Atomic Crofter

Listening to: Duncan Gray by Robert Burns arranged by Beethoven and I only have eyes for you by The Flamingos, because I like the song.

Last weekend saw one of the biggest events of the year, the Slackbuie Burns Night. Song, dance, haggis and of course the traditional burning of the Snowman to mark the fact that it is quite near the end of winter. Maybe its just an age thing, but it seemed a little quieter than past years. Personally I blame it on social media and the facebook and all that, I mean, they are at fault for pretty much everything else. It does attract the tourists though, so good for the economy.

The evening started off with the Burns Supper. The Haggis was piped in by Hamilton of Inverness, and piped out by Shanks of Barrhead. The Haggis was addressed, and duly despatched and after a series of toasts the speeches began. First was the Reverend John Murdoch Macdonald, giving the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns. Now the good Rev doesn’t have the biggest congregation, so I think he made the most of it. Now, I am as fond of Burns as the next man, or woman, but the Immortal Memory is a special kind of torture reserved specially for folk full of whisky and haggis or people who kill puppies.

“Robert Burns…14 children to nine mothers…blah blah”, and then he lunched into a real time exposition on the history of the area, “the dinosaurs … Slackbuie Man … Ice age…Verturiones…The Romans…” when he has halted in his tracks. “But I have only reached the Romans” he complained.

“Why couldn’t he have been a creationist, at least that way he wouldn’t have shortened the winter!” whispered my neighbour at the table in a voice loud enough to carry across the room.

By this time old Flood (the Dirler, as he is known, because of a weak bladder problem when doing his national service) who was was due to give the Toast to the Lasses, was snoring heavily. He was given a shake and launched into a rousing chorus of the Ball of Kirriemuir, which is not that similar and for all that he wrote a lot of dirty songs, I am pretty sure is not by Burns. Colour Sergeant Jessica Fox, who is stationed at the barracks, gave a response to the Toast, that whilst amusing, would have made a sailor blush, and probably should not have been delivered before the watershed.

We were next subjected to a couple of songs. Now, some of Burns’ songs are truly beautiful. My love is Like a Red Red Rose, or Ae Fond Kiss are two of the most beautiful love songs ever written. Even the most unsentimental would be affected, and as another famous composer once said, “A hard man is he, who an onion shreddeth, but not a tear drop sheddeth” (PDQ Bach). Burns wrote and collected a massive number of songs, which were published very successfully by Johnson in the Scots Musial Museum, and perhaps a lot less successfully by George Thompson. The latter actually sent the songs off to Haydn, Humperdink, Gluck and Beethoven to be arranged. Beethoven fell out with Thompson, refusing to arrange any more songs till he was paid for the first lot. Now, this latter approach was taken by the Nurses Early Music and Authentic Instruments Club…authentic instruments are not so popular in the hospital I believe. It is easy to laugh at this type of art song, but, well, it is easy to laugh at this type of art song.

Next up, the dance. As usual, the ceilidh band was put together from a group of local musicians. A talented bunch, including yours truly, in fact one could say, the E-Street Band of the ceilidh world. I will concede I have heard other descriptions, but when Calum starts his rendition of Dark Lochnagar, well it’s like choirs of angels singing the Halleluia chorus in Gaelic. There isn’t a dry eye in the house.

The night began well enough, Gay Gordons, Strip the Willow, all dances designed to be done by drunk folk. Lulled into a false sense of security, we launched into a Military Two Step. Now this is not exactly complicated, but it does require the dancers to be able to jump then kick one leg, then jump and kick the other. This is a bit like “can you walk along the kerb without falling off, now if it is 100 feet up, can you walk along without falling off?” question. There were couples louping and kicking random legs all over the place. Ian the Drums, who explains the dances if needed (largely because the drummer is only there to keep the draft off the pipers), shouted “For God’s sake, one leg then the other leg. You two come out and demonstrate!” He proceeded to shout the unfortunate couple out to the middle of the floor. “Jump…one leg, jump…other leg”. The male partner, kind of shuffled and moved the same leg twice, in a kind of kick. “One leg then the other for Christ’s sake!” he yelled at the Slackbuie Nureyev, who pulling up a trouser leg, showed his wooden leg.

