I had to pay a visit to a friend in hospital today. Reminded me of the old days, hospital radio, the waft of bedpans, the screams …
Now, I am not one for eavesdropping but the beds are so close together you are almost sharing, so, when the doctor paid a visit to the retired free church minister in the bed opposite my friend, I couldn’t really miss the conversation.
“How are we feeling today Reverend MacKinnon?”
Now coupling the doc’s strong Australian accent with the good Reverend’s deafness created some communication difficulties.
“Have you managed to go to the toilet today, Reverend?” “Eh?” “Toilet?” “Eh?” “How are the waterworks?” “Eh?” “Can you hit the wall or did you fill your slippers again?”
I did learn one interesting thing, though still not listening in obviously. NHS Slackbuie have found a new scheme to raise money and cut waiting lists. Having seen the mobile cinema – the cinema experience in a lorry, they have commissioned their own mobile theatre – the medical experience in a lorry. It’s a bit of genius really, you can hire it out for kids parties when not operating, and even better, how can you top the experience of fixing grandpa’s hernia followed by birthday cake? Fun for all the family.
I really think this might catch on.
Testing underway at Slackbuie Primary School. Attach the mobile operating theatre to the family car tow-bar, and you can operate in car parks anywhere. Complete with its own ticket booth, concession stand, balloons and popcorn, a must for any kids party – educational and fun.
One of the drawbacks of being a celebrity is the constant stream of invitations you receive. I have mentioned before how tiring the social swirl that comes with fame can be, but you just have go with the flow as they say. This week the invitation was from the Slack’s of Slackbuie.
The big house was bought about a year ago as a holiday home by the Slack family. Fortunately, we don’t see too much of them. They are the kind of people who, when you say no to the proffered cup of tea, don’t give you one. Mr Slack is something in the city I am told and looking at him I would guess, probably a lamp post. His kids names, Salvatore and Sienna, hint at previous geographic enthusiasms before the Highlands.
I would imagine that for his party contributions, Slack will have a vision of the inevitable peerage coming his way, and that may have played a part in a purchase in Slackbuie. I don’t know if you have ever thought about this, but when someone gets the title lord, there is usually a place name attached to it, like Lord MacKay of Clashfearn. Sounds pretty cool. In the John Buchan novels, there is Lord Lamancha. If you just signed your name as Lamancha, it sounds pretty exotic, mysterious if you like. Now imagine if you will, a place like Skinflats. It just doesn’t work, and to be honest Slack of Slackbuie is not really much better in my opinion.
On buying the house, the family proceeded to ‘out Highland’ the residents, much to the horror of the Colonel. I am waiting to see which of them will first insist their mail be written in runes or Ogham. Re-introduce Pictish is the cry! Slack has even appointed his own personal piper. Now, MacTaggart is well qualified on the piping side, but is also well known for his ability to drink industrial quantities of whisky, which is the only industrious thing about him.
In case anyone should mistake this for some petty grudge, I should highlight one or two anecdotes that will allow you to judge for yourself.
MacTaggart often speaks of his military service. He set out to join the Cameron Highlanders and by mistake joined the Cameronians. Both were Scottish regiments it’s true, but the latter being a rifle regiment, double timed everywhere and had a marching pace of 140 paces a minute. I suspect that may explain his unwillingness to move at anything beyond a slow march these days. Funnily enough, I have a friend in Switzerland who also joined the wrong regiment. He was asked to choose between heavy mortars and light mortars. Inspired, he opted for light, missing the minor detail that one is towed by trucks, the other carried on the backs of Mountain Grenadiers as they mine the mountain passes. His career was somewhat inglorious, reporting to barracks with his rifle in bits in a plastic bag as he couldn’t re-assemble it, and eventually being found unfit for duty after an unfortunate mortar attack on the General’s mountain chalet.
The story that sums MacTaggart up best though occurred on the Slacks’ initial visit. He was offered a whisky to drink the health of Mr and Mrs Slack. Not being averse to the formalities of his position, he toasted Mr Slack and knocked back the dram. Mr Slack was a little taken aback that only he had been toasted, until MacTaggart pointed out that in the Highlands, it is considered ill mannered to drink two healths with the same dram. I believe that not only did he create a new tradition that day, he drank a health to the couple, their children, their parents, extended family and their dogs, causing Slack to reconsider the wisdom of his appointment.
I have digressed somewhere along the line. In the year since they bought the house, there have been major renovation works going on, and this weekend was the unveiling of this work. Slack had organised grand festivities, food stalls, and music in the form of a miniature Big Band, led by Glen Miller’s grandfather.
The Glum Miller mini Big Band
He had also organised his own security, dressing up his men in kilt outfits and telling them to blend in. These strange figures would suddenly jump out of bushes, or peer over walls, securing things. In fairness, the last time he brought security in was for the Highland Games, and only the valiant few, weighing less than 280 pounds, returned from accompanying the Slack guests in the hill race.
A disappointed security guard on discovering all the bushes were already being secured.
