Adventures of a Lone Bass Player

 
Entry No 1 and other blog highlights: click here

Yesterday morning was a traumatic time for Matchgirl. After removing a few items of junk she delegated the rearrangement of the spare bedroom to me, then lurked restlessly downstairs and listened with concern to the thumps and bumps above her head as I attempted to create order out of chaos.

Matchgirl has a relaxed attitude toward household management and had not been looking forward to my new broom – needed if I am to bring more of my things into The Rural Retreat. That’s why a fresh start in a home new to both prospective marriage partners is the ideal. However, she accepted that something had to be done now the decision has been made to stay on in her place. The spare bedroom (which doesn’t actually contain a bed) was the best room in which to demonstrate my skills.

I’ve never hankered after a huge house; a small space suits me fine, which I reckon goes back to childhood. As an only boy with three sisters my bedroom was invariably the box room so I’ve been used to making best use of limited cubic capacity for a long time. (My mother may scoff at that.) In an hour or two I’d reorganised the furniture, repacked shelves and revealed an impressive expanse of floor area that Matchgirl hadn’t seen for years. I also discovered a box containing unworn spike-heeled black sling-backs, still wrapped in tissue paper, that she’d forgotten she owned. Yes – the chaos was that chaotic.

Out of the tumult emerged a study, dressing room and bike gear storage area. There’s also room to let down the sofa-bed or place a blow-up mattress for the benefit of unfussy guests. Fussy ones don’t get invitations. Matchgirl was impressed – although not enough that she wished The Grand Reorganisation to continue further that day. A girl can take only so much violation of her personal space.

She’s now promised to take a ruthless rampage through The Rural Retreat to rid herself of more junk before I turn my attention to the main living area. And junk there is in plenty: in the space beneath the stairs I discovered a guitar belonging to Matchgirl’s ex-partner’s ex-girlfriend. Matchgirl has lived alone for more than three years…

In the evening we visited Dee and Don to collect the lawnmower they’ve loaned us until Matchgirl’s machine is fully fettled by Frank Nicol or one of his minions. This turned into dinner followed by drinks, but, as Don eschews alcohol and I was driving, the bulk was consumed by the gentle sex.

The tipple of choice was a violently-yellow concoction of Italian origin which impressed the ladies in part because of its slim and shapely bottle. Almost half disappeared with little effort, even after the list of ingredients was found to include, in first place, “hidro-alcoholic solution”. Yummy. Grappa, sugar and lemon skins also featured.

Neither of the alco-pop enthusiasts could grasp that, despite its shape, the bottle contained the same volume as any other bottle of spirits, and at 30% alc was not a lot weaker. Matchgirl woke in reasonable shape this morning. Dee has yet to make contact.

Another huge decision has been taken: next week my house will join the hundreds of other properties on sale in Maryburgh. (Less than eleven years on the clock, sound bodywork, one careful owner – want to make me an offer?)

For all its faults, the rural retreat is now home and has been for some time. If my house were a car it would be a Ford Mondeo: modern, reliable, spacious and dull. The rural retreat would be a pre-war MG convertible: impractical, filled with rattles, creaks and groans and occasionally unreliable but bursting with character and worth all the financial hassles.

Every other house I’ve lived in felt temporary. The Rural Retreat (as it will be known henceforth) is somewhere I can picture the two of us still being in twenty years’ time. And longer.

The short-term future now holds the challenge of decluttering the household to make space for my paltry few possessions; where the monster Marshall amp will rest is only one of many tricky decisions soon to be faced. Matchgirl has shown willing by moving part of her extensive footwear collection from the spare bedroom, which is a sacrifice I won’t forget. The girl’s a trouper.

Mower Update: The rodent-ravaged machine is now in the tender care of Frank Nicol and may return, as good as new, this weekend. That’s fortunate, for the grass appears to double in height every day. Bess now spends her days striding tiger-like around her personal jungle, swishing her tail and full of self-importance.

Thanks for all the mouse-control suggestions. However, the idea that Matchgirl would put chocolate into a mouse trap is a total non-starter. She paled at the very thought of such profligacy.

The Mystery of the Disappearing Mice has been solved.

For months the rural retreat’s rodents partied long and hard every night beneath the kitchen sink, ignored Matchgirl’s humane traps and thumbed their noses at Bess, the world’s most useless indoor mouser. Then all was quiet. Had they moved house? Were they now living al fresco somewhere on Matchgirl’s sprawling estate?

The answer came today when Matchgirl decided that the time had come to mow the grass that’s grown six inches in the past six days. She likes her toys, and one of them is her ancient petrol-powered lawnmower; I wouldn’t have been allowed to do the job even if I’d wanted to. Consequently, she returned home from work today with a can of petrol and a maniacal gleam in her eye, all set to bring order back to her rampant sward.

The machine was hauled from its winter resting place in the outhouse and fuel administered – all that remained was to prime the engine and fire up the mighty mower. This involved pumping a small rubber teat a few times. It was not to be.

