Scotland: National Rural Network
By Patrick Vickery
Take one day at a time, that's what I say, though sometimes several days hit you at once and everything becomes a muckle and a trackle.
I checked the emails in the early hours of the morning and discovered a message from a Mrs Basserole in the African Congo inviting me to accept payment of two million Congolese francs as soon as I sent my bank details to Mr Basserole. Good Lord, did she think I was mad?
Now I'm not prone to checking anything very much in the early hours, you know, but of late the dog has taken to chewing the house (softwood fixtures and fittings) and the sound of wood splintering woke me up. An internal door. Naughty dog. I told him off, had a coffee and then replied sternly to the offending email.
A morning shave in the middle of the night, a lengthy snooze, some further discussion with the dog (Jasper) about inappropriate chewing, the remains of last night's casserole for breakfast (because my stomach told me that breakfast time was lunchtime) and several coffees later I set off to tackle a garden in need of some serious power tool therapy.
I was pruning a Griselina Shrub (a "Grizzly") when I spotted a broad rimmed hat (a "John Wayne") bobbing down the pavement towards me. What a lovely "John Wayne", I self-remarked as I adjusted my body into just the right sort of stance to be adopted when wielding a petrol hedge trimmer casually about your midriff. And then it happened, John Wayne, ‘the hat wearing fellow with no name', bellowed in my ear. "Jaysus is born ageeeen!" he roared in an accent that implied he might have something rather uncomfortable worrying him like a clothes peg attached to his person. I hope so anyway because it was a most annoying sound (he must have meant "Jesus", don't you think?), but anyway, you don't expect a bellow from a ‘John Wayne' fellow when you're wielding a petrol hedge trimmer? Good Lord, I chopped the main trunk of the "Grisly" in half with one startled hand movement. I was not amused. Did Our Lord stride about the place bellowing at all and sundry in such a fashion? Of course not, none of that malarkey, his was a gentle and discerning approach with not a bellow to be heard.
In the mood now for no-nonsense straight talking I glowered at the offensive character in a "no mood for no nonsense" sort of way as he disappeared into the distance before deciding to return home for a lunch of tea and cake (at this rate I would be having croissants and marmalade for supper), take stock of the situation (do Grisly's grow basal shoots?) and some further counselling of the naughty dog.
"Now Jaysus, Jasper, Jaysus," I counselled between mouthfuls of carrot cake on my return, "no more chewing of the house for you or there'll be trouble."
He ignored me, of course, but as luck would have it we took delivery of a luxury dog pen that afternoon (ordered the week previous when a run of broken nights had become the norm and the kitchen was beginning to disintegrate before our bleary eyes). So that very night we went to bed safe in the knowledge that our munched kitchen was no longer munchable, only to be woken at four in the morning by the sound of a metal dog pen bouncing off walls whilst being propelled about the place by a manic "let me eat skirting boards" dog. So finally, and as a last resort, we went for the ultimate solution. He's sleeping with us now, doing very nicely, thank you, and everyone's getting a good night's sleep.
Yes, some days ‘several days' hit you at once and everything becomes a muckle and a trackle full of Basseroles, casseroles, bellows and John Wayne fellows . Thank goodness for tomorrows, that's what I say.
Copyright Patrick Vickery
This article was first published in the Ross-shire Journal and on the Rural Gateway website
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