The Sabbath

04/11/2006

I watch three weather-beaten ladies of a certain age launch the Green Party manifesto on dearest Dottie’s newly acquired library 52-inch plasma TV. One could describe them as either; bitches or witches, but where their policies are concerned, the words “fart” and “spacesuit” spring to mind. Surely, the politicos must realise that no middle class footballer’s wife in her right mind is going to give up her school run gas-guzzler so that pensioners with two walking sticks will be able to have free public transport and free eye tests with which to view the burgeoning wild bird population. I can hardly contain my laughter as The Scottish Executive now claim that bird flu does not exist and that the one confirmed case was some passing German swan. Apart from this being a total lie the science is completely flawed as the guilty Hooper Swan over winters here and then flies north in the spring to breed, indeed I watched an Easter tourist taking a snap to-day of a dozen bally Hoopers which have spent the last few months with us on Loch Trollaigh. Death to swans, ducks and tourists for that matter.

Numbers of tourists are rising with the school holidays and our weather has been able to provide plenty of healthy outdoor exercise for all ages; skiing, cycling and canoeing being the best of the winter, although Mhairi’s mention of “water sports” over the communal morning coffee in the kitchen always sets the blood racing. Communion Sunday did present a bit of a problem for old sabitarians like the Trollaighs, as a few good friends choose to call on that day. After spending several hours with church matters, dearest Dottie and I had to pretend that we have been working in the garden as they arrived to put them at their ease. Fortunately, for our souls they left before sundown on Palm Sunday allowing the household to spend a couple of hours in sober contemplative prayer after our kind guest’s departure. I understand that the souls of the crew of the MV Loch Portain cannot be spared after their appalling Sunday sailing on the sound of Harris at the communion season; surely, they will be doomed forever. However as Sunday has is safely behind me, I can safely raise a glass to you all, dear readers, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.