death and taxes

The freakish sunny weather has broken but the cloud and showers here in Glasgow are more fitting to the grim situation I'm in which has no happy solution in sight.

The first strand is, as ever, C's volatility (actually both strands involve C).  He had Brian Cooper (who gets his full name mentioned for being a nasty wee tit) up last weekend to Drumbuidhe to try and commission the new control system for the wind turbine.  The system is sophisticated, expensive, potentially dangerous and uninsured.  Setting it up is far, far beyond C's capabilities and Brian is also working well beyond his knowledge and experience.  Had I known Brian was visiting I would have delayed my travel up to Drumbuidhe but, apart from saying he was looking forward to me coming, C didn't mention this.  I arrived to find a fair bit of mess (three days of dirty dishes and half-eaten meals and, as he always does, Brian had slept in his bed without putting any sheets on ...).  On Sunday morning I was lying down inside waiting for my midge bites to die down (I'd been tying up the peas in the garden) when Brian decided to come in and demand to know if I had a problem with him because I hadn't said I was pleased to see him.  I decided not to mention his casual racism and sexism but did say that no, I didn't like him, because he never made up his bed, gave no help with food or washing up and was taking money from a vulnerable old man to help install an illegal and dangerous electrical system (the plans for the current system is that it will allow the wind turbine to be switched on, from Glasgow, over the internet ... since 19 previous turbines have collapsed and it stands, unprotected, next to a public footpath, the danger is obvious).  Brian responded that Drumbuidhe was a "rough and ready" place where you didn't need sheets and that it would "kill" C if he wasn't able to install this new system.  Hey ho.

Brian left a couple of hours later having failed to set up the system and, I suspect, having told C that I was being rude and obstructive.  I went off to the village hall committee meeting and when I returned C was in bed.  The next morning C had started hard drinking again and, on the back of a couple of strong whiskies, he lost his temper when I said I was going to make up the beds in the fank for guests arriving next week.  I'd suspected this might happen and, for my own safety, I had my bags packed in the car, so I said would head back to Glasgow.  C responded that I should "fuck off" because I had "ruined his life".

So I'm back in Glasgow waiting for C to calm down and, please God, stop drinking so much.

The second strand is that, two weeks ago, I was checking my dad's papers in his flat in Glasgow (we have a problem with our broadband supply and he'd told me to look there) when I found his will which he'd changed in 2010, just after he was detained by the police for assaulting me.  He had disinherited me.  K was to inherit his Glasgow flat and his 1/3 share of Drumbuidhe was left to his (six and four year old) grandsons, to be managed by K 'til they reach majority.  Although he has a generous pension C has no other assets (all my mum's savings have disappeared into the wind turbine) and he's currently paying K about £1,000 a month since she's got money problems at the minute.  If this will stands, K will sell Drumbuidhe in the blink of an eye.

I asked C about the will and we are making slow steps to have him change it again but he is furious at having been found out doing something both stupid and nasty.  His fury is currently directed towards me and the "betrayal of trust" I've shown by going through his personal papers.  All friends and neighbours are appalled by C's action but powerless in the face of his raging pride and crappy judgement.

My current diet is mixture of chips, cigarettes and stress so recipes will have to wait for future blogs.

bowing out gracefully

My political career ended with a fabulous bit of weather on the west coast as I toured the picturesque letterboxes of the west coast (there are no letterboxes on the small isles but the situation was equally picturesque).  Alas I was unable to get a listing on the ballot paper as the Labour party candidate (there was nothing sinister about this: it was an error on my part and the returning officer would not allow it to be corrected) and I scored only a tiny number of votes.  hey ho.  The three sitting candidates for Caol & Mallaig were returned and Labour had gained two seats on Highland Council overall so I'm counting it an interesting experience and a further lesson in the importance of correct form-filling.

I'm back in Glasgow at the minute avoiding the painting of my spare room which has to be done before I can rent it out (to cover all those pesky election expenses), revelling in fancy coffee, catching up on gossip and looking for a new job.

