Or ferries. Patrick couldn’t say ferries when we were little, so they have stuck in my mind as faeries ever since.
Washing up last night I was watching the boats come and go into the harbour. We have a real mixture tootling past the flat, from gin palaces, to yachts moored at Gosport, speedboats, and the little pilot boats that shuttle the cruise ships, cargo ships and navy vessels in and out. Britanny ferries have regular sailings from Portsmouth, and last night one sailed out, tinted pink from the setting sun, as on the horizon another pink dot slowly grew larger until it too reached our window. The high speed catamaran also came in last night, although the sun was practically down when it appeared, it still is far more majestic than the bog-standard ferries.
I wonder if when we have our lights on, people on the boats coming in and going out can see into our little flat, and if they wonder about us as much as I do about them. Although we don’t normally see the little green Gosport shuttle, it too came tootling past our window recently, I bet the people who normally have a 7 minute crossing to the station at the harbour were peeved as it circled out to the Isle of Wight and back in again. Every ferry that comes in, not so much from the Isle of Wight or the Gosport routes as they are nearly every 30 minutes, but the services from the continent, bring a real mixture of people. Coming into England or going to Europe on business, pleasure, holidays, funerals, stag/hen ‘do’s’, weddings; the whole gamut of human emotion will be on those ships sailing past our window.
What would they make of the woman faffing about in the kitchen singing (badly) along to Erasure last night, let alone me standing in the hall this morning trying to fish my sleeves on my blouse out from my jacket arms, as they had ridden up and were cutting the circulation off. TB stood there rolling his eyes at me trying to usher me out the house. He did despair today, poor boy.