I was hard at work in the kitchen, doing man’s work, when Matchgirl burst in, outraged and cursing loudly: the mice had nibbled away the rubber, rendering her mower immobile. A call to Frank Nicol’s garden centre in Dingwall produced the dispiriting news that there’s a two-week wait for servicing and repairs. Mowers, it seems, are coming out of hibernation all over Ross-shire.

The sabotaged machine was returned to the outhouse where Matchgirl found further evidence of rodents run riot. No more Ms Nice Guy – the gloves are now off and the next traps will be as inhumane as she can find. You’ve been warned – don’t touch Matchgirl’s toys.

She soothed herself by browsing lawnmower sites on the internet, swooning over the big red sit-on machines to be had for only £1,295. No go-faster stripes though. She resisted the temptation and will consider her horticultural options again tomorrow.

My fellow blogger Michelle tells me my appeasement of the weather gods brought glorious sunshine to the Highlands over the weekend and bank holiday. This proves that I’m nothing more than the gods’ plaything…

Friday: Matchgirl, it must be recorded, contained all her belongings within one GTR pannier – a notable achievement. The ball gown and sparkly slippers were left behind reluctantly, the girl who likes to be prepared for everything still not totally convinced she wouldn’t need them. We departed, after leaving out enough food for Bess to survive a small famine, bathed in the aforementioned glorious sunshine.

Our route to Kennacraig, where the Islay ferry departs, took us through some of Scotland’s best coastal scenery, marred only by the excrescence that is Fort William: an ugly town that’s also the beginning of the wearisome road to Onich on which overtaking is either illegal or difficult and where The Slow Drivers’ Club has a permanent presence. The club’s life president was on duty last Friday, driving her little hatchback at 30-35mph on a road where 50-60mph is a safe speed, braking carefully on bends so she could round them at 25mph. Sadly, this is no exaggeration.

Castle Stalker

After crossing Ballachulish Bridge we continued to follow the Loch Linnhe shoreline, but a brief hail storm – the second – accompanied by heavy rain encouraged us to stop for tea and buns at the Castle Stalker View Café near Appin. This is a newish place with big windows, better to view the eponymous castle, and with a serious design flaw: stone-flagged floors and heavy wooden chairs combined with a vaulted wooden ceiling meant every sound and voice was amplified; the children being ignored by the lunching mums at Table 666 added to the general mayhem. Not a relaxing break.

But the rain had stopped, the sun was out, the road was quiet and the views were breathtaking. There’s not a part of Argyll that’s not worth seeing – strongly recommended.

The Bridge Over The Atlantic

South of Oban I made a small detour to show Matchgirl the Bridge Over The Atlantic – a spectacular packhorse bridge that connects Seil Island with the mainland, its apex scarred by long vehicles whose drivers didn’t realise its hump was so pronounced. The waterproofs came off there and stayed off for the rest of the day.

The road south continued: Kimelford, Kilmartin, Lochgilphead (where we joined the road that runs beside Loch Fyne), Ardrishaig, Tarbert. The Kintyre peninsula begins at Tarbert where the land is barely a mile wide at its narrowest point, as noted by some sneaky Norwegian Vikings in 1098. In that year the Scottish king, Edgar, ceded all the Western Isles to the Vikings in the hope they’d stop raiding the mainland. King Magnus Barelegs promptly had his boat pulled across the narrow neck of land, declared Kintyre an island and added it to his empire.

At the bottom of the peninsula is the Mull of Kintyre, made famous by Paul McCartney. Punk was at its high point in 1977 but the Wings dirge was the year’s best-selling single in the UK. Useless information – I know lots.

We reached Port Askaig on Islay after a two-hour voyage across gentle seas. Matchgirl, however, is not a salty old sea dog and was glad to get back on land. Twenty minutes after that we arrived at the White Hart Hotel in Port Ellen where she met members of the Kawasaki GT Club for the first time. All had arrived by the earlier ferry and several had spent time in the bar since then. A contented mood prevailed.

Saturday: Wild winds woke us in the morning; the White Hart creaked and groaned like a tea clipper under full sail in the Roaring Forties. At least there was no rain.

The day’s entertainment was a treasure hunt which took us to almost every extremity of the island in search of answers to questions posed by Ian, who’d organised the weekend. This involved lots of single-track roads with a central reservation of grass or gravel, which made the useable surface for motorcyclists approximately two feet wide. Potholes, dead wildlife, stubborn livestock, dung and more gravel meant a high state of alertness was useful.

We came together again near Port Charlotte. Lunchtime entertainment was laid on by Laurel and Hardy and their families who were attempting to erect a huge tent on the shore campsite at the same time that a howling gale was causing gulls to fly backwards. After an hour, when they appeared to have succeeded, they took down the struggling canvas, packed up and drove away, presumably in search of B&B or hotel accommodation. We split up again and continued the hunt.

Mission accomplished, Matchgirl and I returned to the White Hart to discover that Jim’s club jinx had struck again. Jim, and wife Lorraine, have attended three club events: on his way to the first his solenoid died so he missed the first day; during the second his exhaust blew so he was unable to join the run; now he’d picked up a nail in his rear tyre which no garage on the island could do anything about. They’d have to stay in the hotel during next day’s planned run to Jura.

