IN FOR THE LONG-HAUL

 

Tottie: I thought I better call in on Tom once more before he heads off for WA.  After this year’s non-summer I can’t blame anyone for wanting to top up on the vitamin D. I found him packing what seemed to be an impossibly small bag, but then he explained that he already has clothing over there. I couldn’t even imagine getting what I need just for an overnight stay in such a small bag. Two pairs of shoes would have filled it, and instead he’d got it stuffed full of drugs and wool. I sort of admire him for making the effort, and I suppose only he can vouch for the sanity of it all. There’s more than a little bit of me that is jealous. I looked his friend Charley up on line, and I think there must be a connection. Charley’s second name is Cranston, which also happens to be my brother David’s second name. The world is a very small place, never more than six people removed from anyone on the planet, but I think there might be a blood line link.   

Tom: I’m sure at some point in our lives we’ve all done the packing of bags, whether just for a few days holiday, or a total and definitive change of scenery, and if you’re like me it’ll take several attempts, trying to figure out what is rational. There’s always the, what if the weather, or if I get invited out. Do I really need that other pair of shoes, or even a pair of wellies? Thankfully the South Western corner of Australia at this time of year means my wardrobe can be cut down to hand luggage only. A change of underwear, a pair of shorts and a sun hat, the rest is medication, fabric and wool for my stitching. The medication takes up half the space and in order to avert suspicion I included a print out of my diagnosis along with my visa. The fabric and wools will allow me to continue my embroidery and to pacify the creative urge within me. It is hard to explain just how intense this need to create has become. I feel there remains things that I must do, work I must complete while I still have the strength and the willpower. It is this more than anything else that keeps me alive.

 The ferry to Ullapool was running half an hour late and the long drive ahead of me seemed to suddenly get a lot longer. Being one of the first vehicles on I was directed to the side where I could be sure of being one of the last off. It happens every time. The drive east to Inverness is basically a case of joining the queue and follow the leader. The A9 is notorious for bad accidents and it seemed to take ages to get down to Perth. At what time of night was I going to arrive, still a long way from the border and then the entire length of the M6 to negotiate? I sipped on the thermos of coffee, eating up the miles while munching my way through the tin of homemade flap jacks. I arrived at my destination, Atherstone at 7.30 and slept like a clubbed horse. Wednesday was a day of rest before pressing on towards Milton Keynes on Thursday. I’d made the decision to do the delivery to London on the Friday and with the aid of a satnav all went smoothly. Saturday another day of rest before heading back into London on Sunday morning by train. This was the first big test having to lug my little trundle bag up and down stairs from Euston Station. Feeling like a fish out of water I struggled and politely declined help from two young women. It is only when help is offered that I realise just how decrepit I must look. When showering that morning I was horrified by the monster I saw in the mirror. That can’t be me, and yet who else can it be. Blubber hanging from my gut, chest and legs, even my face looks puffed up, unrecognisable. Aging is not an attractive process and when accompanied with medication and increasing infirmity the changes are shocking.  I met up with Charley, Lara and the girls that evening and the following morning was picked up on the dot at 5.35 for the drive to Heathrow.

 We all arrived within minutes of each other and from that moment on I simply followed my vastly more experienced host through the maze of airport check-in. Business class is so very different and in the quiet calm of the lounge we had breakfast. Long haul flights are punishing on the body, but having that extra room and being able to lie down made a huge difference. I also had my stitching to distract me, and it was much admired by the air hostesses with no mention of my lethal sized embroidery needle.  

 There was a six hour stopover in Dubai before the final longer leg, and I was again reminded of the vast horror of such places so very different to our little Stornoway airport. I dosed between film and let my mind wander back across the decades to when the girls were little and life was about playing on the beach.

I was also reminded that I was now Tottie free. She wanted to know Charley’s address so presumably I’ll get a Christmas card.   

