Iain Maciver writes …

THE fillets of fish had just been turned when she noticed that they were, er, slightly illuminated. This was a surprise because the light in the oven had given up the ghost several years ago. But, sure enough, the breaded fish were there sizzling away in the spotlight like Danny La Rue giving it laldy in The Good Old Days.

Oh good: no need to get a new oven quite yet, then.

But the light seemed particularly bright at the top right-hand side of the oven – almost like a flaming star, I noted – and I wondered about the river of gunge which was running down inside the glass door.

Not wanting to cause any undue alarm, I wondered if there could be any teensy-weensy chance that the top of the oven could be ever-so-slightly on fire?

A quick glance at Mrs X confirmed that she has mind-reading powers. It’s the eyes that gave it away; they were like saucers. That and the yelp which sounded suspiciously like “get the fire extinguisher”.

Always calm and decisive in any emergency, I lunged forward as she screamed not to open the door of the oven. How could I investigate what was going on in there if I did not open the door? Silly woman. This was a time for action.

So I wrenched it open, only for a gigantic mushroom of flame to shoot out singeing my hair, my eyebrows and those tickly wee hairs quite far up my nose. The blast sent me hurtling backwards, tripping over the dog and I ended up wedged bum-first in the cupboard with the All-Bran and the extra virgin olive oil.

Realising that the man in her life was brave beyond words, Mrs X meanwhile set about the various minor tasks that I was obviously too busy to do. Like closing the oven door on the raging inferno, turning off the cooker at the mains and wiping my still-smouldering features down with a damp cloth.

As I sat there, picking bits of charcoal and breaded haddock from under my eyelids and out of my ears, I thought how fortunate that I was there when it happened.

The fact that our oven happened to blow up as Mrs X was making dinner was purely coincidental. It should not be taken as any comment by me on her skills in the kitchen or with any appliances. But that is what happened.

How would she have coped if I had not been there?

Would she ever have got round to opening that oven door and confirming those fillets of fish were, indeed, well done?

Thank goodness I was there in her hour of need.

As she was untypically slow in congratulating me on my rapid response, to get the soot out of my lungs I headed off for a stroll in the castle grounds with Hector, the slightly-smoky miniature schnauzer.

I chanced upon Jock Stewart. Jock and his wife, Chrissie, were my guvnors when I was a barman in that fine establishment the Criterion Bar, back in the 1970s.

I wonder if I’m still barred?

Jock told me Kenny Ritchie, his brother-in-law in Whitehills and a former journalist himself, reads this column and that I must say hello. Aw, that’s nice.

Hi, Kenny, you really should find better things to do with your time.

However, Murphy’s law is such that whenever you get a compliment like that, someone is about to slap you with a wet fish.

So a letter then flutters in from downtown Caithness. Someone is concerned the readers of the P&J are suffering by having to gaze upon the sight of my roughly-hewn and inelegant bone structure here every Monday.

Dan Mackay who, by the sound of it, must have a chiselled jawbone and a six-pack tucked under his semmit, helpfully suggests electronic photo enhancement to avoid further distress to the blue-rinse ladies of Wick and himself.

What nonsense. I did not spend a fortune on strong drink and wild women cultivating this deeply-furrowed world-weary look you see before you just to have it all airbrushed away for the sake of namby-pamby Caithnessians with weak stomachs.

Mr Mackay then went on to disparage everyone in the Western Isles. We folk over here on the blasted and less-smelly side of the Minch are not entertaining enough for him.

He should get out more.

It is quite obvious he has not yet met many people from the Free Church (Continuing). I mean, can anyone listen to self-righteousness like that without being reduced to fits of giggles?

However, he may just have a point about my general look. So it was with a heavy heart and a heavy pocket of pound coins that I finally decided to go in for some enhancement. I headed for the barber – after I had cut off the badly burned bits myself.

I figured that merely tweaking my photo was no good. I had actually to make some real deep-down changes. A haircut was the best place to start. Any necessary plastic surgery will come later.

The delightful Marianne Hovis was on duty. Beckoning me to the chair, she asked whether I wanted a number one or a number two. I told her just make me pretty. She sighed in that polite way that people do when they know the task ahead is impossible. But Marianne set to it with gusto: snipping, chopping, hacking, grinding.

Before long, I was divested of my tatty head blanket and emerged like a newly sheared ram.

I ran all the way home and asked Mrs X if that was any better.

She decided the word was different. It was a new look, she agreed, but as that look was a cross between Winston Churchill and Homer Simpson, it was not necessarily an improvement, she said, as she reached for the balaclava.