A MAN living somewhere in the Stornoway area is probably either baffled, angry or chuffed to bits. The poor fellow had a very weird phone call that was meant for me.
Some weeks ago, I may have mentioned in this column gigglesome broadcaster and wizard with a slotted spoon Neen Mackay. I may also have inadvertently let slip that she had sent me an e-mail that could be construed by anyone with that kind of mind as being slightly saucy.
Being back here on Lewis for a wee break from her luxury hideaway in Perthshire, she decided to look me up and have words with me about my journalistic indiscretion.
Blinded by anger and a need for revenge, she misdialled and got someone completely different to vent her wrath on.
“Is that my so-called secret lover? Huh. Who do you think you are, Maciomhair? You have really done it this time. By the time I have finished with you, you will be wishing you had written about the Free Church (Continuing) instead. That was so out of order.
“Secret lover? I’ll give you a secret lover. I’m on the way round now to sort you out,” was one heck of an opening gambit.
The poor innocent fellow on the other end of the phone protested loudly that he was no one’s fancy man, had never written a word in the Press and Journal about anyone and was most keen to discover who on earth she was and why she was picking on him.
That didn’t work. The more the stunned subscriber complained, the more Ms Mackay was convinced that it was just me disguising my voice to avoid a roasting from the ferocious, flame-haired domestic goddess.
When the exasperated chap hung up eventually, something I have to say that I would not have been so likely to do in those circumstances without getting to the bottom of the matter, for some reason she decided to check the number she had just dialled.
She had got a digit wrong.
So she had been giving a piece of her mind and having another very personal conversation with someone who may not necessarily have had either the sparkling personality or the dazzling good looks of her columnist mate.
Her words.
But then again, Neen does sometimes need glasses nowadays, which is probably what caused the entire problem.
It is not for me to apologise for the good lady’s faux pas. However, if the unfortunate recipient of the call happens to read this, he could always get in touch and I might be able to point him in her direction.
Mind you, if he was so distressed that he called in the constabulary, the boys with the silver buttons will be feeling her collar round about now, anyway.
Because, like Gordon Brown, it is now the fashion to put our hands up for errors in communications.
I suppose I should ’fess up, too. I made a bit of a boo-boo the other day by not making myself clear. It could have resulted in some other poor souls thinking that I was also being somewhat fresh towards them.
“See you, I’m going to fill you in,” was always a slightly-worrying greeting to be had in some of the less-salubrious pubs round these parts, such as when, for example, you knocked someone’s hand and their pint went all over the floor.
Times have changed. Now, that phrase means something quite different and is as likely to come from someone with a medical qualification as a Rudhach ruffian.
Botox injections and wrinkle-filling treatments are now advertised in the islands. The advertisers are to be commended for their endeavours to drum up trade, but where is their customer base on these windswept Hebridean islands?
Everyone here has a rosy complexion and while there are some who love to look world-weary and sunken-faced at certain times of the week, that is just a put-on and they do look quite normal from Monday to Saturday.
I think it was the adverts for Botox that inspired my wife to tackle some longtime outstanding jobs around the house. Grout, putty and Polyfilla were getting laldy all week and before long there was more silicone in the bathroom and the kitchen than Jordan has had implanted in the last five years.
Being not very adept at DIY myself, I kept out of the way in case she turned on me for any other wee crevices to fill.
Outside, she decided that the damage to the shed roof needed fixing before the winter. High-level negotiations ensued and Peter George, a brother of the said Mrs X and a man with a reputation for fixing anything that is broken, about to break or just out of guarantee, agreed to rush round with a hammer.
He is a handy fellow. I like to watch him work in case I pick up any PG tips.
With the prospect of a man who was good with his hands about to arrive, the hopeless man of the house was dispatched to get the necessary materials where, it was decided, there was less chance of me getting anything wrong.
At Bain Morrison, those fine builders’ merchants to the gentry, the faces of the girls in the office fairly lit up when I walked in and announced that my wife was hard at it and had sent me along to get felt as she was too busy to do it herself.
Even John Angus, the foreman, stared at me from under a raised eyebrow and nodded. I had, indeed, come to the right place.
While I am sure there are others who provide a similar service, I can confirm that the quality experience I encountered at Bain Morrison meant that getting felt at that particular trader of titillating timbers was painless, professional and so speedy that it was all over before I even realised it had happened. I’ll be back.
