Penelope loved her job. It was very glamorous being a reporter for the highly regarded Scottish newspaper Och Aye Tha News, and she was the only English person on the staff, which made her feel extra special. True, it had a declining circulation of only around 3,000, about a third of the population of its hometown of Invercraunch, but she was a real journalist, and that was all she had ever wanted to do.
She was doubly excited when the Features Editor (he was also Sports Editor, Local News Editor and covered Small Ads; on a little local paper everyone has to pull their weight) called her to his office for a special assignment.
“Miss Penelope” he growled [Editors have to growl and there is training for those who struggle with this] “With the big vote approaching, I have a particular challenge in mind and I think that YOU are the man for the job. So to speak”
This was wonderful news! She took up her reporter’s notebook excitedly.
The assignment was to interview two local characters with opposing views, Murdo McGregor of the YES campaign, and Hamish MacIntyre of the NO camp.
Murdo was a tall and wiry man, with a mass of ginger hair which waved around to give emphasis to his arguments. It was distracting, so Penelope asked him to put it down. He did do, and she could then admire his twinkling jaw, the set of his masculine eyes.
“So tell me Mr McGregor, why do you feel so strongly that people should vote YES?”
Murdo settled into his chair comfortably.
“It’s time to move forward,Miss Penelope. The men o’ Scotland need support, and we should no’ be too proud to say so”
Penelope was jotting this all down with alacrity. A pen would have been more useful, but she had forgotten to bring one.
“What do you think the women of Scotland think about this though?”
Murdo smiled broadly; he always smiled that way at broads.
“Nae doubt they’ll be o’ the same mind. They ken just as well as we men how important it is to feel supported. We can say guidbye to a’ that if we get a Nae vote. Everything will be hanging by a wee thread, so it will, and that’s nae guid tae them either.”
“But Miss Penelope, ye must hae some views o’ your own. This is important!”
In a gentler tone, he continued “An’ I do ken how difficult this is fer some folks. Especially the older ones. We in the YES campaign believe it’s high time we moved for’ard, but traditions hold us in strong bonds, so they do.”
He leaned towards her, sensing she was warming to the subject, and fixing her with a gaze which made her shorthand go wobbly.
“Do ye like a bit o’ STRONG BOND yersel’ Miss Penelope? I’m a wee bit partial to that meself, if the truth be told” he reached towards her, gently crooking a finger under her chin and lifting it so he could look again into her eyes. Her concentration was lost. She was indeed warming, in areas of her body which had heretofore been untouched by journalism.
Blushing, she confessed “I do like to be held tight, certainly…”
Murdo laughed, a rich laugh like a tea biscuit,and staring appreciatively at her plump stotties, said “once this interview is over, maybe the two of us could have a wee game of tying the knot, eh?”
But Penelope was in no mood to wait. Casting aside her reporter’s notebook and her alacrity, she climbed onto Murdo’ s tartan lap and pressed herself against his strong chest. She gazed up at him from under her lashes, – it being impossible to look at him from above them as her eyelids were in the way.
“Oh gosh!”She exclaimed as she sank into his lap. “Whatever is that?”
“My sporran!” He explained. She looked momentarily disappointed, but then he assured her that his mighty sporran was only worn to try to contain the power beneath, lest it be too distracting…
And she was mollified. At least, that what Murdo called it.
“Mollify me again!” She cried, “and then cut me free again with your great big dirk!”
Once she was completely mollified, she wrote up her interview. (She left out the whole mollification part) and went to visit Hamish.
Hamish welcomed her with alacrity. She told him that she brought her own.
He was a burly, muscular man, whose massive knees shone beneath his kilt when he sat down. He was very keen to tell her his opinion.
“We say NO, he see. NO because it violates a’ oor most treasured traditions. I canna believe that any folk would want tae gie them up. I’ve a lot o’ respect for oor Murdoch, mind. But wi’ his modern notions we wud a’ be saying guidbye tae oor proud heritage”
Penelope nodded, breathlessly. Hamish was becoming animated, and she noted with her new sense of understanding that his sporran was also animated.
“He talks a load of hornswoggle, too, if ye dinna mind me sayin'”
“Really?” Penelope was intrigued. “How do you mean?”
Hamish hesitated. He looked at the lovely Penelope, cross legged on the chair in front of him, her smooth thigh exposed, taunting him with its thighishness.
“It’s probably best if I show ye. Then ye’ll ken why folks roond here are so passionate aboot a’ this”
Penelope watched, unable to look away, as Hamish unclipped his massive sporran and handed it to her to hold.
“It’s SO heavy!” She said “but the tassel is so strokeable”. She clasped it firmly, running her fingers over it.
“This is the important part, though” said Hamish, lifting his kilt.
“Now take a GUID look, Miss Penelope. Nice and close up”
“So is this a haggis?” She asked after a significant pause.
“Nay, lass, it’s the sack for my bagpipe. You’ll mebbe like to try and get a wee tune out o’ it, while ye’re doon there….”
Penelope discovered she had quite a knack with the bagpipe; she worked at it with all her breath and the result was surprisingly stirring, especially for Hamish.
“I’ve always loved the skirl o’ the pipe” he said contentedly.
Penelope felt that Hamish’s argument was a good one, that Scotsmen should say NO to the wearing of underpants beneath the kilt