Astral Alan Watts

 'So Dave's got a third eye.  I wonder if it's an Xray one and if he can use it to find the treasure.' 

'Kind of like a metal detector.'  I pushed eight sizzling rashers of back bacon round the frying pan.

'Yes.  Without the kit and having to get permission from the landowner.'

'Quite.  Brown sauce or red on your sandwich Geoffrey?  Or perhaps throw caution to the winds and have both?'

'Ooh red I think.  I'd go for both only we mustn't cross the streams.  Put plenty butter on as well.  And black pepper.'

'Okey doke.  Mind you Dave says he's not into material gain these days, he's gone all metaphysical after his stay in the sweat cottage.  He says he met Alan Watts on an astral plane and the current was too strong for the wire and all the fuses blew, he couldn't even make a cup of tea.  Apparently he was wearing a kaftan and smoking a spliff.'

'Dave?'

'No.  Astral Alan.'

'Blimey.'

'Quite.  Nevertheless I think it would be worth asking Dave to deploy the third eye, or at least give it a go, otherwise we'll be digging and dowsing to an extent I can't be arsed with. 

Frog in the whole

Literally a toad in a hole

 'It's because it would be too sickly without it,' explained Dave.

'Yes but it seems so jarring,' said Tuppence.

'That's the whole point,' said Dave, patiently. 'You need the contrast. The flowing melodic bits and then the jarring bits.   The counterpoint if you like.  It's like happiness and sadness, the darkness and the light.  Sweet and sour or whatever.  You can't appreciate the one without the other.  You have to bear in mind, as well, Tuppence, that it was the 1960s and most of these people were out of their minds on a cocktail of drugs. They weren't rational.   That accounts for a lot.  Mind you, being rational isn't everything.  Far from it actually.  When I was in the sweat cottage I...'

Tuppence got up to his feet hurriedly.

'Well I think my tea's probably ready.  I'd better be off Dave, it's toad in the hole, my fave.  Thanks for the chat about Thunderclap Newman's greatest hit.'

Dave stroked his beard thoughtfully, leaned back in his rocking chair and closed his eyes.  'Let the...for argument's sake... toad...as it were...see the...hole?  But why a 'toad'?  Why limit yourself to one amphibian?  Is it in fact, as it were...a frog, or perhaps a newt, even a great crested one?  or another type of amphibian altogether?  But let us say, to prevent us totally busting our brains, 'frog'.  In the 'whole'?  But in the 'whole' what?  Or 'hole'?  But what type of 'hole'?  A black hole, perchance?  And why?  But we never ever do know why, do we.  That's one thing I know for certain. I'll need to give this some serious thought.'

The Glittering Eyes

 Returning to the point at which Dave arrived at a cottage and a pair of glittering eyes were peering at him through the letterbox.

Dave spent some time in that cottage.  The glittering eyes fired a tranquilliser dart through the letterbox, paralysing Dave then dragging him inside where he lay on a threadbare settee for who knows how long.

Visions came and went.  Feverish dreams of times gone by, times yet to come, past errors of judgment made, future betrayals small and large.  Val's face quickly faded from memory.  This felt like a relief, but he struggled with guilt.  After all, she was his wife, for better and for worse...what kind of man would he be, if he didn't honour his marriage vows?  Not to mention, remember what his wife actually looked like.  And yet...didn't he have a higher duty - to himself?  To fulfil his God-given destiny - which, if he was honest, he might well prefer to involve only nice cups of tea, perhaps some carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, a new pair of bins, and lots of otters and not to include Val's domineering and stultifying presence.  Dave thrashed around on the settee, sweating in the stuffy, hot cottage as the glittering eyes piled yet more coal on the fire.

'Fossil fuels!  Val would have a fit...but then, who cares...what Val..thinks....aaarggh.  I'm not coping.  What kind of man am I,  if I can't cope?   Oh really who cares.'

He was given food and drink and generally looked after by the glittering eyes as his mental agonies continued. Why, he never knew, but he sensed this had happened before, to other lost travellers on the moor.

When he eventually 'came to', he found a bowl of peppermint-scented cool fresh water and a clean(-ish) cloth on a small table next to the settee.  He dabbed his face and took a couple of deep breaths.  The door behind him was open wide and he could feel the bracing air of the moor.  It was time to leave.

