The Last Dinosaur

For breakfast this morning she nibbled on a perfectly straight diagonal of brown wheat toast delicately dripping with bubbling hot Scottish butter. Minute droplets of perfectly clarified yellow tear drops of marmalade splashed goodness on to the white china plate so carefully balanced on her knee. I removed her boots and rubbed her toes to encourage the cold away after our early morning walk in the snow covered hills. She smiled, again reassuring me with those mesmerising violet eyes that I have gazed into for so many years. I had rarely seen her looking more radiant than she did sitting there with her hair pulled back in her usual casual Sunday chignon, her face fresh of all makeup, full of the excitement that awaits us both. Her unusual nervous smile took me back to the time when I first met her father in his own home. Looking back it may have been slightly inappropriate for our first conversation to contain the dialogue telling him that I would always be in his daughters life. Up until then he had refused to meet the wayward youth with the severely broken nose and such a colourful Glaswegian background. He was correct in all but one of his assumptions about me. A long comparison of this dichotomous binary grouping of sectarian barriers associated with the hatred between religions, faiths and a man and his birthplace would probably take me a decade to compile and you a moment to click off. I haven't got that long, I'm also surmising that you do not have the inclination to want to read about it either. 

The last few weeks have been swallowed up with the oul wans in the dinosaur graveyard that is, and always will be, my beloved childhood playground of Drumchapel and the memories of loyal pals that once shared its history with me. May they rest in peace. To those who accompanied us on the one way midnight journeys when I carried the shovel, no hard feelings, eh? To my many living friends who made it through the quagmire of our past, I say thanks. No post would ever be complete without a mention of the little singing fella and his unwavering loyalty. Mháirtín, no man could ever wish for a better friend. A fear fíor i measc na bhfear. We leave on Friday for a wee while.

Chefs Best Ever Recipe

1 good woman
1 large portion of man
1 warm country
1 big bag of dreams

Take the man and woman, bond together for 30 years, bind them with love, loyalty and a small amount of personal tragedy. Mix them together until they are inseparable and then allow them to rest together somewhere warm. Bake them under a hot sun until brown.