reetings from the Scottish Highlands. How are things back in the Big Apple? I wish I could tell you we're having a swell time, but the weather's dreadful and the shooting has been very disappointing. Tommy's been in a disagreeable mood all trip — you'd never guess he's getting married next month! To make matters worse, last night we got ourselves utterly lost in the forest, and wandered around for hours.

I'm writing this from a strange little village we came across, called Brigadoon. It doesn't appear to be on the map, and the inhabitants are a bunch of loonies, I can tell you. I'm tempted to think they're all members of some religious cult. Tommy has certainly fallen under their spell: he's been off romping in the heather with a young lass called Fiona. (Whatever you do, don't tell his fiancé Jane.) Her father MacKeith is the local bigwig, but the townsfolk all seem in thrall to the mysterious Mr Murdoch, whom we've yet to meet. Something fishy's certainly going on.

As you know, I try to avoid tomfoolery of any kind. However, I have had to spend all morning trying to escape the clutches of Meg Brockie, a crazy broad who's become infatuated with me.

Love must be in the Highland air, as we've arrived on the wedding day of two of the village's young folk. Fiona's sister Jean is marrying a pleasant fellow called Charlie Cameron, although I'm afraid there's trouble brewing. Sullen Harry Ritchie doesn't seem too pleased with the arrangements, while the sultry Maggie Abernethy is, in turn, infatuated with Harry.

I can't help feeling uneasy about this whole place, and I'll be glad to get out of here. Tommy seems smitten, though, and may take some persuading. Personally, it won't be too soon before yours truly, Jeff Douglas, is back in the bar with a whisky in my hand.

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