Birthday

I decided to visit a small length of coastline, of the Scottish Borders. Along the way we stopped via a small town named Duns, and enjoyed a sandwich and coffee, whilst sat outside a café, surrounded by a show of rally cars. After being overtaken by numerous speeding cars driving erratically, our first port of call, Eyemouth.

Charlie took his shoes and socks off, then complained about the coldness of the water. We walked across the shoreline to the harbour, whilst Charlie paused I took a chance to take his picture; he's usually OK if I photograph him from a distance.

We walked back to the car, via the harbour, stopping at an amusement arcade to play a shooting game. The attendant came to compliment what a good shot I was, awesome. We then decided to drive to a small fishing village of Saint Abbs.

Charlie required the use of a toilet, a side effect of his medication, so we drove down to Coldingham bay.

The demeaning emptiness of life has a strange, eery feel, as if perched upon the edge of oblivion. Devalued of self worth, rationality desperately grasping at a shard of broken perspective, sliced sore, etched with a serrated loneliness. Reminded me of the film "Quiet Earth" centred on a character named Zac Hobson who awakens to find himself alone in the world. But Charlie, arousing me from procrastination, said the seaside was not a Scottish thing. Coffee and cake at the beach cafe cost us thirteen pounds twenty pence. I enjoyed jam sponge, a dessert I had not tasted since school time, some thirty four years ago. People working in the cafe spoke about a strange visit from people revering projections of an "African Child". We drove south, past Eyemouth and onto Burnmouth; the last Scottish Borders seaside town before England. Now, this place was extremely quiet, but this isolated space was not stagnated.

What you see and don't see obscured behind angles and unfocused from elaborate detail, from a panoramic photograph.

Our journey back to Hawick, retracing our way involved passing through previous towns such as Duns, here I noticed a stone carving, involving the Red Hand scrolled with the word "Industry".

We entered Kelso in search of purchasing a cooked birthday meal, walking through the market square we found an eating establishment and ordered a plentiful plate of fish and chips. I recite memories of a friendly Kelso, yet still isolated despondent and enduring longevity of being unearthed alone. I often wondered what kind of hatred perpetuates grievous contempt for such a duration; the hatred for our people is multi-generational, vengeance recital conditioned through epigenetics, tort upon their bitter twisted strands of defunct DNA.

We visited our friend, who gave me a birthday card, some cashmere gloves, and had also had cooked a huge birthday cake. After Charlie had a cat nap drove to Bonchester Bridge but the establishment there was crammed packed with travelling / camping bikers. We ended the evening in Denholm, played some pool and endured dismal pop music songs, videos played through a widescreen TV, remote control operated by the pub landlord.

I was with Charlie, and another friend later, happy that I was not alone on this birthday to reminisce of a lonely last year, at Dalry and Saltcoats. My birthday meal, a can of 50p lentil soup, and birthday cake, a crumbled blueberry muffin; I considered myself, then, lucky to be eating. However, two friends, hundreds of miles away bought me table drinks in a Wetherspoon pub, paid for remotely via using a mobile phone app. At the pub two lovers, dining, remarked on how lonely I appeared, with a buffet of alcoholic drinks spread before me.