A Man’s A Man For A’ That

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Burns' Night, Rabbie Burns, Robert Burns, Scotland's National Poet, Scottish Literature, Sydney statue

Rabbie Burns – even celebrated Down Under (Sydney)

Photos by Candia

Surprise Guests

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Bonnie Prince Charlie, Burns' Night, Caligula, Commonwealth Games, D-day celebrations 2014, emoticons, Eskdale Hotel. Langholm, Glasgow School of Art, Henry Moore's King and Queen, incontinence pads, Kagyu Samye Ling, Land Girl, portable catheter, Sauchiehall Street, Snodland, Tibetan Centre, Usain Bolt, whippersnapper, Willow Tea Rooms

It’s gone!  It’s gone!  Murgatroyd’s face was ashen.

Calm down, dear!  Diana took control.  She was used to his

histrionics.

But it was here last night when we had the post-concert

drinkies.  And the glass hasn’t been smashed.  We didn’t hear

the alarm. I don’t understand it.

The niche where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s chalice had been

displayed was now empty.

What a shame!  The concert had been a triumph and there had

been some surprise visitors.  One, in particular, had caused

consternation and a re-shuffling of the sleeping arrangements.

Aunt Augusta had shown up in a taxi, gleefully proclaiming, Have

portable catheter.  Can travel!

The taxi driver sheepishly unloaded the packs of incontinence pads

from the boot and waived the tip of an obsolete half crown.

When reprimanded about the staff at Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry being frantic with worry, the rogue aunt merely

shrugged and said: That old chap escaped for the D-day celebrations

in Normandy, so, as a Land Girl, I wasn’t going to be trumped by some

whippersnapper of a male.  You can phone and tell them I’ll return

after I have heard my great-niece in concert.  I’ll be back on Wednesday

as it’s the day I have my corns done.  Tell them not to strike a medal; I

have enough of them at my age.

The other unexpected members of the audience were Maxwell

Boothroyd-Smythe and his delinquent, but artistically-talented daughter,

Juniper.  Thankfully her pesky little brother had been taken to some kind

of trendy boot-camp by his mother.

Juniper had been photographing the burnt-out Glasgow School of Art, where

she had been promised a place if her predicted grades were achieved.  Her

father found that checking out possible accommodation for the Autumn term

was nigh-on impossible, as The Commonwealth Games‘ crowds in Sauchiehall

Street were overwhelming.  The chance of having a cup of tea in The Willow

Tearooms was as slight as Usain Bolt failing to win a gold medal.

Finding the city too crowded, they had set off for The Borders, hoping to see

Henry Moore’s King and Queen sculpture and to visit the Kagyu Samye Ling

Tibetan Centre which Juniper had been harping on about for months.  Goodness

knew, her father had been seeking inner peace for some time.  So, he agreed.

They had been eating a bar snack in The Eskdale Hotel, Langholm, when

Juniper’s observant eye focused on a flyer advertising a clarsach concert.

Dad!  Let’s go to that!  It’s that form teacher of mine.  She’s playing at some

kind of a tower house near here.  That nerdy guy who’s John’s form teacher-

the one they all call Caligula- is singing.  It should be a laugh.

When is it?

Tonight.

But won’t you put them off?

No, Miss Fotheringay is well-used to me surprising her.

Maxwell studied the mini-poster.  He recognised the woman.  She had scrubbed

up quite well.  Probably Photo-shopped.  Yes, he had danced Strip the Willow

with her at the PTA Burns’ Night.

Okay.  Okay.  But I’m not phoning ahead for tickets.  We might get lost. 

Probably hardly anyone will turn up, so we can buy tickets on the door.

I knew there was something going on between those two, whooped his

daughter.

Juniper was already texting her friend Tiger-Lily, using a full range of

emoticons.

 

 

Diana’s Diary 2

Tags

Burns' Night, chicklit, e-book, Elvis, Flower of Scotland tartan, ghillie brogues, Heath and Safety Officer, Heavyweight kilt, Izaak Walton, Juniper, Pele Tower, Phytophora, Presleys of Aberdeenshire, Prince Charlie jacket, PTA, skean dhu, trout fishing

I mustn’t look back now that I have re-located to Suttonford.  I can

hardly believe that it is almost Burns’ Night.  Wonder what my ex,

Murgatroyd, is doing?  Probably having a ceilidh in his converted Pele

Tower in the Borders.  No, don’t go there..

Called in to meet another of Sonia’s friends last night.  She was quite

an eccentric old lady in her nineties and, although it was very early in

the evening, she insisted on pouring us very large measures of

something hideously like fire-water, which she referred to as Dewlap’s

Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.  There was very little tonic in it.

There followed a monologue about the decline in juniper plants in the

South of England.  Apparently rabbits are eating them and No. 3

London Gin is subsidising the protection of the few remaining bushes in

Sussex.  They seem to be succumbing to a disease called Phytophora

austro-something or other- the plants, not the rabbits.  The old dear

was quite distraught at the thought of her little tipple being affected.

Not so little, actually!

We were talking about the PTA Burns’ Supper and Ginevra, for that

was the old biddy’s name, was surprisingly informative about where

Gus could hire a kilt and all the gear.  She used to live in Scotland too,

nearly a century ago.

Apparently there is a place in Southampton that sends the whole outfit

out, if you book it on-line.

The Health and Safety Officer at school has vetoed the skean dhus,

though.  Says they could be construed as dangerous and menacing

weapons.

I e-mailed Gus later from Ginevra’s, to pass on the information and to

say that I would come along as his guest.  Ginevra is quite au fait with

the internet and so on and even showed me her latest e-book!  It

seemed fairly racy.

She called it Broilerlit and, when I queried the term, she explained that after

chicklit came henlit, and finally, broilerlit, written by authors of the Third Age.

Much later, when we finally dragged ourselves away, so that Magda, the old

lady’s carer could put her to bed, Gus actually phoned me on my mobile.

He told me that there is to be a band and caller and the School Secretary has

organised an auction, with prizes, such as a day’s trout fishing with tuition

which will tickle the gills of any budding Izaak Walton.

She- The School Secretary-I don’t recall her name-had already ordered

ghillie brogues, a Prince Charlie jacket and Heavyweight kilt in the Presley

tartan for him, seeing as Gus has no clan connections.  So, she must be

quite efficient, after all.

However, he didn’t fancy the Elvis theme, in spite of the Presleys being

genuinely originally from Aberdeenshire.  So she swapped the cloth to

Flower of Scotland, which certainly sounds more traditional, though it may

be universally worn, with no affiliation required.

Sonia is going to lend me her long, bottle green satin dress and a tartan

stole, if the moths haven’t got into it.

I’m a little worried about Gus’ legs and I can’t bear to speculate as to

whether he will, or won’t be wearing anything underneath.

Let’s just hope that it is not a windy night, in any sense of the adjective.

I’m glad he opted for the Heavyweight!

Cheerio for now, as they say!