You picked the wrong blonde - or I didn't signal it up properly.
Donald Trump is related to my family. His mother and my grandfather were cousins. I don't know Donald Trump and he certainly does not know me. His mother left the Island of Lewis to find a new life in a new land called America when she was little more than a girl. Mary MacLeod had the good fortune to meet and marry Fred Trump and the rest, as they say, is history.
Mary MacLeod returned to her native land every second year and stayed with her sister in a home - slightly in advance of the extremely humble origins into which she was born and grew up, but a home which really was a 'home'. Where the door was never locked, where there was a welcome for everyone who crossed the threshold, where the kettle always whistled on the stove in readiness for 'an strupach' (a wee cup of tea) offered to any caller, where, if the cow went out of milk, the family was provided for by all the other families in the village, where everyone mucked in to cut, dry, load and carry the peats home to keep the fire burning thoughout the long, dark winter evenings. A real home within a real community - a self-sufficient community which left no 'carbon footprint'. There is still an element of this way of life, or, rather, attitude to life, left in Tir nan Og (Gaelic for 'The Land of Everlasting Youth') in the Outer Hebrides. Donald Trump's maternal homeland. My maternal homeland - and the most perfect place on earth.
Donald Trump is, and his own family should continue to be, extremely proud of his maternal origins.
tsaria