Process was flawed
An independent report, carried out by Deloitte at an estimated cost of £80,000, found that the procedure for assessing submissions was neither “meticulous” nor “thorough”, despite the Council’s assurances to the contrary.

Moreover, the report concluded that the criteria for scoring the bids submitted were altered part way through the process, thus rendering the selection procedure and the subsequent award of contracts unreliable and unfair.

‘If it ain’t broke don’t fix it’
The spanner in the works for the new contracts came from the Direct Payments scheme, which gave service users the opportunity to apply for a budget for their care to be spent with the provider of their choice.

Unsurprisingly, of the eight hundred people eligible, well over half took the option of applying for Direct Payments. Most wanted to remain with their existing providers, which would enable them to avoid the stress of changing a service they were happy with and a care worker with whom they felt comfortable.

But this called the new contracts into question. The Learning Disability Alliance Scotland claims it knew back in July 2009 that assessment criteria had been altered to give preference to cheaper services, despite assurances from the Council that the process was based 70% on service quality and only 30% on price. If everyone chose to hang on to their current providers, would these companies be able to deliver the savings they had anticipated?

These concerns, coupled with a huge backlog of unprocessed Direct Payments, prompted the Council to attempt to suspend applications until the new contracts were in place. However, campaigners argued this was contrary to promises that a service user’s right to exercise their choice of provider would be honoured, and that all Direct Payment applications would be processed. In addition, a presentation to the Council by the Learning Disability Alliance also highlighted that Direct Payments are in fact a legal right.

Victory
Ian Hood, the Coordinator of the LDAS, who has been a prominent figure throughout the campaign said:
“Edinburgh Council now needs to learn that it cannot treat people with disabilities in the same way they treat paper clips or potholes. It must review the process that it has used to ensure that this never happens again.”

The Edinburgh Support Workers’ Action Network has also called for the resignations of those involved. Backed up by Council Leader Jenny Dawe, Health, Housing and Social Care Convener Paul Edie was still saying the tendering process was “robust” back in December 2009, even as the Deloitte report was being commissioned. Jessica Mackin, a member of the network said:

“This entire shambles has caused huge stress for the people we care for which we’ve supported them with despite uncertainty over the future of our own jobs. It’s time for Paul Edie to seriously consider his position… and the unelected, overpaid Directors behind this process; Mark Turley, Peter Gabbitas and Donald McGougan should also be brought to account for their actions.”

Looking to the future
Even with the tendering process halted, it isn’t over for Edinburgh’s Care and Support services. The Liberal/SNP coalition still intends to enforce Council-wide spending cuts of over 20%, and, had the original contracts been successfully awarded, the Health and Social Care Department was expecting to save at least £5.5 million over three years.

Reductions in Direct Payments
And despite Deloitte’s findings, it looks like the same tendering process could be used to make savings on Direct Payments. Following the report, Edinburgh City Council’s CEO, Tom Aitchison, has proposed that the same criteria should now be used to make reductions in Direct Payments where possible, with a view to enforcing a £15.04 ceiling on future applications.

Maggie Chapman, Green Party Councillor for the Leith Walk ward has argued against the competitive tendering process since its inception. Writing on her blog, it is clear she believes the current administration’s focus on cost cutting won’t be changing any time soon:

“Despite protestations to the contrary, quality factors necessarily take a back seat in such a process; if Best Value is the bottom line, then lower prices are what will score more points, regardless of the quality of the service that can be bought…”

The effects of this on employees and communities cannot be overestimated. Small organisations have the potential to respond to individual needs more appropriately, especially when their employees live and work in the same communities as the service users. Relationships between service users and their carers have to be built on trust, respect and compassion; characteristics that are all too often lost in larger organisations with little direct connection to the communities they serve.”
So, although there has been something of a reprieve on the issue of Care and Support, it would seem there are more issues to be dealt with and plenty more debate to come. Until a way can be found to really reconcile financial pressures with the provision of quality care, the services available to Edinburgh’s vulnerable residents remain at risk.

My festive escape began back in December and since then I have seen only one Christmas tree, a solitary inflatable Santa and a mere spattering of ‘2010’ scrawled awkwardly across shop windows in spray-on snow. Bliss.

