Life is a Stage... well, Theatre at Least

First off, can I thank you all for your wonderful well wishes. Deeply and humbly appreciated.

So, are you ready for this?

I was nervous, apprehensive but delighted my surgery was going ahead. For all of about five minutes.
Upon admission the nurse looks at my notes and says "Okay, surgery to the right arm ..."
"No, left-arm." I pointed out.
She giggles and says  "Oh, sorry," and crosses something out on the  paperwork.
I'm then told my anaesthetist will be here to interview me in a minute. Enter stage left ' Dave  the anaesthetist.'
"Hi, I'm Dave, your anaesthetist today."
After running through what I had eaten in the last 24 hours Dave seemed happy and confirmed that he was conversant with my medical history and within a couple of hours my surgery would be underway. He assured me he'd have me asleep in less than 30 seconds.  He then tells me a surgeon will speak to me in a minute. Enter stage left a 7 foot tall surgeon (I kid you not - he was a giant).
"Hi there Mr Grant. So, we are operating on your right arm today." Says he looking at my notes.
"No, left arm."
"Ah okay." he says, crossing something out on the paperwork. "I just need to draw on your arm now to highlight where the incisions will take place." He then takes my left arm and using a marker pen draws a line from my elbow to my wrist where he draws an arrowhead and some letters. "There we are, we'll have that sorted for you in a few hours. We do a lot of carpal tunnel syndrome surgery here. We'll soon have you fixed up."
"I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome. I have cubital tunnel syndrome."
Surprised, he stares at me, the paperwork, then at his artwork on my arm. Reaching for a medicated swab he then erases it all and starts again, only this time the line goes from my wrist to my elbow with the Arrowhead and lettering being completed at my elbow. My wife looks at me and I look at her and clearly we are both thinking the same thing.
' Does anyone here know what they are doing? '
And so I'm sent off to get into the garb I'll be wearing in theatre before being called to go lie on a bed ready to be wheeled in. As I'm lying there a woman in theatre dress hovers over me, "Hello there Mr Grant, I'm Monica your anaesthetist for today."
"I already have one. Dave. I spoke to him earlier."
"No, you must be mistaken. I'm your anaesthetist for today. Just been reading your notes. Won't be long now."
With that said, theatre porters start pushing me along the corridor towards theatre.
"Why you stopping here?" Asks porter one.
"He's theatre five." says porter two.
"Nah, he's theatre seven." insists porter one.
"Well lets just put him in five, if it's wrong they can move him around."
But what if theatre five is a sex change operation or a limb removal? I think to myself, but I'm beyond protesting.

Nurses gather around, stick needles in me, hitch up drips and offer reassurance before wheeling me properly into theatre five. It's all systems go. A face appears above mine, she's holding in her hand a green face mask, "Hello, I'm Jasmine, your anaesthetist for today."
Before I could tell her about Dave and Monica, the mask was on and I was asleep.

My one and a half hour surgery became a four-hour surgery. Not sure why, but it panicked the life out of my poor wife who was given no information (maybe they were sticking my balls back on after realising their mistake?).

I woke up in recovery before being sent to a ward.
"Three days you'll be here Mr Grant." The nurse said , "Or at least until you can hold water down, food down, pee more than 20 mm and move your fingers."
I did all four in less than five hours and begged to go home.

I was aching, drugged up to the eyeballs and tired, but once home I had to telephone my dad who I knew would be worried. What on earth possessed me to do that?
"Hi dad, it's me."
"Who?"
"Rory, your son"
"Can't be, he's in the hospital."
"I'm out. I'm home."
"It sounds like you, did they cancel your operation again?"
"No, they did it."
"And they've kicked you out already? What kind of health service is that?"
"No, I asked to get out. Everything seems to have gone okay."
"So exactly what they did they do son?"
"They took the damaged nerves in my arm and relocated them elsewhere in the arm and now I can move my fingers, even if only slightly."
"Oh my God, that's incredible. They take the nerves out of one arm, put them in the other arm and yet they still work the fingers on the original arm. It's amazing what they can do these days son."
"Well no, they relocated them in the same arm dad."
"That's what I mean, don't you see how incredible that is? They bundle them all up in the one arm and yet they work both arms! Amazing!"
(Big sigh) "Yes dad, yes. All my nerves are now in my right arm but they operate the left. Next year, they're going to put my brain in my buttock to cure my sciatica."
"Ah now you're talking nonsense son, it must be the anaesthetic. I'd better let you get some sleep. Great to hear you're okay! I'll tell your sisters you're well and about that amazing surgery. Fantastic what they can do these days. Bye son!"

