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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 28th Mar 2020, 07:27am
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My Chronicles,28/03/2020

Selfish

This vital nationwide lockdown gives me the opportunity for intimate reflections, how ‘She who must be obeyed’, is a clear winner within my life. For 53 years we have been lucky to have a private learning curve… being in love, but far more important, cared for each other while reworking thru jaggy situations in our relationship. Almost all my life has been a ball, described in dictionaries; ‘Joy’, a vivid emotion of pleasure, or as wee Jimmy of the Krankies shouts, “pure dead brilliant”. It doesn’t take much to realize how magical it is still. Countless people helping in one way or another, especially Family, close friends and China’s. The goal posts have changed quite a few times, but I can still see the route… without squinting.

I need a certain level of boredom, even doubtfulness to gain the simplicity of pleasure. But for total rapture, bursting at the seams is music, dispersing all desolation waves, so even the most misery of all emotions cannot help but notice and vanish. With eyes closed, single minded clasping around the tempo, until I’m literally living the part of the composition itself…pure dead brilliant.

Via vibrating earphones, classical music is my concealed drug … just for me. The super tones connect with the inner ear, pulsating right out the socket for all their worth. When the tenor (personally, Mario Lanza) reach the almost ultimate crescendo in “Student Prince”, or more “ La Donna e Mobile”; though I have not a clue what he is actually singing, my whole body is emotionally tense, while my voice roughly harmonizing with the last vocal gesture. One magnificent harmonious rendition the ‘flower Duet’, from ‘Lakmé’, release’s an aftermath plus, floating on a different plateau. Another marvel for individual attention; “The Hebrew Slaves”; just sublime

Joe Cocker with “Delta Lady” accompanied by “The Letter”, almost anything of the early Stones, directs me into a paradise which is seldom shared with anyone. Wearing a huge set of headsets, attempting to follow the electrifying native throb is way out… something else. If ambrosia is the food for the Gods, then music must be the pulse? Listen to Ray Charles, blues or country, is just astounding. For me, it matters not the chic tune, or instruments playing, I’m willing to be transported to a music prism heaven… or simply go with flow.

I have no wish to peep into tomorrow, knowing what may happen with unsubtle hints, for it would spoil the surprise, good or bad, which keeps us truly alive. The blues melodies are right, for around every corner, are glimpses of slightly tedious moments are bound to become pointless, yet worth every agonizing moment. Remember each day, the world is a wonder, and a truly rewarding paramour.
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peter.howden
post 30th Mar 2020, 02:34pm
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PARIS AGAIN;(old Story, in two parts )

Flying into Beauvais, France was for me, stepping directly on the scene between Paris and Orleans. My Scottish soles felt Musketeer ground, along with the Auld alliance. If I have ever read ‘Alexandre Dumas’ words, the three musketeers, Athos; Porthos; Aramis and of course; D'Artagnan, for me, somehow these tales represent Paris, even today’s…Vie la France. Paris itself, pulled my eyes out of their sockets, trying desperately to observe all around on the left bank. Uncontrollable imagination whispered, ‘all for one and one for all’, as my mind visualizing duelling in the park, in the lower parts of the amazing city.

Parisians, we noticed obvious hold immense pride in public buildings, cherishing what they stood for, belonging once to royalty and nobility. A hint of haughtiness from the folk utilizing them now. It is hard to go anywhere in the French capital, without its origins coming from regal background… or Napoleon, which to most Parisians seems to be the same thing. The greeting "Bonsoir", is essential with meeting anyone ,whether in a café, or shop, or asking for anything. also, polite Paree social decorum

While Rebecca and I were staying in Toni/Fergus apartment, roughly four blocks from famous landmark, Sacre-Caur, hallowed rain fell only twice through the night. The water from the heavens, if not so blue, encourages the masonry used on the building to weep, temporary bleaches the stone to produce whiter than white. Quite good for a chapel overlooking most of the capital, which in turn produces stairs, and hills up and down. The Artisan boulangerie where I bought the breakfast "baguette" each morning ,was just around the corner… though up 112 very steep steps upward to reach it.

