Ah, those good old Cape May days… by Jackson D’Catur
Have you ever been to Scotchland? I have, once, and I must say the experience was not one to repeat. I visited at the specific instruction of Queen Victoria, who adored the place and took issue at my oft-declared opinion that it was a land fit only for robbers and malcontents.
I concede that that tiny nation has produced some impressive exports: Robert Burns (a drunk and an opportunist but a lyrical genius), Sir Walter Scott (self-important ass, but he could write, that is true), Alexander Graham Bell (I was the first one he called on his new telephonic device, but I mistook him for a salesmen for the Colonies seeking to sell me India and hung up), Andrew Carnegie (a damn fool with his money, but a big heart, I grant you), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (I inspired his creation of Sherlock Holmes, of course, and the Young Albert of the day was the original Watson), Alexander Fleming (my life has been saved a time or thrice by penicillin after some vigorous and careless whoring in Paris), John Paul Jones (a tricksy weasel who owed me three guineas after a poker game, but he could steer a boat like no other), John Muir (a bore on the subject of trees, but a visionary all the same), Sean Connery (I like a man’s man) and JK Rowling (who at least lives in Scotchland – Harry Potter may be jibberish but the minor D’Catur grandchildren seem to adore it, and their attention can usually only be guaranteed with the application of a leather belt), to name but a few. And of course, the proprietor of this rag is a Scotchman, whose accent is still akin to having paint stripper poured into one’s ear.
The country, though, is a forsaken place. For one, it is tiny: scarce larger than my garden here in Cape May. I walked it from east to west in under an hour, and north to south took 30 minutes on a steam train (25 of those were spent in the station as the kilted conductor tried to fleece passengers out of every penny they had). The weather is diabolical – it rains 23 hours and 59 minutes of every day, and snows the remainder of the time.
There seem to be only a few hundred rickety people living there, and several million small, vicious, unkempt sheep – though I admit I had trouble telling the two groups apart, so the numbers may be other than indicated.
Are there mitigating factors? Well, yes: whisky and golf. And for those I forgive anything.