At this point, I decided a break was necessary, and as I casually meandered towards the bar, I was approached by a young woman. Now as a media personality, you get used to that kind of thing. She stepped in front of me. She put her hands on my shoulders. Gazing into my eyes, she asked “Are you going to heaven?” In truth, I was a little surprised and unusually for me, stuck for words, so came back with the only possible response, “Depends if they have a decent pipe band”. At this, she called over her colleagues to hold hands and pray for me, to make sure I was saved.

I hastily retreated back to the safety of the band. After a few more dances a real tragedy struck, and one of the dancers dropped to the floor. Dead before he hit the ground, but in the middle of the dance floor. However, disaster was averted, as the body was passed out through the hatch to the kitchen so the dancing could keep going.

I finally realised, the night was not going to be a normal one, when a German tourist asked if we could play any German drinking songs as he would like to perform as well. Always welcoming, we worked out what we could play. Have you ever noticed how much wind German music takes? We were a little surprised when he returned dressed as a bar maid from Oktoberfest. We did our best, but I am not sure it was his best performance.

Then the big finale, the burning of the snowman. Now this seems to work well in Zurich, but it was a bit of an anticlimax once again here. Burning a carrot and two bits of coal, which was all we could find, just isn’t that exciting. I always meant to check how they do this in Zurich.

Now as the bard himself said, nae man can tether time nor tide, and my last memories of the evening were me trying to explain to someone, just how challenging it is to be a seal trainer, especially when you live on the side of a mountain .

Listening to Teenage Head by the Flamin Groovies, as sadly Roy Loney passed away recently

Listening to Bahia by Xiomara Alfaro , and Malaguena by Xiomara Alafaro, with the Ernesto Duarte Orchestra and Chico O’ Farril. I did not make that up.

It has been some time since my last blog, and confession for that matter. The festive season interupted, but has left me with a number of anecdotes that I am afraid I will share in the next blog. However, I feel that I must address a couple of questions that have been raised regarding the accuracy of some of my posts.

I have been known as Honest Newborn ever since I handed in the glass eye at the bar. The suggestion that some of the posts may in fact have been written by Voltaire, is obviously nonsense.

1: In a previous post I spoke of the piper, MacTaggart, and his fall from grace (and the top of the tower). Well, for those of little faith, here is photographic evidence of MacTaggart, bidding a fond farewell to the dummy, prior to its release from the battlements. It should be noted that MacTaggart is in fact the one without the beard. This can easily be ascertained by the evil grin he is displaying at the thought of the chaos and panic that is about to ensue. If you look carefully, you can in fact see a half bottle tucked in the plaid of the dummy (the one with the beard) that MacTaggart obviously missed prior to launching it into space and the Hog Roast stand.

The funeral of the dummy piper was held the following day, with a boy scout guard of honour, and it has been suggested that MacTaggart played the piobaireachd Too long in this condition as the coffin was disposed of.

2: It is absolutely the case, that my 6x great grandfather was in fact the last court jester at Barclay Castle. His tragic end is preserved in the family papers. One day he fell from the minstrels’ gallery and broke his neck. The old Duke of Barclay commented, “That’s the funniest thing the bastard has ever done”.

3: It is absolutely true, I am working on my telenovella script. Set in Scotland it is called Santos contra el cazador de haggis. Santos is a masked Mexican wrestler. Santa is not. Only Santos features in the telenovella. Santa however, can be seen relaxing in a post Christmas haze, having a tune with his little helpers below. I think he must believe in God and be painfully employed, as he does not appear to be in heaven, but Champaign, Illinois.

Listening to: The Spaniels – Everyone is laughing and Stormy weather

Have you ever wondered why it is that we all so desperately want to have a pet? I get it, I really do, animals are nice, but really…actually having a pet?