Bruichladdich Distillery

But there was worse. An embarrassed Richard described how he’d clipped the rear of Geoff’s bike while both were enjoying a slow-speed gawp at Bruichladdich distillery. Geoff stayed upright but Richard fell, inflicting serious cosmetic damage on his beloved Triumph Speed Triple; the only injury he suffered was to his pride; the bike remained rideable.

Evening: more food, more drink, more gossip. The wind dropped, the skies cleared, the sun set in a blaze of gold. Gorgeous.

Sunday: The wind returned; the rain hammered down. Oh joy. Jim and Lorraine stayed smugly in bed while the rest of us pulled on waterproofs and rode the twenty miles to Port Askaig to catch the ferry to Jura. By the time we got there, three of us had discovered a severe lack of waterproofing and another had decided he didn’t want to see Jura anyway. Or maybe he didn’t fancy the tiny ferry that leapt at its berth and looked as seaworthy as a tea tray.

Two of the Paps of Jura

Matchgirl and I spent the day with books and newspapers broken by a stroll to the local cybercafé, that being the only place in the village which served meals on a Sunday. The Jura landing party returned later with tales of deer by the score, spectacular views from the tip of the island, and wonderful weather. Gloves that contained more water than a sponge suggested a slight exaggeration.

Evening: more food, more drink, more gossip. The wind dropped, the skies cleared, the sun set in a blaze of gold. Gorgeous. Very strange.

The evening also featured Jim’s epic four-hour telephone marathon with the AA. After six or seven calls they finally understood that he was on a small, remote island, surrounded by water, and that their call centre operative’s well-rehearsed boast “We are the AA – we’ll reach anywhere within two hours” could not be fulfilled. Top management was summoned by flummoxed underlings. A hire car was proposed and as quickly withdrawn. More to-ing and fro-ing ensued, at the end of which AA’s top brains agreed that a recovery vehicle would meet Jim off the ferry next morning, his bike having been pushed on to it by helpful club members. This was what Jim had proposed during his initial phone call.

Monday: No wind, no rain; warm and sunny. Surely some mistake? Another peaceful crossing. An AA vehicle was conspicuously absent from the dock at Kennacraig so I’ve yet to learn how that story ends.

Loch Awe with Kilchurn Castle

We returned home via the beautiful, quiet road that twists along the shore of Loch Awe. Argyll really is spectacular – take a trip if you've never been there.

Friday morning: the sun shines from a windless blue sky, promising a glorious day when the last of the overnight chill is lifted. I’m not fooled; the weather forecast is rubbish and not far down the road there’ll be thunder and lightning, rain, hail and plague of locusts. Death of the first-born is probably not far behind.

So Matchgirl and I will don the wet-weather gear before we depart for Islay in a short time – an act of appeasement that we hope the weather gods will note with approval. The alternative is the one-legged rain dance, performed at the roadside by damp, cursing motorcyclists as they struggle into waterproof over-trousers and jackets after belatedly admitting that the downpour isn’t getting any less.

This will be Matchgirl’s first weekend away on the GTR. She promises a clothing and footwear selection that won’t be bulky, but as hair care, skin care and beauty products are classed as essentials (including her turbo-charged hairdryer plus a diffuser with the diameter of a dinner plate) luggage space may be at a premium. We shall see.

We’re back on Monday. Try not to miss us too much.

Spring fever appears to be taking hold of the rural retreat’s resident moggy.

The evidence comes not from the rodent holocaust, which has waned in the past couple of months, but from her restless nocturnal wanderings. And when Bess is sleepless, so is everyone else.

Last night’s cacophonous cat-calling began at three-thirty when Bess placed herself at the top of the stairs and yowled piteously until she was certain we were no longer asleep. Her tone suggested a heartbreak of operatic proportions and loneliness that only human companionship could dispel, yet after a mere five minutes sprawled on the duvet she’d had enough of Matchgirl’s fondling (the feline fool) and returned to her mysterious night-time business.

She came back at five o’clock for more of the same.

Matchgirl and I yawned our way downstairs a couple of hours later to discover her curled up cosily in one of her baskets, well pleased with life, clearly intent on a hard morning’s cat-napping with perhaps a break for a little light breakfast. All right for some.

The catty behaviour may be payment in advance for leaving her behind this weekend when we attend the bike club festivities on Islay. She may have the last laugh too – the forecast is for heavy rain, which doesn’t presage well for carefree motorcycling. Such is life. If the weather’s too miserable to ride we’ll just have to stay in the hotel and sample some of the local produce.

As Islay is home to Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg, among others, this will be no hardship. Slainte mhath!

Gary phoned this morning, full of excitement: Shaker’s been offered a gig in Elgin.

As his bombshell was dropped while I was at work I didn’t have time to interrogate him fully. How the venue in question, Joanna's, knew his phone number and of our existence is a question to be answered later.

I’ve played there before and it can be a cracking gig, so this was good news. This also means that we now have a target date – the last weekend in August – by which we must be polished, shiny and ready to rock. We’re playing a charity gig in Inverness the same weekend and had to turn down a wedding gig (the happy couple were desperate) because of it.

Gigs are like buses: you wait for ages then they all come at once.

