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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 1st Jul 2019, 11:33am
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My Chronicles 1/06/2019


MISSING TONI;



We have lost a daughter, but have I lost Toni. I cannot fully answer for anyone else, though for me the answer is yes and no. The utmost tragedy from that moment on… is, I will never see her in person again. I can see her in the blink of an eye, hear her talking without using my ears, react to her thinking by just thinking of her. Her body is gone but she is not lost.

Death is for the living, and how much we miss the one, or ones we love. It is egotistic, almost to the extreme, to cry so bitterly as if to question why. It is so easy to use the word ‘If’, or ‘If only’, but to no valid purpose, other than searching in vain for a reason we can accept. There is no reasoning, or fate, or ‘time has come’… there is just the sheer shock which millions before you have suffered.

I have no God to blame, or shame, or use as a psychological crutch, saying it’s in the scheme of things, just a mind which whirls around faster than I can think. Did I tell her I loved her…I don’t know but I hope I did? I’m proud, of what she achieved throughout her lifetime, however, I had little to do with it? She was her own woman, her own person with a hint of my own mother somewhere in the background

There are times when I wish I did not remember so well, as my unattended passions, just fly over reality, but mostly I am happy at recalling by just a word, or phrase, or a touch of something linked to… or thoughts, changing my emotions for an unknown period. The time will come, when bare affection will take over from grief…for this, I will just have to patiently wait.

I have one of Toni’s hiker anoraks, borrowed the very neat item when we visited, Toni and Fergus, in smashing Leiden, Netherland. How it came into my permanent wardrobe, is lost in the channels of time, however, I use it regularly as it can measure my weight regime, by whether I can zip it up easily or with slight difficulty

Thank you for being with me Toni.
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peter.howden
post 4th Jul 2019, 09:30am
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THE PUPPET WHO COULD NOT TALK;

There was nothing really unusual about this particular puppet, except a scraped head, but possessed a cute wee nose, and an eye which twisted around to follow you wherever you may stand. He had been adopted by a gracious little girl, who, unconditionally loved him, cuddled him every night since she received him as a late gift from an auntie, whom she never knew she had.

The tiny tot carried the puppet everywhere she went, making sure he was on her pillow every night before the night light went on. She told him nursery rhymes and stories she learnt during the day, and just before she fell asleep, kissed him warmly on his scraped head. He was a hand puppet.

One day, while the family were travelling in a strange part of the town, her father was carrying her across a busy thoroughfare, without noticing, the wee lass accidentally, dropped the puppet out of her gentle grasp. The tumbling puppet landed in the gutter, to see his family moving away into the unknown.

Unfortunately, the mature puppet landed in the only puddle near a drain, making his fine attire, plus his mittens, soaked with manky reeking water. By a strange quirk of fate, a dog happened to be sniffing around the vicinity. His nose was telling him nothing was happening, so… in a fit of pique, picked up the puppet, then headed to his abode.

After a couple of streets, the mutt whiffed new prospects in the air, dropped the puppet at the side of a well-kept garden. Rather undignified the marionette landed on his head, resulting in dizziness for some considerable time. Night was approaching and he had never been out so late. If truth was told…was alarmed. He had heard some terrible tales as to what may happen to unexpected travellers during the hours of darkness…

As the last glimmer of light, puppet felt warm hands around his now soggy body, then carried into warmth and dryness by a smiling twosome. Next morning, the enthusiastic horticultural couple, decided to put the puppet in the garden, as a sort of mascot, with a rough stick where it’s not polite to talk about. His new home appealed to him though, for some reason he could not forget the utter innocent kindness from the wee lass.

He did not know how long he was there, however; the warm sun went down a few times, letting lose the foreboding cold dark mist. Sometimes the puppet was very scared. The following day, while the next door’s occupants were feeding the birds, a piece of bread fell on the weary puppet’s head. One anxious magpie came cruising down, and instead of just pecking the bread, it lifted the bread and puppet’s head… soaring off.

Airborne over lots of chimney tops, the magpie must have realized it was only the bread he was after, released puppet from his beak. Down and down went the puppet, until he landed again on something soft. At last, he thought… I will return to lovely stories, kisses and warm cuddles galore, a cosy pillow to lay my head.

