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Learning My Hanson From My Manson!

With perpetual days playing out to the same old daily storyline, I’m starting to notice little indicators that life in quarantine has subliminally started to impact my behaviour.

For instance, eight weeks without leave aboard the good ship Chez Strachan imparting me with enough interest in daytime TV show Bargain Hunt to actively learn the monikers of its antique experts.

Despite me watching the show on numerous occasions prior to lockdown these were titbits which previously, to borrow an oft used expression a friend uses to describe indifference to a topic,  “I couldn’t give a shiny s***e about!“……. You could say, until a few weeks previously, I didn’t know my Charles Hanson from my Charles Manson.

Footnote – Since lockdown, I now know Charles Hanson is a north Midlands auctioneer of  some jocularity. The late murderer Charles Manson wasn’t!

iu-12

Manson – A man with little interest in antiques!

As I write, my aural companion is one of the neighbours (I’m unaware which one) creating a noise similar to the sound of a knife puncturing a ready made meal cover, prior to microwave insertion.

That being said, I’d suggest that activity won’t be the root cause of this minor disturbance. After all, this sound has accompanied me for the last half an hour. Meaning, if it was a ready made meal being punctured, these folks must be cooking a 48ft square lasagna for tea.

As there’s not a microwave in the world big enough to accommodate and cook a meal that huge, I’d venture the above isn’t a neighbours scheduled supper. A conclusion backed further now the puncturing sound backdrop has abated, to be replaced by an audio of drilling.

Surely there’s not one recipe where, at any stage of the meal preparation, there’s a requirement to utilised a power drill!!…… Even if the aforementioned cuisine is a 48ft square lasagna!!

The drilling has now desisted and a sound similar to a passenger airline engine idling is emanating from a different garden to where the (not) massive lasagna wasn’t being drilled.

There’s many things that’ll remain enigmas to us as we venture this vale of tears. However, I can vouch with absolute certainty that this particular soundscape isn’t the consequence of a passenger airline being refuelled.

After all, it goes without saying the neighbour immediately behind casa Strachan cannot land a Boeing-737 in his back garden. If he owned a Harrier Jump Jet, he may just about have enough garden space to land on terra firma.

However, bereft of a suitably long tarmac runway, insufficient space between residences and no manned control tower, I’d confidently predict non-hovering aircraft won’t be making scheduled landings in this corner of West Yorkshire anytime soon…… A fact putting pay to my mum’s hare-brained scheme of opening a Bureau De Change on Moor Knoll Lane!

My current aural bedfellow emanating through an ajar French door is a gentle rattle manifesting from breeze blown aquilegia and digitalis plants. A serene audio backdrop which imparts the comforting tones of softly shaken maracas.

I’ve just returned aside my laptop after placing this evening’s roast pork joint oven in situ. My meal prep also including the commencement of part-boiling the spuds, which’ll shortly be transferred to accompany the roasting meat.

As I take my pew, yours truly’s gaze is drawn to the eyesore vision of my back lawn, of which I penned in detail during yesterday’s narrative No Horticultural Pain. No Aesthetic Gain! The grassy area now sporting a scorched black facade after the necessary, and quite deliberate, application of a product to kill off weed and moss.

I don’t know about my back neighbour owning a Harrier Jump Jet, but the dark scorch marks on the lawn bear all the signs that last Thursday a space shuttle took off from my back garden.

Categories: Blogs family fiction health/medical humour

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Gary Strachan

2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org

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