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peter.howden Posted Today, 09:59am
  The Day Dawned

One of the more famous old farmers predictions, based on lifetimes of observation by hard working country folk; ‘Red sky at night, shepherds delight, Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning’, which in my frame of mind, is based very early dawn having not quite raised itself in all its heavenly glory.

it certainly was not a hallucination, it’s real as real can be, nonetheless, because I am no shepherd of any kind, holding no responsibilities of such a professional dependency on nature outcomes, or the dangers lurking livestock, it forecasting an easy-going mode, or foul, before the trials and distractions of the day disturbed my shaky equilibrium.

A few morning’s ago, I saw a rare tear, being relatively warm for the session or persons to expect, here I was outside in just tee-shirt and shorts, checking the car. Apart from the obvious hypnotic illuminating reddish sky, the magic of a dawn was generating pure enchantment, above all else.

What caught my eye, then ear, was a glimmer of ambiguous purple streak of nimble light struggling through, followed by a burst of song from a tree, or bush, but boldly a feathered friend, whistling his, or her head off, then another, and another. I do not know if it is in their genes, or maybe they were caught on the hop, whistling in complete surprise, and joy, for another daytime was giving magnificent birth.

Standing totally memorized, by what unfolded within such a short moment, the sun proudly fashioned a tempting glimpse of its magnitude power, by covering the visible sky ,with a deep warming red I have not witness before, but would love to see it again.

All too soon, most of the show was over, as the sky slipped into something more comfortable with only a hint of what had taken place. Before my very eyes, the redness dimmed, daylight took its rightful place.
Although alone at our home’s front door, I did wonder, if my friends would be looking at the same marvel, but then again, they are far apart, most likely seeing things at a different angle…if they are looking at all.

A warm feeling inside recalling, one by one… all my friends, which are now fewer in number than before, but, unlike Facebook, for above all else it’s not the amount of so many supposed friends you have on the internet, it’s the close friends you fortunately have…near or far.
peter.howden Posted 19th Jul 2019, 06:59pm
  Clash of miniature Titans

He is, as has been, a long-standing friend so it would be impolite to go so far as label him a fibber, although he is very liberal with the truth when discussing one vital subject. Perhaps the term fabricator, would even be to hard, but certainly a slight chancer, sneakily lurking in the depths of a devious side, yet not witnessed by the other fellow,

Then, to boot it all into a corner, way back in the last excursion, when this crafty fellow, takes advantage of another fellow, who misguidedly was struggling with just a tad too many refreshments, which affected that fellow’s capabilities, this was a bridge too far. There is no need going into details, nor excuses blatantly sworn why he was unable to take up the traditional challenge, but it will be adequate to mention it involved and included a bruised pinkie.

The verification rolled on to another affirming justification, it being much more hassle-free and comfortable to enjoy, if they were to saunter while taking in the sea airs of that ancient coal magnet of a seaside town called Saltcoats. Being mental putty in his hands, entirely unaware of his deceitful plan, the congenial fellow was allured into shady hostelries, and low-down saloons in a blatant effort to knobble the fellow’s common-sense ability, to be bristly crude…to beat the pants off him.

Whom is the fellow referred to, who stooped so low, preforming skulduggery and dastardly deeds, none other than ‘Salty’, the wandering seaman, brother-in-law; David? And what was the challenge other than the intimate ultimate, ‘Alcohol Chess’, and the running dispute over some 35 years… who actually is the decisive victor

I should have realized there was monkey business about, when he offered to buy the first round as I have experienced people from the area of Ayrshire, and they aren’t the quickest on the draw when it comes to the coinage of the queen. They can meet themselves coming out of an establishment just as they are going in.

Innocently trusting I was dealing with a gentleman, or at the very least a true and honest comrade, but sadly I must report of being duped. You think you know a fellow, little realizing what some may do when the sell their soul to the devil just for one-upmanship

The worst blow of all, a verbal dagger between the ribs, saying he had won by default, using a bare knuckle boxing term, I could not come ‘up to the mark’. Simply because my words were slightly inconsequentially incoherent, my walking may seem more than a hindrance…however apart from this, I was brand new…sound as a pound, in Harold Wilson’s time

Where the real exertion came after several games, the recognition as to what piece you were moving, to what square allowed to visit, and what bloody Queen? was always a bone of contention, especially for someone had sold his soul to achieve an empty victory. As the train pulled out from the station, watching Salty with a smirk on his face, waving a fond farewell.