The first time attempting the flight of stairs proved a significant struggle to complete, having to halt quite a few times before reaching breathless at the summit. Entering the establishment, I was lucky to “bonsoir”, then pointing in the correct area, using single one finger. The following early morning, the ascent took less stops but still breathing in gulps and gasps. So much so, I went into the shop, used hand signals, in case they mistook me for a dirty old man, practicing my telephone obscenities. From then on, each time I arrived in the shop, juggling my understanding of verbal French, after “bonsoir’, both my asking and my climbing had improved, though needing my full concentration, along with luck. Most times either breathless or forgotten the words… I’d point.

My last day, felt confident, enough to be able to totally outstrip any previous performance. From bottom to top of the stairs in one near effortlessly ascent, then sauntered into the shop, and in one, almost flowery flow to the end , asked; “Bonjour, madame, s'il vous plaît puis-je avoir une Baguette, merci beaucoup ?"

The lady and the gentleman worker of the shop clapped…then smiled profusely
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peter.howden
post 31st Mar 2020, 06:39pm
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The tales of Hector and ‘The Bruce’

THE THREESOME


To some readers, this tale might classify as racy, or an old fashioned “X” certificate, so please either read it with your eyes closed, or forgets the contents straight after finishing browsing the loose scribble. Thank you.

Hector and his wife had been married four years, however, for the duration of the last two-year period, managed to be blessed with 3 children. First and last new-born landing in the exact same birthdate two years apart, with one infant in the middle. They certainly enjoyed the repetition of intimacy delights the basics involvement produced, yet felt worried enough, they had to do something to stop the recurrence of children. They talked, and talked, of ways to prevent the inevitable end result of mother nature. The coil, the newfound pill, a vasectomy.

Hector having heard people taking about the old days, when after the torturous ordeal of a haircut, asked by the kindly barber, “Anything for the weekend, Sir!”. The couple held no catholic faith, or indeed any religious persuasion, finally agreed for a trial period only, condoms. Best known French letters at the time, Durex, came in packets of three(double pun). Taking on board, the fact Hector had never laid hands, or used such samples; it is not really surprising he looked for instruction...none where found

His first stab so to speak, failed miserably and frustratingly fumbled around with unskilled hands, attempting to place the apparatus on the subject, at the right time. In Hector’s haste to remove the wrapping, his thumb nails tore the protector. The second time he pre unwrapped the article and left it handy ready at arm’s reach. Now sweating profusely, in total impositions to assign to the proper quarter, he failed to consider of the size of the project, as feelings were completely aroused. Hector failed again.

This last of the valuable three, he noticed the old chair in the room had curved wooded arm rests. In blind faith, placed the plastic shield over one of the arms, ready with quick reflexes needed to succeed this endeavour. Sensing everything was in place, the condition arose again, he quickly darted to secure on his person, but this time, to his amazement, the now flabby condom stretched to such a degree, it was no longer suitable for its purpose, finding it exceedingly too big for his needs. He sobbed.

His now impatient wife, just looked at him… squarely in the eyes, hollered unsympathetically … “you might as well bloody toss it out the window!”

Caution…They should put four in the packet, for practise reasons alone.
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peter.howden
post 3rd Apr 2020, 07:26am
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PARIS AGAIN;(old Story, Second Part)

It was hinted how Parisians could be sair put oot nippy sweets, if you did not communicate in French correctly. However, I believe it goes a long way giving a polite ‘Bonjour’ and ‘Merci’, even when stumbling around the language. A Parisian monsieur, stopped to ask if assistance was needed, merely because we were standing, awkwardly holding a map of Paris, probably giving the impression of being lost. When he realized we were Scottish, we were not only shown the way, but personally taken to our chosen destination, a hidden gem of a flea market, …the Auld Alliance…pure dead brilliant.

Paris, as all major megalopolises around the world, along with the rich, the plight of the poor, often next door, frequently not noticed at first glance. Among the French ‘gentlemen of the road’, a class system of its own exists around the outskirts and lower metro lines they do become obvious. The Metro follows most major Boulevards and Rues, blasting hot air vents positioned evenly around the Rue islands, A roaming Monsieur set up a permanent tent on one such island. Outside his canvas abode was two chairs, for visitors apparently. Each time we passed, a different group were poised, either sitting or standing drinking the local wine, totally oblivious to any mayhem around. All types of buskers playing a variety of melodies, throughout central traditional metro lines, warm music vibrations wafting ambiance through exits into the Parisian air.

French driving is scary on good days, terrifying when normal, especially coming to a massive climax at the "Arc De Triomphe". From the top of this colossus, witnessing near misses as cars kissed, by whacking other cars with their bumpers. It appears to be not an option… but mandate. Piloting through this mayhem was praying for a miracle…but this wasn’t Lourdes.

