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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 12th Dec 2017, 08:22pm
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The Baby bath Finale ;
Part three

In 75,76 and 77,when the winters came in, bringing snow aplenty, Toni, Chris, Nikki and I, plus the family mutt ‘Titch’, took to the slopes opposite the Chapel at the local football pitch’s. This was an unrepeatable special time, but memories are around, never to forget. For these occasions, the old blue bath was turned into a sledge, hurling all the way down Glassel Road (except Nikki) which certainly sent the juices running, dicey and icy.

Our faithful pooch barking like a banshee, with her paws losing control of her sliding ass…in a most undignified manner. We were out all hours or until the clothing, used for protection, were now totally drenched throughout. The children were absolutely saturated to the skin, but desperate to tell their mum what daring adventures took place and how many times they cruised down in the old pliable bath. The tingling feeling as soon as you entered the warmth of the home is still with me to this very day, along with the sight of Titch trying to catch snow balls flung from whoever was racing down in the brood’s bath at the time.

Delightful squeals coming from the children, running up and down the bare hall, displaying red rosy cheeks, both sets, while dragging loose towels ready for use. Sometimes I took a bath with them; one at a time… which they thought was an extra treat. I would play submarines, or boat battles using anything at hand, usually a couple of yellow ducks for I was every inch a bigger wean than our kids. I still have those original ducks but the family have grown. It was off the cuff…guiltless precious bonding moments. Sadly, today… this innocent fun would be seriously frowned on.

Time was running out for the blue baby bath as the children grew older, and a real danger of being tossed out, when… I had another idea. I decided to place it in the very far corner of the garden, sheltered by the communal wall. I had seen on one of the garden programmes some expensive ponds made for the shrubbery. Just like ‘Bleu Peter’; I set about creating a homemade pond. Perhaps the neighbours thought it was ‘Crackerjack’ but I persisted and though I say it myself, it was not bad at all.

Within a short period of time we discovered frogs settling inside the safety of the corner, the rockery in the bath and the pleasure of water changed at regular intervals by a cunning system of old plastic tubes and using the overflow pipe of the cludgie.

Last time I saw our little saviour was when glancing at our garden, before moving yet again, though this time to another area called Barlanark. The faithful servant was now covered by green moss, as the wonders of nature, cosily finding it niche.

As I strayed for one last glance, I am not ashamed to admit to a tear in my eye.
-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 19th Dec 2017, 05:43am
Post #467

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Tell a tale


Information is power, so they say… however, it can be helpful or sometimes hinders the listener, when a few grains of truth is mixed with ‘gilding the lily,’ testing to the steel of a man or vamp of a lady. On rare occasions certain peoples give out information, attempting to purify a colourful rendition, however the innocent traveller may be duped into thinking its history. If the narrator can imitate sincerity…then the storyteller is half way creating a incorrect reality.

The source of this fable began shortly after arriving in the village of historic Saissac, with its Medieval, Cathar castle, the gateway of ‘Black Mountains, overlooking the fabulous Midi Pyrenees. I was visiting the “Pines” household, a well-respected family from Biggar, Scotland, though gentleman Keith is initially from Liverpool…and is delighted he is.

I had been to this region several times before, tramping as best as I could around the forest and the man-made reservoirs, with no thought of any danger what-so-ever during the high summer, grateful the fearful Scottish Midge were far across the seas.

Now France has something in common with the Scottish countryside especially the view from the top of Avenue De La Liberie. On this sunny occasion one outstanding corker of a building. This was the new home of Keith’s hard-working son, was almost finished the main building dominating the mountainous in that part of the dwelling village. This tree story building was especially obvious to the eye because, at that point, the whole structure was a colourful orange awaiting the finishing white plastering.

While I was just staring around the whole fantastic view, two passing lumbering English hikers stopped to look across at the eye catching creation, politely asking why it was coloured so

I felt a little Scottish mischievous and slightly roguish.

Taking a sip of water, I congratulated them on being alert about this construction as I had some local knowledge about its incredible history., I spoke softly, stating the house is named “The wee house of Shaw’s”, then continued with a straight, almost solemn expression, stating sharply The ‘Auld Alliance’ of 1294 amid Scotland and France, made a grand place for such a project The backpackers moved nearer giving the impression they were not only interested but keen to listen.

The planning architecture, Mr. Rankeillor, Esquire, and the materials had been bought and paid for by Jacobite monies remaining, first raised in 1778. These funds were originally raised for the victorious return to Scotland, of Bonnie Prince himself, however had not materialized. The sum grew and grew through the ages and was used in both World wars for the comfort of dying Scottish soldiers and some monies sent home to their wanting families.

