Gary Strachan – "Write" Said Fred

Daily Journals From Deep Within A Capricious Mind

Tag Archive for ‘memory lane’

Mr Davidson’s Surgery

Recollections of 1970’s dental appointments bring to mind thoughts of oral torture chambers infused with odours of stale gas anaesthesia and the flatulence of nervous patients. Visits in which you’d open your mouth for treatment which’d be closely followed by a pain induced “Aaaaarrrrggghhh” – As opposed to the much calmer “Ah” associated with GP oral checks. These appointments taking place in cold, monochrome environments in which you’d take the […]

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A Right Small Glass

This morning, I’m greeted by a beautiful array of colours while I peer bleary eyed through my dining room window. Enhanced by the late autumnal sun, the deep orange of pyracantha, burgundy of sedum and multiple tinctures of winter pansies stare contentedly back at me. In front of me lays a view that’s literally a sight for sore eyes. Basking in solar rays even the moribund perennials, such as the hydrangea, contribute to the overall synergy of this delightful canvas. […]

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Maggie’s Advice For Mrs Worthington

Yesterday evening, I ambled down memory lane in the company of old vinyl albums and my pater. During this saunter, he and I re-visited the easy on the ear tunes of David Gate’s Bread, the melancholic songs of Phil Collins first solo album and a clutch of Paul Simon classics. Our sojourn ending in the 1960’s Sands club, Las Vegas with the Rat Pack treating us to standards from the Great American Songbook. I took a selection […]

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Is That The Time?

This morning, I met a Strachan relative for the first time since the early 1970’s. The gent in question being my dad’s cousin whose father and my grandfather were brothers; two pranksters, blue of eye and mischievous of smile. He (Steve) knocked this morning at my front door as he’d been to my neighbour Mike’s house to quote him for a decorating job. To clarify, as my dad had provided the number for my neighbour, Steve knew […]

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No Smoke Without Fire

Last week I spent a convivial evening at my parents home. Situated in a West Yorkshire village which was once a thriving coal mining community, it’s a setting you can always rely of a homely welcome. There’s invariably a warm glow in my mater and paters domain, the unfortunate consequence of having a mother who’s an addicted arsonist. In the evening, we dined on curry and merlot infused memories of yore. It was an impressive […]

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