This report, by its very length, defends itself against the risk of being read.

I've been lucky recently in that I have had good books to read, and time in which to read them. It can take me months to read a book; if I don't like it I'll leave it lying around, refusing to be branded a quitter but really wanting to quit. But sometimes I have a good run, like now.

Attention All Shipping is written by Charles Connelly, a Bill Bryson wannabe looking for an angle, who decided to visit each of the areas mentioned in the Shipping Forecast. Undaunted by the fact that some areas have no land (he had to content himself with flying over parts of the sea and ticking the box) he visits not just some of the most desolate and isolated parts of the UK, Iceland and Scandinavia, he finds himself on barren sandbanks and strange platforms in his quest complete his journey.
The closest he gets to my locality is a fleeting visit to Cromarty - he didn't venture over the bridge to the north of the Firth, missing out on the delights of Evanton and Invergordon, possibly as the result of some thorough research.
The book improves throughout and goes from copying Bill to not quite competing but certainly challenging him as an eye-rolling traveller shuffling rather than striding his way round the world in the search for little snippets of history and heritage.

Next on The Book Tower this week, the man himself. An inspired choice of birthday present from Muriel, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid is essentially Bill's autobiography, but only covering his life in the 50s. If you have read Made in America you'll know how 50s obsessed he can be, and each chapter is loosely based on aspects of this decade and the results he saw within his family...and how his dad was a skinflint. It was good, but I can't help thinking that Bill has wrung himself dry now. Neither Here Nor There and The Lost Continent were the results of years of experience, research and observation and as a result are two of the funniest, most informative books I've read. But other Bryson books seemed rushed - especially the Australia one, and now that he's spilled his guts in Thunderbolt, what's next?

My final offering, and the book I am reading just now, is Teacher Man by Frank McCourt. Another gift, I recoiled at first from reading about teaching, cos I is one. For the same reason I don't watch "Teacher TV" on cable. I haven't read any of McCourt's other books, and haven't seen the film. Teacher Man is actully really good. Born in New York, he grew up in Ireland but then returned to New York in his youth and after a series of manual jobs embarks on a career teaching literature to American teens. It is really well written and his power to deviate from the storyline and give interesting tiny details would make Ronnie Corbett green with envy.

The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time

It's important to be able to laugh at yourself, right? How about to giggle at yourself in such a way as to unnerve school cleaners and frighten school children? While wearing lycra leggings.

On Monday I cycled to school as usual, dressed to impress in my waterproofs and leggings, which for the record the QPS staff have banned me from wearing other than immediately after, or immediately prior to riding the bike. Even the fetching red stripe and reflective panels have failed to sway them. But once I arrived in my room I realised to my dismay that I'd forgotten trousers to change in to...I'd taken them home on Friday to be washed (a rare enough treat for them) and neglected to pack them again. Were I a pupil I would have simply blamed my mum and worn a groovy pair of trousers from the lost property box, but considering I had 3 schools to teach in that day, including the High School up the road, leggings or cast-off half-masts were not going to cut it. I needed to have my shower then get up to the supermarket to buy a pair of trousers.

The shower is joined to the school office, and connected to the school corridor by means of a short passage and a door to which I have a key. Locked in, I showered and and went to my pannier to find my towel, also taken home for washing. And also left there. So now I am naked, showered and standing with no towel and no trousers in the school office. Can you see the headlines yet?

Question - how many paper towels does it take to dry someone roughly my size and shape after a shower? Answer - 9. Who'd have thought.

Dried (of sorts) and dressed (in a fashion) I had about half an hour to go and buy trousers...plenty of time. I dumped my stuff in my room and fetched my wallet from my bag, or would have, had it not also been safely tucked up at home. This is where the giggling started.

I had to borrow money from another staff member, walk to the shop in my lycra while greeting every pupil and parent on the way, and buy a fetching pair of brown cords. Mmm, £15 well spent.