The Puppet had no way of knowing… he had landed on a builder’s skip.
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peter.howden
post 7th Jul 2019, 08:06pm
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THE PUPPET WHO COULD NOT TALK;(2)


How long the wee wet soul lay there in the eerie depths of the builders’ skip, the puppet obviously could not grasp, simply because the big hand, small hand theory, or numbers table, was not in his repertoire, as only infinite fairy stories and nursery rhymes, were sung by his wee lassie.
He did ken the difference of day and night, but his night was safely in the child’s warm cuddles, resting in her soft bed, behind thick velvet closed curtains which kept out the dark noises of the bogies, sometimes mentioned in the enchanted fables.

Now shivering cold, enclosed in unwelcoming darkness, with creepy clamours unfamiliar to the disorientated marionette, hearing the scurry of foul rats’ scavengers, even their whiskers brushed past his head…each time bringing unimaginable terror.

Unexpectedly, a streak of light appeared as a foreign hand was reaching closer, then affectionately grasped the bewildered glove puppet, slowly lifting him clear of his unwelcome incarceration. “Well, what have we hear?”, softly spoke a voice, coming from the direction of a dirty bearded old face. This is all the puppet heard, before being gently placed in a purse, slightly ruggedly bigger, compared to his little lass’s pink purse.

Everything was a blank until once again light appeared, slightly softer than before, as he was placed on a cushion, then on a clothed bench, surrounded by a collection of various tools. On the wall adjacent to the worktop, hung many puppets… but they had hands, legs and wooden bodies, unclothed…and strings attached.

Almost becoming familiar with these weird objects, the bearded voice spoke again tenderly…” these are all antique expensive string puppets, you are not a marionette, you have no strings… you are a gloved puppet, more valuable than all the rest. The only hand puppet belonging to world famous Italian puppeteer, ‘Signor Bologna’, royal performance, organized by Samuel Pepys, for Charles 11 in 1662”.

The puppet always thought he was a special marionette, for this was what the wee lassie called him, I wish she was here, but could not help feeling chuffed at the news of his individual fame. Just then, the bearded voice spoke again kindly, “look, I have washed and cleaned your garments, cleansed and polished your head” …

He proceeded to place a mirror in front of the puppet… revelling all?
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peter.howden
post 10th Jul 2019, 03:21pm
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THE PUPPET WHO COULD NOT TALK;(3)…


The reflection of the mirror emphasized his masculine chiselled chin, could only be explained as a mirage, perhaps closer to a miracle as there was no hint of the old scraped head, even his twisted eye appeared flattering. His patchwork tunic’s original colours, ready to tease, and shoot the breeze. Try as he might, the puppet had no idea what 1667 was, or what the hirsute voice proposed, or the people mentioned, all the puppet desired was in the safe arms of his wee lassie.

The rugged aged man behind the voice, picked him up affectionately, looking at the puppet with tears in his eyes, repeating over and over, “Your a wee dancer”. After a while, he lay his precious find in a velvet lined case, with a miniature pillow for his head, kept a dimmed light on, and the door open…before retiring to his boudoir.

The puppet did not sleep, for puppets can’t, tried his hardest to forget his teeny missy, but in the end, gave up from perhaps mental fatigue…if he ever owned a brain. Next morning the puppet detected something was not quite right with the bearded voice, which had a hint of sadness within his grunts and murmurs. Looking straight at the puppet, almost crying, uttered, “Someone must have lost such a precious glove puppet, as a Kellie, I canny gain an honest sleep, if I did not try to find them!”

Unknown to the puppet, the bearded voice wrote out a small advert, ‘Lost puppet found, at my home’…adding his phone number, walked around to local newsagent, taking out a two-week advert with each establishment. Not a dinky bird until the very last day when, a dad phoned saying his petite mademoiselle, had indeed dropped her precious hand puppet.

The next day father and young daughter came to his home. The stubbly voice was bowled over by the wain’s sincere response. As soon as she saw her puppet, tears rolled down from her wide eyes, over her perfect cheeks. So much so, both he and her father ran out of dried hankies, so the briskly voice gave her a rather large tea towel, with a print of Glasgow’s southern Necropolis, to attempt stopping her blubbering.

The wee girl spoke softly, “you found my marionette…I love him, but you must love him much…much more, because you made a special bed…thank you”

The bearded voice was taken aback with the child’s definition of utter wealth, based on humble emotions of pure love. He requested the weeping bairn, if she would take the puppet home, but just now and then, along with her daddy, she and her puppet would, would be so kind, as to visit a grumpy old Kellie.

