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peter.howden Posted 15th Feb 2019, 10:59am
  My Chronicles 15/02/2019

During the last couple of months, due to Aunt Becky’s health, or weather conditions, I have been unable to take her for a Scottish musical hurle around the Kilpatrick hills. We both enjoy these trips, and If I use a bit of imaginations, Becky gives glimpses of knowing who I am…however, at best… she seems to be comfortable in my company. The staff team do their very utmost, to make Becky’s stay as comfortable as possible. A new residential home, for pensioners with Dementia, is almost complete, and with luck the move is intended for the end of April.

On these trips, I do have concerns, because, Becky is shrinking in statue, obviously very fragile, causes her physical abilities to be flimsily unsure. Aunt Becky is more than unsure, almost scared with the two steps onto the walkway in front of the residential old folks’ home. Also, she feels instant cold while rambling unsteadily to the old jalopy, then... once inside the automobile, purring along the tree filled routes…it’s a strange sensation for me…and as far as I can tell…for her.

In our home, ‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, proudly display two wall clocks, once amongst the many timepieces in Becky’s Possilpark house. Their chimes were not only loud, but at different intervals, and now we have discovered why. The hand wined clock runs true to form, as long as I correct it every morning, with the time displayed on the television screen.

The second battery operated clock chimes, however it makes 5 o clock chimes 12 times regardless what we do. Depending how many glockenspiels, the accurate time is either calculated, +plus or -minus… Five. I think we could have them both professionally corrected, however, they comfortably remind Rebecca, and myself, how curiously eccentric Becky could be.

There is a medical theory, a certain dottiness creeps on the aging persons. In my case it is galloping out of control. With Aunt Becky, it’s quite obviously, sneaked in snuggly, while she stayed alone. Not all that long ago, as a family, we all attended a funeral in St Agnese chapel. While the priest was conducting the sermon, Rebecca, Becky, and I, sat in the centre of the sombre congregation.

All of a sudden acoustic of the fine huge building, emphasised, and echoing loudly, with repeating words of “Boring, Boring…Boring”. Its needless to say where the source came from, but the priest looked disapprovingly down the middle of the chapel.

Worse was to come…somehow, it entered Becky’s head, while capturing a glimpse of wee Anne (one of her nieces) to urgently ask her, in full volume…if she had been on holiday. When I was young, I had been taught, how God was infinitely forgiving, unfortunately the priest could not evoke such an emotion instantly, sternly glaring at the three of us. At the end of the service, the priest did manage a smile, as we three left the sanctuary…perhaps he had a Jiminy Cricket moment?

Once again, I let the train take the strain while heading down to Ayr, meeting up with ‘China’ Jim Hendry, for a slight refreshment…or two or? Ayr, like so many towns cities and hamlets are going through a radical change in shopping habits, due to the internet’s deliveries, taking away the stock and trade from shop premises. Some parts of this historical town have suffered greatly with more shops closing, as I make each trip down to the seaside town.

As usual, between Jim and I, the conversations wander all over any unexpected subject, but one thing is continuously fixed, the humour and laughing at the drop of a hat. Whether its down to us totally…or the free-flowing alcohol …who cares? We don’t.

Good china’s are worth their weight in gold…I luckily and preciously, have long standing, couple of ‘China’s’…how privileged can I be?
peter.howden Posted 13th Feb 2019, 08:30pm

The elderly diminutive female, gazes down adoringly at her lethargic, but marvel of a hound. They have grown old together, and his company means everything to her. Her whole wide world, surrounds taking her spartie-leggit friend out for ‘his’ essential constitution, four, or sometimes five times a day, giving the lady enough exercise, so not to stiffen up aching with arthritis, or at least slow down the process.

Mavis, is by no means a nippy sweetie, yet, the fact she has not spoken to anyone for days is not unusual, though, she did have a few words with the corner shop keeper. Mavis, could not find the fruit cake, so she asks for two soft rolls as she finds it hard to swallow these days. In compensation she has endless conversation with Patch, an odd name for a dachshund, or known comically, as a sausage dog.

