Where can a fellow who aspires to write a blog find ideas that give birth to exciting accounts like, well, a sort of Treasure Island blog, or a blog in the Dr Zhivago vein, or maybe a smiling blog of a Don Quixote nature?
|Standy by to repel boarders... It's often a surprise that sailing yachts with their limited facilities attract women. Of course, this keen helmslady is not the enthusiastic visitor mentioned below. Photo by MAX LIBERTINE on Unsplash and many thanks for it.|
Take today. I was gardening in promisingly warm sunshine with a quizzical brow, pondering on the likely wellspring for tonight's account.
Radio 4 news this morning offered only more of the dreaded virus lurking out there somewhere.
It means we brave Britons who will go to war at the drop of a politician’s bowler must hide in our homes behind locked doors until the Tubby One rules otherwise.
Perhaps that odd event could be tried with a nautical flavour.
What if landlubbers steal a vessel one night and head off to Somewhere Better. But at dawn, the lookout sees what they are up against.
|All clear, skipper... If the sea offered fine weather every day, sailing's appeal to the fairer gender might be easier to understand. Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash, gratefully used.|
When night returns, the watch can't see the sea and calls All Clear and relative normality resumes.
Pulling some thrusting weeds, I was dwelling on a phone chat this morning with an elderly friend.
Until retirement a long time ago, he held an important government post.
However, he had news for me. His university study was over and that would give him much more time, especially as he planned to retire from teaching which he had managed around the study.
Oh dear, I thought, is fantasy what a, well, maturing brain promises ... and returned to my uprooting of weeds.
The sunshine encouraged a memory from seafaring days. I was delivering a luxury yacht to Scandinavia from the Cape. The new owner wanted the yacht to call into Holland.
An attractive observer
In a popular yachting port, I berthed alongside for a night. Soon I noticed a decidedly attractive woman watching me from the jetty.
Could she come aboard, please, to be looking at the beautiful vessel? Without any prompting, suggestion or encouragement, she remained till the morning.
Even more anxious to know what this blog could tell, I began tearing down jungle-like ivy commandeering a high fence.
I was hacking the rampant ivy when I thought I heard a voice, a pleasant female voice with a gentle Dutch accent.
Holy wuhanitis! What a coincidence if this turns out to be that very person whose memory I've just been recalling.
The voice continued in the friendliest tone yet to a person she couldn’t see on my side of that property divider.
She knew the right note to touch, though, and the hidden Juliet lamented the lockdown madness. She works in a wine bar, only it's shut down by the plague craziness.
She couldn’t wait
She couldn’t wait, she said, to get back to pulling pints, or whatever the term is for topping up wine glasses.
After some minutes of hidden conversation, the disembodied voice said, ‘Ah, well, gotta go now.’
Ah, I thought, I could interview her for a possibly quite unusual article. Of course, the thought had arrived late, and I'd have to wait till the lockdown ends to find her.
Yet how will a wowser visit the area’s wine bars, eavesdropping on staff talk, but somehow not so much as sip from a glass of the poison, a temptation avoided now for two decades.
A problem. And in the meantime, what on earth am I going to write about for this, er, blog?