The deal was set with a handshake…and to this date…as far as I’m aware…kept faithfully by the petite lassie
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peter.howden
post 16th Jul 2019, 10:05am
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My Chronicles 16/07/2019


I will be taking Aunt Becky for a wee hurl tomorrow, though fingers crossed. It has been for a while because the last couple of times on my arrival, she has been sleeping in bed. Deciding, rather than the hasty drama, as the girl’s attendants, waking and dressing the poor wee lamb, I left her hopefully dreaming sweet dreams. Lately, having growing concern taking her out, mainly due to her obvious physical fragility.

To aid the situation, the home has proposed assistance taking and bringing her back from the car. There are two steps leading from the main door of her residence, where Becky is certainly unsure and very warily of them…taking extra time. All the residence will be moved to a brand-new purpose-built home by the end of August.

Our garden needs attention, after some 20 odd years left to its own growth, with only spasms of rushed care from me. Very early yesterday, in sublime sunny conditions, I took my coffee, sat on the garden bench, while the birds noisily interactively busy with survival. Yet…now and again, total silence fell, leaving me with an inner notion of inspiration, given by a special annual sweet-scented flowering bush… drifting in the air, through various shrubbery fragrances

My mind wandered, an uncontrollable habit it has these days, taking me way back to Mr Swan’s market garden, next to the river Clyde, Uddingston, and the distinctive sweet smell of his much-puffed tobacco pipes, left in each of his greenhouses…. what a man

Without any encouragement came a separate imaginary aroma, surrounding a country lane leading down to the bay at Whitesands, Dunbar, with the astonishing essence of a wheat fields, roaming down to the adventurous B.B camp…and the young lady ‘Alice’

Another salty fantasy whiff sent my mind racing along the rugged coastline of Cornwall, into another bay named ‘Whitesands’, where and when Rebecca and I visited the extraordinary magical couple…lovely Pam and Jack.
Darting forward as the attar change to rediscover the odour similar of captivating France, but particularly the safety retreat of a medieval village in the Aude district, where a remarkable family played host, for many a year, to a wandering Kellie.

The coffee almost finished, I walked around the garden coffin, a raised old fragmented wooden structure, for growing potatoes and the like. Now almost a shell with some earth, potted plants and water dishes for the sparrows and company. Silently looking over the rim, and for a fleetingly moment, saw a field mouse head, and twitching whiskers, sticking out from behind a old implement…then darting away to hide under a small plastic shovel…now that was indeed, a ‘WOW’ moment

This was the offender, who had been nibbling at the few strawberries, I was attempting to nourish…hay ho…always next year I hope…Its surprising what a little sunshine can do
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peter.howden
post 19th Jul 2019, 06:59pm
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Clash of miniature Titans

He is, as has been, a long-standing friend so it would be impolite to go so far as label him a fibber, although he is very liberal with the truth when discussing one vital subject. Perhaps the term fabricator, would even be to hard, but certainly a slight chancer, sneakily lurking in the depths of a devious side, yet not witnessed by the other fellow,

Then, to boot it all into a corner, way back in the last excursion, when this crafty fellow, takes advantage of another fellow, who misguidedly was struggling with just a tad too many refreshments, which affected that fellow’s capabilities, this was a bridge too far. There is no need going into details, nor excuses blatantly sworn why he was unable to take up the traditional challenge, but it will be adequate to mention it involved and included a bruised pinkie.

The verification rolled on to another affirming justification, it being much more hassle-free and comfortable to enjoy, if they were to saunter while taking in the sea airs of that ancient coal magnet of a seaside town called Saltcoats. Being mental putty in his hands, entirely unaware of his deceitful plan, the congenial fellow was allured into shady hostelries, and low-down saloons in a blatant effort to knobble the fellow’s common-sense ability, to be bristly crude…to beat the pants off him.

Whom is the fellow referred to, who stooped so low, preforming skulduggery and dastardly deeds, none other than ‘Salty’, the wandering seaman, brother-in-law; David? And what was the challenge other than the intimate ultimate, ‘Alcohol Chess’, and the running dispute over some 35 years… who actually is the decisive victor

I should have realized there was monkey business about, when he offered to buy the first round as I have experienced people from the area of Ayrshire, and they aren’t the quickest on the draw when it comes to the coinage of the queen. They can meet themselves coming out of an establishment just as they are going in.

