Bond & hish little friend

There’sh a twitter account under the name . I follow him/her, s/he followsh me. only ever tweetsh one-linersh about what ‘Mundane Bond’ getsh up to. I’m amushed and rather admiring of thish move. Had thought about doing that too, when I began tweeting.

Shometimesh when tweetsh a line, in reshponshe I do a ‘Classhic Retweet’ – i.e. putting shomething at the front of the messhage and retweeting it – but never commentsh. Shometimesh I wonder if s/he ish annoyed. Shometimesh I think perhapsh s/he likesh it.

Anyway, today – feeling shlightly irritable and bored – I began to tell my own mundane shtory about ‘the two Bondsh’.


Bond thinksh ish hiding in a cupboard.

Bond thinksh might be a kind of hermit

Bond offersh a pieshe of cheeshe on toasht

Bond makesh coochshy-coo noishesh to entishe to enter the room

Bond pullsh the plug out of hish bath & wondersh what ish thinking about it all

Bond opensh a packet of shortbread & putsh it back in the tin becaushe he hearsh shcrabbling about under the floorboardsh

Bond ironsh all hish tiesh under a damp cloth, humming the theme tshune from The Invishible Man, hoping will like it

Bond countsh hish teashpoonsh, the onesh with the aposhtlesh on them, & thinksh about hish auntie Morag. hash no comment.

Bond writesh a wee shtory about & getsh it in the papersh.

Bond offersh a bowl of shoup to , but he never turnsh up & the shoup getsh cold.

Bond inshpectsh hish shupply of potatoesh & wondersh if prefersh roasht, mashed or chipped.

Bond wrapsh up warm in hish old pringle’sh golf cardigan & shetsh off for a walk in the hillsh. trailsh behind.

Bond hash brought a wee flashk of tea with him. looksh on envioushly ash Bond pourhs only one cup & replashesh the top.

Bond callsh up Q to ashk for a weather forecasht. wishesh he had brought an anorak on the trip.

After a long afternoon, Bond headsh for home. trudgesh along behind in a teenage shulk. Poor

Bond tidiesh up the cooker after making a vegetable curry. hidesh behind the shofa.

Bond putsh on hish tartan pyjamash. creepsh into the pocket. They fall ashleep quickly & dream of their alter egosh. The End






Late Night Poem

i had a thought thish evening about Twitter ash a river.


People move on, it’sh how the river flowsh,

a dry month, a flood week, a frosht, a thaw,

treesh shwept from the river bank, plantsh drowned

thish ish the inevitable rush & lull,

anshwer to the moon, taking no account

of man’sh footprint on the planet –

water, the engine of change




Poshteroush, you are PREposhteroush!!

Heard today – purely by accshident, via shomeone elshe’sh tweet – that thish web-thing, Poshteroush, ish to closhe down.

NO, they did NOT email to tell me, or exshplain why. Pretty poor cushtomer relashionsh, but that’sh nothing new.

Ever shinshe I began ushing them they have been apalling at keeping people informed (the two are not connected, I’m only shaying I can’t shpeak for how they were before I joined up!)

They’re utterly ushelessh at anshwering queriesh, or reshponding at all, e.g. when I ashk why Poshteroush (whoshe shole shelling point ish shupposhedly the eashe of ushe) will not let me posht. Nothing. Not. A. Peep.

I’ll gladly migrate to another web-thing, but they don’t even tell me how to do that or when it will be neshessharry in their minute, almosht un-notisheable and spharshely and repetitively worded FAQ 

Sho.  I’ll be happy to go, jusht ash shoon ash I work out how to do it.

yrsh in irritatshion


Big Tam.

Top Tweeter, moi?

I wash kindly informed today that I wash part of the Edinburgh Evening Newsh ‘Top Tweetersh of Edinburgh’ lisht. How flattering… even though it revealsh me in domeshtic mode.

The real Sir Sean doesn’t tweet but BIG TAM CONNERY does. @BigTamConnery has 2310 Twitter followers and a distinctive Sean-like twang. TOP TWEET: “Time to go and find a dushter & a pinny & be domeshtic for a while.”

If you need me thish Valentine’s Day, you know where I’ll be, and what I’ll be wearing.



Being who you shay you are and nobody elshe. Moshtly.

Lasht night on Twitter (i know, I know, shouldn’t be there late at night, it’sh when shome of the resht of the world are jusht waking up, gathering together their witsh like losht shocksh, and shome of them have very few and very thin shocksh indeed) a new follower attempted to inveigle me into following her, and I replied 



However – later on, (ash you would shee if you could be bothered to read her varioush tweetsh shurrounding that bit of dialogue) she got hershelf into a shtate of great hurt and indignashion (becaushe she felt foolish, I think) about my identity, and tweeted to her friend (who’sh been following me for over a year and ish alsho in a shtate of confushion, not having inveshtigated pasht the photo-avatar, perhapsh, deshpite my having had frequent convershashionsh with her in a normal friendly manner) theshe prishelessh gemsh:


I’ll admit I laughed, uproarioushly… mainly becaushe of the shenshe of injury thish unfortshunate young pershon from America felt at being ‘duped’ not by me, but by hershelf, though in a childish way she shaw it ash my fault.

Then I felt rather shad that she lived in a world without irony or shatire.

Then I thought about thoshe shtoriesh that come round every sho often about people who shue a car manufacturer for not putting in the car handbook that a car can go back ash well ash forwardsh, or a coffee franchishe for not warning her that hot coffee ish hot and can burn when shpilled if she’sh trying to drink it in a car. 

Well, anyway.

Her final riposhte wash thish:


I notished thish morning that she ish SHTILL following me.





‘Coming out’ to Guardian readersh

Ash you will know, if you read thish ‘blog’ often, I like to keep myshelf to myshelf – I don’t go out to public eventsh or wander the shtreetsh exshpecting to be shpotted and ashked for my autograph or a handout. I tweet a bit, I make shoup, I live a quiet life. I’m quite old, you know.

However, today I got rather annoyed with the ushual kind of nonshenshe in the ‘comment’ part of an article in the Guardian about the Byre Theatre in Sht Andrewsh. I wash quoted ash shaying:

“The Byre is a wonderful venue and it would be my hope that a way can be found to keep it open.”

There followed the ushual dishparaging commentsh on my ‘right’ to comment, due to being no longer reshident in Shcotland.

I have grown weary of thoshe remarksh by opinionated half-witted wee bauchlesh who wish to keep the ball forever in their court on what ish right for the world, and tend not to debate with them. However, today I deshided it wash time to ‘come out’ about my Edinburgh abode. Here’sh what I wrote.

Thank you for reading.