An early start today as we’d scheduled 36 holes of golf, first at Gullane No.1 then later on Gullane No.3.
Our tight but tidy little cottage was near the course so we had plenty of time to stop in a little coffee shop on the High Street of Aberlady. Large white coffee, take away, please for me. Jeff was after his favorite-scones. He ordered a plain and a black currant scone. That’s when the argument began.
For the five years we’ve been traveling together up and down the map of Scotland we’ve indulged in these buttery delectables wherever we’ve gone. The difference of opinion lay in the pronunciation of the word scone. 
Jeff is a scone kind of guy, that is scone as in cone. On the other hand, I’m a fellow that calls it by it’s proper name: scone as gone.
Back in the U.S., in the few places that might have scones on offer, they are invariably cone scones. Even in the great center of England, The Midlands, where I spent many years during my working life, the locals were cone sconers.
But here in Scotland, where these tasty collections of butter, sugar and flour originated, they are called scones , as in gone.
Well it was time to settle the dispute once and for all.
Catriona was the amiable lady who served us and she answered affirmatively when I asked her if she would help us settle a difference of opinion.
“What is the proper pronunciation of scone,Catriona?” I asked.
“I dunna wish to cause enmity between you lads, but I will tell you truly, that a Scot asks for a scone which rhymes with gone”.
She went on to say that only a poorly educated Scot, or possibly a daft posh wanna be would call a scone a cone. That also applies to the English and the Americans but they can’t help themselves.
Well Catriona didn’t actually say that last bit but I could tell she was thinking it.
With that score settled, off to Gullane, where Jeff rebounded from his linguistic defeat with a fine display of iron play and timely putting.
The afternoon tee time was late enough for us to have a leisurely lunch in the clubhouse and afforded me the chance to respond to some of the messages my newfound celebrity had filled my phone with.
Although I was momentarily drunk on visions of Interweb fame, I’d come to the conclusion that it was a fool’s game. After all, I didn’t want to be a jackass all my life.
My multiple thumbs punched in “ No thanks you’s” to each and every request for some piece of me, each offer of the spotlight or lucre, none had any appeal. I had nothing distinctive to say other than F**k Trump. It’s not the most elegant thought even if it’s a very necessary act, figuratively not literally.
The fact that half the commentariat in the US said essentially the same thing but in more gentle prose was not an inducement to join their ranks.
Alternatively, the other half of the political commentariat was happy to live by the creed of “Let Trump F**k us”. These dildo’s needed to be confronted and defeated but I wasn’t in a position to do that.
I was on a golf vacation. Do not disturb me any more.
Bacon and tomato sandwiches back in in cramped rental, even a scone, and some fine single malt , and I had all I needed to set me up for a well deserved night of sleep.
The commotion back home had full dissipated and I’d put an end to all the Interweb nonsense earlier in the day. No one had recognized me either at Fraserburgh, or Gullane or any of our stops in between.
I could rest easy. I was home free with just golf to look forward to.
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