#unintended tartan

[ineffably-good]

Sunday Snippet #2 - Good Omens Ficlet

Of Sentient Pants and Other Wonders

Too long? You can go read it on AO3 also! 

Crowley went to his closet and pulled out his usual pair of black silk pyjamas – he was honestly just as likely to sleep in the nude, but sometimes in the winter he liked to be covered and silk was his favorite way of keeping warm. He hardly had to look to find them – he owned three identical pairs after all, neatly folded on the top shelf of his black lacquer armoire. He reached in in the darkened room, pulled out the top set off the pile, and … froze.

These were not his pyjamas, or at least not as he had last seen them.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted. “Angel! Get up here!”

The angel appeared a few minutes later, having finished up his tasks in the kitchen, with a wide, pleasant, perfectly innocent smile on his face.

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley held the pyjamas up to him. “Are you responsible for this?”

Aziraphale looked at him placidly. “I washed and folded them, yes.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. There was absolutely no reason for either of them to do laundry, but the angel insisted. That, however, was a matter for another time. He shook them again.

“No,” he said, “I mean this.” He stabbed a finger at the pocket on the front of the top.

The pocket which was now lined in tartan.

Aziraphale’s tartan.

Aziraphale made a show of leaning in and examining it. “Oh, would you look at that?” he said, pleasantly. “Your pyjamas have clearly made a dashing new choice to spiff themselves up a bit! I don’t know what you’re fussing about, I think it’s rather charming.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, flabbergasted at the angel’s capacity for being a little bastard, and found himself unable to make a rejoinder as the angel patted him consolingly on the shoulder and left the room.

He decided the pocket could stay.

--

His boxers, apparently, decided to follow suit a week later. All of them. They may have been that way for a while, to be honest – he rarely opened that particular drawer, preferring instead to just miracle a fresh pair on whenever he needed to. But this day, for some reason, he was looking through the wardrobe trying to find a scarf he hadn’t worn in a few years, and he pulled open his unmentionable drawer and stuttered to a stop.

He took a pile of them and sauntered out into the shop to find the angel, who was at the cash register processing a sale. Crowley smiled tightly at the customer and slammed the pile of pants down right on top of the man’s book.

“Tartan,” he said. “They’re tartan.”

Aziraphale looked askance at him, and then huffed as he lifted the pile of underwear off of the book.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to his customer. “He’s a little… dramatic.” He gave the demon a quelling look. Crowley watched in studied impatience as the angel slowly and deliberately completed the transaction. It was only after he carefully wrapped the book in brown paper and sent the man on his way that Aziraphale turned to him and made a ‘please go ahead’ gesture.

“My pants,” Crowley said, “have turned tartan.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, all this fuss is about a few pairs of pants?” Crowley frowned ferociously at him, and in apology he leaned over to examine the garments. He thumbed through the pile, examining them closely.

“Well,” the angel said, straightening up and giving him a look, “I think they look quite fetching. Perhaps you could model a pair for me later?”

Crowley smiled in spite of himself, then shook his head and frowned. “Don’t change the subject. Why are you messing with my wardrobe?”

Aziraphale held out both hands in a gesture of absolute openness. “I’m not! I swear!”

“So you’re saying my clothing is just changing itself?”

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I honestly have no idea, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps they’re becoming sentient from spending too much time around ethereal entities?”

Crowley eyed him suspiciously. “I highly doubt that.”

“You’re just concerned,” the angel said, loftily, “that your clothes are showing better fashion sense than you are, love.”

Crowley waved a hand over his boxers and changed them back to plain black, and stalked back to put them away. He didn’t notice that the bottom two pairs switched back to tartan before he even put them away.

--

Peace reigned for a few weeks without any further modifications to his wardrobe, and Crowley began to relax his vigilance. Perhaps the angel really had been telling the truth about not having a hand in it – or if he had, he had wisely decided to give it up.

“I’m going out to get wine, angel,” Crowley called as he came down the stairs and out of the back room. “Any requests?”

