The town weaver

My significant other was born and raised in South Africa. South Africans know how to drink. When you walk in the door, politely smile and put out your hand you are given a drink rather than a handshake.

It’s the same where she now lives –Scotland.

Now the Scots have it down to a fine science. They begin by drinking and end when they pass out.

This saves a great deal of hemming and hawing and everyone knows what the plan is which cuts down on extraneous things like what time you go home etc. There is no such thing as a designated driver in our village as it is too small to use a car.

We have one pub, The King’s Arms Hotel. And, that’s kind of it, except: People do drink at home.

A lot!

This brings me to the town weaver-my significant other, who, is occasionally known as the town drunk. You get it-town weaver, town drunk who weaves? Anyway.

When Friday comes, I start worrying. We speak on the phone before she starts her Friday adventure, which entails walking down and around the corner to visit her friend for their Friday afternoon thing.

She is happy to lunch with her friend whose house can be seen from our kitchen window. They have come together in a warmth that only an older lady and an emotionally motherless woman can achieve. Though they eat and drink, my love knows her work. She is weaving a mother's love.

Did you know that Friday is associated with Venus? Venus, of course is associated with love, peace and relaxation, which has led to casual Friday. In most countries with a five-day workweek Friday is the cause for celebration simply because it is indeed the last day of work before the weekend.

My girl takes this TGIF mentality to a completely new level. She doesn’t even work.

They alternately meet in the other’s house on Fridays. There have been rains and winds, which prevent one from standing without tilting. However, there have been no cancellations.

The wine is decided upon before the luncheon takes place. Today my love advised me that it would be a couple of bottles of light red. The food is virtually of no importance, “oh, some ham wrap, no matter’ said my beloved today. These folks never mess up their priorities.

By the time she walks home which, according to her this morning, “could be four, five, six, o’clock who knows?’’, she is four sheets to the wind which is saying something as the Scottish winds normally blow at a brisk 30 miles an hour on an unimpressive day.

Now let’s get to the town drunk part.

Every Scottish town has one. They were badly in need of one when she arrived two years ago as the official town drunk had permanently taken to his bed.

There was no question when first observed by the townsfolk that my beloved was the perfect candidate for the town's title.

My girl was a sure thing! And, she was happy to oblige!

You see, she weaves!

She is a natural weaver: Drunk or not and therein tells the tale.

Though born with the most glorious blue eyes that one can imagine her right eye has an undetectable slight cast, which is a contributor to her weaving, first to the right then to the left, walk.

At sixteen while working at a bank, she had been removed from the convent school after being caught reading erotica; she had her first weaving run-in, literally.

Her bank manager was blind in one eye and as a result walked unsteadily. On Friday afternoons, they would venture to the post office to secure parcels filled with used South African money.

According to my girl, it was quite humorous as they walked side-by-side holding boxes the size of small microwaves continually bumping into each other. Their eye inadequacies worked well to guarantee a proper and rhythmic collision as she had a right eye problem and he was blind in the left.

Fast forward to life in Scotland and the natural breakdown of the human body. In other words, a worn out hip and a broken left foot upon which my girl had been bravely prancing for eight months because, SHE WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME WHEN I SAID IT WAS BROKEN!

There now, I am calmer.

To her tricky eye, deteriorating hip and broken foot add the fact that we have a spiral staircase, which we must climb in order to reach our living quarters.

It goes to the left, goes to the left, goes to the left.

Buy the time I have reached the top one can bet that the words, “I hate these stairs!” will leave my lips. My beloved does not complain or exclaim nearly as much as I do. However, I have recently noticed a stronger left-thrust weave as she descends these stairs at least fifteen times a day to venture out-doors to smoke.

When lighting her perpetual cigarette she can be observed balancing from one foot to the other as her short, silver-crowned head bends into her hands shielding those instruments of pleasure from the southeast gusts. She usually tilts to the left as her jacket’s shoulder sleeve falls slightly open revealing her shirt collar.

She is striking indeed!

When we walk up to the town shop she invariably walks on the street side to shield me from any local marauders. When we walk home, she again walks on the street side to protect me.

When we walk up, she bumps into my left side.

When we walk down, she bumps into my right.

In any case, she is at my side.

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