He stood up and caught his reflection in the oak mirror above the fireplace - which was now cold, and filled with daffodils - 'WHAT THE...?'  

'I'm sure I usually only have two eyes.  Now I seem to have three!'  he patted his forehead carefully, and felt nothing.  But a third eye was clearly visible, between and just above his usual two, when he looked at his reflection.  Could there be a warp in the glass?  he thought of course not - surely not one that looked exactly like a human eye.  

'Well, perhaps I'm seeing things.  With a spare eye that wouldn't be surprising lol.  If it's really there and I'm not hallucinating again who knows, it might come in useful.  I'll set off and see what happens.  Expect the worst and hope for the best.  That's what dad always used to say, and look where that got him.  COPD and crippled with arthritis at 65 after a lifetime of working in heavy industry and 55 years of Capstan full strength.  He was lucky to make it that far I suppose.  At least he never had to worry about having an extra eye lol.'

Dave inhaled deeply as he stood in the cottage doorway and looked at the thin path that wound over the moor towards the sea, where he knew for sure there would be otters.   He was ready to move on...

Next time - Dave wonders if his entire life has been a hallucination as his third eye comes into its own -  but he doesn't have time to think about that as he finds that there is a considerable demand for its services, back at the Rocky Outcrop.

Tupfinder Towers opens to the public

 

We had forgotten entirely that the T-G intended opening Tupfinder Towers to the public.  And fortunately for us,  he opened it - charging sixpence, to include a nice cup of tea, one of Mrs T-G's black sausage rolls, a pickled worm and entry to the castle and grounds - the day after we leapt into the oubliette in a hail of buckshot.

The first visitor was our friend Dave, fresh from his sojourn on the moors and a period of reflection in the sweat cottage - more of which later.  And were we glad to see him, when he peered over the edge of the oubliette.  He even had a 'pamper package' with Val's 'fun size' nettle hand cream, hogweed facemask and deadly nightshade shower gel, all done up in a basket woven from nettle fibres.   (The T-G had a small gift shop set out in the old stable block alongside the tearoom, stocked with Val's own-made health products and Mrs T-G's own-made range of pickles.  Dave felt obliged to purchase, given he didn't want to risk angering Val if she found out he hadn't.  Regular readers will know why.)  

The tide was rushing in through the hole in the wall and we were freezing.  We knew it was high springs and we had to get out of there before we perished from pneumonia.  Dave thought on his feet and rapidly unwove the nettle fibre basket and threw it down to us, with the bottle of deadly nightshade shower gel tied to the end as ballast.   The rope was flimsy but nettle fibres are tough and we were sure it would hold - it had to.  We managed to fashion it into a makeshift abseiling device and up we went as fast as we could manage.

Soon we were all sitting on the edge of the oubliette, soaking wet and freezing, with grazed knuckles from bumping against the medieval stonework, but alive. 

'Gosh thanks Dave.  I can't wait to get home for a mug of hot Madeira and a bacon sandwich.  Now all we have to do was escape from Tupfinder Towers without the T-G shooting us.'

Too late.

'AND HERE WE HAVE THE DUNGEON,' boomed a familiar voice, 'I'M SURE YOU'LL AGREE IT'S A FASCINATING IF GRUESOME FEATURE, AND THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE - .'  The T-G stopped at the 16th century oak door and stared at us.  Behind him peered half a dozen goggle-eyed schoolchildren and a bemused teacher.

Next time - does the T-G have the nerve to mow us down in front of paying visitors? moreover does he really want to do this, given we were all best friends till we stole - or borrowed, depending on your point of view - the map?

The T-G has a Meltdown

'You've been my friends for years,' said the T-G, cocking his shotgun. 'How could you do this?  Stealing from me.  It's an absolute disgrace.  You only had to ask and I'd have let you turn the rug over to see the map, if indeed that's what it is.  But it's too late for that now.   Just get in the oubliette before I open fire.'

We were teetering on the rim of a forty foot deep 'oubliette' - a bottle-necked dungeon from which there was no escape other than Death itself.

We could hear the tide rushing against the rocks far below.

'Oh it's not enough that it's bottle-necked and forty feet deep - it's got to be tidal as well!' wailed Tuppence. 

