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Last 10 Posts [ In reverse order ]
peter.howden Posted Y'day, 11:31am
  The Desultory fellow;

What’s in a kiss

With aimless excuse, some flustered voices relentlessly inform that the system and the people are wrong. In desperation how indeed they are sorry…but; “What has happened to this world?”. In my opinion, the world has always been just endured, though we tolerate changes with slight glimpses of trendy alterations ever few years or so. Because of extremely poor living conditions, in many Scottish cities and towns and communities, one such desperately needed trend, politically accidentally began many years ago, with the introduction of tenant self-controlled local housing associations

The living tapestry within the housing movement, directors and committee members, mirrors life itself, mainly determined to make a difference in their homes, surroundings and neighbourhoods. The movement consist has found a couple of rogue directors’, pompous senior staff, some self-opinionated chairs of housing committees, a few conceited witches, ogres as office bearers …but completely outnumbering those naughty lemons, are dedicated staff with ordinary committee members genuinely working each day, constructing neighbourhoods to be proud with… through hard work, have surpassed beyond any measure.

Tiny Tim and Old Tam, innate horses at the diplomacy game, attended quite a few network Conferences, organized by advisory establishments, such as S.F.H.A.., E.V.H..and S.H.A.RE, conveying important legal information, Business plans, work ethics structures and changes in the government’s attitudes.

One such weekend conference was held in Perth’s prestigious Railway Hotel, apparently overbooked, no room at the inn for the two olden lags. The Director of the Supporting Social Employers organization offered to share his spacious apartment (apparently used by pole taxer Maggie Thatcher regularly).

Perhaps it’s Tiny Tim’s wavering memory to blame, but there was quite a bit of collectively carefreeness and refreshment fun between the serious business at hand.

Tiny Tim rose very early next morning, having been disturbed by old Tam’s constant snoring echoing throughout the massive room, each wheezing sounding like a death wish. Standing in the total altogether, opened the curtains and window wide, with vigour started to exercise both arms and legs. Old Tam woke with bleary eyes, grumpily protested about weird actions noises. Tiny Tim turned swiftly around, headed towards Tam, calling out ‘Tam what you need is a big morning kiss’

Old Tam was out of his bed in a jiffy…and like a rocket, headed into the bathroom…closing the door with a loud determined bang. This slight boisterous stramash…the Director opened his private door…revealing his own nakedness… other than over the top, Flash Harry boxer shorts… A sight to behold at any time of the day.

To this day… when meeting Tiny Tim on rare occasions, the director still coughs nervously…recalling the memory.
peter.howden Posted 12th Jun 2019, 11:03pm
  What’s in a name ;

Within the mind-boggling Greek mythology, Helen of Troy, launched a thousand ships? Believed to be rare beauty, though the lady must have possessed a lot of bottle to achieve such a deed.

Through lots of history books, numerous females named ‘Helen’, having the power to turn many a man’s eye and heart. In my personal memory bank, I recall a few such named alluring ladies, who caught my attention. In the early sixties, charming ‘Helen’ from a café in Dunbar, who rocked my boat, and still her photo is above my desk. In the late 90s, renowned throughout the housing movement for being passionate, launching a thousand hopes, was petite, ‘Helen McGregor’, having lots of bottle.

Just a few days ago, I enjoyed the magic company of ‘Helen’, the delightfully radiant chair of a central Scotland Community Housing Forum, navigation many housing Association vessels

However, in the mid-50s, there was thee, Miss Helen McGregor. My memory is crystal clear, she was a real beauty, a stoater of near perfection…no other ‘Helen could not compare with the tartan-skirted girl who sat at the top of my class in Shawlands primary. Pure heaven in walking form, who’s clan motto is, ‘Royal is my race’ but I would race just to catch a small insignificant glance of her captivating smile

Did I have it bad…was I totally smitten? you bet, fantasising of her perfume drifting through virgin air, deceiving the birds and the bees, to fly in innocent rhythmic dance. Her chaste fragrance locked away in the depths of my awareness, oozes reminisces of sweet guiltless encounters beheld within a pure mind. Her name was Greek, her manners were of a Goddess, glided as an angel, here…on the soil of earth. Her smile broke the evil glare jealousy can bring., as her voice, flowed as a lullaby, to keep the listener safe.

