Sentence The Twohundredandninetyseventh

“Fuck me,” said Gertie Mountcastle, throwing her copy of The National to the floor and washing down her swearing with a gulp of 80/-, “am no usually an obstreperous yin, but ah could fair throttle the geezer wha thocht o cryin a Storum 'Gertrude' – ah mean tae sey, WHY fer fuck sake?” and the fastidious WPC Isa Urquhart wiped the beer rings from the table with a napkin before saying: “it'll be that Cat Cubie, I betcha – likely it's the zenith o her career, namin Storums – she used to be a bit o a bacchant, but she aye said she knew she wiz gonnae get the toap joab, abdy wants it but she claimed predestination: she telt me aince that she croassed a Gipsy Fortune Teller's haun wi siller at Gullane and she said it wiz in Cat's palm, her sters, an in the cairds: she'd reach the pinnacle an get the namin

storums joab; mind you, Gertie, her short skirts wouldnae be a probulem an mind thon nicht you clicked wi the fella she'd been flirtin wi? she looked daggers at ye, so methinks we need tae pey her a wee visit,” and Gertie nodded into her empty glass, “efter anuvva pint, methinks and as soon as this pub closes, and the Storm passes, the revolution starts!”