Thank you once again everyone :)

Rory

Now you see it...

Quick post before I go to bed - I've been working like a trojan today. I spray blasted the pavers on the porch to rid it of weeds growing between the pavers themselves - took me hours but by God we've got the cleanest pavers in Australia now. As I had the spraying machine out I thought I'd clean the batshitmobile too - didn't occur to me that it might be a bit too powerful for the car - but my wife rarely looks at the paintwork so hopefully it'll be sometime before she realises half of it is missing (I can always blame it on acid in bat crap or something).
But, but, but, the whole point of this blog post is to yap on about my favourite hobby - Photography! It's not just the taking of pictures I love - I love Post Processing (see, I am weird).

All tonight (and it's after midnight now) - I've been working on a picture of my eldest stepdaughter. I tried to catch her just 'naturally smiling' when she was with the dog that day we were all out together. Unfortunately that means you gotta take whatever else is in the picture at the same time too...if you look at the original example on the left you'll see a maroon pole which I hated, also on the left you'll see an elbow sticking in, and the roof of the cabin behind her points into her head. But I wanted to save it, I think I did. I took the pole out, smudged out the elbow and made the roof of the cabin appear to be behind the tree to stop it from 'pointing' into her head. I love Photoshop...

Did it work?

Oh, and so you don't think we are constantly lovey dovey like the Ingles' in Little House on the Prairie or the Brady bunch - on that same day here's how one sister totally ruined another sister's 'nice shot'...

G'night everyone - Great to be back :)

Rory

If I had my life all over again...

I'd be a photographer. Yes I would. I love taking photographs. Today's blog is a happy one but nothing happy seems to happen these days without a dose of misery to kick it off - so let's get that bit out of the way first.
For a year now I've been writing various short stories and one work of non fiction, all of which disappeared when my lap top died (My wife has repeatedly told me - 'Once you're finished writing for the day, e-mail yourself what you have done and it means it will never be lost'.)

Of course stupid old 'My lap top will never break' me - has never e-mailed anything. Lap top died and all my work went with it. So the New Year was miserable - a year's work gone in a second.

My arm has become so bad that a solid plastic truss rod has been inserted down the length of my padded splint to stop me from bending the arm - my arm has to be outstretched at all times. You can't drink beer and eat a pepper steak pie at the same time like that - more misery.

Anyway - my three wonderful step daughters all happened to be in our house at the same time - (the eldest lives in her own place, the middle one is never here (always with friends) so to have all three here at the same time is really pretty rare). But I thought 'damn it to hell! Get yourself dressed up lassies and we'll go spend an hour taking pictures of you all together'
The wisest (the youngest), asked how I intended to hold a camera when I can't hold a beer and a steak pie?
"Coz I'm taking this damned truss rod out!"

And off we went to the bushland.

To be honest - I was delighted with the results...

And then Brenna decided to turn the camera on me lol - I had no idea how much this illness had aged me until I saw this - I was horrified, but what the hell - just wait and see the difference in two weeks time (oh and I hadn't shaved coz I can't use my other hand to pull my skin tight lol - not because I was just lazy)...

This is titled 'old tramp living in the woods...'

Thanks to my wife's genius with 'techy' things - I now have a working lap top again, my work has been rescued, I've e-mailed it all to myself, my surgery is 5 days away - things are getting better :)

Rory

Is it Ok to scream now?

I had just written my last blog post - I'd fixed my splints in such a way that I could type again - life was good, I'd got a date for my surgery and it was full speed ahead.
My wife reluctantly applied the brakes.
"I'm glad you're sitting down honey" She said.
I smiled, "Why what's up?"
"I'm afraid I have some rather bad news"
My smile disappeared. 'No' I thought, 'Not my my surgery date being changed, please, please don't be anything as drastic as that. Please don't tell me the hospital called and said my arm couldn't be saved'
Sadly, it was worse than that.
"I don't quite know how to tell you darlin'..." she said solemnly, "But...well...the router is broken and there's no internet until we get it fixed or get a new one."

For over a week now I've been surrounded by real life, pushing in and oppressing me. I walked lonely and distraught around the garden vainly seeking YouTube, Facebook, the blogs of my friends, hell I would have happily read the home pages of the British Government but nature has yet to tune into the new reality. Curse you beauty and normality. I saw so much of my kids that I can name each one by sight now, I can even find my way to the bathroom without being given directions.

Last night the new router was set up - and tentatively I say (so as not to tempt fate) I'm back on line...

