Writer's Gramps

  Due to the pandemic, an alarming situation has arisen. The Daily Telegraph, of Thursday 8 th , reported that the Wall Street Journal had uncovered a shortage of an essential part of the English Breakfast - tomato sauce, or ketchup, as the New York Paper calls it. The crisis seems to be confined to the take-away industry and the sachets they provide, but who knows how it will spread. Although prices have risen by 13%, there seems to be no need for the general public to panic buy, but there is no indication that those take-aways that offer ketchup sachets with their food intend to recompense customers for the lack of this essential to good eating. The shortage is reputed to have been caused by patrons not being able to eat in any other way than off-premises, but who can say if, now they have become accustomed to sachets, they will be prepared to return to the traditional bottled variety with its collar of dried dribble. At home, one can always lick the bottle, but this is frowned...

 I've had my second jab and, like the first it has engendered tiredness and a falling in my powers of concentration. The most recent incidence being walking out of the supermarket without paying. Fortunately, before the security could imprison me, a young lady, with whom I am familiar, came rushing our shouting 'you've forgotten to pay,' and I was saved a good deal of embarrassment. When I say familiar, I mean she is good enough to help me find the tins of beans and packets of oat cakes, which the store management insists in hiding from me.  There had been an earlier lapse. I have a small coffee percolator and had ground some beans  and set the thing on the stove when I noticed a strange noise and smell and grabbed the percolator realising I had forgotten to put water in the thing. Having been brought up during the war and averse to wasting food, I naturally didn't throw the coffee grounds away, just filled the water compartment and got on with life. It was only whe...

In some ways, I have no real need to imagine story lines. You see I've been lucky to know a whole range of characters, including Granny Clarke, who read the futurre in tea leaves at the bottom of cups, and her dog, Ruff. But let me introduce Ruff properly with his own story. When my youngest uncle, David, he was only eight years older than me, got married and moved out of the house, everyone decided Granny Clarke needed a dog to keep her company. Granny Clarke put up a stout resistance saying she couldn’t take it out for decent walks and it would get fat. John, her last bachelor son insisted he’d take it walks for her and, since she could deny John very little, someone found a dog called Ruff, a kind of collie all-sorts. Ruff moved in and began a platonic relationship with Granny. I’ve known many dogs who enjoyed having their heads patted or ruffled but Ruff was too liberated to be treated as a pet. The rest of my first encounter with Ruff is among the short stories in Bees in my B...

 A lady said to me the other day that when we first met she thought I was dour, which I can be, but it reminded me of a boilermaker I worked with, Jock Russel. One of the bright young Engineers went to Jock with some plans and explained what he wanted made and how it worked and asked Jock if he could make the thing. Jock said nothing at first but then told the Engineer, 'I'll make it a' right. It'll no' work, but I'll make it. Now that was dour. Jock taught me to play bowls. I've watched some coaches recently and the spend time explaining how to hold the bowl, how to stand and the elements of a good delivery. In addition the the learner practicing, it takes several one hour sessions and the learner never has any fun. When Jock took me in hand, he told me 'Take the bowl in your hand like this, put your foot on the mat, and don't take it off, then roll your bowl next to that wee white one.' We rolled once up and once down and Jock snapped, 'I s...