Wait for it, wait for it....

“Christ” thought his Lairdship, “Ah feel ah’ve ainly been awa frae here for chust a few shairt weeks.” In reality, his Lordship’s memory was playing tricks on him. For he had not seen Fiona below the waterline since the last vestiges of youth had left his tartan trews. During those long months Claymore the Claymore had been boabing up and doon on pontoon no.1 at the Royal Marina, her gel coat rubbed to a fine polish by Her Royal Highness’ fond touch every time she visited her fine shup of Rustler origin.

“Some things in life nivver change - ah must dust doon the Amstrad and let the fine folk of YBW know that ra seasons are changin’”, thought the Big Man. But time had caught up with the Laird and his perception of the winter solstice had changed along with his faint grip on reality. As he read the responses on YBW he thought to himself, “Ach, I’ve come too soon yet again.”

Nivver mind - wi’ only about hof a year until the next opportunity his Lairdship switched off his ancient Amstrad and his mind moved again to the delights of Fiona’s keel, trembling with the fond memories of days gone by.
 
His Lairdship woke to an overwhelming sadness, troubled by the memory of one of his extramarital products. Wee Shuggy had grown into a fine lad over the years and whilst the dalliance with his dear Mother had been but a brief shallow overnight relationship, the Laird of Lorrigolligan remembered it fondly. The lassie had not made a fuss when she found herself with child - Maitland the joiner was only too keen tae tak her hon' in marriage. Maitland was himself a fine man but numbers were never his strong suit - this probably accounted for his 93.5 degree set square so proudly made in old Cutter McDoon's carpentry classes at Lochgilphead school for mixed boys.
The laird shook his shaggy main, covering himself in a shower of auld dandruff, and attempted to shake off his sadness. His good friend William Butler had said it well - and the Laird reached onto his bedside table and clasped the dusty book where it fell open to the very page he sought

He read through rheumy eyes..

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars
 
There was that penny dreadful play about waiting by that old Irish reprobate Sammy Kick O Buckett.
Put me right off
Life’s too short
Beautiful sunset right now and I am unreliable informed that this is as early as it gets . Which is nice
 
Shuggy settled back into his wingback leather chair. His left hand paused on his spreading midriff, increasing steadily as middle age settled in. Maitland had been a good father and had been generous enough to attempt to pass on many of his skills (all of which had fallen on deaf ears), while his mother kept herself busy travelling to Dalmally every day as book keeper for the livestock market. She was on friendly terms with many of the local farmers and often had to work late on market day, sometimes disappearing for two or three nights without coming home. “Wait a minute,” thought Shuggy, “maybe thus wid account for ra lack of sibling similarity amongst ma seven brothers and sisters?”. A few other thoughts surfaced through the light fog of his second dram.

“Ah’ve always had delusions of grandeur - chust look at my wingback armchair and my fine crystal glass. Maitland and Senga would nivvir have entertained such fripperies; it wasnae until ah’d left the coast of Argyll for the trappings of Perthshire that these deep longings arrived at ma door. Bit mibbies they were just his Lairdship’s DNA breaking through ma humble West Coast upbringing. I canny believe that His Lairdship had it awa’ wi’ Senga behind the recycling bins at Ardfern and ah was the product. That would aye explain the deep bond I felt with the Big Man when he was directing re-wiring operations on Claymore the Claymore some years back.”

“Ah must move ma fine ship back from Tayvallich to her rightful place next to royalty in the Royal Marina and see if his Lairdship can ascend his bastard son and heir into the Squadron, as is ma birth right.”

As he slowly dozed off in front of the fire his mind started to dream of pink gins on the aft deck; of Senga’s willingness to welcome visitors into his childhood house; and of his future as the Laird. He slowly cast his eyes over to the desk where his trusty Amstrad (its creator a fellow member of the aristocracy, Sir Alan Lord Sugar), stood poised for his next interaction with YBW. “Like father, like son. Aye.”
 
The trusty auld Amstrad was duly introduced to the electrical system which coursed unevenly through Claymore towers like an irregular heartbeat. The wee light came on and sure enough after a grunt and a creak, the monochrome screen flickered into life. Cracking his ageing digits the Noble Laird rested them on the keyboard and waited for inspiration to find its way from cranium to pinkies.
Dear Hugh - he wrote - mildly alarmed by the term Shuggy which always reminded him of the night he'd almost met his end at the hands of the brother of Effie McGuinness at the Bute Farmers Ball. He shuddered at the thought of just how much trouble could be caused by an unbuttoned pair o' trews.
His mind re-focussed, he applied himself to his task.
Dear Hugh, he wrote, then paused to wait for the next line to appear.
It has been some time since I saw you dear Boy and was wondering how you are - and of course, to pass on my condolences at the loss of your dear Mama. A train of thought passed by - none of it fit for the eyes of the lad but it pleased his Lairdship to sense stirrings somewhere to the south. Hmm, he smiled to himself - 'Snaw on the roof but fire in the hearth'
Jamesie - ye recall the scurrilous wee beggar? Jamesie advised me that ye were considering leaving Tayvallich and venturing back into Loch Craignish?
Writing in code to create a cloud of obscurity he penned the following.
The Mother in Law of that english rugby player - the one attempting a Kerry Packer on the noble game, advises me of her influence with the management of the wee marina at the head of the loch and her ability so secure a generous discount should you wish to berth your fine yacht there.
I'd find this advantageous as there are a few newcomers hanging around nowadays - they all seem to wear black oilskins which I suppose is ok as they never venture out in the hours of darkness.
It would be grand to see you and re-establish an air of refinement amongst the current clientele. I've also a wee issue with my leadline that could do with untangling. You were always handy with hands, as the wee lassie in the village shop never fails to remind me.
Herself is still in remarkably good order and reminds me very much of her Aunt, we stripped the willow a few times before that blasted cameraman came on the scene - the double barrelled wee beggar. It did rather curtail the frequency of our dalliances for a time...
Anyway, the candles are almost ready for lighting so I shall give this to McPherson for the post
Your dear
At this point, his fingers could go no further - was it time to let the lad know?
He decided against it as an act of self preservation - there was a wee joinery job needed doing aboard the fine ship Claymore and good man though he was - this was not the time to upset the Maitland.
 
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