Drumbuidhe was a bit of a mess when I left on Friday since C had been alone for three days and he can't really cope with either cooking or washing up.  I'll be back on Wednesday when I'll have to cope with the depressed, unemployed farm labourer from Lockerbie that my sister has arranged to visit to see about possibly working with C.  I could really do without another depressed bloke in Drumbuidhe but my sister ignored all my objections to her employment advertisement (I'm the sole resident and bill-payer at Drumbuidhe but my sister didn't mention me in the advert for a "live-in estate handyman" she also didn't mention that my father is in the care of a psychiatrist, has a serious alcohol problem and has been detained by the police for domestic violence, Drumbuidhe has very limited liability insurance as well as a stack of uninsured dangerous stuff).  Anyone who lives in the Highlands and Islands knows that there are lots of dissatisfied people around who will respond to vague adverts promising a new life.  They also know that a lot of resources are needed to help these people who arrive thinking that mountains will solve their problems (just ask any mental health professional).  I can't contact the depressed Lockerbie man and tell him that the advert was a misrepresentation since my sister is defensive as hell and would see this as my lack of "understanding" and C is being protective of her well-meaning attempts at care.  Also C is still having violent temper tantrums so contradicting him is dangerous.  I'm seeing C's doctor in Glasgow on Wednesday just to talk through the problems and then I'll head up north to pick through the mess.

C's lack of mobility as well as his slow acknowledgement of his limits mean that he hasn't weeded any of this year's crops (he destroyed all last year's carrots and lettuces) although the plum trees are still suffering from his application of pathclear.  The garden looks great after the first grass-cuting of the year; the early charlotte potatoes have come through their protective plastic and we'll finish off the cavolo nero just as the salad can be harvested.  There was a wee bit of sawfly but I'm keeping vigilant.

The Campaign starts here

Despite my incorrect form-filling (arguing with Electoral registration officers is the definition of 'futile') I am now registered as a Labour party candidate (ward 12 - Caol & Mallaig) for the Highland Council elections on 3rd May.  Basic difficulties range from: taking a photograph for the leaflet whilst 6 miles from the nearest house (I used the self-timer in the end rather than waiting for passing walkers like a cargo cult); preparing a leaflet on the fancy-dancy web-driven designer (slowed down by the fact that our broadband is steam-driven and it continually insists we're in Germany) and raw terror at the thought of promoting myself.

Tucked away here at Drumbuidhe at least I can disguise the chaos that my campaign is coming from.  I'm currently sitting here in my dressing gown having lit the fire, washed yesterday's dishes (the dishwasher is currently in bits although this is better than it was when I arrived and it was in bits all over the living room floor ... the mess is now confined to under the kitchen counter) made the coffee (I was hoping to find a moment to talk to C about how difficult his drinking is but since it took him less than two minutes to get his first drink of the day in - whisky in his coffee - I missed the elusive 'sober' moment) and put the bread onto bake.  Give me five minutes and I'll get round to some respectable clothes so I can tackle the Labour Party's 'print creator' again.

Today we have a handyman from Lochaline turning up with his wife and kids to help C on what will hopefully be a regular basis.  It's fair to say that C is struggling with everything.  He's making his way through at least a bottle of wine and a quarter bottle of whisky a day which doesn't help his memory, balance and temper.  The list of things that C can't do is extensive, for example he couldn't come up the dam when I cleared it out to get the water turbine working (it was a sunny day and it's a nice spot about 50m from the garden but C's too unsteady) he tried to defrost the freezer and broke it (since it's a large chest freezer this is a very big deal) by leaving a fan heater inside it and he's forgetting how to prepare food (when I'm not around he lives on booze and fray bentos).  What he does enjoy is getting involved in the solving of basic problems (once I'd cleared the dam the two of us worked our way along the garden water supply, unscrewing the junctions to clear them out).

Right, enough of the dressing gown and the blogging: it's time for proper clothes and a proper leaflet.

