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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 25th Jun 2017, 08:12am
Post #391

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Foretastes of a 60s adolescent


The kissing Bruce;

No matter how old you are, or your status in life, whither bright or just average in any given intelligence test, in your eyes… you have made a fool of yourself somewhere along the line, yet… true friendship proves to be is a smashing gift, dulling down any pure riddy.

I have fortunate having a few close companions with plain talking ways, however they may not have always appreciate such frankness with sensitive matters while a naive drafted teenager. Not always truthful with myself, how can I expect to be so wise and understanding with others personal adolescence. For someone supposed to be slightly smart… I could be, and still hold a tendency to be, rather stupid.

The classification of an honest friend is one who stick with you regardless of what you say, or do while learning the art of living. You gab and insult a mate with almost impunity, where caution would prevent acting the same with someone you did not like or instantly do not trust. Every time I had a need, a China was always there…. You can’t beat a good comrade… even with a stick?

Due to my inexperience in the past, subtleness was not my strong point, and surprisingly very close mates stuck it out…but I was so very grateful they did…and do. The strange thing is you appear to be in competition on anything while remaining staunchly loyal. In the 60s, such phrases as “I don’t like the look of yours?” was a common whisper entering a dancefloor, or anywhere there was talent (now both description are very much politically frowned on). Please try to remember we were naïveté in the true art of wooing any young presentable partner, and the safety margin was still to be discovered.

As an example of my thoughtless conduct was when “The Bruce” came to me with a delicate problem, I could have exercised a little choicer compassion. Grim faced asking about his smooching technique, and how he was the odd man out at parties no matter how much drink he gives to the ladies. “The Bruce” was always left out of Postman’s knock, or games of that close personalized contact. If you ever saw a photograph of him, he had the appearance of early mobsters from Chicago would give. Square built with a sombre glance rarely broken with a smile. However, his mixed beverage was always a knock out, regardless what he was left to work with, he could drown sorrows in uncharted spirits.

Back to ‘The Bruce’s’ intimate problem, I told him how girls called him a wet wincher, as he had the habit of slobbering all over his partner or victim. Possible it was in the rare excitement of it all but this was perfectly true, as girls regularly said so after a party or the next day in the one coke stop off cafe, forming the infamous result. Coupled with being not very attractive, though I was informed they could suffer this drawback, but not the wet blanket impression while he attempted to plant a big one. Moisture is all right in the correct place,” I told him…practice with your pillow of an evening. If it is moist in any way try another angle…and keep your mouth closed.

I found “The Bruce” a perfect mate as he would stand by you if it did not involve fighting. He was no coward, but would run a mile to avoid physical confrontation. On insight, I may have been less than discreet telling ‘The Bruce’ all this information, then seeing how embarrassed he was at my careless chastising words…even though they were true.

This thoughtlessness or deliberate humiliating behaviour was not all one sided, by any manner of means as the main man let slip my ultimate secret. Recently I had been issued with a complete set of ‘wallies’ attempting to kept secret from almost everybody. While having personal friendliness with a young lady in the back of a motor car owned by Rammy (another very close chum), being so quiet in the car, at one point the noise of my newly found plastic ivories noisily clattered shut.

The uncomfortable female asked in a high-pitched voice if I had false teeth. Before I had a chance to make up a story, “The Bruce” called, “certainly and have you noticed his limp?” “Did you know everything in or on his body has a slant or an angle and his testacies are non-existent, since he took them out and played them like spoons” …. Nervously she made an excuse and exited the motorized vehicle …. I never saw that poor flushed girl again

-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 27th Jun 2017, 07:50am
Post #392

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485





The old-fashioned funeral


“Haud yer wheesht…,I need an old fashion funeral… Yer bum’s oot the windae… awa’ an bile yer heid” croaked Jock (not his real name for legal reasons ) looking towards the lanky guy from the bib mob, known only as ‘The fixer’ (an alias ) standing astride as he explained in the Queen’s English; “look… you came to me for my specialised service, you’re in serious debt, way above his head, and I have been asked to assist you…for a price” the Fixer ended by flicking his cigarette ash onto Jock’s shoes..

Jock was pale faced while uttering, “Aye right, beggars cannae be choosers, but I’m up to high doh Jimmy”

“My name is not Jimmy!” The Fixer with an icy chill in his voice, which gave Jock the massage. “We will organize a mystery accident after you gain life insurance with double indemnity, then the oldest funeral operators in the town will perform their tradition pious duties to the letter…everything will go like clockwork…I assure you!”

