Diary of a St Ivean

A beautiful February sunny morning with blue skies. By ten o' clock I have walked around the Island, called at Ferrell's (the 'frozen rabbits for sale' notice is no longer pinned to the door) for bread , hung out a line of washing and cleaned seagull shit from the windows. It's that time of the year when wind, defecating seagulls in flight and my windows and washing conjoin.

According to Johnny T, the owner of the restaurant where Johnny, Stornoway Bill and I once worked is now a millionaire on account of all the property he now owns in St Ives. All from selling crab sandwiches. I mentioned this on Saturday in my email to Stornoway Bill who replied that he always knew that our ex- employer was destined for great things, "on account of the masterful way in which he sacked me".

After leaving Johnny T on Saturday, I was walking up Ayr Lane with a bag of shopping when I met Alice and her daughter Lucy. Although Alice lives just behind me, I haven't seen her for nine years. She said that in fact she's living in Honduras and is back in St Ives to sell her house then returning to Honduras. Her daughter lives in Mozambique.

When I email Stornoway Bill and tell him about my encounter with Alice and how it's given me itchy feet, he digs deep for a nugget of Old Hebridian wisdom producing," yep I guess the best thing to do is find the best place to scatch the itch".

Yesterday, the itch got me as far as Penzance.