midnight motorway noises

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne...

A Burn's supper (for those of you who don't know) is a chance for friends to meet, talk, drink and be merry. It's a celebration of the life of the greatest Scottish poet.

It can be a rowdy, raucus affair with shouting, singing and jumping around on furniture. It can involve the police, breaking up a five am ceilidh in the middle of the street. It can be all of those things, or none at all.

Tonight's Burn's supper was totally welcome. It was quite quiet - reflecting the mood of us friends; we, happy but busy, tired, always-on-the-go friends.

I haven't been in the same room as that many of my dearest and oldest friends in too long. It was warm and talk was easy. There weren't too many rules and, while I know that it is important to uphold the laws (Tam O'Shanter should be read, Auld Lang Syne should be said or sung etc etc...) Surely Rab would've been happier to know that he gave us something to come together over and celebrate; to take time out for, from out busy, mobile phone-dictated lives. To give us all a chance to be silly together again, to drink and to laugh.

Every year I am amazed by the power he still holds over good friends who want to smile together, who want a hug, a chat, some good food, some dubious wine and a wee dram.

To the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns!

I saw this stuck to a wall on Great Western Road tonight. I liked it because it was put up quite far from Grant Street. Poor Woyzec, wandreing solemnly around Glasgow wondering if he's still welcome. No Woyzec, you're not.

The cars outside my window make it sound breezy, constantly. Wind doesn't sound like wind when it's constant but it's the best way to describe the noise without delving too deep into meaningless metaphors. It's a bit like when you hold a conch shell to your ear, only, it doesn't make me think of salty seawater spraying up into my face...

I can hear them go all the way down to Charing Cross because sometimes, one makes a slightly different noise. Maybe he's revving to get home quicker, it's late, it's been a long day. Or maybe she should have gone for that MOT last week afterall, cough, splutter. There's a siren which makes me wonder, it interrupts - brash and intrusive. And then it's gone again.

This is not a blog about motoring. It's about home. It feels like home. When I'm away, I can't sleep because I miss the Midnight Motorway Noises.