In Better Spirits
I'm nursing a cold. What a quaint little expression that is. You can almost imagine a little cartoon character, teardrop-shaped but with a bulbous red nose, tucked under blankets with a thermometer sticking out of its mouth. Or...maybe not.
Anyway I should have spent yesterday in bed but guilt about my absence last week led me out of doors and to yet another four-hour football tournament with Zed-son. This time we were up at Charleston Academy on the northern slopes of Inverness. To get to the playing fields you had to negotiate a muddy path through bushes and then nip nimbly through a wire fence.
Other Dads seem quite good at this nipping nimbly stuff. I tend to slide down embankments and career into the side of trees. Zed-son walks a few yards ahead pretending I'm with someone else. Despite that I stood loyally on the touchline, watching every game. Well..almost. . I did sneak back to the car for half an hour to listen to the radio. It's my job, after all. Naturally that was when he scored his only goal of the afternoon.
So today I'm staying home, sipping whisky and re-reading Tom Morton's excellent Spirit of Adventure. It was re-published last year and I still reckon it's one of his best books. A Scottish classic, actually and not really about whisky at all. It's more to do with Scottish culture and our attitude to alcohol and it's very funny as well.
But it fair gives you a thirst.
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