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Ross Douglas

Edinburgh never knew what it was about to spawn.

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Writing

Apparently…

It was my birthday yesterday. I’m now 44 years old. Happy birthday to me and all that guff…

I’m about to start a college course in four days time and am both looking forward to it and also panicking at the thought. The course is a NPA in Web Design Fundamentals and Digital Media and while I do have a small knowledge on how to play around with a computer I’m pretty sure that I’ll be getting into things I know nothing of. I hereby promise I shall never again ridicule my mother for looking confused when I “Fix” her computer by searching on google…

The course paperwork says that at the end of the course I should be able to:

  • Demonstrate knowledge and understanding of the main technical and design considerations in designing a website.
  • Produce and optimise graphics for the World Wide Web to a given brief.
  • Create a webpage for use on a web-server using basic HTML features.
  • Plan an animation for inclusion on a website.
  • Plan and design a digital narrative for inclusion on a website.
  • Create a digital narrative for inclusion on a website.
  • Test and Evaluate a digital narrative.
  • Produce a plan for the design and creation of a website to a clients requirement.
  • Construct and upload a website which includes text and graphics.
  • Test and evaluate a website.

Which is nice…

I get the feeling that a lot of those are things I’m familiar with from plunging around in the HTML of a couple of blogs and a couple are new. The animation and graphic sections could be fun to do. On thursday this week I have a welcome event. Classmates and lecturers will be met and I’ll find out more about start dates, funding and the like.

As I said I’m going to try to post at least one thing a day on here documenting my journey into further learning and hope you’ll drop by often and say hi.

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Short; Edinburgh Detective.

John MacDonald awoke face down on his desk. He took a deep breath in through his nose and immediately regretted the decision. He smelled of cheap scotch and body odour from sleeping fully clothed in his chair.

Being a private investigator hadn’t turned out quite like he had expected it. He thought he would spend his days chasing absconders from justice and his nights drinking 1963 Glenmorangie in the stylish bars of the capital. As it was he spend his days posting flyers on lampposts of missing cats and his nights drinking the cheapest whisky he could find in the bottle shop.

The last case had been a particularly annoying one. A missing persian cat in the area of Morningside had pushed him over the edge. The owner had promised him a considerable reward for the safe return of her precious pet but his idea of a considerable reward and hers were two vastly different things. He had hoped for a flat fee for every hour worked and a per diem but his hopes were left for dead when the owner pushed a ten pound note into his hand as though it was a king’s ransom.

The money had bought him a litre of cheap vodka. There was a small amount of it left in the bottom of the bottle. He fished out a pack of paracetamol from his pocket and washed it down with what was left of the vodka. The taste was foul but at least it and the pills would take the edge off the thumping headache that was beginning to form in his skull.

Shorts…

I’ve been writing some short paragraphs to get me back into the habit of writing. Nothing spectacular but I thought I’d share it with you anyway. Maybe you’ll find inspiration and run with it. Feel free.

The Shooter.

The pain was intense. It burned like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The bullet had hit him in his rear end and for once he was glad he’d ate as many sugar donuts.

“Fucking hell man, you shot me in the ass!”

“That’s what you get for being such a lardy cunt. If you’d stopped when I shouted to stop I wouldn’t have shot you.” The shooter, reaching down and taking a pack of cigarettes from the victims shirt pocket.

“You didn’t say a fucking word man, you walked in with a drawn gun, I took off and you shot me in the ass!” He spat.

“I thought about saying stop, I thought about it. And it’s the thought that counts huh?” Said the shooter as he lit a cigarette from the purloined pack. He pocketed the rest of the pack and scratched idly at his head with the barrel of the gun in his hand. “Besides, have you ever seen what it looks like when you run? It’s fucking hilarious… I could barely aim straight for laughing…”

“Fuck you man! It’s glandular.”

“No it’s not, it’s granular. It’s all that sugar that you throw down your neck. You must drink 20 pints of soda a day and eat about a dozen fucking donuts. For the last three months I’ve watched you filling your fat fuckin face and today was the day I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“What the fuck? You been watching me man? What the fuck for? What the fuck did I do to you man?”

“You sold drugs to someone I know. Sorry; Knew. Past tense. She’s dead now. And guess what? You’re about to be dead too.”

The pleading was cut short by the sharp retort of the gun firing.

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