Not content with this level of general humiliation I had an appointment at another primary school at 11.15 and had decided to try out a new cycle path to get there. The route I have used previously is all on road and though it only takes 20 minutes to get there I thought the path might be a bit faster and a bit quieter. The path started off promisingly - well surfaced, old railway line, nice Autumn day. But not for long - it descended into a bog, rutted and muddy with no signs and eventually no apparent way to get off it. My "street" tyres, with no grips, just spun about as I tried to cycle, spraying mud and mulch over my back and head while my shoes and the bottoms of my super new trousers, sticking out from beneath my waterproofs, went from smart-casual to tramp dirty-protest. Arriving at the school I wasn't sure why I was getting such curious, pitying and scathing looks until I went to the toilet to wash my hands and saw that my face and hair were covered in mud too.

The rest of the week didn't bless me with luck either - Wednesday saw the wettest day here for a long time, and was the day I took the motorbike to work. A training course until 3pm, then a splash back to QPS for a meeting 4 till 6, then off to Bo'ness through torrential rain for a 7 to 10 rehearsal left me wet, cold and quite possibly rotting. Luckily I had taken it easily on the back Borrowstoun road as rounding a corner I encountered a huge puddle, well, a flood, right across the road. Even at 30mph or slower the bow-wave went over the bike and down my jacket. Really.

Lorna is out tonight - ladies' night for some of the mums from her various meetings. Kit's new pleasure is being dangled upside down and for extra laughs, swung around.

A stupid man's report of what a clever man says is never accurate because he unconsciously translates what he hears into something he can understand.

The nights, as they say, are fair drawing in. I now cycle to and from school wearing an impressive assortment of reflective, hi-viz and illuminated accessories looking like a renegade 80s background dancer from The Hit Man and Her. From my flashing ankle strap to my bright orange vest, every inch of me screams "I am here, please don't park on my head."

Having said that, I had to take the GSXR in to work today as another spoke has broken on the pushbike. Now, I don't weigh that much so have enjoyed a polite conversation with the Edinburgh Bicycle Co-Op suggesting that their bikes are pish and that they really should mend it for me. I have been invited for a summit meeting with a manager on Saturday morning where I will lay it on the line for them, then dance about, negotiating a suitable settlement before handing over my bank card and paying whatever they have asked me to.

The GSXR continues to me a mind blowing piece of machinery, more so now I am allowed to rev it higher. To pinch an overused phrase from various bike mags it does not so much accelerate forwards as thrust the world backwards. You know those dizzy spells you've been having these mornings? That's me and my bike, that is. It now has about 800 miles on the clock - the most recent big trip being a scoot to Glencoe for lunch with Kev and Claire. It was brilliant fun, loads of bikes out and about, though waiting for Claire to demonstrate her new bellypan scrapin' brake pedal bendin' cornering style proved fruitless.

Lorna has settled in a real routine of social gatherings sporting Kit like a passport to fun and lunch for a secular club of mothers in the know. Monday is Mum and Baby group, Tuesday Baby Yoga, Wednesday lunch with one of the assorted stream of new and unfamiliar names she keeps mentioning (oh, I'm seeing Julie and her wee girl Pannacotta today - you remember them, the one in the blue jumper from the antenatal classes we attended in March...), Thursday is now Baby Singing (£5 to sit in a circle with other hippies and sing Baa Baa Ethnic Sheep Have You Any Fairtrade Organic Wool?) and Friday remains cinema day. I was lucky enough to attend the Filmhouse's screening of The Break-Up during the October break. Looking behind me during the film was like the bit in the Muppet Show when you caught a glimpse of the audience...all the strange faces and jerky movements from other people's babies as they watched the film.

Kit's new tricks are (in no particular order) - sitting up, screaming, squealing, eating lumpy food, having a reach which is twice as long as his arm, being left-handed (doh!), enjoying singing more than ever and staring at old ladies on buses until they freak out. He has also found a new toy, one which all boys are blessed with and which will give him a lot of pleasure for many, many years.