It was a nice that Duncan and Alick, the two stonemasons, were invited to sign their work, and in truth they had outdone themselves on the various gargoyles and sheela-na-gigs they had carved on the building. For the garden party, Alick had insisted on wearing his dungarees, but did put on a tie, looking like a particularly scruffy Oliver Hardy. Big Dunc had gone the extra mile though. He had found a pair of tight striped trousers, a tail coat, waistcoat and to top it off, spats. As Mrs Slack approached the Groom of Frankenstein, she opened and closed her mouth, either overcome by aftershave or genuinely just lost for words. Dunc, never short of the mots justes for any occasion, and obviously seeing himself as Cary Grant rather than Boris Karlof, proclaimed ” I dinna ken what age ye are yer ladyship, but ye look much younger”. With that Grendel in glad rags gave an elegant obeisance, interrupted only by the sound of ripping material, as the tight striped trousers gave up their unequal battle, ripping right up the behind. “My Goad, did ye see that?” said the gardner, “Aye, and its ribbed like a cod’s mou” replied the cook.
As the festivities progressed, MacTaggart was asked to play his pipes in the battlements of the tower. What possessed Slack at that moment will probably never be known. The ‘battlements’ as Slack described them, are not terribly high, but the tower is, and MacTaggart could be seen, swaying in the stiff breeze aloft, his kilt and plaid flapping wildly around him. He appeared to be blown to the far corner, or maybe he just staggered, and suddenly a kilted figure was seen hurtling off the top of the tower to crash land on the Highland Hot Roast Hog stand, causing a mini Vesuvius of roast pork and apple sauce as the roast part of Hot Roast set alight the tartan clad figure. No-one moved, presumably security were still in bushes securing things. Because of the amount of whisky MacTaggart was likely to have consumed it seemed unlikely the fire would burn out any time soon. In the distance, a mournful ancient lament was heard playing on the pipes, and MacTaggart rounded the corner. Mrs Slack fainted, and Sinclair the tailor realised where his missing mannequin had gone. How we laughed as the ambulances arrived to help the shocked and burned crowds.
Overcome by the flames and apple sauce as women and children cower in the tent
Having mentioned The Colonel in my last post, I feel now is an appropriate time to introduce him. My nearest neighbour, he is not a bad soul, apart from recurring bouts of malaria, deafness and a foul temper. The malaria he got in the army, the deafness he got because of an unfortunate incident with the viking re-enactment group, and the bad temper, well, that is just a God given talent. All in all we get on fine, but we got off to a less than auspicious start.
I was sleeping like a log – probably one that sounded like it was being sawn, but a log none the less – when I became aware of a noise, a wailing breaking into my dream. Despite a vague hope that it was someone making late night black pudding, I realised that it was my cat MacCrimmon in trouble. In the darkness, I could see nothing from my window, so armed with the vision of a medal from the cat protection league, I went outside.
It didn’t take long to find the problem. MacCrimmon was stuck and mighty unhappy, on the roof of my neighbour’s house, my newly moved in pensioner neighbour. I started the same way I try to fix any problem – a long hard stare. That having failed and the cat not looking any happier, I tried cat whispering – “jump you bastard!”
The cat looked no happier than he had initially, so armed in the knowledge the cat would not do the same for me, I went to get a ladder. Propping it up against the wall I started climbing. As I drew level with an upstairs bedroom window, the curtains were suddenly thrown open by an unhappy old man, with the best pressed pyjamas I have ever seen. Worse still, I heard a noise at the bottom of the ladder. The cat was on the ground, looking up and I swear, laughing at me. So, I did the only logical thing a man trying to climb onto his neighbour’s roof at 3:00 a.m. can do … I waved.
Watching: Calum’s Commando Course – A truly incredible Highlands and Islands tour – in winter – with Calum Kennedy!
It was the Highland Games today. A big day in the Slackbuie social calendar, as are the next six or seven days for the emergency services and the mountain rescue.
It’s never too difficult to find the pipe band at the games, or any other event really.
The clan chiefs are out in force which really upsets the Colonel, because he can’t have a seagull feather too.
The Colonel makes up for the lack of a feather with his sartorial elegance. He does have a style all his own. Please note his ability to accessorize – matching umbrella!
Not to be outdone, my father has adopted the catweasel look. Growing up, arguments in our house tended to be pretty lively, as the postman can testify, his rather dashing eye patch having been necessitated by my mother’s flintlock. I hate when they rake the bins though, but you can’t choose your family.
Tossing the caber
the successful toss
I don’t know, but I think this is cheating?
The tented wall is established to protect innocent bystanders from the mothers at the Highland dancing competition, held under the white canvas at the back.
Dear God, what a thought…Boris Johnson is almost definitely going to be the next prime minister. Well that makes you question – is it worth getting through the winter? How is it possible … a man who tells stories that have very little connection to the truth, and in fact, doesn’t even use his real name?! I hope it’s clear, I really don’t like Boris Johnson. Anyway, nobody reads this blog. Sorry, nobody reads this blog for my political commentaries I suspect.