It’s the day after Ne’erday, though little of the festive season is shown within the four walls of the quiet home, two room and kitchen, she has shared with her pet for some 14 years. There are three Christmas cards, sitting proudly open on the mantelpiece of the scullery, which is used constantly through the winter months, due to the expense of heating. One card is from the Housing Association, sent annually via a computerized selection of tenants. The second is from her church, decorated with a hand painted ‘Jess Evens Hen Dy Cwrdd’ painting.

The third, and most treasured, is a personally made one, from her, to her four-legged precious friend. In the distant pass, Mavis did once put up a small decorative tree, with small bangles and the like, however, through time it just vanished. While leaving for their walk, the small radio was softly playing carols, from around the world, which invaded the dark corners of her flat

The only other room used, apart from the scullery, is her chilly boudoir, along with an old rubber hot-water-bottle, when they both retired for the night, sharing the bed. Mavis has been told, many a times… this was clinically an unhealthy practice, sharing sleeping quarters with a hound, but she could not care, because ‘Patch’, was and is, her reason for existence. No one else had past the threshold of the house, unless you count the electricity man, to read the metre, before the end of the year.

Mavis hides her multiple physical pain, as she slowly, quietly closes the door, and locks it for security, so not to disturb her neighbours in the close. The lady herself, was born a single child, in the beginning of the last century, a rarity for her day, but was instructed religiously in Calvinistic Presbyterianism. Her weekly visit to the kirk, is the only time she leaves the dog.

However,the Christmas annual festivities, gather melancholy waves, not of depression for peoples of her class in society, but her worry what will happen to Patch, if she is called for. She carefully lifts Patch onto her knee, stokes him gently, as they pass the hours away… in silence
peter.howden Posted 9th Feb 2019, 04:21pm

Jim stepped down from the train, attempting to remember, when he boarded, and where or what was his actual his destination. This locomotive depot did not seem familiar and the entrance to the hamlet, or settlement, was alien to him, no landmark helping him to decipher just where he was going. The porter vanished, the moment he stepped onto the platform, and as far as Jim could tell, no one else had enlightened off the train. He could not work out if he was dreaming, or not, or whether colours stood out, being a sure test of reality, or not. It was obviously dusk, the way the light dipped away from the eye, out to the dusty street to the distant something. As he was thinking, he steadily moved towards the hub of the colony.

Something caught Jim's eye as possibly familiar, a tree bent at a strange angle to the ground, though the one he vaguely recalled, was bigger, more mature, with huge branches, however, something annoying niggling his brain, he just couldn’t put his finger on. Lost within his thoughts, he failed seeing a boy springing out of nowhere, scared in haste, a bat out of hell. Almost stumbling as he whizzed past him, something grabbed Jim’s attention, a stud badge on the boy’s buckle. Jim only had a brief glimpse to identify it, yet, he knew he had had one exactly the same, given to by his grandfather, when he was a boy. He was wondering what he did with his buckle, when the stripling, tripped and tumbled uncontrollably across the street, to land some feet away from the kerb stank, which had caused the youngsters accident.

As this split second happened, the unmistakeable clatter of a full cart could be heard to be just inches away from the youths grounded position. It became pathetically clear the boy had injured himself, compelling him to the ground, while the injury kept him glued to that very spot. As the hooves of the horses, now galloping forward in pure terror, with the peoples making all sorts of loud noises, trying desperately to swerve the beasts away.

Without fear or wonder or any thought at all, Jim leapt with huge strides, just in time grab the lad from the clutches of thundering horses’ hoofs, whisking him away to relative safety. This spontaneous act surprised Jim more than the few onlookers. The lad picked himself up, giving a massive grin towards Jim's direction, while also holding out his unstable hand. In a loose Texan drawl, “Thank you sir,” in the way youngsters were taught in a previous era, to be polite to their elders. The wagon sped way into the yonder distance, as individuals sprinted up the dust filled street, either gain a view of the driver’s misfortune, or to help with the aftermath, whatever it was to be. Jim and the young fellow were left alone, gazing at each other with different senses of relief. Jim's eyes was again directed to the buckle of the boy's belt.