'Yes!  And don't start getting your hopes up thinking you can sail out with the tide.  You can't because the hole it comes in is much too small.  And you won't have a quick death through drowning because the tide doesn't come up far enough.  Eventually you'll die of starvation or foot-rot, which ever comes first.  Your only luxury is the tide will wash away your faecal matter.' gloated the T-G.  'Not that there will be much of that after the first terror-induced spasms, because you won't be getting any food.  Heh heh heh.'

And he let fly a hail of buckshot.  

We all leapt into the dungeon hoping for the best.  Well, it's all you can do sometimes.

Next time - Dave arrives with a care package from Val...full of pampering products made from nettles.  What a shame he didn't bring a rope - oh wait...

Plague Island - or is it?

 

Thankfully, the T-G hadn't bothered to lock up and it was fairly easy to gain access by sliding a stout piece of card between the two casements.   Tuppence and I rolled up the Aubusson, tied it with rope, and shoved it out of the window.  There was a lot of rustling as it slid down the ivy and the Moon was shining brightly upon the castle walls leaving us quite exposed to anyone who happened to be having a midnight ramble.  However we had to take the chance because unless we tried to cram it through the waste hole of the 'garderobe' we had no other way of getting it out.

Back at the Outcrop we unrolled the rug.  The map was clearly visible on the woven underside, rather than on the stained and worn 'pile'. 

But what was it a map OF?  Or indeed, where?  We had to bear in mind that we were looking at a reverse image.

There were symbols for water, and a distinct outline of a tiny island.  On the island was the symbol for a church, or at least some sort of religious structure.  

And next to it, a skull and crossbones.

'What does that signify?' asked Geoffrey. 'Pirates?'

'Death,' said Tuppence. 'Poison.  Disease.  It's a plague island.  Of all the rotten luck.'

'So we've wasted our time then,' said Geoffrey. 'The whole point of nicking the map was to find buried treasure.  Gold coins, doubloons, pieces of eight and caskets of jewels.  Because where there's a secret map there's always buried treasure.  Not that we need munny or anything, it's just nice to have the satisfaction of finding it.  Oh well, I suppose we'd better take the rug back before they notice it's missing.'   He reached for the grappling hook.

'Hold up, Geoffrey,' I said.  'Could it be that the skull and crossbones IS a pirate symbol, rather than death or poison, and that there's smuggled treasure hidden there?' 

'Or, perhaps whoever made the map wanted people to think it was a plague island to put them off and there is really a hoard of gold and jewels hidden in a crypt or something,'  said Geoffrey.

'There's only one way to find out.  We have to figure out which island this is and get over there quickstyle,' said Tuppence, twirling a pistol.  'Fetch the coracle Uncle Tuppy, while I fire up the iPhone and do a reverse reverse image search.'

next time - we find the island, only to discover it's already heavily featured as a fun destination on Instagrot and a million people and their kids have already trampled over it, paddle-boarding and barbecuing and defecating everywhere and destroying any potential clues...but the Old Tup was a canny character and nobody's fool.  There were secrets yet to be discovered...and we were the ones to find them - with the additional help of Dave, his trailcam and his newly-developed, super-sensitive 'third eye'.  More on that next time.

We Set off to Retrieve the Map

A Map - but not THE Map

Last night Tuppence came round for his tea.  

'It's your favourite.  Mince and tatties!'  I waved the potato masher as he climbed through the hole in the wall.  

'Oh no.  That's much too bland.'

'What?  But you've always liked mince.'

'That was then.  This is now and I only like mince when it tastes of something.'

'I'm putting plenty Bisto in it, and there's brown sauce as well.  What more do you want?'

'Cajun seasoning and tortilla chips.  Refried beans.  Maybe some hot salsa, sour cream and guacamole on the side.'

'Guaca what?'

'Mole,' repeated Tuppence.  'And I need to know that the mince was grass fed.  If it's not I won't eat it,  I want plant-based.'

We had plain old mince and tatties and he managed two helpings.   With four slices of fruit loaf and raspberry jam for afters.

After tea, we discussed The Map.  Upshot being that we decided to make a midnight raid on Tupfinder Towers that very evening.  The T-G had made vague plans to install burglar alarms and motion sensitive floodlights and although we were prepared to bet that he would never get round to it we thought we'd better get a shift on just in case.  We briefly talked about asking the T-G if we could take or even borrow the Map, but we decided that if he said no, which was fairly likely, we'd be the obvious suspects if it then got nicked. 

