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.