Not me, the kitchen ceiling. To be fair we bought it like this. The plasterer is coming today and will be here for a while. The whole thing’s coming down, he’s doing the walls and I was thinking of asking if he could plaster the floor too so as to save a protracted What To Put On The Floor debate.
The blog is going to go all WIP on you this week on account of stress needing an outlet. There’s going to be dust, there’s even more heaps of disarray than usual and I have already needed to start the Aberlour Single Malt (but not this morning, obviously).
It’s Burns Night tonight. We are skipping the celebration this year (rib of beef, haggis, neeps and tatties followed by cranachan) due to another speech somewhere else apparently. Nonetheless I will be forcing a bit of Rabbie on some unsuspecting students and then raising my Balvenie Doublewood (rich and not so smoky) to the imaginary haggis late tonight.
This poem “To a Mouse” is achingly beautiful, but it has to be heard so I have linked it to audio clips as well as text. Written “on turning her up in her nest, with the plough” in November 1785 I find it heart-wrenching that, despite his own hard life, Burns was inspired by the plight of a mouse in his field. A lesson in humanity.
N.B. After years of thinking haggis sounded disgusting and then when buying it going to a high-end butcher for their own, I am now of the opinion you can’t beat a MacSween haggis.
P.S. Dad, the Russell tartan can be seen here, are you allowed to wear it or must you stick with this?
Offering 20/1 we get a paternal response before February 2010…