''BRING back Peerie Norrie'' (as Norman Lamont used to be called in his native Shetland). That is the cry going up around the watering holes of Aberdeenshire.

You will remember that he was the Chancellor of the Exchequer who earned the grateful praise of Britain's farmers when he took us out of the Exchange Rate Mechanism. That was a scheme whereby the pound was more or less pegged to the other European currencies. And it was pegged far too high which made it cheap for Britain to import food and hard for us to export.

Then on what everyone else called ''Black Wednesday'', Peerie Norrie devalued the pound. Up went the farm-gate prices, up went the subsidies and we entered a period of prosperity the likes of which every man should enjoy before retirement. The farmers called it ''Golden Wednesday''.

And what has happened? The Doon Major and the other neeps have made such a mess of running the economy that the pound has risen back to its old level and undone all Peerie Norrie's good work. Just when the Farmer was looking forward to another good year to pay for the retirement house and a bit to the retirement fundie, grain which rose to more than #110 following Golden Wednesday fell to under #90.

Come back, Peerie Norrie. Your farmers need you.

Mind you, help is on the way and it is coming from an unusual quarter. The price of wheat has struggled up to #100 for harvest and even barley has made it to about #93. And it's all because of the drought in England.

It isn't often that Scotland's weather gives us an advantage over our rich friends from the South, but apparently the drought in parts of the breadbasket of England is so bad that light crops are expected. That holds out the hope of the farmer's best friend, ''shortage''.

Indeed it is better than that. For if this does materialise it will be a shortage on the part of our competitors while we may have our heaviest crops ever. No-one has ever seen the North-east looking so green and lush at this time of year. And though the ground water is very low, I'd say the winter crops at least are already so far on that a reasonably heavy harvest is more or less assured.

It's just as well, too.

The younger Investment's decision to get married has brought a smile to her mother's face, and of course the Farmer has been very brave about it, but it is going to make a fair dent in the retirement fundie.

Mind you it could be a smart move.

We went in bye the other side last Sunday. It sounded like the right address: the Garth Farm, Forfar. Sure enough it is among that gorgeous soil which has made the Howe of Strathmore some of the most desired land in the country. It is too good for anything less than potatoes or raspberries, and it costs funny money per acre.

And better than that, it is right on Forfar Loch. It can never run dry and it is sure to be needed for development one day soon.

We had been to a wedding in Perth and had stayed over so that the Breadwinner could have a drink. We had met the other side before, though only the once, and we did expect a fairly enthusiastic welcome. The younger Investment is quite a catch, after all.

But none was forthcoming. The groom's stepfather came to the door and looked rather oddly at us. There was even a hint of menace. We stood and looked back feeling a bit awkward. We weren't sure if we had done the wrong thing by calling unannounced when the godly are at prayer and not-quite-so-godly feel you should be at prayer rather than knocking at their door. As we had the Jaggie, he surely couldn't think we were tinkers?

After a few hesitant moments the Breadwinner wisely said: ''Hallo Jim. We're Susie's parents.''

That did the trick. We were welcomed in. He told me later that, with the smart car and the Breadwinner looking so perjink in her wedding gear with the new handbag, he had thought we were Jehovah's Witnesses.

In fact we got on uncommonly well. So much so that the other side offered to help pay for the wedding. The Farmer put up quite a fight. ''Oh no Jim. You know a man likes to put up his daughter's wedding.'' ''It's traditional you know.'' ''It's a matter of pride, for me . . . and the Breadwinner of course'', and a lot more nonsense.

But the Farmer had seen the new shed as he drove up to the Garth, and the new digger taking out the foundations for another new shed. He'd seen the split new 10-tonne cart and what looked like a brand-new swather . . . and harvest still four months away, even in Angus.

Well, well. Reluctantly, the Farmer agreed that the other side would be allowed to pay for the champagne for the Investment's wedding. That was a smart move. I've to do the ordering and he's to do the paying. How is anyone to know who had paid for the champagne anyway?

That was the end of the debate on whether to have the Asti Spumanti or to go overboard and have the Californian. With the other side paying we'll have the best French champagne even if it doesn't taste any better.

Poor Jim. It is just as well he's had such a good year at the Garth. He has no idea how much champagne Mossie, the Red Rooster, Mains and Hilly and the Wasting Assets can drink. I don't know if Penny Washers, the white settler, has tasted champagne but, when he hears its free, look out!