All I Ask is a Tall Ship … 

Having returned from my brief sojourn which involved walking, sunning, reading, eating, smoking, chatting and pottering, I rejoiced for a few moments in the golden moment.

All too soon, it was a return to the daily drudge although leavened by a visit to KinlochRannoch to see Bunty Skelton and his menagerie.

Bunty, my old school chum, with whom I shared many japes, likes to escape to the countryside and walk his hounds manfully in the forest.  Therein, he indulges his new hobby of finding abandoned graveyards.  As a brief aside, I must comment that he is infuriatingly successful at this having found two in my brief visit. I must get Miss Shingle to update my address book noting this macabre turn.

While there, my man and I and Bunty and his goodwife sat in the garden imbibing while watching hailstones fall on Schiehallion. In the garden, due to a schism of nature, it remained sunny and dry.

We had left the cat at home as she informed me that she had quite a lot of darning to catch up on.  She was of the view that the Miss Valerie Will Mule had been insufficiently educated in the wearing of hose. What the cat and the mule get up to will always remain a mystery but Miss Shingle has accused them of stealing lipstick, rouge and her whalebone corsets! The cat, when challenged, opined that girls just want to have fun and rattled off some hair curling tales of Miss Shingle and the local rugger team. It can sometimes seem like an impossible task to run an harmonious domicile.

But, to return to our country visit, Bunty took me out on several stentorian walks and assisted me mightily by tapping the backs of my legs with a switch to keep me in time as the dogs trotted with lolling tongues and, what I fear, were languid grins as I huffed and puffed. It reminded me, none too engagingly, of the fagging at school. It was a mercy to reach the abandoned cemetery and be able to lean against a canted gravestone and share a shot or two of forest fire in the form of a stimulating Quaich of Calvados.  Not one jot or drop of calvados for the dogs, I thought.

That evening, I danced a wild tarantella to entertain all magnificently using my recently acquired castanets and heeled Spanish dancing boots: zapatos de baile flamenco, Ole!

… To gird their loins, stiffen their stays and clench their bowels. I realise, of course, that many men carry this out as a routine approach to leaving one’s home. Wallace and Bruce assure me it is de rigeur in their circles – but of course they have a herd mentality.

I am not of the cattle classes and have always foresworn this approach to life. My long felt want and prediliction has been for freedom; whether that be relaxing in a cloud of Cohiban smoke while having one’s feet massaged by the cat in unguents and oils or simply luxuriating in the employ of hand eye co-ordination executing a quick knitting pattern.

That reminds me to have a chat to the cat about parading around covered in unguent and oils.

But when the post horn sounds at the delivery of my budget airline tickets for foreign adventure, I realise one must pursue the manly route of girding, stiffening and clenching.
It is holiday time and I depart for sweet repose in the mountains of the balearics.

Chat soon. Buenos Dias.

As many will know, I am a keen pursuer of the most modernistic technology.  I cite my steam-powered punka and my Helvetian Automata Haliphone 9000 which communicates via little brass flags in semaphore. It has a minor fault. It used to chirp away quite happily until the cat said, “Open the pod bay doors, Hal,” for some inexplicable reason.  Since then, it is semaphore only. I suspect that the homunculus inside has been struck dumb by some affliction native to homunculi.

I have also desisted from catching Baden-Powell acolytes in the lane, by dint of a large strengthened butterfly net, to interpret its semaphore. The local Scout Master gave me special lessons in the art of this and I am now in possession of an infernal “Badge”. I admit to being modestly pleased with this achievement.

Imagine my shock, surprise and dismay when my man declaimed that my Haliphone 9000 was antiquated junk; as he paraded his device of choice – an Iphone 4S. This device is apparently manufactured from an apple. He stated quite forcefully that it contains an intelligent agent who has no problem with verbal communication.  I was of the opinion that I had never experienced the company of an intelligent agent heretofore as they do appear to get blown up and abused in many fashions as in Mr Conrad’s novel but was willing to indulge him. Despite five attempts, it studiously ignored him but I must admit that following some raised voiced RP from myself, it whipped itself into action pronto.  One cannot be too shy with the ready commanding tone.  I fear it also continued to babble when the challenging phrase of “Open the pod bay doors…” was posed as a test.

I spent the rest of the day in my study in a shroud of miffed, hunched shoulders.

During my vacation time into January, several memorable moments presented to me and I record these munificently for your benefit and improvement.

