SPECIAL MENTION SLOAN PRIZE 2026
Suzy Enoch is a Scottish writer of prose, scripts and screen plays. Her writing is inspired by observations of the absurd and unlikely, writing across timescales to create unlikely pairings of narrators. Suzy began her career in acting and writing for theatre, but found a love of prose during lockdown and subsequently completed a Masters in Creative Writing at Edinburgh University. Suzy is currently researching PhD investigating the ability of AI to infer meaning from subtext in stories (*spoiler – it doesn’t seem to be very good!)
Butteries
Aye, he’s some boy, the auld fella, I see him a’the time. He comes in fer his milk an’tae
pick up a wee sausage roll fer his tea, an’ we see him near enough every day. That’s wan
o the nice things aboot workin in the wee Tesco, no the big Tesco. I like the big Tesco fine
enough, but the folk jist come in fer their big shop an’they never stop fer a blether, but in
the wee Tesco it’s aw the locals, an’they’ll talk the face aff ye before ye’ve time tae
blink, an’ I dinnae mind that at aw.
He’s a funny-lookin fella, richt enough, auld Danny, kinda like… ye ken thae tortilla
wraps ye get? Weel, ye fill them wi yer bits o sausage an’ bacon an’ aw that, an’ ye roll
them up tight, but the minute ye touch it the hale thing fa’as apart in yer haund? Aye
weel, that’s him. Haudin himsel thegither wi mayonnaise an’ luck, but if he dunted
himsel the wrang wey he’d leak oot a bit o bacon or cheese, or, I dinnae ken, a spleen.
An’the day he’s in a bow-tie. A bow-tie! An’ he’s grinnin like his face might split in twa, so
of course I grinned back. Sure, it wis ma birthday so I wis in a guid mood awready.
“Ach, Danny, guid tae see ye! Whit’re ye in fer the day?” says I.
“Butteries, Ailsa, an’ a wee look through the yellae stickers. Whit’s the crack today? Hav’
ye pit a label on that mince yet?”
“Tell ye whit, Danny, I’ll get ma wee machine an’ dae it the noo, will I?”
Weel, did his een no licht up? Sure, he’s auld, but there’s life in him yet, so aff I trot fer
ma wee machine, thinkin tae masel I’d better lift a pack or twa o butteries fer masel. I
love butteries, so I dae, an’ Irene’s comin roon later wi the lassies, an’ she loves them
anaw, so maybe I’d be as weel wi a wee six-pack. An’ a slab of butter, coz ye need butter
oan butteries.
By the time I got back Danny’d fund himsel a trolley, cause he cannae manage a basket
wi the arthritis in his haunds, an’ he cannae stan’ lang wi the gout flarin up in his leg.
Weel, we’ve only the twa trolleys, cause we’re jist a wee Tesco an’ maist folk jist tak’ a
basket, but fer the likes o Danny, or folk that need tae de their big shop, we’ve the twa
trolleys. But only wan o them’s got wheels that work, an’the ither’s got three that turn
an’ wan that’s jist there tae fool ye.
Weel, when I seen auld Danny leanin on the trolley wantin it tae go doon the aisle, an’
instead he’s veerin straight fer the display o’tinned pineapple rings, I kent fine he’d got
the mad trolley.
“Ach Danny, whit’re ye daein wi that?”
“I’m daein ma shoppin, Ailsa.”
“But sure ye ken that trolley’s messed up, ye’ll no get it as far as the rich tea biscuits,
never mind the mince.”
“Soons lik’ a challenge!”
“Ye’re a challenge, Danny, ye ken that? Gie it here an’ I’ll fetch the yin that works.”
I reached tae tak’the haunle, but he swatted me awa like I wis a wee midge.
“No, ye’ll no,” he says, “A c’n manage the trolley.”
“Ye’ll manage tae pass oot wi the effert.”
