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Last 10 Posts [ In reverse order ]
peter.howden Posted 16th Sep 2020, 07:28pm
  Hector, Beth and two soups;

Gazing on Beth innocently, as being a piece of living magic, Hector was a lost pup longing for her, at the tender age of 11 odds. He could hardly sleep in the darkness for her face cast almost constantly, introducing her features as paramount through simplest thoughts or actions during that summer splendour.

Beth had every quality a lad could wish for; drifting swept silky brown hair, so desired by style magazine photographers. Deep dark brown eyes to beckon the wildest of soul, hinting a magic smile to enchant a defeated devil, because of her natural innocent allure. Her walk defied gravity, as if strolling with the Gods themselves. Her voice echoed sweetly, to soften any discerning ear, but pierced the most resilient heart to become a willing slave, to her every whim, a beauty personified.

Hector was new to this game of passion, nevertheless entered it with the vigour of a seasoned Romeo, and the private presumption of a master ails Casanovas… even with Great Expectations, but never quite reached the qualifier (11 plus or otherwise). Observing Beth, formed a life of its own emotions…but unfortunately, at a distance

These unreturned expressions were paraded for the world to see the simple adorations and factual affection… but Beth was totally unaware. Each time she made entrance to the street they both lived, the sun shone through the heaviest rain to brighten up that moment. Graceful Beth would be seeming not only floated along the ground, but dance to wherever she wished to be. All Hector could do, was no more than stare.
He found himself timing to be at her close when he thought she was due out, not wish to waste one second or moment being with her. There was a problem…seen only as a friend, for she neither realizes he yearnings, nor ever encouraged him in any way, which was a bit of a hindrance to his affections. It became even more difficult when he discovered she acutely fancied dashing Gordon Campbell.

This boy had always been a thorn in Hector’s side, right from the first day meeting him in the street. He was good at everything, and anything he ever tried. To name any sport he did not excel in school, and you would be hard placed. He had the audacity to be good looking to boot, but the bested thing of all was….he was so dammed nice? He would make up excuses for trouncing Hector, when once again, beat the pants off him, (not literary, as it was still against the law, and anyway…. he’d probably wipe his ass with that too ?).

Having no choice than to accept his immeasurable fate … looking on from afar, hoping against all hope she would miraculously change her mind and view him in hero’s romantic light. Hector had no choice but to do something constructive so to fill in the lonesome time.

He decided to make a new bow and arrow out of garden canes, just like all the kids but he would slave to make it so well…Beth would look on and wonder…. but he inwardly knew, and if he were here, would tell you this…. Gordon Campbell(two soups) always made the best one…of anything?
peter.howden Posted 13th Sep 2020, 03:20pm
  THE VILLAGE DREIMIRE;

Welcome… yes welcome to the village of “Dreimire”, settled in seclusion and protection of the craggy stanie braes, in the deepest part of the highlands…yet, we have all the hot spots that any Metropolis in the known universe has… with some added attractions which little are known about. Remember as you are entering our boundaries... watch your speed. We have up to the minute, on the spot speed cameras in operation, focused directed to our main street and thoroughfares…so you have been warned.

If one of our local pedestrians spots a speeding motorist, or cyclist especially the butcher boy, immediately they press a button on special constructed lamp post, alerting Mr Mc Deed, the undertaker to come out of his closet with his flash. As a deterrent, it appears to work with the sight of Ernest Hardly Mc Deed( he was to be Christened ‘Hardy’ but the minister had a lisp)...in a lum hat, naked and painted black from head to foot.... from what he is flashing... scaring the living daylight out of drivers....always surprisingly effective.

We are proud... proud as punch, for the excellent cuisine personified in the ‘Ghilie Dhu’ and garnishes from the simplest of ingredients, tailored to perfection, second to none and equal to any comers in Scotland or indeed the European market we hear so much about... as long as cook rose in a good mood. “Punch” himself is seldom allowed into the centre of the village these days, after the unmentionable happening involving pea soup and a unscripted ladle placed in unspecified quarters. It was judged to be totally unhygienic by the village elders.

There is of course the dreadful red-light district, the scourge of any urban area. It’s up there but we don’t talk about it down here. This seedy establishment is run by Hardly’s older cousin; Ambrosia Hardly Mc Deed; (same clergyman christened her). She acquired the rudiments of equipment, mainly thirty red bulbs, from an electric company holding a closing down fire sale. Although getting on in years, by some forty and fourteen spans in age, she can be very flirtatious, even voluptuous, under such provocative lighting. Has been known to send guest into unbridled genital procreative behaviour, at the mere sight of her tartan helm, lifted above Church standard decency. Sensuous is the display… or so I have been told.

