Ah the thistle, symbol of Scotland, as is dear Mr Burns who's big night it is this evening. Something else synonymous with our fair nation is Scottish Country Dancing.
This 'sport' for want of a better word, has entered our little household. Idgy is not a natural Highland Dancer. I blame myself for this. She has obviously inherited my 'can't do' gene on that front.
Take me to any event that boasts any form of formation dancing and I will prove my worth as a reel wrecker time and again. I must have a little brain cell missing, the one that reminds you which person you are meant to dance with and which way you are meant to be going.
This isn't something new, I've has this innate ability to reel wreak since I was at school. Many is the time that dear Miss Gibb would fix me with her steely glare, point dramatically towards the far corner of the gym hall and demand that I and my co-giggler should 'leave the floor until we felt we could concentrate and 'take this seriously'. Giggling, a heinous crime, we were ousted.
Poor Idgy has inherited my shoddy dancing and giggling inefficiencies.
So it was with something akin to shock that I opened the door to Mrs Kipsley the other day. Mrs Kipsley is the local Scottish Country Dance teacher and extreme enthusiast. She runs classes for all ages and has been co-opted into the village school to inflict the Gay Gordons and sword dances on unsuspecting (and giggling) children. I have never had much to do with this good lady as Idgy has never been a 'chosen one' in the dancing department.
Poor Mrs K had a problem and wondered if Idgy could help. Apparently her team of junior dancers are booked to compete at a competition in Ayr in March. Well one of her girls had just had the audacity to inform her that a relative was getting married that very day and as she would be 'down the front of the church in a pink dress holding the flowers', this was a crushing blow for Mrs K, but never a woman to be held back for long she was seeking out a new victim.
Enter Imogen, all long hair, long legs and cheerful disposition. Oh and no dancing ability whatsoever, did I mention that?
Would Idgy be prepared to join the team and enter the competition? Lets remember that her team have been coached by her for years and know their stuff, Idgy has of course bounded about the gym hall and proved herself to be my daughter in the dancing stakes. Anyway my redoubtable girl said yes (for some obscure reason best known to herself), so now here was Mrs K to give me a list of practice dates and ludicrous times. These included Saturday mornings at 8am!
Saturday morning dawned and Idgy was prised from her pit of slumber, stuffed into a skirt – good grief, a skirt! and packed off to dance her socks off.
'How was it?' I asked a couple of hours later when I went to collect her from the village hall. 'Oh fine, but everyone else kept going the wrong way'.
That's my girl!
PS – I made Nan's cabbage soup (without the Liptons soup mix as I don't know what that is', mine was just all the veg plus tinned toms and tom juice and a stock cube. Fabulous, tasted great and is really filling. I'm going to have this as my lunch each day to see how it goes.