Colin McCrae

It seems that early reports involving a helicopter crash in Lanarkshire, Scotland, have been pretty much confirmed and it looks like rally champion Colin McRae has been killed; worse still along with a friend there were two wee boys on board, his friend's son and his own wee lad. What a shocker, like the time the legendary Mike Hailwood died in an ordinary car crash after all those dangerous motor sports competitions.

It's a Wonderful Life

Am I the only one who, while watching panicked customers trying to remove their life savings from troubled mortgage lender Northern Rock, keep flashing back to Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life and that scene of Jimmy Stewart pleading with investors - I can't give you your money, it isn't here, it's in Frank's house and Joe's house...

I do like the fact that the government, financial regulators, Bank of England and Northern Rock all insist there is no problem. Perhaps they are right in their assertion it is a liquidity problem and they needed some quick cash to keep things ticking over, but getting a multi-million pound handout from the Bank of England to a major mortgage supplier does mean there is a problem of some sort. Still, since the Bank of England is feeling so generous why not bung me a few grand to help me pay my mortgage, eh? After all you are the scunners who have raised rates several times in one year and made it so much harder for me and hundreds of thousands of others to try keeping up with their bills, not that the pinstripe suit-wearing, overpaid twats on the B of E board give a damn about how their decisions affect ordinary people, do they? By coincidence my annual mortgage statement came in as this news was breaking and it was so depressing to look at it and see it jump up almost every second month for the whole year - bastards and their endless rate rises fucking with people's lives, utterly unaccountable to the people for the actions they take which can have terrible effects on them all.

Sometimes I dream of torture devices linked to the financial markets and tying those scunners into it - the more rates go up the more pain is inflicted on them. Anyone want to help me develop this idea?

Moments of transitory beauty

On the way to work, a glorious, almost perfect Scottish autumn morning; the sun is lower in the horizon and its light now stretched out to deeper, warmer tones than the harsher light of summer - we've entered the Golden Time. Our location north of the edge of Europe means our weather and climate isn't always the nicest but it also means we are at the curve of the Earth to see the sun tilt further as the seasons pass us, from the height of summer to the low arc of the sun's brief appearance in winter. At this time of year, when we are lucky enough to have a clear day, it means the sunlight becomes the most glorious golden-copper hue; against the older buildings constructed of great blocks of native stone rather than mere bricks it looks magnificent.

It looks even more beautiful against our nation's natural beauty (and regardless of weather one thing Scotland has in abundance is astonishing natural beauty), the warm gold of the autumnal sun matching the colours of the season perfectly, the gold of the harvest being brought in, the leaves browning, crisping, drying, turning, falling. Yesterday morning an almost perfect autumn scene - clear, pale blue sky and the sun, low now in the sky, just above Castle Ridge, shining directly through the rich foliage of the trees in Princes Street Gardens as I passed.

The branches are still full of heavy greenery from summer, but already some leaves are turning, a mix of verdant green with touches of red, brown and gold, the trees equivalent of the man with just a touch of distinguished gray, perhaps. The low morning sun came through them from behind and lit them up, the green still vibrantly alive, the turning leaves glowing as if from inner fire, a last reminder of beauty and life before the long sleep of winter; Edinburgh Castle, her ancient stones warming in the morning sun, the backdrop to this and what a backdrop. It lasted only seconds, the juxtaposition of where I was, where the sun was in relation to me, the trees, but for a few seconds I saw pure beauty shining in a dying leaf and the play of shadows and sunbeams across the Castle. For a few seconds I had no cares in this world, lost in the ephemeral, momentary beauty of my homeland, glowing with the glorious light of an Impressionist painting but infinitely more lovely than any artist's hand could capture.

Random recent scenes

Princes Street this evening on the way home, basking in late sunshine; outside the oh-so-posh Jenners department store a bagpiper in full highland dress is jamming with two black musicians playing some sort of ethnic variation on tom-tom drums. They're clearly all enjoying themselves as are the locals and tourists who stop to listen to this mix of African and Scottish. It sounds brilliant.

On my way in and out to work I pass some spectacularly beautiful displays of bright, colourful, fresh flowers in Princes Street Gardens and the crescents at the West End; in the bright sunlight the flowers almost glow. The council mismanages a lot of things in Edinburgh but kudos to the gardners for creating such beautiful, eye-catching displays that just make your day nicer by being there.

Making the most of the sudden burst of warm, summer-like weather we head down the coast where near the beach at the Fidra Lighthouse I bump into my friend Claudia with her visiting parents. After a very long walk all the way down the beach to North Berwick we're licking our yummy ice creams when my big cousin and her husband suddenly appear.

Bus to work on Monday; as I am getting off one of my friends from the book group is getting on although I only have a chance to say hello to her as we pass. Clearly it is my week for randomly bumping into friends and family as I go about. Who will be the next Guest Star in the ongoing soap opera of life?

Walking down Middle Meadow Walk a temporary wooden wall hiding the building works in the old Royal Infirmary which has been covered with posters for Fringe shows is now peeling and torn, scraps flapping in the breeze now it is all over. The grass of the Meadows still shows the marks of the recently departed marquees and big top from shows.