Our October break was good fun, having Jon down for a bit then heading north to Tain. A lunch with the Inverness Eggermonts broke our journey and allowed us to marvel at how gorgeous Clara is, and at how Kane has managed to lose even more weight. The rest of the week was spent in an assortment of Franco-Scots situations as we chummed Jon, Mark and the French "Whisky Club" around their tour of Tainshire. We enjoyed tours of the Glenmorangie and Balblair distilleries, and clay pigeon shooting (I was second best out of us, though the excited border collie chasing the clays added a new sense of challenge to the proceedings). We joined them for a lunch of ham and cheese washed down with a bottle of Tobermory, some raw red wine and even rawer local moonshine and the trip culminated in a no-holds barred seafood and whisky feast at the Oystercatcher before gate-crashing a wedding at the local hotel. Admittedly this was made easier by the fact we sort of knew the bride, and that the French visitors had hired full Highland dress...sort of a wedding crashers camouflage, if you like.

I have accidentally become co-director for the next Barony Players production, a couple of suspense filled shorts from Lucille Fletcher, "The Hitchhiker" and "Sorry, Wrong Number". Being a director means the actors do what I tell them to which is cool for as long as things are going well.

Finally, the rowans are hanging heavy on the branches. And you all know what that means...

Oh, and Hans...click under this post where it says "Comments". Then make fun of me in the box provided! It's really that simple!

Who remembers The Flumps?

Pootle, anyone?

Anybody who doesn't cut his speed at the sight of a police car is probably parked

OK, bike talk...

Picked it up on Tuesday, and of course after days of clear dry weather the bus journey between the house and the dealer was all the time it took to cloud over and start to pour. Hmph, biking in Scotland is a proper journey of highs and lows. I'd really wanted to try to keep it looking nice, for a day at least, but so it goes.

Once all the pesky money side had been seen to I was able to ride it away. The dealer's forecourt is cobbled, mossy and uphill - not a delightful surface when you are wobbling away, in the rain, terrified to open the throttle for fear of enjoying your first powerslide in front of an audience of salesmen. And then knocking all the other bikes over like dominoes...

I needn't have worried because my perfect throttle control and precision steering allowed me to get home before locking the bike away. Two immobilisers, an alarm, a large chunk of U-shaped metal and a purpose built steel garage are all I can offer to prevent the bike ever wandering off in the middle of the night.

On Thursday I rode the bike to Glasgow, only restrained by the 6000rpm ceiling I have to stick to for the first 600 miles. Frustrating, though it allowed me 90mph in top which was fine, but on the M8 still leaves you being overtaken by cars, buses, caravans and lorries. I was able to lock it to a railing outside the car park attendants hut (thanks guys) and was delighted to find it waiting for me afterwards.

It's been cleaned twice which gives me the ideal opportunity to admire its lines and curves.

So, a summary to date...
It's uncomfortable, cramped, has a tiny range, no storage for locks or such like, expensive to insure, makes me permanently worry that it's being loaded into the back of some tea-leaf's van, requires great restaint to ride slowly......I love it to bits.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.

Bwaahhh ha ha ha ha ha haaaaa!

GSXR-750 K7, oh yes.

New bike - chosen!

Can you guess what it is yet?

What's noisier than a 5 month old with a cold?

A five month old and his mother, both with colds, of course....

Last night was a treat as Kit and Lorna sniffed, gargled and slurped their way towards morning. Poor things, get well soon, but please do it quietly.

The set, and costumes, for Art are pretty much sussed now - we get our pictures taken for the paper tonight, woo. Ticket sales still low - prepare to shuffle up to the front seats everyone. I have put the show onto every local and national website I could, even s1play.com (who managed to get our listing online after 4 submissions, 5 emails and even then they haven't got our phone numer correct...) to try to attract some "new blood".

My Suzuki GSXR600 test ride was called off on Saturday due to rain, boo hiss. It's the 750 I'm really interested in, but Saltire Suzuki only have a 600 tester - same size, shape and all that just a different engine. So, next weekend, then.

It's only when you look at an ant through a magnifying glass on a sunny day that you realise how often they burst into flames.

So - I'm back to school, Lorna and Kit continue to have a wonderful social life and I've remembered I keep a blog. Good stuff.

