Gary Strachan – "Write" Said Fred
Whimsical observations from deep within an erratic mind
I'm slightly fatigued as this chilly late Sunday afternoon drifts seamlessly into evening. A lethargy which manifests notions of surprise at how daily itineraries bereft of activity can diminish one's energy levels to this level. Anyhow, as an aside, I got to speak to both my siblings today. Mercifully, they and their broods are keeping... Continue Reading →
"Who wants to be a millionaire?..... I don't Have flashy flunkies everywhere?..... I don't Who wants the bother of a country estate? A country estate is something I'd hate Who wants to wallow in champagne?..... I don't Who wants a supersonic plane?..... I don't Who wants a private landing field too?..... I don't And I... Continue Reading →
The lower back trauma I wrote about in Gaining Groucho’s Gait, although significantly less uncomfortable, continues to plague me. Sporadic spasms when making sharp core movements reminding me the back injury still holds unwanted tenancy. The sprain's eviction notice evidently not yet bearing fruit. Bereft of pain while sitting, or laying in bed, occasionally the... Continue Reading →
This morning, due to COVID incarceration I drove my car for the first time in a fortnight, or possibly even longer. My trusty old Vauxhall Astra, which's transported me from A to B for a decade now, starting first time and performing its assignment with usual understated reliability. Admittedly, my Astra's achievement isn't as impressive... Continue Reading →
It's been endearing to receive so many birthday wishes via social media. I'm always appreciative when individuals take time to convey regards; a gratitude mirrored when also making space in their schedules for tarries to my website writesaidfred.org and/or read my narratives. With my time predominantly spent in solitude for a few years now, by... Continue Reading →
Fifty plus years ago today, in a West Yorkshire maternity unit, I made my inaugural appearance on this dysfunctional planet. An unremarkable event which went much to plan, apart from an unexpected necessity of engaging a tattoo artist to cover up three sixes discovered on my bonce. This body art charlatan, charging my parents £20... Continue Reading →
Scene - A West Yorkshire detached house in West Yorkshire village. Like the majority of his global kin, a middle-aged man lives under house arrest in a cunning COVID-19 avoidance strategy. His neurosis so elevated he resolves not to exit his home until there's a cure for the potentially fatal pathogen, or unless his local... Continue Reading →
As we amble this vale of tears, we're confronted by a variety of enigmas; these episodes or habits which appear to defy any sense or logic. Such as my inherently heavy-handed younger brother Ian's ability to smash crockery with ease while washing up, yet when indulging in post meal plate hurling rituals in a Greek... Continue Reading →
Easter Saturday has bequeathed West Yorkshire's predominantly incarcerated populace warm temperatures. It feels almost that these conditions have been delivered in mischief to test the resolve of the covidiots. The small proportion of citizens who've been subject to UK governmental requests not to venture out to minimise risk of spreading COVID-19, unless absolutely essential. Only... Continue Reading →