As a child, I clearly remember heading down to Davy the Plank’s workshop with my grandfather. My grandfather was pretty good at woodwork and building things, so could often be found doing bits and pieces there. One particular day, he was using the circular saw, when distracted by his dog, he ran his finger through it. In a big splash of red, his finger was ripped, removed and fired into the air by the spinning blade. As it arced across the piles of sawdust, the dog jumped up and caught it. My grandfather, cursing like fury and dripping blood, chased after the dog to get his finger back, but did not catch it in time to stop the dog eating his finger. With his hand wrapped in a hanky, he and Davy debated waiting for the dog to poop it out so they could take it to the hospital and see if it could be re-attached. This plan was eventually abandoned and he headed off for repairs. How good was it to have a pet then, eh?

Family of Willox Dixon thought it would be a great idea to get tropical fish, but anyone who has had fish will know what daft idea that was. Cost me a fortune. The fish kept dying, every day was spent trying to get the water clear, checking the PH, checking the ammonia levels and the temperature, and the room looking like a pharmacy with so many potions and fluids for the tank. Lets be honest, the tank was more relaxing to look at before the fish went in, but you can’t sit staring at an empty fish tank seemingly.

Now, cats. As I have already mentioned my own experiences with the cat were not all entirely successful, but to avoid bias, let me recount the tale of a pal of mines, who wanted to help out the poor mangy stray in his garden. He had a particularly spoiled cat himself, and on seeing a poor, unhealthy looking stray living under his shed, he called the Cat Protection League or some other secret paramilitary organisation – Mossad or the Masons or something. Anyway, they gave him a trap and said all you need is a bowl of sardines in tomato sauce (cats are mad for that seemingly) and stick it in the cage trap. When the cat goes for the sardines, crash of door and Bob’s your uncle. The trap was cunningly set up, and a crash followed by terrible yowling was heard. Rushing out to the cage, it was his own cat going nuts in the cage. The CPL assured him, that “cats are really smart. Your cat will know better now”. The trap accordingly re-set, the crash of the door and no yowling. Rushing out, he found his own cat sitting happily in the cage, tomato sauce all over its face waiting to be let out. Clearly it had learned a lesson.

Now I appreciate that not animals are like this. In Shetland, the doctor can now give you a prescription to talk to a Shetland Pony for mental health issues. Great, but let’s face it, horses either bite you or fart in your face. Ok, a pony, it might struggle to get your face, but you get my point. Worse still, what if the pony replies? Did you see the article about Flirty the care horse that got an aisle seat on an internal flight in America, as it was a care horse? How does that work, did they give it an in-flight snack? Could it fit in the toilet?

The reason for my diatribe on pets is really because of that bloody dog, Dog of Willox Dixon. Initially wife of Willox Dixon didn’t want a dog, then it became, only if it is medium sized…short hair… doesn’t jump about and not too energetic…well trained… So what did she insist we got, a Springer Spaniel. I suppose it is a medium size but that is pretty much the only box it ticks. In fact, one of the game keepers here told me that Labradors arrive half trained, but Springers leave half trained.

Wife of WD announced we would have to take it to puppy training and we obviously meant me. We arrived and lined up hopefully with the other puppies and owners. Very quickly it became clear that our dog had difficulty with English, so we shifted to Gaelic and then just bad language. Nothing helped much, not even the threat of feeding it to the Newfoundland ‘pup’ that bore a very close resemblance to a grizzly. At the end of the training course, we all lined up and certificates were distributed- Best Trained Dog, Most improved Dog, Smartest Dog. Our certificate said Most Effort! That is not even a real certificate, it was written in crayon as well. Dog didn’t care too much as she just ate it.

I could tell you of the ill-advised orienteering event and the accompanying unfortunate incident with the dog and a poo bag, but I still can’t entirely halt the gag reflex. However, yesterday was sufficiently bad to make my point very clearly.

The poor dog had an infection of some sort and was put on antibiotics. Giving her the pills was no problem, she just thought they were snacks. Unfortunately though, the vet insisted on a urine sample. “How in hell do I get that?” asked I. “With great difficulty” replied the vet helpfully, and handed me a test tube. So , come morning, I am having to follow the dog round and when she looked like she was going to perform, I had to stick a cup under her. Now apart from obviously being shy about going in front of an audience, her face was quite the picture of indignation as she wondered what I was doing. Having said that, she looked more indignant when the vet took her temperature. I will confess that I was tempted to fill the test tube myself.