In a fury of thoughts darting around his head, he managed to catch one, and hold on to it. He knew now it was identically to the one he owned, which puzzled him. Jim had always thought his Grandpa' had forged it from virgin metal…there was not another one in the whole world. At last, the boy spoke again, this time with his own feelings bubbling out in true sincerity. “I thank you kindly, I’m deeply in your debt, I now realize the true danger I was in”. My name is Sam, but everybody calls me little Jim; after my Grandfather, the towns Blacksmith.” I think when I grow up, I will use that name, as he is a great man”. He made me this hasp, all by himself…I have promised to keep it throughout my life…so, I will always remember him”

Before Jim could make any reply, the immediate area was swarming with bodies, all enquiring what happened, was the boy all right. The strange thing was, Jim could remember vaguely, of some incident happening to him somewhere roughly around the lads age…and the tree started to puzzle him.

Slowly turning his head, he found himself back on the train, sitting alone, with just the hint of dust. He began to ask some pretty awkward questions… did it happen at all, or had he dreamt it. When he was a youngster, his name had been Sam… and that bloody tree, was it just an illusion, or coincidence? Could it be possible he saved his own life…somehow transporting back in time?

One thing was for sure, his hasp had disappeared many years ago, whether in a card game, or in a pawnshop, or just plain lost. Jim reached in to his pocket for a hankie to wipe away the sweat gathering, for the temperature of the couch was making his brow perspire profusely,

And in his pocket, as he drew his big hand out… shinning as new…was his buckle????

peter.howden Posted 5th Feb 2019, 11:30am

I like and enjoy Christmas, although I am not religious, its true meaning of caring, love to your fellow man. Relatively unscathed, we Scots, can find any reason at the drop of a hat, to grab a chanter, blaw a drone from the pipes, raise glasses with ‘the water of life’ to celebrate good old distilled Scottish spirit. What journeys combatants take during a ‘wee refreshments’, varies as do the drinkers?

Surviving through a tunnel of food and drink, I’m no longer 12 stone, gong on 13stone, but a slim 11 stone 13 ½ Lbs, back to what was once called “Normal”, whatever that is? Away from this abandoned stretch of time, known foolishly as the ‘Seasonal Holidays’, which rolls on to almost infinity. With watered down eyes, and laps of memory, what is recalled as ‘the good old days’, Christmas was celebrated, just one whole day in strict Scottish Presbyterian ritual, trailing a poor second to Hogmanay… Ne’erday for true Scots.

So now our simple Christmas, lasting day after day, week after week, pounding peer pressure on young parents to expand from last year’s contribution, making it almost impossible for such a simple person such as me. The hours, the days between those important days, no one has a clue of how to behave, or indeed exist with clear consciousness, through such man-made trauma.

At the ending of the revered ‘Ne’erday’, my wholly haunting wish is, a courageous host will present, just a cup of tea, perhaps some sugar to stir in. Instead…in celebrations float by, overhead the kerfuffle for food and drink aplenty... above all else, the familiar loud call, “who’s bloody mince pie is this anyway?”

People are forced to be visited on, or become the dreaded visitors themselves, carrying, and delivering hastily made up presents, stolen and galvanized from a multitude of small gifts (made up creams, small unknown aftershaves or red mittens,) received unwittingly through the earlier part of the compulsory festivities.

Quickly forged Greeting Cards, rearranged hastily written messages, to suit the moment, are thrust forward into the door opener’s hand, as the bodies multiply with whimpers of “We were just passing”, which means at least three hours of obligatory conversation. Once again, attacking on the mountain of leftovers plucked from the safety of the fridge. Is it my age? Or do these overextended merriments, reaches parts where others fear to tread.