I retrieved our full face balaclavas, night vision goggles and our black polo-necks.  With a grappling hook, the remains of the fruit loaf, a flask of hot Madeira, glass cutters and a rope ladder we were all set.

Soon Tuppence and I were shinning up the rope ladder.  A waxing Moon shone on the ivy-clad facade of Tupfinder Towers and the vast mullioned window that led into the upper drawing room and the Aubusson.  Geoffrey had flown on ahead and was already up on the window ledge securing the grappling hook.  

Could we get access to the room without breaking the window?  Was it locked?  Would we need to employ the glass cutter?  That was our main concern as we rustled upwards, disturbing vast numbers of moths and spiders.

Next time - we gain access to the room - but how?

And  Dave reveals that he encountered a vision of Alan Watts in the sweat cottage.  Alan advised him that the current was much too strong for the wire.  At which point the sweat cottage went on fire after all the fuses blew and Dave was fortunate to escape with his life.

Plain old mince and tatties

Today's quote - from 'The Unspeakable World' - Alan Watts (Music By Adi Goldstein)- 'Too strong a current for the wire'

I can relate to this, and the more I'm thinking about it, the more it makes sense to me in all kinds of ways, as a person who has become very ungrounded at times.   As I understand it, you have to have a framework, nothing rigid, but for the purposes of sanity you have to be grounded in the familiarity of a certain routine, certain domestic rituals such as the pipe and slippers perhaps, if you like, or familial or societal totems or markers - otherwise, as he says, the current becomes too strong for the wire.  You can travel away from a framework, in fact sometimes you have to, you can make quite a journey, epic distances, mentally, spiritually and physically, but you need to know that you have somewhere to return to.  A returning, however, is not always to the place you expect.  

And of course you have to have somewhere to leave, in order to travel.  We're talking about frameworks here,  not prisons.  When a framework feels like a prison, it's time to think about why, and if you can't figure it out, maybe move on.

'The road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began...'  (JRR Tolkein)

Tolkein expressed this perfectly in The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.  Epic journeys grounded in friendships and homeliness.  Another of my favourites albeit on a much smaller scale is Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows.  Mole ventures out on a Spring morning, and has all kinds of epic adventures before returning to his much-loved home a wiser mole, and with a new friend.  These are 'children's books' apparently, but the theme of epic travel, struggle, friendship and homeliness resonates with all ages I think.   The classic Antarctic journeys of Scott and Shackleton have similar qualities that will always inspire the imagination and the spirit.

To quote Tolkein again,

'Not all those who wander are lost.'

Plans for a Hate Crime Dobbing in Centre and Two for One Brazilian Butt Lifts

 

 'We're going to drive new traffic to our yurt business by making it a dobbing in centre for hate crimes.  So Val says.  She says anyone promoting hate deserves everything they get and she's prepared to catch them herself,  lock them into her therapy yurt and chain them to the massage table till the coppers arrive.  She's even bought a hi-viz jacket and a cattle prod.  But I don't feel right about it,' said Dave. 'I don't want to grass anyone up.  When I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Indeed,' said the T-G,  'It has the potential to be catastrophic in terms of local community cohesion.  Neighbour pitted against neighbour and so forth.'

'Val says it's great publicity for our business.  It'll make us seem current.  She says we need to move with the times and diversify.  She's making a sign for it right now from locally-foraged shells and sea glass with 'HATE CRIME REPORTING CENTRE' on it in seaweed fronds.  And she's made nettle scones with H A T E on the top.  People can buy a set of four and have HATE nestled right there in an eco-cellophaned nettle-fibre refillable basket. They can then literally consume HATE and expel it via the customary orifice, thereby destroying it.  She's also going to throw in two for one Brazilian butt lifts for anyone reporting a hate crime cos she's just completed an online course in how to do the liquid injection ones.  I get what she means but I just don't feel comfortable.'  Dave fiddled anxiously with a fingerless glove. 'Especially with an open-ended concept-style thing like hate.  It's not a word I even like to say to be honest.  It's kind of strong.  You know when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'What is a hate crime?'  I interrupted.

