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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 6th Jul 2018, 08:23am
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ANIMAL VOTE

The young lady’s name, to give her a label,
Was not petite, just plain Mabel?
Sturdy, robust and stable
Though for sensitive advice, was able;

Her younger brother was called Rodger,
Evil, surprisingly simple little codger,
Who, imagined he was a artful dodger,
Just one of life’s wee shifty forger:

They lived in a house of brick and stone,
Because of their age they didn’t live alone,
There was father and muter and Dobby Malone,
A strange ginger cat suffering kidney stone;

Rambling around the building; room to room,
Always alone while whistling a tune,
Guarding themselves with a big wooden spoon,
Through great halls up and Doon.

Now the reason for this lengthily story
Is that father was standing to be a Tory,
Muter filled with pride and felt glory,
However, Mabel called it “Jackanory;

She stated as she blinked her eyes,
Those politicians do nothing but lies,
Rodger disagreed with those ties,
Raised glass of wine, “here’s mud,” he sighs
;
The cat Dobby Malone, been quiet through that,
Silently had been squatted on his mat,
Gave his opinion as he rose from where he sat,
Strolled over and pissed all over Father’s hat.
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peter.howden
post 6th Jul 2018, 02:16pm
Post #542

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Dear Diary; 06/07/2018;

‘As you sow, so shall you reap’ is a famous quotation or saying, however I must have accidently scattered inadvertently one or two seeds somewhere along the line. It can’t be said I have always played fair or did things in a dignified manner but if our home-grown garden strawberries have anything to do with it, perhaps in my case it should be ‘What you sow, so shall you reap’.

Wimbledon continues dominating our large and small screens, as the sun blazes down on the affluent audience, reputed to be sipping Roberson barley water, (Aye; with spirit) waiting for the ‘Crème de Crème’ in the manner of false fruits and cream deluxe…strawberries. There are rumours, you need a tidy mortgage just to purchase such a delight.

Many years ago, I was instructed by a Mr Swan, the best time to pick strawberries was midnight. The reason why was not explained to me or I have forgotten, but Mr Swan was the master…and I… grasshopper.

Last night at the stroke of twelve, I ventured out and in torchlight managed to scrounge some more precious Strawberry drupes from exhausted stalks.

Within our tiny allotment given for the growth of home spun delicious and juicy strawberries, almost depleted from the first harvest. In fact, then amazingly gave four yields…and spread so far as they did. It was down to pure will power… even in the mist of such excitement given by some nail-biting performances.

Now we can watch the outcome of this famous tournament, in relative comfort, knowing stocks will last if we are frugal. Our problem now is, if a British national racket reaches the final, for no matter how we do the maths… one solitary strawberry will be left

We will share the delights but how come so? Will we cut it in equality half …? or will we be more daring and passionate, by sucking it to and fro, through French kissing? If the latter is palatable… then how do, we keep the strawberry in cream?
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peter.howden
post 8th Jul 2018, 07:32pm
Post #543

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Forlorn;

The building was dilapidated slum, neglected down to the ground; though at one unknown stage, converted into separate flats. The actual front door lay awkwardly on rusty hinges, a poor image for once built by a family living on the trade riches of tobacco. At the beginning of the 20th century, became the pride of good honest hard-working Glaswegian families, a city residence. The condemned unsafe building, ought to have been flattened, not tattered up to its last legs, as the absentee landlord squeezed every penny possible, with no humane feelings but an iron cast heart.

The clatty hallway gave a horrible clue as apprehensiveness followed everyone who may have knocked the grubby door on purpose or by accident. Step by step, each flat hastily turned into separate rooms, such squalor smell, so pungent at the door and beyond.in one isolated chamber could only be described as a midden, lay a trollop, even she herself may have forgotten her Christian name. It was Kate or Cathy to some.