On Christmas Eve, I had occasion to visit the RBS Bob Cratchit in my local town’s high street.  I was attired in a casual Tweed  shin length winter coat, stout hiking boots, gaiters, long woollen stockings, warming moleskin trews, winter vest, double cotton shirt, Norfolk Jacket and the usual appurtenances – long scarf and Sami bobble hat.  I had also equipped myself with two extended mountain walking sticks.  One cannot be too careful of a slip in this treacherous weather.  As I entered my secret code which I keep in a small leather notebook which can be accessed with a quick fetch from my underpants pochette and positioned my monocle – for the bad eye don’t you know – I was assailed by a comment from the queue which had now formed, “Jeezuz, what a pallaver!” I rose above this as I carried on with my financial business and then I detected a thin, watery, nebulously thin voice emanating from the RBS Bob Cratchit, singing unsurely and hesitatingly, “In the Bleak Mid Winter.” It was remarkable how little this improved me.

On New Year’s Eve, we were first-footed by the Vicar and his friend the Lumberjack.  Both insisted on kissing myself, my man, cookie, Miss Shingle and the cat.  The cat looked rather pleased with herself as she poured the drinks and I discovered she had given each of us a New Year gift – mine was an old fish bone served in my drink [she claimed it had slipped], my man had a postage stamp holder woven from cat hair, cookie had a recipe book titled Fish for Friends with a twenty pound note as a bookmark, Miss Shingle gained a framed picture of the cat licking herself rather indiscreetly, the Vicar appeared to have a pair of vole hands and the Lumberjack was favoured with a knitted item which rather bemused us until the cat announced she had knitted a “willy warmer”.  I do believe the Lumberjack was quietly pleased.

As I returned to my place of employment, my expertise was immediately called for in the Empire’s capital city.  This time, one of my buffet boys had spotted a “special offer” which allowed us to travel First Class at less than the steerage rate.  Unfortunately, only two tickets were available but that was solved by placing one of the buffet boys in steerage. My accompanying buffet boy was then let off scot-free as it appears First Class provides a set of buffet boys to cater to one’s every whim including constant incitements to eat and drink more. We departed Edinburgh as whippet thin travellers and alighted at King’s Cross as ballooning bumpkins bursting our buttons.

As I know that many readers of my journal rely on my generously offered efficacious advice for eutaxy, I humbly provide my Yuletide list of essentials.  This will ensure a most acceptable Christmas outcome with very little stress:

Advise the staff that any fault in Christmas will be entirely at their cause for fear of future disagreement on being summarily dismissed; instruct your appointment secretary to prepare an appropriate list of gifts and to organise their purchase and dispatch; give her a half-crown for her trouble; ensure your oldest eggnog and quite ancient mince pies are at hand for carol singers. Have your man erect a substantial 12 foot spruce in the front driveway lit by candles in little metal lanterns – he will enjoy lighting them incessantly; Organise a Christmas party for the village before the watchnight service and invite the Post Mistress, The Young Men’s Rugger Football team – for keeping Miss Shingle quiet and occupied – but do not encourage a performance of the Whale Song; pretend some affection for the Avon Cosmeticals woman but leave her to chat with the Hans the old stuffed bear in the hallway as soon as you have welcomed her; ensure the Vicar and his Lumberjack friend have brandy sufficient to ensure they disrobe and embrace amorously as at HallowE’en so that the rest of the company may have something scandalous to occupy their conversation; provide cigars and mulled wine to the Baden Powell young men and women after locking their troop leaders in the downstairs broom cupboard; organise an entertainment such as the Young Womens’ Muscular Conservative and Unionist Club performing a tag team mud wresting tournament and allow the local communist – there is always just one – to hose them down afterwards; round up the whole village and all your animals including the Miss Valerie Will Mule, The Camel and for the sake of Christmas the South American Panther and Miss Gruel for the Watchnight Service by touring in your reindeer drawn sled with mounted repeating Elephant Gun; Remark loudly that the Vicar has never delivered such a rousing watchnight sermon as you leave the Church no matter how dreadful it has been; ensure transport home at the church for every person you would rather not see again and help them generously on their way with a bottle of champagne and a slipper of cigars; and spend the whole of Christmas Day and Boxing Day throughly pickled lest any notion of annoyance overtakes you.

