A ship is safe in the harbour, but that’s not what ships are for
Act I
Donald! Seriously? This has got to stop! Where have you been? The Ship and Whistle? A tandoori with Mikey and the boys? And then where? No, Donald, you didn’t come right home in a taxi, did you? Otherwise you’d still have your jacket and your right foot would not be bare. For christ’s sake, what do you mean, you don’t remember? This has to stop, Donald. I know, I know. Of course I know you miss him. We all do. Should we think about — no. It’s too soon? OK. Of course. I’m sorry. Don’t cry darling. Don’t cry.
Act II
It didn’t take long, abandoned, for the rain to soak right through. Walls of no-nonsense fine tan Italian leather, that had done their duty earnestly protecting tender pink skin, the leather now turned soft, yielding. Once, in a different life, they had always had somewhere to go, something to see, striding out purposefully. Now pulpy and giving, green with moss and lichen, the curved walls a boat, drifting on an ocean of leaves and mulch. A Noah’s Ark of woodlouse and earthworms, seeking shelter from the frosts to come, set sail for distant shores, peaty soil soaked deep into once-immaculate stitching, green shoots for a mast.