Since the Scottish Nationalist had achieved their objective in Scotland; the guardians of the monies agreed it to build a refuge for travelling Scots It was solemnly ordained, any ‘Balfour…Stewart or Breck’ will not have to pay one farthing in lodgings, while all other true Scots will bide for just a few shillings. My company seemed well pleased they were privy to such information as I added; “If you travel to Carcassonne itself you will find a Jacobin Gate to the south of the river”. I left them soaking up this well-earned information.

It is certain they had never read Robert L. Stevenson’s “Kidnapped”, or they might have tumbled to the names…. that’s Sassenachs for you

Another Tail

A father was left in charge of his young son, and a niece, who was staying the night as her mother and Aunt, were at a reunion. Later in the evening, while preparing the four-year olds for bed, dad decided to bath them, both at the same time, so he could keep an eye on them collectively.

His son had never seen a bare little girl…and the wee girl had never seen a bare boy either. Both toddlers enjoyed the bubbles. Dried, dressed and after a story were put into separate beds. The father said goodnight to his son, turned towards his niece and was just about to do the same, when the charming little girl beckoned him to whisper something in his ear.

He bent down to accommodate the little lass…she whispered…. “it is lucky it did not grow on his face”


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peter.howden
post 21st Dec 2017, 08:54am
Post #468

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The little bashed pot

Having been laid down unceremoniously, without thought or fortune, lodged between other already washed dish, the little bashed pot settled down too dry. The time this took, depended on the heat within this demanding kitchen, or in rare moments, when someone would use a dish cloth, then place it on the usual shelf ready for the next time.

The wee pot was not a castoff, for it had been brand new many years ago, bought for purpose of everyday cooking. It was a very popular saucepan because of its size, while the bashes and scrapes told the tale of constant usage. There were even abrasions when one visitor to the kitchen, volunteered to do the washing-up, used, of all things, an old fashioned brillo pad. This is a ‘No-no’, as all good cooks knows to their peril…and pots and pans dread.

Unknown to the little pan, he was being ogled by a self-professed beautiful crock, in prestige condition, whose resting place was in an all glass display cabinet...reputedly but never substantiated, built with him in mind. The ancient pot was a downright snob, who had never been washed, so commonly, with suds as the rest of the utensils in the pantry, as he believed he was privileged, very special, being handled with gloves, massaged with olive oil and a soft cloth.
When he had arrived, handled with kid gloves, hands delicately used a small brush and a blow dryer before being carefully placed in his resting cushion enabling him to gawk at all around the kitchenette.

Once the humans had left the scullery, silence instantly fell, except for the drip-drip from the tap, its washer had been wasting away for ages. The bad mannered would be toff, scornfully down to the wee wet pot, cursing with a sting, calling him a common pot rough ware. This unnecessary hurled abuse did not completely upset the little pot, quickly quipping back, how at least he was useful, having seen life with constant use, learned a few things by meeting all other valuable utensils...and been loved in a way.

On the whole, the show-oft mysterious appliance grumpily cringed, he was of the upper order of the social scale as he was an antique, having been kept in unspoiled condition for all those years, more than he could recall. His last quip rang out ‘I must be worth an exceedingly high amount because everybody wants to hold me carefully’.

The little pot, with a glint in its well-polished bottom, whispered this rye twist ‘Where you are, you’re definitely not ‘suffice to purpose’ for my boastful fellow, you are a Victorian travelling commode; Yes ... A pee latrine’…known in Glaswegian as a Pish pot
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

May I hake this opportunity to wish you all a fantastic Merry Christmas….and a Ne’erday with a wee ‘Deoch-an-Doris’ at each door you visit …before the devil finds out
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peter.howden
post 28th Dec 2017, 08:33am
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Trapped in darkness

Where am I …I shouldn’t be scarred, I’m old enough not to be frightened, but I am. There I was, without a care in the world taking a saunter with my companion, doing a little Christmas shopping, for the wee odds and ends, personal things needed in such celebrations. For some reason my mate and I became separated, then…without warning…I was tossed into a chilly mobile cage, unable to get out, left there like an eternity, then manhandled unceremoniously, from one rough person to another, until finally, locked in a dark claustrophobic place… with strange creatures, possessing touchy things sticking out…including various unwanted odours … I don’t even know.

It’s cringingly terrifying why… very now and then, the uncertain ground trembles, then move with the creation of shaft of instant gloaming light, complete with the haunting ‘Kist Mort’, piercing the dim corners of nowhere, searching for a demise unwilling to leave this world…unable to see the stars one more time. As if from the depths of hell itself, something grotesque abruptly hauls some of poor soul out, vanishes as quickly as it came…then utter darkness falls again.

