Since this journal appears to only ever be read by a friend in the far north west of the USA I needn't be overly conscientious about filling in the missing details. Sufficient to say that Burns Night is fast approaching, or probably already gone, and that I have an urgent need to either learn one of his poems or devise one of my own for delivery at our very own Burns Supper, to be held on the evening of this approaching Saturday.

We shall, in the time honoured fashion, partake of the Haggis, potatoes and "neeps" (turnips), drink illiberal quantities of various strong spirits according to taste, including "the water of life", both local and French, and read or recite, as is our custom, works both of Mr Burns and such other poets as we deem appropriate. We shall use the Selkirk grace and there will be a short address to the Haggis, but our thoughts this year will be on those who cannot be with us, or who, by the Grace of God, are elsewhere. It is a time for friendship and fellowship, a time to share the experience of life and to celebrate, above all else, the gift that Burns gave to the language and spirit of Scotland.

And if, by Saturday, I can compose a few lines of suitable doggerel, I shall be more than pleased.