Thursday, December 22, 2005

Collars And Cuffs

12/22/2005

I am confused, the English media have informed me that the moon is waning away from the brightest it has been for twenty years, but I can seen no difference, however, it does seem to have had some effect on our resident Blue Tit population who appear to be completely mad. Some of them are trying to pull the insulation from the roof spaces of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, whilst others attack climbing Roses and/or the wooden eve spaces; perhaps these spots are full of long dead mites and midges.

I have been enjoying an end of season G&T or two with my fellow directors of Diana Drummond. Part of this informal meeting has been a balanced critique of the under-rehearsed Dalmally panto, Dick Turpin or, as it has been renamed by those unfortunate enough to sit through this over long am-dram, Dick Turnip. I think that it is wonderful that any local community is strong willed enough to endure the buttock clenching embarrassment to both cast and audience of such an unbelievable mess; however, I simply must find some excuse to avoid it next year!  The broad meeting drifted towards product plans for next year, which may revolve around new hair care ideas. I found a pleasant connection with my observation of Blue Tits as we discussed the increasing problems cause by girls treating and colouring their hair. Of course there is no longer any attempt to match “Collars and Cuffs”, so that many a lady may spend hundreds killing her hair is search of perfect strawberry blondeness, while quite a different story is apprearant below the bikini line. This becomes all the more bizarre in the European market where the Germans and Scandinavians refuse to shave their oxters, leading to even greater colour clashes. Apart from Blue Tits I was also reminded of an apprentice sawbones of the 1960’s, now an eminent consultant plastic surgeon, who regaled us of the night in A&E when he discovered that the young lady on the operating table had dyed her hirsute haven a verdant green. The young Housemen attach a chit to her case notes; “Sorry we had to mow the lawn”. Those were the days; one assumes that such frivolity nowadays would end up in front of the BMA. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Daddy’s Fabulous Tree

12/20/2005

Having been foolish enough to comment that daytime temperatures are remaining close to zero, we have had a couple of days at a pleasant five to seven degrees, the first day fair, and the second miserable. By tradition I normally wait until the family gathers at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh before selecting and felling the Christmas Tree, however, over the past few years the girls have dismissed this bonding moment as “The Griswald Family”, a tribute, I believe, to an American comedy figure who selects a tree seven sizes too large and full of squirrels. I have been hurt by this humour and now dearest Dottie and I do the basic work a few days before the girls arrive from N1, leaving them to arrange the finishing touches. On a matter of principal, I always steal our tree from the Forestry Commission on the basis that my tax dollars have paid for the bloody thing in the first place, and this year there is an added challenge as “Environmental Rangers” are on patrol to stop old diehards such as your esteemed Baron. It has to be well planned, as Sitka Spruce, the main FC product is far too prickly, however, a fine, if extremely heavy, eighteen foot Scots Pine will fit the Long Gallery to perfection, framed by the west Lord Frances window. Dearest Dottie and I have already reconnoitred the target tree and the surrounding area, we now know where the motion sensors are placed and have worked out our approach route, about a mile or two from the nearest road in Glen Aline. As the rains and the mists cover our commando like advance we know that as soon as I start up the chain saw, “Rangers” will be alerted. A mobile phone call, a few seconds with the saw and good old Bertie Beauchamp is overhead in the Robinson R20, we hastily throw the saw into the cabin, hook the tree to the underside, Bertie is away, and dearest Dottie and I hike back out to the road. The mist is so thick that the blue flashing lights waiting to greet us are hardly visible at twenty paces, so the three “Rangers” plus the local plod are surprised as we vault the last roadside fence with hardly a shred of evidence apart from a whiff of two-stroke and a dusting of sawdust. They are spitting mad and I am grinning from ear to ear, however I smartly sort things out by whipping open the back of the old Land Rover and handing over a couple of bottles of the Young Ardbeg. A roadside dram or two to keep out the cold and all is sweetness and light. I calm things further by suggesting that they are all most welcome at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh on Saturday evening for more drams and dearest Dottie’s unbeatable Mince Pies, when I feel sure the girls will rag them mercilessly by showing them “Daddy’s Fabulous Tree”! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.