My life is rather over-fraught again. I’ve asked the building inspector to come and do the final check before we run out of time on our permit. So far: no reply, except the automatic acknowledgement of the email. 2 requests so far. We’re frantically working to get it all done. This is not good for writing., and neither is the state of the exchequer, because all this is expensive.

So: a question. Does where you write make much difference to you? Laptop or no, I do best at my desk, in a rather neat, spartan environment, with minimal distractions. One day I want a dedicated office again, maybe two separate computers, one without internet access to reduce the rabbit-hole following. I am no Lois L’Amour: I can’t write anywhere (I can, but it affects output. I could NEVER write in a coffee-shop. I don’t really understand how anyone can). There is no doubt that bureaucrats have cost me (and my readers) a good half-dozen books. I will have to skewer them some more in future ones.

Anyway, I am still battering my way onwards with the ‘CASTAWAYS’ novel. The boys have just been sailing across several miles of sand-dwelling ‘jellyfish’, which form enormous ‘pools’ (miles across) on the edge of tidal flats. They rely on the falling tide to trap fish and crustacea getting off the tide-flats, so, trapped, they can be stung and fed on.

The kid (the youngest, Titch) got stung. Snippet:

Before the night was over, Mick was quite fancying some boredom again. And he’d given up worrying about splashing. Or about drinking-water, for that matter. The rain came down in buckets. Like, it was heavy enough to be actual buckets, some of it. And there was hail or sleet. How did you tell? It was just bits of ice that hit him. Everything was wet and cold, and the boat was riding real waves.

And the kid seemed still unconscious. Not dead. Not stirring either.

Pre-dawn had all of them – except the Titch, on deck, sorting things out, as the rain had let up and wind slacked off a bit. The sea was still grey and full of holes and lumps… or that’s what it felt like, anyway. The sky was turning the palest of pink, striped with racing clouds and occasional spatters of raindrops. Tal was refilling water-bottles. He would be, thought Mick with a bit of a smile.

“How’s the kid?” asked Jonno – who had been on the tiller all night, with a cracking yawn.

“Much the same. He did snore at one stage,” said Tal. “I wondered if he was just asleep. I mean, he hasn’t been shivering and his temperature feels OK. But nothing could have slept through last night.”

“I did his shivering,” said Mick. “What do we do about Titch?”

“What can we do?” asked Tal, helplessly.

“You could give me some breakfast,” said the Titch, emerging from the life-raft on the foredeck. “I’m starving!”

For a moment, Mick thought he was going to start crying and embarrass himself. He’d been so sure the kid was going to die. He been trying to work out how to deal all that wet, cold night. When the rain was running down your face was a good time for it. Or, as good a time as any. “I should chuck you overboard to feed the upside-down jellyfish,” he said gruffly.

“What about using him for bait?” said Jonno slapping the Titch’s back.

“Give the fish food-poisoning,” said Mick, glad to escape into a laugh.

Tal was grinning, and those were tears on his cheeks. He hugged the kid. So, they all did.  Who was going to say anything about it out here? “You frightened the devil out of us,” said Jonno.

The Titch nodded. “I heard you praying. Um. Thanks. I frightened me too.”

“How is it feeling?” asked Tal.

The kid touched his foot experimentally. “Seems fine… a bit tender, maybe. So: really, is there any food? I think I used up everything I had.”

“Cooking would be tricky in this sea,” said Jonno. “I think we have some sweet-stems.”

“Or a tin of Minisume caviar. It’s that or chew on a bodgie.”

“I’d even rather try the caviar. The bogies are my friends! It can’t be as nasty as Mick says,” said the Titch, scratching one of the bodgies. As usual, they were perching on his shoulder, tails around his skinny chest.

A few minutes later Titch said he had to agree with Mick, but he ate it, anyway. He was obviously that hungry. Jonno tasted a grain of it. He said it was nice… but he didn’t eat any more of it, Mick noticed. Even the bodgies weren’t keen, and they’d eat almost anything.