Hardeep Singh Kohli

Published on Saturday 22 August 2009 23:31

HARDEEP is your love

Should I flush out queasy owner of a toilet phone?

When I was a schoolboy in the early Eighties our cludgies were roond the back of the school. They were, as was the lavatorial/architectural fashion of the day, a separate building. This separation somehow lent an air of potential mischief to the lavvies, as we affectionately called them. One prank that never failed to amuse was when a photocopied and coloured in 1 note was gently lain down in the communal gutter of the urinals. (This joke relied on someone being manky enough to consider the horror of picking up a multi-urine-stained pound note.)

This memory came to the forefront of my mind when I visited the toilets at the Gilded Balloon the other evening. As I lifted the lid in preparation for a quick numero uno, I was confronted by a mobile phone, sat listlessly in the depths of the china bowl. I was shocked. My first instinct was to check to see if there was a recent user nearby who might, while hand-washing and drying, be blissfully unaware of the absence of their telephonic equipment. The cludgie was empty.

My instinct was to salvage the phone, clean it, dry it and somehow work out the owner who would undoubtedly be grateful for its safe if soggy return. Then this very simple thought occurred: what if the owner of the said phone had been aware of the loss of the phone and the circumstances surrounding its disappearance. Knowing where the phone was lodged they had simply refused to confront the watery horrors to rescue it. It was after all an unremarkable handset that might well have celebrated its tenth birthday. What if I had then returned that phone to them? What would they think of me?

Yet my instincts urged me to act. I was torn. I was unhappy, unclear, unsure. I decided to leave the phone where it was and entered the adjoining cubicle and completed my delayed ablution. I left in a hurry, wondering if I could hear a watery ringtone on my exit.

Crack cycling gear is in the jeans

I travelled to Edinburgh with the minimum articles of clothing I could get away with. After two decades of packing I hate lugging luggage. However, I hadn't factored in my spontaneous bike purchase and subsequent daily rides to and from the Gilded Balloon. Therefore my capsule wardrobe has been further honed into a skeletal smattering of clothes that facilitate cycling. T-shirts are favoured over sweatshirts and wool and one ought never leave home in Scotland without an anorak or kagoul (both equally uncool, both equally brilliant in the rain). Trainers rule over formal shoes, particularly when attempting an emergency stop. But let me share the most painful of lessons I have learnt in terms of sartorial cycling stuff. Low slung jeans are mutually incompatible with anything approaching an elegant dismount. You have been warned.

Between a wok and a hard place

I have been astonished by the quality of restaurants in the capital. Places like the Dogs, and Centrotre, below, I have known and enjoyed for a while, but newer, different places seem to have sprung up all over Edinburgh city centre. Sushi bars, tapas restaurants, vegan cafes – there's something for everyone. Well, almost everyone. There seem to be no decent Chinese restaurants in this city. Maybe I don't know where to look but one would hope that the finest dim sum, roast duck and hot and sour soup would be easily located. Alas, no. I can't remember the last time in my life I have gone without my beloved Chinese food for so long. I may be forced to have to cook it for myself. All I need to work out now is where to buy chopsticks: it doesn't taste the same with a fork and knife.

Memories of Glen Michael but that's not all, folks

I was in a bookshop in Stockbridge. There are few better ways to spend an hour than reminding oneself of all the great books there are in the world to read. In my hand I clutched the newest Ian Rankin and was afroth with excitement, when I was confronted by a face from my past. Staring out at me from a table by the checkout was none other than Glen Michael, left. I stood stock still as the memories flooded back.

For those who didn't live in Scotland 30 years ago or those of you too young to remember, Glen Michael's Cavalcade was something of an institution among Scottish kids. In the days before channels full of cartoons there was a single programme on STV that was the one-stop shop for animated entertainment. Glen Michael was the kindly, fresh-faced avuncular host. Admittedly he spent most of the show having a conversation with a talking paraffin lamp called Paladin, but that aside it was straightforward. Every week, Glen would read out and show birthday cards that had been sent in by avid viewers. The beauty of the show was its simplicity and the fact that Glen was the consummate TV host. And the cartoons were great too.

It was our ambition to get my wee brother's birthday mentioned on Cavalcade. Unfortunately, the rubbishy homemade card we crafted out of an old shoe-box and some sari material didn't pass quality control at Cowcaddens; but Sanj did receive a lovely (if slightly pro forma) birthday card signed by the great man. And Paladin.

And as Glen looked out at me from the cover of his book I was sure I knew exactly who I would be sending a copy of his book to. Perhaps I should have wrapped it in an old shoe-box and some sari material.