Beer and Wimples
I have been trying to bring a certain air of mystery to my life of late.
Hence I have been signing all my correspondance as M thus leaving the reader unsure as to whither they have just received post from Mycroft Holmes, Dr Moriarty or indeed Dame Judi Dench. This artifice has been forced upon me as I am a hunted man. Hunted by The International Brotherhood Of Nuns.
It all stems from a very simple misunderstanding. I had been attending a late night soiree held to raise money for the release of one Auberon Cholmondley, so recently mentioned in this esteemed journal, when I, as is my way, over-indulged slightly on the old frothy brown liquid.
The frothy brown liquid in question had come from the Black Isle Brewery. This is not, as some have mistakenly assumed, where Captain Haddock and the Thompson Twins get their tipple, but a small brewery just to the north of Inverness. They have a pleasingly large selection of ales all produced from Organic ingredients ranging from a self confessed 'girly' wheat beer to some extra dark stout. The beers in question this night were Black Isle Blonde and Yellowhammer Bitter.
The Black Isle Blonde beer was a standard Lager, fizzy, watery, tasteless and beloved of a shocking percentage of the Scottish Drinking Classes. It was not one to change my viewpoint, but I can see why they sell a lot of it. The Yellowhammer Bitter looked very similar, same see-through yellow-ness that advertisers insist is amber, but a taste that lived up to its name. A decent level of hops came out in a burst of flavour that made this a very pleasing pint indeed. I have every intention of raiding their stocks again soon.
Anyhue, there I was bringing the Arch Bishop up to speed on popular Eurovision songs of the nineteen seventies when I caught sight of one of their cassocks. And my mind made one of those leaps so beloved of surrealist comedy writers. The nun took my rendition of 'Save All Your Wimples For Me' with very little grace and not a little violence.
Luckily I am fleet of foot and swift of thought where my personal wellbeing is concerned and, stopping only to move the Duke Of Mumerset into the path of danger and appropriate a few bottles of HSB for the journey home, I hared off into the night.
Since then I have been keeping a low profile, venturing out only to steal a copy of Lifelong Habits, the magazine for the stoutly dressed religious person, from the local Manse once a week to see what news they have of me. So far things are going well and they believe me to be a white male, six foot three inches in height, wearing fox fur breeches and having a pronounced Pontypridd accent.
That said, they have worryingly discovered my taste for cheesily Aran Sweatered Folk Music so I shall maintain my low profile for the moment.
Next time - Perchance something musical.