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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 29th Jun 2020, 05:11am
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‘The Key’(2)

The Dastardly Schemes


Silent rumours have drifted in the wind, relating to the depths of depravity ‘The Key’ scheduled, and practiced schemes for, yet , almost every individual nation, regime, corrupt politicians and tyrants chose to obey impotently when ‘The Key’ demanded controlling status, total Immunity from investigation sternly expected, while most of the populations were ignorant of the sly facts . The exclusive worldwide unbreakable contracts with almost every state president , prime minister, premier, or ruler, were wholly privy to this being true… ‘The Key’, holds total control nigh the whole globe, honest and unethical organizations .

Although it may be ‘Chinese whispers’, allegedly, ‘The Key’ callously systematically ran through statistics, to send each month, 19 % of children in their care, into darken dungeon holes of illicit sweat shops, limitless servitude around the four corners of their venal empire. When the exhausted ,sick starving children pathetically died before their time, the demised funerals paid by avaricious companies and governments able to raise citizens taxes. Misinformation discharged throughout the airwaves, hiding appalling human behaviour, behind the tragedy of predicted broods running away from their homes, which already exists in all societies.

Mafia crime syndicate seven groups, Golden triangle, Khan, and heavies Ndrangheta, of the past, violently cease to exist, unless signing the silent clique code, that all traffickers in such a trade, henceforth organized, and turned by ‘The Key’. The gangs and peoples with monies illicitly gained, endorsed such deals, seeing such contracts a way to clean up dirty monies, but soon realized they were dead end pacts, costing exceptionally additional returns than what they put in.

As the law demands no unconfirmed testimony, Individual clients from international stock markets, led to the financial ruination by…’No get out’, without death agreements, via organized monetary slaughterhouses…no one complains… for above all… fear, coupled with no one can be trusted.

Next …Reputed, final solution
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peter.howden
post 30th Jun 2020, 07:36pm
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Granddad’s letter.

It is amazing to watch just how much our children change over the years, where we were lucky...and luck has a lot to do with it... our family held on to being good natured and decent people who respected their parents and Grandma, but simply idolized granddad. They were so impressed of his life story, which over the years his whole family reckoned they knew every step he had ever taken throughout his 89 years. Almost the moment each one of his family was born, he gently steered them, before bedtime, read ‘Fairy Tales’ holding a moral attitude. These ethical tales mixed up with events throughout his own long life, his grandchildren felt privileged to stay at his home.

On several occasions, with a wry smile he declared, when he had broad shoulders, because of dire circumstances, as he put it, he went down the pits shafts as a Banker man, among cursed Blackdamp… stole his best mate from him. Later, after the miners’ strike in 1943, witnessed and worked with Bevin boys… held them in high esteem

One thing always remained a mystery, an unopened stamped letter, clearly addressed to Grandpapa, inside an extravagant photo frame, taking pride and place on the lintel of the ever-burning ingle-neuk. Granddad was asked about this despatch many times, his answers were evasive, or talked around it with another anecdote, remaining constantly enigmatic. The respect the entire family held for their proud grandparent, they never mentioned he forgot to specify the reason for the posted despatch…and no one knew when it was delivered…or why it was kept sealed.

Unfortunately, even strong old oxen’ have a contract with passing nature, as did ‘Boxer’, the strong determined but ignorant horse from Animal Farm. Now his hour had come, quietly, with everyone he loved, and they loved him, being at his bedside. After the terrible shock and heart crushing loss, which would never go away, they had a wake, talking only about their recollections and wisdom of their much-treasured Grandpa.

Their warm memories sprung thick and fast, with every word uttered held tenderness from within the hearts of respective orators, until one family member caught a glimpse of the letter, on the mantelpiece, sort of glowing radiated from the coal fire. ‘I wonder what is in the letter’ said the inquisitive youngster, as he moved towards the fireplace…then unexpectedly stopped in his track by Granny…who softly spoke, ‘I believe it’s time the family knew your Grandfather’s secret’.
She calmly motioned all present, to sit down and pay attention, then continued. ‘we found out way back, your grandfather had ‘Alexia’ disorder. An unusual quietness surrounded the room, you would have heard a pin as their elderly granny continued in a low sincere voice.

