"A-toot a-toot, a-toot diddle-ee-ada-too"

"I will tell you only once...."

Balloons. Real ones.

"I hope that's not an air-raid"?

Fun on the dance-floor

Glenn McMiller and the Anndras Sisters

We arrived at the Stornoway British Legion Playhouse. It was 1944. I was convinced. The venue was right-cosy but spartan- and lit by a few dim-bulbs. We had been magically transported back 20 years or so from the present day to when boys were men and women looked fantastic in their frocks and overly severe hairdos. Red lipstick abounded and a spiv - no doubt with a row of fake Rolex's inside his jacket - sat quielty watching the action while his gal sat obediently by his side. An air-raid warden prowled while raffle tickets were sold for ration-book prizes. A few Army, Airforce and Naval service personnel were in evidence - no doubt glad to be back on Lewis soil for a while. Meanwhile, Glenn McMiller and his Bandettes were getting the swing into the evening . Trombones were blaring and trombonists' hands were flapping. Trumpets soared, basses twanged and sax did what sax do. In the main.

Twas wonderful. Eyes glistened with memories of times past, times of austerity, of working together and loved ones lost.Then up came the Anndras Sisters tweetering like veritable songbirds. The dance -floor filled, ballons flew everywhere and then the flippin air-raid siren went. I think. I'm not that old honestly but when your ears start throbbing at some wailing sound, the place goes dark and one can see death and destruction wrought by bombs through the 'window' - albeit interspersed with a quick sight of a south-sea island [I must admit at this point I did think I had over-dosed on sarsaparilla ], you know something is up. And it did look a tad worse than the usual Friday night in Stornoway I must say.

Still, we had the wonderful Laxdale Women's choir to caress our ears, and then more of the McMillar fantastic big band. What a fun evening was had seemed to be the consensus most of us as we stumbled out into the Stornoway evening back to the hoardes of erbs thronging the streets and lurking outside the bars.