Old Father Thames.

Volcanic ash clouds that to some indicate the immintent arrival of aliens, fairly interfered with my weekend. I needed to pop down to London to supervise the final tax free transfer of the Highbury House to the girls before Light Weight Cameron abolishes such very reasonable family schemes and then move my few modest bachelor posessions into a simple Thames side appartment in Wapping High Street next to the Captain Kidd pub (the crash pad's 100 square metres being valued only marginally less than that of all mighty Glen Trollaigh's extensive acres; perhaps the single parking space made up the difference!). However, as I wait for my enoblement to Daring David's new lib/tory House of Lords, Wapping seemed a fairly handy spot now that the refurbished tube line can whisk me to Westminster in time for the member's bar opening hour. Back to the plot; I was reluctant to accept the enevitable result of air travel and risk being stuck in London for weeks, and as Lord Virgin has bumped up his rail fares and reduced his seats nothing would do but I had to set the cruise control on Otto for a serious bash down the M6 I even had the correct change for the M6 toll Indeed all was well until some pillock spun his Cortina at junction number1, then the final 70 odd miles took 4 hours. My travails were justified with a stunning evening with the girls and their assorted legal beavers shouting the night away at The String Ray,in the company of amongst others Tanis Lawful-Proctor, a genuine witch who reintroduced me the wonderful world of faggots, those rich and warming English haggi. Before sinking gravel eyed into the 10th Baron's four poster for a final night at Highbury Terrace. Here's hoping that the girls will carry on with all the racy traditions of number 16. Now it's to be Futons, minamalism and eateries with only four wines on the list for yours truly.

Sun up and it's time to set crontrols to stun and "Tracey" the navigator for home and off we blast for an all together faster trip, challanged only by the odd Porche and one Rolls Royce convertible Silver Something which was hampered by stopping at every fuel pump it passed, we fairly covered the ground. My chosen stop being Tebay, perhaps unwise on a spring Sunday afternoon. The gents was seriously overcrowded despite it's Dyson "air blades" and foul fat people flowed through the foyer. A visit to the farm shop allowed the purchase of good foodie gifts to smooth dearest Dottie's anxiousness at my hedonistic London trip. Here however my in-built alarms over unless and over priced items failed me for amongst a basket full of excellent cheeses, at £7.99 I purchased a heavy bottle of "Bread Dipper" full of oils and spices, visualising a sunny Great Terrace of Trollaigh sitting side by side with my beloved, a generous sploosh in hand and warm fresh bread dipped before comsumption. I am not in favour of the food miles generated by heavy bottles, save for the odd Chilean Chardonnay, so I was rather irked to find that my special dipper had been made in the farthest reaches of Canada, rebottled in Essex and presumably cut by 90% with vinegar, it was ghastly and quite spoiled the momment, its only good for polishing something. So dear friends beware the Tebay Dippers. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.