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.