William Friedkin, almost

I sat down at 11.30 last night, intending to post about William Friedkin, the American movie director (if the name rings a bell but you can't place the blockbuster, think rotating heads, willful bedsteads and projectile vomit the colour of pea soup - come to think of it, I bet it was pea soup), but I suddenly remembered I had left the rowing boat high and dry, half underneath the jetty, and the tide was coming in. My intention had been to catch it when it floated, and walk it further down the jetty so that it would be at the right place for 7.30am this morning, my departure time.

I was way too late. The rowing boat had risen with the tide, met with the underside of the jetty, and succumbed without a murmur. The night was perfectly still, the moon was strong and the boat appeared as a ghostly glimmer about six feet beneath the surface. Of course, it's not the first time, and I set about recovering it in a well-rehearsed routine involving chest waders, a boat hook and a prodigious amount of baling with a plastic bucket.

By the time I had tied the boat as far down as the incoming tide allowed, and thrown out the stern anchor, it was half past midnight and I decided Friedkin could wait.