tcm
...
Another transmission received. Heavily edited version should be read at
<A target="_blank" HREF=http://www.ybw.com/auto/newsdesk/20030104105156ywkingfisherandrew.html>http://www.ybw.com/auto/newsdesk/20030104105156ywkingfisherandrew.html</A>
The days draw further on than ever before and the temperature ratchets up even hotter than the hot temperatures of the quite warm weather previously, my word processor's grammar checker is playing up, and I’m down to using adjectives like “puffy to describe clouds, as the days draw on. The long days and even longer phrases sail along stitched together with commas far more weakly than the weekly sail-stitching sessions, rendering my text almost unreadable.
Shorts have appeared on deck. What does this mean? There’s either a weak of illness, or weakness of ills. We had a search for chafe, included a bizarre trip up the mast from Plymouth, in order to look for chafe, as I mentioned at both ends of the sentence. Do I mean that the trip up the mast actually started 2000 miles away in Plymouth, or that the mast is from Plymouth? What the hell am I on about?
Fortunately, things are going much better with Ellen. She hasn’t had to speak to me sharply for the last 48 hours. In fact she hasn’t needed to speak to me at all, which I like to think is a good sign.
As a catamaran, the boat is naturally divided into two. On the starboard side there’s the main controls, Ellen and the crew. I’m pleased that they feel that they can trust me to look after all the wet sails all on my own on this side, quite a hefty responsibility really.
The entire crew on the other side seem to have got colds. They don’t seem to be at all downhearted, which is strange. But they are audibly snuffling, coughing and choking quite badly. Especially when they read my latest diary piece. I seem to be the only one who has escaped.
Anyway, we’re all ill, I’m still frightened, there’s not much food, and the boat is going quite slowly. Still at least nobody’s complaining. Apart from me, I suppose.
This is awful. The trip, I mean, not this article.
<A target="_blank" HREF=http://www.ybw.com/auto/newsdesk/20030104105156ywkingfisherandrew.html>http://www.ybw.com/auto/newsdesk/20030104105156ywkingfisherandrew.html</A>
The days draw further on than ever before and the temperature ratchets up even hotter than the hot temperatures of the quite warm weather previously, my word processor's grammar checker is playing up, and I’m down to using adjectives like “puffy to describe clouds, as the days draw on. The long days and even longer phrases sail along stitched together with commas far more weakly than the weekly sail-stitching sessions, rendering my text almost unreadable.
Shorts have appeared on deck. What does this mean? There’s either a weak of illness, or weakness of ills. We had a search for chafe, included a bizarre trip up the mast from Plymouth, in order to look for chafe, as I mentioned at both ends of the sentence. Do I mean that the trip up the mast actually started 2000 miles away in Plymouth, or that the mast is from Plymouth? What the hell am I on about?
Fortunately, things are going much better with Ellen. She hasn’t had to speak to me sharply for the last 48 hours. In fact she hasn’t needed to speak to me at all, which I like to think is a good sign.
As a catamaran, the boat is naturally divided into two. On the starboard side there’s the main controls, Ellen and the crew. I’m pleased that they feel that they can trust me to look after all the wet sails all on my own on this side, quite a hefty responsibility really.
The entire crew on the other side seem to have got colds. They don’t seem to be at all downhearted, which is strange. But they are audibly snuffling, coughing and choking quite badly. Especially when they read my latest diary piece. I seem to be the only one who has escaped.
Anyway, we’re all ill, I’m still frightened, there’s not much food, and the boat is going quite slowly. Still at least nobody’s complaining. Apart from me, I suppose.
This is awful. The trip, I mean, not this article.