Jock looked sceptical spluttering out his feelings, “Ma heid’s mince… a nod’s as guid as a wink tae a blind horse”,

The Fixer took his time replying…then enlightened quietly; “There is no danger, we have worked this scam many times, breathing apparatus installed, and hidden in a specially crafted coffin, made by the best manufacturer firm of allusion equipment ever to exist on this planet!” The Chancer added, They have built equipment, served all the greats for a century and a half, such as David Blaine, Harry Houdini, The Great Blackstone, and of course the Frenchman Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin.


Jock did not want to look like an Eejit, he knew a Harry but he had never heard of Houdini…or the rest of that mob, but it did sound impressive, so with reluctances said, “Beggars cannae be choosers, but in truth, its Geein me the boak!”. “Not to worry Jock” said the confident Fixer, ready to clarify his plan; “

“we need to have an old fashioned funeral company, and I know the oldest funeral directors still in the business, They will dig two graves, side by side, one open, one hidden ,,, once the service is finished…they always use the oldest Fossor (grave digger) who suffers from lumbago and arthritis, starts to take small shovels of soil…once you hear the slight drops of earth, that’s the signal to start loosening the inside screws to open the coffin at the left side, then roll into the second hidden unfilled birth, wait until mourners have gone, then rise up and journey to a secret hideout, ready in a couple of days… I will have masquerade as your brother…collected the money pay-out … we will share it 50/50, everything will go like clockwork”

A couple of weeks later, while conversing with an associate, asked Chancer “it’s a pity the modern wee bulldozer was used that very morning for the first time, scuttling your best laid plans…Jock didn’t have a chance, as soon as the preacher was over ..it took seconds to fill both holes as a massive amount of earth just pounded both graves!”.

The fixer in solemn mode of a crafty fox explaining, “It did worked like clockwork…for me… who do you think phoned up the ancient funeral firm, suggesting the client insisted modernizing their old procedure, and if they would have a trial run straight after the graveside service, I would supply the dumper…free of charge …and of course… tick tock… I have all the double indemnity insurance …Tickety Boo!”
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peter.howden
post 30th Jun 2017, 11:01am
Post #393

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
My Chronicles 30/06/2017;

It is always the wee things, much more than the serious quandaries, has the capabilities of upset a household, which is the state of play in the ‘Howden’s’ home. Distress is mounting as how we can penetrate through the realms of rules and restrictions, mysteriously hidden in the vaults deep in the depths of some abyss, instructing and forged in the minds of mid management, employed by Cordia, defying any common logic to aid its clientele or concerned relatives of the said. The saving grace is, Aunt Becky is totally unaware of the problem…or anything

As one of many examples; this is certainly the computer age where anything is nigh impossible, but Cordia administrators can not comply as to mailing letters and information to our address, as we both are ‘Power of Attorney’ for Aunt Becky, who has progressive Dementia. Cordia’s employees continue to say this is not possible, outside their perimeters of instruction (whatever the heck that means?). Becky is the customer, and we take instruction from her alone. Her form held in their office…but because there is no area in the form where such an instruction can be lawfully placed, they cannot oblige. Their workforce all use up to date educated mobile phones, which are Jacks of all trades via the internet…but there is no space on a computer page to rectify the problem.


The computer can travel anywhere in the world while you sit comfortably behind a screen as the general in chief off all you can survey at the touch of a control panel, ready and willing tabs to obey. There is a worry it may affect the innocent minds of the young, locked physically alone in a isolated room, doing time…know in Barlinnie as a ‘Single Petar’. Their personal communication skills could be affected…yet years ago the same thing was said about worldwide radio…then television…made by older people…who listen and watched both, with goggled fascination.

My imagination dominates my concentration and thinking, way above the internet or any electric gadget. Using my imagination, within a pure magic jiffy, I can be anywhere in my memories, smelling and seeing right from the original awareness. The famous quote from Rudyard Kipling, ‘if you can dream and not make dreams your master!’ Wow. I can be in Dunbar with Boys Brigade Mates, seeing my first love ‘Alice’ as the wheat and Barley float on the wind, the aroma penetrates my nostrils. My first glance to see ‘She who must be obeyed’ and our first date, then if I wish, particularly camping near Loch Lomond. A computer can reach the four corners of the world, including focusing the lay of the land at and around the famous Loch, but personal secluded exclusive viewing…pure dead brilliant.

We can be ‘in touch’ with friends and strangers via the internet, but nothing surpasses meeting people in person. For me personally it is meeting my’ Chinas’, for no matter how long it has been…or what circumstances, it happens there is always jelly of excitement within me. I seldom show it when I do arrive…but it is there…bubbling and cooking god knows what.