So what of the beginning of Istanbul’s cultural showcase? With its roots dating back to 1,000BC and legacies of Byzantine, Roman and Ottoman rule, the city certainly has plenty to work with. A boat trip on the Bosphorus will give you an idea of the sheer scale of the place – with layer upon layer of apartment buildings, art deco houses, waterside restaurants and high-domed mosques spilling over the hills on both the European and Asian sides of the city.

Projects running over the course of the Capital of Culture year span theatre, film and visual arts, of which the Istanbul Modern Art Gallery forms a central venue. With a permanent exhibition of contemporary Turkish art, largely produced in the late twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and regular temporary exhibitions of internationally exhibited work, Istanbul Modern is most definitely up to the minute.

Pressed suits and shepherds
Its converted shipyard structure and waterside location draw instant comparisons with London’s Tate Modern in terms of its location. But the architectural similarity with its British counterpart is where the comparison ends. Inside it is clear that Turkish artists do not consider themselves fully part of the European scene. A hilarious film entitled The Road to Tate Modern makes the point. In it, the artist and his friend embark on a Don Quixote-style expedition to London through the rocky Turkish countryside on a donkey. Beginning their journey full of hope in freshly pressed suits, the explorers are soon left deflated when a lonely shepherd points them in the direction of the mountains and informs them that the Tate Modern is in fact “very, very far”.

Foreigners looking daft
It is also very, very far from the tourist centre of town, in the district of Sultanahmet. Here you will find many of the big sites one would be expected to ‘do’ in Istanbul – the historic and majestically beautiful Aya Sofia and its imposing rival The Blue Mosque, which sits directly opposite the church just a couple of hundred metres away. Behind this is the Sultan’s old house at Topkapi Palace and nearby is the carpet-haggling centre of the elaborate ceilinged Grand Bazaar. And if you fancy spending at least fifty quid on a slightly uncomfortable rub down in a hamam by a man in a loincloth, this area is your best bet.
During the day, Sultanahmet throngs with tourists and tour buses from Turkey and further afield. At night, however, it is clear that this area is not a truly living breathing part of the city. After about 8pm, if it weren’t for the repetitive entreaties from Turkish waiters for the “nice couple” to “come try Turkish menu very nice”, you could hear a pin drop, despite the bustling streets that snake down towards the water just ten minutes walk away.

Venture beyond the home of English menus and souvenirs and it is easy to discover parts of the city where people really live, work and relax. On the Galata Bridge, hoards of fisherman huddle together for a spot, selling the tiddlers from their catch to others as bait. Beneath the bridge identical restaurants serve identical fish dishes, and by the ferry ports, small stallholders fry fillets of herring in front of you, and then stuff them into crusty white bread. In the northern European quarter of the city is the fashionable shopping and drinking street of Itsikal Caddesi. Restaurants, bars and takeaway places are dotted along the mile and a half long street and the options include both traditional mezze and glasses of raki as well as European wines, pizzas and mojitos.

In Sultanahmet it would be easy to assume that Turkish tea and baklava are defunct delicacies for visitors only. But çay, a strong and tasty brew served in small glasses to which I am becoming addicted and the sweet nutty squares of filo pastry that accompany it are also clearly local favourites. Even bubbling, sweet smoky water-pipes, also known as nargileh, are not just for tourists.

In fact it seems to be only Turkish people who can make them look cool – even when reclining amid traditional woven cushions and carpets, us foreigners still manage to look a bit daft. I hope that as well as trendy arty projects and venues, Istanbul may also celebrate these more traditional elements of its culture in 2010, as the easy blend between old and new is what makes the city so appealing.
Finally, a word about kebabs, they are eaten sober, for lunch or dinner with chips and rice, bread, salad and chilli sauce. And do you want to know the best thing? Believe it or not, the doners are actually made out of real meat! Genuine fillets of proper flesh, compressed together on to a spit – now that, my friends, is culture.

