Conspiracy Theory!

On Friday evening the controller for digital set top box quietly expires. It is a mere babe in arms, well under a year in age. Do you have the guarantee I'm asked politely in Argos. What a ridiculous question!

On Saturday my car succeeds in locking me out, the clicker failing to elicit the appropriate response to the command "open"
General discomfort and irritation follow. It goes without saying that I have a full shopping trolley in tow.

On Sunday a crash of thunder jumps me from my bed and unbeknown to me consumes the innards of the transformer which powers my live box thus rupturing my link with the internet and e-mails. On Monday I am rendered partially brain dead by an incoherent conversation with someone in Bombay about a replacement but the rest of the day passes almost without incident.

On Tuesday at 7.45am I am awoken by special delivery man bearing a replacement. All rudeness about outsourcing to distant continents withdrawn. Take a bow Orange!

On Wednesday the ultra violet light which renders my drinking water relatively free of Cholera, Typhoid and parasitic larvae etc dims to a glow and stutters feebly. Funny that, normal light bulbs either are or are not. No fluttering for them.

Roll on Thursday, at this moment my money is on the DVD player.

A Highland Journal.

Day 1

You only really begin to appreciate how very long this Sceptred Isle is when, having finally reached Carlisle, you are rocked back by a sign saying "Glasgow 120 miles!" What! You have already been driving four hours! The M6 is beyond all telling, every moan about the M25 shrinks into insignificance compared to the M6. The only light moment triggered by a chalked sign on a bridge which proclaims" get out and walk, it's quicker " The abstract beings which control traffic flow have a truly endearing habit of leaving the 50 mph speed signs flashing after all visible signs of obstruction have long vanished away in the distance.

Day 3
Perfect. 6 mile walk in glorious sunshine. Dogs temporarily deaf down rabbit holes -two

Day 4
I confess I was just a little taken aback when, barely ten minutes after arrival, my charming and funny B and B hostess told me she had been committed to a mental asylum by her husband. It transpired that this was in preparation for him running away with a 19 year old replacement wife!

Day 5
Over to the Summer Isles, Tanera, courtesy of friends. A very bouncy ride across the channel marred by the appalling stench emanating from dog number 3 who had rolled comprehensively and successfully in some thing very fishy and very dead just before going aboard. She was partially cleansed on landing with a hose pipe in the tank reserved for washing the life jackets with the help of some very yellow washing up liquid.

Day 6
Now 600 miles from home, petrol stations take on a new and desirable aspect, stirring emotions akin to those felt by the parched traveller on approaching an oasis. The only reason for taking the 22 mile detour to Lochinver is that it is the single petrol source between Ullapool and Durness. Humming gently to myself, and feeling a kinship with Mr Toad and his love of the open road, it was a horrible experience to glance casually at the tank gauge and realise that it was merely a quarter full. Put another way it was three quarters empty! 105p per litre was subsequently paid, if not willingly, at least with relief. I was doubly happy when tootling into Durness later that day I read the sign on the pump "Sorry no fuel".
Deaf dogs temporarily underground on Balnachiel beach- two.

Day 7

Am stunned into enraged silence on being told that the Smoo Cave is closed for removal of loose rocks, due Health and Safety. Are we insane? Rocks have been quietly aging on hillside for a mere 100 thousand years since being deposited gently by melting ice, people hurt by boulder attack-nil. People damaged by walking into bloody scaffolding blocking path unknown.
Drive 22miles over top of Loch Hope to Altnaharra, do not meet a single vehicle, turn back into Mr Toad.
Finally, after very long drive, spend night in Dunblane. Try as I might I cannot erase images of grief from my mind.

Day 8

Sadly turn towards the South and, ultimately, after half a life time, arrive on the M6 where vile weather coupled with heavy usage warps the journey home until I begin to think I am a member of the crew of Voyager lost in space.

Day 9
A completely barren fridge, holding one squelchy courgette and some sour milk triggers a trip to the supermarket. Standing with a fullish trolley beside a locked car is as good a time as any for the fantastic anti theft device to swing into action and lock me out. The holiday is truly over!

How do they know?

You live in the middle of England, just about as far from the sea as is possible. You come home to find the adjacent paddock has been ploughed that morning, it is heaving with seagulls, screaming in ecstacy as they devour wireworms by the million. You have, before this moment, never seen a seagull in the vicinity.

You have just finished digging a brand new pond, filled it with water and before the day is out there are waterboatman exploring the damned thing.

You put the squashed damson/apple pureé, still in its buttermuslin shroud, out by the backdoor to be disposed of later. Later duly arrives and you pick it up and a thick mist of tipsy fruit flies rise in a cloud and cover you!

How do they know? The Royal Society can forget human telepathy debates, the lower orders have definitely got there before us.

The Devils of Loudon

There are moments in life when, despite your best efforts, the 21st century abandons you and you are hovering on the outskirts of Salem, with possibly a light dusting of Loudon in the offing. Thursday night offered just such a moment!

Standing on the edge of a wood in total darkness, trying to locate two small terriers whose frantic yelps confirm that they are underground but that they now wish to return to the security of hearth and home if they could but locate the exit to the warren, it is hard to prevent your brain summoning memories of every horror film you've ever seen.

A fox shrieks close at hand. As your blood pressure spikes you attempt to reassure yourself that it is their mating season and its merely a sex mad vixen not an sex mad Jack Nicholson look alike axe murderer who is rustling in the ditch. Never before have you appreciated the electric shock effect of the warning cry of a pheasant or the human nature of a sheep coughing. The shriek of the owls barely merits a mention.

There should be a full moon but oh no, tonight coincides with the only full lunar eclipse this century! That could be a relief as I am by now fully expecting to see a broomstick shadow pass before it. You can definitely hear panting, the back of your neck genuinely prickles and a full blown 'peasant from the middle ages' type fear grips you. To hell with the bloody dogs! You stop breathing as a small, muddy, furry and ultimately familiar object hurtles towards you.

As you regain the security of the house, a spineless shadow of your normal self, you discover that another shamefaced little bitch has beaten you back and you have never before called her that with such fervour.