Monthly Archives: January 2012

You didn’t expect me to pop up here today. Ha, you can’t get rid of me that easily. Much as I enjoyed having a column on a Monday, I am over the moon that the wise editor of this reinvigorated publication has switched it to a Wednesday. It means I get my weekends back. Joy.

I am now full of get up and go and brimming with positive thinking to try and get you to buy this newspaper on a Wednesday as well as every other day too. It’s just so handy in its new size. Be honest. These broadsheets really are a waste of time. They’re just too big. You can’t keep an eye on the TV news while reading them because they are just too wide and, far more importantly, when I was reading the broad P&J sheets, I couldn’t also keep an eye on the window to spy on the delightful Joan Stewart who lives up at the top of our road – except on a Monday and a Saturday when we had the handy-sized editions.

Now I can keep tabs on Joan every day of the week – and also see if her husband D A is prowling around without me having to battle with a huge wall of paper that took most of a rainforest to produce. See? Compact newspapers will help you live you enjoy life. Mrs X and I like the new size so much that we were fighting over who is going to read it first. Ony one answer. We have now ordered two copies each day. His and hers.

I’m a worrier. When I know I have a deadline, I can’t relax. When I did venture out on a Saturday eventide, it would be as well if I hadn’t gone past the front door. My head would be full of ideas as I wonderd what to write. Sometimes I would try and think of a theme with the help of some of my dearest friends.
Sitting in an alehouse with George Gawk, who has often been a source of inspiration – and who still speaks to me despite that, he suggested that I should write about positive thinking. I asked him if he had any examples that I could use.

He recounted a tale about how the fabled Angelo Dundee, the boxing manager, second, cut man and sponger offer, used to keep his all his fighters like Cassius Clay really positive by whispering to them as he sponged the streaks of blood out of their eyes. Yes, George. What did he say to them? Tell me. Tell me.
“Don’t worry, champ. I think it must be your round.” Ach, I shouldn’t have asked him. That’s pretty much George’s answer to any question you ask him.

Now, with no weekend deadline to fret over, I can go out carousing at the weekend with a clear conscience. I might still sit there with George nursing a flat iron brew, as I have done for years for the P&J cause.
Then again, I might not.

This column’s change of day means big changes for Mrs X too. Last Sunday, she did not have the pleasure of seeing me get up frightfully early to punch computer keys while she turned over and went back to snooze for a few hours. Nah, that’s not going to happen any more. I’ll lay back and relax too. Bliss.

“I ain’t going nowhere, baby. I’m staying right here with you while we read our compact-sized P&Js together. Now stop hogging that duvet. Oh, pardon me. I think I had too much of that late Saturday night curry. It’s been so long since I had one that it’s causing havoc down there.”

Now I just have to jump out of bed early and worry on a Tuesday. Oh well.
Positive thinking is a good theme. Have there been any other examples? Hmm, let me think. There was the lady here on Lewis who we heard about last week. She claimed she had nowhere to stable her pony. So she moved it into her own living room. I suppose it was positive thinking to hope that the neighbours wouldn’t complain. Sometimes positive thinking isn’t enough.

It has been claimed to help on the sports field too. Take our own local Point Football Club for example. They weren’t doing well in a match a while back, I am told. They were 3-0 down at half-time. The very positive manager was giving them a pep talk with their oranges.

It was all about how the lads had to be better at anticipating where all the other players were going to be in three seconds time, he said. They had to stop thinking of themselves as as individuals and begin working as a team.
To get them thinking about that, the coach came out with that famous inspirational line: “There is no I in team.”

Sadly, the words of encouragement did not get through to one doleful dribbler who was heard to say: “Aye, and there’s no F in Point.”

Psst, it’s me. Mrs X. I shall write this only once.  That’s because I will probably never get the chance again. You see, my husband, your usual scribbler in that silly photo there, has been out welcoming in the New Year in typical Great Bernera style. Too much. Too long. Too loud. Too late.

He rolled in here at 7am, carrying not just a lump of coal but most of the contents of our neighbour’s bunker. I’ll take the sack back later. A selection of lipsticks was on his collar and goodness only knows where else as he rolled in demanding I get up to make him a bedtime snack. Not on your life, mate. Husband or no husband, I wasn’t getting out from under that lovely warm duvet.

“Go on, go on, go on,” he wailed, pathetically. I didn’t budge even when he tried the old romantic approach. That man of mine doesn’t do romance very well. It wasn’t quite the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet as he barged into the bedroom to declare his undying love for me. It wasn’t as if he didn’t try. He tried alright. I’ll give him that.

“You are lovelier with every hour that passes,” he slurred, thinking he was focussing on me as he gawped into the mirror on the wardrobe door. Lovelier with every hour? Probably true but only through the eyes of someone who has several whiskies every hour.

Standing there, nibbling on the end of an uncooked Stornoway black pudding with his flies undone and a bulge in his pocket which I rightly suspected was just a can of lager, I can share with you that I had no trouble keeping still my beating heart. He tried to get me up by going to the window and saying: “Please get up. Look out there; everyone’s enjoying themselves.”

“Come away from the window,” I said. “It’s New Year but if they see your face, people will think it’s Halloween.” Not getting anywhere, he clumped off up the stairs to the spare room mumbling he had only come home early because he had to write his column for the Press and Journal and he had to be up at 9am to start writing.  Yeah, like that was going to happen.

However, it gave me an idea – and this is it.

So when Iain eventually wakes up and finds out I have already sent off this piece, he will probably not be very happy. Then again, I think he will also be relieved as I suspect his head will be thumping a bit. Raw black pudding is well known for upsetting the hardiest of stomachs if you have it too late.

Earlier on, he said he was planning to write some really dull stuff about the horrors of the past year and how we could all look forward to a 2012 which, he reckons, will be just as grim as because of David Cameron’s economic policy.

How boring is that? No way, I think we all need a bit of cheering up after all the food and drink you’ve had to endure for the last 10 days or so. For me, the best part of 2011 was learning photography. You should try it. I like going out in the moors and hills on my own far away from barking dogs and husbands, the constant demands of teenagers and husbands, and the acrid smell of town traffic. And, yes, husbands.

The worst part? The fact that my tightwad of a spouse failed to pick up on all the clues about how I needed a better camera. You’d think he would realise that it is fairly important to have the right tool for the job.

Actually, forget that. I’ve never known him to have the right tool for any job since I met him. He always claims to have the finest tool for the job but can never find it when I want it. Bah.

Thinking he needed a wee shove before my birthday, I went out and bought photography magazines and left them lying about on the kitchen table. Sure enough, he flicked through them, muttering about the price of magazines. Then he said it. “That’s a nice camera. Bet that one costs an arm and a leg.”

That was when I coughed to get his attention and winked at him, knowingly. Eventually, he threw one of his withering glances over at me, in that daft and vacant way of his, and wondered what was wrong with my throat and my eye.

“Nothing. Must be some kind of reaction to hearing those words,” I said. “Don’t worry. I know what you’re getting at,” says he, tapping the side of his red nose. Really? I’ll believe that when I see it.

Off he went into town and was soon back with a large parcel. Then my heart really missed a beat. My darling husband had taken the hint and gone and bought me that camera.

Oh, my darling. You know, I have always loved that man. Where did he get the £1,300 from? Who cares? Woo-hoo. What’s this? It’s a big cardboard box with, well, not much in it. Just a packet of pastilles and an eye patch. I get it. Something for my throat and my eye. Typical.

I can hear footsteps up there. I have to go now. Our house is now filling up with the traditional sights and sounds of a New Year morning. 

Ah, the sight of an occupied bathroom and the sound of retching.