The C–ts next door

The desperation ye feel sometimes when yer dyin’ for a fag can lead ye tae awfy desperate and sad behaviour. Ah’ve been there, in aboot the bins in the hoose, gettin’ past a bean or a hanky ye’ve just blawn yer nose wi’, tae get tae a fag end that’s got a few Millimetres  of White faggy bit left. That’s how desperate ah can get for a draw of something that’s shite for ye, withoot addin’ E Coli and Botulism intae the mix. Only rarely do ah get that low on Baccy- the Admiral gives me a bit of an ear wiggin’ aboot that, and has always got some on the go. Anyway, there was a knock on the door earlier today and luckily Callum was in, because he was witness to the way ah handled the followin’ events. Ah’d vowed that it was a case of ‘Fuck off, enough’s enough’ if they wee C–ts came to the door ever again. So, ah answered the door, and lo and effin behold, it was the Daughter of Atticus, holdin’ up a bag which ah recognised as the bag that was put outside next doors = the bag that, ah was gaunny steal off them as a reprisal for the food box stolen from mine. Then, ah thought,’Fuck it’, reprisal OFF’. That wid make me just like them, so ah didny lift it. Ah’ve never been light fingered and always thought that stealin’ wisny nice and nice people dinny steal. That isny the case, though. So, there’s the Daughter of Atticus lookin’ aw that way that ah dinny ken the word for it, or it’s eludin’ me at the moment – when a Dugs done somethin’ it shouldny have and it’s aw Bambi eyed and lookin as guilty as Billy o. She was holdin’ this bag up sayin’ ah’ve got some steak pies for ye, ah didny steal yer food and ma Dug does get walked, here’s the pies. Then she came oot wi’the mini sob story/Shakespearean Tragedy that her life’s been like for the last couple of weeks -[ Malcolm Arnolds Third of his Four Scottish Dances has just come on the Spotify, what a beautiful piece of music].- aye, next door. She’s insistin’  that ah take the pies, ah’m insistin’ that ah dinny need or want them and ah won because she lowered the pies in some kind of, ‘You win’ gesture that’s probably got a name in the pie/confrontation world. Then, it was ‘Could ye spare a fag or Two, and a voice from behind her whisperin’ ‘and some skins” Ah never say ‘Skins’, no’ that that’s got any relevance tae this story, but ah’ve never used that name for fag papers. It’s like ‘Jambo’s’ – ah Fuckin’ hate that, it’s a ‘Sun ism’. It’s the Jam Tarts and that’s that. That Shitey paper did what they did wi’ every name and stuck an O or an A at the end of it, and noo it’s inveigled it’s way intae the psyche and the language. Bastardo’s. So, after hearin’ the no’ very whispery whisper of  ‘and some skins’, ah was expectin a roar fae inside their flat sayin’ ‘Oh and see if the saft C–ts  got a lighter tae’. Sadly ah gave in and handed her some Baccy. When it comes tae the crunch, ah canny be a C–t, when it comes to a sob story. The Lawyers Daughter came back later, half cut offerin’ me Two Quid for some Baccy, gettin’ aw that guilty Puppy way sayin’ she’d had a bad couple of weeks and had wanted tae kill herself [ ah didny want tae say that over the last week or Two that’s exactly what ah was hopin’ she’d dae], so ah gave in again and gave her some more Baccy.Women greetin’s an awfy thing tae be involved in or near to.

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