The remaining weeks of the summer holidays passed in a blur. Our time in Tain was fun, making the most of Granny's baby sitting skills Lorna and I managed not one but two nights out together. Our trip to the Oystercatcher in Portmahomack was a highlight - far from a cheap night out but well worth a visit if you like to eat. Which I do. They take a great pride in all aspects of your dining experience...home roasted nuts and small sushi parcels while you wait, and the bounty of the sea made available in 101 different combinations. I went for the Port Platter, more of a dare than a meal (go on, finish it, if you can, you big pussy...) which came on 2 plates and saw me spend the next hour armed with pliers and a hacksaw peppering the dining room with a shrapnel of crab shell, lobster claw and langoustine gugs. Lorna, being a lady, opted for a more refined knife and fork option of smoked scallops. Much to the surprise of the owners (and the continued delight of their bank managers) we then put away a desert each, and coffee, before hauling our swollen bellies back home to check the newspapers for second jobs in anticipation of the credit card bill.

As if that wasn't enough our second evening found us living it up with Mark and Marie Christine in Pitcalzean House, a grand venue near Nigg where they were celebrating their wedding anniversary in style. Once Roxane had given us a rather quick, but comprehensive tour of the house we were treated to a guid Scot's nicht of piping, dancing, eating, drinking and shouting slowly at French people in order to make ourselves understood. Towards the end we had speeches and present opening - Mark was as pleased as a dog with two clocks.

Before heading south we had time to fit in a visit to mum - but not mine. Pauline and Joep were so keen to see us they stalked us through the Eastgate Centre and finally pounced just outside KFC. Honestly, we were intending to come, you didn't need the strongarm tactics... Kit enjoyed meeting Granny - not his, and reminded us all just how comfortable Pauline's chest can be by falling asleep, soothed by the rhythmic motion...

I ran my second 10K last weekend in Falkirk, chopping an enormous 19 seconds off my Edinburgh time. I was number 205, and came 153rd. It wasn't fair though, it was really hilly and they gave the "elite" athletes a head start! Someone doesn't understand the concept of a handicapping system! Still, I now have two t-shirts and two medals with the third coming in a couple of weeks at Loch Lomond.

Kit continues to change every day - if I hadn't seen him turn the pages of his book with my own eyes I would never have believed it... He also enjoys the games of "push myself up the changing mat, look out, I'm going to fall", "listen to me squeal" and a current favourite, "what's that your eating, when can I have some?" We are going to be sorting out real food soon...watch this space. He enjoys baby yoga, his Monday social group and apparently will be going swimming at some point too! Lorna does an excellent job - I would not be that cheery at 4 in the morning! He wakes hungry, another pointer that real food is on the cards. Mmmm, paste.......

The Barony Players production of Art is at last getting good, and with only a few rehearsals until show week, thank goodness! It's actually quite a big presentation - lots of work is being done on scenery and furniture though tickets sales have hardly been through the roof. There's still time, and a bit of advertising to be done; it will be, I know, alright on the night.

And finally the BigMac3, annual Thundercat run in Scotland, was on Saturday and was a roaring success. Well, for everyone, that is, except one poor guy, Steve, who managed to get left behind before we'd even left Edinburgh. Had it been a school trip I'd be unemployed by now, but that fact that we weren't together as a whole group for about an hour and a half (traffic lights split us up) it wasn't until then that I could do a head count. And we were one head short. Oops. Anyway, 250 miles followed by tea at Vittoria on Leith Walk (who kept our table for us despite being an hour late) then on to a show at The Stand seemed to keep the visitors happy - so thanks to all those who travelled up for the weekend. See you next year...

The tiger can't change his spots. No, wait, he did! Good for him!

It's been ages since I posted , but I'm back at work next week so I'll do it then, ha ha. We've been doing loads of stuff so have lots to say. Take it easy!

The Gulls of Invergordon, O.

A young man felt so moved by his experiences one summer that he wrote about them for the world to read. That man we shall simply call, Jon.

“In Invergordon by the sea
They’ve built a new distillery
And all the gulls are on the spree
That live in Invergordon”

My dislike for sea-gulls had always been slightly vague, their heads were too small for their bodies or their screaming irritated me, I wasn't quite sure. I was about to discover why I really hated them.