Particularly as I had been sure to book dinner, bed and breakfast in the plushest, fanciest most decadent accommodation I could find. I’m a sucker for a luxury hotel at the best of times, much to the chagrin of my partner and the delight of my credit card company. But if you can’t blow the hotel budget on your honeymoon, when can you?

I first experienced traditional Scottish country house hospitality a couple of years ago, after climbing Ben Nevis. We arrived aching and windswept through wrought iron gates on to a long gravel drive where the Victorian Glengarry Castle Hotel, on the shores of Loch Oich, was waiting.

The interior was a haven of glorious tartan-clad chintz like I had never seen before and have never seen since. During our four course set dinner, a middle aged woman and her very senior mother surreptitiously smuggled leftovers into a plastic bag for the following day’s lunch while pipe music crackled over wall-mounted speakers. It was like stepping back in time to a world of aperitifs in the library and coffee and petits fours by an open log fire. The fact that there was nothing else to do and nowhere else to go was bliss – I was hooked.

Glengarry might not be to everyone’s tastes, however. The carpets and wall hangings were so heavily patterned as to send you cross-eyed, especially after a couple of post-dinner malts; and the food menu was retro almost to the point of a time warp. For my honeymoon, I managed to find something more in line with the expectations of us city folk – a boutique country house just a stone’s throw from our wedding venue.

Duisdale House is a modern, minimalist yet sumptuous country house hotel on the southern coast of Skye. Easily reached from the road bridge from Kyle of Lochalsh, via a brand new European funded road, this little piece of luxury is only a few hours drive from Leith. And the fact that I’m writing about it in advertising copy speak must mean I really, really liked it. I really, really did.

Crisp linen sheets and a flat screen telly in the bedroom; his and hers bathrobes and fancy aromatic shower gel in the bathroom; and in the lounge, boldly printed walls, dark wood and inviting, oversized leather sofas. Every evening, large gin and tonics are served by exceptionally friendly waiters on shiny red coasters while you peruse the dinner menu.

And what a menu. Here in Leith we may have a few Michelin stars on our doorstep, but there are more to be found outside of the city. Duisdale’s Head Chef, Graham Campbell, earned his first Michelin star at the Ballachulish Hotel last year and will be hoping to do the same again on Skye. Locals had assured us that Duisdale’s scallop dishes were something special and we were not disappointed – hand dived from Loch Sconser and served with a beautifully light and sweet crab consommé. Seared loin of local venison or baked fillet of cod for main course; rich and delicate chocolate torte or cheese and roasted figs for afters.

And the luxury food isn’t just on the menu at dinnertime. If you’re looking for a Michelin-starred fry up then this is the place to come. With a perfectly round poached egg, perched atop homemade potato scone and a hand-topped disc of black pudding; a greasy spoon breakfast this is not. Duisdale House has successfully taken luxurious and decadent Scottish country house holidaying and made it trendy. There is still that wonderful sense of having nowhere to go and nothing to do, but in a sleek, contemporary setting.

This should probably be the point at which I mention recessions and credit crunches and that horrible bastardisation of the English language that is the ‘staycation’. However, none of these are reasons to go – not only is Duisdale reassuringly expensive, as befits my luxury hotel addiction; it is also not a substitute for a holiday further afield. I may have ended up on a country house honeymoon because I crawled there from the excesses of my wedding, but I wouldn’t think twice about crossing a few borders to go back.

Photography by: Lynn MacDonald

Vikki starts the column as a Graves and returns next month as a…well, wait and see.

One of the best things about writing for The Leither is that my esteemed editor allows me to wax lyrical on any subject of my choosing. However this can be both a blessing and a curse if at the time of writing, your thoughts are dominated by other things; things which are so mundane as to be unprintable. Or so I thought.
Although I would never claim a reputation for searing political critique, most of the time I would say I take a healthy interest in current affairs. This month, however, it’s more about currant affairs – my wedding cake is finished and I am forced to rely heavily on obvious puns to hit my word count.