‘She who must be obeyed’ while she is out galivanting, has left strict instructions to watch the ‘Homemade Soup’ on the stove, bubbling in the big pot. It is more than my life’s worth to let it stick to the bottom or the sheer calamity of it burning. This in mind, I stir it regularly every 10 minutes, however unfortunately the downstairs new cooking apparatus installed alarm bell is rather puny in sound. To avoid a fate worse than death, I took a wee timing gadget, shaped like a egg, setting it for 11 minutes, up the stairs in my pocket while I am typing this message.

‘I have a grand memory for forgetting’ another famous quote, because I was so engrossed in my deliberation on the screen, my mind was elsewhere…when out of the blue the egg-shaped apparatus was going bananas in my pocket …ringing and vibrating at the same alarming time…I nearly shat myself…. better go and check…what for?.......it’s in your mind…
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peter.howden
post 30th Jun 2017, 11:05am
Post #394

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485

My Chronicles 30/06/2017;

It is always the wee things, much more than the serious quandaries, has the capabilities of upset a household, which is the state of play in the ‘Howden’s’ home. Distress is mounting as how we can penetrate through the realms of rules and restrictions, mysteriously hidden in the vaults deep in the depths of some abyss, instructing and forged in the minds of mid management, employed by Cordia, defying any common logic to aid its clientele or concerned relatives of the said. The saving grace is, Aunt Becky is totally unaware of the problem…or anything

As one of many examples; this is certainly the computer age where anything is nigh impossible, but Cordia administrators can not comply as to mailing letters and information to our address, as we both are ‘Power of Attorney’ for Aunt Becky, who has progressive Dementia. Cordia’s employees continue to say this is not possible, outside their perimeters of instruction (whatever the heck that means?). Becky is the customer, and we take instruction from her alone. Her form held in their office…but because there is no area in the form where such an instruction can be lawfully placed, they cannot oblige. Their workforce all use up to date educated mobile phones, which are Jacks of all trades via the internet…but there is no space on a computer page to rectify the problem.

The computer can travel anywhere in the world while you sit comfortably behind a screen as the general in chief off all you can survey at the touch of a control panel, ready and willing tabs to obey. There is a worry it may affect the innocent minds of the young, locked physically alone in a isolated room, doing time…know in Barlinnie as a ‘Single Petar’. Their personal communication skills could be affected…yet years ago the same thing was said about worldwide radio…then television…made by older people…who listen and watched both with goggled fascination.

My imagination dominates my concentration and thinking, way above the internet or any electric gadget. Using my imagination, within a pure magic jiffy, I can be anywhere in my memories, smelling and seeing right from the original awareness. The famous quote from Rudyard Kipling, ‘if you can dream and not make dreams your master!’ Wow. I can be in Dunbar with Boys Brigade Mates, seeing my first love ‘Alice’ as the wheat and Barley float on the wind, the aroma penetrates my nostrils. My first glance to see ‘She who must be obeyed’ and our first date, then if I wish, particularly camping near Loch Lomond. A computer can reach the four corners of the world, including focusing the lay of the land at and around the famous Loch, but personal secluded exclusive viewing…pure dead brilliant.

We can be ‘in touch’ with friends and strangers via the internet, but nothing surpasses meeting people in person. For me personally it is meeting my’ Chinas’, for no matter how long it has been…or what circumstances, it happens there is always jelly of excitement within me. I seldom show it when I do arrive…but it is there…bubbling and cooking god knows what.

‘She who must be obeyed’ while she is out galivanting, has left strict instructions to watch the ‘Homemade Soup’ on the stove, bubbling in the big pot. It is more than my life’s worth to let it stick to the bottom or the sheer calamity of it burning. This in mind, I stir it regularly every 10 minutes, however unfortunately the downstairs new cooking apparatus installed alarm bell is rather puny in sound. To avoid a fate worse than death, I took a wee timing gadget, shaped like a egg, setting it for 11 minutes, up the stairs in my pocket while I am typing this message.

‘I have a grand memory for forgetting’ another famous quote, because I was so engrossed in my deliberation on the screen, my mind was elsewhere…when out of the blue the egg-shaped apparatus was going bananas in my pocket …ringing and vibrating at the same alarming time…I nearly shat myself…. better go and check…what for?.......it’s in your mind… [size="4"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 2nd Jul 2017, 11:51am
Post #395

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
A booked Holiday

‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, enjoyed our second two week holiday abroad in Lisbon, obviously not counting the week we had touring Jersey while guests at the almost fairy-tale wedding between dazzling Marion and handsome Thomas Brady, Rebecca’s brother., Having never flown before, preparing nervously for the trip to St Heller’s, I was more than a tad feart, though Rebecca was perfectly comfortable volunteering to soar, in what I considered to be, a large cigar shaped tin tube.