Perhaps what is causing the most concern personally …last year’s festivities are just a short memory away…but due to outside pressure, I will probably have to start planning for this year’s glorified Christmas Spirit… buying wrapping paper now, in case it’s all sold out later

The north American Indians, follow a belief called ‘Peyotism’, centred around their great Spirit , with part of a cactus which produces hallucinogenic effects(sounds like Tenants ‘Super, or the old faithful Champers, at the Barra-land) or the Glasgow Cross tollbooth, swigging Spirit on Hogmanay [/size][size="4"]
peter.howden Posted 31st Jan 2019, 11:47am
The tales of Hector and ‘The Bruce’

Marywood Square Suite

Right from the very start of sharing a flat, instantly bonding between Ross and Hector, became regular China’s, (Francie& Josie quotes). Hector liked the Rhythm & Blues, while Ross, swung with la-de-da pop stuff, everybody to their own swing? Along with, ‘The Bruce’, Hector’s best mate from some years earlier, they were, the three musketeers, taken from Alexander Dumas thundering thumping grand tale, or so they believed.

All three often enjoyed, long debates into the black darkness of a night, engrossed by theories of ‘The Occult’, under a swinging 40-Watt light bulb, added to the room’s beguiling eeriness, as chilly airs loitered well into dawn. Dennis Wheatley ‘the Devil rides out’ and ‘They used dark force’ conjuring Satin dark murky forces, fusing his malicious bidding. For three guys, who thought they were wise…the next was just way out of this existence… unbelievable.

To investigate ancient ‘Beelzebub’ philosophies, the boys cleared the spacious basement flat in 21-a, Marywood Square, then with white chalk, drawing on the wooden floor, an almost perfect circle, placing Ross’s sacred hat right in the middle, sketched two small circle around it. All three cavaliers now stayed inside the main circle, with only a candle light flickering awkwardly due to the draft from the two windows.

Marking four measured sections, crafting rough icons, cryptographs, including Lucifer’s numbers, in separate triangles in each segment, taken from one book or another. With a trusty compass (issued to Hector, by the Boys Brigade.) carefully calculated reference points, North, South, East and West, in each Cardinal Compass point, a rough crayon sketch of a black dog…so the ‘Prince of darkness’ could not enter.

At last, concluding their labour, Ross, Hector and ‘The Bruce’ stood near perfectly rigid, to say the least, proving rather difficult as they had many slight refreshments, while preparing this Mephistopheles alter. The flat next door was inhabited by a fish monger, on summer days the smell of fish not only lingered but took up residence. Unfortunately, this was a clammy night, enticing the odour to enter the noses of the three comrades, standing vertical in Satan’s circle, left with no protection against such pongs. Then to top it all, unaspiringly, the candle flickered then ceased to give light…. Procuring a passageway for phantom diabolism.

What happened next was a mixture of imagination, Street lights, and the wind, causing shadows of large tree branches, weaving and stirring, embroidered while teeming through both open windows.

It was at this darkest moment, a loud noise… nay… a grotesque echoing clamour filled the pitch murky apartment, causing the room itself to shudder…then shudder again. Somehow Hector managed, to some degree, keep his wits, though in the aftermath, admitted to being coldly shocked to the spot. Looking through a mirror, seeing his friends, and himself, unconditionally terrified out of their skins, similar appearance drawn as seen in, ‘Tom & Jerry, and Duck cartoons.

The spell was broken when, the door unexpectedly opened, and the hall light ablaze behind Sonia, the girl from the flat above, investigating all the turmoil. Ross, Hector and ‘The Bruce’ decided to give away their Dennis Wheatley books…not in fear…but just in case?

They kept their collective book called ‘Hordes of Dirty Ditties, from around the world’.
peter.howden Posted 29th Jan 2019, 01:22pm
  Uncle David

There is a credence, we are all unique in manner, actions and thought. This might not be quite true, because no one is an island, however… there was Uncle David.