Innocently trusting I was dealing with a gentleman, or at the very least a true and honest comrade, but sadly I must report of being duped. You think you know a fellow, little realizing what some may do when the sell their soul to the devil just for one-upmanship

The worst blow of all, a verbal dagger between the ribs, saying he had won by default, using a bare knuckle boxing term, I could not come ‘up to the mark’. Simply because my words were slightly inconsequentially incoherent, my walking may seem more than a hindrance…however apart from this, I was brand new…sound as a pound, in Harold Wilson’s time

Where the real exertion came after several games, the recognition as to what piece you were moving, to what square allowed to visit, and what bloody Queen? was always a bone of contention, especially for someone had sold his soul to achieve an empty victory. As the train pulled out from the station, watching Salty with a smirk on his face, waving a fond farewell.

The train hurried itself towards civilization, which can only be found in the dear green place of Glasgow…with one thought took precedence over all else…how will I knobble him next time around?
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peter.howden
post 22nd Jul 2019, 09:59am
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The Day Dawned

One of the more famous old farmers predictions, based on lifetimes of observation by hard working country folk; ‘Red sky at night, shepherds delight, Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning’, which in my frame of mind, is based very early dawn having not quite raised itself in all its heavenly glory.

it certainly was not a hallucination, it’s real as real can be, nonetheless, because I am no shepherd of any kind, holding no responsibilities of such a professional dependency on nature outcomes, or the dangers lurking livestock, it forecasting an easy-going mode, or foul, before the trials and distractions of the day disturbed my shaky equilibrium.

A few morning’s ago, I saw a rare tear, being relatively warm for the session or persons to expect, here I was outside in just tee-shirt and shorts, checking the car. Apart from the obvious hypnotic illuminating reddish sky, the magic of a dawn was generating pure enchantment, above all else.

What caught my eye, then ear, was a glimmer of ambiguous purple streak of nimble light struggling through, followed by a burst of song from a tree, or bush, but boldly a feathered friend, whistling his, or her head off, then another, and another. I do not know if it is in their genes, or maybe they were caught on the hop, whistling in complete surprise, and joy, for another daytime was giving magnificent birth.

Standing totally memorized, by what unfolded within such a short moment, the sun proudly fashioned a tempting glimpse of its magnitude power, by covering the visible sky ,with a deep warming red I have not witness before, but would love to see it again.

All too soon, most of the show was over, as the sky slipped into something more comfortable with only a hint of what had taken place. Before my very eyes, the redness dimmed, daylight took its rightful place.
Although alone at our home’s front door, I did wonder, if my friends would be looking at the same marvel, but then again, they are far apart, most likely seeing things at a different angle…if they are looking at all.

A warm feeling inside recalling, one by one… all my friends, which are now fewer in number than before, but, unlike Facebook, for above all else it’s not the amount of so many supposed friends you have on the internet, it’s the close friends you fortunately have…near or far.
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peter.howden
post 25th Jul 2019, 08:11am
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Marker

Have you voice to debate
Have wisdom to cry
Have strength for sorrow
Have courage to not hate
Have the character to lie
Have you resolve for tomorrow?
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peter.howden
post 27th Jul 2019, 10:27am
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Memories from an old Chronicle.

Dear Diary; 03/06/2011

Coming down for breakfast this morning, recognizing a well kent pleasant smile of expectation, complete with enchanted echoing from behind my beloved’s eyes. This was broadcasting the arrival of the early daybreak banquet, added was the aroma of some perfume, disguising the usual kitchen whiff of pets, or the last evening meal.

This is when I made my first mistake, by enquiring if there was anything special going on. Shocked is not the word but angered hurt may be closer, while attempting to control obvious mixed emotions. My treasure closed her eyes tightly, then reopened them anew, speaking with tense softness, ‘Surely you have not forgotten? was the vital question, which she could easily see I was still in my own wee wonderland…me, the mad hare. ‘Remember’, she prodded, ‘When you betrothed your troth’

Struggling to come to grips with this newly born dilemma, yet, the dates did not tie up in this still half-a-sleep noddle. I was about to quote it was not the anniversary of me losing my virginity, as that was summer way back, and we had not even met, then luckily for me I pulled out at the last minute, the telling and not the act…I think. My love one looked so hurt, as if I did not care a fig, but low and behold I produced a card centenary, which in all truth, I forgot to post. I calculated I would win brownie points by stating the post could not be trusted, and it was too precious not to deliver by hand.

