Rogano Dreaming

12/01/2005

The sounds of rain battering on the south windows of the Great Bedroom of Trollaigh force me from my slumbers at a pitch black 6.30am. A low roar from the Alt Trollaigh confirms the heavy overnight rain forecast by the glamorous Gail McGrane, the only weather girl in the UK who does not appear to be pregnant. However, I note an engagement ring sparkling on her pretty finger so even her days must be numbered, in my cynical fashion I can only assume that the Met Office have been conned into providing some incredible maternity benefit package which is influencing the career paths of otherwise sensible girls. On the subject of Quangos suffering from bad planning, family or otherwise, a wry smile crossed my physog with the announcement that the Child Support Agency now spends more on its own administration that the global sum collected to support the said children, bloody typical! At 6.32am, I struggle to pull the duvet around my ears to discover with some alarm that I am not in The Great Bed at all; rather I am in the chilly comfort of a library chair still dressed in kilt and tweed jacket. Only Grandfather’s plaid which dearest Dottie must have tucked around me, helped by a few glowing embers in the fireplace have saved my extremities from frostbite. Regular readers of my scribbling may assume that excess has some part to play in my hypothermia, far from it; exhausted I have nodded off during our celebration of St Andrew’s Night. I like to keep the traditional holidays of Christmas etc with the family; however, Old New Year’s Night, Burn’s Night and St Andrew’s Night are kept for special jollity with neighbours and staff. Normally I can stand a ceilidh with the best of them but my diary notes that in the past four weeks I have visited London three times and spent time with Trollaigh Shipping shareholders in six other towns in between, a very tiring schedule. This tour has been particularly vexing, as all the young seem to have dropped shipping shares leaving a rump of ancients whose moaning mantras fill every meeting, their inane questions almost inaudible above the whistling of hearing aids. They care not that exploited Lascars still man Polish built ships, registered in Liberia, working for a bowl of rice a day, as long as the hearing aid wearers can buy a new Rover motor every three years with their divvy, proof of steadfast integrity in the Golf Club car park, fools.

One highlight of my four-week struggle was a kind invitation to a private party in one of my favourite restaurants, Rogano in Glasgow. I was surprised both by the number of accountants present, and the fact that I was expected to speak without my usual substantial fee. However, I was well looked after and what a pleasure to be amongst steady people quietly confident in their lifestyle and proud of their children. Rather than the constant whinging about the price of potatoes, lambs and vets to be found in similar rural gatherings, where most guest’s children are either single mums in Oban or wasted in Amsterdam. Rogano will always have a special place in my memory; for it was there that, my mother treated both my brother and myself to Crayfish Cocktails before sending us off each term to school by train. I did not realise at the time however, that as soon as the train made steam from Central, and while my father’s driver waited discreetly, mother was back at Rogano for a few stiff Dry Martinis and a long chat with the barman, whose name I cannot recall. He must have been in service there for a hundred years, dressed in black tie and starched white steward’s jacket. Perhaps only as we age do we realise that our own unsuitability for parenthood is not unique, there is nothing new in heaven or on earth, dear Horatio. Now was that the barman’s name, I cannot be sure! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.