Tuesday

There’s a hole in my sheet. Worn tissue paper thin, unwashed and decidedly smelly it, never-the-less, remains in situ. For over three years now it has been laundered first thing in the morning, dried in the sun and wind then returned to the bed at night. It has given noble service.

Of course, we should have done something about it sooner. One to wash and one to wear is hardly extravagant. But, you see, it’s custom made, fitted to the peculiar shape of a forecabin. Wider at one end than a King Size, narrower than a crib at the other it is beyond my needlework skills (the most loathed subject on the school timetable – well, after PE) to replace myself. Most live-aboards would be pretty disgusted at my ineptitude, most women my age I should think.

So there the holey sheet remains. I will attempt to wash it, most delicately, by hand, when we have a ready supply of water and are enough away from neighbours for the spectacle of it hanging from the Genoa to spare my blushes. Oh, the embarrassment.