Aunty Crist was disappointed when she heard that Teri had failed to submit the story about Professor Andrew MacAndrew and his inappropriate stalking of Chrysanthemum MacGillicuddy, of whom she had fond memories from her work as a student helper on several archaeological digs over the past couple of year: “a dear sweet girl, and what hair! so Titian,” she had said, “but let's not kvell over past loves and their sweet memories – and to be punished for Andy Pandy's misdemeanours! so unfair; and you say he used Photoshop? I'd have thought that quite out of his league, the man is a technological Luddite, detests computers because he cannot work them: 'too impersonal' is his shibboleth, I've heard him say the same about a Thermos Flask and Tippex, but he likes to get personal with his students, does he? well, let us leave that for the nonce, my dears, 'twill soon be Twelfth Night and we must make plans: and involve our guests as much as we can, particularly the ones with little English, they seem quite bemused with the television programmes; a Feast is what we need, so let's get all the women together and make our plans, the menfolk can be our pack-horses and gophers – and that includes you two,” she indicated the remaining Wise Men, for MacAndrew had wisely picked up his bags at the gate and made his way back to Edinburgh by train from the Tweedbank Terminus, and at the very same moment that MacAndrew boarded his train there was a loud ring at the doorbell and, when Cristobal answered it, she was delighted to find Chrysanthemum MacGillicuddy standing on the step with a portmanteau and a Selkirk Bannock – Aunty Crist forgot all about the photoshopping Professor, who had been defriended by all his acquaintances, desperate to demonstrate their loyalty to the victim of his stalking and distance themselves from the bullying behaviour of such a bogart: “Chrysanthemum,” she cried, sweeping the girl into an embrace and swinging her into the Hallway, “you still bear that myrrhic fragrance and are so unputdownable that I want to bear you at once to meet the rest of our guests,” and at once she did so, placing her on the accommodating sofa in the Lounge and while one of the cousins poured a cup of strong and alcoholic coffee for her, and another fetched her a blanket, for she had been drenched by the incessant rain, and a third gave her a footstool and a fourth offered her a tray of shortbread and mince pies, and a group of the Syrian children crept in and sat on the floor around her – for there was something exotic about her hair and her complexion and the fullness of her lips and the blush upon her cheeks, all combined with the redness of her hair and the shapeliness of her body, so that she seemed to be the physical embodiment of her given name, which awed them; and Teri dashed off her copy, after fashioning a means of attaching it to yesterday's and, determined not to drink any whisky before she had submitted it THIS TIME, scampered along to Aunty Crist's Study where she rattled it off on the keyboard, did a hasty spell check and clicked on Submit before . . . . .