One of the social highlights in the island is the annual Braaid Eisteddfod.

It is a light hearted, slightly competitive, concert-like evening of family entertainment, and it uses a well tried and tested formula that is typical of country chapel concerts everywhere in the British Isles.

It is honest-to-goodness, good natured fun.

’Competitors’ are invited to sing a song, dance a jig, recite a poem or play a musical instrument. You name it, and you can do it. The latest event was held last week, and was enjoyed by both competitors and audience alike.

There is only one thing that concerns me. One of the regular performers at the Braaid is an old friend, Eric Goldie.

I always think of Eric as a Cronk y Voddy man, but he now hails from Peel and is a virtuoso of the musical saw.

Now I’m sure that you all familiar with the way a musical saw is played, but in case there is some head scratching going on I shall quickly explain.

The saw is held with the handle end between the musicians knees, and the other (narrow) end is held by the musician.

The violin bow is then drawn back and forth across the un-toothed edge of the saw. The saw is then bent into a variable curve as the bow is stroked along it.

This makes a noise that sounds something between a whine and a wail.

The only thing that I can say is that, if that saw held between his knees ever springs free, we’ll be hearing a lot more than a whine and a wail.

Anyway, all’s well that ends well, and we all enjoyed an excellent evening of entertainment.

A true story that involved Eric and a planning enforcement officer always comes to mind whenever I mention our friend’s name.

At one time, Eric lived in a cottage on the Cronk y Voddy straight.

It was on the Peel side of the road and was just after the top of Creg Wyllis. It was a house that faced fine views and strong winds and, if it was anything like our cottage in Greeba before we fitted new windows, the wind would blow straight through it.

Anyway, this is the saga of Eric and the windows.

Now when an old house or cottage reaches a certain age, things start to wear out and need to be replaced.

Eric had replaced the old, worn-out wooden windows in his house with new, double glazed, uPVC modern miracles.

At last he was draught proof.

The problem was that Eric had not applied for the necessary planning permission. As he later explained, because in his eyes the new windows looked just like the old ones he was only replacing like for like, and as such did not need permission.

The planners and their enforcement officer had other ideas and, in due course, Eric heard a knock on the door.

The enforcement officer introduced himself and explained that Eric would have to complete a retrospective planning form if he wanted to keep his new windows.

’But I’ve already got new windows’ said Eric. ’Why do I need to fill in a form?’

’Because,’ said the officer, ’you should have filled in the form before you fitted the windows.’

’Yes but now that I’ve already got new windows,’ insisted Eric, ’I don’t need to ask if I can have them, because I’ve already got them.’

In the course of his career, I’m sure that the planning officer would have come up against many excuses and arguments.

But plain straightforward Cronk y Voddy logic is something else.

I can’t remember how long the planning committee fought the good fight, or what was the final official ruling, but I know which horse I would have backed.

Eric, you’ve got to be a brave man to play the musical saw.

Keep well and keep sawing.

A decade ago Pullyman - aka Michael Cowin - was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a condition that affects people in different ways. Michael discovered writing and Island Life is featuring some of his musings. Sometimes topical, sometimes nostalgic, read about life as seen through the eyes of Pullyman