Thursday, December 08, 2005
Holidays Approach.
12/08/2005
For the first time in many weeks, I enjoy a trip into Oban with a list of a hundred tasks from sourcing butterflies for dearest Dottie’s earrings, to socket sets, chainsaw chains and the hardest of all tracking down a man with a sand blaster. These fellows no longer advertise for fear of harassment from SEPA (The Scottish Environmental Protection Agency), because by its nature sand blasting contravenes a million European Directives. Eventually, after much wheedling, I have found the very man although there will still be a lot of trust building before “David” will fire up his equipment. At this time of year suppliers fall into two categories, firstly the majority who suck their teeth and advise that nothing can be done before “The Holidays”, secondly those whom one would never engage, who approach in the Tesco car park with a sycophantic grin in the wild expectation of a Christmas bottle. All of these chaps are misogynistic Argyll Men and take the end of the year seriously, although how many of them differentiate Christmas and New Year from any other weekend is a mystery to me, and I have one tale to illustrate the point.
For a period of a few years, the North Argyll glens where home to a Finnish lady of a certain age and glamour, whom I regret to say has sensibly returned to the land of her fathers. She arrived in mid-winter expectations of a clear, clean wilderness high, but grasp of the English language and Scottish culture low. On New Year’s Day, she telephoned her Inveraray plumber, to whom she had paid much of wonga, to advise him that her water supply had failed. During that brief conversation, the dear lady learned much about Argyll Man, and a good few new English expressions. She also learned over the following ten days how to survive with water from the burn and a sound galvy bucket. On reflection the greatest lesson was that one must know the intimate support mechanisms of one’s dwelling inside out, for Argyll Man can never be relied upon.
Needless to say, that although my Oban trip was fruitful, and I enjoyed the excellent Crab Spring Rolls and Fillet of Plaice washed down with a glass of two of Chenin Blanc at The Waterfront, several of my suppliers failed to come up to snuff, so a return trip is required next week. I am no longer surprised by the need for the double journey, or indeed the many phone calls and even more journeys that follow. I had a great day for it. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Dry Stane Dykes
12/05/2005
Heather the Weather delivers some fine conditions, clear, dry and a bearable 6 degrees or so, with just a touch of frost overnight. Ideal for starting landscaping for dearest Dottie, I have engaged one of Argyll’s finest Dry Stane Dykers to construct new garden walls whilst Lachie and I operate machinery to keep the Waller supplied with raw material. All this leads to me slipping surreptitiously into Dottie’s personal boudoir for a wonderful, muscle easing bath at 5.00pm, accompanied by an ice bucket complete with a light Chenin Blanc. In Dottie’s Valhalla, I discover the answer to my struggle with current affairs, as the Chenin Blanc evaporatives I stab the on button of D’s Sony radio, I am instantly surrounded by the wail for pre-digital Medium Wave broadcasting, a momment or two of clear news followed by bursts of Icelandic trawler chatter mixed with Radio Free Uzbekistan, absolute bliss. I scrub vigorously in Diana Drummond’s new chemical-free NAKED products and finish the chilled CB without the blood pressure suffering the usual evening news spike.
My scribble cannot pass without a reference to the Beastly Brown’s super cock-up of our fragile, over heated economy. Beastly Brown has for some time been know as “Down The Pan Man” amongst the captains of industry, and now he has played a splendid forehand to the delight of those, including myself, who have invested heavily in the Caspian. Kazakhstan is the new Texas where there is no talk of Beastly Brown’s double taxation; indeed there is so much fucking gas that we are pumping it back down the oil wells to facilitate the flow of crude oil of a higher grade that the Gulf, and enough of it to last for several generations, not even an American storm trooper in sight. I have kept the best news until last. As the Diamond T gas fleet plies the Caspian and Black Seas, we enjoy the protection of a benign dictator, loved and supported by his people, whose territory is the fifth greatest in the world. Wait for it, he has indicated to me that if the Baron Trollaigh were to move to Kazakhstan he would be made a substantial grant of estate lands and the state would cover the cost of a new Great Tower of Glen Trollaigh. My god, new lands, new powers, new everything! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.