Regular readers of my mutterings may remember me mentioning my impending nuptials, and by the time you read this, (if you read this,) I will have renounced both my surname and my singledom. Just a few short months ago in this very publication, I navigated the social etiquette of weddings like a smart-arse, now I’m hoping that my own wedding guests will be able to do it whilst keeping their witty comments to themselves.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am ridiculously excited about my wedding. I can’t wait to totter down the aisle beside my dear old dad and I can’t wait to see the look on my fiancé’s face when he sees my larger than life, fairy princess, meringue of a dress which, despite my protestations to the contrary, I don’t think I’m going to be able to bring myself to put on eBay. I’m not one of those girls who has dreamed of her wedding day since primary school, but the helpless romantic in me does believe these are moments you can’t buy.

It’s not these priceless and unforgettable photo opportunities that dominate my every waking thought though. No, it’s the parts of a wedding you can buy that never seem to end. I’m certainly not averse to shopping, but there are limits, or at least, I’m starting to think there should be. As I write, I am simultaneously attempting to source a very particular style of wire photo holder with a clear plastic base and liaise with the mother of the bride regarding table decorations. Perhaps I should have realised it would be like this when I was gifted a book entitled ‘Wedding Details’, but this is a level of detail way beyond my expectations.

Not long after her wedding, a good friend told me that if she could do the whole thing again she’d go for a couple of ales and some cheese and pickle sandwiches down the pub. At the time I thought that was what I’d do simply as a matter of course, but I realise now how easy it is to get swept up in a grand sense of occasion. It really is amazing how quickly sandwiches become an artisan cheeseboard and how the transition from local ale and peanuts to sparkling wine and canapés happens so smoothly.

The need for everything to be ‘just so’ seems to have snuck up on me unannounced. On the one hand I am aware that the world will not end due to a wonky label on a miniature jar of homemade chutney, but on the other, I wonder if the guest whose sticker has not been applied parallel to the lid of the container might take it as some sort of slight.
The throwaway nature of it all is somewhat baffling. Like the table decorations – hundreds of pounds for some almost dead plants stuck in a bit of green sponge which are liable to meet a sorry end if placed too close to a tea light. It would seem however, and this is real-time wedding planning folks, that even my florally minded mother agrees this might not be worth it.

There have been points in this whole process when I’ve wondered if my betrothed and I are going to make it out of our wedding alive, let alone actually married. And I must confess there is a not insignificant part of me that is mostly looking forward to relaxing after the big day among the spoils of her John Lewis gift list. But a big day it is and a big day it shall be. I’m not planning on doing it again so I shall have cakes, canapés, dresses and decorations (mini cacti, by the way) cheaper, and my mum can take them home. The lot.

And so the next time I grace these pages I hope to have not only a brand new name but also a wealth of new, previously undiscovered material. I cannot promise politics but you can rest assured it will most definitely be totally wedding-free.

I am a student of the school of yoga written down by one Mr B. K. S. Iyengar, or ‘Guruji’ depending on your levels of devotion. Light On Yoga, his illustrated guide to over two hundred yoga postures and the order in which to perform them was first published in the Sixties. Now, at the ripe old age of 91, Mr Iyengar, although probably still able to perform contortions of inhuman proportions, is taking a slightly more backseat role in the promotion of the discipline. There are, however, Iyengar centres all over the world, including our very own in Bruntsfield.

So what is it that makes a hardened cynic like me want to sit cross-legged on solid wooden bricks, join the palms of my hands together and pay my inward respects to Patañjali, the father of yoga? Am I nothing more than a show off who thinks standing on her head will impress my friends, or am I part way on my journey towards inner peace?

Believe it or not, standing on your head is surprisingly relaxing. Admittedly I am not yet quite brave enough to perform this manoeuvre too far away from a supporting wall. But there is something calming and also empowering about suspending your body upside down with only your own strength, balance and determination keeping you from falling.

All the slow, serene movements could lead you to believe yoga is simply a means of purging a few calories among ladies who lunch. But don’t be fooled by the quietness of it all – trust me, standing on one leg while contorting both arms behind your back is trickier than it looks.

Over the course of a two-hour class it can feel as though each and every muscle is being gently stretched over a rack. Yet this is a strangely pleasant sensation, as if your limbs have been awakened from an extended slumber. Excess air is forced from your joints with a satisfying ‘pop’ and every bit of your body feels somehow realigned into its proper place, ready to perform your brain’s next command.

