The gay social whirl has continued: indeed, it became rather notably gayer with the arrival of the Greatest Living Shakespearean and Ganimedino. There was a great deal of gastronomy; the history final exam board came and went without on the whole disturbing anyone very much; we had a very funny dinner party with the Baron and his lady wife, and a jaunt up into the hills for lunch, antiques, and socks. You may be reflecting that the antique shops are seeing a fair amount of us, but that is because we are buying stuff for the bothy: two nice chairs and a mirror were added to the haul. As the GLS handed over his selection, the sock lady volunteered, ‘we had the Queen in here on Monday’. He was delighted to find that she had chosen Huntlys, the same sort he was buying himself, and some Cragievars, which are the longest and thickest ones, because she was going stalking. Having given Mrs Baxter’s socks to quite a number of friends at one time or another, we can now assert with confidence that they are worn by queens of all descriptions. It has all been delightful, except that in the course of dinner last night, a bit suddenly fell off one of my back molars. It is not painful, but awkward, and I was driven to reflect, not for the first time, why does that sort of thing INEVITABLY happen on a Friday night? The tooth in question has been drilled and filled so often that there is almost no actual tooth, which is presumably why it disintegrated: structurally it must be like a box full of concrete. That particular tooth has been attended to by two different members of the local dental practice and a fine mess they have made of it between them, so I have no desire to present it to them as an emergency: the Professor has found a very good dentist, in Aberdeen, with whom I, unfortunately, am not yet registered so I can’t get anything done till Monday. I’m sure I can manage till then.