Waves
by Andrew Velzian
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: The flesh is strong, but the mind is weak.
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It was one of those perfect Orkney mornings where the sun had chased the clouds away and whaups and gulls didn’t have to scream to be heard above the wind. So still it was that Patrick watched as the smoke unfurled from his pipe and after a cursory glance around went and lay with the heather.
Many a good day Patrick had spent on God’s good island and today was one of the better ones. Content in the tranquillity of such a fine morning he sat there on his homemade bench using the rough wall of the cottage as a backrest. The bench itself, made as it was from two stacks of breezeblocks and half a shed door had, like Patrick, just about stood the test of time.
Now a put-put-putterin could be heard across the loch, and although not unexpected at this time on a Thursday morning, it was still ‘a demn nuisance’ Patrick muttered to himself. Closing his weekly news into quarters before sticking it down the back of the bench he looked to the far end of the loch for sight of the boat. Patrick recognised the familiar sound of auld Erland’s outboard as the thing was nearly as old as the owner, but due to God and generous lubrications where it mattered most they both kept ticking over.
Patricks’ wee But’n’Ben was perched at the end of the aqueduct-like bridge that separated the Stenness and Harry lochs, The Trolls House Erland had chided on more than one occasion.
Now Erland was fine enough, but his upstair marble collection left a lot to be desired since taking two nightshifts a week at the big Tesco in town. It’s an impressive work ethic at that stage of your life but at the expense of the man’s mental capabilities no doubt.
The boat’s engine got louder as it panted its last quarter mile to the wee jetty jutting out into the Harry over the road. Patrick could make out Erland’s face red with anger and puffing away like he’d swam the bloody loch himself instead of just being sat there making the boat do the work. Still, that’s Finstowners for you; a step above ferryloupers and a mile below West Mainlanders. ‘City fowk’ Patrick would mock.
Even before Patrick heard the bottom of the boat glide to a stop on the pebbled shore he knew what would be coming out auld Erland’s mouth.
-BEUY PE-TRICK! - He hollered.
-Erland beuy, whit like?-
-Weel I’ll tell thee. Kennin that I’m wurkin the nightshift, how is it that all I kin hear is yir bliddy telly? Cannae get a wink o shuteye, now can ye keep hid bliddy thing doon!-
-You’re goin soft in the head no doubt beuy. I telt thee last week and the week afore; I’VE NO HID A TELLY SET SINCE NINETEEN BLIDDY SEVENTY!! Noo, is there anythin else ye’ll be wa’ntin?-
Patrick’s question was drowned out by the boat’s engine spluttering back into life to ferry the man back to his own side of the loch. Patrick chuckled as he leant back against his cottage and pulled his paper back out, ‘maybe next week I’ll invite the auld bugger in fir a cuppae tea and a wee luck roond ma hoose’.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The flesh is strong, but the mind is weak.
_____________________________________________________________________
It was one of those perfect Orkney mornings where the sun had chased the clouds away and whaups and gulls didn’t have to scream to be heard above the wind. So still it was that Patrick watched as the smoke unfurled from his pipe and after a cursory glance around went and lay with the heather.
Many a good day Patrick had spent on God’s good island and today was one of the better ones. Content in the tranquillity of such a fine morning he sat there on his homemade bench using the rough wall of the cottage as a backrest. The bench itself, made as it was from two stacks of breezeblocks and half a shed door had, like Patrick, just about stood the test of time.
Now a put-put-putterin could be heard across the loch, and although not unexpected at this time on a Thursday morning, it was still ‘a demn nuisance’ Patrick muttered to himself. Closing his weekly news into quarters before sticking it down the back of the bench he looked to the far end of the loch for sight of the boat. Patrick recognised the familiar sound of auld Erland’s outboard as the thing was nearly as old as the owner, but due to God and generous lubrications where it mattered most they both kept ticking over.
Patricks’ wee But’n’Ben was perched at the end of the aqueduct-like bridge that separated the Stenness and Harry lochs, The Trolls House Erland had chided on more than one occasion.
Now Erland was fine enough, but his upstair marble collection left a lot to be desired since taking two nightshifts a week at the big Tesco in town. It’s an impressive work ethic at that stage of your life but at the expense of the man’s mental capabilities no doubt.
The boat’s engine got louder as it panted its last quarter mile to the wee jetty jutting out into the Harry over the road. Patrick could make out Erland’s face red with anger and puffing away like he’d swam the bloody loch himself instead of just being sat there making the boat do the work. Still, that’s Finstowners for you; a step above ferryloupers and a mile below West Mainlanders. ‘City fowk’ Patrick would mock.
Even before Patrick heard the bottom of the boat glide to a stop on the pebbled shore he knew what would be coming out auld Erland’s mouth.
-BEUY PE-TRICK! - He hollered.
-Erland beuy, whit like?-
-Weel I’ll tell thee. Kennin that I’m wurkin the nightshift, how is it that all I kin hear is yir bliddy telly? Cannae get a wink o shuteye, now can ye keep hid bliddy thing doon!-
-You’re goin soft in the head no doubt beuy. I telt thee last week and the week afore; I’VE NO HID A TELLY SET SINCE NINETEEN BLIDDY SEVENTY!! Noo, is there anythin else ye’ll be wa’ntin?-
Patrick’s question was drowned out by the boat’s engine spluttering back into life to ferry the man back to his own side of the loch. Patrick chuckled as he leant back against his cottage and pulled his paper back out, ‘maybe next week I’ll invite the auld bugger in fir a cuppae tea and a wee luck roond ma hoose’.
About the Author
Born in Dunfermline, raised on the Orkney Isles and now residing in Cheshire, Andrew Velzian says he scribbles a few stories in between working and sleeping.