‘He believed, it must have been caused when a cranky mule kicked him, at the side of his head, just about the same time we became one for each other…some 68years ago’, Grandma, near tears explained, ‘once he had recovered at home, there was no money for fancy doctors, we made a pact…no one would be told’. She stopped to take a few breaths, then added; ‘maybe he was holding suborn pride, but from that very day…we set up home, I took all the lettering, bill paying and the like…he was a good man, he worked hard for his money’

One of the older children present, pipped up ‘But gran, Granddad read, great fairy stories, to all of us, every time we were at your house… word for word perfect’. The grey-haired lady smiled, ‘we practiced for two nights before you came, apart from reading and writing, he had a good memory and active brain’. ‘He tried for years to be literate …but for some reason, it just did not happen…we were non-believers, so we could not blame him!’.

Taking time to sip some black tea, she added, ‘some 50 years ago, that very letter arrived, and Granddad decided, if he could not read it…it would stay unopened’. She inhaled a deep breath before restarting with, ‘Well that was not strictly true…we both thought it may be a letter, from the authorities, asking us to go to court…because we were not married, we jumped the broomsticks!’

The family sat there in total silence, but just gaping at this kind Nanna, with astonishment. The oldest son asked when they would open this letter. The mother smiled shyly ‘it was your father’s secret all this time; it will be buried with him’.
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peter.howden
post 2nd Jul 2020, 07:31pm
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Infinity minus one;

Somewhere in Scotland....in a once proud, but now dilapidated building, a constant rubbing noise, relentlessly scrapping sort of din...a chilling hum, right behind the thin protection of the shaking walls of unknown strength. A exposed group of startled, near panicking peoples huddled together, due to space confinement rather than choice, forced to share intimate feisty responses and emotions usually hidden from any other soul. The pathetic group completely ignorant if human life existed elsewhere

The emergency battery lighting blinked sporadically, everything electronic was non operative. No contact could be made with the outside world, if there was such a thing left, as every computer, every phone, every apparatus, or anything relying of vital internet satellite worldwide web...was now completely defunct. No satellite no man-made contraption remained operative from that fatal period.

In a universal elapsed moment, an unpredicted powerful Steller flare-up “Super Nova’...fleetingly outshone the entire ‘Milky Way’ galaxy, radiating massively more energy as the actual Sun. This uncalculated collapse changed Earth’s rotating angle, against the right-handed rule of 23.5 degrees...to minus 1.34 degrees. Every 92 of the Earth’s elements instantly altered, as did the density of the once blue planet. The atmosphere just plunged.

With the moon completely off-balance, causing acceleration orbit and destroying earth’s tides and the so called atmosphere static without wind. Disseminated electric and atom tremors have turned the all-inclusive form of existence, every species of life on the entire planet, have become carnivores or blood sucking miniature vampires including; Parasites... Mosquitoes... Hornets...Black fly....Bees...wasps...Ticks...the list is endless throughout the world.

Within the crumpled building, the frightened penitentiary remaining occupants, huddle within the dark stale room. Lifesaving air condition bottled oxygen aeration, operated by battery, is lifelessly silent because they daren’t open the airborne vents leading from the crumpled structure...in fear what may enter....unwanted. Clamours from outside, constantly try penetrating the last defence off ill-practical walls shuddering under immense pressure...deemed to be flying swarms of killer midgies.

Over the past alarming weeks, while contacts over the old fashioned airwaves was possible, the dreaded news in Scotland of close total inhalation of human beings in every hamlet, Town, City... by these flying doom carriers... then the airwaves croaked......Now in isolation they may be the last of the human race... with the paradox...barricaded in the premises of Glasgow University...once biologically working on a serum… to prevent midgies biting indiscriminately!

Is it worth praying?~
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peter.howden
post 5th Jul 2020, 01:25pm
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There are some passages in this last episode, which some readers of a certain disposition, may find disturbing…the author apologizes in advance

‘The Key’(3)
Depraved key


Almost from the start, blackmail, fraud and drugs, people trafficking, all aspects in pornographic markets, were financially advantageous for this enigmatic firm, ‘The Key’, while operating as a upstanding fruitful legitimate company, monopolizing a wide field of enterprises. They organized under the theory, if you constantly advertise into the face, and ears of the populous, something so utterly ludicrous, becomes genuinely believed. Then, while this is so, with a slight of hand…do what they want. They inspired only absolute pleasure, beyond any humans imagination, could be yours if only the wanting of a full payment…or direct debit.

Almost all the banks, and the prosperous populace had invested heavily, plus nearly all the pension money programs for the workforce, and retirement proposals, were blind Associates. With vast amounts of wealth from all scientific ecologists, collaborating in the drugs markets, their private researchers, and genii, managed a miraculous phenomenon…to duplicate D.N.As, which could be injected into the body, masking the real genetic code. They enthusiastically sold this to individual criminal elements, to avoid detection for any crime committed.

