Nautical Tattoos

05/25/2005

There now follows a period of complete lack of sleep. The Fire fighters appear, driving once more over the Sacred Lawns, where by now, we have discovered that The Admiral has driven “doughnuts” in the turf before torching the Roller. Next, the community Policeman arrives with the biggest smirk I have ever seen, followed within the hour by a group of snarling BMW and Mercedes mounted traffic police, dressed in the customary black combat gear. Few of these boys have ever seen a Crimea Colonel in the early hours, however, to my credit I do point out that, the whole episode has taken place on private property and therefore no road traffic acts have been broken. Furthermore, no DNA evidence to identify the driver can be found in the smouldering wreckage.  Saint Mhairi is in action to feed and water all of our visitors with soup and rolls, and a flash of her comely figure in the early hours seems to calm the Stirling Gestapo. A large taxi appears at 5.30am to collect James and The Countess, who with much door slamming make it clear that an invitation to Garston Hall in September is unlikely. At 6.30am another taxi appears to collect Celeste, wane and indescribably beautiful and unattainable, plus a much more contrite Admiral casually dress in T shirt and jeans revealing spectacular tattoos on a bawdy nautical theme covering much of her body. Celeste is inconsolable and tearful apologies flow. However, at this point dearest Dotty appears in full sail, gathering both girls to her bosom claims that, “that bloody man” is a complete fool and they must stay until the her daughters come north and escort all of them back to London. My fault is to be unaware that the Admiral is undergoing hormone treatment that does not mix with three Lachie sized Hendricks and tonic topped up with two bottles of Château Musar. I have to pay the taxi £80 to bugger off. Then, after the tow truck has sunk axle deep in the centre of the lawn, the hard work starts. Lachie and I have spent three midge bitten, rain sodden days trying to sort out the grass. The booze cellar door has been padlocked and I have been banished to the old baron’s cheerless north stair apartments. God only knows what this weekend whimsy of Dottie’s will cost us, I pray that The Countess had her car insured against the specific risk of a drink sodden, junkie, bent, she-admiral doing bare chested doughnuts on the front lawn of a stately home at 2.00am and then deliberately fire raising, resulting in the total loss of said vehicle, namely one £120K Rolls Royce. Otherwise, my recent well-earned mercantile profits will be blown to smithereens. Yours in a bad, black mood, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.