On Friday a friend of mine and I were sipping cappuccinos in the late afternoon sun outside a cafe in Brighton; nice. We used the opportunity to bang on to each other about our respective ails. He has had and operation recently on a knee and is still limping, I am recovering from the periodic vertigo thing I have from time to time.

One of the topics we touched on for light relief was that of the vehicle parked at the side of the road in front of us. A normal looking transit van except that it had "nice" wheels and appeared to have handlebars instead of a steering wheel. Indeed, leering across more closely at it, I saw it had no driver's seat.

Half an hour or so later, we had moved inside as it become chilly and were both facing the floor-to-ceiling window that stretched the length of the place. An electric wheel chair appeared from the right. On board was a guy who I would guess was in his forties, he looked like a younger Stephen Hawking, his head was supported by a headrest at the back and on the side. Also he seemed unable to keep his limbs still. He was alone. My companion and I said nothing to each other, we both guessed what was about to happen but at the same time couldn't quite believe it. The back doors of the van opened and our friend (at the second attempt) parked on the lift that had dropped down. Up and in he went, the van doors calmly closed. A couple of minutes later he appeared in the front and then spent another while wrestling with his safety belts. Eventually the vehicle started up and our mystery man powered away, (no easing hesitantly into the traffic for him) to his next appointment.

(Adrian and his mate nil, God one).

The 45th anniversary of the assassination of JFK

The sun is setting beyond the Isle of Wight. The sky is calm greys, blues and pinks with a neat fingernail moon over Sussex Heights, voted tallest residential building I can see from my study for the last five years in a row. (Four Peregrine Falcons live on the roof you know).

It was my birthday over a week ago. Partly for that reason and partly because of other reasons a number of lovely people converged on the flat before going on to La Fourchette; fork, what a good time we all had.














Fine Diners















Another Fine Diners















Heart on sleeve















Reminiscing about that Imperial War Museum trip
















Dom reveals the extent of his personal problems















Our esteemed photographer (Dom took some too)















People came from as far away as Slough















Combined age of 89















Dom's chips were enjoyed widely















Adrian hadn't really been enjoying his pudding















Going anywhere nice this year?

(There are more excellent pictures on Dominic Butler's Facebook page or on my Flickr page; there is a link on the right hand side of this page)

Norwegian Wood

Inspired by an episode of Alan Yentob's "Imagine" programme on BBC1 a couple of weeks ago I bought myself a copy of Haruki Murasaki's fourth novel.

This man tells me about the things I see but don't notice. I am still wandering around in his world, slightly beguiled, two days after finishing the book.

"What about the snakes....?"

On a recent drive to Littlehampton I listened to this Radio 4 item (the first 20 minutes or so of the programme Excess Baggage which consits of an interview with someone called Yossi Ghinsberg); click on the link above if you would like your challenges to feel less challenging.

The Hairdresser's Husband *****

Take 75 minutes of film and attempt to describe, or better still, allow the viewer to feel a pure kind of love. I bet you won't succeed better than the people who created this little work of art have. Not at all sentimental, slightly weird, very engaging and nicely bewildering.

Moved of Brighton.

...a shot in the dark

Saturday's activities included afternoon tea at the Orangery in Kensington Gardens; a deliciously autumnal experience.

After that we paid a visit to the Whole Foods shop which occupies three floors in the Barkers building on Kensington High Street. More of a foodies' theme park than a supermarket, I found it quite exciting. Bought some unusual sausages including an Italian Pork with fennel one and some Pecan Butter (lovely but I can make it myself at home and much more cheaply) as well as some tasty seaweed (which I had with roast chicken for Sunday lunch). Rounded off the experience with a drink on the top floor, there are a variety of cafes, bars and restaurants up there. Due to a misunderstanding, I enjoyed an "espresso beer" (which reminded me of Guinness but with more of a kick), courtesy of the management.

Eastern Promises ****

It's contemporary London Russian gangland (the centre of which would appear to be a building next door to Vic Naylor's Bar in St John Street, which I used to frequent nearly twenty years ago and featured in a couple of scenes of Snatch or another Guy Richie movie) and David Cronenburg is seeing to it that we are not given a break from the idea that something horrible might happen to anyone at any moment.

