While we're playing, Jacques opens the door, tiptoes in and warms himself by the fire. When the tune is finished, we exchange pleasantries and I assure him his order has arrived safe and sound. I excuse myself and run behind the curtain for the carrying bag. Rushing back, I open it excitedly and present him with his splendid new pipes.

"Here you are Jacques! All the way from the Highlands."

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His eyes widen in delight, but then he gives us a shy look and tucks them back in the bag, muttering something about having to get back to "the missus."

"Oh no you don't, Mr. Cruithni! You really must play us a tune before you leave."

Bridgette concurs. I do hope she doesn't mind if he plays indoors. I don't mind. The bold sound of the war pipes - that's what my father and brothers call them - never fails to bring a tear to my eye.