It’s Monday morning. Seeking inspiration while perched on a dining chair in my parents dining room, I mull over what week commencing 10th July has in store for the Strachan brood.
With the octogenarian family head still stricken post-surgery, we know our itinerary will include visits to the Leeds General Infirmary (LGI). Additionally, on Friday, I’ve a scheduled 100 mile train journey; this north easterly sojourn welcome respite from the ongoing challenging circumstances being endured by my clan.
All being well, the trip will allow me time to catch up with my brother Ian and friends, along with possibly a beer or two in Newcastle. I’ve seen our Ian quite a bit recently, but not in circumstances where we’ve been able to exchange details of our current existential plights.
My brother is an unassuming, decent bloke very much in the mould of our dad. Many of the memorable moments etched on my life canvas have been in Ian’s company. He is my calming influence, knowing how to charter my occasionally less tolerant disposition into steadier waters.
Like both our parents and sister Helen, our kid tries to find the good in everyone. As much as I attempt to emulate this, I have a threshold which if breached means I ordinarily despatch the culprit(s) to a metaphorical recycle bin.
God, I feel angry today. I’m not sure why I feel this vexed, but I’m fairly sure I will not slip unnoticed from the land of histrionics. With my penchant for attention seeking, you won’t find me in the kitchen at pity parties; no way man!……… I’ll be on the dance floor adorning flashing deeley boppers and a hi-visibility jacket with the words ‘Poor old me!’ written in reflective tape.
Actually, I’m not at all a diva, I’ve added a dash of artist licence in an attempt to enhance the flavour of a thus far uninspiring literary chowder.
American writer Mark Twain popularised the saying “There are lies, damned lie and statistics.” A phrase coined to describe the persuasive powers of numerals.
A contemporary update for the saying, covering lexicology instead of numbers, could perhaps proffer “There is artistic licence, damned artistic licence and Gary Strachan’s blogs.” A cautionary message for readers to undertake care when deciding which words they embrace as truthful.
As I write this section of this narrative, it’s late afternoon. I took a break from the initial part of my monologue to go and see our poorly family head at the LGI. There appears to be a slow but noticeable change in his demeanour. A significant reduction in pain, along with improved mobility, big factors in the gradual improvement in the spirits de Mally.
Despite this encouraging progression, my old man isn’t out of the woods yet. Hopefully he’ll return from the woods shortly, though, as the surgeon wants to inspect how well last weeks handiwork is healing.
After around an hour of entertaining him with our light-hearted banter, my mum and I got the impression he wanted us to leave. Call us over-sensitive, but when he turned on his radio to drown out our voices, and put on a t-shirt reading ‘You Can Go Now!”, we got the impression we’d overstayed our welcome.
