The thin, watery light of a Northern dawn trickles down the hillside, highlighting patches of mist and glinting off the dewdrops coating the heather. The raucous, guttural call of a grouse rings out from some hidden hollow. All else is silent. All else is still.
But wait! What’s this? Movement. A lone figure has appeared over the rise, striding purposefully down the hillside. Could it be…. is it… the Highlander?
It most certainly is. But his presence here answers nothing. It brings only questions. What has happened to his shirt, for a start? We’re pretty damn close to the Arctic circle up here. The silly bugger is going to catch his death of a cold.
Why is he covered in baby oil? And how does he manage to keep his hair in such fabulous condition? The only time I ever washed my hair in a loch and conditioned it with sheep-fat I was attacked by crows. And I won’t even begin to speculate on where he found a tanning bed and a steady supply of steroids in 15th century Scotland.
Wait! What is he up to now? Oh look; he’s whipped out his enormous claymore and is waving it around as if trying to awaken Sigmund Freud from the dead…
It’s time to tackle fiction. Or at least a small slice of fiction. Romances. Continue reading