My life support has been switched on again :)

Rory

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle...

Our back garden is becoming somewhat overgrown since mowing with one arm and a three wheeled lawnmower (A horse box reversed over it) makes it exceedingly difficult. This brings dangers in Australia - slithery things move in at the first sight of cover.

After our Dog Banjo's recent accident, it's been essential to build up the muscle tone in his rear legs and so Brenna and I take him out to the back garden and have him chase a ball around - not for too long but just enough to slowly build him up. I've said in previous blog posts that whilst he is a big softie - He will attack any animal which threatens to get too close to Brenna and I. And so it was that in a Morphine and Diazepam induced stupor I took him outside and realised Brenna would have to do the kicking as there was more chance of me landing on my ass than actually connecting with the ball...She did just that and it landed by the garden shed door which was open - Banjo raced after it and then suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. He started growling at the shed before barking loudly and taking tentative steps toward the open door.
"Something's in there." I said to Brenna as she walked toward it.
"Probably a lizard" She called back.
I wasn't so sure as Banjo doesn't usually get this agitated over lizards.
Just to be safe I beat her to the door where Banjo continued barking wildly at the insides. I could see nothing.
Banjo appeared emboldened by our arrival and stepped further forward when suddenly we heard a loud rustle and a menacing "Hssssssss" - Banjo leapt back and Brenna yelled 'SNAKE!'

I think she armed herself with a pitchfork and I grabbed a Dutch Hoe (that doesn't sound quite right does it?) but yes it's a garden implement and not a woman sitting in a nearby window bathed in red light . We stepped a little further inside when the most horrifyingly loud "HiSSSSSSSSSS" and the rustling sound was heard again - something darted toward us but too fast to make out as it retreated again.
"Oh My God! It's a brown snake!" Brenna screamed and retreated - given that they are one of the world's top 5 deadliest creatures it was a wise move. Banjo was going ballistic.
"I saw it's eye! It's in that cardboard box in the middle." Brenna yelled...
I stepped a little closer with the Hoe, ready to strike, Brenna had grabbed Banjo by the collar and was struggling to restrain him.  The 'HSSSSSSSSSSS' came loud and clear and I got startled as leaping from the box came quite a young cat in a dreadful condition. It was emaciated, had chewed chunks of it's own tail due to mite infestation, it was so skinny it could have been Kate Moss in a fur coat. It didn't have the strength to put up a fight but was trying hard to. I stepped around it and there in the cardboard box were 4 newly born kittens - the question really was which would die first? The Mother or the Kittens?

Press 'Play' for the answer....

Let's Get Low

There's not much work around for one armed Guitarists. I've therefore had plenty of time on my hand(s) to think back on some of the songs I've written. Yesterday I remembered a song I wrote which was all part of a 'master plan' to ensure solvency in old age. I figured that if I reached pensionable age and was broke - it would be a good idea to have a song of my own which required only the one basic instrument - guitar. That way, if needs be, I could stand on street corners and perform it well into my nineties. Now even that plan is busted. So Mr Bruce Springsteen, Robbie Williams, Neil Young et al, this song has minimal orchestration and arrangement meaning you could stamp your own style on it, and it's available for only One hundred thousand dollars (though I am prepared to open negotiations at fifty dollars).

I didn't want to just post the music so last night I made a wee daggy video to go with it, all of the images in the video were taken by myself or my wife Tracey and so some of the video might not make much sense - but it was all I had to work with lol. At huge expense we filmed in Rosslyn Chapel (yes of Da Vinci Code fame), Stirling Castle, Edinburgh Winter markets, the 17th Century home of the Duke of Argyll, The Gold Coast Australia, Brisbane - Oh and Lindisfarne on the Holy Isle. We didn't do all that last night however...

Rory

Just for the CIA, the FBI, MI5 and 6...

No, I am not a terrorist but if you are intercepting my e-mails or reading my blog posts you could be forgiven for thinking I am. I do believe there may be some kind of cyber terrorist lurking within my computer.

No one specialises in writing the mundane and banal quite like I do, yet thanks to the wonders of modern technology and speech to text software, one could easily think I had become radicalised and was on a mission to destroy the planet.

Brenna was at her biologically responsible dad's the other day and e-mailed me, her socially responsible dad - to say she would be going to the city and wouldn't be home for dinner. I reminded her that 10 minutes before arriving home on the bus "Don't forget, send text". I issued the command 'send'. Then sat back horrified at what my software had just mailed her.
"Don't forget, Semtex".