I was very unaware of true love ways, all this would entail, some would say, being far too young. However, when love or infatuation not only nibbles a gullible cheek, but also ravishes his senses until he begs his eyes just a moment to see her, age matters not a jot

No grown up, could know the terrible pangs of torture endured in silence, for I could not tell my peers without having big reddie for all to see. Normally Helen never even fleetingly looked at me, though she did stick up for me, against the wee biddies in the class. I could just about hold my own with other boys, but with girls; this was taboo. The other side of the coin was that girls were not all sugar and sweetness.

When I left the primary to attend Shawlands Academy… I was heartbroken, as she tiptoed out of my life, to a private fee-paying school, however, if now I was candour, I reckoned she did not even really notice

Being feeble, I wanted to be Clark kent, so I could change into superman, wheech the damsel from pencils, or the wee eek that bothered her. The truth most likely was, I was probably the wee eek.
peter.howden Posted 7th Jun 2019, 12:22pm
  The Desultory fellow;

Logic of Language

Tiny Tim’s long-suffering wife, often critically stated correctly, how he was haunted with a kangaroo brain, which is not so good for a scribbler… or tale teller, possessing poor grammar, spelling as a drastic ‘want’…hopping from one theme to another, often in the same sentence. Regrettably for any person who may read my undoing’s, I’m rather stuck in my ways. If you are keen to search, it’s easy to find foibles before fortes in people.

History is not what took place, or indeed if it ever happened, it is a victor wanting to what befell. A Government’s announcement was its intentions to place £2 million, to combat any stigma, the term ‘Social Housing’ allegedly caused tenants. Perchance, if the halls of power, refrained from using the term ‘Social Housing’, replaced by ‘rented accommodation’, it may have solved their inhouse problem.

Senior civil servants, who advise the councils and government, issue verbal and written correspondence, which are always deliberately complicated. Even their memos take some deciphering, using reams of paper to disclose very little, artfully screening what the actual document supposedly spelt out

Many…many years ago, the B.B.C. Scotland, a planned stress-free,1hour radio programme, discussions on personal views as to how the Scottish house occupants benefited from tenant control, in relationship to previous Council landlords. The wireless broadcasters had chosen three layers of community housing theme, to attend. A senior minister overseer, (for the government), a distinguish director of a busy city housing association, (for the movement) and a community committee member, (Tiny Tim was a desperate last-minute stand in)

The overseer was a very polite, pleasantly spoken man, arrived with a secretary, trailing a hand trolley, loaded with small cabinets, full of portfolios. The sincere, astute association Director, armed with a small attaché case, and sensible viewpoints. For Tiny Tim, his first experience of a radio interview, though had been asked his opinion by newspaper journalists, brought a current ‘Radio Times’.

A nervous Countdown, then on the air as the host introduced everyone, turning to the overseer with a valid question, who, when on to great lengths explaining the political perception. Tiny Tim unconsciously continuously tap on his scratchpad, with the supplied pencil, not realizing the state-of-the-art equipment, picked up every single alien sound. Within a minute or so, behind the soundproof screen, an annoyed looking chap, with large earmuffs on, frantically waving his arms, nonstop imitating cutting a throat.

Unfortunately, each time Tiny Tim was asked, his opinion between Housing Association, and the conduct of the Council to date, he was unaware of using the term, “The Mob”, apparently inappropriately, as a reference to the council attitude. Yet…the behaviour, and service from the council, and councillors was inappropriate for Glasgow’s paying tenants

Just before the programme began, the lady interviewer asked him why he brought it. Tiny Tim…with a straight face reply… “I brought the ‘Radio Times’, to prove I don’t only watch the naughty misleading commercial television”.

Tiny Tim was never asked again?
peter.howden Posted 6th Jun 2019, 09:14am
The Desultory fellow;

Tiny Tim, a pilgrim going through life, is very proud to have been associated with the fantastic community Housing movement, involved with their struggles, their triumphs throughout an undisclosed measure of time. As a reflexion of mankind, the movement consisted of a mixture of peoples of both voluntary committees, and professional staff, both partaking as genuine guardian patriots, career minded entities, listeners, boasters, banshees, ‘Over my dead body’ chair persons, and a couple of naughtiest, naughty people.

As a movement, each committee being the core, mostly volunteers, succeeded beyond all government’s expectations. One constant determination is regeneration within their, and other communities. Individually committees perceive their title role, to constantly achieve homes and living conditions, of the very best possible, under continuous growing government restrictions. Core Networking, through any means, is a vital lifeline to be successful

All work and no play make’s Jack a dull boy, was not for Tim. Back in the days when a little light humoured camaraderie, a bit of fun, was part of the atmosphere at meetings and conferences, assisting a better relationship between all involved.