That night I couldn’t sleep, probably worrying about the results of my, sorry, the dog’s urine test. About 3.30 am, I decided to give up and take the dog a walk. After checking there was no cup, she seemed happy to go. We set off for the field and the steep, muddy, bank that leads up to the field and woods near by. The dog is not so great on the lead so I let her off before approaching the bank. As I very gingerly walked up the banking, the dog came hurtling past and knocked me over, flat on my face in the mud, and I slid back down to the bottom. Standing up, I was coated in mud, although very relieved to learn I wasn’t blind, just having lost my glasses in the mud. I gingerly walked up the bank again. I put my foot down, and unfortunately found my glasses. As I tried to push the legs back into a position where they would still actually hang on my ears, I lost my balance, falling backwards, flat out on the bank and sliding through the mud to the bottom. Wife of Willox Dixon showed little sympathy when I arrived home totally coated in mud, and no, taking a torch or a phone would have made no difference at all.

I am happy to inform you that the mangy stray cat is now happy and healthy living in a cat retirement home in the far east, somewhere near Buckie, and dog has recovered from her infection.

Listening to: Funeral of funerals by Drottnar – actually that is a lie – afraid I just can’t do Viking metal! Even I can’t get through all of this. Much better That’s All Right Mama by Swedish band Urban Turban, complete with Swedish Pipes. Their label says, ” This music could be what would happen if you somehow traveled back in time and described the blues to a primitive Finno-Ugric tribe, using only sign language, and then they decided to put on a farewell concert for you before you left. Wow. So long, and thank you for all the fish.” – and if that doesn’t make you want to listen, nothing will.

But…onto the blog. Moving back to the croft has definitely been a change. Not for me that celeb night life, paparazzi and pizza. It is not that bad really at all. Who knew a male adult pig has 33 teeth, or that a rig pig is a young pig that has only had one testicle drop? This is gold I tell you. When the quiz night looms you will know who to thank.

Apart from advanced animal husbandry, I have had the chance to root out the old family tree. My great uncle warned me no good would come of it, and I suppose it is safe to say when you find Sir John the Inept or Sir Edmund the Alchemist (who paid for a license to transmute base metals to gold), it doesn’t bode too well for an inheritance. My great uncle’s gloom may also have been caused by his wife’s cooking, which would dampen the spirits of even Dan Gorske (who in 2018 ate his 30,000th Big Mac – a world record).

Did I mention by the way, that I have just discovered our doctor is in fact Bono – in a U2 tribute band, but that again is a story for another day.

After finding the previous unfortunate ancestors, I stumbled across some viking ones. Being descended from Odin (however dubious) was at least a promising start. They were Drotts – a kind of warlord or local king – again, promising. Unfortunately though, I discovered that I am actually just lucky to have a family tree rather than a stump. Moving father to son:

Yngve – when he died, his men kept it quiet for three years and had taxes paid to him in a hole in the ground. What did they think he was doing in there for three years?

His son Fjolne – fond of a drink or 20. He got up in the night drunk, fell through the floor and drowned in a vat of mead.

His son Swegde – got drunk, was kidnapped by a dwarf and never seen again.

His son Vanlande – married Driva, daughter of Snae the Old. Nipped out for a paper, and after three years she suspected something was amiss. She got a witch to conjure up a demon horse that trampled him to death in his sleep – the first nightmare.

Visbur – upset his 12 and 13 year old sons by not giving them their full pocket money, so they burned him alive in his hall.

Domald – sacrificed to put an end to a famine.

Two generations pass, then Dag the Wise. He was so smart he could talk to birds. His favourite, a sparrow, was his top spy. It was killed by a farmer, so Dag gathered an army to take revenge and was killed by a pitchfork to the head, possibly his weakest point!

Agne – killed Frode and married his daughter. When he got drunk, she hanged him.

Next up, the brothers Alric and Eric. Killed each other in a fight with horse bridals.

Then more brothers, Yngve and Alf -killed each other to death over who had the best wife.

Hugleik – rich but got stabbed.

Jorund – hung king Gudlog of Helagoland. Gudlog’s son, Gylog of Helagoland hung him back.

