I’ve noticed that most Scottish people don’t inquire beyond “down south,”
and I can only assume that this description encapsulates some sort of generic Englandshire for them,
boat races and bowler hats, as though Liverpool and Cornwall were the same sorts of places, inhabited by the same sorts of people.
Conversely, they are always adamant that every part of their own country is unique and special. I’m not sure why.
Raymond returned with the tea things and a packet of Wagon Wheels on a garish plastic tray.
“Raymond!” his mother said. “You might have put the milk into a jug, for heaven’s sake! We’ve got a guest!”
“It’s only Eleanor, Mum,” he said, then looked at me. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I always use the carton at home too.”
“It’s merely a vessel from which to convey the liquid into the cup;
in fact, it’s probably more hygienic than using an uncovered jug, I would have thought.”
I reached forward for a Wagon Wheel. Raymond was already chewing on his.
The pair of them chatted about inconsequential matters and I settled into the sofa.
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