It seems my little frolic with the under water strumpet has not gone done too well on HMS Gooselane.
Connie lay in stony silence when I changed her dressings. That bastard Uncle Francis must have told her about it. I really must watch my back with that sea faring old cunt-schooner.
I have spent all of today serving up endless cups of Earl Grey to the antiquated marlin slayer and his wounded niece. This yacht has become a floating prison. A gently swaying Alcatraz, mooring somewhere between the coast of France and the parched land of Corsica.
Bugger it all.
21/08/06
Med.
