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A Midlothian Sunday

Sundays have never been my favourite. There’s something ineffably gloomy about them. Even when the sun is shining it causes me to squint my eyes and turn my spirit inward. Yesterday it didn’t shine. In fact the contrast between the latter part of last week and this weekend just past couldn’t have been greater, given the time of year. A falling off a cliff from to 24 to 11 deg.C. The lazy chill of the easterly wind as I stepped outdoors for a cigarette. A leaden Midlothian sky crawling westward.

I spent the day alternating between guitar practice and lying on my bed with eyes closed, pretending to have power-naps. In truth, it was all about keeping my head down. Twice I explored the television channels in attempts to find something to engage my attention without success. I cooked dinner and resisted the temptation of wine.

The guitar practice sessions made sure I had made use of this melancholy day. Trying to get under my fingers certain parts of certain songs I really should be able to play better after all these years. Finally determining to do whatever takes to unlearn mistakes and get the correct muscle memory ingrained. So as not to feel a rising anxiety as I approach these passages in the heat of battle when more than me is listening.

At 9:30pm I pulled the curtain down on the day. This morning the drive up the M90 / A90 to Aberdeen whiling away the miles with cognitive bahavioural therapy.

Rock on.

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