Jai Gibson was a man of peculiar habits.
He wore hiking boots in the shower “just in case of flash floods,” only ever ate chips with a fork and spoon simultaneously, and once tried to pay for a pint with a commemorative coin featuring the Queen Mother. But by far his most curious trait was that he never — ever — went anywhere without his sheep, NJ.
Now, NJ wasn’t just any sheep. He wasn’t a farm animal. No, NJ was a free spirit — a sheep of culture. He had an Instagram account, once stood in for a ring bearer at a wedding in Falkirk, and had allegedly made accidental eye contact with Ewan McGregor at the Edinburgh Fringe.
One blustery July morning, Jai decided to take NJ on a trip from Inverness to Glasgow on the Highland Main Line. A picturesque journey through sweeping glens, misty Munros, and the occasional startled hillwalker.
Jai arrived at Inverness station with NJ trotting proudly beside him on a tartan lead. The woman at the ticket counter looked up, blinked twice, and said:
“.. is that a sheep?”
Jai grinned. “Aye. This is NJ. He’s my emotional support sheep. Helps me stay grounded, y’ken.”
The woman nodded slowly, tapped something into her computer, and said:
“Right. Well, technically there’s no rule against sheep on ScotRail.. but he’ll need his own ticket.”
“Children’s fare?” Jai asked, hopeful.
“Only if he’s under five and doesn’t take up a seat.”
They compromised and bought NJ a full-price off-peak return. He even got a little printed ticket that Jai tucked into the sheep’s collar. It was adorable, in a slightly unhinged way.
They boarded the train, and for the first hour all went smoothly. NJ sat neatly beside Jai, chewing meditatively on a chunk of sourdough, attracting admiration from tourists and mild panic from two American backpackers who’d never seen a sheep that close unless it was deep-fried and next to coleslaw.
Then came the ticket inspector.
He was a stern Highlander with a moustache that looked like it had been forged from disappointment and haggis fumes. He examined Jai’s ticket with the usual grunt, then looked at NJ.
“And what in the name of Sir Walter Scott’s whiskers is that?”
“This is NJ,” Jai said cheerfully. “Support sheep. Very empathetic.”
The inspector narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t smell very empathetic.”
“He’s nervous around authority.”
“Aye, well, we all are.”
He examined NJ’s collar and found the little paper ticket tucked inside. The inspector snorted.
“Occupation: Sheep. Destination: Glasgow Queen Street. Meal preference: 'Grass if available.' Right.”
He sighed. “Well, technically he’s paid, so I suppose he’s allowed. But keep him away from the snack trolley. Last time we had a goat on board, it ate all the Tunnocks.”
As the journey continued, NJ became more.. adventurous.
He wandered down the carriage, sticking his head into people's bags. He found a stag do, stole a feather boa from one of the groomsmen, and paraded back up the aisle wearing it like he was auditioning for RuPaul’s Baa-race.
At Pitlochry, NJ leapt off the train, refused to get back on until Jai bribed him with an oatcake, then had to be lifted bodily by a passing rugby team from Stirling University.
At one point, NJ somehow locked himself in the luggage rack and refused to come out until someone played the bagpipes. A man in coach B obliged using an app, and NJ finally descended like a woolly ghost from the sky.
Finally, after hours of scenic chaos, the train rolled into Glasgow Queen Street.
Jai and NJ disembarked to applause, some laughter, and one man crying quietly into a Greggs sausage roll.
As they reached the exit barrier, the station manager — a kind-faced woman with a clipboard — stopped them.
“Excuse me, sir.. sorry, but I have to ask: what’s the purpose of your visit today?”
Jai paused, looked down at NJ, who was now wearing sunglasses stolen from a hen party, and replied:
“Well… I thought we’d ewe-tilise the day.”
