A few years ago now, The Old Salthorse raced down the Bukit Timah Road to the British Military Hospital at what was then, HMS Terror. Very wisely & in the finest traditions of the senior service, he promptly scarpered, taking his ship back to sea (& to war) before he had to face the consequences of his actions of 9 months previously. No sooner had he cleared harbour than Mrs FM was born – who popped from the Wicked Witch of the West’s womb straight into a dingy … & since that time, Mrs FM has set foot ashore only occasionally & even then, only under extreme duress. Quite why such a capable person as Mrs FM married such a useless idle drunken land lubber as your humble correspondent remains like so much of my life, complete mystery to me. For what it is worth & that isn’t a great deal, my pet theory is that I was probably the only one of her boyfriends that came remotely close to being able to match her father in the nightly acoholothon.

When it comes to boats, I simply could not be more ambivalent – the only reason that “I must down to the sea again” is that there are no lavatories in the beach car park. As for bobbing around on the briney– I would far rather cut my toes off with a pair of bolt cutters. If the war office wants to spend quality time as a piece of apprenticed fish food, that is absolutely fine with me I am more than content to go to the yacht club bar & give a bottle of overproof rum a sound & proper spanking. Swinging the lantern? – given a fair wind & an attentive barman, I can normally achieve a heaving deck in a little under 45 minutes.

However, this weekend & there is no running away from it & believe you me I have wriggled we are off here - to a fate worse than death & the yacht club.

…for a weekend on the water. Oh deep joy! I just cant wait.

It not just that the whole concept of sailing leaves me normally frostbitten, it is that it puts an extraordinary amount of pressure on the already tattered remnants of our marriage. But the pair of us within fifty feet of a boat & we will be experiencing storm force marital friction in under five minutes. Matters deteriorate exponentially when we are actually under sail, with conversations like…

Mrs FM: (in her saltiest voice): “Frottock the top mizzen”
Me: “What the phuque is that supposed to mean, Horatio?”
Mrs FM: “Sheet on, give the boom kicker some slack & trim the kite”
Me: “What the phuque is that supposed to mean, Horatio?”
Mrs FM: “Pull the red rope, numpty”
Me: “Which red rope do you mean exactly, I am currently looking at five different pieces of red rope”
... Verrrdunk (Sound of tiller extension impacting across the back of my head)

Now, if I can just get myself run over between now & Friday ...!