Andrew Carnegie was born in Dunfermline, once upon a time, the capital of Scotland. In a tiny cottage in Moodie Street, made even tinier with the addition of a second family in the second upstairs bedroom.
Andrew, the great philanthropist, was the son of a damask linen weaver. The big, downstairs room of the little cottage was where the huge Jacquard loom lived and where William Carnegie would work.
Before moving to America in 1848, the Carnegie family lived and worked in Dunfermline and Andrew started school there. Consequently he never forgot his home town. Which is why the real Carnegie Hall is there.
The tiny cottage is now a museum and was our Cultural Highlight this year. And what an excellent choice it was. A marvellous little museum that is really worth an hour of your time.
Worth more than an hour was the magnificent (there’s really no other word) display of football put on by the mighty Pars for our annual visit to East End Park. And the bridies were pretty bloody good too.
The last two years have been a bit woeful for the Pars but this season they’ve silenced all their detractors and gone on a goal scoring marathon. Their goal difference at the moment is 52 and they are sitting at the top of the table! That is pretty amazing when you consider how awful they were during the last two games we watched them play.
Eventually, they grew tired of scoring goals and settled for a 5-0 trouncing of the opposition, Poor Auld Stenhousemuir. We left, happy and joyous to a pub for a final drink with Mark before he had to leave for a 50th birthday party and we had to leave for the airport.
The trip home was pretty uneventful (Actually the most eventful thing was the ground crew guy noticing Nicktor’s scarf on the way into the plane, asking if it was a Pars scarf. When he said yes, there ensued a long conversation about the game and how he’d missed it because he was working. He also wondered why we’d make such a long trip to see a football game. We said we were big Pars fans.) and Nicktor, eventually dropped me home at about 10pm. We were quite amazed that we’d only left the day before to go to Edinburgh and here we were less than 48 hours later, back outside our house. And sober.
As a last word, can I just say that it’s true when people say the stairs are the most dangerous thing in any house…outside America*.
As I was heading upstairs for bed, I slipped on the Welcome mat and went flying backwards, bashing my head on the last step of the stairs. There was an almighty crack (it woke Mirinda up) and I lay sprawled in the vestibule. I felt the back of my now throbbing head and was amazed I wasn’t bleeding.
It made me a bit grumpy so that when I appeared in the bedroom demanding Neurofen Mirinda claimed I really was a bear with a sore head. I have no idea whether it concussed or merely knocked some sense into me but I went to sleep very, very quickly.
* Everyone knows the most dangerous thing in an American house is the inhabitant’s collection of weapons.