This afternoon, I went to the pictures. To be precise, the Northern Gentleman had organized a screening of his future-punk Jacobite extravaganza in rhyming couplets, Henry X, which I have been much looking forward to seeing. Think of a cross between Henry V and If, only louder, with elements of Apocalypse Now. All good clean(ish) fun apart from the incest and folk dancing (about which I can only say, this film is manifestly the work of a man not blessed with sisters). I particularly liked an abrasive punk version of ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’. The Apparitional Gamekeeper, who has been consumed with curiosity ever since he heard of this epic, came along, and I will be interested to hear what he made of it. History is being made in another respect as well: the Professor and I are going off for a little holiday. We are holing up in Cromarty for three nights, in the interests of doing some writing out of reach of telephonic communication. We are devoted to the Baron de X*****, but he does have a tendency to start our little day for us, and there are a number of other regular, nay assiduous, callers whose voices, for one reason or another, cause the heart to sink. Three nights off … what bliss.