The train hurried itself towards civilization, which can only be found in the dear green place of Glasgow…with one thought took precedence over all else…how will I knobble him next time around?
peter.howden Posted 16th Jul 2019, 10:05am
  My Chronicles 16/07/2019

I will be taking Aunt Becky for a wee hurl tomorrow, though fingers crossed. It has been for a while because the last couple of times on my arrival, she has been sleeping in bed. Deciding, rather than the hasty drama, as the girl’s attendants, waking and dressing the poor wee lamb, I left her hopefully dreaming sweet dreams. Lately, having growing concern taking her out, mainly due to her obvious physical fragility.

To aid the situation, the home has proposed assistance taking and bringing her back from the car. There are two steps leading from the main door of her residence, where Becky is certainly unsure and very warily of them…taking extra time. All the residence will be moved to a brand-new purpose-built home by the end of August.

Our garden needs attention, after some 20 odd years left to its own growth, with only spasms of rushed care from me. Very early yesterday, in sublime sunny conditions, I took my coffee, sat on the garden bench, while the birds noisily interactively busy with survival. Yet…now and again, total silence fell, leaving me with an inner notion of inspiration, given by a special annual sweet-scented flowering bush… drifting in the air, through various shrubbery fragrances

My mind wandered, an uncontrollable habit it has these days, taking me way back to Mr Swan’s market garden, next to the river Clyde, Uddingston, and the distinctive sweet smell of his much-puffed tobacco pipes, left in each of his greenhouses…. what a man

Without any encouragement came a separate imaginary aroma, surrounding a country lane leading down to the bay at Whitesands, Dunbar, with the astonishing essence of a wheat fields, roaming down to the adventurous B.B camp…and the young lady ‘Alice’

Another salty fantasy whiff sent my mind racing along the rugged coastline of Cornwall, into another bay named ‘Whitesands’, where and when Rebecca and I visited the extraordinary magical couple…lovely Pam and Jack.
Darting forward as the attar change to rediscover the odour similar of captivating France, but particularly the safety retreat of a medieval village in the Aude district, where a remarkable family played host, for many a year, to a wandering Kellie.

The coffee almost finished, I walked around the garden coffin, a raised old fragmented wooden structure, for growing potatoes and the like. Now almost a shell with some earth, potted plants and water dishes for the sparrows and company. Silently looking over the rim, and for a fleetingly moment, saw a field mouse head, and twitching whiskers, sticking out from behind a old implement…then darting away to hide under a small plastic shovel…now that was indeed, a ‘WOW’ moment

This was the offender, who had been nibbling at the few strawberries, I was attempting to nourish…hay ho…always next year I hope…Its surprising what a little sunshine can do
peter.howden Posted 10th Jul 2019, 03:21pm

The reflection of the mirror emphasized his masculine chiselled chin, could only be explained as a mirage, perhaps closer to a miracle as there was no hint of the old scraped head, even his twisted eye appeared flattering. His patchwork tunic’s original colours, ready to tease, and shoot the breeze. Try as he might, the puppet had no idea what 1667 was, or what the hirsute voice proposed, or the people mentioned, all the puppet desired was in the safe arms of his wee lassie.

The rugged aged man behind the voice, picked him up affectionately, looking at the puppet with tears in his eyes, repeating over and over, “Your a wee dancer”. After a while, he lay his precious find in a velvet lined case, with a miniature pillow for his head, kept a dimmed light on, and the door open…before retiring to his boudoir.

The puppet did not sleep, for puppets can’t, tried his hardest to forget his teeny missy, but in the end, gave up from perhaps mental fatigue…if he ever owned a brain. Next morning the puppet detected something was not quite right with the bearded voice, which had a hint of sadness within his grunts and murmurs. Looking straight at the puppet, almost crying, uttered, “Someone must have lost such a precious glove puppet, as a Kellie, I canny gain an honest sleep, if I did not try to find them!”

