Children's television arrives

There have been a number of unsettling developments since last we spoke. I wonder Robinson Crusoe found time to write his bilge, if he had anything like the interruptions raining down upon him that I'm plagued with.

No sign of the nun, of course (Perhaps they're out of season). However I was rather getting used to the dancing laundrywomen, little glimpses of paradise through the long grass and all the rest of it. In fact ,I found myself waking in joyful anticipation of a little light entertainment from the safety of my shrubbery. Alas, today I made my way down to the beach to discover they had been chased off and replaced by what I took, initially, to be some Masonic or Rotarian event (Judging by the fetid stench of broiling meat it may even have been the Lib Dems enjoying one of their mealy mouthed barbecues).

Closer inspection revealed them to be the cast of some Children's Television programme. They're clearly some atavistic precursor of the Teletubbbies, whose mindless expression they capture to a tee, and as you can see their deportment and dress sense leaves much to be desired. I'm a Winnie The Pooh man myself, and I'm not sure Cannibalism is proper fare for the under fives. Though it's a reasonable enough fate for many. Still, you get all kinds of noxious tosh on television these days, posturing as educational, which is why I left all behind.

I'm maintaining surveillance from a prudent distance. When they leave ( or "wrap" as they so pretentiously call it)I may slip down and pick through the remains of their feast, though I'm not one for finger food.

The Hayfever sisters.

Apologies if you've waiting for the next message in a bottle to wash up and they've all been empty. As you can see, I've had my own problems to contend with. I managed to exorcise the nun, largely with bad langauge and threatening behaviour of a sexual nature, only to find my beach clogged up with what I took to be promotional girls from a garden centre. On closer inspection, they proved to be younger (mercifully) relatives of the laundry women who were polluting my cove in an earlier posting. I tried to chivvy them away, but only succeeding in getting myself involved in a very odd variation of the foxtrot. They proved to be accomodating young ladies, and I have now discovered the true provenance of "Come Dancing"

Our Lady Of The Driftwood

I had a visitation last night. A Nun appeared on the beach. She seemed mildly surprised to have fetched up in my cove, but was otherwise calm and virtually motionless. Although, from her deportment and her apparel I took her to be of a rather absent minded disposition. Maybe she thought the island was uninhabited and had dressed to match.

I went down to the cove to invite her back for some light refreshment and possibly a song round the campfire, but when I got close she'd transformed herself into a pile of driftwood and two old coconut husks. I shall keep this in close sight to upbraid her on her return. Playing such silly games on castaways is really below her vocation

Gods moving in mysterious ways.

When finally I recovered from my nervous prostration following my encounter with the laundrywomen , I ventured out again and I found this. It could be some primordial garden gnome or a mummified midget, but I suspect it may have religious connotations. Furthermore, as most rituals in these regions are fertility based (as if they didn't have enough children!) and it has a rather smug aspect, I suspect it's priapic. If the laundrywomen turn up to engage in rites of that sort, I may be forced to have recourse to the ship's pistol after all, simply in the name of decorum. Whatever it is, it seems to be well fed and in rude health. I only hope I don't remain here long enough to come to rely on it for some intelligent conversation.

There are fat girls at the bottom of my garden.

Catastrophe! I am advised through Crusoe, and similar romantic fictions, that the life of the castaway is full of challenges and opportunities for personal growth (spiritual rather than tumorous.) My morning's discovery has just put the lie to that spurious theory.

I decided to make a small incursion into the Island's hinterland, chiefly in search of fresh water and toilet paper. Admiralty charts tend to chafe one abominably. After a short walk, I did indeed discover a delightful spring with all the fresh water one could usefully intake, but to my dismay, I found a troupe of interlopers in stolen hotel towels had set up some sort of laundrette in it. No doubt there will be an outlet that defrauds mobile phone cards soon, with perhaps a betting facility and a pile of retread tyres to trap the unwary.

I stayed unnoticed behind my palm fronds, and considered my options. I had the old ship's pistol with me, but cartridges are limited, and probably best conserved for wild pigs or other larger game. I do hope I won't regret my restraint in the morning.

After my adventures today, I have forsaken the Hippopotamus Song. It may have been some kind of omen

Convenience in paradise.

As you can see, there have been developments. Having come under bombardment from the pelicans (shit, fish-heads) and the tankers (oil, kitchen rubbish) I have decamped from my hut onto the island proper. This has advantages (see detritus above) and insects. While I now enjoy some privacy, lurking, crawling and flying things are invading it. This has meant repeated bathing, so I am now in severe danger of shrinkage and severe need of moisturiser. I have revised my luxury to a few cases of Clinique,but am sticking with the Hippopotamus Song for the time being. I am eating a lot of fruit and have managed to trap a few fish with a net made from the remnants of my vest. This diet has required me to reschedule my building plans, and I am starting on a woven palm-frond privy. This will a gentleman's only convenience (except for the mosquitoes of course, ravening bitches all.) of a tropical design all my own and a sea view. Everything has either a sea view or a jungle view, and I find the sea more conducive to contemplation.

Desert Island Dusks

Greetings.

I call to you from a small hut in the middle of a distant sea. I am surrounded by pelicans and tankers crewed by malnourished Filipinos, neither of whom seem inclined to approach. There will be more news when I can find a bottle sufficiently strong to insert the truth into and float over to your distant cyber shore. Stay tuned. Sufis it to say, we are all perennials here. If I had eight records to choose they would all be the Hippopotamus Song by Flanders and Swann, because I think they could use the money. My luxury would be nail clippers and my book would be Parturition In Nuns.