Was It You?

Alright you 'orrible lot. Who gave me this cold?

I am Snot Factory.

If snot was a saleable commodity I could be bottling this stuff and getting rich. But it's not, it's just my own body deciding to make me more dehydrated by leaking essential water out through my face. Dear body, faces are for putting food in, and very occasionally crying at the movies*. On the system diagram that is my face, there should not be an output arrow labelled "snot". 

I'm treading that delicate line between sniffle-y and miserable and still just functionable enough to go to work. Which has made me feeble. Drinking my tea through a straw feeble. I have made it home, changed in to my onesie and eaten last night's reheated leftovers. I absolutely intend to keep it short, listen to the rest of I've Never Seen Star Wars and sod off to bed. 

So there was a Burns' Lunch, and a Burns' Supper this last weekend. Saturday was a little busy, shall we say. Both were awesome. 

First up there was this poem, told by none other than the Minister's Mum. Copied and pasted here in it's full glory.

TAE A FART

Oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie 

Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie 

Jist as ye sit doon among yer kin 

There sterts tae stir an enormous win' 

The neeps 'n' tatties 'n' mushy peas 

Stert workin' like a gentle breeze 

But soon the puddin' wi' the sauncie face 

Will hae ye blawin' a' ower the place 

Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae 

A'bodys gonnae hiv tae pay 

Even if ye try tae stifle 

It's like a bullet oot a rifle 

Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair 

Tae try an' stop the leakin' air 

Shify yersel fae cheek tae cheek 

Prae tae God it disnae reek 

But aw yer efforts go assunder 

Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder 

Ricochets aroon the room 

Michty me a sonic boom 

God almichty it fairly reeks 

Hope a huvnae s**t ma breeks 

Tae the bog a better scurry 

Aw whit the hell, it's no ma worry 

A'body roon aboot me chokin 

Wan or twa are nearly bokin 

A'll feel better for a while 

Cannae help but raise a smile 

Wis him! A shout wi' accusin glower 

Alas too late, he's jist keeled ower  

Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare 

A dinnae feel welcome ony mair 

Where e'er ye be let yer wind gang free 

Sounds like jist the job fur me 

Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party 

Ower the sake o' wan wee farty

The Minister's Mum. And there was a moment where the pianist nearly had kittens when the wee mannie up to sing announced a different song from the one on the piano. 

Then there was our Burns' Supper. Which was awesome. The planned hot mulled cider/juice welcome drink turned out to be a somewhat lukewarm welcome drink, but hopefully accompanied by a genuine warm welcome. The last dregs that I tasted many hours later when clearing up were really really tasty. Maybe next year we should just go for fizz? 

Despite how terribly obvious this is, I hadn't really given much thought to how many darn people there are at one of those things. There was a point where I had to sit and drink my juice whilst not making eye-contact** for a few minutes to rescue my blood sugar before I could go join the end of the haggis queue. But then there was haggis, amazing whisky sauce, lots of cheese, coffee, and all was well. 

I then spent most of the night behind a microphone. There was a scary moment when I realised that I was exactly half of the band (one quarter of it was fiddling with the big-black-box-of-twiddly-knobs and another quarter had wandered off to join in the dancing) and I had the wrong music in front of me. I did in anyway! Yay me. I did that thing where someone gives me a mic and I get carried away and find myself being more "in charge" than I was expecting, and things still seemed to go ok.

Definitely going ok.

Yet somewhere along the line, one of you stinky things gave me this cold. Your generosity is not appreciated.

There were hilarious speeches. There were pretty songs, and funny songs. There was audience participation and there was committee participation. There was much spinning around and sinking to the bottom of the sea. There were some very stylish tartan trousers, something I think I maybe investigate investing in for myself. I can pull off tartan breeks, right? Heck, right now I could go for Royal Stewart and they'd match my nose perfectly.

So thank you to all of the people I arm-twisted in to doing things. You were amazing.

And a promise to the rest of you. Next year it's your turn. C & C - I've got you down for that song we didn't fit in. S - time to see those breakdancing skills of yours in public. Everyone else, what's your party-piece, your secret talent?

12 months to get practising!

As


*Lilo and Stitch, every time.
**A skill I have been working on for a while.