Unknown to the puppet, the bearded voice wrote out a small advert, ‘Lost puppet found, at my home’…adding his phone number, walked around to local newsagent, taking out a two-week advert with each establishment. Not a dinky bird until the very last day when, a dad phoned saying his petite mademoiselle, had indeed dropped her precious hand puppet.

The next day father and young daughter came to his home. The stubbly voice was bowled over by the wain’s sincere response. As soon as she saw her puppet, tears rolled down from her wide eyes, over her perfect cheeks. So much so, both he and her father ran out of dried hankies, so the briskly voice gave her a rather large tea towel, with a print of Glasgow’s southern Necropolis, to attempt stopping her blubbering.

The wee girl spoke softly, “you found my marionette…I love him, but you must love him much…much more, because you made a special bed…thank you”

The bearded voice was taken aback with the child’s definition of utter wealth, based on humble emotions of pure love. He requested the weeping bairn, if she would take the puppet home, but just now and then, along with her daddy, she and her puppet would, would be so kind, as to visit a grumpy old Kellie.

The deal was set with a handshake…and to this date…as far as I’m aware…kept faithfully by the petite lassie
peter.howden Posted 7th Jul 2019, 08:06pm

How long the wee wet soul lay there in the eerie depths of the builders’ skip, the puppet obviously could not grasp, simply because the big hand, small hand theory, or numbers table, was not in his repertoire, as only infinite fairy stories and nursery rhymes, were sung by his wee lassie.
He did ken the difference of day and night, but his night was safely in the child’s warm cuddles, resting in her soft bed, behind thick velvet closed curtains which kept out the dark noises of the bogies, sometimes mentioned in the enchanted fables.

Now shivering cold, enclosed in unwelcoming darkness, with creepy clamours unfamiliar to the disorientated marionette, hearing the scurry of foul rats’ scavengers, even their whiskers brushed past his head…each time bringing unimaginable terror.

Unexpectedly, a streak of light appeared as a foreign hand was reaching closer, then affectionately grasped the bewildered glove puppet, slowly lifting him clear of his unwelcome incarceration. “Well, what have we hear?”, softly spoke a voice, coming from the direction of a dirty bearded old face. This is all the puppet heard, before being gently placed in a purse, slightly ruggedly bigger, compared to his little lass’s pink purse.

Everything was a blank until once again light appeared, slightly softer than before, as he was placed on a cushion, then on a clothed bench, surrounded by a collection of various tools. On the wall adjacent to the worktop, hung many puppets… but they had hands, legs and wooden bodies, unclothed…and strings attached.

Almost becoming familiar with these weird objects, the bearded voice spoke again tenderly…” these are all antique expensive string puppets, you are not a marionette, you have no strings… you are a gloved puppet, more valuable than all the rest. The only hand puppet belonging to world famous Italian puppeteer, ‘Signor Bologna’, royal performance, organized by Samuel Pepys, for Charles 11 in 1662”.

The puppet always thought he was a special marionette, for this was what the wee lassie called him, I wish she was here, but could not help feeling chuffed at the news of his individual fame. Just then, the bearded voice spoke again kindly, “look, I have washed and cleaned your garments, cleansed and polished your head” …

He proceeded to place a mirror in front of the puppet… revelling all?
peter.howden Posted 4th Jul 2019, 09:30am

There was nothing really unusual about this particular puppet, except a scraped head, but possessed a cute wee nose, and an eye which twisted around to follow you wherever you may stand. He had been adopted by a gracious little girl, who, unconditionally loved him, cuddled him every night since she received him as a late gift from an auntie, whom she never knew she had.

The tiny tot carried the puppet everywhere she went, making sure he was on her pillow every night before the night light went on. She told him nursery rhymes and stories she learnt during the day, and just before she fell asleep, kissed him warmly on his scraped head. He was a hand puppet.

One day, while the family were travelling in a strange part of the town, her father was carrying her across a busy thoroughfare, without noticing, the wee lass accidentally, dropped the puppet out of her gentle grasp. The tumbling puppet landed in the gutter, to see his family moving away into the unknown.