Oozing from somewhere unknown there is the distant murmur of hustling and bustling … but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve heard such sounds before. My fingers are bloody freezing …haven’t been able to warm up since this kidnap happened, and no wonder…I need a hand to comfort me…. if only I could I would cry…

Once again, the floor quaked, echoing the unwanted light of fate to appear above, the monster from netherworld reached in, grabbed one of my fingers then hauling me into unknown abyss.
Suddenly…there was light everywhere, music as people mulled around in gay abandon carrying presents galore. The biggest welcoming surprise was…I recognized my benefactor as I was handed over to him and my perfect partner in his hand were clasped together…. who is left and who is right matters not…as long as we are together as lifetime mates.

I did hear a voice call out to my human saying, ‘be careful you don’t leave your glove in the shopping trolley again…some people don’t bother handing them in…It would be a pity if it was lost forever’…
-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 30th Dec 2017, 07:32am
Post #470

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[b]
Desperate Shopping
[/b]

On a busy road, an elderly lady shuffles along the precarious uneven pavement, heading for the traffic-lights. She is in a hurry for the shops, desperately needing messages. On top of the list is Corn-Dobby, makes a comfort sandwich in the middle of the night when she cannot sleep for worrying. She thinks to herself, she is being a silly old fool, Harry will keep her safe. Second on the list, a special treat for him, slice sausage, Harry loves a bit of sausage, bacon, black pudding, and a Sunnyside up egg. Fairy-tale thoughts of the past start to seep into her mind.

Sharply squints around with eyes keen for her age, she reminds herself she has no time for this foolery as she had better get her skates on and hope she does not meet Mrs MacBride as all she is a gossip who bad mouths everybody and everything.

Glancing back and forth, while cautiously stepping towards her goal, the post where you press the button to cross on the Zebra Crossing. All the time she nervously looks behind, relieved she is not being followed. She knows her Harry will say she is daft when she gets back home. Once the key is secured behind the door, then both will be all right… snug as bugs on rugs.

She stops her four-wheeled trolley from rolling any further, giving her time to gather her breath, then the green man flashes. A wee laddie at the crossing, smiles at her as she squints at him thinking; ‘is he one of those hoodlums who broke into our house when I was out last week, lucky I had Harry with me or he might have been hurt, or worse thrown out into the street’.

The place was in a real stooshie, the mawkit middens even peed on the coffee table, near scunnered me, but I promised Harry, they’ll naw catch me napping this time, I bought a double drop mortise and paid a real joiner put it in. I said to Harry, ‘you can’t put a price on safety’.

The lights change, the old lady darts across at such a speed, leaving the wee lad standing, and before one other moment has past, she is inside the supermarket like a hurricane. She would much prefer to shop in the wee shops however; the high street is full of sad empty premises and the family butcher that Harry likes is gone somewhere but not local. She scoots around the shelves hardly looking at the well-publicized bargains to tempt the sodie-heid shoppers.

Hurries through the till section, then anxiously marches, almost runs along the well-worn street heading for her home and back to the flat. She worries being out so long and if she was right to leave |Harry alone in the flat. The chippie said the door was like fort Knox …. It’s Guaranteed. I hope he’s right’ she thought as she entered the close and her heart was thumping ten to a penny
.
To her relief the front door was intact. She enters the home and calls on Harry to let him know she is out of harm's way. Locking the double- drop, she starts packing her messages away and makes the tea. With her favourite slippers on, she sits down next to where Harry is and relaxes. ‘Told you handsome I’d be back in two handshakes and a jiffy… and so, I am’

She says as she fondly…and very carefully picks up, from the new coffee table…a photo of her darling late Harry.
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peter.howden
post 31st Dec 2017, 08:08pm
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Desperate Aunt

A distant siren wailed and echoed loudly unexpectedly, heralding unwished instant horror to an old lady, transporting her mind, every inch of her physique existence, forced back into a black abyss. It’s horrendous howling drool herald foreboding she thought and hoped was dead. Petrified deep into her soul, as every inch of her body ceased to function, like a cold marble statue, became instantaneously wholly stationary. Time ceased to know where it was as dread fear took over.

Wailing unabated, the siren continued haunting Aunt Becky, standing unbending, with eyes full of dread reborn from the dark illusive past, buried but now revived from her consciousness.
Unregulated seconds past until Becky awoke from her listening nightmare. She knew instantly what it meant, automatically alerted her mind instinctively searching the street to where any shelter could possibly be. Although defiantly not a stranger to the district she had been walking in, the yowl of the dreaded warning system, disorientated her movements. All this was in the present but controlled from the past.

