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.