For me it took a while to get going and I was not convinced by some of the characters but it seemed to change gear in the second half and Viggo Mortensen's until then latent potency, is brought to the fore with devastating effect. Some good tattoos on display if you like that sort of thing.

Watch out for one of the most shocking and "cross your legs" ferocious fight scenes you will ever see, naked Viggo against two Rusky hitmen with curvy knives.

Old Joy ****

Two friends whose lives have gone different ways meet up to drive into the hills and spend a night getting drunk. It is what isn't said in this film that generates the real power, I found myself wondering all sorts of things. A beautiful original soundtrack provided by Yo La Tengo really helped to gently remove me from my comfortable seat and lead me off to all sorts of slightly melancholic "what if" places.

"Sorrow is just worn-out joy".

Some days

27 September - I get a call from my mother fairly late in the evening to say that she has returned from the hospital with my step-father, his procedure did not go according to plan but they were home now and will see how he gets on and perhaps go back to the hospital if necessary in the morning.

28 September - Mum calls at 7am from the hospital in Oban which is an hour from their home and bigger than their local hospital, Jack was taken there by ambulance in the night. She is a bit teary, she he has been told that he has hours or maybe days.

I fly to Glasgow where I hire a car, drive to the local M&S to get some provisions (as suggested by my brother), return the car to the hire place and replace it with something more appropriate and then drive the two hours to Oban. My mum and I spend the night in a "guest room" in the hospital, me on the floor on top of some cushions. Jack is drifting in and out of consciousness.

29 September - Bit of sitting about in Oban. Jack's condition is unchanged. My brother arrives in the evening, he and my mum and I have a mediocre dinner at the Waterfront Restaurant (the fish tastes funny) and then check in to the Royal Hotel where there are two weddings on the go. My brother and I have a couple of beers at the Lorne Bar on Stevenson Street, most adjacent, and then retire to our room where we both snore a lot, aparently.

30 September - Jack is still mainly conscious but prone to saying some odd things. My brother and I rent a flat for the week, the owner agrees to refund us for those days we do not use, my having explained the circumstances. Jack has asked us to bring in the bottle of champagne that I bought him for his birthday a few months ago and then bravely consumes half a glass (he has not taken any kind of fluid by mouth for three days and not passed any either).

1 October - It is Monday, much more going on in the hospital. We are summoned to a room where it is explained again that Jack's situation is terminal. It is also explained that pain control will be the staff's priority. We return to Jack's room, he is very angry that he is still alive and has a go at negotiating his disconnection from life the life-support systems but it is expained that he does not have that option. "I'll just have to try harder", he promises.

He is in a lot of pain and it takes a long time to get more drugs administered. I believe that the problem here was about expectations. If it had been explained that it would not be possible to keep him pain free and that there would be an issue with the finding the right balance between pain relief and maintaining consciousness then things might have gone more smoothly but instead we get angry when we see him in pain. Later another surgeon takes us into a room to talk to us about the morals of administering morphine, he has good intentions I'm sure (one of which would appear to be to show his junior how to talk to patient's relatives about morals) but it seems to me that the idea is just to distract us. I spend the night in one of those reclining chairs, in Jack's room. The night staff are excellent, attending to Jack throughout and always offering me tea and toast.

Oban sunset

2 October - For the second day in a row I have a meal in "the Oban Fish and Chip Restaurant" (it has a picture of Rick Stein and the proprietor in the window); the food is excellent and costs half what it did in the faux posh restaurant on the Saturday. I say goodbye to Jack in late afternoon and a bit emotionally at first , drive back to Glasgow from where I fly back to Gatwick.

3 October - I call my mum's mobile (they don't mind you using your mobile in this hospital, presumably because they don't have one of those bullshit contracts with the Patientline company) at about 7.30. She and my brother have just been with Jack as he breathed his last breath. I go to London for a meeting.

Hotel Puerta America

4 October - Gemma and I return to Gatwick for an early flight to Madrid for a long standing long weekend, there are many delays, we arrive at the phenomenally beautiful "Terminal 4"in mid afternoon before going to the "Hotel Puerta de America" where each floor has been designed by a different famous designer. We get to choose and select floor 9 (designed by Mr Richard Gluckman) which, whilst it is not as wacky as some of the others, is very relaxed. We head to town where I blame fatigue for my inability to read the map. It is raining heavily and we dive into the nearest Tapas bar. The food is fabulous, we order three different types of potato and some beers (amongst other things).