Everything touched was sticky almost jammy without the sweetness but instead a suffocated odour prevailed a fustiness of rotten mushrooms. No sign of cooking while a couple of empty MacDonald’s take ways lay in no order on couch… one perched up in a corner like a motionless pet. The staleness of smoking was not only caustic on the eyes but got right up the nose

Kate must have had a recognizable female form which had been hidden for years in dowdiness and neglect. Her children had long since flown the nest, while no one ever heard of a mention of her man except in times of real delirium, she scripted as “blooming bastard” over and over again. In moments of sanity her mind was frantic with half-baked ideas or languished in memories she alone was merely a toy


Her childhood recalls was her bony mother telling her when times get hard, she would go to the fruit market and pick up bashed fruit and vegetables from the gutter or rake through once the market stalls were closed. “You will never go wrang with a bowl of soup” her mother’s words rang in Kate’s sober brain more often than she cared to remember. She was too proud to demean herself.

One thing was true, this was she never stooped to prostitution for she was not a gal like that; even though she had kept her looks but only in her mind and not in the mirror. She did sleep with strangers she meets at the local country club but that was just for an extra swally. Now even the cattiest bloke demanded her to wash before he would entertain a fumble never mind sex Kate had no conception of time just awake with sweat and aches, searching her abode for a drop of something alcoholic. Blacked out periods she had no idea .

Religion was lost, apart from the occasional hand out…devoid of meaning with less appreciation, more annoyance for having to mumble three verses of “Jesus saves”. It was deemed as a furnished flat, because of a bed a wardrobe and drawers of some description and a thread bared rug and the side; for this the social paid blood money to the cockroach of a proprietor

The authorities were forced to open the dingy single den, complaints of rats lose in the crumpled construction. Kate’s door revealed an over-profusion of smells in darkened corners, even when they don’t exist. She lay slumped, oblivious in death as she was in life. A lone anxious voice says this should not happen again as the mawkit door is closed over. No one comes to the funeral

Within a heartbeat some other poor lost soul in accommodated in Kate’s old dodgy flat
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peter.howden
post 9th Jul 2018, 07:41pm
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Foretastes of a 60s adolescent

Local

Today parents and teachers are concerned about the adverse influence of the instant internet and the obsessional use of mobile phone by almost all the inhabitants of the world, perhaps except for over 70s club. You can tell the age of a person by how they use, or abuse the modern miracle, almost everyone twiddles with the knobs and buttons playing games or waiting for a disposable Email…. more sedate people just say ‘Hallo?’. However, in the golden generation, 40/50s, parentages and educators held the many cinemas and films as a curse of morality, waylaying of the youth away from decency and reality.

As a sprouting boy (though never sprouted much), the post-war generation held a different point of view, no matter how often Harold Macmillan, with jorries in his mouth, proclaiming; “You will see a state of prosperity such as we have never had in my lifetime ... "Indeed, let us be frank about it - most of our people have never had it so good”, nearly every city was dull and drab.

The cinema, for all ages was an escape…even for just a few hours. With the end of the hostilities just a decade before, rationing finally over, the people and the economy struggling to recover, watching every penny, also acute lack of accommodation existed, while in the cinema you could lose yourself in a crowd…in private

During the week, my brother John, allowed me to listen to Radio Luxembourg (208) on his fabulous crystal set, with Dan Dare, pilot of the future, Dick Barton, and Pete Murry’s top twenty…and an odd ball memory man.

Nevertheless, the visit to the A.B.C. minors on a Saturday morning was the cake of the week. The cinema was always jumping with kids, and weans of all ages, gripping tightly their pokes of sweets and innocent faces glowing thru unbridled eagerness…. bursting to see the next instalment of the coming live serial on the huge bright screen. This was their reality.

Afterwards outside the building, and right along each street nearby, you could tell the main feature that morning, by the actions of the fledgling audience either riding horses in their minds, while skelping their bums ardently, shooting anything in sight with appropriate noises provided from the sides of their mouths, Shooting arrows with whooshes, or the all-time favourite…. dummy sword fighting with anything at hand.

