Diary of a St Ivean

On my daily walk around the Island and the town, I come upon Johnny T. He and I worked together years ago in a restaurant in St Ives. Talking about those times, I mention Bill who also worked in the restaurant and who now lives in the Outer Hebrides.

"Those Stornoway folk are a funny crowd." Johnny says, leaning on the wall of the Porthgwidden car park. "I used to meet fishermen from there when I was working on the fishing boats. They used to have with them those large tins used to store Smiths Crisps. The tins were full of money - all their earnings and life savings, I guess."

Johnny says that when he gently pointed out to the Stornoway fisherfolk that in the event of a disaster at sea their cash would lie on the bottom of the Ocean and their families would be abruptly impoverished, he got as a reply the Gaelic equivalent of "Well, that's just tough tits."

On reaching home I email this story to Stornoway Bill asking him if it rings true. He replies instantly in the affirmative with a highly colourful stream of invective directed against the grasping and vicious Protestant character of his fellow islanders who would not even, according to Stornoway Bill, trust their "nearest and dearest".