Becky identified she was not as agile as her consciousness returned when, just a slip of a girl, she stayed where she was, unprotected and her family had no knowledge of her whereabouts, Becky knew she had to act quickly or be dammed or killed.

Her first nervous thought, to find a chapel or a church, they would not dare strike, or bomb a church. She also reasoned to find main block of a stairway, shelter as told by the government alerts, but something disturbed as she heard something like a dull whisper but just could not phantom what it was.

Now… she felt the cold continuous clamminess from sweating profusely. Now she corrected herself calling it perspiration, as her mother always told her not to be common but must be a lady always… especially through calamities as this was a sure sign of breeding.
Hint at a suggestion you may be perspiring. ‘Whatever you call it I am so uncomfortable’ she reasoned, and she will have to hurry home.

About to take her first step, instantaneously, she could still hear a background voice dictating dread for her big brother David. He is so irrational and reckless to the point of helping others before himself. Becky decided to look for him in a fog or mist shadowing everything it contacted.

Perhaps she has been hit herself, she has this blinding headache, incapable of seeing anything in front of her. Fear within intensified, almost freaking as hope seemed to be lost forever and kismet served.

Just at that precise moment………. the awful siren stopped with a whine squeezing into a whimpering loudness slithering into obscurity. It was a testing for goodness knows what or a lovesick warmonger wishing for times in the past. Whatever the reason poor Becky had been transported back into a reaction she had long forgotten

Becky found herself in the middle of Allander St and her very young bewildered me holding her hand, asking if she was all right. The year was 2012, yet, for an unspecified moment of time, or perhaps more …she was living through the war, beholding the individual horror she witnessed every time the siren was let loose into the public arena……holding her in absolute terror of being unable to move… now… as so often then
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peter.howden
post 2nd Jan 2018, 08:32am
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Desperate beyond belief;

He could hear flickers of classical music around the unembellished hollow room, with him being an imitation ghost with no ghost of a chance to haunt anyone other than himself. For some reason, outside was illusory four walls… the only faithful existence. His movement halted sharply, being quiet as a dormouse, and just as jittery, as he thought he heard footsteps… but no, just some echoes of the past, edging forward as they did from time to time.

His sister belonged there but she had not returned for some reason, perhaps she had been caught by the truth defectors. All he knew was the food portion had not come. His sister promised to be very diligent, and cautious, as she left small portion to eat behind the storm doors, in the middle of the nights without any trace of the moon. To easily spotted in the silver light of the moon as shadows tell tales. It was dangerous for him to open the main door, but the storm doors closed tight as she had a key…he just had to wait till they were partly open.

He could not risk going out there in the cold, very cold realm where society and the whole civilization had gone bammy…. even the chosen ones had weakened though all had a covenant with the one they dare not speak his name

He was scared in case someone would recognize he was Jewish, carrying the incontrollable guilt, punishing him for surviving, not only the Auschwitz holocaust but his own private recollection of the horror. Inmates did not care if some particles of crumbs of bread, or a rotten tomato, was kosher or not, he has been a vegetarian since only eating meagrely to sustain some resemblance to life while secretly colliding in living purgatory with the ancient Gehenna.

He was now alone…the strange realism was his ‘A’ branded number, so brutally given by monsters, was now a comfort to him…as he stroked it just to check it was still indelibly there

He was alone…now in a ward for refugee, this inaccessible figure had been the longest inmate, oblivious of his present surroundings of loving care, by the matron of this special ward. She had instructed her limited staff, not to attempt leaving food for him…. unless the corridor and the room, were pitch black, for he would not touch it, unless…it was behind the ajar door.
-=-=-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 2nd Jan 2018, 12:06pm
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The Tabby

The cat sat on the mat… as if by holy command. The cat always sat on the mat, except for one time when an unknown interloper broke in, callously stood on the mat. Where the cat came from, cannot be determined by human or breast, but the kitling savagery was wilder than any Scottish wild cat famed for heredity ferocity. The cat flew straight at the interloper, having no time to move was still illicitly standing on the mat. The furious feline with open claws dug deep into roguish skin, drawing deep red blood spurting uncontrollable across the burglar’s unprotected face.

The thief’s arms swiped the air in blind terror, caused by the blood entering his eyes, preventing miserable attempts to free himself from the moggy’s savage attack. The very next moment the mouser’s teeth sank into the defenceless open neck of the now agonized unorthodox interloper. Sheer panic caused a wave of reckless arm movements which luckily managed to dislodge the reputed trained grimalkin, in its bloodletting activities

The purloiner fled like a mad man.

