As I’ve written some pretty joyless stuff this week I intend attempting to inject some humour into today’s offering. Although being currently bereft of a topic, start, middle and end, as yet I’m unsure in what way that whimsy will manifest itself.

I’m determined, though, to redeem myself for prose that in the last few days has trebled Samaritans call volumes. Not to mention led to staff at Harry’s Noose Emporium in Cleckheaton having to work around the clock fulfilling customer orders.

Of course, my promise of a narrative containing whimsical quips could potentially be setting me up for a fall. Even if I can think of light hearted banter, what I find amusing may not tickle some/all of my reader’s chuckle bones (as late comedian Ken Dodd use to call them).

Alternatively, a creative epiphany from deep within my mind’s recesses might prove as elusive to locate as my mum’s reading glasses when I ask if she wants to read one of my blogs. Not a fan of my writing, my mum has to be dragged kicking and screaming into the domain of .

That being said, I respect her right to refuse support toward her eldest offspring’s literary aspirations. Appearing uncomfortable with her son’s ‘unorthodox’ creative dream, she finds providing unequivocal backing difficult. Without saying as much, it’s clear mater deems participation in creative art a step too far from the mainstream path for her liking.

My mater isn’t the only female Strachan who’s disinterested in my monologues. My daughter Rachel has been known on more than one occasion to respond “I’m not reading that pile of crap!” when asked if she visits Her only exception to this rule is if she gets referenced in it, fuelling her vanity and pampering her ego enough for her to relent.


Karen (my wife) used to proof read my work prior to it’s online publishing, however now steadfastly refuses to look at my art. A decision arrived at when she grew irritated by the mischievous poking of fun at her parents within a subset of my narratives. She took particular exception when I commented her incomprehensible father spoke in anagrams. When my missus informed him of this he countered she should tell me to “Cuff Kof!”

To be honest, as my wife’s spelling and grammar isn’t the best, her refusal to edit drafts hasn’t made a massive dent in the quality of the finished article. I’m appreciative of her past assistance, but it’s probably for the best I don’t engage a proof reader who indiscriminately adds the letter ‘d’ to the majority of words ending with ‘n’.

Thankfully, the Strachan males are more forthcoming with support for my penmanship. My son Jonny is a fairly regular reader and ordinarily responds positively to what he witnesses on .

Having read the majority of the 1300 blogs I’ve penned, my brother Ian is probably my most prolific reader. Apparently our kid reads them on the toilet, which I’m hoping isn’t a Freudian critique of what he’s reading….. I’m assured by him it isn’t, along with pleasing assurances that not only does he wash his hands after reading them, he also fumigates his phone!