Birdsong provides the aural backdrop to today’s literation. A chanson of appealing pitch and melody,, making a desirable change from cacophonous squawks of wood pigeons and magpies. Dins which ordinarily drowning out the smaller, infinitely more welcome garden avians.

Where the wood pigeons and magpies currently reside in unclear. Their absence, though, a satisfying turn of events as far as GJ Strachan’s concerned.

Apart from the melodic chirping of my diminutive feathered chums, there’s an eerie ambience of quiet surrounding my current abode. The calm and serenity giving my current landscape an almost dreamlike aura…… Mercifully, not one akin to the night vision scenes played out in Wes Craven’s slasher film Nightmare On Elm Street.

Who knows, perhaps this is a dream! Yours truly typing these paragraphs on my trusty and oft overworked keyboard as I sleep…… What do mean, you hope I’m a better writer asleep than awake?!

If it is a night vision, I’m unsure if I could class this as an esprit raising event. After all, with the most verve manifesting action being birdsong, it’s hardly providing me with the adrenalin rush sadly absent from my waking hour.

However, on the flip side, the subsequent serenity is beneficial to, say, having a burnt Freddie Kruger chasing me around a school boiler room with murderous intent. A slash movie night episode which could be a catalyst to issues with my post heart attack cardio vascular system.

Do I scare easy?:…. Not ordinarily, but if, either by the conduit of waking or sleeping hour, I was confronted by a nutcase seeking to utilise my skin as knife sharpener, it’s feasible my blood pressure may raise a tad…… Along with the blood loss!!

The relative quiet of the surrounding ambience has now been disrupted by my mum. Her stomping footsteps so voluminous it sounds as though she’s performing Riverdance in chez Strachan’s kitchen. I was unaware you could get clogs for cloven hoofs……. Only kidding, mum! 😉

God only knows why I apologised to mater above. Despite some of her friends taking time to read my blogs, Maggie never bothers. Deeming they incorporate untruths about her, a crime for which I’m guilty as charged, she adopts a strategy of refusing to let my essays darken her visual door. This undertaking of ignorance, her protest against my story embellishments.

Footnote – As alluded to above, I do embellish some of the tales about my mum, in some cases quite astronomically. However, it’s a process I’ve no choice but to follow. After all, if I don’t augment some of my yarns with whimsical fiction, I’d venture the prose entertainment value would diminish markedly. Consequently, hurling me into a writing world of very lukewarm fare, where I’d no option but to follow an approach of writing about turgid topics like the ‘joys’ of listening to birdsong……. Cough, cough!

After much pondering and mulling (mainly mulling), I’ve concluded that what’s playing out in front of me can’t be a dream. A conclusion backed by the fact my mum has evidently completed Riverdancing in the kitchen, and has just fired up the TV, subjecting me to daytime show ‘Homes Under The Hammer’…… I’m sorry, but I refuse to countenance my dreams will ever include such dreary televisual fare.

I suppose conclusive proof this isn’t a dream comes from the fact you’re reading this now!…… What do you mean you packed in after paragraph two?!