This week’s #writephoto prompt is
Boating For Boys
These days Little Tittweaking is almost equidistant for each of England’s many coasts. Back when the factious period extinction event (represented by the youreavingalaugh school pinpointing the moment when satire died due to an asteroid striking Florida) bumped up against the start of the anaemic period, Little Tittweaking was surrounded by a body of water that by anyone’s standards needed a better diet and more exercise. The flaccid and flabby Sea of Incongruity eschewed normal tides and sort of splashed half-heartedly against the foreshore. Even storms and cyclones couldn’t raise a ripple and when a visiting Tsunami approached it merely lay flat and let it pass, muttering something about how sea nymphs were becoming a tad too frisky and it’d not end well.
It was rare therefor for any form of sea craft to enter the immobile waters. One might pause and note here that the Sea would have vehemently rejected the epithet ‘stagnant’ had one sought to ascribe that condition to it, when it considered itself to be a role model of pacific water bodies. Indeed the later renaming of the Notveryinteresting Sea as the Pacific Ocean had nothing whatsoever to do with the Sea of Incongruity’s lack of self awareness and more to do with a lack of imagination.
In fact, the only reason anyone knew that Little Tittweaking was historically its own island resulted from an archaeological dig commissioned by the parish council chair Doug Bones. Doug had a premonition one mildewy Wednesday that under his garden there was treasure. He did what all chairs do, beyond those from IKEA that spend their lives pulling themselves together and commissioned an excavation.
And there, nestled beneath the novelty petunias lay an enormous warship still bristling with armaments and howitzers.
Councillor Bones joined the head of the Archaeological team Roman Villas underneath the prow. ‘It’s a biggun,’ opined Roman.
‘What’s it doing here, though?’ Queried Doug.
‘Resting,’ countered Roman.
‘You’ll tell me its a parrot next.’
‘Ho ho ho…’
‘and a bottle of rum? Seriously, can we move beyond this repartee?’
‘It must have floated here.’
‘On what?’
And there the conversation stopped for a moment, while the two men gave full rein to their imaginations. On what, indeed? Where was the liquid that would allow such action? Roman looked at the sharp rusty prow. ‘It’ll be one of them tricks of the light. You get them in deserts. A marriage.’
‘Do you mean a mirage?’
‘Isn’t that what people do when they want someone else to pay for a party they’re hosting?’
‘Maybe. But you don’t get ships in deserts.’
‘Yes, you do. My dad used to smoke them. Camels.’
‘Are we drifting away from what this thing is?’
‘Probably what it did. Drifted. Anyway, you know what this means?’
‘You’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’
‘Course. There must be sand underneath. That’s what comes after the sea. The beach. There’s your treasure.’
‘We seem to have segued from a mirage in the shape of a thirty tonne minesweeper to a significant quantity of sand and how it’ll make me rich. It’s giving me a migraine.’
‘We could always re-bury it, keep it between us.’
‘Is there another option?’
‘Sink it?’
‘I’m going to lie down…’
TanGental 
You could, of course destroy ‘er, or carry ‘er away!
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Your quick Peter, I wish I was that quick and witty! One more option we could launch her into space or barge her out the flower beds? 💜
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If she were filled with helium she would be lighter!
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Oh! Please , I am not worthy!
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V clever
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Curious very curious?
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That’s what happens if I eat too much tuna
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Well there that explains everything…….NOT!
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What sphere am I on? Help.
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You are in a world of your own
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I once found half a clay pipe in our flower beds – it’s not the same, is it?
And if we have to lose satire, although I’ll miss it, then it’s a price worth paying.
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Trouble with satire is it was doing well until it tanned orange and tool up golf. And you’ll need a full hypocaust- one pipe will not do
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Plenty of satire in our own government, of course…
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Yes they do their best to keep it going
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It seems to be all they’re good at.
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Oh I don’t know. They are natural weavers. They’ve turned us into a basket case pretty thoroughly
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Yes, they’ve done that pretty efficiently.
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Doug Bones must have done a lot of digging. Was there anything left of his garden?
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Nope, a hole in the ground
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So, the residents of Little Titweaking are giants?
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They’re whatever you want them.to be!
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And what a rich world it is!! (Certainly not in a financial way, but at least we have all the basics…) We are so lucky to have our years: me ninety and ‘he’ ninety-four, along with some wonderful memories of adventures, travel and times, and we’ve only lost a few ‘marbles’ on the journey! Cheers.
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Keep up the good work, captain!
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You could declare it a monument to some unpopular event in the past, and the woke will get rid of it for you.
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We need to properly memorialize the war of Jenkins Ear
Maybe this is how.
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Get a band, some Union Jacks, and a commemorative speaker and the thing will be gone by sun up
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That’s true. It’s amazing what will go if I leave it on the drive. Bicycles, plastic crates, hopes, fears….
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😁
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Whatever floats your boat.
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As long as no one expects me to get on board
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I love your names. An archaeologist called Doug Bones.! 😂😂😂
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I have to admit to loving making them up.
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Pingback: #Writephoto Round-Up – Battleship – New2Writing
Oh, how did I miss this Geoff! Now updated.
Love the names Doug should be a new regular 🙂
I wonder what the town council would think of their find! Lol.
Surprisingly, it is amazing how many building sites HATE finding something that results in calling in the archaeologists.
Thank you again, for a marvellous #writephoto entry. KL ❤
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Yes I think second only to finding a colony of great crested newts
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