Peering aimlessly outdoors from my mother’s dining room, I’ve just witnessed a black cat saunter arrogantly past the French doors towards wood fencing panels bordering the garden of castle Strachan senior. Strutting with a vain-glorious surety akin to how the late Queen singer Freddie Mercury owned the stage in his pomp, Sadly, unlike Frederick, the
In today’s earlier blog Order of Service I concluded the piece with a tongue in cheek reference to thoughts surrounding the future evolution possibilities of hybrid fuel cars. In particular, the unlikely fitting of a chimney to vehicles, giving the automobile’s owner further options to power their motors via petrol (or diesel), electric and coal. Writing this
I’ve just dropped my motor off at a local garage for it’s annual service. Sitting here at Costa coffees hop defiling a chaste white page with self-indulgent locutions, hopefully I’ll not receive a mid-morning phone call from a mechanic informing he’s identified an unexpected car maintenance issue. Problems such as my vehicle being afflicted by
This morning, I undertook the next step in my cardio rehab programme, enrolling on a local leisure centre’s circuits class. A session filled with mucho perspiration, intense focus of programme objectives and the realisation that wearing your undies on the outside of your tracks bottoms doesn’t necessarily impart you with superhuman powers. The latter a faux
I’ve got a followup appointment with my cardiologist tomorrow. A meeting to discuss my post-heart attack progress, results of my last ultrasound and the recipe for butter-free Butter Chicken. Apparently his signature dish which he quirkily titles ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter Chicken’. Cardiologists, the scourge of take-away restaurant owners, cheese manufacturers, pie-makers and
Yesterday, an individual who’ll remain anonymous inadvertently referred to my car’s SAT NAV system as SAD NAV. A misnomer evoking whimsical epiphanies of being guided by a GPS lady who intersperses directions of n’er before trodden routes with tales of depressive melancholy. Before proceeding, I want to make it clear that GJ Strachan finds nothing
I’m unsure which weather app my wife Karen utilises on her smart phone. I do know, though, I’d love to live under the wall to wall sunshine which, on a daily basis, it promises to West Yorkshire’s residents. Predictions which, frustratingly, this summer have proved to be the very antithesis of what Zeus has actually
Six weeks ago I disclosed, via at least one literary pastiche, that I’d joined a local community choir. A move I’d taken after witnessing the collective joy on singers faces mid-refrain, as they tunefully accompanied my Marie Curie collection on Garforth Main Street. The groups attendance part of organised entertainment arranged for the massed crowds
Simultaneous to his heartbeat, the beeps grew faster as his exertions increased. These ever quickening pings, designed to test GJ Strachan’s physical fitness, reminding him of mid-January and his four day audio accompaniment produced by the Leeds General Infirmary (LGI) cardio monitors. The start of a post-heart attack journey which didn’t end yesterday, but encouragingly
