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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 6th Feb 2017, 08:46am
Post #346

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
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Foretastes of a 60s adolescent

Mate is a real China


In the late fifties, Harold Macmillan, pan faced (or poo faced) quoted “most of our people have never had it so good” a grand con where only the chosen had.

Given the circumstances the swinging 60s, it gave good excuse for a party at the drop of a hat, with conniving teenagers grabbing a chance of “empties”, or rarer still, a certain type of parent, out for an evening’s entertainment, or the bumper prize, while they went away for a holiday, trusted their offspring had grown-up attitudes. There was a certain ‘empty’ in a posh Toff’s bungalow residence, situated over Clarkston way, with obliging owners who were of such parentage needed. The wing-dings lasted all week ends into early Monday mornings, firstly whispered…then became legends of their own right.

The swinging 60s were either a myth or swung right past Hammie, though this did not prevent him believing he was a player while dressed in very tight sky blue jeans…but in truth, a bit of a chanty-wrastler …a fart in a trance. Hammie’s mate ‘the Bruce’ was staunch Rangers fan, exceedingly critical of anyone who was not, and strange in his manner with the opposite sex…both trickster best chums, behaved, and acted, as wally chancers.

Hammie had previously mentioned to his best mate, through chat with the girls he knew, how ‘the Bruce’ was a wet blanket (sloppy kisser) which answered why he missed out when at previous Soiree’s. Hammie’s solution was for ‘the Bruce’ to practice kissing his pillow. This he did as instructed, but with little or no success, so felt a right eejit for doing so in the first place. Revenge lingered in the air.

By the time Hammie and ‘The Bruce’ arrived at one of the famous rave ups, all the solitary talent had been spoken for, snatched away from intellectual conversation. This gave time for naughty trickery to surface within ‘The Bruce’. Being adolescents’ mates, the idea of playing tricks on each other was always bubbling just underneath the surface. ‘The Bruce’ dodged unobserved into the kitchen, grabbed a big bowl, deciding to mix up one of his surprise cocktail’s…turned out to be a lethal punch… liberally laced with ginger to disguise its potential. Hammie had no sense of danger.

The mixture had the appearance of ‘Dandelion and Burdock’ but it was named correctly as a ‘Punch’ all its own vocation. This defied any rational person, voluntary, to precede down a road’s only destination…. steamin drunkenness…even for a seasoned Glaswegian. Hammie drank through a kamikaze journey to near forgetfulness, while ‘The Bruce’ sipped real ginger and so was immune to his creation.

Within a short particle of time, the effects were not only obvious because Hammie, talking gibberish through his newly fitted white false choppers, gaining an implanted massive grin because his mouth refused to shut. All at once, the liquor blend was giving him the uncontrollable boak, manufacturing the urgent need for any bog, and its lavatory seat.

Swaying with rubber legs, heading nowhere, but then, with surprising aid from his best mate, (feeling rather sheepish with his prank), they made it to the smallest room in the house. ‘The Bruce’ opened the door …and the very lid of the pan leaving his friend free to let loose, disposing the lot Hammie had swallowed that evening at the improperly dressed saturnalia… and more to boot.

Hammie was still groggy with drunkenness, but could pull himself up to a standing position, of sorts, standing stride of the shanks pan, in total confusion and oblivious he was minus his brand new braw white dentures. The nasty deposits were blocking his view and anyway ...he was totally pissed…

With no thought to his own safety Bruce plunged his hand into the unknown, swirling the dark mixture then successfully grabbing, and rescuing, Hammie’s precious wallies. What a man. He proceeded to rinse them slightly and then and only then stuck them back into his muddled mate’s gob. Hammie graciously said afterwards, that that was an act way beyond any duty of a mate, and he owed him, not only a debt of undying gratitude…but his natural smile to this very day.

Anyway… he will think of a revenge worthy of…’The Bruce’?[/size][size="4"]
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peter.howden
post 9th Feb 2017, 08:17am
Post #347

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
At the end of her tether;

The flat itself is exceedingly cheerful and roomy, with its fresh painted baby cartoons, also displaying rainbows, while on opposite end is bright clean walls. This is not the despairing point for the young mother of two. It is the walls themselves, acting as a barrier, or ramparts, or a modern-day stockade. The plain matter of fact is she is a prisoner of her near own making.

She adores her children; ‘loves them to bits’ as she often says, however, they can’t help but add to the problem. It had was so beautiful with her first gorgeous child, Anne, the fuss made by everyone else, the novelty of calling “Mamma- Dadda” whenever the scene warranted it…or just as a fly bye whim. Everything was a brand-new experience where she could do no wrong, she was radiating a crisp gorgeous persona. Even when things did not quite go to plan, or jobby nappies whiffed the already scented air at the most awkward of times, for sheer motherhood had enough twinkle in the eyes to absorb such frustrations.

When the second little wonder, John, popped into her life, everyone was the same as before, yet it seemed to wear off quicker. Even her chuffed husband was not quite overboard as he had been before. Now with double helpings all the way, in everything, it has started to wear down her resistance to mood swings and frustration. No one comes around any more, perhaps because of the constant nappies on the pulley, or they are scared they might be roped into babysitting. When outside they met her by accident, the instant excuse was always the same, they had no wish to disturb her routine.

The magnificent pram her mother-in-law insisted in purchasing for them, far too big, and awkward to direct around the narrow staircase of the wally close. In days gone by, a Churchill pram was the bee’s knees but times have changed yet they did not wish to upset the mother of their father.

She had dreamt, nay prayed, for motherhood, envying anyone, and everyone who had a child, only to find her wished paradise had spiral echoes that never spoke…whose silence became louder…and the utter tiredness never ceases.

How she longs for adult conversation, just a short chat, hating herself for not giving all attention to her adorable babies. The walls may be crystal clean but that does not stop them from caving in to suffocate a lonely person. For nigh on most the day, she spurts this and whoopee’s that, asking her weans repeatedly ‘who is a clever so and so?’. She tries to have a settle down period every day when the little tykes are laid for a lunchtime rest, but this precious time is swallowed up by tidying up or washing cloths or taking jam out of the carpet.

