Lost in Translation

It never ceases to amaze me just how much time it takes to keep the old Baronial pile going. Perhaps I lived a charmed youth, for it seemed that I had plenty of time for a successful career, time for entertaining friends, time for field sports, sailing, skiing, travelling, time to give to the community, give the church, even time for the occasional gruff exchange with the family and the old place seemed to look after itself. Now, when I am not feverishly chopping logs I am to be found up ladders with a bag of hand tools or a paint brush, perhaps digging into some long lost nook or cranny to persuade a frozen water pipe back to life; plumbing and electrics hold no fear and indeed the only thing that has slowed down my maniacal pursuit of DIY perfection is the terrible lack of parts, as every cold snap strips the merchant's shelves of the vital 22mm elbow required to restore water to some distant loo. I suppose in the old days one did not think twice about summoning the plumber from Dalmally to attend to a problem and when sorted there was much fore-lock tugging, perhaps a dram and six months later a bill would appear for 2/6 pence. Nowadays if you can find a plumber its £75 before he or she opens the van door to tut tut and professionally suck their teeth whilst pondering the mysteries of the 4th Baron's pipe work; unfortunately a relative unfamiliar with the principles either of gravity or with insulation.

I have also experienced a life changing experience. For at a recent church social, of necessity in the evening for I cannot afford to lose a moment's daylight on my chores, I casually chided our sensible female pastor on some minor point of ecclesiastical law and the layman's interpretation of last Sunday's slightly wandered sermon. After a moment's reflection she said "you know, you're never happy". It was a bit of a slap in the face, but when I went to look at that self same vizog in the mirror; I don't look happy. One should make allowances for Anno Dominii, the flushed, course skin, the lines drawing a petulant mouth, bushy eyebrows and bald head fringed with grey giving a slight hint of insanity. Yet here I am surrounded by scenery and history envied by thousands, living a comfortable life, free from most worry; so time to buck up old boy and be happy, think of the alternative, seems a good ploy. Now where has dearest Dottie hidden that bottle of the new "Botanist" gin from Islay!

One had to laugh at the recent "lost in Translation" incident with the Holy Father when he did not realize that there is no Italian phrase for Male Prostitute and so unwittingly launched much speculation about a Papal easing of the strict anti contraceptive teachings of the Roman Church. A distant chum bought an elderly VW golf diesel on ebay and was amazed to see Cardinal Ratzinger listed as a previous owner. This naturally increased the value of the bodile by many hundreds, ney thousands of percentage points. Should one rejoice at the thought of possessing a priceless personal pope mobile or should one dourly contemplate the ignorance of some motor traders; for once I am definitely happy. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.