Relaxation comes in the form of Śavāsana, or ‘corpse’ pose. The posture consists of lying on your back, feet flopping out to the sides, with your palms facing the ceiling. Easy? I wish. The point of keeping your body completely motionless is to enable you to concentrate on the stillness of your mind. Yes, that does sound a tiny bit silly and I must confess I have on occasion used the mental stillness and solitude of Śavāsana as an opportune moment in which to compose my shopping list. But it does make me wonder what a state of relaxation really is, and whether it is even possible. So, concentrating on relaxing is probably not the strongest element of my practice, but maybe this is the point. As I mentioned earlier, yoga is genuinely pretty hard, honest. Not just because it stretches the parts that other exercises cannot reach, but also because to do it, you have to watch, listen and think without letting yourself get distracted. Corpse pose shopping list compilations aside, there is something refreshing about setting aside a couple of hours to concentrate on something that is entirely directed towards you, be it inner peace, or inner groin strain.

Perhaps I am more philosophical about yoga than I thought. In the preface to Light On Yoga Mr Iyengar writes briefly about the Western scepticism sometimes directed at its spiritual elements. He does not pour scorn upon the amorality of the West, but he does remind his readers that back in ancient times, all man’s great achievements were believed to have happened as a result of spiritual assistance.

Although those spirits might not necessarily have been standing on their heads with their legs crossed behind their necks, he does have a point, and it is maybe this accepting approach to our values along with the clarity of his descriptions that has made his book endure for over forty years.

And now I am lost for words – I have found a topic about which I cannot bring myself to be cutting. I had thought up some wisecracks about middle class lunching ladies in leggings and carpet-headed, stoned hippies on the beaches of Goa, but strangely they seem inappropriate. Bring on inner peace.

For more information about Iyengar Yoga visit eastscotlandyoga.org. For details of classes at the Edinburgh Iyengar Yoga Centre in Bruntsfield visit yoga-edinburgh.com

But this wasn’t just happening up town. Pauline Lockhart and Jenny Ryan, actresses and Leithers, brought their own brand of site-specific work to the corner of Ferry Road. Venus n Furs, the company they formed just a few months ago, gave two performances of the latest version of their devised work, The Violet Hour. Set just behind Leith Library and Registry Office, in and around the impressive curved art deco loggia of the now sadly disused Leith Theatre.

“I live in the area and was keen to base the piece here,” says Pauline Lockhart. “I’ve always found Leith Library fascinating because it seems out of place from the surroundings.” What is equally striking is how secluded and quiet the site is. As the audience followed the action of The Violet Hour on foot, between the theatre’s heavy stone columns, the noise from the road seemed to fade away.

But this could just be because of the play. We are told the story of one man’s relationship with two very different women, his devoted wife and a Velvet Underground-esque ‘whiplash girlchild’ such as the company name promises. The script, which was devised by the company, is inspired by its surroundings and makes direct and deliberate references to its location. We begin our journey at the registry office and follow the actors past a parked car and through an overgrown garden to the library. On paper these settings might seem disparate, but the situations in which the characters find themselves are held together by the compact nature of the space.

Without a strong storyline, site-specific productions can seem slaves to their locations, superficial and gimmicky. Not so for The Violet Hour. The novelty associated with an outdoor, promenade production and the beauty of its location has been embraced without standing in the way of presenting characters that demand their audience’s engagement and consideration, and this is to the company’s credit. What makes this production strong is the sense that the narrative could, with some slight tweaking, take place almost anywhere.

Despite sounding all highbrow, the decision to stage a site-specific piece was not simply based on a bunch of actors being arty-farty:
“It had a bit to do with the credit crunch,” says Lockhart. “Actors are looking for work like everyone else and this format was accessible and relatively cheap to produce.”

However, creating theatre yourself comes with new responsibilities in terms of who’s going to pay for it:
“This is a new thing for us – we have to worry about funding for the first time ever. Usually as an actor you take a job and somebody else deals with the funding.”

