Euphemia Cheap, a housemaid fae Dundee, was puzzled chiefly by two things. Firstly; what was she doing in C16th France when she belonged, as far as she understood things, in C19th Scotland? and, secondly; what was it about this Nostrodamus chappie and his jam?
“Michel” she would say “have you no cheese or meat with your bread? Always with the plum jam!”
The beardy apothecary smiled mysteriously (it was the only way he could smile for he had no idea what she was saying). He only knew to keep plying this gorgeous, if slightly smelly, woman with his juicy jam laden as it was with stuff to make her own juices flow like a little river of lust. Skin of a mandrake apple and some Cretan wine to taste. Wee sprinkle ae nutmeg and Bob's yer uncle and Fanny is, well....!
“My knickers are aye wringin’ when I come to see auld Nosty. Yet the sight of him repels me” she would think “his neck has traces of plague buboes and his breath is rank like yesterdays haggis”.
Michel de Nostrodame was meant to be this and he was meant to be that. He could ‘see’ the future and predict all kinds of things but it was all so much chin music. In reality, he was an old-style chemist that could make horny jam.
“Yeh, yeh, big war twentieth century, bitter wee guy with a mustache and bad breath”
He told them all sorts ae shite and they lapped it up.
O and his transporter machine. Young Euphemia of the moistened lips and a taste for jam would have perished in the Tay Bridge disaster had it not been for that.
“Any mair o’ that jam, Nosty?”
"J’Aimee! j’Aimee, j’Aimee, j’Aimee, j’Aimee", as Bryan Ferry would one day sing!
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