Sentence The Onehundredandninetyfirst
Fortunately for George Gill, or perhaps unfortunately would be the more appropriate term, given those events which were destined to follow, but here I must restrain myself from flying too far ahead, and be diligently resumptive, for his devoted and deluded wife, Sandra Gill, a woman gifted with no intelligence but a natural flair with needle and thread – or, more usually - silk, which she used to great effect, not only in continually repairing, restoring and keeping in pristine condition his Masonic Regalia, but also in creating little miniature masterpieces, copies of notable works of art, which sold like hot cakes in the Charity Shops of Morningside, particularly those devoted to the temporal and spiritual needs of children in the Capital's less salubrious neighbourhoods, a number of which hem the Morningside enclave in on all sides, and where George and a number of his like minded fellow philanthropists might be regularly seen on Summer evenings, when the warmth brought children away from their Play Stations or Lap Tops, to cavort in the skimpiest of raiment in their front gardens, or 'dumps', as George and his chums thought them, as they strolled and occasionally paused to chat with any parents who lounged on a west-facing doorstep to catch the last rays of north-western sun, or, better still, with the less-nourished children themselves, often disbursing a handful of
coppers, a can of Irn Bru or a Tunnock's Tea Cake to a particularly coy or even, utter the word quietly, cute, individual, particularly those neglected by even the standards of their neighbours, whose parents have taken themselves out “fer a swally, mister,” as one sweet waif might say, on which occasions it might be that, having ascertained no elder siblings remain within, but are, rather, further afield engaged in nefarious activities of their own, and so, an upstanding and affluent gentleman of substance, clearly not a fly-by-nighter, shift-lifter or, in the common parlance, 'Pedo', finding himself “caught short,” and without a public convenience within the square mile, might, not unnaturally,
enquire of the child if he might avail himself of a visit to the, “bog?” enquires one child, “loo?” another and, while his back is covered as the military might say, by a Man in Size 13 Boots who positions himself nearby on the pavement, a man who, at just the barest sight of such a dude-bro, many adults of the street will have found themselves reminded that a certain show is about to start on their Plasma, or phone call must be urgently made to Cousin Billy, advising him not to pop round for a bit, as “The Pigs are Aboot” and who, even the most obstreperous, wants their collar felt on such a balmy evening? and so it was that, on this particular morning, while one of that close group of Friends of Neglected Children lay a-dying on top of his expensive book of photographs, Sandra Gill suddenly remembered that she had not taken her dear husband his morning coffee, put aside her vacuum cleaner, which she had been using so diligently to remove any loose ends of threads and silks from the carpet of her workroom at the top of their comfortable residence, and hurried down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen, assembled what was necessary, and after only a very few minutes, took the mug and hot buttered toasted teacake to his study, where she found him prostrate on the floor, still in his pyjamas, with a cardigan over his shirt top; the tray fell to the floor – silently, for the thick pile prevented any breakages, and absorbed most of the coffee - and fell to her knees beside him: now, bright, Mrs Sandra Gill was not, but she was instinctive, and her first and overriding instinct was self-preservation; this instinct applied to herself and consequently, as there was no concept of her own individuality within her consciousness, even more so to He Who Must Be Obeyed, her Lord and Master; she snatched up the telephone, called 999 and summoned an ambulance, for she had no idea
what George might be suffering and realised that only Medical intervention could save him; and a scant five minutes later two Paramedics arrived with their ambulance and took over the task of resuscitating and maintaining the life of this most distinguished citizen, for the benefit of his Family and the City of Edinburgh, and, had they only been aware, the despair of it's deprived children!
Fortunately for George Gill, or perhaps unfortunately would be the more appropriate term, given those events which were destined to follow, but here I must restrain myself from flying too far ahead, and be diligently resumptive, for his devoted and deluded wife, Sandra Gill, a woman gifted with no intelligence but a natural flair with needle and thread – or, more usually - silk, which she used to great effect, not only in continually repairing, restoring and keeping in pristine condition his Masonic Regalia, but also in creating little miniature masterpieces, copies of notable works of art, which sold like hot cakes in the Charity Shops of Morningside, particularly those devoted to the temporal and spiritual needs of children in the Capital's less salubrious neighbourhoods, a number of which hem the Morningside enclave in on all sides, and where George and a number of his like minded fellow philanthropists might be regularly seen on Summer evenings, when the warmth brought children away from their Play Stations or Lap Tops, to cavort in the skimpiest of raiment in their front gardens, or 'dumps', as George and his chums thought them, as they strolled and occasionally paused to chat with any parents who lounged on a west-facing doorstep to catch the last rays of north-western sun, or, better still, with the less-nourished children themselves, often disbursing a handful of
coppers, a can of Irn Bru or a Tunnock's Tea Cake to a particularly coy or even, utter the word quietly, cute, individual, particularly those neglected by even the standards of their neighbours, whose parents have taken themselves out “fer a swally, mister,” as one sweet waif might say, on which occasions it might be that, having ascertained no elder siblings remain within, but are, rather, further afield engaged in nefarious activities of their own, and so, an upstanding and affluent gentleman of substance, clearly not a fly-by-nighter, shift-lifter or, in the common parlance, 'Pedo', finding himself “caught short,” and without a public convenience within the square mile, might, not unnaturally,
enquire of the child if he might avail himself of a visit to the, “bog?” enquires one child, “loo?” another and, while his back is covered as the military might say, by a Man in Size 13 Boots who positions himself nearby on the pavement, a man who, at just the barest sight of such a dude-bro, many adults of the street will have found themselves reminded that a certain show is about to start on their Plasma, or phone call must be urgently made to Cousin Billy, advising him not to pop round for a bit, as “The Pigs are Aboot” and who, even the most obstreperous, wants their collar felt on such a balmy evening? and so it was that, on this particular morning, while one of that close group of Friends of Neglected Children lay a-dying on top of his expensive book of photographs, Sandra Gill suddenly remembered that she had not taken her dear husband his morning coffee, put aside her vacuum cleaner, which she had been using so diligently to remove any loose ends of threads and silks from the carpet of her workroom at the top of their comfortable residence, and hurried down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen, assembled what was necessary, and after only a very few minutes, took the mug and hot buttered toasted teacake to his study, where she found him prostrate on the floor, still in his pyjamas, with a cardigan over his shirt top; the tray fell to the floor – silently, for the thick pile prevented any breakages, and absorbed most of the coffee - and fell to her knees beside him: now, bright, Mrs Sandra Gill was not, but she was instinctive, and her first and overriding instinct was self-preservation; this instinct applied to herself and consequently, as there was no concept of her own individuality within her consciousness, even more so to He Who Must Be Obeyed, her Lord and Master; she snatched up the telephone, called 999 and summoned an ambulance, for she had no idea
what George might be suffering and realised that only Medical intervention could save him; and a scant five minutes later two Paramedics arrived with their ambulance and took over the task of resuscitating and maintaining the life of this most distinguished citizen, for the benefit of his Family and the City of Edinburgh, and, had they only been aware, the despair of it's deprived children!
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