But fortunately for Venus n Furs, things are looking promising on that score. The Arts Council has already got wind of the project, and funding for further development could be in the offing.

But for now, after just thirty minutes, The Violet Hour is up. This is still a work in progress but, if current form is anything to go by, this could become an impressive piece of dramatic storytelling, which is uniquely ‘Leith’. Word has it our local MSP is a fan, and, with support mounting for the refurbishment and reopening of Leith Theatre, perhaps Venus n Furs are the people to bring this building to life both inside and out.

As far as I can see, weddings are fraught with potential peril. Think of it this way; most of us spend time with certain members of our friends and family for different reasons – the old friend you get unreasonably drunk with; the aunt who takes you out for dinner and always pays; the cousins your whole family can’t stand and who make Christmas dinner a teeth-gritting affair. Now, imagine all of those people in a room together, sharing embarrassing stories about you that the others will never have heard. Add brand new in-laws and a liberal amount of alcohol and it could be a recipe for disaster.

I have often wondered what people talk about at weddings. But now I know – the weather, and the food, usually in that order because you have to talk about something before dinner. These are low risk topics and presumably popular because they minimise the chances of insulting the groom’s mother or revealing to the distant Australian relatives that Great Aunty May was illegitimate.

British people are of course renowned for their penchant for talking about the weather and nowhere is it more prevalent than at a wedding. “Well, it’s a shame about the rain, but the one thing you can’t plan for is the weather…” Or, “Aren’t they lucky to have such great weather, the forecast said it would rain.” I reckon this is a good reason for getting married in winter – everyone expects the weather to be rubbish and, let’s face it, it probably will be. Maybe then, just maybe, we can try and talk about something else.

Like the food, which in my experience, people will always say is good no matter what. At my last wedding I said my starter was excellent before I’d even tasted it, purely because I was so relieved to have something in common with my painfully shy neighbour. And if, like me, you are a vegetarian, be aware that your main course will involve roast vegetables, pastry and goat’s cheese. I think it is the law.

Wedding speeches are a welcome relief from small talk. So far in my summer wedding tour I’ve been lucky enough to find these entertaining. I’ve had tears from the father of the bride, genuinely moving stories about his love for his new wife from the groom and a best man whose humour only just made it to the right side of decorum. If the speeches are painful though, I find it helpful to smile widely whilst avoiding eye contact with anyone who might make you laugh.

So you’ve talked, you’ve listened, you’ve eaten and you’ve probably bypassed the wedding cake due to the risk of seeing it again sooner than you’d like, time to cut loose on the dance floor. Forget your dad dusting off the jive moves that will probably put his back out, what you need is that great dance move leveller, the ceilidh. After all, there’s no hip-jiggling required for Strip The Willow and even if you know the dances it’s almost impossible to perform them without looking like you’re running from an elephant stampede. When faced with the disco, by all means crack out the John Travolta finger-pointing moves, but be aware you might end up on You Tube.

Despite all the potential pitfalls, I do actually rather like weddings. Putting a bunch of virtual strangers in a room together with a bottle of wine each is almost guaranteed to produce entertaining results and even a hardened cynic like me has been known to shed a wee tear as her friends have walked down the aisle. But, as I dust off my fascinator for its third outing of the season, I must confess I’m still seriously considering Vegas.

I confess I am an armchair activist; one of those people who are happy to set the world to rights, just as long as it doesn’t mean getting off the sofa. It’s not that I’m ill-informed or don’t care, it’s just that sometimes tackling global issues seems too enormous a task.

Food is one of my favourite armchair topics because if you tried to battle with all of these big issues at the shops you could risk meltdown. Shopping for food is not simple. Everywhere we go we are confronted with conflicting messages about what, where, and how we should be eating. Advertising for junk food that’s making us obese. Five portions of fruit and vegetables. Eat locally, eat seasonally.

Don’t shop in supermarkets. Proceed directly to your community food co-op or farmers’ market. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds. And so much of the food we are told we should be eating comes at a premium which some of us cannot afford. It’s enough to make you beat a hasty retreat to your living room with a tin of beans.

