The Currant Bun

Posted by Iain Mcgregor

Aw this election argie-bargie gets awfae sairious. It’s aw aboot a threy-taed tousle atween ilka pairtie ettlin efter it’s ain gait an politeecians no willin tae tell the truith tae the ordinar fowk. Jist tae lichten the sauch a wee, gin ye’r scunnert wi politeecians here’s a wee story anent gaun gyte ower a currant bun.

 

            A hid taen the smit!  Oo first pit oor een thegaither at a caur-buit sale ower a scrauchle o bairn’s clamjamfrie. You leukit braw wi yer glancie broon skin an yer wee peakit-frock poud up roond yer mids. Yer fantoosh snawie bunnet yi yon muckle steekie chirrie on tap, birlt ma heid, an weerin yon see-throu plastic rain-coat leasht up wi that bonnie reid trappin richt taen ma goat. Oo war ordeend tae tryst. As A makkit ma wey ower A seen this richt dottilt-gitten auld wummen gien ye the ee, an pouin her zimmer-frame ower a wee. Cuid A sauf you fae this fate waur nor daith.

            The waffs o yer new bakit hurdies,  an the reek o yer spices taisled ma neb,  pouin  ma heid  forrit. Aw yon sniffterin mindit iz o ma mither’s cuikin whan A wis jist a bairn, lang-syne. You war mine’s, an A wantit ye sic as ye war. The kerlin noo hid siller oot in her haun, an wis gaun tae gie ye a lift, whan A shuved  forrit, claucht haud o ye masel in the luif o ma haun an gied ye a muckle smoorich. In aw this stramash the auld wumman taen a  tapsalteerie roond her zimmer-frame an cowpit doon ontae the grund like a birlin peerie. You war mine noo an that’s aw whit maittert, an for ae ten bob. A felt like a hornie-golash whan A gaed ma haun tae humph yon auld sprauchle back tae her pins, bit she didnae say ocht, thou her mooth wis aw thrawn, an she leukit gey crabbit.  

            A cairrit ye cannie-like ower tae a pairk-binch, fair awa wi masel an prood. A lowsed yer plastic coat an poud aff yer  reid ribbon. A cuid feel the pleesur, taste the pleesur, harken the guilt. Ma mooth stertit tae slaiver. Ye war sae saft an blate as ye yirdit yersel intae ma hauns. A cuidnae thole muckle mair o ma sellie thochts.

            Ma lips war hotterin for a taste o yer glancie broon hurdies an yer seeckly white bonnet, sae A gaed in tae masel,  raxed ma gob wide an taen a moothfae. Sic wis the taste o sappie currants, broon shuggar an spices it pit iz intae a dwam. Sae muckle pleesur. Sae muckle guilt, sae muckle joy, deleecious joy. Ye smooricht ma tongue, stickit tae ma gams, makkit ma neb feel guilty, syne like a silky limmer ye sled doon ma thrapple intae ma wame. At lest ye war pairt o iz.  Oo war yin!

            Whan A luikit up, the same auld wumman as afore hid hirpled ower wi her zimmer-frame an taen a sate doon aside iz. She sat thare an foutert wi her windaes. A gaed her a skelf o currant bun. She didnae say ocht while she wis aetin, syne  whan she wis feenished an hid sookit her wallies claen, she turnt  roond tae  iz an said;

“It wis nae-baud. It’s jist like the bun A makkit for you  lang-syne as a bairn, son!”

 

It wis a chynge awa fae politics oniewey. A howp ye liked it.

 

Ta – ta the noo.

 

Iain.

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