No smoking

I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased.

The company, in various states of discomfort, surfaces. Porridge is eaten, coffee drunk.

In small clumps of humanity, we wander down to the coast and walk a ways. The sun is shining weakly, soon to retreat under an all-encompassing wet, greyness.

Chilli for lunch. We tidy up. Joe and Ferdi go to Point. Nick waits for a gap in the rain to cycle to Point himself - it doesn't happen. The rest of us queue up on the jetty.

In Oban, by some miracle, Ailsa's car has escaped a fine despite having stood the weekend, unticketed, in an NCP car park. She takes Owen and Angus to Glasgow.

I pickup my car at Tyndrum. Claire takes the Stirling route, but I go via Loch Lomond. I beat her to Broughton by about 20 minutes, proving nothing. Then, exhausted again, we return home, make desultory preparations for tomorrow before going to bed.

Happy birthday!