My man, the cat and Miss Shingle prevailed on me for a Christmas visit to the Motion Picture House. Apparently Hergé’s Adventure’s of Tintin had been fashioned by artistry into a cinematographical presentation. I must admit to a certain surprise at being asked to wear spectacles – or 3D shades as the cat insists – as I informed the assistant that my opera glasses were already in my pocket. The young assistant was wearing substantial face cosmetics and chewing gum and commented, “Wo’evva – yuv paid four thame – here.”

Imagine my surprise to discover after we entered that the cat was nowhere to be seen after making quite a substantial tarradiddle and insisting on the megabag of popcorn. It was only as I settled with the megabag occupying its own chair that I distinctly heard substantial munching and espied two furry ears and the surface end of a snorkel atop the bag rim.  The cat was actually inside the bag.

Miss Shingle and my man were hardly better as they were wrestling with a hotdog – a german weiner I surmised – in a long bread roll.  Well each to their own I thought as I brought out my meerschaum and some well plaited travelling shag. There then amounted the most furious rammie [please consult your Chambers 20th Century for the Scots argot] from all around me. Apparently everyone was free to create the most astonishing mess with popcorn strewn floors and mustard smeared seating fabric but I was not allowed to smoke. Rudyard Kipling would never have put up with this. A rather dis-shevelled man in front of me said, “tough luck matie,” as he continued to grill his sardines on a portable barbecue.

Following an hour of “trailers” and advertising, the feature was to begin.  I remarked to Miss Shingle that it must be most excellent else no one in their right mind would wait so long.

What a shock to discover that the Moving Picture House had not only added sound and colour but also 3D effects to its repertoire; although I did miss the organ rising at the front and some stirring Wurlitzer music.

I remarked in a loud voice to my man how sensible young Jamie Bell was in his plusfours in preparation of adventure and was immediately shushed by a woman in a loud frock who had until then talked incessantly to a small brow beaten man.

Just then Jamie Bell as Tintin turned his head and I had to duck for fear of being viciously Quiff Whipped and so established an approach to the 3D effect of the motion picture. I also had expected a litlle more subtlety in the make-up of the actors.  They were so made-up that they barely resembled real people while the director seemed to have selected a range of actors with quite astonishingly ugly large noses which 3D’d out of the screen in a quite disconcerting manner.

However, I was comforted in being able to follow the plot line quite easily as it barely departed from that of the last motion picture I had viewed – The Perils of Pauline – with the excellent Pearl White.  I had expected that the motion picture industry with sound, colour and 3D would have developed very sophisticated acting techniques and plotlines but that appears not to have happened. And just as in the Perils of Pauline, the serial ended on a cliffhanger moment for the next episode.

As I sat in the back seat of our Panther Black charabanc, on the journey to my comfortable home, gently puffing at last, I assured the cat, who was now the size of an inflated Zeppelin Airship from her consumption of her Mega Bag of Popcorn, that I was most content with our entertainment visit.

Well, as I sit here at my escritoire and leather edged blotter, I reflect that it has been many weeks since my last journal entry. In fact, the parrot had made a nest on the last page where I had detailed my run in the country.  I fear that the exertions of that day made it necessary for me to repair to a sanitorium of the Balearic persuasion. The cat and Miss Shingle, and even my man, dare I say, had forcibly informed me that I had quite clearly reached the end of my tether and so they dispatched me to warmer climes. Being sent by post sitting on a pail in my trunk was not entirely my idea of elegant travel and I rather suspect the rolled up copy of the Sunday Post that I had caught Miss Shingle and the Vicar snorting over at the Oor Wullie page had informed their selection of transportation. But I may perhaps own that my vehement opposition to cattle transportation at the hands of budget airlines may have sealed my own fate.  At least I had time to wax my moustache fully and completely read the Francis Gay homily. The bucket proved most handy too and the remains of the newspaper.

Imagine my delight, when the trunk was opened at the other end by my staff all wearing gas masks, to discover that my dear Mama and Papa had been transported too. Their trunk had clearly been opened before mine. Papa was in fine fettle sporting a travel ear horn made of raffia and Mama was wearing a jaunty feather fascinator in her hair.