The television is a God send with ‘Andy Pandy’ or their favourite “Tellytubbies”, keeping them amused while it is on… but holy mother of Jesus, it sends her brain around the bend. Almost all children always like a programme or action or story and then want it repeated, word for word… again…and again and bloody again…. despondently caught in a daily triangle, void of human company

The lady can only glance out the window and marvel at the freedom of all passer-by’s and again retreat slight deeper into her own little world and more helpless than the day before.

Her front door is green but no Frankie Vaughan behind her door…. only wash day blues…every day….and a consuming desperation
-=-=-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 13th Feb 2017, 09:32am
Post #348

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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
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Foretastes of a 60s adolescent
[size=4][/size]

[Preparing being an Adolescent

Wee Hammie was just a short gasp away, from his dream, putting aside childish things, following new code of behaviour, a sort of apprenticeship to becoming an adolescent, better known in the swinging 60s as a teenager. This elevation gave Hammie a fighting chance, to find, and live this illusive McMillian badly quoted …’you’ve never had it so good’.

Hammie’s visions were simpler in yesteryear’s golden society, being allowed to stay after the bells at Hogmanay, having a taste of beer with the men…but the best was cycling his trusty bicycle, anywhere, whenever or when, if the mood.

Hammie was to have one last summer, six week break from school, in an old coal mining hamlet, a world away from the big city boundaries. Six weeks with the local ‘Clan’ he knew from the year before. The ‘Clan’ consisted of; Blair, Dougie, Tub’s, and wee Beanie…then Archibald and Mary. Of course, Mary was a girl, as Archibald was, yet oddly she was never named anything else…at least by the ‘Clan’.

There was an old skipping rhyme, with the words sung; “Archibald, Archibald, king of the Jews, Jews, Jews, bought his wife, wife, wife, Shoes, Shoes, Shoes”.

The previous year, Hammie was nominated into the ‘Clan’ fraternity, after completing the ultimate test of running along the brick dykes, leaping across the washhouses out in the backcourts. Most days he ‘Clan’ aimed for the formable forbidden Glen, so called by the parentage around the hamlet. The mere fact it was prohibited, was a magnet enough to give courage, even to a mamma’s boy like Blair.

Having been an old mining community ‘Shale Bings’ were a common sight, and the Glen had quite a few. The main reason mothers and fathers strictly forbade, was simply when returning home, the ‘Clan’ were pure mawkit, no matter how much Hammie and the boys tried to disguise the fact. The girls never seemed to have that problem.

The glen was covered in green during the summer months, with foxes, rabbits and unidentified wild life roaming around. Also, a rambling stream gurgling through the now woodland ending up in a big dark pool…where the boys den was built in the open outback. Skinny dipping was a regular occurrence, but failed to touch the bottom, never finding out how deep it was, or where the brownish water came from.

Of one of these trips, the ‘Clan’s’ decided to camp the full day in the great den. A small tent was taken, as the girls stated quite severely, they would not enter the dirty old den. Pieces made from Pan bread, plus bottles of ginger, ‘Dandelion & Burdock’ packed. A familiar game, dare or promise, was struck up after the tent was fixed, and the usual things near adolescents do, when they don’t know they are near adolescents, were done.

Hammie’s turn came, was dared to kiss Archibald, for one whole minute…she seemed willing but Hammie had a riddy (blushed profusely). Jeered on by the rest, they went under that tent together, for the double dare, but the deed was truly done.

Hammie had truly past the test but on arriving home… received a thumping for being manky -=-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 16th Feb 2017, 01:04pm
Post #349

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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
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KNOCKING AGAIN;

Not again...There’s that knock again....can’t think who it can be... I bet it’s the same pain in the ass* as yesterday whoever they are.......well I’m staying put.... just in case it’s the television licence detector van... turn down the sound on the telly.... he’ll think I’m out.... bugger this... it’s the re-run of ‘Wagon train’ with Ward Bond........ I’ll need to guess what he’s saying.... he played a Texas Ranger/preacher in the ‘Searchers’ ... Their knocking at the bloody door again. They might have the wrong door...so it’s a waste of time getting up.

Poor old military men like me, should be left alone in peace…not knocked up whenever anybody else appears willy-nilly… I’ve done my bit …Am I being targeted? The bampots*.

I don't know who it can be but they are obstinate ...could be Littlewoods... they must hand the winning cheques over personally. but with my luck. It’s not the Football Pool company but the blinkin shop...I’ve lost my Irish luck ...anyway I stopped doing them last year… so, unless there’s been a late goal? Tried spot the ball once...could not see it...even with a magnifying glass...........bet they left it out on purpose...

Might be goody-goody Misuse’s Grant, Sadie to her friends which I’m not one, sounds like it could be her knock... she has a demanding thump.... wonder what she wants, Trivial or important…Oh heck…it’s getting louder.... she’s staying there ....you would think if no-one answers.... after all this time, she would presume I’m out and go away. She may be round with the cake she promised last Christmas...I’m hungry.......no this is Monday....bake day is Thursday...... Jing's, my slipper has a hole...

It’s just come to me, it could be that Dairy owner, he’s a brute of a guy ... come to complain about last week shenanigans.... if it is.... I’m defiantly staying here... did not pay the bill ...3 for three weeks owed .... I think I’m barred for insulting the milkman. I answered the door when he was looking for gratuity, standing in his Co-op uniform, told me he was from Pakistan… I said, ‘must have a big milk round, so that’s why your slow?’.

There they go again; rattling the panels off the letter box…hanging on by a thread. Wonder what they want? must be in a hurry.... Impatient bugger whoever it is....on the other hand...might be from the social Security, wanting to cut my money again. All these long forms to fill up... and I fought in the last war for them...in the name of freedom. Do they show appreciation.... no way.... they know bugger all what self-sacrifice is.

