Lockdown Day 11: Thursday 2nd April, 2020

In the lounge, the grand piano stands rooted in its spot to the left of the bay window. As it has since the day it was wrestled up the stairs into the house. Gleaming. An awesome display of profligacy when bought in the Fifties. Deemed licentious dissolution and decadence by some. In reality such a worthless cause for a bitter family dispute.

Ostentation. Pride. Burn in Hell!
The cry was heard from glen to Glasgow, the recriminations, the arguments, guilt, jealousy, despair. For congregationalists of a church of love there seems often to be so much hate. I only heard these things later and know only what I have been told, this was all before my time. As with all families there are secrets and tears, innuendo and lies. And as ever, where ideas of God intrude, the repercussions can be apocalyptic. It was many years before Aunt Vivien’s parents would cross her door again. Their church freedoms did never extend to singing and dancing.

  That’s not for me. Looking back I recall only the good times.  

  Memory of parties past shows me Uncle Jack stroking the keys echoing a sweet-flowing Hoagy Carmichael melody around shadow walls. I see Mum and Aunt Vivien dueting a Billie Holiday ballad while Aunt Shelagh rushes over to harmonise. I hear Uncle Iain laughing at another of his own awful jokes as all we kids groan. Especially bad jokes for us children, ‘Why was the sand wet? The sea weed? Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine. Why do bees have sticky hair? Because they use honey combs.’ His real humour, as I found out in due time, true and raw and politically-incorrect, reserved for later adults. ‘What do Las Vegas and Glasgow have in common? They’re the only two places in the world where you can pay for sex with chips.’  

I see Uncle Jack again, his foot tapping gently away in time to the music from the old Dansette even though he is clinically fast asleep as he lies slumped in an armchair with a somnolent malt clasped in his lap. He claimed there was no such thing as a large whisky and if ever asked what he’d like in his whisky would reply ‘More whisky’. I see Aunt Vivien dancing with him or on her own, trying futilely to pull my rhythmless father to his feet, chasing me out the room with her advances, finally grabbing some unaware cousin just entering the lounge.

These are my sweet recollections of childhood and youth, perpetually nourishing in times of distress and despair, recycled in flame when Phoenix rising. I am absolutely blessed in these memories though it took me many years to appreciate this fact.