Aziraphale smiled and reached up to pull his head down for a kiss. “I know whatever you get will be lovely, dearest,” he said. “Hurry back to me!”

Crowley swung out of the shop and patted the Bentley’s hood affectionately as he let himself into the driver’s seat. Since there was no angel to urge him towards caution, he gave himself free reign over the gas pedal and indulged in speeds of upwards of 95 as he sped into northern London to his favorite wine purveyor. He grabbed an empty crate out of the boot for his eventual purchases and then patted the Bentley goodbye as he headed in.

As was his wont, Crowley had a long, leisurely conversation with the owner, tasted several of his recent acquisitions, and then purchased an assortment of six high quality bottles he thought the angel would enjoy. Then, bidding his friend goodbye, he went back outside to tuck his purchases away in the boot – and stopped.

“Oh Aziraphale,” he breathed. “You are a dead man.”

--

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading as the shop bell tinkled loudly. The smile and greeting he’d been about to offer died on his lips as he took in the demon’s demeanor. His posture was stiff and forbidding, his eyes were snapping, and he looked like he’d just come from a fight.

“Are – are you all right, my dear?” he asked.

Crowley looked at him impassively. “Come with me,” he snapped, before turning and walking back out the door without looking to see if the angel was following him.

Aziraphale blinked after him for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and followed him out onto the pavement. Crowley was waiting impatiently next to the Bentley, which was parked in its usual haphazard fashion in the tow zone at the corner. Crowley snapped the trunk open and bid the angel to take a look.

Aziraphale gestured up the tiniest amount of heavenly glow – it was dark out, after all – and bent in to take a good look. He gasped.

The whole interior of the boot was lined with tartan. It was subtle, replacing what had previously been a tan fabric lining with a gorgeous version of his own heaven-inspired tartan in soft shades of tan, cream, and sky blue. Aziraphale took a moment to admire it, even wiggling a little in approval, before he remembered that an angry demon was watching him and that this was most decidedly Not A Good Thing.

He looked up and was met with just about as much of a death glare as he had expected.

“Now, Crowley,” he began, nervously. “You can’t seriously think that I’d be foolish enough to mess with your Bentley. You must know that I am fully aware that this would be a rather serious transgression!”

Crowley did not look impressed. “You want me to believe that someone else – some other person in the whole bloody universe – has a vested interest in taking little bits of my belongings and covering them with your official tartan?” He snorted. “I’m sorry but that’s just implausible.”

“Well, I have to agree with you that it looks bad,” Aziraphale said, trying to think of a possible explanation. “But I promise you, I’m not doing it.”

“Swear it, angel. Swear it on something important to you.”

Aziraphale screwed up his face in thought for a moment, then smiled. “I swear it on the Ritz,” he said. “May we never go there again if I’m lying.”

Crowley stared at him intently, looking for shiftiness or a glint of humor, looking for his usual tells when he was fibbing, which the demon had come to know intimately after the last six millennia – and found absolutely nothing.

“All right,” he said gruffly. “I believe you that you’re not doing it. Or at least I believe that you’re not doing it on purpose.”

“What does that mean? How could I possibly be doing it by accident?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “This from the being that accidentally makes flowers grow and butterflies appear whenever he’s very happy.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh! You mean you think I’m doing this with my – with my emotions?”

“That,” the demon said, “is my only working theory in the moment.”

“Can we talk about this inside?” Aziraphale said miserably. “It’s chilly.”

Crowley softened and led them back inside, where he conjured up a cup of cocoa and a glass of wine and sat them both down on the couch.

“Ok, so what were you doing while I was out?” Crowley asked. “Specifically about an hour ago when I was in the shop? Because it changed from tan to tartan while I was buying the wine.”

Aziraphale thought. “I had just closed the shop, and I was having a little tea, and I was thinking back over the events of the day, and a bit about earlier in the week.”

“What specifically?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, just, you know – I was thinking about you, and how much I like having you here, and about what kind of wine you were getting.”

