Scotstober, Day Three

As soon as the licht fades, ah take up position oan ma windaesill. That’s richt, ma windaesill. This is ma hoose and nae upstert, whither light-footit or heavy-clumpit, is gonnae chynge that.

Some nichts ah dinnae see anither soul, but occasionally a wee sleekit nummer emerges fae the mirk. We stare at each ither through the pane. A staun-aff. Ah puff oot ma floof, makin masel look big tae spook thum intae leavin ma territory. It usually wurks a chairm. But wan time, a big ginger yin did a huge shite in the flooer bed richt in front ae me, side-eein throughoot the deed. Nice try, but this is still ma hoose, and that’s still ma gairden whither yer shite’s in it or no.

The nicht gangs withoot incident and ma watch concludes. Ah curl up in ma beid, satisfied, an doze fur a few oors, keepin a hauf-liddit ee oan the sunlicht as it creeps alang the flair. When those glaikit clumpers wake up, ah’ll wolf doon ma richtful scran an then, if ah feel like it, ah’ll boke it aw up again — oan a rug, cairpet, or couch.

Never oan the windaesill though.

Written as part of #Scotstober on Twitter (3rd October 2021 — ‘nicht’)