Why did the cat, who daily sat on the mat, act in such a manner, is a mystery, though viewpoints rage from being a mixed-up Maltese cat with a‘Falcon’ fetish, or just out of pure boredom…to the ridiculous belief the pussy had in fact fell in love with next doors dog…having mood swings…who knows? but the cat… is still sitting on the mat
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peter.howden
post 5th Jan 2018, 07:29am
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-=-=--=
My Chronicles 05/01/2018

It has been some considerable time since I last put pen to paper (figuratively speaking) due to various circumstances, including the coming near to the festive season. As a yearly usual the media were whipping up mental stramash, of either displaying specially ordered Xmas goods, or at the very least imitating the urgency and necessity to purchase right away…while stock last, they say. What they did not mention, if the buying prediction failed, certain stock would have to be reduced in price, the day after Boxing day, to ordain a clearance extravagance)

This may sound like an old cantankerous cynic, which probably I am, however although I do not have any religious faith, I do like the rudiment meaning of Christmas, to be kind and considerate to your fellow human beings. However, it appears that this simple message is not only slipping away…but lost in the avenues of hard core commerce. Other than this, I should not have predicted the future…if I dare…pay no heed to my bellybutton .

I have not been on board with my Chronicles due to a couple of unavoidable realities. ’She who must be obeyed ‘was going through a rather rough patch due to the C-Diff bug. Each day Rebecca was improving, but not enough to give her the confidence to feel the difference mentally. The bug, not only drains in one way, also leaves the patient unable, or unwilling to digest food, which together exhausted Rebecca’s pluck. Over the past few months there were scary moments I would not wish to experience again. Adding to the pot was her concern for Aunt Becky.

Aunt Becky was now in a home, ran particularly for dementia and Alzheimer elderly. The journey there has been long and at times, agonizingly difficult, however surprisingly easily how Becky settled within a very short space in time. Although Rebecca was not fully recovered, we decided to make a wee splash for Aunt Becky’s 92nd birthday with a birthday cake, a few small presents and arrange tea and buns in the home.

Unfortunately, she did not recognize Rebecca at all and just vaguely hinted she may have seen me somewhere. She held on to her small cuddly dog, drifting away somewhere into the unknown. Although Rebecca knows she is safe, which is the main factor, along with seemingly content, constant company if she wants or wishes. Observing Becky wide-eyed, lost within herself, was tugging emotionally inside Rebecca, as this was her life-long, Aunt Becky.

I visited Becky on a regular rota, taking her for a hurl around Strathblane while the tartan top twenty booms the speakers in my old jalopy. She still sings away in-between sucking fruit drops, and makes the occasional quip about Harry Lauder being a dirty wee man, as he sings, ‘Roaming in the gloaming’…Sniffs at ‘’My Ain Folk’…. but the finally is…belting out ‘Flower of Scotland’.

Before Becky went into the home, we regularly drove around to spot ‘lamb chops for tea’ and to drive around at the foot of the Kilpatrick hills, singing and enjoying the views….I am not sure who enjoyed the hurls more…and I am of the same mind now
-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 8th Jan 2018, 08:12am
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Jim 9

Jim stepped down from the train on to a make shift platform, very slippery from constant boots trudging and tramping forward into the dark unknown. It was cold and bitter, eerie sound of silence, and scary. The noise in a open country field sounds industrious, or a main station, but oddly a scarcity of people about… in fact, when Jim thought he had not seen a person at all. There were dark figure forms darting back and forth through the shadowy mist from god knows where, as if feart to make their minds up as to which direction to take. “A no mans land” thought Jim, in hope to come across a friendly face or a hand of welcome, though at that dreary moment… he could not think from where.

He heard not a word from any human being as he slowly walked further away from the disappearing locomotive, yet there was bitter biting in the air, nothing to do with the season of the year. Jim’s guess it was winter though nothing around him gave any indications as all around was muddy grey, as if there had been colossal physical activity, only recently, come to abrupt halt and all partakers had vanished for some reason or other, just shadows and workings of the dark.

He trudged through mire until tinkle of hubbub was not far away, roughly to the left of him. Then to the right, a sight of flickering light caught his eye, then another and another. Now, aware of benevolent force present as human beings started to appear, darting, moving before the open flames, small though they were.