“Were you feeling any particularly strong emotions?” Crowley asked.

“For a moment, perhaps,” the angel admitted. “I was thinking about the flea market last Sunday, and how that ridiculously cheeky young man was hanging all over you while I was bargaining for that second book I picked up, and how flustered you looked when I turned around and found him with his hands on your –"

“Angel,” Crowley cut in. “Look.”

He held up his wine glass. It now had a tartan rim.

Aziraphale gasped. “That happened just now?”

“Mmmmm hmmm.”

“So, you mean, every time I feel a little bit –”

“Possessive? Jealous?” Crowley smirked. “Looks like.”

Aziraphale moaned and picked up a throw pillow to bury his face in. “I’m such an idiot.”

“And a few weeks ago when you turned my boxers tartan? What was going on then?”

Crowley sounded, the angel thought, like he was enjoying having the moral high ground just a little.

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” he protested.

“Let’s see, that was right after we had the talk about my past temptations, wasn’t it, where I revealed that I had once tempted Queen Elizabeth the first to partake in a little debauchery behind the scenes?”

“Yes, yes, that sounds correct, there’s no need to –”

“And the week before that, with the pajamas? I can’t seem to recall anyone hitting on me around then,” Crowley said, puzzled. “What had you in a tizzy right then?”

Aziraphale sighed and surrendered utterly. “You talked in your sleep the night before.”

“I – I WHOT?” Crowley screeched. “What did I say?”

“Something about someone named Franklin,” Aziraphale sniffed, and patted down his clothing in an ostentatious manner. “Really, my dear. Franklin? Why not just go out and date someone named Melvin, or Roy?”

Crowley eyed him. “You were jealous because I said a random name in my dream? And by the way, I’ve never dated anyone by any of those names, and you know it. I’ve told you about everyone I was ever involved with, and you know they were a very small crew.”

Aziraphale looked utterly dejected. “I suppose that’s the truth. I’m sorry my dear.”

Crowley was silent for a moment, and the angel wondered what he was thinking but was too afraid to look up. The demon solved that problem for him by sliding over next to him a minute later and placing a hand on his knee.

“As far as crimes go, angel, this is a pretty minor one,” he said softly. “No need to look so downtrodden over the whole thing.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve been getting jealous over ridiculous things and then MARKING you, my dear. It’s so… so unbecoming. I’m supposed to be an angel, not a territorial human!”

Crowley tipped the angel’s head to the side and leaned in for a kiss. “It’s kind of sweet when you put it that way. When you get worried about whether someone else is after me, you put your tartan on me so the whole world can see that I’m yours.”

Aziraphale fluttered his lashes.

The demon kissed him again. “Can’t say that I really mind that, honestly. It’s almost a little bit sexy.”

“Oh, come now, you,” the angel admonished, but the hint of a smile was playing around the sides of his lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Plus, now I’ll know if I’ve ever really done something wrong,” Crowley continued, peppering small kisses along the angel’s hairline. “Because I assume my entire outfit will suddenly turn plaid. That should scare any other potential suitor away.”

Aziraphale laughed unwillingly. “Stop!” he begged. “Please, I’m so embarrassed. Can we just get back to the kissing and less talking?”

Crowley leaned back and smiled. “Soon as you put my car back to rights, sure.”

The angel waved a hand in the air in a rapid fashion and Crowley felt a strong sense that all was once again back to normal with his car.

“Shall I do the boxers and the pyjamas too?” he asked.

“Nah,” the demon said. “I kind of like it. It will be our little secret.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He knew this conversation was going to come back to haunt him. He had unwilling provided the demon with the ammunition of a lifetime for endless rounds of teasing. He would consider how best to wriggle out of this later. But for now, he leaned forward and pulled the demon close, determined to bring this round of conversation to a firm and decided close.

No one could withstand the full power of a love-besotten angel, after all. Not even a demon.

