Taking advantage of a mild West Yorkshire weather, Tuesday afternoon saw this capricious northern Englishman take a leisurely stroll around the village. A local traipse bringing me into fleeting contact with fellow amblers, Shetland ponies and an idiosyncratic old man who, during our natter, claimed to’ve recently undergone an outer body experience whilst cooking his tea.
The latter episode apparently causing the fella in question into a panic attack. In particular when looking down upon his body and being robbed of the wherewithal to turn the steadily singeing sausages, or mash his potatoes. It’s unlikely this anecdote bears any element of truth, however, from a jocularity perspective I deemed it a rattling good yarn.
The fella in his dotage who, although a kindly man, is a noted raconteur of extraordinary and unlikely tales. All fantastical fables delivered to augment an otherwise drab life: presumably in an attempt to raise his insignificant profile amongst peers.
Another dubious tall tale being singer H from the pop group Steps had purchased a local mill turned retail warehouse, which the Welsh warbler planned to renovate into flats with adjoining ostrich sanctuary. I’d venture another improbable vignette with its roots firmly planted in his oft tarried world of pretence.
As alluded to above, I’ve no problem with these harmless deceits. Anecdotes which are so outlandish they clearly bear no basis in fact; which to my mind are innocuous. I’m by no stretch advocating there’s nothing awry about telling porkies; however, as far as I’m concerned, this fella’s spoutings are inoffensive episodes which harm nobody.
If truth be told, as he’s in his seventies, I’m quite impressed he even knew who Steps were, never mind being in the possessing of band member monikers. That being said, I’m not sure he knows all of the pop group’s personnel, he may only know H……. I certainly didn’t ask him.
The nickname of Ian ‘H’ Watkins would certainly be a lot easier for him to remember than Claire Richards, Lee Latchford-Evans, Faye Tozer and Lisa Scott-Lee…… After all, I needed to Google the other four member’s monikers myself, never mind the old geezer.
Anyhow, I’m in no position to judge anyone for delivering fabricated narratives. I’ve a rap sheet a mile long containing fact based fiction I’ve penned; some incorporating plot lines incorporating the most unlikely hooey. (See Back On The Horse).
This old fella engaged me in chat after approaching while I stood looking over a dry stone wall securing a local field’s periphery. At the time GJ Strachan was leant on the barrier being imparted with serenity borne from watching a group of horses munching hay.
“They’re sssssmall.” the pensioner commented through ill-fitting dentures while pointing at a couple of Shetland ponies, after coming to a halt at my side.
“Errrrr, yeah. They’re Shetland ponies. The smallest of all equines.” I pointed out politely, although with some trepidation how the conversation may evolve.
“What are equinesssss?.” He inquired in full tooting mode.
“It’s the name given to the genus of mammals in which horses belong.” I explained while feeling my serenity levels diminish.
“If that’s the case, then Sssssshetland poniessssss aren’t the ssssssmallest.” the old fella felt moved to point out.
“Which breed are smaller?” yours truly inquired, intrigued.
“Seahorsesssss are much sssssmaller than those poniesssss.” The silly old sod pointed out.
“Seahorses aren’t equines!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“They’ve got the name horssssse in their title. What further proof do you need?’ Came a Roger Whittaker-esque whistle.
“Seahorses are small marine fish.” GJ Strachan pointed out patronisingly.
“Errrrr…. do you want to hear about my outer body experienccccce while I wassss cooking sssssausssagessss?“