Boris and I do in fact have four things in common ( politics is not one obviously).
You only need to use our first names for everyone to know who you are talking about, although perhaps not in Moscow.
Throughout our careers we have met interesting people – eat your heart out Boris – you haven’t met the brother of the King of Sweden’s aqua vite mixer, the former calligrapher of the Columbian army and best yet, a fishfinger from the singing kettle.
A penchant for quoting the classics Scaramouche Scaramouche can you do the fandango?
We are both carrying a few extra pounds.
When you move out of the public eye, it is easy to let yourself go, but not me. A few more weeks and I will be looking like the proverbial racing snake. I am heading out for a jog later on today.
Please let me assure you though, it has absolutely nothing to do with the Colonel’s new nurse. My offering to show her some of the less trodden local jogging routes is nothing more than neighbourly good manners.
I would just like to thank the paramedics and the nursing staff who assure me I will get home tomorrow.
Living in a place with a pub and a church on every street is less of a claim when you consider how many streets we actually have. Never the less, it does set certain parameters on what social gatherings are going to be like. Actually, the same description may well apply to both pubs and churches. I do remember seeing a suggested recruitment advert for the Church of England ” Party at God’s house, wine, song and virgins”. Funnily enough, they didn’t use that one.
We had one particularly lively soiree recently, in The Anchor. Now The Anchor is an interesting pub, being as it is not situated anywhere near the sea. In fact, some of the regulars don’t seem to have been too close to any kind of water, but as my wise mother once said, “Only people who go in water drown”. Back to The Anchor though – I have often heard marine biologist type folk say that more people die of bee stings than shark attacks and I would be willing to accept that is true in The Anchor.
I am not going to use a name here, to protect the guilty, but this particular enlightened gathering had obviously begun much earlier for Mr X, and by the time of my arrival he had begun a monologue on the iniquity of politicians, taxes and most especially National Insurance. “What’s that about then?” Mr. X demanded. Another regular was happy to explain it was for cemeteries and stuff – “so they can bury you…. when you are dead” he added helpfully. As quick as a flash Mr X replied “Well I am not paying. If they won’t bury me for love, they will bury me for the smell.”
As the bard says, nae man can tether time nor tide, and as the night wore on, a small portion of Mr X’s brain was functioning sufficiently to remind him that driving would be a bad idea. With a grand flourish, he threw his car keys to the barman, announcing his intention to return for them the next day. This was very impressive, till after his grand departure, we realised his house key was on the same ring. I believe he passed the night performing pastoral dances in the field in a bid to keep warm.
The next night, Mr X returned and in a slightly lower key way, asked for his keys back and headed for the car park. After about half an hour, he stormed back in shouting, “Some bastard has stolen my car!”
The police were called, statements taken, and said car obviously missed the request to talk to the police. After a period of time, the insurance was claimed, payed out and a beautiful new car purchased. While out polishing his pride and joy, the phone went “Hi, its the Slackbuie Arms, are you ever coming to get your car from our car park?”
It’s been a strange couple of days. I left a hat on the bed, a sure sign of death, the cows walked backwards, 13 black cats ran past me and threw themselves in the loch and I spilled the salt. You can read too much into omens though. Whilst not superstitious, being a man of science and technology, I am quite happy it wasn’t Friday 13th. Actually, did you know, Friggatrikaidekaphoria is the term for the morbid fear of Friday the 13th? You never know when that will come in handy.
Anyway, I digress… now celebrity or not, I am just the same as everyone else. Like any normal person I head to the local shop for another litre of freshly squeezed Buffalo milk, and that is where the day started to get odd.
The shop was packed with at least 4 people, all telling and retelling the same story – old Jeni had vanished from the old folks home. Not being much of a breakfast fan myself, nothing odd in me missing the most important meal of the day, but Jeni, that was different. Worse still, her room had been cleared.
So where is the supernatural in that you ask? Well that was when Alex made his contribution to the discussion, announcing she had been stolen by a demon. “I know you are doubters” he cried, “but its true! The home has been freezing for the last four days, and now, it is roasting – heated by the fires of hell itself!”
He even claimed he could smell brimstone, but I think that was added for effect – who can smell anything over the combination of ralgex, urine and bisodol?
At that very moment, the door of the shop burst open, the bell above the door tinkling like the chimes of midnight. In walked two strangers… lean, cold eyed and hungry, and wearing boiler suits as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. You could have heard a pin drop, or Alex’s teeth clank. One walked to the counter, slapped a gnarled hand down, and said “Can I have a couple of pies please?” He didn’t even want warm pies!
Turned out they were there to service the crematorium. I guess they had their own oven for the pies. The council had sent them to install a new heating pump that meant heat from the crematorium would heat up public buildings like the old folks home. Tasteless if you ask me, but that is the council for you.
What happened to poor old Jeni remains a mystery, and sometimes maybe its better left that way.
Someone I bumped into outside Smith’s Furniture Boutique and Undertakers.
Atomic Crofter 