More Roamerisms from the late 1980s
A Caol mum had a pile of washing and ironing to do. Going through the various items, she came across a pair of jeans. Across the backside of them was a great big tear which made the jeans look as if they’d been cut with shears. ‘They’re not getting washed,’ decided mum, and she threw them in the bin. A day or two later the son of the house harangued her. ‘Where’s my new jeans’? It transpired he had spent £40 on the new, trendy, designer-slashed jeans. ‘Well, they’re over at Brackletter Dump now, son,’ said mum by way of consolation.
It had to happen again. And it did. Breathless ‘towrist’ in the Cameron Square nerve centre. ‘Can you tell me where the Royal Hotel is?’ he panted. Blank looks. Tyndrum, maybe. ‘No, Fort William, look I’ve got the brochure.’ Pointed to the advertising blurb. Aye, Port William.
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