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Personalised mugs still to come. Just send any photo to be made into a mug, jigsaw or tile. See examples below. I hope you also enjoy my wee poem about a fankle and a bourach, two great Scottish words

FAITHER’S PREVENTING O’ THE BOURACH
Since this lock doon business started
My Faither’s been working fae hame
Mind, he tells us he’ll sort oot any crisis
Isn’t that what Faither’s are fir?

So last week Mither got into a terrible fankle,
And it wis a’ tae dae wi’ mince.
The butcher told her it hadn’t been hung lang.
So she hung it ower the sink.

My Faither came in fae ben the hoose
Went straight ower tae the sink,
Whaur he found maist o’ his dinner,
Starting tae turn gey pink

I think that we’re heading fir a real bourach,
Says ma Faither tae ma maw.
Mind, we could always add some tatties:
A pot o’ stovies would be braw.

So, the bourach wis prevented,
Through Faither thinking oot the box.
But, he ate the stovies on his ain,
Cause we’d a’ hid fish and chips.
Shirley Gibson 01.02.2021

We are the blanket that keeps you warm
Cocooned inside to weather the storm
But when the sun comes out the layers will shed
You’ll run like the wind on the road ahead.

You are the heart of our universe
You smile and make us so strong
From the day you first came into our lives
Your joy kept us moving along.

Willow, you have a long way to go
And cannot yet run around
So till the day comes that you can spread your wings
We will keep you safe and sound.

Mummy, Daddy, Harley, Sophie, Lily and Missi Lulu.

Shirley Costello Gibson 25.04.2021

Johnny’s Mam
Johnny’s away to the Army. He’s joined the Engineers.
From Manchester’s sewers to Flanders Fields’
And he says he’ll be back in a year.

Apparently he’s working in trenches. He says it’s really good.
“It’s just like working in the underground
And they’ve all got plenty o’ food.
They call them the sappers
[Something to do wi’ spades]
But I’m glad he’s coming home soon. I’m busy counting the days.”

Johnny

“I think I’ve reassured me Mam that this hell hole’s a piece o’ Heaven,
But we really work in a secret place.
We call it Armageddon.
It’s under the trenches, far from the day,
Where we’ve got to dig out the bloodied clay.”

They needed our skills to work quiet and fast
So they sent us to Chatham and made sure we passed
We’re the 170th [Tunnelling] Company Royal Engineers
Sounds a lot better than building the sewers
The wage is six shillings, a fortune indeed
So I’ll send it to me Mam for the bairns to feed

We’re lying in the tunnel Andy and me
Wedged between the trolley and the wall
Filling and loading the bags o’ clay
For the Trammer to make his call
Our mates are on their crosses, kicking irons
In the cloying earth
And the Infantry pump in the air so we can catch our breath

Jerry is doing much the same on the other side of the wall
They’re not really any different from us
We all answered the call
They’ll also be young lads pulled away
from their norm
And, Just like us Brits, they’ve had to conform

But we’ve got to fight for every inch
Or so our superiors say
So we will stay in the shadows meantime
Kicking and digging the clay
Until the day dawns when peace is here
We can go out into the sunset free from fear

Further up the line, the listener lifts his hand
I can hear a wsht wsht sound coming from the sand
Andy says “It’s your heart beat, pounding in your ears”
“Now go and take a deep breath and dry away your tears”

I see a trickle of debris falling from above
The candle flickers and stops
Then comes the sound of thunder
I can’t feel the props
“Run lads, run like hell”

On all fours along the passage
Trying our best to escape the gases
But our way is blocked,
dust clouds rise
I feel for Andy and close his eyes
I lean back against the crumbling wall
And feel cocooned in the sinking shawl

Now all is still, me Mam is here
She takes my hand to ease my fear
I’m safe and sound in the sunset glow
And know that, at last, I can safely go
Shirley Gibson 12.01.2020 copyright

Shirley’s Ode to Troyboy
He looks at me with his mournful eyes
As on the couch he lies
His legs point up to the moon
And his bits gang aft awry

Yes, I’m talking about Troyboy
Indeed, an ode to joy
He’s often left us breathless
As he runs after his toys

But he collects up all his sticks
And guards them with his life
We wouldn’t try to take them from him
We couldn’t take the strife

The years have rolled on for Troyboy
He’s getting a wee bit slow
And his little legs are knocking together
Completely ruining his flow

But he never loses the fight
And still has the strength
to take all the covers
From me in the middle o’ the night

Goodnight then Troyboy
Fae me and Josh
Sleep the sleep of the righteous
And look after your gong
Shirley Costello Gibson

Dan O’Mahoney, you’re the CCTC:
A Marine brought in to guard our seas,
Against marauding bands of life jacketed savages
Who “our green and pleasant lands” would ravage.

Danny, get on your “chariot of fire”
and unleash Britannia’s superior force,
To repel the mighty Armada of the foe,
Paddling over in their tiny boats.

Hail Clandestine Channel Threat Commander,
Get your act together, please do not dander.
Fetch your “bow of burning gold”
But be sure you point it straight and bold.

Your country needs a steady hand,
Our perspicacious Government agrees
That your fight on the beaches of our lands,
Will save us from those Herculean miscreants.

We know that the Ministry for Immigration Compliance,
Will always be there for a handy alliance,
With our Clandestine Channel Threat Commander
And the Department for the salubriousness of Great Britannia.

Shirley Gibson 30.09.2020 copyright

Since this lock doon business started
My Faither’s been working fae hame
Mind, he tells us he’ll sort oot any crisis
Isn’t that what Faither’s are fir?

So last week Mither got into a terrible fankle,
And it wis a’ tae dae wi’ mince.
The butcher told her it hadn’t been hung lang.
So she hung it ower the sink.

My Faither came in fae ben the hoose
Went straight ower tae the sink,
Whaur he found maist o’ his dinner,
Starting tae turn gey pink

I think that we’re heading fir a real bourach,
Says ma Faither tae ma maw.
Mind, we could always add some tatties:
A pot o’ stovies would be braw.

So, the bourach wis prevented,
Through Faither thinking oot the box.
But, he ate the stovies on his ain,
Cause we’d a’ hid fish and chips.
Shirley Gibson 01.02.2021

Wendy’s embroidered exhibit in Scotland’s National Portrait Gallery. This is part of the exhibition “You are here, 2020: Stories, Portraits, Visions” all about life during lockdown

Wendy’s little treats for Easter include Easter bunny egg holders [personalised] and bunny treat bags