Promoting a trumpeted dreamland for the elderly pledged to their loved ones, guaranteed luxury stay with ‘The Key’. The private announcement, regardless of age, the ability to release each associate, from all illness and pains, by huge advancements in health care, supplied by the scientific medical team. Their stay would be a walk along a constant sandy beach where every day was simply supreme. Their deception was second to none, for not one whisper of disaffection, not a single complaint had anyone in the whole world ever received.

An anonymous whistle-blower called, unfortunately midway, the communication was cut dead. The following “ The centre of this diabolical myth, ‘The Key’, built gigantic aeroplane hangars worldwide. Ring-fenced with highest Tec security beyond any country in the world. Inside, row after row after row, isle after isle, ally after ally of elderly people in rags, completely drugged with a tube in their mouth, sitting on wooden commodes, filth running wayward into connecting sewers. Three infusions, ether tainted with knock out drops, two, liquid food supplied three times a day, three, drugs a supercomputer determined medications, preventing any reality”.

“‘The Key….A human battery farm, with money being the golden eggs. They eat, sleep and latrine there …until they died, and their contra”…. Disconnected…the authorities fear the worse?
-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 6th Jul 2020, 11:12am
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Fairy tale

The first meeting was not supposed to happen, but like all fairy tales… once upon a time it did. Mark was walking past a stores window in the fashionable part of town. Helen was acting as stand-in for her sister, the window-dresser of female lingerie for the large department store. Helen’s sibling become unwell, afraid she might lose her position, asked Helen to stand in. Helen’s code of sisterly duty came first, though not sure if she could cope, being a novice in art School where actual work was not quite her bag.

Mark yearned for something completely different from his dreary life, something with risk and action, not available in this small township, forcing him to make up his mind, that very day, to be on his way to sign up and join the Army. He stopped at the large window, standing almost motionless, staring …not realizing the assortment of underwear the window exhibited…for he could not help watching Helen’s angelic whimsical face. She turned around and heard music coming from outside as this guy was looking in. He tapped the window gently…motioning her outside. Dropping everything Helen instantly submitted. In pure excitement their first date was arranged for that very night

From that moment, very second, they danced, sang, and giggled into a whirlwind romance. Mark joked she was his Helen… launching a thousand slips. and she laughed. She cried at ‘Girl’s-pictures’ on the screen, he cared so much he held the tissues, popcorn, and coca cola. As a couple they would dance at the drop of a hat, swooning the moony along with old records, dancing without moving their feet or limbs, but so close together it was almost indecent. locked in a heaven all of their own, as Peggy Lee sang, ‘The folks who lived on the hill’, full in the knowledge it was written for them.

Walking home holding hands in the local park, dreaming sweet dreams, vowing it would last forever. They would grow old disgracefully together, collecting old age pensions at the post office, then that so endeared and warmed their hearts.

Just as swift as it had begun, she was gone, in a hint of a windless whiff, no letter of reason…just gone. All that was left was the bottle of perfume, Mark had bought to celebrate their togetherness. Not one photograph for him to hold...he reminisced with great heartache.

He never did join the army, but passed the window regularly, hoping above hope, his Helen would be there. While staring in the abyss of the window, Mark would mentally sing, though sometimes was caught out by a stranger as he mumbled a verse, or two, of Ray Davis song, “Thank you for the days”, because those precious days was a lifetime for him.
He knows men should not cry…but failed to keep the tears from falling.
The end
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peter.howden
post 8th Jul 2020, 07:24pm
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A loss

What a difference a day can make, solely because it has, throughout my stay on this mortal coil, proved to be virtually 100% true. When facing a unholy crisis with little control, or tricky situation dragging, as the next day seems an eternity away, we forget the time marches on regardless.

Apparently somewhere around late 16th century, days had gone haywire causing the Catholic Church difficulty estimating the vital question, when exactly Easter should be, coming to grips calculating equinox, important to the sums. Religious academics in the know, stared at the moon, reformed the old Julian calendar, knocking off 11 days in a new Christian Gregorian calendar. This Legislation caused instant riots all over the place, with mobs demanding their missing days restored. God’s representatives here on earth work in mysterious ways?

Due to the intrusion of this naughty Coronavirus, my personal strange case is not a day, or two, but a whole missing year! May sound like a case for the literary character Sherlock Holmes, probably easier explained, either my inability to count, or a convenient loss of memory. Truth to be told, my reckoning of dates is a time squeeze box, jamming all the years together, my age coming out as 74…missing one year? More to the point, where did the 365.25 days disappear, are they floating in the illusive cyberspace and will they return to haunt me?