As I grew older things changed slightly, believing I was mature, though in truth still wet behind the ears and an enthusiastic Spotty ‘Alfred Newman’ of ‘Mad’ magazine, reading the American issue, from cover to cover on any dreary Sunday to survive with my marbles not bouncing off the walls. Sunday without tediousness was a novelty. In the north American continent,

Sunday was Thee Sabbath, the Lords day, but life and leisure were catered for. In some states, they worshiped in full swing, bawling forth their message, telling all who cared to listen, not to fornicated or drink the devils brew. Carrying on how they once did so…but now they were saved… I often wondered if they were boosting or complaining.

Roughly around that time, partaking some bike movies, including ‘Teenage Devil Dolls One-Way Ticket to Hell’, and the famous; ‘The Wild One’…which influenced me to be involved with the motor bike circle. For a bet I took, I experienced and a nerve-racking, back pillion ride on a Triumph TR5-Trophy, hitting 100 M.P.H streaking up Parliamentary Road.
The meeting place café was at the corner of Calder St and Pollokshaws Road, the name escapes me now… but the sight of around forty leather jerkin clad blokes, yet only three or so bikes outside parked in the street, will never leave me. Later I owned an old banged up Triumph, we were not quite ‘Marlon Brando’ studs, or even his weak sidekicks… but boy… we wanted to be so much!
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peter.howden
post 15th Jul 2018, 07:50am
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My Chronicles 15/07//2018

Aunt Becky is innocently unaware what s taking place, wandering in a sort of inclusive bafflement most of the time, though, in the blink of an eye, unknown parts of her treasured memories momentary return, then whisked back into her secret reality. The truth of the matter is, when we go for a hurl in my old jalopy, as the ‘Tartan top twenty’ is playing (quite loudly) …. there is not only a spark of recall, but her face gives a hint of pleasure as she taps her feet, singing along to Kenneth McKellar and company.

Are we being selfish wanting her back as we remember, I think so…however, because we know she is safe, being taken care of, in the specialised Residential home for Dementia, much more than we could provide, there is a source of appreciation and contentment. In our minds we see Becky and Uncle David (a fine man) in their prime, although they were retired helping as best they could…the entire extended family.

Saltcoats holds lots of family reminiscences, for both ‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, as our kids were growing up on holidays, almost always with Nancy (the voice) on toe. Even now, on our visits to the well-worn seaside town, we see her almost every corner…but alas …it’s an allusion, or another wee granny rambling around. When by chance, looking up old diaries, glancing at old photos, to recall once again, just how chaotic sometimes it could be, with limited space and monies… The plain fact is…. it clears my mind, removing the cobwebs blocking fond memories locked in the inner hidden awareness. We were lucky having Salty (Chess Alcohol partner) both in Stevenson and Sandylands

My frequent excursions down to the Scottish ‘Bard’s town Ayr (former Royal Burgh), may appear, to the untrained eye, just an excuse to sip a few refreshments alone with a china. Perhaps there is some merit in this trail of thought however I would insist it is really a necessity. Grated rarely Jim Hendry and I do not venture far from Witherspoons… but we have a perfect logic why we persist using such a tavern…it is a place where we can talk absolute bollocks, with immunity, as most of the clientele are practicing the same skill…where we have conquered the masters elevation

It is a mixture of saying and listening to the most ridiculous things will result in constant laughter and genuine enjoyment. For me personally, the combination of traveling with the train taking the strain, and the easy company of Jim, is a safety valve…keeping my mind from going stale other times its beyond ludicrous. Ayr like Saltcoats and so many Scottish seaside towns and villages are struggling to keep a resemblance of an independent high street shopping area. The march of time takes no prisoners.

Last Thursday, while in the E.V.H office, I was involved interviewing capable applicants for the vacant director’s post within Calvay Housing. This will be my last so-called duty, as I am retiring from the committee of Calvay, once this important position is filled. After the business of the day had been concluded, I was taken by surprise, for E.V.H presented a beautiful long service trophy, and a magic bottle of single malt.

Uncommonly; I was speechless… I would like to gratefully thank the E.V.H organization, for such a considerate gesture… for me… the mere attention associated with giving such an honour, is an award equal to the now treasured mementos…now this did blow my mind.
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