[novadust86]

The Best Laid Plans - CH1

The sound of the train on the rails was the only thing disturbing the silence of their compartment. The two students inside were lost to the world as they rode aboard the Express as it whisked them back to the Muggle world for the next six weeks*. Harry Potter was doing all he could to focus on his bushy-haired girlfriend who was snuggled up next to him, and to not focus on the anxiety he felt over spending so much time in the ‘care’ of his aunt and uncle.

In all fairness, Hermione was doing an extremely good job of distracting him from his troubles. She had latched onto his side five minutes before and had refused to let go since, the gift he had given her that had sparked the impromptu cuddle time gripped tightly in her hand. The gift in question was a tartan hairband and a small cloth bag. Not much to look at on their own, but then that was the point. They needed to look normal so that no one would pay attention to them.

It had started last Christmas; it had been a rather simple plot to use Polyjuice potion to sneak into the Slytherin common room and find out who was targeting the Muggle-born students, before they killed someone or worse, got Hermione. It just went to show that even simple plans can go very wrong. They were unable to learn who was attacking students, unable to stop the attacks and worst of all, Hermione ended up petrified anyway. Oh, and thanks to a mishap with Hermione's potion his then friend, now girlfriend, was stuck with cat features.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been. At first, she had looked a lot more like a cat, but Madam Pomfrey, while being unable to reverse the effect entirely, had managed to restore most of Hermione's original, human features. She now only spotted cat ears and a tail, as well as a patch of fur that ran along her spine from the middle of her back down to her tail. The rest of her was back to normal, on the outside at least.

Harry didn't know all the details, but there had been some subtle, and some not-so-subtle, changes in his Hermione. A lot of it was easy to explain and dismiss, such as Hermione's preferred foods having shifted a bit. She doesn't dislike anything more than before but her fondness for fish, chicken and milk had gone up exponentially. Harry had noticed this, as before taking the potion, Hermione tended towards porridge and pumpkin juice for breakfast, but now she was beginning to alternate between that and kippers on toast* with a goblet of milk.

She also seemed to understand cats better. She couldn't talk to them like Harry could with snakes, but she seemed to be able to know what they wanted whenever they were around her. As such she had become quite popular with the cats in the Gryffindor tower. Hermione was also more of a hugger now. A lot more. Well, not so much more of a hugger than a longer hugger. At least with Harry. But then he was unsure if that one was a result of some cat instinct to snuggle into anything warm, or just a perk of their upgraded relationship. Either way, he wasn’t complaining.

There were also the potions she now had to take regularly that she refused to tell him about, only saying that it was private and wasn't a problem. He had stopped asking after that but couldn't help but worry for her.

His worry had been one of the reasons behind the gifts. While they did nothing about whatever problem was leading to Hermione needing to visit the hospital wing every few weeks, it would help with her life outside of school and let Harry feel like he was doing something. The real gift had been the three small cloth bags, two of which were concealed in a tartan hair band. Each of the bags had an undetectable expansion charm on them. This meant that while wearing the hair band Hermione could easily and, most importantly, comfortably hide her cat ears even in the Muggle world. The third bag was loose and was to conceal her tail. With her gift and a few simple fashion choices, Hermione would hopefully be able to pass as normal in the muggle world, and not be stuck in her house for the whole summer hiding from everyone but her parents. 

The compartment door opened, revealing the two youngest redheaded Weasleys. Ron and Ginny had barely been seen without each other since Ron and Harry had retrieved her from the Chamber of Secrets. The youngest Weasley had understandably latched on to her brother for support after everything that had happened to her, and after his fear of losing her that day, Ron was more than happy to be there for her.

If it hadn't been for Ron's reaction to Hermione's current appearance, the couple would have been happy to see them. As it was though the echoes of Ron's bullying of Hermione's feline attributes had had a huge strain on the friendship of the three. Harry and Ron had both stuck by Hermione in the beginning, but after two days Ron and Hermione's regular bickering had started back up. It wouldn’t have been too bad but Ron had taken it too far, as per usual. He’d started making cat-based insults towards Hermione. This had gotten her so upset that Madam Pomfrey had banned Ron from the hospital wing.