Petrified is an ugly word to a coward when up ‘high Doh’, reluctantly boarding the plane and the dreaded take-off…. yet once up in the clouds, what a stunning overwhelming experience to have. If this is where God stays, for a few precise moments… I was envious. The ancient Greek Gods, rumoured to be the occupants of Mount Olympus. Now I could understand how humans believed in ‘Zeus’, commanding such an out of the world spaced out Panoramic vision.

To a seasoned traveller, this maybe be out of par, but my eyes budge as an enthralled animated child, in full flight. ‘Oh, help ma bob’, this colossal of this earth, just outside the plane, floating along just as ‘Dumbo’ did with Walt’ Disney’s; The endless blue still reflects in my mind’s eye as does the original thrill. The fact blue is a trick of prism light penetrating Earth, doesn’t diminish the marvel of it all, in fact it adds to it, along with the white moving candyfloss carpet was something else out of this world.

What about the holiday in Lisbon? Only one word can come close to explain it all, and the word; ‘fandabbydozie fre evrubdy’… So, my arithmetic is rather poor.

The hotel we picked was a couple of ‘bob’, certainly worth the jewel oasis on the roof, concealing a swimming pond, palm trees, Sauna, and Turkish suites, along with Jacuzzi, service with a click of any fingers, complete with the ever-present smile. This was vital for Rebecca, as we are sightseeing, in the growing heat of a morning, through the bustle of the city and beyond, this was a recouping energy station as the heat of the day passed us by. ‘She who must be obeyed’ relaxed reading a novel under the palms, while I had a cool dip while squinting at the view across the rooftops to the vast streets below.

We used the Metro system, as it was very cheap and, apart from the castle, everything was just stroll away from one of their station. There were warnings posters galore, of pickpockets and bag snatchers, however these notices are quite small, ignored by visiting public, no matter how prominent they are placed. Holiday travellers tend to think, since we are on holiday, it won’t happen to us, and anyway these things are not as bad as it is painted.

The hotel breakfast area was also open to non-residents and passing trade and the like. Very early one morning, a group of American ladies, staying at the hotel, left one piece of light luggage on a single chair, at their chosen breakfast table, while they made their way to the server trolley. I recall seeing a cagy bloke wearing a hat, looking out of place, using tic-tac to someone else across the bistro. Within seconds, he and the other fella, plus a woman holding the door open, vanished silently, so was the foursome’s belongings, including almost every cent they had, their passports also took flight, leaving them as pitiful “Victims”.

One morning as we travelled on the bullet tram beside the ‘Tagus Estuary’ and Ponte 25 de Abril suspension bridge, a pair of dippers (pickpockets) tried it on us. Spotting them, amusingly directly under a passenger’s sign warning of pickpockets. The first guy struck up a conversation with me (alerted by simply as a rule, this was out of character for local Portuguese, for they will converse to be helpful, and polite, but only as a response) distracting my attention, while the second bloke attempted to unzip my rucksack, holding only water and snacks, for our tumbling along sightseeing.

Signalling to Rebecca as best as I could in a very crowded carriage, although she did not cotton on quickly… but the twa purloiners catch on…that I had caught on, fleeing the coup by dismounted the tram at the next stop, quickly disappeared into the throng of the moving crowd. I reckon we were bags lucky.

Continuing; the Last page…cagy time with burly armed men of the law, in Lisbon …[size="4"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 2nd Jul 2017, 11:24pm
Post #396

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
The moggy

The cat sat on the mat as if a holy command. The cat always sat on the mat, except for one time when an unknown intruder broke in and callously stood on the mat. Where the cat came, from, cannot be determined by human or breast, but the cat’s viciousness was wilder than any Scottish wild cat famed for heredity ferocity. The cat flew straight at the interloper, having no time to move was still illicitly standing on the mat. Its open claws dug deep into virgin skin, while the closing action caused red blood to spurt uncontrollable across the burglar’s unprotected face.

The thief’s arms swiped the air in blind terror, caused by the blood entering his eyes, preventing miserable attempts to free himself from the feline’s savage attack. The very next moment the cat’s teeth sank into the defenceless open neck of the now agonized untheorized interloper. Sheer panic caused a wave of reckless arm movements which luckily managed to dislodge the reputed domesticated cat in its bloody activities

The purloiner fled like a mad man.

