It was always a pleasure to visit my father in his later years, although we lived more than two

hundred miles away. Even in his nineties, his friendliness, generosity and personal warmth marked

him out as an exceptional human being. And although his physical health was, inevitably, imperfect

he was still mentally as sharp as a tack.

      Our two children, then in their early teens, adored him. Not only was he kind and loving, his

ability to extract humour from every situation made him such fun to be with. He could entertain

them for long periods with tales of life as a village GP and the infinite variety of experiences he

shared with his colleagues in far-off places during World War Two. He was a natural raconteur, who

infused these stories with vivid descriptive detail which made them vital, almost magical.

      This particular visit found my father living downstairs, in the guest bedroom, the stairs now

proving to be one challenge too far. My mother had died many years previously leaving him to be

cared for by several elderly inhabitants of the village. They shared out the chores between them,

cooking, shopping, cleaning, laundry, gardening. None of them expected any financial reward,

although they accepted whatever my father was able to give them. He called it his “practical

thank you”. They were unanimous in saying they were thanking him for his years of total selfless

commitment to their health and that of their families.

      My father had a new tale to share with all of us. He chuckled repeatedly as he related what

was quite a long and involved encounter with the puzzling and mysterious.

      Dad was receiving regular visits from the District Nurses and Social Worker. The former

attended to his health needs, applying lotions, changing bandages etc. The latter provided items of

practical assistance, such as mobility aids.

     There was a new problem. Not serious, but annoying, and detrimental to his sleep requirements.

At crack of dawn each day he was woken abruptly from his sleep by a noisy cockerel, welcoming

the rising sun.

      “Cock-a-doodle doo; cock-a-doodle doo” wrenched him roughly from the arms of Morpheus.

Dad’s group of helpers made enquiries throughout the village. Did anyone admit to owning a noisy

cockerel, overzealous in fulfilling his matinal duties?

All efforts drew a blank. The mystery remain unsolved. The sleep disruption persisted.

      One morning my father received an important visitor. The village Counsellor. He had an idea.

Willie reminded my dad that the village had a reputation as the UFO capital of Scotland. There had

been many more sightings of such phenomena over the skies of that village than anywhere else in

the country. Dad was sceptical, but Willie was an “expert”. He had often been interviewed on radio

and television confirming his personal sightings and expounding his theories. The explanation for

the “phantom cockerel” was obvious, said Willie. Alien manifestations took many forms. This was

surely one of them, admittedly the most unusual to date. Willie proudly proclaimed that he had built 

a “scientific” device intended to trap the “essence” of Aliens. This would be his first opportunity to 

put it to to the test. My father, playing for time, not wishing to offend the earnest Counsellor, asked 

if he could kindly return the following day, giving him time to mentally prepare, and permitting him 

to examine the “Spirit Catcher” for himself. Willie was eager to press on, but reluctantly accepted

the good doctor’s wishes.

      My father was mightily relieved when his best friend, Archie, called that afternoon. Archie was 

a farmer in a neighbouring village. Ten years younger than dad, he was still spritely. A practical, 

down  to earth man of the soil who didn’t call a spade “a wooden-handled metal digging

implement.”

Archie did not mince his words when my father told him of Willie’s proposal.

      “That hippy half-wit wouldn’t know a goose from a Shetland Pony. Kick him into touch.

I’ll come back tonight with my shotgun. I’ll wait outside your bedroom door and when I hear that

b****y cockerel crow I’ll burst in and blow him to Kingdom Come. That’ll solve the problem!”

My dad liked that. He liked it a lot. He and Archie shook hands on the deal. Now he had hope.

                                                                                  *

Archie returned later, shotgun cocked and loaded. He bade my father “goodnight” and sat on a chair

outside the bedroom door. He nodded off to sleep.

      “Cock-a-doodle-doo; cock-a-doodle-doo!”

      Archie was suddenly wide awake,  alert. He kicked upon the bedroom door and pushed inside.

He saw something shadowy, moving near the head of the bed and fired both barrels. A “CRASH”

resounded through the small space and the ceiling light shattered into smithereens showering both

men with shards of broken glass. You’ve guessed it. The moving “shadow” was my father sitting up

in bed responding to the cockerel’s urgings.

      “Jesus Christ, Archie. You could have killed me!”

Both men, stunned, were frozen in their respective positions.

      “Cock-a-doodle-doo; cock-a-doodle-doo!” The creature, undaunted, was mocking them.

Sufficient light flooded through the curtains to enable them to locate the source of the sound.

      “Cock-a-doodle-doo; cock-a-doodle-doo” was coming from a clock on the bedside table.

The two old pals exchanged glances, charged with a symphony of varied emotions. Dad spoke first.

      “Oh-oh, Archie. I’ve just remembered. That kind Social Worker lady gave me that clock with

large numbers to help me wake up in time for breakfast each morning. She said there was a range of

settings and I told her to select whichever was best. But 6am? And a cockerel?”

So Archie uttered some choice words, then, said my dad colourfully, “bu*****d off sharpish.”

Their friendship had been strained by the escapade, but survived to confront subsequent challenges.

                                                                                         *

There were many other pleasures for the family to share during that visit but some thirty years later

both children entertain their friends with the tale of the “Alien Cockerel.”