Ma wee bonnie child

This morning I was awoken by the distinct strangled screech of bagpipes. I know that most people would rather listen to an orgre play their spine like a xylophone than listen to the agony-bags but I like to think that the love of bagpipe music is in my genes.  I suppose it is.  My ancestors, the Mackay's, hail from a small town outside of Glasgow.

After sending Tuks outside to investigate the source of this racket music, I was delighted to learn that people were setting up for a Scottish festival in the park opposite our home. Later that afternoon I took Daluwyn over to watch the Highland games. As I perused the stalls selling jewlery, flasks and haggis I found some tiny baby kilts. Of course, I could not resist.

William Wallace, eat your heart out!