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