Property Update: More for sale signs have appeared in Maryburgh. The sale of my humble and neglected abode may soon no longer be an option if I wish to get a decent price.

Newspapers – who can believe a word? According to them, Scotland’s petrol stations are all besieged by panicking motorists, desperate to fill up before the Grangemouth refinery strike dries up the country's fuel supplies and leads to the end of civilisation as we know it. There was no sign of civil unrest at the West End Filling Station in Dingwall this morning, nor at any other that we passed, so I topped up the GTR’s tank without trouble before Matchgirl and I set out to make the most of a second successive sunny Sunday.

The pillion passenger had expressed a wish to visit Achiltibuie: a fine idea, especially as that enabled us to enjoy a whiz along the road to Ullapool. However, north of the village I ignored the turn and continued through increasingly dramatic mountain scenery to Lochinver. From there, a superb single-track road twists back south along the coast, watched over by Stac Pollaidh and An Teallach. Fantastic.

Off this road, past Inverkirkaig, is a hidden gem called Achins Books which as well as feeding the mind nourishes the body with soup, toasties and cakes. Remote is an understatement, but the business thrives; anyone who finds the establishment is sure to return, as I have on many occasions. We received a friendly welcome from the jovial proprietor, then ate to the accompaniment of his booming laugh which punctuated a tribute edition of I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue – broadcast to mark the death of Humphrey Lyttelton earlier this week. Not many people will be remembered with the affection that Humph inspired.

Full of soup, cake and comedy nostalgia we wandered into the book room. I’m a book-lover who’s usually too mean to look outside Tesco’s cut-price offerings, second-hand stores and charity shops. I like a bargain. So paying £25 for a single tome was a bit of a result for the laughing bookseller. The volume that caught my eye featured paintings by Jack Vettriano and photo studies inspired by his work. Brilliant.

More single-track motorcycle meandering led eventually to Achiltibuie, gorgeous views of the Summer Isles, and the road back to Ullapool where we sat on the sea wall and stared across Loch Broom while eating fish and chips (her) and battered haggis and chips (me, and don’t knock it till you’ve tried it – Ullapool’s Seefood chippie is an institution).

Home was via a detour up the dead-end road along the other side of the loch where fields full of gambolling lambs were as entertaining as always. Our final stop was at Dingwall, for more fuel, where the breakdown of society was still not evident. A good day.

Further proof that a cat is mistress of the rural retreat came when Matchgirl and I went to check out a possible new home this afternoon.

We’re still swithering between keeping my house, keeping her house, or finding one new to both of us. All the options have their merits and demerits but finding Rural Retreat II would solve all our problems. Hence today’s drive-by viewing of a cottage near Kiltarlity.

Online, the des res looked ideal: full of character, secluded, splendid conservatory to the rear, only marginally outside our self-imposed price limit. Matchgirl, however, took one glance and rejected the place without a further look. “Too close to the road,” she declared. “It would be dangerous for Bess.”

The cat has spoken.

As we drove away, Matchgirl fulminated against the wickedness of estate agents who not only misled prospective purchasers about the size of the property and the proximity of neighbours but also failed to warn that the area is unsuitable for cats with impaired road sense. Spin from an estate agent – who’d have thought it?

She consoled herself with a trip to Mitchell’s to buy a set of waterproofs ahead of next weekend’s bike trip to Islay. With luck, now she’s bought them she won’t need them. Going away without any would guarantee punishment by the weather gods.

Then, at long last, began The Quest For The Ring.

Matchgirl’s vision of beauty encompasses amethyst, silver and a particular shape which she was unable to describe but would know when it was seen. After half-a-dozen jewellers she’d refined her vision and seen a couple of examples that left her eyes sparkling. Perfection, however, still eluded her. The hunt may resume in Edinburgh in a couple of weeks.

The day was not over. Next stop was the kilt hire establishment discovered by Matchgirl which claimed to serve a clientele of above-average height. This turned out to be an exaggeration – not a kilt in the place was long enough for me, much to the bride-to-be’s disappointment.

Although she’s still not abandoned her hopes, she’s beginning to accept that my wedding attire may have to be a suit. That was close.

And the day was still not over. The last leg of our trek ended at the recently-sold wedding venue (the name of which remains a secret) where the new manager assured us that all was well, The Great Event would live forever in the memory of anyone lucky enough to attend, and anything we wanted we could have. Anything. We declined her generous offer of pipers, floral experts, bands, beauticians and other vital wedding day extras and returned to the rural retreat to re-order the festivities in the light of new information.

Four-and-a-half months to The Great Event. Still no panic and I even enjoyed the Quest as much as is possible for any husband-to-be who becomes invisible while affianced and saleswoman enthuse over the relative merits of amethyst, opal, topaz, silver, gold and platinum. Matchgirl judged my tolerance level well, for the Quest was adjourned when I was still willing to go further.

More impressive, she didn’t even try on the £4,500 platinum and diamond rings which one overly optimistic salesperson placed in front of her. Ours is surely a match made in heaven.

Shaker is beginning to sound like a real band. Yesterday evening’s rehearsal was the usual curate’s egg but the good is now out-weighing the gruesome. Highlight of the evening was finally cracking the Foo Fighters’ Times Like These. Tomorrow, Madison Square Gardens.

