Recollection takes many forms. Most memories of the distant past can be vague, and often distorted, probably because of the passage of time, and the many intervening events. Those that seem to ‘stick’, firm and fast, inevitably could be categorized fairly simply as the very pleasant, unpleasant, and the truly awful.
There are also those that fall somewhere ‘in between’, containing as they do, the pleasant and unseemly both, in varying degrees.
Download/Read in Browser: Horses
I ‘borrowed’ this title from the lyrics of one of my most favourite songs, sung by Sandy Denny.
It seemed incredibly apposite to the theme of my story.
‘Sad, deserted shore,
your fickle friends are leaving,
Ah, but then you know,
it’s time for them to go,
But I will still be here,
I have no thought of leaving,
I do not count the time.’
( Copyright Sandy Denny 1967 )
Once again, the story is set in my early years, and based upon the wildly inappropriate relationship between my (under-age) self and an older girl.
Long after, even when she was married, we remained good friends.
Warning. The tale has several explicit scenes, and is not appropriate reading for minors, or those folks easily offended..
Download/Read in Browser: I Do Not Count The Time
Even when still at school, I had made my ‘hobby’, radio and electronics, serve also to augment my weekly ‘pocket-money’. This was known quite widely by other folks living in our block of flats. The mother of two girls I was friendly with, had informed me that one of her friends had a radiogram that was faulty.
The woman had a shop on Gateshead High St., selling second-hand sewing machines. My first encounter with her, in her shop, gave me the creeps. I felt distinctly uncomfortable at her intense survey of me from head to toe.
A very large part of this tale is true, though the very last section was a reflection on what I had imagined regarding the woman.
Download: AGirlsBestFriend
At one or more points in their lives, parents are invariably asked awkward questions by their children. These questions are usually triggered by some event or other observed by the child. A judgement needs to be made by the parent, whether or not to extend their knowledge of the event to the child, and also as importantly, to gauge the extent of their exposition to suit the understanding of the child asking the questions.
I remember driving both my parents mad, especially my father, with an endless barrage of questions, many of which were of the ‘awkward’ variety. His answers invariably did not satisfy me, and he found this both exasperating and annoying. Usually, it was my mother that took the heat off him before he exploded, by telling me to ‘stop bothering your Dad, he’s tired.’
All my life I’ve asked questions. If there is no-one around to ask, I’ll ask myself. My desire for insight remains as insatiable today as it was over half-a-century ago, and those that have been close to me can bear witness to my sometimes uncomfortable technical de-construction of some of the lies they have attempted to beguile me with.
Notwithstanding the above, many of the questions I asked as a young boy, were never properly answered at the time, but instead of shrugging my shoulders and distracting myself with something else, I used to spend countless hours dreaming up explanations of the unexplained events, until I had a fairly full mental picture of what I imagined must have happened to cause the event. As I progressed through puberty towards manhood, these ‘explanations’ became more vivid and imaginative, and as a matter of course, had built into them my own fixations, personal sexual fantasies and aspirations too.
Some of these ‘stories’ (for that’s all they were) I plundered as a source for school essays, which ironically my Dad loved to read. Some, of course, I would never have dared to write down without causing wrath to be heaped upon me for my ‘precocious’ thoughts.
There was one particular incident, the untimely death of a spinster lady who lived close by, which triggered my usual sea of questions which were so persistent, my Dad became very angry and I was told to ‘shut up’. In the face of no information regarding the cause of the lady’s death, I once again made up my own.
This then, is her story, and to not a little extent, my own too. Naturally, I can’t remember all of what I conjectured and imagined long ago, just sufficient I hope, to give a glimpse back at the tale of love, lust and loss I wove around the incident, simply because the real truth was denied me.
Warning: The story contains adult subject matter, several explicit scenes of an intimate sexual nature, and is not suitable for minors, or those who are easily offended.
The story is available as a PDF download here: Sister Mildred
This is a copy of a post I formerly published on another of my websites, some considerable time ago.
It demonstrates quite clearly the offhand and demeaning treatment to anyone in the UK who is on the ‘radar’ of the UK’s so-called Benefit system.
It also demonstrates the patently obvious poor quality of employees who ‘manned’ the telephones purporting to give ‘help’ and ‘assistance’ to the general public.
The poor individual I spoke to, had no idea that I was recording our conversation, but having had to put up with stupidity and ignorance before with these folks, I was determined to capture exactly, what was said between us. He was also unaware of what lay in wait for him, as I have to admit here, that I knew exactly what I wanted to ask, having ascertained what I was entitled to.
My ‘interviewing’ technique may seem a little cruel to others, but in all honesty, I actually enjoyed his all-too-apparent discomfort, naughty of me I know. In retrospect, here was an individual who should never have been placed into a public-facing role.
Senhora de Alegria
Only one way there, same way back, but well worth a visit. If you are hungry, even better, the restaurant grub is superb (See note at end).
I’ve appended my map photos of my route from just west of Miranda-do-Corvo to the northern section of Rio De Galinhas (Chicken River, but no river in sight and no chickens. I consulted a local, who grinned and said ‘Not in my lifetime, there hasn’t been.’ I suspect he has been asked the same question by ‘outsiders’ before.)
