Duncan Harley

Molly the parrot finally and irretrievably signed her death warrant today with her rendering of yet another unwarranted and unwanted joke and I must warn you that this is quite the most terrible parrot joke I have ever had the displeasure to stumble across on this deserted and god forsaken island. Even my new companion Man March seemed pleased at my action despite the fact that - at least as far as I am aware, he understands little or nothing about either the English language or syntax: ‘Squawk. After more than 40 years of marriage, a woman’s husband suddenly dies. Squawk Squawk For several months she sat alone in her house with the shades pulled and the doors locked. Finally she decided she needed to do something about her situation. The loneliness was killing her. Squawk Squawk. Squawk Squawk. She remembered that her husband had a friend who owned a nice pet store — a pet might be good company. So, Squawk Squawk, she dropped in one afternoon to look over the pet selection. S...

I t is as I suspected. Today is almost certainly not Friday and yesterday was not Thursday. In fact, it was all a lurid dream brought on no doubt by remnants of that fever from which I am now mainly recovered. Or at least I think I am. And now of course, my priorities have changed. I am intent on taking to the sea again and am determined to return to my native Largo come what may. Meantime personal survival must be my focus. Alongside my need for potable water I will need a supply of meat to provide sustenance while I plan my escape from this island. And I now realise that the shooting of the feral goat was at best a jerk reaction and I now regret not having tamed and fattened the angry beast before firing that fatal shot. The corpse was at best thin and stringy. The meat was tough and my scurvy made chewing difficult. In short, the goat was not up to expectations. But since all now done and dusted, I cannot now make amends for my miscalculation other than to vow that next time...