People like me are suspicious of those who disengage from their furniture and get on with it. They make us feel a bit ashamed of ourselves. And it was this attitude which accompanied me to a meeting of a new group of Leithers who call themselves World Kitchen. Their idea, in a nutshell, is to use food as a way of bringing different strands of the community together; “all the colours of Leith” as Mridu Thanki, one of the founders put it.

If you were one of those who braved the rain at the Leith Festival last month, you might have sampled some of the World Kitchen’s fare. Here, they brought people together under a tiny soggy gazebo and served them African maize, American cookies, Portuguese pancakes and more. And they sold the lot. Using food to get people communicating makes sense. We all need to eat and the very process of doing so is a democratic act.

I wanted to ask the World Kitcheners how they thought their idea fitted into the endless debate about food politics and what we are told we should eat. Because if I want to cook, say, an African meal for my dinner, I might have to buy ingredients that have been imported by air, and this is bad for the environment. Although it might be good because it supports African farmers. Not only that, these ingredients may well have been sprayed with chemicals to make them last longer before they reach my supermarket shelves, and they will be wrapped in unnecessary packaging, which may or may not be recyclable.

But I didn’t ask them that, because it didn’t seem so important – for once the issue wasn’t where the food came from, but where it was going and who was going to get to taste it. A different way to eat locally. For me, local food conjures up images of hemp shopping bags and pricey artisan cheese, but World Kitchen is looking to cook, eat and share a local cuisine which truly represents its community. As group member Fay Young, who also organises the multicultural group Leith Open Space put it: “Everybody understands food, even if you speak a different language.” The language we used consisted of inspiring words which become so much more complicated in practice – how to celebrate diversity, make connections in the community, be inclusive, and learn about and from one another. They’re an articulate and enthusiastic bunch, the World Kitcheners, but what next?

And this is the hard bit. There were thoughts of cookery workshops, demonstrations in schools, a local food festival with an infinite budget. Ideas are one thing, but putting them into practice is another and money, logistics, marketing and the like are the realities a project such as this one must face. But as I ponder these ideas from the comfort of my armchair I feel like World Kitchen could be on to a good thing. We might not be able to solve all the world’s food problems, or navigate the contradictory maze of food choices, but we can all eat.

www.leithopenspace.co.uk

Vikki Graves misses out on World Turtle Day, but just as she thinks it’s safe to venture out again, World Electronics Week hoves into view…

Originally I had planned to start writing this on World Turtle Day, but circumstances got the better of me and I bypassed not only the celebration of heroes in a half-shell but National Escargot Day too. And now here I am, deadline looming large, at the start of National Family Week.

Not heard of National Family Week? Neither had I – this year’s the first one. The week promises a celebration of, yep, you guessed it, “your family”. What a concept; positive, hopeful, with mass market appeal by the bucket-load. And a perfect way to attract a diverse range of businesses and D-list celebrities looking for a bit of free advertising – so perfect it could have been thought up by a PR company. Guess what? It was. Recently it seems like every day and every week is ‘National This’ or ‘World Appreciation’ that. This month we had only two days to recover between British Sandwich Week and National Vegetarian Week, which finished the day before National Family Week began. Is it just me, or is all this just a sophisticated PR exercise? Surely to be a vegetarian you are required to behave like one for more than one week a year; and probably also for more than one week at a time. And I would be willing to bet that sandwiches appear in the lunch-boxes of the majority of Brits daily rather than annually. Some of us even eat vegetarian sandwiches, which is probably why the two national weeks cannot happen at the same time. And the days and weeks just keep on coming. While you’ve got your diary out, why not make a note of National Running Day, National Electronics Week and National Badger Day, all coming up soon.

At first I thought I was the only National Week cynic, but there are others. Whilst idly googling creative names for other potential weeks, I stumbled upon a blog on an ethical website attacking National Watercress Week as pointless. Now, although I was thrilled to find a kindred spirit, I don’t think watercress is the worst offender – at least it is seasonal and thus has a ‘week’. Ok, a few weeks, but still.