The export trade from the village varies in amounts. We tried to grow our own tartan stones, which to all practice and purposes take forever to develop...as we can find no local person, living or dead, who can recall cropping such marvels. Still, after watching Weir’s way (An Outer Hebrides boy by his accent) on the only translation photo boxes in the village, and the now defunct Rolf Harris, we struck gold. Tartans to order all suits, skirts and thingymabobs…weaving cost extra…and can you see it yet?

As a community, we have few one or two at the last count, of the new-fangled moving screen box in the corner of the communal hall…or the pub. Of a night, only one seedy programme we capture goggled eyed viewing is, the Glasga “Thingumhisgig”. ‘The laird O Ccoocaddens’ proudly displaying Scotland’s best

With good fortune, we do not suffer from hoodlums or graffiti except for Madam Mayor; with slogans of “Votes for women”, is rather set in her ways and in the past. There is a superb youth programme, run by Willie Hardly Mc Deed, who is proud of his Danish ancestry, giving special care to blond wee boys. With great personal pain, tries hard putting a little Viking culture into each of them, whenever the chance arises.
It’s just the simple things in life, gives pleasure to the gratified inhabitants of “Dreimire” village
peter.howden Posted 12th Sep 2020, 10:58am
  The Good Samaritan?

Like a sack of tatties, the old man dropped to his knees, utterly disbelieving the sight of his faithful mutt, just lying motionless at the side of the road. The dog had been excited while he and his elderly master, coming from the post office, the dog pranced off the pavement. Just at the moment, a fast-moving motor machine was passing. The driver had no chance to stop in time but swerved in a vain attempt but tragically failed.

As the aging man remained crouched down, staring apparently at nothing, a comforting hand reached out, gentle holding his shoulder. He turned around to see a face, which was not unknown to him, yet he could not quite place where he stayed. The taunt driver, almost crying , hurried towards the old man, in a desperate effort to console him. Both men mentally stunned as to what actually happened. Finally, the police became involved as witnesses tried to present their versions all at once.

The experienced policeman suggested someone should take the grieving aged man away from the horrible scene, as there was a café extremely near, buy him a good strong sweet tea to steady his nerves. The comforting hand beckoned to comply, leading the sobbing man to the café sanction. Once inside, he sat the elderly man down, ordering two strong teas. While awaiting the waitress to return, he told the old man his elbows of his jacket, were truly mawkit from the blood and tears involved. Encouraging the elder man to disrobe the garment, so he could make amends and rid the thread bearing sleeves of the manky grime.

Reassuring words passed from his lips as he assisted the senior man on with his jacket, followed soothing meaningless chatter. Within a minute or two, the Samaritan apologized for leaving ,but had an appointment and made good of his departure. The old man stood up, though still rather confused, returned to the accident scene, finding all the necessary duties had been completed, and his trusty old mutt had been taken away . All that was left was a couple of spots of blood, and a caring constable asking if aid was needed to return to his abode.

Entering into the home he shared with the dog, several tears fell from his already red eyes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the money he had taken out of the post office before the accident. There was only £50… instead of the £100 he had withdrawn. He knew almost instantly that the Good Samaritan was a Briganer dipper. This meant he had not taken all the cash, only some… in an effort for his victim to believe ether he was mixed up, or somehow had used the cash.

The problem the distressed elderly mann faced, he knew who it was but could not say anything, having no proof. Sadly, silently…the old man closed his eyes, pretending he was in the woods walking with his faithful hound.
peter.howden Posted 11th Sep 2020, 07:55am
 
George (Thee Polar Bear) Part 3



George quickly settled by using our family fridge, reminding him of his true home, for it’s bitterly cold in the Sahara desert of a night, minus 25 degrees Fahrenheit…more than we could imagine. For several hours each night, he tiptoe’s daintily via the layers and compartments, a sort of Doctor Who’s Tardis (in reverse) making him a traveller without space. He had sometime in the past, discovered from a wind wandering 1992 newspaper, how 28,800 Spartacus ducks, in the Pacific Ocean… escaped confinement bondage. Out of the blue, George asked for our plastic ducks, Donald and Dafty by name, wishing to meet them, and the rest of the brace. How he associated our Donald and Dafty, with the Moby Duck break out, or even know their names, alludes us to this day… but ask for them he did !