I was taken aback by ‘She who must be obeyed’, giving me with a card, by hand and the magic twinkle in her eyes. We kissed; we cuddled, then in turn opened our cards, with smiles beaming up the dull kitchen.

Just as I was about to replace the card ……..for next year’s outing , my true love utters in whispers………….don’t forget where you put it ‘

In her heart felt card… I wrote sincere lines, in hope it would forever keep us entwined;

Keep our true love alive,

By surprises, we strive,

And decisions it takes,

Sugar-Puffs or Corn Flakes.

AND THEY SAY… ‘ROMANCE IS DEAD!’
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peter.howden
post 28th Jul 2019, 07:30am
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Memories from an old Chronicle.

Dear Diary; 20/07/2011;


The other day, I witness something spontaneously caring, loaded with human kindness, almost beyond any measurement, yet… it was the cruellest blow all the same.

At a set of traffic lights, on a thoroughfare, a young hoody approached, which some older people would classify and judged as a modern teddy boy. This was the type who would carry a flick- knife, or a cosh, to alarm some poor old bugger… or worse still, intend to rob.

The almost phenomenon happened on the busy Victoria Rd, while the man was heading for Queens park, and the renowned ducks and swans pond. The papers say there are rats there, but everybody knows ducks don’t eat rats. Anyway, this older man was attempting to cross the road when the hoody moves towards him.

The gentleman was nervous, but, from under the hood, a broad smile from cheek to cheek appeared. When the traffic lights changed, the hoody gently held the man’s arm, guiding the older man safely across the busy highway.

Without waiting to be thanked… he disappeared into the oncoming crowd.

The cruellest stroke being…I was the perceived older man
========
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peter.howden
post 1st Aug 2019, 06:24pm
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Memories from an old Chronicle.

Dear Diary; 27/04/2010


I saw an inspiring face today, mind you, just a jiffy glimpse, a beautiful vision you shouldn’t forget, or ever want too. Not a glamorous face comparable to those prepared on the glossy cover of a magazine, or film star, or one of those many forgettable celebrities.

An almost flawless reflexion, akin to a magnificent creation, bursting forth with innocence embodied. Just Infront of me, this allusion bowled me over, way beyond her womanly conception… from who knows where in the cosmos.

Lost within the wonder just gazing on her superior features, while oozing with temptation, leaving a guilty feeling for wishing to steal such a moment. Recognizing the young lady inspired me to quicken my foot- step, in a vain effort to catch up with her, whisper her name so softly. She would know instantly who it was …if only I could remember her name.

Then, and only then, I stopped immediately, regretfully realizing time was playing such a cruel joke, on this now simple mind. Such soft enchanted memories, became entangled in today’s reality, rapping around an unknown innocent lady.

Standing frozen to the spot, exactly in the location where so long ago, this real phantom picture from the past, lured this old fool into wishful thinking…yet, just for that split second, or two…the illusion of ecstasy beckoned me forward
-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 4th Aug 2019, 06:23am
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Memories from an old Chronicle.

Dear Diary 28/09/2010//


Today, preforming my usual routine, which could mean several things, however, in this occasion, a small walk, assisting my rough dicky tummy constitution. There can be no other word to describe the present weather, other than ‘terrific’, although some are talking of a Indian summer, which would be correct, since recently, the heavens have been opening up, causing miniature monsoons over the last few months

There was a certain spring in my late autumn step, purely because of the sunshine, reviving aching limbs as the fresh air breezes through the renewed cut grass, and all the countryside stuff. While walking, I find it rejuvenating my dulled mind, to boldly go…exploring certain taboo subjects…and if we can change some for the better.

Passing various prosperous streets, possessing decent living abodes, yet recalling in this area, things were not always as good as they seem today… and how millions around the world are not so lucky.

Turning my head upwards towards the nearly cloudless blue sky, mentally asking, why within affluent countries, people are so deprived, suffering terrible hardship, while religion influence is so abundant. Why so much manmade bitterness between creeds, causing so much misery

I could swear, an imaginary deity, boomed in my head; ‘Why ask me… things haven’t changed much since I was created!’;
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peter.howden
post 6th Aug 2019, 03:08pm
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SPELL

Time gives the impression of being elastic, for the older I reach, the more I’m confused about understanding ‘theory of relativity’. It is said, brilliant Albert Einstein did add, then subtract, a slight variation of the mathematical equation, to fit his peer’s thesis. Gosh, scientists bow to pressure…and some tell fibs.

