Constance Gooselane is simply delightful.
She has the grace of her Great Great Grandmother Fanny and the wit and charm of Selina Scott, with the firey disposition of Lauren Bacall.
After repaying her my bail money, we had a delightful dinner of pheasant at The Holy Roaster, an atmospheric ex-Mosque in Glasgow's West End.
She delighted me with tales of her absorbing family history, and was not at all ashamed of her famous ancestor's tales of habitual rug munching.
Infact, she assured me that despite the rarity of the book, she has regular requests for documentaries, books and even an Holywood film, which to her integrity she declined. After dinner we returned to her house in Myrtle Drive where we had nightcap and she condescended to show me her bush.
It is more of a bush than a family tree, merely in the fact that many branches lie unaccounted for. Her enthusiastic interest in geneology matches only my passion for Rambling. I assured her I would be honoured to help her fill in the holes. Because of the nature of her family's sordid past, some avenues of discovery are closed off because of name changes and emmigrations. But we resolved over some fine cognac to attempt to scope her fine bush into a mighty throbbing oak.
After polite goodbyes, and some awkwardness on the doorstep I resolved to walk home through the park. Despite my light headed feeling I braced myself for the horrors the park lays upon the eyes of passing travellers gone midnight. To my eternal disgust there, on cue, was Philius the local S&M Librarian endulging in what can only be descibed as scatological armageddon with a fellow in army fatigues.
I quickened my pace and reached home before one. I fed the kids and slipped under my duvet, my mind swirling with thoughts of Fanny and Constance's soon to be expanded bush.
RB.
