Outside the rain beats down, drops snaking unhurried down the pane. It has been a long and wet winter this time around.
I shudder at the sudden chill and reach for the tumbler of Glen Moray and water beside me. It warms me a little, the rich, oily aroma seems everywhere.
Can I do this again? I look to Snook for inspiration, but all I see is him cocking one at Gladstone over 130 years' distance in time and an infinity in understanding.
Featherstone then, and Barthorp. Connoisseur, Willie and a touch of Stadden where I can for the horseflesh. Yes. The old boys will do it. The old gang.
I am stirred a little. There are those old Connoisseur Highlanders in a box somewhere. I think I know where.
Like the waves, I advance a little more with each attempt.
I can do it.