It was Burns Night tonight, when we are meant to eat a dinner of Haggis, neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes) and think of Robert Burns poems to recite.
None of this happened.
But what is worse, the Hobbits came home from school saying they had no special assembly, no mention made and no poems (we always had to memorise at least one of them back in the dark ages when I went to school.)
I don't know why this year nothing much has been done or said. There you go. The man himself probably wouldn't have given a damn anyway.
Favourite Burns story:
Burns is out walking and passes a milk maid on her way to the farm, yoke across her shoulders. She is about to walk past when Burns stops her -
"Do you know who I am?" He asks, she does not, "I'm Robert Burns." He states.
Wearily she motions to her milk pails. "Shall I put these down now then?"
(If this needs explaining then I'll go no further than to say that as a renowned womaniser she wouldn't have know much of his poetry but she'd know of his reputation.)
There is a myth that we have to hunt Haggis and live in Shortbread Tins. Not true.