With Radio 4 burbling away in the background, I did nothing today but slap watery white paint on the walls, the floor, myself and even the dog.
There’s party tomorrow night. I am told to turn up as a Scot. I’m afraid I draw a line at a kilt as this is well south of the Highland line but I’ll put on trews. I might even put on my very shiny inherited dinner jacket. It’s a horrendously naff garment but is deliciously light and comfortable. I’ve never cracked the art of wearing the full Highland fig and not breaking into a muck sweat. Add a few reels and I’m a puddle on the floor.
I was told yesterday that the exception to kilts and the Highland line is if one is in the presence of royalty. The authority for this is the Prince of Wales. I suspect this rule may have been conceived to excuse the Caledonian Ball in London at which Princess Margaret was a regular fixture. This edict is surely an abuse of his position. I can see that the PoW could be seen by some as an arbiter of this sort of thing but he has no right to upset ancient conventions beyond wearing his underpants beneath his kilt.
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