I do not believe I’m vain, though occasional wish some mornings while shaving and gawking, not to have a wrinkled prudish face, but a dashing handsome profile, in admiration lines of handsome. A time stealer no more no less, but my shaving mirror cannot grant this small request , for the needs are a magic mirror, with the ability to lie convincingly while, projecting an image beyond compare… which never existed

Time moves relentless, however, sometimes my brain finds it hard to calculate exactly what day it is. I’ve lost a whole year… and why hasn’t life waited for me? During this prudent tedious lockdown, no one can promise tomorrow. Tomorrow never can be guaranteed… being a lifetime away.
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peter.howden
post 9th Jul 2020, 01:12pm
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What’s Up “Doc”

He was a great world renowned ‘Chef de Cuisine’, valued knowing the basic work which could add delightful heaven to the client’s taste buds. Similar to all the greats; knew just how much of ‘this and that’ ingredients make gastronomic magic, down to the very last dash. He was untidy, gruff, but dependent on the lower grafters. Show me a master chef who isn’t or does not have a skivvy, or two up his, or her sleeve. His big fault was health and safety approach on both equally without thought or concern.

A pot of water with just a tad squirt of his secret liquid, was always near the boil, purging through sterilization, all his utensils, including his keen, razor sharp knives, he described as cherished delicate whittles. He never used, or trusted, any wandering Shantieglan to grind his precious instruments, he alone, with loving care, stone sharpening the blades to a hair breath keen edge.
Treasuring one of his cutting appliance above all others, had an awful nasty habit of taking it from the always steaming water cleansing pot, then drying it with a dangling tea towel he was wearing under his armpit, , which he swore, saved valuable time and was perfectly hygienic. Either claims were suspect; however, no one in the classy restaurant dare tell him…. never mind chastise this naughty habit,.

Instead of insisting obeying Health & Safety rules, the owner laughed off in a childish pansy manner. The manager, and a couple of brave souls in the kitchen would mumble word for word, ‘There will be a revolting horrible accident happen one day, his oxter being slashed deep inside…Mark my words!’, they all quoted uniformly….then added before finishing their spiel; “could be disfigured for life, (and possibly ruin the soup)…the last part they never said…only thought it …for no-one had the stomach for antagonizing this already brusque human.

The fateful day arrived with no pointers, no clue what would happen, and the far reaching effects with the head chef’s ‘Haute cuisine’ dishes. Working normally by keeping a skewed eye on all the other commis chefs, preparing his Special gourmet surprise, while observing ‘waste not, want not’ perfect ethos. The lethal moment came closer with all pots and pans on full blast, or just simmering away ingredients for a master stroke in his culinary dish.

Automatically reaching for his trusty knife, as he had so many times from the boiling purgative pot, but this time was to be horribly different. Without looking his main cutlery hand reached in the correct direction, but, contacted a heavy metal spoon, instead of the hilt of the knife. Having been purifying for some considerable time, the whole spoon was nigh to boiling temperature when his fingers first got in touch.

His digits meeting the scorching spoon, burnt and scaled his skin, then producing huge instant blisters . With indescribable agony, he attempted to rid himself of this calamity, but the spoon just sunk in deeper into his fingers, damaging the very nerves of his whole hand. The shouting squealing in pain did not last an eternity, but it just seemed so as one brave helper, had the savvy to smother the hand and the offending utensil with a soaked cold watered towel, giving enough relief to quell the distress calls for a brief moment or two at least.

The tragic consequences were losing his intimate senses, in his golden hand holding an acute touch for the amount of ingredients, to most minuscule tad needed to supply his famous recipes. His books were cooked, as the world never forgave him in his reckless moment. Basically, he returned to being a mere skivvy …Par-average at that…..in one greasy diner….with a global famous Scottish clan title?
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peter.howden
post 13th Jul 2020, 11:14am
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AMERICAN SWINGS(1)

The year is in the early 50s; the place is Whifflet, it was the best of times... though like most times... Hector was more than a little bit mixed up. As a youngster, he was extremely conscious of his defects, classified as handicapped. Deemed as a spastic, more so by elders than the odd treatment handed out by other children, good and bad. Tangible and imaginary hurdles appeared from nowhere, which at the time, seemed unassailable, however, Hector soon discovered this was normal for the rest of the youngster he knew ... equally urgent. The way you perceived things, along with the reasons to overcome obvious, and not so clear problems, lies close to the path for near future’s endeavours...but stayed permanently within the mind.

