Boat-shed

Herself

Boat-shed

A.

“Yerself? “

I turned around and glared. You wouldn’t believe the glariness of that glare. Went right though him out into his dark improbable past curled up behind him. I hurried on not waiting to pass the time of day – a time of day that had already passed somewhere over Barvas way. Or do I mean Bragar?

The Boat shed awaited. As it had done for some time. Time to people itself from around the world. The Maitre D’ was happily French, the chef from somewhere south of the Danube. South of Uig anyway.

B.

“Bonjour mhath” I hear. There, smiling welcomingly is a Maitre D. He exudes pleasantness, happiness even. Certainly confidence. I hope its confidence – I never been that good at ‘knowing’ confidence. Is it even possible to know confidence? It may be. If it is possible, this Maitre D’ exudes it.

I take my seat looking out over the harbour, the Jubilee laying on its side, Seamus lovingly bringing her back to full glory, sea-wet trousered and contented.

The menu is presented and I warily browse its offerings. The soup has parsnips – a root vegetable of dubious shape. The salad sounds lovely and proves to be sumptuous and enjoyable. Leaves and cheese caressed, drizzled – or whatever the menu said with nice stuff. What tempts me for main course? The meat does not. I imagine the end for the crofter’s cows, the sheep’s demise and I cannot. The ravioli brought my saliva buds dancing. Prancing all over my mouth, teeth zinging and hopefully awaiting.

“I’ll have fish and chips please”