Hondy dondy hurgh durgh duchty noo.
I stated in a warghly voice at the bathroom mirror as if my throat was full of oystery phlegm.
Hmm, not quite right.
Hoch hughk mahanny?
Ah, that was much better.
The Good Lady had announced we were going to visit her Dad tomorrow. When she had said this I had literally shat myself with horror. Well, maybe not shit but something nefarious had certainly contemplated seeping out of my brown clown.
I had nodded and smiled whilst inside my head voices screamed...
The bitter north?!
The frozen wastes?!
The land that time forgot?!
I don't know if you are familiar with the North East of Scotland but it is a curious and backward place. Peopled by tall bearded folk who, when they speak, sound like Ogres chewing an old boot.
The men are worse.
So it was I found myself practising High Scots in the bathroom mirror. Once I was sure I sounded grotty enough, I ventured downstairs to make sure I had all I needed for the journey.
First up I dug out a handful of cheap coloured plastic beads. This would do for the bartering. The gaudy collection I held in my hand could probably buy a house up there. Or even one of their fishy Princesses.
Hmm, I wondered if the Good Lady would mind if I purchased a sea-wife when I was up there to lighten the load from her so to speak?
Nah, she would never go for it. She was so stuck in the old ways. Thou shalt not fanny about with other ladies nethers and the like. How dull.
Once I had a fistful of coloured beads, I moved on to the next necessity.
I pulled a plastic bag out of a cupboard and wafted it around till it was full of air and then tied it off in a knot. If things got too bad or any of us went native I could probably bring them back with a couple in inhalations of good clean southern air.
Finally, I bundled several rolls of toilet paper into a pillowcase so that they would not be easily seen.
It was vital to hide such things because the Pagan Gods of the North of Scotland forbid such things as wiping your arse with nice soft paper. Instead, each toilet has a rough stick with which to scrape the poo-bits from your wum-chuffler.
Some families can trace the lineage of their shit scraping stick back hundreds of years. The oldest ones are more dried shit than stick.
Needless to say I wasn't fond of using them.
I went down to the kitchen and searched for our emergency jar of Mackerel oil. Once I found it I smeared a liberal amount on my neck and chest.
It stank.
Now I stank.
Up North stinks.
I was ready.