Maggie's Farm

This brings back many fond memories of crisp autumn mornings spent with my father hunting the elusive haggis. We'd arise early in the pre-dawn gray, when all the world seemed still asleep, hurriedly down our breakfast of stout black coffee and a couple of cans of Olde English 800, shoulder our shotguns and head out. Traipsing across the cornfield stubble down to the pond, keeping an attentive eye out for the distinctive three-toed track of our prey until we arrived at the fog-misted shore where we would scan the tree-line hopefully for any signs of a nesting pair. As the sky lightened with the approaching dawn, we would disappointedly yet still resolutely accept that we had been skunked again, eat the fried egg sandwiches we had concealed within our overcoats, drink several more cans of the Olde English 800 we had concealed in the same manner and then we would drunkenly punch each other in the face until one of us fell in the pond. Ah, the old traditions are the best.