The Baron's Columntree
We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time. - Vince Lombardi

Under Pressure

03/31/2005

An almost identical day to yesterday weather-wise, if anything it is slightly milder after a cold night and marginally more misty all day. All my plans for a fruitful day outside are torpedoed early on with a phone call from the Boat of Garten in Highbury. The strident tones of indignation warn me that this is not going to be easy. Firstly, she rather bizarrely blames most of her woes on Lachie and Mhairi for “leading her on” during her last visit home and that these unfortunate two more or less forced her back to London and the PR job. Secondly, it transpires that her fall from grace, and gainful employment came about after she continued, despite repeated warnings, to point out the Gallipoli (ex Granita) on Upper Street as “The place where Tony agreed in writing to give way to Gordon in the second term” while showing high ranking provincial socialists the sights of London. This later activity seemed to be her main function in the Blair PR machine. After almost an hour on the phone, I felt that I had the situation under control when she dropped the bombshell that the Columbian cousin, Herman has installed himself, secretary and bodyguard into the top floor of the Highbury house. Engineers have been working night and day to fit armoured glass to this floor and a stainless steel portcullis on the Georgian access stair. A second team have constructed a global communications system complete with huge dishes on the roof. Do they not have conservation areas in Columbia? Our London neighbours will go ballistic. I then have to drop everything, motor at speed to the Oban solicitors to tele-conference with David. David needless to say, is still celebrating the Oxford victory in the Boat Race and seems terribly laidback about the whole thing. He mutters something to do with a chum in German intelligence who will sort it all out. Completely exhausted I limp back to The Tower of Glen Trollaigh, the daylight failing. I can only pour myself a considerable stiffener and hope for a calmer day tomorrow. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

 

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