Wait a minute; there at it again. Getting a bit ratty are they not. If they think I will jump...they’ll another think coming.... More than likely it’s those young thugs who shout out and call me an old Bampot. A short sharp shock is what they need. Have no respect for king and country. I’d shoot the lot if I had my way... swing for them I would. Anyway, it can’t be them for there is no hullabaloo, no shouting. I’m sure it was them who peed through my letter box last week ...then again... I couldn’t be sure. We were poor in the old days but happy days. They don’t know their born these days. That knocking is getting irritable but I wonder what they want. Why? Could it be the fancy tart from ‘56’…Naw; I’m not that fluky. Not much use anyway.......past my sell bye date.

It might be her from ‘21’, looking for a subscription for wee black babies in Africa. She is a nice wee woman but is a pain in the bum when she talks of ‘Finding God’. She is a bit of a prude....wonder when she lost him. Stuff this… I need a pee... can’t go or they will hear me. These people are so inconsiderate. Can I hold it… bugger it, I’m dribbling? It sounds like the same knocking as yesterday but they gave up quickly before I had time to make me mind up. Is it’s a telegram ... no....it can’t be....surly they stopped doing them some years ago. Last one I got was call up during the war and I floated off to stay with my auntie in Eire... or Eriu my Gaelic Goddess


Still… I would like to know who it is. I hear footsteps walking away …. trouble with people today... they have no patience, no time for others, Just selfishly, me, me.me…all the time [size="3"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 18th Feb 2017, 08:26am
Post #350

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
SINGLE END;

In the last century, what could be deemed more Glaswegian than the single end. Such accommodation stretched throughout North-South-East and West of Glasgow. It’s the single end, better known to the rest of the world as a one room flat, in a tenement building. The prosperous areas abodes in posh tiled wally closes… with residential solo apartment

Romance was blooming, when Geordie and Agnes married rather swiftly, leaving little time for ether gathering up savings or finding a home. Geordie was given an address of an abode in what the privileged named a working-class area, a slum district, where the affluent became richer collecting rents. The couple’s own wee rented retreat, with a bed recess, shabby wallpaper, and a sink by the window. It needed more than a lick of paint, more like a miracle but the couple were oblivious to the one room’s disappointments, Geordie and Agnes accepted all, to start their lives together, for love was in the air and well into the night behind their closed door

Geordie was a lamplighter, even then a slowly dying profession with all the new modernisation, while Agnes worked as a shop assistant. She was proud of her position, complete with the smart turn out demanded of her employer, Geordie realized he carried a sieve-like fume from his occupation, no scrubbing or soap could conquer the whiff…he imagined his nose, unwillingly, carried the pong right through his life

Their own little home was such a boon, owing to sparkles in their eyes for each other, failing to see the harsh lessons in front of them. Unlike other residents in the district, they had an open space view other than other grey dark tenements. A football ground was straight across the street which allowed more light to penetrate through the only window. Some other places being ghostly and dismal, simply because of being overshadowed by many other abodes, crammed tightly together. Another hidden benefit for the couple was cool fresh breezes circulating through the cherished dwelling.

With one or two exceptions, all the tenants held a fierce pride for their close, almost to an obsession, especially for the individual doorway to each home, which they meticulously prepared for any scrutiny. Each family took it in turn to clean the landing, stairs and the shared cludgie. This multiple drafty closet had to be spick and span, rather than in a guddle, as many eyes other than theirs inspected it, with critical examination. Woe betides any neighbour who forgot their turn, they would be ‘the talk of the steamie’, as the Glaswegian saying intimates. Pipe clay blocks were used to bring up the whiting of the steps and bleach mixed with water to brighten the greyness of the landing.

Geordie and Agnes’s district, as with so many in Glasgow, had backcourts surrounded by run down property, mackit at best. Same place where weans, with exuberant pride played in mud puddles, and tea sets made from clatty old milk cartons and bottle milk tops as money. Cardboard, clanty pots, minging cans, pieces of mockit broken glass, stones for weights and lots of mud, plenty of it. With total innocence of their imagination for their hard work, all they wished was their Maw’s sharing in their delight of collected treasure. Many a shrieking swear word heard across landings, as mothers defended their well-scrubbed abodes…to the utter dismay of the children.

Most children either played in their own streets or the communal back courts, to be in ear short of their households. Jelly pieces, a staple diet, regularly flung from kitchen windows, to be caught by the urchins below. If they landed on the ground, picked up, cleaned by wiping them on their jerseys, to be eaten with gusto. Wee dens would spring up if spare wood could be found which were decorated with anything coming out of the rubbish bins, locally known lucky middens. Children played, kick the can, tig and chases around the streets or hopscotch, peever beds and belles ropes for the more athletic and of course football always for the boys

There were rats running around, even in broad daylight. ‘Chips droppings from drunks on Friday nights, sometimes Saturday, all manner of junk and clabber ready with infection. Flees and lice had a field day, with worried mothers reaching for the bone, or steel Derbac combs, to rid the little mites. Doctors would reassure parents, these little tics only picked clean heeds, but it did not stop lotions flowing like water, while red eyed kids complaining about the brutality of the sharp comb digging into treated scalps. It was normal for kids to play in middens and for tiny curious fingers to rumble through waste as it was their arena of play. .

The Salvation Army came around of a Sunday morning bashing away at drums and symbols and the brass giving full blast to all and sundry “Nearer to God are thee” or “The Hallelujah boat” not realizing some were closer to God than they ever guessed.

Many a summer’s night, local entertainment was dancers, singers, fiddlers, and instrument players or even an odd play, being performed in this central stage made of carboard in the backcourt. all the punters hanging out the windows enjoying the spectacular. Appreciation shown with pennies tossed down to the court the entertainers scrambling to pick up as many as possible, added to the fun.

Very few Tenants saw this as any kind of poverty surrounding them, many districts were in the same boat… sometimes worse, apart from the chancers. Dearth of amenities was just that, and with pure tenacity, the people just got on with the business of living.

-=-=-=-=-=-=
To Geordie’s shame, they accepted it as normal. In their defence, they were totally absorbed within a private world, as most time hurrying to be on their own

Looking back with mixed emotions as many a friend and compeers from the past seem no more. There was bad and good as today though there was tightness within the community which certainly seems not exist in today’s modern society, poor or otherwise. It would be foolish to believe we can make everyone equal or eradicate poverty though we must endeavour not to make it be viewed as normal
-=-=-=-=[size="3"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 22nd Feb 2017, 09:01am
Post #351

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Anecdotes from the auld Steamie;

The Broons Sisters.