The school holidays was always a problem, this was solved by being shipped off to Hector’s sister’s home, wherever that may be. The summer in Bellshill’s coal binges were magic, the highlight of the Bellshill summer weeks, being given permission to stay up on a Saturday night, after sport programme of the day, around 10.30, was ‘Sergeant Bilko’. Dressed in pyjamas watching this American comedy , Phil Silvers line went “fun, fun, fun”….but the real ball for two years was called ‘American swings’…was Whifflet,

Hector was shipped out to the hamlet, just south of Coatbridge, was a new adventure with mixed feelings before arriving. One local saying determined the difference between Motherwell and Coatbridge; Motherwell was famous for coal and steel, while Coatbridge was famed for steal’ in coal. The town was renowned for the Olympic sized swimming pool it had, also had fine views and deep history of industrial railways and all that entails

Whifflet was Hector’s introduction to dykes to dreip... the middins to rake, and the best of all, the first tongue bud tasting of the original Dandelion and Burdock. Throughout the backs of Garturk St and Bute St, lay in square formation with dividing walls of different structures, along with outhouses, once used as washing houses for the families abide.

From the not so far away past, these buildings and walls varied in height, possibly 8 to 12 feet. To be accepted into the local gang...you had to do the corner leap. This was quite a jump for a bachle, not out of shorts, or up to that time, had not seen or known about backyard playing. The jump was from corner to corner of 45 degrees facing each other, but with a problem…one corner was higher than the other, by a good foot and a half. The spring was from lower to higher, with only three steps run in, but… worse of all was everybody had to be there when you did this dare.

Next…the leap
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peter.howden
post 16th Jul 2020, 09:48am
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My Chronicles 16/07//2020;

I’m very fortunate to have a couple of long standing ‘Chinas’, normally with me in my mind, but I don’t see as them often as I would like, yet, with the lockdown restriction, not that I can’t, but must abide by the limitations, makes it tedious that I cant jump a train, car, or bus…just to say Hi’…in person.

Last Saturday brought a surprise to our garden, visitors from afar, Nikki and Simon, Andrew and Emma and the mutt, closely followed by Chris and Kirsti… seeing them, talking intimately with them… easily what the doctor ordered. The weather was a bit precarious, although we had large brollies and the non-de-plume old G.H.A umbrella at hand. I have been known to talk rubbish… but savoured every word spoken, by all of us… pure dead brilliant.

Unfortunately, Aunt Becky was in a slight incident at the care home. While brushing her hair, she thought another resident came to close to her personal space, and apparently hit out. The staff in the residence, took steps to intervene before real danger could take place. They phone to report the incident, and when questioned, stated the other lady was not hurt. As usual we have every faith the carers ability to look after our sometimes fast acting Becky. Due to concerns about the virus, they closed down the ‘Visit- open in the garden’ period, but now it’s reopened. We have decided to wait awhile until personal visits is in the frame, because Becky hasn’t a clue who we are, which will just confuse her fragile routine ,

The old jalopy needed to visit the ‘Motortune’ car hospital in Shotts, where the skilled vehicle surgeon applied his knowledge and ability. Because the need of parts it was quite a long wait, so as usual for vital exercise, I took a saunter around. Luck was in seen three rabbits near the chapel, scurrying and hopping about. On returning to the garage I only saw two. The presumption is the other rabbit was in confession…obviously the rabbit’s name was Peter? The real good news was I meet up with Fergus, which allowed a smashing hour or so, talking about how to save the world…in three easy steps…just sublime.

After coffees and tea in the automobile waiting room , another leisure stroll was in the wind, along unfamiliar country road, and boy what the amazing thing the imagination is. Looking at all the green fields at different stages, I was transported back to 15 years old, hobbling down another lane towards the sea at Whitesands, Dunbar…whiffing the delights of growing wheat. Although these fields yesterday had no wheat, the aroma of yesteryears is still within my mind…and exuberating…every time !
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peter.howden
post 16th Jul 2020, 07:32pm
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American Swings (2) A Leap beyond

Hector had some sense to practice when no one was around, meant sneaking out at seven in the morning. His balance was awkward due to cerebral palsy, plus the terror wavering on a curved top of the wall, working up to the dare. Landing clumsily on the gravel and on his bahookie several times. One day, while practicing, bid to jump the dreaded concrete nemesis, such a dreadful leap.... but not far enough.

