Into the shop yesterday rolled a large Canadian. I didn't immediately know for sure that's where he came from but could have put money on him being a 'Homecomer' guided by his outfit. The kilt (very fine wool and quite a mini, definitly off the knee) the laced Highlander shirt, the short leather jacket (not to be found on the fancy dress sites on-line) the sgian dubh (which he had trouble with at Customs understandably) and the sporran - hand-crafted and tooled. Larger than most wiry Highlanders he rather filled the shop and once we'd got past the book queries (old Scottish recipe books which sadly I couldn't provide) he exclaimed about the lack of kilted males on the streets of Highland towns. Tourists lusting after plaid have been taking photos of HIM which is certainly a bit ironic. There are a couple of elderly gents who walk these pavements in their kilts habitually and have never been known to wear anything that covers their knees in their life but apart from them, a dying breed I fear, the only kilts to be seen are the effete looking get-ups with their smart woollen 'Prince Charlie' jacket, or the slightly more robust and butch 'Argyle' jackets rented out for weddings.

My visitor proudly tld me that it had taken him a while to leave off the boxers but that he had finally braced himself and was know properly unclad. Oh too much information! I asked him to be careful sitting down (there have been some horrendous photos of ill-placed knees and droopy family jewels on Youtube!) He assured me that his sporran was heavy enough to keep the kilt below the vital line.

It's true that ex-pats are more patriotic than the stay-at-homes. He makes his own haggis and has to go to great lengths to get the right ingredients because offal is still banned from sale in mad-cow sensitive Canada. The first time he boiled the lungs he claims he nearly gave up the project but has hardened himself to the smell and the sight and now makes some real good stuff. His poor wife. I hope he does it in the garage.

As I type Sandy and the rest of the rugby team are bundling onto the school bus to take them to a match, dressed in their kilts and sporrans. Sandy does NOT abide by the dress code. He wears his long protective rugy under-shorts and cotton socks under the woollen because he like me can't stand wool next to his skin. Poor child. They wear them to the other school, change into rugby gear for the match, change again for lunch and to ride back on the bus. Cruel I call it.