It happens in every class of society, in companies, workplaces, boards of business, there is always one or two nasty gremlins, who supply the bullets but never take part, not honest enough to be openly dishonest, though sneakily scheme behind everyone’s back, to redeem themselves with the gaffers, bosses…or president of the board…thus it as so in the grand Victorian buildings throughout the vast industrial manufacturing centres of Scotland, housing the Auld Steamies, the swimming pools and Turkish Suites., in each community.

In one such ‘Auld Steamie’, two types of over-enthusiastic stool pigeons were present. One guy nicknamed; ‘Night & Day’…. would do anything, work any shift, even penny-ante himself by embrace the uncaring Area Superintendents with tittle-tattle . The money takers in the front office were legends being as honest as the day is long…with two exception, known by the workforce only, as having a racket with ticket sales, one covered for the other…and Vice versa.

Situated in the pay desk where the most dangerous pair, ‘Tweedledee and Tweedledum’, mutually seen through the office glass, stuck together with their asses* in adjoining chairs. Real names were Daphne and Maggie, as from ‘The Broons’; but this is where the similarities halted, because, Daphne was as thin as a crooked rake…Maggie could loan her scunner’s face to ghost rides in the visiting carnival shows. Both inherited hypocritical smirks of indignation, furtive in their ambitious manner. Snide is the word.

Gaffers of all ranks passed through the office, enthusiastic to clype, the gruesome twosome wasted no time inserting hints of misconduct of the ungrateful workers, in supervisor’s lobes…in hope they would act passing it up to higher authority. The information was hearsay, of people dodging the column, however considering the knowledge the workforce had at their disposal…It was kettle and black magnified. This is when the whole staff decided to, turn the tables so to speak, by a suggestion from Cap-Kirk (he always boldly went).

Upstairs, in one of the hot baths cubicles, was stored a large forgotten cask of industrial black soap(jellified), from which was taken small tubs of the stuff. It was fantastic for the ladies washing their hair, leaving their locks, golden or otherwise, softly textured, and shiny. Emphasising what the barrel contained very loudly two of the Steamie staff talked about a scheme to remove this barrel to sell the contents elsewhere. Someone had manged to pilfer the keys, for the back door of the boiler, so the shenanigans will happen late that Saturday afternoon.

The lure was set for the two female informants took the bait…hook line and sinker. Later, the deviously pair sprang into action, Daphne talked to the bath lady blocking her view while thorny Maggie checked the goods in the obsolete stall. Just before closing, collectively grassed all they had heard to the collage graduated supervisor, Andy Pandy. Full of his own status, and responsibilities, he informed the four area superintendents. The management decided to set a trap and catch the villains in one clean sweep.

When the staff began their shift on the following Monday morning, there was no sign of Maggie or her prickly friend Daphne. The pair customarily opened the premises well before authorized time, to fix their ticket sham, so no eyes could see their ill-gotten mission. Later through the grapevine, the Broons sisters had been separated, employment wise, moved to different premises. What actually happened late that Saturday afternoon? those in the know…kept totally tight-lipped

News down the line the top brass knew, ‘Tweedledee and Tweedledum’, were at it, but after this fiasco, gave the management an excuse to move them from temptation. Other update was of Maggie, still being a sore faced plumb…but had attractive soft glossy hair. Daphne was stuck in a back room of the main office…counting pens it was thought.
-=-=-=-=-[size="4"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 24th Feb 2017, 03:35pm
Post #352

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
My Chronicles 24/02/2017;

Awkward moments and surprises have lingered over the last few weeks with the main change is with ‘She who must be obeyed’ having a stooky on her left leg. We had visited the ’Isle of Arran’ for my 50th birthday. Poor Rebecca fell and damaged her left Fibula and foot quite severely, ruched to mainland hospital, near Kilmarnock, never quite comfortable with the operation’s outcome.

Recently, the pain had increased so oft to the royal who stated after a X-ray bone had healed the wrong way. Result was a stooky for some 12 weeks then hopefully another operation…If possible. Very exhausting lumbering around a plastered foot, even for the young, so now Rebecca is limited in her accomplishments. Fortunately, her little car is Automatic which means Rebecca can drive but feels limited with Aunt Becky because she can’t be able to go shopping with her.

Rebecca predicament is explained to Aunt Becky with each visit we individually make. Now it is nigh impossible to go out together, Rebecca stays in and chats. Becky is quite happy, even has a glint in her eye, connecting extraordinary stories of the past, which never happened. From time to time, as if a cat, her head tilts deliberately one way, then the other, while staring at something invisible… in a confused manner.

Although Becky has repetitive dialog, her mind is working all the time, unprejudiced taking obscure route, lives for the moment, with occasional trips to reality. She needs special care now for her own inner comfort, for us to listen intently to her stories, as if they were brand new…this is sometimes extremely difficult to do…but then; I have always been a con man.

We had a hurl in the motor today, which was just as much magic for me as it was for Becky. The ‘Tartan top twenty’ pounding inside my old jalopy and both tapping feet at well kent Scottish songs with the finally of “Flower of Scotland”, twice; almost lifting the roof with allegiance, while two grabbing our imaginary claymores. The flowing scenery dominated by the snow covered prehistoric Kilpatrick Hills, mastering all they surveyed as the blanket of snow carefully protecting the mysterious nature growth-bed for the next session…pure dead brilliant.

The second pleasure, while taking the country route back home, having the fabulous scenery, along with the majestic hills again, complete with early rendering of the ‘Rolling Stones’, plus the ‘Great Blues Band’ belting out as only they can…how can you top that?

The so named winter weather has been mild, the proof is early growth in our so-called garden, creating Snowdrops, crested Iris and even Crocus along with Daffodils. After all the music excitement, it was a quiet joy just standing there for a unknown period of time, taking in nature…super.

