what in tarnation's a skanger

A man who masters his own mind is worth ten thousand who take a city.
Well, so I've heard.
Lunch in the Costa cafe with the Mammy.
I was contentedly munching a mushroom ementhal sandwich when, lo, the crowds parted and I espied a pointy nosed harridan of lean and bony mien bearing down on our table.
Forgive the bitterness apparent in my choice of words.
It was some skanger I used to work with at some skanger newspaper seven skangery lifetimes ago.
This former colleague had spotted us in the cafe and was apparently intent on making contact.
Gnurghhh, as Mohandas K Gandhi always used to say whenever skangers from his past life accosted him in public.
I ask you bold readers.
Why on earth do I never run into people from my past life that I actually like?
There must be at least one.
Okay, okay.
Forget I asked.
The pointy nosed skanger drew level with me and greeted me like there could ever possibly be some amity between us.
She was clutching a baby skanger.
I scowled at the table.
But the Mammy.
The Mammy was having none of it.
She was all: "Oh hello Joan. How are you? And is this your little girl? It's lovely to see you again."
Blah, blah, ephin blah.
Presently the pointy nosed skanger wandered off.
I shot the aged parent my most wounded expression.
The Mammy met my gaze levelly.
"What?" sez she innocently.
"Oh vile treacherous snake woman," I burst out with some restraint.
The Mammy shrugged.
"I'm too old to change my ways," she grinned.
I guess, gentle travellers of the internet, that means it's up to me to change mine.
Later this same evening I sat alone in the window seat on the upper floor of the west wing of the Chateau de Healy.
The family was out.
A Summer storm was blowing up across the fields and I watched the drama.
From where I sat I could see the wind sweeping through the trees sending a froth of rain flying from the July foliage.
The casements shook and a low moan filled the empty corridor behind me.
Most eerie.
I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
It didn't help that I was sitting near the bad room.
By the way, bold readers, the bad room is a sealed chamber of the family home, where legend has it my Great Great Grand Uncle Throgmorton Healy was walled up alive for having an illicit affair with the maid.
They took a dim view of illicit affairs with maids in those days.
Thankfully times have changed.
Arf arf.
But where were we?
Oh yes.
On lonely nights at the old chateau, it is said you may still hear Uncle Throg moaning fitfully from the bricked up room.
"Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrraaaaah," he moans, "arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaah, aaarrrahhh feckkkkkkkkkk."
I kid you not.
So now I'm sitting here.
The rest of the Healys are out carousing.
I am quite alone.
The rain splashes against the window panes.
I shudder.
I have entered the altered state between fear and inspiration.
The splendour of the storm has engulfed the garden.

Uncle Throg moaning in the bad room.

The wind rifling the trees.
The downpour curtaining over everything.
Dusk becoming dark.
And so I face my demons.
Dammit all.
How can I master my own mind?
What is the key that unlocks the spirit?
Damn, damn, and triple damn.
There must be an answer.
And soft.
Soft as dusk.
Softly the wisdom comes.
All healing begins with acceptance of self.
Sometimes we are too much in love with our own sickness.
There is a choice.
Truly there is a choice.
We can choose to be well.