There was this set ae auld curtains that had been stuffed up a loft. A lovely pink and brown and yellow mixture. The cunts that put them up there said it was jist till the winter was over then they’d be back doon in the living room. But it had been aboot 30 year. Mibby even longer.
“Here, a don’t hink we’re getting put up again,” the left side ae the curtain said tae the right.
“Aye we ir. Don’t start that pish talk again. She said jist till winter was over. Any day now. Any day now. Any day–”
Low and behold the loft door creaked open and a man appeared.
“See telt ye.”
But it wisnae auld Jeffery Ferguson or his handsome wife. It was a new younger fella wae dirty fingers.
“Here, ye mind asking auld Jeanie or Jeffery when we’re getting back oot,” the left side ae the curtain said tae the man.
“Them? Och, they’ve been deid fir yonks. Am here tae pap awe ae yeez up here in the skip. Somebody finally bought this shite hole hoose.”
“A skip? We’re 70 quid curtains, don’t ye know? We don’t belong in a skip.”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll take ye somewhere more fitting.”
“Cheers, big man.”
And the 70 quid curtains ended up in the middle ae a Crowwood bonfire. Their screaming was a delight tae the inbred locals.