Sunday, November 19, 2006

Inactivity

11/19/2006

I have made my way home from Yorkshire via Renfrewshire, delivering several evening talks to the WRI. This leg of my tour has been a little more relaxed with the evenings taking the form of conversations on loyalty and sisterhood, always an easy topic to develop at this time of year following Remembrance Sunday and with the trauma of family Christmas looming. I have been struck by the strong anti President Blair sympathies expressed by my otherwise douce audiences. There seems to be a feeling of betrayal and that perhaps finally after losing a few hundred brave troops and a war or two, these stoic matrons are praying that the Met will overcome the cabinet’s bullyboy tactics and stick one onto Blair over the honours for cash scandal. Next week when I move away from judging the best decorated tissue box competition in rural backwaters and attend the London Conference, perhaps I will get a better impression of Middle British thinking. I have often heard it said that President Blair wishes to leave office on a wave of popularism and to be remembered as a great statesman-like leader by genuflecting peasants, unfortunately he has left it three years too late. The greater joy is that the English will despise his successor, the Beastly Brown as a Scot, and the whole contemptible house of cards will collapse in record time. Three cheers say I, before all my rights to live as a free man have disappeared in order to placate a few vociferous lefties in the Liberty versus Law debate.

What organisation has hundreds of thousands of outstanding complaints and claims against it and is about to make 19,000 employees redundant? Many will know the answer, the newly rebranded department of “Revenue and Customs”. It is a comfort to know that in the midst of crisis upon crisis, the loony management of this disaster are sending the storm troopers around its offices to check that desktops are only supporting “active” work related items, including an abacus or two, one would imagine. All inactive items such as family photos, religious statuary and bananas must be swept aside. This news story set me thinking about my own desk where I operate the “pile” system, by which documents slowly sink down the pile and if unattended for long enough will eventually be used as firelighters. For although my desk may lack a Blessed Virgin Mary or two, it is well covered with photos, post-its, scissors, coasters, old cigarette lighters and a good layer of dust, I rather like it that way. We Trollaighs generally lean towards portraits rather than family snaps, however I have a pile of press photos clipped from the squeaks when they catch my eye. I love the truth and action of these. Favourite of the moment, is an attractive young girl turning to wave to unseen friends as she is evacuated from the Lebanon before the Israelis bomb the balls out of Beirut once more. Ah, a well remembered city, time spent with Andy Black and Arrack, my first sip of Châteaux Musar, lovely laughing girls, where are they all now? Gone to hell in a handcart I should think. May my desk always be covered in inactive material that stir many a vivid memory as I gaze at a stark, snow covered Glen Trollaigh, and yet in the distance, I can hear dearest Dottie preparing my togs for next Tuesday’s departure for London. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Bare Pelts

11/12/2006

I have time to spend a couple of nights in Glen Trollaigh before whizzing off to Yorkshire. As wintery gales batter the Tower of Glen Trollaigh from the West, I only have forty-eight hours to catch up with all my correspondence and crack the whip at Mhairi, who must have my laundry washed and pressed for an early departure on Monday. Today is the 11th so the household have all made an effort to have a moment’s reflection on those that have lost their lives in conflict, as the fire crackles in the grate and snow dusts the tops for the first time this year. The strong winds drive the showers towards us from the Long Glen; this westerly direction gives us a ten-minute warning before a soaking, as we can easily see the showers coming our way, this helps with picking the times of outdoor sorties and reduces the need for steaming tweeds above the Aga. I only hope that we will spot a decent weather window tomorrow for our annual remembrance visit to the Trollaigh Martyrs Stone, high on the east side of Glen Trollaigh, to remember family members and locals who have fallen, and regrettably continue to fall in bloody wars. 

I have spent much of the past week massaging the egos of the WRI’s in the Scottish Borders, an area I seldom visit, however it does repay some effort, as it is a most splendid, wild and unhindered part of Scotland, reached in an hour’s drive from Edinburgh and with arguably a drier climate than Glen Trollaigh. My talks have been to more mature and honest matrons, as the local gentry do not grace the WRI, therefore an easy topic has been “Harvest Home” with a slant towards harvesting souls, as well as food gained from the hedgerows and hunting. As the visiting speaker, I have been presented, as always, with some difficult choices whilst judging the competition of the evening. Should one honestly chose the tastiest Tomato Chutney, or perhaps veer in favour of a more physically attractive competitor. Tricks and traps are often played or set, and any visiting speaker must be constantly on their guard, I well remember the night at the Glen Ogle WRI when Sandy Boar-Hamilton had to judge between exhibits made from natural pelts. One exhibit was quite obviously a Mink G-string, and a certain winner! However Sandy, ever the diplomat, wrote out the winning ticket to the “Spectacular Fur Spectacle Case” thereby hoisting the tittering tomcats on their own petards. 

As always, my Borders hosts have been generous to a fault, one family even giving me the runt of a recent litter, Boris. He and I will get on famously, despite his different coloured eyes and extremely short legs, I feel sure that he will fit into our motley pack with the greatest of natural cunning. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

P.S. Despite my investment, I have not received a single comment on my new “safe” style scribblings. I content myself that you are all too stupid to cope with the simple security check to shut out the robots, and never mention it again, or should I just give up? A.T.