For myself, I’ve stowed my tarasgeir, tusker and flaughter. Propitiatory googas have been gralloched. A jelly piece an’ a bumper o’ tappit hen broth have a’ been packed tae ward aff hunger.
My intention this year? To stramash up ol’ Tom-na-Weir, find me a patch o’ peat an’ worry it mightily as our faithirs did a’fore us. I’m being put up in the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui’s bothie.
In sum, I’m awa’