling good memories, and putting aside the last four years of her life which were so very different after her stroke.

For myself, I will always remember our Xmas Eve routine with a smile. Much as we both love Mrs WeeKeef to bits, my spouse is not a person to be stuck with in a queue and so, each 24th December, we would wave her off to work and then head out to do some last minute browsing together. In truth we rarely needed to get anything, but we took the opportunity to stock up with exactly that – things we didn’t need: expensive wine for the big day, frivolous nibbles, extra cheese, extra biscuits, extra cream, extra everything. We didn’t have a list. Basically, if we saw something we fancied, and agreed that Mrs WeeKeef would not approve, it would go straight into the trolley. And then we would go and have a nice lunch, with a glass or two of something sparkling. Oh, how smug we were.

But now we have lost the last of our immediate elderly relatives – our Crumblies as we affectionately referred to them (though not in their earshot!). And now there is the realisation that Mrs WeeKeef and I are the eldest on our particular twigs on the family tree. We are the new Crumblies and I guess we have to adjust to that thought over the next few weeks and months.

Perhaps we will take on new roles and new names. Watch this space …