“Aw well, that’ll save me gaun tae the gym later,” he says, an’ he lifts up yin o his skinny
wee airms an’ gies it a flex. “Look at that, eh? Still got it.”
Weel, I near burst oot laughin at the stubborn auld fella, an’ he gied a wee snort tae
himsel an aw, fair chuffed, he wis. I took a deep breath an’thought aboot the bottle o
chardonnay an’the big bar o Dairy Milk I had in ma locker ready fer ma birthday tea wi
the lassies, an’ I says,
“Awright then, let’s dea it! I’ll come wi ye tae bounce aroon’the shop like a mad thing,
why no, I cannae hae ye gaun aff by yersel wi that thing, can I?”
We took a right twisty road roon the shop, cause wi that trolley ye can only turn richt, but
we soon picked up the mince, efter I stuck a yellae sticker on it fer 20p, a pack onions,
rich tea biscuits fer dunkin, corn plasters, microwave tatties, frozen peas fer vitamins,
an’ a big pack o’ butteries.
At last we got tae the last aisle, the cauld stuff an’the bakin. If it had been last year an’
his Mary wis still here, I’d hae filled Danny’s trolley wi flour an’ eggs an’ aw the guid
things fer bakin. Aye, she wis a gran’ baker, wis Mary, God love her, an she aye minded
ma birthday an’ brocht me in a wee piece. Cheese scones it wis last year. Aye, Mary wis
a legend. No self-raisin fer Danny noo then, it’s sad. But sure he could still fry an egg.
“De ye wan’ a wee six-pack o eggs, Danny?” says I, as we went by them.
“Aye, I’d tak some eggs, Ailsa,” he says, an’ he tries tae turn that clunker o’ a trolley.
But sure enough, Danny gangs left fer the eggs an’the trolley turns richt — straight
across the aisle an’ intae a man that wis bendin’ doon fer a pot o’ yoghurt. Catches him
clean on the elba, an’ sends that fancy Yeo Valley bouncin’ aff his stomach and ontae
the flair. Luckily, Danny went intae me an’ no ontae the tiles, so a grabbed him to keep
him unricht, but the man that got barged intae turns roon wi a face like a bad mood
chewin a wasp.
“Watch yersel there!” he says, his face aw red.
I wis jist aboot tae gie him an earful fer takin that tone wi an auld man, but Danny jumps
in afere I can.
“Ach I’m awfu sorry aboot that, pal! Here, let me sort ye oot,” he says, an’ he pulls oot a
hanky that looks like it could dae wi a long soak in Persil.
“Bit o yoghurt on yer jumper there? That’s nae guid.” he says, scutterin his wey through
the yoghurt, haudin’ on tae the edge o’the trolley fer dear life tae keep himsel upright —
which of course means I’ve got tae haud the ither side tae keep the trolley frae fallin’.
“Cannae hae ye walkin roon like that noo, can we?” Danny goes on. “Jist a wee dab, eh,
that’ll dae ye,”
An’ wi that he starts rubbin awa at the poor fella’s woollens wi his manky wee hanky.
The ither man jumps back.
“Naw, naw, ye’re fine, leave it,” he says, but Danny’s got him noo an’ he’s no lettin go.
“Soon hae ye clean,” he says, an’ afere anybody kens whit’s whit he’s opened his mooth
an’ licked the hanky, ready fer anither go. “Haud still noo.”
That wis it. The sour-faced eejit’s had enough an’ he’s aff leggin it doon the aisle.
Danny turns back tae me, gies me a wink, an’ says, “There ye go. That’ll learn him.”
But noo that Danny’s no wrestlin wi the numpty, he’s nae need tae haud the trolley, so
he lets it go — but does he tell me? Does he heck.
I’m pushin doon on wan side wi aw ma strength, thinkin I’m haudin it steady, when the
trolley flips sideways at me an’ I go heidfirst intae the trolley, ma face plantin straight
intae the pack o Butteries like they’re an airbag, an’ ma feet flyin up in the air, an’ afere I
ken it me an’the trolley are lyin on oor sides skiddin through the yoghurt.