W.H Davies mentioned in a poem; time to stop and stare, which is a habit slowly disappearing because almost everything in automatic, we miss wee special breaks to just reflect whatever comes into our heads…or just mellow over nothing. People don’t even halt and contemplate, while winding old bedside alarm clocks, or watches, Society has become processer zombified
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 28th Feb 2017, 02:38pm
Post #353

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
HARDLY WORTH A PHART

Because genuine concern rests with many peoples in numerous lands, countless individuals believe we cannot change wild nature, we must adapt to suit the circumstances as it presents itself… and there is fair merit in this. However; there is a lot of absolutely boloney written, then spoken, of global warming and how we humans are to blame for the end of the world, or ‘Life as we now it Jim’ (if you are a trekkie). One word Poppycock

Another way to look at the newly created unwanted phenomenon, the unremitting accumulation of Methane gas, particularly aired out… then into fact, meanwhile our poor cows have been shouldered the blame. This has heehaw nothing to do with the gravity of the unsolved situation, but could cause hallucination on a mass scale

For this reason, the authorities are attempting to hide the truth behind the fallacy of the udder. It is factual how cows chewing the cud, gives off heat and huge quantities of Methane. Insect specialists at the Natural History Museum, reluctantly reveal the habits of termites, was complete falsehood. Similar Walt Disney instructed in filming ‘White Wilderness’, lemmings committed willing suicide, ‘Seppuku’ if Japanese. Shot in Canada, not in Norway as advertised. Naughty Walt paid the Eskimos one dollar for each lemming taking part…misleading the whole cinema world.

The creatures famous for building enormous mounds and eating houses, once cartooned as ‘silent destroyers’; termites are the villains of the piece. The fly in the ointment is, Earth’s populace holds 2,500 species forming 250 trillion termites, including sympathetic social relatives, the cockroaches, of worldwide cockroaches, worldwide brings the numbers into trillion billions… almost absolute infinity…+1.

The boffins are furtively fretting with the physics of this massive problem, because the sexual habits of Termites are not as explained earlier, with Queens and kings only mating. It has now been exposed how the once thought sterile workers and soldiers, in utter sexual appatite frustration, throughout their entire exist…fart constantly at the rate of twice in one human second.

With this bombshell, the genii have worked out mathematically…if the entire population of termites let their private wind go collectively, at the exact precise instance…. there would be enough energy not only to move the world…but put it into a destructive spin forcing the Earth’s orbit shift, aiming for the sun and an immature supernova.

The shaky answer; to introduce to termites, some sort of clinical stimuli replicating ***IGNORED WORDS***ion, to relive the built-up tensions…what about the queens and king termites; ####* them!

A teacher once gave me two bits of advice…. continuously endeavour to be better than the teacher…. always bring a pinch of salt to any table[size="4"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 5th Mar 2017, 12:28pm
Post #354

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Desperate; 9;
Lost

I’ve lost ma bairns …it just happened in a jiffy, playing around outside they were where I could keep a eye on them. while I searched for a ten-bob-bit, for the fag machine …. Next thing I kent, they wasna there. My wee darlings…. What will I do? I lent the bloody mobile ta my mammy, so I cannae call the house, or anywhere…but I need to find the bairns. Maybe they just wandered off, no thinking about how stressed I’d be…but the main door has been wide open all the time so I could watch them.

I need a fag, right now, just a drag to calm down. Just looking in my purse for a ten-bob-bit, for the bloody machine…turned around…and they gone …oh my God what if they’ve been snatch… naw three nippers, including the wean in the pram, my cherubs are all weans, none over seven, they’d have shrieked the house down. Where are ma wee angels.

By the way, their hopeless father split up some time ago…. Cannae recall when but It was that bastard of a man I’ve a weakness for…it’s his fault. He’s never a looker, or sharp repartee, or even a decent willy…. but it’s something raw about him, I cannae put my finger on it. Where he goes …I bloody follow like a demented teenager. I cannae understand it…the door was wide open; how could they just vanish…if their playing a cruel trick I’ll skelp the wee buggers

‘Slow down girl, you’re getting nowhere talking gibberish’ I’m noo masel being sick with worry.

Nobody but nobody could say I’ve ever neglected them, my kids want for nonthin. I’m so lucky my oldest; ‘Johnny’ looks after his wee sisters, when I could not manage. Sometimes when I was not well or a wee bit run down, Johnny, my wee soldier, would look after the wee Tinkerbelles my three princesses. Wash them as clean as little buttons he does, sit them down to watch the telly; then oft to beddy-byes land.

A couple of times, when I was not well, tired, could hardly move, Johnny put me to bed. I’m not ashamed in fact I’m bloody proud of the wee man…. I wonder where they are now?
I’m sick with worry

They never ever went hungry, no sir, not if my life depended on it, I saw to that, always something to eat in the house. Never left them alone……. except for maybe ten minutes while I nicked down to the oft license for a wee message, always brought back crisps or a bar of chocolate…. you should have seen the nippers’ tiny eyes light up…. pure dead brilliant.

These social workers ………nebbie buggers; sharp tongued and full of book crap……life is not like that you know…. Not real life …. they ken sweet dammed all about love, I’ll tell you. I’ve learned the hard way…but I wish I could just see ma wee cherubs, they’re everything to me. If I could just see wee little faces, then I’d know they were all right.

It’s this glaiky chancer of a man…I’m here, in a weird dingy pub… Its noo ma fault …I kept the pub door open all the time…. I’m hurtin, its noo fair…if they had done what I had telt them; everything would be spankin.

But naw; it’s that adventuress spirit wee Johnny gets from his natural father…I told them, just stay there…stand still while mammy goes in for a slight refreshment ….my wee gem had her favourite doll, with the woolly hat, with her …when I came out ….their gone…vanished …like a thief in the night took them….bet the wee shits are at hame…
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peter.howden
post 8th Mar 2017, 08:18pm
Post #355

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
The undiscovered world.

