The Triumphs of Ellen MAC Arthur, Yachtswoman.

Picture if you will, the scene..

In the back bedroom of her parents’ modest villa,
Slightly butch Ellen MacArthur reclines in stuffed teddy bear splendour.
Summer sun sparkles of her magnificent cups,
And trophies.
Reassuring BBC voices mingle,
With the breeze swishing through the branches;
So like the south east trades off Zanzibar.
Ah Life. It doesn’t get better than this.

“….and now before the midday shipping forecast, some news about an intrepid Frenchman who has just broken the record for sailing round the world single-handed….”

The birds have stopped,
The trees are becalmed,
The clack of Sam’s shears falls silent.

OH SHIT !

Mum’s slippers,
Flapping up the stairs in a panic,
“Ellen dear, I’ve some barley water for you, the way you like it, with a junior Disprin.
“Fuck all that shit!, I’ll piss on his bonfire ! Get B&Q on the phone !”

Ellen soon sets sail,
Taking half the country’s stock of strategic metals,
In her flimsy craft.
She sails round Antarctica and returns to great praise,
To be made a Dame for shaving,
27 minutes off the record.

I mean, this country used to make Concorde and stuff.