Having flown in that day from two weeks in Poland and Germany a young American told me she assumed her linguistic problems were over but that proved to be only half true when the first thing she did was to go to the Lyceum to see The Guid Sisters.

I've neither read nor seen the play in its original French (Canadian) but its Scots version is a delight to the ears, though a definite challenge to visitors. My memories of the production I saw on the Fringe in the early nineties are dim to say the least but if it sparkled as this one did it's a shame that it has taken 20 years for the play to appear again.

Two and a half hours of argument, bickering, bitching and downright vituperation; all of it entertaining and served up with both humour and poignancy.

It culminates in the protagonist being stripped of her every possession by the so-called guid sisters so it is surely ironic that the play ends with the cast singing A Man's a Man for A'That.  But then perhaps it illustrates in a different way from the poet's intention that we are all equal in that, as my young American playgoer remarked, there's a beast in all of us.

This little chap is Rob Roy MacGregor standing guard near the Albert Halls in Stirling where I attended a meeting the other day. Doesn't look much like Liam Neeson does he?

It often surprises me how unwilling people can be to accept that they have got a wrong number when they make a phone call.  It seems that applies to text messages too.  I got one signed Charlotte that clearly was not for me and out of the kindness of my heart I replied "wrong number".

Instead of "sorry" or "thanks for letting me know that I made a booboo" I got "It's me Charlotte, I have got you (sic) chair darling x" to which I felt obliged to make a more forceful response clarifying the situation.

"I do not know any Charlotte.  I am not expecting a chair. I am not your darling. You have got the wrong number."

Silence has reigned since.

I ordered something from Amazon France yesterday, chose the cheapest delivery option and the parcel popped through my letterbox this morning.

This is where I've been for the last few weeks, far from the madding crowd and making only sporadic use of my host's computer to check email (not wanting to abuse my status as guest).  So no posting.

It's not exactly where I've been because Jean's house is hidden behind the church and castle.  Exactly where I've been is here.

 My main reason for going was to fulfil my obligation as winner of the 2011 Robert Demay Trophy to organise the 2012 edition.  I'm happy to report that it went jolly well.  We managed to get 30 players organised into groups of three consisting of a good, a medium and a not so good player, at least one of them being a woman.  Michel lent me his place which I absolutely love - just look at it -

for the reception and we laid in lots of grub and drink.

The Bingo, Bango, Bongo format needed a bit of explanation but eventually everyone got the idea.  One or two didn't like it much though by the time they had had a few drinks afterwards they decided they'd enjoyed it after all.  Except that is for one guy who when I bumped into him in the locker room after playing told me he would not after all make it to the reception.  I expressed my sorrow that we would not have his company and hoped that he had had a pleasant afternoon.  At that point, to use a French expression, he farted leadshot.

There had he said never been a worse or more stupid way invented in which to get around a golf course.  The game indeed was anti-golf.  What's more the people he'd played with were hopeless players (true but hey it was for fun) and what's even more he'd laid out 40 euros for someone to look after his kids.  Now if only he'd come to the reception he'd have won a St Andrews Old Course golf cap with built in magnetic ball marker for having the highest Bingo score but no show no go.

The three who got the caps were delighted and Luc appeared on the course wearing his proudly the following Sunday.  The other prizes went down well. Bernard enjoyed his tin of sweeties, telling me later that his only problem was to stop digging in to them once he started and Jean adored his big box of shortbread.  I'm not sure that the whisky first prize went to the right person but she can always regift it.

In a stroke of great good luck these antlers which I've been keen to get rid of ever since I got them in a sort of a lucky dip the first time this competition took place and which I awarded as the booby prize went to someone who loved them.  She knows exactly where she's going to hang them.

It's only the man charged with fixing them to the wall who was less enthusiastic.