The deadliest, jelliest site ever. Brought to you by Niamh Shaw

Last Friday it was so balmy out on the deck that we were inspired to borrow Sheriff and The Bunqueen’s kayaks. I strained my back and have been flattened ever since – but that’s another story.

Jed is conflicted about this form of activity. He protests vociferously if we leave him on shore. However, he’s rightly suspicious of plastic flotsam as a mode of transport. He will embark with sufficient encouragement, then tramples around the square foot of kayak trying to find a comfortable square inch.

He prefers sitting between my knees rather than Husband’s – perhaps because Andrew previously capsized him. (To date, Jed refuses to acknowledge his hand – or paw, if you prefer – in the incident.) He sits for ten minutes on average, shivering and twitching, before commencing a kind of yodelling cover-version of The Swan Song while prancing around waving his arse in my face.

Luckily Andrew took some shots. Unfortunately, his phone’s camera isn’t half as impressive as his level application.

"Where to, Sir?"

The view straight ahead: a great load of brown, curly ballast.

Jed awaits his opportunity to jump ship.

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