A Balearic interlude must of course include certain features and I provide a list for those who may not have reached further than the perimeter of Magaluf.  Essentials include pitching paella, throwing a donkey from a steeple, vertiginous mountain treks on the backs of trained balearic goats, a visit to find The Edge in Valdemosa [my man insisted on this although I saw no adjacent cliff face], hauling drinking water for dear mama and papa to make British tea – I am sure that 12 gallons of tea drinking a day is not normal – quaffing cervesas, fighting octopus on one’s plate a la Captain Nemo, rinsing one’s Britannic Passport with one’s trews, visiting the British Consulate, walking around the village square in full highland dress, spats and busby, suffering heat stroke shortly after, jousting with mosquitoes using a cocktail stick from one’s fifth vodka cocktail of the morning, escorting my man for a Spanish haircut [this is a bit like a spanish omelette - not how we do it! We were quite shocked to discover it did not employ a pudding bowl], managing to avoid pranging the charabanc for once and generally having a jolly time.

We returned after many weeks of excellence to an utter disaster.  The cat had remained behind and the televisor – an infernal machine although of certain antique value being an original designed by John Logie Baird with a fabulously extravagant 6 inch screen – had wheezed to a smoky end. The cat had therefore purchased a new televisor device by forging my signature on my RBS Bob Cratchit Card – I had never signed it – and guessing my password was 1234 – for the essential matter of watching the X Factor.  This is apparently an entertainment although it seems to be singularly bereft of any element that could remotely qualify for the soubriquet of possessing “The X Factor.”  To the matter, the cat had purchased a 75 inch LED LCD 3D televisor and a Sky plus HD combo which my man has remained wedded to.  They sit in my best reading wing armchair together wearing ludicrous “shades”, as they term them, crooning, “oooooh dermie… ooooooh marcus.” It appears that the X Factor occupies the whole output of the televisor on a Saturday evening and so they have installed a commode to the side of the armchair lest they “miss a bit.” There is also a handy copy of the Sunday Post to serve its best function.

All of which explains my absence, my return, and why I am still sitting on that damned pail at my escritoire.

I have been laid low with an infernal infestation of those “transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water” as descriibed by Mr H. G. Wells in his fictional account of the War of the Worlds. Although, one must not always jump to conclusions on Mr Wells. On my last visit to the metropolis, I chanced upon a few quite alien creatures who had the merest sliver of acquaintance with how a human should deport himself. A quick beating with my brolly soon cleared a path to the Oyster Bar for me.

I have, of course, been of stentorian and stoic mien throughout my illness and only occasionally resorting to a pathetic but justified call for toast soldiers for a brave soldier’s boiled eggs.

It is at times like these that one overhears the staff’s opinions. I quite distinctly heard Miss Shingle opine to the Avon Cosmeticals woman – whom she had outrageously invited into the hallway – that I was having a “man flu” episode – as good as any comedic episode of “Shooting Stars”. I barely understood the woman but I regret that I did not entirely engage with her when she asked “How I was doing?” later and stiffled a snarf and snorting in her handkerchief as I inhaled from a bowl of hot water and camphor with my night shawl pulled tight around my shoulders.

The cat wasn’t entirely helpful as when I dozed off, and awakened after a fearful nightmare of gasping for breath, I discovered she had settled for a nap over my face, “Simply to keep me cosy!”

But after an evening with my chest wrapped in brown paper and vinegar – and barely improved – I decided to risk a visit from Dr Leech.

I now have in my possession a set of “capsules” which require the assistance of a stiff malt and honey to ease down as they are quite clearly designed for a Killer Whale’s throat. At least, I get to quaff something palatable 4 times a day as cookie has me on consomme and porridge following the Doctor’s confirmation that I am indeed poorly.

Now with a tablet down and a cold compress to my forehead, I turn to Book 2, Chapter 3 “The Days of Imprisonment”: “The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian might see down upon us behind our barrier…”

I am sure it is just vivid imaginings and my fever but was there not, just now, a flash of green light and an enormous whoosh from the common outside my chamber window…

I have received a missive from Miss Gruel. I am entertaining the conceit that this was a thank you note. It is a conceit as I fear I recognised the crabbed spidery hand and green ink and cast it into the Aga unopened at my breakfasting.

I have managed to coax Miss Shingle from her room. I surmised she had been ill used after receiving a comment from a correspondent Miss Will of the Miss Valerie Will Stables. I summoned the local Rugby Football Team who sang rugger songs at her window and then carried her off for a night of carousing. The cat informs me that Miss Shingle is the team mascot and that involves a range of support activities.

My man now has a RBS Bob Cratchit card for the money printing machine in the main street. I explained all the petting and imprecations necessary for this activity and he frankly stood looking at me as if I were a rube of the most base sort.