My major regret happened along the from the "Moulin Rouge", where un red light district meets tourist coming down from "Sacre-Coeur". Loads of trinkets shops mixed in with lap dancing, nude performances establishments and the like, hawking homemade champagne. ‘She who must be obeyed’, saunter’s into one souvenir shop in between such clubs, spent a long time scouring for a bargain while I stood outside having a smoke. I observed young show ladies, with free entrance tickets, trying desperately to entice blokes into the premises for expensive drink if not bubbly.

They asked everyone on that part of the Boulevard, with a tenacity of a dog worrying a bone. The scantily dressed ladies held loads of giveaway pamphlets, advertising ridiculous reduced prices for the first flagon. Persistently soliciting anything in trousers, even invited a guy in a wheelchair, but… not one of them felt I was the right calibre to approach or bother asking….I' lost my sex appeal in Paris…if I ever had any?
-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 4th Apr 2020, 11:03am
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The Message

The purpose of this objectionable communication will become plain and obvious, even to dimwits dunderheeds as yourselves. This message is to substantiate how my family can possibly deal with this wholly unwarranted mortification, which created everlasting shame embedded at our doorstep. The justification is unclear as to why, or indeed how naively one of our kith and kin could have been persuaded, or drugged, to run away somewhere secretive, with a close member of your pariah clan

Being upstanding pillars of the community within this neighbourhood, , I’m compelled to tell you, it came as a blow, as to how low Bert would stoop, acting in such a uncharacteristic fashion. He had just become a member of the dancing club, run in the youth centre, which held events such as, Country dancing, the Gay Gordens, and, as the French may say, the "plat de résistance” Line Dancing’. Regrettably, this creates an outside chance of competing in the radio programme, ‘Ballroom’. This will unfortunately lead into dark depravity of associating with someone outside his class. Now isn’t that something unwarranted

We are not saying our Bert is completely innocent, though being rather shy, he is after all, just a man…with male needs. but laying the table with cutlery, our concerns are, is undoubtedly not what your misnamed Angelina reveals to the world. She is certainly no angel, no doubt about that!... known locally as ‘slack Alice’! It’s not the first lad she has set her cap on, with her provocative attire and her boudoir fragrance as erotic bait, enticing unexpected males into her carnal trap… I’m just wondering if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?
….
I am not a primsie by nature, however, the humiliation of this situation, which we can’t grasp, or fathom why or how it manifested itself. We must be brave by taking the true responsibility together, but believe me…with no insult intended, I’m certain… your…Hackit Bauchie, skerry-handit…spurtle-leggit… erse like a bag o' washin’, besom’s behaviour, must take the brunt of guilt, since she is a good deal older than inexpert Bert.

I will close to ask for some information as to the birthdate of your Alice…it will be for their record, when we visit the Police station. For your information…Bert was born on 01/04/1925
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peter.howden
post 7th Apr 2020, 10:49am
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My Chronicles 07/04//2020;

Aunt Becky is still the same, though unfortunately a little more weight loss reported, by the hard-working staff, employed in the Dementia home, endeavouring to secure safe passage through this worldwide tragedy. All we can do is keep our fingers crossed they achieve their shaky goal. Dom is still in Victoria hospital, in and out consciousness. As all public in general, Janet is not allowed to visit her hubby, but managed to gain some necessary rest bite, from being totally worn out.

The people, who strive to keep the whole of National Health web functioning, so it can, protecting patients as best they can, deserve the highest praise the entire population can give. Also, the unsung hidden supporters of near normal life, such as Bus drivers, postmen, binmen and midden men, and those way beyond our ken…Well done …is all I have.

‘She who must be obeyed’, and I are more fortunate than some, having |Nikki and Chris, shopping and delivering our essentials to our door. We do manage to talk a little ,but always many yards away, keeping to the country’s vital instructions, for the sharp invisible virus claws, spread on physical contact. In this age the telephone, computer and the internet are one heck of a boon, though I do not quite grasp how it all works…blows my mind. On Saturdays now , the contact method is via the web, which allows visual contact with three family homes …but it is a strange connection, because underneath, a worry current run.

