I somewhat unusually spent Burns night eating lentil and tomato soup, before taking myself off to the Theosophical Society. It's normally something I celebrate in my own small way but having come home to find my door kicked in I was a little distracted. Still better late than never.
I'm sure Burns would have approved of my large dose of wine all the same. I wasn't going to bother doing a post. It's not as if Burn's Night went uncelebrated without me, however being a wicked Scottish nationalist reactionary I couldn't hold back.
I should stress that I don't like Burns simply because he is Scottish. He was also a fox and a beautiful if flawed soul. Oh yes and he wasn't too bad at the old poetry lark either. I think it is a testament to his ability as poet to transcend race, time and class that his words could render a six year old girl brought up on Barbie and Battle of the Planets almost speechless (though not speechless enough) with Tam O'Shanter. One of my few happy memories of school was first hearing that great narrative poem. Up until that point everything had seemed so pedestrian, sums, sentences and tissue paper. The hateful Mrs O'Neil couldn't spoil Burns, not even when she sent me out the class for asking what a 'cutty sark' was. I'm not a true Scot apparently. The woman was certifiable and I rather fancy that if he'd been alive Burns would have left the room with me to stand on 1982's answer to the creepie chair. The disgusting Mrs O'Neil later made me stand in a wastepaper basket for being 'rubbish'. Still I had Tam O'Shanter in my head and she only had a wish to humiliate children, which I think makes me the winner. Let's all hope she's dead as doornail now or at the very least embarrassed, frightened and miserable.
To wander back towards the bloody point.
Here are two of my favourite Burns turns.
Ae Fond Kiss
Address to the Unco Guid