Blistering Barnacles.

Another Sunday drowning under exam scripts. I can just about see dry land ahead, though I'm worried it's just a mirage. (I may be mixing my metaphors again.)

On reaching a suitable breaking point, I headed down to Newhaven harbour in search of a sailor to photograph, but there were none handy. The only salt about was the whiff of it in the air.

Heading home, I found John having a fly smoke of his pipe ouside the pub next door. And because he kindly agreed to let a strange woman with red ink all over her hands take his photo, I'll not say who he reminds me of. But he could be, couldn't he?

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