Ship Of Fools

She Of The Townhouse has been away for the night and like men all over the world my thoughts have turned to the mischief I might get up to while the gimlet gaze is averted.
Putting yesterdays rather pathetic attempt aside, one which involved eating cold faggots dipped in chilli sauce while wearing merely my undercrackers…. No let me spare you that.


Today me hearties I have been addressing matters piratical. You probably all One or two of you may already know this as I might have excitedly texted from the Welsh Maine.

First I had to chase a pigeon out of the sitting room. I have no clue as to how it got there but it had been sleeping in a box.
Retrieving The Ship Of Fools from the top of my barn, I tied it to the top of my car. In truth it would have been easy to give up at this point as it seemed heavier than last year, maybe its just me getting older.
A sneeked copy of Gareth’s passport stamp allowed me to cross on to the island without incident and, after stop for cholesterol and a mug of Darjeeling, I was soon donning the famous rubber suit in a remote car park.

And so I set sail. Well, paddled really. Leaving a crease lining my westerly course over the dappled waters of the eastern edge of the Irish sea.
Dear reader, I was in hog heaven.
For the next four hours I rode a gentle swell around little islands. Played tag with a seal and a few cormorants. Entertained wavelets shimmering with sunlight. Tried in vain to spot the skylarks. Parked on a deserted beach, Lost sight of land. Ate a tuna sandwich. Set the compass and, laughing in the face of danger paddled saltily back to base camp.

I understand that some of you may have been rained upon.