Whatever that means
It’s never a good start to kick the day off with a wee bit of a twitter moan. I had (sadly) been reading a roundup of party manifesto commitments on transport while I waited and waited for the bus to turn up. Late again. Same as yesterday with such consistency that you’d think the timetable had changed. But no, a replacement driver who didn’t know the route so the passengers sit providing directions that the driver doesn’t follow so we do the stretch of road between two roundabouts twice before getting back on track only for her to take the bus too close to the foliage at the side of the road, catching a tree which swings the wing mirror in to smash the bus door. Luckily the bus was now so late that the next one was just behind. And breathe. Fares go up on Monday. Hurrah.
Other than that I raked into the past to come up with a lazy but inspired costume for a 1980s themed birthday party for the weekend. While everyone does Banarama I’ll be representing the oppressed miners dressed much the same as usual but with an SWP logo T shirt, a copy of the Weekly Worker and a Soviet army hat badge. Purists will scorn the mixing of Trotskyist, Leninist and Stalinist symbolism but no one else will notice. Unless I get an ice pick in the ear.
While I was at the radical bookshop on West Nicolson Street (whose name escapes me now) I picked up a copy of Edinburgh Reflections which has some nice photos of the city. Don’t buy it and then you’ll never know which ideas I half inch at some point in the future.
The underpass at the back of the museum is a goldmine. Just stood and the sax man obligingly turned round.