Iain Maciver writes …

Let’s hear it for the Queen. Having an idea these touchy-feely Americans were going to get up close and personal, she decided to get in there first.

She would have been watching how the guys in the royal protection squad do it. Hand up the back straight away before Michelle Obama had a chance to go feeling for a dodgy seam.

So the other First Lady from across the pond got neither her mitts on Her Maj’s embroidery nor the headlines for making the first move. Well played, ma’am. One has given her one in the eye, one thinks.

I wonder what was all that small talk between them? They seemed to be going at it 10 to the dozen, but it was not as if the Queen could ask the visitor towering over her if she had come far. The Obamas are just about to get a dog, apparently. So I suppose Her Maj could have been giving her tips on the most suitable breed to get. That’ll be a corgi in the White House soon, then.

Or maybe they just compared husbands. Our monarch would have been concerned at having all these foreign types hanging around the place. She would have been at pains to explain that, at his age, Philip’s batteries tend to run down fairly soon after lunch.

When the batteries are not providing full power, there is always a chance that his blunder-avoidance mechanism will not be running properly, particularly where dear friends from overseas are concerned. Which is no doubt why the prince suggested that he had seen so many great statesmen, and Gordon Brown, that he was having difficulty telling them all apart.

The Queen, though, is not bad for 82. She is just about the same age as my own regal relation, Auntie Kirsty Ann, over in Bernera. But that is where any comparison ends. The head of the Commonwealth, for example, is very appreciative of any little gift her visitors bring her.

Obama brought her an iPod, bless him. Our ruler was graciously thankful, we hear, although she will probably never use it, despite it being pre-loaded with such catchy ditties as Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend, something from The King and I and If I Were a Rich Man.

I bought my auntie a cordless phone a while back. Just the thing, I thought, so she would not have to get up out of her chair each time someone rang. Her Ladyship was not impressed.

I was commanded to take it straight back to Lightning and Electrical, or wherever I dared to get it from without consulting her first. I bet Her Majesty is not so bossy. I bet she does not summon her nephew Lord Linley and then rudely ask him why he has not lost weight since she last saw him and, by the way, why has it been so long since he has bothered to go and see her? No, I thought not.

Still, having good staff helps. Her Majesty might, indeed, have all these footmen and butlers and equerries attending to her every need, but she does not have an Andrea to look after her. But my auntie does.

Her regular home carer, Andrea Maciver, is blessed with some rare qualities. She cheerfully goes about her vital tasks with style and charm. Whatever Auntie Kirsty Ann is moaning about that day is responded to with an avalanche of good cheer and happy yarns. However long the face or grim the news, Andrea bounces back with positivity, warm sunshine and another cup of tea. She is far more than a home carer. Andreas should be available on the NHS.

No matter how hard she tries to be demanding, and my auntie can try very hard, she is soon forced to smile and join the banter. But I love her dearly. Most of the time.

As I do the other women in my life, even although they have sadly abandoned me. Yes, I am home alone while wife and daughter are gallivanting around the north of Scotland. A quick check has revealed that the card for the joint account is not in its usual place.

The credit card also seems to have vanished. And my secret wad under the lid of the toilet cistern? It must have flushed away.

Herself doesn’t know I overheard her telling someone on the phone that she knew some fine new restaurants in Inverness which, she said, were just waiting to be tried out. Restaurants are not clothes shops, dear. Calm down.

She is always so very sensible when we go on shopping trips together. What will the credit card bills be like? She was not like that when she was young.

Meanwhile, yet another towering memorial to a youth long lost but not forgotten is also about to crumble in Stornoway. From the signs outside it, it seems like that fine old landmark on Ripley Place, opposite the fire station, is about to be razed to the ground. It was once the Gibson hostel.

Not always was it boarded-up and so sad-looking as it has been in recent years. Once it rang out with delighted whoops and laughter – and not just from the wardens and masters administering the belt to the various miscreants within.

I was thinking of calling up D.S. Murray in Shetland, Murdo Maclean in London and all the other hard-working lads of my year. We could start a protest and stop the bulldozers moving in and destroying that happy place where we grew up into the well-adjusted, wonderful people we are today.

We are people of solid principles. We could all lie down in the road and block the demolition squad. After all, it was where we studied, played, ate, slept and, in the last year, drank a fair bit as well. What do you think, guys?

No, I can’t be bothered, either. So much to do. I have to paint the shed and repair the mower . . .