A Date Night To Avoid

Bereft of a blog topic, I’m currently sitting habitually picking at a scar induced gap in beard. My eyes drawn towards three large Easter eggs staring enticingly back at me from the living room window sill.

The confectionery thankfully not as brazen as the date boxes from my childhood which bore the words ‘Eat Me’. If it was then I’d not need asking twice before devouring them. Unlike the boxes of dates which my dad purchased every Christmas, whose unpleasant taste meant there was very little chance of me pilfering them.

If you’ve never eaten them, trust me when I advocate that spending an evening consuming the fruits of the phoenix dactylifera is one ‘date night’ you really should avoid.


Anyhow, I digress, back to GJ Strachan’s unbroken leering at the chocolate oeufs on his lounge window sills. An act undertaken out of longing, not some half witted hope it’ll connect via ESP to suggest “Why don’t you write about the Large Hadron Collider, Gary?”, or “Your thoughts on Brexit might be interesting!” Well-meaning advice to stoke into life epiphanies within my neurological corridors.

In some ways I’m relieved that Easter eggs don’t possess the capacity to connect via ESP, especially if they came up with suggestions like those above. After all, I know chuff all about the Large Hadron Collider and my thoughts on Brexit aren’t that interesting; they’re more just a random collection of expletives!…… Actually, thinking about it, some people might appreciate my ranting diatribes about the UK’s rudderless departure from the European Union. However, I’ll save that for another day.

I believe the three chocolate Easter eggs in my eye line are gifts from my wife Karen to my son Jonny, his fiancee Jenny, along with our daughter Rachel who returns to the UK in three weeks time following her two year working trip to Canada. Subsequently, I best not devour them regardless of the significant temptation being hurled in my direction…… Get behind me, Satan!

Akin to a space shuttle take-off, the Strachan family are counting down the seconds until the prodigal daughter returns. Awaiting with bated breath the stories of her escapades in the land of the maple leaf, and to find out if she’s gonna pay back the money for her phone bill. A cost I’ve bleeding covered for the last twenty four months!

From a personal point of view, I’ve missed the verbal jousting with my youngest offspring (Rachel). Her absence hamstringing my self-indulgent and fulfilling antagonisation of the twenty-something Leeds lass.

Rach a much worthier opponent in the debating chamber than her mother, whose acquiescence in the face of discord rob me of opportunities to indulge in frequent feisty verbal exchanges. For two years, casa Strachan bereft of an audience for decadent jibes at my wife Karen’s expense, rendering my playful teasing of my spouse as a bit pointless.

Anyhow, just twenty one more sleeps until we welcome Rachel home. Just three more weeks before I can light the blue touch paper to ignite our first heated argument for two years, A confrontation sparked when, as she first walks through the front door, I gluttonously devour her Easter egg in front of her!


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