A haggis by any other name…

To lose one haggis may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose two looks like carelessness.

Or at least looks as if somebody somewhere in the postal chain between Edinburgh and Sheerness has a serious haggis fixation. Two dispatches of the warm-reekin great chieftain o the puddin'-race had disappeared en route, my mother whispered, as Rhona and I arrived at the Burns Supper this evening. How else could we otherwise explain by what mystery a collective weight of ninety pounds of haggis (sheep's ‘pluck’ - heart, liver and lungs - mixed with oatmeal and spices) had vanished into the ether?

Standing at the bar in the municipal hall pondering the shocking disappearance, my mind came up with a fresh worry all of its own. If there was no haggis then…

…Did that mean there’d be no supper?

The hall was alive with tartans – in sashes, kilts, table cloths, banners, Saltire bunting hanging from the curtain poles. Around me, dancers spun and reeled and whooped in time to the five piece fiddle band on the stage. It might well be the 250th anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns and one of the most significant nights in the Scottish dancing calender, but all I could think about was my supper receding into the far distance.

My brow tightened with anxiety as I carried the drinks back to the table. My mother must have detected the panic in my eyes. Taking her glass, she looked up at me. “They’re going to do sausage and mash instead”. Never before had the Selkirk Grace had quite such significance.

Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it;

But we hae meat, and we can eat,

Sae let the Lord be thankit.