On Becoming IWhoSawHeWhoSawTheFace
A long black car in much, much finer trim than mine pulled up in front of Childe Harold's. A beaming man was behind the wheel. There was nought to do but get in and be swept off to a place where, unlike less civilized environs, you can actually partake of alcohol and tobacco at the same time.
I shall dispense with the cheap copy of the format of a fine daylog (found just above this one). I shall humbly note, instead, that my car is older than his, smaller than his, and the brightwork is in much poorer shape. It does have the big engine and zippy bits, because I have fewer responsibilities and can indulge my vices.
I am in fact a loquacious fucker, there is no doubt, and I can only say that an excellent time was had by both. What words the poor man got in edgewise were highly treasured, and for future meetings, he should be aware that members of my immediate family have voted that (in my specific case) Tasers are considered acceptable conversational gambits.
Lagavulin, my dear paraclete, trumps Bowmore in my personal opinion, but only because it's a subjective comparison and I'm a peat masochist. I fully agree that the latter embodies more of the subtleties of the North. We had, for the record, the Macallan 12, the Lagavulin 16, and the Caol Ila 12 before exhausting the readily available (i.e. visible) options at Ozio. Plus, the unfortunate IWho was forced to chauffeur.
I would like to note that meeting noders has, in every case, made me realize why I can't seem to quit this place. IWho, ping me and remind me, "CDs. And Book titles."
Cheers.