It’s no fun having all this responsibility. Mrs X is away over on that
place they call the mainland. She said she had to go and get a few bits
and bobs. I don’t care about the bits but it’s the Bobs I’m worried
about. And the Donalds, the Alasdairs and the Finlays.
Not that there is any jealousy in my nature, you understand. Ask anyone. Except my wife because she is biased, obviously. Us island men have to be sensible about these things and we have to keep tabs on our women even if we’re gracious enough to let them loose on their own. Which is why I arranged to get updates by text from one of my mates who was also on the 7am tub outta dis town.
Technology is amazing. I was not only getting the lowdown on what was going on but I was also able to direct operations by telling my highly-paid operative what to do next. Much better than actually being
here. I’m still trying to get the hang of texting and abbreviating. I also occasionally lapse into Gaelic just to confuse everyone.
My first text, at 7.01am, was: “Well, wot’s she doing? Hoo’s she spkg 2?” He replied: “Nuttin. No 1.” After 10 minutes he still hadn’t appraised me of any juicy developments. The waiting was awful. It was more frustrating than Nadine Dorries MP waiting for the moment she could get her revenge on David Cameron for calling her frustrated.
“Oi, thusa. Wot’s appning?” I tapped out. “Tell me now.”
“Nuttin. Think Mrs X in de tigh bheag.”
Tigh bheag, as everyone north of Cumbernauld knows, is a small house. It is also code, until now known only to Gaelic speakers, for a toilet. Who knew there were small houses on the Stornoway to Ullapool ferry? And he said she was doing nuttin? My highly-paid operative didn’t even have the target in his sights? I was outraged.
“Get in aftr hr!! If its anything like bogs in Storno pubs who knows wot goes on there!! Didnt prom u 2 pints of lager and a pkt of crisps 4 doing nuttin. Rep back 2 me asap!!” I would have used more exclamation marks to show how urgent my message was but by then I had reached my 160-character limit. That was not fair.
How could I show him how angry I was if I couldn’t send him at least 10? Everyone else seems to. Sadly, he just refused to go into the small house after her. I ordered him to but he just replied with two words. Being text, he just typed the first two letters of each. I think he called me a fun officer. By ordering him around, yes, I suppose I am. Thanks, mate.
When they were maybe an hour out, I got a message that chilled me. A man had sat down next to Mrs X. He was … talking to her. Aargh. “It’s OK. Bloke has dog collar on,” wrote my secret texter. That did not assure me. This was obviously a pre-arranged mid-Minch tryst between Mrs X and some geezer cleverly dressed up as a church minister. I was beside myself.
“Gt behind them and listen in,” I ordered. My surveillance expert manoeuvred into position between an old lady from Point and an offshore worker whose breath stank more than the old lady’s dog. He then texted to call me a fun officer again. Ta, again. I ordered him to keep up the commentary. Unfortunately, my phone was set to predictive texting which writes what it thinks you want to say not what you actually want to say. The words sent were not to keep up the commentary.
It read: “Keep up the communions.”
“Have u got religion now?”
“No keep up the commandments.”
“So u have got the curam?”
“No keep up the commode.”
“Isnt that a sort of toilet?”
“I just want to know wot they do on that thing.”
“U are sick.”
It was hopeless. By the time I worked out how to switch off the predictive texting I had told him to keep up commiting the commissioner for commencing commercialising his commas. Every comm came up, but no
commentary. Anyway, it turned out it was a real live minister of the Free Church (Continuing) who was chatting her up and trying to make her change her ways. She may be a new woman when she gets back. Good. I could do with a change.
Oh look. There’s a text from Mrs X now. She’s on the way back and has booked into the Harbour Lights Hotel in Ullapool. She’s asking if I remember the last night we spent there. Nah, I don’t think so.
“We stayed here on the way back from our honeymoon,” she’s saying. Oh heck. I know it was 16 years ago but maybe they had CCTV. They might recognise her. Excuse me. I’d better reply right now.
“Deny everything. Say it was your sister. Surely they’ve repaired the bed in room 9 by now.”
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