Marooned?.

Is this taken in some tropical paradise? An island where I can only take my favourite eight records, a book of my choice, the Bible, Shakespeare, and a single luxury to keep me going? Is Man Friday just out of shot dressed in a rabbit-skin cloth and smiling that ridiculous over-white smile of his? Or maybe the admirable Crighton is about to serve me a glass of coconut milk mixed with ship-salvaged rum, as I take a nap in my hammock before my dinner of red snapper grilled upon an open fire?

Certainly looks tropical doesn’t it?

Wales I’m afraid. Yes my other little garden in Wales just last weekend which, when the sun eventually showed, was tropical not only in its foliage but in its heat and humidity too. So hot that I fell asleep in my chair and drifted across the ocean, nautical mile on nautical mile, to wash gently in upon my special place.

Sometimes the idea of a desert island seems almost too attractive. No wonder it pops into my dreams so frequently, so frequently that I often fall asleep almost listening for the lap of waves, the cries of seagulls, the smell of the coconut palms upon the warm tropical breeze.

My special place – my very own desert island, I think I’d do okay. I’m pretty practical so wouldn’t have much problem building a shelter, just give me some palm trees and an axe and I’d have it done in a jiffy. I’m sure that I could spear fish with a little practice and I’m a dab hand at the barbecue, so food would be no problem – as long as I had some matches to start me off, or a magnifying glass and some paper.

Yes, I’m pretty sure that I could look after myself on my desert island, marooned and isolated and not washed up at all. It’s the building of a raft that might be an issue. Well, not so much the building of one, but actually bothering to do it in the first place. Would I really want to escape my splendid isolation in my tropical paradise and return to what is laughingly (well at least in my mind) called civilisation? Probably not.

As the Admirable Crighton found out - on his desert island he was pretty much king, but back home he was the mirrored opposite - pretty much nothing. Better to be a big fish in a small pond and all that - better still to be the only fish.

On my desert island I don’t have to answer to anybody other than myself. Nobody to tell me or trick me, lie to me and manipulate my feelings, nobody trying to get whatever they want from me regardless of consequence. On my desert island I can pretty much please myself with only mealtimes and the weather to contend with. No responsibilities, accountabilities, expectations, roles to play, unwanted pedestals to be hung from and I don’t need to find a job. I have a job as king of my island, and anyway I’m far too busy to even think about finding one - besides with no internet it isn’t even possible.

No internet. Well yes, I miss a few things. But I know how to ferment fruit to make cider, and although I’m not able to blog I keep a journal, and I paint. I paint and paint and paint until I’m pleased with what I’ve done, not worrying about what other people think as there isn’t anyone around to judge my work. I’m my only critic and I think all my paintings are FANTASTIC even the ones I paint after a few glasses of mango cider - especially the ones I paint after a few glasses of mango cider.

Happiness, peace, relaxation, relief.

And then one day a ship passes close to the island and (as old habits kick in) I light my beacon on the hill and I’m rescued. Floods of tears fall down my cheeks as I’m rowed from shore to ship, and of course my rescuers see tears of happiness whilst I feel tears of deepest sorrow and regret.

Why do I do it? I’m programmed to do the responsible thing.

Maybe I just won’t build a beacon in future.