(diaryland) August 11, 2001 - 11:39 a.m.

Diane, the official Scotsmeister, the one who would wear tartan all day long if she could, the one who may pretend to like haggis; the one who makes jibes at English people; the one when in Scotland, gets �mistaken for a local�; the one who is dangerously close to believing that the Scots are the master race, filled out her census form. Under �ancestry�, the Scotsmeister printed �SCOTISH�.

You�d think that if you were that obsessed with a country to the point of illness, you�d be able to spell it right. Or maybe it�s a top secret Scottish way of spelling �Scottish�. I wouldn�t know, because I�m not �SCOTISH�. I�m only a lowly form of the dreaded �INGLISH� with bonus euro-losers �OSTRIAN� and �DAYNISH� thrown in. Thank goodness, you know, she doesn�t love Czechoslovakians or something. You could really make a hash of that one.

It�s like the enormous graffiti honouring someone�s favourite band over a drain in the park near my house. Lovingly painted in white letters three feet tall, it reads, �NIVANA�.

Poor dear.

I�m so mean. Kill me now.