On board the Dreamboat there were puzzles to be examined. Such as, who is Massimo? Such as, why would anybody think that I might be his friend? And if I was what would it mean? And more importantly, would it be dangerous?
Not that my potential interrogator hung around long enough for me to reply.
Out beyond the harbour walls the Dreamboat encountered a lazy swell; the combination of that gentle lurching and the ever-present smell of fish stirred my intestines into high alert, a state of readiness to evacuate should conditions deteriorate.
More questions flooded my mind, perhaps in an effort to distract attention away from the volatility of current peristaltic activity. Questions such as:
Did Tony Blair wet himself when shown the instruments of torture? Or, even, did any of those convictions he was so proud to display, his façade of self-belief, wobble?
What am I supposed to remember?
Did the image of the assassin as woman turn you on?
What sort of shoes was she wearing?
What would it be like living in a de-growth economy?
Was the captain of the Dreamboat called Pring? And was he indeed a poet?
What are the rules of this vessel?