Unfortunately, the mature puppet landed in the only puddle near a drain, making his fine attire, plus his mittens, soaked with manky reeking water. By a strange quirk of fate, a dog happened to be sniffing around the vicinity. His nose was telling him nothing was happening, so… in a fit of pique, picked up the puppet, then headed to his abode.

After a couple of streets, the mutt whiffed new prospects in the air, dropped the puppet at the side of a well-kept garden. Rather undignified the marionette landed on his head, resulting in dizziness for some considerable time. Night was approaching and he had never been out so late. If truth was told…was alarmed. He had heard some terrible tales as to what may happen to unexpected travellers during the hours of darkness…

As the last glimmer of light, puppet felt warm hands around his now soggy body, then carried into warmth and dryness by a smiling twosome. Next morning, the enthusiastic horticultural couple, decided to put the puppet in the garden, as a sort of mascot, with a rough stick where it’s not polite to talk about. His new home appealed to him though, for some reason he could not forget the utter innocent kindness from the wee lass.

He did not know how long he was there, however; the warm sun went down a few times, letting lose the foreboding cold dark mist. Sometimes the puppet was very scared. The following day, while the next door’s occupants were feeding the birds, a piece of bread fell on the weary puppet’s head. One anxious magpie came cruising down, and instead of just pecking the bread, it lifted the bread and puppet’s head… soaring off.

Airborne over lots of chimney tops, the magpie must have realized it was only the bread he was after, released puppet from his beak. Down and down went the puppet, until he landed again on something soft. At last, he thought… I will return to lovely stories, kisses and warm cuddles galore, a cosy pillow to lay my head.

The Puppet had no way of knowing… he had landed on a builder’s skip.
peter.howden Posted 1st Jul 2019, 11:33am
  My Chronicles 1/06/2019


We have lost a daughter, but have I lost Toni. I cannot fully answer for anyone else, though for me the answer is yes and no. The utmost tragedy from that moment on… is, I will never see her in person again. I can see her in the blink of an eye, hear her talking without using my ears, react to her thinking by just thinking of her. Her body is gone but she is not lost.

Death is for the living, and how much we miss the one, or ones we love. It is egotistic, almost to the extreme, to cry so bitterly as if to question why. It is so easy to use the word ‘If’, or ‘If only’, but to no valid purpose, other than searching in vain for a reason we can accept. There is no reasoning, or fate, or ‘time has come’… there is just the sheer shock which millions before you have suffered.

I have no God to blame, or shame, or use as a psychological crutch, saying it’s in the scheme of things, just a mind which whirls around faster than I can think. Did I tell her I loved her…I don’t know but I hope I did? I’m proud, of what she achieved throughout her lifetime, however, I had little to do with it? She was her own woman, her own person with a hint of my own mother somewhere in the background

There are times when I wish I did not remember so well, as my unattended passions, just fly over reality, but mostly I am happy at recalling by just a word, or phrase, or a touch of something linked to… or thoughts, changing my emotions for an unknown period. The time will come, when bare affection will take over from grief…for this, I will just have to patiently wait.

I have one of Toni’s hiker anoraks, borrowed the very neat item when we visited, Toni and Fergus, in smashing Leiden, Netherland. How it came into my permanent wardrobe, is lost in the channels of time, however, I use it regularly as it can measure my weight regime, by whether I can zip it up easily or with slight difficulty

Thank you for being with me Toni.
peter.howden Posted 1st Jul 2019, 09:39am

Sitting uncomfortably on a well-used tatty bench, within a makeshift clearing of a human jungle, a solitary wrecked figure of a stranger. The surroundings decor is certainly not quite ‘Banché chic’, consisting of unkempt tables with scruffy, past their prime chairs, but for this, the café was idly empty.

Previously, the usual morning pandemonium crowd, gulped down coffees, and teas by the score, in-between hastily consuming rolls and toasties of all shapes and sizes, before scrambling up Jam-packed elevators in search of one desk or other. Now well gone, all of them locked safely in boxes containing boxes, surrounded by thick walls of concrete blocks. Outside, hidden in hazy corner away from the main door, sucking nervously on a cancer sticks, several latecomers, ready to dart off, as soon as they have had their vital fix.

