Agnes MacTavish, a wee woman with a handbag bigger than her car, gripped the steering wheel of her ancient Vauxhall Viva. Beside her, Angus, her husband of sixty years, grumbled something about needing the loo, his words lost in the wind whistling past the Viva’s slightly-a-jar window. Agnes, however, was focused. She was on a mission – to get Angus to the doctor before his appointment was canceled for the third time this month. And speed, she reasoned, was of the essence.
A flash of blue and red lights in her rearview mirror shattered her concentration. Agnes, momentarily startled, slammed on the brakes, sending Angus’s head – already bobbing precariously – forward with a disconcerting *thwack*.
A young, rather handsome police officer approached the Viva, his expression a mixture of concern and what Agnes suspected was mild amusement. He tapped on the window. Agnes, wincing at the memory of the last time she’d had her window repaired, slowly rolled it down, revealing Angus, now looking slightly green.
“Good afternoon, madam,” the officer began, his voice polite but firm. “I stopped you because you were exceeding the speed limit.”
Agnes peered at him, squinting through her thick spectacles. “Exceeding the speed limit? Officer, I was *maintaining* the speed limit. It was a *challenging* maintainance, granted, given the state of this vehicle and my husband’s… urgent… bladder situation.” She gestured towards Angus, whose face was now a shade of green that rivaled the police car.
The officer blinked. “Madam, your speedometer indicated you were travelling at 55 miles per hour in a 30-mile-per-hour zone.”
Agnes sniffed. “That speedometer’s been optimistic since 1978, Officer. It’s got the same spirit as I do – always aiming for the highest possible number, even if it’s not entirely accurate. Besides,” she added with a conspiratorial wink, ” a little white lie every now and then keeps the doctor from cancelling appointments, and keeps Angus from wetting his kilt.”
The officer stared at her, speechless. Angus let out a groan that sounded suspiciously like the Viva’s engine sputtering.
Agnes continued, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “It’s a matter of national security, you see. Angus’s appointment is for his… special… hearing aid. If he misses it, the secrets of the clan will be lost forever.” She then produced a half-eaten shortbread from her enormous handbag. “Would you like a biscuit, Officer? It’s oatcakes, but we call them biscuits. You know, to confuse the enemy.”
The officer, completely flummoxed, simply stared at the shortbread, then back at Agnes, who was beaming at him. He mumbled something about a “challenging situation” and let them go with a warning. As Agnes sped off, leaving a trail of dust and the faint scent of shortbread, Angus weakly mumbled, “Thank ye, lass, thank ye.” Agnes grinned. She might have been speeding, but she’d saved the clan’s secrets and Angus’s bladder – all in a day’s work.
