Fly Past

I seem to have put my foot in it as usual; for despite my best intentions I confusingly referred to both Bowling and Tennis clubs in my last scribble and may also unwittingly have shown a hint of insincerity in my apologies. I have edited my last twaddle to omit any offensive references which may effect the meaning of some passages, and I wish to make clear my support for The All England Lawn Tennis Club.


All this bad luck is proof, if proof were needed that one should never knock a Vicar off his or her bike, or indeed a Priest, Rabbi or Mullah for that matter. It was all a genuine mistake in the first place as no religious figure has cycled uninvited, the miles to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for may a year and so dearest Dottie was not expecting the dog collared body to somersault over Otto's bonnet while her attention was focused on inserting a Runrig CD in the silly little slot thingy in the dashboard, a simple error compounded by crunching the parish's rusty and trusty four speed Pashley Rural Special under Otto's fat rear tyres. Naturally assistance was quickly on the spot and the Rev was carried hot foot to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for first aid and a substantial restorative. It goes without saying that God's Representative left in Tanya's Taxi clutching a cheque which more than covered the indignity of any loss or injury. The rev has of course made the most of our embarrassment by inviting us onto every bally committee in the county and suggesting every batty scheme that might require our support. Normally one would chew on the old mustachios until the dust settled, however last Sunday's sermon linking the first three steps of the AA pledge to God's Grace whilst engaging yours truly in a holy stare was a bit thick.

Meanwhile a summer heatwave moves the Vin Rouge into the fridge and Mhairi complains vigorously about the steamy conditions in the kitchen, suggesting for the first time ever that her beloved kitchen range be switched off for the duration. I escape to the Scottish Game Fair for a few essential sporting purchases, and sip a cool glass of bubbles at the Adam & Co hospitality marquee, where it is good to see the the tax payer's bank bale out wonga being put to good use. A friend says how wonderful it is to see so many dogs at a show, now unheard of in his PC corner of the Commonwealth, moments before he is whirled away in a melee of snapping, snarling mongrels whose owners shout loudly and dodge flailing leashes. So all in all life is pretty good. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.