Thursday, September 15, 2005
Trollaigh Tango Beat
09/15/2005
In actual fact Saturday evening progresses without much permanent damage. We three old codgers are left in peace to play a few ends of billiards and sample an Ardbeg or two while dinner wears on, our absence un-noticed. After the ladies retire to the first floor drawing room, we hear music strike up rather than the usual bad tempered arguments from the men left with the Tesco’s Port. I wander down to the dinning room to discover that the younger element have taken over the long gallery for dancing and proceed to take the floor for the Trollaigh Jig in a set of four with our two daughters and Lachie. As we all know it backwards we put on a good exhibition, much applauded by our guests whose numbers are rising, attracted by the music. It is a fair night, so I set off for a four-mile tramp with the dogs on the riverbank looking for poachers. As I return, I sense a change in mood and come across the dancers on dearest Dottie’s sacred lawn to the beat and tempo of Latin America. Lachie is getting rather too close to The Boat of Garten; however, I am pleased to see that madam SNH has teamed up with Lord Watson who looks extremely dishevelled, hopefully sans matches. I retire to a warm Great Bed of Trollaigh with the Tango beat rising from the garden, quite pleasant really. The start of the week brings mixed weather and hard work as on Wednesday Lachie and I intend to cut off fuel supplies to the village pump in protest against rising prices. There are some reports of panic buying, Mrs MacDougall has been spotted topping off her tank at least a month early, and allegedly, a stranger from Oban detoured for £5’s worth. I have to chuckle when I read a notice on the village board encouraging classes in “Smoking Cessation”, why must people spend days working on pointless phrases when for generations we have been urged to “stop” or “give up” smoking quite happily? Even the grammar of such nonsense is debatable; last week a BT engineer informed me that a line in the glen “had been ceased”. Must be my age! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
To Hell With The Process.
09/13/2005
The Saturday dinner is the highlight of any country weekend and I always dread this traditional ritual as it almost always ends in tears. The signs are hopeful, as our girls have invited a number of quite reasonable contemporaries and they decide to inhabit the East stair apartments, however this leaves even more room for dearest Dottie to invite makeweights. I am allowed Harry Plimpton-Peters and General Denis Carnforth, but the rest are completely unknown to me although they constantly shake me by the hand and earnestly confide the most ghastly secrets of their private lives. One of Dottie’s more enlighten choices is Lord Watson who is to be sentenced for wilful fire raising within a couple of weeks, I must keep a close eye on this nincompoop as I am sure our insurers would have a field day if they knew this fool was in residence. At 7.30 and in full highland dress, I foregather with Harry and Denis to plan our evening, over a couple of Hendrick’s stiffeners we agree to avoid key topics and words, the phrase “The Process” seems top of the list. At 8.00 guests arrive in the Long Gallery where Lachie plies them with Tesco’s gin, unbelievably Watson appears in a lounge suit and one of Dottie’s lame ducks in black tie, don’t they know that the lack of a white tie will forever deny them a further invitation? Lachie sees me quivering and keeps the glass topped up. Mhairi beats the gong for dinner and I find a delightful young thing on my right. Horror of horrors it transpires that she works for SNH and within moments, she is gabbing on about the difficulty with “The process of implementing the European Water Abstraction Directive”. Saints preserve us! I have to excuse myself and retire to the library where I find Harry and Denis already tucking into a cold collation supplied by Mhairi, as they like me, cannot stand the dress, manners or the boring rubbish issuing from Dottie’s chosen “modern” guests. How are the mighty traditions of the weekend fallen? Roll on Monday, yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.