Why did the cat who daily sat on the mat is a mystery, though philosophies rage from…out of pure boredom…to the ridiculous belief it had in fact fell in love with the dog…having mood swings…who knows?…but the cat… is still sitting on the mat
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peter.howden
post 4th Jul 2017, 02:29pm
Post #397

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485

A booked Holiday Finally


Unfortunately, almost every city in the world, there is brutal adversity in areas of Lisbon (especially near the castle and up at the backward hills?) styles the old slums of Glasgow appear to be in Newton Mearns class. Around the splendid castle, numerous swanky restaurants prosper amid purlieus scarcity. When the reality dawned, ‘It’s hardly in a body’s power to keep at times, of being sour’ as the Scottish Bard wrote, irrespective of the smiles of the peoples.

Visiting foreign parts, most affluent visitors from our shores, view the local scenes as ‘Quaint and Romantic’, where the unseen reality poverty beyond our imagination is surrounded with dearth in an indefinite scale takes its toil with day to day survival.

The richness in religion appears more obvious in the scarcity of the poor. Glasgow’s reputations of a pub every corner, where Lisbon has a Chapel at each corner, and the middle too. The people support their own individual chapel, with great sacrificing pride with services, very moving in quiet reverence.

We both enjoyed slowly walking through these neighbourhoods, although Rebecca was weary, it was all worth the effort and as a true Scotsman, worth the expenses. It was our experience, if you tried to utter their own language, badly as it proved, the laughter and the help received because of it, was boundless with grand efforts from the local populace.

To be linguistic in Portuguese, I had borrowed a book from the East Kilbride Library, some weeks earlier than the holiday, but my achievements limited to ‘Obrigado’... ‘Bom Dia’... ‘Onde é obanheiro’ (where is the toilet) the book was with me to aid instant translation, when needed which popped up on our excursions. Within one of the beautiful central shopping areas of Lisbon, ‘She who must be obeyed’ decided to investigate, of all places, a health shop. I was carrying nick-knacks in my ever-ready rucksack.

Through a sort of turnstile, we entered the shop as the security alarm bell rang, which I took little notice, walking almost aimless around, then moved towards the front of the shop. The trouble started once Rebecca left the shop and I tried to follow suit. Again, the security bell sounded alert, closely followed by a manager trying to encourage me to try again. This just made the bells clang once more, seemingly louder, signal the head of the shop. He arrived to beckon myself deeper into the shops premises with an enchanting smile.

Two burly police officers appearing from nowhere, producing exited and heated language, full grammar and vocabulary in Portuguese wasted on my ears. This followed my stuttering attempts, ‘nilo percebo, eu nao falo Portugues, faz favour fale mais devagar’. Shorter translated means… ‘Help’

Big guys had long hard batons, giving the impressions of being swords strapped to their tense bodies as natural, complete with guns and handcuffs. Once they ran the shop’s apparatus over the bag, they discovered my library book, I had taken on holiday called “teach you Portuguese” was in my almost empty haversack along with a bottle of water (essential) and a jerkin for Rebecca was the cause of the problem. The bar code of the lending book, was the cause of it all.

Hired
Calls from a whimsy voice of ‘Erro and Desculpe’ came from one of the two stony frames, when just before they signalled a wish to toss me into the River Tagus. I was almost arrested for shoplifting…in a health shop, of all places.

The worst thing about the whole experience was Rebecca knew nothing of the fifteen -minute affair, believing she had been left stranded in the middle of a strange city, thinking I had just wandered off, as usual. She decided incident must be true… as I was much to daft to think up such an excuse…who knows?.
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peter.howden
post 11th Jul 2017, 07:06pm
Post #398

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
The Cat

“The cat sat on the mat”, is a much-cherished children book, a starting point to teach our very young children simple language skills, though…it could be argued, this seemingly plain line of words, are indeed extremely deep, near complex to extremes.

A credible enlightenment could be how a cartoon caption of the Cat, with large wide eyes, to underline at a glance, the whole story… along with the printed word. Now this could suggest, with such wide eyes the cat was a suffering paranoid schizophrenic, sitting on a mat, or an imaginary mat, looking bewildered…not grasping what is real and more important…what is not.

These oversized eyes suggest the cat’s mind gawking right into the abyss of the past as an unwilling kitten cruelly kicked off the mat. Yet…with those Vertical-slit pupils of the Cat, may alert how the poor wee moggy has ‘Duel Personality’ which may suggest, if there are two delusional cats, it begs the question….which cat is sat on the mat….which mat is the feline sitting on.

