Once a year, the entire Scottish community of NYC (top-to-tail in tartan) congregates in Midtown to march ten blocks, from W45th up 6th Avenue to 55th. I’m not even Scottish, but I signed up with my Glaswegian pal Morvern (Girls who drink together, march together… 
err, 
said no-one ever).
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| THIS GUY HAS A SWORD | 
What a surreal experience. Firstly, I didn’t actually realise we would be marching in the parade. I thought we’d just be waving a few blue and white flags from afar. So walking down the middle of 6th Ave, with hoards of Americans whooping and cheering from the sidewalk, was not what I was expecting when I woke up that morning with a slight hangover. 
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| Who let these scamps in? | 
I’m still not quite sure why they allowed us to get involved. Quite frankly, we did not fit in with the uniformed groups of professional-looking bagpipe-players.
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| Dad's Army | 
And at one point, we were so busy taking pictures of each other on the traffic-free avenue that we got left behind and had to run to catch up… and the crowd clapped us along. God Bless America.
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| Probably the closest I will ever come to running the NYC marathon | 
After the parade, a group of us dedicated Scots headed to Shake Shack* in Grand Central for some much needed replenishment. Marching is exhausting. 
*If you have never been to Shake Shack, you are missing out. Get on a plane, and go. It is the food of the Gods. Like mega-NOM.
And to top off Morvern’s special day of Scottishness, we went to a bar where it was free-drinks for all of the parade marchers.
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| Morvern's 'special' day | 
Now a free bar is generally like sweet bagpipe music to my ears, except that the flyer omitted to mention that the only free drink was a form of Scottish stout called 
Belhaven.
A word to the wise: Never, ever, drink a pint of Belhaven after a vanilla shake. It is not big, and it most certainly is not clever.