The Escape



The call for the police was frantic. Post-stroke and with diminished eye-sight our father had ‘disappeared’. It was s time amid the trauma of a bomb of hurt and a recovery when he could feel all at sea.

Haunts, friends and allies were phoned, asked and probed.


The first sight of him. He was in range of the safe haven of the sheltered housing. The claw came into view.

The three-pronged end of his walking stick. A thrawn beast, this walking stick with a queer end; to be put up with by someone who had been a Pipe Major on two continents.

Of course. A return. He had been calling in at the ‘YES’ shop on Kirkcaldy High Street.

This was them dropping him off. Home and safe.


Today I thought of that. I was still (somehow) shocked at a Sir, a Scottish Sir sell his soul: the suspension of two very senior MPs today from their parties.

A new system is built from the bottom up.

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