Around 1995, within the boundary of the ‘Capital of the Highlands’, prestigious Inverness, a Scottish wide conference was held, debating a list of subjects. Each and every M’Ps, political speakers implied, even crowed, throughout the weekend, having read, and digested, the entire hefty government’s ‘Nolan report’ on public standards, though they all were conspicuously vague, even scraggy mentioning details…or actual themes contained within.

Ending the conference, the last open question of the entire session was given to Tiny Tim…who asked pokerfaced; “What have the Irish girl group Nolan Sisters have to do with building affordable housing in Scotland?”. Not a peep could be heard, within the crowded spectators for such a long moment, then the house audience laughed and cheered…stony faced politicians had no reply…The chair smiled…then closed the oratory session.

Three o clock of the new morning, in the swanky hotel, Annie Dougan and Tiny Tim, more than slightly sloshed, dancing to Tina Turner’s… “What’s love got to do with it?” …and ”Simply the best”… Wow, .the journey continues.
peter.howden Posted 4th Jun 2019, 09:28am
  Anecdotes from the auld Steamie

During the late19th. Early 20th centuries, the working-class populous of manufacturing Scottish cities, were crammed mainly in overcrowded rife with disease slums, located within industrial districts crucial heavy-duty engineering. A few large metropolises, bordering coal mines, capable of feeding massive steel foundries, vital for the country’s shipbuilders, employing the large workforce living throughout cities and towns, keeping the heart of the British empire beating

The political sharks of the time, reasoned the need to increasing production many folds, set out a plan to eradicate the loss of manual hours, through sickness caused by repulsive sanitation breeding disease throughout the slums. Many purposely built Victorian structured buildings, containing such amenities as Swimming pools, hot baths, Turkish baths and the now beloved ‘Steamies’, cleaning bedclothes & textiles, giving much needed aid and communal comforts, to the labouring populous. On the other hand, day-to-day hiring and firing employment in these industrial marvels, was strictly down to the prejudice local powers, as families daily walked a tightrope of existence

In the late 1970s, Ben was employed for a spell, in such an establishment within a huge ship building area. His shift supervisor, nicknamed Andy Pandy, was engaged by the establishment, with a blue handshake, having no practical knowledge of the working procedures of such an enterprise. Each Saturday and Monday morning, several shady men hung about the entrance, talking to several women entering the building with prams, crammed full of washing bundles wrapped in sheets. One morning his curiosity made him ask Ben who they were. The explanation was simple…local loan sharks, exploiting the women’s basic frantic needs to be able to put food on the table for her growing family, in a futile struggle to make ends meet.

With ill-informed determination, Andy Pandy, affirming smugly he would put a stop to this habitual habit by notifying the police station, to supply force to move such cretins on…they soon would get the message and leave. Ben suggested this may not be, ‘the best scheme of mice and men’, depriving a desperate hand to mouth district of an illegal financial drug, also, those cretins who run such lucrative operations, have cronies who would certainly be rather peeved, ready to “Malky” him… at somewhere along the line, in the future.

Ben implied of a far more dangerously occurrence, resulting in such action, frantic furry amongst the women punters, probably knocking hells bells out of Andy Pandy’s manhood. Andy dropped his idea and avoided eye contact with the Sharks.

Curiously, another inept shift supervisor, ending his contract on that Friday, blatantly asked Ben to organize a money sheet, gratuity from the staff for his leaving. On Friday, Ben produced a badly wrapped small parcel, which the send-off supervisor keenly opened, to reveal an old manky tatty pillowcase. Ben explained, with a facial deadpan expression, “we had a whip round, but could not raise the cash for a sheet, we thought this gift was more appropriate?”

In today’s climate, shamefully there are still loan sharks in the frame of legitimized doorstep credit business’s, loaning money at shoddy extortionate interest rates, plus International Bank sharks’ deals, with their reputed easy peasy pay day loans, both incising the despondent public… into economic quicksand.
peter.howden Posted 27th May 2019, 11:49am
Locating cabin

Gradually I was coming around to some state of consciousness, yet motionlessly sensing entombment in a murky dream. Out of the dimness, somewhere within my brain, came the name, Dan. Immediately, a notion of having, for a considerable time, been pre-conditioned, what for? I had no idea.

