CONFIDENTIAL FILE

Missing Bagpipes Recall Spirit of ’75

The Berlin crisis notwithstanding, I’ve got a little international incident all my own with the British Empire.

Specifically,
it involves that portion of Her Majesty’s acreage north of the playing
field of Eaton and known, a shade too lyrically, as "Bonnie Scotland."

As
a small boy I was brainwashed by a strongly nationalistic grandmother
who kept up a constant barrage of propaganda that that the Scots were a
race apart, and a cut above all other people.

She pointedly
neglected to tell me that in our own immediate line of Scottish descent
were three good-sized alcoholics, a great-uncle Alec who was considered
a bit nutty by all his neighbors, and a cousin who deserted his wife to
run amok with a barmaid from a Glasgow pub.

Instead, she would
rock me on her knee, and tell me over and over again the heroic, noble
exploits of Robert the Bruce, who restored Scottish independence,
Bonnie Prince Charlie, who fearlessly raised his father’s standard at Glenfinnan, and Mary, Queen of Scots, who was so noble she didn’t even blink an eye when they cut her head off. 

After
grandma’s thorough indoctrination, I developed a sense of heritage out
of all proportion to the facts. And, of course, when I finally visited
Scotland last fall, I bought a set of bagpipes.

I ordered them
from a quaint, musty little shop in Edinburgh and paid cash after being
assured in a rich burr that they would be in Los Angeles within two
months.

Then I continued my trip through Europe, ordering
little knickknacks all along the way, Even a camel seat from a
shifty-eyed Moroccan Arab whom I felt sure was in the slave trade on
the side. Everything I ordered and paid for arrived. Everything —
except my bagpipes.

The other day I casually mentioned this at cocktails to Mr. James MacLeod, information officer of the Los Angeles British Consulate.

"Umm,"
he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A bit embarrassing, I wonder
if we shouldn’t send through a communication. On an official level,
that is."

"It isn’t necessary," I lied. "Not much money was involved."

"Hardly a question of money, old man," he said briskly. "It’s a matter of . . . "

"Principle?" I suggested.

"Precisely," he replied.

He made a few notes. And, the next morning, he "rang me up," as we say.

"MacLeod,
here," he announced. "Have had a chat with the chaps at the consulate.
They’re quite disturbed about this ugly business. Feel as I do — that
we should handle it through proper channels."

I didn’t quite
have the courage to ask him what "proper channels" would mean. But I
can only imagine that a diplomatic pouch has already gone forth with a
top-priority stamp to Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, Mr.Selwyn Lloyd. 

They Really Mean It

"Sir,"
it probably reads, "I have the honor to bring to your attention an
apparently distressing departure from the highest standards of probity
on the part of our bagpipe industry.

"An American journalist,
Mr. Paul Coates, claims to have purchased a set of bagpipes in
Edinburgh six months ago, and has not yet received delivery. He is
making a rather nasty issue of this and has intimated that, if delivery
is not effected forthwith, he has the influence to make this a matter
of public knowledge.

"I realize, sir, this might appear to be
a matter of minor import. However, I am sure that any such charge which
reflects on the integrity of the Empire deserves immediate
consideration at the uppermost level."

You hear that, dad?
"Uppermost level." You know what that means? Macmillan! Actually, I
hate to start a fuss. But we have to stand up for our rights. If we
don’t, they’ll have us right back where they did in 1775.