Bounding between solid concrete into hopeful landing, Hector realized misfortune. The furthest corner was way out of reach, either by foot or hand, even when franticly trying to grab. He fell completely out of control, landing with arms stretched out only to feel his legs at a wearied angle. His right side took the main force of the craggy ground, covered in old fireside ashes. Wheezing in immense pain, lay there unable to move for what seemed ages, for it was more than his pride hurting. Eventually clambered with shaky feet, vowed never to do anything like that again, truly scunnered with the whole thing

Later on that afternoon while all the local lads, along with a couple of girls, one lad came along show off. Gleaming with bravado, carrying what appeared to be a real cowboy six shooter. He informed everyone his uncle brought it back from Hollywood, where he worked as an extra or scene mover, which kids envied with a lust passion. Tub’s(there was always a Tub’s then) handed around the heavy revolver to the keenly awaiting delinquent group, who showed their appreciation in the way they held it delicately. Being an outsider, Hector wasn’t privy to handling the magnificent trophy, but being mere cinema lad.... it was just out of this world.

Now in a fit of self-peek, hector blurted out his wild intention to jump the ‘corner to corner’ dare, which caused a few giggles from a couple of lads. What was unknown at the time, those boys had seen his pitiful attempts walking the wall earlier and were gunning for taking the micky ? For those few moments whatever came over Hector, he had little control over his mind, now oblivious to the fear of the petrifying obstacle. What was clear was an inner force driving uncommon bluster while scuttling along the approaching wall in fair speed and surprising agility? Lining himself up to the final approach where disaster happened that very morning, closed his eyes…bursting with instant energy and jump into blind abyss.

Before he knew it, landed safely over the opposite concrete roof with amazing margin to spare. He had jumped the jump. From that precise moment, hector was one of the lads...firstly being presented with the sacred weapon, even allowed to draw and fire imaginary bullets from it. From then on…accepted, that’s what most people want to be. He was a member of the Garturk/Bute St gang, missed when away...bonded when he came back.

There was other acts to prove valour, although he was as a member now… known as a dare devil...and not as an outsider.
Next…The Tunnel.
-=-=-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 20th Jul 2020, 01:26pm
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American Swings.(3) The Tunnel

During what seemed an everlasting summer, Garturk/Bute st was overflowing with a variety of brood’s, having one thing in common...“Dare” challenges, competing to come up with a desperate taunt. One morning, the ultimate test was thrown into the arena....to explore the depths of the abandoned tunnel, believed to be haunted by rats and the like, under the main Whifflet |St. It was rumoured, some kids the previous year were never seen again... failed reaching the other end, gauged to be at the incredible American swings.

The spooky tunnel ran underground, from Bute St all the way to behind Hospital St...and the famed American Swings. The reason for some playgrounds to have such a name escapes grown-up logic, although quite a few swings and roundabout areas were so called, in Glasgow and surrounding rural populated districts. Whifflet American swings were brightly painted, so maybe this is the justification, as most things in the 50s were drab and formally painted dark green, or brown at best. Another theory is it had a special type of apparatus, close to “A Dundee Swing”, but operated on a maypole fashion.

Hector had been instructed by his family; the upper other side of the main Whifflet Street was strictly out of bounds. Taking little heed, he joined the brave trio outside the dodgy entrance. The boys had battery torches, plus a candle and matches, from someone’s home. Richard explained the need for a candle was, to test the air was breathable. He added it should be canaries, but he only had a budgie…and his old Gran would miss it. Garry was first to enter the dark shaft, not a sound was heard until, just after a minute or two, he came clambering out the entrance, face pure dead white, yelling...’No f---in way’, and scarpered. Along with two of the other lads hector was a tad scared, but Richard,(who became a priest) stepped into the tomb opening, followed by two god fearing scared lads skulking through

Crawling down deeper than expected, holding his torch it is hard to tell the actual distance of this built underpass, but it was black murky, smelly, and dripping, constant cascading noisily, massive holed pathway, stony obstacles with boulders to attempt to dodge. The walls were wet and dripping as the challenged individual’s, had to take off socks, shoes or sannies, wade knee deep through manky water , with squelching icy mud seeping through toes…anxious as to god knows what lay ahead

Being about three boys wide with massive water covered area in the middle. The main danger was the reputed ravaging rats, living deep in crevasses slinking in the wake of the darkness down there, anticipating the unexpected explorer. The numbers were unknown, but Hector heard them scratching near and far, as their shadows darted back and forward. although defiantly saw a dark grey one, massively bigger than it should logically be. When cornered, rats bite, for every boy knew this as total fact.