Within an unmeasurable period, the ability to move allowed me to carefully rise from the invisible floor. Reality restarted with recollection of being part of experimental ‘Arch’, dubbed ‘Igloo’ for obvious reasons of security. My entire trip, induced hibernation condition, voyaging into vast vacuum of unidentified space, beyond the limits of our knowledge; arriving here, wherever ‘Here’ is?

Gazing in total wonderment, eyes blinking and darting from one wonder to another, it was impossible to take it all in, as the whole picture opened, revealing an entire extra-terrestrial city, which could be the last indefinite frontier alien civilization ? Earth’s most up to date, intricate computers would not predict entering such a gateway to anywhere, with our limited conception of the entire universe.

Almost immediately, my awareness of duties needing attention within this experimental craft, was first and foremost. This came instinctively, due to months of extensive training in a testing simulator, exact to the letter of the outward-bound greatest space vessel of our age. Now, how could I… “dare I say it…go where no man had gone before”.

All responsibilities completed, aware of the purpose, and why, this hazardous mission was desperately urgently complied by the nation presiding force of Earth. For many decades, uncontainable catastrophic atmospheric happenings, in weather, seas and air, the vital soil for sustenance, changing the life as we know it…our basic survival is raw and dubious. Or just beyond our minds

The main function of the ship’s processers, being programmed to search for a substitute planet, in other galaxies, for the whole population of Earth to evacuate. Now, info from the ship’s supercomputers was… some 46.6 billion light years away from the planet. This would place, as far as I could calculate…at the very edge of the entire visible universe.

All systems go, with data collected from findings on the processor, although in forward thrust, the capsule immobilized by invisible unfamiliar energy. Looking through the observation screen, apart from the phantom city… total torpor emptiness ahead, though familiar interplanetary combinations behind the craft.

Data warnings on the screen, invisible membrane detected… indestructible… unable to penetrate… Ribosomes comprising D.N.A…inner nucleus rouge cells… source infested beyond standard repair…must delete… further information…waiting for response…data… behind forward barrier… self-contained protected organisms exist,

The grim reality of the status quo, no matter how incredible it may be…I…and the total existence of the world, based inside an additional alive unconceivable entity.

I awoke, in a state of saturated cold sweat, wondering if this was a terrible nightmare … an omen…or possibly simple… before sleeping...reading Annual 1953 ‘Dan Dare, Pilot of the future’
peter.howden Posted 19th May 2019, 10:00am
  Strictly Private

I confess, presuming to request for clandestineness with the knowledge of the ensuing personal information, may seem idiocy well over the top, by placing the following information into a social media slot, but before you continue to read this prior undisclosed document, you must swear not to broadcast a single word(consonant or vowel) within this message, even to your closest, sometimes dearest, especially ‘Her indoors’… she already thinks I’m a bit touched wacky… wheesht now, she might hear!.

Once concluded, delete every single line, and dot contained within the pronouncement. The following exposé, is in the category portrayed in the cult western solenoid movie ‘Winchester 73’, many decades ago, though more emphases on today’s manufactures enormous illegitimate monetary gains.

Throughout the world’s chequered history, marketing man-made goods has always existed, either displayed in public places, or word of mouth, if wished, the public could disregard altogether. Today’s adverts relentless promotion of all perceivable type, invading every means of communication, in or out of the home, almost in the air we breathe…ignoring such persistent pressure is nigh impossible.

The sour cream of the crop of faceless institutions, are promoting a incurable virus… way beyond public consumers useless contrary struggle with bare faced muggers akin to, ‘Life and property’ insurance brokers, calling each product as 100% perfection, better than all the rest, with guaranteed satisfaction, yet, none of those fashioned articles live up to their created reputation. Within a short span, they instantly generate a new miracle, claiming the exact same for the next life changing embroidered phenomenon.

Manufactures and their promoters, don’t wish anything they produce to be faultless, because of simple maths, having perpetual possessions is not good for business economically.

If they hear a whisper, of an absolutely perfect piece of equipment, the castles of commercial powers, by fair or foul means, will stoop to skulduggery regaining it, then locking deep into their vault’s tenure. To study the product, break it down its basic particles’ construction, learn in what circumstances, in global proportion, was allowed to happen…to make absolutely sure…this catastrophe will never materialise again

At this precise moment, protected by a purpose made pinny, what makes me feel of top of the world with pride, in par with James Stewart, is this once in a lifetime ownership of a piece of equipment exactness…way beyond imagination, which has lasted… nigh near 9 ½ months of rigorous use and abuse…my egotism personified ….an exceptional, green dishmatic exfoliator scourer
peter.howden Posted 9th May 2019, 10:53am
The healthy walk.

