Category: Personal

About eight years ago I spent a short time in a temp job working for the whisky company Macdonald and Muir, which is now known as Glenmorangie PLC. At the time, the company was still based in Leith. Their main industrial plant occupied pretty much one whole side of Constitution Street between the Shore and the part of Leith docks that has now been turned into the very fashionable Ocean Terminal. The factory held three or four bonded warehouses (“bonds”), administrative offices, a bottling plant, a small cooperage, and an enormous vatting and blending operation. Most of their output was blended Scotch whisky rather than single malt, primarily the Highland Queen and Bailie Nicol Jarvie brands.

Most of the job involved enumeration: counting barrels as they were trundled into and out of storage, weighing the barrels on enormous industrial scales to see how much was still left in them, checking the volume of spirit pumped into and out of the tanker trucks that transported the stuff, and double-checking as the vat men took dips and measured the strength of the spirit. One of the great things about this job was that hardly any of these tasks took place in an office. I had to wander around the whole plant, from bond to bond, to wherever the latest counting operation had to be performed. It involved a lot of standing around and chatting while whisky was being pumped or poured into the huge wooden vats. I learned an awful lot about whisky production.

But the very best part of it was…the smell.

Whisky barrels are not spirit-tight. Over time, a certain percentage escapes into the air. As casks are emptied into the blending vats, a certain amount is lost on the floors. Also, taking dips from casks for nosing or measuring the strength of the whisky is not exactly a tidy, clinical process. It splashes and spills. And while the drops and splatters evaporate away, the peaty, flowery aroma of the whisky stays behind. It soaks into stone and wood, softening and mellowing as it does so, and it permeates the whole fabric of the bond. There is nothing quite like walking into a bond first thing in the morning, and being enveloped by the sweet aroma of decades-old whisky. I adored it.

But the taste? That’s a different matter. I love the smell of coffee, but I’ve never learned to like the drink itself. Even though I grew to love the smell of whisky in the morning, I could never abide by the harsh burn of the actual spirit in my mouth. Until recently, that is.

As I was reading Iain Banks’s new book, Raw Spirit, I was heartily affected by his enthusiasm for our national drink. A good few years had passed since I’d last tried a dram, so I figured it was time to give it another try. A fortnight ago we were out to dinner at No. 3 Royal Terrace with my parents. After a rather splendid steak, I ordered a glass of Highland Park to round off the meal. I nosed the glass with some apprehension because Abi and my parents–knowing how much I’ve disliked whisky in the past–were all watching me intently to see what I thought. I took a sip, let it wash around in my mouth a bit, and drank it down.

“Hmm,” I said. “That’s actually quite nice.”

Hence the “A Very Whisky Christmas” title of this post. As soon as it was known in my family that I liked whisky, my Christmas present fate was sealed. I now have a nice selection of malt whisky books with notes on all the distilleries, tasting notes for the spirits themselves, and a tidy little collection of single malt miniatures.

Can’t say that I mind, you understand.

There’s obviously no such thing as a good time to be laid off from work. Some times, however, are worse than others. Five weeks after joining a company, two weeks before Christmas, and a month and a half before your new baby is due has got be hitting the red zone of the bad-o-meter. I’m curious, therefore, why I don’t feel utterly miserable. I mean, I’ve been pretty down for the last few months anyway–why hasn’t this tipped me over the edge into gloom and despair?

Yes, I’m bummed out about 40,000 people suddenly finding themselves without home insurance, and I feel really bad about all of my colleagues who had been at Tribune a lot longer than I had. I hadn’t been there long enough to build up any kind of real attachment to the company, but there were a lot of people there who were very bitter and angry about being let down in this way. I spent an hour and a half yesterday afternoon alongside now-former colleagues, queuing in the cold outside the company’s closed doors, waiting to fill out redundancy papers. There were some laughs and joking around, but it was gallows humour.

Yet I feel like a cloud has been lifted from me. It makes me wonder how happy I really was there. While I was looking for jobs in September, Tribune was the first company to offer me a position, and (after a certain amount of talking) I accepted it. I wonder if I might not have been too hasty at the time, choosing a good offer quickly rather than taking my time to wait for the best offer. (If there is such a thing.) At the time, though, I wasn’t feeling too good about myself. My self-confidence was at a pretty low ebb, and I was finding it hard to believe (really believe, rather than just hoodwinking myself with the available, reasonably positive evidence) that anyone would want to employ me.

Things are different now, though. Even though I was only there for five weeks, I did some good work at Tribune–work that I felt good about–and that has gone a long way to fixing some of the doubts I had about myself and about my future in the computer industry. Ignoring for a moment the financial constraints imposed by the lack of a job, I’m looking forward to having a short break from work. (Because let’s face it, the chances of finding anything before New Year are pretty slim.)

If there’s anything I’ve felt short of recently, it’s time. Time to play with Alex, time to read some books, time to work on this web site, time to prepare for Christmas. (Christmas, argh. I can’t remember the last time I felt so unprepared for the holiday season, and so completely devoid of any kind of seasonal cheer.) I know I’m going to have to devote a lot of my free time to looking for a job, but there’s a big gap in my mindscape where the nine-to-five used to be, and that feels extraordinarily liberating. Its absence won’t last, but I think I’m in a good position right now to do two things: 1) enjoy the space and time while it’s there, and 2) fill the gap with a job that will really work for me.

When live gives you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade, or lemon meringue pie, or lemon curd, or something. I’m certainly trying.

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Update: Another reason to feel glad about not working at Tribune any more is that essentially, they were a bunch of crooks. It looks like one of their major underwriters stopped backing their policies about a year ago, and yet Tribune continued to sell policies. That doesn’t happen by accident, and it doesn’t just get overlooked at a monthly board meeting. Senior managers must have known that they were operating illegally, and that makes them crooks.

The story is hitting the national news now:

• BBC Money Box
• BBC News
• The Independent
• The Telegraph

My bike has arrived! Abi and Alex caught up with me on the bus after work, and we all went into town to the bike shop. We went a bit mad on accessories, eventually coming away with helmets for both Alex and me (Alex’s one is red, with a blue train and animals on it), reflective arm and leg strips, front and rear flashing lights, a lock, a pump, a repair kit, and–most importantly–a child seat to fit on the luggage rack.

While the bike people (who in the end were very patient about me calling them up every other day to badger them about the delays) were installing the various items, we nipped down to the Piemaker for something to eat. When we returned, Alex and I got kitted up, and cycled all the way back home. Abi took a taxi. It rained, of course, but it felt good to cycle anyway. Alex seemed to enjoy himself, too.

I’ll be cycling to work tomorrow. Yay!

After a couple of days off to compose myself, I’m starting my new job tomorrow. I’m kind of nervous, which is normal, I suppose. I’m also kind of narked that my friendly not-quite-local bicycle shop hasn’t got my bike for me yet. By bike, it’s a 15 minute commute to the new place. By bus and foot, it’s going to take me about 40 minutes. Still better than the hour+ it took me to get to my old work, but disappointing in an I’ve-put-on-how-much-weight-since-April? kind of way….