For what it's worth, I solved the ruddy puzzle, what with all the waiting and worrying. 
And the spy satellite shows nothing, either.
I don't expect the Tortolans to mount a very effective rescue operation - ruddy down-at-heel Naval imposters the lot of them - and I doubt the Conchan Shore Rescue have the manpower, since I suspect many of their most senior volunteers are busy drowning in the wreckage of the Anti-Bulbus Counter-Cetationist Task Force.
It's very quiet in the Grog Shoppe, my dears... TOO quiet. So I took the liberty of booking a very nice Celtic group to come in and play. I've asked them to start off with a few suitable laments and sad sea shanties. After a dinner break, they'll come back this evening and play reels and jigs, and we must all try to foot it featly and dance our sorrows into the floorboards.
2 comments:
Your shot, sir. I was saving this bottle for the Mother of All Celebratory Booze-Ups, of course.
Sad. I'm reminded of the sight of a beautiful old bottle of Haig and Haig (the pinchbottle sort) being passed around at a wake for a soldier killed in war. He had left it with his wife to toast his safe return, or to toast his death in battle, whichever came first. It was a very old bottle that had originally belonged to his father, I believe. There was a seal that had to be broken, and some sort of wire contraption that had to be cut, so opening it required some effort and several small tools.
It was quite the solemn moment when at last the first toast was made. It was not so solemn by the time the bottle was "killed in action."
I don't remember very much after that. Which, I believe, is the point of wakes. So bottoms up, dear smart Ken.
*sighs*
*sighs alot*
*sighs deeply*
*just.....sighs*
*pours ken a shot, slides it down the bar.....and sighs*
sighin' snuggs
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