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Hoots & Havers October 08
I am not patient when queuing in commercial establishments. As a customer I reckon that my time is more important than theirs and thus sufficient staff should be provided to give instant service. As a consequence I try to do most of my banking on line – when it’s possible.
Like all banks, mine has a sensible obsession with security and sent me a wee calculator-like machine and a card with which I must do fiddly things in order to access my millions. It is called a pin sentry. Then it refused to play with me, so I went to India for some assistance. ‘Oh yes, I can easily help you to go on line. I will just run through some security questions … Oh dear, You have not passed through security. You must go to your local branch to sort out this little problem. Is there anything further I can do for you?’ ‘What do you suggest?’ ‘Have a very nice day?’
So I queued at the branch which looked my security info and queried and changed my mother’s maiden name which they had down as Fankle, which I thought a bit cheeky. Then I returned to India. I still failed security and was referred back to queue again at the bank. This time they went through all my security information and agreed, though flattering, it was unconvincing to claim that I’d been born in 1995. Next time in Bangalore I cleared the first hurdle. ‘But we must upgrade you to pin sentry before you go on line.’ ‘But I have been upgraded already, I’ve been using your delightful little machine for weeks.’ ‘Oh no, no, no, sir. I’m afraid we have not sent you your pin sentry.’ ‘But I’ve got the blasted thing in my hand.’ ‘Oh dear, dear. My records are very plain on this subject. I am very sorry to tell you that cannot have one. And even if you did, which you do not, it would be completely without purpose with an authentication card.’ ’I have one of those in my hand as well.’ ‘Oh dear. This is all most disturbing. One moment, sir, and I will transfer you. Have a very wonderful day.’
A bloke in Coventry is now sending me lots of new numbers through the post and I may then be allowed to get my hands on my money. It may be easier to queue in the branch.
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Amongst the unsung heroes of the Scottish heritage industry are those who buy castles and restore them. The countryside is littered with rotting ruins in which ancient lairds once squatted behind battlements protecting their chestful of charters and a few pieces of silver of dubious workmanship and purity. Their strongholds may have helped to keep out the caterans, but they can never have been anything but cold, draughty and damp. I suppose, since everyone was cold, draughty and damp in those days, they may not have noticed.
But gallant romantics buy these things and put them up again, ending up with erections that are still cold, damp and desperately uncomfortable. You have one large room which was once the hall, but the kitchens and dining rooms are usually small, barrel-vaulted and decorated with bits of hair and scalp where the owner has bashed his head on the ceiling. And bedrooms are tucked in to any spare hole that may be around.
I had some friends staying the other day and I arranged for them to go round one such building. This one has an adjacent cottage and the owner of the castle has sensibly made this his home and lets out the pile to holiday makers. My job was to amuse the current tenant while the others viewed it.
There’s a particular kind of American gay male of whom I have never met a British equivalent. They are so screamingly camp that an entire Roman legion could station itself on their persons and not be noticed. This guy – in his 60s, botoxed with dyed hair - was one such. He had hired the castle on line, and then flown in ahead of his party. He had promised earlier in the year to crown a raddled old billionairess, his patron, Queen of Scotland and was paying for some thirty of his friends to fly in to join the festivities. He was an event organizer of note, he said. And it was difficult to argue since he brought silver-framed photographs in his baggage that he had scattered round the castle. He was to be seen amid a variety of Bushes of both sexes, shaking hands with Clinton, kissing the Pope’s extremities, simpering alongside Princess Di, and in close proximity to many other desperately important people, most of them were so aged that it was hard to tell that they were still in life. He had flown in 500 roses from Holland. He was doing the cooking and had brought Highland dress. He showed me his white stockings, his crushed velvet jacket, his garish kilt, his excessively lacy shirt and his belt with a silver-ish thistle motif on the buckle. He looked at me with mournful brown eyes, desperate for approval. ‘Very nice,’ I said politely.
There was no sign of the others, so he sat me down and went through a copy of the book that he had written about himself. ‘It’s exquisitely bound, printed on collectors’ edition paper and lavishly illustrated by world-renowned photographers,’ he said, caressing it with a well-manicured hand. ‘Gosh,’ I replied. ‘It’s very, very nice.’ He leafed through the pages, showing himself in the company of still more important people. I oo-ed, ah-ed at appropriate moments.
‘And look at this.’ He opened a large box covered in what was surely naugahyde and produced the crown. ‘It’s a replica of Queen Elizabeth of England’s. They’re real zircons but the other gems are glass. Isn’t it beautiful?’. ’Golly,’ I came up with. He asked me to join the rest of his guests at the coronation banquet but, before I succumbed to a panic attack at the prospect, the others turned up and I was able to make my escape.
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The supermarket offered to sell me woodland eggs last time I visited. Alas! Instead of sun-dappled shade, bluebells and contented clucking, I had a vision of Passchendaele – mud, fox-proof razor wire, huddled, soggy chickens and a few drooping saplings.
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