It has to be trained, cajoled, shouted at to get it into its Bin Ladin sympathising brain that I am a man of peace! Last week my wife almost fell off her chair laughing at my repeated insistence that "Cool! It's easy and..." is not "Bullets to Disneyland".

And then of course, there's Delores (I typed the name) over at the Feathered Nest whom it insists on calling ' Lawless '. Overall however, as you can probably gather from this Blog post - it is slowly picking up on the nuances of my Scottish accent. I'm even hopeful that before too long it will get their law is correct (Delores).

Now, what could be a more peaceful, harmless, terrorism free blog post than one about pretty flowers? Well here goes;

It's the last two weeks of September - and something special here happens every year at this time (besides my busty) ' that should read birthday '. A particular flower in the garden bursts into bloom - I have no idea what it is but it is gorgeous. So much so that I photographed it this morning to share with you. "One plant. four flowers", I'll resist the temptation to say it explodes into colour as no doubt somehow that will come out as "plant, followers, explode."

Rory

Oh...and did I mention the weather?

I've said it before - I'll say it again, 'Everything in Australia tries to kill you.'

Earlier this year my wife and I were sitting in our office at home, outside it was a gloriously beautiful day, the temperature was up in the 90's. We heard a tapping sound on the roof - we looked at one another and my wife said 'Rain or Possums'.
I wasn't so sure, Possums don't ordinarily run over our roof during daylight and as for rain it looked all clear through the window. The tapping got louder, 'Hmm...' my wife thought out loud 'Hailstones?'. But again all was clear through the window.
Our two Dogs in the garden started barking and the tapping became a roar, yet I could still see nothing through the window. It reached the level of a deafening roar and I raced toward the back to find out what the Dogs were agitated about. I hadn't even reached the back door when I could tell what was going on from the trees I could see through the large glass panels - Twister.

With very little warning huge branches were being thrown across the garden, trees were falling, and as I opened the door, mercifully the Dogs came racing in. It was bad. It was as though night-time had descended in the middle of the day. My wife and I locked ourselves in the Office with the Dogs - not even standing next to a plane engine at full throttle could have matched the roar reverberating all around us. It was truly terrifying. The power went out.  And then, within a few minutes it was all over. The sun shone once more and all was quiet save for neighbours yelling. I went out back to check the damage - the garden was destroyed and the perimeter fence had 'gone'. Trees lay across the yard and had tumbled into the nearest neighbours garden too. Mercifully the house had been spared. Even so it would take months to sort all this out.

Later in the day I grabbed my camera and took a stroll around the neighbourhood. There were cars thrown around like toys, the rain which had fallen in just a few minutes had caused flooding. Our driveway had washed away for the fourth time in five years (still to be repaired even now). The images below are from the kids playpark at the bottom of our street.

 

 

 

Our little part of suburbia had been torn apart. My most abiding memory from that day though was of sitting out on the porch surveying the damage and thinking overall how 'lucky' we were. I stood up and headed inside and just as I did so a Fruit Bat flew overhead and shit on my head. I think it was a warning not to get too complacent...

Rory

Of Banjo, Brenna and Blue Tongued Wizards

It's been a crazy week. One which I will try and describe in images. There are creatures everywhere in Australia, and I have no idea what most of them are. My 16-year-old step-daughter in her infinite wisdom however, took the time and trouble to give me the basics when I first arrived here.
"If it has blue on it, it's toxic and will kill you slowly. If it has red, it'll just kill you quickly."

Armed with this knowledge, my faithful friend and I (Banjo my black Labrador), stroll around the garden and I have little fear of what we may encounter, apart from anything else, I have Banjo to protect me. Australia is a tough place to be a dog, it costs over $100 a year for a license just to have one, and the restrictions on their movements in public are pretty tight. At most times they must be on a lead, and rarely are they allowed to run free even in bushland. The penalties for non-compliance are pretty harsh. So if we're not out together somewhere, or my stepdaughter hasn't taken him away to the local dog park, you'll find us in the garden. Ordinarily I ensure the large wooden gate in the garden is locked tight. I have no idea why it was open but it happened to be so earlier in the week when some kind of creature was lurking in the grass at night. I didn't see it, Banjo did and took off like a greyhound after it. Somewhere out there in the darkness he met something fast, heavy and with four wheels. I'm relieved he's alive but damn he's expensive to glue back together again - $700 and that was with a discount for knowing the Vet's Assistant.

Anyway, he is recovering well, not as well as I would hope, but recovering nonetheless. So my wee strolls around the garden have pretty much been on my own.

