Brother Lightfoote's Journal DATE: August 4th 1783 - Feast of Saint Senzi WEATHER: Fearful hot OUTLOOK: Getting hotter Mad dogs and Englishmen get drunk with the monarch’s son.

Saint Senzi is the patron of Sithney, in Cornwall, close to Helston, where they do the Furry Dance, whatever that is. William Worcestre saw his tomb and he has a strong following in Brittany, but his main claim to fame is that he turned down the Almighty’s offer to make him the patron saint of girls. His grounds for so doing were, in my opinion, exceeding firm. He feared that he would never have a moment’s peace but suffer the purgatory of perpetual petitions for hats and shoes and handsome, well endowed young men, not to mention slenderness regardless of diet, eternal youth - and more shoes. God was displeased by this refusal (proving conclusively that He is male for He does not understand females) and asked Senzi if he’d rather be in charge of mad dogs instead. The Saint leapt at the chance, exclaiming ‘I’d rather deal with mad dogs than women any day.’ Who among us has not felt sympathy with that sentiment?
    Recently, my wife - who does much work in the cause of charity, God bless her - received an invitation to attend a species of masque, ball, fete-champetre – call it what you will – in the grounds of Windsor Castle, in the presence of, and marking the twenty-first birthday of, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. She was ecstatic and ecstasy is something that my wife experiences only very rarely nowadays. Refusal (of a chalice which Lightfoote knew to be liberally laced with Bella Donna) was out of the question. How does one explain to one’s spouse that, if she has been invited, at least a thousand others have too? The Prince of Wales wouldn’t recognise Mrs. Lightfoote if he woke up next to her. I confess that sometimes I have trouble myself, particularly the morning after an installation meeting… I was faced with a decision: either I could accede, meekly, to my wife’s preposterous proposal, or I could manfully assert my authority and forbid her to accept the invitation. In the end we compromised and I did exactly as she instructed.
    I was informed that the gathering was to be "themed". The ladies would be masked but gentlemen were expected to present themselves in the habiliments of our colonial cousins. The P.o.W’s taste for the "exotic" is notorious and here was a perfect excuse for him to indulge it, royally. I was subjected to a barrage of suggestions as to what I might wear. This assault lasted over an hour, ranged over five continents, and during it I consumed a bottle and a half of port (Yardy’s ’59). Might I cut a dash as a Dervish? Turn up in a turban? Look fetching in feathers? Pretty in paint? Lightfoote was on the brink of despair, staring into a bottomless pit, an unfathomable mine, a yawning abyss of potential indignity… In a flash of diabolic inspiration, she decided and he slid, softly and silently, into the slough of despond.
    And so it came to pass that Lightfoote found himself at the gates of Windsor castle, in a kilt and a feathered bonnet… Needless to say, as we alighted from our carriage, the crowds that I had hoped to conceal myself in evaporated and I was exposed to the gaze and ridicule of the assembled locals and the young ruffians from the local school. As the bard so rightly said. When sorrows come they come not single spies but in battalions… As we approached the gates, the band of the 26th Regiment struck up a merry air that I have been informed subsequently to be entitled Highland Laddie, a gust of wind got under my pleats and the scholars of Eton College bayed "Show us your pibroch!" Could it get any worse? Read on…
    We strode up to the castle gates where our invitation was examined in a cursory manner and then passed into the castle grounds. Here, as I had feared, a vast throng, fancifully attired, waited with increasing impatience to gain admission to the ballrooms. Those at the rear cried Forward! whilst those at the front shouted Back! Nabobs and Maharajahs jostled, Muftis and Sheikhs pushed, Lightfoote decided to avail himself of the flask of Finest Auld Glen Gould that was secreted in his sporran. By the time that we had gained entry to the royal apartments, I was in high spirits and had begun to assume the character of the doughty highlander whose garb I sported. With many a "Hoots!" and a "Hollah!" I flung myself on to the dance floor. I was reeling, as, I believe is the custom in Scotland. The boards were polished, the shoes were smooth, Lightfoote lost his footing and flew, kilt akimbo, across the floor to the feet of the Prince of Wales, took the feet from under the Prince of Wales and came to rest with the Prince of Wales on top of me.
    Gentlemen-at-Arms rushed forward, fearing that an attempt had been made on the life of His Royal Highness and I was pulled to my feet with pistol pointed at my head. The Prince, regaining his feet and straightening his clothes, demanded of me if I were a supporter of the Stuart cause. I replied, trying to make light of the incident, that I was merely a Comedy Jacobite! The man lacks humour, doubtless due to his German ancestry. I was led away.
    Fortunately I was released without charge but the incident has been widely reported and I have become the butt of many a ribald joke, principally at the Stonic Lodge where I am currently referred to as The Prince’s Truss. At the present time I am finding my beloved Brethren rather trying, I must confess. The one crumb of comfort in this ghastly affair is that Mrs. Lightfoote has sworn never to take me to a social function again. All’s well, as Bill Shakes so aptly put it, that ends well.