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The first time I crossed paths with the person that would eventually become one of my favorite mentors, I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. It was 2012, and I met Richard Hopkins ...
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Redditor opens up about his influencer wife becoming more interested in creating a perfect facade for followers than real life. After getting sick of everything having to match her aesthetic, he ended the marriage.
If only she had pronounced his name right. She wouldn't have been insulted. Honestly, I never understood why elders expect kids to respect them just because they are older than them. Respect is and always should be a two-way street. If you treat me with respect, you aren't getting any back. It really is as
If only she had pronounced his name right. She wouldn't have been insulted. Honestly, I never understood why elders expect kids to respect them just because they are older than them. Respect is and always should be a two-way street. If you treat me with respect, you aren't getting any back. It really is as
Friendship is a two-way street. So when someone finds themselves doing all the work, they begin to question its value.
What you need: ~Stretch fabric- I used one-way stretch but if you want a little more comfort I think two-way would be better. ~Stretch Overlooking thread- You can use normal overlocking thread but you wont get the same give and comfort that Stretch will give you. ~Scissors ~Pins The grid is 1 square equals 2.5 cm or one-inch-square. This is a size Medium and if you pick a good stretch and stretch overlocking can fit most sizes but if you are worried you can make the pattern larger by having each square equal 2.7cm or smaller 2.3cms. This pattern has a 1cm seem allowance included. Step One: Make a fold about the width of you stocking on the fabric (each leg will need to be on a fold.) Step Two: Lay pattern on fold of fabric, pin and cut. Step Three: Pin and overlock open sides together leaving the top open. Step Four: Overlock around the top keeping it open and trim away excesses threads. And Wallah! It’s done. Easy, huh? This pattern has an allocated allowance for a fold over to strengthen it while wearing suspenders but if you don’t like the look you can always cut it off at the height you like (make sure you try it on first or it might come out to short). You can also wear theses with the overlocking on the inside or out, there is not set way. Now you have made your own stockings from scratch you can easily turn a pair of old panty hoes in seamed stockings. Just iron then flat and zoom away on your stretch threaded overlocker. :D This tutorial is only for recreational use and is not for mass productions or sale. Hope you all enjoyed my tutorial. If you have any questions or need help don’t hesitate to ask and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! Oh, and photos! If you makes some take photos and let me see!
She left him behind after he couldn't keep their private life private! 😳🤫🔥
Two detectives hunt a killer amidst the lawless streets and high society of 1930’s Glasgow in this “brawling series debut” (The New York Times Book Review) that “serves up a delicious slice of gangster noir” (Adrian McKinty)—inspired by the true story of the Scottish Untouchables. “A Glaswegian version of Peaky Blinders, with razor gangs brawling in the street and festering family secrets . . . a dark and powerful story.”―Sunday Times Glasgow, 1932. When the son-in-law of one of the city’s wealthiest shipbuilders is found floating in the River Clyde with his throat cut, it falls to Inspector Jimmy Dreghorn to lead the murder case–despite sharing a troubled history with the victim’s widow. From the flying fists and flashing blades of Glasgow’s gangland underworld to the backstabbing upper echelons of government and big business, Dreghorn and his partner, “Bonnie” Archie McDaid, will have to dig deep into Glasgow society to find out who wanted the man dead and why. All the while, a sadistic murderer stalks the post-war city, leaving a trail of dead bodies in their wake. As the case deepens, Dreghorn realizes that the answers may lie in his old ties with the victim’s family—and the horrors he saw in the Great War. Edge of the Grave is historical noir at its very best—a gripping mystery that truly transports the reader to the lawless streets and high society of 1930s Glasgow and brings a teeming, chaotic city irresistibly to life. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780593723319 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: Bantam Publication Date: 10-24-2023 Pages: 432 Product Dimensions: 7.90h x 5.20w x 1.00dAbout the Author Robbie Morrison is an award-winning writer in the comic-book industry, and has scripted adventures for iconic characters including Judge Dredd, Doctor Who, and Batman. On both sides, his family connection to Glasgow and the surrounding areas stretches back four generations, and is a source of inspiration for the Jimmy Dreghorn series. Edge of the Grave is his debut novel.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt 1 1910 When Jimmy Dreghorn was twelve years old, Rab Hunter held a cut-throat razor he’d stolen from his older brother Billy to Dreghorn’s neck, causing him to pee himself in front of at least three lassies that he fancied—Dreghorn liked to keep his options open back then, when he was young enough to think he had any. Six years later, as they lay trapped together in the mud and blood of the Somme, Dreghorn would watch Rab Hunter die and wonder where all the hate he’d once felt had gone. “F***in’ hell, Jimmy,” Rab would say in a child’s voice, and then fall silent, staring without seeing, his eyes never leaving Dreghorn’s. The girls who’d been there that day in the no-man’s-land between their schools were Ina Beattie, Louisa McCallum, and Rachel McAdam. Ina, not the brightest or the prettiest, who ingratiated herself with the so-called hard men of both schools with whatever else she had to offer, pointed at the puddle and laughed, which cut Dreghorn almost as keenly as the razor. Louisa had been scared and tearful; only two years later, she would be dead of TB. But Rachel had stood up to Rab as if he wasn’t twice her size. She didn’t even flinch when he motioned with the razor as if to cut her, boasting that this was the blade that had given Matt Johnstone his big braw smile. A few weeks earlier, Dreghorn, kicking a ball on his way home, had turned the corner into Ballater Street to see Johnstone on his knees, whimpering, hands covering his face, blood seeping through his fingers, and Billy Hunter standing over him with the open razor in his hand. There was a girl with Johnstone, pretty, frozen with