Matt, as last week, spent much of the evening chasing his cruelly abused drum kit around the hall. He’s still not procured himself a roll of carpet and had to settle for the mat from the boot of someone’s car. Unsurprisingly, that failed to do the trick. Gaffa tape was called into play, more being layered around the feet of drums and cymbal stands at the end of each song until his kit was stuck firmly to the floor.

If that drum kit were a dog, Matt would have been up before the sheriff long ago. It’s a battered, tattered, sad and grubby set-up, beaten into submission by sticks that appear to have been whittled with a blunt penknife around fifty years ago. Matt carries around a case full of drumsticks, although one has to question his motives as most are splintered relics that should have gone on the fire long ago. They must carry sentimental value. Scary.

By total coincidence, Jim has finally got around to buying earplugs.

Rehearsals are now over for a couple of weeks while he sunbathes on his oil-rig. In the meantime we’ll learn a few more songs and look forward to the time when we’re fit go out and play. We’re getting there, although we may all be deaf first.

Below – Matt lays into his drum kit without mercy

 

Dee and Don were entertaining last night, Matchgirl reports, and conversation with their guests turned to the exposition of The Wondrous Apparel and the attitude of the shop assistant towards paying customers.

Dee, it seems, was tickled that I’d dubbed the hide-bound haberdasher The Wedding Nazi and dropped the soubriquet into her tale. Drink had been taken, and her anecdote was well advanced before she noticed that one of her guest couples was increasingly quiet.

The one that was half-German.

Matchgirl didn’t learn how – or if – Dee was able to extract her foot from her mouth with dignity. Basil Fawlty, however, would have been proud of her.

As for The Wedding Nazi, rumours that she’s made a pact with the Italian ice-cream parlour and invaded the Polish delicatessen next door in an effort to expand the business are so far unconfirmed, although the owner of the French restaurant up the street looks very worried. And the staff of the sushi bar are acting very suspiciously…

Another momentous step was taken yesterday when my GTR came to live at the rural retreat.

Despite my accidental move to the Black Isle, the motorcycle remained outside my house in Maryburgh and suffered alone through the winter frosts and gales. But spring has sprung, the crisp new MOT certificate is in my pocket, a shiny new tax disc is on display, and a new rear tyre means the machine will now go around corners properly. The road calls.

Finding somewhere to park was an unexpected problem. Being rural, the rural retreat boasts very little in the way of hard standing, none of it suitable for a bike which needs shelter from the prevailing winds – he’s been blown over at least once, despite an impressive bulk, and hauling him upright again is not easy. We settled on a spot beside the three-walled, tumbledown ruin that used to be the retreat’s garden shed. As mentioned earlier, horticulture doesn’t play a large part in Matchgirl’s life.

Feeling in a mood to challenge the weather gods, I began today by giving the GTR a much-needed wash and brush-up. The gods pretended not to notice; the day remained mild with occasional sunshine. Splendid.

We rode west, into stronger sun, via Garve, Achnasheen and Strathcarron. I’d hoped to take the Wee Ferry to Skye but discovered it’s too early in the season for a Sunday service. Plan B was to introduce Matchgirl to the splendours of Sheena’s Tea Hut at Corran, but first we stopped at the Glenelg Inn for soup and sandwiches (it being too early in the season for full meals), which were taken in the garden where the sun beat down. In April. In Scotland. We enjoyed the view of Skye across Glenelg Bay, made friends with the pub cat, and all was well with the world.

Glenelg is reached by a superb up-and-down, twisting, single-track road from Shiel Bridge; do 30mph and admire the scenery. From Glenelg the vista becomes even more rugged, the Knoydart peninsula rising across Loch Hourn. Fantastic. And Sheena’s fabled Tea Hut at the end of the road. From there you either walk the nine miles through the mountains to Kinloch Hourn and the road to Loch Quoich and Glen Garry, or you turn around and ride back – which we did after a stroll through the hamlet, gingerbread and clootie dumpling at the Tea Hut, and a courtesy call on two of the tame deer that regard the main street (the only street) as their own.

We returned to Shiel Bridge and took the Glen Shiel and Glen Moriston road to the A82, in the course of which the final winter cobwebs were blasted out of the GTR and some of the rust shaken off. This is a biker’s dream road, and as it’s too early in the season to be clogged with awe-struck tourists we had it pretty much to ourselves. Matchgirl described the ride as “exhilarating rather than terrifying” despite closing her eyes on a couple of bends. I enjoyed it too. So did the GTR. Happy days.

PS: I'd have included more links but they've been used up by catsback.

 

Matchgirl made the most of her free day by taking another member of The Bridal Entourage to view The Wondrous Apparel and confirm the rightness of her decision. This was risky, for the member in question was Dee, who’s noted for not mincing her words. They’re still speaking, so Matchgirl’s sartorial judgement was endorsed.

The shop assistant saw things in a different light. The friendly, helpful woman that Matchgirl had dealt with previously was absent. In her place was The Wedding Nazi.

