Several years ago in London, during the days of discotheque, I was enjoying an evening out at a wine bar with some Australian friends. Over a glass of red vermouth, I listed my grievances and bemoaned my wretched status as a lowly junior legal assistant. I realized I had to escape an impending doom before I too became part of the dust on the legal tomes. The bagpipes were calling and it was time I headed for the hills. I was, after all, of Inverness stock, and could see myself clad in tartan-British Caledonian Airways tartan.
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