A few ruffled feathers over champagne and duck breast

the sleet of November, all the tedium of sewing and pricking out in the

April drizzle and all the back-breaking weeding of May and June.

Now is the season for lying out on the lawn drinking, long glasses of

mint-topped Pimms in the summer heat while the bees make salt-shaker

dances among the delicate pink geraniums of Judy's flower patch and the

overflowing vegetable garden becomes a till-less supermarket ten paces

from the kitchen door.

Best of all, now is the season of fresh blackcurrant and mint

milkshake and, even as I type out these immortal words on the kitchen

Apple, I can see the very pregnant Gerry spooning down yet another of

this refreshing summer cooler as she lies like a beached whale in the

Habitat hammock.

TUESDAY: Talking of summer drinks, I have received a poisonous letter

from a Glasgow reader who claims that my recipe for Elderflower

champagne failed to provide her with the promised ''frothy pleasure

juice'' and requesting that I print another recipe for Elderflower

champagne in this column.

Look one up yourself, you lazy old besom. The excellent one I gave you

was kindly passed on to me by an ancient garden cherub-moulder from

Alness and if it works for the two of us there's no reason why it

shouldn't work for you.

The trick, my dear madam, is to ensure that the sun is shining on the

flowers as you pick them and never to pause, yea even for a stroupach,

between picking and starting the mulching process. It's also important

to leave the drink for at least a week before drinking. Nonetheless,

this week I have been sufficiently chastened by your harsh words to

print my recipe for blackcurrant and mint milkshake in greater detail

than I normally give. And I do hope you have better luck with it than

you did with the Elderflower champagne.

WEDNESDAY: Take half a pound of clean blackcurrants, a dozen mint

leaves, a pint of cool milk and a quarter of a pint of vanilla ice

cream.

Bring the currants and mint to the boil over a gentle heat and softly

simmer until the berries have yielded up their blood of red treasure and

summer sunshine and then sieve and set aside to cool.

Once the slurry has cooled, put it into the fridge for a while and

then blend it in a machine with the milk and ice cream. The trick here

is to ensure that the whole kit and caboodle is well blended before you

serve it garnished with chopped mint, a few blackcurrants and perhaps

even an alpine strawberry or two for decoration.

THURSDAY: Talking of poisonous letters, I have been much vilified in

my local, the Bridge Inn, by Herald readers who have read of the death

by city fox of our pet duck Andrew, now sorely missed by Fergie, the

hen. Even one of the Volvo Highlanders who walk their fat labradors past

the bottom of the croft put his head over the hedge to bray somewhat

sadistically that he was sorry to read about the duck, before giving a

rather unpleasant laugh.

Of course, Gerry insisted that we have a funeral for the wretched

animal, ''as he had been our friend'', and the Reverend Christian Maybe

demeaned his profession by saying a few words over the shallow grave.

Christian was dropping by with his cat which he was leaving with us

while he's on holiday.

FRIDAY: This evening Blue Peter made a rather tasteless gesture by

cooking a dinner of fried duck breast with a cherry and wine sauce.

Needless to say Gerry had to leave the room at the very smell of it and

Pete got a helluva look from the Admiral. However, tasteless is maybe

the wrong word as the duck was utterly delicious and as it was obviously

very easy to prepare I thought you might like the recipe.

Having fried the breasts slowly in butter, Pete made what he calls his

''cheating'' cherry and wine sauce. To do this he takes six ounces of

Morello cherry jam and combines it with five fluid ounces of red wine in

a saucepan which he then simmers, lidless, for 10 minutes. This produces

a rich and tasty sauce which is more than enough for four people,

particularly if you add some finely chopped fresh cherries during the

last minute of the reducing.

SATURDAY: Lawks, I'm in trouble again. Plook, the Reverend Christian

Maybe's cat has disappeared under the floorboards. I suppose it was

foolish of me to let the ruddy animal out of its travelling basket into

its new home when there were so many people around, but no sooner had I

lifted the lid than the piebald beast went shooting under the floor and

wouldn't come out.

Royston Rene, who has come to help Gerry with the baby, has been a

good friend of the Reverend Christian since her days as housekeeper at

Iona Abbey and she had agreed to look after the one-eyed mutt while he

was on his package holiday in the Canaries. Now she is spending her days

wandering around the croft house calling both Plook and me.

SUNDAY: And so another week draws to its happy conclusion with our

bonding Sunday morning brunch.

Gerry has prepared some luscious fools from the soft fruits in the

garden and we have a choice of gooseberry, raspberry and blackcurrant to

add to our city croft muesli which was prepared the night before. Soft

fruit fools are rarely seen these days since puddings have become less

fashionable but they do make a wonderful addition to breakfast cereals.

Sadly summer showers have forced us indoors this morning, but in spite

of our incarceration the crack is still fierce -- and when Green

Geraldine's baby moves within her there is a spontaneous round of

applause from the city crofters while both the Admiral and Gerry beam

with delight. Two weeks to go until the birth. Ah, the pleasures of

crofting in the city.