The wearing of the tartan

Yesterday we took a day off, did the 170 mile round trip to Inverness; central purpose - find something for an expatriated Englishman, unofficially naturalised Scotsman to wear at the upcoming Burns Supper. Much agonising over the wearing of the tartan. Much as I like the kilt in the end I decided against. Stupid of me, I know, but I have become so steeped in the history of the clans that I would feel a wee bit fraudulent in that and a frilly shirt (or even an open necked one with rawhide thong, Alan!) plus hairy sporran and a dagger in my sock.
But this is the acid test: if you were arraigned in battle on that Culloden day, on which side would you be fighting? Answer on a postcard to yourself.
So I (we) purchased a smart, for us expensive, fawn coloured jacket, black shirt and trousers and a most amazingly patterned tie to match. I'm going to go as myself! And in spite of that I have promised at no stage to sing anything except Auld Aquaintance, definitely nothing solo even after some glasses of the uisgha beatha, definitely not my favourite - the one about the rose that's newly sprung in June that has in the past charmed or repelled many a fair maiden apart from Bonnie Mary of Argylle.

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