What can be said of the man? I met Uncle David in 1967, though at the time, I hardly grasped the truth of the man. This I did achieve, mostly around the last ten years of his life, maybe slightly more intense just before he died. Uncle David was a plain man, aware of his limits, basic in his needs. He had a modest theory of life, always help someone in need, when you can.

Working as a laborer for Glasgow District Council, as a result of long hard toil, was strong muscular body, massive hands, but possessing a deep inner immeasurable strength. Uncle David and his sister, Aunt Becky (both never married, due to commitments to their mum) worked all their lives, supported their mother right to the end. Thereafter, stayed together until Uncle David lost the battle of life. He had what seemed a simple accident, falling off a chair outside while cleaning windows. He landed awkwardly on his knee and leg, had operations which developed into severe Dyskinesia (uncontrollable muscular disorder) …a blow for a lifetime active cyclist

Having been a soldier right through the Second World War, he rarely talked about the horrors he had witnessed, even when taking slight refreshment with Salty and myself. In his final year, he did volunteer glimpses of the terror of combat, the ultimate boredom during huge areas in-between. His friend being shot, but unable to recognize him, as the face was no longer there. The dreadful atrocities, on both sides, in those abysmal years, stayed in his consciousness, the rest of his life. The bone chilling coldness of digging in, the combats he took part in, was not stated as a boast of his bravery, or even with pride. He told me so I would know.

Until the accident, being keen cyclist, thought nothing of jumping the saddle of his trusty bike, heading for the hills at dawn, returning well after dark, with 200 miles whisked past during that time. A quiet man who listened to people’s problems. A biased man …though who is not?

He had a stutter, which, after a few drams, magnified his attempts to explain something. Salty (David the seaman brother in law) and I, along with Uncle David often stole time in town for a refreshment, or two. If a little fu, we would ply questions to Uncle David, he would reply “Now, now, now, peter…now, now, honestly speaking, now honestly, peter, now, now honestly speaking!”, depending how many wee nips were consumed.

Small things amused him, having a laugh, which started as a schoolboy style giggle, progressing to a constant chuckle, making it compulsory for us to join in, for he really enjoyed his own joke, or someone else’s comment.

Both Becky and David would conspire a tale to tell, the listener would join in with a host of utter laughter, lasting for some considerable time. My problem was, while laughing with them, I had no clue what their punch line was. He and Aunt Becky have helped, in both time and in money, everyone in their growing family, from brothers and sisters (17 in all), their nieces and nephews, and all their children. The real sadness was, when they needed help… few came to call.

It was the last year, muscular spasms took full control, creating chronic pain throughout his now racked body. Uncle David was given pain killers but stopped taking them as they made him spaced out, as he said, like spider man, creeping up the hall, holding on to its enclosed walls. He insisted, pain reaches a certain level, then stays, becoming normal…for him. Then, I could not fathom his reasoning, but I do now. As time moved forward, so did his spasms become almost unbearable to watch, but he was something else… just taking his stride, as his life would allow.

I will remember Uncle David, with far more than affection, with love… hoping I can, in my own way, have his attitude of thinking about life. I have known a few people I personally revered in this world, who have died, the list was small but sadly becoming longer. They were John Morgan, Mr. Swan, Archie Clark, Archie Young, Jack& Pam Honey, Callum McLeod, Gerald Doman and David Donnelly
peter.howden Posted 25th Jan 2019, 12:17pm
  Anecdotes from the auld Steamie;


In the past eras, in many Scottish cities, mainly located in engineering, labour-intensive communities, the Baths Departments of each metropolis, held the responsibility of providing much needed amenities, as Wash-houses, (affectionally known as ‘Steamies’), hot baths, swimming Pools, Turkish suites, within impressive purpose-built Victorian buildings. in one such establishment, Ben Gunn (nom-de-plume) ran his Turkish baths domain, providing extra facilities, out with the usual run of the mill service, provided by the local city’s Council

Certainly, more like a club, with extra facilities, such as rubdowns, massages and the like, which produced extra gratuities. Many customers had exclusive qualities seldom know to the outside world.

