In some parts of the British Isles the gene pool may be only one inch deep. Judging by the clothing advertised to woodcutters and very very Protestant head mistresses. And why is she spending her breakfast time browsing through their sartorial preferences? Good lord, some of that plaid garb is ghastly. Utter garbish! And this is how I know that holiday shopping is leaping out at us, because I know she would never wear that stuff herself.
Nor would I, so she isn't shopping for me.
I mean, I would not dress like that. I do not need to frighten sheep out on the moors, or little trembling school girls. Out on the moors. Maybe I should avoid all of Scotland. Where I have distant relatives of the Presbyterian persuasion, because in the New World Calvinists married other Calvinists. Of which there was too short a supply, that's how all those Episcopalians ended up dominating. And one phrase sticks out: "those nuns are too fat". Which I shall not ask about, because somehow it's tied in to that "men who build piles of mud" vibe.
Any culture which celebrates nettle soup and boiled parsnips has a lot of explaining to do.
I like scratchy woolens as much as the next person, so naturally I heartily recommend tartan underwear to everybody. Especially Celtic persons. It will keep them awake so the banshees don't catch them.
Banshees (Gaelic: "bean sídhe"; fairy mound woman foretelling death or disaster) feature prominently in Scottish folklore and remarkably look like several women in our president's inner circle. Yes, that surprises me too.
The person for whose gift she is shopping is an older individual, of possibly conservative personal tastes. Whom I have not met. And know nothing about, other than that she is seventy years old. And, I know for a fact, not blonde or plasticly surgeoned.
I suspect she is not a woodcutter or a headmistress either.
So I'm thinking about an Edward Gory type.
Living near a glue factory.
Scotland is probably filled with glue factories.
That must be where haggis comes from.
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