Tally Ho in Bethal Green

10/13/2005

After some days of rain and gales, we suddenly enjoy another spell of fine autumn weather that allows the Glen Trollaigh potato harvest. We still use the old west coast lazy bed system, where all the work is carried out by hand. From an economic standpoint, this is folly as the production cost of our crop is at east twenty times that of even the most inefficient commercial grower. However, it is tradition and we keep the bulk of our superb Golden Trollaighs for our own consumption giving away some surplus to a list of worthy widowed relatives who eagerly await the arrival of this largesse in their Hampstead flats. Talking of these old buzzards reminds me of an embarrassing day that I recently spent saying my farewells to Libby Forsyth-Trollaigh as she made her final journey at Bethnal Green Crematorium. The whole thing started badly as Lachie had to rush me straight to the early Ryan Air flight from Prestwick. In my haste, I was still dressed in hill tweeds, hat and heavy tackity boots, the security people gave me no end of stick about the steel studs in the boots, which had to travel to Heathrow in the cockpit, whilst I had to board in my stocking soles. There is no first class on these flights so the cabin staff then confiscated my baccy and the 19th Baron’s gunmetal Dunhill, all very vexing. I had to take a cab all the way to North London as time was of the essence, I almost didn’t make it when we were pulled over by the boys in blue following a misunderstanding when I shouted “Tally-Ho” out of the cab window at a mangy fox sunning itself in a side street. I was completely unaware of a bunch of elderly Burkas nearby who apparently texted the SWAT team proto. While they had me spread-eagled on the bonnet, they were also very agitated about the steel shod brogues, however, the traditional well-palmed £50 to the sergeant and an extra £20 to the cabbie and were on our way with police outriders. As the nominal chief mourner I puffed up to the front pew just as the organ struck up the first hymn, moments later as dear old Libby started to slip from sight my blasted mobile when off with the unique foghorn ring tone sounding the continuous blasts for “Abandon Ship”. I fumbled the buttons, cursing absentmindedly as I noted one ancient mariner keel over at the sound he feared most, nothing would do but that I had to mash the buggering phone into the crematorium flagstones with the said massive mincers. I was cold-shouldered at the tea and buns, which is a bit rich as the good management of Trollaigh Shipping keeps most of these old birds in strong drink. Hey Ho. A good forecast for tomorrow so back to the Golden Trollaighs. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.