Curious, yet highly cautious, Jim instinctively learnt to be so, he stepped closer so close to hand as the lights now were ablaze into a clear vision which amazed him. A large group of men, so strikingly differently dress, and fortitude were huddled closely together, chattering like geese though every now and again, in grand uniformity, moaning as one. Here; in the mist of country darkness, men were playing the local darby game of football, as all around crowds were observing. Right around the oblong home-made pitch, Jim could see men, arm in arm, hugging shoulders, heads fully immersed into the sacred game.

In some quarters in the square, bodies of instantaneous laughter, piercing the atmosphere with some success though limited. No one appeared to be concerned to the actual score but intent of just playing the game. Boos and heckling crossed with comments of the ref’s eyesight were strained but in obvious warm humour as all shook hands with all regardless of what side they supported or any indication of the actual scoring.

Around the make shift playing field people were talking while hot and spirited drinks were passed around with a certain assurance this was the right thing to do. Fires burning with gusto, ging much wanted warmth and directions towards St. Nikolaus custom, a hint of carol singing waft the cold air.

Smiling faces gesturing an obvious mood of friendship, settled any worried heart as cards and greetings and signatures collected with addresses and comforting photographs of family’s unknown, though still gazed on fondly. Small presents past from body to body, cigarettes were drawn by all lips as they also were circulated for anyone as good cheer was the order of the day. Here, it dawned on Jim; it certainly was Christmas day to end all Xmas celebrations. Christian symbols and the old German God “Wotan”, riding the wild skies with his retinue, emerged out of the clouds of uncertainty

As an illusion created out of nothing, or dire need for some sense of sanity, as without any warning, everyone made their way to opposite sides, retreated into trenches of man made hell. Where once was a playing field returned to its original formation, no man’s land, a killing field. Warm sincere words replaced with weapons of demise eternal of the Western front of Ypres?

Just then; Jim heard the call from the sergeant major; ““Right you horrible little bastards….no more fraternization…or you will be shot”
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peter.howden
post 9th Jan 2018, 04:51pm
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The Cat

“The cat sat on the mat”, is a much-cherished children book, a starting point to teach our very young children simple language skills, though…it could be claimed, this seemingly plain line of words, are indeed extremely deep, near complex to extremes.

A credible enlightenment could be how a cartoon caption of the Cat, with large wide eyes, to underline at a glance, the whole story… along with the printed word. Now this could suggest, with such wide eyes the cat was a suffering paranoid schizophrenic, sitting on a mat, or an imaginary mat, looking bewildered…not grasping what is real…but more important…what is not…. or more solemnly studiously measured by quantum mechanics…perhaps Schrodinger’s cat paradox

These oversized eyes suggest the cat’s mind is gawking right into the abyss of the past, as an unwilling kitten cruelly kicked off the mat. Yet…with those Vertical-slit pupils of the Cat, may alert how the poor wee moggy has ‘Duel Personality’ which may suggest, if there are two mental cats, begs the question…. which cat is sat on the mat…? which mat is the feline sitting on?

One of the sides of duel personality cat, this would present a possibility of two mats, so which one would the tabby sit on? Would this then present the argument the schizophrenic moggy could, or would believe, the other cat is off his mat because there is only one imaginary mat? If the pussy is allergic to the fibers of the mat, which one would it be? And who would scratch or more to the point; who would benefit from such an act?

Therefore, if the other cat, separate from the imaginary cat, would think it is a real mat, believing the schizophrenic puss is being selfish, even if he only imagines this to be the case. For there could only be one mat though, either illusion or real. However, both cats have never read ‘Schrödinger's cat’, quantum theory of superposition,

Nevertheless, if tragically the cat suffers ‘Multiple personality disorder’; D.I.D, a new problem therefore arises. The origin is severe instant trauma…perhaps caused by being unwillingly kicked off a mat. However, with so many personalities causing mayhem…there would be no room on the mat

Sits a sulky sullen cat,
Raising her brows,
Like gathering a storm…
Nursing her wrath,
Keeping it warm
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peter.howden
post 10th Jan 2018, 01:49pm
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Jim stepped down from the train

Jim stepped down from the train, which had come to a shuddering unceremoniously halt, in the mountainous backwoods, deep in a southern state. There was a station of sorts, but basic would have been an improvement. The smell of old timber, left to its own to deterioration through long humid summers as decades of years marched on. How old this broken-down railway station, could be quickly determined as obvious old faded placards, pinned against the rotting wood, edifying rules of racial segregation, suggesting macabre ghost hauntings from the past…. still drifting into people’s minds around here.