It’s 5.30am on a driech September morning as I drive into Invergordon, a small town built on the shores of the Cromarty Firth. Since the closure of the smelter in the 1980’s the town has suffered, but I’m here to see one of the town’s success stories.

I’d been told to meet a man at the end of the pier, he’d introduce me to the gulls. A disembodied yellow hard hat emerges from the gloom – Jack, my guide for the day. Behind him thousands of gulls rise leisurely into the night.

Jack is not an ornithologist. Infact, Jack despises birds. He works for the Port Authority and spends most of his time cleaning the pier. He unravels huge lengths of rubber hose and begins to blast the guano into the Firth. The stench is incredible. There is a cruise liner due at 8am and seagull droppings are not mentioned in the Port’s glossy brochure. They have to go.

The Silver Wind is the last liner of the season. There’s been more than 20 since May (including the Q.E.2) and more are due next year. The firth is full of rigs in varying states of disrepair and with the decline in the oil industry the port is trying to diversify into the cruise liner market. The venture seems to be paying dividends.

By 7.15am the liner is clearly visible at the mouth of the firth. She’s a beautiful ship – a symbol of glamour and decadence unattainable for the crowds of local people who come to show their kids what a cruise liner looks like. By the time Jack’s rolled up his hoses and given the pier a quick sweep we’re close enough to see individual figures. Soon we’re joined by the mooring gang, the Deputy Harbour Master and a piper in full Highland dress. He looks out of place amongst the hard hats and boiler suits and he seems faintly embarrassed.

The liner is very close now, as the pilot directs operations from the bridge the Filipino crews prepare to toss the ropes to us. While the pilot makes some final adjustments Jack tells me about a Filipino crew who, anxious to sample the flesh-pots of Invergordon, asked for directions to “the ladies”. Jack (in all innocence, he claims) sent them to the public toilets in the High Street.

The ropes are thrown to the mooring gang on the pier. It takes three or four men to haul the sodden rope up and over the bollards. Finally the Engineer nods in approval and signals to his minions to take in the slack. The other moorings are made fast and the Deputy Harbour Master gives the thumbs up to the pilot.

That’s the heavy work over, now the boiler suits make way for an army of PR people with clip boards and Californian smiles. The passengers begin to disembark to the strains of “Scotland the Brave” and the piper no longer looks out of place.

There’s a definite air of superiority about the men who work here. Most have left the sea after years of working on the rigs or in the fishing industry. They’ve all got families now and every one of them says the same thing; “It’s a great life but it’s only for the young lads.” Some of the stories about the brothels of Marseilles and Hong Kong would make your hair stand on end, it’s an unashamedly male environment. The ships are the only females allowed.

On the pier taxis jockey for position with the tour buses. The couriers quickly herd the passengers onto the buses to be whisked away to the tourist Meccas such as Dunrobin Castle. Many locals have complained that the passengers are not encouraged to visit the town, but the taxis do well from the liners. It’s not unusual to get fares for Ullapool, or even Portree.

9.30am. The buses have all gone. I talk for a while with an engineer of a grain-boat which has just arrived. He’s from Hamburg, twenty-four and he’s already seen the world. We shake hands, “Good-bye, Scottish.” It begins to rain again. In a few days he’ll be in Barcelona and I get that inevitable pang of jealousy.

4.30pm. The tour buses arrive back at the liner and the passenger returns to the ship. I speak to a couple weighed down with boxes of shortbread and tartan for the folks back home in Ohio. “We’d always wanted to see the Highlands since I’m a Campbell and my wife is a Ross,” he says. They seem to be delighted with their trip, which is good news for the port. Satisfied passengers means that Invergordon should be on The Silver Wind’s itinerary for next season.

6pm. Our resident piper stubs out his fag and strikes up a tune as the gang-way is retracted. The mooring gang shoulder their way through the crowds and take up their positions. There are some camera flashes from the ship, some applause and that’s it. They let go the ropes and The Silver Wind glides out into the darkening firth. Amazing Grace. Tomorrow it’s Kirkwall and then on to the Norwegian fjords.