An’that’s when the trolley decides it’ll turn left.
Straight at the eggs.
I couldnae believe it, the whole thing felt like it wis happenin in slow motion, so I jist
shut ma een an’ hoped fer the best. I mind thinkin, as I felt the yoghurt smear up ma
airms, that gettin covered in raw egg wis no on ma list o ideal birthday carry-on.
But then I opened ma een — an’ I’d stopped. Stopped clean afere the eggs.
An’the eggs jist sat there on the shelves, no a wan o them broke, no a drap on ma heid,
an’ I near greet wi relief, I wis that glad.
Danny’s stun’in there wi his feet planted stiff in case he slips, but he’s took a fit o
laughin, near doubled ower, can barely speak, while I’m staggerin tae ma feet wi Yeo
Valley drippin aff every limb, clutchin the burst pack o Butteries.
But somehow he finds the breath tae haud oot his grubby hanky an’ gasp,
“Ye awricht there, Ailsa? Ye’ve got a wee bit o somethin on yer skirt. Here, let me clean
ye up.”
Weel that set me aff an aw, but I didnae dare laugh while stan’in in the yoghurt, so I
steadied masel on the shelf beside me, careful, mind, no tae touch the eggs.
Noo, this wis the bakin aisle, like I said, an’ over the eggs are the stacked the bags o
flour, fer convenience, ye ken.
Weel, flour’s heavy.
An’ it turns oot oor shelves arenae that strong.
So wi me leanin on it, shakin wi laughin, the whole thing gies a groan, then — doon it
comes.
Clean aff the brackets.
An, doon I go again!
This time wi bags o flour burstin aw roon me, like I’m Frosty the snowman, aw white heid
tae toe. An’ of course half the flour bags lan’ on the eggs, an’that lot comes crashin
doon anaw, an’ the whole mess turns intae a kind o paste that am splashin’ aboot in.
By this point Danny’s killin himsel laughin.
“Haud still, Ailsa!” he says.
“I’ll jist fetch the milk an’ ye’ll mak a gran’ pancake batter!”
So I jist sat there fer a second, took a breath, an’ decided I definitely needed at least
anither bottle o chardonnay, maybe twa.
Efter that, I hauled masel oot the puddle o muck wi as much dignity as I could manage,
picked up aw Danny’s bits an’ pieces, an’ says,
“Di ye no think it’s time we got ye tae the tills noo, Danny?” offerin him ma airm.
“Oh aye,” he says, tryin no tae laugh. “I think that’s aw I came in fer the day.”
We left that cursed, useless trolley lyin on the flair an’ walked the last few steps tae the
tills. I scanned aw his bits an’ bobs, bagged them up, an’ han’ed them ower.
“There ye go, Danny. Ye hae a guid night.” A jist aboot managed a smile and I wis jist
aboot tae head aff when he says,
“Haud on there, Ailsa. I’ve got somethin fer ye.”
He reaches intae the bag an’ pulls oot the crushed, soggy pack o Butteries.
“Here ye go. Yer favourite. Happy birthday.”
Well, I jist stood there, no quite takin it in.
“Ye didnae think I’d forgotten yer birthday, did ye?” he says, leanin in.
“Whit dae ye think I’m aw dressed up fer?”
An’ he taps his bow-tie wi a wee flourish.
Then he looks doon at the butteries.
“They’re a wee bit battered… but sure, arenae we aw? Gies them character.”
I couldnae say a word. No a single wan. He gies me a nod an’ starts shufflin awa, then
stops, leans back, een glintin.
“But next year, Ailsa… let’s mak yer cake in a bowl no the flair.”
That fair made me snort.
“Thanks Danny. Thanks a lot.”
An’ aff I went tae peel aff ma uniform, and grab the Chardonnay.
Aye.
He’s some boy, so he is.
Some lad.