'Not sure,' said Dave. 'But when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'It sounds like something best not to get involved with,' said the T-G loudly, poking at a pot hole with his sword stick. We were out for a walk by the tourist car park, assessing the local infrastructure in view of his plans to open Tupfinder Towers to the public.  'In my experience as the local magistrate-style person-in-charge type thing,  evidence, proof, impartiality and a sound knowledge of how the law applies are crucial when administering justice.  This rubbish sounds like it was made up on the back of a fag packet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' I said, my voice fading and echoing as I fell into a super-deep pothole.

'As I was saying,  when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ve....He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeeeeee.'

next time - Dave finally manages to tell us what exactly occurred in the sweat cottage, and Val remains determined to forge ahead with her plans.  

** for readers outwith Scotland, who may be puzzled by the above -  we have a new Hate Crime law here.  Hate crimes can now be reported at specially designated hate crime reporting centres, including a mushroom farm and a sex shop.  I'm not making this up.

Dodgy Brazilian butt lifts have also been in the news.  

What a strange world we live in...

Life's soundtrack. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Wild God (Official Audio)

Love this.  The older I get the more I appreciate Nick Cave, who is even older than me by the way and still out there.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are touring https://x.com/nickcave/status/1768562959574339655?s=20 later this year.

Glancing blows, a blood-stained map, and a Potential High-end Tourist Destination

A gloomy lochan with an island in the middle 

A map.  Or is it?

 

'You're WHAT?'  I gasped, dropping my pipe (unlit, but stuffed with baccy) on to the threadbare Aubusson fireside rug.  I knew it was an Aubusson because there was a faded yellowing note pinned to the wall beneath the fireside bell pull saying 'mind the Aubusson' in spidery handwriting with a downwards-pointing arrow.   It was Saturday afternoon and we were 'taking tea' with the T-G and his good lady wife at Tupfinder Towers.  Or not so good, depending on your point of view.  But the least said about that, the better.

For now, at any rate.

'We're Opening to the Public,' repeated the T-G, glancing at me.  'What's wrong with that?  Tupfinder Towers is a historic building, with Scottish history crammed into its every nook and its every dusty cranny.   Each spider's web tells a story.  We've every potential to become a high-end tourist destination.'

'You've been talking to Val Nark, haven't you.'  I glanced back at him.  And that wasn't a question.  Val was on a mission to transform our homely neglected backwater into a money-spinner using the powers of Instagram, Facebook and her own-made nettle jam.  Regardless of potholes, hairpin bends and a general lack of appropriate infrastructure.  

I glanced at the Aubusson as I spread my third scone with a thick layer of butter and an even thicker layer of Val's jam, which, despite its resemblance to mud was perfectly edible once you got used to the stinginess.  Several mysterious brownish stains marred the rug's original faded, threadbare pattern.  

'What's the pattern on your rug, T-G? Looks like a map of some sort.  Beneath the brown stains.'

'Yes,  I believe it is a map. Or it might be just a brown stain under more brown stains.  Who knows. I can't remember.  The Old Tup might've...' he glanced up at the large gloomy oil painting depicting a red-faced, tartan-bedecked gent sporting a periwig and posing beside a gloomy lochan with an island in the middle of it that hung beside the fireplace.   'They're not blood or anything like that.  Well, they might be.  Anyway it's too fragile to clean, even if one were inclined...'

The T-G stared at Mrs T-G momentarily, then sighed and poked the ashes of the fire with his swordstick. 

'I can't do everything!' snapped Mrs T-G. 

'No no no Mildred.  Of course not.  And nobody's asking you to.  You have logs to chop,  gutters to clear, ditches to dig, laundry to mangle, toilets to muck out, pheasants to pluck and rabbits to skin.  Not to mention keeping your moustache under control and crafting your delicious black sausage rolls and pickled worms. You can't be beating the carpets as well.  At least, not every day.  More tea, anyone?'

I glanced at the oak mantlepiece,  where a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dull brasswork of an ancient sextant.  I glanced again at the 'map'.  The more I looked at it the more I was sure I'd seen it somewhere before.  I glanced at Geoffrey, who was glancing at me and then at the map in a significant manner.  He shook his head, and glanced away.

