displaced

We find ourselves in The Cotswolds with a pagan in a leather waistcoat, the mother of a half Scottish boy, an Englishman with a Scottish name, lots of English children and me, someone born in Scotland.

Then there are our hosts, who are from two worlds.

One wears a kilt with nothing underneath and the other has a London accent. They are wonderful, warm hosts.

As time rolls on I come to love the celebration of Burns night. It connects me, in a strange way, with my heritage.

The younger generation however, mock.
They drink the Iron Brew merrily, but they laugh at the theatre of it.
They laugh mockingly at those attempting to recite with an accent.
They make disgusted noises as the haggis is stabbed.
They call it 'higgis' and they say 'yuk'.

They have no respect whatsoever but they do enjoy it.

Oneday, I will take them to Scotland and make them wear wee kilts and then they will understand.

When I was a child I wished at night that I had a Scottish accent. I am slightly annoyed by the fact that, try though I may, I cannot do the accent. Not for love or money.