7pm. As night falls the pier empties of people and the gulls begin to arrive.

Another cousin

Pete and Diane have just had a baby boy - 6lbs 11, no name yet as they really were expecting another girl! Congratulations!

So, can he read yet?

Yes, of course he can! I was given a brilliant book from the staff at Kirkliston nursery school (who know a thing or two about learning, I guess) called Baby Sees Hearts and Stars

It is amazing - based on the idea that babies can see sharp contrasts, the pages use a couple of colours each, and bold shapes to make them stand out. And Kit "reads". Not out loud, of course, in his head, but he really does! I hold the book infront of him an he stares, his eyes moving from one page to the next. Stop rolling your eyes, he does, alright?

He's even got favourite pages; the red and blue pages are very exciting, apparently. So exciting in fact that daddy got straight on to Amazon and bought the rest of the series...Spots and Dots (quite basic compared to Hearts and Stars...maybe should have got that one first), Flowers and the very challenging Snowflakes. I think it'll be a wee while before we graduate to Snowflakes, that's more of a 4 month old's book.

So there you go - it only took 3 months for me to become a pushy dad. I might back off, and remember how badly it can all go wrong...

The visit to Craigtoun Park went well - but where was everyone else? Considering it was a beautiful sunny day, the place was almost deserted. We went on the train, crazy golf and the boating pond and didn't have to queue for anything. Mind you, we made up for it by stopping at The Anstruther Fish Bar on the way home, where Bill and I waited 45 minutes for a few fish suppers. Nice though they were, it was impossible to see what the hold up was. The upside was that they had a big TV where we could watch England getting stuffed by Portugal. Oh well. What now happens to the "car flag" mountain? Mmm?

Tonight we have Mum and Don for tea, they are going to the Garden Party this week. On Wednesday they'll be over again with Gillian, and on Thursday we may all go to the Botanics if the weather keeps up. When do the holidays start...?

Got it

Ah, now, this'll do. It's one of the few internet pictures there is of Jon, taken from a specialist website.

Hmmm

The JD link was a master stroke...I have to counter Jon's effort with this until I can come up with something better.

Science, smiling and Bo'ness

And as if by magic, the holidays were here!

Last week brought the usual lunacy to school as the goodwill needed to keep P7 on-side was sadly lacking this year. One or two simply couldn't handle the change and the upheaval of the move to high school and went into a sort of self-destruct mode. Shame.

I, meanwhile, spent three nights at Pollock Halls attending the first Science Summer School based at Dynamic Earth. Teachers from all over Scotland (but mainly from Aberdeenshire, for some reason) attended workshops on geology, energy and forces, "forensics" and so on. The course was introduced by Jack Jackson, recently retired HMIe top bloke and husband of my headteacher, who talked about A Curriculum for Excellencein science teaching. I was looking forward to this, as I do believe that of all the guff that gets produced in an attempt to improve education, CFE is actually quite good. Unfortunately this theme had not filtered down fully to the workshop leaders who were keen, enthusiastic and knowledgeable about their subjects but delivered content and activities identical to those we were doing all those years ago in college.
Like "Hey, you can teach energy and forces by using toys!" "Hey, lets make a Mars lander which we'll drop and try not to break the egg inside!" and so on. One or two of the workshops were great; one about raising ethical issues in science with children stood out. But generally it was the other teachers who were attending who had the best ideas, and it worth going just to have met them.

Meanwhile Kit grows and grows, and will be 3 months old this week. His first quarter; we'll be getting our first bill for him soon. He is really active, sitting in his chair and "running" for ages. He is performing routine "social smiles" and Lorna reckons he was playing "copy Mummy" with a tongue sticking out game. I am just chuffed I have the next 6 weeks to spend with him, of course.

