tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64599139391839069932008-04-30T17:44:05.864+03:00DaveBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-19294966724725854752008-04-27T18:08:00.003+03:002008-04-28T08:44:23.360+03:00

Dad didn't keep a tidy workshop. Every once in a while, he'd decide to impose some order on the chaos, and move things around. But it was a lost cause - there was just too much stuff. But what stuff it was: footballs, rugby balls (of course), cricket balls, softballs, baseballs, basketballs, bowling balls, roller skates, ice skates, rugby boots, running spikes, fishing rods, fishing knives,

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-63706221345064896702008-04-24T17:55:00.005+03:002008-04-25T09:35:34.417+03:00

I'm sitting on Dad's shoulders. There's nobody else in the house and we've just listened to "Sailing up the Clyde" on the wind-up gramophone in the sitting room. We're now walking up and down the corridor, Dad giving his own rendering of the Will Fyfe classic in his idiosyncratic light baritone, and pausing after 'bide' to explain what it means. Mum and Dad had a relationship with Scots that was

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-34460094399700802852008-04-20T15:49:00.004+03:002008-04-20T18:22:33.268+03:00

Back in the 50s, nobody ever saw out of the pantry window, partly because it was small and high, but mostly because it was behind the perforated zinc fly-screen that gave bug-free ventillation to the old slate meat-shelf below. When Dad took the slate shelf away, it went up to the attic for a while, for no good reason, then, for no better reason, into the garden to lean for evermore against the

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-14780148787476488612008-04-20T12:38:00.004+03:002008-04-20T12:52:37.002+03:00

The kitchen wasn't big enough to swing a cat in. There was always one available, but Fitzy Puss McClure was quite a serious chap and not really the swingable type. Outside, and not welcome in the garden, were Theblackcat and Thegreycat. Mum kept a stoneware jar of ham-skins (bacon rinds) on the kitchen dresser and, for a dangled sample, Fitzy could be induced to dance on his hind legs. This, and

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-76187307965513155962008-04-17T14:54:00.004+03:002008-04-19T16:24:58.658+03:00

There were seven stairs down from the hall to the Wee Landing and twelve more down from the wee landing to the glass door. This is the wee landing window as seen from the second top step of the flight of seven. (We might as well be accurate here). It was a big window, but not as big as the one halfway down the main flight. Both stair windows were uncurtained but were of rippled glass, reducing

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-28090784501888269702008-04-16T13:02:00.002+03:002008-04-16T13:06:08.080+03:00

Two down, ten to go (that's how many windows I photographed) and I've decided to get the spare room over and done with. Looking at all twelve pictures, it's the only one that gives me no pleasant feelings. It's strange how, so many years later, I've suddenly happened on something that I must always have felt, but didn't really know till now: I never liked the spare room at all. The dressing

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-38251573895039032892008-04-15T14:55:00.003+03:002008-04-15T14:59:29.920+03:00

Dad's black Anglia, HAG 390, had a choke and a starter, two cream coloured pull-knobs in the middle of the dashboard. A little below were two smaller cream coloured knobs. These could only be the wee choke and the wee starter, because that's what they looked like. Some would argue that they were the heater controls, but it's appearance that matters. It was the same in the house. Along the

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-79935810306386068182008-04-14T16:14:00.005+03:002008-04-15T10:53:56.736+03:00

The big bunker window looked straight across the yard at its counterpart in MissMcMinn's house. There were actually two MissMcMinns. Their names were NiceMissMcMinn and TheOtherMissMcMinn. NiceMissMcMinn had a dog called Frisky that looked huge when it barked over the wall at us but assumed normal terrier proportions when on a lead in the street. I still don't understand how it did that.

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-14489296516174199642008-04-14T10:14:00.003+03:002008-04-15T10:54:12.586+03:00

- that John bought. It was built in 1894. John, my grandfather, must have been built a little earlier, but family history was never my forte. By the time I arrived on the scene, all four grandparents had coiled their mortal slips, the house had been flatted and the downstairs (we never called it the ground floor) sold to Mrs Gordon who ran it as a B&B guest house. Mrs Gordon merits a paragraph.

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-48510559318438679562008-04-12T13:41:00.002+03:002008-04-12T13:49:04.050+03:00

I've just been billed by UK2.net for £72 for the web-space this site occupies. And that's just for one year. I remember when UK2.net was cheap! As the total size of the site is a few MB (poems are small!) it hardly seems sensible to keep tenure of a couple of empty and costly GB. Maybe that should be the mission for the year - to evict Agnes, kicking and screaming no doubt, and tell her to sign

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-17547217470438404952008-04-11T13:20:00.002+03:002008-04-11T13:30:34.801+03:00

The new site has turned out very much as I'd hoped. It is very much easier to manage. There's also the advantage that I can add to it or edit it from any online pc. As it's a blog, there's no need for ftp. However, it does leave the question - what to do with this site? I don't want to take it down because quite a few people link to it. And I don't really want to keep it as a mere portal to the

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-1886798293059630192008-02-10T18:25:00.000+03:002008-02-10T18:30:26.703+03:00

The main links (Poems by, Index by Title, Index by First Line) now all point to the new site. The old site is now effectively invisible, except, of course for Agnes who, true to form, once again refuses to move. Ach well, she was here first.

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-69574151165459490132008-02-08T22:04:00.000+03:002008-02-08T22:14:24.188+03:00

I've come to the conclusion that the advantages offered by the (free) blogger technology now outweigh those of the conventional static website. So, I've started on the laborious process of migrating my poems from C-Change to here. I'll also take the opportunity of editing a few along the way and doing some selective weeding as well.

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-38795566177313406142007-07-31T13:48:00.000+03:002007-07-31T13:53:32.533+03:00

William MacGonagall does in fact have a fair claim to being the worst poet in the English language, not least because he was published, and republished, ad nauseam. Poets have always had a snobbery about publishing - the unpublished poet is perhaps not a poet at all, but the published poet has been deemed a poet, therefore he can be a truly bad poet, rather than just not-a-poet-at-all.

Davetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459913939183906993.post-48766967590527034112007-06-15T10:03:00.000+03:002007-06-15T12:42:53.686+03:00

This is maybe the fifth time I've decided I don't like my website. So I'm starting over again. Much of the same stuff will probably reappear in time, but more carefully edited. Agnes is still here, of course.

Dave