I was conscious of being there, only as a third party, observing something phenomenal where there was no obvious light, yet I could realize, no sound as if there was nothing to hear. The sensation of vastness, in all directions, was utterly overpowering, comprising of no North, South, nor East or West, no up no down…just an empty vacuum. As if mischievous immense invisible Gods were hiding in the sulk, or was I witnessing the creation of a vast mystical universe. In some strange way, I caressed this place as if I knew where I was, but just failed to touch exactly were, or what in my mind

A sense of extreme heat and bitter cold, two compound elements, aggressive for sovereignty as hotness casting moulted rocks striking blasts of flames, appearing over polluted waters forming icebergs drifting on nothing other than obvious polluted waters. I observed all before me, flying unannounced through both contrary elements existing without peace, side by side, not quite touching at the imaginary borderline. For an mysterious motive, the number 16 was prominent as part of my suspicious logic, while whizzing through this immensity, way beyond human understanding…but so exhilarating.

From the nothing, came creation of the world, set out its violent picture by giant primal Gods of Nordic. They first turn the ice domain into oceans, first contaminated but cleansed with salt from constant tears of the Gods. They lapped the waters then blew out, almost completely, the fiery lands now forming a variety of domains, containing sweeping plains, surrounded by tremors clashing and grinding massive misshaped rocks to dust eventually to become the sands of desserts… and sea beds.

At first, new earth was continually dim, thus the primal Gods created the sky, supported by 4 twisted invisibles dwarfs. The creatures from the ice and fire were upright, others tainted from the left-over pollution were wicked; unfortunately, good, and evil, like night and day, began their relentless struggle for supremacy. Each amazing happening unfolded before me, then without effort on my part, shifted to another advantage… Abruptly from nowhere, a familiar murmur interrupted the process.

The interjecting murmur grew and grew, until a large unknown shape of darkness overtook everything, then from a mysterious place came; “At 16.00 hours the train will arrive in Central Station, please take care leaving the train!”. After a slight refreshment with a china Jim Hendry, I had fallen asleep on the train while listing to Grieg and Mahier on my trusty IPod,

Now my future will never be the same, simply because two of my ‘China’s’ have hallow legs, and now I prove to be but a sap. Worse to come, Salty; will claim the prised crown, after some near 40 years, playing ‘Alcohol |Chess’ …I will be disqualified, un- ceremonially, as a non-starter. Fate has thrown its chains.

It’s not only Gods who believe they are especially honourable towards trusting mysticisms minded humans. Some humans believe they are also bestowed in this way, but own dark quirkiest ways as well. We, on this fabulous biosphere of existence, by believing in them, become part of the theology structure, no matter how tedious that is. We fail to recall, just being here, witnessing something so simple yet extraordinary, in our words, all can be immortal…but we are not[size="4"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 15th Mar 2017, 12:37pm
Post #356

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Wherewithal date

Awaking abruptly in the darkish bedroom only to see the alarm had still an hour and a half to ring, she puffed up the pillow, tucking the single duvet around her, snuggling down to dream of her suiter extraordinary, who she had been meeting for the past few weeks. The ‘per chance’ first wonderful encounter was close to the penny farthing romantic paperbacks, she could have written it herself.

Their eyes met over a crowded room as he struggled to come closer and closer to her, finally come face to face with their eyes transfixed to each other. The object of her affection was of a different class in society than her, but he spoke softly, in a gallant manner, uttering soothingly how does this count when in love.


They have met almost every single day, at Boots corner, (a renowned meeting place for young romantics) since the fairy tale accidental encounter. She counts her blessing, marvels at his masculine square jaw, good looks, each happenstance brings a surprising unspoken binding to each other as anguished pains echo loudly each time they part. The one problem is to find some privacy to talk and plan just where they want to go in this association. They have heard, and felt loves trumpet call, to intimately coil bare man and woman as one, but resisted temptation so far, though she is a mere weak female, he is an utter gentleman

So, without fault or favour, she candidly decides, today would be the day to make sure she was a walking female goddess, dressed not to kill but to stun the very daylights out of her swain.

Her love of her life caught her attention so intensely some weeks before, now she was certainly gunning for him to make a lasting commitment. She had no intentions of losing her ‘beau’ for lacking exciting and witty stimulating conversation, combined with her feminine allure, much above par of normal everyday chitchat. She would bring her suiter back to her boudoir.

Thinking nonstop while taking her morning ablutions, dressing then catching the bus to the rendezvous. Now she felt her ability with the verbal dress rehearsal. Everything had to be perfect and spot on with her newest and most expensive perfume and makeup but most important the words to really capture his heart. Throughout the morning, her thoughts wandered around to how she would say something enticing and surprisingly original verse as an opening line.

With all the inner concentration for perfection, time had slipped by and before she knew it she had arrived at Argyll St. As usual, this famed tryst, was packed with people hurrying back and forth. Her eyes searched long and constantly for her envisioned lover, but there was no sign. In an act of desperation, she forcibly joins the throng and mingles within the moving bodies, desperately to catch her man’s eye…but to no avail.

Stopping dead in her tracks, impatiently waits beside one of the famous white columns at the shops entrance. Some time passes as almost everyone has gone, leaving her and a very young fellow, standing in the cold night air. He timidly approaches, asking if she is the lady called Miss McPherson. She reply’s jadedly yes, the stranger hands her a note. Without another word spoken, he walks away.

With trembling hands, she manages to open the note holding two dreadful printed words…” Dearest, Sorry”, She instantly hysterically cries… cries out loud, unable to hold back the agony of tears…then heads for the long…long way home
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peter.howden
post 15th Mar 2017, 12:44pm
Post #357

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
I have scanned through my Scribbles, and noticed I have repeated some tales twice ..my sincere apologies to all who have read my words…particularly to.... Big Al
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peter.howden
post 20th Mar 2017, 07:48am
Post #358

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
My Chronicles 20/03/2017;

It may appear as if I have ignored this part of my scribbles, and possibly a smidgen of truth is in there somewhere, though a limp excuse is simply that… ‘She who must be obeyed’, plus myself have had leg problems. Mine was simple enough as follows, my right leg, broken in 1989/then2010) has started to act up with what appears to be a different limp. Sounds impossible but that is exactly it. I have had X-rays completed and with be given the results on Wednesday. Perhaps my daily intake of porridge is too heavy for my old leg to support.