That would have been the end of it but when Hermione was released from the hospital wing two weeks later the three were informed by Professor McGonagall that for brewing an illegal potion the three would be spending the next six Saturdays with her in detention. Ron had started complaining loudly to anyone who would listen, claiming that it was Hermione's fault that the three of them had gotten the stack of detentions, and then for Gryffindor losing the Quidditch cup because one of the detentions was the day of the match, leaving Harry unable to play.

That had pretty much been the end of the three's friendship. Hermione was sick of Ron insulting her and Harry couldn’t believe he would single out Hermione as being the only one at fault. They had all agreed to the plan from the start; Ron had even known the potion was illegal. That would've probably ended their friendship for good if Harry and Ron hadn't set everything aside to save Ginny.

After that their friendship was strained but back, and the three doubted that it would ever again be as strong as it was at the start of the year.

It was Ginny show spoke up first, after a moment of awkward silence,  “Hey Harry”, then with a stiff but polite nod to Hermione, “Hermione”, before turning back to Harry, “I just wanted to say thank you again before we get to Kings Cross, for everything. And I...wanted to wish you a good summer.”

Harry shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable with being thanked for what he felt any decent person should have done, “don't worry about it… uh... how are you doing after.. you know...”, even with how nervous he was, he couldn't miss the shadow that fell over her face for a few seconds, leaving the bags under her eyes and the strain on her face even more noticeable.

She wasn't sleeping well, that much Harry knew. He knew because most nights, at least for the last couple of weeks, Ginny had come been coming to the second year boys dorm in the middle of the night and climbing in with her brother. Harry had heard her many times; she’d been crying herself to sleep.

“I'm... doing better… it's just...” Before she could finish her brother pulled her in close and just held her, comforting her without a single word. He must have been doing something right, Harry thought, because Ginny relaxed a little and was able to collect her thoughts, “Hermione, I also wanted to apologize again…” Tears closely threatened the red-haired witch, “I'm so, so sorry, I should never have opened that bloody diary and because I was so stupid, you and Colin and others were hurt and it's all my fault.” By the time Ginny had finished her run on apology she had lost the battle with her tears and was openly sobbing into Hermione's shoulder, who at this point had crossed the compartment and hugged the first year as much as she could.

“It's ok, It's ok. I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault. And I bet the others feel the same as well”, the comforting words seemed to do little good, however, as Ginny sobbed even harder, “They hate me. They all hate me! Even Percy hates me for attacking Penelope, he thinks I attacked her because she is dating him.”

Hermione continued to comfort her, letting the witch cry onto her shoulder as Ron stroked her and back, “Gin, Percy doesn't hate you. If he hated you, he wouldn't keep asking me how you are doing. He is worried about you, we all are.” 

---ϟϟϟ---

It took nearly ten minutes for them to help Ginny pick herself up. Ron and Hermione had done most of the heavy lifting as Harry didn't know what to say, but had done ok when he said that he “wished he knew what to say to help her feel better”. Ginny and Ron had left after that to go, calm down and change into their Muggle clothes.

Harry and Hermione had changed as well. This was easy enough for Harry as he just pulled off his outer robes, revealing a baggy pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt that looked like Harry could’ve used it as a tent. Hermione however, had kicked him out of the compartment for twenty minutes while she changed. Apparently, Harry's gift had had the unintended consequence of making Hermione replan her whole outfit.

When Harry returned to the compartment, the full twenty minutes later, Hermione was wearing a Muggle tartan skirt and white polo shirt, as well as the hairband. Harry assumed that she was also wearing the bag over her tail as he couldn't see her tail anywhere. He inwardly grinned at her appearance; his girlfriend would be beautiful to him, no matter what ‘extra’ features she may have.

