|Isn't this sunset/sunrise, just divine|
Bugger! We have been adrift in our long boat for many a long day. Nothing but endless, blue Pacific waters sweltering under a domed blue sky. Our supplies of water and food are exhausted and our tongues do loll and our lips do swell and crack. Thinking back it probably wasn't a good idea to put Hildraed ‘The Halfwit’ in charge of stores and procurement. He stocked the boat with cocktail novelty twizzle sticks and dehydrated water substitute. Instructions read: ‘Just add fresh water.’ Fuck. For the last few days we have been mightily quaffing our own meagre flow. Atulf says he’s been drinking his for years. For variety we have started to swap flasks. Interestingly, I can now distinguish the taste and aroma of each individual member of my war band’s tinckle. For sweetness I can strongly recommend Osric’s piss. Godcild’s piddle is full bodied, earthy with a faint hint of gooseberries, on the palate. I can’t commend Wendelbeorth’s biofluid. Tis rank, tainted and has the distinctive odour of fish heads; would make a Jute, puke.
Next we come to the vexed issue of skin hydration. Clearly keeping our fair complexions moisturised and free of brine rime is a challenge. Hildraed also failed to store any moisturiser. Shit, no Oil of Ulay on this trip.
Note to self: ‘On return to the Great Hall, must place Hildraed’s genitals in the garlic press.'
To be continued…….