The Story So fa

When the doors opened in Stromness Library the Current Mrs Creel dashed upstairs to lounge on the comfy sofa with a view of the harbour.  I joined her; I didn’t dash.  I’ve seen a pebble dash.  But gradually the salty air picks away at it.

Upstairs in the aforesaid library is a comfy cocoon, a warm and dreamy reading space.  A place to take all day to try and understand a Jonathan Meades paragraph; or a Will Self semi-colon.  Or to take the proper option, get a grip, and realign your life with ‘Highland River’ by Mr Gunn.

When we left, the previously placid harbour waters had more than a few ripples.   It became all afroth and dancing wetness.   I then delivered various messages to a variety of folk domiciled in Stromness.  Venturing across to Hamnavoe (not swimming) I collected some coal from a friend who has removed a stove.

Back at party HQ I sent out the draft minutes of the Hoy Kirk meeting, continued with an application for Lottery funding (those who have will think meat cleaver).  All of this without an ISBN No.  A Glenscotia Victoriana beckons.

Did Molly Weir inhale Flash – should she have ?