Before I shuffle from the mortal coil I would like to finish a novel, of which I have the barest bones sticking out of the mud at the moment.
It is set, partly at least, near this boatyard. This is a picture of my favourite boat. It has a wooden hull, sea-silvered. It used to flap in its dry dock under a great blue tarpaulin, but over the winters this has now disintegrated and blown away altogether. The renovation work, or whatever it is that you do to an old boat, is under way, but it is slow. In my mind, this is The Ark. Noah, the captain, comes up on the weekends, when Mrs Noah will let him, and used to rearrange what was left of the tarpaulin. Now that’s gone, I don’t know what he does, but this white flotation device didn’t used to dangle down as it does now. Perhaps Noah kicked it off the deck in irritation one time.