The two chatted about their plans for the summer, or lack thereof in Harry's case, and all too soon for Harry's liking the Hogwarts Express pulled in to platform 9 ¾. With all the enthusiasm of a condemned man Harry pulled his and Hermione's trunks down, bracing himself for the hell he was going to have to live with for the foreseeable future. Hermione took advantage of her last opportunity to do magic for weeks and cast a charm to lighten the trunks. That the charm was a third-year one didn't seem to matter to her nor did it surprise Harry that she knew it, she always had her nose half-buried inside a book, and he wasn’t surprised she learnt more than him from them.

They each carried their trunks off the train to the line of carts that were waiting for the students who should depart the platform the Muggle way. They put their trunks on a cart with Hedwig on top and set off into King’s Cross, the Muggle world and their families.

---ϟϟϟ---

Authors notes 

*Six weeks - in the UK summer holidays from school are only 6 weeks long. I have seen some stories give ridiculous lengths of time for the summer but most seem to use what I think is the American standard of 8 weeks but to be true to the setting it's only 6

*Kippers - kippers are smoked herring (an oily type of fish) and yes in the UK they are a breakfast food

chapters 2-45 are avalable on https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13294547/1/The-Best-Laid-Plans and https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862810/chapters/44770174

Summary:

After Hermione's second year she is now stuck with cat ears and a tail. When she goes home for the summer, Hermione's parents learn all about her boyfriend - Harry Potter. How will this is affect things going forward?

Divergent from canon. Buy one dark lord, get two free! Will our hero prevail? And if he can, will he make it through unscathed?

[travel-voyages]

How Scotland’s 35-Year Kilt Ban Backfired in Spectacular Fashion

The English banned the kilt hoping to do away with a symbol of rebellion. Instead they created a symbol of Scottish identity.

At the behest of England's national Anglican church, 1688's Glorious Revolution—also called the Bloodless Revolution—deposed the country's last Catholic king. It is widely considered Britain's first step toward parliamentary democracy. It is less known, however, for setting the table for a kingdom-wide kilt ban decades later.

That year, King James II (he was also James VII of Scotland) became the proud poppa of a baby boy—and England's parliament was not happy about it. James was Roman Catholic, a deeply unpopular religion, and the birth of his son secured a Catholic lineage that, in the opinion of England's Anglican parliament, guaranteed a future of religious tyranny. To stop this, the establishment pushed James off the throne and handed the seat to his Protestant daughter and son-in-law, Mary and William of Orange (who ruled jointly as William and Mary). Over the next 60 years, a series of bloody uprisings ensued as James's supporters, called Jacobites, attempted to restore their anointed Catholic king back to the big chair. Many of these supporters were Scottish.

Scottish Jacobite armies regularly went to battle wearing tartan kilts. A staple of Highland dress dating to the early 16th century, these outfits didn't resemble the skirt-like kilts we're familiar with today; rather, these kilts were 12-yard swaths of cloth that could be draped around the body. The garment, which could be looped and knotted to create different outfits to accommodate the fickle Highland weather, was part of a practical workman's wardrobe. As the politician Duncan Forbes wrote in 1746, "The garb is certainly very loose, and fits men inured to it to go through great fatigues, to make very quick marches, to bear out against the inclemency of the weather, to wade through rivers, and shelter in huts, woods, and rocks upon occasion; which men dressed in the low country garb could not possibly endure."

Because the kilt was widely used as a battle uniform, the garment soon acquired a new function—as a symbol of Scottish dissent. So shortly after the Jacobites lost their nearly 60-year-long rebellion at the decisive Battle of Culloden in 1746, England instituted an act that made tartan and kilts illegal.

"That from and after the first day of August, One thousand, seven hundred and forty-six, no man or boy within that part of Britain called Scotland, other than such as shall be employed as Officers and Soldiers in His Majesty's Forces, shall, on any pretext whatever, wear or put on the clothes commonly called Highland clothes (that is to say) the Plaid, Philabeg, or little Kilt, Trowse, Shoulder-belts, or any part whatever of what peculiarly belongs to the Highland Garb; and that no tartan or party-coloured plaid of stuff shall be used for Great Coats or upper coats." 