Having only been there for several minutes, Jim, already feeling the effects of uncomfortable steamy abnormal atmosphere, a sticky clinging shirt, moisture running down his brow for the simplest of excuse or movement. He decided to shade in a hut furthest part of the deserted platform, to have a cool cigarette. Entering the doorway of a ramshackle lean-to, he struck a match which instantly illuminated the drab inside, surprisingly exposing a huddled scruffy body, attempting to hid where there was no place to hid.

Through the gloom, a quivering voice came from the trembling body asking if he could have a smoke. Jim obliged before asking was he all right. After taking an immense drag from the cigarette, then another consoling whiff, the tramp like figure replied slowly; “I’m working for the Man up there…down here…he’s everywhere, sees everything, helps you to live, helps you to eat…chooses when you die…. this is as far as I can go…god help me!” At first, Jim reckoned he was a pious guy, famed in such locations, following the ways of what is referred to as ‘The Good Book’ but something about the way the man stood submissively alarmed.

Abruptly for me, an unfamiliar stooshie outside, forewarned the dishevelled stranger to now show dread. The noisy kerfuffle was instantly followed by umpteen sirens from police or army vehicles obviously surrounding the station. Moreover, included in this havoc stramash, howling dogs from all directions. Instantly, the stranger just sat down on an old bench, as if to surrender to a fate worse than death. He looked at Jim, thank him for his smoke, seeing Jim’s inquisitiveness, in a soft voice, explained his dilemma.

‘I am, have been for 26 years, in a road working chain gang, hired out to bidders for slavery work 6 days a week…only Sunday is the day of rest. My original sentence…seven years, but somehow, either disrespectable to the Man, or broke some precious rule when being reassessed…by the Man;…he is the everlasting hereafter’.

Jim keeked out, seeing an army of police, aids with rifles, car lights flashing, dogs and keepers…all for one pathetic prisoner. He could not help but to have pity for this wrecked human being, for no matter what he had done…If true was no way to treat anyone. He spoke softly, ‘I thought chain gangs were of the past, if not; where are your chains?’

The soon to be captive just sighed, ‘It’s a billion dollar plus commercial industry, linked to senators and the like… Chain gangs were reintroduced in Mississippi in 1995, except this time, they were chainless, not for humanitarian reasons, production is more efficiently, if jailbirds are not chained together,”…the Man is the Man
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peter.howden
post 14th Jan 2018, 06:49pm
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Chapter 4 The Village

Welcome…yes welcome to the village of “Dreimire”, almost the whole community like nothing better than keeping fit. Using various methods by attending MacHo oriental body building, with twist and turns which enable you to view the sporran in many different angles.

Outside physical pedal power exercise Ms Pedro MacAroni (her Great; Great Grandfather; Twice removed… was a Caribbean horse dealer who lost his way in the retreat of the Spanish Armada) is an avid keep fit lady biking on one of the four modern MacAdam thoroughfares, surrounding the village , who joined the local cyclist club. Her bicycle, a original gift from Kirkpatrick Macmillan, who believed he never had it so good, or us for that matter.

She was the only lady in an all-male troublesome MacHiavellian clan, having the time of her life cycling up and down the glen. Once, forced to stop as her tubes were flat on the ground. Fellow cranky scrambler stopped, asking if he could pump her off the ground. She refused help, as he kept interfering with her handle bars…. or fussy how he whipped out his spanner (for his nuts; he explained). She felt very lucky as she was only punctured twice, in the first summer. Once while almost dark, she could not light her lamp because her oil was so damp, she could do with a new wick in her lamp.

Traditional Scottish games has always been a canny pastime for training to be fit, throw the hammer and of course, tossing the caber. Here in Dreimire, we are spoilt for choice of tossers, however we only have one coach. He was trying hard to give instructions to A Kanny MacAroni, (to be christened, ‘Kenny’ but the minister with a turned peculiar lisp) who could not get a grip on preforming professionally, as instructed. This angered the coach and his braw sporran, in a fit of pique, the tutor, tells the boy…. Practice tossing yourself.

We are a cosmopolitan village, in Dreimire, realizing the community have needs, therefore we splashed out on a swimming bath. Not a bath that swims (my wee joke) but a tub to swim in, though not quite Olympic standards, you ken. We would urge it to be kept quiet as those European people are rather strict in these matters, but the pool is a sheep’s dip, used by all the farms around Dreimire. Now, there is no need to worry about naughty little infractions, as we clean it vigorously before use….as the sheep are very fussy and faddish where they dip. Put a couple of pieces of coloured Perspex around the bath, acting both as a wind buff and an illusion of a South Seas swimming area. Our residents don’t travel all that much.

