Butts and Bots.

It is a great relief to know that we do not have to fear rampant inflation anymore, as the very word has been removed from the lexicon and replaced by the Retail Price Index which is safely increasing at a paltry 4% per annum, only twice the rate of the old measure that we worried about so unnecessarily. However confusion still reigns over the official Crime Figures which the Boys in Blue assure us are falling dramatically, yet the National Crime Statistics show a marked increase in the likelihood that we shall all be murdered in our beds. Perhaps a calming name change will reassure us, such as the knowledge that although we still have a few unfortunate unemployed, most have been re-classified as "Economically Inactive" and so they have nothing to worry about, I feel so much better! However my own measure shows that it now costs almost £6 a day to fire up Mhairi's AGA, 20 years ago it cost 70 pence; although I am famously hopeless with maths, at best it should now be about £3 per day; so that must be called inflation. On the same theme I hear constant complaints about the price of road fuel charged in our cities versus the price in our more rural districts which can be anything up to 25 pence per litre higher. The answer is simple, reverse the premium and let the cities pay the higher charge, for they enjoy the alternative of public transport and shorter car journeys, whilst we rednecks suffer a round trip of three hours to buy a frock or to visit a cinema, with little or no alternative transport. Of course it is all greed and taxes anyway, as an old Nabob chum assured me from his Malaysian tea plantation's veranda via Facetube a day or so ago, as it still only costs a tenner to fill his VW Golf in the jungle.


As uplifting Crossbill's spring song fills Glen Trollaigh, one has to take one's hat off to the ladies; here am I looking wistfully after five year's work, at a frozen building site from which one day will spring the throbbing Great Hydro Electric Scheme of Trollaigh, to say nothing of spending far too much time dreaming of planting vineyards and selecting a comfortable cruising yacht to enjoy some warm weather on the costas in my latter years. When suddenly dearest Dottie with only a passing reference to yours truly and the family bankers has placed an order for 21 photovoltaic solar panels which are to be attached to the south facing castillations within a fortnight and will apparently provide electricity as well attract a healthy government subsidy. Mind you success depends on Lachie digging some fairly serious cable ducts in the perma frost so there may be some delay as I am certain that his back is not up to it.


Efficiency is in dearest Dottie's genes as a generation or so back her family were the famous Butts of Botany Bay, a fine collection of Men of The Cloth who with great philanthropy and kindness gently guided the "First Fleeters" of Australia on to better things. By happenchance the good brothers felt that their family name was in some way inappropriate in a predominantly male society and changed their name to "Bots", little did they know this would become an equally embarrassing scourge of a virtual kind. One legacy of the Bots has been dearest Dottie's firm belief that incarceration is the only rehabilitation for the hardened criminal; in fact she silenced our otherwise vocal and PC local Councillors by suggesting that "convicts" should undertake clearing our 5 mile snowbound link with the outside world. One can only assume that the dear soul imagined a black van delivering a rough gang of rogues in cotton jymjams overprinted with black arrows, muttering darkly as the shovels are handed out by armed guards. Come to think of it there may be a fashion statement in there, although heavy iron manacles might chafe a bit.


Apart from an early morning earthquake in Fort William, the only local news topic has been much debate about time zones. I have to admit that all the clocks in the Tower of Glen Trollaigh remain firmly set on UTC plus 1 hour throughout the winter months and the only confusion occurs when one is trying to unravel an unfathomable rail or ferry time table which does not relate to the old Rolex. This Trollaigh Time combines nicely my lifelong rule not to rise from the Great Bed of Trollaigh until I can see what I am doing without switching on expensive and irresponsible artificial light; although it is still not uncommon for residents of the North Argyll Glens to remain tucked up in bed between the old new year's day (5th January) and Lent. And perhaps more importantly I can, with a clear conscience, raise a Hendrick's and Tonic an hour earlier than you, dear reader. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

A Happy New Year?

Even I have to admit its been a wonderful Christmas. Almost every surviving Trollaigh relative as been to stay, indeed a couple are still with us, ignoring the now obvious and urgent hints that it is time to leave. I have to admit that at times it has been a bit of a struggle as our water supply which I constantly monitor froze solid, Mhairi's AGA is barely holding out, several header tanks are dry, my beloved shed doors distorted and jammed, chickens started to moult and refused to lay, the washing machine gave up, as did the dish washer; all our water filters clogged as one, the log splitter is kaput and to add insult to injury my faithful Land Rover shed her clutch just when I needed her most. Priorities become an interest as while I sweated blood round the clock to keep some water available for baths, or to provide enough heat to roast a Turkey or four, several guests became quite shirty when their i-phone apps failed to wake them up in time for the traditional New Year's day shoot.


Because airports were shut down by snow I had to make an after midnight dash to collect family from Central Station, Glasgow on the Saturday before Christmas. I have since been told that was the most popular night of the year for office parties and the sights I saw were not to be seen on any old Saturday night nor for the faint hearted, suffice to say Santas of every gender and dress code seemed to be either vomiting or fornicating in public; and visible blue blubber seemed to stave off frostbite rather than sensible layers of woolly clothing. I have to salute the Glasgow police who were most helpful as I tried to unravel the frankly hopeless train arrivals board and I was very impressed by gangs of Glasgow City Council workers who were, even at that hour sluicing down the ghastly mess on the pavements. Certainly if this is the level to which the Hoi Polloi have sunk, god help us all as one can only assume that these "persons" were bank clerks, civil servants and SNH employees of some standing and training, perhaps even a PhD or two amongst the chip throwers.


In The Tower of Glen Trollaigh tradition reigned supreme with 10 year old card sharps distracting the old from comparing the ting of sherry glasses with the ting of Christmas Tree decorations and all guests are to be commended for ignoring the rather "one sided" profile of the this year's Great Christmas Tree of Trollaigh, not helped by several strings of lights being more off than on. Several guests brought their fair share of generous gifts and goodies for which many thanks; although one codger could only produce from his welly a bottle of second rate red, the top of which had already been unscrewed and a good slurp removed before arrival.


Snow lay deep, frosts froze, landscapes were Alpine and carols spread their magic with candles and lamps held high; as far as I could tell the whole family seemed to survive without too many sense of humour failures, or at least everyone had the good grace not to show it! Of course in this bleak midwinter we have not caught sight of a single council service, no road gritters, no bin men etc. although the new tactic of mid management civil servants promoted to the level of their incompetence is to trumpet to the highest the "heroes" who are giving their all to provide us with everything we could possibly want, apart that is from any sort of result, but remember that they are working night and day doing their best, ha ha! Although a mole has admitted that some buffoon decreed that school heating systems should be switched off over the Christmas holidays to save some dosh.One has to wonder if he or indeed she will survive to draw the enchanced pension package. As VAT rises to 20%, road fuel heads toward £1.50 per litre and beer breaks through the £3 a pint; I can safely say it has been one of the best Christmases I have ever had, so let's give three cheers to a bloody good 2011. Yours aye, Archie The Baron Trolliagh.