On Tuesday, armed with a copy of a Scottish classic, “Whisky Galore”, along with some research on Samsung Electro-Mechanics, to read on the flight, I made my first trip to Edinburgh since the Referendum and I don’t mind telling you I got quite misty eyed and patriotic flying in, looking down at the sun shining on Leith and thinking thank goodness for that. That evening I was treated to dinner by a friend in the New Club. Not many Yes banners left fluttering around in that fine institution. It was the most terrific treat, though I’m not sure I will be invited back. Perhaps it was my heightened emotional state, but more likely two quick stiff gin and tonics on an empty stomach, that persuaded me to sing a song from Gilbert & Sullivan opera in the main drawing room before dinner. You what, you might well ask. Moderately long story.
Whilst my host had popped away, getting the second of the aforementioned gins, an old gentleman befriended me. He had wandered into the room, spotted me on my own; commented on the wonderful view of the Castle and then sat down beside me for a bit of a natter. Shortly afterwards we were re-joined by my friend who, I couldn’t help noticing, left me to do most of the talking, which was possibly because he handles his drink better than me. Mind you, we had a surprising amount in common, the old gentleman and I. He had certainly voted No which I would have done if I’d had one. He had played rugby against Clifton Hall, my old prep school. He had gone to Glenalmond, albeit Wardens, rather than my house, Skrines. He knew how to pronounce Kilconquhar. He loved St Andrews. His hearing wasn’t great, and at one point it became obvious he had forgotten we had left the 1990’s. You could certainly say he and I hit it off.
He did bang on a bit about on about his war time experiences which lost me for a while. No soldier me. I managed even to avoid the CCF at school. But then he told us that he had been stationed on the border of India and Afghanistan where, 75 years ago, in between active and varied service which included helping an Afghan lady to give birth, he had learnt how to write a particular word ( shame on me, I can’t recall which word it was, but that shouldn’t wreck a decent story ) in Pashto. Unsolicited, because I had no cause to question him, he whipped a notepad from his pocket and demonstrated his skill with a dextrous and complicated series of strokes. Now I may not strike you as a competitive sort, but there occasions when I find myself not wanting to be outdone. “Well” said I, “ Forty years ago I played the part of Captain Corcoran in a school production of HMS Pinafore and to this day I can remember practically every word of it.” Perhaps I have an untrustworthy face, I don’t know, but he barely allowed me to pause for breath. “Sing us a song then” said my new best friend. And even in my slightly inebriated state I could immediately tell he was earnest.
It wasn’t the finest rendition of “I am the Captain of the Pinafore” I have ever given, but I wouldn’t mind betting it was the best yet heard in the New Club drawing room. And once order had been restored we said goodbye to the elderly man - it only dawned on me afterwards that he must have been about 95 years old and I never got his name, but I hope I will see him again – and adjourned to the dining room for some smoked salmon, grouse and an excellent bottle of Chateau Franc Mayne 2001. May the Socialist Republic of Scotland never see the light of day.
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