Run up to Hogmanay

In the village hall preparations have begun for the Hogmanay celebrations. The young American teacher is taking a group of six year olds through their musical contribution to the event. The six year olds are playing ' This little light of mine, I want to make it shine' on their recorders. What this has to do with Hogmanay is a mystery although the piece may have been chosen because it is mercifully brief. The recorder, it must be said, is a shrilly unforgiving instrument in the hands of massed and enthusiastic six year olds. 

We've never seen the centre of town this quiet. The waves of holiday makers that had been expected haven't materialised. To the delight of the local gull population the streets are deserted. Many of the shops are closed and those that are open have only a trickle of customers. All the hotels claim to be busy but judging by the darkened room lights the large 5 star seems to have one wing that's completely closed. This may say something about the outlook for the economy. In a months time the first semester of 2025 gets underway and we will all start complaining about parking - or the lack of it - again. 

Here, at the last wee house before Denmark, the Christmas tree continues to shed its needles at an ever accelerating rate. By New Year it will be looking very threadbare. The branches have also begun to sag in a way that suggests the baubles will soon be on the floor. Rather than take it out of the front door ( and suffer needlegeddon )  I think I'll drag it out into the back garden and chop it up into smaller sections that can then be taken off to be recycled at the biomass centre.

Puppy has raced ahead of her sister and is sitting on the track leading to the courtyard. She is torn between following us and annoying her sister. A difficult choice. Annoying her sister is deemed to be more satisfying. The farmers wife informs us that Puppy has  been nursing part of a much decayed hip joint. Her archaeological skills are still being put to good use. The bones are being discovered because the tractor driver usually only ploughs the top six inches of the soil but this time he's ploughed to a depth of a foot and thrown up all sorts of surprises in the process.

So starts a quiet Friday morning in a quiet village near a small quiet town in  North East Scotland.

Hogmanay music #1. What better way to start a Hoolie :https://youtu.be/2MbL5pMe6fg

The piano :https://www.hyperdimensional.co/p/measuring-up

Scarcity. There is something vaguely reassuring in this substack piece : https://edconway.substack.com/p/hang-on-are-there-any-lost-minerals

Coming to a canine near you in the New Year :https://loyal.com/  And then there's this :https://dogagingproject.org/