Glasgow Guide Home

Whats On Glasgow Guide
  Glasgow What's On


    Glasgow Reviews


    Glasgow Gallery


      Glasgow Links
Discuss | Guestbook | Postcard | News | Weather | Feedback | Search | About | What's New
Glasgow Guide Discussion Boards

Welcome Guest ( Log In | Register )                >> View Today's Topics <<


  Replying to Home Made Tales
Enter your Name
Anti-spam code
Security Code Confirmation
You should NOT see this if you are REGISTERED and LOGGED IN.
 

Post Options
 Enable Smilies?
 


Last 10 Posts [ In reverse order ]
peter.howden Posted 22nd Jun 2019, 09:52am
  The Desultory fellow;
Late-attendance


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiny Tim was disappointed no one picked on one basic fact, to be “a Nymphomaniac”, was to be female. He was already with the response if asked… “and I am changing my sex as well!”.
peter.howden Posted 20th Jun 2019, 09:00am
  The consecrated problem

Part (1)_

Monsieur Mc La Phart, of mixed origin, was a quiet pious man long before entering into the ‘Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance’ 40 years ago. The normal form of communications was via sign language, plus abbreviations were used, example, ‘O.C.S.O’, for speed and clarity. The monastery must be kept completely soundless communiqué to protect the innocent souls within the Abbey their home and whole life

If allowed a special visiting permit, you will be undoubtedly become aware, of the ridged order of the strict brothers, their habits must never comply with for any kind of adornment, being a sin against the origins of the O.C.S.O... Extravagance or signs of narcissism would be scorned on for allowing God’s hallowed word to travel against egotism in man’s word, Silence was the order of the day…and almost every day.

If per chance the abbot was in silent deity prayer, the whole cloister was to be informed, as a matter of urgency, Monsieur Mc La, Phart would uncover the sacred ‘Rod’, a special shaft of bamboo cane, used to tap out Morse code. Because of the natural acoustics of the medieval Monastery, when the hollow bamboo struck the marble floor, the sound vibrated throughout the furthest part of the priory. For the reason explained against the copious ways of the world, a special glove was made so not to abuse the divine rod, just the one… as two would have been viewed as pitiful embellishment.

No luxuries tolerated whatsoever, so the one glove permitted was fashioned out of course sacks containing rough oat meal, delivered from a small village of Gluckamania in the Gaelic highlands, producing a solid makeshift porridge, suiting the entire priory right down to the ground, as supping loudly was pouted on. Whipping classes prearranged for dire occasions, when god fearing frenzies revelries ousted their plain living.

Monsieur Mc La, Phart was in a catastrophe quandary, puzzled while trying to hold on to his holy scruples, having something up his sleeve, more within the confinement of his habit. Near overpowering raw expulsion of intestinal gas, flatulence beyond control, being conveyed to his mute brothers…far away from the dry humour of Saint Benedict.

Monsieur Mc La, Phart conceived an astute plan?
[/size][size="4"]
peter.howden Posted 17th Jun 2019, 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.
[/size][size="5"]
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.
[size="4"][/size]
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?
[size="3"][/size]
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’
[size="4"][/size]
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?”
[size="4"][/size]
Review the complete topic (launches new window)
RSS Lo-Fi Version Time is now: 27th Jun 2019

All material in the site Glasgow Guide is copyright of the Glasgow Guide Organisation. This material is for your own private use only, and no part of the site may be reproduced, amended, modified, copied, or transmitted to third parties, by any means whatsoever without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. All rights reserved.

Glasgow Hotels: book cheap hotels in Glasgow online now.