Filling the Void

            We have some good news and some bad news.

The good news is that Alistair has graduated and moved out.  The bad news is that, in the process of moving Alestair out, Smeaton was shot in the foot with the elephant rifle, and not entirely by accident.

            It all started last year.  The hubbub of the Scottish Reformation Referendum had started calming down, and we looked forward to Alisdair going back to St Ardnews to, we liked to believe, continue his studies.  We waved him off from the station platform and immediately gave the order for the cleaners to come and disinfect Alaisdair’s bedroom and burn his dirty laundry.

And we thought Ebola was bad.

            What we were not expecting was a telephone call from the warden at his halls of residence complaining about the state of Alasdhair’s room there.  In fact, if it were a person it would probably have been stateless.  This was not all, however; the warden mentioned our son’s ‘attitude’ towards some of the younger, prettier canteen staff.  We apologised profusely, of course, offering to pay for any damages to the halls and for the psychotherapy of the canteen staff in question.

            Thinking we had smoothed over that indiscretion, we received a series of calls just a couple of days down the line: from the Faculty Dean, then the Senatus Academicus, then the Principal’s office, then the University Court, then the Principal.  Something about a haze of purple cat suits, golf clubs, desecration of a portrait of a university founder, and a gaggle of girls from the Swedish student exchange.  I’ve repressed most of it.  Finally we received a call from a Very Big Wig Indeed.

As this lofty personage kindly and diplomatically explained, Alysdair had overstayed his welcome.  He had been there quite long enough – twice as long as any undergraduate degree normally takes – and actually had all the necessary credits to graduate there and then with honours.  How about we just bundle him up in some attractive attire from Ede & Ravenscroft, take a couple of pictures, hand him a piece of paper, then pop a bottle of something fizzy?  Congratulations, Allastair, you’re a graduate now!

Now, piss off!

 Well, you don’t argue with a GCMG – I don’t think.  Henry mostly hurrumphed about bias against Highlanders, but at least conceded that he was happy Allistair had graduated, even if the ceremony was to take place under cover of darkness, with only us two parents as witnesses and a court official making sure everything was done in a timely and undramatic manner.

In a flash of brilliance, Henry and I had the charming idea of moving Alaster out of the nest at the same time.  We asked Smeaton to pack up our dear son’s bedroom and all his earthly possessions cluttering up the humble abode whilst we were away down south for the clandestine ceremony.

Sure enough, as we approached Airnefitchie on our return (there wasn’t much small talk – just awkward glances between all the adults and a rather sulky ‘new adult’), there were all of Aleister’s things, neatly boxed up in our store of vintage second-best luggage cases.  We had warned Smeaton that the dear boy might not take kindly to this, and found that he (Smeaton) had armed himself with the .575 Higby elephant rifle in case of trouble.

 

And a pith helmet in case of badassery.

And there was some trouble.  During a tussle between Smeaton, Alysdare, one of our wolfhounds (I couldn’t tell which one in all the confusion) and a trunk full of mouldy socks, the gun went off.  There was that odd moment when everyone freezes, with funny faces, mentally checking all their appendages.

‘Ah, it’s me,’ Smeaton groaned gruffly, and crumpled to the ground.

The upshot – or really perhaps I should say ‘downshot’ – is that Alistar has gone to the big, bad city of Aberdeen.  He’s holed up in some house-share down at the docks.  We’ve had one grimy postcard from him: a picture of a mermaid lounging over a greasy-looking oil worker atop a fishing boat.  We just about made out the scrawl on the back before sticking the ghastly thing to the fridge, next to the first crayon picture he ever drew, aged 2.

As for Smeaton?  We visit nearly every day, and sometimes the grapes last the journey to the hospital and back.  He’s in fine fettle and we expect a speedy recovery.

So now, Henry and I are, what you call, empty-nesters.  All our chicks have flown the coop – some more willingly and lawfully than others.  What to do to fill the void?  New dog?  An interesting new hobby?  Perhaps I’ll house train Henry.

Or maybe I’ll just put my feet up and enjoy the silence.