The lonely laird and the gallant gillie
OUR friend, the Lovelorn Laird from the West Coast, called with news of another casualty of Covid-19. His squeeze, a vegan Brazilian half his age, has given him the heave-ho. To keep her hooked, he’d been spinning her a line about becoming a vegetarian, but, pace St Augustine, not quite yet.
He reckons she fluffed his ruse, a hunt, kill and eat series. That and enforced separation during the dread plague has put paid to another of his love’s young dreams. A subsidiary and purely coincidental reason for the call was to flog us part of a bullock he had grassed. It’s unlikely to be a fatted calf as it’s half Highlander, a breed that looks good on postcards, but less so on the scales—serious stock farmers say their heads are the size their bums ought to be, but never are.