  

      

 

           

 

 

 

DISCUSSION OR ARGUMENT

 Tottie reporting for the Western Isles Wanderer, but for how much longer, is the question uppermost on the rest of the office staff’s minds. I’ve had a real week of it, not all bad. The boss had me off doing a tour around several producers of gin on the islands. A dream job you would think, and yes my tipple of preference is a G & T, but by the end of a four day tour I was convinced you could make gin out of anything, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear someone was now producing Ye Olde Bootlace Gin in a stunningly beautiful designer bottle. I tried to keep an open mind, but I’m from the juniper generation, when gin was gin and yogurt was natural or nothing.

I never realised how fascinating a family tree could be, and I’ve already discovered an entire branch of the family I had no knowledge of. Unfortunately the boss caught me trawling through the 1905 census and today a written warning landed on my desk. I can’t see the problem as long as I do the work, but then he’s a bully and likes throwing his weight about, of which he has plenty to spare. They don’t call him Wobble bottom Bill for nothing. Last night I dreamt I’d discovered someone drowning on Garry beach. There was frantic splashing going on but it was only a few yards out. When I took a closer look it was old Wobble Bottom himself sinking slowly into the sand, and I just watched as he disappeared beneath the waves. I’m thinking it might be time to move on from WIW, do a bit of free lancing, or maybe try my hand at writing a novel. I’m sure I’ve got a cold coming and should probably take a day off, but I can imagine what Bill would make of that so perhaps I’ll just show up and breath a few of my germs over him.

 

Tom; I’m not sure what the difference is between a heated discussion and an argument is, but I certainly had one of them with Tottie. She’s become one of my very few sources of news from the outside world and this week she was full of excitement at the possibility of Tesco opening on Sundays. “At last we’re moving into the 21^st century”.

I freely admit I probably lost my cool. I understood when the Sunday ferry crossings started particularly for members of families working on the mainland wanting to return home at the weekend, but are we that wedded to supermarkets that we can’t survive a single day without them. They’re open from six in the morning to ten at night, six day a week for God’s sake! I was on a roll and there was no stopping me. I’ve never seen the attraction in shopping although I still prefer my own choice when it comes to fresh fruit and veg. Who am I kidding? Apart from bananas and garlic most of that is pre-packed, so I might as well get it delivered.

Meeting up with Tottie mid-week for a coffee has made a welcome interlude, a wee brush with the outside world, but after today that might require a cooling off period.

She said it was time people were released from the tyranny of Presbyterianism. I knew what she mean, but that’s not what Tesco are talking about, and how long before the Coop follow suit. Not content with losing our village shops; there were at least three in Tolsta before supermarkets arrived, and now we are being made to get rid of everything that makes our island different in the name of progress. It’s not progress, its money. Must we be bowing down to worship at the altar of Tesco.

Typical of Tottie, she had the last word trotting out that well-worn phrase that I’ve come used to hearing from other friend, “We can’t all be like you Tom”, adding “If you had your way they’d be closing the churches on Sundays as well”. Snookered, my only escape was to complain about the price of the coffee that would be costing more than a month’s supply of medium strong, freshly ground, Italian inspired coffee. She came back as quick as a fly to a rotting corpse, “Yes Tom, and you bought that at Tesco”. We sat in an awkward silence looking out across south beach as the ferry came in to dock.

“Anyway this coffee’s rubbish” I resumed trying to move on.

“A bit like this conversation then” she fired back with a large grin.

I held up my hands in mock surrender “OK, you win, Tesco wins, truce. At least out at New Tolsta I will be able to remain oblivious to the delights of progress and the 21^st century. I paid and she returned to the office. The following day I got a text from Tottie, “Off work, got a stinking cold”. “SNAP!” I texted back. The reply was almost instant, sharp as a razor, “Yeah, and I could only have caught it from you, or Tesco, or both”. 😄 For once I was pleased to see that emoji. Having spent the past two days tucked up warm in my studio, the latest needlework of Pabail Pier on the Point peninsula is nearing completion. As usual the pier has taken centre stage and the bay framed by the crofts sweeping down from the village, and out to sea the distinctive shape of Eileen Mor Phabail that ensures we can be nowhere else.