She cast doubt on Matchgirl’s choice of dress, made several attempts to persuade her that a wedding without a veil was a travesty, and – most damning of all – insisted that her favoured shoe colour was wrong. Matchgirl, you’ll recall, is one of this country’s premier footwear experts. The Nazi was so insistent she knew better than the customer that she wouldn’t let her try on the objects of her desire – an unusual sales technique. They would clash with the dress and spoil the photographs, Matchgirl was told.

She hit back hard with the claim that there’d be no photographs. The Nazi was horrified and explained at great length why this would be disaster. In her world there’s only one way to conduct a wedding; Matchgirl simply wasn’t playing by the rules. “It’s your wedding,” she finally admitted to her, but in a tone of voice that suggested a fiasco was the only possible outcome.

When Matchgirl related her adventures to me, back at the rural retreat, I pictured a fifty-something spinster as the offending party. The reality was a twenty-something girl of, as Precious Ramotswe would describe it, “traditional build”.

She restored her equilibrium in the early evening by browsing shoe sites, oohing and aahing at the wonders she discovered and making plaintive pleas for a shopping trip to London. I will attempt to be strong.

Culinary Update: Our feast tonight was an old favourite of mine from the Curry House website: Chicken Korma, but with king prawns in place of chicken for the sake of Matchgirl’s tender palate, plus a Vegetable Curry side dish of courgettes, onions and tomatoes. Try it – tastes fabulous and dead easy, even though you have to make the curry sauce in advance. It's nothing like the bland restaurant kormas made for people who aren't sure whether they like Indian food. Chef’s tip: use extra cream in the korma and forget about the calories. Unless you're catsback.

Two feet can make a lot of difference, we discovered at the first full Shaker rehearsal last night.

Adam the invisible guitarist was finally among us, but his addition couldn’t be blamed for the terrible noise we made for the first half-hour, even after the volume was reduced. The culprit was Matt.

The tiny stage at Mulbuie is too small for the band but makes an apparently perfect drum riser, elevating a posing percussionist that vital two feet above the rest of the group. No problem – except that the stage is hollow. Matt’s gorilla-like drumming filled the hall with an aural fog that only lifted when he joined the rest of the band on the floor.

We then discovered that Matt is possibly the only drummer in the world not to keep a roll of carpet in the back of his car. He spent much of the next number pursuing his kit around the hall as it bounced across the wooden floor. Gaffa tape (no band is a real band without lots of gaffa tape) was used to keep it in place for the rest of the evening.

What guest vocalist Debbie made of all this was not revealed. The poor girl had come to get the feel of a band before auditioning for Kev the stand-in’s pop group, which he’s still trying to hold together following its recent implosion. She left dazed by volume and overwhelmed by Gary's no-holds-barred vocal style. Welcome to showbiz.

As for Shaker, progress is being made but at a very leisurely pace. Hopefully, practice really does make perfect. Or close enough for rock and roll.

Tonight I was the one to call off the Rhythm Devils’ session after failing to unchain myself from the office desk in time. I’ve yet to receive a response to my phone message from Marc. He’s probably too busy planning his solo career.

Tomorrow will be an historic occasion – the first gathering of all five members of Shaker for a rehearsal at Mulbuie Hall.

Jim is home from the High Seas and raring to go after a couple of sessions with Adam, the invisible guitarist, at which they sorted out who does what; coping with the volume may be even more of a challenge with two mad axemen vying for supremacy. As a consequence, Matt has requested that I employ the monstrous Marshall rather than the much more portable Trace Elliot. Earplugs will be vital.

There is news of Kev the stand-in, who filled the seat vacated in such a huff by Becky. As predicted several months back, his band has imploded and Kev is now in search of a new outlet for his percussive talents. Full details of the band’s demise have not yet been revealed to me, but doubtless it wasn’t an amicable divorce. Band break-ups never are.

Sadly, unless we form a Glitter Band/Adam and the Ants tribute act we won’t need a second drummer. Maybe he could replace Charlie and become a Voodoo Rhythm Devil? Anything’s possible. Watch this space.

Today I was part of a select group invited to gaze into a future made manifest by two hugely enthusiastic missionaries who’d travelled all the way from London to spread the word. & t wd lks lyk ths m8 WKD!!

If texting is the answer, the question must be pretty dumb.

The eager evangelists gave a presentation on how the mobile phone and the internet in your pocket can attract readers under thirty, raise a newspaper’s profile and – most important of all – make money for the vast publishing machine of which I am but a humble cog.

Everything they said was true: publishers who ignore the mobile future will soon be left behind, and the technology they offer has lots in its favour for both editorial and advertising departments. However, it’s a sad day for the lover of the written word and a well-turned phrase.

Orwell’s Newspeak – English with a limited vocabulary and rigid syntax which made the expression of dissent impossible – was to be imposed by totalitarian authority. Instead, we’ve introduced it ourselves.

Yes, I sound like the kind of old fogy who writes pedantic letters to The Telegraph bemoaning the misuse of apostrophes; who’s outraged by split infinitives and sentences begun with the word ‘but’.

But something must be said.

I feel better now I’ve got that off my chest – at least, until the next time I’m faced with a press release or news story written by a university graduate who doesn’t know the difference between there, their and they’re and believes punctuation is purely decorative.

