Band practice on Tuesday was . . . horrific? Yep, that sounds right. No easy, PC night that night. We were on pipes the whole time, and sometimes not even the whole pipes, just drones with our thumb stuck in the hole where the chanter should have been, droning on and on, sounding like a WWII soundtrack for a bombing raid.
Friend Dave sat by himself in his best Rodin's Thinking Man pose and said nothing. I later sent him an email, but have gotten no response. Maybe today from his job.
My friend Beag, who is galavanting throughout Europe and Other Continents collecting dollars and pounds and euros for a children's home in Wales, and who had made it through England, Wales and Scotland, was for no apparent reason held hostage in Northern Ireland. For three months I wondered and worried about him and got nothing but vague hints. Then my friend General Cat marshalled the forces and sent in a SWAT team and got him out. He is still in Northern Ireland; however, he is now in a safe house with an agent whose code name is Redneck. Redneck has been ill, and Beag being the care-taking sort of bear that he is (and he IS a bear), they are going to sit tight for awhile until the political situation cools down and Redneck is improved in health before making any more forays into the melee. The reason this is on a piping journal is that the agents Beag has been staying with have all been either pipers or drummers. The PBF community has been following his story on their website.
Now, however, we have discovered a mole in the PBF community, so I don't know where we can record Beag's exploits and successes in reaching his $1000 goal by February. (He's at 825 pounds already). His own website never took off, so that won't work. Hmmm.
Well, anyway . . . I practiced yesterday, mostly blowing exercises, and I got halfway through Captain Norman Orr-Ewing when Handsome Husband got home and we had to commence the evening's activities. So that was it.