On – had ten sons. He sacrificed them one at a time in order to live longer himself. Killed nine before he discovered it didn’t work.

Egil – forgot to tell the sacrificial bull it was to be stabbed, not the other way round.

Ottar – fed to wild beasts by Danes.

Adil – fell off his horse and died.

Eystein – burned alive in his hall.

Yngvar – stabbed.

Onund Landclearer – chopped down the trees and was killed in a resulting landslide.

Ingjald the Bad – murdered and cheated till he got drunk and accidentally set fire to his own hall.

Olaf Treefeller – didn’t make enough sacrifices, so he was sacrificed himself.

Halfdan Whiteleg – held prisoner till he agreed to become the Drott.

Eystein – fell overboard and drowned.

Halfdan the Mild – he survived, until he didn’t.

Gudrod the Hunter – His wife had him murdered when he was drunk.

Olaf – died of a foot infection.

Rognvald the Mountain High – don’t know what happened to him.

Finally, rivalling being kidnapped by a dwarf, a personal favourite comes Halfdan the Black. Cattle crap melted the ice he was crossing, and he drowned.

Listening to My neighbour the firefighter by Paul Barton and The cook who couldn’t cook by Bingo Gazingo

I had intended to bore anyone reading this with a bit more information on the family tree, and upset the Colonel in the process. That is going to wait for another day. I was asked to go and play the pipes at the local hotel – Les Quatre Fesses. It used to have a proper name, but the new owners have gone upmarket and someone told them a French name would be good – the Auld Alliance, quality cuisine, going home hungry…

I arrived just before the ambulance did. A guest with a nut allergy had ordered the only thing on the menu that had nuts in it (allegedly). Her father, a dentist with a weak heart, had rushed off to get her epi-pen, and tripping in his rush, proceeded to give himself a shot of adrenalin. Obviously, with a heart condition, this is probably not considered to be a good thing. The para medics arrived in time to give the daughter a shot while the rest of us tried our best to avoid being knocked over by her father bouncing off the walls, then both headed happily for hospital. I am pleased to report both are well.

I had been asked to pipe for a gathering of sports and super cars. Due in at 6pm, there was still no sign of the cars by 9pm. I am not going to name the cars, but having a £2m car obviously doesn’t mean you can read a map. Searches revealed that there were sports cars scattered the length and breadth of the Highlands, some on the road, some in the ditch and the others in garages having discovered that not all Highland roads are built for low sitting cars.

Eventually, as the last of the cars had been towed in, I was due to pipe the drivers into dinner. Just as I was about to start, the fire alarm went off and the hotel evacuated. Have you ever noticed how long it takes for people to decide that the fire alarm might be a fire alarm and they should probably move?

The fire engines arrived in a flurry of gravel and extremely expensive paint chips on sports cars. It did not take long to discover the source of the fire. The blackened door of room 104 was a good clue. The firemen threw open the door to find an old man, complete with cap, soot blackened face and a half smoked cigarette – “Would there be any chance of an ash tray?”

Listening to: Kapakka in the Kaupunki by Bobby Aro and Who hid the halibut on the poop deck by Yogi Yorgesson. In 2008, the St. Louis County Board designated County Highway No. 7, from U.S. Highway 53 in Twig to State Highway 169 in Mountain Iron, as the “Bobby Aro Memorial Highway.”

Watching: The Saga of the Viking Women and the Sea Serpent a Roger Corman classic

The Colonel is at it again. When he launches his latest theory, it will inevitably only end one way. We have had the Pictish Palace theory, which did ensure that Slackbuie lived up to its name, as the ‘yellow hollow’ was certainly filled with yellow – yellow earth movers and diggers which unearthed a not so Pictish sceptic tank. Fortunately, the cafe now has its toilets operating again.

Then, we had the landing site of Noah’s Ark at Cnoc an t- Sagairt (Priest Hill). Now don’t be fooled into thinking that the Colonel saw a religious name for a hill, and thought Noah’s Ark. No, the evidence was much stronger than that – large cats have been seen in the area. Obviously these were descendants of the panthers on the Ark, where else would they have come from? My question is, where are the elephants then?

