Sunday, January 14, 2007
Flustered Ferguson
01/14/2007
Our winter weather is overwhelmingly mild and wet, with a fair leavening of westerly gales or as the weather girls politely forecast “strong to severe gales”. Maintenance of the policies is now reactive rather than proactive, for it is almost impossible to follow any planned work without dropping everything and rushing off to clear fallen timber, divert floods, patch up water pipes, sort roof leaks or rescue canoeists and benighted travellers. No snow has fallen on the floor of Glen Trollaigh, nor frost frozen the facial follicles of the old Baron for many weeks, although the snow line goes up and down the mountainsides like a whore’s knickers.
Enforced isolation in Glen Trollaigh has helped with the pairing down of the paperwork backlog, although when the Postie breasts the floods much more pours onto the pile on my desk. Thanks to our weak dial-up internet connection I can now order bargains from the January Sales, instruct Adam & Company, despatch wedding presents and with some difficulty book up a Eurostar to Paris. Although I have to be honest and admit that following my best efforts with the latter, I shall be interested to see where dearest Dottie and I end up. My interest in local affairs centres on the proposed National Marine Park taking in the Firth of Lorn and west to Coll and Tiree. I cannot truthfully say that I am much in favour of this distribution of the public purse in the direction of yet more PhDs and clipboards, but I am certainly 100% against the manner in which The Executive seem determined to impose this idea on the local folk, who appear to be mainly against it. This “anti” feeling stems from the overwhelming need for the Mull infrastructure, in terms of roads, schools, harbours, transport, affordable housing etc, to be completely overhauled at the cost of many squillions before money is wasted on a vote catcher for Fluffy Greens in Morningside. I was pleased to note that a certain Patricia Ferguson, Minister for Tourism, Culture and Sport, from whom I have never had the pleasure of a chat, was severely mauled on the proposed park at a recent Holyrood Question Time. It became apparent that Ms Ferguson had not one clue about the issue, going so far off the line as to state, “Sustainable tourism is dear to my heart”. However, the obvious questions not asked were, “Have you ever set foot on Mull?” and if so “While you were there, did you ever speak to a local shepherd, farmer or fisherman?” The only positive thing to emerge from such embarrassment in the Parliament, will be that the spin-doctors will advise dropping the whole project like the proverbial hot potato. Speaking of which, as darkness crowds in, I wonder what Mhairi has planned for dinner Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. PS. Many thanks for your congratulations about my New Year’s Honours List gain. New Labour and some others managed to water it down a bit, but I am quietly pleased. A party is planned! A.T.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Missing Words
01/09/2007
3.00am sharp I awake with a start, a full gale howls from the South West, rain and hail crash against the castellations. Dearest Dottie murmurs in protest at the wild weather, as I find it difficult to return to the land of nod, of course it is all because; after a couple of centuries, dearest D has decided to remodel the bedroom and the Great Bed of Trollaigh has been realigned thro ninety degrees. The slumbering Baronial body has been forced across the earth’s magnetic field and is now out of step with the weather and background noise. However, we now apparently enjoy a “better view”, what rubbish; bedrooms are for functional use only and I sincerely hope that I will spend about half of my life in a bedroom somewhere, either “toes down” or “teeth up”, as we used to say on the Yangsee Patrol.
If truth were told, our disturbance at the dead of night was not entirely caused by the earth’s magnetic field. I am a strong believer that thinking of others near and dear can have a direct affect on oneself, and our hiatus in the early hours of this morning correspond neatly to the jetlagged wakeful period of the most welcome return of Tristan and Pru to Glen Orchy from New Zealand. Whilst dearest Dottie and I tossed and turned, T&P grazed on cold chicken and read, wide eyed. I hope that the body clocks of the North Argyll Glens will synchronise err long!
I was slightly shocked by a day spent in Oban yesterday. My favourite town was not at its best in the first week of January, with most of my watering holes closed and the town full of European voices, be they Poles or Bulgars. I was certainly more than a little miffed to spot a couple of European registered cars, obviously taking advantage of their intractability, to ignore the Tesco three hour parking limit. However my main problem was, that I realised that I am definitely moving into the “missing word” phase of old age. I was embarrassed to struggle for the trade name “Dimplex” whilst sourcing a replacement element for a failing towel rail, then forgot completely the magic “double spigot” needed to purchase the required tight angle 87.5% drainage bends needed for septic tank maintenance. However, the ultimate disgrace was to arrive at the dentist for my 4.10pm appointment at 4.30pm. An understanding practice nurse then made it clear that despite my private patient status, my tooth torturer could not fit me in for at least six weeks, put me in my pensioner’s place. Bugger old age and stupidness, hurray for a sensiblely stiff Ardbeg when I reached home to a warm doggy welcome. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.