One such patron, deemed a regular, was nicknamed ‘Harry-Murder-Polis’, a true relative of a celebrated female actress, Harry boasted connections in the worldwide musical trade, including Sinatra. Meeting regularly with a certain clothing magnate, Harry insisted he could clear, the unfortunate background clamour on a scratchy tape, recording, of the entrepreneur’s number one son’s Bar Mitzvah. Remember, this event is the most important in a Jewish boy’s life, but much more precious for the father, and can never be, or could be, repeated. This dubbing would cause utter friction a rumpus between Harry, and a very successful Jewish businessman

Harry-Murder-Polis did manage to remove the background crackling noises, but inappropriately wiped the whole tape clean… eliminated everything. He did not tell, or try to explain, while handing over the irreplaceable tape, to his fellow patron, before he left the building.

The following week, the mercantile, returned to the Turkish suite, making a bolted beeline for Harry’s throat, as all hell burst loose. It took four burly naked men to keep the two separated, while Harry squealed “he’ll murder me, will you phone the police?” Harry was swiftly dressed, then taken though to the pool, down the stairs, out to safety by the boiler rooms exit. Apparently, they never spoke to each other …and their first question on entering the premises was, if either one was in?

Harry always wanted to give a good impression or put on a showiness display. When the first mobile car phones came out in this country, he glued an ordinary disconnected mainline phone to his dash board, attached a bike bell underneath, and phoney an important call.

One day, a young brash well-built fellow, waltzed into the sauna. When undressed, he was a mean machine, built with not an ounce of fat in his entire body. Exhibiting an attitude of superiority, he snapped, ‘Do you know who I am? He continued to complain about the state of the towels, the locker room, generally bugging until Ben had enough, sternly asking him to leave. He left with a mouthful of abusive verbal diarrhoea.

With a wry smile, Jack the bookie (one of the regulars) ask Ben if he knew who he was? Ben admitted he had no idea. In a slow drool, Jack as a matter of fact, mentioned the fellow was Jacobs; the light middle weight boxer. He could have made mince-meat of Ben …with one punch.

The combatant returned the very next day, profusely apologizing, if Ben would allow him back again. His simple explanation being, he was flying out to America at the end of the week, for a world title, and wanted a relaxing bath or two before the big night. He also express regret for his previous behaviour but put it down to pre-fight tension. He lost the contest in New York

His uncle, who had recommended these suites to loosen up ready for the big match. His uncle was the inevitable … Harry- Murder-Polis.
peter.howden Posted 20th Jan 2019, 08:11pm
My Chronicles 20/01/2019

I would surmise, time is our most precious entity we have, along with memories, good and bad, joyful or hardship, build and shape personalities, changing tolerance bearings on our own private world’s perception. We seem to be lacks when it comes to individual mortality, so busy generating plans, what we will or can attain. Only an unexpected demise within the family, jolts us to reconsider how fragile our own existence is, clouded with uncertainties of our peculiar mortal coil…unless in a Shakespeare play.

The latter conclusion is only a supposition, based on personal experiences, thru so many lovely people, with us no more. For Rebecca and me, the premature tragic death of our daughter, Toni, slashed through unquestionable emotions, way beyond simple words…yet, I truly believe, if it was not for the close family, around the old wooden kitchen table, on Saturdays, my individual assessment would produce a script with a different conclusion. Nikki, Chris, Fergus, the Grandchildren, played their vital part, through hard times for all, kept Rebecca and I, skittery on the rails of life, reasonable rational under strenuous circumstances.

A few close friends, one special lady, super acquaintances, many unknown people, giving sincere support, unselfishly and caringly. Aunt Becky spoke plainly, acted with old-fashioned decency, always fresh, throughout all the years I have known her. She and her brother David nursed their mother (Rebecca’s Gran), until she died. Over the final year, the matriarch was confided to bed, feisty in a relentless cantankerously manner, making it really hard going for the two of them.

