The poipes the poipes are calling
N. and I arranged to reconvene for a slightly less formal work meeting, in the Royal Marine lobby this time.
The old dude playing a slowed down romantic version of Danny Boy on the baby grand piano created an atmosphere that was more suited to a wedding anniversary getaway (possibly a 50th, while waiting for the Viagra pill to take effect) than to a serious business conversation, so we took our pot of tea to the next room, which had less chandeliers and soft sofas, but less musical distraction, and a table upon which cards could be placed, face up, rather than held against one's chest and a honest conversation could be had.
Barely half an hour after we had parted, I was swimming at the Vico, by the moon light, with the seaweed gently caressing my not-quite-fully-retracted willy. At least I think it was kelp. It was quite dark. It couldn't have been Moray eels. It was a caress more than a bite.