One of the loveliest assignments I was sent on while I was in London was being sent to cover the Caledonian Ball at Grosvenor House.
Gill Faulkner rummaged around and found me a simple long black dress and you could hardly see the moth-holes.
I caught the tube from Buckhurst Hill feeling rather foolish. If you are wearing an evening dress surely you should be in a limo?
It was well past the midnight hour. The ballroom was sparkling with patriotic rocks. Debutantes delightfully dishabille, twirled like tartan striped barber’s poles in a forest of kilts.
Historic homes were deserted. Family seats grew cold.
From the Highlands and the islands, from remote shooting lodges and grouse moors, lochs and glens they had come. This was the…