Next; Free from darkness
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peter.howden
post 23rd Jul 2020, 11:05am
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American Swings.(4) Free from the dark

Left abruptly alone without warning, for the other two adventurous had abandoned the quest, scurrying back towards the entrance which was but a dot in the murky emptiness. The darkness hauntingly wrapped around, almost smothering young Hector whose imaginary courage had fled without a steady light. In near blackness, as the candlelight had long perished due to clumsiness, and the much needed every ready torch battery, flickered intermittently. Strange sweeping shadows emerged in bloody darkness.

Resting on a boulder wondering what to do, Hector’s was aware his clothing was clingingly cold, and a hint of wind. With raw deduction from some film about miners, there must be a current of air, deducing its surly coming from the other end. Taking a couple of slugs from a Barr’s bottle of ‘Dandelion and Burdock’, bought at Calder St corner shop, he began recalling local tales about the burrow, a thought began to pester his mind. Perhaps this was the rumoured last century’s cart coal tunnel, some 400 yards long, running under Whifflet st, hidden for donkeys years

This assumption found him more spunk to see the ‘Dare’ all the way through, yet, with each step ricocheting into the unknown eeriness, worried him. Hector’s trouble had always been a vivid imagination, so the further into the abyss, the more alarming thoughts swam in his mind. After just a few minutes, to his relief, was forced to stop his solo adventure, as the way was now enclosed up. He persuaded himself he was at the end and had conquered the quest. In excited haste he retraced his steps, waded over knee high water, and at last, saw daylight peering through the entrance.

It took his eyes sometime to adapted to sunlight again. No one was there to witness his achievement, as he scrounged around for something to dry himself. Stupidly trying grass, leaving tainted frog legs when arriving home, with his sister scrubbing, in a frantic effort to save his skin…with little or no success. Unfortunately, when Hector’s brother-in-law came in, he gave him a thick ear, and a sore bum for his troubles.

It was raining next day, so the lads, and two girls met up in a deserted warehouse in North Bute St, playing a game of ‘Dare, Promise, or Kiss’. A mawkit milk bottle brought from the midden, pointed at Hector being dared to kiss the girl named Archibald...on the lips. He only consented to do so If they put a cardboard box over their heads while the act was being performed, even then chickened out…kissing her on the cheek. Brave wee man?

Next; The Tank
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peter.howden
post 25th Jul 2020, 07:05am
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The cat sat on the mat,

“The cat sat on the mat”, a basic starting point to teach our vulnerable young children with simple terms and language. The tale is usually displayed with a cartoon caption of the whole story, added with plain printed words below? It could be argued, this innocent looking formation is creating a thought-provoking complex of extremes.

Those captions may well imply it is a fictional cat, on an imaginary mat, who looks totally puzzled, emphasizing a possibility of possessing split personalities, with oversized eyes staring right back to a dark source…searching for something unknown. Subsequently, if the other cat, not an imaginary one, believed it is a real mat, probability thinks the schizophrenic puss is being selfish, even if he only envision this to be the case. For there is only one mat, either illusion or real.

Going further into the unknown, would the other half of the split personality pussy have a nine-life cycle, with individual characteristics, or sadly nil…because it started from nonexistence? If the fantasy mouser suffered from a form of bipolar disorder, this presents a possibility of two mats, so which one would he sit on?
If the moggy inadvertently found out, it was not schizophrenic, or indeed exists… how could it come to terms pawing over inside its illusive mind? The terror and the very real danger to the kitty’s sanity, with multiple traits, this presents a possibility of two mats, so which one would he sit on?

In another dimension, would this depict the argument, an unspecified schizophrenic Malkin would believe the other cat is off his mat, because there is only one imaginary mat? What would happen mentally to the paranoid mouser if it found out by mistake, it was not in schizothyme mold at all, but did not happen? I think so therefore I am…closer to either schism or loosely schlemiel, while this would make tabby, a tad Jewish, and circumcised while not taking this chimerical serious?

In another spectrum, the ongoing phantasmal tabby: essentially a moggy’s disarmed tale, deliberately springing around the café scene on paper, not the mat. “Tip and mitten” just appear like a holy conception (implying Catholic connotations) however if it was not… how was it done.

