Sentence The Onehundredandninetyeighth
There are people who talk, I know, I've overheard them, and caught their look from the corner of my eye – the one that's specially trained to spot lurkers or corner-johnnies who'd slash the shoulder-strap and make a getaway with your bag, containing your medication, your week's wages, your hoose keys, a letter wi yer address (jist tae lettim ken whaur tae gaun wi yer keys) and the only snaps ye've got o wee Gregor who died o' the croup at thirteen weeks an' a lock o' yer mammie's hair, a pack o' fags wi yer last three in it, yer only lighter, a wee bag o' soor plooms, and whit turns oot tae be a winnin' Lotto ticket fer a Dubble Rollover totallin' 32 Million Squid and there's only THAT YIN; oops, I've become rather gallus there, it shows how much I'm affected by 'them'; the people, usually women, but the odd wee 'sweetie-wifie' among them, who whisper behind your back, give sly nudges in the queue at the Baker's, or a sleekit keek in the Newsagent & Tobacconist's; I hear mentions of 'decadent
bohemians' and 'impecunious so-called writers' or 'women of a certain age with no visible means of support (husband)' and 'drug dealing, or using or such' and the most recent, 'some of her visitors have the look of asylum seekers and self-styled refugees, they've got turbans and Western Isles accents,
obviously affected, they're certainly not Wee Free!' this last said with such conviction that it rattled the glass security screens in the Bank and even brought the Manager's head around the door of his office to assess the situation - but seeing only a 'woman of a certain age' and twa auld biddies, he withdrew it like a tortoise; but I rather like Mr MacGregor, the Bank Manager, he's always been very fair, though I sometimes wonder about the business sense in allowing an impecunious writer with no means of support, visible or otherwise to run up such a high-octane overdraft – he dismisses the rumour-mill as poppycock and obviously believes in my Art and looks forward to announcing that the Best New Young(ish) Edinburgh-based Scottish Writer to Sweep the Best-seller Charts from Niddrie to Portobello had her Personal Account in his Branch and her talent was spotted at a very early stage and nurtured by him and that he owes the success and guaranteed permanence of his Branch solely and exclusively to my Patronage; but it's clear that I am not welcomed by all of my neighbours – Ramsay Gardens was always regarded as having a very select bunch of residents, there
was a certain cachet about this address which made it Highly Coveted – until I pitched up; I think I'm viewed as a nocebo, and just a glimpse of me turns some susceptible people quite puce and running for the lava-tory, as the loo is still (officially) referred to here; there is no doubt that looks were exchanged, eyebrows arched and my belonging scrutinised in microscopic detail (no SOCO is a patch on an Edinburgh Housewife in her traditional garb: Fur Coat and Felt Hat - and Nae Knickers, as they jibe from Glasgow) for she scrutinises every item with a subject knowledge accumulated over 80 years of study and can identify a Jenners China Teacup from one you got from a Charity Shop, blindfold and with their hands tied behind her back – and in a sense they are right; I fell off the back of a Hoverboard and you would think the place had been turned into a kakistocracy when I moved in! clearly I 'lowered the tone'; the previous Tenant of my flat was my Great-Aunt Jasmine (better known
as Lottie Lawless for her 75 novels of derring do and armed robbery on the King's Highway, featuring Lucy Bustles and Dick Hardman, she was only an Innkeeper’s Daughter but she could certainly Pull Your Pint, and he a Highwayman (I know it's obvious, but so was Great-Aunt Lottie) and the plots rather repetitious, but that's what people want, and Lottie gave them everything, with every story including as scene where Rampant Dick plunges himself deep into Lucy's Bustles, to giggles and shrieks, squeals and grunts; but that is all by-the-by; it was only on his death, that her neighbours discovered that Jasmine was not, in fact, married to the Vice-Admiral RN (Rtd) who had shared her flat (and her bed) for the past 30 years – his wife and Family were out in Colinton – and it was only when she realised that in her single state she really required a carer (or Lady's Maid to her generation) but could not afford one and on discovering that were she to move in to a residential home for Retired Members of the Society of Authors in the vicinity of Duddingston Loch and close by the village pub, not having any Heritable Property which could be sold to cover her costs, the Local Authority would meet the expenses, that she flitted quite happily and the Family Trust which owns and administers or in Scotland Factors, the property, decided that I was next on the List of Future Tenants, and so found myself ensconced in one of the Most Desirable of Edinburgh Lodgings,
with a fine view across The Nor' Loch, now drained and neatly kept by the Council as Princes Street Gardens, the ridge of George Street and beyond to the Hills of Fife – and it is here that I entertain my ne'er dae weel relations and friends, along with my delightful Aunts, Daphne and Maude et al, and my many merry Cousins, all of whom appear as balls do on a Snooker table – I'm crap at games of skill, so when I aim the white towards a red and they shoot off in different directions and one pots a pink and the other nudges a black into a corner pocket and the white scoots across to the opposite corner and plop through the hole: that is how I write, and all my Family and Friends are not as Players on Shakespeare's Stage, but wee roon' baws on ma Pal Airchie's Snooker Table an' am pushin' them aboot and jist recordin whit happens, as they ricochet hither an' thither an' rattle doon the cludgie o' life an' Oops – Gallus Alice again, that means it's time tae pack it in and tak a break, afore Aw the Baws is Oan The Slates!