Punishment was severe: For the first offense, a kilt-wearer could be imprisoned for six months without bail. On the second offense, he was "to be transported to any of His Majesty's plantations beyond the seas, there to remain for the spaces of seven years."

The law worked … mostly. The tartan faded from everyday use, but its significance as a symbol of Scottish identity increased. During the ban, it became fashionable for resistors to wear kilts in protest. As Colonel David Stewart recounted in his 1822 book, many of them worked around the law by wearing non-plaid kilts. Some found another loophole, noting that the law never "specified on what part of the body the breeches were to be worn" and "often suspended [kilts] over their shoulders upon their sticks." Others sewed the center of their kilt between their thighs, creating a baggy trouser that must have resembled an olde tyme predecessor to Hammer pants.

According to Sir John Scott Keltie's 1875 book A History of the Scottish Highlands, "Instead of eradicating their national spirit, and assimilating them in all respects with the Lowland population, it rather intensified that spirit and their determination to preserve themselves a separate and peculiar people, besides throwing in their way an additional and unnecessary temptation to break the laws."

By 1782, any fear of a Scottish uprising had fallen and the British government lifted the 35-year-old ban. Delivering a royal assent, a representative of parliament declared: "You are no longer bound down to the unmanly dress of the Lowlander."

But by that point, kilts and tartan were no longer staples of an ordinary Scottish laborer's wardrobe. In that sense, the law had done its job. But it also had an unintended consequence: It turned the tartan into a potent symbol of Scottish individuality and patriotism. So when the law was lifted, an embrace of kilts and tartan blossomed—not as everyday work clothes, but as the symbolic ceremonial dress that we know today. The law, which was intended to kill the kilt, very well might have helped saved it.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/how-scotland-s-35-year-kilt-ban-backfired-in-spectacular-fashion

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/how-scotland-s-35-year-kilt-ban-backfired-in-spectacular-fashion

[writer59january13]

the personal as political

     Analogous to turning radio dial upon frequency modulation blaring favorite station suddenly naturally accompanying discernible pronounced surge of static sound waves (especially at broadcaster airing hottest tunes, one feels induced to:i. hurl the bloody high fidelity top of line stereo system (of a down) out the window; ii. inflict self harm preceded via blood letting leeches; iii. upgrading additional memory application for the pseudo donny mass writer of these words.

    Either measure only increases popping, crackling, snapchatting along the bandwidth incorporating other audiological frequencies, particularly where religious channels (despite substantial distances) blast forth loud and clear.

    The same inexplicable phenomena (i.e. intense electronic "noise" arises when adjusting the audio knob to the sole survivor classical station, when Bach in the day, this heir of a renown Kapellmeister (who frowns on adulation, exaltation, or illustration of self) since his upbringing arose from humble origins (species unknown).

    As appreciation of the Latin phrase reductio ad absurdum please let the following Biblical apothegm be totally irrelevant despite admission, allusion without exoneration, collusion with uber collision coverage Lyft Nationwide, attestation, et cetera from this atheist absent any clear cut kindling correlation.    

    "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, "scripture quoting Jesus recorded in the synoptic gospels: I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. 

    Rebuttal warning! Do not avert your gaze unless ye can explain how a large animal (usually with at least one hump per dink) can slip thru a hole slightly bigger than a pinhead.

    A hunch that biochemists must be cloning near microscopic dromedary or one mega size sewing needle. Nonetheless and needless to "say", these beasts of burden mainly suitable as caravanserai for ants found in France.          

     While adorned with figurative blinders, this scrivener lacked horse sense asper posting an unbridled bit tinged with political undertones. A reader felt stirred up after I trotted out said spur re: us writing on an undisclosed social media website.                

     The garbled galloping gaffe sparked an online dressing down toward my riding high on the saddle communique titled piece hove crop "Putin (Non Gmo Gluten Free Cheese) On The Ritz. 