Rebecca on the other hand, foot really, has had a stookie on her left leg for the past 6 weeks, making walking and most day to day things rather difficult if just plain uncomfortable. Just a few weeks ago Ann, (Rebecca’s sister) and easy-going John,(Ann’s main man) announce their intention of getting married after 31 years living as a dedicated couple. What sprung this on, I have no idea but my suggestion of them both running away, along with two witnesses, fell on stony ground, they wanted the works.

‘She who must be obeyed decided this was too good an opportunity to let illness or tiredness to stop her volunteering with most things to sort out a wedding with a couple of weeks. Our home became a dress maker and alteration with cloths flowers and you name it. I had to keep walking about to show I was not a dummy to stick a dress on or be pinned up. Ann is a lovely lady but each time she was due to come to our home…she would lose her way, or landed up at the bus terminal. Rebecca wished to wear a stunning dress and high heel shoe for the occasion …but on the day, wisely choose to dress in smart trousers and a charming blouse. She may not have been the bell of the ball…she is… ring-a-ding for me.

On their special intimate day, John (a stookie on his arm from a football injury at five a side) waited patiently for Ann, looking a stunning picture of a bride, gorgeous, with nerves to match as she was 31 minutes late for the service. With the whole family, there, it went like a dream. During the actual service, I squinted across at ‘She who must be obeyed’, remembering why I was so fascinated by her 50 years ago,. Unfortunately, at this moment, I have since forgotten, though even if I could have remembered…I would be feart of being put into an institution for the insane.

The meal; followed by the welcoming ‘DO’…was just one great ball, as Rebecca and I, in company with our family; plus the whole bunch of family members from Jersey, joined by many more happy and talkative people we had not seen for donkeys. My leg was a bit of a let-down, sadly making dancing not on my agenda. My wish is on the next complete family ‘Do’ I with show off my versatility on the dance floor …complete with a Mick Jagger parody.

‘She who must be obeyed’ along with her stookie has been visiting Becky just as regular as before the hospitals actions, though rather than a visit to the shops she sits and talks with now bright looking Becky. Her mind wanders deeper into uncharted terrains, tells stories Rebecca knows not to be true, but she is happy and seemingly quite content in her wee world, surrounded by books, of all calibres, but her ability to concentrate is restricted to a minute at best.

Her dementia is dauntingly progressing…but at what speed is just guess work. She has lost the ability to turn on the T/Our biggest fear is if Becky wanders outside, forgetting how to return home. Neighbours have been brilliant and have phoned to let us know of any such activity and once or twice taken her in, made tea and taken her home

The big fly in the ointment is; the inconsistent care given to Aunt Becky, by Glasgow Council arm’s length company ‘Cordia’, supplying different attendants weekly, who have been given poor or crammed training, with time rotas far too tight (roughly15 minutes per patient), and an unclear understanding what their duties are, or even, in some cases, how to switch on the electric cooker safety switch. The ladies, sometimes men, have been trained to come in, ask Becky what she wants to eat… she is confused…asking for a piece and marmalade. The head office of ‘Cordia’, unknown to us, had not changed her file since 2014…had not installed Becky had dementia.

Between us we run up to Aunt Becky’s every day and Sometimes I do say ‘get your f---ing sannies on’ she is ready for her hurl, in my old jalopy, head for the Kilpatrick hills, and beyond singing loudly all the IPod recorded Scottish top twenty…to our hearts content…then home for the magic cup of tea
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peter.howden
post 21st Mar 2017, 09:21pm
Post #359

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Member No.: 2,485
BOND NOTE;

The beautiful blonde was beckoning James forward, disregarding her saucy cloths as if it had just gone out of fashion. The reddest, roundest, fullest lips mouth he had ever seen, was panting for his favours. He closed in just moments away from sensuous connecting… he awoke.

He’d felt restlessly, uncomfortable becoming aware of reality, from a uneasy sleep after the night before His thumping head hinder his eyes focusing, leaving just a faint blur, but worse, far worse, his mouth was a stone dry, Sahara desert’s portable toilet. Now James could not escape a weird fuzzy picture, enclosed his confused mind, of attractive blond girl, with some special curves. Abruptly; he became aware of a deafening unnerving stillness, should not be, so, the guardian of the flat…his mutt usually is all over him by now.

Slowly rising out of oblivion, not the land of nod, just out senselessness for some hours, James could recall swigging back some unfathomable alcohol, as if tomorrow was irrelevant, anyway he had told himself, no work in the morning.

Who was he kidding; no employment for some time, no inquires for his agile profession, his manner of expertise. Glancing around with a head still not connected to any brain, wondering when he had come home… and how. He hoped he had not driven. First thing obvious, he was fully clothed except for his cowboy boots. James rose and in the dark, moved to the kitchen to find cool fluid, any liquid would do, even water, to quench his thirst.

James had no idea what he frantically gulped down, out of a tatty old carton, but instantly solved his immediate dire thirst, being cold while going downwards, shocking the system as it went…but the hairy tongue soon came back. His mind raced back to where was his dog. It had been with him for some time, then his curious habits made a perfect sentry canine. The mutt, would let anyone in, even if they busted in, uninvited… the hound would not let them leave, in any manner…then came retribution

James flashed back to the night before, straining through the unknown. It had been a 60s night and he had tried to pull on an old pair of flower power brushed denim flairs, however there was no way he could haul them past his knees. It was calmer to go as an easy riding cowboy, close to the ‘James Dean’ look; brilliant white tee-shirt, tight jeans and a cowboy hat, though he could vaguely recall, some joker cruelly baptised him; as ‘Pearl & Dean’.

Doubting why he was sleeping on the smelly old couch, (for that is where the crossbreed napped), instead of his king-sized bed, he bumped into some sparse furniture, almost falling back into the couch where he had played knocked out. Just managing, with great exertion, to reach the light switch. He switched on the power… to find chaos.

