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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 1st Jul 2019, 11:33am
Post #646

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My Chronicles 1/06/2019


MISSING TONI;



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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for being with me Toni.
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peter.howden
post 4th Jul 2019, 09:30am
Post #647

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THE PUPPET WHO COULD NOT TALK;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Puppet had no way of knowing… he had landed on a builder’s skip.
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peter.howden
post 7th Jul 2019, 08:06pm
Post #648

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THE PUPPET WHO COULD NOT TALK;(2)


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

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

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

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

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

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

He proceeded to place a mirror in front of the puppet… revelling all?
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peter.howden
post 10th Jul 2019, 03:21pm
Post #649

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THE PUPPET WHO COULD NOT TALK;(3)…


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The deal was set with a handshake…and to this date…as far as I’m aware…kept faithfully by the petite lassie
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peter.howden
post 16th Jul 2019, 10:05am
Post #650

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My Chronicles 16/07/2019


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was the offender, who had been nibbling at the few strawberries, I was attempting to nourish…hay ho…always next year I hope…Its surprising what a little sunshine can do
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peter.howden
post Y'day, 06:59pm
Post #651

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Clash of miniature Titans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The train hurried itself towards civilization, which can only be found in the dear green place of Glasgow…with one thought took precedence over all else…how will I knobble him next time around?
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