Living Next Door To Alice

10/27/2008

It is a strange thing that in the midst of great events small details stick in the mind, the colour of Jackie’s gloves at the grassy knoll, a discarded toy at a divisive family Christmas long ago; perhaps even the butterfly on a police cell window following an unwarranted arrest at Twickenham. And so as the world economy crumbles, the rich image of crimson on the turning cherry leaves impaled upon stilettos of the twin sculptures in high heels sticks in my noggin, all four heels support taught slender pins standing before the Great Door of Trollaigh opened by Mhairi answering a persistent rap, a deluge scent of burnt sugar pouring from the Great Cercidiphyllum of Trollaigh fills the air.

The arrival of the four slim pins herald the anticipated, however unexpected arrival of my sister Alice, whom I have not seen since the sixties. In 1968 the kaftaned sibling hurled cobble stones at the CRS in gay Paris when a ricochet caught the Count Aix en Cachones et Chateaux Neuf du Pape a glancing blow on the napper, the rest as they say is history. The Countess Alice now seems to leave the poor old Count to his assorted chateaux and lives with some style on the left bank, the four sprightly pins belonging to her striking twin daughters, my nieces, Vaga and Bond.

The Count’s four black Citroen DS form a suitable backdrop to the matching Bill Gibb suits that adorn the nieces, as burly Belgian footmen emerge to help the weakly waving countess from the back seat of number two car, whilst numbers three and four cars appear to support nothing but Louis Vuitton trunks. Our household are seldom fazed by such ostentatious arrivals and so we embrace our guests; although Mhairi’s eager attack on the burly Belgians seems a little over enthusiastic. Dearest Dottie has Alice swiftly at ease in my mother’s south facing quarters and the burley Belgians despatched to an Oban B&B. Whilst the heating and water boilers are fired up I retreat to the library where, after several days of unbelievable sloshing rain I enjoy a splendid view of the blazing red sunset behind sharp western peaks, supersized Hendricks in hand. Vaga and Bond have taken over the drawing room above and I hear Lachie being seduced into springing a bottle of my best Pouilly Fume for our feline guests, who have already spotted the Wii, I suspect the first of many pin point attacks on my precious cellar. Later dinner is a slightly stilted affair despite the comfort of the roaring dinning room fire and a particularly special menu of venison filet with three home grown veggies, potatoes, green beans and root artichokes, followed by orchard apple crumble. After coffee the oldies retire and as I drift off with dearest Dottie’s succulent tootsies warming in the small of my back, even I can clearly hear the distant screams of laughter from Mhairi, Lachie, Vaga and Bond deep in a needle Wii tennis match, as I suspect my 1952 Remy has been broached. After the garden artichokes one can only hope that a duvet lifting fart or two may be mistaken for the distant roaring of a randy stag. Here’s hoping! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.