Plus further photos of maps with more detail. [Maps taken from Google Maps]
Maps appended at end of blurb.
A quite verbose description given here, translated using Google Translate by me from website:
https://acercadecoimbra.blogs.sapo.pt/coimbra-senhora-da-alegria-de-145238
Few authors refer to it, with the exception of Fr. Luiz Cardoso in his Geographical Dictionary of 1747. And yet, its antiquity is undeniable. It is located at the top of a ridge, from where you can see and feel an infinity of villages around, surrounded by the tributary stream of the Dueça and now by highway 13. traveled on foot by devout pilgrims.
The hill has the suggestive name of Crasto or Castro, taking us back to times of a remote past, with prehistoric dwellings or defense fortifications at the time of the Christian reconquest, as happened in this region of Bera, namely in the neighboring Torre de Bera. . In front of you is the village of Almalaguês, about a kilometer away. Here you can still hear the beat of one or another loom, but this activity that was once important and made Almalaguês the largest center for handcrafted weaving in Europe is now in decline. Had there been a city council in Coimbra aware of the cultural values of its territory, it would have conveniently protected the Almalaguês weaving mill and what remains of the Bera tower.
In the absence of written sources, it is the chapel itself that will dictate its history. The building is modest, with a single nave, of considerable size for a chapel, chancel and sacristy attached to the north. In the middle of the nave there is a cylindrical pulpit over a Doric column, carved in limestone, with fluting and two friezes with winged heads of angels. There is an inscription that reads that the chapel was built in 1634 by the parish priest Teodósio Abreu. A portal from the 18th century opens on the façade, attesting to another intervention. It has a certain nobility in its austerity: a door surmounted by a triangular pediment and decorated with side earrings, in the tradition of the time of King João V, creased corners of stonework and a discreet little bell.
At the top of the nave are two side altars in popular and late neoclassicism. The cross arch, made of stonework, opens onto the chancel where the altarpiece with the image of the holder stands out. It has two spiral columns per band, covered by foliage, bunches of grapes and birds pecking the berries. The finish is a composition of different elements crowned by a medallion with the initials AM. It’s a pity that all this is repainted in white and glitter, with only some old polychrome left in certain angel heads.
The ceiling of the chancel was covered by a wooden cladding with twenty coffers, of which there is currently only a small part surrounding the altarpiece. The coffers, from the 18th century renovation, displayed paintings and couplets of allegories to piety, meekness, prudence, justice, fortitude, temperance, charity, humility and purity. Those that remain, placed around the altarpiece, illustrate some litanies of the Virgin Mary.
The walls of the chancel are lined with a charming panel of cut tiles from the second half of the 18th century, from the Coimbra workshop in Salvador de Sousa e Carvalho. The scenes represented are: the Adoration of the Magi, Adoration of the Shepherds, and Nossa Senhora da Conceição; Birth of the Virgin, Annunciation and Visitation.
The Senhora da Alegria, as well as a mutilated saint, from the 15th century, in a collateral altarpiece, attest to the antiquity of this sacred place. The image of the Lady, made of wood, dates from a difficult time to define, perhaps the 14th or even 13th century. Only a scientific examination can help. She supports the Child on her left forearm and with her right hand makes a gesture of blessing. It presents a slight curvature to the right, which may have been a use of the trunk in which it was carved.
Another reason of interest in this sanctuary are the ex-votos, from the 18th and 19th centuries.
The hermit that Luiz Cardoso tells us about no longer lives here, but Senhora da Alegria continues to receive devotees, on her feast days, which is Easter Monday, and always, as we have witnessed. It remains the same spiritual charm that so attracted the people of past centuries.
Nelson Correia Borges
In: Correio de Coimbra, no. 4718, of 12.06.2018
Maps (Click on any photo to see an enlarged view)
Segue-se um percurso alternativo, a partir da A13.
The following shows an alternative route, from the A13.
Se quiser comer, faça reserva. Ir por um “capricho”, sobretudo ao início da hora de almoço, é decididamente “duvidosa”.
If you wish to eat, make a reservation. Going on a ‘whim’, especially early at lunchtime is decidedly ‘dodgy’.
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Please see what I think about WordPress’s idea of what a ‘comment is here: What is a comment?
A man enters a confessional and says to the Irish Priest: “Father, it’s been one
month since my last confession. I’ve had sex with Fannie Green every week for
the last month”.
The priest tells the sinner: “You are forgiven. Go out and say three Hail Mary’s.”
Soon, another man enters the confessional. “Father, it has been two months
since my last confession. I have had sex with Fannie Green twice a week for the
last two months.”
This time the priest asks: “Who is this Fannie Green?”
“A new woman in the neighborhood” the sinner replies.
“Very well,” says the priest. “Go and say ten Hail Mary’s”.
The next morning in church, the priest is preparing to deliver his sermon when
a gorgeous, tall woman enters the church. All the men’s eyes fall upon her as
she slowly sashays up the aisle and sits down in front of the altar. Her dress is
green and very short, with matching shiny emerald green shoes. The priest and
altar boy gasp as the woman sits down with her legs slightly spread apart,
Sharon Stone-style.