fear. Billy touched the handle of the razor to her chin, forced her to look him in the eye. “It’s your own fault,” he said, “going with a worthless wee shite like that when you could’ve had me.” He lowered the razor, wiped the blade gently on her breasts, turning the white of her blouse red. “Too late, now, though,” he said. “No’ after he’s been up you.” He closed the blade with a snap and sauntered off. Dreghorn often thought of Rachel and the sympathy she’d shown after Rab had let him go. He’d just stood there in his wet trousers, unable to look her in the eye. Afterward, although he developed an easy charm and humor with other girls, whenever he saw Rachel he was back in that moment, weak and embarrassed in front of the last person he wanted to see him like that. That was partly why, years later, on his last night in Glasgow before shipping out for France, he found himself up a close with Ina, kissing hungrily, as they pulled at each other’s clothes while the rain teemed down outside. She laughed at his fumbling the way she had when the razor was touching his throat, and he drove himself into her hard, not caring, wishing she were someone else. It was a sin, Father Nolan would say; though not, he figured, as much of a sin as taking cold, careful aim at an enemy soldier stumbling blindly across the mud, or driving a bayonet into a man’s belly over and over again, or splitting open a skull with the sharpened edge of a shovel. All of which Jimmy Dreghorn had done before he turned eighteen. 2 Saturday, 1 October 1932 A face; pummeled beyond all recognition. An open tenement door, darkness within, blood smeared across the cold stone floor. Dreghorn wanted to lift the woman from where she lay, but was scared to move her in case he made her injuries worse. Archie McDaid leaned against the wall, head bowed. Usually, Dreghorn went in first, a quiet understanding between them, never talked about. This time, McDaid had gone further in, baton drawn, as Dreghorn had rushed to the woman. He’d stumbled straight back out, stunned. A glimpse was enough. “Just a boy,” he’d said, voice cracking. The woman whimpered, and Dreghorn’s stomach tightened. He knew what she was asking, but couldn’t answer, not the truth. He spoke softly. “Don’t worry, hen, I’m the polis. There’s an ambulance on its way. You’re going to be all right.” He hoped he sounded like he believed it. He got to his feet. McDaid looked up, tears in his eyes, clearly thinking of his own children, and Dreghorn felt a rush of affection for the big man. He brushed it aside. It didn’t do to show weakness or compassion, not in their position. “F***in’ pull yourself together,” he said. The house was the same as the one Dreghorn had grown up in, one room and kitchen to hold an entire family. An overturned table, a shattered chanty, the torn curtain of the alcove box-bed hanging by a single hook, the imprint of a small body on the mattress. Further into the darkness was the range, the big oven that should have been the heart of the home. The fireplace below contained only ashes. He gazed around, sensed the horror in the corner, daring him to look. At first, he hoped the sticky matter on the edge of the range was spilled food, but the sad little form on the floor told another story. The lights of a passing tram shone briefly through the thin blanket pinned over the window. The boy was wearing only a simmit, his skinny limbs startlingly white in the shadows. About six years old, Dreghorn reckoned; hard to tell with the malnutrition that stalked the tenements. He visualized what had happened, in shaky black-and-white-like newsreel footage. The mother bludgeoned to the ground, the chanty emptied over her and smashed. The curtain ripped away in a frenzy to reveal the terrified boy in the alcove. His little body, weighing next to nothing, swung against the iron range again and again. Dreghorn had seen a lot of corpses, dead from natural causes or the brutalities of warfare, but he was glad when the tram light faded. There was a commotion on the landing. McDaid was questioning the neighbors who’d finally found the boldness to emerge, ordering them to bring blankets and tea for the victim, to show some of that community spirit the tenements were famous for. A shape blocked the light, an ambulance man in the doorway. “See to the woman first,” Dreghorn said, his voice pulled from the depths. “Nothing you can do here.” He went out onto the landing. McDaid angled away from the crowd, speaking low. “Victim’s Peggy Bryce. Her man’s one Thomas Bryce. Runs with the Billy Boys, supposedly, though he’s nobody I’ve heard of. He was out drinking. Came back raging, yelling his head off. Nobody bothered too much. A regular occurrence.” Dreghorn scanned the neighbors gathered on the landing and hanging over the banister above, saw a woman watching forlornly as the ambulance men eased Peggy Bryce onto a stretcher. She held his gaze for a moment, then a man—her husband, presumably—drew her away. She pulled free, went to say something, but stopped as the door behind her opened, and a little girl about the same age as the Bryce boy came out blinking in the light. The woman swept the child into her arms and hurried inside. The husband strutted after her, giving Dreghorn a smug look. The door echoed like that of a prison cell as it swung shut. Outside, the tenements loomed high on either side, the walls the color of dried blood. Dim light emanated from some of the windows, others as black as sin. Above the rooftops the sky shimmered red, the furnaces of Dixon’s Blazes ironworks raging through the night a few streets away. One of the ambulance men stayed inside the vehicle with Peggy Bryce. His colleague shut the doors, nodded to Dreghorn, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Another ambulance had arrived, but it wouldn’t be heading to the hospital, and was waiting only for the police photographer to finish at the crime scene. In the squad car McDaid was relaying information to Central Police Headquarters in Turnbull Street via the radio. It was still a novelty; the only lifeline on their early beats was the Acme Thunderer whistle that street bobbies still carried. He had surreptitiously turned on the engine to keep warm. For a man of the islands, he was a big girl’s blouse when it came to the cold.
raise your hand if you're guilty of this ✋
Let's admit right away that customs and fashion are definitely a two-way street. Throughout the centuries of human history, the rich and famous often came up with something that "mere mortals" then happily adopted. Even if following these trends turned out to be detrimental to the state of their wallet.
Not all days are beautiful in the neighborhood. The jerk neighbor from this Redditor's story could surely run for the worst neighbor title.