The Oz Proudfeet arrived safe and sound and have already begun their tour of Scotland with a trip to Bo'ness to watch the Fair procession. Every year the "court" members are chosen from local schools to lead and participate in the fair; how proud you'd be as a parent...but there's catch. You are obliged to decorate your house...so obliged, infact, that they publish the addresses on the internet so there's no hiding. Every year groups and factions try to outdo each other with the decorations, arches and garden features, the pressure of which is so intense I've heard tell of people who have moved their children to another school rather than risk having to take part! Teams of joiners and painters using cranes and the contents of B&Q work for weeks to build these. And of course, they are very nice. But would you want to be the one told....next year, it's YOU?

And so, today, the plan is to visit Craigtoun Park near St Andrews. With us will be Jimmy and Jess.

Two jags, one wheel

Being eight weeks old is great - the service second to none, you are actually encouraged to sleep during the day rather than nagged for it and a door can be the most fascinating thing there is. Stare at the door......sta-a-a-are at the d-o-o-o-o-or........

However, it has its downside as Christopher found out this week - round one of his vaccinations, one in each leg. Ouch. Ouch.

At the end of this month the UK will be four Proudfeet better off as Bill, Dale, Jamie and Eliza arrive from Australia. We haven't seen the first three since our trip to Oz three years ago, and we haven't seen the last one at all! Lorna is already working overtime to organise every available minute of their stay but I am here to remind her that they are on holiday too...

I've just had a week off the cycling due to a dodgy real wheel - the spokes all loosened and riding it felt like a clown bike. Very amusing to the people behind me I'm sure, but not so much fun for me. The Edinburgh Bike Co-op were disappointingly disorganised regarding the bike's 6 week check-up. Despite me showing them the problem with the wheel on Monday when I dropped the bike off it still managed to catch them by surprise on the Tuesday, so they didn't leave enough time in the day to fix it. Mind you, being forced to ride the CB into work for a week was no hardship as the weather has been great.

Sundays and Mondays will be busy for me for the next while as I am to play Yvan in the Barony Players September production of Art...luvvie.

French Jon has begun to populate his blog with extracts from letters I wrote to him around 12 years ago. Thinking this was a good wheeze, I dug out corresponding letters from him (Lorna having great fun telling me how sweet it was to have kept them, awwww) to consider returning the favour. Well, not only are they, basically gibberish, they are also some of the most inflammatory pieces of work you could hope to read. In the three I read yesterday he managed to insult 13 different people; 11 of these by name, sometimes using drawings to really get his point across and certainly doing nothing to endear himself to the gay liberation cause. So, Jon, do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do you?

Two weeks until the holidays. Can't wait, of course.

Insert own pun here...

Note to self and other bikers - if you are going out on a motorcycle trip, make sure you have petrol in your tank. If you do decide to run out of fuel, however, try not to do it on the Forth Road Bridge...

Yesterday Claire and I trekked to Crieff to get some new tyres...the weather was poor so we just headed straight up the motorway to Perth, her riding in luxurious comfort on the VFR750 and me adopting the "head down arse up" style on her Bros 400.

It was an uneventful journey, we ate macaroni while the tyres were fitted and were soon heading south again. Claire had told me that the Bros usually needed petrol "as it's approaching 200" - the trip meter is in km. Not a problem, plenty left to get us back to Edinburgh, then. And there's always the reserve tap, right?

Passing Inverkeithing (almost there!) and the trip is showing 179 - better stop at the Shell garage on the other side, I think. Splutter splutter....hey, I was right, timed that well...not a problem, I think, I'll just switch the reserve tap on. But...it's already on - oh dear - and by now I'm on the bridge with Claire following wondering why I am starting to flap about. The bridge is steeper than you think, and the incline we were on seemed to help feed the last remaining dregs of petrol to the struggling engine. It seemed for a moment that we might actually make it...at least off the bridge and to within pushing distance of the garage. Actually with the Bros you'd probably just sling it over your shoulder and carry it to the garage, but whatever.

So, it died. I freewheeled as close to the left as I could, and Claire pulled in behind. There is no hard shoulder on the Forth Bridge and there are various phone numbers and emergency telephones dotted along it which is fine if you are a driver sitting neatly caged into your broken down Volvo, not so good for bikers who would really rather get off the bridge as fast as possible. So, Claire was going to have to take me on the back of the VFR. Except she's not into practising the art of the "much heavier pillion than you" under such extreme circumstances so I ride and she goes pillion. So, Kev, Mike, Colin, nyahh, I've ridden the VFR.