One of the sides of duel personality cat, this would present a possibility of two mats, so which one would the tabby sit on? Would this then present the argument the schizophrenic moggy could, or would believe, the other cat is off his mat because there is only one imaginary mat? If the pussy is allergic to the fibers of the mat, which one would it be? And who would scratch or more to the point; who would benefit from such an act?

Therefore, if the other cat, separate from the imaginary cat, would think it is a real mat, believing the schizophrenic puss is being selfish, even if he only imagines this to be the case. For there could only be one mat though, either illusion or real. However, both cats have never read ‘Schrödinger's cat’, quantum theory of superposition,

Nevertheless, if tragically the cat suffers ‘Multiple personality disorder’; D.I.D, but a new problem therefore arises. The origin is severe instant trauma…perhaps caused by being unwillingly kicked off a mat. However, with so many personalities causing mayhem…there would be no room on the mat

Where sits a sulky sullen cat gathering her brows like gathering storm… nursing her wrath to keep it warm
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peter.howden
post 13th Jul 2017, 06:49am
Post #399

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
How the Kingfisher changed

It was just before the beginning, when time itself was unable to start because all the faults had not been smoothed out. The world was split between the sea and the land, predators and pray, with a sort of system had been in operation, however it to need tweeted. In the Panthalassa, Tethys oceans, billions of all kinds of swimming creatures, mostly fish, who were both prey and slayer. A massive land structure supported all kinds of creatures, both quarry and hunter. Underneath the ground were trillions of worms and creepy things, so many they were beyond count. The colossal rivers supported eels and fish again killers and hunted.

In the one big sky every kind of birds you could imagine or dream, both(hunters and foragers) . Some chose the two oceans to do their bidding …some chose the diversity of the rivers and in this category, none bar none were more adaptable and continuously thriving than the tenacious plain dull brownish Kingfisher…lord over all he surveyed.

There were no waterways called Struths, no Burns, for recognizable Scotland, did not exist, but then again, if there had been… A small river; a large creek; a body of moving water confined by banks would be the Kingfisher’s unchallenged kingdom, envious for all who witnessed. This is when the angry jealousy raised its ugly head… as the birds of the land would complain…Up the airy mountain, down the rashly glen, we daren’t go a hunting …in fear of the Kingfisher.

The murmurs became ugly as most birds joined the noisy fray… and the fish of the many rivers merged in collective gripe, conveying, and bubbling, how nimbleness of the wing the single-minded killer was when hunting, which has dared those darn wee birds to punch above their weight, by going for all fish great and small. As if a halleluiah choirs chorus of both the hunters and the prey, of the two oceans, joining in the now louder kerfuffle, calling out how these so-called fleeing ‘Kingfishers’ think they are nobles of the waters.

As it was the right of all on this newish planet, the all-powerful Arbitrator was called upon, to sort this problem. This palaver was all the Arbitrator needed, because the urgency of complexed things needed to be completed to be ready for time itself could be able to begin, with as few hiccups as possible. “Whatever I decide will be law!” said the Arbitrator, “an unchangeable decree till the end of time!” warned the disgruntled Mediator. ‘once I have said my say, I will say no more’ thundered the Arbiter.

“You fish of the rivers complain how Kingfishers ambush, blending in with the trees and banks” …and you birds of the oceans believe the Kingfishers will grow bigger and bigger, threating your existence” instructed the intermediator. A hush did not contradict this direct conclusion.

“The kingfishers will be commanded to stay at the banks of the rivers… and will be engineered by nature’s evolution, to remain the same wee size” ordered the all-powerful Adjudicator. “That’s fine for the oceans but it will not stop the surprise attacks” blubbered the fish of the waterways. “SO” thundered the Adjudicator, infuriated being held back with more important needs. “The Kingfisher, true to the name and fame, will be given iridescent flash of colours, of luminously bright plumage… exotic royal orange, cyan and blue, everlasting…that is my rule!” then fell silent…for silence is the best insult to give such a stramash.

From then onwards until this very moment Kingfishers bare the royal markings due to its breeding….

“Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing…. lovely wee thing, wert thou mine….I would wear you in my bosom, lest my jewel it should tine”…so wrote the Bard.
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peter.howden
post 19th Jul 2017, 05:53pm
Post #400

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 435
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
A SURPRISE;

One of the main reason why this ‘fair green place’ exists, better known as ‘Glasgow’, simply because it pours down tons of rain, raining like ‘Cats& Dogs’, sometimes whizzes up a meteorological stramash, causing even the heartiest of weather-beaten Glaswegian… grave concern. Last night was such an unwelcome night, and even with modern double glazing can cause moving spectral phantoms as the trees catch the streetlights producing illuminated shadows preforming macabre pantomimes

A couple of days previous to this harrowing night, I had sprained my right-hand thumb, making every arm movement and gesture ache, adding another knotted notch of crankiness to the life of an irritable grumpy man (first class). Now, as I sat at the imitation log fire, the wind was whipping a supernatural allusion austerity circling around in a untamed enthralled fashion…not often witnessed…and never told…until now.

