We were visited by Mung, Rach and two small boys. One quite a lot smaller than the other. I made potato and leek soup. They gasped appropriately at the (finished for one day Oh. My. GOD.) shed and checked out Surfarosa, who was pulled up at the dock ready to sail away in the morning. Luka (who is actually some bizaare age - three?) gasped at the crane and was somewhat wary of Jake the Ostrich, preferring to dig up our driveway, fuelled by a spoonful of soup.

M & R were on their way down the Prom to share a cabin with mates of theirs who have a kid called Atto. Atto, we were informed means…oh, I am too unmathematical to explain it, but wikipedia has got it here. It’s a kind of scientific measurement. As these people have another baby on the way, we all spent valuable time musing over other possible measurement names. M came up with Milli Bar for a girl and Hector Pascal for a boy. I came up with the unisex appellation, Fathom Furlong. [GuFFaW! - hee, hee. I laugh as I type it. Pathetic.) Anyone have any others?

After the departure of our Third Ever Guests, we headed down to Loch as we’d left our flares and petrol containers there. The father figure had been evasive when we called, and then crumbled and said we could come to dinner. What he didn’t say was that he already had guests. GROAN. It was a tableaux straight out of Don’s Party (or so M tells me - I read it too long ago to remember, and never saw the film). True to form, I drank their Coopers, M had a go at the red wine, we ate pavlova and then took off into the night, followed by the sound of the father figure swearing when he thought M hit one of his apple trees with the HiAce.

Back at the trailer the only thing missing from our provisions were our wheelchair batteries that M uses to power our marine radio and I (more importantly) use to charge up my palm pilot full of podcasts etc. The Palm Tungsten T3 is widely reviled for it’s crap battery life, and I’m violently impressed to have found a way around it. Too bad we couldn’t find the batteries. I had the bright idea of climbing the shelves in the spare room built-in to see if they were up the top, and fell spectacularly on to my tailbone - the perfect injury for a few days hard sailing.

M came running in to find me writhing on the floor, with my only coherent sentence being “don’t touch me, don’t touch me”. When we were little we used to have a picture book called Stanley and Rhoda where Rhoda would say “Don’t TOUCH it. Don’t LOOK at it.” And that’s exactly how I felt. Thus M had to do the rest of the preparation and packing (I swear, it wasn’t pre-planned).