My given name is Grizelda Juliet Bravo Prendergast; neé Penhaligon.
I work for West Grampian CID ( Rural ). Basically I am a middle manager trying to keep the losers & wasters who report to me in line.
Not an easy task I can tell you.
The worst offender is Inspector Cowie. Goodness knows why he was promoted; he has the leadership potential of a haggis with attitude.
Our paths first crossed 10 years ago when he had just been promoted to Sergeant, and was on a six month secondment to Musselburgh CID where I was the lead investigating Inspector.
We were on the brink of breaking an Albanian tartan-counterfeiting ring when Cowie broke cover and arrested one of the small fry, just because he was going to execute one of Cowie's informants.
He needs to get his priorities sorted.
We could have stopped 80% of counterfeit tartan, mainly destined for the kilt market, in its tracks.
The Albanians simply switched their operations to the West Coast a week later and we were back to square one.
Still, everyone is entitled to one mistake.
Cowie was a handsome wee laddie back then, but very inexperienced in the arts of love.
I offered him a night to remember after the Chief's Christmas Ball but he demurred, saying he wished to remain pure for his wee wifey to be Lorna.
My late husband Heironymous had long since ceased to exercise his conjugal rights, preferring to use his business trips to Sweden for Balloch Granite plc to explore the thriving gay scene in Malmo and Stockholm.
We had two lovely children by then; Wendover was always the high achieving intellectual. Now he is expected to get a starred first at Christ Church Oxford where he is reading Greats.
Hopefully he will seize the glittering prizes with both hands and become a famous author or academic.
His sister Morwenna is a completely different saucepan of shrimps. She dropped out of high school to work as a dog-groomer. You may say that a career is not so important for a girl; after all she can marry a successful businessman or whatever.
Morwenna shows no inclination to marry at all. She has a dreadful boyfriend called Gaz who has a dead-end retail job.
They fritter away their lives in a sad round of dabbling in the occult and hanging around Gurneys restaurant in town, hoping that one of their loser friends will buy them a haggis. They do not even serve proper haggises there... just some imitation in a pastry case.
Morwenna likes to tell people that she is a witch and that she belongs to a coven of which I am the High Priestess !! Well, I ask you. Teenage daughters are the absolute limit.
I am strictly Presbyterian, although I am willing to work on the Sabbath if necessary.
Morwenna started her collection of tattoos when she was 13.
She thinks that I never noticed. The boyfriend, who is technically a pedo, carried out the "artwork" on her posterior.
I am reluctant to report Gaz for his underage activities as Morwenna would never forgive me and would probably leave home.
Recently I officially became a widow. Hieronymous made one exploration too many into the seamy underbelly of Sweden. His body has never been found but will not doubt turn up eventually in the Øresund or Lake Vänern.
The law says that seven years must elapse without signs of life before the person may be legally declared extinct.
A few weeks ago this sad anniversary passed and H. was formally declared dead by the Procurator Fiscal.
Now I am free to re-marry if I choose. There is no great urgency; que sera sera as they say. I have had various one-nighters with colleagues who are less retarded than Cowie in the trouser department.
Morwenna's loser boyfriend had the nerve to try it on with me recently. I made it abundantly clear that I was not going to jeopardize my career for a quickie with a low-life like him.
He took it very badly and said that I would be sorry.... what a wanker !!
The only way that he could impress the ladies would be to win the Lottery...
THE END
