Hand in the window

At the moment I'm living in quiet isolation on the Black Isle, toiling away almost everyday at a local butcher shop. Aside from learning how to weigh a pound of mince by hand, making sausages and burgers, and how to tell the difference between a gigot chop and a boneless double loin I've also come to know the routine of the older locals who trickle in at around the same time each day.

One marvellous woman comes in everyday and, after addressing us all behind the counter (taking special pride in remembering my name), she dawdles around to find something for her husband's dinner. It's such a local affair that we run the sack of tatties across the road and drop them right off on her kitchen floor before she's even out of the shop. She'll insist that she can manage, but only once or twice, because she knows, as has always been the case, that we'll more than happily oblige.

And although this is only a temporary affair, until I earn enough to go travelling again, I've been made welcome by the Black Islers who can tell by my accent that I'm not from round these parts and, also, by my glaikit stare that I'm not a butcher. On my first day, when someone ordered a pound of silverside I hovered my hand slowly across all the cuts of meat, at a speed only just fast enough to look as though I had some conviction but all the while reading the customer's expression to know whether I was getting any closer.

***

On another note, I want to thank everybody who commented favourited and rated my images throughout my travels around Turkey etc. Many of them were recently published as part of an online photo-essay feature for the ROUGH GUIDE !

Special thanks to ceridwen, as well, for plugging me on her own blip and leaving that kind and motivating comment on my entry.