Hot, sunny day, warmer than most of the summer - great. Except it is too hot and dreadfully airless at my desk at work and I'm dying for some fresh air all afternoon - a good excuse to meet a friend and sit outside a pub on the way home drinking cold beer in the fresh air and watching the sun slowly dipping towards the horizon.

Sitting in Beanscene with Mel, enjoying coffee and cake I notice they have details on how to buy the antiqued leather sofas they have in the cafe - the sign advertising this is simple but brilliant "order a sofa to go". Oh yes, please, can I have a skinny latte, triple choc muffin and a sofa to go?

The Bin Liner speaks

As another 9-11 anniversary comes round the psychotic nutters of Al Wanker wheel out the sad and pathetic figure of the Bin Liner once more, because obviously he and his murderous band of bastards haven't caused enough pain but they have to mouth off as relatives of the dead try to remember their loved ones. First time in ages this cowering coward has stuck his head out of a hole for long enough to make a message (if he is happy to send young Muslims out to die, allegedly for their faith, why is he so scared he's been hiding himself for years?) and to make sure we didn't miss it there were plenty of trailers for the last week (got digital? Press the red button to hear a murderous, incoherent rant of rage now!).

What were the chances he was setting up to go on the air and say "sorry"? Sadly the old shagwit was only on to mumble the same load of old toss about how it is the duty of the faithful to attack infidels (although clearly not his duty, he's too important and has to prove his devotion to Allah by hiding in a cave somewhere). Oh and he also had to go on TV to advertise Mohamed 9000, the new hair dye for Muslim men that seamlessly blends gray hairs to your natural hair colour.

The birds

A very disturbing story doing the rounds of the Scottish media this week - the unlawful killing of various Scottish birds of prey, from hen harriers to one of the nation's symbols, the magnificent Golden Eagle, are at a twenty year high despite legal protection. And gee, isn't it just a coincidence that the geographical distribution of the cases often matches the location of major 'sporting' estates where fat businessmen shoot flocks of tame pheasants scared into the line of their shotguns by beaters? (I put 'sporting' in commas because I don't see anything sporting in killing animals for kicks, especially when it involves practically tame creatures and almost no skill from the so-called 'hunter') Yes, I'm sure that's just coincidence and not gamekeepers and landowners poisoning, trapping and shooting raptors on the side to make sure they don't interfere with with their game birds.

Or maybe there are just a lot of scumbags out there who don't give a damn about our wildlife and environment (or law) as long as they can exploit it for money - a double irony some of the people in these sorts of jobs who are probably doing this vile act like to tell the rest of us that they are 'the guardians of the countryside' No, you're not, you condescending, tweed-clad twats, you're vicious, amoral bastards. I'm sure there are plenty of gamekeepers who do adhere to the law and try to protect species including raptors, but from the evidence there are obviously a hell of a lot of them who are only to happy to kill even endangered animals. The answer? Well these feckers all love hunting and complain we've restricted so much of that, so let's have some more hunting - open season on hunting anyone in tweeds or Barbour jackets and Deerstalker hat, anyone? Tally ho and give 'em both barrels - don't worry, its a humane way to kill 'em, you know, otherwise they ruin the environment...

Blue, green, gold

Suddenly after a depressingly bad summer (even for someone like me who is allergic to strong sunlight) we've had a sudden burst of sunny, warm weather, very summer like; the beaches by North Berwick were packed at the weekend. Ironically as we have this sudden splash of warmth and sun as we move into September and autumn - instead of light until late into the night the darkness is falling earlier each night and as soon as that sun goes down its cool, a coolness that whispers of the change of seasons and the autumn and winter knocking on the door.

Looking up from my book on the way home this evening the sky was the most beautiful shade of blue, glowing with light, the trees in Princes Street Gardens and the side of Castle Hill still a deep, lush myriad of green hues, a brilliant contrast against the blue, long, long shadows stretching out as the slow autumnal sunset drifts into golden beams. When we do get dry, sunny days at this time of year it really is a golden time in Scotland, the sun moving further round the horizon from its position of summer dominance so that now its light is stretched out to softer, more golden-copper tones. And here and there among the still-emerald foliage the odd leaf slowly turning brown; within a few weeks they will all being to turn, crisp, brown and red, fluttering to the ground and I'll go running through the piles of leaves and kick them in the air because you're never too old to enjoy that.

And just a few more weeks on from that it will be dark by the time I come home, the deep darkness of winter as the wheel of the seasons turns. My breath will mist in the frigid air and frost will sparkle on the bare branches. And again I'm not sad as some are when summer turns to autumn to winter because I love the seemingly eternal cycle of the seasons; each has its own transitory beauty and each connects us to nature and our world. When the long darkness falls it also means watching my cats contentedly sleeping in front of the fire's flickering flames, the lights of the Winter Wonderland, the wonderful warmth of a friendly pub after walking in from a cold, dark night, the simple delight of hot, homemade soup after a cold walk. Then the spring will dawn again behind that, then back to summer and Festivals once more. How quickly they seem to go past and yet how everlasting they feel. Goodybe to another summer, welcome to another autumn in its golden crown.