I shan’t forget how we had only been married for a short while, when Becky, traveling on two bus’s, there and back, arrived at our home, very early every Sunday morning, to help clean the house, wither we wanted it or not. She never asked, just took it as her duty to look after her niece’s family. Her personal loss, as indeed with us, was Uncle David, in 1997, when she applied the same solid philosophy. Did she cry while alone, we do not know, but I reckon she did…for years?

Aunt Becky is the last in the line of her once large family of 17. Sadly, in Becky’s twilight years, she has lost the gift of recognizing time, in its place is a vast empty space. The minutes, hours and days, roll by, with little recognition of them passing, as her thoughts, and dreams, are locked within, seemingly only peeping out spasmodically. Becky is in a dementia home, being cared for by a mixture of enthusiastic staff, and more important than anything…she is safe.

It matters not if she doesn’t recognize us, or the family. It doesn’t matter she can’t remember a minute ago, while walking around in a daze manner, sometimes gutsy, Becky certainly isn’t unhappy, or fretting. Becky enjoys the hurls we take, being entertained with familiar Scottish music, oozing out across the Kilpatrick hills displaying all their glory. Sometimes I wonder, who relishes it most…. her or me?
peter.howden Posted 16th Jan 2019, 11:13am
  Someone is Knocking at the Door.

There is a knock on the door, wonder who it can be. It sounds rather soft, even personal, though it can’t be a friend, for they would know just how to press the doorbell a special way. For some time, I’ve been meaning to fix that rusty bell. The manager at the rent office, promised to send a man round. It can’t be him, he’s an electrician, he’d know how to touch the bell to make it work. Right enough, tradesmen are not what they used to be.

Certainly not the postman banging about, far too late for him. If it was the special delivery mob, they would put through one of the cards, “Tried to alert you… you were not at home?”. I think they write them out before starting the rounds, to save time. One bloke gave me a hint once, of him having a second job, this is why he never wastes a second.

Maybe its kids playing “Ring bang Skoosh”, though I doubt it, never heard them run away. Lots of Weans are fat, but undernourished, it would be a surprise if they could muster to run. Isolated alone in cells, with many supercomputer games at their fingertips, but on their own, like little hermits unable to see the sun, with fake tans… and non-existent pen friends. They say you hear no clapping in cyber space, whatever the hell that is? I was told, cyber-space is a void up there, storing all information from every computer in the world, but it doesn’t exist…. sounds like my football winnings.

Ever cultivating processer telephones, are rightly the miracle of the age, everyday bit of equipment, yet…I feel sorry for today’s toe-rags, mainly unaware of open freedom, to explore beyond reach, discovering hands-on, through joy and error, their individual abilities. Sadly, in the main being chaperoned by over apprehensive parents, then at home, railroad into isolation under radar companionship

As long as it’s not these wee brats from the next close. Their maw is letting them grow up to be fully pledged bastards. She had the audacity, yelling she was reporting me to the police, how I verbally assaulted her little cherubs. If she was from India…she would be sacred…

Who the hell is now rattling the bloody letterbox, probably that pesky fancy tart, the one in No 56, always wears her Sunday best, chatters on persistently about ‘love thy neighbour’, it’s God’s way? I don’t think the almighty meant her to rattle my letterbox so bloody noisy. God’s work must have more magic for him in 33, in the wee small hours. God works ‘In mysteries ways’, but there’s bugger all mystery about what goes on in 33, while his missus is away. Jammy bandit!

Maybe ‘Meals on wheels’, Nae chance, since I told them “bugger off”, yes…Tweedle Dee, and Tweedle Dum, well! That’s their nickname! The food delivered was absolute crap, pig swirl. I told them, their better off shining their own grave stones. I think the matron said she would never darken my door again.

