The week just past brought with it four reasons for me to be cheerful, which I’ve described below. It’s turned into a bit of an essay, though, so if you were expecting and only want to read something pithy from me, move on, pilgrim. But if you’re okay with something a bit longer, pour yourself a cup of tea or coffee or a glass of wine or even a large Jameson, settle back and read on. What follows is “of great social and political import”, as Janis once sang.
Reason #1
The week began with the arrival of my Irish Passport and me dropping a tear or two at the sight of it. It was the culmination of a long journey by the Big Sis and I. My oul’ Irish mother never possessed a birth certificate in her life and we needed one to apply for our passports. We had to find out where she was born and where she was baptised, obtain her baptismal certificate and use the certificate to register her birth before her formal birth certificate could be issued. In the course of our journey, I was being charmed by the soft-spoken ladies of the Civil Registration Service at Roscommon, while the Big Sis was charming half the clergy across three Counties. But we got there and now not only are we Irish citizens by birthright, but we can also claim official nationality of the free country of Ireland. My personal thanks for that latter status go to my heroes. To Padraig Pearse and James Connolly and oul’ Tom Clarke and the other brave souls who signed the Declaration of the Irish Republic back in 1916 and simultaneously signed their death warrants. To the Big Fella, Michael Collins, for waging the guerrilla War of Independence. And to my Irish grandfather, Padraig Lane, whom I discovered only recently played no mean part in the Big Fella’s War, rising from messenger on his homemade motorcycle to gun repairer to armourer and eventually retiring as a watch mender. (There may be a book called The Watch Mender one of these days.)
Reason #2
About ten years ago, the rather zealous nurse at the doctors’ surgery down the road from us in Edinburgh (whom Alison and I referred to as the Fat Nurse because the buttons on her tunic always seemed to be on the verge of pinging off) insisted that I took one of those awful glucose tests, after which she gleefully announced that I had Diabetes Type 2. The way she conducted the test was dubious and the results were only marginal, but nevertheless I was duly registered as Type 2 diabetic. I protested, of course. I wasn’t obese, I didn’t eat junk food and I took plenty of exercise. But eventually I caved in and took the meds (and have been taking them ever since). I even reluctantly attended one of those seminars where the health people tell you what sort of food you should eat and where a lady who could have fitted three of me inside her shouted at me, “You’re in denial!” Anyway, since coming here to Crieff my annual HbA1c blood tests have shown up very low blood sugar level scores, so low that three months ago the doc and I agreed to half my meds. This week the doc confirmed that despite the reduction in meds my score remains very low at only 36. If your score is above 58, you are diabetic. If it is between 48 and 58, you are at risk of diabetes. And if it is below 48, you are non-diabetic. I am non-diabetic, therefore, but I’ve asked not to be unregistered because I’m a canny laddie. Remaining registered means that I’ll only have my blood tested once a year. Otherwise the nurses could pull me down to the health centre any number of times and do all sorts of horrible things to me with Lucozade. Remaining registered also means that I’ll automatically receive a full eye test at the hospital once a year. But in case there’s any misunderstanding, pilgrim, watch my lips: I am not diabetic. I am not at risk of diabetes. I am non-diabetic.
Reason #3
Like half the population, I suffer from high blood pressure, for which I take meds to keep it down. But I also suffer from White Coat Syndrome, meaning that my blood pressure shoots sky-high whenever a doctor or nurse goes to measure it. As a result of the latter, I’ve been self-monitoring at home for years, with consistently good results – until recently, that is. Then the readings began to rise for no apparent reason, and the more I worried about them the higher they rose. Convinced that the problem was all in my head, I bought one of those Fitbit thingies and used it to take alternative measurements. The Fitbit readings were remarkable, but the doc was decidedly unimpressed by them when I saw him about three months ago. So I had a re-think, decided that the monitor I had been using at home for some ten years was probably past its sell-by, purchased a new one and put it away in a drawer until about a week before I was due to see the doc again. Then bingo! A full set of highly acceptable daily readings. The doc is delighted. I’m ecstatic. And we’ve agreed that my BP only needs to be taken twice a year at most. So not only am I a non-diabetic Irishman, I also have near-perfect blood pressure.
Reason #4
Like all good essays, I’ve left the best bit till last. Every morning since Alison passed – that’s more than four years’ worth of mornings – I’ve been asking myself the same questions: Where are you moving to? And when? Every. Single. Morning. And by the end of each day I’ve never had the answers. I’ve thought about emigrating to Venice, my first love. Except I don’t like the people. Nor the hordes of tourists who flock there, see nothing and yet return to brag about it. They never explore the nooks and crannies, find the hidden art treasures, go to the places of intrigue, find out where the bodies are buried. And anyway I don’t think I could go back there without Alison. I’ve considered returning to Edinburgh, but even in the fairly short time I’ve been away the city seems alien to me now. And it’s the same with South Queensferry, my hometown. That wee toon bears no resemblance now to the place I grew up in. And it still conceals too many skeletons in cupboards for my liking. More recently, I’ve been mulling over a move to Ireland; well, I am a citizen, after all, and I possess a passport. Earlier this year, I spent a week in Arva in County Cavan, where my mother was born, and felt so at home in the place. I could see myself starting a new life over there and perhaps being buried alongside grandfather Padraig – if we ever manage to find the oul’ reprobate’s grave! Yes, Ireland is my current favourite destination. Or at least it was until last week when I stood back and reviewed what I had here in Crieff. The review was prompted by a most perfect day a few weeks ago when two cousins from England (Phil and Sue) and two from Texas (Tara and Charlene) came to visit me here. They met up with the rest of the Scottish branch of the Gisby clan at the Hydro and they walked with me up into the hills to see Alison’s Tree. I don’t want to put words into their mouths, but I think they fell in love with Crieff and its surroundings. After their visit, I looked at the place with fresh eyes. My next climb up to Alison’s Tree was the most enjoyable experience, as was my next walk round our beautiful Victorian park. And so, belatedly, I fell in love with the place, too. Why would I want to move from all the beauty it has to offer? And there’s the house to take into account. The house that Alison and Brendan rebuilt; their retirement home. Why would I want to give up what we sweated blood and tears to achieve. And that was it. I had decided. No more questions in the morning. No more prevarication. No more wondering about the future. I’m no longer a stranger in Crieff. This is my home. I’m here to stay.
Crieff already has a family connection, by the way. I didn’t know this when I moved here, but by the strangest of coincidences my paternal grandfather, Tom Gisby, an Englishman who was a veteran of two World Wars and a hero to boot, also came to the town to retire many years ago.
Of course, the icing on the cake will be when Scotland rids itself of the Westminster poison and becomes an independent country like Ireland. I’ll fight tooth and nail to help her achieve that objective. I’ll even join the Brigade if one is set up and if they’ll have me. Unlike my two grandfathers, I know nothing about guns and explosives. But I’m shit-hot with spreadsheets; they didn’t use to call me the Excel Queen at work for nothing, you know!
Crieff already has a family connection, by the way. I didn’t know this when I moved here, but by the strangest of coincidences my paternal grandfather, Tom Gisby, an Englishman who was a veteran of two World Wars and a hero to boot, also came to the town to retire many years ago.
Of course, the icing on the cake will be when Scotland rids itself of the Westminster poison and becomes an independent country like Ireland. I’ll fight tooth and nail to help her achieve that objective. I’ll even join the Brigade if one is set up and if they’ll have me. Unlike my two grandfathers, I know nothing about guns and explosives. But I’m shit-hot with spreadsheets; they didn’t use to call me the Excel Queen at work for nothing, you know!