I understand why the Prime Minister doesn't want to go Glasgow to discuss climate change.
He looks shite in a kilt.
Clan Morrison (Aberdeenshire/Outer Hebrides) weren't much good in battle but excellent hostage takers and have a very nice green/brown tartan with red highlights. True. (Rant Warning.)
Which leads to fashion.
Not so much the high end of town and its seasonal variations of straight leg or flairs, linen or chiffon, orange or green; more like what constitutes comfy clothing for a trip to the supermarket.
It's the pink Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas that I find an optical challenge. I am part zombie, list in left hand, trolley pushing with right, when my confusion is enhanced by the appearance of people - mostly women - wearing pyjamas in the ajax aisle..
I used to think it was a bit of a game - to try and shock shoppers - nothing says `look at me' more than bright blue barbie pyjamas on a woman of a certain age standing in front of the frozen chip fridge choosing between crinkle or thick-cut with contrasting pink Ugg boots.
Meanwhile, I read European men have moved back to the straight and tight-fitting, stovepipe pants that push their scrotum north, into belly-button oblivion and promise to be this generation's solution to population control.
How? Where? And most importantly, why? Men, does it not feel painful to wear tight pants? What do you do when it comes to - you know - ? And, as my partner in words of the indefatigable Caitlyn Moran: "So, the young men struggle on, and into their agonising man tights. Men urgently need fashion to innovate them a New Look - and quickly, before their testicles are completely pancaked''.
On another subject (legends):
Sshhh ... don't tell anyone, but last Saturday, while he was planting this summer's tomatoes, I took 1.30 seconds of video of my husband gardening in his pineapple undies.
My husband is ageing colourfully, like the late, great historian and military man Lieutenant Colonel David von Stieglitz (of Evandale) .
My husband is ageing colourfully.
Well-educated (sent to board at Grammar in 1934) my first recollection of Mr von Stieglitz was in 1992, when he was trying to repair the Evandale library's photocopier.
He was wearing army fatigues and was head down, bum up, ranting and raging against the machine.
So, it was when my husband was trying to plant our tomato seedlings.
His delicate handling of the rangy seedings was matched by his indelicate language when I believe one of the errant plants may have snapped and refused to be supported by a paddle pop stick.
Speaking of gardens and legends, I was fortunate to have a brief chat with Peter Cundall last week. Dear reader, I can report that he is in fine form and still a wonderful storyteller, whose integrity and philosophy for life still shines from his being.
In a sweet five minutes he told me of a group of self-sustaining, young men on Lady Barron Island who developed a garden and how with failing eyesight, he's managing to dictate his stories to his amazing wife, Tina.
Which brings me to beards and the Greek tragedy that is Costa on the program formerly known as Gardening Australia - in our house "change the channel NOW Australia''.
I love Greeks. I love a tragedy. But I cannot and will not watch Costa, whose 'hive' of a beard is omni present and who jumps about like a gardening Rasputin.
Here's the deal. I found five minutes with Peter more engaging, informative, real and ethical than the hours I've tried to look beyond the hive/beard to the content of the once great, Gardening Australia.