No Loo At The Kirk

12/26/2006

I sit for a moment’s reflection on Christmas, surrounded by nervous mutts, I am wearing slippers (first traditional gift), clutching a large Hendricks and Tonic (second traditional gift). The reason for the nervousness amongst the pack has been a period of prolonged singing by dearest Dottie and a choir of guests. Dearest Dottie missed her carol singing at the kirk as the pub is shut. This may seem strange to you dear urban readers, however as the kirk has no facilities, the adjacent public house normally offers relief. Most of our elderly guests do not want to risk an hour or so out of reach of a kaasie and so traditional carols and songs have been blasting from the long gallery fuelled by something a little stronger than communion wine.

The Tower of Glen Trollaigh is looking magnificent in a frost filled Glen Trollaigh, every window ablaze with light, every room dripping with traditional decoration, every fire alight. I am particularly pleased with our tree in the great hall; do refer back to December ’05 for a story about this generous gift from the Forestry Commission. It is wonderful to have the family around us; a little fretting from time to time is easily outweighed by the pleasure of their company. Mhairi and Lachie have been a huge help, their month off “in lieu” plus substantial tips from guests are worth every penny.

We opted for Goose, or rather Geese for Christmas Dinner, rather than our normal Turkey (was there some reference to this last year, do have a trawl.). Ms Lawson or somesuch has been praising this cottar’s fare and it was delicious. I fear the RSPB may not be so pleased about the food source, as I was damned if I was prepared to pay a supplier for something that is competing with my hungry flocks for grass. I am just nipping into A&E in Oban with one ancient who insisted that the best way to snuff out candles in the table decorations was to dip ones fingers in water before giving the guttering flame a sharp pinch. Unfortunately, the old bird thrust her digits into one of the girl’s glass of neat Archers beside her place, before attempting the extinguishment. A very merry Christmas to one and all. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.