Nothing we like better in Dreimire is music. Any excuse, we will take out our Jewish harp, from the hiding place…of course, we have had to hide our music since 45. But to hell with authority all the way from Auld Reekie… out with the pipes and anything with a note play the pipes when the MacRon, French plumber, is not looking (another of my wee jokes)

None better than MacPea on the fiddle, he could fiddle for Scotland, his relations would willingly testify. You may be thinking, MacPea should have been ‘MacPhee’ the minister with a lisp struck again; however, you would be wrong. MacPea is his alias and here is the reason

MacPhee tells the tale of his ancestors, residing in shielings of Dreimire. Long ago, his great grandfather and two men enjoying a wee dram, talking how it would be if they all had women to cook and clean for them. Suddenly a loud knock on the door and when open, three beautiful women asked if they could come in for shelter.

After a few more drams, the two men into the back room, with two of the ladies, closed the door, leaving Mac Phee’s forefather with the most gorgeous woman in the main room. To old Mac Phee’s horror he witnessed the changeling into a sorceress, then more sorcery as blood was running out of the bedroom the other men had entered just shortly before. Turning to his women, now an ‘Witchwife’ with extended beak, he would have to go outside to relieve him as it was impolite to do so, in front of a lady. This Scottish version of Medusa, spinning Blackmagic, did not wish him out of sight, but agreed to hold his long coat through the closed door.

Once away outside, MacPhee, stuck his knife through his coat, pinning it to the wall and run as fast as his legs would carry him, as if his very life depended on it, as it truly did. With him was his working collie who never took to the whistle or work. The old hag waited a while before opening the door. Seeing what happened, she started to chase after him. MacPhee called on the collie; ‘If you do not work this night, for me, then you’ll never work no more’. The dog chased after the beaked hag, allowing MacPhee to run, unmolested, to Dreimire and his father’s home. He left three pails of milk outside for the dog when he returned.

Opening the door in the morning, MacPhee discovered the dog dead on the doorstep with not one hair on his poor limp body. The other two men in the shieling had been murdered. It was never used again, and to this day, no cattle or sheep will graze near there.

Fiddler MacPhee changed his name to MacPea, on the suggestion of the vicar, because the fiddler will pish himself…. Every time he tells the story.
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peter.howden
post 16th Jan 2018, 08:11am
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My Chronicles 16/01/2018

I was fortunate to be ask, by Director, Jim Whitson, to return and attend a small, very astute development in Dailly Ayrshire, accomplished from a rundown eyesore pub, to a super weatherproof four in the block, in 9 months. Magic performance by staff, committee and a host of workers from various firms, with a hint of tenacity to complete in allotted time.

Smashing drive down, even if the weather was rough, listening to Rod Stewart while passing a grand part of Scotland, cruising winding roads leading thru picturesque countryside, into the smallish village of Dailly. Akin to all local communities, in the rural areas, the overall services is wanting, and work is spars to say he least, but does not dampen there enthusiasm of vigour. Friendly people with friendly views, spoilt for choice with a bus every hour, either to Girvan or Ayr.


I enjoyed the whole brief affair, a grand place to aimlessly saunter around, plus the return journey with the Rolling Stones blaring in my private moving bubble. One pure dead brilliant fleeting moment, the way the sun, as a thunderbolt of perfect light, miraculously bursting the heavens into a dream moment of creation, sensational once in a lifetime picture

I did contemplate stopping to visit the ever-loveable china Jim Hendry, in Ayr, who always puts me at ease enjoying the company. Barging in anywhere unannounced can be a bit disturbing for the surprised, so I just motored on. However, this meant staying the night, in an hotel after a couple of refreshments, making sure being tip-top sober for the drive home the next day. Judging by this morning’s weather, I missed the opportunity to drive in a winter wonderland, which my boyish mind wishes he could have done so, but if wishes were horses…we would all need troughs.

Arrangements with her residential home, had been made for me to take Aunt Becky out for a hurl this afternoon, however, sadly… I think it would be prudent to cancel. Although I believe Becky would relish such an outing around our Kilpatrick Hills there is risk of either running into unseen problems with scenery roads or something unexpectedly turning up, preventing us completing the journey.

‘She who must be obeyed’ is well on the mend though the exercise the Physiotherapist has given, are slightly strenuous causing aches and pains where they did not exist before. Last night we had a new mattress delivered by one single driver. How he managed, by himself balanced the huge paillasse, not only to bring it into the home, but upstairs with the ease of a panther…bloody marvellous…. even took the old one outside around the fence.

What we failed to realize when we purchased the bed item, but quickly discovered when retiring for the night, the difference of height the new one was, compared to the old one…. we need a elevator to climb on board…. but once manged, it is very comfortable
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