Two days ago, I left the house via the front door and made my way around the back intending to come in through there - only to find the back door locked.
' No problem ', thinks I, ' I'll go round the front again'. I turned and was met by the most horrifying guttural hiss. There just a few feet from me was some kind of large reptile which at first I thought was a snake. It reared up and I realised it was as long as a cat but half the height. But anyway, the main focus of my attention was the "kill you slowly" blue tongue - which it flashed every time it hissed. I was trapped between it and a locked door. I picked up a small twig and jabbed it in its direction but it only served to make it angrier. I picked up a small pebble and threw it hoping to scare it away but that only made it rush a few more steps towards me angrily. So this was it then, Rory D Grant was about to be despatched by means of toxic poisoning injected by Godzilla's midget nephew. I slumped down onto my ass with my back against the door so as not to appear too intimidating. I felt the glass door slide open and I tumbled inside.

"Watcha doing?" My Stepdaughter asked.
"Thank God Brenna - I was about to be killed slowly by that THING!" I pointed.
"Aww a Blue tongued wizard." (She has a lisp).
She rushed toward it, picked it up and cuddled it.
"No!" I roared "It's dangerous, it's been attacking me!"
"Rory," she said, stroking it in her arms, "They only attack if you are aggressive. Were you throwing sticks or stones at it?"
I thought about that for a second - "Maybe".

We took it to a secluded tropical area of the garden where I photographed it and let it go.

I need Banjo back on his feet - and soon. Life without him is just too dangerous.

Rory

'Technically Speaking'

The porch is where I go to think. I like to sit out there in the dark and warmth and just wrap my head around whatever troubles me. It was raining heavily last night but if you sit on one of the many window ledges then the eaves shelter you from the rain. And that's precisely what I was doing, when Maddy, my 11 year old stepdaughter, came outside and sat on my knee. An opportunity for one of those wonderful bonding moments between a father and daughter, I thought - just like in Disney family movies.
"Why have you come out to stand in the rain Maddy?" I asked.
"Well technically Rory I'm not standing or in the rain am I? In fact make that officially, not just technically."
Clearly she had inherited the 'I'm always right' gene from her Mum.
"No stars tonight." I said, looking at the cloudy night sky.
"Well technically Rory the stars are there. You just can't see them."

I wasn't going to allow this little 'technical' problem to get between us on this, the occasion of one of life's precious and tender moments. I cuddled her closer "The rain has made it a little bit chilly"
"In a way yeah," she replied "but technically it's not the rain that makes it cold."

I remembered a scene from the Woody Allen film 'Annie Hall' where both lead characters were saying things but subtitled beneath them was what they were thinking - my subtitles at this point would have read 'Will you shut the fuck up with 'technically'. I'm 51 years old and I KNOW what I'm talking about! If I say 'There are no stars, the rain has made it cold.' then just accept I'm wise beyond your years and agree.' That however came out as;
"I'll be making pizza later if you want some."
"'Yeah! Cool! Though technically you're not actually making it. You're cooking it. If you made them like you used to, using flour, then yeah you'd be making them. But someone has made them already so really you're just cooking them."
"Have you been getting critical thinking classes at school or something Maddy?"
"What's that?"
"Never mind."
"Is it something old people know about? Like you?"
"I'm not old!"
"Well, technically speaking you are. But I must say you've done really good for an old person. You learned the English language really quickly when you came to Australia." She stood up and said "Okay, I'm going back inside now."  And with that my Disney family movie moment was gone...though technically it wasn't quite over...I pushed open the front door "MADDY!"
"Yeah?"
"I learned your language better than you thought." I smiled, "I'll spare you the technical details darlin'  but technically and officially your bedroom is a shit tip - will you get it cleaned up please!"
Visibly thinking she looked up at me and smiled, "Wow. You're right."

Yes yes yes yes yes yes!

Rory

I'm Genuinely Happy - Two Rights Have Made a Wong!

Forgive me for the title - I couldn't resist. She has the right to live openly and freely with her gay partner. She has the right to IVF treatment from an unknown donor - as a consequence Australian Finance Minister Penny Wong will be mother to a child within her same sex relationship with partner Sophie Allouache. I'd like to congratulate them both whilst pointing out how delighted I am with Australia's non-hysterical, tolerant and respectful attitude towards their news - a respect which is reflected in Australian media. Any coverage of it here has been 'matter-of-fact' with the only public dissent I can see - emanating from folks who would otherwise be stoning wayward wives to death were there not laws against it.

