9th January 2019 – Sitting in his dining room armchair enigmatically writing in the third person, an uncharacteristic serenity envelopes GJ Strachan. An emotion that’s been on a lengthy hiatus from his home during recent family events.

Adorning a retro Leeds RLFC shirt and a lurid pair of checked pyjama bottoms even Rupert the bear would turn his nose up at, the bespectacled northern Englishman’s mind searches frantically for today’s blog topic.

These epiphanies being sought by overworked neurological receptors in an oft racing mind. Cranial pulses that trawl the conservatively lit avenues and alleyways of the author’s brain in search of a light bulb moment. Receptors committed to unearthing a notion with enough potential for him to create a written piece of a minimum 500 words.

As he awaits the retrieval of an idea, Strachan’s eye catches sight of his cobalt blue rugby shirt with distinctive three gold hoops reflecting on the chaste white page of the laptop screen. The MS Word application seeming to taunt him with “Get a move on, Gary! You’ve gotta get to your mums for midday……. Just write down any old sh**e like you normally do.”

The middle-aged man, though, won’t be rushed by his imagined cutting gibes of a Microsoft built word processing application. Consequently, with laptop precariously balanced on chair arm, he reclines in his red Marks & Spencer chenille armchair, absorbing the surrounding calm.

The West Yorkshire based author, who’s never played the board game boggle, randomly eyeballs the bookcase to his immediate left. A shelved unit storing his varied vinyl record collection and equally eclectic selection of books.

These tomes include genres such as autobiographies of sporting greats, historical journals, literary classics and a hardback publication titled ‘A Sh**e History of Nearly Everything’. The latter a parody gift from a late uncle, which does what it says on the tin.

Incorporated within the selection of written chronicles are twenty eight hardback/paper-back literary offerings whose bind advertises him as their author.

His own work that has taken over 5,000 man hours of hard work to produce. Pieces that include some sterling contributions from the aforementioned neurological receptors. These books his metaphorical children who, although loved less by GJS than his non-metaphorical offspring, are far less high maintenance…… Post creation anyway!

These tomes the legacies he wishes to bequeath to his offspring and, if they aren’t used for barbeque fuel prior to that, as yet unborn future generations.

Daily blogs he hopes will attract positive reviews from grandchildren, such as “Blimey, grandad Gary was a creative man!” As opposed to less glowing observations like “Blimey, grandad Gary was barking mad!….. How the hell was he never sectioned?!”

Regardless of the way future ancestors view his literary odyssey in print, GJ Strachan lives in hope his written legacy at least gives them an insight into his life journey during the late 20th/early 21st centuries.

He openly admits to times of poor decision making and misguided actions
Mistakes and subsequent self-admonishment triggering guilt trips of ridiculously overblown proportions. Strachan foolishly giving them unwarranted houseroom among the same neurological corridors where he currently seeks literary inspiration.

Still armchair in situ, a deeply unfulfilled but not necessarily unhappy man, his eyes remain affixed to contents of the packed walnut bookcase on his port side.

As he’s soon due to chauffeur his mother for her weekly comestible shop and still minus of subject epiphany, the blogger/diarist has resigned himself to being bereft of narrative topic today.

Regardless, though, this doesn’t disturb the serenity enveloping him. After all, how can he admonish ordinarily productive neurological receptors. The producers of 100,000’s words in the self-published books at which he gazes.

Consequently, there’ll be no daily blog from the UK writer today……. Hold on a minute, though!