The flanêur

So a bump’t in tae this fella doon the harbor an a strikes up a wee conversation cus am aywis on the look out fur a story.

An we’re gabbain awa an a asks him, “Fit d’y’dae?” An he says, “Am a flaneur. A flan aboot.” A fit? I asks him? A flaneur he says A fit? I asks again. Noo, he’s clearly used to tae this as he doesnae bat an eyelid at my incessant line of questioning. A flaneur. F.L.A.N.E.U.R So I says, is that like a baker and he say no, it means a walk aboot wi nae particular purpose. It’s French. Well that checks oot, ah thought, as he’d ane rod wi im and he wasnae speakin tae any o the loons that were fishin.

Noo, this flan-fella wis daeing some tour in his motor, the NC500. Ave nivir heard o that masel, but he was adamant that it wis a realthing cus it’s oan the Instragam. He even said ma cottage was, “Totally Instagrammable” an started taking picture o creels and ma cousin Kenneth’s gnomes. According to him, the Moray coast has now been “discovered” even though it was “hidden”. All in all he made no sense so I let him wander an didnae mention Tarlair as I’d prefer tae keep that fir masel and the local bairns.