Greggs the Goldfish

The glow of a gas fire flame ensures a comforting warmth is today’s sensory writing companion. With the inaudible presence of a Trappist monk, the serene flickers of terracotta hued flares unassumingly go about their daily business, bringing not just heat but a cathartic serenity to the soul.

Consequently my feelgood factor is akin to that experienced during my kid’s fledgling years when we purchased our goldfish we named Greggs. A memorable day in Strachan family history when my young children decided their first pet looked like a sausage roll, consequently naming him (or her)*** after a UK bakery chain.

*** – Due to a chronic lack of inquisitiveness on my part, along with the fact I was keen to avoid investigative scrutiny of a goldfish’s genitalia, we never did find out Greggs’ sex. A task I ruled out for many reasons, one of which being I was disturbed enough knowing my kid’s deemed goldfish bore aesthetic similarities to sausage rolls.

Incidentally, in the time it took me to pen the first three paragraphs of this narrative I’ve got so hot beside my mother’s fire I’ve had to move out of it’s close proximity – Consequently I’m now sitting in a slightly cooler part of the room, lowering my body heat level to a more comfortable temperature.

Sadly, the silence I enjoyed earlier is no more. My wife Karen and mum Maggie now lounge in situ, admonishing me for false promises about chores I’d allegedly volunteered to undertake on their behalf. In middle-age my memory isn’t what it was, however I’m pretty certain at no point have I recently told to my missus or mum I’d decorate their respective lounges.

Changing the topic, I’m feeling under the weather today. My breathing is heavier, the glands around my neck are swollen and I feel as weak as a kitten. The icy winds I encountered at the weekend in Dunstable, along with late nights and my erratic sleep pattern contributing to a chest infection of some sort.

That being said, I should really get to the GP’s for proper diagnosis. After all, when it comes to accurately diagnosing medical ailments, experience gained from repeatedly watching ‘Carry On Matron’ and ‘Carry On Doctor’ is no substitute for six years studying medicine.

As I commence this paragraph, I’m back in my modest east Leeds residence. Outside a sky with a foreboding dark granite hue sky lethargically bestows the West Yorkshire populous with a half-hearted drizzle.

A meteorological version of an ex-Smiths frontman Morrissey refrain. It’s overall contribution to the artistic synergy of a situation unquestionable, however not something you’d intentionally subject yourself to if you want to lighten a low mood.

To allow me to concentrate on completing this prose, my wife has thoughtful gone upstairs to watch ‘Escape to the Country’ on TV. The daytime TV show that does exactly what it says on the tin, ie attempting to find a suitable new residence for couples keen on relocating ‘out in the sticks’…… It’s a bloody shame earlier her and Maggie hadn’t displayed similar magnanimousness! 😉

Fair does to her, though, my missus is ordinarily a very thoughtful lady. In fact if she sees I’m under the weather she’ll shouts at me with significantly less volume, along with subjecting me to less severe donkey bites.

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