I was recommended "Scotland's Premier Kiltmaker" in Glasgow and duly paid the shop a visit to get kitted out. The delightfully friendly and somewhat mature lady enquired of my clan. I explained that my paternal grandmother was Margaret Helen McDonald, a fearsome and zealous matriarch who hailed from North Uist. My grandmother maintained she was a direct descendant of the famous Ranald McDonald who fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie. I guess many have laid claim to this but if my turn comes my way to be on the television programme which traces ancestry, I will know one way or the other.

"I'm minded to have a pair of trews rather than a kilt," I told the proprietor. "Turn roond," she said and proceeded to examine my nether regions. "Aach no!" she exclaimed, "yev no the buttocks for the trews.

They have to be small and well-formed – like two duck's eggs in a handkerchief. You see, the short Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket exposes everything at the rear. Yours are far too big and flabby." She was nothing if not blunt. "Better a kilt to cover things up." When I tried on a kilt, she was rather more complimentary. "Aye, that's better. You've the legs for a kilt."

My Granny McDonald married an Irishman, John Finn, but wanting to retain her proud Scottish name and being a bit like Patricia Routledge's Mrs Bucket aka Bouquet, changed the name to Phinn and
styled herself rather grandly Mrs McDonald-Phinn. Like many a McDonald, she had little time for anyone bearing the perfidious name Campbell. It was they, she reminded anyone inclined to listen, who massacred the poor defenceless members of her clan
at Glencoe.

She would never countenance anything in her house with the word "Campbell" on – cans of soups and meatballs bearing the dreaded name were banned. I guess Granny McDonald spun in her grave when I went to work for a headteacher called Mr Campbell. One February morning, I arrived at school wearing a black and white tartan tie of the Menzies clan. Sister Brendan, a teaching colleague, commented how nice it looked.

"I don't wear this to look nice, sister," I said mischievously, "I wear it on this day in memory of those who died at Glencoe, those members of my grandmother's clan who were massacred by the Campbells."
"Good gracious," said the nun, visibly shocked, "whenever was this?"
"The 13th February, 1692," I told her."That was terrible long time ago, Gervase.""It was, sister," I said, "but we have long memories, and when Mr Campbell, the headteacher, sees this tie, he will feel suitably ashamed of what his clan did.""Surely it's time to forgive and forget," she said. After assembly that morning, Mr Campbell approached me about some inconsequential matter. Sister Brendan watched with interest.
"What did he say?" she asked in hushed tones as I headed for my classroom."He apologised," I said loftily.