I'm back, it seems.
This morning I had to drop off the Bean at nursery all by myself for the first time. Mo has carried out this onerous duty several times now, always with the added unpleasantness of a hair-raisingly tight schedule and mad dash to Edinburgh with the vagaries of public transport thwarting her as they will, followed by a day of her manager's bullshit and then the same again in reverse.
All I had to do today was leave the wee girl off and take a leisurely walk through town, stopping at bookshop, gallery and cafe on my way home to do some housework, but still it was a bit harrowing. On the way to the nursery, Bean strapped to me in a big, hippyish cloth wrap, I felt I was leading her to a betrayal - not to be melodramatic or nowt! She's in a clingy phase, and while her hugs are deeply pleasant, it hurts all the more to leave her in the care of virtual strangers and slip off with a guilty, backwards glance. She was subdued when I left this morning and not, I am happy to say, howling inconsolably, in which state Mo has often had to leave her. Walking the edge of Glasgow Green from nursery to town I felt hollow.
Things looked up with earphones in (Ghost Orchid, an unsigned duo from San Diego, CA, loveky), a carefree purchase of the new Palahnuik paperback, an amble round the Jim Lambie exhibition at the GOMA and tea & caramel square in the basement library cafe, but it felt strange to be pottering without the Bean tied on or buggy-bound in front of me. I missed her, and pictured her constantly with an intensity barely experienced since a woman first broke my heart. Despite my recent craving for a little solitude I considered bolting back to the nursery and springing the wee bam. Didn't, but I'm amazed it even occurred to me. That, as Huey Lewis and his colleagues the News once pointed out, is the power of love.
I like the GOMA building - it has a totally fabulous, ornate, Georgian ceiling in its main room, a 3-storey oval-galleried lobby and a glass liftshaft in its main stairwell. It is also probably the city cultural depository most easily defended from zombie hordes - must discuss with my friend Ruth, who is employed by the council and works all these places.
I liked the Jim Lambie stuff, or some of it. A holdall with a great many handles, a wall-mounted golden cube made from halved wooden doors and best of all, a sculpture made of mirrors on eye-covered spokes hanging from the ceiling. Still, it all struck me as more fun than moving, visual puzzles, physical conundra. Glad it's there and publicly funded, of course. For a more sophisticated response - what the artist is saying - I'd have to go and crib something off the Internet, but time is tight.
A thing it amuses me to do very much when taking, say, a young nephew round the GOMA, is to stand gazing at the fire extinguishers, face furrowed in art-appreciator's frown, chin-stroking like heck, and at last to murmur, "Exquisite sensibility...mmm."