There are people who talk, I know, I've overheard them, and caught their look from the corner of my eye – the one that's specially trained to spot lurkers or corner-johnnies who'd slash the shoulder-strap and make a getaway with your bag, containing your medication, your week's wages, your hoose keys, a letter wi yer address (jist tae lettim ken whaur tae gaun wi yer keys) and the only snaps ye've got o wee Gregor who died o' the croup at thirteen weeks an' a lock o' yer mammie's hair, a pack o' fags wi yer last three in it, yer only lighter, a wee bag o' soor plooms, and whit turns oot tae be a winnin' Lotto ticket fer a Dubble Rollover totallin' 32 Million Squid and there's only THAT YIN; oops, I've become rather gallus there, it shows how much I'm affected by 'them'; the people, usually women, but the odd wee 'sweetie-wifie' among them, who whisper behind your back, give sly nudges in the queue at the Baker's, or a sleekit keek in the Newsagent & Tobacconist's; I hear mentions of 'decadent
bohemians' and 'impecunious so-called writers' or 'women of a certain age with no visible means of support (husband)' and 'drug dealing, or using or such' and the most recent, 'some of her visitors have the look of asylum seekers and self-styled refugees, they've got turbans and Western Isles accents,
obviously affected, they're certainly not Wee Free!' this last said with such conviction that it rattled the glass security screens in the Bank and even brought the Manager's head around the door of his office to assess the situation - but seeing only a 'woman of a certain age' and twa auld biddies, he withdrew it like a tortoise; but I rather like Mr MacGregor, the Bank Manager, he's always been very fair, though I sometimes wonder about the business sense in allowing an impecunious writer with no means of support, visible or otherwise to run up such a high-octane overdraft – he dismisses the rumour-mill as poppycock and obviously believes in my Art and looks forward to announcing that the Best New Young(ish) Edinburgh-based Scottish Writer to Sweep the Best-seller Charts from Niddrie to Portobello had her Personal Account in his Branch and her talent was spotted at a very early stage and nurtured by him and that he owes the success and guaranteed permanence of his Branch solely and exclusively to my Patronage; but it's clear that I am not welcomed by all of my neighbours – Ramsay Gardens was always regarded as having a very select bunch of residents, there
was a certain cachet about this address which made it Highly Coveted – until I pitched up; I think I'm viewed as a nocebo, and just a glimpse of me turns some susceptible people quite puce and running for the lava-tory, as the loo is still (officially) referred to here; there is no doubt that looks were exchanged, eyebrows arched and my belonging scrutinised in microscopic detail (no SOCO is a patch on an Edinburgh Housewife in her traditional garb: Fur Coat and Felt Hat - and Nae Knickers, as they jibe from Glasgow) for she scrutinises every item with a subject knowledge accumulated over 80 years of study and can identify a Jenners China Teacup from one you got from a Charity Shop, blindfold and with their hands tied behind her back – and in a sense they are right; I fell off the back of a Hoverboard and you would think the place had been turned into a kakistocracy when I moved in! clearly I 'lowered the tone'; the previous Tenant of my flat was my Great-Aunt Jasmine (better known
as Lottie Lawless for her 75 novels of derring do and armed robbery on the King's Highway, featuring Lucy Bustles and Dick Hardman, she was only an Innkeeper’s Daughter but she could certainly Pull Your Pint, and he a Highwayman (I know it's obvious, but so was Great-Aunt Lottie) and the plots rather repetitious, but that's what people want, and Lottie gave them everything, with every story including as scene where Rampant Dick plunges himself deep into Lucy's Bustles, to giggles and shrieks, squeals and grunts; but that is all by-the-by; it was only on his death, that her neighbours discovered that Jasmine was not, in fact, married to the Vice-Admiral RN (Rtd) who had shared her flat (and her bed) for the past 30 years – his wife and Family were out in Colinton – and it was only when she realised that in her single state she really required a carer (or Lady's Maid to her generation) but could not afford one and on discovering that were she to move in to a residential home for Retired Members of the Society of Authors in the vicinity of Duddingston Loch and close by the village pub, not having any Heritable Property which could be sold to cover her costs, the Local Authority would meet the expenses, that she flitted quite happily and the Family Trust which owns and administers or in Scotland Factors, the property, decided that I was next on the List of Future Tenants, and so found myself ensconced in one of the Most Desirable of Edinburgh Lodgings,
with a fine view across The Nor' Loch, now drained and neatly kept by the Council as Princes Street Gardens, the ridge of George Street and beyond to the Hills of Fife – and it is here that I entertain my ne'er dae weel relations and friends, along with my delightful Aunts, Daphne and Maude et al, and my many merry Cousins, all of whom appear as balls do on a Snooker table – I'm crap at games of skill, so when I aim the white towards a red and they shoot off in different directions and one pots a pink and the other nudges a black into a corner pocket and the white scoots across to the opposite corner and plop through the hole: that is how I write, and all my Family and Friends are not as Players on Shakespeare's Stage, but wee roon' baws on ma Pal Airchie's Snooker Table an' am pushin' them aboot and jist recordin whit happens, as they ricochet hither an' thither an' rattle doon the cludgie o' life an' Oops – Gallus Alice again, that means it's time tae pack it in and tak a break, afore Aw the Baws is Oan The Slates!
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