Whatever that means
Switched morning for afternoon to go to Kirkcaldy to see Ewan’s recorder group playing in the Fife Festival of Music. Recorders always come with the lowest of expectations but this was surprisingly good. Someone, maybe the teachers (or maybe the music came this way) had done a good job of arranging the music with nice little counter melodies and harmonies so that it sounded like music rather than 10 kids playing the same song roughly in time.
But if that was all harmony, the public transport was a disaster.
1. the return ticket on the train was only 50p more than the single, although I only wanted a single
2. the bus from Kirkcaldy to Dunfermline was four minutes late and for an express had the most ridiculously circuitous route. Express my hairy arse. But that delay meant that …
3. as that bus pulled into Dunfermline bus station, the No.6 I needed to get home pulled out.
Of course, it’s my own fault. I should have taken my bike to the station and got the return on the train. But it had its compensations. I had time to get my hair cut in Kirkcaldy although Hammy (for that is what he calls himself) was a bit enthusiastic with the clippers. But he did have entertaining chat. Telling me about his new knee, his liking for Latin American dancing, jazz, his time as a roadie with the Dead End Kids, meeting The Who and probably some other stuff that I wasn’t paying attention to. And only nine quid and still time to get a cuppa in the Plain Fayre cafe and a steak bridie meal deal at Stephens before the bus.
But the short hair was a bit nippy out on the bike tonight.