Ah, Robyn ...

As I write this, I'm listening to that glorious round A Robyn, by William Cornysh and wondering when we'll be able to sing it again with our choir. I recall the first time I sang it in public; we were not long married and still singing with The New Consort of Voices, which we'd joined at university and was in fact the occasion of our first meeting. We performed this dialogue between two youths (not, as my photo suggests, birds!) in the chapel of Fordell Castle at the invitation of the then owner Sir Nicholas Fairbairn, the controversial lawyer and Conservative politician who turned up to meet us looking like the gardener but later appeared to greet his "40 intimate friends", for whose party we were the entertainment, wearing white satin trousers and a black silk frock coat, complete with flowing cravat and diamond pin. We sang by candlelight, in a state of suppressed hilarity induced by the vodka-laced consommé with which we'd all been served to keep the cold out ...

Gosh: that was fun, remembering that in this time of horrid, songless seriousness. Today was so fraught - a combination of electricians turning up early and the vagaries of Himself's computer - that I was glad to escape into an afternoon of what looked like the only fine day for the foreseeable future and enjoy a blethery walk with my pal in Benmore. This robin appeared just in front of us, and sat boldly close on his branch, head cocked, as if he was listening to us as we talked to him. Felt like a cross between St Francis and something out of Narnia ...

And now there's some good news about more of the vaccines, and hopeful noises from the Scottish Government about the speed with which they hope to roll it out the moment it's given the go-ahead. But I've been intensely irritated by the people on Twitter making sure everyone knows they'll not be seeing their elderly relatives over Christmas, detailing horrid schemes like leaving food on their doorsteps and then vanishing to eat their own elsewhere. That's all very well - but I wonder how many of them have bothered to find out how the grandparents themselves feel about it?

A Robyn, gentyl Robyn, I'm not ready to be told by my children what's good for me ...