Ah, twitterpation: that state of ephemeral bliss we all have such an awkward relationship with.

A born pier fisherman was a totally different kind of breed from a surfcaster or a boat fisherman.

And whistling, I gazed at the lovely “collected” maps and beyellowed documents, and arranged them in the compartments of my chest, carefully laying the button, wrapped in tissue paper, with the rest.

He passed up my invitation for dinner, saying he was too busy