Sunday, 22 January 2012

Didn't get my haggis after all

Burns’ night – we were promised haggis, whisky, barely comprehensible poetry and bagpipes. Rising to the occasion, I persuaded my father to lend the Husband his kilt, and then persuaded the Husband to wear it. Rather lovely he looked too. I had a Tartan Burberry skirt circa 1965 from Allotment Junkie ("Oh, real Burberry, not ‘chav Burberry’." as someone pointed out to me – what a relief!).

What a splendid evening. Whisky Macs made with ginger liqueur on arrival, to the background accompaniment of the Red Hot Chilli Pipers (check them out – Coldplay’s ‘Clocks’ bagpipe stylie ). Great company,  much tartan in evidence. It’s amazing how many exiled Scots or semi-Scots there are this far South. Before we knew it the teenage minions were bringing out mugs of cock a leekie soup with baskets of pumpkin seed or sundried tomato bread. Mrs W – your bread was delicious. I had 4 slices. So was the soup.
I was eagerly awaiting the main course, though, I love haggis. In time, it was duly piped in (Youtube is a wonderful thing), addressed by our host in the traditional way and then stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. Mrs W had done great things – we were having a buffet and to accommodate the traditional fayre, there was mini- Yorkshire pudding stuffed with haggis, and venison casserole stuffed baked potato skins. Genius. I filled my plate and was just about to settle down when Mrs W approached with the telephone...

Poor Pink. By the time I’d got home she had calmed down but was pathetically pleased to see me. Normally, (smug mummy moment here) both Blue and Pink go to bed and go to sleep and I don’t hear from them till morning (one of my only successes as a parent I feel, although for those of you feeling annoyed about that, for ‘morning’ read no later than 6.30. No lie in for me). I had been slightly concerned earlier in the evening when I’d settled her off, fully calpol’d up, and she hadn’t gone immediately to sleep but had had to be comforted a couple of times due to the cough.  However, by the time my lovely friend had arrived to babysit, all was quiet, she was asleep and I was happy to go out. It’s always better to travel in hope than expectation, I feel.
I had almost forgotten that she was poorly (well I had had 2 whiskies by then) when the call came, but there we go. Eventually she settled back down to sleep but not before expressing in her cutest, most appealing 5yr old way (rather than the irritating and demanding way she can sometimes employ) that she would really rather I stay at home. How could I refuse? Typically, she then went to sleep and didn’t stir till 3, but while I am not too sure what time the Husband finally made it to bed, I feel I was probably better able to deal with her having taken myself to bed at 11 (cup of tea and a chat with my babysitting friend who was putting off some marking, followed by a quick and sneaky bit of quilting), than whenever it was that the party ended.
So I didn’t get my haggis. Perhaps I will just have to make my own. Maybe next year.

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