I personally miss them all around the old wooden kitchen table, where personalities flourish spontaneously and the odd touch and contact, freely given. Having a garden is another benefit, allowing we two to have tea and toast each day, sitting on cushions on Aunt Becky’s garden bench, good as new. Over the last 20 years, painting it nature’s green each couple of years, plus having replaced all of the wooden slats, just three times.

How long will this lockdown be…no one knows… but, it will end. Meanwhile, although sometimes the darkest of the virus creeps into our minds, we can manage to close that unwanted chapter… by being comfortable and happy to be together

Take careful steps

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peter.howden
post 8th Apr 2020, 11:27am
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Dear Diary, date unknown

One dark night, just before the lockdown came into voluntary effect, I dreamt of having a senior moment, by forgetting to close my front door, being arrested for flashing, however, the case was dismissed due to lack of physical hard evidence. Awakening from this strange scenario, wondering if it had been manufactured from some trash, glanced at before dropping off asleep . Perhaps my brain borrowed from hidden depths of inner compassion, battling to learn my true level of serious knowledge. There and then, I arose to look for something simple to read, alas, no noteworthy suitable fiction material could be found.

The following morning deliberately visited the up to date college in Easterhouse, which houses a grand library inside, called ‘The Bridge’. Entering the teaching building was awesome, giving me hope to Improve my literature status. The written word is the best way to lose yourself into another world. Yet at that moment , having wonderful childhood joyful memories of browsing through various ‘Classic Comics’, surface my simple mind.

I began to search for deeper philosophy by offerings from Amalgamated publishers, by writer John McCaill, or some religious guidance by ‘Anvil Parish periodicals ‘author Marcus Morris to no avail. Changing course to lighter works called ‘Kartzman’ for Alfred E Neuman, or Belgian cartoonist Georges Remi’s “ Adventures of Tintin”, however once again no luck . No Triumph, or Eagle comics with Britain’s interpretation of Superman, ‘Dan Dare’, pilot of the future. No crazy ‘Mad’ magazines to be seen… no dust collected where they should be . No ‘Puck’, no ‘Judge’ or high-class witty cartoon stories to ease the psyche.

Moving my way into the children’s department, for such as ‘Dandy’ ‘Beano’ ‘Rover’ ‘Wizard’ ‘Hotspur’ ‘Skipper’. These renditions of words and art, parents often poured cold waters over, including The Broons and Oor Wullie’. There was ‘Charlton and the Wheelies’, along with ‘Thomas the tank engine’. I would have taken them out on loan, not caring about leaving the children’s section , on the other hand…I had read those deep books… just a couple of weeks ago .

I exited the building housing ‘The Bridge’ knowing less, if that’s possible, than when I entered their automatic doors… But It’s really lucky I’m cultured…with a dash of class !
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peter.howden
post 11th Apr 2020, 12:35am
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Hypocrisy
If you enter our town in any direction, an instant numbness catches the breath while taking steps further into the circle, which represents the centre of this community. It becomes obvious something terribly odd about the house on the right, unable to be hidden, having bright yellow front door and red painted windows, situated in the middle of a quiet row just at the far end. It had been the scene of appalling madness of any society, beyond a man-made hell.

Not so long ago, wishing to live entwined behind their decorated buttery door, two young people, who fell deeply in love, set up home together. However, the supposed pious neighbourhood were horrified at any such behaviour and just could not let it be. The young blameless couple’s cardinal sin was, to openly treasure the forbidden passion…of the love we dare not speak its name. in addition, being born of mixed race and religion.

Almost without warning, groups of protesting cliques stood at the doorway of the home, jeeringly chanting religious verses, cursing the frightened couple. In such a short space of time, the factions formed an ugly hypocritical mob, set on destroying any trace of this abomination. With half-hearted motions, the police department of the town managed to hold the hordes back. The law enforcement superintendents, together with the council, feared this situation was becoming uncontrollable, called for the reputed pillars of the communities’ spiritual organizations, to deal with this now unholy affair

They came from separate pews, with feeble attempts trying to appease the now hostile throng. Each faith in turn, quoted chosen verses from their Bible; Koran; Torah; Tripitaka and ‘Guru Granth Sahib’, to no avail. The incensed rabble, all possessed hypothetical ears and outraged minds, staging this cohabiting was against man’s divinity laws.

What happened during that appalling night, became apparent once daylight broke, the utter shame befell on the authors these atrocious actions. No honest human being alive would dare tell…for it would remain a personal infamy amongst those who acted in mob rule. An infinite stain of the city’s history.

