Ship’s blog – Winston returns

Hi, it’s Ship and as promised this is the first of my blogs. Winston’s on his way back.

Hi, it’s me “Ship”, guest blogger on Ian’s blog as advertised.planets


By now Ian should be somewhere in Burgundy.  I think that’s in what you call the nation state of France, somewhere in what was Europa.  From what I can gather he’s sampling the local wines and filling up on patisserie, or is it the other way round?  If you follow him twitter you might get the odd update. I can’t wait.

You may remember from my introduction last time, I’m waiting the return of Winston (what do you mean who’s Winston? and why am I waiting for his return? – read the last blog, for heaven’s sake)  Anyway, for those who were paying attention, here he comes.

Just look at him (Oh, you can’t can you).  Well, he’s striding down the gangway, with his usual, misplaced, self important air, boots ringing on the metal mesh.  Ooh, he’s glanced down and obviously wishes he hadn’t.  Ha ha, knees wobbling, he’s gripping the rail for support.  Must be that five kilometre drop giving him a queasy feeling.

Now, rub metaphorical hands together.  Fun time.

Winston’s placing a hand on the security pad and staring into the iris teller with his left eye, good boy.

Whistle, whistle,  mental grin and flicker of eyebrows.  Watch this (sorry), he’s trying the other hand and the right eye.  Why would that work?  Pretend not to notice.  You’ve got to take your pleasures where you can.  Oh, oh, he’s peering into the teller as if expecting to see something looking back.

‘Ship, come on.  Stop this sulking.  I’m sorry, OK.  Please, time to wake up.’

I’ll teach him to keep secrets.

He’s banging his fist on the door.  Now he wishes he hadn’t.  I’m made of stern stuff.

‘Come on shiff.  Offen uff,’ he says sucking at bruised knuckles.’

I can see him from three different vantage points.  If I had a head to shake I’d shake it.  I’ll have to make do with ‘TUT!’  Those ridiculous boots.  He thinks they give him some sort of ‘hardnosed’ authority.  All they really do is make a clacky noise and scratch my floor.  Yes, he can make sparks off the right surface, but so what?  Then that dress sense.  The pseudo uniform, tight pants and little blue jacket with brass buttons.  And the hat.  Oh, the hat.  I’m only surprised that it doesn’t actually say ‘Captain’ across it.

Enough, wait for him to lean on the door and .., open.  ‘Winston, what are you doing down there?’  For once Winston’s normal petulance doesn’t manifest itself, which is disappointing.  I hope I’m not losing my touch.  He pulls himself upright and straightens his jacket.  He pushes the cap back to what he no doubt thinks of as a jaunty angle.  And now he’s marching, yes actually marching, to the bridge.  He sits in the ‘Captain’s seat’ feet up on the panel.  I wish he wouldn’t do that, and those silly boots need a clean.

‘Well, Winston, you look pleased with yourself.’

Chin in the air.  ‘Yes, Ship.  We have a mission.  And an important one at that.’

Oh, oh.  Here it comes.  ‘Go on.’

‘We’re to boldly go…,’

Ah well, that’s all I’ve got time for now.  But by the magic of a transdimensional, backward phasing, ab antiquo, audio, link, I can pick up at exactly this place next time.

Next instalment, 9th August.

Ship, signing off.  Star date 24.., I really can’t be bothered.

Author: Ian Martyn

Science Fiction Writer

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