This story is a submission for Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. It was prompted by the photo below, provided by C E Ayr.
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Spellin’ it oot
We wernae even catchin’ a bus, we jist kem doun tae get wersels a piece. On ham, if ye need tae ken. The ham wiz mingin’ by the way.
Aun the way oot this auld wife sez tae me, “See yon pair, thayme wi’ next tae nae claes on? They’re no statues, ken? Ah seen them winchin’ an’ ah sez, ‘Get a room’, an’ the wee lassie sez, ‘Away an’ bile yer heid, ya mawkit auld coo.’ I wisnae havin’ that, so I turnt the pair ae them to bronze.”
“Aye, right”, I sez back, smartarse that ah am, “Leave me alane, y’auld munter. Yer bum’s oot the windae.”
An’ wi’ that, she turnt me intae a bloody caution sign.
Then she sez, “Be guid an’ I’ll turn ye back the mornin’.”
“The mornin’s mornin’?” I sez.
“Naw, the mornin’s efternun, fer yer cheek,” sez the auld wife.
Still, it cuidae been worse – poor auld Tam nivver said a word and she switched him intae that seat … think of aw thayme manky bahookies on top ae ‘im. It’s orange anaw – it disnae suit a guid Catholic lad.
As this wonderful statue is located in Glasgow’s Buchanan Bus Station, when I tried to think of stories I found myself doing so in (my version of) a Scottish dialect. I’m not a Scot (I know this is probably a statement of the obvious), so I apologise to all Scots and, in particular, to Irvine Welsh who puts the Edinburgh dialect onto paper with great skill. In my defence there were many Scots around when I was growing up, so I think I usually understand Scottish English even if I can’t write it. I know there are loads of dialects across Scotland and that my narrator probably uses a mixture of them. Let’s pretend his da’s joab meant they flitted a lot.