Where is my prince?

I lost a shoe at the St Andrew's Ball last night; prince-like men of Kampala may apply below. Luckily it was not one of my lovely sparkly heels that I left behind, but one of the flats I brought with me for dancing. So far nobody has knocked at my door with the missing footwear. I am sure my prince is simply lost (eh sebo, you are lost!), fallen down a pothole or unable to locate me since my address lacks both a street name and plot number!

Twas a fun and slightly old-fashioned affair, with a band flown in all the way from Bonnie Scotland, our resident bagpiper and a toasting to the (veggie in my case) haggis. The ladies had a dance card and had to book dances with different partners throughout the evening. After a couple of glasses of bubbly and a few swigs of malt whisky from the passing quiach (I thought it was a wassail cup, but have it on good authority that the shared silver bowl of whisky was in fact a quiach), we 'Split the Willow', did a 'Postie's Jig' and a 'Round Wheel of Eight'. Fortunately, the evening was not interrupted by the police trying to arrest the 'Progressive Gay Gordons' though!

The experts show us how it's done with the demo dance!