It’s Burns night, and the annual haggis slaughter is drawing to a close, their little meeps and mutters fading with the day. I have boiled said haggis, slit open it’s taut white skin, emptied its gizzards onto presentation plates, and said a small ode** to the beast. Then it was devoured. Following this, there was naked dancing at the altar of the small god Rabbie, and a virgin sacrifice. Now we shall sleep in the garden under the stars until we bear the traditional frostbite, following which we will probably invade the English, or at least the ones in Berwick.
Tradition’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Usually, it seems to mean ‘something so manifestly foolish or silly that we can’t justify doing it for the original reasons anymore, and so call it a holiday and have do’. Fun though.
In other news, go and pre-order Beneath The Surface. Help me feed my babies…
** in a break with tradition, my ode this evening went along the lines of “Oh timorous haggis… sorry about that.”