Our Burns Supper, like usual, is far from the traditional version. Yes, we have haggis, champit tatties and bash-ed neeps and whisky but that’s where the similarities end. We don’t toast his immortal memory, no toast to the lads or lassies.

We do, however, have someone recite at least a portion of Address to a Haggis. This year was my turn to do the honours. So in my best Scottish accent, I muddled my way through. It was a good thing I had printed it out beforehand. My husband was the ‘official’ photographer and he managed to get a few pictures of us before we got too ‘fu’.

We were five for dinner – my husband, son, grandson, girlfriend and me and enough food for an army. Well, at least enough that I don’t have to cook tonight. Lots of leftovers.

Our wee haggis, aka “guest of honour” was a tiny wee thing – probably about the size of a hardball used in major league baseball, if not a bit smaller. Well, I cut him up with ready slight, and as I finished reading Burns’ Address to the Haggis, poured a wee bit of The Glenlivet over him. Yum!

Despite the fact none of us wore any tartan, in addition to the food, there was a Scottish flair to the evening. Tartan napkins, my good tartan China, and my Clan Robertson placemats and coasters.

Before the end of the evening, bottles of Oban and Glenmorangie, joined in the festivities, but they didn’t stay long. It was The Glenlivet who was still around at the end when we decided to call it a night around midnight.