I can imagine the headlines in Britain or the USA if a senior Government official announced the imminent arrival of a child within a same sex relationship. I don't think there would be rioting in the streets but all the old prejudices, all the simmering homophobia would undoubtedly rise to the surface. I'm both delighted and proud of the Australian approach to this issue. It would be foolish and dangerous to suggest that Homophobia is dead in Australia - and of course there's still that little hurdle of gay marriage to address. One would hope it's only a matter of time before sense, justice and compassion prevail.

Meanwhile - back in Scotland, the party I supported all my life allowed bigotry and discrimination to raise its ugly head to the extent I almost ripped my kilt off. I hope again that sense and compassion will prevail. Nationalist MSP John Mason has tabled a motion at the Scottish Parliament stating that no person or organisation should be forced to be involved or to approve of same sex marriage. I could write for hours on this subject alone - but I won't. Calling Mr Mason a fool will have to suffice for now. My hand is dead again and I have a garden wilderness out there which on this Sunday is calling to be transformed into a garden of delights. I'm off to brave spiders and snakes armed only with gloves and a Dutch Hoe. That's the gardening implement type of Hoe lest anyone wondered.  :)

Rory

"C'mon Bertie!"

This is part II of 'Blackford Bert' - Part one can be found at this link - Speedy Gonzales AKA Blackford Bert


Blackford Bert was a 'ringer'. A dog which had won every race it ever entered - in Ireland (or so Gordon had been told). If he could enter it in a race in Scotland without its pedigree and history being known it would win easily and the family could clean up from betting on it. Thing was though, once it had run that first race it could never be a ringer again. It's speed would have been noted and it would be placed in higher quality races from then on and none of us had the know how to train it properly. The upcoming race at Shawfield was the do or die, all or nothing, once in a lifetime chance to make a small fortune. No one was left out. Long lost cousins were called, everyone Gordon owed money to, even our own landlord was let in on the secret - Friday night we'd all be rich.

Bertie had been drawn trap 1 that night - the most favourable position, up against the rail and the shortest route to the finish line if he just hugged the corners. The prize money was pennies and not worth worrying about, the real money was going to be made on betting. Looking around Shawfield Stadium it seemed to me there were more Grants at the dog race than I had ever seen at a wedding or funeral. My Dad's five brothers were there, Gordon, Jimmy, Alex, John and Jack. His sisters were there too, Mary, Flo, Doreen, Maisie and Moira. Then the cousins, nieces and nephews. Everyone it seemed was here to put their their rent money on Bertie. Moving between them I could hear the nervous whispers "What if Gordon's wrong?", "Are you absolutely sure?"
I had every confidence in Bertie - I'd been taking him out the communal back yard and attaching his leash to the washing line for a week and throwing him biscuits, he seemed to move pretty fast. Through my ten year old eyes a dog which could reach a biscuit before the biscuit even hit the ground over a distance of ten feet was undoubtedly a racing champion.

The Bookies started calling the odds "Trap one - Blackford Bert nine to one" The huddled Grant masses started moving toward the assembled bookmakers and Uncle Gordon cautioned them "Don't all rush - too much money in one go will give the game away. The Bookies will suspect he's a ringer. Nice and easy. Just amble up slowly."
I gave my Dad the two shillings I'd got from Uncle Gordon for 'training' Bertie on the washing line "On the nose Dad". I had no idea what it meant but everyone else had been saying it during the previous races - it seemed the right thing to say. Dad smiled "Well if it wins son it means you get eighteen shillings back. Let's hope Gordon knows what he's talking about."

The odds tumbled to two to one as the bookies realised money was pouring in for Blackford Bert and that a sting was most likely under way, but that didn't matter to the Grants - they'd already grabbed him at nine to one.

We all gathered at the trackside, up against the rail, the starting bell rang, the electric Hare took off and the traps sprung open.

Blackford Bert was everything Uncle Gordon said he was - He came out of the traps like a bullet and reached the first corner two lengths clear. His red jacket distinctly showed him four lengths clear by the second corner. The race was virtually over by the third corner so great was the distance between him and the other dogs. We all hugged one another in astonished disbelief as he headed for the final corner and when the realisation dawned that this was the biggest pay day ever - no one could contain themselves any longer. The nervous silence erupted into a crescendo of ''C'MON BERTIE!" - The whole family were screaming it in unison - and that's precisely what Bertie did - He 'Came on'. Without breaking his stride he ran to the trackside rail, and in a single bound flew over it onto the terracing where we stood. Delighted to see us he wagged his tail furiously and leapt up and down between Uncle Gordon and myself. Stunned silence ensued. Five other dogs flashed past on the track and we all stared down at Bertie in horror.
In a strained and terse voice Uncle Gordon asked "Who called out 'Bertie?"
Everyone shook their heads even though everyone had.
No Taxi home that night, not even a bus. It was a long silent walk through the dark.

