What’s the Story in Dalamory

There is a whole new genre of writing, all to do with setting up home (permanent or otherwise) in another country. It is similar to the plethora of moving-house programmes o­n TV – great escapism. Unlike the Lilian Beckwith type of book, which irritated the Western Isles people so much, the modern breed of writers manage to engender praise rather than criticism from the locals in their chosen new areas. Could this be to do with the craving for celebrity, or does it simply reflect a desire for vicarious publicity and monetary gain? Sadly it is probably the latter.

What then of Blogs? Do the writers want publicity, influence or is it all mere whimsy? There is no chance of monetary gain – unless o­ne has incredible traffic, in which case advertising might bring in revenue. But that is the exception rather than the rule. So we must all be budding authors, sitting at a keyboard at unsocial hours, speaking to a partly unknown public, waiting to be discovered. Travel writing of a different kind, through cyberspace. Immortality or idiocy?

So far I have managed to avoid mentioning Euro 2004 and all the hype. Football is not among my favourite sports, spectator or otherwise. However, yesterday I watched the England verus Croatia match. o­nce I had managed to stop laughing at the half-time commentary (the regional accents almost defeated me and their seriousness beggared belief) – I rather enjoyed the excitement. Man of the Match was of course, Wayne Roonie, the 18yr old up and coming superstar with freckles. It would be nice if his ingenuousness could last, but fame and fortune at that age must be hard to cope with.

My excuse for supporting England is that I am half English after all, though I am a Scot at heart.

Re the Olympics: the lack of women competitors from strict Islamic States has always troubled me. This year, despite the Olympic Charter, which espouses equal rights (and that includes women) there are still five nations entering male-only teams. (in 2000 there were around 34 – so things are improving, but there has not yet been a total ban o­n restrictive practices such as there was for Apartheid.) The women have to wait for special Muslem Women Olympics which are closed events.

It is hard in this time of racial tension to be seen to appear intolerant of cultural practices, however, customs which seek to keep women subjugated are not something I can condone. This is all highlighted by the burka-debate. Moderate Muslems will no doubt claim that the burka engenders respect for women, but I am with the Sunday Times reporter who sees any device that hinders freedom of movement and expression as being a restrictive practice that makes women invisible or insignificant. To be fair, I have to include high-heeled shoes and tight underwear in that category. Interestingly, I understand that in Iraq, shoes and the more extreme the better, are a sign of emancipation. A semi-hidden snipe at authority.

When I was twelve years old I realised that life for women was not fair. The wonder of it is that I am pleased to be a woman. Even an older woman.

My head is full of the song of the skylarks – a magical sound, sadly not heard as much as it used to be. Theories abound as to why they have declined in number, but it could be because of insecticides or storms o­n their migratory routes. For me, they evoke memories of the years when we lived in the Western Isles – even more remote than our Argyllshire island home today. The summers were forever light, forever breezy and I had so much energy then. Just as well really, as there were four growing boys, two dogs, two cats (often with kittens), hens, sheep and lambs.

It seemed exhausting at the time – idyllic in retrospect. Memory is very resilient.

I am reliably informed that o­ne who whistles is called a Siffleur. I even checked it in the dictionary and it is correct. Sadly, I cannot yet class myself as o­ne, though I am trying.

A good friend is undergoing an unpleasant operation o­n Monday. It is hopefully going to remedy a lot of pain and discomfort. So it seems a good time to remind people that I am still praying – quietly of course.

God Bless you and yours.

As I am still supposed to be keeping quiet I have resolved to try and develop my listening skills. The trouble is that people expect more than the odd Mmmm in response. As my work depends so much o­n having a reasonable speaking voice, I have to follow orders and keep shtum for now. I suspect that certain members of my parish and family are enjoying the peace and quiet.

Thank goodness for the internet and emails.

I have discovered a new hobby – whistling. It is good for breath control and does not seem to trouble the vocal cords. When I was a child my mother informed me that young ladies do not whistle… She spoke of a lot of other things that young ladies do not do, and many of these have been added to my list of accomplishments now. So learning to whistle with significant volume is another thing to add to the list of sixty things to do this year. I haven't yet managed to get more than a cheep, but watch this space.

Incidentally, a friend was telling me the correct name for a whistler, and of course I have already forgotten it. The thesauras does not help. Anyone out there know it?

Since when have the news presenters delivered the news standing up? And what is the purpose? Is it (a) to make viewers believe it is more important; (b) to make us believe the news casters are more important; or (c) to show how busy they all are?

Anyway, it distracts me.

For those who have been asking:Rummikub is a game for two to four players involving numbers rather than letters as in Scrabble. There is no board as such, but each player has to make runs of more than three numbers, or 3+ numbers the same. The skill is in manipulating the tiles already laid down o­n the table. It is especially good fun to win.

As you can probably gather from the above, we have had visitors for the last few days. They arrived with their dog, a springer spaniel, who has its own brand new Landrover Discovery. Dana, our golden retriever was delighted to see them, loving the company and falling in love with the vehicle. As I am still recuperating, I was treated to a run out in the Disco; Dana loved her vantage point in the rear – plenty of space to lay down, sit up and have ever-ready drinks. She hopped in and out of the back every bit the Designer Dog. She appears to have found her niche in life.

How sad she is now they have all gone away.