Scottish Short Stories

16th May, 2012: A Lucky Poop

It happened. I got pooped on by a seagull. Walking towards College Gate, a white, wet substance flew in front of my face, landing on my black jacket and tights. Stunned, I stood there, wondering what to do. My new friend, Katherine, witnessed the incident from a few yards ahead, and came to my aid with her cute little Kleenex. I've always heard this is a stroke of luck, so I'll take it.

18th May, 2012: Floridian Golfers to the Rescue

Wind swirled up underneath my over sized, royal blue umbrella. My hair blew across my face, in my mouth, and straight in the air. A misting rain soaked my leather boots. Walking in a straight line proved more possible for a drunkard. My umbrella turned inside out, jerking my arm in the air. After yanking it back down, I finally made it inside the warmth of the North Point Cafe, for my £1 latte.

Hair adjusted, latte in hand, umbrella ready to put up, I braced for the worst. Outside, my latte spilled into my lid, and I struggled to push the umbrella up into the locked position. Frustrated, I looked around for help. Two tanned Floridian golfers came to my rescue, held my latte, and put up my umbrella.

I thanked them and they noticed my not-so-Scottish accent. We chatted for a while, I learned that they planned to golf the day, (good luck!) and they asked questions about my life here and were impressed. I walked back to my office, looking like I'd been on a wild, wet roller coaster, and sipped my latte.

22nd May, 2012: North Sea Speedo Man

We laid our blanket carefully across the sand, sat down, took off our shoes, and watched the waves crash in. Peace. Romance. Serenity.

Suddenly, a very white man in an very wee speedo sprinted passed us, toward the ocean. He didn't stop until he was neck deep, and a wave crashed over his head. How privileged we were to witness this sight on our date. Shock was followed by laughter, and then brief thoughts of, "Should we steal his clothes?"

23rd May, 2012: A Gift of Live Lobsters

At 10pm, my doorbell rang. Our neighbor, John, stood at our door with a shriveled up, moving plastic Morrison's bag.

"You like Lobster?"

"I don't know...I've only had it once"

"Well do you like it?"

"I don't know. How do you cook it?"

"Do you have Google on your computer?"

"Yes."

"Google it."

"They won't pinch me?"

"Naw, just pick them up like this!"

(Picks one up out of the bag, claws moving.)

"Sure...I'll take them"

I carried the two black lobsters into the kitchen, peaking inside at their moving claws. I sat the bag in the corner and hoped they wouldn't escape. Garrick walked in the door and I shared my anxiety over the suffering lobsters, and that I didn't want to deal with them at 10 o'clock at night. We carried the Morrison's bag back across the pathway, and John found them a loving home.