Will it happen again, here or somewhere else? I personally have no reason, or justification to ask… as I’m an atheist, minus faith in any deity, but…I threw the first stone…
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peter.howden
post 12th Apr 2020, 02:25pm
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Up North Twang

Every city, town and village within the British Isles, may speak a form of English, as ordered several centuries ago, but, not in the same vernacular, or indeed what is termed as proper Queen’s English. Thank god! Who wants to speak with a load of toffy Jorries, wobbling around the mouth, as if someone made up the speech a few hours earlier? Speaking, but more important listening, should be a relaxing pleasurable affair while giving or gaining information… or just passing the time of day.

In years gone by, Scotland, particularly the Highlands, and the Western Isles, held the unique reputation of pronouncing words of English precisely and clearly, though now it may be different. Having travelled up to Dundee and Aberdeen, my experience was cocking an ear more, intently listening to what a Dundonian may be saying. Heeding to peoples born and breed in Aberdeen, this tactic proved practically impossible, if not invalid. What a transformation in oration that 66 miles makes… Not route 66 which the Stones sing

If asking the way to ‘Union St’, they smile broadly, proceed with ‘Doric’ dialect which they guttural express in great haste, losing peculiar vowels coughing and spluttering, causing confusion for five odd minutes. , Then you suddenly realize…it was directions all the time they were trying to convey.
Weird words such as ‘Rummlieguts’ Clart; Thrawn Fa's, or ‘Bydand’ which means ‘Steadfast’ the proud motto for the ‘Gordon Highlanders’, or is it the Gay Gordon’s. I do recognize, ‘Deoch an Dorus’, having enjoyed Aberdonian company with a dram or two. Strangely, powers of understanding the local tongue grows easier the more alcohol I consumed. In one of the many local taverns, the subject of frugal Aberdonians carefulness with money, sneaked into the conversation.

The following tale was related.
A lowlander came to Aberdeen, setting up a grocer’s shop across the road from a local general store already there. The near Sassenach brought out the traditional blackboard, wrote with chalk, ‘Sugar 2/- a bag’. Seeing this, the Aberdonian put out his blackboard, writing in chalk ‘Sugar 1/-11d a bag. This spurred the new arrival to wipe his board clean, then scribble in chalk, ‘Sugar 1/-9d a bag’ Each time the stranger placed his new reduced price, the Aberdonian slightly lowered his further. This procedure carried on until later on in the day, when eventually the stranger marked up in big letters , in chalk; ‘ Free Sugar’.

With a smirk on his lips, wandered across the road to boast …you can’t beat that? The Aberdonian in a cool droll saying “Ken Telt nay …Aye dinna roup sucarr’ Start a'thing ower again, gin I was God” …translate….Don’t you know… don’t sell sugar… Start everything over again, if I were God !”

My small miracle… understanding the joke…told in Aberdonian patois …hope I spelt it correctly
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peter.howden
post 13th Apr 2020, 11:31am
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A dilemma

We are a mystery to ourselves and mysterious to others, however, I may be slightly older, recalling many more things than when younger…but it does not make me wiser! One thing is cryptic, the group calling me ‘Walter? I don’t know why, except their old and flighty in hating the smell of mothballs…but who knows what I hold to my bosom, who can tell, but hopefully, change will come through development. Up to now, I’m visibly unique, an outsider, sticking out from any crowd like a sore thumb…because I’m bloody white. One and all else around my comrades are of dark persuasion.

When any danger threatens, nervous whims overcome the neighbourhood , making certainly as day and night, I’ll be pressed away from the group, treated as a hazard, and they will bugger off. it is f---ing inevitable they will not come to my aid, bloody left as an averse martyr to whom, or what is above the skies. Is it too much asking to be like everyone else, live my life, grow older pecking out a meagre living where allowed? Being different is a bloody awful burden.