Who, what, was the Uncle Tom? Stuck in his cabin or scrambling out of the closet; this imaginary or schizophrenic kitling. More to the point, who was the mother?
Where did she spring from …and how?
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peter.howden
post 29th Jul 2020, 12:35pm
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My Chronicles 29/07//2020;

During this trouble time, it’s so easy an excuse, to think ‘maybe later’, when hard determination is sticking to a routine…no matter how weary it may be. She who must be obeyed’, and ‘I’, are clearly slowing down, unsure whether it is advancing old age, or lockdown…or a combination of both giving physical mental fatigue signals. We practically knowing each other almost inside out, while still can flip the odd surprise now and again. Being close and accepting each other’s traits and foibles helps, with perhaps some grunts do surface occasionally. Love isn’t a crutch…but a floating emotion confusing reality…but hey…bring it on.

Nikki and Emma played a happy surprise visit on Saturday afternoon. Sipping tea and just typical natter face to face, small patter, rubbish chatter, completer with laughter… just superb. I do feel sad for those who can’t see loved ones in person, for one reason or another, as I have long standing close friends, who are unable to do just that. Chris and Kirsti are fine though Kirsti is still recovering from a broken wrist.

With the lockdown restriction easing, after quite a whilst not actually seeing her at all, next Monday may be possible to drive to Aunt Becky’s home. I will drive Rebecca to the dementia residence, however only one person is allowed into the grounds…so definitely Rebecca to just see her, for Becky has been part of her life, right from when she was born…Rebecca not Aunt Becky. We have full confidence in the staff, although they must be under immense strain and stress.

On Sunday Rebecca’s IPod , accidently fell from the kitchen table, resulted in blankness. Following all the guidelines, on the internet to reinstate the data, failed. Early yesterday’, a purpose car trip into almost empty eerie central Glasgow, was right out of the 50s catastrophe films. The peoples working in Apple store Buchanan St were pleasant, and indeed successful in returning the device almost back to normal. When arriving home, all that had to be done was to type in the Id…and the sacred password. Where I went wrong, I do not know, but …after continuously going around in circles, Apple have blocked the IPod, in case of naughty goings-on. I’m indeed a dunderheed…back to the internet?

It’s not the mirror showing more wrinkles every day, neither the boldness of creeping baldness, or reality looking every inch my age, plus several more years…it’s the simple fact losing my independence and marbles, almost instantly forgetting things, plus intermittent pain by just touching a unknown surface. There is no sanctuary when friends say they are the same. Early yesterday morning as I reached out for my trust IPod, as always being the custom…But, it wasn’t there. Some vague recollection of using it the night previous, while in the office, come Toni’s room. Searching the usual drawer(three times), then all around the desk, wastepaper baskets, in case it fell in accidently, but finding no success…the fretting started.

All day Inside my crustiness, irritation grew in a blank mind, except… one question was irately rising …where the bloody hell is it . after dinner as I sat brooding, while upstairs, ‘She who must be obeyed’, called out my name, whilst displaying the precious IPod, and an old pouch I’d seen in the drawer, while I fruitlessly searched it…three times. Rebecca explained the lost device was inside the leather poke. I’m blind as well as daft, but thanks to ‘She who must be obeyed’, spared me from unlimited days, being unbearably annoyed at myself
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peter.howden
post 2nd Aug 2020, 01:57pm
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Alternative farming;(1)

Not so long ago while visiting Netherlands, collectively are the second biggest exporter of agriculture goods in the world. Firstly, there is no need for fences surrounding most areas, because the national abundance of canals produce individual islets, and larger islands of lush green grass, to enhance prime sheep and livestock. Half the countryside is used for husbandry, surrounded by inland waterway, it was obvious the shepherds may have a more complicated relationship with sheep and other farm animals., than here in Scotland.

This may lead to problems for herdsmen working through twilight, while holding his trusty crook, delicately approaching their flock of sheep, or flink of cows, becoming slightly disturbed, and unwisely disperse uncertain of his dark intentions. Rising despair of their situation, can possibly be followed by accidental tumbling or tripping, or simply falling unintentionally in the water? It would be so easy an accident for a very scared beasty, requiring one eye concentrating deep on the herder’s man, while moving over unsure ground

Before either one is aware, the poor beastie splatters into the ducts, probably feeling rather sheepish, who knows...but what danger lurks.? Their wool acts a disastrous dead weight, causing sinking. This peril is currently first in the backlog of health and safety for Netherland government, hastily organizing a programme of life saving courses, which would include chest heart manipulation, plus mouth to mouth respiration, to be compulsorily for all Shepherds in Holland

This also may lead to strained relationships between both parties. One such herder has been taken to court for gross indecency with his charge, but, earned sympathy from the court when explaining how one thing led to another. Scottish shepherds are up in arms, as well as their kilts, angerly stating clearly… it is unfair, and they are demanding kisses too?
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