Inspired by this recent Portsmouth gathering, complete with lectures and proper tallships and all manner of stuff. We’re nowhere near as fancy, but this is something I’ve been thinking about for a bit, therefore:
Would anyone be interested in a London Aubrey-Maturin fan meet-up?
As a lot of us are UK-based
and don’t get out enough, ahaha, I thought it might be good fun to have an informal meet-up in London for fans of Patrick O’Brian, Master and Commander, and the Aubrey-Maturin series in general! Ideally, it would be a day in early June spent gawping at Nelson-related things, perhaps a visit to the National Maritime Museum, pub-going, sloth-spotting, and all other manner of ridiculous nautical-themed behaviour with other O’Brian-ites.
If this sounds as appallingly appealling to you as it does to me, eheheh, reblog this post or leave us a message indicating your interest and availability, or drop us a suggestion! Even if you’re weeping at your own inability to join said potential gathering (we’re crushed too), reblog and plug plug plug!
'Good morning, sir,' said Killick. 'Which he's still on deck.'
‘Killick,’ said Stephen, ‘what’s amiss? Have you seen the ghost in the bread-room? Are you sick? Show me your tongue.’
When Killick had withdrawn his tongue, a flannely object of inordinate length, he said paler still, ‘Is there a ghost in the bread-room, sir? Oh, no, and I was there in the middle watch. Oh, sir, I might a seen it.’
‘There is always a ghost in the bread-room. Light along that pot, will you now?’
‘I durs’nt, sir, begging your pardon. There’s worse news than the ghost, even. Them wicked old rats got at the coffee, sir, and I doubt there’s another pot in the barky.’
‘Preserved Killick, pass me that pot, or you will join the ghost in the bread-room, and howl forevermore.’
With extreme unwillingness Killick put the pot on the very edge of the table, muttering, ‘Oh, I’ll cop it: oh, I’ll cop it.’
Jack walked in, pouring himself a cup as he bade Stephen good morning, and said, ‘I am afraid they are all in.’
‘All in what?’
‘All the Frenchmen are in harbour, with their two Indiamen and the Victor. Have not you been on deck? We are lying off Port-Louis. The coffee has a damned odd taste.’
‘This I attribute to the excrement of rats. Rats have eaten our entire stock; and I take the present brew to be a mixture of the scrapings at the bottom of the sack.’
‘I thought it had a familiar tang,’ said Jack. ‘Killick, you may tell Mr Seymour, with my compliments, that you are to have a boat. And if you don’t find at least a stone of beans among the squadron, you need not come back. It is no use trying the Néréide; she don’t drink any.’
When the pot had been jealously divided down to its ultimate dregs, dregs that might have been called dubious, had there been any doubt of their nature, they went on deck.