    Said unnamed person on BLANK social media platform called me out. This stallion wannabe did not rein in written transgression. Without taking lock, stock and barrel of unfettered poetic disquisition, yours truly admittedly (in the mane) went a foal and did not harness verboten non tack tickle verbiage.  

    No disagreement against deserved, unsolicited reaction to get (figuratively) whipped. This chap does pony up punning about United States government. 

    He accepts withering, trotting out blistering umbrage defying strictures disallowing hinted Democratic or Republican points hoof view. 

    Rather than agitate, dilate (as opposed to early tomb hie death), gyrate Jar Jar Binks (this included for nary a handy dandy blues clues) jesting meaninglessly per singing vapidly yields phone knee baloney.

    Quite understandable my poppycock bolted uncontrollably from metaphorical stable. The unexpurgated missive will not be repeated lest the online facilitator once again take umbrage, and goes hay wire. 

     Perhaps privilege to post future feeble lettered attempts of mine will be immediately corralled.     That outcome preferable versus being jailed, and unable to pay bale!     If this wordsmith fetlock hit, he could choose to expand this pablum add hock (whose barn storming emanates about thirty five miles northwest of Filly), he will not breach codas effecting fearsome heretical invective. 

    He avers that his previous gam bit trespassed outside the parameters decreed by virtual facilitator. Hands held high, yours truly pleaded tubby put in a paddock.      

     Such indiscriminate neigh saying in violation of specific stricture barring politics casts me as no mister Ed, but mane lee in farrier to other riders with threat from online.      

     Hoop fully, all Apollo gees twill be accepted from this matted Harris Tweed Scottish tartan ode dee us pencil necked geek. Obliviousness (came in like a cowpoke and out like a bovine chip from the outskirts of Poker Flats) momentarily loo sing me mum oar rings (matter of fact rudderless syndrome over washing minimal shreds of moost every sketchily etched convoluted asininely worded pastiche of gobbledygook.      

     Noun intent for this subject to be the direct object of textured scorn, ridicule, quilted pun hush ment. Yea, he unwittingly, unintentionally, unequivocally, et cetera impinged on the pro noun sta taboo stipulated off limits of Marcy's Playground veering into the sandbox of politics. 

    Honest tug hod, this plain spoken tired unpretentious varmint steers clear broaching controversial matter, and hence dust newt take objection sans mild rebuke, cuz aye hate to roil hull lee revile reasonable rationale.       

     Ma miner over the fence blithe asseveration for recognition kindled jarring displeasure on behalf of forum moderator, now finds this bone a fide add hock tweedle dum in the snoop doggy dog doubling up as Pooh's house (for Whinny zee Equine you ninny!           

     The innocuous missive not purposely POSTED to incite antagonism, nor does deliberate intent to aggravate, provoke hostility invoking comment against zero tolerance alluding to politically decreed material. this non-confrontational fellow found himself unexpectedly locked in digital crosshairs while in hot water in reference my painted posting regarding politics.

      Aye proclaim genuine heartfelt displeasure at myself for unintended provocation, disapprobation, yet also bring to light that expressing sentiments about one nagging (dog gone) pet peeve tubular theme almost invariably impinges on notions tangential to other than the idea espoused. 

    Thus in my humble opinion, this reasonably cogent, fervent, intelligent, (non-biased) et cetera versatile nebbish wordsmith doth not blatantly, deliberately, flagrantly, et cetera drive his focus along track of controversial route, (and find himself railroaded in the process) without exposing indirect objection pertaining to a hot button issue. 

    Brainstorming bupkis on thy Facebook page will not draw the same degree of ire -land ding ma tushy on a vermin invested clinker with only thin gruel ladled out by an oaf phish shuss jail warden, whose near eternal presence monitoring word manglers (who dangerously split infinities, ply pluperfect phraseology, dangle modifiers, et cetera.

adieu: matthew scott harris