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.