The Shovel

Wednesday 

The hammering stopped at around six. But I still couldn't get to sleep, so I got up and went into the galley. 

I'm not on a ship. I don't know why we even have a galley. I keep losing my footing when I'm frying eggs. Precision spice apportionment is an impossibility. I want a kitchen. I literally can't think of a single reason why we have a galley. I hate galleys.

I made myself some haphazard toast and wandered into the engine room. Again, why? We don't have any engines. There is a coal shovel, but it hasn't been used for years. We should stop calling it the engine room. There's a sofa in there. We should call it the sofa room.

Thursday

Captain called me up on deck at sunrise. A couple of problems there:

1) He is not a Captain. He's my flatmate. He isn't even close to being a Captain. He isn't even close to completing his PGCE.

2) We don't have a deck. We don't even have an accessible roof. 

So there we were: me and the Captain (not a Captain) up on deck (the thick rug in the hallway). He kept barking commands, referring to the poor discipline amongst the crew. He made veiled threats against my personal well-being. I should probably move out.

Friday

A storm knocked us off course. This block of flats is stationary. We didn't have a course. You can't be knocked off a course you're not on. But still, we were. Apparently.

There was no storm, either. There was drizzle, but no wind. Even if we were on a ship (and we're not), the weather couldn't possible have affected us in any way. 

It would have to be a pretty crappy ship to allow drizzle to knock us off course.

But, as I said, this isn't a ship.

Saturday

The hammering started again. I think it was probably someone with a hammer. I asked around, but got no answers because I didn't really ask around in the end because I got distracted.

At noon a telegram arrived. It was from my wife. She says that she and the children miss me terribly. I immediately composed a reassuring reply, but stopped midstream.

Telegram technology is obsolete. I don't even really know how it works. When I see telegrams mentioned in books or films, I just act like I know what they're talking about, when really I have no idea. Is it something to do with Morse Code?

Furthermore, I have no wife or children. They may well be missing me, but not as much as they miss a place in the material world. It's difficult to placate a fictional woman, so I gave up on writing my reply. 

Had some more toast.

Sunday

Another night of no sleep. At ten, Jameson barrelled into my room, bright as a button. I complained about the noise. He told me that there is no such thing as "hammers". I was sceptical. Primarily because Jameson himself does not exist. How could one non-thing be able to judge the thing-ness of another thing (non or otherwise). He couldn't.

Jameson is an idiot.

Monday

At five, the lads (all lies), were invited to the screening room to see a rare print of an old war film. The film starred one of those classic movie actors I can never remember. Kirk or Kurt or Dirk or Burt Something.

The plot was a little thin. The characters were not very fleshed out. To be expected, I suppose, as no-one had started the projector. Also, we don't have a screening room.

Someone had brought popcorn, but it was too salty. Once again, erratic galley seasoning had damaged crew morale. Or would have done so if there was a crew.

Or a galley

Thursday

I haven't written in this journal for two days. There are a couple of reasons for that. Firstly, this journal does not exist. Secondly, it was stolen.

My prime suspects are the Captain (whose coarse bravado has begun to drive a wedge between the enlisted men and the officers), Jameson, and a mysterious figure in black, who I saw moving the coal shovel when she or he thought no-one was looking.

After two days of panic, I found the journal on a shelf only I am tall enough to reach. Next to the journal was a hammer. 

Friday

Finally, we have sighted land. It was always there. I could have just looked out the window. I'm starting to wish I was on a boat. At least then I'd be able to row away.

At least there was no more hammering. I clutched my own found hammer, ready for a revenge hammering of my own. A taste of their/my own medicine.

The Captain has gone away for the weekend. I've tried on his hat, which was too tight and made-up, and messed up my hair.

Saturday

If we were on a ship (and we're not), we would be sunk. A phantom cannonball shot through the hull and let gallons of no water in.

There were no survivors, except for me, and all the other people that are fine because nothing happened.

I'm writing this on a buoy, which seems implausible.

Tell my wife she has nothing to be alive of.