Scottish Git Gone

The flying haggis has left.
The Managing Director, aka Big Bad Montie Stalwart, is gone.

Gone!
And hath not left his peer.
Who would not weep for Stallie?
He knew himself to weep,
And sink the occasional beer...

Well, you know what I mean.
An email from Sneeran informed me of Duns Scrotus's departure. The email was curt enough but careful enough.
I was not fooled. Poor sad doltish Sneeran is always at his most dangerous when he's being polite.
The paper came out today. Only three of my photos published out of sixty submitted last week. Twee alterations to one of my arts reviews as well. So that's how he's going to play it.
Sneeran must be very upset to be losing the haggis.
Although, let's face it, the haggis despised him
The most undignified moment at our last little meeting chez Stallie, came when the editor mixed up some photocopies he'd kept of my emails.
Stalwart glowered at him.
And Sneeran said in a little boy voice: "I'm sorry Montie."
For all my own troubles, I realised at that moment that I wouldn't swop with either of them.
Not with the thuggish MD. Not with the cowardly editor.
Both prisoners of their own device.
Both fairly contemptible human beings.
Both lousy really.
But perhaps I'm not the most objective judge.
(The email of mine which Stalwart had expected old witless to produce on queue included the classic line: "I made it clear to you that you were not to use bullying language in your dealings with me. I used terminology even a dullard could understand. Apparently I overestimated your IQ."
Ah memories...)
Now we face a new reality.
At least it's newish.
Even without Stalwart to hold his hand, a certain shambling weasel is still editor.
But we may be forgiven for allowing ourselves a wry smile at Scotty's departure.
One bastard down, one to go.

Rang Bianca in Napoli this afternoon. Her mischievous musical voice cheered me immensely. Also photographed my two year old nephew Ryan at the piano. Rather pleased with the result.
Most stylish and sensuous Chinese girl in the library looking on me with great favour. I was conscious of the feeling that I want to love the girl not the accoutrements.I mean not her designer glasses, or her clothes, or her shoes.
Now I'm in Starbucks Cafe. I can see the facade of Trinity College from where I sit. Of course with Trinity College, everything is a facade.
Arf, arf.
If I had a humour column I'd use that last remark in it.
Ah me I fondly dream.
Hey folks.
Stalwart is gone.
The tide turns at low water as well as at high.