My local newsagent has gone. He sold up and passed the business on. The musty smelling, dark, dank shop has been renovated and rejuvenated. It smells fragrant, it's bright and well ordered. And I hate it.
Vic, my old newsagent, was a character. I would intentionally ask for particularly obscure magazines and journals that I knew he never stocked. And he would always say that they would be in next week. I would leave with a smile and a bag of liquorice
allsorts. The new guy has all the magazines but no allsorts. Its no fun anymore. I miss Vic. And liquorice allsorts.
Scotland on sundae's love at first lickThe world is an altogether different place when the sun deigns to shine and smile upon us – all the more so, when, as it did last week, it is only for a few tantalising hours in the midst of days of grey. People seem happier; buildings more beautiful; even the credit crunch seems less depressing when blue skies offer their carefree canopy. But more than all of that it's a great excuse for an ice cream.
I was lucky to have grown up in arguably the halcyon days of ice cream invention. There was a genuine revolution in the world of the frozen confectionery in the late Seventies and early Eighties. The landscape most noticeably changed with the introduction of the Cornetto. In our contemporary world of multi-flavoured Magnums, Soleros and wheat-free, lactose-light ice creams, the Cornetto was as significant as punk and Star Wars. What was this chocolatey, nutty, creamy creation that cost 50 pence? Bear in mind that, at 10 pence a day, that was a whole school week's worth of pocket money. How could I even think about blowing the entire week's cash on a single, transitory ice cream moment?
I waited till my twenties before I ever brought a Cornetto to my mouth and by then I wondered what the fuss had been about. I came from the world of the modestly priced Jubilee. A Jubilee was a kind of Kwenchy cup, a sugar-laden soft drink in a plastic container. Some bright spark discovered that by freezing these ordinary and unremarkable drink products they were elevated to a higher plane of existence. My childhood and the Southside of Glasgow was full of school kids sucking on Jubilees. Quite why they were called Jubilees escapes me. They had no link to the events of 1977 or to the early works of Derek Jarman.
Unable to justify the cost of a Cornetto, the most decadence I could indulge in was a Fab. Fab was well named. A strawberry base embellished with a creamy top layer with the pièce de résistance being a smattering of hundreds and thousands. Divine. Whenever the sun shone in Glasgow (often as many as three or four days a year) I would have a Fab in my hand and happiness in my heart. I decided to introduce my Californian colleague Jessica to British ice cream, starting at the top with the Fab. Having been in the UK for four years she had yet to discover its delights. Since my sunshine-inspired purchase last Tuesday, the West Coast girl speaks of little else. She too agrees that the Fab is fab. Which is fab.
Salt tears of laughter for Don's delightEver since I can remember Aberdeen has been a place of note in my life, mostly because of people I associate with that corner of the world. I suppose my cousin Mickey Wathan was first responsible for the Granite City's prominence in my consciousness. In and amongst the Glasgow footballing rivalries, Mickey was the lone voice of Aberdonian reason. He wasn't even from there. He lived in East Kilbride. He was mercilessly slagged for his love of the Dons. That was until they won the European Cup-Winners' Cup in the early Eighties, dominating the Scottish game for a few years. Mickey chose to crow to one and all about the Dons and heralded the arrival of a new and permanent north-eastern force in Scottish football.
Of course, it didnae last. My love affair with Aberdeen hibernated until some years later, when I met a man called Robert Sproul Cran, a native Aberdonian. Robert was a force of nature. If there was an Olympic sport called being representative of your nation then Bobby Sproul Cran would be the gold medallist. Many a night we spent in the company of our mutual friend Laphroaig, planning and scheming. It was Robert that eventually talked me into stepping in front of the camera, so you all have him to blame.
Then recently I was approached by Dr David Reid of the medical school at Aberdeen University. He had bid for my contribution to Scotland on Sunday's Sightsavers charity auction – a dinner party cooked in the winning bidder's home. He asked if I might come and cook for him in Aberdeen, for a suitable charitable donation. Of course I would. It just so happened the Word festival was being held in the city and the Professor of English there is none other than the inspirational Alan Spence, a writer I loved and studied as a schoolboy. How could I not venture north?
It was lovely to see the city looking particularly august in the sunlight. The festival was fascinating, the welcome of the Aberdonians generous and warming. Dr Reid whisked me back to his place to cook for him, his wife Leslie and their friends. It was quite an evening – the challenge of cooking in someone else's kitchen should not be underestimated. The starter was a pear, fennel and Roquefort salad, followed by a main course of duck breast with roasted pear on a minted pea puree. So far so good. No one had thrown up or refused to eat. Pudding was my signature dish of Cranachan, a pudding that in many ways epitomises what it is to be Scottish. The cream was perfectly whipped, the oatmeal of the correct consistency, the Scottish raspberries the balance of sharp and sweet. The finished desert was perfect in almost every way. Almost every way. I had of course committed the schoolboy error of mistaking the salt for the sugar. It was the most savoury Cranachan ever concocted and utterly inedible. It was an unmitigated disaster. How we laughed! So now whenever I think of Aberdeen I will think of two things: the warm welcome of the people and salt.
Go tell it to the toiletIn a Japanese restaurant with my friend Eve.
Me: Look, Eve, that waitress is very beautiful.
Eve: You should tell her…
Me: Really?
Eve: Yes. Go on…
Me: I can't. She might not understand me.
Eve: She works in a restaurant. Of course she'll understand.
Me: Okay. If you think so…
(I approach waitress.]
Me: Hello. I just wanted to tell you that I think you are very beautiful.
Waitress (blank-faced]: You want the toilet?
Me: No, I was just saying that you are very beautiful.
Waitress: Toilet is downstairs.
Me: Thank you…
The full article contains 1195 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
