The Fisher Folk

Today is a momentous day. Due to the election being held tomorrow we have had to call on family from far-flung shores to assist in that most important of tasks. Babysitting.

Oh yes. Elections here commandeer all local spaces for us to cast our precious vote. I could write long and large on the vagaries of our voting system. I shall however refrain. Because I have other concerns. We have invited family from the East Coast of Scotland to watch our precious child.

You might ask...

Well my friends. Perhaps you have visions of Scotland in your head. Visions of purple clad mountains with a lone bagpiper at the bottom squeezing out a jarring, screeching noise from an animal trapped under their arm?

This noise goes a long way to explaining why Scottish People are so demented.

Or perhaps you had a vision of deer on the moor and a tartan clad shepherd with a long crook watching his flock singing Flower of Scotland

Well, it aint all like that. No. There is another side to Scotland and that, is the rural fisher folk from the villages on the coasts.

I stole my good lady from such a village and the price? A mere bag of marbles and some glittery twists of string.

Now and then I have to entertain her kin and my oh my, what a delightful experience that is.

It involves much

I have to cover all the reflective surfaces in the house with coarse hessian. These humble folk believe that kelpies lurk beneath the silvered panes of mirrors, waiting to pull unfortunate self gazers into their watery clutches.

Then I have to remove all sharp objects. Despite these humble folk living by their wits on the edge of the cruel north sea they have an aversion to steel. Instead preferring sharpened stones and implements edged with obsidian.

Feeding them is no easy task. Not for them the exotica of pasta or the ease of root vegetables. No.

Only quivering flesh, fresh killed, suits their calloused fingers and mouths.

Before each meal we are made to stand and spit on our food before yelling:

My Salty Offering is Thine!

I am afraid I have made a faux-pas on the odd occasion by issuing a different kind of salty fluid.

And then, of course there is the worst part. The communication. I have attempted to show what an East Coaster sounds like below.

And that is just how you say Good morning, what lovely day.

So there you have it, my friends. I shall report on my progress and hope that I can make it through the next 36 hours without being challenged to a rassling match on my dewy morning lawn for insulting the fish in the sea.

I do hope they use the toilet this time.

(They think that these modern flushing devices are porcelain demons with gaping mouths ready to eat them)