Friday 13th in 2020

I’m commencing this narrative while on telephone hold to the HMRC. This necessitated by the revenue collectors, who in their wisdom have cocked up my Tax Code; looking like I’ll have to send them the shirt off my back….. Thank god I’ve more than one shirt. Thus far I’ve been waiting 25 minutes for an…

Raining In Her Heart

It’s Saturday morning and East Lancashire’s awoken to a rainfall deluge. Admittedly, not an uncommon meteorological landscape for those residing on the western foothills of the Pennines. Especially here in Heywood, whose precipitation is so extensive the town should be twinned with Niagara Falls. Sadly, in a traumatic week which saw her mum cremated, this…

Angela

Yesterday, there was no narrative forthcoming from the pen of yours truly. Understandably, attendance at the funeral of a good friend’s mother held dominion over every other action on 1st October 2020. Coincidently, yesterday would’ve also been my mother and father’s 60th wedding anniversary had cancer not came calling for Malcolm Strachan in October 2017….

Plea For Delay

In lockdown, to continue revisiting some of the 60-70 poems written in summer 2017 (don’t worry I’m not gonna post them all!), I present prose penned to a higher being, pleading my moribund father be granted more familial time. Who that being was/is I don’t know. But regardless if it was one of the Holy…

Woodhouse Man

You may argue you’ve suffered enough during the COVID lockdown without yours truly starting to subject you to a selection of the eighty or so poems I penned in 2017. Although, not exclusively relating to the old man, this prose written during the last few months of my father’s life in 2017. A dreadful landscape…

King James of Kogarah

Yesterday, I was saddened to hear about the passing of Australian writer/broadcaster Clive James. A man whose erudite and witty essays in his book ‘Unreliable Memories‘, like Woody Allen’s comedic tomes in ‘Without Feathers‘ and numerous whimsical Les Dawson monologues, were catalysts for my dabbling in the domaine de l’écriture humoristique. James’ Sunday evening broadcasts on…

Why?!

Sitting in an armchair in my mother’s lounge, there’s an audio accompaniment of clattering crockery emanating from the kitchen as I commence today’s journal. This distracting sound courtesy of her returning freshly washed breakfast bowls, plates and cutlery to their allotted sections of the chamber’s cupboards and drawers. A task I ordinarily assist with when…

Death & All His Friends

During a period of pondering over my own mortality post cardiac arrest, one of the notions I briefly dwelt upon was what I’d have missed most should the coin have landed on the other side and GJ Strachan hadn’t survived the incident. Despite being capricious of mood and, as my mother would say, exhibiting a…

Raising A Glass

I didn’t feel compelled to sit down and pen my daily thoughts yesterday. The darkness of the place I found myself following the passing of my father overnight prohibiting any creative want……. On reflection, perhaps grieving alone in the cupboard under the stairs wasn’t such a good idea after all. Our beloved family head passed away peacefully…