A Prayer for Holy Willie, and for me?

Another year, another missed posting on Rabbie's Day, although it cannot be said it was not well celebrated.  (Not sure of that double-negative either, which is now a triple one with this addition, argh...)  The Ledaig, the fixed tartan bowties, the hot-tub before and toast of rum, the lovely memorized rendition of the title poem (the hilariously hypocritical last two verses copied below), the many other jokes and toasts and haggis and neeps and cigar and rain and ocean and vodka/water and garlic fingers and Guinness last of all, oh aye.

Yes. Yes indeed.  Funny how a date sits out there, a Saturday Burns night.  Then along it comes.  Quiet then riotous and then slightly disappointing in the Immortal Memory delivery but then not really when you recall the Fornicator delivery and reminiscing again about the year in Glasgow, now 14 (!) long winters gone.  The point has passed when that number was capable of surprise, but it is something, when you consider how much closer to the end 14 more will put things. 

Not that much has not been done in the intervening years.  So much.  And every year seems to bring with it more new and shiny places, and ever better understanding of how to handle things on the road.  Although remember the hostel in Moscow?  Not enough time and no companions and sleeping through the days and guilty as the moon at the charge of being "so serious" by the receptionist.

So what is the tonic?  Keeping the Irish lessons front of mind, it still seems the road.  Ever the road.  Something new to look out on and force the hand of course.  But without the baggage of the recent work hanging over you on the inevitable return, without the formal business concerns of where the next files of increasingly less interest are going to come from, without the same characters year over year who have treated you so well, without the infernal demand to be busy.

In a word, escape.  And with 6 minutes left on the Alderney library timer, time to craft another one in words to bridge us to the next point at some time in future, when more sand will have run out.  Briefly.  Today was the day in which I filled out another global application and butchered another cover letter, this time for the easterly isle of Barbados and Cave Hill, and paid fifty bucks for the privilege of getting the signature there on time.  Ridiculously.  Followed by the purchase of the Caribbean isle book that should offer similar fun in daydreaming a life for the next few years down there while you regroup and reorganize. 

Maybe not the best timing, with the young nephews on the way (and spare a quick word for Ned Robertson, ushered into this world just after Burns night of course) and everyone growing older and possibilities developing as we lead into summer.  But needs must, as the saying goes.  And there is a joy in the prospect of an envelope wending its way down to be opened by an unknown person on a far-off island and maybe, just maybe, the flop of the first domino that may reach all the way back and provoke some more incredulity. 

It is fun to think of all the different paths that might be.  Dream on, then.  Thumbs held as we wait to see what is to come.