I had a flash of inspiration when I was completing the various bits and pieces of paper and application forms required by the Big Burns Supper to allow them to consider our application as potential performer.

They'd invited us a Big Burns Supper. And oh my goodness me, does the script for my (sorry, Paul Higgins') beloved play not feature some words from the great man himself?

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that. 

(I confess I always thought there was bits missing from the above as Dad recited it until I just the noo checked the original. Shows you how deeply my nigh on sixteen years in this fair land have embedded themselves.)

So it seemed only fitting that those of us that arrived in DF on the Friday night found ourselves sitting, come something past 11pm in the show-coated Spiegeltent, sprung up just off Whitesands (look at me with ma local knowledge...) waiting for Cari to fetch us our whisky and Eddi Reader to serve up some songs.

Ironically, for a girl not raised in this land, I grew up listening to bits of her during her Fairground Attraction era as my dad happened to favour the album. (On cassette.) So I knew a sliver of her repertoire.

What I didn't know was the she not only delivers a finely sounding tune on a cassette tape. No, indeed, good sirs. This girl can really truly sing. And you don't encounter that all that much in the - shall we say - popular music repertoire these days.

Obviously I shun a cliche but a nightingale might just about do her justice. Or vice versa.

So take someone that can sing like a dream, take a heavy flollop of snow, a cherry red and bottle green stained glass Spiegel, a bunch of my favourite people, take an accordion player, guitarist, double bassist (I think - this one behind a pillar) and too much whisky. And you're left with a pretty heady cocktail.

I'm still singing (a poor parody) The Moon Is Mine.

I'm still dwelling on her lovely delivery of another of Burns' great works. His Red Red cherry red Rose. This is a rather grander version. But you get the general idea. Beautiful.

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!