Scotland, Decaf

Why, this is Scotland, nor am I out of it!
(With apologies to Marlowe, and to Scotland)

Scotland. How might I best describe her? Scotland is a fungus, a creeping mould, which, from a single spore, begreens your bread from end to end. Scotland is a chain-letter, fanning out in tiresome exponentials. Scotland is a plate of haggis, heavy and indigestible, sending out tendrils of heartburn well into the night. Scotland--Scotland is a virus, slow-burning and insidious, which acts upon the brain. The symptoms come on gradually. You hardly even notice them at first: a paddo here, a bit of a blether there, and before you know it, you're fair giving yourself the boak.

It's not just a matter of vocabulary, either. It's a whole way of thinking, a--a violent ferocity, mitigated by a crushing inferiority complex. A Scot's hatred is like a day-old jar of salad dressing. On the top, you've got an uneasy layer of oil, slippery and volatile. Drop a spark in it, and it'll explode in an instant, leaving a sour salt-and-vinegar mix in its wake. The oil, that's for the English, or football hooligans, or America, or the neighbours with the noisy dog. The vinegar, though, the stuff that's left after the fire, that's for the Scot, himself. The Scot, see, is a virtuoso of self-loathing. That ashy slurp of vinegar is like wine for him. He can't imagine a meal without it.

It's like this, see--this is a genuine Scottish thought, plucked from a genuine Scottish brain: I hate that guy next door. He drives me bonkers. If I weren't such a broke-arsed failure, I wouldn't have to live next to him.

I have created a little pocket of Scotland, just for myself, in the heart of downtown Vancouver. We haven't got council flats round here, so I've built my own best approximation of one, drawing the trappings of poverty round me like a mantle. I never throw anything away, no matter how useless or terrible it may be. I have about a hundred empty boxes in my solarium, which I keep claiming I mean to take to the garbage room. One box of particularly generous proportions has been dragged out into the living room, and pressed into service as a table. Like my mother (who isn't even poor, not by any stretch of the imagination), I have a whole drawer in my kitchen devoted to bags, and one bag within that drawer devoted to smaller bags. (I call that bag my "bag bag", as my mother did before me. I even say "bag" the way she does, stretching it out over several syllables: "bhaaaaaaaagg." I believe that everything good in life comes in a bag, and that saving bags is essential to future prosperity. One's success in life can be measured by the number of bags in one's pantry.)

I am grievously disturbed by the fact that I have neither a cellar nor an attic, and will therefore have to get rid of some of my boxes eventually. I wash out takeaway containers if they don't have anything sticky in them, so I can continue to use them as plates until such time as they fall apart. When I go shopping, I always compare not only prices, but weights and measures as well. If I can save ten cents, I do, even if it means eating matzo balls instead of wontons in my soup. People who buy new underpants instead of doing laundry fill me with horror and wonder and blank incomprehension, all at once.

I always save receipts and envelopes, so I can write notes to myself on their backs. A piece of paper cannot be considered used until every inch has been burdened with at least one layer of writing. Even then, that paper may not warrant throwing out: the words on it might prove useful, even necessary, at some later date. Christmas cards must also be saved. As long as there's no writing on the back of the picture part, they can be cut in half and used again the following year.

I don't do any of these things because I am poor, however. Had I an annual income of one million dollars, I would still find some way to mar my life with sacrifice. Much like the Scottish accent, the Scottish lifestyle is as tenacious as mildew in a damp hallway. Take the weekend my mother and I spent at the antique fairs, for instance. We brought maybe a thousand pounds with us, all told, and spent the lot on a Sèvres teapot the first day out. If we'd been English, or Canadian, or even remotely sane, we'd've sent for more money immediately. It wasn't as though our coffers were empty. Being Scottish, however, we had to do penance. No reward, after all, without tribulation; no prize without punishment. We spent the rest of the weekend in a two-star hotel eating Big Macs with our fingers. Bloody barbaric, that.

Then, there's me and Coca-Cola. I love Coca-Cola. I am, indeed, quite hopelessly addicted to it. That's another thing you get with Scots: addiction. Being addicted to something is a sign of weakness, and there's nothing like weakness to fuel the fires of self-loathing. Coca-Cola is the perfect drug, because it provides both reward and punishment in equal measure. First, there's the refreshing taste, the mellow buzz, the tickle of carbonation at the back of my nostrils. Later, when my body has failed to metabolize the caffeine, you can find me trembling like a junkie on the sofa, footering and fidgeting and muttering Never again! No more cola! Never again!

Which brings me to the purpose of this whole dreary screed: I have decided to give up Coke. I have, in an agonizing gesture of good faith, just poured my last can down the sink. Not only will this be a noble victory over my Scottish blood, but it will reduce heartburn and obnoxious dreams. Last night, for example, after drinking three cans of Coke, I had a dream involving crowds, vomiting, and Adolf Hitler. Then, I woke up with heartburn, and it was all thanks to the Coke.

Decaffeination shall set me free.