5 October - We lie in and order breakfast in our room. It doesn't come and so we go down to the restaurant (I don't believe that I should be chasing after it). They say that the restaurant has stopped serving breakfast and I explain why they are about to restart, which they do, food very nice but 50 Euros for the two of us doesn't seem reasonable. Back at the room, our smartly attired breakfast is there by the window smelling of strawberries and wondering what is going on. We go to the Prado where Julian's recommendations prompt us to consider his state of mind; neither of us enjoy Goya's Black Paintings which look a bit rushed to me.

Torres Blanco (our hotel's fantastic neighbour)

6 October - Find a great cafe behind the hotel where we have an excellent breakfast for 4 euros. Lunch at Il Teatriz, a former run-down theatre redisgned by Phillippe Starck (the bar is on the stage and the tables in the stalls and the circles with a cafe in the foyer).

Feeling small (at "Vincon)"

7 October - Breakfast in the same cafe. Lunch takes place downtown in a restaurant inhabited mainly by well to do locals; excellent. Back to the amazing looking airport for further delays, finally arriving at Gatwick at about 9.30pm.

Teatriz iz a treat

Spend the night in the "Yotel", will not be doing that again in a hurry. I reckon it is brilliant for a few hours rest but not so comfortable for whole night (especially two people in a standard room). It does mean that we don't have to rely on our alarm to make sure that we are up at 4am for our flight to Edinburgh. From there a bus takes us to Haymarket where we catch a train to Glasgow Central and then a taxi to the interesting Abode Hotel. I have not been feeling too good and manage a few bouts of diahorrea accompanied by shivering and sweating before meeting up with others in reception. I am full of Immodium and Paracodol we drive to Clydebank (30 minutes away) where Jack's funeral takes place. I am doing the eulogy and am on button pressing duty so am relieved that it seems to go ok. Back to the Abode for very nice drinks and snacks (which I am not in the best shape to enjoy), Michael Caines is the chef/proprietor of this handsome gaff, you might remember I spotted him last year sitting in the reception at the Windsor Hotel in Nice. The wake is very pleasant. Gemma and my mum and I drive back to Lochgilphead (2 hours) arriving about 8pm, I am in bed by 8.30.

9 October - Mum hosts a drinks party for her local friends (some of whom couldn't make the trip yesterday), what an interesting and eclectic bunch, all very nice too. Among others there is a French Coppersmith, a Dutch Tai Chi teacher, an ex fisherman turned reflexologist (he used to dive for scallops), the ex factory manager of Argyll Cars (who also was a mechanic for a two-time British Saloon Car Championship winning team, must have been a while ago, the cars were Minis) and a lady who used to look after monkeys (in Africa).

10 October - Ferry to Gigha (an hour to the ferry and 20 minute crossing), a six mile long island. Lunch in the hotel and then off to the handsome "Achamore House" where we meet the Californian owner, leading light in the world of Flower Remedies and (based on our converstion) leading "Tetra Mast" scheptic. Conversation with him leaves me feeling a bit doomed. Gardens beautiful.

Good Gigha

11 October - Drive to Glasgow, fly back to Gatwick, train to Brighton, more delays.

12 October - Two Meetings

13 October - A few episodes of the Sopranos

14 October - Sausage and Mash for lunch.

The Story of the Weeping Camel *****

A film about a camel in Mongolia who doesn't hit it off with her new-born colt but experiences the healing power of music; a masterpiece.

Glabrous - word of the week

Somehow this word is slightly onomatopoeic, it means "free from hair or down, smooth". I am more familiar with its antonym; hirsute. In the school holidays when I was about 14, I was attempting the Telegraph quick crossword, the clue I was considering was "hirsute appendage".
"Dad, what does hirsute mean?"
"Hairy......how many letters?"
"Blank-e-blank-blank-blank".
"Beard", he said. (Although it had fit, penis just hadn't seemed right).

The various glabrous appendages I had when young, all seem to have become hirsute ones.