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1978. September. In a kind of shed, a table covered with books, notebooks, bits of paper and typescript - my father's worktable. I look at some of the writing, a poem, an obituary for Ray, a friend of Dougie's. There are a couple of half pint bottles of beer opened but only one has had anything drunk out of it. I think this is because my father was ill and could not finish them after he had opened them. I taste one of them and it is very sweet and flat. I remember a small soft black diary he used to keep a long time ago. Three pistols on the table.
]+>Cyborg |