On Monday, the family and myself piled into our tiny Peugeot and drove the 194 miles (I google mapped that) to Loch Ness, up to the little village of Drumnadrochit, up Achtemerack and finally, into the drive of my Auntie's farm (lots of lovely words for you there!)
Now, one of the many myths (and believe me, there is loads) surrounding my Auntie's farm is that one of her cottages is rented by a hot irish guy, hence a 'HIG'. There have been various sightings of the HIG, some expressing his loveliness and others detaling what they would give him (Thanks Cousin Fiona!).
So, you can imagine what kind of picture I've got in my head. I find out he's a psychiatrist so he's obviously very intelligent and someone you can have deep, philosophical conversations with, he likes mountain biking, so he's obviously fit. To be honest, he just seemed like the picture of yumminess. Also, irish automatically means 'amazing accent' so you do the math...
Sadly, Lady Luck is no friend of mine as my first glimpse of him revealed him to be a forty year old silver fox. Not that I don't mind older men but my eighty-six year-old auntie told me he was too old for me and I accepted it.
Sad times indeed!
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