Despite being very happy with life in the Wakefield apartment whose occupancy I’ve just undertaken, my brio levels are somewhat impaired by tenancy edicts barring me from looking after canine buddies Deano and Zella.
Consequently the furry duo, who’ve lived with me for a couple months at my late mother’s home, have returned to reside with their mum in Ossett’s fair town. An event I’ve concluded which’s the ‘ars’ in the catharsis borne from my move to the cathedral city. Don’t get me wrong, I adore this modern spacious flat; however, enforced curtailment of the scamps company manifests melancholic notions within me.
Incidentally, when I write Ossett’s fair town I’m referring to the West Yorkshire borough’s comeliness; not that this small West Yorkshire market metropolis is renowned for it’s fetes and bazaars.
On Tuesday and Friday morning’s it affords townsfolk traditional open air markets. To the best of my knowledge, though, it bears no huge reputation for hosting recreational fairground events…… Although, to be honest, for a more informed comment on that topic it’s probably best to engage the Ossett Tourist Board.
Anyhow, the current zeitgeist sees me bereft of the Avashight twins company (one of many terms of endearment I hold for these four-legged rogues). Circumstances depriving me of soul soothing camaraderie Deano and Zella’s companionship affords.
In fact, in candour I admit to missing walking them so much I’ve contemplated attaching a lead to my castor wheeled desk chair to walk it twice daily around the local park. Despite such actions no doubt attracting startled gazes from passersby, on the plus side a leisurely stroll with the recliner would’ve the boon of avoiding the unpleasant task of poop scooping.
Idiosyncratic behaviour is a trait of the Strachan clan. In the early 1930’s, my great uncle Hershel gained notoriety in the West Yorkshire town of Cleckheaton for attempting to teach his hamster Reg to sing a medley of Al Jolson refrains.
Additionally, after a misguided attempt to converse with locals in the French town of Lille during WWII, Hershel’s brother Archie inadvertently married village idiot Serge Boudoir’s pigeon Belle. This episode playing out after Hershel mistakenly asked Boudoir “Puis-je épouser votre pigeon?” when endeavouring to ascertain the location of a local boulangerie.
Sadly the union between man and pigeon didn’t last. Six months after the betrothal Hershel, growing tired of Belle’s inability to successfully bake an adequately risen souffle, called time on the unlikely alliance. The Cleckheaton fella going on to live happily ever after with a horse chestnut tree in the Dourdan……. Well, until he was crushed to death by the tree after the imposing timber structure was struck by lightening.
Eccentricity wasn’t solely confined to my paternal forebears. Due to an unfathomable superstition, my mum’s uncle Creosote refused to board a bus unless it was driven by a leprechaun. With diminutive supernatural beings of Irish folklore being rare in Yorkshire (or indeed anywhere!), such idiocy meant the Normanton based beatnik didn’t get to travel very far afield. Not to mention, being forced to walk significantly further than his idle frame would’ve liked.
My grandad Jack was also blessed with a quirky, mischievous side. The Woodhouse fella making much of his party trick of having the wherewithal to whistle the Bulgarian national anthem backwards. However, with most people not knowing what the Bulgarian national anthem sounded like the ‘right way around’ I suspect these claims were gaslighting of the very highest order.
Anyhow, I need to bring this narrative to a conclusion. My unreliable recollections needing to take a back seat while I run a few errands resulting from my recent house move.
Blimey, are my eyes playing tricks? ….. Was that bus that’s just passed on Barnsley Road being driven by a leprechaun?…… If only uncle Creosote was still with us, he could’ve fulfilled his lifetime ambition of a tarry to Wombwell by omnibus!….. Life can be so cruel at times!