As for my kith or kin. My son, my only son, if he can be arsed, props up a bar, or too drunk being a numptie heid-banger. Anyway, only asks for a hand full, if he happens to come around. And as for ‘Madam’…after all I have done for her, she just ran off, without ‘by your leave’, or warning she was living with her fancy fella. I had a cousin in Durham, Pink panther country, but this was donkeys ago, anyway… moved since she knew me.

There they go again, knocking the hinges of the bloody door, they want locked away, banging like that. The trouble with people today…selfish nosy parkers, with no patience, no compassion, or consideration for other people’s feelings. Everything it’s all… go…go…go…my napper hurts, sounds as if they are walking away…. wonder who the F--- it was???
peter.howden Posted 15th Jan 2019, 01:08pm
  An alluring allusion (2)

For an unidentified reason, standing unconditionally motionless, in this dangerous isolation, with a confused attention, unable to see through the endless pitch blackness, or defend himself against the unknown, perhaps hiding in its own obscure ebony cloak. Deprived of movement, a chill factor encircled the cretin, as raw fear displays its horrors, with a trickle of cold sweat clinging, then creeping down his worried brow.

What must have seemed eternity, but barely seconds, movement mysteriously returned to the now cagey charlatan. Thoughts uncontrollably whizzed around the emptiness, remembering how he started, as the new upcoming, ‘Cock o' the North’ … then speedily propelled, through the ranks, into heavy despicable deeds, onward to the real McCall, the top of his chosen illicit profession, and the main bonus…outwardly clean. This involuntary guilt trip, triggered horrendous flashbacks, forcing his anxious recalls.

Though now grappling with his inner anxiety, the intruder reached cautiously into his jerkin pocket, brought out a nifty wee torch, switched on the illumines blue beam, moving vigilantly into the scullery. Here, he slowly poured out measured amounts of petrol, and bottles of alcohol, all around the pantry, especially around the filthy old cooker, particularly around gas pipes at the back. Lingering was an eerie sensation of someone watching his every move, which he could not shake.

The villain knelt down, made the necessary preparations for the vital Semtex, as he was instructed by a bent expert. Without warning, out of the darkness… was a clatter, or something moving, coming from the bathroom. He froze for a second, not immune to fear again…then bucked up the spunk for drastic action.

Smuggled from the States, a Colt M1911 .45 ACP in his right hand, torch in the other, like a cautious panther, slivers into the bathroom, but sticking closely to the wall, and the door…just in case. His cold steel eyes scurried around, until, on the opposite wall, they visionally transfixed on a cracked bathroom round shaving mirror, warping unfocused reflexions.

Not seen at the correct angle, the magnified mirror distorted images, but…he saw, also distinctly heard, someone he forgotten a long time ago. Shaking overpoweringly, the thug’s mire memory, flooded back to 53 years ago, his school mate Stan, in this very house, the blaggard ‘Cock o’ the north’, plundered the last 10/- note, from Stan’s mother’s purse… blaming Stan. Stan was branded a bastard of a thief, stealing from his own impoverished kin, shunted and ignored by family, but especially by his mother, who unrelentingly refused to forgive her son.

The poor woman died, and Stan swore on her bible, with the pain of blood, vengeance and retribution, on the true culprit. Stan was left the house.

Unable to move his head, transfixed on the distorted mirror, now seeing a shadow coming out of the wall, implanted terror, overloading the racketeer twisted brain, now turning into an instant imbecile, erratically talking gibberish, crying like a bairn…pathetic…even soiled himself

What happened next, no one will ever know, except somehow the premises caught fire, then exploded, with no tangible evidence for the truth of the matter. The experts agreed, perhaps, some wine-mopper down and out, or, or just an old Weegie bampot, broke into the premises, for shelter, and somehow blew the rusty gas mains, while pissed out of their mind.

The syndicate dropped their doubtful bid, somewhat due to the disappearance of the main bidder. One last thing…the owner of the abode died many years back
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