The problem is that watercress is a plant; it grows in the ground and then we eat it. The family, on the other hand, is a social and moral institution which makes us feel warm inside. It’s marketing gold. Hence why family favourites from across the land, from Gordon Brown, to Richard and Judy, to Miss England 2008 are jumping on the bandwagon. Even celebrity saucepan endorser, sorry, chef, Antony Worrall Thompson is getting in on the act by choosing us a family recipe. Ain’t that sweet? And if all this wasn’t enough, on completion of this piece, I popped out to the shops and was greeted with a poster of a smiley, dark-haired beauty wielding a glass of branded fruit drink. Diaries out again folks, it’s National Mango Week.

SAINT GEORGE HAS HIS DAY VIKKI GRAVES braves the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune to report on a singular experiment in cross border harmonisation.

Once upon a time, a man named George killed a dragon to rescue a damsel in distress. All the English people loved him and made him their patron saint. And they all lived happily ever after.

Now I’m from England and that’s as much as I know. I can’t recall any St George celebrations in my youth. In fact, the day would have passed unnoticed yet again this year had it not been for The Leither. Flicking through last month’s edition, I was surprised to find an advert for a St George’s Day themed menu at The Roseleaf. Surely in Scotland they give even less of a monkey’s about it than I do?

I confess the news made me feel a bit warm and fuzzy for a moment. Like I said, I’m from England and I live in Scotland, which I like very much. But sometimes I feel this is not enough to explain my presence. To make up for my posh voice, I say ‘British’ more than is necessary, and intersperse my received pronunciation with liberal spatterings of ‘ayes’ and ‘kens’ which, thankfully, most Scots are polite enough to ignore. I demonstrate my proficiency in the Scots velar fricative pronunciation of ‘loch’ and force myself to say ‘neeps’, or at the very least ‘turnip’, even though we all know it’s really ‘swede.’

I must point out that I’ve never really had any grief about being English. And it’s not that I’m ashamed of it – with my accent I couldn’t get away with being anything else. But I’m not actively proud of it either. I didn’t know that George is also the patron saint of lots of European countries and other far flung destinations such as Ethiopia and Lebanon. Not only that, but according to the St George Unofficial Bank Holiday website “he’s also patron saint of soldiers, archers, cavalry and chivalry, farmers and field workers, riders and saddlers, and he helps those suffering from leprosy and plague.” Busy man.

On further investigation, there are many people south of the border calling for more to be done to mark George’s murder of the mythical fire-breathing beast. Some want a public holiday, cheeky blighters, others want the red and white flag flying, and the diehards are calling for an English parliament. And for the first time ever, in an attempt to summon up an increased sense of English national identity, the esteemed Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, treated the city to Morris dancing, a maypole and a Punch and Judy show, saying “St George’s Day has been ignored in London for far too long…I encourage everyone to join in the fun and celebrate England’s great patron saint.” Down south it looks like in a few years, the bold St George might even need an agent.

But this feverish activity hasn’t quite reached Scotland yet, so instead I focussed my attentions on lunch. I thought about proper pie and mash, with mushy peas and liquor; a ploughman’s lunch in the pub with white bread, a doorstep hunk of cheddar cheese and tangy pickle; a massive Cornish pasty from a beachside bakery, straight out of the oven with a filling so hot it’ll strip the roof of your mouth off. I could get into celebrating St George’s Day. Gripped with a newfound appreciation of Englishness, I set off for The Roseleaf. Although I knew in my heart of hearts it was unlikely, I still didn’t quite give up hope of stepping through the doors to find a host of diners in Kiss-Me-Quick hats, and Chas and Dave blasting out ‘Dooown to Maargate’ in the corner. But, predictably some might say, there wasn’t a red and white flag or a cuddly toy dragon in sight.

They did have Yorkshire puddings though, giant ones at that. How could I have forgotten about Yorkshire puddings? Crisp and light as a feather on top and soggy and gooey on the bottom, having sat in a pool of rich onion gravy. Thank you Roseleaf. Although the presence of beardy men in knee high socks with bells on, hitting bits of wood together on Leith Links is probably some way off, I realised that some lighthearted English-Scottish banter and a bit of a sense of national pride is no bad thing. Because you say turnip, I say swede, but we both say Yorkshire pudding.