How I would love to fly off somewhere, anywhere out from here, maybe visit some relatives who stay in sunny climates, take it easy but if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. It is rumoured that I, and my cousins, represent peace, love and honour . The reality is I’m stuck here, my fate will fly away with the wind…all because being born as an Albino pigeon
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peter.howden
post 14th Apr 2020, 10:39am
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Dear Sir or Madam…to whom it may concern…please restrain from the urge to visit our home…even well after the ‘All Clear’ has at last been announced. It is not out of disrespect, or our fear of the naughty virus….but the use, or abuse of our treasured toilet paper.
Please bare this in mind
Yours truly
A Well-wisher
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peter.howden
post 15th Apr 2020, 12:40pm
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The black cat

In a spiritual town holding a catholic ‘All Saints Day’ mass, a group of young people aimlessly loitering at the rear end of this main chapel, smoking naughty cigarettes. Drifting mentally until they spotted an exquisite black cat, majestically strolling around the holy statues. What was obviously striking about the panther like creature, it’s dark shiny perfectly groomed short fur, so smoothly delicious it could be mistaken for silk. Stealthily winding within the inner grounds, a supernatural spirit shone through her coat at the slightest twitch, or direction the cat sashayed. Her large pupils mirrored deep green eyes, while her stiff whiskers suggested military obedience as a successful predator.

The white-cassock robed youngsters were members of the chapel choir, caretakers of the consecrated relics during the service. One innocent lad stared and pointed while calling to his peers; ‘Look… Cats hold luck’. Chomping over a very unchristian couple of words, the biggest of the boys, a tormenting bully, deliberately flicked his red-hot burning cigarette right at the cat’s jet-black pelt, brutally scorched the flawless coat, cause severe pain for the unfortunate beast. Her feral eyes flashed with fury as her ear-piercing squeals of agony, borne like the plague, silenced only by the deafening organ music coming from the chapel. The cruel sneering boy, just laughed before he entered the holy place to prepare for his religious obligation

The dutiful service followed its strict code of practice, performed and conducted by the visiting bishop, wearing Dalmatic garment. From the chasuble alter, the priest reading from the Roman Missal in celebration of the Eucharist. Meanwhile, due to the pious conformity from the awaiting congregation, no one noticed the black cat, prowling furtively towards the sacred tabernacle area of the all-embracing Church. As a savage hunter, she used the pews shadowing her existence of purpose, stalking a particular prey. The only detection was the distasteful lingering odour of wet singed fur.

The tormenter was the main solo singer, stationed just under the Sanctuary lamp, awaiting his celebrity appearance and recital. It was justly noted, he possessed the voice of an angel, destined to be a professional chanter in later life. Each other adolescent was prepared for the holy order, with Chalice paten and Purificator. The dark cat crept accurately closer to the stone alter, in a premeditated hunt.

The young boy stood up to sing directly under the ‘Tabernacle Lamp’, appearing ever inch angelic in his white cassock robe, when, out of nowhere… leapt the frenzied cat, knocking the oil full lamp from its safety on the stone wall. It unceremoniously fell from its insecure holding, the contents of inflammable oils spilled unrehearsed onto the boy’s head. It splattered across and through his bright white robe, instantly igniting into uncontrollable flames throughout the petrified boy’s attire.

There followed uncontrollable screaming bedlam, echoes of excruciating pain, screeching within the old walls of the medieval chapel, shaking its very foundations. The cat sat sedately quiet… watching the mayhem her actions had created, while she licked her coat of jet black. The alert priest had the presence of mind to rap the petrified lad in blankets to stifle the flames, saving the lad from first degree burns all over his body.

The boy will never sing another note due to the injuries to his vocal cords, enduring almost becoming a horrific human torch…and the cat…. never seen again after it casually strolled out of the chapel…
Cats can bring luck….but what kind?
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peter.howden
post 18th Apr 2020, 10:30am
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My Chronicles 18/04//2020;

Late yesterday afternoon, our daughter in law, Kirsti, tripped over a pavement, breaking her wrist. Kirsti was taken to Stobhill, whose medical staff reckoned it was rather problematic, but sent home. This morning Chris phoned from Victoria Hospital, where X rays will determine how complicated Kirsti’s situation is, to be able for an operation sometime today. We will be Informing Fergus when he phone’s this afternoon. Rebecca and I will have fingers tightly crossed that all will go well in the operation.

Aunt Becky is settled in the home, where the carers are working tirelessly to keep the residents safe from the immediate danger of the Corona virus…they have our deepest gratitude…these unsung heroes. Dom is in the Victoria infirmary, still lapsing in and out of consciousness, while poor wee Janet worries at home. Fortunately, or sadly unfortunately… time will tell its tale for both of them

‘She who must be obeyed’, rescued a rainy beetle scuttering along the floor, which becomes larger each time related on the phone to her friends. In great detail, the female hunter describes her movements of using tissues to corner the beast, then more to secure it. Finally, loads of more tissues, wrapping around and around, then carefully placing the probably confused beetle in the garden. Proud of taking personal care of nature, yet, one thing bugs me…does ‘She who must be obeyed’ think I’m made of toilet paper?

