When the bloke I fancied told me he lived on a west coast island and ‘commuted’ to Aberdeen for work, I pictured Father Ted’s Manse and grimaced.
‘How can you bear it?’, I’d asked. ‘The flatness? The wind?’
He looked like I’d spoken in Spaniel. The following week I understood.
Sapphire sea in a white sand bay. The perfect cottage.
Mountains, seals, dolphins.
Sunsets, the Milky Way, mornings to make you feel reborn.
Him, in an Acid Croft T-shirt.
‘What about the commute though?’, I’d asked.
He put on Shooglenifity and drove.
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