Watching the false flames jerking around, unable in keeping the threat of the upcoming tempest at bay. My mind escaped by drifting way back to a time once we had a real blazing log hearth in the original home, when and where I told stories of the wee firemen to our children. In the tales, the flames roared up the make-believe lum as red-hot embers tumbled onto hardened Casablanca tiles, in curious shapes and sizes. The weans and I would submerge into the fable and they would believe seeing wee fiery men stepping out of the flames.

Now. my mind's eye wandered lazily into a dream fantasy, once again overtook reality by me seeing them slowly dancing towards me, reaching out as if they wished to touch bare skin. I started to sweat profusely as the near and nearer they came, crackling flashier and louder with each step.

Suddenly a almighty crash awoke me to discover a violent thunder/ lightning storm outside, with such a force to blowing the back door off its hinges and wide open to the scullery, where like the twilight zone pots & pans and crockery kitchenware, flew willy-nilly all over the place as if they had an evil intent all of their own. What happened in that precise moment I am not sure, but my bottle went, my senses went haywire, along with my heart pounding ten to a penny. Believing there was something in the house wanting to harm me…the nightmare began opening Pandora’s box

In diabolical mounting naked terror, I fled from room to room finding no safety within any, fearing someone or something was closing in for the carnage. My blood-pressure was out of control sky-high as my eyes narrowed, my heart pounding in almost unbearable pain, in fear what was before me. I reached the small toilet, and in futile gesture locked the door…. I sat down…this was my last salvation…. then my mind journeyed into a total blank abyss.

This very morning, two strangers with long coats were talking above me, saying ‘must have died of a heart attack or stroke!” said one to the other. Then the other said, “It’s an interesting fact, lots of people have died on the pan, Elvis, Catherine the Great, Lenny Bruce and William Holden, to name a few …don’t think this guy is in that league?”

I tried to answer but I just slumped there…unable to move…I was thinking…if I’m dead…. where am I?
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peter.howden
post 21st Jul 2017, 08:11am
Post #401

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485

My Chronicles 21/07/2017;
How can time pass so slowly but speed pass till now being already today…it is a conundrum occurring more often now with household tasks for both ‘She who must be obeyed’ and wee Aunt Becky. Rebecca is easy enough as it is up to both of us to consider the possibilities one way or another…and anyway she makes smashing homemade soup, (I was instructed to mention this by, ‘you know who!’). This secret knack Rebecca learned from her Granny and Becky decades ago.

With wee Becky, it can be more than a drag simply because we are not really in control. It can be so frustrating knowing things which could improve her quality of life, but either faultier by default because the home help care can, or will not adapt to suit the individual rather than a rota, and a diecast procedure, which must be obeyed at all costs. To be fairness to the ladies on duty, the pubic are the hardest people to serve and satisfy, especially when time is of the essence as it strict and short, added with the constant worry keeping to the written instructions.

The complete lunch service was taken away due to the fact we did not want, or wish to pay for ready meals (which were appalling to look at or smell) , supplied by a satellite company of the council. The administrators cut the service to two a day…we still paid for three. We did not mind going up to Becky every day, which we do as normal, however, the tight restriction of being there to make lunch for Becky was more than awkward. Due to assistance for one lucidity minded manager, we have managed to return be given a full serve of three visits a day.

It must appear I’m always carping about this service, or lack of it, nevertheless there are considerate workers using common sense as a situation arises. Also, there are a few well-meaning managers willing to merge with the specific needs of the elder person in question. The mid management must shoulder most of the blame, as the timetables are unreasonable, tight for both operator and client, and the policy of home-help consistency, needed for ‘Dementia’ patients and others, has gone out the window. The fundamental reason for an air of normality, plus continuity… is to give as much support for needy patients as utterly possible…this is certainly not being supplied.

‘She who must be obeyed’, my canny lass, is having a progressively hard time with a awkward painful right ankle, affecting drastically her ability to walk. Luckily Rebecca managed to buy an electric chair from a very good friend, which somewhat helps her outdoors. Because of her long illness causing irregular breathing, while inside tottering about, instant tiredness forces a halt and sit-down to recoup. She has always been a game girl, nonetheless… the anxiety about the forthcoming operation, due in September, just adds to the whole poorly feeling.