Spring sunshine

After months of dithering everything came together: the sun was out; the correct TEK screws were ready and I was actually up in Drumbuidhe. In a flurry of construction activity I got the fank chimney back up (a great view but metal roofs are killers on your knees) and the most crucial gable flashing back up. The sunshine makes even the grim tasks more pleasant and I wandered happily round the garden picking up all the prunings left from January which I'd been hoping the garden pixies would magic away.

Although the sun is out we're still in the broken down machinery phase of the year so the water turbine will have to get cleared out again (twigs, leaves and frogspawn) and the series 1 landrover LHS 94 is still fairly poorly. It was stuck about a mile away on the track since November: it has a recurring fault where it stops after 45 minutes and won't start again for an hour. The fitting of a fuel filter by an eager landrover enthusiast last year seems to have made it worse. Having fitted the filter the landrover enthusiast developed pneumonia and died unexpectedly so I can't really grumble about his intervention. Last week I jumpstarted LHS 94 on my way out of Drumbuidhe but it conked out again just when the track comes down to the shore, completely blocking the track. I didn't have an hour spare so I left it and ran away to Glasgow. Thankfully when I got back it started again (a wee bit of accelerator cable fondling was required) so I could get it off the track. I've still got to get it the 300m back here to the house but it will give C a project over Easter. He's coming back up to Drumbuidhe this week and my heart sinks a little at the "improvements" he'll start, especially since the gaps in his memory are now really obvious. Hopefully he will spend his time working out what all the bits of his wind turbine control system do: it took ages over winter but I finally managed to switch off all the gadgets which he has hard-wired into the battery system and electricity consumption fell dramatically as a result.

I'm really pleased with the etching I produced (my first!) over the New Year when the generator wasn't working and I was ekeing out every last drip of electricity and I'm now the proud owner of a faded sepia print of Balivanich's concrete water tower: definitely not the chocolate box market.

Turning the corner

Drumbuidhe does sometimes feel like a burden and this New Year has been quite bad: various bits of roof blown off; a neglected garden; my sister K stomping in with her size 7s to "sort things out"; mice everywhere; electrical system not working; the continual creep of broken electrical equipment across every space not to mention my lack of regular income. Now, as daylight gets to 10 hours a day. everything is starting to seem more manageable: I've tidied up the worst electrical equipment offenders and switched off the wind turbine controls; I've ordered next year's seeds and filled up the propagators; I've pruned the fruit trees and sorted out the compost heap. There's still a fallen tree on top of the garden shed but it's looking a bit more manageable.

Since we've now entered the post-it note phase of C's life I still have to work out ways of stopping him killing my carefully nurtured plants. C doesn't always do the killing personally, sometimes passing acolytes ask if they can do "something to help" and C will get them to pull up my salad (thinking they are weeds) or harvest my mooli (and then leave them to rot because he doesn't know what they are) or hoe the planted seed bed or harvest the onions a month too early or plant the carrots/onions/anything too close together or in the bed containing something else (this requires me to dig up and replant everything) or spray Pathclear (the clue is in the name) round the fruit trees... This is why I think my sister's idea of a live-in handyman to help C up here is a completely rubbish idea. Drumbuidhe is surrounded by evidence of what happens when my dad gets an acolyte with stars in their eyes (the bust grass cutter; rain that pours through the south gable; cables draped across courtyards and enough expensive gadgets to give a socialist luddite palpitations). Hey ho.

But enough of my whingeing. I've been writing this as displacement activity from today's task which is the editing of SAP calculations for my studio project and also for Uist. I'm trying to wrestle the complex calculations for energy use into a format which can be used to pragmatically assess the value of interventions for traditional housing on the islands. The algorithms aren't going to wrestle themselves so here goes.

New Year

Finally! we have daylight. It's universally acknowledged that the Christmas and New Year weather has been completely rubbish, this followed on from the early December rubbish weather to produce a series of perfect storms.

