Jonathan: Well, from the Scottish Government Rural Payments and Inpsections Directorate, otherwise referred to as SGRPID. I thought it was one of those pesky sales calls at first: you’ve been selected for … an inspection of your sheep. Before I could recover my bearings, he was reminding me that notwithstanding the fact that half my sheep are roaming – quite legitimately – out on thousands of acres of rugged and inaccessible mountain, moor and rocky shores, and even if I had a dog it would be a couple of days work to get them in, and that I do actually have a ‘day job’ to do, it is my legal duty to present them for checking that they have the EU-mandated eartags in place. Let’s just say that did not endear me to the fellow, and I would dearly have loved to give vent to my views over the army of officials and technocrats who draw enviable salaries with job security and gold-plated pensions, all at our expense, and have the power to devise (and continually refine) rules and regulations sufficiently onerous and complex to keep themselves in the comfort and ease to which they feel entitled, and to marshall ranks of officials to enforce their will; and whilst I’m on the subject … But as I’d already put the phone down (I hope his ear hurts!) it was only D who had the opportunity to consider, review and suggest refinements to the polemic. Anyway, as the other half of the flock (Himself and his ewes) are still in the field, I agreed a time and that was this morning at 9am. He didn’t have much to say for himself, The Man from the Ministry, and neither did I. After he’d made a proper show of disinfecting his boots and overtrousers, I led him to the field gate and told him to wait there. Trobhaibh, Trobhaibh mo graidh! (Come hither, Come hither, my dears – Gaelic is so poetic!) and over they all came and as I fed them sheep nuts from my hand (that No 8 is so greedy!) I pointed out to The Man all the ear tags and gave details of ages and thus justified why some (those born before 1st Jan 2010) only had one ear tag. He seemed satisfied with that, so then it was back home, where I left The Man in the cold conservatory (the rest of the house is even colder!) and brought down my computer to him. My record-keeping and paperwork is (even if I say so myself) immaculate beyond the call of duty, so taking the reasonable assumption that the sheep out on the hill would be to the same standard (generous, don’t you think?) The Man anounced I’d achieved a score of Zero – ie no ‘failures’. Phew! The Man, just perceptibly relaxing somewhat from this trial, volunteered that actually there was a mistake; but it was the Ministry tjat had got it wrong, not me. According to their records – he showed me – my home address was in New Brunswick, Canada. That would have been Alexander Lachlainn MacDonald, I said: the previous croft tenant, and even that address was long out of date. (Alex inherited the croft tenancy, and having no use for it sold it to me and then flitted to Florida, and who can blame him.) So off he went, the Man from the Ministry, to do his inspecting work elsewhere. Looking around at others’ sheep in Eriskay and in South Uist, there’s many with no tags at all, or only one, so I’m sure that’ll please the Mandarins of the Minstries of this and that: their jobs would be in question if all the farmers and crofters turned out to be a squeaky-clean goody-two-shoes like yours truly!