Thirty years ago Ron learnt to play the bagpipes. Mercifully he had sold them before we met so I could quite safely commiserate with him when he longed to play Scotland the Brave. Imagine my man with his build (nickname was Rang because he was hairy and built like an Orang-utan) with his looooong hair, shaggy moustache and monocle (yes!) marching up and down in a kilt?!
Recently he met an old piper friend looking very dapper in his dashing Scottish outfit, and Ron's love for all that is Scottish has been rekindled. Out came the practice chanter he had kept hidden all these years.
He demanded a tot of gin (no whiskey in the house) to “blow through the pipe”. Does he think I was born yesterday?
The sound he produced defies description. The old joke that bagpipes sound like a cat being tortured doesn't half cover it. All six cats froze with looks of anguish on their faces: ears flat, eyes wide and hair on end. Gentleman Jim reversed into the kitchen and took refuge behind the fridge. Mad Bad Leroy Black (the baddest cat in the whole damn shack) attacked Jet who dived under the bed. Toffee walked in circles stressing and fussing, Mammakat gave Ron a long inscrutable look and CC the kitten wanted to play with this interesting new toy.
With watering eyes bulging, cheeks sucked in and sweat rolling in great drops down his red face, my hero struggled to remember his scales. Eventually, somewhere in the hazy mist of the cacophony, the ghost of Amazing Grace could be heard. Beaming with pride he asked me if I recognised it. Nastily I answered, “Yes, 'Happy Birthday' is it?” Wouldn't speak to me for hours.
In the evenings I love to sit in the garden and enjoy 'my' lake. Birds singing, sound of water running, my beloved cats playing at my feet, one purring on my lap. Peace reigns. Heaven.
Not any more! Ron now follows me out with his terrifying pipe to show me how well he has progressed. He happily assures me that the actual bagpipes (with bag) are much louder and more impressive.
Our kindly neighbour rushed over with a huge bag of litchis. I am not sure if it was a plea for mercy or a peace offering?
The six cats and I are seeking asylum. Anywhere bar Scotland!
PS. Come to think of it the old dear would look quite fetching in a kilt!
