An old man stands, pontificating. His thumbs are in his belt loops; his chest is puffed out. He issues pronouncements on all sorts of things, oblivious to the fact that no one is listening.
Edinburgh has been in my life for a long time, but I have never lived there. I have passed through, popped in for a visit, even spent the night, but I have never had the chance to live there. I feel like I’ve missed out.
St Andrew, was born in Lower Galilee, in modern-day Syria. It is a stone’s throw from the Golan Heights, but a million miles from the East Neuk of Fife. Yet there is a town in Fife which bears his name. As is usual for such connections, bones are involved.
The late evening light turns a milky blue as it casts across the gleaming white marble of the opera house. Designed to look like an iceberg, floating in the Oslofjord, the building is a marvel.
Saint Mark was an evangelist. His connection to the Most Serene Republic of Venice is tangential at best, but never let a Venetian catch you saying that.
Sexism is an odd thing. I get that men and women are different, but since when did different mean “better” or “worse”?
The idea of “The Good Old Days” only covers about a decade or so at any given time. Most of human history was appalling.