Floppsy

A punter was standing at the buzzer as The Boy and I drove past the tenement the other day, looking for a parking space. I didn't notice, because of the cars parked outside the flat what he must have been carrying...

(Yes. Mysterious, isn't it?)

So we parked and let ourself into the tenement, struggled with our shopping bags and put them down in the hallway so we could search through the junk mail for anything that might be ours. Muffled voices could be heard from within the Hoors flat. Voices which were soon slightly, yet politely raised. We hid on the landing (just to be polite) and continued searching through offers for loans and chocolate that contains negative calories (I kid you not).

"Oh come on. Make an exception just this once..."

The Boy and I shared an amused glance.

"No. I don't think so."

"But Mr Floppsy doesn't like it if he's left outside in the car alone!"

"I don't care! He's not staying in 'ere. Wot if 'e escapes? Anyway. It's a bit distracting innit!"

"I can just leave him out in the hall here. He'll be fine. You won't hear a thing."

"Didn't I just say no?"

"Please?"

"I think you'd better leave."

We tried to look busy and intensely interested in our mail as a sad man in a raincoat left the brothel. With a cage. Containing said Mr Floppsy. Eating a small piece of carrot and twitching his cute little nose. Mr Floppsy the rabbit looked intently at us with his little red eyes as he was carried off, totally oblivious to the dissapointment he'd just caused.

Sometimes the Hoors' job is just plain wierd.

* The names of any rabbit in this story may have been changed to protect the innocent. (Also, Floppsy is a funny name that makes me laugh).

** No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog entry.

Who Am I?

A couple of weekends ago, we had a most pleasant time out in The Shire. The main reason for which was to go to one of the Shire's Highland Gatherings. (However I'd better not tell you which one in case you all turn up trying to discover my secret identity. As we all know that celebrity spotting can spoil the atmosphere of the games.)

Saturday evening was lots of good food, good company and bountiful amounts of good wine and those new posh Pringles. (The crisps. We weren't eating golfer's socks.) After a while, someone suggested a game. The one where the name of a famous person is written on a sticky label on your forehead and you have to guess who you are by asking questions.

Soon it was my turn, and questions went like this:

Me: OK. Am I world Famous?
Them: You're certainly known of by people around the world.
Me: Am I male or female?
Them: Female. Probably.
Me: Am I famous for... um... sport?
Them: You probably need to be quite athletic, but that's not what you're famous for
Me: Hmmm. Am I in the entertainment industry?
Them: Yes!
Me: Mmmm. So I entertain people. Am I on TV?
Them: No.
Me: Film?
Them: No.
Me: Do I sing?
Them: Apparently so, but that's not what you're famous for.
Me: A book?
Them: *pause* No.
Me: Ooooh! You paused! Have I been written about?
Them: Yes!
Me: In a Magazine?
Them: No.
Me: In the papers?
Them: Not yet.
Me: Is this in the UK?
Them: Yes.
Me: Am I fictional!? This is bloody difficult.
Them: No. You're real. (The Boy nods emphatically)
Me: I'm not getting anywhere with this, am I? Ugh. Oh! Hold on. Am I alive or dead?
Them: Alive we'd hope!
Me: So... I'm still entertaining and wasn't famous in the past then? Am I'm still doing my job?
Them (thinking I need a bit of help): It's a very old profession... You could say one of the oldest.
Me: Ohhhh! Oh crap. Am I my neighbours? Am I The Hoors?
A cheer goes up.

Bastards.

A Friend Helps Out A Crack Dealer In Need

So a friend of mine has given me permission to tell you all about an incident down at the Castlegate last saturday night around 3.30am...

He was taking the long way home from his night-time job and was passing through the Castlegate, when he saw some poor lost looking type asking some locals where he could find a hoor. Said locals were full of the grey-toon wit and were trying to send him up King Street, towards Holburn Street or off to Rosemount - basically anywhere in town he wouldn't find street prostitution. Ho ho ho. What hilarity. What a jolly jape.

So my friend took pity on this poor chap and, assuming he was a lost sailor looking for a girl in a lonely port, directed him to the streets operating under the Grey Toon's famous tolerance zone down at the harbour...

"Awww thaaanks mate!" he said, showing himself to be local and not off some foreign boat at all...

"Ah'm just looking fur a hoor tae sell this to afore ah go hame!" and at this he held out a grubby handful of crack... "I huvnae enough money fur chips and and a taxi an' need tae sell this furst!"

He turned and walked off towards the hoors and the harbour leaving my Good Samaritan friend standing at the Castlegate with his mouth open and his sense of good will a bit battered.