TPR and I travelled to the Isle of Lewis for SG’s sister’s birthday party. When we arrived RG was busy installing pebble-proof windows. This was because unhappy tourists had recently taken to showing their displeasure by shattering the most accessible pane of glass with a shower of small stones.
RG didn’t have time to show us to our room due to the quantity of party guests that arrived at the house at the same time as us. These included my cousins S and N, both dressed up in their kilts.
The accommodation arrangements were dreadful. There were so many people there that guests were forced to sleep five to a single bed. Just as I was saying to TPR that we might be better off bedding down in the car we heard a screech of brakes, a crash and a cry of ‘Bobby!’
Someone had left the garden gate open, JG’s dog had escaped, and now he was a flattened mess on the tarmac – except he wasn’t. We realised that it was all a false alarm when Bobby bounded back down the drive, his ginger ears flopping with as much life as usual.