Being regularly informed by his peers, how he was in desperate need for healthy exercise, Angus seriously contemplated what was possible without too much perspiration, considering he was somewhere between late autumn, closer to winter of life. He had observed how every so often, the physical training fad, in huge ‘Gyms’, housing tortuous vessels of tears, obliged unfit customers to sweat… more than one way, as fees always sky rocket through the roof.

In the old days, no town’s high st premises, specialized in amateur bodybuilding existed, yet… few persons would be classified as fat, or nickname tubby. Angus remembered four pals in the B.B… one was always referred to as being ‘Tubs’, his actual name, could not be recall? Angus decided for the best of the best, (which just happened to be the cheapest) would be, sensible nourishment, plus, ‘Shanks’s Pony’, So he prepared hot malt Ovaltine, a chocolate rusk, then off early to bed to be ready for the next morning’s pathway to instant health.

Angus could be found guilty of daydreaming, yet very seldom having the ability to remember dreams while sleeping. That night, whatever invaded Angus mind, is, and was a mystery, yet, somehow corrupted a foreboding dream, so tangible lifelike. ‘The kingdom of hell’, illusion began with him walking towards a lane entrance beside the local chapel. Because of council work, the pavement was barred from community use, forcing the public to walk on the busy main road.

From the corner of Angus’s eye, a gang of four, maybe five ugly youths, furiously running towards him, bawling their heads off, waving various weapons head high. Closer and closer these marauders pushed forward shouting aggressively gaudy…suddenly he was awake, retaining every minute detail, in a clammy uneasy state.

Angus lay quite a while before taking a shower, then returning to kip. Next morning, just after dawn, feeling O.K, decided to take his first step to fitness, dressed and walked out the front door with no destination in mind. Sauntering aimlessly, he came across road workmen’s gear blocking the pavement, a sign telling pedestrians to move onto the road.

A cold moist chill ran down Angus’s back, seeing the left a chapel in front of a lane. More than slightly hesitant, Angus took several more apprehensive steps along the road, only to realize, out of the corner of his eye, a group of wild screaming youths, brandishing weapons, heading for him. He froze on the spot, totally scared out of his wits… then absolutely nothing…total blankness.

Next thing for Angus was waking up in hospital, with tubes everywhere…one between his lips. Bizarrely he felt nought, no pain…nothing. He lay, motionless, in a funny peculiar state of ecstasy beyond harm, with daylight peeping through venetian blinds.

A white coat female approached the bed, checked the apparatus next to the bed…leaning over, through smiling lips clearly said, “how do you feel?”. Taking his pulse, she kindly continued, “you were extremely lucky! if it hadn’t been for those young ramblers heading for morning mass, you could have been seriously injured, or even worse”.

Surprising Angus, she winked, then spoke even softer, “fortunately you saw them frantically waving their walking sticks, stopping you dead, as a big articulated lorry, on the wrong side of the road, would have knock the living daylights out of you!”

She smiled caringly …then sweetly asked…” the rambling boys are waiting outside…will I show them in?”
peter.howden Posted 7th May 2019, 05:49am
Jon’s rambling words

As a young boy In the turn of the 50s,our family home was in the ‘infamous Gorbals St’, noted for being slum gang land territory, which the district could not shake off. Compared to other districts, it was enclosed by obvious poverty, rough schools, even flashes of brutality from all quarters, yet, there was dignity among most residents holding a sense of pride, making the best of very little they possessed, and this adopted personal credo, I have no intention shaking off.

Moving home, then to a posh school, appreciating the hard knocks reality of life for some time afterwards. A slight minority, outwardly charming, but devious tyrants together, inflicted malice in darken corners, where no witness could be found. Learning to defend myself, by any Spartan means at my disposal…regrettably, my etiquette is still rumbles now and then?

I don’t believe in being a Brigand,’ (Glaswegian Chancer) …yet this was my peers’ presumption, so I adopted the persona, ducking and diving around the edges quite a few times, scraped from one place to another! I bluntly confess my inability to shake off this façade…even from myself.

