When I was young, at primary school, the local fish and chip shop had a VHS rental display to peruse as you waited for your food to be prepared.
There was absolutely no filter in these displays, situated at pretty much the perfect height for someone under the age of ten. Most of the videos on offer were action films. Many were of the horror genre.
I remember these boxes clearly. The rotting, levitating hand of House; Pinhead from Hellraiser; The white noise of Poltergeist. One whose tagline still comes easily to mind:
I have an uneasy truce with the horror genre. I don’t enjoy it, but I am constantly drawn to it and - my god - those stories and images stay with you.
My partner spent Valentine’s Day fasting. Not for romance, but for a long-awaited scan at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. The staff were excellent - calm, reassuring, professional - and she was done in under thirty minutes. We celebrated with a gluten-free Domino’s pizza eaten on the sofa. It was not the Valentine’s Day we might have imagined, but we’ve never really celebrated them in the normal way anyway. Regardless, this was how we spent ours.
Whenever I visit ARI I’m always slightly troubled by the stairs down from the main entrance. When I was younger, whenever we visited the hospital, my younger sister and I would dare each other to get as close to the bottom of those stairs as we could. They used to lead solely to the morgue.
Now they are the main thoroughfare to all areas of the hospital. We could take the lift but, you know. So I find myself taking an extra breath each time I tackle those stairs down.
Later that week we trusted our son enough to leave him in charge. My partner and I drove three hours to Glasgow for a work weekend - me discussing assessments, her exploring shops and culture unavailable in Aberdeen.
Friday evening, legs still adjusting after the long drive, we watched Midsomer Murders at the Theatre Royal. It was strange to see the former sidekick now playing the lead, but we adjusted. I couldn’t recall the episode’s plot, which meant the twists actually took me by surprise. Afterward we checked into our hotel just off Sauchiehall Street and walked the eight flights of stairs to our room.
My partner does not do lifts.
The work funded the trip but stayed in its lane. I sat in a meeting room reviewing how we worded questions, occasionally waving at the abseiler working his way down the building exterior, while my partner wandered Buchanan Street. The balance felt different, and it felt good. Work did not dominate, it facilitated the life around it.
That evening we decamped to The Hengler’s Circus - a pub metres from the hotel - while the Scotland-Wales rugby match played out behind us. My partner ate fish and chips. I drank a margherita in preparation for the Computing team meal at Mezcal later.
The meal was excellent, as always, and I was reminded of my daughter’s impromptu, loud, delightful arrival into the restaurant on her way home from a friend’s birthday party. The team remembered too. We kept an eye out, just in case.
My partner had promised a challenging pool match back at the hotel. Date pre-arranged, I headed back early. While she forced me to up my game, we overheard the hotel staff frantically phoning maintenance. A group of guests were trapped in the very lift she refused to use.
I’ve never been so glad to walk eight flights of stairs.
After finishing the work for Qualifications Scotland, I met my partner - now joined by my daughter - and we drove to Arnold Clark near Paisley to continue the car hunt. My daughter test-drove two vehicles while we explored the lot. The salesman was excellent, expressing disbelief at the attitude of the original Ayr salesman who’d offered her £50 as a trade-in.
Then he mentioned we were at head office. He would pass on our concerns to management. My daughter didn’t buy a car that day. But she had options, finance to arrange, and a renewed confidence that karma was circling back toward the man who’d underestimated her.
We celebrated at Pizza Express afterward, the mood high despite the moment my daughter realised there were no buses home after 8pm on a Sunday. We added ninety minutes to an already long drive home to ensure she got home safely, avoiding the bus stop outside Kilmarnock prison.
The fortnight ended with that drive. Close to five hours of darkness, motorway, and conversation. Meanwhile my son coped perfectly well, even managing to wash the dishes before our return. My daughter, despite her transport crisis, continued to take control of her life with growing assuredness.
And I’m just... present. Not really fixing, not really leading, not really solving. Just there, as part of a team.
I had become unnecessary in exactly the way I’d been trying to become. I just hadn’t noticed until I wrote this down.
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