I explained to him, how ‘Dafty’ doesn’t mind being called Donald…but ‘Donald’ detest being mistaken or dubbed Dafty. . Donald is our original plastic simulated yellow duck, from a bathroom of a Dundee Hotel. Before leaving I asked the receptionist, if I could purchase the duck, desperate for a present for ‘she who must be obeyed’, The kind manager gave him gratis free, plus Dafty. People may frown on us, treating them as one of the family, however… they were grand company while preforming ablutions, and particularly good listeners. The rest of the brace just grew from there…no explanation needed.

We explained they were asleep now, and we were just about to go up the wooden path to slumber land. George proved nimble when needs must, for he was in our king-sized bed as quick as a flash, if not faster. It felt strange sharing a bed with 470 K.G of white warm bear….little sleep visited us on that particular night. I bare witness, the adverts for hippos or bears sharing your bed, in peace and harmony, are undoubtedly not true. To many times were the plastic simulated yellow ducks squashed, when it came their turn to have a sleep over with him . Although George may be a tad fuzzy in the navigation field, he’s not related to the Bipolar family, extensively advertised via America cartoons and wee films

George was fine as long as he was in the fridge, having privacy and quietness, unless one or more of the plastic synthetic yellow ducks waddled in, thinking it was the passage to the pool. George was exceptionally neat and tidy inside the ice box, protecting the butter. He could not believe he was there, right there beside the idol of butter, the substance of life. However, we had to insist he left his comfort zone while, .She who must be obeyed’ made oatmeal seal lollypops, and sour milk sucking cups, as they took a lot of space. I’m whispering… ‘we cheated on the seal’, substituting sardines as everybody knows, due to salted seal crisps, has the monopoly on the fishy market

But outside the fridge George was bored…… and it was obvious, because it is a well-known fact when polar bears are bored, their paws smell something awful, and his did. It has something to do with the hairs of those large paws, so they don’t slip on ice. A well-known fact….Web feet always reek like kippers (not the fabulous ones from Arbroath).
peter.howden Posted 8th Sep 2020, 11:24am
  DESPERATE;(Forsaken)


She came out of nowhere, or this was how it seemed as I was concentrating on the awkward brown wheelie bin. I had nicked out for the weekly chore, wearing only a make do sleeping shirt my wife had bought for Christmas. This hooded phantasm sprang up against the bitter cold wind of the morning. Making her way through the well-used common footpath which ran at right angles next to our home... though at that time in the morning, usually not a soul can be seen. The cold air of the daybreak caused vapour swirling around my words of, “Good morning”, to the early Will of the wisp, who replied with warmth

The hoody came closer while I battled with the garden wheeled monstrosity, she called again, wishing, ‘good morning’, in a near coherent fashion. It was bloody cold, and my slippers were sliding as I made a precarious way down the driveway with the reputed mobile bin, heading for the street. By now, only separated by a hedge, she cleared her throat, called not so loud as before, “What time is it?”. as we were “think it must be somewhere near twenty-five to seven!”, I answered. “What time does the shop open” she asked rather woozy, with a slight hesitation in her voice. She asked, then answered the question herself, “I know it around 7”. She mumbled something, then repeated her question and answer

It was then I saw her in full street lighting reflecting cruelly, she was past her sell date but not because of her age but due to her disorder. The whiff or strong odour of stale drink followed her, even in the severe cold its unmistakable stench could be located about her person. A youngish woman of maybe 40 or so, however her face was haggard, weather beaten… with a yellow tinge. Although one was not there, sadly I felt a wart on her chin or nose would be appropriate for her appearance. Perhaps you may consider this as terrible and disgusting of me, to judge a fellow human being so… but that is how it was.

Even though I viewed her so harshly, she thanked me gently, but staggered coarse cough grinded her throat. She turned her wafer-thin body around, to retreat where she came from. Her close of her abode was right across the spare ground where the wee library once stood. The housing association had plans to build new homes there, but it never happened for one reason or another. The close door shut and after a wee while a small light went on in the house above, a lonely figure appeared at the window, staring wantonly out into the bleakness.

You may call it guessing or a terrible cast on her character, but the lady was desperate for liquor . She is well known locally as a wino running a country-club dwelling, or alky’s abode,…the Neighbourhoods colourful title
peter.howden Posted 2nd Sep 2020, 10:29am
  George (Thee Polar Bear) Part 2,

Confronted by a rather large polar bear, tends to leave the occupant speechless, or saying something really daft. The latter was my response, asking why George chose to use the number 41 bus to this home. The polar bear retorted with a wink in his eye, ‘The number 12 bus does not pass your door, come to think of it, neither does the subway?’ There was something about his ability to speak in a Glesga accent, I could not put my finger on…. even more broad Glesga twang than the famous actors, Francie & Josie.