While young, there was no fancy of growing old, due to bloody silly dares, crazy macho imitations from a fresh adolescent, then pretty close to being bloody idiot, winding through the years, addicted to foreboding temptations life seemed to offer…in the dark side”. Misplaced moods. still hooked…nowhere to go. These enticements were stubborn to shake”

A few friends slipped through life’s short cycle, influenced by drugs & alcohol impaired their reason, one then swam in treacherous Loch Lomond…another dived into the Clyde, believing it was a shortcut to Anderson … lost forever…but these memories wont shake.

Today, summing up, it’s been fun most of the time, though now…It’s as if I’m descending into another party? “Perhaps the entrance fee is ownership of natural flamboyancy, keeping membership of all closet cells within the brain, however, right now, there seems to be a wary mental contortionist, unable to recall why the hell I’ve climbed these f…ing stairs in my home?...

If I shake a bit, perchance I’ll remember?”
peter.howden Posted 3rd May 2019, 09:27am
  Benghazi Mice; John;

The ‘Benghazi Mice ‘origins were in 1987, within a Pollokshaws Turkish Suite, but Benghazi Mice mark two, rose like a phoenix from the ashes of the former. Within the safety of steam and hot water sauna, in Dollan Aqua, East Kilbride, sustained the loose band of cantankerous old brothers, sorting out the world problems in three easy lessons. The free membership’s theme and purpose did not waver, unless out in field manoeuvres under the disguise of day trips visiting Labour railway clubs

It was a normal Saturday morning when John, almost stumbled in, with a face of a man who forgot his personal ticket to a nudist ‘Mardi Gras’. Obviously touchy, he began ‘how could I have been so stupid with money’? looking around for some support or words of comfort, however, disappointingly for him, they never came. A voice in the corner called out these immortal words… “you crick your neck, while hurting your hand going into your pocket?” but no one owned up as being the author.

John let out rather bitterly, “It’s are right saying you will never be conned, but these guys were so authentic!”, making all the audience sit up and listen. “I was in the garden, when this Irish fella asked if there was any work needed done, it was obvious the man saw doubt in my face”, stuttered John…then continued his woeful tale….“He said to me; I’m sorry sir, I know there are dodgy people about, but we are here doing Councillor Rowan’s garden, thought we could obtain some extra work around the area at the same time”. Still in a rage John added, “the man was so bloody sincere…and ‘Rowan’ is the councillor for our area!”.

The big Irishman worker added, “it’s only right no monies cross hands until the work is finalised!”. With this assurance, John showed where he could do with help, agreed to a sum, £300 on completion. No sooner had this hand shake taken place, the Irishman, and two helpers, set to the job with feverish effort. John retired inside, quite chuffed with his negotiation skills. About half an hour later, John’s wife May, inquired if the workers needed any tea.

Opening the front door, He stepped out hearing a mobile phone ring, then parts of the conversation, which ended with the Irishman looking worried. The lead worker woefully muttered, ‘I have been really daft, I promised Councillor Rowan to lay an extra-long path, then repair her flood bridge work where I have no stores to do so’. ‘I never gave a second thought, he said almost in a whisper, ‘for I have no funds with me to buy the goods needed so my team can start first thing tomorrow’.

“All I need is a wee bit of time, just collect the gear, place it in Rowan’s property ready for the next day’, I could be finish with yours tonight if I worked a few extra hours!”, said all in one breath. John, firmly asked, why He could not give the monies to allow him to complete the two jobs. At first the big man strenuously refused… but seemed quickly talked round to John’s proposal.

John counted out the money carefully, at the worker’s request, then along with his mates, jumped into their old lorry. The head worker explained, he needed the other two as the purchases were heavy and he was not quick on his feet. Then they were gone.
The fraud worker was wrong… about the agility of his feet…as he, and his sharks were never seen again.

John looked so down, and self-hurting, cursing his stupidity for later it was proved, Mrs Rowan, never laid eyes on them. One Benghazi Mice explained, how easy it is to go to any library, look at the voter’s register, gain names from the target street, and a prominent person to be used as bait. Tell the police, was the communal advice, to stop some other person being robbed, but John was totally unwilling

Bobby, still wearing a ponytail, was the old hippy of the group. With a twinkle in his eye, called out… “Not to worry mate, you will be able to catch them next week!” The look of surprise, and astonishment, could not be hidden from the rest of the group, as John clutched at a straw for a drowning man.

‘How can I manage that’ inquired John, whose desperation was obvious, even in the steamy room. Bobby took a deep breath and said very clearly… “when they come back for the V.A.T?”
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