Dear Reader
Walking the dogs down the west Glen road t’other day, I came upon a middle aged couple, more Bearsden than Govan, with a 4WD. She, blue rinse and green wellies, was packing primroses into those black plastic trays you see in garden centres. He, no stranger to a fish supper, was digging new supplies from the banking.
‘That’s not quite legal.’ says I, more mischief than indignation.
‘George!’ squeaks blue rinse, as if threatened with rape.
George slides down the banking, shedding dignity and gaining rage. He faced up to me and gave a remarkably accurate description of my parents’ nuptials. However, he had reckoned without our labrador with the sawn off legs.
Moffat curled his lip and gave a growl of sufficient adrenaline to even convince our oh so soft retriever to join in. A scrabble for the car. Slam, slam, engine’s roar, tyres’ screech and they were gone, leaving behind the half filled trays and stolen primrose plants. I walked the dogs home and returned by car to collect the plants. Too late, they had found the courage to return, collect booty and flee. Sods!
Michael Kaufmann
