Black tie

To the Ashmolean in Oxford yester-eve to attend a black tie function in support of the charity by which the Kickass Canada Girl is gainfully employed.

I feel sure that you can imagine the form that such events take. The great and the good are seduced by the notion of being lavishly entertained and wined and dined in some splendour whilst contemporaneously doing good service in a worthy cause. This latter comprises not only shelling out their hard-earned for tickets to said function, but also submitting to an evening of much persuasion – through raffles, auctions both silent and (surprisingly) noisy and blandishments plain and simple in an entirely justified attempt to pull in as much of the folding stuff as possible whilst keeping everyone in a good humour.

The particular focus of this event was the charitable service of which the Girl is the manager – which explains why we were both fully togged up and on our best behaviour. A short film extolling the good works of the service had been shot for the event – which presentation extensively featured the Girl herself. Impossible not to feel lump-in-the-throat proud of her. Not only does she look gorgeous on-screen (as in real-life of course!) but she comes over as a complete natural on film – speaking from the heart in a manner that carried the floor with ease.

‘Black tie’ means for me – of course – an opportunity to dig out the tartan. The kilt is a fantastically versatile garment and may be worn on every conceivably occasion. It can feature in many combinations from rugger shirt and boots all the way up to the full monty, which in this case comprised – in addition to the full 8 yard kilt itself – the Prince Charlie jacket and ‘weskit’, dress shirt and bow tie (always the real thing – never a ‘clip-on’… one could never show one’s face in a public school again…!), sealskin sporran, cream hose and garters, sgian-dubh and ghillie-brogues.

These days one is rarely asked – in good company – what one is wearing beneath one’s kilt. Should the question ever be directed at me I simply repeat the apocryphal anecdote of the Scots Guards officer in full dress who is approached at a function by a lady. She enquires – somewhat cheekily and ‘always having been curious to know’ – what is worn beneath the kilt? Comes the enigmatic reply:

“Nothing, ma’am. It’s all in perfect working order!”