
Alasdair Gordons Story
Alasdair Gordons
1956
The sun was pouring down, and the sweat was drying in a salt cake on my unprotected forehead. I was accoutred in full Scottish rig; kilt, stockings, brogues, jacket; and even a tie. I prided myself on looking both Scottish, and presentable.
A car was coming along the very straight road. I threw it a practised glance; too grand, the French equivalent of a Rolls Royce. But, it drew up a few yards ahead of me, and I broke into a run; this could be luck indeed. ... (continues)


