claymore
Well-known member
Having just returned home from a balmy Loch Melfort I seek the advice of our legal bretheren.
Readers of my column may remember last summer that I took pity on an auld scroat and took him and his bonnie bride of some years away for a wee cruise. The aforementioned scroat spent most of his time sat on the poop dragging a line in the vain hope of catching some poor unsuspecting fush. Having lived through this experience several times I'm of a mind that the fush are perfectly safe and they've little chance of becoming ensnared on the auld scroats tackle.
Part of the fitting out process aboard the good yacht Claymore is to rearrange the junk in the lockers and I set to this task with a vengeance as is my wont. Imagine my chagrin, let alone the pain when I stuck my hand in a seemingly innocent plastic bag and upon extraction found myself hooked to the barb and beyond on Para's finest mackrel slayer with my life's blood pumping out under the kind of pressure any steam enchineer wid hae bin proud of.
Luckily Dear Heart, being the offspring of a farmer who seemed to spend most of his adult life attached to a barbed wire fence, was on hand and after not inconsiderable effort, and a deal of pain, my right index digit and the offending hook became separated once more.
So - in terms of litigation - what angle shuid ah go fer, an the auld scroat being a man o' considerable means - hoo much aw his wedge d'ye think ah shuid be tryin' fer?
Readers of my column may remember last summer that I took pity on an auld scroat and took him and his bonnie bride of some years away for a wee cruise. The aforementioned scroat spent most of his time sat on the poop dragging a line in the vain hope of catching some poor unsuspecting fush. Having lived through this experience several times I'm of a mind that the fush are perfectly safe and they've little chance of becoming ensnared on the auld scroats tackle.
Part of the fitting out process aboard the good yacht Claymore is to rearrange the junk in the lockers and I set to this task with a vengeance as is my wont. Imagine my chagrin, let alone the pain when I stuck my hand in a seemingly innocent plastic bag and upon extraction found myself hooked to the barb and beyond on Para's finest mackrel slayer with my life's blood pumping out under the kind of pressure any steam enchineer wid hae bin proud of.
Luckily Dear Heart, being the offspring of a farmer who seemed to spend most of his adult life attached to a barbed wire fence, was on hand and after not inconsiderable effort, and a deal of pain, my right index digit and the offending hook became separated once more.
So - in terms of litigation - what angle shuid ah go fer, an the auld scroat being a man o' considerable means - hoo much aw his wedge d'ye think ah shuid be tryin' fer?