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
 
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