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The GTR was collected from RM Motors yesterday: that’s why rain has fallen for much of today. Anyone wanting to regenerate the Sahara should send me and the bike there. The black clouds will surely follow.

As it happens, a ride would have been out of the question today, whatever the weather. Matchgirl suffered (in her opinion) a bad hairdresser day yesterday and has been hiding indoors ever since, scared that people will point and laugh or that children will run in terror. The quest for wedding rings was postponed for the same reason.

There is some further progress in preparations for The Great Event, however. Matchgirl, before she was driven from the streets by alleged stylist incompetence, made a further canvass of kilt hire establishments and discovered one in Inverness that dressed a six-foot-eleven-inch groom. She still persists in her belief that I’d look good in tartan so I’ve promised to try their wares. It must be love.

Music Update: Tomorrow’s session is off. Again. Charlie can’t make it, and he didn’t even leave a reason on Marc’s answerphone. Drummers… Marc has now focussed his hopes on Willie, way up in Thurso. We’ve vague plans to go up there for a session before the end of the month. Expect Willie to explode sometime next week.

Thursday evening, but the Voodoo Rhythm Devils fail to assemble and make sweet music together. This time it’s Marc who’s unavailable, because one of his grandchildren is celebrating a birthday. Yikes! I’m in a band with granddad – how did that happen?

My sisters are grandmas, my mum’s a great-grandma, and I’m fifty in a few months’ time. When do I start to feel old? Not yet, thankfully, although an outside observer might dispute that: my unexpectedly free evening wasn’t spent in riotous abandon at pub or club but on the sofa with Matchgirl, both of us with noses stuck in either a book or a glass of red. A fine evening.

However, excitement is just around the corner. Kenny the bike doctor has informed me that the GTR is now fully MOT’d and ready for the road. A test ride may be called for this weekend, although Matchgirl is keen to begin the hunt for wedding rings now that The Wondrous Apparel has been chosen and her brief panic attack has subsided. Her first fitting will be in August; the reason for such a lengthy wait is a mystery understood only by women.

One thing Kenny didn’t mention was the size of his bill. My wallet is already trembling. The search for wedding bands may be downgraded to window shopping.

Matchgirl was able to spend some quality time with Bess earlier this week while suffering from the lurgi that laid her low for a couple of days. She’s recovered now, and danced off to work this morning with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old who’s not done her homework.

I’m easily dealt with when feeling unwell: just leave me alone. Matchgirl was more of a challenge, requiring both solitude and sympathy but neither too much nor too little of each. I must have struck the right balance, for tears and tantrums were absent during her illness. She was fine too.

Catering for an invalid can be tricky, especially a vegetarian who’s barred from the restorative qualities of chicken soup and Scotch broth and who’d even (briefly) lost her appetite for ice-cream and Kettle Chips. However, I was able to perk up her tastebuds with Leek, Celery and Fennel Soup, the recipe for which I will now divulge:

Gently fry two leeks, four sticks of celery, one bulb of fennel and one teaspoon each of celery seeds and fennel seeds until softened. Add one litre of vegetable stock, bring to the boil and simmer for fifteen minutes. Liquidise as much or as little as takes your fancy. Add 300mls of milk and a scattering of coarse black pepper. Add salt if you feel the need. Simmer gently for five minutes.

“It tastes very green,” was Matchgirl’s considered opinion. She asked for seconds. Another success.

Matchgirl has plans for me, I discovered to my horror this weekend. She dreams of turning the ‘natural’ garden that surrounds the rural retreat into a thing of beauty and a joy forever – and I’ve been cast in the role of gardener.

Not the designer, mind: she’ll plan the herbaceous borders, the organic vegetable patch, the sheltered herb garden and anything else that takes her fancy; I’ll do the spadework.

I fear that her dreams will remain unfulfilled, for I’m not one of the green-fingered tendency. The garden at my house in Maryburgh, of which I have so far been the only owner, remained mostly unclaimed from the wild for at least five years; the lawn was created by levelling (more or less) the rubble-filled soil left behind by the builders and allowing nature to take its course. The resultant sward may not have achieved crown green standard but, when I was able to replace strimmer with lawnmower, the effect was pleasing enough.

In addition, I have severe doubts about Matchgirl’s ability as an horticultural innovator. This is a girl who didn’t realise that in Scotland tomatoes are grown in a greenhouse (or have I just revealed my own ignorance?) and was unable to name what kind of apples are produced by her lonely tree. “They’re red,” she declared when questioned.

Bizarrely, the one other speck of cultivated land in her vast estate is occupied by a clump of rhubarb. This has never been cropped, let alone tasted.

Now, I’m quite partial to rhubarb pie, and rhubarb crumble is one of the foods of the gods. Despite that, I’ve never tried my hand at either dish. This, in the fullness of time, can now be rectified. But first I’ll need advice (are you reading this, ramblingbloke?) about when and how to harvest this bounty. Rhubarb recipes will also be welcome.

Musical Update: Yesterday's gathering of the Voodoo Rhythm Devils was called off when Charlie announced that he couldn’t attend. Drummers… what can you do?