Trying to be hospitable we offered the polar bear fish, and fish fingers if he preferred a snack. Seemingly with a very dry cough, he sort of growled friendly like, from the side of his mouth, an imitation of Sean Connelly, ‘where the hell was anybody likely to get fish in the Sahara Desert?’. Pausing suddenly with his explanation, I took a chance by asking, ‘Well, what do you eat?’. Having a blank expression while staring up to the ceiling, George uttered, still rather annoyed, “Smoky Seal’ crisps, and of course… Scott’s Porridge Oats... but not sandwiches, definitely not sandwiches!”. He changed his tone adding, “Never tasted Porridge, but just in case, I always have a spurtle around my person!”

Neglecting the fact, he may be sensitive, I carelessly chose a wisecrack, ‘was the sand in the bread too much to swallow ?’. George looked miffed, and within a will of the wisp, I rued this throw away remark. Back came Sean’s threatening accent, “I don’t mind mockery; however, I cannot abide ridiculousness at a bear’s expense”. He further added “The reason I chose not to munch sandwiches, simply the reckless use of precious butter would melt by the heat of the sun before I had a chance to spread evenly… margarine has the same tendency… but no loss there!”. No growl, no roar, but a definite display of bored awareness.

For example, George explained if he had a penny for every time he heard, “how to catch a polar bear, by cutting a hole in the ice and surround it with peas. Wait for the silly bear to come along wanting a pea, and then kick him in the hole”, he would be a Millionaire in ‘Smoky Seal crisps’. Now, there is nothing worse than a polar bear trying to act ridiculous… apart from George substitute sensibly… for honesty.
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peter.howden Posted 31st Aug 2020, 07:00pm
 
My Chronicles(late news) 31/08/2020

It was a warm afternoon with sunshine providing a pleasant easy drive over Clydeside Expressway, heading for the Dementia home. I felt good, mainly because Toni’s old hiker jerkin, which I borrowed it while in Holland many years ago, still fitted comfortably, yet unfortunately, is no longer waterproof…so the weather was a benefit . Arriving at the old folks home, everything was prepared in a clinical manner, for the safety of residents staff and visitor. Entering the room allotted, a smowt Aunt Becky was sitting sedately in all her finery, while although did not look tired, just closed her eyes, and swiftly fell asleep.

During the truly short visit, she was asleep more than awake, even when the carer tried to involve her as to who had come to see her. It was certainly better for all, but mainly for Becky to return to her own little space, to allow the hairdresser to style her hair. I stayed for a minute or so while they organized a person to take me through the garden security. I was pleased and at last at ease because I saw her for the first time in 11 weeks. Thanking the staff and prepared to drive home… relieved.

We had a long-awaited visitor come on Sunday. Fergus, Toni’s partner, allowing Rebecca, Fergus, and myself, not only enjoy each other’s company, catching up with the news, but comfortably reminiscence as to visits to Paris, the square with thee artists, Amsterdam, but mainly serene Leiden. He left in his spanking new Red Renault Clio….pure dead brilliant
Take Easy Steps
peter.howden Posted 31st Aug 2020, 07:39am
  My Chronicles 31/08/2020

With-it being 31 August, summer is almost over, I suppose Rebecca and I have personally arrived, neat and brittle, without any sign of a remedy for this naughty virus. There is a melancholy atmosphere for the peoples, and families, not only having been struck by the virus…but the relentless stress everything else brings to bare

We have come through the unknown relatively well, according to the terrible statistics of our country and worldwide reports. It is always assumed, information from all governments, how fact and statistics, can be distorted and rigged, but it is obvious how people are being struck down by this silent killer. Every individual has a personal duty to humanity, to abide by the instructions given as best they can. Yesterday… we had a choice to behaved like yesterday…today… we must perform for tomorrow

The turning point for ‘She who must be obeyed’, and I, was the simple restricted personal meetings of family and friends, firstly in the garden. Lately in our home, Nikki, Simon, Emma, and Andrew one week, the next with Kirsti and Chris. In-between weeks, close friends of Rebecca’s. As for my China’s, and close friends, longer traveling is necessary, so I will have to be patient. The communications we have today blows my mind…but nothing beats a cherry ‘Hallo!’

This afternoon I’m going up to the dementia home where Aunt Becky is safely staying. It is important to physically see her, although the frail wee soul is lost in her own wee world, hasn’t a clue who the hell I am. The good news is certainly she is being looked after. The staff keep a close vigilance because Becky has a unfortunate tendency to fall.

