Edinburgh, January 30th, 2008

It was good to see Andy and Kate again. Although we did get the meeting-up time wrong, so that an initially innocent foray by may and i into the pub was turned into a Black Booksensian masterpiece of comic timing (and drinking). Andy and Kate have been visiting San Francisco and Chicago (plus Champaign, Illinois, to see our friend Ciaran). They enjoyed their visit, but have been left with a slightly bewildered look on their faces from a number of things, mostly food related.

Half of the Friday in Edinburgh was spent finding an internet cafe and being frustrated. The National Express website is, officially, the worst website in the history of mankind, especially since it has aspirations of lovely pop-up screens a la facebook. After denying a payment from my credit card several times it still tried to go through my bank account, charging it six times for a total of zero train tickets. Part four thousand and twenty six of Sam's adventures in bureaucracy had me standing in a phone box, dialling one number, to be told that i'd dialled the wrong department, to be given a whole new number, to be told again that i'd rung the wrong department. This was after I physically went to the National Express office in the train station to be told that not only could they not help me and I'd have to call the help line, but that they were unable to give me the number i'd have to call. We eat expensive sandwiches, drink terrible terrible coffee, again.

We then go to Edinburgh castle. We are introduced, or rather re-introduced to the fact that a lot of museums, or in fact exhibitions of any kind are shit. Going into a castle, with eight hundred year old origins, then stepping through one of its doorways to be confronted by a piece of plasterboard with crappy renditions of all the kings painted on is not in fact a life-changing experience. Neither is a plaster tableau of the coronation of a king that lights up in certain places, as voice-overs 're-create' the 'experience'. The same as going past 'authentic' 'recreations' of the Prisoners of Napoleanic Wars' experience by hanging up some hammocks and making plastic models of bread and apples.

It is only the physicality of actual objects that adds any weight to these sorts of exhibitions, especially those whose context outweigh the banality of their original purpose. One example was at the end of the 'Prisons of War' exhibit, where they put up and highlighted the graffiti carved into the castle's original prison doors. Placards emphasised certain interesting parts, since a lot of them had the 18th and 19th century equivalents of "Shazza Waz 'Ere". One prisoner had carved a rudimentary picture of their ship, the prototype stars and stripes hanging off the back. They lost their rights during the war of independance, because they were not seen as prisoners of war. Instead they were seen as pirates, not legitimate combatants, but terrorists. can i emphasise the point any more clearly, because I know that the museum curators did.

Walking through the museum of military history I blanche. Not at anything in particular, more the reminder that most of the time war is seen in the exact opposite way that i do. The glorious perpetuation of death. Of making war romantic in order to make it functional. What can you expect from museum entirely made from the donations of ex-servicemen? I'm standing in front of a mood-lit cabinet, the third memorial I've seen to the glorious memory of General Haig, not a critical word said in the little plaques of information about his medals, his uniform, the picture he had taken in this year, in this place. From the statue in front of the castle, to the war memorial, where his name is cast in gold leaf, even though he didn't die in battle, next to the one hundred and forty thousand Scottish soldiers who died under his fodder-war until 1918. On the explainatory note that comes with his memorabilia, there is half a sentence that states some contemporary 'people' (not historians) have criticised the way he ran the war. My arse.