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My Faither’s Hoose

EXCEPT of course if your dwelling comprises a cardboard box or sleeping bag adjacent to an English country garden, palace, or stately home, because then you’re getting your arse booted out, belongings confiscated; you’ll be replaced by a sycophantic halfwit in a red, white and blue shell suit, cuddling a plastic doll, drooling like a creep at the sight of the first official snog of the Earl and Countess of Dumbarton, (though am confused as to her right to reside here in the good old UK but maybe that’s just me). An insightful, honest observer commented that more economic approaches would have simply required the provision to the homeless of Union Jack emblazoned sleeping bags. That man gets my vote, EVEL or not. To complete the Nicholas Witchell suite of dilation, however, a wee Royal wave from the balcony looking out to admiring crowds, how terribly twee and touching. A magnificent panorama for a Prince among men.

Just as Her Majesty can bestow Honours, British and Irish titles on a whim, she also commands many houses nationwide, some even held at Her Pleasure. There is indeed one such not two miles from my front door as the crow flies, nestled sedately in the centre of the Wee Coonty, part of this western European democracy which locks up more adults per capita than most other Western nations. Another, for ladies only, is some seven miles yonder, a mere stone’s throw from scenes of Scottish victory and hope at Stirling Bridge and Bannockburn. I wonder how it feels to stand at a window in a locked cell with eyes raised to the Wallace Monument or the Ochil Hills. I hope I never know. I guess the view and the grub differ a little from that available at Buck House and Holyrood. But I’ll get the kettle on for when Lizzie fancies a trip out this way to discuss what she has done and will keep on doing for us wifies in the Land What Time Forgot.

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iScot Magazine
July 2018

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