Oot tae play.

The sun has got its hat on,

protecting baldie heids.

A book as a present,

grass cutting in stripes.

Dean Martin sing-a-long,

mind, only efter you’ve hud a few….

Toes in the ice cold burnie water, slipping on weedy rocks,

hauling out the fire extinguishers.

The woman from Michelin said when the burn was in flood she would watch patio furniture float past.

Eating chocolate mini rolls in the mini bus.

Midnight walks in the hills,

the planting of trees.

Bangin’ oor heids the ‘gether trying tae dig the same hole –

Abbot and Costello….

Leaning on spades,

and lopping of branches,

the losing of keys, again…

Talk of a barbeque – the tatties, burgers,


It wuz a guid laugh the day.

Writing Alistair on a wee scrap of paper so I dinnae forget…..?

Wheelbarrow races,

naturist walking (naw by eeny o’ us ken. )

And tea.

And a jaffa cake, or jammie or hob nob……or………

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Sketches from this mornings walk in Fintry and Whitfield. When the Fintry housing scheme was being built all the street names were prefixed with Fin. So there is a Finlaggan Terrace, Finlarig Place, Findale Street, Finavon Place, Finedon terrace, Fintry Gardens, Findcastle Terrace etc…..

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A pale pink sash to the morning

wraps itself against a tight fitting

hip skimming

grey sky.





holding the heart of a songbird in my hand,



we sing.




Bright pink feet.



Rolled up jeans and skinny white legs,

guddling in the burn.

It is March.

I shiver.

What are you doing ? we ask.

Looking for treasure, he answers with a grin.

Gets out his wallet and shows us a tooth, thinks it might be human….

Another lad says he found a 1970’s coke bottle.

Must be it looks so old.

They are waiting for their mate to finish work.

Bright pink feet.

Searching under stones.

Men being boys again,


at the cold.



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