His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash

Epi walked back and forth in front of the haggis case, examining each of the bulging beauties in turn. “That one,” he said, to the butcher’s hand hovering over them. “That fat one on the left. Let me see it.” The butcher held it up for him. The tight little balloon-knot of the stomach was perfect.

“Can I?” Epi asked. The butcher nodded and held it closer. Epi slapped the plump rump of the haggis. It was firm. Ripe. Ready for him. “I’ll take it.” He got a far-away look as the butcher weighed and wrapped the greasy lump. He barely noticed the price, numbly handing over notes that meant nothing from his wallet.

“Have you ever cooked one of these, lad?” asked the butcher, “You need instructions?”

Epi stumbled out into the street without hearing a word.