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Unfortunately, over the past twenty years I have noticed a frustrating increase in littering and fly tipping all over Edinburgh. But perhaps I should reassess if that matters at all, if random passers-by in Edinburgh are the best kind to have by your side in an emergency.   Yesterday in Edinburgh, I saw a man step off a Lothian bus on the bridges. He could have been anyone’s dad or granddad, he could have been you. One moment he was standing, the next it looked like he lost his balance and fell with his head against the large rubber tyre of the bus. People nearby immediately surrounded and comforted him: one asked the driver not to start the bus, another bent down to see if the man was conscious, another pulled out their phone and called for an ambulance. Luckily a doctor was on the bus heading to the airport. He assessed the gentleman’s condition and asked his name, as others offered wet-wipes to clean the blood from a slight gash on the gentleman’s forehead, and some bott

A poem inspired by a conversation with Dorota and Stéphane , with a nod to Debra Basset’s research on digital grieving. The violin, in itself, is not violent. What if, says the artist to herself, the instrument’s lines and angles are a shared mental framework of hidden influences and meanings. The bow, for instance, thrums across one’s deadened consciousness, strokes a beat across the heart and back again. The violin is almost drawing blood in the way it shakes me awake. A violinist can create a crisscross of cuts in the ice of a soul as easily as soothe and glide. Its movements start soft, the space between the notes casting the magic of a first lover’s kiss. Gaining momentum, squiggles on pulped leave dance pirouettes, marionette-like shadows across the lines. I don’t know what it was like to live amongst candlelight and clicking piano keys,  when the only entertainment was string, wind or percussion. The miracle of live exp