Shackled

Summoned out at some ungodly hour by the lumberjack to discuss the trimming of the tree up top, I find that he’s cowering by the back door. I glance up at the Birch in the neighbour’s garden. It’s like a pencil. Wrong tree he says. It seems the neighbour had given him somewhat ambiguous instructions about which trees she wanted felled, and he’d got his boys there early to start on it before they were up. Oh dear. 
But I couldn’t hang about to mop his brow (he’d been well roasted) as the tide was not waiting and I’d a snap shackle to retrieve. With military precision, PT and the SK fashioned a long hook from the window cleaning pole, the boathook and a coat hanger. Young Keil and I made our way with the boat to the highest bit of the quayside in the west harbour. PT was convinced we couldn’t do it. But we did. He snecked the dangly bit! Whoop whoop whoop! Lesson learned.    
Later, a meal out - the last for the moment - with L&P to Dishoom,  booked ages ago when 7:45 would have given us several hours blethering. Home by 10:20pm. It’s like the 50s. Well, OK, that’s a stretch. In the 50s in Edinburgh there was only the Doric. I wonder how they’re faring?