Traditional happenings.

 It is fairly typical of British weather, especially northwest of England weather, that it changes from warm and sunny and pleasant one day to bitingly cold the next. So I should not have been surprised to see rain in the window this morning when I woke up. No, not surprised, just rather disappointed. However, having ascertained that the rain had already fallen and had now stopped I decided to go for a run anyway. 

Up the road I ran into my old friend Jack. Or rather, his little dog Rosie ran into me. Ever since she finally accepted me as a friend she waddles towards me when she sees me coming, instead of just carrying on rooting around for interesting smells as she used to do. Jack was wearing a thickish jumper and a body warmer. Personally I do not see the point of body warmers. Why wear what is essentially a jacket without sleeves? It may keep your body warm - as its name implies - but your arms are left exposed to the elements. A bit of fashion nonsense if you ask me. Anyway, Jack gave me a wry smile and asked, "Do you know what I did yesterday?" Before I could think of an answer he went on to tell me he had put all his winter coats and jackets away in the loft, clearly misled by the balmy weather of the last few days. He only had the body warmer available because his wife said it needed cleaning. So he put that on rather than scramble up the loft ladder at 8.30 in the morning!!! 

Do people really still put their winter clothes away like that? It would seem that some do. It sounds like something out of a 19th century novel when clothes for different seasons were put away, wrapped in tissue paper and with mothballs in between the layers. Or at any rate, those who had enough clothes to merit such activities did so. I thought that nowadays you just moved them to the more inaccessible bit of your wardrobe. Who knew that some folk were still so systematic? 

The day didn't get much warmer but it did improve somewhat. The rain clouds disappeared and the sun came out although the wind remained bitterly cold. But by the time I walked out to go to the supermarket it was bright and clear. I was rewarded for my perseverance by a view of the local heron fishing in the river just down the road from our house. 

My daughter picked me up from the supermarket. While I waited I was accosted by a smiling old chap who clearly thought he knew me. "Margaret?" he queried. I shook my head and neglected to tell him that he was half right; Margaret is, after all, my middle name but I wasn't going to get into conversation with random old gents today. 

Up in Dunblane today the tennis player Andy Murray married his young lady, the one who drew attention to herself by swearing at Wimbledon last summer. Apparently some said this was as near as Dunblane would get to having a royal wedding. Good for Andy Murray and his young lady giving a bit of joy to the town. But why did his mother choose to wear such a very silly hat? 

I was about to say something about the absurdity of English traditions but of course this was Scotland. So the traditions must be British!