Berry Friday

I’m berry-toned up today, with my aubergine skirt, purple suede boots, hot pink gloves (not seen)… etc etc. I’d forgotten about this skirt until a recent wardrobe clearout, and have now built a couple of easy-on outfits around it, so expect a repeat appearance in coming weeks!

If I look rather tired (and my hair rather a mess) it’s because I am. Our Burns supper was a riot of food, poetry, laughter and, yes, dancing. In fact, we danced quite a number of jigs and reels, and I actually felt I was getting the hang of the patterns and steps. I’m not yet good enough to dance the lead where menfolk are short, but I’m finally getting the hang of being the lady!

Unfortunately, this translated to a late night, which naturally included a dram or two of whisky, and I frankly can’t hold my liquor these days. Still, tomorrow is the weekend, so it’s not all bad!

I’m off to Dapper’s now, but will leave you with a poem about… whisky! As read last night by Margaret, also purveyor of marvellous homemade tablet:

No churchman am I by Robert Burns

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.

The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, tho’ ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother – his horse,
There centum per centum, the cit with the purse,
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

‘Life’s cares they are comforts’ – a maxim laid down
By the Bard, what d’ye call him? that wore the
black gown;
And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair:
For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.


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