The stranger, twist and turns his teaspoon, first clockwise then anti-clockwise, swirling the cold liquid in a haywire direction. This simple act was carried out for at least the last ten minutes. The weary waitress, near given up tempting him to move, by washing down the table with an over damp cloth, leaving streaks across the cheap Formica speckled table-top. The manky water remains soaks his shirt sleeve, fails miserably to encourage movement on the stranger’s part. Wherever he was, was not in the bounds of the coffee shop.

If per chance, the listener was closer, the following could have been heard; “How could I be such a sucker, no sense…except maybe of the senseless donkey”. “My ‘Mona Lisa’ slithered away, , my soul mate; my entire life…ruined forever.

A young lady entered the noiseless coffee shop, ordered Russian tea, sat down quite a distance from the stranger. He slyly glanced towards her, studied the attractive feminine, ensuring she did not see him do so. There was something extra about her, stimulating his imagination, nurturing her sweet innocent body language…. was she waiting for someone...the stranger did not believe so?

The waitress brought the glass lemon tea to her, leaving lose change, in such a way to encourage a reasonable tip. The waitress just glared at the stone like stranger, who failed to notice, as his solitary attention was solely on the fair maiden at the far side of the window.

As her angelic hands reached for the covered glass and the lemon droop into the hot liquid, the stranger saw her well-manicured nails, her slender piano playing fingers, so slim and elegant with an obvious forgiving touch.

Those red lips puckered with excitement, endeavouring to sip the hot beverage. Her eyes glistened with expectation; her expression showed signs of anticipation. Her feature lines personified through the crafty lighting of the open premises. The stranger ogles the young beauty, as a peach he would love to take a bite and savoir….or a predator spies its prey...

Could he take the chance, in the open, approach this fresh Madonna, asking to sit next to her? Yes; the premise’s was empty, he could be bold, asking this guiltless walking perfection, for a sentimental journey to begin the beguine. Perhaps they could take a tram ride together to Kelvinside, or possibly the art galleries. Yes, lets strike while the iron is hot, thought the stranger… almost gave effort into standing up…when!

Just then, she uncrossed her legs, amplifying the sound of stockings stroking each other, which drives young, and old men, wild. She rose, leaving the premises without one word from her perfectly formed lips.

A single twisted figure of a stranger, sat in the middle of the jungle, made up of tattered tables and worn chairs, but for this, the café was almost empty…until the door opened….
peter.howden Posted 27th Jun 2019, 08:54am

Crouching squeamishly, in the blackest darkest corner I could find, trying desperately not to be seen, or heard by anyone who might, perhaps by chance, be passing by. There was no getting away from the bare sinister facts, the line used to mark decent conduct has been crossed, disregarding any decent behaviour accepted as civilized from one living being to another. It is little help though now I disgust myself. No matter what the urge or unnatural deportment was running through my mind at the time, the law of morality commands my guilt.

How could I have contemplated such a flight of sickening elevation? how I wish right now, banishment to the furthest turn of the universe, so to purifies my dirty psyche, hoping to reveal my utter sorrow for such a desperate regretful advance on something so sweet…and innocent. Only a short time ago the sunshine was so beautiful, now… eternal gloom can be my only hide.

After the unbelievable occurrence, in an instant nervous tremor, I froze, unable to take in the reality of how much a savage animal I had become. There is no salvation for my soul, this is plain, but should I confess or run and conceal myself from this wickedest of wicked deeds of horror.

Someone is bound to notice, for time is against me. Is there anything else I can do to cover up my crime? It’s possible, enough has been done, to clear the evidence in the circumstance. Looking at every angle, there is no way anyone, casually going about their legitimate business, can see the horrible signs of evil…who am I kidding?

It is true, an inner urge came on to me, then broke up on first physical contact. I should have ceased, but some uncontrollable desire prevented sense prevailing…as pathetic hunger for such an attractive blameless thing, became my most darken goal no matter the outcome. This I’m afraid, is way beyond a misdemeanour.

The clock takes its time counting the minutes, yet, for the moment, I’m safe in my recess, furthest from the actual offence. The darkest hour is just about to strike, with no possible vision of a brand-new blameless dawn. Perhaps I can find courage, accepting lust for stripping bare my want. It may sound callous after what has taken place in this abode, but I thought it would satisfy my craving, however it has not. Is there no end to this torment?

