Sentence The Fourhundredandsixtyseventh

Little Levy Balquhidder could only marvel at the ingenuity of his parents this weekend who, before leaving the house - improbably named The Foreshore, being about fifty miles inland, but literally located on the littoral north bank of the River Tweed as it sweeps past that sandstone cliff which had been quarried in centuries past to provide the building blocks for both nearby Abbeys – had dressed him in tartan trews of the McLevy sett, to attend the wedding of his Aunt Rosebud, with no regard for the acute embarrassment this fancy-dress attire might cause an aesthete, such as himself, who has a very deep sense of his own identity, developed over countless millenia, which does not include this very public form of humiliation, in which the only possible avenues of rebellion open to him were, after howling mightily during the actual service in Melrose Abbey, to give the photographer his ancient Death Stare and filling his nappy with a particularly offensive and reekin' jobby while simultaneously reciting The Beatitudes to himself in the original Hebrew, and smiling in satisfaction that he was ensuring he would never be able to wear these breeks ever again!

And as for the Nessie bootees, the least said about them, the better!