It’s that time of year again – the time that I give my GTR and a blank cheque to Kenny at RM Motors in the sure and certain hope that I can enjoy another year of MOT-approved motorcycling. Eventually.

Kenny may be a good sort but there was no chance he’d pass the bike with the rear tyre it currently sports, so a replacement Bridgestone Battleaxe was ordered from M&P more than two weeks ago. The rubber finally left their Welsh nerve centre two days ago and has still to be seen in the Highlands. My MOT hopes today were not high.

The clincher was a defective brake-light switch – one of the unexpected problems that crop up every April. So, that’s the red MOT certificate then.

Today’s biting, snow-speckled wind made the failure much easier to bear. That and the knowledge that a new switch has been ordered and will be fitted next week, along with the tyre (should it complete the winding, wearisome journey from the Principality).

By then the GTR will be ready for action and next month’s club gathering on Islay – Matchgirl’s first weekend away on the bike. She’s still working out where to put all the luggage she needs.

Wedding Update: The recent sale of our secret nuptial venue will not affect The Great Event, nor increase the cost. That’s a relief. To celebrate we refined the guest list (still under forty) and roughed out a schedule for the big day. This engendered excitement, rather than panic; The Great Event steadily becomes more real.

I also made use of my QuarkXPress skills to design an invitation, the cover of which was immediately vetoed by Matchgirl because I’d dared to use a picture of us. Her photophobia shows no sign of waning, which should make for an interesting time when the wedding photographer gets her in focus.

Bess the cat is in the doghouse after her latest hunting exploits. Monday saw Matchgirl and me chasing Bess around the garden, the fleet-footed feline in hot pursuit of the mouse I’d forced her to drop a few moments earlier. The rodent was saved, and returned by Matchgirl to the bushes from whence it had been seized.

Bess saved her revenge until yesterday when Matchgirl entered the rural retreat to find the carpet covered with yellow feathers and one well-plucked avian corpse. Ornithology isn’t her strong point so she was unable to identify the victim, but as no-one’s come banging on the door demanding to know where their budgie’s got to I presume it was a native species.

Unusually, Bess didn’t saunter downstairs to greet her mistress and demand food and affection (in that order) but stayed where she was, curled up on the bed. Cats, it seems, can have a guilty conscience.

Bess the cat – who remembers Jack Nicholson in The Shining?

Musical Update: Almost all the Rhythm Devils assembled for what is becoming the regular Thursday get-together. Charlie had told us on Sunday he couldn’t make it but Marc and I carried on regardless – and made several strides forward.

Like Charlie, I’d never heard several songs on the set until Marc played them. He’s the real swing and bluesman. I’ve no recordings to burn them into my brain, which means that the only way I can learn is by playing at rehearsal. Now, at last, they’re not fading into oblivion between sessions (well, most of them) and I don’t need to ask “So how does this one go again?” before every song.

Twenty-eight are now on the list; another ten or twelve and we’ll be ready to hit town and make some money. Who said mercenary?

The location of the blissful future Matchgirl and I are planning is still undecided, but it’s almost certain that my humble semi in Maryburgh will go on the market sooner or later.

That, of course, is why for sale signs are sprouting all over the village.

In the last month at least half a dozen des res have been put on offer – something that in the past has been a rarity, Maryburgh being the acme of comfortable living which, once entered, few people leave willingly.

The introduction of Seller’s Packs may be to blame. They’ve already become law in England and will soon do the same in Scotland, so house-owners fearful of not screwing top dollar out of their investments are flooding the property market – and depressing the prices they wish to preserve. Isn’t economics wonderful?

The good news is that Matchgirl’s real estate adviser reckons my house should make at least three times what I paid for it just over ten years ago. Inflation can be wonderful too. The bad news concerns rumours that the Lithuanians who rent the adjoining semi are giving sleeping space to huge numbers of their countrymen. The landlord is investigating.

Matchgirl had the tape measure out yesterday to find out if I matched her expectations. I failed by two inches.

We’re talking kilts, here. She’s still mysteriously keen to get me into one for The Great Event, despite my knees and my total lack of Scottish blood. However, I’ve attempted to keep an open mind and had promised to try one on in the privacy of the rural retreat to see if it made me feel a Bonnie Prince or a Charlie.

But just as trousers for the six-foot-six man are not plentiful, neither are kilts. Matchgirl’s contact with Inverness tartan hire companies produced the information that 26 inches was the longest kilt commonly available; 28 might be found with effort.

Hence the tape.

The measurement, I now know, is made – while the victim kneels down – from belly button to floor. A crestfallen Matchgirl had to admit that I came out at a whopping 30 inches. Her tartan dreams were shattered.

I could get a kilt made, but have you seen the price of the things? And unless I’m press-ganged to play bass in a Jimmy Shand tribute band I’d be unlikely ever to wear it again. Which means a trip to High and Mighty in Edinburgh may soon be called for as I’m now in the market for a suit – something I’ve managed to live without for many years. My last one had flares.

Music Update: All three of  the Rhythm Devils made it to Polnicol Hall yesterday where definite improvement was shown. Charlie wore the same hard-working black suit as last week. I wonder if he’ll share the name of his tailor?