Who Best To Sleep With

Louis-Claude de Freycinet and Mrs Monks confront Terence.

It's you! says Louis-Claude de Freycinet. I thought so.

You know this baby? exclaims Mrs Monks.

Not intimately, says Louis-Claude de Freycinet. But enough to know that's he's trouble.

I'm not trouble, says Terence. I'm IN trouble. I used to live in a palace.

Where was that? asks Mrs Monks, who is quite keen on the monarchy.

In Spain, says Terence. And I had my own parrot.

You don't say? says Mrs Monks, trying to recall all the parrot owning Spanish royalty in history.

It died, says Terence. I wrote a poem about it. Listen: My bird died, I buried it under a bucket.

That  reminds me of Pablo Neruda, says Mrs Monks, warming to Terence. He wrote something similar.

However, says Louis-Claude de Freycinet. That's not what we're here for. Your knob is broken.

Terence is caught off guard. He checks the rips in his shorts.

This one, says Louis-Claude de Freycinet, fiddling with the knob on the arm rest.

Whack whack! He gives it two whacks with his dominant claw.

The back springs up. Terence is now in a sitting position.

How sweet you look, says Mrs Monks. You know, you seem familiar.

I am familiar, says Terence. Sagrada Familiar. Gaudi.

Of course! Barcelona! says Mrs Monks, who is well travelled. Well then, I'm pleased to be sharing an Ocean Recliner with you. Did you buy those feathery shorts there?

I didn't buy them, says Terence. And they used to have geckos on. But they ripped after I played paintball, and Rosamunda mended them with feathers so my bum wouldn't show....

Oh you are a delightful companion, says Mrs Monks. Let's chat all night and not press the knob at all.

This is fine by Terence, who likes an appreciative audience.

So all is well, says Louis-Claude de Freycinet. I shall return to the bridge for the rest of my watch, then turn in to sleep with my beloved.

Beloved, says Terence. Ha ha. I know a secret.

About my beloved? says Louis-Claude de Freycinet.

His confidence is easily pricked.

.........

Arthur has returned to the deluxe cabin, where Gaius and Rosamunda are sleeping.

Gaius is tossing and turning, in his single bed.

He is muttering:  dolomite.... dolomite....

Rosamunda stirs, in the double. Is that you Arthur?

Yes it is.