Apparently, time has a ‘Tautochrone Curve’, while the universe is made up with 94% of Dark matter. Does it matter… Jings…find the light switch. On the face of it, the speed of time whizzes past me, with a commoner’s technical term of ‘Crivven’s’ it’s Monday again’…Help ma Bob’. Perhaps my view on time, has been tinkered with, hitting a snag, or two… or my mind is rather stourie.

During School days, as a pupil in Shawlands Academy, our absent-minded science teacher, taught, and raved, about the late great “Einstein” by observing movement relative to defined points. Our teacher was a grand tutor of theory, but his hands-on demonstrations in pure science, especially when apparatus containing compounds needed heated by a Bunsen burner… nearly always ended in a hitch…the game always became a boogie.

Last night I could not sleep, with curled time dragging, so I took action to pass the tedium. Earphones plugged into my faithful old turn table, spinning ‘Great British blues Barrelhouse and Boogie Bonanza, (L.P.) with such performers as; John Mayall; Alexis Korner; Cyril Davis; Graham Bond…and the great Peter Green. To make it absolutely complete, a large dense glass of dense Highland Park. Then looking out ‘Toni’s’ room window, into the dark outside world. Why we call it “Toni’s room, is lost in time…though she never spent a night between these walls.

Pleasantly passing time, It is amazing how good music, and a bonny drop of splendid spirit’s does for the soul. In 1999, in our patch, Calvay Housing Association, planted a tree, which now is maturing long branches, desperately reaching up through the darkness of the seemingly timeless sky.

Drifting through the past activities in our home, when a break in concentration, started my pondering over a long-forgotten puzzle, nay an enigma, nay… a nagging paradox belonging to the golden thread of justice. A specific wager for a couple of pints, with Tommy, way back in 1967. The wager itself was simplicity when the fellow was unable to gain a date with a girl….and I boasted of my charms. The young lady did consent, with a slight wangling on my part, to attend the picture, “Deadlier than the male”. I won the said stake, fair and square, but dastardly ‘Tommy’, did not conclude, and has since gone missing.

The dilemma is …should the said young lady be responsible…and should the wager pass over to her.

The lady in question is; “She who must be obeyed”. Will I ask her, or should I consider …I just want to live!
-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 9th Aug 2019, 11:00am
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Holiday

Thank god we are much too old for camping, as the meteorological conditions are rather doggy. As for our wee tour, through the ‘Elliot’ Reivers clan’s territory was surprisingly, not bad at all. Checking the weather conditions before venturing south bound, it was rather gloomy…yet all the whole, it turned out fine down Dumfries way.

One thing most important in my agenda, not to weary ‘She who must be obeyed’, but boy didn’t she do well. Rebecca has one of those gadgets which tells you how many steps taken, when heavy breath makes the rate of the heart thump, what type of sleep is performing…and I would not be surprised if it did not detect when wind, just for cheek, was set free into the wild.
Her normal daily steps are around 1,000/1,500, but on the first day, nearly 5,000. Second day 4,300, 4,000, then 3,600. The actual worry was, due to her determination, casually stopping at various points, to give Rebecca time to recover, without butting into Rebecca’s wants.

One fundamental relaxation, for both of us, the massive bed in the Station hotel. It was bloody vast, we had to phone each other to meet up in the middle. We have a king size at home, but this was King…King size crib.

One real downpour, returning from Newton Stewart on the A75, knocking along at 25/30 for some 20 odd miles, while it was akin driving through a carwash and the whippers could not cope…yet some bloody loonies, dangerously overtaking whizzing by at 60 or more. One junction had a tractor stuck solid at an abuse angle, over the verge, while its trailer was completely overturned, spiking out on the road.

We totally relished all the small villages and hamlets, plus first time in Carlisle, also noting, akin to Dumfries, no professional beggars, or Scroungers squatting in the streets. When in Ayr yesterday, some 8 or so right down the main shopping street, Greggs buns and coffee, fags stuck in their mouths, squatting on a cushion, a plastic cup ready for donations. The sad thing is, we will always have poverty, however this is just abuse on the public…. even worse than the organized panhandlers

I now have obvious signs of arthritis creeping along on my main hand. It possesses the knack of annoyance sometimes, then the slightest touching a surface…a pain just shoots up the arm. Trying various exercises with a tad of relief…but like everything else as we grow older…adapt to suit.

A Glaswegian Hobo
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