By Joyce Kelly

"Eh wot's thot ye were playin'?" inquired the young, scraggly Scot when I strode up to the bar to claim my free Turbo dog beer.

"You mean my instrument... that's called a euphonium, not your classic jazz instrument, I admit." 

He swallowed hard and spat out "...a fo- a fo- a wot?"

"Eu- pho- ni- um.  They've got them where you come from.  They play them in colliery bands."

"Ay, ye'v cottoned on ta my accent have ye?  Well I've never heard of a euphhh... one a them things.  Can I buy ya a drink then.  I certainly like the way ya hold it."

"I've got it for free, thanks.  That's our payment.  See ya."  I grabbed my beer and walked back to a band table as though I had something important to do there.  As we packed up a couple hours later, the same fellow staggered over to me, sank his glazed, bloodshot eyes into mine and took a deep breath as though he had something terribly important to say.

"Ya know, ye jes could be my favorite euphonium player."