The plan was to get as far as the Shell garage, buy a petrol can and a bit of fuel, strap it to the back of the VFR (using the incredibly handy bungee and strap I just happened to be carrying...Be Prepared we used to say in Cubs. No, really, I think I deserve extra points for having those with me. I also had a USB laser mouse in the same pocket. Ready for anything, that's me). Then I was going to ride back over the bridge, u-turn through Inverkeithing, stop at the Bros, fill the tank, head back to get Claire and Bob would be our Uncle. Except he's not, because that would have meant the plan worked.

For a start, Shell don't sell petrol cans. (Well, either that or Claire asking for a "jerry can" in her thick soupy accent confused the sales assistant.) But of course not, how silly of us to think they would. Luckily the Tesco garage opposite did, and once we worked out how to push the button to get petrol out the VFR was loaded up and ready to go.

Leaving Claire at the garage I headed back over the bridge, keeping my eyes peeled for the Bros on the other side - I couldn't remember how far over we'd made it. Then, in the distance, I could see the spot marked by the flashing amber lights. This meant the good people from FETA had beaten me to it. Passing alongside revealed the full extent and the horrifying truth of what was going on...one of the guys was looking at the Bros...while the other three guys were leaning over the side to look for the body.

It seems we managed to stop right beside one of the few walkways linking the road to the pedestrian walkway. They guessed someone had stopped the bike, crossed over to the walkway and jumped over the side. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a moment when I considered ditching Claire and the bike and heading off home on the VFR. Just a moment, mind. Instead I circled Inverkeithing and headed back south over the bridge, now down to one lane and with a 40mph limit. So that's how these tailbacks happen. They had one of their trucks with the big "keep right" flashing light display. "Hooray!" cheered the Friday evening rush hour commuters.

To their credit the FETA guys were very cool about it; I think they were just pleased not to be fishing a body out the water and towing a bike off the bridge. I explained the situation to them and as I refueled the Bros they sent a car to find and retrieve Claire from Tesco. By the time she arrived she hadn't yet reached the "laughing about this one day" stage. Infact, she still seemed to be solidly stuck at the "mortified about it right now" stage.

So; two bikes, two riders and fuel enough to get off the bridge...no hanging about, off we went. Lessons learned? It never hurts to check your fuel switch just in case, and stop for fuel 20 miles before you think you have to.

Route with a view

For a commute through the capital of Scotland, I do seem to have landed lucky with the scenery I pass. It is a section of National Cycle Network Route 1 and as such is well signposted, thoughtfully sited but poorly surfaced. Mind you, every road in Edinburgh is poorly surfaced so why should cycle routes be any different?

This is the beginning of the route, starting at Roseburn and taking me over Corstorphine Road. It is busy in the mornings with dog walkers, cyclists and runners; there is evidence that horse riders use this path too...



If anyone wants this picture for a lesson on perspective and vanishing points, help yourself.






Like I say, well signposted.







There are three of these signs letting drivers know there is a dead-end further up this road...






...yet tell tale tyre marks on the road show somebody just didn't understand what that meant.






This is the actual Cramond Brig, the dividing line between the counties of Edinburgh and Linlithgow. The newer bridge for modern traffic is higher up, though you can't see anything of the old bridge from the road - mainly because it is a well known speed camera site and you daren't take your eyes off your speedo.

This stone tells of repairs to the bridge; I'm sure the workers of 1776 wished the cowboys of 1761 had just done it properly...





Warning....







...driving to work can seriously....







...make you late and frustrated. Who'd have thought, it turns out my bike is powered by 'holier-than-thouness' and even when it rains I am kept dry by the higher moral ground.




And finally, a little stretch I call 'The Death Star Trench' - cycle down it as fast as you can but touch your handlebars on either wall and you're mince.





Resurfacing? Mmm, not much call for it, sir.