I hear a noise from upstairs and my murky heart starts to pound. I hear a door slowly creaking open in an obvious attempt to disguise the fact someone or something is afoot. Oh god they have past the head staircase and now are slowly making progress down the stairs.

What can I do? Where can I go? Why did I do this terrible thing? I want my mummy…The door to where I am, slowly creaks ajar… a hand creeps forward for the light.

Quick…I need to decide if to whimper a confession, or commit extreme desperate action, so whoever they are, they will never breathe a word of my crime. Will I jump upon this invader, pin against the floor… and so murder it?

To late, the light is switched on, and now all hell will let loose and there is no going back.

“Bloody hell, what a f---ing mess… that bloody flea-bitten cat, has eaten all the chocolate cake I made for today’s special event…. Where is that bloody tabby?”
peter.howden Posted 22nd Jun 2019, 09:52am
  The Desultory fellow;

“Variety is the spice of life” is a famous quotation…possibly true as Tiny Tim, found enjoyment in small pleasures, or see something good, even when intensely challenged his imagination would wander at will.

Many…many moons ago, when community housing association were in infancy, still quite a curious novelty for the ‘Halls of Power’, it was deemed training must be introduced for the novice tenants. To this end, many vital legal priorities conferences, ran throughout the annual almanac.

In Tiny Tim’s book, these intensive sessions were the highest of standards, but more than rather tedious dry, with lots of over the top data to take in over lengthy periods. It has often been said, and is perfectly true, more is gained from networking coffee breaks, or a refreshment of a night, than all the debates put together. People relax, ready for exchange ideas, with good common sense forming real plans for individual actions taking shape. The might of the human mind burst forward, alert to take to task any opponent who falters at the first fence or wavers at the opposition.

One specific year, the main subject was staff relationship with their employee’s, and the employers, mainly committees from Co-Ops and housing association. As usual, it was well organized as the Director of the session decided roll play would be the best way to demonstrate the legal and moral responsibilities of an employer, picking members of the large audience to act as a complete committee,

The scenario, a male employed as a technical officer, who for numerous months prior to this date, on a regular basis, late always on Thursday’s dinner time and the following morning. All staff was on flexi time, however the director had already spoken to the member of staff, who apparently took little notice as he continued to please his own whims.

The serious question of the whole affair was, how far can an employer delve into the private life of an employee? Tiny Tim was chosen to play the timeless staff member. Firstly, the union rep whose opening words were” I will help all I can, but you must tell me why and how”.

Tiny Tim, firmly but politely explained it was personal, preferring to stay silent. She became ruffled, only see disaster if unaware of the facts to build a case of defence. She asked again, but this time in hastily with deeper vocal cords, followed by a plea. Again, Tiny Tim declined with the exact same answer as first stated. Next came the invented line manager, his anger grew, as Tiny Tim twice declined to give any information, Next came the Chair, followed by the full phantom committee, all eager to be the first to witness an explanation, plus a hinted threat of disciplinary action against the offender.

Sticking to his guns by firmly stating, “it is private, and I would rather stay silent”, even when informed a week’s pay or work would be deprived from him. The panel felt a unanimous justification he was being obstructive. Finally, he met with the fictitious Director, who quite clearly told him, in no uncertain terms, that his very job may be on the line.

The wayward worker finally crumbled under undue pressure, explaining he was doing this under protest, as his public rights to privacy was being invaded, if not being endangered with the dismissal, he would still remain mute on that subject.

Straight faced, he disclosed being a thriving “Nymphomaniac”, needing sex constantly. In search for satisfaction, and for the cheapest rates, he travelled to Charing Cross, in the city centre, hired a prostitute. As they came in hourly rates, and being a true Scot, he wanted his monies worth, hence this is why he was late on a Thursday afternoon. He was then asked to clarify Friday mornings, replying that was easy, he was so knackered from the Thursdays romp, he simply slept in.

Everyone appeared to enjoy it, set the fellow who was playing the part of the director. He was poo faced right through it all.

Tiny Tim was disappointed no one picked on one basic fact, to be “a Nymphomaniac”, was to be female. He was already with the response if asked… “and I am changing my sex as well!”.
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