The real Cairndhu
I finished getting things together to submit The Show Might Go On to Birlinn to see if they want to publish it and went for a walk. I took the attached picture while I was out, so spring, if not here is one the way. My next job is to get a short story ready for the Writers’ Journal competition and then start on getting Drover into shape for publication. I enjoyed doing it and my wife would have enjoyed reading it but she’s unfortunately no longer with us. She wasn’t an editor, but if there was something that interrupted the flow, or jarred on her reading, she pointed it out and was a real help. In fact I found her comments reflected the general reader, whereas an editor is a perfectionist. If you want them to print something, you comply with what the ask for, but I sometimes wonder if they go over the top as far as the general reader, the people who buy books, is concerned.
The Show Might Go On came from the days when I lived in a mining village and people were community oriented. The teachers lived in the village and were part of its general life. They played bowls with their ‘parents’ and many things were sorted out informally. When you took a girl for a walk, everyone knew and the suitability of the match was discussed. I was even told which teacher my father had partnered several times to dances and socials, and how well they danced together – not that my mother didn’t dance well, but she wasn’t local.
If we wanted a drink but were under-age, we had to go elsewhere, or drink in a den with other untouchables, where the beer gave us the runs.
We only went to a watch a big football team if someone organised a bus because, otherwise, it was a day trip; two and a half hours to Glasgow and another hour to get to the ground, watch a blind referee give the opposition penalties and stravaig back home. I see stravaig isn’t in the dictionary but its describes the wandering back, not aimlessly, but in fits and starts and calls at fish and chip shops, perfectly.