Take easy Steps
peter.howden Posted 29th Aug 2020, 07:10pm
  George (Thee Polar bear

George was a sucker for a fridge, preferably an extra-large one, allowing him to wallow away a few hours, whilst dreaming of home in the sandy beaches of the Sahara Desert. He knew fine well he did not come from the Gobi Desert, for that would be only plain ridiculous. Who ever heard of a polar bear from the Gobi Desert? What springs to mind is, you’d be a right ‘Lo-Lo’ to contemplate so, anyway, the number 41 bus doesn’t stop there.

George was sure he must have roots from the Sahara Desert, as the main clue was his dad smoked those cigarettes before it came popular, then how fags were bad for you, and anyhow, smoking gave bears a horrible smell. If challenging George as to his qualification of his true origins, he took the hump (just like a camel ‘Dromedary’) or two (Bactrian) when things were not going his way.

Both species, the bear and camel, come from around the same Palaeogene era, adding to this, as if to qualify its authenticity, George’s Aunt did drink the dark Camel Coffee, bought from a shop in Dubai by some troops from the Royal Fusiliers. He seldom talk’s much about his aunt because of her lose morals. The coffee was a bribe so she would take the soldiers, not up to the front, but sneaky visits to local brothels , which did not sell soup being ill-reputed bawdyhouses.

George appeared at 12 Calvay Place somewhere in the past, then just made himself at home. We did discover his efforts to be here was encourage by the knowledge of a group of genuine synthetic yellow ducks resided within, and seemingly growing. Wiping his paws before entering through the door, he made a beeline for the fridge, to slip into something cool I would imagine . From then on, when the idea took him, he settled in the fridge for a couple of hours

George always avoided treading on the butter, for butter was the substance of life. Not water… or air, but glorious butter, not a single hair was ever left on butter in the fridge, to bare witness he had visited or honoured with his presence. How or why he came from Sahara he did not ken; he just knew because it gets pretty chilly in the night throughout the deserts
peter.howden Posted 26th Aug 2020, 07:22pm
  Hector returns home(2 of2)

Chance can be a doggy swing or roundabout

Coming back from Whifflet, Hector was missing the clan, however happily attending the new School for a year or so, making a few chums, one being Jim Millar, who also lived in the Gorbals. Hector’s home was on the corner of Gorbals st/ Carlton Place, where the modern Glasgow Court is now. Unknown to him, the house was large for the district, with three bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen, and bathroom,

Per chance, exceedingly early one morning, Jim and Hector, were sauntering towards Cuthbertson Primary School, as the impish chancers used bus fares money on sweets. Passing the “Star Bar” at Eglington Toll, with great delight saw, a scattering of coins lying on the grubby pavement, which they assumed dropped by a drunken man the night before. The boys busied themselves gathering this bountiful treasure, Jim picking anything coming to hand, while Hector was aiming at the silver stuff. When eventually they counted out the boontie, Jim had collected the most coins, three shillings and nine and a ha’penny… Jim was truly muffed. Hector had scooped about £1/ nine shillings… give or take! So, he bought Jim two bars of highland toffee, and a large Chocolate block.

From Hector’s home, he was able to see right across the Clyde’s Broomielaw, a bus terminal, at the time. On the quay, for easy storage, was tons of coarse sand, stone chips, pebbles, granite, and bricks. This was a magic magnet terrain enticing children of all ages, coming from near or far, inventing devil dare games, unaware it was really a horrible black spot for accidents, where sometimes death by falling into the murky water. No matter how the authorities tried to secure the area, the youngsters managed in, with a mixture of innocence and mischief.

Per Chance, one day while playing slides om a sand mountain, Hector lost his glasses case, went home without it, even forgot about it altogether… until a knock on the door about a couple of weeks later. A workman in overalls, came to return Hector’s glasses case, because his name and address was taped inside. It was his mother’s habit from the war, marking everything from cloths to underwear, in case some accident happened. Although not that often, his much elder brother’s slipper came out, making contact quite a few times with Hector’s Bahookie…. because by chance, a man took the bother to return an item to its rightful home.

Per chance, Hector’s family was awoken by firemen, in attendance to a blaze inside a garage right behind their home, ordered the evacuation of their wally close. At three in the morning, finding themselves in the chilliness of the street. Apparently, there was a lady worried wee snout Hector would freeze, guided them up to her home, which consisted of a small hallway, with a single room, packed with people. Hector stood with his mouth open, then curiously asked…. “Were do they sleep?” His mother explained their home was called a single end… this family of 11 people, adults, and children, lived there, as best they can.

Later Hector knew many families, forced into the inadequate rundown pitiful accommodation….and paying prey for slum landlords Per Chance… a valuable lesson learnt
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