'If you're opening to the public,  then - and I hate to say this - you're probably going to have to get some staff in.   You might even have to pay them T-G.'

The swordstick clattered to the oak floorboards. 'S-s-staff?  P-p-pay them?  Oh well I hardly think...'

'Times have changed T-G.  You're going to have to change with them and employ folk and pay them Real Cash Munny - I know it sounds dreadful but it seems that nobody works for free these days.  We hear all the news from Tuppence when he comes round for his tea.'

More later.

next time...the T-G forges ahead with his plan - or is it Val's - to open Tupfinder Towers to the public. Geoffrey and I discuss the 'map'.   Tuppence comes round for his tea, and we hear more horrifying tales of modern life...

 I'm having a pause at the moment, before writing again.  Life's taken a dark-ish turn,  or so it seems, I must get through it before doing anything else.

March is always a difficult month for me. 

Life's soundtrack. Keith Richards - I'm Waiting For The Man (Lou Reed Cover) (Official Video)

Interesting cover.  I like it.  The original has been part of my life's soundtrack, along with the rest of the 'yellow banana' album.  

Val's internal interminable monologue as she no bakes no bake gravel flapjacks

 So before the Cancer Research UK 29 day yoga challenge started, we left Dave pondering - well, pondering all kinds of things out on the moors.

I expect he was having a mid-life crisis-style-event.  Or not.  Because I don't believe in mid-life crises, myself.  Staring old age in the face as I am I've gone through enough 'crises' to know they don't just occur in 'mid-life'.  There's nothing special about mid-life, that requires a crisis of its own.  They happen all the time, depending on circumstances.  Twenty five or sixty.  Age makes little difference.  Sure, you learn a bit as you go through life. Menopause?  Nah, bollocks to that.  Likewise the andropause.  But you forget a lot also.  Although, if I understand Hegelian dialectic correctly (laughter) nothing is ever really 'forgotten'.  It's merely subsumed into the whole, creating the being we are forever in the process of becoming.  Hegel would lose the 'forever'.   

But I digress.

Back at the yurts,  Val was not baking her specialty -  'no bake' hardcore smashed gravel flapjacks.  Her fifth batch that day.  She was breathing heavily and muttering to herself as she smashed gravel with a large mallet and mixed it with golden syrup and rolled oats before pressing the mixture into a tray lined with clingfilm and refrigerating it overnight (full recipe not available, sorry).

'I know Dave's testosterone levels have plummeted.  Plummeted from, let's be honest, a very low base, to the infinitesimal.  He's not the man I thought I married.  Or is he.  Perhaps I was just stupid.  Blinded by his facility with a trailcam and his knowledge of all things otter.  I wonder if I should DIVORCE him!'  Val smashed the mallet extra hard as she said 'DIVORCE'.  A fragment of gravel flew ceiling-wards and clattered into the uplighter.  'Or perhaps he's experiencing the andropause.  Maybe I should cut him some slack.  Or perhaps NOT!'  Val's mallet hit the dwindling pile of gravel again and the hand-crafted kitchen table - hand-crafted by Dave, from local sustainable sources - i.e. the small stand of coppiced oak behind the yurts - shuddered.  Val paused, as she remembered Dave diligently sanding planks of oak and whittling the table legs out in the shed on cold winter evenings with only a small brazier and his fingerless gloves to keep him warm.

'Perhaps Dave's not so bad.  Perhaps it is the andropause and he just needs some more hot stoning, and an ear candling session to rev him up a bit. And a double strength boiling goji berry oil colonic irrigation is always a good answer no matter the question.  Mind you,  Dave's been going through the andropause ever since I met him thirty years ago.  Never mind.   If he ever returns from the moors I'll make a new man of him.'  

Val threw her mallet into the air and caught it deftly, before pressing the final flap jack mixture into its tin tray and popping it into the refrigerator.

more later - when Dave returns from the moors in a spiritually enlightened state, loses his bobble hat and gets a surprising job offer...

My Book Seapenguin

 

I published a paperback in 2017 - it's got almost all the original blog posts in it.

https://youtube.com/shorts/YdNHC7NbbtA?si=KRYs-reVcmWGKwPq

Above is a link to a Youtube short regarding the book.

And here is the link to my Amazon author page. https://www.amazon.com/author/katesmart