Rory

Speedy Gonzales AKA Blackford Bert

Growing up I became acutely aware that the men of the family enjoyed gambling; horses, dogs, football, cards - if there was a turn of chance or luck then they'd have a few shillings on it. My Dad had five brothers, and more fantastic, larger than life uncles a young kid couldn't ask for. One in particular, my uncle Gordon, had a lifelong love of betting on greyhound racing. Unannounced, he turned up one day at our crumbling tenement flat in Maryhill, Glasgow, with a smile as wide as the river Clyde,
"Our fortune is here! Our fortune is here!" He proclaimed.
Dad and I stared at the family fortune as it raised its leg and pissed against the coat-stand in the hallway. A black greyhound my uncle had won in  a poker game in Partick.
"This dog is the fastest thing ever! Faster than speedy Gonzales!" his big, fat, burly frame exclaimed.
Soon, the message filtered from one bar to another, the uncles 'gathered' at our place, and through the haze of a sitting room filled with cigarette smoke (which was probably stifling its chances of winning a walk to the park let alone a dog race) they admired 'Blackford Bert' or 'Bertie' as he was known on non racing days.
"He looks stunning, a real champion," my uncle Jimmy said between puffs on his cigarette and the others chokingly agreed.
I didn't quite get it  - to me he looked less stunning and more stunned as he lay on his back in front of the coal fire with his legs in the air. I was sure none of them knew anything about dogs and yet there they were proclaiming that this dog - which had only so far walked from where uncle Gordon had won it and then climbed the stairs to our tenement flat, was the fastest dog alive.

So, 'wee Rory' was tasked along with uncle Gordon to keep Bertie fit and healthy until it could be entered in a race at Shawfield Stadium. Uncle Gordon had read somewhere that swimming was good training for dogs and so that week, off we went to hire a rowboat on Bingham's pond.

We bundled the dog onto the boat and rowed out into the middle at which point Uncle Gordon issued the highly technical dog training command "Throw him in then Rory".
Splash.
"Yes!" He yelled, "It's a good distance to the bank from here - this will be a really good swim for him."
"Uncle Gordon, isn't the dog meant to be moving?" It seemed to me to be perfectly still.
"Aye Rory - it's dog paddling just now. It'll get its bearings in a minute and start swimming to shore."
"It's not moving at all Uncle Gordon."
"Don't be silly boy of course it's moving, it has to or it'll drown."
We both peered at it over the side of the rowboat. It was then the realisation dawned that the pond wasn't deep enough for a dog to swim in - it was just standing there, shivering, staring at us both accusingly, water almost reaching its underbelly.
"Damn!" Uncle Gordon muttered.
"What do we do now?" I asked as our boat started drifting further away from Bertie who was still standing there, traumatised.
"You'll have to get in the water Rory. We can't row the boat towards him - we might hit his ribs or legs!"
Reluctantly I became man overboard and started wading toward Bertie while urging "C'mon Bertie". The water was freezing. Bertie started ploughing his way toward me and from there I led him to the boat. Between my uncle Gordon and I he was just too heavy to lift out of the water back into the boat. Uncle Gordon jumped into the water too and together we raised him up high enough to put him back in the boat - at which point he gave the boat momentum and it started sailing away from us. A small crowd had gathered on the shore watching these two stupid people with an intelligent dog - well it was obviously intelligent and they were obviously stupid - they were in the water while it was seated comfortably in the boat.

We should have taken it as a sign, an indicator that 'our fortune' may not be what we hoped for. But no, we didn't. Race day at Shawfield was only a week away and every uncle, every aunt, every cousin, every niece and nephew had already been tipped to set aside their rent money that week - The Grants were about to get rich with the biggest racing certainty ever.

Part II can be found at the following link - "C'mon Bertie"

Slow

Typing is still hard to do - easier to make movies these days. With that in mind I remember when I first came to Australia. I had written a song just before I got here and my step-daughter (who was only 16) wanted to make a video to go along with it - so at great expense (I reckon the budget ran to about $18 for petrol to get to the top of a mountain) Here it is - I found bits of it in this lap top and put it together with new titles today - You are allowed to be scathing about the song lol - I can take it :) Don't knock the Director though - she's just a wee lass armed with enthusiasm and a cheap camera. The female backing vocalist on this is a barmaid I met in Scotland and I thought she had a great voice - she's now a nationally renowned singer - Claire McNeill.

