Cooking My Goose

"I'll cook something nice for you today," my cook said.

"No, your usual muck will do," I replied moodily.

" I wasn't speaking of duck, I was speaking of haggis," she said pretending not to hear.

"You mean Huggies?  That's what babies wear! I didn't know that you could eat Huggies," I said surprised.

"You don't ....."

I wouldn't," I replied.

"All I said was that I'll cook you haggis. The Scots eat it and like it too!" She said impatiently.

"Scots! Great Scot! The chaps who wear skirts and thrust bagpipes on an unsuspecting world!" I exclaimed.

"They wear kilts, not skirts!"

"Next you will tell me to wear a skirt? Let me tell you that I'm not a cross dresser and never have been," I replied heatedly.

"But you never know, it might catch on here!"

"I'm not wearing  skirts," I said firmly.

"No one is telling you to. But I wonder how you will look in them! He He!" She tittered.

"You're lucky that the missus is no more," I said sourly.

"She would have enjoyed it too. You could then take a walk around the neighbourhood. They would like it too."

"And then the police will haul me up in court and I'll get sent down for a couple of years in the jug for indecent dressing. No thanks!" I replied disgusted.

"You could do with the discipline there." There was a wistful note in her voice.

"For not eating haggis and wearing skirts?" I asked disdainfully.

"I was just thinking. It was just a thought," she replied.

"Put your thoughts away. They are of no use to me right now."

"All you think of is eating!

"Isn't that what life's about? Eat, sleep and be merry. " I pointed out.

"And tomorrow we die."

"Who said anything about dying?" I asked taken by surprise.

"That's the complete phrase.  It has biblical connotations. It's also mentioned in the Book of Mormons," she replied haughtily.

"Mormons?" I asked puzzled. "You don't mean morons do you?"

"No, I don't. It means members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And, you had better apologise to the Mormons for your comment," she said.

"Latter-day saints. You mean like Mother Teresa?" I asked in astonishment.

"Oh! You wouldn't understand," she sniffed.

"You can also pass the salt and pepper, while you're at it," I said loftily.

"You'll get them when you eat haggis like a nice boy."

"I'll look haggard if I have haggis! What's it made of anyway?" I asked.

"It's a sausage that the Scots like."

"And, they all dress up for dinner in kilts and play the bagpipes, must be."

"Don't be so dismissive about the Scots, they're not part of Brexit."

"You mean exit don't you," I asked puzzled.

"Exactly."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to. It's above you."

"No, I'm all under, in underpants really."

"Don't be vulgar. It has nothing to do with undergarments," she said crisply.

"You really like catching people with their pants down, don't you?" I asked.

"Don't you dare undress before me," the cook said sharply.

"No, no, I wasn't thinking of doing that," I retorted hastily.

"Then what were you thinking of?" Her voice was filled with suspicion.

"Underpants. No ... no .... I didn't mean that. Just a slip of the lip!" I said hastily.

"Are you trying to slip me one?" the cook's voice had a steely quality.

"Slip you what?" I asked.

"A bum steer," she said.

 "You'll give me the bum's brush more likely?" I said.

"Don't be rude," the cook said with a warning glint in her eye.

"Ok, ok pipe down. Better still bagpipe down," I said.

"You should be Down Under."

"Down and under?"

"Australia."

"And then take a plane straight to Edinburgh for a plate of haggis!"

 "One man's meat is another man's poison," I was quick to point out.

"You won't get poisoned with haggis!"

"Yes I will, if I'm also wearing skirts and the odd lipstick at the same time," I shouted. "And underwear or no underwear, no, haggis, no bagpipes and no skirts!"

"Ok! I'll go and cook your goose then," the cook replied miffed and left.