The priest turns to the altar boy and in a hushed tone asks:
“Is that Fannie Green?
The altar boy replies: “No Father, I think its just the reflection off her shoes”.
An atheist was taking a walk through the woods. “What majestic trees! What
powerful rivers! What beautiful animals!” he said to himself. As he continued
walking alongside the river he heard a rustling in the bushes Turning to look, he
saw a 7 foot grizzly charging towards him. He ran as fast as he could up the
path. Looking over his shoulder he saw that the bear was closing in on him. His
heart was pumping frantically and he tried to run even faster. He tripped and
fell on the ground. He rolled over to pick himself up but saw the bear raising his
paw to take a swipe at him. At that instant the atheist cried out:
“Oh my God!”
Time stopped.
The bear froze.
The forest was silent. It was then that a bright light shone upon the man and a
voice came out of the sky saying: “You deny my existence for all of these years,
told others I didn’t exist and even credit creation to a cosmic accident. Do you
expect me to help you out of this predicament? Am I to count you as a
believer?”
The atheist looked directly into the light and said: “It would be hypocritical of
me to suddenly ask you to treat me as a Christian now, but perhaps – could you
make the bear a Christian?”
“Very well,” said the voice.
The light went out, and the sounds of the forest resumed.
And then the bear lowered his paw, bowed his head and spoke:
“For which we are about to receive, may The Lord make us truly thankful.”
Doctor Dave had sex with one of his patients and felt guilty all day long.
No matter how much he tried to forget about it, he couldn’t. The guilt and
sense of betrayal was overwhelming. But every once in a while he’d hear an
internal, reassuring voice that said: “Dave, don’t worry about it. You aren’t the
first doctor to sleep with one of their patients and you won’t be the last. And
you’re single, just let it go.”
But invariably another voice would bring him back to reality, whispering:
“Dave, you’re a vet.”
Alien Encounter
Two aliens landed in the New Mexico desert near a petrol station that had been
closed for the night. They approached one of the pumps and the younger of the
two Aliens addressed it: “Greetings, Earthling.We come in peace. Take us to
your leader.”
The pump didn’t respond (of course). The younger alien started to get mad at
the lack of response and the older one said: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The younger alien ignored the warning and repeated the greeting. Again, there
was no response. Annoyed by what he perceived to be the pump’s haughty
attitude, he drew his ray gun and said impatiently:
“Greetings Earthling. We come in peace. Do not ignore us in this way! Take us
to your leader, or I will fire.”
The older alien again warned his comrade: “You don’t want to do that. You
really don’t want to make him mad!”
“Rubbish!” replied the younger alien.
He aimed his weapon at the pump and fired. There was a huge explosion. A
massive fireball roared outwards and towards them and blew the younger alien
off his feet and deposited him in a burnt and crumpled mess 200 yards away in
a cactus patch.
Thirty-five Earth minutes later when he finally regained consciousness,
refocused his three eyes and straightened his bent antenna, he looked dazedly
up at the wiser one who was standing over him, slowly shaking his big green
head.
“What a ferocious creature!” said the young fried one.
“It damn near killed us! How did you know it was so dangerous?”
The older alien leaned over, placed a friendly feeler on the younger one’s now
crispy peeling flesh and shared some knowledge:
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my travels through the galaxy” said the
wise old alien.
“When a guy has a willy he can wrap around himself twice and then stick it in
his ear, you don’t mess with him!!”
It is said the ‘pride comes before a fall’. The ‘old’ folks know best, and several times I have witnessed both the ‘pride’, and consequent ‘fall’, of pompous idiots. A colloquial expression that springs to mind about such a person, usually, but not exclusively a male, is that they have their heads so far up their own arse, their brains have turned to shit.
By far the most dramatic example I have ever witnessed was whilst working at a fully-functional Power Station, whilst constructing an extension to a switch-house.
In this short but true tale, I have changed the names involved, and also the name of the station itself. This event took place very early in my ‘career’ as a steel-erector, and like other power stations, it was unceremoniously dismantled some time ago.
Looking around Britain, and other locations in the world, it would seem that the only ‘stuff’ we build that actually survives, are the walls built to keep us apart, both physically and metaphorically.
Didcot ‘A’ Power station had a somewhat ‘chequered’ history. The ‘usual’ suspects caused problems with illegal entry, climbing the very tall chimney etc. It’s end too, was a tragedy because of the demolition workers killed during their work. Some of these matters, at time of writing are still unresolved.
A more or less complete account is given here: Didcot ‘A’
My ‘diaries’: Didcot Diaries
Foreword: ‘Kate’ is an exemplar of the young waifs I encountered (and was accosted by) in London. Sadly, All I could do to help them was usually enough to buy them a decent supper. I would not, and could not involve myself further, as in many cases, I would have questioned whether my intentions were to help them, or use them as a distraction from my own misery.
In this short missive, I’ve given Kate a voice, hopefully equal to that of Tom, in moving the narrative forward. In many respects Kate represents a girl who if met in ‘real’ life, I could very easily fall in love with.
joesportugal 