Our garden has been neglected for some considerable time, though hinting I’m in any way a horticulturist, or even a gardener, is wishful thinking, for the best I can be is a scarecrow in a unused field, (got the cloths for it). Only very few home grown spuds this year and due to lack of constant care, three whole strawberries. Still, the roses came blooming, but they do their own thing along with most flowers.

Early this morning there were tell-tale signs of while plumage feathers scattered, a wood pigeon being taken by a Sparrow hawk. Magnificent killing hunter, is both exhilarating and sad…death means life with nature is not magical haven, but a fight for food and survival.

I have missed quite a few Saturday mornings laugh in with the lads of the ‘Benghazi Mice’, their famed banter and crack in the steam room…but maybe in a few weeks…with luck?…
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peter.howden
post 23rd Jul 2017, 07:32pm
Post #402

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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Tour De France;(a tale of two cities)

It is always the best of times sitting in true comfort in your own home, relishing a sip or two of wine if your French, or a couple of beer refreshments if your me, managing to catch snippets of the fascinating bicycle endurance test witnessed by most of the world, It blows my mind how those teams have the energy and tenacity taking part in a grueling sport…what a spectacular ….what a classic finish each year, 8 times around the magnificent ‘Arc De Triomphe’.

There are open questions, every year, about participants taking substances which the governing body disapproves with, or taking banned drugs…all I know is if I had to drive a car round their routes taken…I would need more than two rest days out of twenty-two, and certainly more than an aspirin.

There is no doubt about it for being intensive viewing, complete with commentary and magical scenery, however, no matter how splendid this yearly stamina race is displayed on the television screen, nothing compares being there at any stage especial in Paris on the actual final day…the year 2007 was my luck year… twice.

Having the good fortune to be invited again to the Pines hilly home in Saissac, that year. The gracious family provides great company, smashing food, and free beer…and do my washing, so what more could a weary wanderer wish for? I had traveled by high speed train(TGV) from Paris, in a vain attempt to learn the language, jumping off at the historical, or fabled,’Three Kings treasure, of old fortified Cité of Carcassonne. Unaware the Tour De France was passing through Carcassonne the very next day. The hotel’s panorama view was the fabulous, almost fairytale bailey of the medieval structure.

The next day, the whole town’s traffic was banned hours before the due passing parade. Once the leaders passed, in a short time all the pandemonium and hullaballoo was over as the cheer-makers and clappers quietened down, still with contented faces as it was deemed a honour to be part of a French living legend. For me, I was more focused on having a couple of days, with the not so, ‘Trail of the lonesome Pines’ great company and high jings…help ma boab

After four odd days, and with my return ticket for the T.V.G.I arrived in Paris, where the next day I would meet up with Toni (our daughter) and her main man Fergus. They had been a couple for some time, and the family knew them as a modern romantic success as Toni/Fergus…Fergus & Toni. Early in the morning of the final stage Paris central area a tour route was completely empty as was the whole ‘Avenue des Champs-Élysées’ On the vacant ‘Place de l'Étoile’ the goliath of ‘Arc de Triomphe’ stood naked in all its impressive glory. As the time passed and I had been both up and down the Champs-Elysees including eyeing the Place de la Concorde’ It was one of those couple of hours which will never return, locked safely in my head.

We all met up as the excitement bred and flourished around spectators from numerous countries, creating an instant carnival spirit, as dialects aplenty floating in the air, wafting through any barriers of misunderstanding. As the world class bikers appear to a massive roar from the now near hypnotized crowds, not equal to anything I had heard before…except being at Hamden when Scotland scores a goal against England… this signaled the start of eight ‘laps’ — up one side, around the Arc de Triomphe, and back down the other side — of the Champs-Elysées. From then on it was just sheer dead brilliant …a stoater of an event.

I have memories of Toni and Fergus taking me for dinner, then onward into a typical French pub, were a fellow entered, dressed head to toe in lady’s bright attire, and no one blinked or stared. I looked more than twice as the sharp cross-dresser, supported both a smouldering pipe, propped out from a huge complete rugged beard, (Captain Haddock). Toni and Fergus failed to notice as they only had eyes for each other.

I miss Toni, for out of the family, including ‘She who must be obeyed’, Toni alone understood most of my foibles , and howlers , even when I was conversation dribble, which I often did.

Toni and Fergus bought me a miniature bronze statue of Rodin’s; ‘The Kiss’ which is beside my computer. It is a far…far better thing I do…when I stare and contemplate the lovely piece…with Toni in mind…Thanks girl.
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