The room was in ramshackle turmoil, books and records strewed all over the place, while his cherished couple of seats overturned and broken. The whole thing would not register, this could not be real…so instinctively he switched the light back off, standing in the dark solitude, impassive. Still, the image of this good-looking female would not leave right in front of his mind

Slowly moved to the kitchenette, put on its light then immediately switched them back off as they were far too bright straining his crippled eyes. Opening the fridge, screwed his eyes tightly avoiding the glare from the inside bulb, reached in for a can of juice. He had no idea what kind but he was not fussy at that moment just desperate to rid himself of his furry tongue. Gulping the cold fluid quickly, then pushing his head back making it hurt more than before.

Aiming the empty can for the bin but just missed, bashing against the wall. James forced his eyes open, flicked the light switch again, realising even a bigger turmoil mess in the now upside down kitchenette. He could not figure out why?... was this a burglary …but what were they looking for?

James cautiously moved back into the room, switched on a sidelight. What a bloody mess, a real turnover…the bastards, whoever they were. He then instantly checked the front door. No sign of a forced entry, and he should know being in his occupation he was in. A slight noise from inside the main bedroom, alerted him to almost being sober.

Grabbing the first thing at hand, which happened to be an imitation miniature statue of Rodin’s “The Thinker”, silently proceeded, slowly checking every step he made, as you would expect from his disciplined speciality, moving towards his bedroom. Glancing through the ajar door, he entered the doorway of his bedroom.

Prostrate, naked on his king-sized bed, was a young attractive woman, with blood down the side of her mouth, now congealed. There was lots of it being highlighted by the bright yellow silk sheets. There were pools of blood, spread on the rug and carpet, some on the far away wall. It looked as if she had put up one hell of a fight.

She was the very image of the girl in James’s mind since the moment he had come to life…. She was dead…lying motionless, tongue flabbily on the floor…. was his dog

0-0-0=00=0-0=0=-0=0-00-0=0=-0
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peter.howden
post 24th Mar 2017, 09:47am
Post #360

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 457
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Bond Note Episode Two

The Guddle
The shock of finding a dead person, has different effects on dissimilar peoples, even those who unfortunately, must deal with such affairs on regular occurrence, never become used to it, except for those mortuary workers, who are a separate breed to the normal.

Unprofessionally this time, James was caught well below par. His built-in immune system was temporary jolted, hitting his confused consciousness in repeating brain transmissions. Breathing in slowly and powerfully through his nose, then releasing the stainless for his mouth, James dealt with what was vital first, could this be an allusion, though experience insisted primarily, it was indeed cold fact.

Then mechanically he checked the whole scene, taking in every piece of data which he made need, when he eventually would have to report to the authorities. Just then a sharp whimpering sound carried through the room. James looked down, witnessing his mutt’s head flinching. Miraculously; within seconds, this robust hound rose from the floor and started shaking itself. Within extra moments, the hound was looking his master, for instructions. James held a hidden smile in relief, and amazement if truth be told

Now he left the murder scene, for precisely this is what it was, he needed to think, and think hard. The switch was all he had contaminated, with finger-prints, in the room. Slowly and precisely, walking backwards towards the door, then wiped clean the smears on the light-switch. The dog seemingly uninterested, just waddled out of the room, as James quietly closed the door over, wondering was it necessary, as it was a sure bet, the female had no ability to go anywhere, even if it was her last wish. Rubbing the door handle, the lock clicked shut, allowing a short relief

Retracing his steps back into the kitchenette, James ignoring the mess, focussed on searching for the electric kettle, then the vital coffee, plus a allusive clean mug. Pouring several large spoonfuls of the strong coffee, plenty of sugar, as the kettle came to the boil. James filled his mug, the antidote and comfort was ready, sat drinking the dark stuff until it was finished. He knew what must be done, before even contemplating calling the law, he must lay to rest old ghosts, making sure he has his facts right. One thing was sure, he must be cautious, at all costs.

The phone rang out shattering the dark…not his mobile but the land line. This as odd, for only two other people knew the number. He let it ring out, but before any message could be recorded, the other side cut off.

Grabbing some tools of his trade, the small trusty pencil torch, two sharp pencils and a pair of fine rubber gloves, along with a couple of small plastic bags and a glass cleaning cloth; he headed for the inevitable investigation, this could not be delayed anymore. Putting on the flimsy plastic gloves he took the soft cloth, wiped the door handle on the outside, then inside, while shutting the inside door behind him, James placed the mini torch in his mouth, stood perfectly still as he pointed the beam towards the deceased, using his head as the pivot.

Very slowly his light scrutinised each line available on her scalp, without disturbing a single hair. There were obvious signs of a struggle, the bed cloths sprawled recklessly across, twisted over the top end of the bed. Cut marks of the mattress, presumably with a sharp instrument, as if someone blindly plunged at the victim. Blotches of blood were sprinkled over the bottom half of the bedding.

The lady of the piece was dark haired, with a beautiful face even in death, though swollen now, around the mouth and eyes, which could suggest some form of suffocation. James’s thought for a moment, recalling a blond girl’s features was on his mind, before and when he woke from his drunken sleep. Abruptly speculating if there was any connection or just a drunken lure.

His professionalism returned quickly, reminding himself, never to jump to ill substantiated conclusions. Saul, his so-called Uncle, would shudder or roll in his grave. While these scattered wires were passing, James face became harder and his thoughts darkened, recalling Uncle Saul… the bath affair.

Out of nowhere, the phone rang again, depriving him of concluding his thoughts or probing the room. It’s ringing loudly, thought James’s, who could not see it in the dark. His reflexes reached for the small dresser, but the furniture was upside down and scattered. Keeping his cool he waved his head around the whole 360 degrees, then up and down. He made a hasty grab for the object and it stopped ringing. An unrecognizable voice, laughing noisily, shouted at the other end. “I guess you have found your little present, from me by now?” … “How could I do this to you, you bastard; I will not tell you any more…just put it down to fate or bad luck”.


James said not a word as the receiver intruder continued “you and that blood thirsty family member of yours, crucified me…Mamma how could you do such a thing… Mamma to me!”

The voice ranted incomprehensibly, then, with a shivering cold giggle; “I have phoned the police…talk yourself out of that; you bastard”. The end of the conversation came abruptly, with a thunderous click from the other end rocketing through the line into James’s ear.

That very next moment, the doorbell rang …right through the whole apartment.

-=-=-=-=-=
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