I’m unsure if its age, or this lockdown is causing advancing forgetfulness, also acting with ludicrous behaviour. Mislaying things is becoming normal, like putting my wallet somewhere …but have not one idea where it could be. Trying hard to place things regularly in the same location, but somehow, I still am baffled where the hell it is. As for craziness, after removing my underwear, used the utensil in the smallest room, Toilet flushed, cloths in washing, and hands appropriately washed. 10 minutes later while gathering all garments from the laundry container, for the washing machine, no sign of undergarment in the basket.

For some reason I looked in the loo toilet …and there were my now wet underpants
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peter.howden
post 19th Apr 2020, 06:26pm
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My Chronicles 19/04//2020; Update

The terrific news is, Kirsti is back home, safe and well, still marginally groggy from an obvious ordeal having 6 pins and a plate implanted within her fractured wrist. as far as the couple are concerned., being home is ‘what the doctor ordered’. The whole family but mostly Chris, has high hopes Kirsti will heal well. Always having a warm personality, and a smile to catch a star, it will do the cockles good, just to see her, gleaming and beaming again .

Due to the circumstances placed on us via the lockdown, foods and goods are carefully and precisely used, as there is concern, they will be difficult to have again. A small note of personal success, I’ve been acting canny while eeking out a soap pad, now over five days, and still going. As for the naughty virus, If only we would learn from history and change direction to a fairer system…and not return to the rich will survive with scratches, while the poor will pay the ultimate price .

I know so little about the state of affairs within our government, never mind the world. What’s obvious is mistakes have been made by our legislators, however, more concerning allegations of wrong equipment delivered, to all working at the over-driven hospitals around Britain. Care homes been given ill-advised varied instruction, leading to tragedies which with care could have been avoided. Luck has been with me, having a china, who has a mass of experience in political behaviour , plus a degree in economics and universal monetary awareness, which keeps me posted…and thinking, sharp claws of expectations are needed.

The world must unite, working to the edge, to beat this calamity threatening ever person on the planet. Parliament has told us, there will be an end, but when is uncertain and unclear. It will not be like the movies, or old television’s ‘ Perry Mason’, where… at the very last minute, Paul Drake, will make a triumphant entrance into court, holding the vital parchment, containing how to beat the virus…protecting the world.

As for the politicians ….The last important piece of paper was supposed to give the nation…’Peace in our time’
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peter.howden
post 21st Apr 2020, 11:28am
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My Chronicles 21/4/2020

I was going to write yesterday, however, , though not hell of a busy, I inevitably became delayed as just things pop up in my brain, needing attended, and if I don’t do it there and then, I forget . Things are fine and dandy, slightly drifting from day to day , keeping an eye on Rebecca’s health problems, and as for my arthritis, I take Uncle David’s philosophy, you grow accustomed to pain.

Apart from when it’s raining, lunch is always served out in the garden, very pleasant, though when the wind whistles up the glen, it can bring water to the eyes. Also, regular breaks from cores or activities helps a great deal staying focus, plus pretty well content, though losing what actual day it must be…

I have no clue if my current absent mindedness is in any way due to the lockdown, or its growing old disgracefully, except here is increasing the blanks in simple thinking and remembering, and reserve energy and personal abilities, seems to be waning. When asked even a straightforward question by ‘She who must be obeyed’, sometimes my mind is nigh blank… but I’ve not quite lost all my marbles.

Both of us can be sitting watching a film, halfway through to discover… we have seen it before. I still enjoy and love Rebecca’s company and the amazing thing is…Rebecca still feels the same about me…even though I can rabbit on a bit. Well Rebecca has not threatened mischief… yet!

For my birthday, Rebecca bought a ‘Revitive Circulation booster’, as advertised by Ian Botham, Somerset all-rounder. For some considerable time, while in bed of a night, my feet pumped heat and aching. The apparatus has a weird sensation, even in the lower settings, yet it may be doing the business…the steps in the future will reveal if it does…but one thing I do know … if it’s vital for the programme to work…I’m crap at cricket
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