Gary Strachan – "Write" Said Fred
Whimsical observations from deep within an erratic mind
As I write, I'm somewhat distracted by the noise of holes being drilled in breeze blocks. This commotion courtesy of downstairs wet room construction being undertaken around ten feet away, between chez Strachan's garage and entrance hall. I've never been party to the noise emitted when a rhinoceros undergoes circumcision without anaesthetic. However, I'd venture... Continue Reading →
The rain has returned with a vengeance over the last few days. in fact, it was so bad in the early hours of Saturday morning the water flowing down the cul-de-sac resembled a swollen brook. Consequently, for a few hours, my front window bequeathed what a realtor may describe as riverside views. Anyhow, mercifully, this... Continue Reading →
This afternoon I'm scheduled to receive my first coronavirus vaccine. I know it's my inaugural jab as I've not previously been afforded one. If I had, within this pieces initial sentence, I'd have highlighted it was my second shot in the arm. Unless, of course it was my third. In which case, as there's only... Continue Reading →
Via the conduit of Zoom, yesterday I partook in an esprit filled quiz evening with six buddies from the north east of England. This 'Magnificent Seven' (including yours truly) contributing rounds of inquisitions covering subjects such as geography, music, alcohol, movies, Fred Dinage's barnet and football. In between two of the rounds, this entertainment feast... Continue Reading →
This morning, while pondering the clothing best suited another day languishing at home, I noticed the arran sweater I'd adorned yesterday had all its buttons completely secured...... Ok, I admit it, it's a cardigan, not a jumper. Laid on the bedroom floor, where it'd been unceremoniously dumped the previous evening, witnessing this sweater fully fastened... Continue Reading →
"There is a splinter of ice in the heart of a writer." - Graham Greene Above a thought-provoking quote from the twice 'Nobel Prize for Literature' nominated author. The ice splinter of which he alludes affording writers the capability of turning tragedy into art through the ability of journaling prose dispassionately. Possessing this element of... Continue Reading →
It's 3pm on the last Sunday before Christmas Day 2020. Shortly. I'll be firing up the oven to cook my mater and me a roast beef dinner; a small gesture by her eldest offspring in recognition of her washing/ironing his laundry earlier in the week. Laundry a task, even in her dotage, Mrs S senior... Continue Reading →
In prevailing times, I can't help but conclude COVID, along with the distasteful US presidential race shenanigans, have shifted an already dysfunctional world into even greater depths of dystopia. And, I'd like it on record, I don't use the word dystopia freely in either polemic or essay; or indeed ever. That being the case, it's... Continue Reading →
As I meander down today's literary path, my mind's in a poetic place. The catalyst to these notions yours truly's inability to shake the refrain The Way We Were from my neurological corridors. The Alan Peterson/Marilyn Peterson/Marvin Hamlisch Academy Award winning collaboration currently repeat playing in my cranial jukebox. The tune, mooted as resurrecting Barbra... Continue Reading →