Rory.

The Domestic Brotherhood of Bluster...

My whole family has been a relentless source of humour from as far back as I can remember. But today, I think I'll write up a conversation I had on the telephone with my Dad just a few months ago...in a way it typifies precisely what I mean. My Dad is an amiable gentle giant but of the bumbling variety, never quite seems to get anything right first time around...And so I called...unexpectedly it was my Sister 'Biff' who answered my Dad's telephone...


Biff - 'Hello'

Me - 'Hello'

Biff - 'I'm calling about my Dad's ironing...'

Me - 'No, I'm calling you'

Biff - 'No, I'm calling you - it's about my Dad's ironing-'

Me - 'Biff it's me, Rory. I just called Dad's phone number'

Biff - 'Rory? My brother in Australia! Oh! I was calling the ironing shop about Dad's ironing'

(Dad's voice in the background) 'Rory? In the ironing shop? What's he doing in the ironing shop? Gimme the phone Biff!'

Dad - 'What you doing in the ironing shop son?'

Me - 'I'm not in the ironing shop Dad, I'm in Australia - I was phoning you and-'

Dad - 'Amazing! You're in an ironing shop in Australia! How's that for coincidence? Is that what Biff is trying to tell me?'

Me - 'No Dad I'm not in an ironing shop anywhere - I'm on my porch in Australia calling to tell you something and ask how you are'

Dad - 'Oh right (pause)...so who is in the ironing shop?'

Me - 'Dad, can we forget the ironing shop for a minute - Have you ever heard of an organisation called the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor?'

Dad - 'The Domestic Brotherhood of Bluster?'

Me - 'No Dad - the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor. I've been researching them.'

Dad - 'Nope son, the Domestic Brotherhood of Bluster is a new one on me. Who are they?'

Me - 'Hermetic Dad, Hermetic - Luxor as in Luxor in Egypt'

Dad - 'Ahhh The Hermetic Brotherhood of Bluster! (Silence) Nope never heard of them'

Me - 'LUXOR!'

Dad - 'Lucknow?'

Me - 'Frikkiin Luxor Dad!'

Dad - 'Oh I've got it! The Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor! (Pause while he thinks) Is it a Horse? Are you giving me a tip for the horse racing son?' 


Me - 'No Dad, it's not a horse. It's an organisation.'


Dad - (Sounding crestfallen) 'Oh I thought it was a wee tip from Australia there. Oh well son - what about this organisation?'

Me - 'Well the point is Dad - their organiser 150 years ago came from Crawford Street in Partick Glasgow and he had the identical name to you and I - Rory D Grant! It made me think he MUST be a relative.'

Dad - 'How do you know that?'

Me - 'I read a one hundred and something year old book of theirs and it had printed on it - for more information contact Rory D Grant, Organiser, 38 Crawford Street, Partick, Glasgow'

Dad - 'And did you?'

Me - 'Did I what?'

Dad - 'Contact him?'

Me (Exasperated) 'It was a hundred and something year old book Dad! I was thinking we must be descendants of his as there were few Rory D Grants around at that time in Glasgow!'

Dad - 'So is it possible to contact him?'

Me - 'Maybe Dad (big sigh from me) but it would require a clairvoyant'

Dad - 'Well maybe he has relatives you could get in touch with?'

Me - 'That's what I'm trying to tell you - we're the relatives!!!!'

Dad - 'Oh well, I'll look that up on the internet son. You can find everything there. Did you know I can play golf as Tiger Woods on it?' 


Me - 'Really Dad? that's great. Now about the brotherhood...'


Dad - "Oh don't worry if I find any relatives of his I'll contact them and let them know you know where he lives. Will that help your research?'

Me (Almost ready to squeeze the life out of the phone) -  'Yeah...thanks Dad, that would be great. Could you maybe pass me back to Biff please and I'll tell her what I've just told you and then she can explain it better.'

Dad - 'Ok son, great speaking to you again! Take care and you don't send me enough photographs you've taken yourself of Australia. Send me photographs of things which are unique to Australia will you? Like Kangaroo's, a picture of a Koala Bear would be nice and...and a harmonica Okay? Bye!'

Dialling tone as he hung up the phone..... 

Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!


I Love the Old boy to bits :)


A Harmonica?


Just for you Dad - Just for you...

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