So yesterday I was walking through the New Town to get to Mass for the Feast of the Transfiguration... What's that you say? Old calendar, my dears. Old calendar.
Anyway, I was walking through the New Town with two charming Young Fogeys, co-religionists, of course, and we were rather snappily dressed although I say so myself. But nothing special, you understand.
The Englishman was wearing a perfectly normal tweed jacket, a Fair Isle jumper, tie, dark blue corduroy trousers, argyle socks and brown shoes.
The Continental was perhaps slightly more daring with his bright cherry red corduroy trousers, waistcoat, dark jacket, tie, brown shoes, dark hat, and, of course, his beautiful nineteenth century moustache.
And I was wearing some old thing: a dark green frock with a rather 1930s air although with a modified Empire waist--sort of between Empire and real waist--because I simply cannot wear a sack, my dears. So aptly named a garment, the sack dress, and so rrrruinous to curvy ladies like myself. I will have none of it. Anyway, let me see, I was wearing this dark green frock, large dark green button earrings, a green crystal necklace, lime green tights, green paisley shawl and little brown boots. Standard day wear, darlings.
The Englishman was holding a missal. I, of course, had mine wrapped in my mantilla in my green velvet handbag.
Well! We had turned the corner on Belford Road when who should approach us but two tall denim-clad people with guitars. And we would not have taken any notice of them had one not suddenly said, in Australian, with a hit of irony:
"Nice costumes, guys."
Well. You can imagine what we said.
"Thank you," said the Englishman with kneejerk polite hypocrisy.
"Thank you," said Canadian me with kneejerk polite hypocrisy.
The Continental uttered no word and made no gesture to acknowledge that such creatures as the speaker might exist although I suspect his upper lip curled ever so slightly under his beautiful moustache.
The musicians passed us, continuing in the direction opposite to our own, and I puzzled over the greeting. The Edinburgh Festival is in full swing, so the Australian may have made an honest error. But on the other hand, there was that hint of irony. Had the cherry corduroy trousers awakened dormant class hatreds?
"Unfair," I said suddenly. "I'm not even wearing a hat. Oh, wait. Yes I am."
But the chap was Australian, and surely not party to the seething hostilities and envies lurking underneath what we locals laughingly call democracy.
So what was with the Aussie's personal tone? Why had hats + tweed + frock + ties + jumper + pipes (for of course my companions were smoking pipes) elicited such disapproval?
Would he have made such a remark to punkers? No. To goths? Unlikely. So why us? Why us?
"OOOOOOOO!" I gasped, as a hypothesis dawned. "They could be a folk music group on their way to the Cathedral!"
We pondered this.
"Let's get 'em!" I cried.
Update: Dear folk Mass loving readers, I was kidding! :-D
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