I want to run away to sea. That’s still a career option, right?
One of these would do nicely.
Spend my days bobbing about in the Caribbean, getting a sun tan and moving on whenever I felt like it. I’m not sure whether you can get lifejackets for cats, but I can picture The Boo at the helm, possibly draped over the tiller and fast asleep.
I could have a lovely yacht, built out of pipedreams and the figments of my imagination. It would be one of those proper ones, all teak decks and blue undercarriage, mind you. Fully staffed, of course. None of this gin palace palaver; it would be a vessel worthy of a 1950’s Hollywood star. I’d waft around in strangely un-crumpled linen, a cocktail in one tanned paw and a small canapé in the other. Every so often I could pop into port to do a soupcon of shopping, wandering round a conveniently placed market filled with charming local characters without all their teeth, who would give me free fruit when I smile at them.
The Other Half would look divine in a battered panama and a cream suit.
We could sail away, for a year and a day
Take some honey and mythical money
And dance by the light of the moon.
The only downside is that we might get a bit fed up of mince and quince. Or seasick.
Sadly, given I’ve not won the lottery, my boat budget is more along the lines of a small plastic version for the bath. And I think I’d get bored with nothing to do except embezzle people out of fruit and occasionally swab a deck down in a decorative fashion.
Guess you can’t have everything. I can dream, though.