At the risk of encouraging conspiracy theorists everywhere, the coat of arms of the town of Inverness did have an elephant and a camel on it. Coincidence?

I can’t deny being a little taken aback. After the incident with the viking re-enactment group, I never expected to see the Colonel resurrect his viking research. Knowing the erudite arguments that anyone debating with the Colonel will face, I am going to make sure my next comments are properly backed up. His latest theory is that a viking chief, Jerk the Laenker* may (or may not) have fought a battle at Slackbuie. Depending on which records** you read, the battle was fought (or not fought***) in 780AD. The vikings attacked (or didn’t attack) from above (or below) and Jerk may (or may not) have been killed in the victory (or defeat).

The only available workers that the Colonel could press for his empty exhumations, were the local school pupils, and somehow he convinced the teacher of the educational opportunities of finding the resting place (or not) of Jerk the Laenker. Consequently, we now have a constant flow of cars taking the budding archaeologists to Accident and Emergency with, severed fingers stored in freezer bags, crushed feet from falling rocks and a trowel that will need to be surgically removed.

I blame it on the summer. The long light nights have encouraged the Colonel into reading more, and he has found inspiration in the work of three Scottish writers and folklorists from the 1920’s. Lewis Spence – believed that Scots were in fact direct descendants of people that escaped Atlantis, which gives them a special cultural background all their own. Alexander MacKenzie – came from just north of Slackbuie, so a particular favourite of the Colonel – he believed that in ancient times the northern hemisphere had been populated by Buddhists, so Buddhism was in fact the pre-Christian religion. Finally, David MacRitchie – his theory was that fairies were in fact a native population of “aboriginal dwarves”. Not my words, and I am not making this up.

In a bid to outdo the Colonel, I decided to do a bit of research on the Willox Dixon family tree, and what did I discover? It hasn’t always been a swirl of Martini’s and media moguls. My ancestors included more than one Drott, and we are directly descended from Odin. Let the old blowhard put that in his trumba and smoke it!

To be continued…

Footnotes

* Jerk the Laenker. The names come from Old Swedish. Jerk is a variant of Erik, meaning ‘king forever’. Laenker is old Swedish for ‘chain‘. Vlad the Imbiber, who for many years was personal taster to Prince Ogolyubsky, is one of the few to mention Jerk, in relation to a failed attempt to poison the Shchi and Ukha. Surprisingly, Snorri Sturlasson doesn’t mention Jerk once in the Edda, and research suggests that no-one famous has ever gone by the name Jerk. It is possible that Jerk the Chain comes from a confusion with an earlier Latin Text, Plumbarius Congregari Mundi.

**Slackbuie? in Marr eda hundr (2006) University of Southern Underedal. (Underedal is famous for its population being outnumbered by 5 times as many goats).

***Feigr Fotr (unknown date c. 800AD) – Library of the Plumbing Union of Australia (FeFot 2791) (Thought to have been written on parchment made from compressed dry foot skin)

Okay, this has nothing to do with anything in the blog, but it just made me laugh. The news item – Nan loses her false teeth then finds dog wearing them

Anna told The Dodo: “As usual, [my grandmother] put her dentures under pillow so as not to lose them.”

However, the mischievous puppy took an interest in the grannie’s false teeth as she slept and quickly fancied them as her own.

Listening to: songs of bad luck and death! Drunken driver by Grampaw Joe, Don’t go in the lion’s cage tonight by Homer and Jethro and My dead dog rover by Ian Whitcomb.

Watching: Following up on the Loch Ness Monster entry, my good friend, Wilson Delcox of northern, south central Illinois sent me this link. One not to be missed The Loch Ness Horror – and it really is!

I have been reading an old book about the life and times of Slackbuie. The name comes from Gaelic, meaning ‘the yellow hollow’, referring to the former jaundice ward sited there I imagine. It has a long history and if you are ever having difficulty sleeping, the university report on excavating the iron age post hole they found here, is, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a masterpiece of post hole reporting. It will, I believe, set the standard for years to come. The only disappointment is that nothing was actually found in the post hole – not even a post!

