Diary of a Shopkeeper, 13th September
‘I doubt those Shelties are up to their tricks again,’ said Bruce Brass.
‘Do you mean the mascot costume Lerwick BID’s getting?’ I said. ‘Maunsie he’s called, looks like a lamp-post. He’s costing them £1,954! Do you know how much Harry the Heart cost? £89!’
‘I’m not talking about that,’ said Bruce. ‘Though I must say, they’ve always been very good at spending money. Because they have it. If you’ve plenty money you soon find ways to get rid of it.’
‘And folk to help you spend it, ‘ chipped in Willie Pickle from over by the red wine section. ‘Have you seen the price of this Malbec? Outrageous!’
‘It’s a very special wine,’ I said. ‘It’s from the highest vineyards in the world, half-way up the Andes. Each grape’s individually harvested by specially trained llamas. That kind of expertise doesn’t come cheap.’
‘It’s this independence thing,’ interrupted Bruce. ‘The council up there’s floating the notion that Shetland should be independent of Scotland. I’ll tell you what, if they do that it’s Common-Sense-Land they’re independent of.’
Willie Pickle snorted into his beard. ‘Oh aye, everything’s going so well – the economy’s buzzing, our government’s the bee’s-knees, we’re living in the land of milk and honey – why would anybody want to change anything?’
I stared at him. ‘Did you mean to do that, Willie?’
‘Do what?’
‘Make everything you said about bees.’
Willie waved his hand at the shelves. ‘I think I was looking at that Italian honey you have there. Ten quid a jar! Scandalous! What’s wrong with good old Orkney honey?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s on the next shelf along. But that’s the whole point: Orkney’s a trading nation. Kirkness & Gorie was selling pasta in the 1880s. That didn’t come from the spaghetti trees of Stenness. Folk go out from here with Orcadian goods, and they come back with exotic stuff from around the world. It makes us a richer place – not just in money, but in life generally.’
Bruce raised his fist in the air and shook it so energetically that it banged into the Perspex screen above the cheese fridge.
‘A trading nation you call us? That’s my point, beuy. Orkney’s never a nation and neither is Shetland. We’re peedie rocks in the ocean and we’ve the councils to prove it. The idea of School Place running Orkney like an independent country makes my blood run cold. They can’t even get the Hope dump open!’
‘It’s called the Law of Peripheral Neglect,’ said Willie. ‘I studied it at the UHI. ‘Concern for remote districts diminishes with the square of the distance from the seat of power.’’
‘Exactly: from Kirkwall to remote districts like the Hup!’
‘Or Westminster to Lerwick,’ I said.
Bruce frowned, then pointed at Willie. ‘Back up a bit, beuy. I didn’t ken you’d been to the college.’
‘I’ll have you know, I’ve got a PhD in Peedie Rocks in the Ocean Studies.’
I raffled around in some old papers I’d been reading one quiet morning. There’s getting to be a few of those now that the seasons have turned and the trickle of tourists has almost dried up.
‘Do you ken what 2020 is?’ I asked, fishing an old newspaper article out of a pile behind the scales.
‘The most constermashious year since records began,’ said Bruce.
‘It’s the fortieth anniversary of the founding of the Orkney Movement,’ I said. ‘Listen to this. ‘Devolution suggests that power is centred at the top, that is, in Westminster, and some of it has to be handed down. But in the view of myself and many other people, power inheres in the people themselves and their basic communities.’’
‘Who said that? asked Willie. ‘Was it Spencer Rosie?’
‘No,’ I said, and pointed to the name on the page. ‘It was Jo Grimond.’
‘Vote Jo!’ laughed Bruce. ‘I always did.
‘And look what you were voting for,’ I said, ‘Maximum self-government right down to individual communities. Just what you’re moaning about Shetland asking for.’
Bruce frowned. ‘That might have been what Jo said. But it wasn’t necessarily what he did.’
Willie snorted again. ‘He was a politician after all.’
Something outside the door caught my eye. There was a queue of folk waiting to get in.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘We’re only allowed four customers at a time. Would two of you mind leaving?’
‘There’s only two of us in here,’ said Bruce.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘But you’re not exactly customers. Unless you want to buy something, of course. Outrageous Malbec? Scandalous honey?’
‘Tell you what,’ said Willie. ‘Give me a big chunk of that fine cheese from the Peoples’ Republic of Westray.’
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 17th September. If I’d known the debate about greater self-government for Scotland’s island groups was going to immediately involve Orkney, to the extent that it filled the front page of the paper, I might have let Willie Pickle and Bruce Brass discuss Orkney in more depth. But I didn’t. And there were customers waiting!
Other diaries will appear weekly. I am posting them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.