As a kid growing up in Glasgow, Scotland in the 1950s, it was not at all unusual to receive a whack if you did something wrong.

As I age, I become aware of my mortality. My wife and I have talked about what to do if one of us becomes brain dead.

Somehow, through luck and later, skill, some of the distillers started making and bottling single malt whisky that was drinkable. And that’s the best part of this tale.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” “Yes,” she replied, to my great astonishment.

“It’s your move Roy. The bet is two shillings and hurry up, it’s almost lunchtime,” said my English teacher.

In cold, wet, miserable Glasgow the idea of just wearing swimming shorts and walking barefoot in the sand was enormously seductive.

After dinner, I said, “Would you like to go somewhere beautiful?” She looked at me as if I was mad. “More beautiful than this?” She was hooked, and so was I.

I had been friendly with Roslyn for quite a few years.

“It’s Syriac,” he said. “It’s the script used by the Nabataeans over two thousand years ago.”

Unsurprisingly, music has played a central role in my life. Music can be emotional, erotic, transcendent, hypnotic and, in some cases, downright terrible.

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” she said, eyeing me. “No,” I replied. “I’m a bullshit artist.”
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“Line up against that wall” said the Captain to my uncle Fred. “Platoon. Get ready, take aim…”
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She was a head taller than everyone else, and moved like a real thoroughbred. If anyone truly belonged at Belmont, it was she.
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“What’s that black circle?” I asked the technician while looking at the ghostly images on the screen.
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She said, “If I would have come here 9 months ago, someone would have shot at me.”
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“I wish this boat would stop rocking so much,” I groaned to myself as I opened my eyes and looked in the bathroom mirror.
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“Goodbye” I said with a smile as I stepped over the two bodies twitching on the ground.
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“Aren’t you Morag and Elspeth from Arbroath?”
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I was given a key to the senior executive washroom, allowing me to pee alongside the big shots in the store. What a thrill.
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“You’re going to see that wee, fat conceited bastard?” said the owner. “Why?”
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“You won’t find a hotel room anywhere for the next 300 miles.”
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“Roy, would you do me a favor? Can you visit Sammy in Rikers Island?
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(or: How Adolf Hitler Bought Me a Jaguar)
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“God bless you honey, God bless you”, said Alberta Hunter to my mother.
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