I woke early to the drunken mewling and heavy tread of Caroline and Jeff returning to their boat. (And why, Axel, are we not double glazed?) What grisly party had they attended? Very likely it was a barbey that got out of hand. All tits and tans in some patioed garden, burgers and bottled beer from eastern europe, followed by the pub owned by their mates who happen to sell them their first yacht, then a lock-in for old times sake. Oh, when will they learn?

I went to the bathroom. I usually take a breath and enter my belly before walking into Axel's bathroom. Yet today I was unable to avoid the wall to wall mirrors and saw, as if for the first time, the wave of grey hair upon my head. What happened in Wittenberg? I used to have hair flecked with grey, maturing well, at it's own pace. I am now a grey haired gentleman. Oh what have the angels done? I found my dressing gown and went onto deck. And to think I have had a postcard of Dr. Dee pinned above my desk for over thirty years.

Oh god Helen.

Helen and Gareth.

Neil?

What will I tell them? And will Gareth believe me? The truth is rarely a realistic, or sociable proposition, so most likely I'll find a maiden aunt in Australia who required some comfort. Or maybe I spent a few weeks in one our Celtic regions, trying and failing to write my first novel. That'll go down well. But I must choose my deception with care for it may return to haunt my dreams and so, with a sly quarter pipe at the ready, I went to prepare myself for returning to the clear and obvious horseshit of the working world.