In parallel with the weather there has been a series of mechanical breakdowns so that my trusty fiat panda fell very poorly on the road down south for Christmas so after some seasonal wheel-removal I had to limp back to a Glasgow garage. I borrowed C's car to come up to Drumbuidhe for New Year but was hit by a lorry in Glencoe damaging most of the driver's side (terrifying at the time but my heart now sinks at the paperwork that will be involved). Now up here the storms have ripped off all attempts at protecting the generator which is sulking so I'm running on just PV and water power. Thankfully I've worked out how to turn off C's wind monitoring station (wired directly into the batteries, draining all those precious watts I've gathered) and, with a wee touch of sun today, I'm hopeful I'll get to watch the TV tonight. Hurrah!

wild winter

The day after the storm and there's a door and some flashing blown off up here in Drumbuidhe and the mystery of why the generator is still running (the temperature adjusted voltage is too high? the freezer compressor kept running? a n other device is draining the battery?). I've spent three days recovering from my part III exam in Benbecula and cowering indoors in my pyjamas as the winds (gusting to 145km/hr) howled outside.

The part III exam was even worse than I was expecting (and I was expecting it to be truly dreadful). On the weekend before the exam I posted a draft of my case study to my ex-colleagues for comments. Alas they took it personally and I was cold-shouldered for the duration of my exam. My ex-boss replied to the draft with a fair number of corrections (about half of them were relevant, but quite a few were editorial) and the comment that my case study would fail and that, if I submitted it as it was, she would write to the part III examiners noting that I was bringing the architecture profession into disrepute. I received her comments halfway through the exam and responded by drinking and smoking heavily. I was then dumped by A again (I know, I know, it's getting tedious how often this happens, but even I wasn't expecting him to do it immediately after taking off his clothes and getting into bed with me...).

The case-study situation did improve the next day as I talked through the study with D, a retired architect on S Uist and got hold of my academic mentor to check what the situation was with hostile bosses. I was at least reassured that the case study was interesting, accurate and well-written and one's boss has no business writing to the examiners.

The exam itself was just hard, hard slog and wasn't helped by interruptions while I was working out a fee offer using my spreadsheet - I was talking to S (who wasn't supposed to be invigilating but since M wasn't talking to me, he got the job by default) when my sister phoned me up and immediately put my 5yr old nephew on the 'phone so I couldn't say "I'm in the middle of the exam" and S now thinks I'm really rude. Hey Ho.

I slept for what seemed like 3 days when I finally got the whole damn thing into the post. A took me for a last beach walk and, alas, he missed the track back to the car so I ended up trying to follow him over rough machair. In the dark. In a hailstorm. This left me cold, wet and scared which did nothing to improve my temper. A's not that great at coping with guilt so, the next morning, my last hour on Benbecula was spent listening to him ranting at my rudeness - although I'd made tea, helped fix his bike and set up 'The Killing' for him to watch, my failure to say "goodnight" quickly enough had left him unable to sleep.

There are still so many things I wanted to do in the islands but words cannot describe how relieved I was to leave Benbecula.

I'm now starting to get back on track for Christmas (still not decided where to spend it of course) and I've got a parcel of Christmas Cake, sloe gin and Christmas tree biscuits packed and ready to send down to Devon. Since sister K has an aversion to nuts (no allergy, she's just picky) I've adapted the Glasgow Cookery Book recipe to incorporate chocolate chips as follows:

Chocolate Christmas Cake

250g plain flour plus pinch baking powder

1 tablespoonful cocoa

200g butter

200g sugar

4 eggs

25g ground almonds

1 tablespoonful treacle

600g mixture of chopped apricots, prunes and figs

100g chopped dark chocolate

The night before, soak the fruit in whatever spirit you have to hand (I used a mix of orange juice and whisky). Cream the butter and sugar then add the eggs alternately with the dry ingredients. Stir in the treacle and fruit and add to a 20cm cake tin. Bake at 170C (gas 3) for about 2.5 hours. I leave it to cool in the tin overnight to ensure the cake holds its shape and use just icing sugar for decoration.