The Weekend

We went to the St Andrew's Ball on Saturday night. That's a picture of my feet not dancing, which is what I did the entire night: not dance. The plantar fasciitis has kicked in with a vengeance and walking isn't even on the menu at the moment. My foot is taped to a fare-thee-well, I have a brace to wear at night, I have tablets to take, I have been injected with. . .something (as I understand it, it is no longer legal for me to play major league baseball), I have exercizes to do, and other things not to do.

But I went to the ball anyway. The music was excellent, I had already bought the tickets, and the company was very good. As it happens, they asked me to play for the Grand March, too. Rather at the last minute. Apparently getting a piper for the Grand March sort of fell through the organizational cracks. It's a good job I had the pipes I was practicing with in the trunk of the car still. It was Granuaille, my Irish pipes, but I don't think anyone noticed. (Thanks again for the Hardie chanter, Ziggy. Once again, it sounded really well with the warpipes.)