In the spirit of sharing

I forgot to mention something funny last night. Whilst I was wittering on about caring and sharing (of flapjacks) and not feeling guilty about it because I'm a dog and a male dog at that, I should have told you what I noticed amongst the papers in her bag.

It appears that they some sort of free writing exercise which is basically and excuse for writing any old rubbish (I would never stoop to such levels) and I couldn't resist reading it. Had I not been so rudely interrupted by the traitor who dares to call himself male and whipped the remaining flapjack away from my chops, the mirth at his depiction as a seagull in the piece of writing would have resonated far longer. So, in the spirit of sharing once more (never let it be said that I am less than generous) and perhaps a little revenge which they say is sweet although perhaps not so much so as the flapjack may have been had I continued to eat it, this is what I found:

The white house looms lovingly over the path through the dunes; it seems to have grown out of the sand just as the tufts of long grass edging the path have done. I check that I have drawn the curtains back. Yes. The window is shut and I notice a strand of clematis has been trapped in the sash. The front door is powder blue and the sky today is similar but slightly more vivid; a calm day, I think. When I return, I must remember to throw open the windows and get some air into the place. I love the stripped floorboards, the dark furniture and ginghams but you have to breathe some extra life into them from time to time. I will make cakes, iced and topped with cherries, line them up on cooling racks. A blue and white teapot ready to receive guests will complete the picture. I am looking forward to all that.

The boat has now steadied from welcoming my weight into its hull. The waves today are more like ripples in a pond. They are almost silent, just making a feint trickling sound. The boats sides hug the outsides of my thighs and there is a rhythm to the creaking as I row over to the island. There is a seagull on the shore and I reach into my satchel. Inside, I have some crusts of bread left over from this morning's toast. The seagull must have known I was coming. As I approach the shingle and the boat starts to rock with my movement, I take a deep breath. The lapping ripples cover the seagull's ankles as he rushes to greet me. Do seagulls have ankles? I wonder. Never mind; my seagull has no such concerns. He lives for my visits. I think I catch a smile at the corners of his beak. I throw him his crust.

The path on this island is less well trodden than the one from the house and the blades of grass feel a little sharp as they brush against my calves. It won't be long before I'm there. I put my hand into my pocket, checking for my phone. I take off my watch. When I get to the spot, I lay my watch down, check that I have a signal and lie back. I may write. I may sleep. The seagull has followed me, is peering at the over a mound of grass. He is hopeful of course, but the bread is gone and he will have to accept that it is just me here now. No bread, just me, my watch and my phone for emergencies. I hope it doesn't ring.

Apparently, it was all about journeys (it seems that they weren't told this beforehand) and I see from her notes and her powers of self-analysis that she has decided that the seagull represents Him and the things she had to organise in order to leave the house, her reluctance to leave the mess behind and her plans to put things right upon her return. So far today though, I've seen little evidence of domestic reparation and more of her tapping away on the laptop. She's possessed.