The missing sporran.

Kilts are usually only worn at family weddings in the Highlands of Scotland . However, Hogmanay is different. The one night of the year when the house looks like a movie set for Brigadoon. A kilt wearing, pipe skirling island of Scotishness amid a sea of bemused French. Unfortunately, the gremlin that manages to hide the Christmas lights also has a side line in hiding my sporran. My kilt is laid out on the bed but both sporran and dirk have disappeared. " They'll be where you left them " comes the reply of 'the font'. To be told that this happens every year is not particularly helpful.

We have three supermarkets in the small market town. Two of some repute and a third, Le Mutant, an improbably named discount outlet. The sort of place where the cans are identical and have white labels marked baked beans or tomatoes . Certain members of the household have discovered Le Mutant. " Are these mutant sausages ?" or ' Would you like a mutant tomato ?". Amid this breakfast time hilarity 'the font ' has developed that resigned, contemplative look that you usually see on pictures of medieval saints awaiting martyrdom. Someone is dreaming of longer semesters.

Wilf continues to thrive. The insulin injected every morning without our family fellow even noticing. And to think that only ten weeks or so ago we were saying our goodbyes. Seeing him now, surrounded by his flock, revelling in the attention, is a wonderful start to the New Year. A reminder that he or she who laughs ... lasts.

A wish to end 2010. May you each be granted the gift of a New Year free of fear .