In the book, I stumbled across a particularly fascinating chapter on omens and superstition, and it certainly seems they were a superstitious bunch in this neck of the woods. I realise that you probably lie awake worrying about the omens of Slackbuie, so I will share.

There are obvious ones like, spilling salt – especially if you are a slug, and breaking mirrors, but there are some real gems of ill luck premonitions like dreaming of baldness, a hole in the roof or even of a baby girl!

There is also useful advice on when it is best to leave the house. Translating from Gaelic, it reads:

“Go not from home on Monday, stir not on Tuesday, Wednesday is unfortunate, and Thursday is a holy day, Friday is not prosperous and it is not meet for thee to go tomorrow”

By my reckoning, that doesn’t leave a lot of options really, but good to know.

We also receive a warning of evil spirits, and are treated to the tale of a man who killed a calf (wonder what omen the calf saw?) and was getting it ready for the pot, when it bellowed. Shocked, he cut its head of and threw the head in the fire, which prevented it bellowing again. Really?

Death in general is a particularly good source of bad luck. For example, it is bad luck to measure a living person for a shroud. “Thank your Granny, she has made you a lovely new shroud!”

It is also bad luck if a cat jumps over a corpse. Maybe its just me, but I would suggest that if you have a dead body lying in the house for a cat to jump over, that should probably be a clue.

Finally, the last person to join a funeral will be the next carried into one. Right, I am not completely convinced about this omen. In my experience, humiliation and having to stand leaning on the coffin in a busy church follows being late. I know this as I am generally late for pretty much all festivities. On the death of my great uncle Tam, a small, select family group headed down to Stirling for the funeral, by car. After stopping to see to our cashmere needs at a certain tourist outlet en route, we arrived at the church somewhat tardy, in fact sufficiently tardy to see everyone leave. This was bad, but we also missed hearing which cemetery they were heading to. Not a problem thought I. “Follow that car, the driver is wearing a white shirt and black tie – obviously going to the grave side.”

This theory was great, till the car pulled into a driveway, and out got a policeman going home. Once we explained, and confirmed that we were as stupid as we looked, we settled on a new technique. Pick a graveyard randomly, there can’t be too many in Stirling. Alas there was no-one there to disturb the sleep of the dead at the first choice, so onto choice two, which involved getting lost in a housing estate. Finally we were forced to ask for help. I wound down a window, and asked a venerable old pensioner if she had seen a hearse? The language was certainly unlady like and the directions she gave were more likely to hurt than take us to the cemetery. This finished with us having to run, with the grace and nimbleness of stags on the hill, over a footbridge to the cemetery gates. Red faced and gasping for breath, the stags on the hill were forced to accept we had missed that bit of the day as well.

Fortunately, I did know where the hotel was for the highlight of the day, the wake. This after all is the main event – steak pie, drams and recounting tales of the dearly departed that would never have been told when he was not departed. Fortunately we knew a shortcut to the hotel.

Ok, so we may have ended up driving down a footpath, but women and children in Stirling are also quite rude I have learned. Unfortunately, we were late again, and were stuck at a small table in front of everyone as all the seats were taken. On this particular occasion, ‘the top table’ was not for my celebrity, and not the most desireable seat to be had.

Back to the book. One other useful bit of information I came across was a charm to ‘free’ trapped milk in cows udders and womens’ breasts. I have decided though, that should Wife of Willox Dixon ever require this kind of help, I shall not be sending her to the byre to recite the charm – sometimes I can spot where misfortune is likely to come from, without any help!

Listening to: Loch Ness Monster by King Horror

Well it’s summer, so we always have to have a good Loch Ness Monster story, and this is a cracker, proving what we have always known, something is lurking in the mysterious dark waters of the loch!

Anyway, must be true, even Alex Harvey thought so Alex Harvey presents The Loch Ness Monster

If only time wasn’t so tight just now, there are so many stories that I could add here, but it will have to wait for another day.

What can I say, Inverness in the top 10 sexiest places in Scotland! Maybe that is why the Highlands is the happiest place, and no I didn’t make this up. It’s in the paper and online, must be true.

Listening to Please don’t go topless mother by Troy Hess and You shook me all night long by Bing Ji Ling