This evening called for a walk along the port. The Better Half had strained her vocal cords instilling bibliographical skills to the equivalent of Secondary Ones, whilst I had tempted my luck in warm, ideal swimming waters, but had not counted on a close, groin-centred encounter with the dreaded meduses.

So we were both in need of flanerie. During this pursuit of inner peace through outward, meaningless displacement, we passed all kinds of yachts. Those clearly closed up because of death/taxes/financial ruin; those in search of a more active owner; those whose crew just hope they can go on waiting and polishing; those whose days in the port are numbered.

Various scenes stay in the retinal memory. A group of Germans, perhaps gay, trying, ever so seriously, to look as if they were having a good time on the quarterdeck of an obviously medium-sized yacht; a Swiss chap trying to look happy... whilst drinking himself, panama-hatted, to oblivion on a sailing yacht - completely alone. His reading matter was the floor plan of a flat, not of a yacht.

Suddenly, a spark of hilarity lit us up. A Canadian yacht was berthed at the end of a pier. It was a very ordinary yacht (at the going tariff of a million quid per metre) but it had just the most impressive 'equipment' we have ever seen. No aircraft carrier has a 'bollock' like this, which is so big there is a man-hatch approximately man-sized. Difficult to imagine, apart from the usual 'mine is bigger than yours' playground ritual, what such a big sphere might contribute to.